Runaway Bridesmaid (9 page)

“Sure,” he said, wishing he could put his hands in his pockets, but his jeans were too tight. “That'll be…nice.”

Melanie giggled again.

That did it. Sarah's sweet little fanny was now solidly in a sling.

 

Shadow ribbons snaked across the backyard as Sarah and Vivian gathered up the remains of the feast, foisting off what
ever leftovers they still figured were safe on whoever was still hanging around. It was quieter now, and cooler, for which Sarah was immensely grateful. There'd been a mass exodus about twenty minutes ago, including Ed, leaving a few adults to help clean up as well as a small but vociferous gang of kids playing a shrill game of hide-and-seek. As much as she appreciated the adults' help, she wished like the dickens the kids would shut up.

A cool breeze ruffled her hair and teased her sticky skin with a hint of a chill, bringing with it the sultry fragrance from hundreds of feathery, blushing mimosa blossoms choking the enormous tree at the side of the yard. She shut her eyes for a moment and slowly inhaled the sweet, soothing scent.
Relax,
she told herself.
It's almost over.

At least, her plan for getting rid of Dean seemed to have worked; she hadn't seen him for the last hour. She could only assume Melanie had been keeping him well occupied. To her surprise, an exquisite stab of pain shot through her right temple at the precise moment the thought did.

Sarah crammed the milky lid onto somebody's bowl of potato salad and surveyed the scene in front of her as she wiped off her fingers on the seat of her baggy shorts. There, at least, was something to make her feel better.

Amanda and Percy Jenkins were holding court under the largest of the oak trees in the waning light, their “thrones” two woebegone lawn chairs they'd placed so close together their shoulders were touching. Never had she seen two people so much at peace, Sarah thought with a twinge. Amanda, especially: her dark brown eyes glowed with the special serenity that comes from having discovered the secret to happiness. Sarah wasn't by nature covetous, but just now, she envied the seventy-three-year-old woman with every ounce of her being.

Then there were Lance and Jennifer, about to return to their condo in Opelika to continue unpacking, standing arm in arm in front of the elderly couple, receiving their blessing. She envied them, too.

She turned her back on the scene, fighting to keep the tears
under control. It had come so suddenly, this feeling of being…left out, she guessed it was. What was so bizarre was that she'd assumed she was perfectly content. After all, she had her mother and Jennifer and Katey and a good career doing what she loved. How had she missed the fact that she was so incredibly
lonely?

Yeah, well, living a lie can do that to a body.

“You know, we can't afford to give you much of a wedding present,” she heard Amanda say. Banishing the self-pity, Sarah turned back around. Amanda had one hand pressed tightly into her husband's palm, the other methodically stroking the rich coppery fur of the old Irish setter by her side. “But we sure do wish you the kind of love that's seen Percy and me through half a century.”

Lance stood behind Jennifer, his arms linked around her waist. He tightened his grip, nearly knocking her off balance and making her laugh. “I think we've got that, Amanda,” he said, kissing Jennifer's hair as she grabbed his forearms.

“Yes, honey, I believe you do…oh! Penny…get back here now,” she said to the nearly sightless dog, who had sensed someone's approach and wobbled to her feet to greet the newcomer, a trim forty-plus woman with troweled-on makeup and a gold-studded white T-shirt tucked into a pair of shorts obviously borrowed from somebody's Barbie doll.

“Y'all seen Melanie?” Blanche Kincaid asked the group in general, seeming more put out than worried.

“Last time I saw her she was with Dean,” Sarah piped up, feeling Jennifer's wide eyes glom onto the side of her face. “Listen—why don't you go on if you're in a hurry? One of us'll give her a ride home.”

Blanche's hennaed hair glinted in the shaft of sunlight that had managed to pierce the mimosa branches. “Oh, I'd hate for you to go to all that trouble—”

“It's no trouble. Oh—wait a minute…” Sarah shielded her eyes against the setting sun and pointed to the road. “There they are.”

“Melanie!” Blanche beckoned her daughter with one crim
son-nailed hand, rattling the collection of gold bangles on her wrist. “Come
on,
honey! You know my program starts at eight!”

Ahead of Dean by a good five feet, the blonde stalked up to her mother's car and wordlessly plopped into the front seat with her arms tightly folded across her bosom, her lips extended into a blue-ribbon-winning pout. Sarah glanced over at Dean.

Uh-oh.

She turned away, feeling the censure from a pair of furious forest-green eyes blaze into her skull. She busied herself with folding tablecloths and stacking them in a neat pile on the picnic table, the oddest conglomeration of thoughts whirling in her head. Again.

Okay, she was glad her plan backfired. She was relieved he'd repelled Melanie's advances—which he obviously had, if Melanie's pique meant anything. But that meant he'd still pester her, which she didn't want.

She stopped, frozen, staring at nothing. Who was she kidding? She wanted him to do a helluva lot more than pester her.

No, no, no, no.
She shook her head violently, ignoring her thudding heart, ignoring the heat from Dean's anger and frustration just a few feet away.

Ignoring his heat, period.

She shut her eyes. Oh, Lordy, Lordy, Lordy—she had it
bad.

If he touched her, they'd both ignite.
Whoomph!
Spontaneous combustion, big time. Just like they had nine years ago. Only this time would be worse. Much worse. Or, much better, depending on how you looked at it. This time, she knew what it would feel like, how his mouth, warm and moist and soft, would feel against her lips or pressed in the hollow of her neck, the way his tongue would rasp against her nipples; how he'd caress her breasts so gently, so reverently, as if they were a precious gift; the goose bumps of pleasure his hands would bring as they skimmed her stomach, then lower, to that part of her that no man knew
but
him…

She'd kill for something cold to drink. Or dump over her head.

She tried to steady her breathing, telling herself if it didn't get any worse than this, she could handle it. As long as he didn't touch her, she could get through the week.

She could get through what she had to do.

Someone
touched her, and she jumped, ramming her hip into the card table. “What is it, baby?” her mother asked softly. Sarah shook her head, her mouth set, hoping she wasn't blushing, knowing she was. She didn't dare look her mother in the face. “It's okay,” her mother said, a queer cast to her voice. “He's talking to the Jenkinses. You wanna go home?”

“Not yet,” she said as she exhaled, meeting her mother's knowing, questioning eyes. “I'm not running this time.”

Vivian rubbed her back. “Aren't you?”

Sarah's brows dipped sharply. But she didn't reply.

“Hey, you guys…we're leaving.”

Grateful for the distraction, Sarah turned to Jennifer, hoping to avoid the inevitable questions in her sister's eyes. So she smiled—far too brightly, she knew—gave Jennifer a big hug, then steered her to the front of the house, her arm around her shoulder. Vivian followed, holding a one-sided conversation with the ancient setter, who'd decided to keep them stiff-legged company.

“You want me to come over tomorrow after work and help you guys with the apartment?” Sarah asked her sister.

“No, we're fine. Lord—I can't believe it. Less than a week.” Her hand slipped to her impossibly flat tummy.

The pang of envy made an encore. Sarah swallowed, then said with a wink, “Think you can wait that long?”

A bright, mischievous smile lit up her sister's face. “Guess I'll have to.”

“Jen—” Lance stood with the door open, one foot already in the car. “Let's go, honey.”

Vivian snorted. “He
already
sounds like a husband, doesn't he?” She shooed Jennifer away. “Well, go on. Might as well let him think he's in charge. At least until the wedding.” She
gave her daughter a quick one-handed hug, the other hand firmly clamped to the old dog's collar, then said to the setter, “Come on, girl. Let's you and me go back to the house.”

“Walk me to the car?” Jennifer asked Sarah after their mother left, squeezing her hand. Sarah suddenly realized how young her sister was, how nervous she must be. Especially about the baby. She nodded, then slipped her arm around Jen's waist and crossed the driveway with her.

 

On the surface, Dean was making polite conversation with the old couple. What he was really doing was waiting. Waiting until Sarah was alone, until he could have it out with her, and about a dang sight more than just what she thought she was doing by throwing Miss Hot-to-Trot in his path. Sure seemed to him she was going to an awful lot of trouble for someone who no longer cared.

A middle-aged couple—the McCallums, Dean remembered—suddenly appeared, drawing up two more chairs in order to chew the fat with the Jenkinses, giving Dean the opportunity to quietly withdraw.

Maybe he
was
being dense, he considered as he trudged up the back porch steps, thinking Sarah might be inside. Maybe she really couldn't forgive him. Maybe he should accept the fact this was one mistake there was no making up for.

Well, he couldn't.

He ratched open the wood-framed screen door, swollen from the recent rain, then stepped into the house, listening carefully.

Whether it was because he was too stupid or too stubborn, he had no idea, but he wasn't going to give up on at least making peace with her without a fight. Which was just what they were about to have, soon as he found her.

He stopped outside the kitchen door, feeling like a poor man's James Bond. He heard his aunt's voice, then Vivian's, softly chiding. A couple of other voices, female but not immediately recognizable. But not Sarah's. Then, filtering through the muffled conversations and the whirr of several
electric fans, he heard his brother from out front, trying to get Jen into the car.

Which, more than likely, is where Sarah was. He tiptoed out before someone asked him to do something.

For several minutes, he stood in the shadows of the porch steps, watching Sarah hang on to Lance's car window, yakking to her sister for what seemed like forever—goodbyes in these parts not being glossed over lightly—then give them a little wave as they drove off. She still had her back to her him, her hands propped on the back of her waist, when Dean snuck up on her. Before she realized he was behind her, he took hold of her wrist, snapped her around. She gasped, then snatched her hand out of his as if she'd been burned.

“What's the idea?”

“That's what I want to know.” He kept his voice level, not wishing an audience to materialize. “Why'd you set that she-devil on me?”

Stuffing both hands into her shorts pockets, she started to walk away. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Oh, no you don't!” He stepped in front of her to cut off her flight, grabbed her by the shoulders. “We are going to talk this out—”

“Don't touch me!”
She wrenched out of his grasp and stepped back, her hands splayed in front of her. “Lay a hand on me again, and I swear to God I'll deck you!”

 

“What are you staring at so hard, Ethel Parrish?”

Dean's aunt shushed Vivian with a slap at the air, never taking her eyes off the driveway in front of the house. Vivian crimped a sheet of foil around someone's leftover ham and joined the older woman at the kitchen window.

“They're about to have it out, looks like,” Ethel said, her mouth tight.

Vivian watched for a moment. “About to, nothing. They are.” She glanced at the old woman, then back outside. “He's not going to give up, you know.”

“And I can't for the life of me figure out why.”

“He's still in love with her, Ethel, whether he realizes it yet or not. Has been since they were kids. I think we both have to just accept that.”

“I don't have to accept anything,” the old woman retorted. “They're not suited.”

“Oh, for the love of…” Vivian shook her head, beads of perspiration trickling down her back underneath her oversize shirt. The emaciated specimen of preserved womanhood in front of her, however, had probably never perspired in her life. “They're all grown up now. What was true then isn't true anymore.”

The gray head wagged back and forth slowly. “It just wouldn't be right.”

“Ethel. Listen to me.” Vivian reached out, clasped Dean's aunt's hand, dry as a withered leaf. “Things have changed. Dean has a successful business, and Sarah's no swelled head. You know that. When you come to think of it, they both work with their hands, as well as their brains and their hearts. One brings beauty, one brings healing. Only difference is Sarah's got a few more pieces of paper than Dean does, mainly because the law says you can't go around mending animals unless you have a degree and a license to do it.”

Through the window, she heard the argument they probably thought was a private affair, and her heart twisted at the pain they were both going through. Pain that could have been completely avoided, pain she knew her daughter'd do anything
to
avoid.

“They belonged together, Ethel,” Vivian said quietly. “And they'd be together right now—” she took a deep breath “—if it hadn't been for two scared, meddling women who should've kept their damn mouths shut.”