The Secret Wedding Dress (10 page)

“Did Sylvie say what time she’d like us to bring the fish over?” he asked, feeling a panicky need to stop discussing the apparently close-knit Shea family. His had been the exact opposite. For as long as he could remember, his parents fought over everything.

“She said anytime.” Rianne rocked back and forth on her elbows. “I got there when Sylvie finished showering. She’s got a pretty robe. It’s not fuzzy like mine, Daddy. I think the
material is like that white dress she sewed for Kay. ’Cept Sylvie’s robe is red. Shiny and red. Maybe she’ll still have it on if we hurry and go over there now.”

Joel, who was rummaging in the fridge as Rianne babbled, had popped the top on a beer. He’d barely taken one swig when she dropped that bombshell. The picture forming in his mind had Joel choking and spewing beer all over the floor.

“Are you okay?” Rianne studied her father worriedly.

“I took too big a mouthful,” Joel muttered, doing his best to wipe up the spill and also dispense with the image of Sylvie in red satin. Maybe if he concentrated on the way her hair had looked earlier—no, that was no good, either. At the time she’d been quite the spectacle in her wet underwear. Pale peach. A color that made her freckles stand out. Unfortunately, Joel vividly recalled the freckles sprinkled across her nose, her shoulders—and the smattering that dipped into her cleavage.

“Would you like a lemonade?” he abruptly asked Rianne.

“Uh-huh. Can I take the cup to Sylvie’s?”

“No. Drink it before we go. I plan to finish my beer. We need to give her a chance to get presentable.”

Rianne reached for a plastic glass her dad had poured three-quarters full. “What’s that mean, Daddy? Get presentable?”

“It means we need to allow Sylvie time to dress, dry her hair and maybe put on makeup. Such things are important to women. Men and kids, we’re more apt not to care if people see us looking, well, grubby. Women worry about appearances.”

“Oh.” Rianne slurped up her lemonade. “Sylvie’s robe’s not grubby. It’s pretty. But we can wait. I still need to find a Barbie. After we eat, if you say it’s okay, Sylvie said she’ll help me pick material from her scrap drawer for a Barbie dress.”

Oddly relieved to be handed the perfect opportunity to make a speedy exit after dinner, Joel said, “No problem, snooks. I’ll leave you ladies to your sewing, and I’ll come home and try to make some headway unpacking boxes.”

Nodding, Rianne
set down her glass and ran upstairs.

Joel wandered from room to room sipping his beer. He couldn’t explain a sudden restlessness to put his stamp on every corner of this old house. He wanted this home to spell security and a solidity he’d lacked growing up with a stern, military dad and an indifferent mother. He’d been an unhappy child—except for the summers he’d spent here. Someday, he thought, Rianne would bring her children here for the summers and holidays. By then he’d probably be shuffling through the fallen leaves with the aid of a cane and a pipe tucked between what Joel hoped would be his own teeth. Chuckling, he decided that, yet again, he’d let his mind wander too far.

Rianne skipped into the room, crossing the dusty rug that needed replacing, or else a good cleaning. “I’m ready to go to Sylvie’s. I’ve got a Barbie.”

Ruffling her fair hair, which was closer to Lynn’s light blond shade than his darker tones, Joel drained his beer and crushed the can. “Okay, let me dump this in the trash and pull the fish out of the fridge. I wonder which box has my wine. I stored some bottles in that cabinet the movers set in the corner. It’s customary to take a dinner hostess wine or candy.”

“Why?”

“It just is. Come to think of it, I don’t know whether Sylvie drinks wine.”

“She does, I think.”

“Oh? You think so…because?”

“She has some in her ’frigerator, Daddy. White.”

“In that case, give me a minute to slit a couple of these boxes to see if I can locate my stash.” Joel soon found the bottles and chose an excellent Chardonnay his boss had given him for Christmas. He set the bottle aside while he retrieved the fish.

Joel hoped that with the help of a bottle of fine wine, he could get through the awkwardness of dinner with a woman he really didn’t know—but felt unwillingly attracted to.

Hearing
their knock, Sylvie yelled, “Come in,” from the depths of her kitchen.

Joel wasn’t sure what he expected to see when they walked in, probably because of Rianne’s description of the red satin robe. He’d put on slacks and a reasonably dressy shirt. He did think Sylvie might have chosen something nicer. She’d pulled her dark hair into a ponytail and skewered it with pieces of wood resembling chopsticks. Her baggy capri pants could have come from Goodwill. The logo on her out-of-shape shirt advertised a five-year-old sardine festival, of all things. Joel didn’t know such a festival existed.

To top it off, she was barefoot. Joel scowled, remembering his lost loafers.

“Do you intend to hold that bottle of wine all evening,” Sylvie teased, “or would you like to give it to me so I can chill it a bit?”

“Uh…here.” He thrust the bottle and the plastic container of fish into her hands.

“You’ll have to toss this dish, you know? Plastic absorbs the odor of fish. If fresh fish sits in plastic too long, anything you store in it from now on will smell fishy.”

Joel rubbed an index finger along the bridge of his nose. “Guess my lack of culinary know-how is showing, huh?”

She shrugged, stowed his wine and crossed to the island counter where she’d already set out bowls of milk, melted butter and cracker crumbs. “You admitted the only fish you cook are frozen fish sticks. How’s your head, by the way? Ugh…that goose egg is already turning interesting purples and greens.”

“I must have a hard head. I haven’t felt any pain.”

“You may have a high tolerance. Did it hurt a lot when you got the cut that left the scar running from your lip to your chin?”

His fingers flew to the spot. “You’re observant. No one notices. Not even me unless I go a couple of days without shaving.”

Solemnly, Sylvie
imagined him unkempt. She wondered if his beard was darker than his hair. “The scar really stood out when I gave you CPR.”

Without thinking, Joel stroked a finger over his lower lip. “Really, you…uh…gave me mouth-to-mouth?”

Sylvie felt her cheeks heat. “No. Nothing like that. The woman who taught my life-saving class was ancient. In her day they didn’t give mouth-to-mouth for drowning victims. I meant your skin was cold from the water, and your scar was noticeable.”

Joel quickly buried his hands in his back pockets and nodded. “I got this scar when I drove a car I’d made out of scrap lumber in a soapbox derby. I was twelve or so. The wheels broke off halfway down the hill. I flew out and smacked my face on the bumper of a parked vehicle.”

“I never knew that, Daddy,” Rianne exclaimed. “Where’s your scar? Can I see?”

“It’s always been there, honey.” He bent down and drew in his lower lip to make the jagged white line easier to see.

“I thought scars were scabby and bloody.”

“New ones are. They look like this a long time after the doctor takes out stitches,” Joel told her, suddenly straightening self-consciously when she threw her arms around his neck and planted a big kiss on the mark.
What if Sylvie had kissed him at the dock?
She hadn’t, but…

“My friend Heather got stitches in her knee when she fell down on the ice. At show-and-tell she said it hurt a lot and she cried. Did you cry, Daddy?”

Joel found a shaky grin. “I probably wanted to. But a twelve-year-old boy doesn’t dare shed a tear when he’s in pain. He has to suck it up or his friends’ll call him a wimp.”

Rianne turned to where Sylvie was readying the fish for baking. “That’s not fair, is it, Sylvie?”

“No. But it’s one of the big differences between men and women, short stuff.”

“I’m
not so short!” Rianne went into peals of laughter. “I might be taller than you someday. My mama and daddy are the same height. Daddy says that means when I get to be a grownup, I’ll be as tall as him.”

Sylvie popped the baking dish into the oven, and mentally measured Joel Mercer as she stripped off her oven mitts. “Rianne’s mom must be tall. You’re what? Six feet?”

“Just. Lynn used to tell everyone I was six feet, but she was only five foot twelve.”

“So, she had a sense of humor?” Stepping past Joel, Sylvie removed the makings for a green salad from the fridge. It wasn’t until she reached for a bowl that she realized his smile had disappeared, to be replaced by frosty disfavor. “Oops, I should’ve remembered. Ellie said your marriage is off-limits.”

“Pardon?” The frost turned to outright ice.

“Ellie Pearson, the elementary school secretary. She came into the café shortly after you guys left. Ellie said you were closemouthed on quite a few subjects.”

“There’s why. See how fast she blabbed my business all over town?”

“Hey, I’m with you. But gossip is this town’s lifeblood. You’re smart to keep anything to yourself that you don’t want spread about. I’m going to set the table out on the side porch. There’s a nice breeze that comes through the screen this time of day. Rianne, you want to help? Joel, why don’t you open the wine? The drawer behind you has a corkscrew. You may have to rummage to find it.” Sylvie passed a basket filled with napkins and silverware to Rianne, and she picked up plates and glasses.

Joel watched her bump against a door leading to a porch that faced his living room. If the perimeter of his property wasn’t so overgrown with brush and weeds, she could probably see straight into his picture window. The hell she wasn’t nosy! She was just sneakier about her questioning than Ellie Pearson.

He dug around for the corkscrew, wondering what she’d
think if he called a contractor tomorrow and arranged to have a block wall erected between their two properties. Then it dawned on him that he wanted privacy for himself that he didn’t afford others. For instance, in his work he could be considered nosy and gossipy, depending on how a person took his comic characters. To do research, he lurked in dark corners of singles bars and made notes on how men and women interacted. Then he went home to his drawing board and turned his observations into comic strips that were read in a million homes each day. He tweaked real-life situations into encounters people discussed at water coolers—and even laughed about. But if the couples he spied on ever suspected they’d end up with their private moments revealed by his comic strip, they’d probably lynch him.

“Out of curiosity,” Joel said when Sylvie returned to get the water pitcher and to ask what she should fix Rianne to drink, “is there a favorite hangout in Briarwood where singles go to meet other singles?”

That was probably the last question Sylvie expected to hear from Joel Mercer, because he sent out every signal in the book saying he wanted to be left alone. She grinned. “That depends on what kind of action you’re looking for.”

“Pardon me?” He spilled some wine filling the second glass as he glanced around to see where Rianne was.

“It’s okay. I let Rianne put kibble in Oscar’s bowl on the back porch. She asked to feed him. I hope that’s okay.”

“Fine, as long as she doesn’t turn him loose. I shudder to think how fast he could destroy a table set with dishes and glassware.”

“Poor Oscar. He gets such a bad rap from you. Yet I keep him inside at night and he’s never so much as knocked over or broken one thing.”

“I’ll have to take your word on that.” Absently, Joel ran two fingers over the knot on his forehead. “Ah, back to what we were discussing….”

Sylvie
lifted her glass and clinked it to the rim of Joel’s. “Cheers. So, are you looking to get laid or what, Mercer?”

For the second time in one afternoon, his beverage choked Joel and spurted out his mouth and nose. “
Excuse
me?” he eventually croaked.

She put down her wine and crossed her arms. “Uh…our methods for hooking up in Briarwood aren’t as sophisticated as I suspect they were where you lived. Nightspots in and around our town are kind of…specialized. Take Mack’s Tavern, west of town. Singles go there for serious drinking after a divorce or separation, or if a significant other has done them wrong. The Lamplighter off Main, a guy takes a girl there if he’s trying to impress her. Truckers, motorcyclists and the like wander in and out of a place called Ginny’s. I’ve never been inside, because if you’re ever spotted going in or leaving Ginny’s, it gets you talked about for months in places you probably wouldn’t even imagine.” She gestured with her glass. “If you just want to shoot pool, have a beer, listen to country tunes or meet up with friends, that would be Spike Turner’s joint. A log cabin. Quaint interior. No food except popcorn and peanuts. Mostly twentysomethings hang out at Spike’s.” Sylvie twirled her glass and studied the contents. “Now…if you’ve got marriage on your mind, which I doubt, you only have to meet my mother or my sisters. They’re known throughout the valley for linking couples anxious to take a walk down the aisle.”

Stopping abruptly, Sylvie knelt to peer in her oven. Seemingly satisfied, she slid a pan of yeast rolls onto the shelf above the fish. “To be completely honest, Joel…if just getting laid is what you’re after, you’d be better off making a so-called business trip to Asheville.”

Joel remained speechless. He didn’t know what to make of Sylvie Shea. Had she been ad-libbing that rundown, or what?

Rianne skipped back into the room. Sylvie promptly sent her into the bathroom to wash her hands.

“What
you just said,” Joel ventured. “You were pulling my leg, right?”

“Every word’s the absolute truth, I swear,” she said, solemnly raising her hand.

His jaw went slack as she turned and handed him a salad. “I have three dressings. Blue cheese. Italian, light. Or creamy ranch. Oh, shoot, I’ll set out all three.” She headed for the porch.

He followed after putting down his wine. “Okay, I’ll bite. If your mom and sisters have such a great track record getting people married, why are you still single?”

She hesitated, then sighed. “I’m their one failure. I’ve besmirched their spotless record. So, here’s the tip of a lifetime—if you like your status as it is, Joel, avoid them like the plague. Don’t forget these names: Dory Hopewell, Nan Shea and Carline Manchester. Anyone attempts to introduce you, run, hide or otherwise make yourself scarce.”