Читать книгу Rom-Com Collection - Kristan Higgins - Страница 23

THINGS WERE BETTER the next day. Good night’s sleep and all that. Besides, all that doom and gloom last night … blick! “No more Bitter Betty,” I informed Bowie, who was curled in a tight ball on his side of the bed. “And no more Debbie Downer. I killed them both in my sleep. Today is a new day, Bowie, you handsome eighties pop icon, you!” My pet licked my face in vigorous agreement. I sang in the shower, Bowie chiming in on harmony, then put on a wicked cute pink dress and paired it with to-die-for gray pumps, made pancakes for Noah and kissed his cheek as I left.

When I got to work, my mood continued to blossom. Muriel had gone to California—some BTR meeting she couldn’t miss. Without her, the office had its old vibe back; Damien snarked about, lounging in my office to update me on his joyful reunion last night with Dave (their fifth). Fleur told a funny story about her latest wanker. In the art room, Pete and Leila spoke in their feral child language, laughing at jokes no one else understood but which made us all smile anyway. Mark brought in pizzas for lunch, and Karen even emerged from her cave to eat with us.

“The office is closed tomorrow,” Mark announced, waving a slice of garlic and sausage in the air. “Yankees–Red Sox at Fenway, and even though I had to mortgage my house to get the tickets, you’re all worth it.”

Cheers broke out, though Karen was the only true baseball fan. Field trips like this were something Mark had done from the beginning of Green Mountain Media. Once we’d spent the day at Ben & Jerry’s (heaven, I tell you). Another time we’d gone skiing (or, perhaps more appropriately for some of us, drinking in a picturesque lodge while Mark and Karen skied). We’d been to Fenway once before, and it had been wicked fun.

After work, I swung by the funeral home. Mom didn’t mention the Bette Davis debacle, and neither did I. She and Louis were engaged in a mutual praise-fest over the restoration work on a particularly gruesome case involving a man and a wood chipper (enough said, don’t you think?), so I endured that as long as I could, then kissed my mom’s cheek and left them to their work. Dropped by home, got Noah’s dinner ready, called my dad and found myself at the bowling alley an hour later.

“Poodle!” Dad cried when he saw me. I could see he was back to channeling George Clooney.

“Hi, Daddy,” I said, giving him an extra big smooch on the cheek.

“Don’t you look pretty!” he exclaimed, and I smiled and gave a little twirl. If Dad was George Clooney, then I was Audrey Hepburn (well, a somewhat plumper Audrey) with a cute ponytail, pedal pushers and a white shirt tied at the waist. “Stan, doesn’t my daughter look gorgeous?” Dad called to his buddy, who was joining us.

“So gorgeous,” Stan called, winking at me as he reverently removed his bowling ball from its case.

“You doing okay, Daddy?” I asked.

“Of course!” he said. “Sometimes it feels good to get things off your chest, know what I mean? But your mother’s got a lot invested in being the martyred ex-wife. I was hoping that things could be different. Gave it my best shot. Que sera, sera.” He sang the last bit, took my hand and twirled me. “Now come on, pretty girl. See if you can knock over a few pins.”

I chose a sparkly pink ball (to match my personality) and lobbed it with great enthusiasm and zero skill. Dad chuckled and put his arm around me as we watched the ball head inevitably for the gutter.

AROUND FIVE THE NEXT EVENING, we were all jammed into Karen’s minivan, full of Fenway franks, Cracker Jacks and beer. “Those fucking Yankees!” Karen cursed, leaning on her horn as we sat in the sea of cars exiting Boston. “A total waste of fantastic fucking seats, Mark. Eleven to two. It’s just wrong.”

“I didn’t think it was a waste,” Damien said. “That Jeter has the best ass in baseball. And I heard a rumor he’s gay.”

“He’s not gay,” I said. “I got a totally hetero vibe when he looked at me.”

“You wish,” Damien sneered. “He was looking at me.”

“I’ll fight you for him,” I offered.

“You’d win,” Mark said, smiling as he checked his iPhone.

Yes. Mark and I were sitting next to each other. Pete and Leila, already entwined around each other, had claimed the seats furthest in the back and were, from the sounds of it, snogging. Damien conveniently suffered from carsickness, so he always got the front. Which left Fleur, Mark and me in the second row, Mark between us two girls.

“This was a great day, Mark,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Yes, thanks. Brilliant idea,” Fleur quickly seconded.

He put his phone back in his pocket. “Good to be with my people,” he said. His dark eyes slid to my face, and he smiled that crooked grin, then winked.

My face warmed, and to hide my blush, I turned my head and looked out on Commonwealth Avenue. Mark chuckled.

Twenty minutes later, my boss’s head was on my shoulder, his soft, curly hair tickling my cheek.

“How men can sleep anywhere, anytime, is beyond me,” Fleur said, shifting. The minivan was called mini for a reason.

“You okay back there, Callie?” Karen asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.

Everyone in this car knew about my crush. Everyone was also kind enough to say nothing, though Fleur raised an eyebrow. “I’m fine. I’ll just give him a good shove if I get uncomfortable,” I answered easily.

“I’ll give him a good shove if he keeps Muriel around,” Damien grumbled.

“Stop it,” I murmured.

“Seriously,” Damien said, turning around in his seat to whisper. “She’s such a self-important little bitch.” Fleur’s ears pricked up, and she leaned forward to join in.

“Damien. Stop,” I said. “What if Mark hears you? What if God hears you and puts a black mark next to your name? Okay? So shut it.”

“I hate moral people,” he said, turning around. “You’re so boring.”

“I’m telling Dave you were mean to me,” I said, grinning. “You know your boyfriend adores me.”

He turned around and smiled, his usually supercilious expression gone in place of a big smile. “Thanks for helping with that,” he said.

“You’re welcome. Buy me something fabulous.”

“You got it.”

And then I was alone again, sort of, breathing in the smell of Mark’s shampoo, telling my heart to wise up, despite it natural inclination to do otherwise.

ON SATURDAY, I SURVEYED my vast collection of fab shoes, wondering if bringing seven pairs on an overnight trip might be excessive, when Noah bellowed up the stairs.

“Got a second?” he asked. “I need some help in the shop.”

“Sure,” I called, glancing at the clock. Ian was coming at two, and it was only quarter after twelve, so I went downstairs, Bowie pattering after me, his steps light, looking up at me as if I were the most fascinating person in the world. Or as if I were about to give him some bacon, which was more likely.

Noah was working on a sea kayak, a long, beautiful boat with a razor-sharp bow and thin body. It looked like a suicide machine to me, but to each his own.

“Okay, just slide it down the side here,” Noah instructed, feeding me the piece of mahogany, which was so long it quivered.

“You don’t usually put trim on your kayaks, do you, Noah?” I asked, doing as I was told.

“No. But this flatlander wanted what he wanted, and he was dumb enough to pay me three grand extra, so here we go. Now can we drop the chatter and get this done?”

“Yes, Noah. And don’t forget I’m going to a wedding and I still need to pack.”

Ian had e-mailed me last night with our schedule, a rather matter-of-fact list of information. We’d be staying at the Capitol Hotel, a beautiful old place that was actually a former account of mine. (The grace of yesterday, the convenience of today.) I was glad Ian had chosen it … not that there was a lot to choose from, even in our capital city. Montpelier was only about an hour from Georgebury, but if Ian wanted to put me up in a gorgeous hotel, I wasn’t about to talk him out of it. Just come as my friend. The memory brought a smile to my face. I would. I’d be a great friend.

“So who’s gonna feed me while you’re gone?” Noah asked.

“No one. I expect to come home tomorrow and find your withered little skeleton, sitting all alone at the table, still waiting for dinner. If only you could walk or talk or use the phone or make your own damn dinner … wait a minute! You can!”

Noah growled, but beneath his white beard, a smile lurked. “You’re a smart-ass, anyone ever tell you that?”

“I get ‘saint’ a lot, especially when people find out I’m living with you,” I said. “But no, not smart-ass.”

“Maybe you’re not listenin’,” he grunted. “Now hold that there, sweetheart. Good. This is gonna take a sec.”

I glanced at the clock on the wall … 12:30 p.m. I had time.

Noah tapped, swore, hopped (he was going one-legged today), swore. It had been a long while since I’d helped my grandfather in the shop, and it was lovely, the smell of wood smoke and cedar, my grandfather nodding in approval, whistling tunelessly. Time seemed to stop out here, since so little had changed over the years. Ever since we were small, Noah had put us to work out here. He was a good teacher, explaining how wood fit together, why he did things a certain way. I’d always felt so safe when I helped him. Still did.

I checked the time again. 12:47 p.m.

“Go get me a C-clamp, darlin’,” he said, in a rare and fine mood today. I went to his workbench and scavenged around ‘til I found it, then returned.

“Okay, hold this again,” Noah instructed. We were on the other side of the kayak now, and after a few minutes, my hands tingled from staying in the same position. Noah then needed another bit of wood sanded, and I obliged. After a while, I glanced at the clock again. 12:51 p.m. But that couldn’t be right.

“Noah? Is that clock broken?” I asked, once more holding a piece of wood in place.

“Oh, yeah. Been broke for a while,” he said.

“What time is it? I have to pack! I haven’t even showered!”

He pulled out his pocket watch. “Five of two.”

“Noah! I have to go! Ian’s coming in five minutes! Can’t you call Freddie and have him come over?”

“You cahn’t just stop, Callie! I’m almost done.”

“I have to—”

“Shush, child! You let go now, I have to start over, and you don’t want that, do you?”

“I don’t want to be late, either …” My voice broke off as Bowie exploded into barking. Sure enough, I heard a knock.

“We’re in the shop!” I yelled.

“Christly, you’re loud,” Noah muttered.

The door to the shop opened. Sure enough, it was Ian, wearing khakis and an oxford. At the sight of my flannel pajamas, his face tightened.

“Ian, I’ll just be two minutes,” I said. “Noah,” I hissed through clenched teeth. “We’re going to a wedding.”

“Fine! One more nail … there. You can go, Princess, for God’s sake.” He looked over at Ian. “Afternoon.”

“Hello, Mr. Grey. Nice to see you. Callie, we need to leave.” His jaw was clenched.

“Yup! I know! Two minutes! Come on, follow me. You can carry my, um … my bag.” Which I hadn’t packed, thanks to my grandfather’s broken clock. And let’s be honest. I wasn’t exactly the “Let me just grab my toothbrush” type. I flew up the stairs, Bowie leaping excitedly next to me, Ian following without so much joie de vivre. “Come on in,” I said, flying into my room. “Or no, just stay … well. I’m sorry. Noah needed … forget it. Two minutes!” Leaving him scowling on the catwalk, I flew into my room, then into the bathroom.

Okay, I needed a shower, that was clear. I threw the faucets on and, while I waited for the water to heat, yanked open the drawer and took out my overnight makeup bag. Foundation, concealer, powder, blush, eye shadow (three shades of course, this was black tie), eyeliner, mascara, not this stuff, the good stuff, where was my eyebrow brush, ah, here it was, tweezers, lip gloss … no, lipstick … no, both … okay, and which shade …

“Callie! We need to leave.”

“Two minutes!” I lied. Razor. Shampoo. Conditioner, voluminizing mousse, styling cream, finishing spray, gloss.

I tore off my jammies, jumped under the spray and soaped up, washed my hair, slapped some conditioner on it. “We’re going to the hotel to change, right?” I called.

“I can’t hear you.”

I winced, knowing he was pissed off. “We’re stopping at the hotel before the ceremony, right?” I bellowed.

“Yes.”

I jumped. His voice was much closer. “Are you in my bedroom?”

“Yes.”

The latch on my bathroom door was broken … a minor inconvenience, unless there was a man in one’s bedroom. All he’d need to see me buck naked would be a little breeze … Wait a sec. Ian. My bedroom. Of course, I hadn’t made my bed today, and about eight dresses, several bras and panties and … blerk! My Dr. Rey’s Shapewear, in plain sight. Shit! Shit on a shingle, shit on rye.

I slapped off the slower, toweled off and jumped into my robe. Scooped every makeup and hair care product I had into the bag, grabbed a few clean towels and opened the door. “Hi! Sorry, I’m just running a teensy bit late,” I said, throwing the towels over my unmentionables on the bed.

Ian was standing with his arms folded, staring at my Morelock chair. He turned to me with a look that would restore the polar ice caps. “Your two minutes were up eleven minutes ago,” he said.

“Ian, I’m just … I just have to throw these things into a bag—you know what? I’d be a lot faster if you weren’t here. So out! Out you go! You, too, Bowie. I’m going as fast as I can.”

Basically shoving Ian out the door, I once again closed it on his face.

“I’m leaving here in five minutes,” he said.

“Hush, you! I’m coming.”

Nineteen minutes later, I opened the door. He was still there, glaring.

“Thank you for waiting. But we have plenty of time, right? The wedding’s at five—”

“The ceremony starts at five, Callie. It will take us an hour and a half to get to the hotel, where we have to check in, get changed, then go to the church, which is another twenty minutes out of town.” He fixed me with a look that said very clearly I can kill you with my pinkie.

“Well, it takes that long if you drive,” I said. “Let me drive, and we’ll get there in plenty of time.”

“You’re not driving,” he said.

“Well, try not to stress,” I said, glancing at my watch. “We can still make it if we leave now. Don’t be so tense.”

“I wasn’t tense an hour ago,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Oh, wait, I forgot something,” I said, dashing back into my room. He may have growled, but I emerged seconds later with a CD. “I made us a playlist for the ride.”

“Get in the car before I strangle you,” he said.

“Is that a romantic thing to say to your date?” I asked, heading him down the stairs. “It really isn’t.”

“You’re not my date,” he said, completely serious.

“Bye, Noah! Thanks for ruining my day!” I called through the kitchen door.

“You’re welcome. Have fun,” he said.

Ten minutes later, Ian pulled onto the interstate.

“Sorry I was late, Ian,” I said contritely, since he hadn’t spoken since my house. He didn’t answer, so I took it upon myself to fiddle with the CD player. A disk slid out. “Mahler’s Symphony #1? My mother plays this at the funeral home. Yikes, it’s worse than I thought.”

His mouth didn’t even twitch.

“Ian, please don’t be mad at me,” I said. “I’m really sorry I lost track of time.”

“I’m not mad, Callie. I’m preoccupied.” He cut his eyes to me, then back to the road.

“Well, here’s what I picked out for our little ride. I mean how many times do you have to go to your ex’s wedding, right? So we have the classic ‘Love Stinks,’ of course. ‘Nothing Compares to You’ by that crazy Irish woman, ‘Love Lies Bleeding’ by Sir Elton … oh, here’s a personal favorite, ‘Shut Up’ by the Black-Eyed Peas—remind me to tell you about my hip-hop class for senior citizens. ‘Good Riddance’ by Green Day. I haven’t actually heard that one yet, but I liked the title.”

Bingo. Got him to smile. Not much of a smile, but a little one.

“Shall I put it in?” I asked, holding up the CD.

“Sure,” he said, flicking on his signal and changing lanes. I complied, and the rather elementary chords of the J. Geils Band filled the car.

“So tell me about the groom,” I said, settling back and looking at my driver. He looked nice in profile, I thought. Definitely a rugged face, not quite handsome … but awfully interesting. “Have you met him?”

Ian glanced at me for a long moment—longer than I was comfortable with, since he was driving—then looked back at the road. “There is no groom,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “I thought this was a wedding.”

“There is no groom.”

“But—”

Ian looked over again, his face grim.

I swallowed. “Oh. Oh, holy guacamole, Ian. Are you kidding me?”

“No groom.”

I fumbled in my purse for the wedding invitation he’d given me last week.

The pleasure of your company is warmly requested at the marriage ceremony of Laura Elizabeth Pembers & Devin Mullane Kilpatrick, Saturday, September, etc., etc.

“Devin’s a woman?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Oh, my God, Ian.”

“Yes.” He cut another glance my way.

For a second, I didn’t say a word. No wonder he looked clenched all the time! No wonder he had issues with women! No wonder he didn’t want a date! “So you never …”

“No.”

“And she didn’t …”

“No.”

“How did you …”

“I found them in bed together, Callie.”

“Oh, Ian.” I reached out and put my hand on his leg. He glanced down, then at me again, eyes icy. Right. I carefully removed my hand—apparently there was a “no touching” rule in effect. Couldn’t blame him. Crikey. Ian’s ex-wife was gay.

Holy. Crap.

There was an exit for a rest stop up ahead, and Ian pulled off the highway. He parked the car carefully between the lines, despite the fact that there was no one else around, shifted into Park, then turned to me, his face expressionless. His hands still gripped the wheel.

“We met at Tufts. She was in law school. My first real love, everything I was looking for and all that. We dated for two years, got married after graduation. Devin was her friend from high school. She was in our wedding, ironically. About three years into the marriage, I came home early one day, and there they were. Any questions?”

A zillion, I thought, but I only asked one. “Do you still love her?”

“Would I be going to her wedding if I hated her?”

“Well, yes, absolutely,” I said. “You could make a scene, have a hissy fit, get drunk, grope your ex-mother-in-law.”

He gave a reluctant grin, and my heart twisted a little. “I don’t hate her.”

“You didn’t answer the question.” I felt my cheeks warming.

He looked down. “Sure. I married her. I’ll always love her a little.”

“And why are you going to the wedding, Ian?” I asked.

He sighed and put the car in reverse, backing out carefully. “Damned if I know. Closure, I guess.”

We pulled back on the highway. Man. Ian McFarland had caught his wife cheating on him, and here he was, going to her wedding.

For some reason, that made my heart feel a little bit too big for my chest.

I MADE IAN WAIT YET again once we got to the hotel … not on purpose, honest, but I felt I needed to start my hair from scratch, so that required another shower. Plus, I wanted to look incredible. Ian might not know it (or want it) but I was about to be the best date he’d ever had, and part of that involved being gorgeous. So I fussed with my hair, used the big curling iron to make it swingy and smooth. “Callie, time’s up!” Ian called from the hall.

“Two minutes! Almost ready, Ian,” I lied. Did my makeup to perfection, smoky eyes, easy on the lip gloss. A little perfume at the old pulse points. My grandmother’s pearl necklace and matching earrings. Then I put on the dress. It was long. It was red. It showed off the girls. And yes, my shoes were begging for it, slutty little strappy purple (I know!) things with three-inch heels. Oh, mommy!

“Callie, this time I’m really leaving without you.”

“You definitely don’t want to do that,” I said.

“We’re late. Again. You have five seconds, Callie, and if you’re not with me, that’s probably not the worst thing in the world. Five … four … three …”

I grabbed my little sparkly evening bag “… two …” glanced once more at myself in the big mirror “… one …” and opened the door. “Hi.”

Oh … God. He was in a tux. I’d sort of forgotten to think about that. He looked like an assassin about to infiltrate a state dinner … tall, blond, dangerous, and heavens, it was a turn-on! Those eyes of his were staring back at me, and you know what, it had been a long time since I’d had sex, and could we please just do it right here in this hallway? Holy. Guaca. Moley.

His eyes drifted down, slowly, assessingly, then back up, pausing at the girls for a gratifying heartbeat or three, then continuing up to my face. “Let’s go,” he said, then cleared his throat.

I snapped out of my haze of lust. “‘Let’s go,’ Ian? Can’t you do better than that? Here, I’ll give you an example.” I smiled and let my eyes drift over him once more. Frrrroooww! “Ian, you look … amazing. Wow. Okay, now it’s your turn.”

He almost smiled. “You look pretty. Let’s go.”

I sighed. “You’re a work in progress, Ian McFarland.”

Still, it was kind of a thrill, walking through the lobby of the prettiest hotel in Montpelier. Heads turned, people smiled, and I felt very Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, minus the prostitute factor.

Ian was quiet in the car. His GPS system guided us past the gold-domed Capitol, the charming brick buildings, inviting shops and luscious smells of downtown Montpelier.

“Nervous?” I asked as we drove over the bridge.

“Yes,” he answered.

“I am still totally game to pretend to be your girlfriend,” I reminded him.

“No, thanks,” he said.

“That’s so insulting. And to think I wore this dress for you.”

Ian was not amused. His eyes looked tight, if such a thing were possible. “Sorry,” I muttered, adjusting my bracelet. “Just trying to lighten the mood.” I glanced at the little GPS system, which was one of those handheld thingies. “Can I look at this?” I asked. “I’ve been meaning to get one.”

“Sure,” Ian said, taking a left as instructed.

I picked up the unit. Cute. There was an arrow at the bottom of the screen. I touched it. It showed our next four instructions. Yes, I definitely could use one of these things. Vermont roads were notoriously unmarked. I hit the button to exit back to the last screen. Escape? the unit asked. I hit yes.

“When do I make the next turn?” Ian asked.

“Um, let me check here … oh. Oops, I think I … there’s nothing.” Ian gave me the Siberian Freeze again. “I just touched an arrow,” I explained. “It asked if I wanted to escape, I said yes, that’s all.”

“You canceled the instructions,” he said, pulling over a tad abruptly.

“Oh. Sorry,” I said. “I don’t think I did, actually, but—”

He took the GPS from me. “You did,” he said. He stabbed a few buttons with unnecessary roughness, I thought. Growled. Stabbed some more. Finally got it back.

“Don’t touch it again,” he said.

“Okay, boss,” I said, sighing. “Sorry. Again.”

Ten minutes later, we pulled up in front of the Universalist Unitarian Church of Willington. Cars lined both sides of the street, but everyone already appeared to be inside. The dashboard clock read 5:06 p.m. Shit.

Ian opened his car door and walked around to open mine. He looked fierce, and tension rolled off him in waves. “Pretty church,” I said, and it was, a large, classic white church with a steeple, the foliage glowing around it, pretty much what you see on every Vermont postcard ever printed.

The church lawn was a little soft; I had to tiptoe so my heels didn’t sink into the earth.

“Can you … kick into gear or something?” Ian said, striving for patience.

“Sure, sure,” I said, almost trotting. We made it to the steps, and Ian ran up a few and held the door for me. Whatever his faults, he had nice manners.

I went into the foyer, Ian hot on my heels, then lurched to a stop, causing him to crash into me. “Callie,” he growled, then drew in a sharp breath.

Laura stood there, her back to us, peeking into the church through a slightly cracked door. She wore a calf-length white dress (Vera, I was thinking), and white roses twined in her pretty hair. At the sound of our little commotion, she whirled around, and her mouth fell open. No one spoke for a second. Until I did, of course.

“Hi there,” I said.

Laura’s eyes filled. “You came,” she whispered. Clearly, she wasn’t talking to me.

Ian swallowed.

The foyer was wide and bright. Three sets of doors led into the church. “I’ll … I’ll just find us a seat,” I said, drifting over to the farthest set of doors. Pulling on the handle, I found it was locked. I tried the next one. Also locked. The last set of doors would require me to push past Ian and Laura, who were just staring at each other.

Okay, I wasn’t actually meaning to spy, but I seemed to be trapped here. Trying to be as discreet as a woman in a scoopalicious red gown could be, I crept over to the far corner and wished I could be invisible. It almost worked … I might as well have been a ninja on a dark night as far as Ian and the bride were concerned.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Laura whispered, the foyer acoustics letting me hear just fine. “And it occurred to me while I was on the way here that I … I wasn’t sure I could go through with it without you being here. Without knowing you were really okay.”

Ian looked at the floor for a beat. Then he took her hand and looked at her. “Of course I came,” he said gently, and my eyes filled.

“I’ll always love you, Ian,” she said, tears slipping down her cheeks. “You know that, right? I’m so sorry that—”

“Shh,” he said, wiping her tears away. Then he took her in his arms, her head fitting right under Ian’s chin. “Don’t cry, honey. Whatever you needed to say to me, you already have.”

Being the kind who wept at dog food commercials, I bit down on a sob. Such … kindness! God only knew what humiliation and heartbreak Ian had been through—cheated on, lied to, quite probably laughed at—yet here he was, forgiving her, releasing her from the guilt she still obviously felt, and giving her the blessing she seemed to need.

I wished my mother could see this.

Then Ian kissed the top of Laura’s head and stepped back, still holding her by the shoulders. “You look so beautiful,” he said, smiling a little.

She took a shuddering sob.

“Oh, come on,” Ian murmured. “No tears. This is a happy day. Besides, you’re running late.”

“Leave it to you to keep an eye on the clock.”

He grinned. “Well, Devin’s waiting in there, so … better get moving.”

Her face scrunched, and she fished a tissue out of her sleeve. “Thank you, Ian,” she said wetly, wiping her eyes. Then a door opened on the other side of the foyer, and an older gentleman in a tux came in. His eyebrows bounced up when he saw Ian.

“Ian! Good to see you, son,” he said, shaking hands.

“John. Nice to see you, too.”

“Everything okay out here?” the man asked Laura.

She smiled, straightened her father’s boutonniere. “Everything’s great, Dad,” she said. “Let’s go.” She gave Ian one more smile.

“See you in there,” Ian said. He opened the door—sure, that one was unlocked—and ushered me in. A few people glanced back, and a collective murmur went up. Some nudging occurred. Ian ignored them. We found an unoccupied pew behind all the other guests and took our seats.

The lump in my throat was killing me. As the organ music started, I slipped my hand into Ian’s.

After a second, he looked at me, as if surprised. Then he reached into his jacket pocket with his free hand and withdrew a handkerchief, because of course, I was crying.

“What you did in there was just beautiful,” I whispered, taking a little shuddering breath.

“Get a grip, Callie,” he muttered.

“That was the first thing you ever said to me,” I said, wiping my eyes. “I’ll tell our children about that someday.”

He shook his head, but he was smiling, and he squeezed my hand. Didn’t let go, either.