Читать книгу The Secret Wedding Dress - Roz Fox Denny - Страница 9

Sylvie dropped her stack of junk mail and bills on a sideboard that stood in her entry. She hunted down a pair of non-sewing scissors then with care cut open the box of imported lace. One roll of fine hand-stitched lace came from a specialty shop in Holland. The lace had been on back order for six months, and it was every bit as beautiful as she’d pictured. Every other piece in her order was nicer than anything she could purchase through online outlets, too. But the Dutch lace exceeded her expectations. Of course, it’d cost an arm and a leg. Eyeing it critically, Sylvie deemed it worth every penny.

As she pinched the lace edging into tiny pleats, her eyes kept straying to the covered antique dress form in the corner. Until Kay had referred to the dress as an object of envy, Sylvie had no idea the last gown from her private collection was of interest to anyone but her.

Human nature to speculate about something kept hidden, she supposed. She hadn’t lied to Kay. The cover protected an unfinished project Sylvie rarely had the time or heart to work on—despite what Kay had heard to the contrary. The gown had been her intended wedding dress. She couldn’t bear to part with it. But neither was there any likelihood of her ever wearing it. Moving it out of her client area seemed the best course of action.

This dress form was the first she’d owned. Fashioned of brass and North Carolina hardwood, it weighed a ton. Sylvie’s two dear grandmothers had run across it during one of their many antiquing forages into the Smoky Mountains.

As Sylvie wrestled the awkward thing into her bedroom, where the lighting was definitely poorer than in her sewing room, she fondly recalled the two women who’d nurtured her early dreams of becoming a wedding gown designer. Losing both of those dear souls had left holes in her heart. Yet she was thankful neither of her staunchest advocates were alive to see her slink home in defeat. Although, she mused, puffing as she dragged the form into a corner opposite her bed, many in the family said Mary Shea had possessed a sixth sense. And that might be why she’d willed Sylvie this land and cabin, when the logical recipient should have been Sylvie’s dad.

Straightening, she dusted her hands. The form fit nicely below a shelf displaying old hat boxes. Those too had been Gram’s. The grouping beckoned temptingly. Maybe it was an omen nudging her to—finally—assemble the lacy sleeves. After all, the arrival of the Dutch lace, coupled with the fact that autumn was coming and not as many weddings would be scheduled, meant there’d be time to do it.

Her bedside phone rang as Sylvie contemplated her workload. “Sylvie Seamstress, “ she said cheerily into the receiver.

“It’s Carline,” came a muted response.

“Carline, what’s wrong? Are you ill? Is it the baby?” Sylvie sank onto the crocheted bedspread, also an heirloom handed down in the Shea family. Carline’s husband, Jeff, was twelve years older than his wife. Their baby, a boy, was probably Jeff’s last chance to produce a Manchester heir, as doctors said his sperm count was low. They’d had a difficult time conceiving. The only other Manchester male, Jeff’s twin, had died at sixteen in a parasailing accident. A tragic loss for any family, but especially for parents who needed their sons to take over the business—Manchester Sawmills. Not that they wouldn’t have let any of their five daughters assume the helm; however, none of the girls or their spouses were so inclined. Feeling obligated, at twenty-two, Jeff had stepped into the role. The task had proved monumental and time-consuming, which resulted in zero opportunity to consider dating or marriage—until he walked into Carline’s brand-new kitchen shop two years ago to buy a coffee grinder for his sister and fell instantly in love.

Sylvie always sighed over love stories that seemed to fall into place with such ease. Especially since she had a habit of falling for Mr. Wrong. Die-hard bachelors—guys who broke out in a rash at the word marriage. And that was even before Des had betrayed her.

Shoving aside those rambling thoughts, Sylvie gripped the phone nervously and strained to hear her sister’s soft whisper.

“I’m fine. The baby’s fine, Syl. I’m calling about Buddy Deaver.”

“Who? Bucky Beaver?”

“Not Beaver. Deaver! And don’t shout. He and his mother are in the next room picking out a gift for Kay. His real name is Jarvis. Jarvis the fourth, and they call him Buddy. He was in Dory’s class, and went to university in Raleigh-Durham. An accounting major. Now he’s a financial advisor or stock broker in Raleigh or something like that.”

“Carline, this is all very interesting, but why do I need to know this?”

“Because I just suggested he escort you to Kay’s wedding. His dad has a business associate flying into Asheville that day, so Mr. and Mrs. Deaver aren’t going to make Kay and David’s wedding. Which means Buddy has to go alone. He said he’d skip it altogether except that he hasn’t seen his classmates in years.”

“Carline, I can’t conjure up a mental picture of this guy. But I’m Kay’s maid of honor. That means I’m responsible for seeing that everything to do with the ceremony runs smoothly. What are you thinking?”

“That you’re going stag to the reception and the dinner dance at the Elks club. Can you really think of anything more embarrassing?”

“Yes, being saddled with a financial guru named Buddy.”

“Sylvie, why must you always be so sarcastic? I told him you’d probably have to take the flower girls or candle-lighters’ dresses to the church. Mrs. Deaver said Buddy can drive his dad’s Coupe DeVille. There’ll be room.”

“My Mutt Mobile has more. I’ve already scheduled time tomorrow afternoon to wash it and vacuum it out.”

“Sylveeee!” Carline wailed, still in hushed undertones. “You can’t humiliate me like this. Mrs. Deaver was thrilled to think Buddy won’t have to stay home. She buys a lot from my shop. I can’t go out there and say you won’t go with her son.”

“Make up an excuse. Say I have a prior date you didn’t know about.”

“Lie? Sylvie, what would Mother say? Or Reverend Paul?”

“Lord, deliver me from you and Mom when you invoke the name of our pastor. All right, Carline. I’ll do this one favor. Don’t commit me ever again or I swear I won’t bail you out. Tell Buddy I’ll take the dresses to the church early. That way he can drive his own car, whatever it is. I’m not going one mile if he shows up in his dad’s Caddy.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you. You’ll have fun, I promise.”

Sylvie was saved saying she sincerely doubted it by her sister’s banging down her phone. After hanging up, Sylvie went straight to the bookcase in the living room and pulled out the yearbook published in Dory’s senior year. Sure enough, there he was, voted the school’s best citizen and voted by his class as most scholastic. She groaned as she saw his perky bow tie and the absence of even a tiny smile.

She shut the book and slid it back in the shelf. One could hope that working in the city had polished him up a bit. She really wished she hadn’t suddenly remembered her father calling the fourth Jarvis Deaver a stuffed shirt. Oh well, it was only one night out of her life. She’d gotten through all the other blind dates scrounged up by her well-meaning family and friends by keeping that thought uppermost in mind.

Having stored the lace from her recent delivery, Sylvie had just finished checking the packing slip against the invoice when Oscar went berserk. Maybe this time he’d flushed a rabbit or a squirrel. Or else…the Mercer’s cat was out again.

Sylvie knew that was the case the minute she stepped onto her back porch and heard Rianne Mercer calling for Fluffy. The girl’s dad thundered from an upper window, “Rianne, what’s the racket now? Tell me you didn’t let Fluffy out!”

“It was ’nother accident, Daddy. Fluffy’s on Sylvie’s fence and I can’t get her.”

“All right. Give me a minute and I’ll be down to help.”

Sylvie was sure she heard his irritated sigh. Did that man do nothing downstairs? For crying out loud, did he live in that one room—a bedroom, if Sylvie recalled the layout of the Whitaker house. But then, Rianne had mentioned he worked at home and that he now had a bedroom and a separate office, instead of the two combined. Probably the sunnier corner room had become his office.

She wondered again what kind of career he had. Something to do with computers? Of course, her father had always worked at home, his cabinet shop was attached to the house. Until she’d gotten too involved with extracurricular activities at school, Sylvie had virtually been his shadow. She still loved the smell of fresh-cut wood and wood shavings. As well, she loved the way her father made gorgeous furniture from raw lumber and a pattern. Her love of crafting and designing clothing had probably come from spending hours in that woodworking shop.

She suspected that Rianne Mercer had no idea yet what a lucky girl she was to have her daddy working at home.

“Hi,” Sylvie called over the fence to the child who was still trying to coax her cat down. “I’ll put Oscar inside and come back and help you with Fluffy. Or maybe she’ll jump down on her own like she did the last time.”

“Okay, but Daddy’s coming to help me, too.”

“You can run in and tell him, so it doesn’t interrupt his work.” The girl glanced toward the house. “Yeah, that’d be good.”

Sylvie dragged Oscar away from the fence, up her back steps and into the laundry room, where she checked to be sure he had food and fresh water. She dashed back outside and stood on tiptoes to grab the cat as Joel burst out of his house.

He met Sylvie at the gate to take the fat animal out of her arms. “I gave Rianne strict instructions to not let Fluffy out. I bought some litter and put her litter box in our laundry room.”

“Yeah, but Daddy, it’s so pretty in the yard. Fluffy likes to play dolls with me. I thought she’d stay there. I didn’t see Oscar. I s’posed his owner took him home.”

“There’s a hopeful thought,” Joel said. “It seems you and I are doomed to meet over the back fence to deal with our wayward pets, Ms. Shea.”

“Having a pet next door is new for me. Iva didn’t have any animals when I moved here, so my occasional boarders weren’t an issue. After she passed on, I got used to the house being vacant. Uh—Homer, our mailman, said you’re Iva’s great-nephew.”

“I am.” He petted the cat, which snuggled happily in his arms.

“You’re nothing like her, if you don’t mind my saying. I was sure her relatives must’ve sold the land.”

“I considered it. Her death took me by surprise. I had developers contacting me—and they all expressed interest in the land fronting the lake. At the time, my tax man said I’d be better off sitting on the property, that it would only increase in value.” Joel raised one shoulder. “I didn’t need the extra tax burden that selling would’ve added. One year ran into two, and two into three. Then…” He broke off speaking suddenly, and said, “It seemed like a good idea to move here.”

Sylvie had seen the way his eyes shifted toward Rianne. She wondered if his abrupt departure from his rambling explanation had to do with his divorce. She assumed that was the case. Of course, she could be completely wrong. Maybe the Mercers had an open marriage. One of these days, his wife might show up.

“Well, I’m wasting time I ought to be using more productively,” he said.

Sylvie airily waved a hand. “Yes, Rianne mentioned you work at home. Home-based jobs are certainly becoming more popular.”

“They are. I feel fortunate that the arrangement works for me. Rianne, remember I said don’t chatter and make a pest of yourself with Ms. Shea.”

“Oh, she’s not at all,” Sylvie inserted quickly. “I don’t mind a bit. I work at home, too, so I’m well aware of how people assume you have all the time in the world.”

“You work at home? Oh, the kennels, you mean?”

“Actually,” Sylvie explained, “I’m a seamstress. I board animals now and then. The kennels were my grandfather’s. I assume you knew he was the only vet in town. After he retired, he bred and sold Red Bone hounds.”

“Are you referring to Mr. Shea?”

“My grandfather, yes. Bill Shea.”

“He didn’t have dogs when I used to stay with Iva, which was shortly after my great-uncle Harvey died. I know he loved to fish. I came here four or five different summers and he always took me fishing. So, he was a veterinarian who later raised hounds? I probably should’ve known.”

“It’s odd to think you fished with Gramps, and yet I don’t remember you.”

“Nor I you.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-three going on a hundred,” Joel said, smiling.

“Ah, that makes me seven years younger. Depending on which years you stayed with Iva, I may not have spent much time here. My folks owned a beach house, and mom took us girls there most summers.”

“So, are you studying to be a vet? Following in Bill’s footsteps?”

“Not hardly. I operate a part-time mobile grooming service. Briarwood is a community where residents commute to the city for their jobs, or else they’re retired. Both groups benefit by having someone—moi—groom pets in their homes. Because the kennels are out back, I occasional board someone’s pet.” She didn’t mention that Oscar stayed in the house.

“So it’s just my luck you’re keeping a moose at the same time I move Rianne’s poor defenseless kitty in next door.”

Sylvie was intrigued by his uncharacteristic grin, which brought deep creases to his cheeks and fine laugh lines around his eyes. Or maybe it wasn’t that uncharacteristic. She hardly knew the man.

Mercer seemed struck, uncomfortably so, by the fact that he’d stepped out of his tough-guy shell. Sobering, he said a quick goodbye and headed for his house.

“Hey, wait. I have to make spritz cookies for our Sunday school this week. If Rianne’s at loose ends, maybe she’d like to come here and help.”

“Daddy, can I? Please. Please?”

Joel turned slowly back, frowning.

“Sorry,” Sylvie mumbled. “I shouldn’t have asked in front of her. Uh, maybe your dad needs your help unpacking,” Sylvie said in a rush. “If so, the offer remains open. I’ll be making cookies another time.”

“No. It’ll be fine.” Joel’s grudging capitulation sounded anything but fine. “Just don’t be talking Ms. Shea’s ear off. And she has my permission to send you home if you ask why, why, why three or more times in a row.”

Rianne ducked her head. “’Kay, Daddy. I’ll try and remember.”

Sylvie laughed spontaneously. “I have a niece and nephew whose every other word is who, what, why, where or how. Rianne’s very polite. I think we’ll get on famously. Oh, and do call me Sylvie.”

Joel rocked forward and back on his heels and narrowed his eyes, as if her request was an imposition.

What was the man’s problem? One minute he seemed a nice, decent guy. The next, a grouch. Sylvie’s concentration on the father was broken by a question from the daughter.

“I don’t know what those cookies are, the ones you said you were making. Actually, I’ve never helped make cookies. Is it all right if I don’t know how?”

Sylvie gazed down into the girl’s anxious blue eyes. “Never? Maybe your mom calls these sugar cookies. They’re made from dough you refrigerate and squeeze out in different shapes from a cookie gun.”

Rianne continued shaking her head. “I don’t think my mama makes cookies at all. She only talks on TV.”

Sylvie felt herself nodding. “Oh, uh, then you’re in for a treat, honey. I already have the dough made. You get to help with the good part, squishing it through the press and painting the shapes with edible paints after they come out of the oven and set for a while.”

The girl’s dragging steps sped up and she gave a few little skips. “What’s edible paint?”

“Just what it sounds like. Paint you can eat.” Sylvie smiled over Rianne Mercer’s obvious skepticism. “They didn’t have such a thing when I learned to make cookies. My sister owns a kitchen shop in town. She first tried these paints last Christmas. Our Christmas plates did look fabulous.”

“Daddy said the woman who used to live in your house made the yummiest oatmeal raisin cookies.”

“Really? That would be my Grandmother Shea. Hers were tasty. I have her recipe. If we have time, how would you like to mix up a batch to bake and take home to surprise your dad?”

“Yes, please.” Rianne beamed.

“I’m fairly sure I have all the ingredients we need. Oh—” She paused. “Unless you and your dad have too many desserts on hand as it is.” At Rianne’s vigorous shake of the head, Sylvie led the way into her kitchen. “First we have to wash our hands,” she announced.

“Why did all those ladies who don’t know us bring us food, Sylvie?”

“It’s called being neighborly,” Sylvie said, sharing a towel. “People wanted to welcome you to town.”

“Oh. Daddy thinks they just wanted to find out all about us.”

“That, too.” Sylvie laughed. “It’s the drawback of living in a small town, kiddo. Everyone wants to know everyone else’s business.”

“Why?”

“That’s a very good question.” She got out the bowl of chilled dough and put the first batch into the press. Talk fell off as she showed the little girl how to push the plunger to create a slow, steady flow. As the dough softened, Rianne grew more adept, and her confidence soared.

“Are you sure you aren’t teasing me about never making cookies before?”

“Nope. Daddy doesn’t like to cook. And Mrs. Honeycutt, who watched me after kindergarten, has something wrong with her blood so she can’t eat sweet stuff.”

“Diabetes?”

“Yes. You’re smart, Sylvie. You don’t even know Mrs. Honeycutt.”

“You’re pretty smart yourself. I’ll bet you’ll be taking on some of the cooking soon.” Sylvie was tempted to ask how long it’d been since the girl’s father had assumed meal preparations in the Mercer household, but she didn’t want Joel to accuse her of trying to pump information out of a kid.

The afternoon slipped by in a flurry of activity and laughter. Sylvie discovered the adorable little girl could converse intelligently at a level far above her age. And unlike the adults in Sylvie’s life, Rianne didn’t once question why Sylvie was still single. Why she’d never found some nice man to marry.

They’d painted all the designs on the sugar cookies and were sampling the ones that were broken as they waited for the last pan of oatmeal cookies to come out of the oven. Sylvie’s phone rang. She checked the readout. “Hmm. It says unavailable. Probably somebody wanting to sell me something I don’t need.”

“Daddy doesn’t answer those kinds of calls, either.”

The caller didn’t give up even after clicking into her answering machine. “Yeah?” she said to Rianne. “When you work at home, you learn that other people figure you aren’t really working. Even friends and people who should know how busy you are take advantage.”

Rianne wiped her hands on her shorts. “Yep. Daddy says if it’s ‘portant, the person wouldn’t have any reason to hide his name.”

Sylvie pulled on her oven mitt and bent to take the last cookie sheet out of the hot oven. Well, here, finally was an opinion she and Joel Mercer saw eye to eye on.

She had one row of cookies left to remove. In the back room, Oscar started barking furiously. The outburst was followed by someone banging loudly on her side door. “Can you ask whoever’s there to wait a minute? Don’t open the door, because I have no idea who it would be.”

“It’s my daddy!” Rianne announced.

“Oh, in that case, unlock the door and let him in.”

He roared in like a whirlwind. “I was afraid something was wrong over here. Why the hell didn’t you answer your phone?”

Sylvie calmly set the last cookie on the cooling rack before she turned to face him. “Was that you who just tried to call? It said unavailable, and Rianne told me you don’t answer those calls, either. Is there a problem?”

Color streamed into his cheeks. “I…ah, Rianne’s been over here for three hours. I thought I should see how you were doing.”

“Good.” Sylvie dumped the hot pan in the sink.

“Daddy, we had fun! Come see the cookies I squished out and painted all by myself.” Grasping her dad’s hand, she dragged him to the center island. He didn’t make it all the way; instead, his piercing gaze stalled on the latest batch of cookies.

“Are those by chance oatmeal raisin?” He leaned down to peer at them more closely and sniffed the steam rising from the hot cookies.

His daughter flashed Sylvie an unhappy glance. “He spoiled my surprise.”

“In that case, what can we do but give him a sample right now? Who better to tell us if these are as good as the ones he remembers?” Sylvie took a plate from the cupboard and piled it with cookies from the still-warm batch. Then she took three glasses, which she filled to the brim with milk. She motioned her guests to sit on the stools grouped at one end of her counter.

Joel bit into the first cookie gingerly, as if it might bite back. The grin that spread over his face spoke louder than any words of praise.

Sylvie nudged Rianne. “There’s your answer. Your surprise is a big success. You and I should probably eat only one apiece. Especially since we shared the sugar cookies we broke.”

“These are fantastic! I can’t tell you how many times I’d buy some bakery cookies and remembered these. Nothing I’ve tasted has ever lived up to them. Still, I wondered if I’d blown them out of proportion.” He grinned at Sylvie and then at Rianne. “I ask you, snooks, have you ever tasted anything quite this fantastic?”

Rianne nodded. “The chocolate chip ones Sylvie said her mother made. They’re my very favorite, and I’ve never had any that tasted better.”

Joel’s face fell, but Sylvie burst out laughing. “There you have it. That’s what I love most about kids. They’re so honest.”

“Meaning adults aren’t?”

Sylvie lifted her glass of milk and touched the rim of his. “More power to you, Mr. Mercer, if in your thirty-some years of dealing with people, you still believe they are.”

Considering that he twisted truths to make them humorous for his comic strip, Joel said nothing, but stole a second cookie.

“Ah, I see I made my point.” Still, she was thankful when her phone rang again. Anyway, Rianne rushed to show her dad the edible paints and explain to him, as Sylvie had to her, that they were made out of vegetable dyes.

Sylvie, who tended to see her life as an open book, answered the phone on the second ring, knowing her sister Dory was the one calling.

“I hear voices,” Dory said almost at once. “I won’t interrupt, since you’re with clients. Phone me back as soon as you’re free.”

“I’m free now, Dory. I’m in the kitchen with my neighbors. We’re drinking milk and trying out Grandma Shea’s oatmeal-raisin cookies. I haven’t made that recipe in years, have you?” The phone crackled with static but was otherwise silent.

“Dory? Did you put me on hold?”

“You’re serving milk and cookies in the middle of a work day?”

“I’m taking a break. Rianne Mercer has been over here helping me make the Sunday school snack.”

“You’re feeding Mercer’s daughter, right? The kid from next door? For a minute there, I thought you meant you were entertaining Mr. Sexy himself.”

Warning bells sounded in Sylvie’s head, but she couldn’t resist inquiring, “That description came from where, Dory?”

“From everybody who saw him in town this morning. Plus, I ran into Kay Waller at lunch. She agreed. Apparently she got a look at him while she was at your house for a fitting. She said you told her the guy has a wife. Hmm, funny, other people say Mercer only ever mentions his daughter. Kay and I think you should ask him outright about his marital status. If he’s divorced, it gives you the perfect opening to invite him to Kay’s wedding this Saturday.”

“Why would I do that, Dory? He doesn’t even know Dave or Kay.”

“For one thing, it shows your intent to stake your claim. For another, you wouldn’t be the only unattached female at the wedding dance. Kay and I feel—”

“What? I can’t believe you two—”

“We’re thinking of you, Sylvie. You need a life.”

“Dory, I have a life. And I’ll thank you to butt out of it.” She’d spoken so sharply, Sylvie felt Joel Mercer’s eyes boring into her back. Hunching her shoulders, she tried to step around the corner into the hall for some privacy. It was harder to ignore the tic of irritation that began to hammer insistently behind her eyes. “Look, Dory, I know you guys are sincere. But I guess you haven’t talked with Carline since yesterday. I already have a date for the wedding.”

“No kidding? You sly dog. Who?”

“Uh, Buddy Deaver.” Sylvie almost dropped the phone because Dory screamed in her ear.

“Tell me this is a joke! I know his family has money and all, but Sylvie, he’s a loser with a capital L.”

The tic turned into a dull pounding at the base of Sylvie’s skull.

“No one in the world is as boring as Buddy,” her sister wailed. “Not only that, he’s two full years younger than me, which makes him three years younger than you. People will think you’re desperate, Syl.”

“Carline said he graduated in your class.”

“He did. He’s a nerd who got bumped up two grades.”

Sylvie’s heart dived to her toes, but she wasn’t about to give ground to her sister, especially after Dory had been the one to foist Chet off on her. “Look on the bright side, Dory. It’s become the thing to date younger men.” She ended the call before her sister could do more than sputter. Turning as she started to hang up the phone, Sylvie walked squarely into Joel Mercer. She felt a wave of heat emanating from his body and blindly aimed the receiver at the hook on the wall phone, but missed twice.

Eyeing her curiously, Joel plucked the receiver from her limp grip and dropped it into place. “That was my sister,” she offered lamely.

“I gathered. Is everything all right?”

“Fine. Everything’s fine.” Sylvie shivered, stepped back and rubbed her bare upper arms.

“Okay, then. It’s getting late, so Rianne and I will be on our way after she thanks you. We should hurry—she has to go to the bathroom.” He grinned crookedly. “I’m embarrassed to admit I already polished off every cookie on the plate.”

Releasing a hand she’d clamped around her arm for stability, Sylvie waved down the hall. “Don’t make her walk all the way home for that. Rianne, honey, I have two bathrooms. The main one is down the hall, second door on your left. The other’s between the two rooms on your right. That’s for my guest bedrooms. And…uh…my sewing room.”

“No need to trouble you.” Joel might as well have saved his breath. His daughter sailed past him, headed down the hall at a dead run.

“Poor kid,” Sylvie murmured. “She had a glass of water earlier, and that huge glass of milk with the cookies. I should’ve pointed out the location of the bathrooms earlier.”

“She’s not shy. She could’ve asked.”

“At that age, ask a near stranger? Get outta here! Girls her age would burst rather than do that.”

The look crossing Joel’s face was one of pure horror. “Why are girls so difficult?” he muttered.

“You think she’s difficult at…what—six, seven? Wait until she reaches the dreaded teens.”