Always the Wedding Planner, Never the Bride (6 page)

"This is your wake-up call, Ms. Caine. It's six-thirty, on the dot."

"Thank you."

Sherilyn set the large receiver down into the cradle and dropped her head back to the overstuffed pillow beneath it. The high thread count linens smelled of vanilla, and she inhaled deeply to enjoy the scent. Birds sang a tune outside her window, so happy and perfect she almost thought the music was man-made. She peeled her eyes open and glanced at the glass door leading out to the balcony; on the other side, the tweeting birds on the upper branches of a flowering tree proved they were the real thing. She threw her legs over the side of the bed and dug her toes into three inches of plush, padded heaven.

She'd planned her early rising around the lure of the deep claw-footed bathtub, and she spilled a dash of lavender salts into it as steaming water poured in. Twenty minutes after she'd pinned up her hair and crawled down into the bath, Sherilyn was still soaking. A knock at her hotel room door startled her,

and she wrapped a terrycloth bath sheet around her as she climbed out and hurried toward Emma's familiar voice outside in the hallway.

"Let me in," she sang. "I have coffee."

Sherilyn tugged open the door and grinned. "Sustenance?"

"Blueberry scones and cream, strawberries, and blackberries the size of your fist."

"I'll just be a minute."

By the time she'd dried off and stepped into a robe and slippers, Emma had set up breakfast-for-two on the balcony bistro table.

"Cream and two sugars?" Emma recalled.

"Make it three."

"Same Sherilyn."

"And so much more," she replied as she sat down across from Emma.

"That's the second time you've done that."

"Done what?" she asked, spreading whipped cream over her scone.

"Made a bad joke at your own expense. I don't like it."

"No? I thought I was just stating the obvious."

Emma sighed. "Not to me."

"Oh, come on, Em. Are you trying to tell me you haven't noticed that I'm a mountain of my former self?"

"Stop it, Sher. I mean it. So you've gained a little weight. What does that matter? You're still gorgeous."

"And you're still blind." Her gaze met Emma's, and something inside her softened. "And I love you for it."

Emma tilted into a shrug. "I think you're the one who's gone blind." She stirred some milk into her coffee before telling her, "I'm hesitating because . . . well, I'm guessing this might not be the best time to give you bad news."

Sherilyn froze. "What bad news? Jackson changed his mind about giving me the job?"

"No. It's about . . . Well . . . The box arrived without your dress."

She fell back against her chair and clamped her eyes shut. "What are you saying?"

"The box was damaged in shipment, and it arrived empty."

Her eyes popped open as if on tight springs. "Without my dress?"

"Without so much as a piece of paper inside. The side was torn open, and it was completely empty."

"Oh . . . no . . ."

"Don't panic. We filed a report with the shipping company, and they're going to look into it."

"Look into it? Even if they find it, the dress has no protection. It's—"

"William is on it. He's the best."

Sherilyn frowned at her. "This is like the worst wedding omen ever."

"Stop it. Don't worry until we get some actual news, okay? Now tell me . . . how did it go with Andy's mom?"

Sherilyn sighed and swallowed hard, scooping out a huge dollop of cream with her finger and licking it off before replying. "Like meeting a grizzly bear, just at the moment she's realized you're making off with her cub."

Emma chuckled. "Is she onboard with the wedding plans?"

"Oh, yeah," Sherilyn said, nodding as she licked more cream from her finger. "As long as we change the venue, the guest list, and the bride, we're golden."

Blueberry Scones

Preheat oven to 375 degrees

2 cups sifted all-purpose flour

¼ cup packed brown sugar

1 tablespoon baking powder

¼ teaspoon salt

¼ cup butter (room temperature)

1 cup plump, firm blueberries

¾ cup cream

½ teaspoon vanilla extract

1 egg

Whipped cream, optional

Mix flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt.

Cut the butter into the mixture.

Fold in blueberries.

In separate bowl, beat the cream, vanilla, and egg with a mixer.

Slowly stir into dry ingredients until they are mixed together and take the shape of dough.

Knead until the ingredients come together, but do not over-knead.

Divide dough in half. On floured board, shape each half into round loaves.

Pull apart each loaf into six small rounds and flatten slightly.

Bake on ungreased baking sheet for 20 minutes.

Best served warm with whipped cream.

I
t wasn't that Lola Granger hadn't done her homework; in fact, she had. In three hours, she'd shown them four different houses in the two neighborhoods Sherilyn had picked out online with Emma's help. But not one of the four had that special something that told either of them they'd found the right place.

The fifth home, however—the one on Sandpoint Drive in the East Spring Lake subdivision of Roswell—well, that one showed promise. In fact, the moment they walked across the wraparound porch and through the front door of the cottagestyle traditional, Sherilyn subtly squeezed Andy's hand, then she shook it slightly for added effect.

Andy watched his fiancée's eyes ignite when she rushed into the kitchen and spun around to face him.

"Would you look at this place!"

She struck him as being completely at home as she twirled across the glossy dark cherry floors, ran a finger along the matching cabinets with clear glass doors, and caressed the hunter green marble counters as she passed them in pursuit of the flawless stainless steel appliances.

"Andy! Can you believe this kitchen?"

Light streamed in through the beveled glass of the kitchen window, and the two of them stood in front of it, looking out across a lush, expansive lawn that unrolled right up to the thick hedge of evergreen trees blocking the adjacent property.

Andy coughed. He didn't feel well all of a sudden. "It's stuffy in here."

"You think so?"

He nodded, tugging at the collar of his starched white dress shirt.

In that one moment as he peered through the window, Andy saw the swing set that didn't yet grace the backyard, the one he would buy for the children they'd yet to create. He could almost hear the infant cries resonate through the baby monitor that would one day sit on the raised marble counter behind them, the sudden
thump-thump-thud
of little feet running up the stairs to the second floor.

Andy's pulse leaped over the lump in his throat. He'd been paying rent on a month-to-month agreement on his Chicago condo for six years. He hadn't even owned his BMW outright; it was leased. What was more, he planned to lease another one in Atlanta. He ate in restaurants five out of seven nights a week, and his refrigerator was just a large cold space to hold soda and sports drinks, and a jar of blackberry jam for his morning toast. What on earth had made him think he was ready to make the jump from there to . . .

Here!

"Andy?"

I'm taking on a massive mortgage, a wedding to a woman I've barely known for three months! What next? Kids and a minivan?

"Honey?"

Andy wiped the perspiration from his brow and heaved a deep breath. His clammy palms moistened his hair slightly as

he pushed it back from his face with both hands. He glared at the ceramic tiled floor and shook his head.

"How about it?" Sherilyn asked as she touched his arm. "Want to see upstairs?"

Andy stared at her for a moment.

Who ARE you, anyway?
he thought.
I mean, really. Who is this virtual stranger I'm house shopping with?

Who was this person pushing him into signing his entire life away for a traditional family home for their eight or nine kids? Jeff was so seldom right about anything, but Andy had to acknowledge the possibility that he'd been right about that. Maybe he'd proposed too quickly. Maybe her past was checkered and littered with the remnants of little secrets that he wouldn't uncover until their tenth wedding anniversary. Maybe—

"Are you all right?"

"Yes," he grunted. "Fine. I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You look all . . . sweaty."

"Well, it's hot in here," he replied as he stomped across the kitchen, loosening the very tight collar trying so hard to strangle him.

From behind him, Sherilyn sighed. "Is it?" He'd reached the bottom of the staircase by the time she called out after him. "It's not hot in here at all, Andy. Do you think you're coming down with something?"

Andy just had to get out of there! Instead of climbing the stairs, he made a quick, hard left out the front door. He skidded across the porch and blew the door open, holding on to the jamb with both hands as he grappled to force some oxygen into the deepest places of his constricted lungs.

"Andy?" Her soft voice trembled. She ran her hand up his forearm and over the curve of his elbow. "What can I do? Do you need some water?"

He nodded.

The flat ballerina-type shoes she'd worn that day tapped out the rhythm of her hurried venture back to the kitchen.

"He just needs a glass of water," he heard her whisper. Lola cooed, "Mm-hmm."

In with the good air, out with the bad. Andy dropped his head and shook it slightly. Maybe he really was coming down with something.

"You two got your marriage license this morning, didn't you?"

Lola's voice startled him. He straightened and turned to find her standing close.

"Pardon?"

"I was just thinking what a big day it is for you. I see this all the time. Feeling overwhelmed? Can't breathe? A little—" She poked out her tongue and feigned choking, sort of like a cat coughing up a hairball. "—claustrophobic?"

Andy tilted into half a shrug. "I guess."

Sherilyn appeared beside him, and she handed him a small glass of water that he accepted and drank straight down.

"Thanks."

"Sure. Do you want to sit down for a few minutes?"

Before he could answer, Lola tapped Andy's arm on her way to the sidewalk, and she angled straight for her car.

"Wait! Lola? I kind of wanted to see the second floor."

"Another day," Lola called over her shoulder without looking back. "Look around if you like, but I'd say your boy is finished looking at houses today."

"What? No, we—" Andy's eyes darted away from her as Sherilyn tried to make contact, and she fell immediately silent.

Finally, "I'm sorry, Sherilyn."

"So we're going now?"

He nodded. "I think so."

"Oh. Well. Okay."

Andy heard her sputter something nondescript as he headed for the car.

Sherilyn knew she was rolling down a slippery, snowy slope, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. She just chattered on at about six thousand words a minute, recounting Andy's strange behavior as Fee poured coffee into their cups and Emma doctored Sherilyn's with milk and sugar. Pearl, the chef from Anton Morelli's restaurant, propped her elbows on the table and peered at her over one folded hand.

"Lola seemed to understand everything that was happening, but Andy just stood there on the porch, you know? Looking like someone had socked him in the stomach or something. I mean, is he sick? Did he hate—
strongly dislike—
the house? Does he have something against hardwood cherry floors and marble countertops? These are questions I'd like to get to the bottom of, if only he would talk to me and let me in on what's going on."

"Milk and three sugars," Emma told her as she slid the large white cup toward her.

"Thank you. I often forget that it's been only a few months since Andy and I met. We seem so suited for one another most of the time. Then something like this happens, and I'm completely surprised. I'm reminded that this man is, for all intents and purposes, a stranger to me."

Pearl nodded knowingly, rubbing a hand through her saltand-pepper pixie-cut hair. Her indigo eyes glistened, but she didn't say a word.

"But—" Sherilyn peeled her gaze away from this woman she'd only just met in Emma's office twenty minutes ago, wondering if she really knew some big secret or if she only just looked like she did. "But . . . he's not," she continued, deflating over one folded arm, her face level with her cup of coffee. "I mean, I know Andy, through and through. I do. I just . . . Oh, I don't know."

When she glanced up again, she caught Fee and Emma exchanging a look that was pregnant with unspoken meaning.

"What?"

"Nothing," Emma replied with a shake of her head. Sherilyn darted her attention to Fee, who blew a puff of air up and under her short black bangs in an attempt to appear casual. It didn't work.

Sherilyn straightened, staring Emma down. "What?"

"Dude," Fee declared. "You have to tell her."

Sherilyn's heart dropped a few feet, bouncing around as it did. "Tell me what?" she asked. "You know something about Andy, don't you? Oh, and it's something awful, isn't it? I knew it. I knew I couldn't be this happy for—"

Emma smacked her hand playfully, shaking her head.

"Stop it right now. Don't second-guess your right to be happy, Sher."

"Then what is it?"

Emma, Fee, and Pearl exchanged glances, each of them offering a little fragment of a nod.

"What!" Sherilyn exclaimed. "If you know what's wrong with Andy, you have to tell me!"

Another round of exchanged glances, all of them leaving Sherilyn out in the cold.

"Emma Rae!" Sherilyn reached across the table and snatched up Emma's hand by the wrist. "What is going on?"

All three of the women replied at the same time. Knowingly, almost smugly. "After care."

"Huh?"

"After care," Emma repeated. "That's what's going on with Andy."

She looked at Fee, who nodded. Then to Pearl, who shrugged. Then back to Emma. "I don't understand."

"Pearl taught me about it," she replied. "It really helped in bringing Jackson up to speed."

"Knowing and understanding is half the battle," Pearl disclosed.

"It's apparently very common," Fee reassured her. "Although Peter has never been afflicted. I'm not sure why. Of course, there's a lot I'm not sure of lately . . ."

"It's because he's a freak, Fiona," Emma giggled. "Peter fell immediately in love with you, and he never looked back. He's a freak."

"Or maybe it's because I'm just
THAT awesome?"
Fee suggested, and Pearl rolled her eyes.

"Wait! Just wait a minute," Sherilyn objected. "What is it? What's after care?"

"It's that cyclical thing all guys go through—" Emma began, but Fee interrupted her.

"
Most
guys."

"Okay. Most guys go through it," Emma conceded, "where they have a little buyer's remorse."

"You mean about the house?"

"No."

"About
this
house," Fee accentuated, using both hands to outline Sherilyn, from top to bottom.

"Tell her, Pearl," Emma suggested, and Pearl straightened, taking on the aura of a professor stepping up to the front of a classroom.

"It's like this. He let you know he was attracted, and he proposed. You made all these plans, moved across the country, everything moved so fast, and now he has a couple of minutes to really think about what's happened. He's let you crack his shell."

"And men do not like their shells cracked," Fee added, and Sherilyn almost wanted to laugh out loud at the sudden wideeyed, serious nature of her new friend.

"Right," Pearl continued. "He starts to realize that his soft underbelly is all exposed. He begins to think about everything that's going to mean, how you're going to start
expecting
things.
Assuming
things."

It started to sink in, and Sherilyn sighed as she leaned back into her chair. She felt pretty certain that she knew the feeling better than anyone else in that room. "Buyer's remorse."

"Exactly."

"So it's over."

"No!" Emma interrupted, and she took Sherilyn by the hand. The look she gave her took on an intimate quality that set Sherilyn's pulse to racing. "It doesn't have to be over. It's a natural feeling for men. It's just a phase. Every guy . . . Sorry,
most guys
. . . go through it. But it
does not
mean he's going to walk away."

Fee grinned triumphantly.

"It's very important how you handle it, though," Pearl told her. "You have to stand up straight and tall, and don't let him know it matters to you either way."

"But," she said, and her eyes misted over with tears. She sniffed them back before continuing. "But it does matter."

"We know that, and you know that," Fee coached her with a tender caress to her shoulder. "But Andy doesn't have to
know
that we know."

Emma gave her a reassuring nod. "It'll be okay. I promise. Deep breaths."

Fee leaned toward her, and arched one eyebrow over the top of her dark, square glasses. "Never let him see you sweat."

Easy for you to say,
Sherilyn thought, wiping her moist palms on the linen napkin in her lap. The past began to encroach, suffocating her a bit, and she felt slightly dizzy.

"Em," she whispered. "What if it's payback?"

"It's not."

"Payback? For what?" Fee interrupted.

"Never mind," Emma said, and she shook Sherilyn's shoulder. "Stay focused. Here and now, Sher. Just stay in the here and now."

"Hey!" Sherilyn exclaimed, turning toward Emma. She paused, swallowing around the lump in her throat. "Any news on my dress?"

Emma grimaced, contorting her face into a cringe. "Yeah. About that."

"No."

"If you have a receipt, William can file a claim for reimbursement, but . . . I'm so sorry. They can't locate it."