Big Sky Wedding (3 page)

Slim, spotting him, rose and ambled on over to offer a greeting.

“We’ve got our work cut out for us, boy,” Zane said, shifting his gaze to the barn. It was large and, like the house, made of stone.
Unlike
the house, it was in remarkably good shape. Maybe he and Slim ought to move into one of the stalls, or the tack room, while the renovations were going on.

Just then, he heard an engine, and turned to see a van pulling in down by the teetering mailbox, sides emblazoned with the electric company’s logo.

“Let there be light,” Zane said dryly, but his mind was still on Brylee Parrish, and her blatant belief that he’d change this ranch into some kind of flashy showplace.

Tennis courts? Indoor swimming pools?
Media rooms?

He hadn’t even had those things in Tinseltown.

A nice condo? Sure. An expensive car that could almost fly? You got it.

By Hollywood standards, though, he’d lived modestly, and all he really wanted, even now, was a place to keep his horse—he’d missed being able to ride Blackjack whenever the mood struck him, back there in California, gotten downright lonesome for the animal’s company, in fact. The barn, four sturdy walls to keep out the wind and a solid roof over his head completed his current aspirations, as far as living arrangements went.

The van pulled to a stop in what passed for a driveway, dust billowing up around the vehicle in a cloud, and a balding man with a belly and a clipboard got out, grinning from ear to ear.

Zane drummed up a grin of his own. Put out his hand, because that was what people did in the country whenever they met up, and he’d missed the ritual.

The new arrival—the stitching on the pocket of his work shirt said his name was
Albie
—shook Zane’s hand enthusiastically. “When I told my wife I’d be turning on the juice for none other than Zane Sutton himself today,” Albie beamed, “she made me promise to get your autograph and tell you she loved all your movies.”

Zane’s expression, though friendly, might have seemed a touch forced, to anyone more observant than Albie. “Thanks,” he said, and left it at that.

CHAPTER TWO

A
LONE
IN
HER
apartment, except for Snidely, of course, Brylee did weekend things. She washed and dried her hair, gave herself a pedicure as well as a manicure, and then a facial to round out the routine. She chose a red-and-white polka dot sundress to wear to church in the morning, gave it a few quick licks with the iron and hung it carefully from the hook on the inside of her closet door. She selected white sandals and a red handbag to complete the ensemble, setting those on the cushioned window seat in her bedroom, where they would be in plain sight.

Brylee liked to make her preparations well in advance, wherever preparation was humanly possible, which was most of the time. In her considered opinion, there were enough surprises in life, careening out of nowhere, blindsiding her just when she thought she had everything covered, so she preferred not to leave herself open to the unexpected, if given the smallest option.

She would have described herself as “organized,” but she knew there were other definitions that might apply, like “obsessive” or even “anal.”

Okay, so she was something of a control freak, she thought, leaving her shabby-chic bedroom, with its distinctly female decor, for the living room.

Here, she’d chosen pegged wood floors instead of carpeting, and the fireplace was a wonder of blue and white, burgundy and gold, pale green and soft pink tiles, each one hand-painted. She’d colored and fired them all herself, using the kiln at her friend Doreen’s ceramics studio in Three Trees, and just looking at them made her feel good. Some had tiny stars, swirls or checks, while others were plain, at least to Brylee, and the result was a kind of quasi-Moroccan magic.

She’d hooked the big scatter rugs, too, mostly on lonely winter nights, while a blaze flickered on the hearth, managing to pick up many of the colors from the tiles. The couch, love seat and two big armchairs were clad for spring and summer in beige cotton slipcovers with just the faintest impression of a small floral print; when fall rolled around, she’d switch them out, for either chocolate-brown or burgundy corduroy. Most everything else in the room rotated with the seasons, too—the art on the walls, the vases and the few figurines, even the picture frames on the mantelpiece, though the photos inside remained the same: Casey and Walker, beaming on their wedding day, Clare and Shane goofing off up at the lake, Snidely sporting a stars-and-stripes bandana in honor of Independence Day. Now, of course, she’d added a few prized shots of little Preston, as well.

Brylee believed change was a good thing—as long as it was carefully planned and coordinated, of course.

She was aware of the irony of this viewpoint, naturally, but she’d built a thriving business on the concept of fresh decor, geared to the seasons, to the prevailing mood or to some favorite period in history. Hadn’t Marie Antoinette had her spectacular bedroom at Versailles redecorated from floor to ceiling in honor of spring, summer, fall and winter?

Yeah, but look how
she
ended up,
Brylee thought, making a rueful face.

Snidely stood in the kitchen doorway, looking back at her, tail wagging, his mouth stretched into a doggy grin. Fluent in Snidelyese, Brylee understood that he wanted his food bowl filled, or a treat, or both, if all his lucky stars were in the right places.

Brylee chuckled and slipped past him, executing a slight bow in the process. “Your wish is my command,” she said, her royal mood, no doubt spawned by the brief reflection on the French court, lingering.

The kitchen, like the living room, was big, especially for an apartment. The appliances were state of the art and there was an island in the center of the space, complete with marble top and two stainless-steel sinks. She’d picked up the dining set cheap, at one of those unfinished furniture places, stained the wood dark maple and tiled the surface of the round table in much the same style as she had the fireplace.

A bouquet of perfect pink peonies, cut from the garden her great-grandmother had planted years ago and placed in an old green-glass canning jar, made a lovely centerpiece. Brylee paused to lean over and draw in their vague, peppery scent. They would be gone soon, these favorites, and she meant to enjoy them while she could. The lilacs, which grew in profusion all over the ranch house’s huge yard, had already reached their full, fragrant purple-and-white glory and quietly vanished, along with the daffodils and tulips of early spring. There were still roses aplenty, rollicking beds of zinnias, clouds of colorful gerbera daisies, too, but Brylee missed the ones that had gone before, even as she enjoyed every new wave of color.

She
needed
flowers, the way she needed air and water; to her, they were sacred, a form of visual prayer.

A knock sounded at her back door just as she was setting Snidely’s bowl of kibble on the floor. Glancing up, she saw her teenage niece, Clare, grinning in at her through the oval glass window.

“In!” Brylee called, grinning back.

Sixteen-year-old Clare, a younger version of her mother, Casey, was blessed with copper-bright hair that tumbled to her shoulders in carefully casual curls, bright green eyes and a quick mind, inclined toward kindness but with a mischievous bent. If she looked closely enough, Brylee could see Walker in the girl, too, and even a few hints of herself.

Not for the first time, she marveled that Walker and Casey had been able to keep their secret—that Walker had fathered both Clare and Shane—for so long.

“I think I’ve got a date,” Clare confided, in a conspiratorial whisper, tossing a bottle-green glance in the direction of the inside door that led into the main part of the ranch house. Maybe she thought Casey was on the other side, with a glass pressed to her ear, eavesdropping.

If anyone
was
listening in, Brylee reflected, amused, it was more likely to be Clare’s brother, fifteen-year-old Shane, with whom the child shared a sort of testy alliance—with an emphasis on the
testy
part. She and Walker had been that way, too, growing up, though they’d had each other’s backs when necessary.

Brylee lifted her eyebrows and quirked her mouth up at the corners, in a way that said, “Go on, I’m listening,” and opened the refrigerator door to take out a diet cola for each of them. As she understood prevailing parental policy, Clare wasn’t
allowed
to go on one-couple car dates or to go out with the same boy more than three times in a row, and her parents practically ran background checks on anybody new to her circle of friends. Now, her twinkly air of secrecy indicated that something was up and, at the same time, belied any possibility that an executive exception had been made.

Clad in jeans, boots and a long-sleeved yellow T-shirt that made her hair flame beautifully around her deceptively angelic face, Clare hauled back a chair at the table and said a quiet thank-you when Brylee set the can of soda in front of her, along with a glass nearly filled with ice.

Brylee sat down opposite Clare and poured cola into her own glass of ice. And she waited.

“It’s not even an actual
date,
” Clare confided, blushing a little, shifting her gaze in Snidely’s direction and smiling at his exuberant kibble-crunching.

“How is a date ‘not actually’ a date?” Brylee ventured, but only after she’d taken a few leisurely sips of soda.

Clare gave a comical little wince. She’d basically grown up on the road, accompanying her famous mother and an extensive entourage on concert tours, and, though sheltered, overly so in Walker’s opinion, she was bound to be more sophisticated than the average kid. She’d been all over the world, after all, and met kings, queens, presidents and potentates. In Parable County—which had its share of troubled teens, like any other community—it was a good bet that Clare was considerably more savvy than most of her contemporaries.

“I guess a date isn’t really a date when it’s part of a youth group field trip,” the girl said sweetly, showing her dimples. “Mrs. Beaumont—Opal—and the reverend are chartering a bus and taking a whole bunch of us to Helena. We get to tour the capital buildings and stay overnight.”

Brylee smiled. She knew Opal and her husband, the Reverend Walter Beaumont, quite well, even though their church was in Parable and she attended one in Three Trees. They were beyond responsible, and both of them took a keen interest in the teen members of their congregation or any other.

“I see,” she said. “And this
non
date
is
a date—how?”

Suddenly, Clare looked shy, and her lovely eyes turned dreamy.

Uh-oh,
Brylee thought. Up to that moment, she’d been ready to dismiss a nagging sense that something was off. Now, she guessed she’d been right to worry, if only a little.

“Luke and I are going to sit together on the bus, that’s all,” Clare said. “And just sort of, well,
hang out
while we’re in Helena. You know, hold hands and stuff, when nobody’s looking. Spend a little time alone together, if we get the chance.”

“You don’t know Opal Beaumont very well if you think she won’t be keeping an eagle eye on every last one of you the whole time,” Brylee pointed out, with a little smile. She’d had a lecture or two from Opal herself—mostly on the subject of finding herself a good man and settling down—and she knew the woman didn’t miss much, if anything at all. A matchmaker extraordinaire, she was credited, sometimes indirectly, with jump-starting at least four relationships, all of which had led to marriage.

By the same token, though, Opal was devout, with the corresponding firm morals, and she’d guard her younger charges, girls
and
boys, with the ferocity of a tigress on the prowl.

Clare moved her slender shoulders in a semblance of a shrug. “Mom and Dad already said I could go,” she said, cheeks pink.

“And they know it’s an overnighter?” Brylee pressed, but gently.

Clare nodded. Then, guiltily, she added, “It’s the sitting together and the holding hands and the alone-time part I didn’t tell them about.”

Holding her palms up and opening and closing the fingers of both hands, Brylee imitated the sound the refrigerator made when she hadn’t shut the door all the way. “Danger,” she said, smiling again. “If you had a clear conscience about this, my girl, you wouldn’t feel any need to keep secrets from your folks. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Clare sighed and looked at Brylee through lowered eyelashes, thick ones, like her mother’s. Like her
father’s,
for that matter. “Honestly, Aunt Brylee, Luke and I aren’t planning to
do
anything.”

“Then why sneak around?” Brylee challenged, though carefully. She’d been a teenager herself once, after all, and she knew coming on too strong would only cause more problems.

Clare answered with an uncomfortable question. “Are you going to tell Mom and Dad?”

Until several months after her parents’ long overdue marriage, Clare had persisted in referring to Walker by his first name, angry that he and Casey had kept the truth about their parentage from her and her brother, and, for that matter, the rest of the world. Both Clare and Shane were indeed Walker’s biological children, but calling him “Dad” was a relatively recent development, at least for Clare. Shane, already full of admiration for the man he’d always believed was a close family friend but
wished
was his father instead, had been thrilled when Casey and Walker broke the news.

Not so Clare.

“No,” Brylee said, after due consideration. “I’m not going to tell your mom and dad anything.
You
are.”

“They’ll just make a big deal out of it—maybe they’ll even say I can’t go on the trip at all,” Clare protested, temper rising. “Especially if they find out Luke’s a little older than I am.”

“How much older?” Brylee asked. Clare tended to be adventurous and impulsive, and she’d been in trouble for shoplifting at one point, too, so if Walker and Casey kept a closer watch on her than they might have otherwise, Brylee couldn’t blame them.

“Nineteen,” Clare replied in a small voice.

Oh, Lordy, Brylee thought, but she wouldn’t allow herself to overreact. After all, she didn’t want her niece to stop running things like this by her older and, presumably, wiser aunt.

“You like this Luke person a lot?” Brylee ventured.

“He’s awesome,” Clare said, softening visibly.

“And you met him at youth group?”
Tread carefully here, Aunt Brylee. This is treacherous ground.

“I met him at a basketball game last fall,” Clare replied. “He was a senior then, and now he’s got a full-time job at the pulp mill. He joined the youth group just last week.”

“Isn’t nineteen a little old for youth group?”

“They let him in, didn’t they?” Clare reasoned, developing an edge. “It’s not as though he’s a pervert or something.”

Silently, Brylee counted to ten before asking, “What’s he like? Who are his parents?”

Clare looked fitful now, squirming in her chair, her glass of cola forgotten on the table in front of her. “Now you sound like
them,
” she complained. “It’s not like we’re going to a drive-in movie in his car, or anything like that.”

“Luke’s out of school, and he’s too old for you,” Brylee stated reasonably. Then she arched one eyebrow and added, “He has a car?”

“He has a driver’s license,” Clare said, defensive now.

Brylee sighed wearily. Nineteen, a job at the pulp mill and a driver’s license but, five will get you ten, no car. And what
was
this Luke yahoo doing in youth group? If he wanted to be part of the church community, there were certainly other options....

She paused, remembering how it felt to be very young, like Clare. Brylee’s own mother hadn’t been around much when she was growing up, but her dad had paid close attention to her activities, along with Walker’s. He’d been a real drag at times, wanting all the whys and wherefores, insisting on knowing all her friends, and she’d been rebellious, resentful—and very, very safe.