Runaway Bridesmaid (20 page)

There was no place, no time, left to run.

“I'm going inside,” she said. “Then I'm taking a shower, throwing this god-awful dress in the garbage and fixing you some dinner, which is the least I can do for you after what I just put you through.”

She saw hope and disbelief war in his eyes, and fought to keep from blushing at the innuendo implicit in her invitation.
Cooking dinner for him was
not
the least she could do for him. Certainly, it wasn't the
most
she could do for him. For either of them.

But he didn't say a word. About that, anyway. What he did was shift so she snuggled against his chest.

“You know…the only part of that that makes me a trifle nervous is the cooking dinner part.”

“I don't…oooh, wait a minute.” She sat up, frowned at him. “Ed?”

“Mmm. I believe his words were ‘don't accept a dinner invitation unless Vivian's doing the cooking.'”

“He never will let me live that evening down.” She blew out a stream of air. “
Everything
went wrong that night. The oven screwed up, the roast was a terrible piece of meat, Katey hurt herself right when I was in the middle of making mashed potatoes so they burned. The list goes on. I'm sure the poor man thought I was trying to eliminate the competition.”

“Actually, he used the word
poison.
”

She smirked. “All I'm offering is an omelet and toast. Even I can manage that.”

“An omelet and toast would be wonderful.” He reached up, grazed his lips over her hair, putting every nerve cell right back on red alert. “But, as I'm no less disreputable-looking—or smelling—than you are, I'm going to run on home and shower and change. I'll be back in half an hour?”

Suddenly, a half hour seemed interminable. And not nearly long enough.

“An hour. It's going to take more than a quick shower to undo this damage.”

“An hour it is.” He kissed her again, far too persuasively for either of their good, then she forced herself out of the truck and up the front porch steps, giving him a little wave as he drove off.

The house's emptiness was practically tangible. The dress swishing incongruously at her feet—she'd given Wilma back her pins—Sarah trooped down the hall and into the kitchen, suffused with pale amber light. A note was tacked to the re
frigerator door, scribbled in her mother's untidy hand. They'd taken Aunt Ida back to Montgomery, Ethel was with them, be back tomorrow evening, she hoped the cow was okay.

It occurred to Sarah she couldn't remember the last time she'd been alone in the house. Not overnight, anyway. Feeling a little unsettled, she poured herself a glass of iced tea, pawed disinterestedly through the small pile of mail on the kitchen table, then pushed through the swinging door into the dining room.

Spears of brassy light pierced the dust-mote-laden air in here as well. One shaft picked through a dozen prisms hanging from an antique hurricane lamp on the buffet, splintering into a hundred tiny rainbows across the opposite wall. With a soft giggle, Sarah placed her hand “over” the rainbows, as if trying to capture them, a favorite game when she was little. But, of course, as always, the rainbows only danced on the top of her hand, mocking and eternally elusive.

Smelly and filthier than any civilized human being should ever be, Sarah stood smiling at the multicolored reflections. For right now, she thought she just might be able to believe in magic again. Just for the moment. Just for tonight.

And tomorrow?

She tilted back her head and finished off the tea.

Well, what was the point of being a Southern girl if you couldn't have a good “fiddle-dee-dee” now and again?

 

A note in his aunt's precise script lay on the kitchen table, informing him she'd gone to Montgomery with Vivian and Katey to spend the night with Vivian's sister. Dean chuckled to himself; the old girl was turning into a regular gadabout in her golden years. That last shopping trip, she'd even bought herself a pair of
slacks.

He stripped out of his clothes right there in the kitchen, dumping the shirt, socks and underwear into the washer, putting the tux back in the rental bag. He wondered what the rental place was going to say about the condition of the suit. Well, if it was beyond hope, they had his credit card number. If the
tux symbolized what he thought it symbolized, it was a small-enough price to pay.

Never had a shower felt so wonderful. He stood under the pummeling water for twenty minutes, scrubbing every vestige of barn smell off until his skin began to smart. At last, when he could sniff and not smell cow, he emerged, then stood in his briefs in the center of the room, deciding what to wear. Which should have required the minimal expenditure of brain cells. T-shirt and jeans, right?

Somehow, that seemed…inappropriate. After all, this was his last night.

No.
Well, yeah, he did have to go back to Atlanta tomorrow, if for no other reason than to prevent his murder at Forrest's hand. But he refused to accept that this was his last evening with Sarah, he declared to himself as he slipped into a pair of dress slacks, a white shirt and a silk sports jacket filched from a small group of clothes in Lance's closet that for some reason hadn't been moved to the new apartment. This was not his last chance.
But,
he thought as he threaded his tie into a Windsor knot, he wasn't
taking
any chances, either.

By this time his stomach was chiding him for not having eaten at the reception, and he was more than willing to take his chances with Sarah's cooking. Just so long as whatever she served didn't talk back to him, that was okay with him. He grabbed his keys off his dresser and headed for the front door, then stopped, his hand over the knob.

Should he…?

Naw, that was being just a little presumptuous.

Wasn't it?

And why would they still be here, anyway? Lance wouldn't have been foolish enough to leave them where his aunt would find them.

Would he?

He swallowed, his hand tensing, releasing around the cool brass.

All that about not taking any chances…

Aw, hell.

Before he could change his mind, he backtracked to his brother's room, and yanked open the nightstand drawer. His brother had indeed been that foolish.

Chuckling at what their aunt's reaction would be when she found the rest, Dean selected a few items, tucking them discreetly into his pants pocket.

 

Sarah hoped to God there would be no more cows giving birth or sheep with broken legs or any animal with any ailment for the next twenty-four hours. Or at least until Ed got back from Atlanta.

She'd brought a portable radio into the bathroom with her, and a sultry mix of jazz and blues kept her company while she soaked in a bubble-filled tub. Now she understood why Jennifer liked long baths so much—not only were they relaxing, but somehow, Sarah felt…
prettier.
More feminine. Qualities that had never been of overmuch importance to her before.

Before tonight.

This might be her only shot. Her only chance at loving Dean Parrish, in every sense of the word, again. Jen had even left her a box of condoms—which she'd never gotten a chance to try out, she said—so she'd be safe. From disease and pregnancy, at least. From heartbreak…well, nobody'd come up with protection against that, had they? After tonight, after she told Dean about Katey, all bets were off as to the outcome of their relationship. So, tonight, she would pretend that there was no past, no future, no secrets, no guilt. There was only the present, which she intended to make as perfect as possible.

As if in a dream, she pulled herself out of the tub and dried herself off, then padded back to her room, tucking the towel around her breasts.

The dream came to an abrupt halt when she opened her closet door and was faced with the same pathetic choices that had so appalled her sister the night before. And no Jennifer to bail her out, this time.

“Got any ideas, Bali?” she said to the cat sprawled across her bed.

He yawned and flipped onto his back.

Frowning, she tramped into her sister's room, only to remember that Jennifer—and her clothes—now lived in an apartment in Opelika. She'd taken the last of them over last night, after the rehearsal dinner.

That left her mother's closet. Great. Romantic dinner for two and Sarah would be wearing something stylish from Ample Duds. Well, one of her mother's big shirts over a pair of shorts might look…sexy, maybe?

Who was she kidding? She might as well just throw on a flour sack and be done with it… Hold the phone—what was
that?
Deep in the furthermost recesses of her mother's closet, a sliver of bright teal winked at her. Sarah squeezed herself back into the closet, fumbling for what she hoped was the mystery garment. After a couple of tries, she latched onto whatever it was and extrapolated it from its hiding place.

“Oh…!” Sarah sank back onto the edge of her mother's bed, the dress—for that's what it turned out to be—clamped in her hands.

Her mother had saved it. All these years.

Nine years ago, a heartbroken eighteen-year-old had stuffed her just-purchased prom dress, box and all, into the garbage can out by the kitchen, slamming down the lid loud enough to set off all the dogs. Vivian must've retrieved the dress later. The dyed-to-match shoes were even there, hung around the neck of the hanger in a muslin bag, like a lump of garlic to ward off vampires.

Sarah's hand drifted to her cheek as she sat there, staring at the dress and shaking her head. Why? What on earth had possessed her mother to save it?

Slowly, Sarah stood and walked back to the closet, pushing the door closed in order to see herself in the floor-length mirror hanging on the back. She undid the towel and let it fall to the floor, then held up the strapless dress to her breasts.

Nine years and one broken heart later, it was still
some
dress.

She bit her lip, considering, then unzipped the back and stepped into it.

It probably doesn't even fit—

It fit. Better than ever, because she filled it out more in all the places where
more
is good. Looked terrific with the short hair, too, which now showed off more of her neck and shoulders…

He'll probably be wearing jeans and a T-shirt.

She stood, ogling herself in the mirror like a character in one of those cereal commercials.

It's either this or one of Mama's shirts.

She stood for several seconds, contemplating this dilemma, before finally slipping off the dress and laying it on the bed, then shrugging into one of her mother's tents. After all, she couldn't very well
cook
in it, now, could she?

Besides…it needed to be pressed first.

 

Dean followed the smoke signals out to Sarah's backyard, where he found her valiantly trying to get a fire going in the grill, alternately puffing and swiping at the billowing smoke.

“Omelets on the grill?” Dean queried as he came up behind her and gently clasped her waist, moving her to the side and away from certain disaster.

Sarah folded her arms across what sure looked like one of her mother's shirts. “I found steaks in the fridge. The baked potatoes are just about done. And I made a salad.” She shrugged, staring at the now complaisant fire. “I figured that would be safe. Although I didn't figure on starting an infer…no…?”

He caught the unspoken question at the end of that last sentence. Puzzled, he turned to her and realized she was staring at his clothes.

“Am I overdressed?” He regarded her attire in turn with a wry smile as he plopped the steaks onto the hot grill, where they hissed their protests to no avail.

She slowly shook her head, a wide grin suffusing her face. “Not at all. In fact…” He could have sworn she was blushing. “Can you handle things from here while I go change? If the
steaks get done before I get back, I've got the table set on the summer porch.”

Not on the picnic table ten feet away? A frisson of anticipation skittered through his chest at the possibilities. But he didn't dare ask what was going on for fear of bursting the bubble.

She was going to
change?
He chuckled as he flipped the steaks, which sizzled enthusiastically for the second time. Even in that whatever-it-was of her mother's, she looked so appealing Dean was having trouble deciding whether to sample the steaks or the woman first.

He finished grilling the steaks in short order, then transported them as directed to the screened-in porch on the side of the house. Sarah used to like to do her homework out here, he remembered, the blatantly Victorian room furnished with rattan and wicker and lined with a lush display of greenery—ficuses, palms, ferns—all waving sporadically in the gentle breeze that occasionally filtered through the protective mesh.

At one end of the room sat an elegantly laid table for two, set with Vivian's best linens and crystal and china. Not a piece of Corelle or stainless steel to be seen. The perfect setting for a seduction, unless he was
way
off base.

“You little devil…” he said under his breath.

A soft rustling in the doorway caught his attention. Smiling, Dean turned around, fully intending to compliment whatever she was wearing.

Only to find his tongue stiff and uncooperative.

“Sarah?” he finally managed to croak out to the vision in front of him, exquisitely displayed in a dress the color of the Mediterranean Sea. A dress that, despite its amazing brevity, still managed to allow its wearer to retain the dignity and grace that had always set her apart from every other female he'd ever known.

Nerve cells he didn't even know he had began screaming
gimme-gimme-gimme.

The vision laughed, shaking her head slightly so those tiny
diamond studs in her ears—the only jewelry she wore—glittered in the candlelight.