Waterfront Weddings
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Authors: Annalisa Daughety
A Wedding to Remember in Charleston, South Carolina
© 2012 by Annalisa Daughety
A Wedding Transpires on Mackinac Island
© 2012 by Cara C. Putman
Print ISBN 978-1-62416-268-8
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-62416-443-9
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-62416-442-2
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
All scripture quotations are taken from the New International Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover image © Rachid Dahnoun, Gettyimages
Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683,
www.barbourbooks.com
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses
.
Printed in the United States of America.
A Wedding to Remember in Charleston, South Carolina
A Wedding Transpires on Mackinac Island
A Wedding to Remember in Charleston, South Carolina
by Annalisa Daughety
This book is dedicated with love to my grandmother, Ermyl McFadden Pearle. You taught me to roller skate when I was four and you’ve been teaching me things ever since. Thank you for answering endless questions about gardening and cooking, saving articles that you think I might want to read, and always having time to talk. Knowing that you are praying for me gives me the courage to face any situation. If there ever was a woman who embodied Proverbs 31, it is you. Thanks, Grandma, for being an example of the kind of godly woman I strive to be. I love you.
Thanks to all who helped me as I wrote
A Wedding to
Remember in Charleston
. Freda Pearle Mixson and Carol Pearle Bates—thank you for your wonderful Southern hospitality and for answering my many questions about life in Charleston. I so enjoyed spending time with the two of you during my visit to South Carolina. Vicky Daughety, Sandy Gaskin, Jan Reynolds, and Lynda Sampson—thanks for reading along as I wrote and for your honest feedback. Megan Reynolds and Kelly Shifflett—thanks for checking on me frequently as I was faced with back-to-back deadlines. I am blessed to have such an amazing support group of people who encourage me and pray for me as I write. Thanks to the team at Barbour Publishing and to my agent, Sandra Bishop, for the support and encouragement.
He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds
.
P
SALM
147:3
S
ummer Nelson blinked against the bright sunlight that filtered through oak trees older than time, their branches heavy with Spanish moss. She squinted at a tall figure in the distance, solemnly looking down at an ancient headstone. A figure she recognized, even though it had been at least fifteen years since she’d last seen him.
Summer had grown up hearing tales of the many ghosts that inhabited Charleston. She’d scoffed at the idea of homes haunted by long-dead Confederate soldiers, and she’d certainly never given any thought to attending one of the Ghosts of Charleston walks that took place in the historic city almost every night.
But on that random afternoon in late May, she encountered a ghost of her own. Except that Jefferson Boudreaux was the worst kind of ghost. The flesh-and-bone kind that served as a direct link to a past long forgotten. Or at least a past mostly forgotten, except for those sleepless nights of late when she couldn’t stop herself from wondering if she’d chosen the right path.
Summer and Jefferson had been the “it” couple of their tightly knit circle since their days in cotillion. Everyone had always expected the two of them to marry and settle into a life of Charleston society. Jefferson would follow in his daddy’s footsteps and run for office, and she would host garden parties and raise their perfect children.
Yes, that was the path everyone—particularly Summer’s parents—had expected her to take. And Summer herself had been on board with that plan—for the most part.
Right up until the lazy July afternoon when she met Luke Nelson. Sweet Luke, who mowed the yard of her family’s enormous South of Broad home—the same home her greatgreat-granddaddy had somehow persuaded the Yankees to leave alone all those many years ago.
She watched the man in the cemetery for another long moment, not daring to move a muscle. She’d grown so still and cold, she couldn’t tell where the stone bench ended and her body began. “Jefferson,” she finally whispered, her voice tinged with uncertainty. Maybe the man was a look-alike tourist who just happened to be standing at the Boudreaux family plot. Because the alternative wasn’t something she wanted to face.
But as soon as the name escaped her lips, the tall man turned toward her, and his tanned face broke into a smile.
And with a few long strides, Jefferson Boudreaux walked right back into her life.
Luke Nelson chewed on the end of his pencil, a habit he’d had since his school days when yellow number 2 pencils were harbingers of standardized tests. Most of the kids feared taking tests, but Luke lived for those days. He’d always been a good test taker. Inevitably when the scores came back each year, his were the highest in the class. His teachers expected great things from him, but his daddy had sneered at Luke’s academic aspirations. “No son of mine is going to spend his days in some stuffy office like he’s better than the rest of us,” Daddy would say, usually with whiskey on his breath.
Luke had never aspired to follow in his father’s footsteps, never been one of those little boys who idolized their dads. Roy Nelson had always been hardest on his oldest son. While Luke’s sister and baby brother might have been able to avoid Roy’s wrath, Luke hadn’t been so lucky.
But the past was the past, and he certainly didn’t want to spend time dwelling on it now. He tossed the pencil onto the table and leaned back in his chair. Why was he having so much trouble with this song? The tune had been in his head for weeks, but getting the lyrics right was causing him all kinds of problems.
He stood and paced the length of the living room, decorated with furniture that had been in Summer’s family for generations. When they’d first moved into the spacious South of Broad home after they’d gotten married, he’d been a nervous wreck. “What if I spill something?” he’d asked.
Summer had just laughed. “This isn’t a museum. It’s our home.” She’d tipped her glass of sweet tea so a little dribbled onto the tiled kitchen floor. “See?”
Sometimes it was hard for him to believe they’d been husband and wife for nearly seven years. And yet their anniversary was coming up in a few weeks. He had the perfect gift in mind, too. He might not be the world’s best husband, but he’d been able to make Summer happy. At least most of the time.
The opening strains of a George Strait song pulled him from his walk down memory lane. He grabbed his phone from the table and punched the button. “Yeah?”
“How do you feel about shooting some pool tonight?” Justin Sanders asked.
Luke exhaled loudly. He didn’t want to let down his closest friend and the drummer in his band, but he’d already been out two nights this week and they were playing a gig on Friday evening. Summer hadn’t said anything about all his time away from home, but she’d sure given him the cold shoulder this morning. “I don’t know.”
“Come on, man. Jimmy and Will have permission from their wives for a boys’ night out. Don’t leave us in a lurch.”
He looked at the silver clock on the end table next to the couch. It was already after six. Summer must be working late again. Last night she hadn’t gotten home till nearly ten. So maybe she wouldn’t care if he made plans. “Yeah, okay. I’ll be at your place in half an hour.”