Dying To Marry (27 page)

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Authors: Janelle Taylor

BOOK: Dying To Marry
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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I could wear this for the ceremony, I guess,” Lizzie said, pulling a white sundress from her closet. “It's a bit casual, but it's pretty.”
“It's very pretty,” Holly said. “I think you'll make a beautiful bride in that dress.”
Lizzie smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. “Thanks, Hol. But with this hair,” she added, touching her very short blond curls, I don't think beautiful is quite the right word.”
“Lizzie, I really love how your hair looks,” Gayle said. “The Cut and Chat salon did such a wonderful job.”
Earlier today, Holly and Gayle had taken Lizzie to the hair salon in a neighboring town. When they'd walked in, all eyes went to Lizzie's crazily cut hair—cut within inches of her scalp, save a few long curls that Flea had missed. Lizzie had ignored the stares and asked for the stylist to work whatever magic she could.
“She's a bride tomorrow,” Gayle had whispered.
“Don't you worry, honey,” the stylist had said. “You're in good hands. You're going to look like a young Meg Ryan meets Charlize Theron when I'm done with you.”
The stylist hadn't been kidding. When Lizzie dared peek in the mirror, she had very short blond ringlets all over her head, shiny and bouncy. She looked fresh and trendy. Lizzie wasn't used to the new short look, but her hair did look fabulous.
“You'll get used to it, Lizzie,” Holly assured her. “And besides, it'll grow. Your hair always did grow so fast.”
“That's true,” Lizzie said. “Anyway, it's just hair. I should remember that instead of complaining.”
“Hey, Lizzie, you could wear your white espadrilles with the dress,” Gayle suggested.
“The espadrilles will go great with the sundress,” Holly agreed, dropping down on Lizzie's bed.
“You sound as excited as I do,” Lizzie said, sitting down beside Holly. “Not! What's wrong, Holly?”
“Nothing, sweetie,” Holly said, unable to look her cousin in the eye as she lied through her teeth.
Lizzie cupped Holly's chin and lifted her face. “Don't you ‘nothing, sweetie' me, Holly-Molly. I've known you all my life and I know when something is wrong. Spill.”
Holly flopped backward on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. “You're getting married tomorrow, and I couldn't be happier for you, Lizzie. But when you say ‘I do,' I'll be saying good-bye, and I guess I'm not ready for that.”
“Well, well,” Gayle said with a smile. “Holly Morrow doesn't want to bid Troutville good-bye? I never thought I'd see the day!”
Holly and Lizzie laughed.
“Perhaps it's not so much Troutville she doesn't want to say good-bye to, but a particular Troutville resident.”
“Residents,” Holly corrected. “You two.”
Lizzie wagged a finger. “Try again, Cousin. I'm talking about a certain tall, dark, handsome private investigator that you've been in love with your entire life.”
Holly felt her cheeks warm. “I—” Oh, what was the use of trying to pretend she wasn't madly in love with Jake Boone when she was. Desperately, madly, happily in love.
“He hasn't exactly asked me to stick around,” Holly said. “Once you and Dylan take off in your ‘just married' car, it'll be time for me to go back home.”
“You don't have to go home,” Gayle said. “It's summer. You have the rest of the summer off from teaching school. Stay here!”
“But my life is somewhere else,” Holly said. “I spent years building that life. I have friends there—”
That wasn't quite the truth. There was Miss Ellie and Herbert, who were more like family and would be with her always, no matter where she was, but she couldn't honestly say she had ever made any friends in Hoboken. She had some nice girlfriends at school, and enjoyed friendly conversations with neighbors, but she'd never made deep, long-lasting friendships like she had here in Troutville, the place she never wanted to step foot in again.
Flea aside, Gayle and Lizzie were her friends. True-blue friends who had stood the test of time, despite the distance. And there was Aunt Louise and Morrow's Pub, a place that had always felt like a second home to Holly.
And there was Jake. Jake Boone. With whom Holly was very much in love.
I'm home
, a small voice whispered inside Holly.
But I can't stay. I can't stay and be so close to the man I love when he doesn't love me. When he doesn't want me in his life.
Holly sighed. For so long, home hadn't been where her heart was. Her heart had been with Lizzie and Gayle and Aunt Louise and Jake, and even Flea, until very recently, but Holly had made a home elsewhere.
Isn't that odd
, she thought.
My heart was in Troutville all these years. I didn't even realize it.
“You know, Holly,” Gayle said. “You could tell the man how you feel. Granted, telling my boss how I feel about him hasn't done me a lick of good, but hey, at least he knows how I feel.”
“That's true,” Lizzie said.
“But I know Jake doesn't feel the way I do,” Holly said. “Why put myself through the misery of hearing him tell me that he's glad we became friends again, but that there's too much water under the bridge.”
“Oh, Holly,” Lizzie said. “That's just it—it's all water under the bridge. The past is the past and should be left there. What happened between you and Jake these past weeks happened
now.
”
“That still won't make Jake love me,” Holly said, tears stinging her eyes.
“He does love you, Holly,” Lizzie said. “I'd bet anything.”
“I'm in, too,” Gayle said.
Holly smiled. “Thanks, guys. But I think I'd better pack my bags and prepare to go back to Hoboken before I end up with a broken heart.”
Who am I kidding?
Holly asked herself.
My heart is broken already.
Lizzie gave Holly's shoulder a squeeze. “You really think I could get away with the sundress and my espadrilles?”
Holly nodded. “I think you'll be a beautiful bride in that outfit, Lizzie.”
“You'd be beautiful in a potato sack and bunny slippers, and you know it, Lizzie Morrow.”
“Lizzie Morrow Dunhill-to-be,” Lizzie corrected with a wink.
“Yoo-hoo, Lizzie! Are you home?”
That was Mrs. Dunhill's voice. Lizzie shrugged at Holly and Gayle, then they all headed downstairs.
Mrs. Dunhill, Pru, and two women who looked a bit familiar flew in, laden with bags and packages and two step stools.
“Lizzie, dear,” Mrs. Dunhill said, “direct us to your bedroom. You do have a full-length mirror, don't you? Preferably a three-sided one?”
Perplexed, Lizzie looked at Holly, then back at Mrs. Dunhill and her entourage. “Um, I have a full-length mirror in my room—upstairs.”
“Fabulous,” said Mrs. Dunhill. “All right, ladies, everyone upstairs.”
“Mrs. Dunhill, I'm a little confused—” Lizzie began.
“Lizzie, dear, there's really no time for chitchat,” Mrs. Dunhill said, ushering Lizzie toward the stairs. “If your gown is to be ready tomorrow by ten
A.M.
, we really need to get you fitted immediately.”
“My gown?”
“Hurry, hurry,” Mrs. Dunhill scolded, shooing Lizzie forward. “Holly and Gayle, you two come on up in about five minutes.”
Holly and Gayle couldn't wait five minutes. They waited two, then hurried up to Lizzie's room.
Lizzie stood on a step stool in front of her white wicker floor-length mirror wearing the wedding gown of her dreams, the dress she had seen in the window of Bettina's Bridal months ago, the dress that she had been about to try on when Flea had been hurt.
Correction: when Flea had hurt herself.
Tears rolled down Lizzie's cheeks. “It's my gown, guys. The gown of my dreams!”
“But how—” Gayle asked.
“Let's just say I had a little conversation with that pompous Tutweller,” Mrs. Dunhill said. “Come on, girls,” she said to Holly and Gayle. “Your dresses are right over there. Ms. Tutweller sent along her seamstresses to fit you.”
Inside the dress bags on the bed were the lovely pink silk dresses that she and Gayle and Flea had chosen.
As Mrs. Dunhill helped Lizzie afix her veil to her now short blond curls, Holly stared in the mirror at her cousin, her beautiful, sweet cousin. She had transformed into a bride, but she was Lizzie and always would be. And no one and nothing had ever been able to stop her from being Lizzie Morrow, even though quite a few people had tried.
You've taught me more than you'll ever know, sweet cousin,
Holly thought before tears of joy overtook her.
 
Jake sat on a huge rock in Troutville Square, the little park between Down Hill and Up Hill, and the very setting for Dylan and Lizzie's wedding tomorrow. He leaned back, crossed his arms behind his head and stared up at the beautiful night sky, at the stars twinkling over Troutville.
How many nights had he sat in this very spot as a teenager, thinking about Holly, thinking about the division between Up Hill and Down, the very division between him and the girl he loved. He would lean back on the rock as he was doing now, and think, try to figure out how to make Holly his when she had absolutely no interest in him. When leaving was the only thing on her mind.
Ten years later, how had he gotten himself in the same position? The woman he loved more than life itself would be leaving town tomorrow, leaving him.
Tell her how you feel.
Like last time?
Jake Boone is the last man on earth I'd marry.
Tell her how you feel, idiot.
From where he sat, he could see the top of the house where Holly had grown up. He could see the second-floor window of her bedroom and sometimes, he'd be able to make out her hazy figure walking past. So many nights he'd wait for Holly to turn off her light, and then he'd whisper, “Sweet dreams,” into the air and be able to head on home himself.
Now, the house and the room and the light switch belonged to someone else.
Jake glanced over at Lizzie's house; he could just make out movements in her bedroom window, and if he wasn't mistaken, someone, probably Lizzie, was holding up a veil to her head.
He smiled. Lizzie had been through hell and back and had come shining through. They all had. Except for Flea.
Tell Holly how you feel
, Jake ordered himself again.
Don't let her leave without saying the words.
What words?
I love you, Holly. I love you with all my heart and always have.
But as he glanced up at Lizzie's window, at the figures he could just make out, he imagined a conversation.
Stay here in Troutville?
Holly would be saying.
Marry Jake Boone? You must be kidding. I can't wait to get back to my life, my real life, far away from here. Far away from the last man I'd ever marry.
Suddenly, the light went off in Lizzie's bedroom.
“Sweet dreams, Holly,” Jake whispered into the night air. Then he got up and headed home.
 
Lizzie and Dylan's wedding day dawned warm and sunny. Mrs. Dunhill, who'd had to remind Lizzie seven times since yesterday to ‘please call me Victoria, dear,' and Pru had come over at six
A.M.
to ask whether Lizzie preferred the pink or red roses to decorate the ceremony trellis, then set off for the Down Hill square where the wedding would take place so that they could boss around the fleet of volunteers who'd “signed up” in droves to help with the nuptials.
As Holly and Gayle helped Lizzie into her stunning gown, Holly realized that the dress, complete with puffs and high neck, was as much “Lizzie” as any of her clothes. Lizzie hadn't chosen the gown to fit in with the Dunhills; she'd chosen it because she'd fallen in love with it, just as she'd fallen in love with Dylan. Lizzie Morrow was her own woman and had been from the moment Holly met her, which was before they could even talk or walk.
“Oh, Lizzie,” Holly breathed. “You look so beautiful!”
The three women promptly burst into tears.
“It's a good thing I haven't started my makeup yet,” Gayle said, dabbing at her eyes. “I'd have racoon eyes, for sure.”
“Not a good look for a wedding,” Lizzie said. “I love you guys,” she added. “So much. I might be getting married, but I'll always be your Lizzie.”

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