Flower Girl Bride (3 page)

Never alone? She didn't even give me time to ask that question aloud or to feel humiliated over learning this late in the game that Luke Sheridan might be happily married after all. In a chiffon flounce, she stepped to the truck and whipped open the door.

Luke first glanced over in surprise before his gaze landed on me and narrowed. It was all I could do not to throw my hands up in a pose of the innocent and tell him I had nothing to do with this.

“Luke, dear, would you mind transporting a guest to the restaurant? It seems we don't have a spot for my niece.”

“Well, we couldn't have that, could we?” His tone was polite, but his jaw was tight.

Embarrassment had to be what was squeezing my chest so tightly. That and a huge slice of humble pie.

“Who's that?” came a youthful voice from the backseat.

Though both my aunt and I ducked to get a glimpse behind Luke, only she waved and grinned at the little boy sitting in a booster.

“Hello there, Sam,” Eleanor said. “Are you taking good care of your daddy?”

I blinked hard, but at least I didn't really embarrass myself by gasping or saying, “oh.” I'd considered that Luke might be married and realized now that I must have imagined this whole setup scenario, but I hadn't yet leaped as far as the progeny question.

The mini-Luke—no, Mr. Sheridan couldn't deny fathering this handsome knockoff if both their lives depended on it—was too busy studying me to answer my aunt's question.

Luke cleared his throat. “Um, Sam…Mrs. Hudson asked you something.”

A scowl clouded Sam's handsome face. “Daddy made me wear this stuff.”

He pointed down at an outfit that anyone besides a little boy would have called casual. It must have been a travesty to have to wear dressy tan shorts—oh the horror!—and a polo shirt with a collar.

But in the way of preschoolers, Sam must have forgotten this crime against his person because he grinned when he looked back at me. “Are you daddy's girlfriend?”

“Samuel Lucas Sheridan.” Luke's voice came in a low, warning growl.

Sam glanced at his dad with a “what-did-I-say” look. The kid had guts, all right.

“Well, Grammy said—”

“I don't care what—” Luke stopped himself and took a deep breath before he continued. “I mean your grandma must have been joking because you know I don't have girlfriends.”

“Mommy was your girlfriend.”

Again, Luke's voice was low with warning. “We don't need to talk about this now.”

“Well, she was.”

Luke sighed. “Yes, she was.”

Satisfied with his father's admission, Sam turned those enormous blue eyes, so like his father's, on me. “Mommy died.”

My breath caught, the truth so bluntly laid out before me. Here I'd been worrying about, first, being set up and, second, mistakenly assuming I'd been set up, and this poor little boy had lost his mother. Shame felt heavy on my chest.

“I'm so sorry,” I said when I finally had my voice back.

“Thanks,” Luke said automatically. “Car accident. It was a while ago.”

Not long enough for the pain to become less raw, I observed, as his hands tightened around the steering wheel. I had once told myself it would have been easier if Alan had just died instead of leaving me. Divorce was a death of sorts—of promises and dreams. But the stark look of loss on Luke's face suggested more pain than I could even fathom. He pointedly looked away then, making it clear he wasn't interested in my pity.

“Guys, we need to get going,” Eleanor said as she put a hand in the small of my back and propelled me
forward. Instantly, I was glad Luke drove a truck. Had it been a car, I would have clipped my head on the door-frame. As it was, the side of the seat just caught me in the stomach, making the air whoosh out of me. Scrambling for balance, I somehow ended up in the seat next to Luke without collecting any visible marks.

“See you all at the restaurant,” Aunt Eleanor called out as she closed the door behind me.

Sam's head bobbed over the back of the seat before his dad had pulled into the traffic lane.

“Hey, lady, what's your name?”

Luke looked sharply over his shoulder. “Sam, what did we discuss about you unbuckling your safety seat?”

“You said it's dangerous.”

“Then could you please tell me what you're doing out of the harness?”

A chuckle rumbled in my throat, and I pressed my lips together to keep from grinning. Nobody could say that young Sam Sheridan didn't listen when his dad spoke. Now following his advice, he hadn't quite mastered that one. His dad might have been a stick-in-the-mud, but I had no doubt Sam and I would be fast friends. I'd never met a kid I didn't like, and I could tell already that Sam Sheridan wouldn't be my first. Adults were a different story.

“Back in the harness, and I want to hear two clicks right away,” Luke told him.

Sam made a face only his father could love, but he clicked one buckle and then the other.

When order had returned inside the vehicle, I peered over the seat at Sam. “Oh, you asked my name. It's Cassandra Blake, but you may call me Cassie.”

“Make that Miss Cassie,” Luke corrected.

“Of course.”

I smiled at Sam when my expression was really targeted at his father. I felt inordinately pleased that Luke was trying to instill a respect for adults in his son, a lesson that some of my students hadn't learned at home.

“Miss Cassie.” Sam rolled my name around on his tongue to see if it fit.

“Miss Cassie works at a school,” Luke continued.

I barely had time to be surprised that Luke knew how I made my living or to process the fact that my aunt had given Luke my vital statistics after all because Sam chose that moment to let out a squeal. I studied the boy more closely. He had a starstruck look in his eyes.

“Are you a real teacher? Like at preschool? I go to preschool. I'm four.”

He appeared so in awe of me that I didn't want to burst his bubble. Why was it that little ones always assumed only teachers worked at schools instead of administrators, paraprofessionals and other support staff?

“No, I'm not a teacher, but I still work with a lot of children. I'm a speech pathologist.”

“Oh.” He nodded, my answer seeming to satisfy him, but since he started playing with his handheld video game, I took it my hero-admiration session had ended.

Without Sam's constant chattering, the air in the truck cab grew stuffier than if Luke had been blasting heat instead of the air-conditioning. I'd always wondered if someone could die from social discomfort, and I figured I was about to have my answer.

“Aunt Eleanor sure looks beautiful tonight,” I said
when any inane comment seemed better than letting this silence linger.

Luke made one of those grunting sounds that men like to use instead of words. Only real words count as far as I'm concerned, but I continued anyway, as if he'd spoken, tried to make eye contact and made a real effort.

“I think it's great that my aunt and your mother have been friends for as long as they have. How many of us can say we have friends like that?”

“Not many.” He didn't look at me as he followed the line of cars down the winding, tree-lined road that led to town. Though he didn't mention whether he had any friends like that, if he was the sweetheart with other people that he'd been to me, I was guessing no. Maybe he'd never heard the whole catching-more-flies-with-honey argument.

I tried again though I didn't know why I was making the effort. Talking to Luke Sheridan was like trying to break through a brick wall with conversation when only a sledgehammer would do the job.

“I'm so happy for my aunt and uncle. Twenty-five years of marriage is a major accomplishment these days.”

Luke slowed to a stop at one of Mantua's few traffic lights, and he turned to face me, his expression tight. “Look, I'm sure you're a nice person, but—” He cleared his throat and started again. “I don't know what my mother told you when she said she would set you up, but she was wrong.”

“Told me?” Even I heard the squeak in my voice, so I didn't kid myself into believing he didn't hear it. “You
think I would have subjected myself to this humiliation
on purpose?
”

Clearly he had or he wouldn't have been looking at me with an expression every bit as incredulous as the one I had trained on him. “You mean you didn't know—”

“No!”

I jerked at the harsh sound of my own voice, and looked up to see the light change. I waited for him to pass through the intersection and sneaked a peek back at Sam, who was still mesmerized by his game, before I continued.

“I've been avoiding matchmakers like a good case of malaria ever since the—well, for a while now.”

My cheeks burned, and I stared at my hands in my lap. I couldn't believe I'd almost mentioned the divorce out loud when I'd become an expert at pretending it hadn't happened. All is well on the banks of
denial
, after all.

“Kind of hard to escape this particular Cupid, huh?”

My head came up with a snap. Had the sourpuss just made a joke? “Aunt Eleanor? Probably would have been a little awkward, I'll give you that. But I would have found some excuse if I'd known what my aunt had planned.”

“Like you had to wash your hair?”

“And do deep conditioning, of course.”

“Of course.” He shrugged. “I just wish I could have avoided this overromanticized tribute to matrimonial bliss altogether.”

“Now don't hold back, Luke. Tell me what you really think.” I couldn't help chuckling, as the tension between us eased. “Wait. I'm related to the bride. I had to be here. What's your excuse?”

“You don't know my mom very well, do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“She's a transplanted Southern belle, and she's used to getting her way.” He jerked the hand that wasn't on the steering wheel toward me as if to toss out his earlier comment. “What can I say? I'm a mama's boy to the core.”

I grinned at his profile, surprised and pleased that he would admit that. He shook his head, clearly as startled as I was by what he'd said, but then he glanced sidelong at me and smiled, a tiny dimple appearing on his right cheek.

I tried not to notice, really I did. Just a single cute dimple and a smile in my direction, and I was feeling tingly inside all the way to my bare toes in my strappy sandals. That was just pitiful.

And as quickly as that, the tension that had dissipated inside the truck cab was back and doing a pretty good job of stealing all the oxygen. If I were in the habit of being honest with myself, I might have admitted that this tension was different than the other—about awareness rather than avoidance—but why go and change my habits when they were working for me?

The silence seemed louder this time, our chorused breathing and the air conditioner's drone the only interruptions as we pulled into the parking lot of Gino's Taste of Italy. Was Luke waiting for me to say something? If so, what did he expect me to say? And what if I didn't want to be the one to speak up first? I sat for several long seconds, waiting him to give in and fill the silence.

Say something, will you.

Somebody spoke up, all right. It just wasn't who I expected.

“Daddy, what's a matchmaker?”

I
glanced down the long line of checkered-cloth covered tables that had been pushed together at Gino's. Far too many of us were crammed into spots along those tables, but nobody seemed to mind. In fact, from the laughter coming from various spots throughout the room, everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time.

Except Luke, the grouch.

Sitting across the table from me, a few people down, he'd been quiet all through dinner, had barely touched his baked ziti. Every time I'd caught his eye, he'd scowled at me. Okay, I had to admit that he might have had a small reason to be annoyed. A forty-pound reason.

I couldn't help it that most of the seats were already taken when we'd arrived at the restaurant or that when there were two remaining side-by-side seats that Sam had begged to sit by me instead of his dad. With Luke's sour expression, who would blame his son for making that choice?

“Hey, Miss Cassie, look. I have a mustache.”

Sam looked up from his sundae to show me his upper lip, which he had now painted with chocolate fudge. While the rest of the adults were still finishing their entrées, the child had already moved on to dessert.

“Wow, that's a pretty fancy job you've done there.”

“It's chocolate.”

“No way. I thought it was a real mustache.”

I didn't mention the chocolate that had made its way down to Sam's pale yellow polo shirt and had combined with the remnants of garlic bread and marinara sauce already there. Glancing at Luke, I caught him frowning at me again. I shouldn't have been encouraging Sam's mischievousness, but he was just so adorable that I couldn't resist.

Sam reached a grubby hand over to twirl his finger in one of the tendrils at my cheek. I could just imagine how stiff my hair would be when he was finished with it, but the sweet gesture made me smile. That same dull ache I'd felt earlier when he'd crawled into my lap and hugged me, settled in my chest, making me wish for things that might have been.

To avoid the pain that came with wishing, I tucked the thought away as I looked up from the last of my fettuccini Alfredo. From across the table, I felt as much as saw Luke's gaze on us, intense and not quite pleased. I wished my cheeks didn't have to burn like that, letting everyone know what I was thinking.

Luke blinked a few times and turned his head to look at the other end of the table, but I sensed that I'd seen something raw, something unmasked in him, before
he'd shuttered it away. I stared at my plate again, stirring my fork in the remaining sauce.

“One of the Sheridan men sure has hit it off with the flower girl,” the handsome older gentleman who'd introduced himself as Marcus Sheridan said from across the table.

Sitting next to him, Luke elbowed his father. “Cut it out, Dad.”

Marcus only laughed. “Sam sure has a thing for blondes, and this one isn't too hard on the eyes, either. But I'm sure you hadn't noticed.”

Luke narrowed his gaze at his father but didn't answer.

“I know somebody who shouldn't be paying attention to such things at his age.” Yvonne Sheridan leaned forward from where she was seated on Marcus's other side and waved a warning finger at him.

“My eyes haven't given out on me yet.”

That little comment earned him another elbow—this time from his wife. Even Luke fought back a smile.

The boy sitting next to me appeared oblivious to the conversation as he sat stirring the rest of his sundae into chocolate soup.

I turned back to Luke. “Do you want me to clean him up? You'll never get those stains out of that shirt.”

“No, I've got it.” He paused, straightening in his seat. “And you'd be amazed at the stains I can get out of clothes.”

With that, he picked up a small canvas bag I hadn't noticed him carrying into the restaurant and came around the table to his son.

“Okay, buddy, it's time.”

Instead of asking “for what?” as I was tempted to, Sam popped down from his seat and followed his dad into the men's room. When the pair reemerged minutes later, the boy's face was scrubbed clean, and he was dressed in an identical polo shirt to the stained one he'd been wearing before. Even his hair had been combed into place.

Sam pulled away from his dad and climbed back into the chair next to me. He scrunched his face into a nasty look. “My hair looks stupid.”

“You look great.” I brushed my fingers through his damp hair and looked up at his father. “What an amazing transformation.”

“Not amazing,” Luke answered, though he was clearly pleased that I thought so. “We're just prepared.” He held up the canvas bag, where he must have put the soiled shirt.

Marcus waved a hand in Luke's direction as Luke returned to his seat. “Our son took the Boy Scout motto, ‘Be Prepared,' to heart when it comes to parenting. Always ready with wet wipes and extra clothes. Probably has a kitchen sink somewhere in that bag.”

At his father's challenge, Luke took a peek inside it. “Nope. But there are bandages, antibiotic ointment, liquid antihistamine and meat tenderizer.” He must have seen my confused expression because he added, “The last two are for bee stings.”

“As I said, always prepared.” Marcus's deep laughter filled the room.

When I looked up again, I found Luke watching me,
his gaze lingering. I should have turned away—I knew that—but I felt pinned under the intensity of his study.

At the reverberating
thunk
of a portable microphone, I jerked the way I used to when my mother caught me sneaking snacks before dinner. Looking away from Luke, I glanced guiltily at his parents, but their attention was on the portly, white-haired man who stood with the microphone in his hand.

“Hi, everyone. I'm Tom Wilder, the best man for this little shindig—last time and this one. I don't know why, but this guy wanted me back again.” He paused to pat Jack Hudson on the shoulder.

“If there's a third time, I might want to get that young Orlando Bloom to play my role since he looks a lot more like the original than this snow-topped version.”

The best man got the laugh he was going for, but I had a hard time picturing the old Santa Claus character as ever looking like any of Hollywood's leading men. The smile pulling on Luke's lips suggested he had a similar theory.

“Are you sure you don't mean Andy Rooney?” Marcus called out, earning his own round of laughter.

“Hey, stem the chatter from the peanut gallery,” Jack called out but in a genial tone.

Marcus raised both hands in apology, still chuckling.

Tom cleared his throat and started again. “I'm sure we'll have plenty of time for this tomorrow, but I wanted to be the first to toast to the
still
-happy couple.”

My uncle wrapped his arm around his bride. “We've got a lot to be happy about, old friend.”

“Well, are you going to let me finish this or not?” Tom asked him.

Jack waved a hand to tell him to continue.

“Thanks.” Tom shook his head as he gripped his glass of iced tea. “As I was saying—again—I wanted to offer a toast. So let's lift our glasses to honor our friends Jack and Eleanor.”

“To Jack and Eleanor” came a chorus of voices, followed by an instrumental selection provided by the clinking of iced tea and lemonade glasses along with porcelain coffee cups. Following a round of applause, Eleanor stepped forward and offered directions for the next day's ceremony.

Sam leaned close to me and did his four-year-old imitation of a whisper, which really was just a shout cupped between two little hands. “Do you get to go to the wedding tomorrow?”

I nodded but pressed a finger to my lips, trying to hush him.

“It's going to be on the beach.”

Pulling Sam into my lap, I cuddled him and spoke in a whisper much quieter than his. “I know. It will be fun.”

My own words surprised me. It was first time I'd thought anything remotely positive about this weekend's event. Agony. Misery. Now those were words I had associated with my participation in my aunt and uncle's vows renewal ceremony. But fun?

I shrugged. Maybe it would be. Sam would be there, after all, and that little boy had enough energy to entertain us all day long. But I had the idea that part of my budding excitement about tomorrow's events had to do with having another chance to see the little boy's father.

 

I frowned as I smoothed my hands down the filmy overskirt of my pale yellow bridesmaid's dress and paced along the wall of windows where my aunt's house spread itself open for a landscape view of Lake Michigan. Mine was a bridesmaid's gown rather than a flower girl's dress because formal-wear designers never planned on almost-thirty-year-old flower girls. Hoped against them, I would guess.

As I lowered my gaze to the oversize basket of daisies my family members expected me to carry, I decided that the dressmakers had a good reason for committing age discrimination. A grown woman probably looked like a baby elephant while sprinkling flowers in the bride's path.

“Oh good, you're still here,” Aunt Eleanor said as she walked up behind me. “Have you seen Princess around? I haven't seen her all morning.”

“Um, I saw her with Uncle Jack earlier.” I didn't mention that he'd been
this
close to having to pry the cat's talons out of my leg when my only crime was to sneak past to get a cup of coffee in the kitchen. Okay, maybe the furry monster's claw attack was really only a threatening crouch and spit, but you get the picture.

“I should go look for her. She's probably hungry and thirsty. Maybe she got out and—”

I shook my head to interrupt her. “I'm sure she's fine. Uncle Jack told me he was going to feed her. Now she's probably full and happily napping under a bed.” I could only hope it wasn't mine.

“She could be hiding, too. She hates crowds.”

And everything else from what I could tell, but I only said, “That's probably it. We'll track her down right after the ceremony, but you need to get ready.”

“I suppose you're right.”

My aunt looked regal in white layers of cascading lace that fell to a tea-length hemline. She wore no veil, instead had pulled back her hair, with baby's breath woven into tiny braids at her temples. She turned her back so I could finish closing her zipper.

“You make a beautiful bride.” I wrapped my arms around her middle from behind and squeezed, careful to avoid getting makeup on her dress. “So you chose white?” I tried and failed to keep my voice level as I asked that one.

Eleanor answered with a girlish giggle. “Now I don't want any Miss Manners comments about which brides should be wearing white. I wore an ivory gown the first time, so I wanted to try something different. Besides I didn't want to wear a cream-colored dress and match the sand.”

“Wouldn't want you to disappear on your wedding day.”

“Exactly. You look pretty wonderful yourself today.”

“That's thanks to you for not choosing periwinkle again.”

Eleanor stepped to the huge mirror on the great room wall to check her makeup. “Better thank Yvonne for that. She told me if I picked that color again I would have to find another matron of honor.”

Outside, crowd members were beginning to take their seats on white folding chairs lined in rows in the sand. A few of the groomsmen milled about in tuxedos,
seating guests, but the particular tuxedo-clad guest I was looking for was nowhere to be seen.

“Do I thank Yvonne for getting to go barefoot, as well?” I lifted the hem of my own tea-length dress and curled my bare, pale-painted toes in the carpet.

“Nope. That was my Jack's idea. He suggested the wedding on the beach and the barefoot plan.”

I lowered my hem. “Remind me to kiss him later.”

“As long as I get to kiss him first.” Eleanor patted her hair once more while examining her image in the mirror. “Let's go. I'm ready to get this thing started.”

As we exited through the side door, I resisted the urge to reach up and pat my hair that I had curled and then left loose for the occasion. It shouldn't have mattered what Luke thought about my appearance, but I wouldn't waste time trying to convince myself that it didn't.

In fact, just the thought of him had that same nervous tension flowing through me that I'd felt every time I'd caught him watching me last night. It was an embarrassing reaction, I realized, since he was probably only watching me to keep an eye on his son. I didn't know what it said about me that I was getting keyed up when Luke wasn't even around, but the word
pathetic
did come to mind.

I straightened my shoulders and pushed my unproductive thoughts aside as we descended the stairs to the lower deck where a few of the bridesmaids and groomsmen had gathered.

“There you are,” Yvonne said, stepping forward to hug her best friend. “Jack was worried you were standing him up at the altar.”

“Not on his life,” Eleanor said with a hearty laugh. “He's not going to get rid of me yet.”

“Do we have everyone now?” Yvonne asked, taking control of the situation in her role as matron of honor.

We all turned to glance at the makeshift bridal chapel, with its rows of chairs, simple lectern and floral arrangements and speakers on platforms. Sam was standing in one of the chairs and waving madly at me until his grandpa wrangled him back into his seat.

Order was temporary at best as the youngster flipped around in his chair, sticking his legs through the hole in the back. I waved at him and mouthed a hello, but the little flirt one-upped me by blowing me a kiss.

Careful not get lipstick on my hand that would wind up on my dress, I touched my fingers to my mouth and tossed out an elaborately blown kiss. What I hadn't expected, though, was that someone would step between my original target and me.

Luke. It took me several seconds before I even remembered to lower the hand that hung suspended next to my face.