The Secret Wedding Dress (23 page)

“I picked up enough from the things Rianne said to see that.” Pressing closer, Sylvie steadily began to unbutton Joel’s shirt. Only a single light burned in the living room, and it was turned low. “Maybe you’d feel better if you had a talk with your half-brother.”

He stilled her fingers and made her meet his eyes. “No pity sex, please,” he said, the words a growl in his throat.

“I really need someone tonight, Joel. I need you.”

The shakiness of her voice touched something deep inside him. “Where?” he whispered tightly, scooping her into his arms.

“My room. Down the hall past my workroom. I left the light on. I didn’t know what time I’d get in tonight. You can turn it off if you’d like.”

“I want to see you, and I want you to see me. I don’t think you have any idea how much this has been on my mind. Since our first night together.” No added confessions or comments
passed between them for the next while. They lost themselves in a world of sensations, feelings and long kisses.

Joel explored every inch of Sylvie’s soft, exposed skin. He kissed every inch.

She responded, happy to stroke and be stroked. Already familiar with each other’s bodies, they could dedicate the night to pleasuring each other.

Together, they lay in the middle of Sylvie’s big bed, and nothing broke the silence shrouding the room but the tick of the bedside clock. Little by little, their rapid breathing slowed to normal.

Eventually, Joel’s lightly seeking hand felt that the skin on Sylvie’s back and upper arms had grown cool. He found a quilt folded at the foot of the bed. After shaking it out, Joel shoved their pillows together so they could snuggle better.

“We can’t make a habit of this, Joel.”

“Why?” he asked, at the risk of sounding like his daughter. Tucking Sylvie against his side, Joel let his eyes study her face as she scrambled for an answer. “
Because
isn’t allowed,” he murmured. “After two earth-shaking nights, Sylvie, I deserve an honest answer, I think.”

“The truth is, Joel, I feel myself falling for you.”

He played with the ends of her hair. “Forgive me if I fail to see a problem there.”

“The problem is, I fell once before. Hard.”

Feeling her shudder, Joel tightened his hold.

“I fell for a fellow wedding-gown designer in New York. Desmond Emerson. He wasn’t a big name in the industry…then. But he had contacts, and he lavished me with attention. Des shared one or two of his contacts with me. Various boutiques expressed interest in my designs. One of them sold several gowns and requested more. Also Des had a loft apartment. The light there was great for sketching. He moved me in, and…I thought he loved me as much as I loved him. I was wrong. He loved my designs. I worked night and
day building a collection he promised to display for me at a major showing where he’d booked space.”

Joel felt Sylvie’s tension mount. She needed to get this story out, or he would have stopped her. Because he could guess the rest. After all, it was eerily like the fate he’d plotted for Magnolia. Joel’s heart thudded erratically, sinking more with each word Sylvie so painfully spoke.

Emerson had presented her original designs, all right, but as his own. The crowning blow—her collection had brought Desmond Emerson acclaim and big bucks, leaving Sylvie with nothing to show for an entire year’s worth of labor.

“One dress,” she murmured, her eyes straying to a covered shape standing in the corner. “I had no collection anymore. No interest from name stores. Des had it all. Plus, he up and married our bubble-brained design assistant. I saw pictures of their wedding. She showcased my second-best design. The dress hanging in that corner is my favorite.” She took a deep breath. “It’s the gown I’d planned to wear at my wedding to Des. If he could’ve found a way to take it, I’m sure he would have.” Pain and sorrow wracked her admission.

Joel felt for her. “He’s the reason you quit designing wedding gowns?”

She nibbled a fingernail. “The fire went out, Joel.”

“You have a lot of fire,” he said staunchly. “And tons of talent with a needle and thread that I’ll bet old Desmond doesn’t have.”

“That’s the worst part. He doesn’t need to sew. My patterns shot him to the top. He made a fortune selling them to knock-off gown-makers.”

“But he has nothing to fall back on when people want something new.”

“It doesn’t matter, Joel. I’ve lost all my connections in New York. Even the few I had took time to build. I’m sure Des spread lies about me, too. It was all so humiliating.”

“And it has nothing to do with me, Sylvie. Nothing to do
with
us.
” He picked up her left hand and kissed each finger. “I love you as you are, Sylvie. I think I’ve known for a while. Say you’ll marry me. I have a solid stock portfolio. I can give you freedom and money to rebuild your dream.”

“You’d do that for me, Joel?”

“Sylvie, I believe in you. You
can
make a comeback.”

She started to cry quietly. He kissed away the tears until at last she dried her eyes and whispered, “Yes, I accept. I love you, Joel—and not because of what you’ve offered me. Because you’re
you.
” Throughout the too-short night they alternately made love and made plans, again and again.

Joel woke Sylvie with kisses shortly before dawn. “I have to go now, sweetheart. Dory’s bringing Rianne home early. The church is having a breakfast, and Grant and Dory are going. I’ll be glad when there’s no need to leave your bed. When can we tell Rianne and your family the news? I’d like us to pick out rings next week.”

“Oh, Joel. I need some time to let this sink in. It doesn’t seem real.” She paused. “Give me a week?”

“One week. I’m holding you to that promise,” he said, tying his shoes before slipping out of her room and out of the house.

Light, filtering
through Sylvie’s bedroom curtains and across her pillow, woke her suddenly from a deep sleep. She grabbed the clock and saw she had twenty minutes to shower, dress and get to church. The whole family had agreed to go and present a special offering in baby Keenan’s name.

It wasn’t until she stood under a hot, stinging shower and discovered a few pleasant aches that the scope of everything that had happened last night rushed back in a flood of happiness. She’d said she loved him. That was true. He said he loved her. She prayed that was also true.

With no time to waste on reliving the best details, Sylvie stored the lovely reflections to savor later. She pulled a comb through tangles, drew her hair into a reasonable twist at her nape and hopped toward her car, putting on her shoes as she went.

She dashed into church seconds before the service started. Feeling her family’s scrutiny, she assumed a blasé expression and opened her hymnal.

At the end of the service, amid the rush of well-wishers converging to ask about the baby, Freda Poulson, Briarwood’s librarian, elbowed her way up to Nan and Sylvie.

“Sylvie, dear, have I found out something interesting about your neighbor.” That, of course, claimed Sylvie’s immediate attention, and also Nan and Dory’s. Rob and Grant continued talking with others about the new baby.

“Really? What?” Sylvie
asked politely. Freda, the town’s biggest gossip, wasn’t her favorite person.

Freda sniffed, but bent closer to address Sylvie’s mom. “Nan, do you remember how the library committee authorized me to purchase more out-of-state newspapers? Miami, Dallas and Atlanta were the ones we chose. Well, Atlanta sent six back issues for our archives.” She paused for effect. “I…discovered your Joel Mercer is none other than the J. Mercer who draws a comic strip called ‘Poppy and Rose.’ It’s a syndicated satire about single women.”

Sylvie smiled. “He’s very modest. I’m sure that’s why he hasn’t told anyone his occupation. Wow, maybe he’s world-famous.”

Freda clucked her tongue. “He hasn’t told anyone his occupation because he’s spying on you, Sylvie. If you don’t believe me, follow me to the library, all of you. I’m going there now to catch up on some work.”

Watching her walk away, Sylvie was torn. “Freda’s a busy-body from the get-go, Mom. She loves stirring up trouble.”

Dory pulled Sylvie and their mom aside. “I agree. But what did Freda mean by
spying?
A comic strip about singles sounds innocuous. Except that Freda was positively gloating.”

Nan cast a troubled glance at her daughters. “It’s no secret that Freda loves the spotlight, but she’s not given to outright lying. I admit, I’m curious. Aren’t you?”

Dory cast the deciding vote. “We’re headed to Mom and Dad’s for lunch, and after that we were going to the hospital. I say we send Grant and Dad on with the kids while the three of us swing past the library.”

Freda saw the trio at the door. She ushered them into her private office, where she had six comic sections laid out. “Start at the top,” she instructed. And they did.

At first no one spoke. Dory broke the ice. “That creep! Freda’s right. Magnolia is Sylvie, or I’ll eat every last one of these pages. He’s good, I’ll give him that. Don’t you all recognize
Chet and Buddy? And Oscar.” Dory tapped the last sheet. “This whole café scene with chitchat over coffee alludes to
the
dress Magnolia has hauled around until she finds a husband. It has to be yours, Sylvie. Aren’t you just furious?”

Hurt beyond speech, Sylvie felt a sickening hole opening in her chest. And another in her stomach. The others didn’t know about last night. Didn’t know about the words, the promises she and Joel had whispered in bed. She wasn’t furious. She was betrayed. Once again! Oh, how it hurt. So many feelings clustered together that she couldn’t begin to explain that the humiliation she’d undergone in NewYork was happening all over.

Nan slipped a bracing arm around her eldest daughter’s waist. “This is a blow for all of us, honey. We took that man into our homes and our lives. I think you also took him into your heart, Sylvie. Am I right?”

Lifting her head, Sylvie experienced the first jab of anger. “I deserve an explanation,” she said abruptly. “Dory, Mom, I’ll drop you at home. Tell Carline I’ll see her later. I’m going straight home and I’m going to confront Joel.”

Nan murmured. “Sure you don’t want backup?”

Sylvie shook her head. “I’m the one he played for the fool. I prefer to do this alone.”

Saying little, her family nodded, but withdrew. Not even Freda spoke.

J
OEL OPENED
the door to Sylvie’s knock, and she was glad Rianne didn’t appear in his wake. In other circumstances, Sylvie might have reached up and brushed aside the hair falling in Joel’s eyes—over the glasses he so rarely wore. Her heart lurched painfully as she stared at him in faded jeans and a paint-spattered, close-fitting T-shirt. He had an endearing smudge of paint slashing the cleft in his chin.

Joel broke into a smile. He shifted the can of paint to the hand holding his brush and leaned toward Sylvie, clearly intending to kiss her.

She
crossed her arms in a defensive pose and moved aside. “I’ve come to ask if you’re the J. Mercer who draws a comic strip called ‘Poppy and Rose.’”

A series of emotions ranging from shock to uneasiness to guilt flitted across his suddenly tight-lipped face. Joel averted his eyes and began to stammer incomprehensibly. His only clear statement was “Forgive me, please?”

Tears Sylvie had been holding in by force of will started to trickle down her cheeks. “Even Desmond Emerson had the human decency to admit his duplicity.” She took a step back before spinning to race blindly down his steps. “Stay away from me, Joel. I don’t want to ever speak to you again. Not ever!”

“Sylvie, wait!” He chased after her, slopping paint out of the bucket. “I agreed to do twenty-six weeks with the new character. When I added Magnolia, I barely knew you. I’ve sent in everything. I gave her a happy ending. Sylvie, dammit, listen to me!”

He remembered he was barefoot when he landed squarely on a jagged rock that halted his flight and left him limping. Sylvie was wearing shoes today and she ran like a rabbit heading for the safety of her lair. Joel swore viciously and hobbled back to his house. He should’ve told her about the strip last night. He should’ve come clean about the whole works and maybe invited her to see the strips Lester had sent.

Stomping into the bathroom he’d been painting, Joel discovered he was leaving a trail of bloody footprints. He banged down the toilet seat and sat to take care of damage done to his heel by the rock. After his initial panic had passed, he decided in a more rational fashion that it was best to let Sylvie cool down. Maybe on Tuesday, after he took Rianne to her first day of school, he’d take some coffee next door and apologize again. He loved her. She said she loved him. Sylvie wasn’t someone to give her love lightly. And neither, dammit, was he. Joel held on to that fact.

At least he did until right before supper, when he was paid
a visit by a host of town matrons. Many were the same ones who’d delivered gifts of food the day he moved in.

This time they called him a cad, a scoundrel, a fraud.

Rianne apparently heard the commotion. She skipped downstairs. “Daddy, who are all those ladies? Why are they yelling at you?”

“I’m taking care of it, snooks. Go back to your room.” Stepping out on the porch, he pulled the door shut. “Please,” he entreated. “Don’t let my bad judgment affect how you treat my daughter.”

“Huh,” Ellie, the elementary school secretary, snorted, “I thought you were sneaky the day you came to register that poor tyke. But the residents of Briarwood aren’t ones to visit the sins of the father on the child. Isn’t that right, ladies?”

Joel was greatly relieved to see a round robin bobbing of heads. “Look, I want to set things right with Sylvie and her family. This mob scene will not help my cause.”

“How do you plan to set it right, sonny?” asked a woman Joel recognized as a waitress from the café. “You done our Sylvie dirt. And you drank coffee in our restaurant, pumping us to help you do it. We know how important
the
dress is to her. I told you something awful must’ve happened in New York. Never expected a nice man like you would exploit a neighbor’s broken heart.”

“I’m a satirist. I show problems in a humorous light.”

“Broken hearts aren’t funny,” a thin, colorless woman stated.

“I can vouch for that,” Joel shot back. Indeed, since Sylvie’s visit he’d suffered a terrible ache in his own heart.

A woman Joel had met at Kay’s wedding reception turned up her nose. “Maybe poking fun at other people’s problems is what people do in a big city like Atlanta. That’s why none of us want to live there.” The woman shook her head. “Iva bragged on you, too. She said you were a country boy at heart. If so, you’ll be making amends with our Sylvie. No finer woman exists.”

As
if that summarized the feeling of the delegation, the women marched off to their separate cars, following a last group glare.

Joel watched them go, beset by a sinking sensation in his stomach. He didn’t realize Rianne hadn’t obeyed his directive until she said from the doorway in a small voice, “They don’t like you, Daddy. What did that woman mean, make amends with Sylvie? Does it have to do with how she makes dresses?”

“Rianne, baby.” Sighing, Joel trudged back up the steps. “Daddy didn’t mean to, but he hurt Sylvie’s feelings. To make amends is to right a wrong. They want me to make her feel good again.”

“Can’t you tell her you’re sorry? That’s what you always say I hafta do if I hurt somebody’s feelings.”

He turned her back into the house. “Kids are better at accepting apologies than adults. Big people take more convincing. I need to figure out some extra-special way of showing Sylvie I’m sorry from the bottom of my heart.”

Rianne gazed up at her father with wide blue eyes. “Then do it, Daddy. I love Sylvie a whole lot, and I don’t want her to be mad at me like Mama is.”

“Snooks, your mama’s not mad at you. She’s busy with her new job.”

Rianne ducked out from under the big hand he’d rested on her shoulder, scooped up Fluffy, who meowed at her feet, and stalked off. “Fix it with Sylvie, Daddy.”

“That may turn out to be a very tall order,” Joel muttered, lowering his chin to his chest as he shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

The evening passed. The most constructive thing Joel did was fax Lester a letter asking for a break before offering anything new. He’d lost his taste for the job.

Monday morning slid by in a haze of loneliness. Tuesday emerged in a flurry of trying to get Rianne fed and dressed
for her first day of school. She wanted to ride the bus, then changed her mind, asking her dad to drive her. They finally settled that he’d take her today, check out the bus and she’d ride it on day two.

Joel didn’t know what Rianne’s reception would be from the Martin twins and Holly Johnson, as their mother’s had been part of Sunday’s lynch mob. The girls ran up and gathered Rianne into their midst, apparently untouched by the uproar Joel had caused.

He couldn’t wait to leave the school. Not knowing what to say to Sylvie, he nevertheless drove home, got out and strode right up to her door.

She didn’t answer his knock, even though her car and her Mutt Mobile were both parked out front. He knocked until his knuckles were raw, and pleaded with her to talk to him until he grew hoarse. Her door remained firmly closed.

Retreating, Joel phoned. The first time she picked up. But she slammed down the receiver the instant he spoke.

As discouraged as he’d ever been, Joel did nothing but sit and debate what approach to try next. A knock at his door about noon roused him from his useless deliberations. Joel didn’t much care to see whoever might be standing on his porch, considering the blistering his ears had taken from his last visitors.

Looking out the window first, he felt his heart somersault. Sylvie’s dad stood there, hands buried in his front pockets, rocking back and forth.

At least Rob Shea wasn’t carrying a shotgun.
Never the cowardly sort, Joel jerked open the door. “Want to come in, or were you planning to tear me limb from limb in public?”

Rob, who’d been whistling off-key, stopped. “After listening for two days while the women in my family and those in town set themselves up as judge and jury, I came to see if you’d like to go fishing. Told myself, Rob, if ever a man’s in need of setting his mind adrift for a few hours, it’s Joel Mercer.”

“Fishing?” Joel
stumbled a bit on that. “I get it. Sylvie must’ve described how I almost drowned that one time and sent you to finish the job.”

Rob roared with laughter. “Son, you do have it bad. Grab your pole. I’ll meet you at the fork in the path like before.”

Sylvie, having just ventured forth to open her front drapes, saw her father drive into Joel’s lane. She pressed her forehead to the window, waiting to see how long he stayed. In short order she saw him heading back to his truck. The fact that he was there at all made her mad. She stormed out of the house.

“Dad, honest to Pete! Don’t you think I’m old enough to fight my own battles? Fifty people have phoned to tell me how half the ladies in town shredded Joel yesterday on my behalf.” She clenched a fist and hit herself in the chest. “I can handle this. I want everyone…
everyone
to butt out. Is that clear?”

Rob calmly removed the case with his fishing pole from his pickup, all the while taking in the pain-ravaged face of the daughter who most resembled her mother. “I’m too old for fisticuffs, Sylvie-girl. We’re just a couple of fellows with time on our hands, who are gonna do some fishin’.” He left her gaping after him.

“You’re kidding!” Her hand slowly uncurled, and she sputtered ineffectually at his back. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Joel emerge around the side of his house. He looked so good, a physical pain ricocheted through her. “Dad!” she said in a low, ragged voice. “Last time I fished with Joel, he lost his footing and fell in the lake and nearly drowned. Take care of him, okay?” She flattened herself against her dad’s pickup as Joel half turned. Rob continued walking. He did toss a casual wave over one shoulder, so Sylvie went home pretty certain he’d heard her.