The Secret Wedding Dress

“I understand that beast doesn’t belong to you,” he shouted.

“That’s right.” Sylvie was able, with difficulty, to hook Oscar’s leash to his collar.

“How long will he be your guest? I can’t run out here every few hours to rescue our cat. Out of curiosity, do you have a city license to operate a kennel?”

“Maybe that’s how it works in Atlanta, but for your information this is the country.”

A deep, clearly irritated masculine voice floated out of the darkness. “Who said anything about Atlanta?”

“Your daughter. Is there a reason you’d rather that didn’t get out? Oh, for Pete’s sake, Oscar, you won’t catch that cat, so quit barking.”

The voice in the darkness drawled, “I suppose there’s no noise curfew in Briarwood, either?”

“Next you’ll demand I run up a red flag whenever I let Oscar into my yard. He has a perfect right to run around and bark if he wants. He’s contained by my fence, after all.” She could sound put-upon, too.

Her new neighbor might have bought into her self-righteous indignation had Oscar, the big lummox, not torn from her grasp, and in one plunge flattened a six-foot section of their joint wood fence. A fence that already sagged. For some time, Sylvie had meant to have her brother-in-law, the building contractor, check the posts. Since Oscar’s leash remained wrapped around her wrist, Sylvie found herself once again sprawled on her face in the dirt. It was a very unflattering pose. She was sorry she’d gone out of her way to make a point.

Probably her worst humiliation came when she saw the cat leap from the tree into the dubious protection of her owner’s arms.

Sylvie hadn’t untangled herself from the leash enough to rise. In a blur, a shadowy man suddenly loomed over her.

“Are you hurt?”

“My vanity,” she mumbled. Sylvie couldn’t get a hand under her, because Oscar lunged so hard at his leash. Brushing hair out of her eyes, she saw, among other things, that the dog had switched allegiances and was licking the face of her nemesis.

“Sit,” Joel roared, and Oscar sat with a surprised little yelp. Then he dropped to his belly and his coal-dark eyes blinked adoringly up from a muff of white fur.

“How did you manage that?” Sylvie asked as gentle hands assisted her to her feet. “He’s the only dog I groom and board who ignores my commands. But really, in spite of it all, Oscar’s a loveable oaf.”

“He obviously knows you think so.” Joel recovered the flashlight that still shone across the fallen fence and thrust it into Sylvie’s hand. “I can’t see well enough to shore this up tonight. Can you corral Oscar in the house until daylight?”

“Uh, sure.” She played the light over her broken fence. “It needed new posts. My fault. I’ll pay,” she said, and was surprised when her neighbor said they’d share the cost.

TOWARD THE END of the week, around 11:00 a.m., Sylvie pinned the bodice of her best friend’s wedding gown. The lace curtains were half-open, and Oscar was safely outside in her yard with its newly repaired fence. Kay Waller, who was there for a fitting, began to fret about her approaching marriage. “Sylvie, I’ve never been this nervous about anything. Do you think it’s wrong to marry David so soon after my ex-husband had the gall to walk his pregnant girlfriend down the same church aisle?”

“Mmfff.” Sylvie had a mouth full of pins.

“I simply can’t believe Reverend Paul agreed to perform their service when he already had my wedding date on his calendar. It’s a slap in the face. I suggested postponing our service a month, but Dave says I’m being silly.”

Sylvie carefully removed the pins and stuck each one in the wrist pincushion she wore. “Hold still, Kay.”

“You’re not being any help. What’s a best friend for?”

“Honestly! Why are you worrying over what people will say? Is that what’s caused you to lose so much weight? This dress is inches too big around the middle and I only put in the last stitch yesterday.”

“I do care how people talk about me. I don’t have your nerves of steel when it comes to pretending I don’t hear their whispers.”

Sylvie’s fingers stilled on a new dart she’d pinched in the satin fabric. “Me?”

Kay nodded, her focus shifting to the draped dress form in the corner. She stabbed a finger at it, and the diamond ring circling her third finger glinted in a ray of sunlight. “Don’t pretend I’m the only bride who’s begged you to let her wear that special gown you keep under wraps. You and I have been best friends since the cradle, Sylvie. And if it fits you, I’m sure it’ll fit me. Please, Sylvie. If word traveled about town that I got to wear a bona fide Sylvie Shea design—and not any design, but the dress—my wedding would be the end-of-summer highlight. Not a footnote to the way I’ve been upstaged by Eddy and his…floozy.”

Sylvie sank back on her heels. She felt both palms go damp. “There are no more Sylvie Shea gowns, you know that, Kay. My ad clearly states that a prospective client must bring me a pattern of her choice. I’ll sew any gown a bride wants. Friend or not, you accepted my terms, Kay. Your dress is gorgeous, and it’s so you.”

The other woman admired the two-carat solitaire on her slender finger. “It’s the mystery surrounding the dress. There’s not a woman in the valley—well, an engaged woman—who isn’t dying to be the bride who’ll wear your secret gown. Me, most of all.”

Sylvie scrambled to stand, but was startled all the same by what Kay had said. “The only mystery to me is why people would covet a dress they’ve never seen. That’s just silly, Kay. How often have you heard me preach about bridal gowns needing to fit a bride’s unique personality?”

“Yeah, but it’s not silly. Anyone who knows you is positive that dress has gotta be spectacular. Your sisters say you’re always working on it, and we’ve all seen your previous designs. Mandi Watson claims you’re keeping this one for your own wedding. Is that true, Sylvie?”

“Right!” Sylvie shook her head. “So when am I supposed to have time to work on anything for me, let alone find that mythical husband? If and when I ever get married, I’ll probably end up with a dress off the rack. Don’t you know it’s the plumber’s wife who has a clogged sink, and the shoemaker’s kids who go barefoot?”

Sylvie impulsively gave her friend a hug. “Your wedding will be featured in our weekly society page, Kay. You’ll be the most beautiful bride of this season. Who else will have eight bridesmaids, two candle-lighters and three flower girls? And your patterns came from France. Each one is an original. I’ve sewn all fourteen dresses with my own bleeding fingers over the past three months. I guarantee the guests will weep, you’ll be such a vision,” Sylvie said, laying it on a little thick. But she did have plenty of history with Kay, the drama queen. “If you’d relax, you and Dave will have lots of wonderful memories. People will say Eddy who? if that jerk’s name ever surfaces.”

Kay compared her soft fingers with Sylvie’s callused fingertips, and had the grace to blush. “I’d have given you more notice, but David wanted that day. And you could’ve cut the dress count by one,” she pouted, “If you’d let me buy the dress.”

“I guarantee this gown suits you best,” Sylvie said. “Come on, I have something to show you.” Walking away, she looked quickly at the covered dress form in the corner. The unfinished gown beneath the sheet represented all that was left of her hopes and dreams, she thought, opening a cabinet and lifting out an old notebook. “Recognize this? It’s the notebook I kept in high school home-ec.” Her eyes misty, Sylvie flipped several pages, then handed the book to Kay. “This was your dream gown in tenth grade. See how closely it resembles this one? I knew your marriage to Eddy Hobart was doomed from the minute his whiny mother insisted you wear the dress she’d worn at her own wedding.”

Kay snickered. “It was ghastly. And so is Flo Hobart.”

Sylvie shut the book and returned it to the drawer. “Zero taste. Hold out your arms. I’m going to unbutton you. We need to get you out of this without losing my marker pins—and without sticking you.”

They had the gown off, and on a padded hanger, when through the side window came the sound of furious barking.

“Oscar, Anita Moore’s Great Pyrenees,” Sylvie said nonchalantly. “I’m boarding him until Anita and Ted get back from Tennessee. Can you let yourself out, Kay? That’s Oscar’s ‘I treed a cat’ bark. I have to rescue my new neighbor’s cat…again. Sounds like this time she’s gone up my big dogwood.”

Kay stayed with Sylvie. “I meant to ask about your neighbor, Syl. I hear he’s a real hottie.”

“Who said that?” Sylvie stopped abruptly.

“You mean he’s not?”

She shrugged. “I suppose, if looks is all you’re interested in. He’s a bit of a grouch. Which you’ll hear if I don’t get out there and save his daughter’s cat. He’ll throw open an upstairs window and order me to corral my damned dog. And after Dory and Carline’s husbands repaired our adjoining fence, too. For free,” she added.

“Mercer has a daughter?” Kay ignored everything else. “Wow, I don’t think the gals at the salon know he’s married. A couple of them are drawing straws over him already.” Kay worked at Nail It!, the local beauty parlor.

Sylvie didn’t mention that she had yet to see a wife show up next door. Nor would she admit that Joel Mercer was better to look at than a chocolate fudge sundae. All Sylvie needed was for her mother or sisters to get wind of the fact that she considered her neighbor worthy of a second glance. Say Mercer was separated, as Sylvie had begun to suspect—the poor guy didn’t deserve to find himself hustled into being her blind date before he could guard against being flattened by the Shea freight train.

Leaving Kay standing at the side gate, Sylvie raced into her yard. Sure enough, Oscar ran crazily around the tree, in which the long-haired cat huddled. “Oscar, stop. Bad dog.”

Aware he was in trouble, the dog put down his head until his ears dragged the ground, and slunk toward Sylvie’s back porch.

It took some coaxing, which she was getting proficient at, but she soon cradled the purring cat in her arms. As she’d predicted, the upper half of Mercer’s body was leaning out his upper window. Darn, Sylvie couldn’t see him as well as she’d like because she’d left the glasses she used for distance in her purse today. But even fuzzy, the man had a glorious physique. Not too skinny, yet not too muscle-bound.

“Hey,” he called. “Rianne’s on her way down. I’ve gotta say, for the record, a big reason I moved here is so she and her cat could quit being cooped up inside an apartment.”

Sylvie nodded, pretty sure that would be a major factor for anyone moving from the city to the country.

“By the way, Rianne’s supposed to thank you for the cookies you brought over the other night. They were a big hit. With me, too,” he added.

Kay, who’d followed Sylvie into the side yard, hissed very near her friend’s ear, “You took him cookies?”

Sylvie whirled. “I did, but—no, I didn’t. Mom sent them home with me to drop off. Remember, I told you about Dory setting me up with that computer guy at our family barbecue? It was that night.”

“Yeah? How did your date work out? According to Dory, Chet’s cool, and he has his own business. I understand he drives a top-of-the-line Mercedes.”

“He also lives in Asheville.” Sylvie specifically didn’t add that, from an unmarried woman’s point of view, Chet had another major drawback, like being gay.

Joel Mercer’s daughter exploded out their back door. The girl had clearly dressed herself today, as Sylvie noticed she often did. Sylvie was all in favor of comfort, but she felt colors ought to match. Today Rianne had on red shorts teamed with a pink-and-green knit top. Her shirt was stretched out of shape and had probably been in the wash with something black that had left behind a series of gray blobs.

“I’m sorry Fluffy keeps getting out, Sylvie. Oh, and Daddy said I should ask if I can call you by your first name or not.”

Sylvie said yes, after which Rianne launched into a rehearsed-sounding thank-you for the cookies. Obviously ordered by her dad.

“I’ll tell my mom you like her chocolate chip recipe. Rianne, this is my very dear friend, Kay Waller. She’s getting married soon, so probably the next time you see her she’ll have a new last name. Ramsey. She’ll be Kay Ramsey.”

The girl seemed shy all of a sudden.

“Rianne starts school in September, Kay. I told her she’ll really like Briarwood Elementary.”

“You will,” Kay agreed. “Are you in second grade? If so, my cousin may be your teacher.”

“I’m gonna be in first grade,” Rianne supplied. “Daddy has to go there next week and take them records from my kindergarten.”

“I suppose you’ve already done your school shopping,” Kay said politely.

Rianne shook her head. “Daddy’s been too busy unpacking boxes and working.”

“Working?” Kay had no compunction about probing.

“Yep. He used to have his office in his bedroom. Now he has a bedroom where he sleeps, and he’s got an office upstairs, too.”

Sylvie wanted to ask what her neighbor did at his home-based job, and she could tell it hovered on the tip of Kay’s tongue to ask, as well. They were interrupted, however, by the arrival of the rural mail carrier. Because Homer saw the women over Sylvie’s side gate, he honked and beckoned her over.

“Bye, Rianne. I’ll see you later.” Sylvie noted that the girl’s dad had long since withdrawn from the upper-floor window.

Kay lowered her gaze from the spot where Joel had been, and checked her watch. “I didn’t realize it was so late. I’m meeting David at the church for our last couples class in fifteen minutes. Do you want to fit my gown again tomorrow? If you do, I’ll have to rearrange some client appointments.”

“I don’t see any need. If you lose weight between now and Saturday, it won’t be enough to change the drape of the material. Tell David I said to take you out for a steak and lobster lunch after class. Fatten you up some.”

Homer, the arthritic mailman, had climbed out of his mail truck by the time the friends parted with a laugh and a hug.

“I have some mail for the new owner of the Whitaker place, Sylvie. Plus a package. Certified, so he’s gotta sign for it,” the old man said, eyeing the overgrown driveway. “Do you have any idee if he’s home?”

“Yes. Kay and I spoke to his daughter. Mercer came to an upstairs window a few minutes ago. Would you like me to deliver the package for you, Homer? It appears you’re not too spry today.”

“That would be right kind, Sylvie-girl. My old bones tell me the less walking and climbing I do today, the better. Just have the Mercer fellow put his John Hancock on the line with the big black X. When you come back, I have a box for you, too. Peggy said it’s the lace you’ve been waiting for.”

“Fantastic. I’ll find it in the truck when I get back.”

Sylvie didn’t intend to spy on her neighbor, but the return address printed in bold lettering on a fat manila envelope was that of a major Atlanta newspaper. She assumed it was a few recent editions of the paper; he must want to keep up with news from home.

She dashed up Mercer’s porch steps and rang his doorbell. Listening to the fading sound of the bell, she whistled a tuneless melody, swaying from side to side as she waited for Rianne or Joel to answer.

He took his sweet time, but eventually Joel Mercer did yank open the door. His hair stood askew as if he’d been running both hands through it. Sylvie again admired small, gold-rimmed glasses that left his slate-blue eyes looking slightly myopic.

“I brought your mail.” She’d also picked up a thistle in one bare foot, Sylvie discovered, idly brushing one foot over the other. “I see you’re still taking a newspaper from your home-town. Seems silly that they’d require you to sign for it. I’ll bet if you’d ask our librarian, she’d probably subscribe to this paper, if she doesn’t already. It’d save you the cost of shipping. Freda Poulson likes having news from other cities. There’s no one more interested in world events.” Sylvie grinned engagingly and extended the bundle.

Joel grabbed the stack out of her hands and gave her a fierce scowl. “What are you doing snooping through my private mail? Tampering with someone’s mail is against federal law.”

The form that was supposed to be signed by Mercer floated to the boards at their feet.

Her smile turned to a frown, too. “Our mailman has rheumatoid arthritis. I couldn’t care less who sends you stuff. I volunteered to run this up to you to save wear and tear on poor Homer’s joints.”

“If he can’t do the job he should retire.” Joel moved to shut his door.

“Wait!” Sylvie neatly blocked his move. “This needs your autograph.” Bending to scoop it up, she and Joel struck heads. Sylvie rubbed her forehead, allowing him to come up with the signature card.

“Do you have a pen?” he asked curtly.

Dazed by their collision, Sylvie stared at him blankly.

“Never mind. This mail system is so haphazard I’ll just make other arrangements,” he muttered after digging through all his pockets and finally coming up with a pen. A moment later he shoved the signed card back into Sylvie’s hands.

Joel slammed his front door almost before Sylvie had negotiated a step back. “You have a nice day, too, buddy,” she snarled, stomping down his steps and out into his thistle-littered lane. She landed on the thorn buried in her foot and ended up yelping and limping to where Homer waited patiently.

“Got it? Thanks, Sylvie. What’s Iva’s great-nephew like now that he’s grown up? I remember him as a quiet tyke over the four or five summers he spent with Iva and Harvey. Quiet but eager to please. Seems a long time ago.”

“Are you saying Joel Mercer is related to Iva? Are you sure he’s not some city dude who bought the place from her nephew?”

“Nope. That’s him all right. I hear he’s got a daughter about the age he was when he first used to visit the Whitakers. Mercy, how time flies. Say, don’t forget your lace,” Homer called as Sylvie turned to give the Whitaker house a longer evaluation.

She lugged the heavy carton of laces she’d ordered from New York into her house, mulling over the latest tidbit Homer had added to the little she knew about her neighbor. Darned little. The man had acted downright surly about her touching his mail. What was the big issue? Did Joel Mercer have something to hide?

JOEL STOOD IN HIS ENTRY and ripped open the envelope of tear sheets consisting of his last two months’ worth of cartoon strips. Enclosed was a big fat check that would have to last him until his accountant decided if he could retire on his investments or if he needed to seek another job. Lester Egan, his former boss, had attached a scribbled note asking Joel not to be hasty in his decision to quit the strip he’d started right after Lynn had divorced him. At the time, no one, least of all Joel, had dreamed that his satirical exaggeration using the backdrop of upscale Atlanta singles, would garner so much interest. Or that it would result in syndication and a whole bunch of new readers. Neither had Joel supposed his ex would return to anchor Atlanta’s nightly news.

But Joel didn’t see how he could continue drawing comic scenes about city singles from Briarwood. To do what he did on a daily basis necessitated haunting popular nightspots, where the upwardly mobile twentysomethings hung out after work and on weekends. Anyway, he’d about run out of situations for Poppy and Rose, his cartoon characters. Material of that type didn’t fall out of North Carolina dogwood trees.

Speaking of falling from trees—his dingbat neighbor had a penchant for crazy stunts. Tree-climbing at her age…Joel watched her retreat, barefoot, down his lane. Each time he saw her she looked different. Today she wore her dark hair in two fat pigtails tied with ribbons that matched her shorts. He couldn’t fault the shorts. They showed off her legs to good advantage. She did have nice legs. Maybe her best feature. Outside of that, nothing was remarkable except for her eyes. A warm hazel that reflected every nuance of her mood.

Leaning into the etched oval window in the center of his front door to watch her progress, Joel was sharply reminded of how lethal even a casual meeting with Sylvie Shea could be. He had a lump forming in the center of his forehead. And no idea how Sylvie made a living, other than to barge through life at warp speed. Oh, and pet-sit with humongous, ill-mannered dogs.

She did seem to have an active social life, he mused. There’d been the guy in the Mercedes. Yesterday, two muscle-bound dudes, both on very friendly terms with her, appeared like magic to rebuild her fence. One or both had hugged and maybe kissed her before taking off. And today, a girlfriend had shown up to visit for an hour or so.

He watched Sylvie dig a package out of the mail truck and then scamper out of sight. Joel continued to stare out the window. His fertile imagination began fashioning caricatures of Sylvie Shea as a subject in his comic strip. A country cousin of Poppy or Rose. It started him thinking there might be a whole other side to the singles experience in Briarwood, North Carolina, than he’d believed. Having tired of political cartoons, he’d tripped over the idea of the singles strip after his divorce. After he’d been dumped into the singles scene himself.

Truthfully, after a number of years spent skulking around Atlanta’s hot spots, studying unsuspecting females on the prowl for husbands, he’d learned how to observe without attracting attention.

And now, the longer Joel considered the idea, the more he thought his neighbor’s varied taste in male friends, combined with her zany capers, might just offer the perfect new opportunity for him to continue the strip.

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