The Perfect Wedding

Layne put an end to the play by walking to the table and picking up the notebook. Behind her, Rod handed over the baby to Dedrah, who immediately took up the cooing.

“You’re Mommy’s darlin’, aren’t you? Mommy’s sweet, sweet baby.”

Layne carried the book to Rod. Evidently he was the one who would be doing the planning, provided any planning was done. “I suggest you take this home and look it over very carefully,” she said, “then speak frankly with the bride. If you still want a formal wedding after that, get back to me.”

He stood, and for the first time she realized how very tall he was, a good six inches taller than her five feet and seven inches. He was tall and built like a brick wall, rather imposing taken as a whole, and she took a step backward.

He reached for the notebook as if fearing she would deny it to him, and his hand grazed her wrist. She jerked back, releasing the book abruptly, and he grabbed it in midair.

“Ex-excuse me,” she mumbled, wondering what on earth had gotten into her.

“My fault,” he replied softly, his aura enveloping her like a cloud, fogging her brain.

“Ah, as I—I said…” She took a deep, cleansing breath. “You can get back to me anytime that suits you.”

He nodded and gripped the notebook. “Thank you for your time,” he said, and his voice sounded oddly deep and bell-like to her ears, as if he had to pull the words up out of the pit of his belly. It made her uneasy. Everything about this man made her uneasy. She managed a smile and turned away, fixing her attention on Dedrah.

“Goodbye. You have a lovely baby.”

“Thanks.” Dedrah kissed the baby, smiled and walked into the front showroom and out the door, as if she couldn’t wait to be shed of the place, while Rod Corley just stood there like a great lump, hat in one hand, notebook in the other, radiating a kind of danger Layne could sense but not identify.

“Mr. Corley,” she said, swallowing, “was there something else?”

He looked down at the notebook and up again almost shyly. “You’re very nice,” he said, adding, “I’m no good when someone cries, and Dedrah’s had a pretty tough time of it. I appreciate your kindness.”

A strange sensation swept over her, as if a wisp of tulle had brushed the skin all over her body at once. She swallowed convulsively. “I—I understand.”

“I thought so,” he said quietly. “She’s really a timid little thing, too young, but a good mother for all that, and very brave to do it like she has. I want her to have the best.”

Layne folded her arms almost defensively. “I see.”

“Good.” His smile warmed her and dissipated the fog, leaving her with a sense of well-being. “Thanks again.” He turned and moved away, but she found she couldn’t let him go without speaking her mind.

“Mr. Corley,” she called, and he stopped, turning back to face her. Layne licked her lips, then raised her chin. “You’d better have a frank talk with Miss March. In fact, if you like, I could suggest a minister who would gladly counsel the two of you.”

His eyebrows rose. “That’s not necessary.”

She gulped. “Well, you’re obviously at odds about this wedding.”

He cocked his head as if wondering why she would say such a thing, then looked at the notebook in his hand. “I don’t think so,” he said, “but we’ll talk.” He tipped his hat. “So long, Miss Harington.”

Layne followed him silently into the front showroom and watched as he opened the door, the chimes pealing, and walked through it. She watched through the glass as he went down the steps and turned onto the sidewalk. He was a good-looking man, but not the type she would have expected to attract or be attracted to the timid, childlike Dedrah. Something wasn’t right here, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She studied his fluid motions and straight posture as he strode around the front end of a brandnew pickup truck, climbed into the cab and settled himself behind the wheel. He spoke to Dedrah, who was strapping Heather into a car seat between them, but whether the girl replied or not, Layne couldn’t tell. Still speaking, he started the engine, put the transmission in gear and twisted to spread his long arm across the back of the seat as he steered the truck out into the street. Layne turned away from the window before he started the truck forward and drove away.

They won’t come back, she told herself. Dedrah said he was a good man, trying to do what he thought best. For some reason, Layne could almost believe that now. Maybe it was the way he had played with the baby or what Dedrah had said about being in love, as if that defined her very existence. Rod Corley seemed the sort of man in whom a woman could lose herself. He would speak to Dedrah about the wedding, find that she didn’t want to make a production of it and elope. Or maybe they wouldn’t marry at all. Maybe he would look at Dedrah and know that they were a mismatch and such a mismatch was doomed to failure anyway. He could always be Heather’s father without marrying her mother. Why compound one mistake with another? She shook her head, trying to derail the train of her thoughts, but it was a curious thing, a man like that with a girl like that, when he could probably have his choice of the women around here.

She remembered the soft warmth of those grayblue eyes and the rumbling depth of his voice when he had thanked her for her kindness, and a curious sensation swept her again. Yes, a man like that could have almost any woman on whom he set his sights. He must love Dedrah with an allconsuming passion that had overwhelmed his better judgment. All-consuming passion? She laughed at herself, glad her two full-time employees were taking an extended break. Outside, a vehicle pulled into a parking space in front of the shop, and Layne welcomed the intrusion into her thoughts. She had work to do. Moving quickly, she rehung the dress she had draped over the portable rack, pushed it into the fitting room, closed the doors and was replacing the chairs at the table when the chimes sounded and a valued customer swept in with her second daughter.

“Mrs. Ogilvy,” Layne said, striding forward. “Jennifer. Did we decide on the ribbons?”

“And the shoes!” Mrs. Ogilvy announced proudly, as if they’d made great strides.

Layne suppressed a smile and invited them both to the table. “I’ll just get my books,” she said, moving toward the desk in the far corner behind the potted ferns.

Only 2001 more details to go, she mused silently.

No, Rod Corley wouldn’t be back. He’d take a good look at that planner she’d given him, listen to Dedrah and opt for a simpler process. Either way, she couldn’t believe they’d be back. She was almost sorry about that, for she’d like to know what was to become of them. On the other hand, maybe it was for the best. She was entirely too intrigued by that man.

She turned back to Mrs. Ogilvy and Jennifer, offering them her brightest smile. “Well,” she said, “let’s get down to business.” In the end, it was always business for her. God seemed to have ordained it so. And yet, she would like to marry and have children of her own one day. She had asked God for a husband and children so many times, but who was she to question the Almighty? He had already blessed her with family and friends and a thriving business that she very much enjoyed. That should be enough. For a child of God, living in His will should be enough.

Why suddenly, after meeting Rod Corley, should she feel such dissatisfaction?

Chapter Two

She was going through a floral design book for the third time with poor, harried Mrs. Stapleton and her petulant daughter, Leslie, when he walked through the door with Dedrah, hat in one hand, notebook in the other, exactly as she’d last seen him some forty-eight hours earlier.

The thrill the sight of him brought her was entirely out of proportion with the circumstance, especially since Dedrah March stood beside and slightly behind him, but thrill her he did. She perversely noted that his hair had been carefully parted and combed, that his shirt was fine and crisply pressed, its blue reflected in the starry depth of his eyes, and that his jeans were new and stiff and anchored about his narrow hips with a wide leather belt and palm-size silver buckle bearing the initial C on a bed of black onyx. Moreover, his boots were black and smooth and freshly polished, and the black felt hat in his hand had a narrow brown band sporting a tiny blue-andyellow feather. Without a doubt, this was Rod Corley turned out in his Sunday best, and if she hadn’t known better, Layne would have thought it was for her.

Hastily she tucked that notion into a small, private compartment in her mind and closed the door on it. Rod Corley was here for one reason and one reason only—to plan a wedding, and weddings were her business. She shifted the look of surprise and pleasure on her face, though she couldn’t know how much of the latter she had given away in that first unguarded moment. Composed and professional, she excused herself from the Stapleton pair and rose to greet the newcomers with outstretched hands.

“Well, hello.”

“Hello.”

Rod reached out with both hands, but as his were filled with hat and notebook, she could do little but lay hers gently atop them before quickly taking hers away again. He smiled at her with something very like relief, a reaction she found wholly incongruous. Her cocked head must have said so, for he cleared his throat and injected a businesslike tone to his voice.

“Have we come at a bad time? You did say—”

She cut him off. “No, no, it’s fine. If you’ii just excuse me a moment, I’ll get some help.” Smiling benignly, she stepped into the front showroom, where a clerk was ringing up a purchase of lace gloves for a couple of teenagers. “Frankie,” Layne said, “could you see to the Stapletons for me?”

The tall, painfully thin Frankie nodded smartly. “Of course.”

“Thank you. Call Angie to come up front, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And bring coffee for Mrs. Stapleton. Leslie may prefer a soft drink.”

“I’ll take care of it right away.”

Satisfied, Layne turned back to the couple waiting in the arched doorway of the consultation room. “Right this way, please.” She led them quickly and swiftly past the Stapletons, who occupied the bamboo table, to the far corner of the room. Screened by a grouping of large ferns in enormous baskets, the area around her desk was suitable for consultation. She used it often when payment was to be made or in the event that two clients were in the shop at the same time for consultation. She indicated two comfortable armchairs beside the small, rolltop desk where she did her accounts. Dedrah chose the farthest one, leaving Rod to fold his long frame into the one situated right next to the desk. Layne sat down in the desk chair, swiveled it to face them and crossed her legs. “How may I help you?”

“We’re ready to start,” Rod said, placing the notebook on the desk and pushing it toward her.

Layne swiveled and opened the cover. Inside she discovered several pages had been filled out in a tight, cramped hand of decidedly masculine origin. She lifted a brow at Rod Corley’s anxious expression. “Very good,” she muttered, settling back to read. “Let’s see what we have here.”

Quickly she scanned the pages, some of it written in pencil, some in pen. In the space indicating the chosen date of the ceremony, he had written in pencil, “Soon as possible.” The groom was evidently anxious. She bit her lip and went over everything again. He might be anxious to have it done, but he obviously wanted it done right, for the ceremony he had mapped out was both formal and elaborate, and there were more than two hundred names on his guest list. Some of the names were those of Duncan’s most prominent citizens, from bank presidents to real estate agents, oilmen and restaurateurs. It was an impressive list, and she found herself murmuring, “Do you actually know all these people?”

“They’re my friends,” he said blankly, “and business associates. Mostly business associates.”

She looked up and smiled, an oblique apology for an insensitive question. “Well, you’ll likely add to it as time goes by,” she said, then dropped her attention to a second list done in an entirely different hand, Dedrah’s no doubt. Less than twenty names comprised Dedrah’s list, and nearly all of them ended with March. There was something pathetic about that, and it just pointed out once more how very implausible this match was. It was on the tip of Layne’s tongue to say so, and she realized with some panic that she must not. She pushed the book away from her, as if pushing away the words she wanted to say, and sent up a frantic prayer. Dear God in heaven, what’s wrong with me? Help me do and say the right things. Her smile was strained when next she lifted her gaze to Rod Corley’s, but it was absolutely the best she could do, and she almost hoped it was not good enough. In that case, he would surely get up and walk out, and she wouldn’t have to help him marry a woman he shouldn’t be marrying. But she was forgetting the child, his child, his and Dedrah’s. She took a deep breath and reminded herself to remain professional.

“Now I have an idea where we’re going,” she said briskly. “The next step is to narrow in on a date. Let’s see what’s going on six to eight months from now.” Leaning forward, she began to flip through her personal calendar, speaking to herself. “Let’s see, the Canons are set for April, the Porters are the eighth, the Cliff/Bicknell nuptials on the fourteenth. The Harpstones have the first weekend in May…Oh, dear.” She looked up at Dedrah and smiled. “How would you like to be a June bride?” The girl turned white beneath that cap of dark hair. Suddenly alarmed, Layne leaned forward. “Dedrah, are you all right?”

“June?” Rod Corley’s voice claimed Layne’s attention. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

“We can’t wait till June!” Dedrah gasped.

“Absolutely not,” Rod agreed implacably. “Eight months is too long. Six months is too long!”

Layne’s mouth fell open. Didn’t they understand how much time went into producing the kind of wedding they seemed to want? She slumped, feeling inexplicably weary, then took a deep breath and began carefully choosing her words. “I’m afraid six months is the minimum for the type of ceremony you’ve indicated here,” she said gently. “You can’t begin to imagine how much there is to do, how many choices there are to be made. Even the people who come in here confident that they know what they want begin to waffle when they-see the available options. It just takes time to work through them all. Weddings are supposed to be perfect, you see, and…” The words died away as Rod Corley passed a hand over his eyes. It was the gesture of a desperate man, and the sight of it did strange things to her patient resolve. She bit her lip. “It takes six months to produce a perfect wedding,” she finished lamely.

Rod Corley sighed. “Then we’ll have an imperfect wedding,” he said quietly, and when he lifted his gaze to her face, his smoky eyes were imploring. “Six months is too long.”

Layne found herself saying, “W-we might be able to work something out.”

It was then that Dedrah grasped a small part of Rod’s sleeve and tugged it, saying, “You’d better get Sammy.”

Rod sent her an irritated look and turned back to Layne. “Does it have anything to do with money?” he asked bluntly.

Layne lifted both brows. “Not really. Cash as an incentive never hurts where suppliers are concerned, but the real problem is simply time. It takes time to decide specifics, to make arrangements, to order materials, to create designs…” She shook her head. How could she make him understand the myriads of details to be addressed? “I’ve been doing this a long time now,” she said. “Trust me.”

“I do,” he told her flatly. “That’s why I’m asking you to help me make it happen sooner.”

It was not an appeal she could ignore. The tone, the look, the posture, everything about it was totally sincere. He needed her help. It was as simple as that. She swallowed. “I hope you’re prepared to spend a lot of time on this,” she said.

He reached out and laid his hand over her wrist, squeezing gently. “Thank you,” he said, relief softening his voice to a near whisper.

It was almost her undoing. She fought the impulse to cover his hand with her own, to answer his soft look with her own. She edged away from him, breathing deeply and forcing her focus back to business. She made a decision. “Four months,” she said, “and that’s really pushing it.”

“That’s the best you can do?”

“The very best, and you’re going to have to put yourself completely in my hands at that. We won’t have time for second choices.”

He nodded. “All right.”

To Layne’s surprise, Dedrah leaped to her feet. “I’m going after Sammy!” she announced. “You promised him!”

Sammy? Layne looked to Rod for an answer, but he turned his gaze to Dedrah. “I said it’d be done as quickly as possible,” he told her patiently, “and that’s what I’m doing.”

“But four months!” the girl cried.

Rod jerked a thumb in Layne’s direction. “You heard what she said,” he argued reasonably. “Four months is the best she can do, and I think we ought to be grateful that she’s willing to do it for us.”

Dedrah glared down at him with very large, very liquid eyes. “You promised Sammy,” she whispered.

“So I did,” Rod admitted.

“Who—” Layne began, but Rod suddenly stood up and strode away. Impulsively, she went after him. “—is Sammy?”

“My nephew,” he snapped without slowing a bit.

Layne threw a smile at the Stapletons as she passed. This was impossible. This whole thing with Rod Corley was just impossible, and she made up her mind to tell him so. They hadn’t the foggiest idea really what they were doing, and she certainly didn’t need this kind of aggravation. Four months was in all likelihood not enough time, and probably after she’d knocked herself out for them, they’d decide they were making a mistake and cancel! Suddenly she didn’t know which would be worse, if they canceled or if they didn’t. All she really knew was that she didn’t feel up to the task of seeing Rod Corley and Dedrah March “properly” married. Surely God intended her to say no to this. As soon as they emerged into the front showroom, she lifted a hand to halt his progress, only to watch him stride out of reach and through the door.

“Oh, Lord,” she muttered frantically, “what’s going on here? What do you expect of me?” She’d just have to tell Dedrah that she didn’t want to handle this affair after all. She nodded in satisfaction, then walked to the window and boldly spied on Rod Corley as he stood at the passenger window of the pickup truck, obviously arguing with someone. After a moment, he backed up, and a tall, lean, young man got out and gestured toward the shop. Both turned in that direction, sending Layne scurrying back into the showroom. Angie, she noticed, sent her a curious glance, which she ignored.

Momentarily, the door opened amidst chimes, and Rod Corley stepped inside, the young man at his elbow. “Miss Harington,” he said, “this is my nephew, Sammy Corley. Sam, this is Miss Harington. If you won’t believe me, then maybe you’ll believe an expert.” He glanced at Layne. “Tell him.”

Tell him what? And why tell him? She opened her mouth and closed it again, forced a smile and said to Sammy, “What is it you’d like to know?”

He pushed a hand through his close-cropped hair, allowing her a few seconds to look him over. The family resemblance was strong, from the color of their hair—though Sammy’s was lacking the streaks of silver—to the planes of their faces and the color of their eyes. Sammy was simply a younger, slimmer version of his uncle. Even the timbre of their voices were alike.

Sammy struck a cryptic pose, jerking a thumb at his uncle. “He says it can’t be done in less than four months.”

He had to be talking about the wedding, of course, but she still didn’t understand what he had to do with it. She wondered if she ever would, but nodded and gave him his answer. “Yes. Four months.”

“We don’t want to wait that long!” he said urgently.

We? Her jaw descended slowly. He couldn’t mean him and Dedrah! Could he?

“It’s just the best that can be done,” Rod was saying. “You understand why, don’t you?”

“I understand,” Sammy replied, “and we appreciate what you’re trying to do, but we don’t want to wait.”

“I thought you said you wanted it done properly,” Rod countered.

“We do!” Sammy said. “We just don’t want to wait.”

“Well, four months is the best that can be done,” Rod said impatiently. “She wanted eight!” He pointed at Layne, who was listening with her mouth hanging open.

“Eight!” Sammy erupted. “No way!”

“Then be grateful she’s agreed to do it in four!”

Sammy opened his mouth to make a retort to that, but Layne had had enough. She forestalled him by stepping quickly forward and raising a hand. “Wait a minute!” she commanded, employing a tone usually reserved for the hired help, and Sammy snapped his mouth shut. In the ensuing silence, she tried to decide how to proceed, but there was only one question that really needed answering. She pinned Sammy with a stern look and addressed him. “Who are you?” she said, enunciating clearly.

Sammy passed a look to his uncle, who was clearly as befuddled as his nephew. The young man shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I’m—”

“In regard to this wedding,” she clarified. “I mean, who are you in regard to this wedding?”

Again, uncle and nephew traded looks, then it was Rod who answered. “Why, he’s the groom,” he said. “Who’d you think?”

The groom? The groom! Layne stepped back and lifted a hand to her mouth. The wave of relief that hit her nearly buckled her knees. “Oh, my,” she said, looking at Rod Corley with fresh eyes. A generous uncle. He was nothing more than a generous uncle. This boy was going to marry that girl in there. He had fathered her child. Whose sweet girl are you? Are you Mommy’s girl? Are you Daddy’s girl? Or are you Uncle’s girl? Layne laughed aloud. If that child had any sense at all, she was her uncle’s girl and blessed at that. Layne composed herself and offered her hand to Sammy Corley, ignoring the tremor in her voice. “Pleased to meet you,” she said, thinking, Thank you, Lord. “Miss March is waiting in the next room.”

“Thank you,” he muttered, then with a speculative look that he shared between them, he slowly turned and started into the consultation room. Layne stood as if rooted to the spot, wondering what to say to the man at her side.

“You didn’t really think…”

The sound of his voice prompted her to turn to face him. “What?”

Those smoky blue eyes literally plumbed hers, then he shook his head, a lopsided smile quirking one corner of his lips. “You thought Dedrah…and I…?”

It did seem absurd, always had, and the smile wiggling on her mouth said so, but it was understandable. She dropped her gaze. “What else could I think?”

He chuckled softly, bringing her gaze right back up. Those smoky eyes were as warm as summer skies. “And here I am trying to impress you,” he said, his voice low and silky.

She caught her breath. It was for her, the new jeans, the blue shirt, the desperately straight part in his sand-and-platinum hair. Oh, Lord, could it be that he! was for her? She was trembling suddenly, aware that something momentous had just occurred, something incredible. And hadn’t it? No, not yet, but unless she missed her guess it was about to. She was intensely attracted to this man, and he was apparently attracted to her, enough to want to impress her. Wasn’t she right to think that something might begin between them if she let him know the attraction was mutual? She hoped so. She surprised herself with how fervently she hoped. She was thinking like a schoolgirl, but she wasn’t about to act like one. God had given her this opportunity, and she wasn’t about to blow it.