Chapter Three

At my recent birthday bash held at my parents’ house, I introduced my sister, Tracey, to her fiancé, Stuart Steems. I watched love blossom at first bite.

Sitting off to one side at a table covered in a red-checkered tablecloth, Stuart munched on chips, which he liberally dunked in Mom’s tasty cream cheese picante dip. In an admirable way, he maneuvered a whole triangular chip in his mouth without any mishaps.

Stuart worked at Northside, Lancaster, & Brookside Accountants as a senior Audit manager. He interviewed me for the temporary administrative assistant’s job for the firm’s managing partner. Near the end of the interview, he invited himself to accompany me to my birthday party.

I didn’t want to take him based on his geeky look plus his “interesting” social skills; however, despite his excessive begging, I followed a page from one of Mom’s lengthy lectures on “politeness” and succumbed to his puppy dog expression. I did outline dating boundaries.

He stood a little less than six feet with spikey short black hair, startling blue eyes, and wore rectangular, wire-framed glasses in black he purchased specifically for the occasion.

Sister Tracey, who dressed like the artsy type and also was employed as an accountant, rolled in more savings than moi. At every opportunity, Mom sang lofty praises about her youngest daughter’s career choice, which caused me sometimes to feel less than adequate, non-intelligent, dumb.

Luckily, Tracey would be well-prepared to care for our mother in her advanced dotage.

Tracey had zeroed in on Stuart seated across the patio, calmly eating and drinking. “Who is the gorgeous hunk?”

Her scream pierced my eardrum. I pursed my mouth and wondered if her babbling referred to someone else. I thought, oh no, missy. Any hunk at my birthday party belonged to me—not her. Me. After many pointing fingers, I determined “the hunk” was Stuart who’d caught her fancy.

Can anyone spell relief?

A tiny part of me held sympathy for my sissie. Tracey didn’t connect with men easily. She lacked confidence. I implemented some of my wily moves—read skillful manipulation—and introduced them. They’ve been inseparable ever since.

Subsequently, Stuart’s wardrobe improved immensely when he began dating Tracey, thanks to expert fashion advice from me via her.

Ta-daaa. A curtsy would be in order.

A record speed-breaking courtship ensued. While on his death bed after an unfortunate incident where our NLB colleague, Cathy Bartholomew—aka the Blonde Bimbo—shoved him down the stairwell, Stuart asked Tracey to marry him.

I was shocked, but I wasn’t the only one.

When told about the prospective union, Mother acted more than floored, like “required-a-pitcher-of-martinis” floored, but she recovered instantly and plunged into the BIG plans up to her elbows. After all, mothers wanted to see their offspring happily married ever after. No take-backs. And my mom wanted to make sure the fête would be the ultimate in perfection, worthy of a two-page newspaper spread in the society section of the Sommerville Express. The gossip tongues would wag for decades.

Flipping my blinker, I steered onto Boston Avenue, took a quick right on a side street, and continued. Tracey’s and Stuart’s imminent nuptials took the pressure off me. Mom didn’t have enough hobbies like World Peace or Save the Whales to keep her busy. Distracting her shifted all focus off my back to match me with Allan Wellborn. She focused on her youngest daughter.

Truthfully, Tracey and Stuart compiled a lot of questionable ideas for their “I Do’s” and needed a professional other than Mom to corral them. Miss A. would be a huge help in this department.

I slowed my Jeep at the stoplight, studying the cars to my left and right while waiting for the light to switch back to green. Because of Stuart's ballroom dancing hobby, the couple wanted the wedding party, along with a few select friends, to take dance lessons, specifically to perform the tango during the reception—sorta like a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers floor show. Except for one thing—Tracey didn’t tango. In actuality, none of us did, apart from Stuart. Everyone agreed—very, very reluctantly—to their wishes for the special day. If we looked silly, we did so in a group where everyone looked silly.

I dreaded tonight’s activity.

This evening marked our first lesson, which took place at the studio where Stuart and his regular partner—his mother—practiced. Locating the studio, I parked my Jeep and flew across the parking lot, flung open the door, and oriented myself. Most of us had shown on time and ventured into the rehearsal room, where we shuffled into a semi-circle to face the instructor, Ms. Yolanda.

Ginormous mirrors lined the walls. The mirror ball fixture sparkled. Our footsteps on the hardwood floors squeaked.

Ms. Yolanda dressed in a long silky caftan worn over black leggings. Her ebony hair was highlighted with one thick white streak originating at her widow's peak.

Stuart presented his teacher, and in turn, he introduced each of us to explain our role in the wedding. As sister to the bride, I was designated Maid-of-Honor by default.

After the introductions, Ms. Yolanda shifted us into two lines—girls on one side and boys on the other—to pair us with a partner.

For today's lesson,” she said in a sing-song voice, “don’t worry about who is matched with whom. Since the girls’ line is longer, you at the end”—she pointed my way—“are left without someone. Doesn't matter. All will work out.”

“No worries, Hattie.” Stuart threw an arm across my shoulders and squeezed. “He’ll be here shortly.”

He? I stared. Who the heck is he? Probably some nerdy accountant co-worker. Rats. I would forever be doomed to spend my life with geeks and dweebs.

Stuart flicked a wave and abandoned me to join my sister.

I wished not having a partner gave me an excuse to leave, but I didn’t. My sister’s future happiness depended on her big day being perfect. From behind me, the entry door banged, and with quick steps, somebody approached.

Everyone swiveled to see the new arrival.

Allan Wellborn. My mouth crooked aside. Not much of a surprise. But my heart did beat faster.

“Come in. Come in.” Ms. Yolanda’s hands beckoned him forward, a large toothy smile shaped her mouth. “Your partner is the pretty girl.” Her directing finger indicated…me.

Snickers emanated from the various quadrants of the room.

I rolled my eyes. I should have known Allan was asked to dance. I didn't bother to glare Stuart’s or Tracey’s way. Even though preparing and interviewing for the new job exhausted me, I wasn’t dense. Me thinketh someone deemed it funny-eth to play matchmaker.

Miss Yolanda guided Allan in the space opposite me. “Such a handsome young man,” she gushed while patting his lapels. “So glad you could join us. We’ll have you performing the tango in three easy steps.”

Do three easy steps mean one easy lesson?

After Allan tossed his sport coat on a chair, he turned his gaze toward me and stepped on his spot. He grinned.

His sleek smile sparked the attractive sparkle in his eyes and possessed the ability to drive me crazy. Leaning slightly back, I located my sister and scrunched my brow. I couldn’t smack her since she stood conveniently out of boxing range. I cupped the side of my face and mouthed, “What the hell are you doing?”

Tracey experienced this question lots of times. Ever since her toddler years, the things she did made our family wonder “what the hell she was doing.”

She shrugged, ignored me, and pivoted to whisper in Stuart’s ear. Their shoulders bobbed as they giggled.

I stored one itty bitty word, one tiny thought for her—later. Later, I would make her pay, just like I did when we were kids, and I solemnly convinced her the mud-covered ants she’d eaten were real chocolate-coated treats.

I should have taken her allowance, too.

With a sigh reaching all corners of my body, I stared at Allan. A crinkle of his nose mimicked the fun exchange between Nick and Nora Charles from The Thin Man movies. I loved the films and the characters’ banter.

But he knew that.

If I wasn’t so pissed, I might have laughed and scrunched my nose in return. Instead, I turned my attention to the toes of my shoes. I hadn’t spoken to Allan since our “door encounter” when neither of us got lucky. Through my lashes, I stole a look and grasped what I missed. Simply said, he was too big to ignore. Seventy-three inches and one hundred ninety pounds of lean—not mean—gorgeous man. My fingers itched to shove through his crisp, dark brown hair. I balled my hands. His eyes were the color of chocolate, my favorite food group. His towering size alone commanded attention. The bad guys he arrested were intimidated.

Besides, if Mom found out I was rude to her favorite project, she would have lectured me with the “Wouldn’t Be Polite” discourse. A long speech, one dispensed many times, usually about him.

“Hi, Hattie,” he said. “Long time no see.”

I looked his way. Obviously, he scored nicer on the meter than me. I couldn't classify “seeing me a day ago” as a “long time.” “Hmm.”

“You look spiffy today. New outfit?”

Spiffy? Spiffy was not a guy word. I wore my interview clothes, nothing special for dancing.

He scrubbed his palms as his gaze roved the studio. “Here we are. The tango in three easy steps.”

From my throat came an unladylike sound.

“Not buying it? You don’t believe—what’s the teacher’s name again? Miss—”

My grunt sounded more like a laugh. “Miss Yolanda, stupid.”

He shook a finger in front of my nose. “Your mother wouldn’t like you calling anyone stupid.”

Ha. I knocked away his finger. “Neither would yours—”

Ms. Yolanda clapped for our attention. My friends and I rotated her way. “Class,” she said. “You need to get used to the movement and rhythm. Girls, place your hands on your partners’ shoulders, and gentlemen, place your hands on the girls’ waists. Perfect you two tall people at the end. Beautiful.”

Quite possibly, her reference to “tall people” meant Allan and me. I certainly didn’t feel “perfect” nor “beautiful.” I did feel annoyed, like roughed and irritated.

I was all too aware of his hands when they circled my waist; I did feel squirmy with the profound nearness of him. The man-heat his body emanated my way made me want to fan my face. I swallowed deeply. Lordy. Dancing with him? Sexy.

Recognizable tango music commenced. Daaa dum dum dum dummm, dadada dada, dum da dumdum, da dada, dum da dum dum. The class followed Ms. Yolanda’s lead. Allan and I stepped to his right and whipped to the left. Over and over, we familiarized ourselves with the sequence so it would become second nature.

My fingertips tingled with a hyper-awareness of Allan’s muscular arms and smooth movements. Without a doubt, he lifted weights and ran every day. In middle school, his mother enrolled his sister and him in deportment classes, which included dance lessons. Based on his past, quite possibly, Allan was already familiar with the tango. Two beats later, he stepped on my toes—er, maybe he wasn’t.

Surprisingly, Mom hadn’t forced me to attend the classes. The mystery of how I avoided the torture sessions would go to Mom’s grave. The best of friends, my mother and Mrs. Wellborn agreed on everything. I had, however, attended classes in Teen Scene where young ladies learned how to apply deodorant, clean their combs and brushes, pluck their eyebrows into perfect arches, and walk with a book balanced on their heads.

A while back at an engagement party, I danced with Allan, and at the time, my body melted into a puddle. He scraped me off the floor and took me to his place for a memorable evening where both of us believed—wanted—we’d have almost wild, almost sex. Only de rien happened because his cellphone interrupted, which left quite an unfavorable impression.

When I checked on him, I found a pensive look pinned on me.

“You okay?” he asked.

To preserve my sanity, I would answer just enough to get by. My defense mechanism would keep him at arm’s length. “Yep.”

He and I maneuvered through a set of steps. “So,” he said. “Stuart and Tracey are taking their vows.”

“Yep.”

“The wedding party is here to learn a dance for the big day.”

“Yep.”

He tilted his head. “Are you talking to me?”

I coupled my hand with his. I felt my palm grow sweaty. “Yep.”

He sighed. “Hard to converse with someone when the someone only speaks one word at a time.”

I firmed my lips. I summoned everything I possessed not to laugh.

I concentrated on the instructions. My foot slipped wrongly, and I screwed up our turn. My shoulder bumped Allan’s left shoulder, the one where Blonde Bimbo shot him.

Instantly, his right hand massaged the spot.

Horrified with what I’d done, I took a few steps back and slapped my hands to my cheeks. Stupid. He might still be in pain. Stupid-stupid-stupid. “I’m so-so-so sorry, Allan. God, I’m so clumsy. I didn’t mean to bump your owie. Did I hurt you? Do you need anything?” As I lightly fingered his shirt sleeve, my hand trembled.

“Hattie, I’m fine,” he said low and slow, his right hand captured mine and brought it to his chest. “No worries. Everything has healed. Just a small scar.”

His heart beat a steady rhythm against my palm. I didn’t remember a small scar. I remembered a large puckered hole leaking scarlet. My eyes filled with hot tears, and I shifted my gaze to the studio window. I blinked and brushed my cheeks.

His finger turned my chin to face him. “Are you okay?”

I nodded “yes,” but truth be told, anxiety had buried in my soul over how Blonde Bimbo shot him and the responsibility I encompassed because of his injury. When the Bimbo finally comprehended Allan cared more about me than her, which didn’t jibe with her game plan to reel him to the altar hook-line-and-sinker, she hatched a new strategy—no one would get him. She also stole my undies, poisoned two co-workers, and shoved Stuart down a flight of stairs, almost killing him.

When someone I cared about hurt, I hurt. Maybe my emotions had taken over. Maybe I should be healing better than this.

Guys tended not to express emotions and the ilk out loud. Most of the news I acquired filtered through the Mothers Always Know Network.

I shook my head to purge the emotional trauma which swirled in my brain. Directing my attention on the divot at the base of his neck, I leveled my shoulders and returned my hands to the designated spots for coupling with my partner. “Let’s try again.”

Allan and I repeated the steps Ms. Yolanda taught us. Something coalesced in my head and transitioned to what he said a few seconds earlier. He commented about the wedding party learning the dance—

Wedding party? I stiffened. Wait a freakin’ minute. Was Allan an official member of THE wedding party? Who voted for that?

The idea never occurred to me Allan would be asked to participate in the wedding party. Neither Tracey nor Stuart had said anything, which surprised me as Tracey was terrible at keeping secrets. I grouped Allan as a friend of the bride's family. That friend sat in a pew on the designated bride’s side with his parents. Not as a groomsman.

Abruptly, I halted. I raised my index finger. “Hold on a sec. I need some clarification.” I rubbed the length of my nose. “You’re in the wedding party?”

“I am.”

“You are?”

“I am.”

“You might be mistaken. I helped with the guest list. I’m pretty sure you’re classified as a friend of the family.”

“I am, but like all good things, they changed. I’m”—he puffed his chest slightly when his shoulders drew back—“the best man.”

“You’re what?” My explosive query drew unwanted attention from the rest of the dancing group who stopped and looked our way. I shook my head to deny his statement. “You can’t be the best man. No way. My mom or my sister would have told me. You don’t even know Stuart. Not his best friend. Not family. Not a co-worker.”

Allan regripped my hand. “Tracey suggested Stuart ask me. We’ve raised a few beers since. He may be geeky, but he’s a nice guy and truly loves your sister. Besides, your cousin’s husband from Bayston is a groomsman—”

“Nice try, Sherlock. He’s related through marriage.”

“If he can be one, I can be the best man.”

“You're a family friend—a huge difference.”

Taking my hands, he guided us to his right. “You’re beating a dead horse here. What’s your point?”

I crinkled my nose. “A friend is not family.” Touché and grasping at straws.

“Sometimes, friends can be.”

I stared hard.

“You’ve been my sister’s best friend since grade school,” he said. “As you well know, my parents and yours are good friends. Just. Like. Family.”

His explanation speared me like a sword. My head conjured images of our mothers at Super Saver Grocery store where they exchanged gossip over parsnips via the Mothers Always Know Network. Our families are close. Sometimes, too close.

“Doesn’t matter,” Allan said. “He asked, and I said yes. Simple. Stuart doesn’t have many men friends. I’m honored to be a part of the wedding. He said I took a bullet for him.” He bent closer. “Besides, I have an ulterior motive—as best man, I get to be near you, the maid of honor. Thrilled?”

I bit into my lip. “Best man…for real?”

“Best man,” he whispered.

Allan’s breath brushed my ear. Shivers skated along my spine. Fluttery sensations made me feel off balance.

“For real,” he said.

Secretly, I did like him. However, I alternated between wanting to wring my hands or savoring every inch of my body against his—-torture without the torture rack.

Suddenly, all became clearer. Every little thing revealed. They—my friends and family and my soon-to-be brother-in-law—hatched a scheme, a master plot, behind my back to match Allan with me. A Conspiracy Theory.

I gritted my teeth. God, I wished I was devious enough to pull together my own “get even” plan.

I know. I could quit. Quit my sister’s wedding. Chuck the whole enchilada.

But not participating could never be an option. Mother would be…aghast. Tracey would be distraught.

I couldn’t get ejected from the wedding unless on my deathbed, and even after my body was embalmed, Mom would stuff me in the pre-selected bridesmaid’s dress fashioned from silk in Tracey’s favorite color and complemented my skin tone. Utilizing a furniture dolly, Mom would wheel me into the designated spot by the altar railing. I would be propped upright in a ghoulish way, and not one guest would discern any difference.

With a flip of my fingers, I said, “As they say—”

He pulled us tummy to tummy. “Takes two to tango.”

I set my hand on his chest and thrust him about four inches. “Y-yes.”

“Lovely, couple at the end.” Ms. Yolanda flicked her long tail over her shoulder. “Now, best man, step to your right. Perfect. Seize her with fiery intent, lunge, and drape her over your thigh.”

Before I could protest, I sensed Allan take charge with “fiery intent” and sweep my body across his bent left leg. I fastened on him my unparalleled evil eye glare and received the “got you, babe” one back.

I would show him.

I would show them all.

I played along by fluttering my eyelids shut, and in slow, tiny increments, I lifted my left arm in a delicate ballet arc over my head. My fingernails barely teased the floor.

Ms. Yolanda clapped. “Wonderful! Wonderful! Class, come over, and let’s study their lines.”

Occasionally, rebellion created problems. Opening my eyes, I wanted to stand, but Allan held me in the position.

Stuart bounded to my side. “Hattie. Allan. You’re naturals.”

I rolled my eyes. Great. I passed the tango test. Allan chuckled.

I stayed in position for what seemed like hours but most likely were five loonnng minutes. My lower back spasmed, which caused me to grimace. Allan pulled ever-so-gently and restored me to my feet. I removed my hands from his. Moisture coated my palms, and sweat dripped down my back along my spine. I was a wreck.

“Thank you so much, couple.” A beaming Ms. Yolanda rotated. “I’m impressed by your length and beauty.”

Length and beauty—my ass.

“Let’s regroup here tomorrow, shall we?”

I walked to the chair where I’d dumped my black trench coat and crammed an arm in one sleeve. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Allan drawing nearer. Won’t he ever get the message and leave me alone?

Not likely. I stuck my other arm in the second sleeve. And wouldn’t if I couldn't sort out my affections for him.

He faced me, his fingers grasped my lapels and jerked them into place.

I looped the belt tight.

“Wanna go for a drink?”

Did I hear optimism in his question? I batted his hands and shoved my handbag on my arm. “Can’t.”

“Can’t?” He lifted one eyebrow. “Or won’t?”

I sighed. “Can’t. C-A-N apostrophe T.”

After the longest studious look on record, he said, “Chick-en.”

“Not hardly.”

“So, go.”

“As I said, I can’t.”

“Okay. How about we go play with Lucky?”

Lucky—the large gray cat he’d rescued and the one I babysat occasionally. “Still can’t—”

“Can’t. Brock-brock-brock-brock.”

I didn’t take his bait. With a smile, I tucked my handbag handle into the crook of my arm.

He slung his coat over his shoulder.

“Believe what you want. The bald truth is I have to go to bed early because I start a new job tomorrow.”

“Another new job? How many have you had?” His gaze circled to the ceiling, followed by a shake of his head. “Will you burn the place down?”

I pinned my best slitty eye look on him. “As much fun as your idea sounds, I won’t do it…deliberately. Or maybe I will. Who knows? A cute fireman riding to the rescue would be fun.”

Allan lifted the right side of his mouth. “I’ll notify the fire department.”

I gritted my teeth. Why does he always infuriate me? “Aren’t you Mr. Helpful?”

“Can be. I possess many talents. Moves you’ve never seen.”

I shoved his arm, then skirted him and all his helpfulness, talents, and “moves,” and headed to the exit.

He fell in line next to me. “Where’s your new job?”

I snorted. “As if you care.”

Allan pulled open the door. “Hey, I care.”

“If you must know, Miss Anastasia’s Wedding Wonderland.” I passed through the exit. “The newly revitalized strip center across from the mall. Don’t feel compelled to visit.”

“Brrr.” He shimmied his shoulders. The door shut behind us. “Bound to be an icy reception.” He shrugged on his jacket.

Once outside, I paused to study the sky. The moon—a bare sliver of a golden bowl in the inky blue-blackness.

“Sweetheart, instead of star-gazing, you should keep your eyes peeled and make sure the walk to your car is safe.”

Yadayadayada. Safety always first with this man. I pursed my lips. I would put sex first. Or chocolate like the three-pounder of chocolate-covered peanut-y treats he gave me for my birthday.

I didn’t comment—because, well, why?—and strolled toward my Jeep. I climbed in and started the engine. When I looked at the studio, I found the overhead light illuminated Allan still in place. His hands fastened on his hips. I fluttered my fingers and shifted into gear.

He shook his head and walked to his truck.

Tracey’s wedding is gonna be the death of me.