In all four chambers of her practical heart, Camille Delonga believed that one of the surest ways of blowing a considerable pile of money was to hitch a girl’s dream onto the six-foot train of a woman’s wedding dress. The proof of her sentiment, in all its floral-scented glory, lay before her as she and her mother waited to be ushered to their seats in church. There the children of her friend for life, Bridget Mayfield, had been baptized.
Camille had dutifully been there for both babies. The first one had yowled like a tomcat on the make, and Camille recalled wondering how Bridget could live with that noise. The second, who would soon be walking down the aisle in a different sort of white dress from the one she’d worn over twenty years ago, had taken to her christening spotlight like a Christmas cherub. By then babies were looking downright darling to Camille, as were her own beach-ball belly and the bad boy who’d promised to be her mate for life. Soon the belly had deflated. Later the promise. But the beginnings had been glorious, filled, in the way of beginnings, with soft colors, summer flowers, and much music. Way too much music.
In the last year Camille had heard more about the details and the worries and the changes in the plans for Lauren’s wedding than she cared to remember. But today, like the day of Lauren’s first name-giving, all was right with the world. Bridget and Camille had seen each other through some thickheaded and thin-skinned times, and they were still friends. Bridget was the one who enjoyed playing in money. Camille preferred to put it to work, but she enjoyed seeing how Bridget’s spending played out. Bridget called Camille a vicarious shopper, but neither saw anything wrong with that. They balanced, often beautifully.
Mother of the bride had been Bridget’s best role ever. Every phone call began with a wedding update. She offered a wedding monologue every time they had lunch with Ellie Terrell, the third leg of their girlfriend tripod. Bridget would be soaring over some great wedding find one week and suffering over some perceived loss the next. “In for a penny, in for a pound” had become Bridget’s mantra. In for a pile of bills, Camille thought, and she’d said as much, because they were friends.
Not that her opinion on this particular matter counted with Bridget, but thank God it counted with Jordan. “You don’t need to be the princess bride,” Camille had told her daughter a time or ten. “When your turn comes, have a small, tasteful ceremony, a party for close family and friends, and put the money you save toward a house.”
Jordan always agreed, if tacitly. After all, no objection was as good as an agreement. Jordan could be quite sensible when she put her mind to it, which she often did these days. True, she hadn’t stuck it out in college, but she had a good head on her shoulders. She could be anything she wanted to be, just as soon as she decided what that was. Camille had no reservations about putting all her pennies and pounds into her daughter’s education, even when Jordan had dropped out. Education was never a waste.
“Mrs. Burke, Mrs. Delonga, you both look beautiful.” Usher James Mayfield greeted them with a killer smile. “I’ve saved you two ladies the best seats in the house.”
Camille tried to remember how long it had been since the bride’s older brother had left home. He had known her as Mrs. Burke when he was growing up, but she’d reclaimed her maiden name after her divorce. James must have been in college by then. Bridget’s kids had always been such good manner-minders, which somehow irritated Camille enough to want to correct James’s error on the spot. But she beat down the urge. Both of Bridget’s children had finished college. Ever-polite college graduates. Your basic other people’s kids.
“You look like a million bucks in that tux, young man,” said Rosemary Delonga as she took James’s arm. “I suppose you’ve noticed how nicely my granddaughter has filled out.”
Over the top of Rosemary’s new platinum blond wig, James sent Camille a sweet, sheepish look. “Yes, ma’am, I surely have.”
Camille smiled as they walked down the aisle to the strains of a string quartet. “How long will you be home?”
“Indefinitely,” James whispered. “I’m moving back to the Cities. How’s this?”
Seats on the aisle. Perfect. Camille went in first so that her mother would have the best view. “How’re you doing, Mama? Feeling okay?”
“This is one of my favorite concertos. The musicians are good.”
“They ought to be. They belong to the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra.”
“Bridget has good taste.” Rosemary settled back in the oak pew and opened the vellum program. “I just love weddings.”
Since when? Camille wondered. She could count the weddings she’d attended with her mother on half a hand. The last that came to mind was her brother Matt’s wedding. She’d been newly married herself then, but Creed had been on the road with his band and she’d attended without him. Camille had spent most of the reception with Mama and her friends, pretending she didn’t notice that they were pretending not to wonder whether she had any regrets yet.
But before Matt’s wedding, the Delongas had rarely proclaimed themselves the marrying kind. Mama had taken Camille to an older cousin’s wedding when she was about ten or twelve. She remembered being the only kid among the few family members in attendance. Most of them had cried through the whole thing. When she’d asked what was wrong, Mama had whispered, “Nothing.” Then she’d blown her nose, wiped, wiped again, and muttered, “Yet.”
Later Camille remembered sitting in a green brocade chair in the ladies’ room watching her mother repair a side seam in the weepy bride’s dress and listening to Aunt Carol remind her daughter that she should have known the dress was going to be too tight by the time her wedding day rolled around.
That particular marriage had lasted two years, but the couple had managed to produce three children.
“I didn’t know Ellie was going to sing,” Rosemary whispered, her nose buried in the program.
“Bridget hired a professional soloist, but she backed out, so Ellie came to the rescue.”
“Should’ve asked her in the first place. Nobody sings better than Ellie. Not this kind of music anyway.” Rosemary offered her daughter the flying eyebrow, which always alluded to a supposedly obvious unmentionable.
Generally, the unmentionable was Camille’s former husband, and the point, ironically, usually had to do with the virtues Rosemary had recently begun to attribute to him. Camille shook her head, chuckling. Creed’s absence had made his ex-mother-in-law’s heart grow decidedly fonder.
“Ellie’s pretty nervous, what with all Bridget’s fussing around over professional musicians. It was really short notice.” Even so, Camille wasn’t surprised when she found Ellie’s name on her program. “But I see she managed to get these reprinted. No flaws allowed.”
“Might as well do it right.” Rosemary continued to scan the program, noting, “A pastor and a minister. Mixed marriage.”
Camille gave a soundless laugh. The many recipes for marriage created the possibility of so much adventure. There were so many colorful mixes, complete with collaborative risks. It was enough to scare a mother spitless. Camille understood all that now. Recalling Mama’s dire warnings, she swore she’d never utter them herself even if she were bursting at the seams with them. Still, fitting into her mother’s shoes was not as unthinkable as it had been twenty-three years ago. She couldn’t imagine a man worthy of the dark-haired beauty who glided past her now, leading the wedding procession.
Somehow Jordan made the fluffy peach bridesmaid’s dress look regal. “No, please, no bow on the butt,” she’d begged, but Lauren had already made her selection. One by one the big satin bows passed Camille’s pew. Plump maid of honor Marion Moony looked like a prize pumpkin, poor girl.
Catty, catty, two-by-four. The old chant echoed in Camille’s head, clashing with the wedding march. She smiled at a nameless woman across the aisle, as though they were thinking the same thing, sharing in the wickedness the way she would have with Bridget and Ellie years ago. They’d done their share of critiquing fashions from the sidelines, until one of the three chided the others to restore order. “Catty, catty,” was the call for charity. Noblesse Oblige. They’d believed in the natural superiority of the buff and beautiful. It had been easy back then. They’d had nothing else to go on.
The music changed. Throughout the church, feet shuffled, knees cracked, and people whispered, one to another. “Here she comes. Oh, look, here she comes.”
Not one of Bridget’s detailed descriptions had done justice to the designer gown’s form-fitting, beaded silk bodice or to its voluminous skirt. Layer after layer of airy white tulle lapped the polished maple floor like sea foam and lent a dancer’s grace to the bride’s solemn stride. Beneath the silken veil, the girl’s face was radiant. Her eyes sparkled. This was her moment.
With his daughter on his perfectly tailored arm, Timothy Mayfield had never looked more handsome. His summer tan seemed to add substance to his thinning brown hair, and his smile seemed remarkably effortless. Camille had felt vaguely prickly around Tim lately. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was. But she was glad to see him smiling like a man who had something of value in his life rather than in his possession.
Camille tried to imagine Creed walking his daughter down the aisle. They would make quite a picture together, father and daughter. She liked the image, traditional as it was. For better, for worse, and for all the other double-sided pieces of change in the marriage bag, Creed had always cherished his daughter.
Most possessions, however, had not been terribly important to her former husband, including the wedding ring he’d seldom worn. He’d said jewelry bothered him when he played his guitar. Watches bothered him, too, and maybe it was because he never wore one that the passage of time did not. Camille hadn’t heard from him in at least a year.
Has it been that long? he would say the next time they spoke, and he would sound genuinely surprised. Creed Burke could not keep track of time for love or money, which was one reason he’d lost out on both. He would want to walk his daughter down the aisle. He would have sterling intentions, and he would promise to be there, but whether it would be safe to put his name on the program was another matter.
Oh, but wouldn’t father and daughter look beautiful walking down the aisle together?
“Where’s the flower girl?” Rosemary whispered.
“Bridget said she didn’t want any kid scenes.”
Rosemary shook her head, taking in the peach-colored line of ladies happily waiting, flanked by the men in black who stood uncomfortably at attention like a row of pickets. “I’m surprised she left anything out.”
Camille glanced at her mother, detecting fatigue in her voice. “If it gets too long, we don’t have to stay.”
“I’m fine. Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”
Camille had learned of late to take her mother at her word. She wasn’t fine, but she was coping remarkably well with whatever she meant by “fine.” It had taken her a while, but Rosemary had become a trouper. Now that she was living with Camille and Jordan, she could afford to be.
Or maybe she’d always had an inner strength that she’d never been called on to use. Her illness had brought out a capacity for tolerance that nobody had suspected she possessed. Unquiet music, unusual movies, unsunny days, and very unlikely people were all just fine with Mama these days.
But then she was on some very fine drugs.
Ellie’s solo rendition of “Morning Has Broken” was beautiful. The bride and groom’s personal vows—which Bridget had proposed to edit, but her friends had successfully restrained her—fell short of good poetry but were certainly sweet. The exchange of rings prompted more than a few of the witnessing couples to clasp hands. The kiss was timeless, the applause heartfelt, and the recession joyous.
And then came the wait.
“We’re not going to stand in that line, Mama.” Camille eyed the crowded aisle and then scanned the far corners of the church for a side exit. “Are you sure you’re up for the reception?”
“I wouldn’t miss it. Bridget’s not one to skimp on the goodies.” Rosemary waved at someone behind Camille. “Ellie, you little Swedish nightingale, you did us proud.”
“You see there, honey?” From behind his wife, Stan Terrell put his slight hands on her sturdy shoulders and gave an affectionate squeeze. “You were great, but don’t take my word for it. You’ve got all kinds of compliments coming.”
“Can I collapse now?” She tipped her head to the side, gave at the knees, and sank to the level of Stan’s shoulder. “I’m going to take you two at your word, but I think that was my swan song. I was so nervous.” On a quick breath, Ellie inflated herself back to her full height. “I think Bridget expected a little more…I don’t know…oomph.”
“What are you, a tuba?” Camille laughed as she reached for Ellie’s hand. “Bridget’s in a complete tizzy, but she had to love your song. It was beautiful, and it was you. Ellie Oomph.”
“Oomph city,” Stan added. “My golden-throated tuba tubby. The pink one.”
Camille would have elbowed him in the paunch, but Ellie gave him an affectionate squeeze.
“Tubby the Tuba,” Rosemary corrected.
“Wrong era, Mama. And I don’t see any tubbies here.”
“Your daughter’s not fifty yet,” Ellie reminded Rosemary. “Still floatin’ in de Nile.”
“That’s right. I’m the baby.” Camille smiled just enough to form her single dimple. She had almost another year. “How many dances can you spare me tonight, Stan?”
James Mayfield’s silky smile still affected Jordan the way it had when she was fourteen. A surefire trigger for the flippin’ fuzzies. Deep down inside her the chrysalises were silently splitting open, one by one, tickling the walls of her stomach even before the sound of his voice set the butterfly wings aflutter.
“If the limo is crowded,” he offered, “I have room for you in my car.”
Richard Frazier beat her to the punch.
“Yeah, we’ll jump in with you,” Jordan’s assigned groomsman said eagerly. With a glance he dismissed the two white luxury cars parked next to the curb. “I hate crawling over all those—”
James took Jordan’s arm. “Actually—Richard, is it? Actually, the backseat of my car is full of stuff. I just moved.”
Jordan looked up at James, sufficiently dumbfounded by his proprietary move that she couldn’t think of one for herself. She had resigned herself to being marionette for a day, being placed according to Lauren’s master plan and enduring any hardships her role as lead bridesmaid might entail—including her old friend’s boring new brother-in-law—like a true woman. Was liberation now at hand?
“Oh.” The younger man rocked back on his heels, befuddled. “Yeah. But we’re kinda paired up, and Mrs. Mayfield wants us all—”
“The rest of them are all loaded up, and Mrs. Mayfield is nowhere in sight.” James touched Jordan’s bare back and directed her toward the blue car in the parking lot. “I’m thinking one less dress in that boat to get crushed.”
“Okay, well…” Richard didn’t seem to realize that he had nothing to say about the decision. He glanced at Jordan as he took a couple of backward steps toward the limo. “See you at the hotel?”
She gave a quick nod and a perfunctory smile, which disappeared the moment Richard decided to turn and walk forward.
“I’m going to drown your sister in the punch bowl for sticking me with that dweeb,” she said under her breath.
James laughed.
Jordan wished to God she had chosen a different word.
“I thought I detected a little ill will in the front line,” he said as he opened the car door for her. “Slim pickin’s among the penguins is what it looks like, although Tony’s roommate seems like a good guy.”
She glanced at him as she gathered up her skirt. He smiled, obviously unaware that it felt weird to have him open a door for her, never mind standing there holding it open until she’d reeled in all her drapery. Giving his sister and her friends rides had never been his favorite assignment, but as a young girl, Jordan could ride for days on the cachet of simply being seen getting in and out of James Mayfield’s car.
“There’s a reason the roommate gets to be the best man and the brother gets relegated to fifth groomsman,” she told him when he slid into the driver’s seat. “He’s just so obnoxious.”
“How so is just so?”
“He’s been hitting on me for two days, and he’s pitifully devoid of hitting skills.” She leaned back against the headrest and watched the changing view of green leaves, sunshine, and shadows through the sunroof. “I don’t think he’s brushed his teeth in a month.”
“Same old Jordan.” James chuckled. “That’s why I thought I’d step in.”
She turned to him, astonished. “To rescue me?”
“No, him. Spare the poor boy’s ego.”
“Spare the toothbrush, sacrifice the ego,” she quipped.
“Cold but fair. A real Minnesota forecast from a Minnesota girl.”
“I’ll give you my chicken breast if you head him off whenever he leans in my direction. I’ll even throw in my cake.”
“There’ll be no cake throwing at this shindig, young lady. Besides, I still have problems with the knee you kicked the last time I tried to take your cake.”
“Lauren’s birthday party,” she recalled. Oh, God, she’d hated him that day. She’d come into the kitchen after doing cartwheels in the backyard with the other girls, and he’d told her she was wearing nice pink underpants. She’d kicked him more for the humiliation than the attempted cake theft, kicked him so hard that Bridget had had to put an ice pack on his knee. Jordan remembered the angry look she’d gotten from Bridget.
“Don’t call me ‘young lady’ unless you want me to mistake you for my mother, which would ruin your fun and my prospects for salvation. Did I ever apologize for that?”
He shrugged. “Not in so many words. How do you know I’m not already spoken for tonight?”
“I asked Lauren. You’re not spoken for at all. And I’ve seen you dance, so I know your feet are screwed on straight. I promise to watch out for your bum knee.”
“You always were a bossy brat. I was hoping you’d outgrown that.”
“You had no hopes with regard to me, James Mayfield.”
“Maybe I do now.”
Jordan wouldn’t bet on it, but it would amuse her to spend an evening speculating. If she could remember that not every comment required a clever rejoinder, she could surely hold her own for a few hours with James the Genius, as his mother had dubbed him. Let him do a little speculating, too. She pulled down the visor, checking the mirror, more for reassurance than lipstick.
He laughed. “Or maybe I will by the time the night’s over.”
In her stunning pewter Vera Wang, Bridget should have been in her glory. Her daughter’s wedding was the best party she’d ever put together. The hotel ballroom, already rich in gilt and glass, had been made lush with the fragrance of flowers and food, the soothing trickle of fountains, the opulence of added fabric and finery, all carefully arranged under Bridget’s watchful eye and according to her precise plan. Like Camille, she had only one daughter, and that daughter would have only one wedding. Mayfield marriages were designed to last a lifetime. Lauren’s wedding was to be Bridget’s signature achievement. The guests stood in awe.
But Bridget herself seemed let down. From her station at “the odd-couple” table, Camille watched her old roomie drift from group to group, table to table, her smile less than inspired. Maybe she was nervous about the cake cutting, or maybe a few guests had neglected to RSVP but had turned up anyway. Perhaps the kitchen had run out of free-range capon with wild rice.
Camille had suggested she choose Rock Cornish game hen instead of capon to head off the inevitable dispute over whether a castrated cock could ever truly range free and whether such a meal was appropriate for a wedding feast, even if it was a specialty of the house. She was frankly surprised to see the capon make the final cut.
She didn’t realize she’d commented aloud on the menu until Rosemary’s laugh compounded her surprise.
“Chicken is chicken, honey, and it’s something you’ve never been, except in situations like this.” Rosemary patted her daughter’s hand. “I’m sorry, but I’m just not up to leading the way anymore. You’ll have to mingle cold turkey.”
“I’d rather read the menu with my mother and watch the pretty people on parade,” she said. “Unless you’re not up to any of it.”
“Are you kidding? I’m hungry.” Rosemary perused the elegant menu card. “Did I order chicken or beef?”
Camille was not a happy mingler, and she was grateful to her mother for providing her with a reason not to take her usual feeble stab at it. They would be like two dowagers. Let the company come to them, one or two at a time. Ellie, whose social skills were more like Camille’s than Bridget’s, found refuge at the odd-couple table after two widowed aunts had gone in search of punch and a bachelor co-worker of Tim’s had gone off, too, undoubtedly glad the women had turned down his offer to bring them something from the bar.
“Can you believe Stan ran into somebody he knows in this crowd?”
“Of course I can believe it,” Camille said. “Stan could go to the Arctic Circle and run into somebody he knows.”
When Ellie had met Stan Terrell, he’d been a chef in a hotel restaurant. Ellie had been a teaching colleague of Camille’s, but once she got married, she quit teaching to help Stan open his own small restaurant and catering business. Camille didn’t teach any longer either, but the friends shared memories of those days and still had the “once-a-teacher” identity. They also traded the worries and pleasures of being entrepreneurs. And Stan and Camille shared a love of Ellie. It was all they needed in common to appreciate each other—no foursome necessary.
Her friendship with Bridget didn’t quite work that way. If she and Bridget hadn’t gone so far back, Camille’s divorce might have done their friendship in. It wasn’t so much the odd number for dinner, although to Bridget that could be as awkward as the loss of a table leg, but the odd sense she had that her single status made somebody—in this case Bridget—uncomfortable.
“She’s not herself tonight, is she?” Ellie noted.
“Well, who would be?” Rosemary said.
“Bridget,” Camille insisted. She was counting on her, in fact, and she wasn’t sure why. “If anybody could pull this off and enjoy it, too, it would be Bridget. So why is she avoiding us?”
“We’re not going to let her,” Ellie determined as she waved the mother of the bride over to their table. From several feet away, Bridget tried to escape with a one-finger promise of a momentary return.
Camille discovered that her butt wasn’t stuck to her chair.
“You’re going to sit with us for a minute so we can persuade you that everything is going just beautifully.” She dragged Bridget to their table and sat her down in the white-damask-draped chair between true-blue friends. “This thing has a life of its own now, Bridge, and it’s the high-off-the-hog variety. Time for you to relax and enjoy yourself. How did the pictures go?”
“Fine, I think,” Bridget said distractedly. “We’ll see how happy we all are when we get the proofs.” She gave a nervous laugh, checked her watch. “Dinner in twenty minutes. Wait till you hear the band. You’ll stay, won’t you?”
“Is there some sort of circle dance on the program? Because I’m not doing any animal imitations.”
“No Funky Chicken?” Ellie teased, flapping her elbows.
“I’ll never be that old. And I’m way past the Bunny Hop. The only partnerless dance I’ll take part in is a traditional circle. I like the symbolism.”
“What about the holding hands with strangers? She wouldn’t shake hands when she was little because it meant holding hands with strangers.”
Camille shot her mother a warning look. No little Camille stories, please.
“We hired an excellent dance band,” Bridget said. “And there are plenty of unattached men here.”
“I’ve seen one who looks old enough to be interesting and two who look young enough to be desirable.” Camille lifted one shoulder, folded her arms. “All I have to do is decide which feature I can do without.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to approach it the other way?” Ellie proposed.
“What other way?” Camille laughed. “Oh, that. Easier to begin with, maybe.”
“And more fun. Accentuate the positive and you can go by instinct. Mood.” Ellie mugged with delight. “By feel.”
“Good idea. When the lights go down, I’ll walk around and pick a partner by feel.” Camille tried to get Bridget involved. “How long are you hosting the bar?”
“All night, for those who behave themselves.”
“We’re taking our business elsewhere, Mama,” Camille said across the table, then turned back to Bridget. “You didn’t tell me that James had moved back home.”
Bridget jumped on the change of subject. “I’m hoping he’ll go back to graduate school and do what he was meant to do. He’s so gifted.”
“What was his major? History?”
Bridget measured an inch between professionally manicured fingernails. “He’s this close to his master’s in archaeology, and he works for a bank. It’s such a waste.”
“Not if it pays the bills,” Rosemary said.
“He’s going in circles, though. Once they get sidetracked by a paycheck, it’s hard to get them to see beyond that.” Bridget glanced at the empty middle chairs at the head table. “But Lauren and Anthony are going to be just fine. I’ve seen the last of her tuition bills, and Anthony’s father is bringing him into his firm. She’ll be fine. He comes from a fine family.” She turned to Ellie. “Did you meet the Fraziers?”
“We did. Nice folks.”
“Folks,” Bridget said with a flighty titter. “Lauren has two sets of ‘folks’ now. Can you imagine?” She glanced at Camille. “Is Jordan ready to go back to school yet?”
“I’ll let you know when she is, Bridge.” Sore subject. For the moment the fun was over, and it had nothing to do with the fact that the woman Bridget had hired to move people around was headed toward them. “Your director summons, dear. Is it time for your close-up?”
Bridget hopped up as though she’d been bitten in the butt. “They must be here! I have to make sure the trumpeter is in place, and the carpet, and that everyone has…”
They watched her hurry away muttering. Ellie went to locate Stan, and Camille helped Rosemary find a shortcut around the crowd as they sifted like fine hourglass sand through the ballroom’s double doors and poured into the lobby, where tuxedoed waiters passed trays of champagne for a proper greeting of the wedding party.
“Are you getting tired, Mama?”
“I’ll let you know,” Rosemary snapped. She caught herself and repeated gently, “I’ll let you know, Cammy. I want to soak it all in as long as I can.”
Camille gave a tight smile. “We don’t know most of these people.”
“But they’re celebrating Lauren’s wedding, and we watched Lauren grow up.”
And now they watched the beautiful young people claim the limelight as they were trumpeted, toasted, applauded. What had long struck Camille as extravagance suddenly seemed right—especially when James Mayfield ushered Jordan into the lobby, both of them laughing at only they knew what. They were together in a way that struck Camille with an all-over sense of knowing. It wasn’t clairvoyance. It was carevoyance. She’d always hated it when her own mother had known about her business before she’d had a right to, but she’d come to understand that the right to know wasn’t an issue with motherhood. The issue was the issue. Knowing simply came, not with the territory but with the womb.
And there it was, written in her daughter’s smile as only a mother could read it. James Mayfield.
“We watched him grow up, too,” Rosemary said quietly. “A rare comfort, that.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I see what you see, but not the same way.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I’ve been there, Cammy.” She offered that welcome, if infuriating, knowing smile. “And in spite of all that, you’re still my daughter.”
James kept his promise to monopolize Jordan. Not that he’d made that promise in so many words, but words didn’t seem necessary. They were a couple, at least for the evening. If he helped himself to something, he offered her some. When she spoke with someone else, she included him. It all seemed to take a natural course. No one interfered. No one tried to separate them for dining or dancing or drinking. They wore couplehood well.
Because they’d been dancing like dreamers, it put her off balance when he lifted his cheek from hers to ask a mundane question.
“So you still live at home?”
“Well, yes. For the time being. My grandmother’s been sick.” She blinked against the light, which was annoying, if soft. “She’s going to be fine now. She had surgery, but she seems to be recovering, getting her strength back.”
“That’s good.”
“Yes, but it gave us a scare. I need to stick close by and help out.”
“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with living at home. I did it myself when I was a kid.”
She gave him a reproving glance, one that might have passed between them often, had they been together the way it felt that they had—the way they fit together, flowed together, each filling all the spaces left by the other. God, it felt good. It all worked perfectly, as though they’d learned the steps together and had been together forever. But this was the first time.
She was usually quite self-conscious when she danced—how she looked and felt, what other dancers thought of her moves, her partner’s moves. But she had none of those thoughts dancing with James. On a floor full of wedding dancers, only one pair mattered.
She didn’t recognize the song the band was playing, but she recognized what her father called “domesticated” country music. Country stock with the horns knocked off. Or maybe it was just some old song you always felt as though you’d known in another life. She wasn’t about to ask what it was and open herself up to another “kid” joke, but she wanted to know, to remember.
James smiled. “Reminds me of your dad’s band.”
It didn’t surprise her that he could read her mind. It wouldn’t shock her if he could predict her next thought. The fact that her father figured into all this was the only surprise.
“I used to think of excuses to go over to your house so I could listen to them practice,” he explained.
“You liked country music?”
“I used to think Creed Burke was the model of cool.”
“So did I, but I wouldn’t have taken you for a country music fan.”
“I was sorry to hear about them splitting up.”
“The band?”
“Your parents.”
“Oh.” The band would have made more sense, but his sympathy touched her where she was unaccustomed to being touched. Hoping to pass the pity like a hot potato, she scanned the room for her mother, muttering, “I don’t hear that very often.”
Her mother hadn’t budged from her table. She and Grandma had attracted some old couple to their table—probably related to Tony. They looked more like Frazier elders than Mayfields, who tended toward shabby chic even in their dress. She had to remember to steer clear of James’s grandmother, Ramona, whose wedding gift to the bride and groom was undoubtedly a wet blanket. Thank God her grandmother hadn’t lost her sense of humor. But as for her mother…
“You don’t hear what very often?”
Jordan looked up, saw his concern, and thanked him with a smile. “That someone was sorry to hear about them splitting up. I thought it was just me. Everyone else seemed to see it coming.”
“Do you see him much?”
“Not anymore. At first I did, but we both got busy with our lives.” She bounced the disappointment off with a shrug. “Separate ways, separate lives. That’s what happens to families these days.”
“And look what happens to the kids.” He teased her with his irresistible lopsided grin. “You turn your back for a few years, and they disappear.”
“Not altogether.”
“Close enough to please me without breaking any laws.”
“Age is so relative. I mean, look at you. You were a young man when you went away.”
“And now I’m over the hill.”
“Not until October tenth, when you’ll turn thirty.” She could tell that her memory came as a pleasant surprise to him. “I can’t help it. Trivia is my forte.”
“Everybody needs at least one. Meanwhile, I’m trying to calculate whether you’re old enough to drink.”
“I’m the same age as your sister.”
He laughed. “My sister will never be old enough to drink.”
“Twenty-three, still living at home, college dropout, no longer a virgin. What else do you want to know?”
“Not the last part. Take that back.”
“I was kidding,” she said too quickly. “Okay, I was trying to be clever, and I haven’t quite got the hang of it yet.”
“Stick with me, baby. You will.”
“Why, James Mayfield, I would never have guessed.” She offered a saucy smile. “You’re not very good at it either.”