There was no denying that Creed and Ellie were good together.
They were practicing their surprise wedding duet in the living room while Camille and Bridget sorted out the invitation replies on the dining room table. Rosemary had moved one of the captain’s chairs closer to the bay window for more light on her seed-pearl application. The next craft project—garden-scented soap and candles in beribboned baskets—was waiting in the wings at the end of the long table. Somewhere in her literature Martha Stewart had advised Camille that a small gift left in a wedding guest’s hotel room was a “good thing.”
Hearing Creed and Ellie’s voices blending together beautifully gave Camille a thrilling, chilling shiver. She thrilled to the near perfection of “The Rose,” imagining the sterling roses in the wedding bouquets just beginning to open. But the thought of any part of Creed blending with anything another woman had to offer still chilled her, even though the other woman was Camille’s most trusted friend and Creed was no longer Camille’s to be thrilled or chilled by.
But did he have to be hers? Why couldn’t she let herself take his kiss for what it was, which was simply a great kiss?
She gave herself a mental smack. Enjoy the rose, you idiot. It sounds as sweet as it smells—no blast on it except in your head.
Somebody in the living room had screwed up the words, and they were both laughing over it. Camille was laughing with him pretty often these days, too. They’d always been able to make each other laugh, especially when they weren’t making each other crazy. He laughed with lots of people—especially female people. He was every woman’s favorite kind of a guy.
Damn him.
Damn herself. Camille turned her other mental cheek and mentally smacked again.
Just enjoy the damn music.
“I have an idea for plate chargers,” Bridget was saying, totally oblivious to all the smacking that was going on right across the table. She pulled out the ubiquitous wedding-magazine clipping, this one a picture of a dinner plate nested in dry flowers and moss in a big terracotta saucer. “Going along with the garden theme. I think I could get them from a friend who owns a greenhouse. You’ve got the plates nested in these chargers, and your little nests on the plates. It’s perfect.”
“It’s cute, Bridge, but I don’t think the banquet staff would go for it. Besides, we’re doing elegant garden. This would be more like country garden.”
Bridget pouted briefly, then sailed on with another suggestion. “If we’re going for elegance, I still say we do chair covers. Something rich, maybe a brocade, so we bring in the floral motif. Or frothy. We could do silver froth. We’ll get them from—”
“No chair covers,” Camille said firmly, hoping she wasn’t frothing. “The chairs look fine. But what you could do for me is gather up a few pictures of James growing up.”
The spark in Bridget’s eyes dimmed, her sails deflating as she shook her head. “But we already did the slide show at Lauren’s wedding.”
“I remember. Don’t worry, we’re not going to do a repeat.” Half an hour of baby pictures flashing on the wall had nearly put everyone to sleep. “This is James’s wedding, so I need pictures of—”
“You’re not going to put up a big collage, are you? I’ve seen that done. It’s a little tacky, if you ask me.”
“Not in our elegant garden. No, I’m going to scan the pictures and make an album that people can look at if they feel like it.”
“You want me to go through picture albums,” Bridget said, slipping from deflated to glum. “Can you scan Timothy out?”
“It’ll be mostly the kids growing up.”
“You don’t want it to look as though they grew up in a vacuum,” Rosemary said. “Include some family. Show where they came from. I was telling Ramona that we’d never met Creed’s mother, and it occurred to me that I don’t even think I’ve seen a picture of her.”
“That’s a good idea, Mama. Pictures of grandparents. Even great-grandparents. You can be sure Creed doesn’t have any, but I’ll ask his sisters. I have to call them anyway and see who’s coming.”
“You can be sure Creed doesn’t have any what?” asked the man himself. The music had stopped, and the musicians had come to the table.
“Pictures of your parents or grandparents.”
“I don’t know if anybody does. Maybe my Aunt Patsy, but I haven’t seen her in a while.” He’d found the mint melt-aways in the candy dish in the kitchen. He offered Ellie the choice of a pink or green sweet from his hand as he popped a yellow one into his mouth. “What do you want with them?”
“A little history,” Camille said. “A sense of roots. You know, for the garden theme.”
“They’re all pretty much planted in the ground, that’s for sure. On my side anyway.” He caught the surprise in Ellie’s eyes as she glanced up from helping herself to the candy. He grinned. “Indian humor.”
“A wedding brings two families together,” Camille said, studiously ignoring the fact that he had Ellie literally eating out of his hand. “Let’s celebrate that this time around.”
“This is one wedding that’s making some strange and interesting bedfellows. You wanna celebrate that?” He waited for Camille to oblige him with a pointed glance so he could give it right back to her with a mischievous smile. “I don’t think you have to worry. I doubt if anybody from my family’s gonna show up.”
“Have you talked to them?” No answer. She sighed. “You said you would, Creed.”
“There’s a lot of things about you I really miss, honey, but that tone of voice ain’t one of ’em.”
“Not keeping your word is something I don’t—”
“Children!” Rosemary smacked the arm of her chair with a flat hand. “Creed, I want you to tell your family that anyone who can come to the wedding will be my guest at the hotel. They’d be my guests in this house, but it’s no longer my house. Anyway, the hotel is where all the action will be. I’ll be staying there myself if I’m feeling”—she settled back into the chair, as though she’d expended more energy than she’d meant to—“up to any action.”
“You mean, if it works out with the chauffeur?” Creed asked, grinning.
“His name is Jacques, and he’s French-Canadian.” Wearily, wistfully, Rosemary returned Creed’s smile. “Lovely voice, almost like yours. After we chatted awhile, he cut me a deal on the deluxe wedding package and offered to give me the sunset tour of Lake Minnetonka whenever I have an evening free.”
“Jacques the Canuck sounds pretty slick, Rosie. Probably part Indian.” Creed wagged a finger at her. “You make sure he stays in the front seat on that sunset tour.”
Rosemary wagged her finger back at him. “You make sure you get in touch with your family so I can make reservations.”
“Better yet, how about if I give you a phone number?”
“Creed, you—” Camille began.
“No, he’s right,” Rosemary said with a nod. “This is my call to make.”
Creed helped himself to a pen from the table and the last page of Camille’s guest list, where there was room at the bottom. “My sister Faith is like the family honcho and the keeper of the telephone. Here’s her number.” He wrote it down. “I haven’t talked to her for a while. I guess I owe her a call, too. Between the two of us…”
“We’ll get it done,” Rosemary promised Camille.
“I’m really impressed with the way you’re getting involved, Creed,” Bridget said. “Considering the circumstances.”
Creed glanced at Camille. “Was that a compliment?”
“Maybe there’s a reconciliation in the offing,” Bridget suggested.
“Where’s the offing?” Creed asked, deadpan. He’d always gotten a charge out of knocking the legs out from under Bridget’s high horse. “You mean like an offed marriage getting on again?”
“Close,” Bridget said.
“Or just getting it on again with your ex,” he teased, slipping Camille a sly glance. “Oh, in the offing. I get it. You’re talkin’ about in church, when they pass the plate.”
“Just agree with him, Bridge,” Camille said, trying hard not to laugh.
“You mean I can toss in a reconciliation instead of an IOU?” Creed popped the last piece of candy into his mouth and brushed his hands together. “Hey, Ellie, you think that would square me with the Great Accountant upstairs?”
“From what I’ve heard about your record keeping, that’s the only accountant you have any chance of squaring with.”
“It must be nice to be able to laugh about it all,” Bridget said.
“It? That one was on me.” Creed patted Bridget’s shoulder. “The trick is to get the unsuspecting ex-husband into a house filled with your choice of hens,” he said, finally coaxing a smile from Bridget. “But Miss Ellie’s gonna get hers when I start our song off in my key.”
“Will it be a duet or a duel? Stay tuned,” Ellie said. “Shall we get something cold to drink and try it again, Mr. Chanticleer?”
Unsuspecting, my foot, Camille thought. A houseful of hens was all it took to get him up onstage for some rooftop-style crowing.
“That rustic charm has a way of sneaking up on you, doesn’t it?” Bridget noted.
“Sure does, if you let your guard down. Never judge rustic charm by the condition of the jeans it comes in.”
“That sounds like good pillow philosophy,” Rosemary said. “If we can fit that motto on a pillow, we can add it to our catalog.”
“What catalog?” Bridget asked.
Rosemary laughed. “The catalog business that’s going to make us rich someday.”
“As long as it doesn’t have anything to do with making wedding favors,” said Camille.
Creed had been invited to stay for supper with Jordan and James, and he’d offered to do the cooking. Camille wasn’t certain what kind of help the kids were going to ask her for, if any, but she’d decided that the best way to make sure that everyone was on the same page was to open the book when they were all in the same room. But James showed up well before the hors d’oeuvre hour.
“Jordan’s still at the bridal shop,” he explained as he took a seat on the sofa. “They’re having some problems with the bridesmaids’ dresses.”
“I thought they had them ready for a final fitting,” Camille said. With little more than a week to go, this couldn’t be a good thing.
“I guess they’re not all done, and the ones that they thought were done don’t fit. She said to meet her here, but I’m early.”
“Well, you’re in for a treat. Creed offered to make us his special Sonuvabitch Stew. I know that sounds ominous, but it’s really quite safe. And very tasty, especially if you enjoy a bitch with a little bite.”
She laughed at the wary look her future son-in-law gave her as she sat on the ottoman, putting them almost knee to knee. She reassured him with a motherly pat on his knee. She knew he didn’t know quite what to make of Jordan’s family sometimes, but she wanted him to know that she was harmless.
“Are you getting nervous?” she asked.
“Nervous as in cold feet? No. I’m in love with Jordan, and I’m ready to be married.” He planted his elbows on his knees, leaned forward and laced his fingers together. “Tomorrow would be good.”
“It’s a lot of fuss, this wedding stuff, but I think it’s going to be worth it.”
He nodded, pulling his fingers apart and pushing them together again, a young man’s way of working up to something. Finally he said, “I guess you know about our little disagreement over the house.”
“I don’t know about a disagreement. I thought we were going to talk about your house plans tonight.”
He sighed, looking up rather sadly. “She asked for your help without talking with me about it first.”
“You didn’t…”
He shook his head.
They should all be in the same room now, she thought. They should be opening the book together. If she knew her daughter, a tiny bit of manipulation had been in the works, which meant that Camille and James were on the pages Jordan had assigned them. But it was transition time, a rollover of roles, a swift moment of passage when there was truth in triteness; love would find a way.
“She didn’t…” A flurry of excuses lightened the weight of Camille’s instincts, and she tossed one out for James. “She really only asked whether I would consider helping you get into the house if you two were to ask me.”
“It doesn’t matter how she phrased it. The point is, she asked you. I didn’t have anything to do with it.” Hands on his thighs, he sat upright, taking charge. “The thing is, we’re ready to be married, but we’re not ready to buy a house. We were looking to rent, and we stumbled onto this deal. I ran the numbers on it. It isn’t feasible right now, even if we skip the honeymoon.” With a sigh, he leaned back, slouching, suddenly looking more like the boy she remembered as her good friend’s son than a man about to be married. “Frankly, I could use a honeymoon.”
“Not until after I give her away.” Creed came in abruptly, crossing the living room toward the sofa.
James sprang to his feet. “No, I know. I mean—”
Creed offered a handshake. “How’s it going, James? Could you use a beer first?”
“Before…?” James glanced at Camille. “No, sir, I’m fine. I was just saying that the wedding couldn’t come soon enough for me.”
“Myself, I can’t get it straight in my head that my little girl has found Mr. Right. Did Camille tell you I’m cooking up my special recipe of Sonuvabitch Stew?”
“Yes, sir, it smells great. Sounds like it might be a little hot?”
“We named it after Jordan’s last fiancé,” Creed said as he took a chair. “He thought he was pretty hot, you know, pretty tough. But we tenderized him, didn’t we, hon?” He winked at Camille. “I’m glad to see you kept that ol’ meat-tenderizing mallet around.”
“He’s kidding, you know,” Camille assured James.
“I was pretty sure, but he wasn’t smiling at all.”
“Indian humor, son,” Creed said. “Give it half a chance, it grows on you. Camille still owes me.”
“Owes you what?” she demanded.
“Maybe a quarter of a chance?”
“Your humor is one of the few things I don’t mind you putting over on me.” She laughed. “And I kept the tenderizing mallet around for grizzled ol’ meatheads.”
“You wound me, woman.”
“How long have you guys been divorced?” James wanted to know.
“Not as long as we were married,” Creed said.
“You still seem to like each other. That’s kind of encouraging.” James glanced back and forth between them, taking his seat again, still unsure. “This whole thing with my parents is such a mess. I don’t know who’s got the bad timing, them or us, but I want Jordan to have the wedding she deserves.”
“There’s never a bad time for a wedding or”—Camille looked down at her bare hands, her eyes avoiding Creed’s—“a good time for a divorce.”
“Jordan doesn’t know that I’m paying for the rehearsal dinner myself,” James said quietly.
“But your mother planned it.”
He chortled, rolled his eyes. “No kidding.”
“I thought your father—”
“She thinks he is, but…” James shook his head. “I don’t want anything from him. And my mom doesn’t need to know any of this. She’s kind of day-to-day at this point. I don’t want to think about what happens after they sell the house.” He glanced between Creed and Camille again as he squared his shoulders. “The point is, I’m taking care of it, which is the way it should be. We’re going to have our wedding and our honeymoon, and when we can afford to, we’ll buy our house. And I wish Jordan hadn’t gone to you looking for help for that. It’s…kind of embarrassing.”
“Oh, James. There’s no reason for you to feel—” Camille caught a sharp look from Creed and shot back, “Well, there isn’t.”
“James, you’re talking to someone who’s never felt embarrassed.” Before she could protest, Creed explained. “You’ve been embarrassed, maybe. For reasons. But if you had ever felt embarrassed, you’d know that reason doesn’t figure in.”
“I just meant that…” She looked at James, then back to Creed. They were clearly on the same wavelength. “Is this a man thing?”
“Exclusively?” Creed asked. “That, we wouldn’t know.”
“You should tell Jordan about the rehearsal dinner,” she said to James. Then to Creed, “Shouldn’t he?”
“My wife might have asked for my advice once in a while if we’d had a son,” Creed supposed in James’s direction. “Honey, the man’s caught between a rock and a hard place here. He’s got a divorce on one side, a wedding on the other.”
“Can I ask a question?” James squirmed, suppressing a smile. “Is the wedding the rock or the hard place?”
Creed laughed heartily. “You’ll do okay, son. You’ll do just fine.” He nodded at Camille. “He should do what’s right for him, honey. For them.”
“She should have talked with you before she asked me about helping you guys out,” Camille said to James. “Maybe she was afraid I’d say no. And then she’d be embarrassed.” She shook her head quickly. “Or feel embarrassed, or whatever. But that’s not important. You two need to be open with each other first. It’s the two of you foremost, and then you can decide who else you let in. But don’t keep secrets from each other.” She looked James in the eye. “Talk with each other.”
“They really open up after a couple of margaritas,” Creed commented at her back.
“Creed Burke,” she warned. “I’m serious about this part.”
“Why did you two split up?” James asked, turning to Creed. “You just called her ‘honey.’”
Creed chuckled. “And she called me Creed Burke.”
“And he calls all females ‘honey.’”
“All I know is what I see,” James said. “You’re not like my parents.”
“Marriage is complicated” was Camille’s reply.
“But not when you’re about to marry our daughter,” Creed said. “Then it’s simple. You be good to her or you deal with us.” He flashed Camille a you-and-me smile. “And we are hell on wheels when we get goin’ on that stew.”