darling.” Josie rose on tiptoes to brush a light kiss across his lips. “And some guy Sylvie spotted that she knew.”
“On first glance he looked familiar,” Sylvie clarified. She waved a dismissive hand. “It wasn’t him.”
It couldn’t be Andrew. There was no reason for him to be here.
Still, an uneasy feeling settled over her shoulders and Sylvie found herself scanning for the once-familiar face all the way to her shop.
* * *
Later that day, Dr. Andrew O’Shea wandered into Hill of Beans in downtown Jackson and ordered a coffee. He took the cup of the Ethiopian blend to a table by the window.
It felt strange to be dressed in blue jeans and a polo on a weekday. Back in Boston, Andrew rarely wore jeans. But as he packed for his trip to the land of cowboys and rodeos, he’d tossed in a pair.
The last thing he wanted was to stand out. His plan was to remain inconspicuous until he figured out how best to approach Sylvie.
Andrew had thought about simply popping into her shop. He’d already scouted out her location, so that remained an option. But interrupting her during a business day didn’t feel right, and he was a big believer in going with his gut.
Still, he wouldn’t wait much longer. He’d flown in yesterday. This morning he’d eaten at a local café, the Coffee Pot, and planned his strategy. He was past ready to put to bed the tangled emotions he’d carried with him the last few months. Once he got the answers he sought, he’d return to Boston and move on with his life.
When Sylvie had run off shortly before their wedding, he was stunned. He’d called around, but no one seemed to know where she was, but neither were they surprised. Apparently Sylvie had a reputation for being capricious.
Andrew had decided to give her a few days to come back on her own. Before twenty-four hours had passed, his legs were knocked out from under him a second time. He learned a close childhood friend was dying. All the pain of Sylvie’s leaving had been pushed aside while he dealt with a more immediate crisis.
Shortly after his friend passed away, he’d read an article about the Jackson Hole Wine Auction and Food Festival. A local cake artist, Sylvie Thorne, had been featured.
Andrew had discovered she’d relocated to Jackson Hole. He just hadn’t realized how much seeing her smiling face in that magazine would affect him. His world, which had been off its axis since Sylvie’s leaving, had tipped even further. It still hadn’t fully righted itself.
Even if Sylvie’s name hadn’t been mentioned, Andrew liked to think he’d have recognized her work in the full color photograph of the multilayered wedding cake with the fondant skull. Even when they’d been together and she was still developing as a cake artist, she’d had a recognizable style.
He recalled the cake she’d made for his birthday shortly before she left. It had been a three-layer castle—a Spamalot version—with crooked turrets and gargoyles with big toothy grins.
Cradling the mug in his hands, Andrew stared out the window. He now sat only blocks from the place where she created her masterpieces.
He had to admit he wasn’t sure how it was going to feel to finally be face-to-face with his runaway fiancée.
Andrew lifted the strong brew to his lips and took a long sip. One thing was certain—he’d come for answers.
He wasn’t leaving Wyoming without them.
* * *
Sylvie eased the ancient minivan to the curb a block down from Benedict and Poppy Campbell’s home in Spring Gulch. Instead of hopping out, she remained in the vehicle and tried to recall just why she’d accepted an invitation to the backyard barbecue.
She rarely attended dinner parties or barbecues as a guest. But then, she didn’t meet friends at the Coffee Pot Café after church on Sundays, either. Heck, she didn’t even go to book club, though reading was a favorite pastime.
Part of the reason for her reticence had to do with not growing up in a world where people had dinner parties or barbecues. She hadn’t known book clubs even existed. As a child, she hadn’t known anyone who read for pleasure.
Sylvie and her mom had been too busy trying to survive to think about books. Subsisting on groceries bought with food stamps, their “home” had been a run-down apartment courtesy of public housing.
When her mother took off and left her when she was thirteen, Sylvie had discovered that life was even worse in foster care.
She pushed the painful memories aside and reminded herself those times were over and done. When she’d moved to Wyoming, she promised herself no looking back. She’d stuck to her vow.
With the exception of earlier in the week, when she thought she’d seen Andrew on the streets of Jackson. That night, she’d pulled out her engagement ring and done some reminiscing.
Though her heart still ached whenever she thought of him, Sylvie still believed that leaving Andrew had been the right decision.
Keeping his ring, however, had been wrong.
It didn’t matter that the three-carat diamond had been her last connection to him.
It didn’t matter that the ring wasn’t a family heirloom.
It didn’t matter that she had a good reason at the time for taking the piece of jewelry with her. She’d feared Andrew might be so distraught over her leaving him that he might fling the ring, one that had been specially designed for her, off the Longfellow Bridge and into the Charles.
Sylvie closed her eyes briefly. The trip down memory lane had dumped her spirits into the basement. Would it really be so horrible to drive off? No one had seen her. There was still time for a quick getaway.
The only reason she hesitated was that this party was for Josie. Her friend had made it clear she wanted her maid of honor to attend.
Giving in to the inevitable, Sylvie opened the van door. She stepped out, careful not to brush up against the dusty side of “Ethel,” the 1996 Dodge Caravan she’d purchased shortly after arriving in Jackson Hole.
Though some of the light blue paint had peeled and there was a dent in the back from a shopping cart gone wild, the van started like a dream. Once she’d had the seating in the back removed, it had a good-sized cargo area for hauling cakes.
As Sylvie gazed over all the shiny vehicles lining the street in this affluent Jackson Hole subdivision, it struck her that Ethel didn’t fit in here any more than she did.
Sylvie glanced down at her skirt with its orange, red and black diagonal stripes and hesitated. For tonight’s festivities she’d coupled the skirt with gladiator sandals and a black tank. Skin showed from a few inches above her belly-button ring to just below her navel.
This barbecue would bring together the movers and shakers of Jackson Hole. She’d be as out of place here as she’d have been in Andrew’s world.
Coming tonight had been a mistake.
Sylvie was reaching for the door handle when Tim and Cassidy Duggan pulled behind her van in
