minutes later, the four men walked across French River’s main street.
“Now where?” Shea asked.
“We’re meeting the girls for coffee. We’re supposed to pick them up at the dress shop by the bank.”
“Don’t call them ‘girls,’” Shea advised him. “They don’t like that.”
“Megan and Katie are girls,” Tate disputed.
“Yeah, but don’t lump the women in with the girls. It gets you in trouble every time.”
Tate and Mike stopped short. Shea’s observation was clearly a commentary on the woman in San Francisco he consistently refused to talk about. “And how do you know this?” Tate asked.
“Experience.”
“With whom?”
“Doesn’t matter, just trust me.”
Tate met Mike’s eyes with a grin. “Thought I had him that time.”
Mike slapped Shea on the shoulder. “Someday she’s going to come looking for him, and we’ll see her for ourselves.”
Shea laughed scornfully. “Her last words to me consigned me to hell. I don’t think she’ll be dropping by any time soon.”
VERONICA STARED at her reflection in astonishment. She could hear giggles and playful banter as Colette helped her daughters into matching yellow organdy dresses in one dressing room. In another, Rachel, who’d been declared mother-of-the-bride for the occasion, was trying on a soft green chiffon with pleats.
But in this narrow cubicle with a mirror and an empty hanger dangling on a hook, Veronica looked at a total stranger—herself.
For twelve years, she’d worn the simple blue jumper, white shirt and blue veil of the Sisters of Faith and Charity. Then in the six months she’d been out of the convent, she’d taught an English-as-a-second-language class in two very plain suits, both navy blue, that had been given to her by the St. Vincent de Paul Society. When she’d moved to French River, she’d bought a few functional clothes at the thrift shop.
It was exciting to see herself in yellow. The dress was the chiffon Colette had insisted they didn’t want, until Tate had changed her mind for her. It had a simple round neck, a short, flirty, three-layered sleeve, a.nipped-in waist emphasized by appliqued flowers with seed-pearl centers and a full tea-length skirt.
The style flattered her tall, slender figure. And the color lent an apricot glow to her completion and a sparkle to her brown eyes.
But something had to be done about her hair. She tugged at the short do that skimmed her eyebrows and her earlobes, then lay in a simple, masculine cut in the back. Under a veil it had never mattered, but now she thought it shattered her fragile aura of femininity.
She heard Colette and the girls leave the dressing room and go into the shop to look in the big mirrors.
“How’re you doing, Rachel?” Colette called.
“I’m coming,” Rachel replied. “Looking like a very large grape leaf, but I’m coming.”
Veronica continued to stare at herself. It wasn’t vanity, but a sort of fascination. Not that she’d be wearing yellow chiffon every day, but this was the woman she could be when the occasion warranted. It amazed her.
“Vee?” Colette again.
“Coming,” she called back, fluffing her skirt and combing her fingers through her hair in a vain attempt to give it a little height.
The first people she noticed when she walked into the shop were Colette’s daughters, standing together in front of the large mirror, looking like an Anne Geddes photograph. Their flat little torsos emerged from bouffant yellow skirts like the pistils in a lily. Megan, the eight-year-old, had rumpled braids, and Katie, seven, had a disheveled ponytail, though Veronica had been there half an hour ago when Colette had brushed it.
Veronica rushed forward to wrap her arms around them. Even when she’d finally realized she’d entered the convent for all the wrong reasons, she’d stayed because of the children constantly crowded around her.
“You are so beautiful!” she told the girls. “Oh, and you, too, Aunt Rachel.” Rachel stood to the side, fussing with the sash at her hips. She looked lovely, the dropped waist concealing her slight plumpness.
“But look at Mommy!” Megan said, pointing to the other side, where Colette stood.
She’d chosen a simple, fitted dress with a straight skirt of ecru lace. It was set off by a veiled pillbox hat perched atop her red hair, which was coiled into an elegant twist.
“You look like a magazine cover!” Veronica said.
“Well, look at you!” Colette exclaimed, then said to someone behind Veronica, “Isn’t this color perfect for her?”
Veronica turned, expecting to see the clerk who’d helped them make their selections. Instead she faced four watchful males, studying her with varying levels of interest.
Armand smiled at her with fatherly indulgence. “The bride will have competition for everyone’s attention,” he said with Old World gallantry.
Tate’s expression was fraternal as he moved across the room to put an arm around Colette. “If I didn’t have eyes only for this woman, I’d find out what you were doing after the wedding.”
The other man, who must be Shea, seemed stricken. “I know a woman who wore that color all the time.” He sighed, then seemed to pull himself together. “It looks even more wonderful on a brunette.”
Mike heard Tate say, “Aha! Now we know you’re carrying that torch for a blonde or a redhead.” But he was too distracted to join in the banter that followed.
The only thing on his mind was how much more difficult his life was going to be with Veronica around. She was beautiful. And though he’d briefly held that trim body in his arms, he hadn’t realized just how perfect it was.
Feelings he’d thought long dead weren’t dead at all. They were asleep. And waking up.
It wasn’t simply lust. That would be easy enough to deal with. This was interest...longing. Lust with depth and complications. He wanted to touch her, but he wanted to know her, too. What had sent her into a convent? What had brought her out again?
She’d been a nun. He’d seen things she probably couldn’t even imagine in her worst nightmares.
No. If he got to know her, she’d get to know him, and that might not be a good experience. It had certainly sent Lita, the last woman in his life, running in the opposite direction.
Anyway, he didn’t want anyone that close right now. He wasn’t ready. He might never be ready.
Katie came to take his hand, and smiled up at him, all freckles and sparkle. “Don’t you think she’s pretty, Uncle Mike?”
He couldn’t lie to a child or to a former woman of the cloth. “I think she’s beautiful, Katie,”
