she might be able to use the opportunity to catch up on her sex life. It wasn’t shoes, sleepiness or submission to her mother’s will after all, she decided. It was her deprived and complaining libido that had put her in a bad mood.
But what if Will did show up among the missing? Why hadn’t she spent a little time in New York checking out current fashion and then bought some of it? And some decent underwear! She shuddered just thinking about the white cotton bras and panties she bought three to a pack at the Ben Franklin store in Blue Hill, Vermont. This might be her chance to…
“…embark on that ship of love that will sail them to the shores of supreme happiness…”
…and she wasn’t prepared! She cast another glance at the beautiful bridesmaids, the gorgeous groomsmen. These were Will’s type of people. She sighed. She didn’t have a chance.
At least the church was pretty—St. Andrews, favored for weddings by Dallas brides, Cecily’s mother had told her. The early afternoon Texas sun shone through the stained-glass windows, tinting the bridesmaids’ pale shoes petal pink and bathing their sharp-featured faces with a rosy glow. The scent of vetiver-scented soaps and aftershave drifted in Cecily’s direction from the collection of groomsmen, while light, summery perfumes emanated from the bridesmaids, as though to compete with the flowers that would soon fill the church.
It was an exquisite scene, but not a serene one. The chaos continued, even increased in motion and volume. Miss Peach dispatched her army of minions hither and yon. A photographer fiddled with lights and tripods in the balcony overlooking the sanctuary. The good-looking man scribbling on a pad must be a reporter. Sally’s mother stood at the back of the church, wringing her hands. Of course, three members of the wedding party were missing the rehearsal, and Gus—tall, broad-shouldered, as heavily muscled as an ox and at the moment, looking tense—appeared capable of murdering all of them. She hoped Sally hadn’t married the Mob. Cecily supposed that was enough to make a mother of the bride wring her hands.
Listening to the minister drone on, sounding as if even he didn’t believe a word he was saying, she swallowed a yawn of the most graceless magnitude. It was too bad she’d known Sally since they were tiny, adorable babies in breathtakingly expensive dresses, Sally looking like a dark-haired devil, Cecily a blond angel—not that Cecily remembered, but her mother had sent a packet of pictures to jog her memory. It was also too bad that Sally, known to be the wild child in her group of friends—a fact sorrowfully confided by her mother to Cecily’s mother—would suddenly reveal her sentimental streak and invite her first friend rather than her best friend to be her maid of honor.
Even in an unaccustomed fit of sentimentality, how could inviting Cecily to be in the wedding have crossed Sally’s mind? By the time they were five their interests had taken them in different directions—Sally to ballet, Cecily to horseback riding. That, plus the fact that Cecily’s father had moved from Southern Methodist University to Purdue, the first of a string of moves, meant she and Sally hadn’t been close friends since they were five and hadn’t seen each other since they were sixteen.
But through all those moves, Cecily’s mother had never lost a friend. Thus it was embarrassingly possible she had suggested to Sally’s mother that since Sally was dead set on leaving her wild reputation behind when she married Gus, inviting her first friend to be her maid of honor would convey that impression—something the wedding reporter might pick up on.
Cecily had tried saying no, that she couldn’t leave Vermont during calving season. Her mother, who’d joined the Mothers in Support of Offspring Guilt Club upon moving to New York, had called to say weepily, “Don’t you care about anything but cows? Can’t you give a passing thought to your family and—”
“…friends are here to witness their vows and share their happiness as they embark upon…”
A dangerous sea in a rickety boat. That’s what marriage was. But Cecily had capitulated, although she hadn’t been happy about it.
“Do you, Gus Hargrove, take Sally Shipley to be…”
If Will appeared, if he showed even the slightest flicker of interest, she’d take him in a New York minute! As far as she could tell, an available, compatible man didn’t exist in Blue Hill or points nearby. To require the services of a large-animal vet, a man apparently had to be married, preferably a long time, therefore both married and old. She worked so hard that these were the only men she came in contact with—plus Dr. Vaughn, of course, but not only was he older and more married than any of his clients, Maddie Vaughn had become Cecily’s surrogate mother. So the part of the plan that involved having a string of casual lovers had reached desperation point. She hadn’t had a date, much less sex, for three years.
A long, steamy twenty-four hours in Dallas stretched in front of her like an invitation to wild and uninhibited behavior. No one in Blue Hill would ever know that their own Dr. Connaught, respected veterinarian, was a tightly leashed tigress inside.
“I do,” Gus said.
“Instead of the traditional vows, Sally will read a poem she wrote in honor of this, the most important event in her life.”
“Your eyes delight me,” Sally began in a Miss America voice, gazing passionately into Gus’s eyes, which shifted away uneasily. “Your lips excite me,” she continued, and Gus’s mouth tightened. “Your love ignites me…”
Oh, for chrissakes. Sally’s father should have hired somebody to write that poem. Maybe he had. A very bad poet. Mr. Shipley should ask for his money back, because—
“Sorry, sorry, sorry.” The voice came like thunder from the back of the church, and Cecily whirled against an imminent lightning bolt.
“Will!” Sally shrieked. “You’re late, you turkey. Where’s Muffy?”
“She didn’t make it. She’s having the baby. I need help. Fast.”
Mrs. Shipley’s moan was audible from the back of the church.
Cecily felt as if she might moan, too. Eros had shot an arrow straight to her crotch. One look at Will and her heart had dropped to the tips of her unpedicured, possibly not even clean, toenails. God help her, had he ever aged well.
Memories flooded back as he gave Sally a warm hug and Gus a manly slap on the shoulder. That hair, short and tousled now, the silky red-brown of a fine Santa Gertrudis bull. His shoulders had actually broadened and they held up a loose-fitting, short-sleeved white polo shirt that showed off muscled arms and a spectacular tan. Stone-colored pants hung casually off tight buns. The pants had a logo across one pocket. It said Ralph Lauren.
As he talked to Sally, Cecily got a profile view of his eyelashes, as long as the bridesmaids’ skirts. Unlike the groomsmen, his only facial hair was his thick, glossy chestnut eyebrows. Not a fashion victim, even if he was wearing pants with a logo, which she’d forgive.
A shiver ran down her thighs. She felt hot and wet, and swayed rhythmically from a sudden attack of heavy, dreamy lethargy. Here he was, the prize bull of her dreams, and she’d lassoed him too late. He wasn’t merely married, he was about to be a daddy.
She wanted to burst into loud sobs.
“Call the po-po,” chirped the bridesmaid with the perfect navel. Cecily swiveled to stare at her. She’d meant 911, surely.
Will swiveled, too. “I did that already. I’m telling you the baby’s coming right now, in my car, in the church parking lot!” He raised his voice to include everybody in the church.
