manage to make that sexy,” he said with a grin.
Norah Ingalls, single mother of drooling, teething triplets, sexy? LOL. Ha. That was a scream. She giggled again and he tipped up her face and looked into her eyes.
Kiss me, you fool, she thought. You Fabio. You secret service agent. But his gaze was soft on her, not full of lascivious intent. Darn.
That was when he suggested they sit, gestured at the maple tree, then put the hundred in the lockbox and took the bowl over to their spot. She carried their cups.
“Have more punch,” she said, ladling him a cup. And another. And another. He told her stories from his childhood, mostly about an old falling-down ranch on a hundred acres, but she wasn’t sure what was true and what wasn’t. She told him about her dad, who’d been her biggest champion. She told him the secret recipe for her mother’s chicken pot pie, which was so renowned in Wedlock Creek and surrounding towns that the Gazette had done an article on her family’s pie diner. She told him everything but the most vital truth about herself.
Tonight, Norah was a woman out having fun at the annual carnival, allowing herself for just pumpkin-hours to bask in the attention of a good-looking, sexy man who was sweet and smart and funny as hell. At midnight—well, 11:00 p.m. when the carnival closed—she’d turn back into herself. A woman who didn’t talk to hot, single men.
“What do you think the punch is spiked with?” she asked as he fed her a cold french fry and poured her another cup.
He ran two fingers gently down the side of her cheek. “I don’t know, but it sure is nice to forget myself, just for a night when I’m not on duty.”
Duty? Oh, right, she thought. He was a secret service agent. She giggled, then sobered for a second, a poke of real life jabbing at her from somewhere.
Now the first booms of the fireworks were coming fast and there were cheers and claps in the distance, but they couldn’t see the show from their spot.
“Let’s go see!” she said, taking his hand to pull him up.
But Fabio’s expression had changed. He seemed lost in thought, far away.
“Fabio?” she asked, trying to think through the haze. “You okay?”
He downed another cup of punch. “Those were fireworks,” he said, color coming back into his face. “Not gunfire.”
She laughed. “Gunfire? In Wedlock Creek? There’s no hunting within town limits because of the tourism and there hasn’t been a murder in over seventy years. Plus, if you crane your neck, you can see a bit of the fireworks past the trees.”
He craned that beautiful neck, his shoulder leaning against hers. “Okay. Let’s go see.”
They walked hand in hand to the chapel, but by the time they got there—a few missed turns on the path due to their tipsiness—the fireworks display was over. The small group setting them off had already left the dock, folks clearing away back to the festival.
The Wedlock Creek chapel was all lit up, the river behind it illuminated by the glow of the almost full moon.
“I always dreamed of getting married here,” she said, gazing up at the beautiful white-clapboard building, which looked a bit like a wedding cake. It had a vintage Victorian look with scallops on the upper tiers and a bell at the top that almost looked like a heart. According to town legend, those who married here would—whether through marriage, adoption, luck, science or happenstance—be blessed with multiples: twins or triplets or even quadruplets. So far, no quintuplets. The town and county was packed with multiples of those who’d gotten married at the chapel, proof the legend was true.
For some people, like Norah, you could have triplets and not have stepped foot in the chapel. Back when she’d first found out she was pregnant, before she’d told the baby’s father, she’d fantasized about getting married at the chapel, that maybe they’d get lucky and have multiples even if it was “after the fact.” One baby would be blessing enough. Two, three, even four—Norah loved babies and had always wanted a houseful. But the guy who’d gotten her pregnant, in town on the rodeo circuit, had said, “Sorry, I didn’t sign up for that,” and left town before his next event. She’d never seen him again.
She stared at the chapel, so pretty in the moonlight, real life jabbing her in the heart again. Where is that punch bowl? she wondered.
“You always wanted to marry here? Then let’s get married,” Fabio said, scooping her up and carrying her into the chapel.
Her laughter floated on the summer evening breeze. “But we’re three sheets to the wind, as my daddy used to say.”
“That’s the only way I’d get hitched,” he said, slurring the words.
“Lead the way, cowboy.” She let her head drop back.
Annie Potterowski, the elderly chapel caretaker, local lore lecturer and wedding officiant, poked her head out of the back room. She stared at Norah for a moment, then her gaze moved up to Fabio’s handsome face. “Ah, Detective Barelli! Nice to see you again.”
“You know Fabio?” Norah asked, confused. Or was his first name really Detective?
“I ran into the chief when he was showing Detective Barelli around town,” Annie said. “The chief’s my second cousin on my mother’s side.”
Say that five times fast, Norah thought, her head beginning to spin.
And Annie knew her fantasy man. Her fantasy groom! Isn’t that something, Norah thought, her mind going in ten directions. Suddenly the faces of her triplets pushed into the forefront of her brain and she frowned. Her babies! She should be getting home. Except she felt so good in his arms, being carried like she was someone’s love, someone’s bride-to-be.
Annie’s husband, Abe, came out, his blue bow tie a bit crooked. He straightened it. “We’ve married sixteen couples tonight. One pair came as far as Texas to get hitched here.”
“We’re here to be the seventeenth,” Fabio said, his arm heavy around Norah’s.
“Aren’t you a saint!” Annie said, beaming at him. “Oh, Norah, I’m so happy for you.”
Saint Fabio, Norah thought and burst into laughter. “Want to know a secret?” Norah whispered into her impending husband’s ear as he set her on the red velvet carpet that created an aisle to the altar.
“Yes,” he said.
“My name isn’t really Angelina. It’s Norah. With an h.”
He smiled. “Mine’s not Fabio. It’s Reed. Two e’s.” He staggered a bit.
The man was as tipsy as she was.
“I never thought I’d marry a secret service agent,” she said as they headed down the aisle to the “Wedding March.”
“And we could use all your frequent flyer miles for our honeymoon,” Reed added, and they burst into laughter.
“Sign here, folks,” Annie said as they stood at the altar. The woman pointed to the marriage
