face, that same stranger’s image kept intruding.
Adam Carmichael was the kind of guy any woman would think about, she consoled herself. Those broad shoulders, those strong hands that had steadied her…At first, Casey had thought his eyes an arctic blue, but when he kissed her, they’d glinted a warmer azure color. Most of the time he’d looked tense, with a furrow in his brow that told her the tension might be habitual.
When Casey opened her eyes, Adam stood in her line of vision, next to the camera she wasn’t supposed to be looking at. He was looking right at her, frowning again. She couldn’t see that furrow, but she knew it would be there. She guessed he might be worrying about her, and her delusions of romance.
She mustered a reassuring smile—I’m not going to fall apart—and waggled her fingers at him. He waved back, but it was a brief, tense movement.
A production assistant clipped a microphone to her dress, obscuring Casey’s view of Adam. When the assistant stepped aside, he was gone. A peculiar loneliness made her chest ache.
Then someone was counting down. Sally Summers, the show’s host, looked in the mirror one last time and…they were on air. It took all Casey’s willpower not to flee the set as Sally began her introduction. The words passed Casey by, but she was jerked back to reality when Sally came over to interview Trisha from Truberg.
“Trisha, how long have you and Martin been dating?”
Five years, Trisha told Sally. They’d been engaged for three, and their families still couldn’t agree on a wedding date.
After the interview, a drumroll rounded to a crescendo, then Sally called Martin Blake to the set. He emerged from backstage to the strains of “Here Comes the Bride,” and the audience applauded on cue. Martin did a double take, but to Casey’s relief—maybe this won’t be so bad—he got over his initial shock.
Sally explained he could marry Trisha right now. The deputy clerk of Shelby County Court would issue a marriage license and a minister would perform the ceremony. Then Martin and Trisha would head off on a luxury honeymoon.
Martin scratched his head. “Now? Tonight?”
Sally repeated the offer, this time stressing that the honeymoon was all-expensespaid.
“Just think, baby,” Trisha coaxed him, “no more arguing with your mom about the wedding.” She giggled as she darted a look at the camera. “Oops, sorry, Mrs. Blake.”
Maybe that was the clincher, because Martin said, “You’re right, hon, let’s do it.” Trisha squealed with delight. The marriage license was completed during the commercial break, and when they were back on air, the minister stepped up. Five minutes later, Trisha had her wish.
“That went okay,” Casey murmured, as the audience clapped. Brodie-Ann didn’t reply. She appeared frozen in her seat, as if she’d only just realized what tonight was all about.
After the next commercial break, Sally introduced Brodie-Ann to the audience and invited her to tell everyone about Steve.
“He’s the most wonderful guy I ever met,” she said, the quaver in her voice barely discernible. “We haven’t been together long, but I adore everything about him. I know he’s the one.”
The audience oohed appreciatively.
Casey felt a twinge of envy. She couldn’t remember ever loving Joe like that.
Then it was Steve’s turn to come on stage. He was a smart guy; it took him only half a second to realize what “Here Comes the Bride” and Brodie-Ann in a long white dress meant. A huge grin split his face. He stepped right up to her, went down on one knee and said, “Sweetheart, will you marry me?”
The crowd went wild—and they did again when, at the end of the brief ceremony, Steve and Brodie-Ann shared a kiss that raised the temperature in the studio by several degrees. Then the new Mr. and Mrs. Pemberton joined Trisha and her husband on the studio couch.
“TELL ME THIS ISN’T CRAP,” Adam demanded of his good friend Dave Dubois, who was standing next to him at the back of the control room. As a freelance programming consultant, Dave occasionally worked with Channel Eight. He hadn’t been involved with this show. But he was keen to see it. In front of them, the show’s director focused intently on a wide, multi-window screen. The footage currently being broadcast played out in the large center window. Smaller windows around it displayed feeds from the other cameras. Adam could see Casey, the last bride, in one of those windows.
“It sure isn’t your normal kind of show.” Dave’s response lacked the contempt Adam would have welcomed.
“It’s no one’s normal kind of show. It’s my cousin Henry’s kind of show.”
The director said into his headset, “Ready, two, with a close-up on bride three. Standby mics and cue.” Camera two obediently zoomed in on Casey, ready for her to take center screen. Her jaw appeared to be clenched so tightly she risked breaking a tooth.
“Look.” Dave pointed to the image feed from camera three. The studio audience was apparently enthralled by the whole tacky proceedings. To Adam’s irritation, his friend evaded the opportunity to savage Henry, settling for an ambiguous, “You’re still the boss around here, right?”
“If you mean does my charming family still see me as the bad guy, you bet. If you mean does fear of me stop Henry creating idiotic new shows while I’m out of town…”
“Hmm,” Dave said. “Any progress on the legal front?”
Just what Adam wanted to think about right now. He sent his friend a withering look.
Dave said hastily, “Y’know, this show’s not bad. And the reality market is still booming, no matter what the doom-sayers predict.”
If he’d intended to distract Adam from thoughts of the lawsuit that Henry and his mother had instigated against Adam, he’d picked the wrong topic. Adam fixed him with a black look.
“Okay, so it’s not the last word in good taste,” Dave admitted. “But it’s got pretty women—that third bride is a real babe. It’s got romance and happy endings. Though I do think something’s missing.”
“A dancing girl bearing Henry’s head on a platter?”
Dave gave the suggestion due consideration. “You’re on the right track. The whole thing needs more tension. More drama.”
ANOTHER COMMERCIAL BREAK, then they were back on air. Casey licked her dry lips, feeling very alone at center stage. She looked around for Adam, but couldn’t find him.
“Folks, this is Casey Greene. She’s come all the way from Parkvale for today’s show,” Sally announced.
The crowd cheered, expecting great things from another Parkvale girl.
“Casey is twenty-five. She’s a journalist and a psychology student, and she wants to be a novelist,” Sally continued. “What do you want to write, Casey?”
“Books,” she answered numbly.
“And your fiancé is Joe Elliott,” Sally added brightly. “Tell us about you and Joe.”
