doubt me?”
“You, no.” Blythe shook her head. “Barclay, yes. So far he’s managed to give credit for everything you’ve accomplished to someone else. All the while, he’s got you living on the property as a full-time caretaker while paying you minimum wage by claiming he’s covering your wages with room and board.”
Sammi waved that all aside with a flick of her hand. She’d explained plenty of times that while Mr. Barclay had shared the credit for those improvements she’d implemented, he’d still thanked her personally. And though it hadn’t been her idea to take room and board instead of a salary, Mr. Barclay’s reasons were sound. After all, any cash she made was like a red flag waving high over the town, just daring her mama to come sashaying in with her hand out. And Sammi did owe Mr. Barclay for paying for college, at least for the part that her scholarship hadn’t covered.
Blythe unknotted her hair, letting it fall to her shoulders. As she fluffed it around her face, her eyes met Sammi’s in the mirror.
“I suppose the RSVPs are coming in,” she asked, her voice so casual it was an instant tip-off.
“They are and she’s not,” Sammi said, her voice as tight as the knot in her stomach. Buying time, she rummaged through a tackle box labeled Bridesmaids until she found a new comb to give Blythe.
“You’re really going to get married without Cora Mae?”
“Well, I graduated high school without her. And college. Why should getting married be any different?” Sammi shoved her fingers into her hair, but they got stuck in the fancy French twist. Glad for the distraction, she started tugging hairpin after hairpin loose.
“Is she not coming because she objects to who you’re marrying? Or because you don’t want her there?”
Not want her there?
Sometimes it felt as if Sammi had spent her entire life wishing her mother would be there, really be there.
Like when she’d found herself home alone at ten when her mother took off for a week in Vegas with a guy named Spike.
Or at eleven when she’d been so excited to play an angel in the holiday show and had stood there on stage, waiting and watching the audience with her hopes high. Only to walk home alone with her tinsel wings drooping to find that Cora Mae had found herself a new beau when he’d stopped in at the Quickie Mart where she worked for cigarettes, and simply hadn’t been able to tear herself away.
At thirteen, Sammi had given negative attention a try, getting into fights and ditching class. But after Cora Mae had skipped four meetings with the principal in a row, she’d had to accept that even that wouldn’t work.
At sixteen, she’d told herself she didn’t care anymore. She’d gotten a housekeeping job at the Barclay Inn and, with Mr. Barclay’s help, she’d had herself declared emancipated. She’d left the trailer park, and her mother, behind. At least, that’s what she’d told herself.
Except some sad part of her buried deep in her heart kept wishing otherwise. It was easy enough to ignore most of the time. It was just the occasional event, like Mother’s Day, Christmas morning—or whenever that cheap beer commercial played on TV—that her heart ached a little.
But no amount of aching was going to change anything.
“Sammi?” Her hair fluffed around her face like static-charged fur, Blythe pointed the comb. “What’s the deal? Why isn’t Cora Mae coming?”
“Mr. Barclay put his foot down.” Leaving her own hair still tangled with the couple of hairpins she hadn’t found yet, Sammi hit the tackle box again, this time for a bottle of hair serum. She dabbed about a half-drop on the palm of one hand, then rubbed both together before smoothing them over Blythe’s head. As her fingers slid through, separating the curls and taming the frizz, she met her oldest friend’s gaze in the mirror. “He was right to ban her, wasn’t he? I mean, she’d be a nightmare. You know how she is.”
“She is a nightmare,” Blythe agreed quietly, her eyes dark with sympathy. “She’d probably get drunk and dance on the tables, fall into the cake and hit on the minister.”
It shouldn’t be funny, but Sammi’s lips still twitched at the image. She gave Blythe’s hair a final smooth, then sighed and started searching for her hairpins again. Blythe found them faster.
“Still, it should be your choice,” Blythe said, handing Sammi the comb.
But by not having to make the choice, she avoided the guilt of not wanting her mother at her wedding, dancing drunk on the tables with the minister. Was that so wrong?
“Why would anyone object to my marrying Sterling?” she asked instead of answering, focusing on Blythe’s earlier comment.
“You are kidding, right?” Blythe snorted. “Bless her heart, your mama probably figures that she has more reasons than a dog has fleas for hatin’ on the idea of you marrying a Barclay.”
Sammi didn’t need to see Blythe’s face to know that dislike for Sterling Barclay and the fact that grass grew green were about the only things she’d ever agree with Cora Mae about.
“That’s ridiculous. Sterling is a great catch. Everyone says so. He’s handsome and cultured. He’s intelligent and well-read and ambitious.” Sammi’s stomach tightened as she searched for more and came up blank. Then she caught the look on her best friend’s face.
“What?” Sammi’s stomach tightened again.
“Just, well, there are rumors going around again. I’m not saying it’s true or anything, but there’s talk that Sterling has been seen with one of the waitresses at Longhorn’s.”
Sammi had to swallow hard to get past the knot in her throat. It wasn’t as if she and Sterling were a love match, or even marrying for hot, wild passion. But that didn’t mean he’d cheat on her, did it?
Her fingers clenched and unclenched as if she could grab the dots dancing in front of her eyes and squeeze them into oblivion, but after a couple of seconds, Sammi was back in control enough to see the expression on Blythe’s face.
Her spine immediately stiffened.
Best friend or not, the last thing Sammi wanted was pity.
“Oh, that,” she said with as airy a laugh as she could manage. “It’s nothing.”
“Sammi—”
“Did you want to look at the jewelry choices before the others get here?” Sammi interrupted. “I want you to have first pick.”
As if they’d been waiting for their cue, the door sprung open and with it, three women bounced into the room. She welcomed them with a grateful smile. She’d deal with wondering about Sterling and the waitress later. Right now, she had friends to greet.
And greet, they did, with their usual laughter, hugs and exaggerated air kisses. She’d roomed with Amy and Mia when they were at the University of Texas in El Paso, and had met Clara when she’d come to visit her sister Mia. She’d always be grateful to them, not only for helping her adjust to college life but because, thanks to them, she’d managed to develop a sheen of sophistication. Granted, her sheen was only surface
