Verena Forester turned out to be a tall, fortyish woman with gray streaks in her once dark hair and a sour expression on her narrow face. Marianne introduced herself and explained what she needed.
“A wedding dress,” the dressmaker said, her tone disapproving. “By tomorrow.” She sniffed and cast an accusing look at Marianne’s waistline. “Some reason you’re in such a hurry?”
“Well, yes, there is a reason, but it is a legal matter, not a physical one.”
“Hmm.” The dressmaker sounded unconvinced. “What kind of wedding dress did you have in mind for a hurry-up ceremony that’s going to happen just twenty-four hours from now?”
Marianne bit her lip. “A very simple one. No fancy flounces or bustles or—”
“You mean plain,” Verena inserted.
“Oh, not too plain,” Marianne said. “I’d like it to be attractive, but I would also like it to be useful later on, something I can wear after the wedding. I am a businesswoman, you see, and—”
“Come with me,” Verena snapped. She led the way to the tall shelves along the wall where bolts of fabric were stacked up as high as the ceiling. “Pale green lawn, perhaps?” She pointed to a bolt halfway up the stack. “That’d go nice with your dark hair, Miss.”
Marianne shook her head. Lawn was so light and summery. It wouldn’t do for year-round wear.
“Then there’s that pale green peau de soie up there next to it. Bring out your eyes. You havin’ a reception?”
Marianne blinked. “Why, no, we’re not. My fiancé and I are new in Smoke River. We don’t know anyone in town.”
The dressmaker pinned her with beady eyes. “That’s too bad, Miss. This here’s a real friendly town.”
“I’m sure it is, Miss Forester. But you see, as I explained before, we are in somewhat of a hurry. Arranging for a wedding reception takes time, and—”
“So?” Verena’s thick eyebrows went up.
She gulped. Were people in small towns like this always so nosy? She didn’t want to confide everything about Lance and herself to a perfect stranger, at least not within her first twenty-four hours in Smoke River. Especially since she was beginning to feel just a tad frightened at the prospect now staring her in the face, getting married to a man she didn’t know all that well and then taking on her inherited business establishment, which was still a mystery.
At the moment, Marianne admitted, she was most nervous about the getting married part. Somehow when she was back in St. Louis it had all seemed like a perfectly straightforward matter; she would get married and then she could claim her inheritance. But now that it was actually right around the corner, she was...well, terrified.
The dressmaker poked a bony forefinger at a fat bolt of fabric at eye level. “How about a nice practical—”
“Yellow gingham,” Marianne finished. “Yes, that one.” She pointed at the bolt. “Gingham will get lots more wear than a fancy silk or a sheer lawn.”
Verena sniffed again, manhandled the bolt of yellow gingham onto the counter and flipped out her tape measure. “Twenty-four hours, you say?”
“Y-yes. Can you do that?”
The dressmaker’s thin face broke into a grin. “You just watch me, Miss, I am the best dressmaker in the county. I have accomplished miracles before, and I can certainly do so again.”
“Oh, I have no doubt—”
“Now,” Verena ordered, “raise your arms so I can take your measurements.”
* * *
Lance paced up and down in front of Ness’s Mercantile, past bushel baskets of ripe peaches and apricots, crates of apples and burlap sacks bulging with potatoes. Inside, the air smelled enticingly of lavender. Lavender? This must be the only mercantile in the world that didn’t smell of pickles or coffee beans or aged cheese. Then he noticed beribboned bundles of the fragrant herb hanging from a rafter.
The store had neatly arranged aisles with displays of garden rakes and boys’ leather boots, even a rack of flower seeds. Fat glass jars of caramels and lemon drops and jelly beans lined one shelf.
The proprietor looked up from the newspaper spread on the wooden counter and surveyed him with a scowl.
“Good morning,” Lance said. “My name is Lawrence Burnside, I just arrived in town yesterday from St. Louis, and I’m looking for a new shirt and a church.”
The man, owner Carl Ness, jerked his head to the left. “Gents’ shirts are down that aisle,” he said shortly. “And we only got one church in town.”
Lance stared at the mercantile owner’s face. “Smoke River has just one church? What denomination is it?”
Ness frowned. “Look, mister...Burnside, is it? This ain’t a big city like St. Louis. Here we got the Smoke River Community Church and that’s it. Suited Smoke River folks for the last forty years. Doesn’t really have a ‘denomination’ so to speak.”
“Do they marry people, Mr. Ness?”
“Well, whaddya think, son? How else are people out here gonna get hitched?”
Lance grunted. “Yeah, I see what you mean.”
“You gettin’ yourself married, are ya?”
“Yes, Mr. Ness, I am. Tomorrow, in fact.”
The mercantile owner gave him an assessing look. “You know this girl for a long time?”
“About four years,” Lance said.
“How long you been engaged?”
Lance blinked. “Um...four days.”
Carl Ness slapped his palm down on the counter. “Four days? Son, are you crazy? That’s not even long enough to learn a gal’s middle name.”
Lance took a step back and nervously ran his fingers through the hair flopping into his eyes. Well, that much was true. He had no idea what Marianne’s middle name might be. Adelaide? Nah, too old-maidish. Samantha? Too fussy. What about Euphemia? Nope. Too fancy.
“Look, Mr. Ness, all I need is a shirt so I can get married tomorrow.”
The proprietor rolled his eyes, but the frown went away and his eyes lit up. “Second aisle, next to the fly swatters.”
Lance chose a long-sleeved blue chambray shirt with white pearl buttons on the cuffs and added a tan leather vest with two pockets and a secret one on the inside. When Lance reached the counter, Mr. Ness had another question for him.
“You got a wedding ring?”
He stared at the paunchy man behind the cash register. A wedding ring? Heck, no, he didn’t have a wedding ring. Until four days ago he’d never had a single thought about a wedding, or a wedding
