The Secret Wedding Dress

“I’m taking a break. Rianne Mercer has been over here helping me make the Sunday school snack.”

“You’re feeding Mercer’s daughter, right? The kid from next door? For a minute there, I thought you meant you were entertaining Mr. Sexy himself.”

Warning bells sounded in Sylvie’s head, but she couldn’t resist inquiring, “That description came from where, Dory?”

“From everybody who saw him in town this morning. Plus, I ran into Kay Waller at lunch. She agreed. Apparently she got a look at him while she was at your house for a fitting. She said you told her the guy has a wife. Hmm, funny, other people say Mercer only ever mentions his daughter. Kay and I think you should ask him outright about his marital status. If he’s divorced, it gives you the perfect opening to invite him to Kay’s wedding this Saturday.”

“Why would I do that, Dory? He doesn’t even know Dave or Kay.”

“For one thing, it shows your intent to stake your claim. For another, you wouldn’t be the only unattached female at the wedding dance. Kay and I feel—”

“What? I can’t believe you two—”

“We’re thinking of you, Sylvie. You need a life.”

“Dory, I have a life. And I’ll thank you to butt out of it.” She’d spoken so sharply, Sylvie felt Joel Mercer’s eyes boring into her back. Hunching her shoulders, she tried to step around the corner into the hall for some privacy. It was harder to ignore the tic of irritation that began to hammer insistently behind her eyes. “Look, Dory, I know you guys are sincere. But I guess you haven’t talked with Carline since yesterday. I already have a date for the wedding.”

“No kidding? You sly dog. Who?”

“Uh, Buddy Deaver.” Sylvie almost dropped the phone because Dory screamed in her ear.

“Tell me this is a joke! I know his family has money and all, but Sylvie, he’s a loser with a capital L.”

The tic turned into a dull pounding at the base of Sylvie’s skull.

“No one in the world is as boring as Buddy,” her sister wailed. “Not only that, he’s two full years younger than me, which makes him three years younger than you. People will think you’re desperate, Syl.”

“Carline said he graduated in your class.”

“He did. He’s a nerd who got bumped up two grades.”

Sylvie’s heart dived to her toes, but she wasn’t about to give ground to her sister, especially after Dory had been the one to foist Chet off on her. “Look on the bright side, Dory. It’s become the thing to date younger men.” She ended the call before her sister could do more than sputter. Turning as she started to hang up the phone, Sylvie walked squarely into Joel Mercer. She felt a wave of heat emanating from his body and blindly aimed the receiver at the hook on the wall phone, but missed twice.

Eyeing her curiously, Joel plucked the receiver from her limp grip and dropped it into place. “That was my sister,” she offered lamely.

“I gathered. Is everything all right?”

“Fine. Everything’s fine.” Sylvie shivered, stepped back and rubbed her bare upper arms.

“Okay, then. It’s getting late, so Rianne and I will be on our way after she thanks you. We should hurry—she has to go to the bathroom.” He grinned crookedly. “I’m embarrassed to admit I already polished off every cookie on the plate.”

Releasing a hand she’d clamped around her arm for stability, Sylvie waved down the hall. “Don’t make her walk all the way home for that. Rianne, honey, I have two bathrooms. The main one is down the hall, second door on your left. The other’s between the two rooms on your right. That’s for my guest bedrooms. And…uh…my sewing room.”

“No need to trouble you.” Joel might as well have saved his breath. His daughter sailed past him, headed down the hall at a dead run.

“Poor kid,” Sylvie murmured. “She had a glass of water earlier, and that huge glass of milk with the cookies. I should’ve pointed out the location of the bathrooms earlier.”

“She’s not shy. She could’ve asked.”

“At that age, ask a near stranger? Get outta here! Girls her age would burst rather than do that.”

The look crossing Joel’s face was one of pure horror. “Why are girls so difficult?” he muttered.

“You think she’s difficult at…what—six, seven? Wait until she reaches the dreaded teens.”