Нора Робертс - The Last Boyfriend

Hope would say perfect, she thought. And she’d be right.

Owen stepped out, a tray of drinks in his hands. Their eyes met, she on the steps, he below. The moment held—romantic, fanciful—and her heart gave that quick flutter.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. “You look amazing.”

“Wait till you see the bride.”

Owen only shook his head, watching the sun play on her highland queen hair. “Amazing.”

“It’s all so beautiful.” She continued down. “Think of this a year ago. It’s hard to believe the changes, what can happen, what can, well, become I guess.”

His eyes stayed steady on hers. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“Justine took the boys to the bride’s side for pictures. I’ll deliver their liquid refreshment.”

He glanced at the tray he carried. Odd, for a minute he’d forgotten it, forgotten the wedding, forgotten the world. “Yeah. Sprite, which Liam claims is the same deal as champagne. The real deal for Mom.”

“And beer for you and your brothers. We’ll be about fifteen minutes more—according to Hope’s scary timetable. Then the photographer will be over to deal with you guys.”

“We’ll be ready. I’ve got the schedule.”

“Of course you do.”

He carried the tray up to the porch, made the beverage transfer. “Seriously amazing,” he added, making her laugh as she hurried away.

He opened the door, stepped inside.

“You know how if Avery had been pregnant I said I’d want to marry her?”

“Jesus, Avery’s pregnant?” Quickly, Ryder grabbed a beer from the tray.

“No.” But now he understood what that odd feeling had been when he’d learned the test kit had been Clare’s. Just a touch of disappointment.

“The thing is, I realized a minute ago—I didn’t realize, and now I do.”

“Spit it out,” Ryder advised, “or you’ll screw your own timetable.”

“I just want to marry her.” A little stunned, he looked from Ryder to Beckett and back again. “I want to marry Avery MacTavish.”

“Well. Let’s drink to that.” Beckett took his own beer, then Owen’s, set the tray aside. “Here you go.”

Owen frowned at the beer. “Aren’t you even a little surprised?”

“No. Not even a little.”

“Wait. Wait.” Ryder edged back, eyes narrowed. “You said marry—as in marry ? First Beck, now you?” He gave his beer a suspicious stare. “Is there something in the beer? Some sort of get-married drug? That’s going to piss me off.”

“It’s not in the beer, you dick.” Beckett grinned at Owen. “You should ask her tonight. Asking her at a wedding feels like good luck.”

“I’ve got to work on it.” Owen blew out a breath. “I’ve got to work on the how and when and all that.”

“He’s going to work on it.” Ryder took a pull of his beer. “This’ll be fun.”

Once their part of prewedding photos was done, Rosie gave Clare another embrace. “I’m going to help with the boys, then I’ll bring your father up.”

“About twenty minutes.” Hope held up her phone. “Owen and I are texting, so I’ll know when the photos are finished. Then we’ll know when Beckett and his party go out to The Courtyard.”

“I’ll check with Owen, don’t worry.”

“You’re texting?” Avery said when Rosie went out. “Remember how this was going to be informal?”

“Informal doesn’t mean sloppy. Guests are already arriving, by the way.”

“Countdown.” Avery picked up the champagne. “Anybody else?”

“Not for me,” Clare began, then frowned. “No, a swallow. I think I should have a swallow for luck.”

“A swallow for the bride, and a full glass for the attendants.”

Hope picked up her glass. “To the bride.”

Clare shook her head. “No, to marriage. To the promises, the compromises, the endurance. That’s what I’d like to drink to.”

“To marriage then,” Hope agreed as they touched glasses.

“And to family,” Clare added after a minute sip. “It’s not just marriage, children when you have them, the parents you came from. It’s this, too. It’s the people who make your life whole and rich and steady. You both do that for me.”

“You’re determined to make us cry,” Avery managed.

“I thought I would.” Clare took another tiny sip, then set her glass down. “But I’m feeling very clear-eyed. I thought about Clint last night. A lot about Clint. And I know, absolutely, he’d be glad I found Beckett. That I have Beckett, and the boys have him. Knowing that makes me happy. And all I want to do now is walk out to The Courtyard, walk to Beckett and the boys, carrying this one,” she said, pressing a hand to her belly. “And make those promises.

“Then I’m going to dance with my husband and our sons.”

“After I touch up your lipstick,” Hope declared.

While Hope fussed, Avery wandered onto the porch. A minute alone, she thought. Just a minute.

But she heard the porch door open, glanced down toward Elizabeth and Darcy. She had company after all. And, she decided, that was fine.

“I can’t figure it out. I’m not sad, but I don’t know if happy’s the word. For Clare, yes. Ecstatic for Clare. But otherwise, I’m somewhere between. I just wonder how it works, you know? I look at her, and I see she’s so sure, not at all nervous, no questions or doubts. What’s it like to feel that way? How do you get to that point?”

She looked over to Vesta, then down Main Street to Turn The Page. That she understood—that commitment, that endurance. But what flipped the switch inside to let someone take those steps for and with another person?

“Doesn’t matter. It’s not about me. It’s a happy day. It’s Clare’s day.”

She turned to go in, saw something on the table between the doors. Frowning, she walked over, picked up a small stone. It was smooth as a cobble, shaped like a heart. It sat in the cup of her hand as she stared at the initials carved in its center.

L. F.B. R.

“Lizzy Ford. ‘B’ for Billy? It must be.” Heart drumming, she looked over. The door remained open, that summer scent fragile as petals.

“Did he give this to you? Billy? He must have. And it . . . endured. But how? How am I holding it right here, right now? How can—”

“Avery!” Hope called out. “Countdown.”

“It’s Clare’s day,” she repeated as she closed the little stone in her hand. “I can’t show them now, but I’ll get it to Owen. I promise.” She laid the hand holding the stone on her heart. “I promise,” she said again.

“Avery!”

“One second!” She hurried in, went straight to her purse. “Lipstick.” She tucked the stone safely inside, wondered if it would be there when she came back.

As the sun slid toward the western hills, she watched her friends marry, heard their promises to each other, to the children that formed their family, saw the rings they exchanged glint—another promise—in the soft sparkle of light.

Joy, simple and huge, just flowed from them, she realized, in a slow, warm river. She felt it rise in her as well, something lovely and real, steady and strong.

The tears that swam into her eyes were of that joy when they moved together in their first kiss as husband and wife.

Then there were hugs, applause, music. Owen took her hand, led her down the aisle formed by chairs to The Lobby door. More hugs, a few tears, then laughter as Murphy announced, loudly, firmly, he had to pee, right now .

“Pee first, then pictures,” Hope announced. “Bride, groom, wedding party and family. Then Clare, Beckett, and the boys, then Clare and Beckett.” She glanced at the photographer. “Forty-five minutes. That would keep us on the mark.”