Arlene James - The Perfect Wedding

“Mrs. Ogilvy,” Layne said, striding forward. “Jennifer. Did we decide on the ribbons?”

“And the shoes!” Mrs. Ogilvy announced proudly, as if they’d made great strides.

Layne suppressed a smile and invited them both to the table. “I’ll just get my books,” she said, moving toward the desk in the far corner behind the potted ferns.

Only 2001 more details to go, she mused silently.

No, Rod Corley wouldn’t be back. He’d take a good look at that planner she’d given him, listen to Dedrah and opt for a simpler process. Either way, she couldn’t believe they’d be back. She was almost sorry about that, for she’d like to know what was to become of them. On the other hand, maybe it was for the best. She was entirely too intrigued by that man.

She turned back to Mrs. Ogilvy and Jennifer, offering them her brightest smile. “Well,” she said, “let’s get down to business.” In the end, it was always business for her. God seemed to have ordained it so. And yet, she would like to marry and have children of her own one day. She had asked God for a husband and children so many times, but who was she to question the Almighty? He had already blessed her with family and friends and a thriving business that she very much enjoyed. That should be enough. For a child of God, living in His will should be enough.

Why suddenly, after meeting Rod Corley, should she feel such dissatisfaction?

She was going through a floral design book for the third time with poor, harried Mrs. Stapleton and her petulant daughter, Leslie, when he walked through the door with Dedrah, hat in one hand, notebook in the other, exactly as she’d last seen him some forty-eight hours earlier.

The thrill the sight of him brought her was entirely out of proportion with the circumstance, especially since Dedrah March stood beside and slightly behind him, but thrill her he did. She perversely noted that his hair had been carefully parted and combed, that his shirt was fine and crisply pressed, its blue reflected in the starry depth of his eyes, and that his jeans were new and stiff and anchored about his narrow hips with a wide leather belt and palm-size silver buckle bearing the initial C on a bed of black onyx. Moreover, his boots were black and smooth and freshly polished, and the black felt hat in his hand had a narrow brown band sporting a tiny blue-andyellow feather. Without a doubt, this was Rod Corley turned out in his Sunday best, and if she hadn’t known better, Layne would have thought it was for her.

Hastily she tucked that notion into a small, private compartment in her mind and closed the door on it. Rod Corley was here for one reason and one reason only—to plan a wedding, and weddings were her business. She shifted the look of surprise and pleasure on her face, though she couldn’t know how much of the latter she had given away in that first unguarded moment. Composed and professional, she excused herself from the Stapleton pair and rose to greet the newcomers with outstretched hands.

“Well, hello.”

“Hello.”

Rod reached out with both hands, but as his were filled with hat and notebook, she could do little but lay hers gently atop them before quickly taking hers away again. He smiled at her with something very like relief, a reaction she found wholly incongruous. Her cocked head must have said so, for he cleared his throat and injected a businesslike tone to his voice.

“Have we come at a bad time? You did say—”

She cut him off. “No, no, it’s fine. If you’ii just excuse me a moment, I’ll get some help.” Smiling benignly, she stepped into the front showroom, where a clerk was ringing up a purchase of lace gloves for a couple of teenagers. “Frankie,” Layne said, “could you see to the Stapletons for me?”

The tall, painfully thin Frankie nodded smartly. “Of course.”

“Thank you. Call Angie to come up front, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And bring coffee for Mrs. Stapleton. Leslie may prefer a soft drink.”

“I’ll take care of it right away.”

Satisfied, Layne turned back to the couple waiting in the arched doorway of the consultation room. “Right this way, please.” She led them quickly and swiftly past the Stapletons, who occupied the bamboo table, to the far corner of the room. Screened by a grouping of large ferns in enormous baskets, the area around her desk was suitable for consultation. She used it often when payment was to be made or in the event that two clients were in the shop at the same time for consultation. She indicated two comfortable armchairs beside the small, rolltop desk where she did her accounts. Dedrah chose the farthest one, leaving Rod to fold his long frame into the one situated right next to the desk. Layne sat down in the desk chair, swiveled it to face them and crossed her legs. “How may I help you?”

“We’re ready to start,” Rod said, placing the notebook on the desk and pushing it toward her.

Layne swiveled and opened the cover. Inside she discovered several pages had been filled out in a tight, cramped hand of decidedly masculine origin. She lifted a brow at Rod Corley’s anxious expression. “Very good,” she muttered, settling back to read. “Let’s see what we have here.”

Quickly she scanned the pages, some of it written in pencil, some in pen. In the space indicating the chosen date of the ceremony, he had written in pencil, “Soon as possible.” The groom was evidently anxious. She bit her lip and went over everything again. He might be anxious to have it done, but he obviously wanted it done right, for the ceremony he had mapped out was both formal and elaborate, and there were more than two hundred names on his guest list. Some of the names were those of Duncan’s most prominent citizens, from bank presidents to real estate agents, oilmen and restaurateurs. It was an impressive list, and she found herself murmuring, “Do you actually know all these people?”

“They’re my friends,” he said blankly, “and business associates. Mostly business associates.”

She looked up and smiled, an oblique apology for an insensitive question. “Well, you’ll likely add to it as time goes by,” she said, then dropped her attention to a second list done in an entirely different hand, Dedrah’s no doubt. Less than twenty names comprised Dedrah’s list, and nearly all of them ended with March. There was something pathetic about that, and it just pointed out once more how very implausible this match was. It was on the tip of Layne’s tongue to say so, and she realized with some panic that she must not. She pushed the book away from her, as if pushing away the words she wanted to say, and sent up a frantic prayer. Dear God in heaven, what’s wrong with me? Help me do and say the right things. Her smile was strained when next she lifted her gaze to Rod Corley’s, but it was absolutely the best she could do, and she almost hoped it was not good enough. In that case, he would surely get up and walk out, and she wouldn’t have to help him marry a woman he shouldn’t be marrying. But she was forgetting the child, his child, his and Dedrah’s. She took a deep breath and reminded herself to remain professional.

“Now I have an idea where we’re going,” she said briskly. “The next step is to narrow in on a date. Let’s see what’s going on six to eight months from now.” Leaning forward, she began to flip through her personal calendar, speaking to herself. “Let’s see, the Canons are set for April, the Porters are the eighth, the Cliff/Bicknell nuptials on the fourteenth. The Harpstones have the first weekend in May…Oh, dear.” She looked up at Dedrah and smiled. “How would you like to be a June bride?” The girl turned white beneath that cap of dark hair. Suddenly alarmed, Layne leaned forward. “Dedrah, are you all right?”