Kristine Rolofson - The Husband Project

Aurora, enigmatic and always glamorous, sauntered over, refilled Meg’s glass and set the half-empty pitcher of margaritas on the table. “This is a blast. I knew something was happening that night after the town meeting when you and Owen kept pretending you weren’t looking at each other. Your handsome future husband is our local success story, lady.”

“He’s a hero,” Lucia added, though Meg looked horrified.

“Oh, please,” Meg groaned. “You’re both being ridiculous.”

“Us?” Lucia feigned innocence by widening her eyes and keeping a straight face. “I’m the town widow and Aurora is the surly bartender. We know of what we speak.”

“Darn right,” Aurora agreed, tossing her platinum hair over her shoulders. Lucia envied the color, which she had decided was real. The woman looked like a supermodel, even when wearing a faded T-shirt, jeans and Western boots. “No one can stop talking about your engagement. Owen performed a miracle getting you to agree to marry him. Proposing right there in the parking lot by the café, with everyone watching out the windows. You were the talk of the town.”

“Th-that was two weeks ago,” Meg sputtered, but Lucia saw the way her best friend’s eyes softened when she remembered the moment. A large antique ring with sapphires and diamonds sparkled in the candlelight as Meg held up her hand seemingly to stop their teasing.

“Parking lots can be very romantic,” Lucia said. She took a careful sip of her margarita. “We both understand that. No one’s blaming you for weakening and finally saying yes to the poor man. And think of that honeymoon you’re going to have.”

Meg, bless her, blushed. “Stop,” she whispered.

“I wish you’d hurry up and set a date,” Lucia said. “I want to start planning the wedding cake. Do you want real flowers or frosting flowers?”

“Frosting.”

“Colors?”

“I haven’t a clue,” Meg answered, looking pained. “You’re the baker. What do you think? I’m not sure Owen would go for anything too pink.”

“Some of that depends on the time of year,” Aurora said, plopping a wedding veil on Meg’s head. She fiddled with the headband and fluffed the white tulle. “Red and white for Valentine’s Day would work. It’s a bit of a cliché, but Lucia could make it modern.”

“I could. Or if you prefer spring, I could do April violets,” Lucia murmured. “With yellow daffodils. Or daisies.”

“Pretty,” Aurora said, arranging the tulle so that it expanded like a cloud around Meg’s shoulder-length brown hair.

“A veil? Really?” Meg’s eyes narrowed. “How much have you two had to drink?”

“Very little,” Lucia assured her. “But I’ve been baking cupcakes since four o’clock this morning and I’m wobbly.”

“The veil was your mother’s idea. I guess it’s some kind of family heirloom. I’ll go get your wedding photographer,” Aurora said. “This talk of baking may make me break out in hives.”

Lucia laughed. Meg’s expression was anything but amused, though. “I worry about you,” she said. “You’ve been baking cupcakes at four in the morning for weeks.”

“It’s just for the holidays,” Lucia said, wondering how much longer she could keep up the pace. Early-morning baking, dealing with the boys, frosting and decorating dozens of cupcakes for the noon deliveries. Then picking up the boys at school, laundry, cooking and all the things that went into mothering. She loved it all—well, except for the laundry—but at this time of year she was wearing down fast. However, all the baking was adding to her special savings account in the hope of a March break trip to Orlando. “This is my busiest season, especially for pies. After the holidays I won’t have much to do until Valentine’s Day. So what about February for the wedding?”

“Maybe, but the baby is due that month and Shelly doesn’t want to miss the wedding.”

“Well, I’m not going anywhere at all until I know when you’re getting married.”

“You’ll be my matron of honor, right?”

“Absolutely.” Lucia was happy for Meg. Over-the-moon happy. She remembered those months before she’d married Tony, when the world had seemed made just for them, when every look or touch or kiss was magic and life was filled with endless years of possibilities.

“I can help you with the baking, remember,” Meg said. “My kitchen is your kitchen.”

“Thanks, but—” Lucia was about to remind her friend that her kitchen actually belonged to Al, a cook who preferred to be master of all he surveyed, when Aurora hauled Mike over to join them at the bar.

“I told Mike he can take one picture of you, one picture of the ring and one picture of the dessert table, but that’s it,” Aurora said. “And if he complained I’d have Loralee deal with him.”

Mike nodded his agreement, his mouth full of dessert. He wiped his fingers on a crumpled paper napkin before lifting his camera.

“That’s downright mean.” Lucia liked Meg’s mother, but the woman was famous for her multiple marriages and colorful observations, not to mention her flirting skills. Men in her presence were alternately charmed and terrified. She was as different from Lucia’s mother-in-law, Marie, as a woman could be.

“That’s the way it is,” Aurora said with a shrug. “It’s a tough world.”

Lucia moved out of camera range and surveyed the chattering crowd of hungry women. Mama Marie was fussing over the pile of gifts on the pool table, which had been covered with a huge white-and-silver tablecloth. Marie was just under five feet tall, and almost as wide as she was high. A descendant of Italian immigrants who settled in Boston, she had her roots in pasta, meatballs and “gravy,” commonly known in Montana as spaghetti sauce. Her graying hair was cut short and the only makeup she wore was pink lip gloss. She was the most maternal person Lucia knew.

Mike posed Meg behind the stack of presents, took a closeup of the engagement ring and the cupcake stand, then looked longingly at the food table before being hustled out the door by the ever-vigilant Aurora.

Lucia knew that Aurora, thirtyish, mysterious and very self-sufficient, had a lot of experience ushering men out that particular door. She didn’t suffer fools, drunks or boors lightly. Since she ran the only bar in town, the men played—for the most part—by her rules. Her customers minded their manners, their language and their alcohol consumption.

Meg, still wearing her veil, carried a paper plate piled high with meatballs and pasta salad over to Lucia. She nodded toward Loralee. “My mother just told me I needed to use more mascara. She seems to be having a good time.”

“As always.” Loralee, wearing silver boots, black jeans, a white sweater and glittery headband, was knocking back what looked like a blue martini and chatting with Patsy, the local hairdresser.

“She’s talking about coming back here when Shelly’s baby is born or maybe not even leaving at all.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Her broken wrist encased in plaster, Shelly moved carefully around the buffet table and chatted sweetly with Mrs. Parcell, an older woman who, along with her husband and grandson, ranched outside of town. The newest resident in town, the former runaway teen’s long blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she sported an overlarge pink sweatshirt that covered her growing baby bump. Lucia guessed the sweatshirt belonged to Loralee, the now-surrogate grandmother who had unceremoniously taken the girl under her wing.

“Has Shelly said what she’s planning to do?”

“Face reality,” Meg said. “At least, that’s what she told us.”

“What exactly is reality?”

“Raising a baby alone. Giving the child up for adoption. I don’t know.”