Debbie Macomber - Summer Wedding Bells - Marriage Wanted / Lone Star Lovin'

“I apologize, Nash. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Why not? My file’s in another attorney’s cabinet, along with those of a thousand other fools just like me who were stupid enough to think love lasts.”

Savannah continued to stare at him. “You loved her, didn’t you?”

“As much as any foolish twenty-four-year-old loves anyone. Would you mind if we change the subject?”

“Susan’s twenty-four.”

“Exactly,” he said, slapping his hand against the top of his desk. “And she’s about to make the same foolish choice I did.”

“But, Nash…”

“Have you heard enough, or do you need to listen to a few more cases?”

“I’ve heard enough.”

“Good. Let’s get out of here.” The atmosphere in the office was stifling. It was as though each and every client he’d represented over the years was there to remind him of the pain he’d lived through himself—only he’d come away smarter than most.

“Do you want me to drive you back to the office or would you prefer I take you home?” he asked.

“No,” Savannah said as they walked out of the office. He purposely adjusted his steps to match her slower gait. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to have our, uh, wager settled this evening.”

“Fine with me.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to head for my parents’ home. I want you to meet them.”

“Sure, why not?” he asked flippantly. His anger simmered just below the surface. Maybe this wasn’t such a brilliant idea after all.…

Savannah gave him the address and directions. The drive on the freeway was slowed by heavy traffic, which frustrated him even more. By the time they reached the exit, his nerves were frayed. He was about to suggest they do this another evening when she instructed him to take a left at the next light. They turned the corner, drove a block and a half down and were there.

They were walking toward the house when a tall, burly man with a thinning hairline hurried out the front door. “Savannah, sweetheart,” he greeted them with a huge grin. “So this is the young man you’re going to marry.”

“Dad!” Savannah was mortified. The heat rose from her neck to her cheeks, and she knew her face had to be bright red.

Marcus Charles raised his hands. “Did I say something I shouldn’t have?” But there was still a smile on his face.

“I’m Nash Davenport,” Nash said, offering Marcus his hand. Considering how her father had chosen to welcome Nash, his gesture was a generous one. She chanced a look in the attorney’s direction and was relieved to see he was smiling, too.

“You’ll have to forgive me for speaking out of turn,” her father said, “but Savannah’s never brought home a young man she wants us to meet, so I assumed you’re the—”

“Daddy, that’s not true!”

“Name one,” he said. “And while you’re inventing a beau, I’ll take Nash in and introduce him to your mother.”

“Dad!”

“Hush now or you’ll give Nash the wrong impression.” The wrong impression! If only he knew. This meeting couldn’t have gotten off to a worse start, especially with Nash’s present mood. She’d made a drastic mistake mentioning his marriage. It was more than obvious that he’d been badly hurt and was trying to put the memory behind him.

Nash had built a strong case against marriage. The more clients he described, the harder his voice became. The grief of his own experience echoed in his voice as he listed the nightmares of the cases he’d represented.

Nash and her father were already in the house by the time Savannah walked up the steps and into the living room. Her mother had redecorated the room in a Southwestern motif, with painted clay pots and Navajo-style rugs. A recent addition was a wooden folk art coyote with his head thrown back, howling at the moon.

Every time she entered this room, Savannah felt a twinge of sadness. Her mother loved the Southwest and her parents had visited there often. Savannah knew her parents had once looked forward to moving south. She also knew she was the reason they hadn’t. As an only child, and one who’d sustained a serious injury—even if it’d happened years before—they worried about her constantly. And with no other immediate family in the Seattle area, they were uncomfortable leaving their daughter alone in the big city.

A hundred times in the past few years, Savannah had tried to convince them to pursue their dreams, but they’d continually made excuses. They never came right out and said they’d stayed in Seattle because of her. They didn’t need to; in her heart she knew.

“Hi, Mom,” Savannah said as she walked into the kitchen. Her mother was standing at the sink, slicing tomatoes fresh from her garden. “Can I do anything to help?”

Joyce Charles set aside the knife and turned to give her a firm hug. “Savannah, let me look at you,” she said, studying her. “You’re working too hard, aren’t you?”

“Mom, I’m fine.”

“Good. Now sit down here and have something cold to drink and tell me all about Nash.”

This was worse than Savannah had first believed. She should have explained her purpose in bringing him to meet her family at the very beginning, before introducing him. Giving them a misleading impression was bad enough, but she could only imagine what Nash was thinking.

When Savannah didn’t immediately answer her question, Joyce supplied what information she already knew. “You’re coordinating his sister’s wedding and that’s how you two met.”

“Yes, but—”

“He really is handsome. What does he do?”

“He’s an attorney,” Savannah said. “But, Mom—”

“Just look at your dad.” Laughing, Joyce motioned toward the kitchen window that looked out over the freshly mowed backyard. The barbecue was heating on the brick patio and her father was showing Nash his prize fishing flies. He’d been tying his own for years and took real pride in the craft; now that he’d retired, it was his favorite hobby.

After glancing out at them, Savannah sank into a kitchen chair. Her mother had poured her a glass of lemonade. Her father displayed his fishing flies only when the guest was someone important, someone he was hoping to impress. Savannah should have realized when she first mentioned Nash that her father had made completely the wrong assumption about this meeting.

“Mom,” she said, clenching the ice-cold glass. “I think you should know Nash and I are friends. Nothing more.”

“We know that, dear. Do you think he’ll like my pasta salad? I added jumbo shrimp this time. I hope he’s not a fussy eater.”

Jumbo shrimp! So they were rolling out the red carpet. With her dad it was the fishing flies, with her mother it was pasta salad. She sighed. What had she let herself in for now?

“I’m sure he’ll enjoy your salad.” And if his anti-marriage argument—his evidence—was stronger than hers, he’d be eating seven more meals with a member of the Charles family. Her. She could only hope her parents conveyed the success of their relationship to this cynical lawyer.

“Your father’s barbecuing steaks.”

“T-bone,” Savannah guessed.

“Probably. I forget what he told me when he took them out of the freezer.”

Savannah managed a smile.

“I thought we’d eat outside,” her mother went on. “You don’t mind, do you, dear?”

“No, Mom, that’ll be great.” Maybe a little sunshine would lift her spirits.

“Let’s go outside, then, shall we?” her mother said, carrying the large wooden bowl with the shrimp pasta salad.

The early-evening weather was perfect. Warm, with a subtle breeze and slanting sunlight. Her mother’s prize roses bloomed against the fence line. The bright red ones were Savannah’s favorite. The flowering rhododendron tree spread out its pink limbs in opulent welcome. Robins chatted back and forth like long-lost friends.