Carole Buck - Annie Says I Do

“Really?” Annie looked intrigued. “Has Rick seen it?”

Eden’s mouth quirked provocatively. A wicked glint appeared in her crystal gray eyes. “Actually,” she drawled, “I thought I’d let the facts of life—ahem—come as a surprise to him.”

“Eden!” her roommates gasped.

“What?” The inquiry was the essence of innocence.

“Girls who plan to get married in virginal white aren’t supposed to make dirty jokes,” Annie informed her primly.

“Who’s joking?”

“Well, if that’s the case,” Zoe said, “you should at least give Rick a chance to skim the table of contents of Peachy’s textbook.”

“Maybe there’s a video version of it,” Annie suggested. “That way he could fast-forward through the boring stuff.”

“I’d be glad to lend him my notes,” Peachy volunteered. While the blush on her cheeks hinted she was not completely comfortable with the bawdy banter going on around her, the impish light in her eyes indicated she was game to join in the fun. “I mean, I did get an A in the class.”

“Really?” Zoe asked, arching her well-groomed brows. She sounded sincerely impressed.

The color of Peachy’s face intensified. “Well, actually, it was an A-plus. I did an extra-credit project.”

“Forget about lending your notes to Rick, Peachy,” Annie said, starting to chuckle. “Give them to me!”

“Me, too,” Zoe concurred, joining in Annie’s humor. A split second later Peachy was laughing, too. Within a matter of moments, all three prospective bridesmaids were helpless with hilarity.

“Ladies...please...” Eden reproved, gesturing for decorum like an old-fashioned schoolmarm. “Settle down.”

It took a while, but order was eventually restored.

“You...” Annie paused to catch her breath. “You still haven’t told us what you’re worried about, Eden.”

The soon-to-be Mrs. Richard Powell looked blank for an instant, then the corners of her lips curled up. “Oh. That.”

“Yes?” Zoe prompted.

Eden’s smile widened to embrace her two dearest friends and her kid sister.

“I’m worried about which one of you is going to catch my bouquet...and be the next bride.”

“I‘m still having trouble believing you saved that thing, Annie,” Matt Powell said, plunging a tortilla chip into the bowl of salsa in front of him. “It’s been nearly nine years since the wedding.”

The “thing” to which Matt was referring was Eden Keene’s bridal bouquet. He’d discovered it in Annie’s possession—pressed and carefully packed away—several hours ago while helping her settle into her new condominium in Atlanta’s fashionable Buckhead area. He’d been teasing her about it ever since.

Teasing was one of the hallmarks of Matt and Annie’s three-decade-old relationship. They’d been born in the same hospital just twenty-four hours apart and had grown up living next door to each other. They’d shared baths and sandboxes as toddlers, schoolwork and secrets as preteens, and a unique bond of understanding throughout adolescence and into adulthood.

If Annie had been given a dollar each time somebody had told her that she and Matt were “just like brother and sister,” she would have been able to retire as an extremely wealthy woman before reaching age thirty. Heck, receiving just a dime per repetition would have allowed her to build up quite a respectable nest egg!

She’d never liked the sibling analogy. It was such a cliché. More than that, it failed to reflect the fundamental truth about her ties to Matt.

Brothers and sisters were supposed to be close. It was more or less written into their genetic contracts. She and Matt had chosen to bond with each other. Theirs was a purely voluntary alliance that, despite a blood oath of mutual fidelity sworn at age eight, was subject to unilateral abrogation at any time.

When asked how she’d describe her relationship with Matt—and his with her—Annie usually replied that the two of them were best buddies. People unwise enough to suggest that there might be something sexual percolating beneath the apparently platonic surface of their friendship provoked either hoots of laughter or offended glares, depending on her mood.

This wasn’t to suggest that what went on between Hannah Elaine Martin and Matthew Douglas Powell was all sweetness and light. Heck, no. They’d been trading verbal jabs from the time they’d learned to talk. They’d even had a few playground skirmishes that had degenerated into fistfights. But when push came to shove...

Put it this way: Annie was absolutely certain that if she ever telephoned Matt in the middle of the night from equatorial Guinea and said she needed him, he’d come rushing to her aid on the first available plane—no questions asked.

What’s more, she was equally positive that she’d respond in the same unreserved fashion should he ever call her for help.

“I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal out of this,” Annie complained, selecting a tortilla chip and skimming it across the surface of the salsa. Both she and Matt loved spicy, south-of-the-border food. The Mexican restaurant in which they were sitting was one they’d patronized together many, many times. “I caught the bouquet at Eden’s wedding and I kept it. So what?”

“I don’t remember you actually catching the bouquet,” Matt drawled, picking up the long-necked bottle of beer at his elbow and taking a healthy swig. He surveyed her with amused blue-gray eyes. “It seems to me the bouquet bounced off somebody’s head and fell into your hands by default. You didn’t look very pleased when it did, either. In fact, I think there was a second or two when you seriously considered dropping the thing.”

Annie crunched down on the salsa-coated tortilla chip. In point of fact, Matt’s recollection was right on the money. She’d definitely experienced a moment of dismay when she’d realized that, despite some determined maneuvering to avoid doing so, she’d somehow ended up clutching Eden’s bridal bouquet.

There’d been plenty of female guests who’d tried to catch the ribbon-trussed bundle of flowers, of course. Had there been an inconspicuous way of handing the bouquet off to one of those want-to-be-wedded types, Annie would have opted for it. But there hadn’t been. So she’d been forced to smile and laugh and graciously respond to a lot of prying questions about her matrimonial prospects.

The one thing nobody had asked her nine years ago was, “Do you want to get married?”

Her answer—had someone put the query to her—would have been succinct.

“No,” she would have stated. “I don’t.”

If pressed, Annie would have gone on to explain that although she had nothing against marriage, it wasn’t high on her list of priorities. She craved a challenging career and the opportunity to establish herself as an independent woman. When she imagined the sweet smell of personal success, it didn’t include the delicate odor of orange blossoms.

Her feelings about getting married hadn’t changed much in the nine years since Eden’s wedding. She’d thought they might when she’d reached thirty. This expectation had been the result of watching a significant number of her contemporaries go into husband-hunting frenzies after they’d passed the Big 3-0 unwed.

While the spousal search had paid off for some, it seemed to Annie that most of her single women friends were still frantically seeking Mr. Right. There were even a few so desperate to do the nuptial deed that they were ready to settle for Mr. Not Too Obviously Wrong...or worse.

“Don’t you want to get married, Annie?” an unattached acquaintance had recently demanded of her. The context of the question had been a discussion—a one-sided litany of complaints, really—about the lack of eligible men in Atlanta and the abundance of competition for them.