Magical Weddings (103 page)

“You mean, just the three of us?”

He frowned, then sighed. “Three of us, then.”

****

Mal stared into the mirror in the bride's room. Her white blouse and long black pencil skirt was far from a wedding dress, but staring into her own eyes, she admitted that this might be as close as she ever got. A white blouse, not a dress. A plastic hair clip, not a hundred dollar up-do. A temporary Prince Charming, not a groom. Borrowed wedding flowers, re-purposed wedding food, and only the smell and sight of a heavenly wedding cake. And finally, a ghostly old man for a wedding band. As far as fantasies went, it fell pathetically short. But as a way to spend an evening, it was brilliant.

She stared down at her chest and spoke directly to her heart. “It's just a memorable Saturday night, nothing more. It's not even a date.”

At the top of the staircase, she paused and tried to absorb the heat rising from the candles below. Platters of food now sat among the flowers and candles on the buffet tables. The doorman/harpist was back to work, just coming to the end of a cheerful tune that floated up to the arched ceiling to mingle with the warm air.

St. John stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking perfect as always. He'd tucked an electric lime handkerchief into his breast pocket and pinned a boutonniere onto his lapel. She needed to find her phone and snap a picture of him for Pemberly.

Holding onto the bannister, to keep from making a fool of herself in heels, she headed down the steps. The doorman started playing a new tune—The Wedding March!

She stopped walking, fuming mad, sure she was being mocked. She glared at the doorman, but he was watching his hands, not her. So she glared at St. John.

He rolled his eyes and called up to her. “It won't kill you to play along, will it?”

But that was just it—it might kill her. How was her own life ever going to live up to this? She'd have great flowers at her own wedding, but the rest of the package would look pretty dim comparatively. However, her pride rode in on a white horse and saved the day. She was not going to let St. John know what his teasing did to her. She could pretend right along with the best of them, and worry about tomorrow, well, in about ten hours.

She pasted on a smile and continued down the stairs. When she got to the bottom, St. John pulled a corsage from behind his back, one meant for Jordan's grandmother, and pinned it on her.

“At least one orchid isn't going to waste,” she said.

“On the contrary, darling,” he said without so much as a blink. “None of it is going to waste.”

She wasn't going to feel bad that he hadn't handed her one of the bouquets.

“The bouquet! Pem doesn't have a bouquet!” She turned back toward the stairs, to go call London, but he took her hand and forced her to face him. Then he placed her left hand on his shoulder and started waltzing away with her.

“There is no Pem. There is no London. There is no party going on but this one. There is only me.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And Ferguson. Now dance.”

She gave up the fight. London would have thought of a bouquet. There really was nothing to worry about.

The fire roared and snapped below the large ornate mantel and they danced through only a few cold spots on the north end of the room. The smell of the cake refused to be ignored. And Mal started to think harp music was highly underrated, especially with a gorgeous man gliding her around the room with his twinkling blue eyes and mesmerizing lips less than a foot away from her own. But as wonderful as the dancing was, and as badly as she wanted to keep staring into the man’s soul, waiting for some miracle to happen that might unlock his secret thoughts, her feet were screaming. She’d been standing and running around all day long. Carrying things far too heavy for a reasonable person, and climbing on chairs and tables, hanging stuff from the ceiling, trying to keep her balance. Yeah, her feet were screaming. And if she didn’t get off them, the dancing partner, who could give Daniel Craig a run for his money, would be able to hear them too.

“I can't,” she said at the end of their second waltz. “Please. I can't do this anymore.” She tried to pull out of his arms, but he held tight to her hands. The nearest chair seemed a football field away.

“Fine,” he said. “But I want you to believe me when I say I am not pretending.”

She shook her head. “What are you talking about? I just can't dance anymore. My feet are crying uncle. I have to sit down.” He let her go and she all but hobbled to the nearest table, dragged out a beautifully dressed chair, and plopped onto it. Her heels were off in five seconds flat.

The doorman began to play Winter Wonderland. St. John stood where she'd left him. She wiggled her toes and winced while she watched the man tug at his cuffs. His mouth opened a few times, but no words came out.

“Mr. St. John—”

He groaned. “Bennett, I beg you.”

“Okay. Bennett. You want to tell me what you were talking about?”

The doorman started singing loudly. “In the meadow, we can build a snowman. And pretend that he is Parson Brown—” He suddenly grabbed the strings and stopped the music. “I have a lovely idea, I do,” he said. “I'll be yer snowman, yer lairdship! I'll be yer Parson Brown. What do you say?” He tipped the harp up, then hurried out from behind it faster than expected for his age, not waiting for anyone to answer him. “I'll need...” He hurried over to the buffet and came back with a large white napkin. “This will do, I think.” He pulled a pen from his pocket and started writing on the napkin.

Mal looked at Bennett. Bennett looked back, just as confused.

“To me, if ye please,” said Ferguson. “By the fire, I think, though not too close. 'Tis a grand roast ye've got on.”

Mal sighed and got to her feet. It wasn't too painful without the shoes. And the old guy looked so excited she didn't want to pee on his parade.

Bennett urged her to lean on his forearm as they went and she wasn't in any shape to refuse.

“Oh, now. Just a moment.” Ferguson ran off again and returned with the bride's reception bouquet. He held it out to her and when she didn't reach for it, he took her hand and wrapped her fingers around the stems. The satin ballet ties were cool and smooth under her hand. Without thinking, she turned the bouquet until her thumb found the little pearl that marked the back of the bouquet. However a bride held it, if she kept her thumb on the pearl, the prettiest side of the bouquet would always be facing away from her.

She looked up to find the old man facing her and Bennett. When he held the napkin before him like a book, she finally caught on. Bennett had her hand tucked around his forearm again and she tried to pull it free.

“Just for fun, right? So none of it goes to waste.”

She looked at him, hoping he could read the words you're crazy written all over her face.

He just laughed, then dipped his head to Ferguson. “We're ready, Parson Brown.”

“Dearly Beloved,” he began, but the rest of it was gibberish.

Bennett leaned over and whispered, “Gaelic.”

Mal rolled her eyes and waited, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, waiting for the moment she could hurry back to her chair. Or the floor. The floor looked good.

Both men were staring at her.

“What?”

“This is the part where ye declare aye or nay, lass.” Ferguson winked.

“Really?” She looked at Bennett, then looked him up and down, assessing.

Bennett grinned.

She shrugged. “Well, I guess I'd be an idiot not to, right?” She nodded at Parson Brown. “Aye.”

“Weeel, that's it then, isn't it? By the power vested in me by...The Man in the Moon...I now pronounce ye, laird and wife. But before ye kiss the bride, ye'll have to put yer signatures to yer weddin' license here.” He handed Bennett the large cream napkin and pointed to a spot on it. Then he handed over the pen. Bennett held it against one hand and signed, then Mal did the same, her eyes rolling around the entire time.

The old man giggled. “Now. Ye must kiss the bride.”

Bennett pulled her close. “Did you hear that? I must kiss the bride. Not may, but must.”

“Better do what he says, then.” She closed her eyes. And in another world, in another time, she might have been kissing her own husband. At that moment, it felt that important. And his lips felt that perfect. Nothing but his lips and his taste existed beyond her eyelids, other than the flash of firelight. The world was orange and warm and perfect and she was happy to stay in it and keep pretending until someone made her stop.

His lips lifted, then came back, lifted, then moved to her jaw, her neck. Chills filled every cell of her body and she sighed loudly.

Bennett straightened, then looked to his left. Then his right. Then at her. “Where did he go?”

Mal tried to focus on anything beyond her pretend husband. “We probably embarrassed him.”

Bennett grinned at her, kissed her once more, then gave her a squeeze. “Well, we'd better stop before we embarrass him off the island.”

She took a deep breath and went looking for a chair. He held the tips of her fingers with his own until she was safely seated. It made her feel like a teenager, being walked to class. She knew she was blushing, but she hoped the low lighting kept it from being obvious.

“I'm going to find our parson and tell him it's safe to come back,” he said.

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak or she might say what she really thought, that maybe the parson should find his napping couch and leave them alone for the rest of the night. But she wouldn't mean it. She would only play along so far, because, while her heart was magically linked to her lips, it was linked to other parts of her too, and he wasn't going to get anywhere near those.

The problem was, no one was ever going to get near those parts as long as she was a florist. Weekends and holidays were working days, and what man would want a woman who wasn’t around to share those days with him?

And now, thanks to 007, Mal realized she was no longer willing to trade a real life for the sake of making strangers happy. She wanted to be a normal girl who didn’t have to suspect every man who tried to kiss her. She wanted a reason to have a wardrobe, a job that required more than sweat pants and dirty aprons because she would be interacting with more than just the pizza delivery guy late at night while making hundreds of corsages for three coinciding proms.

She wanted nights like this, with adults being serious and silly, and seriously silly.

She wanted to close Ivy and Stone!

“You missed a call,” Bennett said.

She startled in direct proportion to how guilty she felt for what she’d just been thinking.

He handed over her phone and her radio as he walked by, headed for the shadowed hallway.

She called London back. “How’s it going?”

“It’s great. The line is crazy. I thought the turnout would be smaller in this weather. The snow never hit the valley, apparently.”

“Did you need something?”

“Yeah. Um. I just thought I’d give you a heads up. That after this event is over and done with…we need to decide if we really want to keep the shop open. Give it some thought, would you?

Mal shouldn’t have been surprised. London was always on the same page with her, if not a page ahead.

“Yeah. I’ll give it some thought.”

“And while you’re stuck out there on the island with Mr. Beautiful, you’d better do something you can brag about in the morning. Okay?”

“Well, it’s not like we’re alone. We’ve got the doorman with us. Apparently, he was upstairs asleep on a couch for a while. Didn’t even know there was a problem.”

“What? That can’t be right. I’ve got three drivers and one doorman standing right in front of me. All wearing footman livery. And we only ordered four costumes…”

The phone died.

She picked up the radio and turned the knob. It was already on. She’d left it on all day, and now that battery was dead too. Both her chargers were in the glove box of the big van. In the parking lot.

“You’re not going to believe this.” Bennett pulled out the chair next to hers, sat, then took her hands in his.

“Don’t tell me. You can’t find the doorman.”

Bennett nodded. “I’ve looked everywhere.”

“Well, before my phone died, London said he’s out there, in the parking lot. Costume and all.”

“Impossible.” He got to his feet and walked over to one of the large arch windows. The snowfall was steady, as it had been, but the flakes were now little bigger than raindrops. The lights in the parking lot looked a mile away. “I worried the odd man might have wandered out into the cold, but out the back, I found no footprints beyond our own, and none beyond the generator. There are two other doors, but the snow there is undisturbed. I suppose he might have gone out the front and his footprints are already filled in a bit, but without us hearing him.”

“We only rented four uniforms,” she said, her feet begging her not to stand up again. “And London said all four men were standing in front of her. If you let me sit here for another fifteen minutes, I promise to go upstairs and put on my tennis shoes, so we can go out and try to get through.”

He was already shaking his head. “Absolutely not.” He made his way back to the table and knelt on one knee in front of her, then he took her hands in his again. “I won’t risk your life, Mallory.”

He kissed the back of one hand. She waited, but he didn’t kiss the other one. It took all her concentration not to let her neglected hand twitch, to protest. In the kitchen, after he’d first returned to the island, he’d kissed the back of one and the palm of the other. It wasn’t her fault her hands expected him to be consistent.

He grinned and shrugged. “I suppose I should have warned the man to stay off the causeway.”

She couldn’t help but smile back. “I suppose I shouldn’t be so glad you didn’t.”

His eyes lit up without the help of the candles, which probably should have made her nervous, but it didn’t.

The fire had settled with only a pop every minute or two—last acts of defiance from the dry pine logs. The large open ballroom shrunk to the small circle of firelight around the hearth, and the candles started looking bright again in comparison.