My stomach sank. Twenty-five years old and still seeking my family’s approval. Pathetic. “If you don’t like it, it’s no big deal. I can take it back.” Almost six yards of silk crepe de chine at twenty-six dollars a yard. No exchanges, no returns.
“Well? Let’s see it,” Phee said.
“It’s in the car,” I said.
“I’ll give you a hand,” Trey offered.
Good old Trey, always ready to lend a hand or a shoulder, an ear or a few extra bucks. All that attention could make a girl feel special. It took me years to figure out he was that kind to everyone.
I shook my head. “I’ve got it. Be right back,” I promised, and escaped.
I ducked into the backseat of the rental car. As I unhooked the garment bag, a limousine glided around the drive and stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
I turned, cradling the dress in my arms.
The limo door opened and the driver got out, broad shoulders flexing against the seams of his dark jacket. Richard Gere arriving inPretty Woman. Big inSex and the City.
Maybe he wasn’t the driver. Maybe he was the limo owner, the wealthy son of a friend of Aunt Phee’s. A guest at the wedding.
“Nice dress,” he’d drawl, and I’d murmur “I made it” as he pulled me close and we danced to Elvis crooning “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” while Trey looked on, brooding, and later we’d elope to Vegas and have three children, little artists and trust-fund babies.
Or not.
Still, he was very cute.
I smiled. “Well, hello. You’re here early.”
He gave me a brief perusal, up and down, and a grin. Very American. “Yes, ma’am.”
“The wedding’s not till Sunday,” I said.
“That’s what she said,” he said, and opened the rear door for his passenger.
Cowboy boots and skinny jeans. A fall of light-brown hair like water. My heart lifted. “Beth!”
She held out her arms. “Amy!”
All our lives, we’d been paired and compared, the angelic middle child and the spoiled baby of the family, never quite living up to the expectations of our parents or the example of our older siblings.
I did not drop the dress—I’d put at least twenty hours of work into Jo’s gown, cutting the fabric properly on the grain, piecing and pressing and hand sewing—but I did my best to hug around the garment bag. Her shoulders were as sharp and angled as a model’s. “I thought you weren’t coming until this weekend.”
Beth’s thin face flushed. “Yes. No. I...”
“Bethie?” Jo stood at the top of the stairs, eyes shining. “Oh, Beth! You’re here!”
My family swept from the house in a wave, gathered her up, and sucked her in, everybody hugging, laughing, and exclaiming at once, the children running in circles, shrieking, the dog yapping. March Family Madness, Jo called it once. No Dad, but that, too, was typical. Beth was pink cheeked and smiling, the center of attention without even trying.
I had a knack for getting people to notice me. But Beth... Everybody loved Beth.
“Look at you,” Mom said. “You’re skin and bones.”
“You can never be too rich or too thin,” Phee said.
“Where do you want these?” the driver asked, gesturing with the luggage. Two suitcases and her guitar case, more than enough for a weekend home. She must have packed extra clothes for the wedding.
“This way.” I skirted the mob to lead him into the house.
He set the bags at the bottom of the staircase. I draped the garment bag carefully across a couple of chairs, ignoring a pang. It was just a dress. It wasn’t like I’d written a Grammy-winning song or spent nine months gestating a book. Or a baby.
