Jo scooped him up to another smattering of laughter.
Eighteen-year-old Bryan dug in his pocket for the ring. And then they were married. Eric kissed the bride. Jo kissed him back enthusiastically, and Trey looked the other way.
I looked away, too, as a long black car slid from beneath the trees and stopped at the curve in the drive.
My heart thumped.
The limo door opened.
Colt. The surge of happiness caught me in the chest. He was here.
Parties had always been agony for me. I was anxious at sleepovers, awkward at school dances, overwhelmed at college parties withtheir pizza, beer, and random friends-of-friends. After-concert parties were the worst. I never knew what to say or how to penetrate a group. I couldn’t eat. I was afraid to drink, because of the rumors. I spent a lot of time in the bathroom.
Eric and Jo’s reception was different. At home, no one expected me to make uncomfortable small talk while their eyes scanned over my shoulder for Colt. Guests wandered through the house and garden, filling plates with Eric’s upscale barbecue—a whole hog, roasted overnight, with bushels of oysters, potato salad, coleslaw, and corn bread. There was a keg on the terrace, a table of desserts, contributed by the neighbors, in the foyer, and pitchers of sweet tea and lemonade. So much food. So many calories.
A shadow fell over the celebration, rising in my mind: the specter at the feast, hovering around the buffet like an unwelcome wedding guest. I blinked and looked away.
Amy had gone a little crazy with tulle, twinkling lights, and tin buckets of flowers everywhere. Colt and I sat at a little table, just the two of us. I sipped my water, watching as the photographer moved around the dance floor, taking pictures. Of Jo, bouncing baby Rob. Of sixteen-year-old Alec, rocking out with Amy.
Dad, having done his duty in the father-daughter dance, was listening courteously to Wanda Crocker. Such a saint. Everybody said so. He’d returned from serving as an army chaplain in Iraq to open a storefront ministry for veterans. He was always available to those in need.
That was the problem. His sainthood took him away from us. He was deployed for years. Even after he came home, there were always phone calls and crises and other people requiring his attention at dinnertime or in the middle of the night.
I felt a stab of anger, quickly suppressed. I missed him. I missed our family the way it used to be, the security and support that came with being one of the March girls.
Eventually our mother lost patience with him, I guess. Meg said nobody knew what went on in a marriage except the two people involved.
Trey’s grandfather came over to our table. “Beth. It’s good to see you, girl.”
“Mr. Laurence!” I jumped up, ignoring his outstretched hands to kiss his cheek, breathing in his good grandfather scent of witch hazel and tobacco.
He cleared his throat, patting my back awkwardly. “There’s nothing left of you to hug. Don’t they feed you in Nashville?”
I forced a smile. “We’ve been on tour.”
“Ah. We’ve missed you around here.” He drew back. “And this must be...”
“Colt Henderson.” I said.
Why didn’t Colt stand? But he shook hands politely enough, used to meeting and greeting fans.
“You should be dancing,” Mr. Laurence said. To Colt? To me?
“Oh, I’m fine,” I said.
Mr. Laurence shot a look at Colt from under his bushy gray brows. “Of course.”
Heat washed my face. Had he been askingmeto dance? “I’d love to come see you while I’m home,” I said.
“I’d like that. Anytime. Bring your...” His gaze lingered on Colt. “Guitar.”
“I will,” I promised.
He nodded shortly at Colt before moving on.
“How do you know Colonel Sanders?” Colt asked.
“Mr. Laurence? He’s our...”Neighbor. Friend. Grandfather figure.“He gave me my guitar.”
