I photographed Turbo in Cooper’s cupped hands at ten-fifteen, as agreed. The light came in clean off the flagstone. Turbo held still.
TOWARD THE END OF BRUNCH, Dutch’s hand found mine under the table.
Not for anyone else. Just his hand over mine, still and warm, not asking for anything except to be there.
I turned my hand over and he threaded his fingers through mine.
He didn’t ask me anything yet. He didn’t have to. The flight was tomorrow morning, and Frognot was a quarter-mile of live oaks I’d walked twice in three days, and I had no idea what I was going to do about either of those facts.
Chapter Six
Dutch
THE BRUNCH CROWD HADthinned to family by the time my phone buzzed.
Nora:How was the wedding?
“My sister.” I texted back and pocketed the phone. “Told her she’d have to wait and meet you herself.”
“You told her about me?” Jules looked at me, hazel eyes steady.
“Friday night,” I said.
“That was the night we met,” she said.
“I’m aware of that,” I said.
Jules turned back to the table, where Stoney was attempting to convince Bobbie-Jean that the bridal bouquet didn’t need to be pressed and mounted this afternoon. From the look of it, Bobbie-Jean was already winning.
That was fine. I wasn't in any hurry.
Across the terrace, Caprice had her phone pointed at Butterbean, who’d abandoned the cake remnants for a chair cushion and was unimpressed by the pitch.
Faye Ralls worked her way around the table on her own schedule—a hug for each person, nothing rushed, nothingskipped. She pulled Jules in when she got to her, and Jules didn't step back.
"We'll see you back here, I expect," Faye said.
"I think so," Jules said. No qualifier on it.
Faye gave her one more look, warm and satisfied, and moved on.
Bobbie-Jean caught Jules near the mimosa table with the forward momentum she applied to everything—total commitment, no question of whether the other party was ready.
"Quick thing," Bobbie-Jean said, in the tone of a woman who'd gotten married yesterday and had a list nine hundred items long and was working through it. "My college friend's husband is a senior editor at Cosmopolitan. I'm going to send him your wedding photos—the animals, all of it. Just giving you a heads up."
Jules blinked. "At a Texas ranch wedding."
"That's exactly right." Bobbie-Jean said this with the full conviction of a woman for whom this was obviously correct. "He loves that zany lifestyle content. You'd be perfect for it." She squeezed Jules's arm and was already moving.
Jules turned and found me with the expression of a woman waiting for the world to finish doing whatever it was doing.
"Bobbie-Jean knows everybody," I said.
"Apparently she does." Jules looked in the direction Bobbie-Jean had gone. "A senior editor at Cosmopolitan. For photos of Princess FiFi demolishing a wedding cake."
"It's a strong image."
"It really is." She thought about it. "That might actually be good for me."
