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He cocked his head and considered her. “Hey. You’ve got stuff on your dress.” He reached out and his fingertip brushed the sleeve.
She jumped several inches.
He laughed. “Sorry. You’re kinda jumpy, aren’t you?” He held out her hand. “I’m Mason Bayless. I don’t think I’ve seen you around the plant before. Are you new?”
“I know,” A
“Pokey’s friend,” he said. “The one who disappears every August. Hell yeah. So you’re working here?”
“Just for the summer,” A
“And where’s my bratty sister?” Mason asked. “Did she bail on you already?”
“Um,” A
Mason rolled his eyes. “That’s what I thought. She never even showed today, did she?”
“She might have had summer school this morning,” A
“Riiight,” Mason said. “What do you wa
“Summer school could have run late,” A
“If you do see Pokey, tell her I came by,” Mason said. “I’ll stop by Voncile’s desk and let her know I kinda messed things up in here.”
“Thanks,” A
“And don’t worry,” he added. “I won’t blow Pokey’s cover story. Not this time, anyway.”
4
A
He hadn’t given her a second thought, or a second glance. It would be another four years before they exchanged their first kiss.
Her cheeks burned now at the thought of that first time. She shook her head violently, trying to dislodge the memory.
“You okay?” Pokey whispered. “It’s not too late to make your escape.”
But it was too late. The music swelled again, and the violins and flutes and organ began the fluttering notes of the Pachelbel’s Canon in D. Every head turned toward the back of the church.
“Ahh.” A
The five-year-old tiptoed slowly up the aisle. Somebody had attempted to tame the wild mane of blond curls, but the circlet of baby’s breath and pink rosebuds rested at a crooked tilt, listing slightly over her right ear. She was angelic in the ankle-length pink organza dress with its delicate pin-tucked bodice and bell-shaped sleeves. A
The sight of Mason’s daughter caused A
People in Passcoe expected that A
As always, Sophie seemed to move to her own i
Pokey leaned into the aisle. “You’re doin’ great, baby,” she whispered encouragingly, and A
Why, A
A few steps past their pew, two-thirds of the way to the altar, Sophie came to a dead stop. She was looking uncertainly, right to left. The music kept playing, but Sophie was not moving. A
She looked up at the altar. Father Jolly seemed oblivious, but Davis and Pete were frowning, exchanging worried asides. Mason had taken a couple steps forward. He was half-kneeling, smiling, his arms extended to his little girl, encouraging her to finish her triumphant voyage up the aisle.
A
She could not see the child’s face, only the slightest nod of her head, and then Sophie began to tiptoe forward again.
Only a few steps behind Sophie came a willowy redhead in an ankle-length cerise organza gown, cut so tightly through the skirt, she was forced to take tiny, mincing geisha-girl steps. The woman was in her late twenties and looked as though she’d just stepped off a Paris runway.
“Who’s that?” A
Pokey shrugged. “Never laid eyes on her before. Just another of Celia’s legions of best girlfriends, probably.”
Six more women in silk gowns of the same hue followed the maid of honor. A
There was no time for further discussion. The processional music faded, and the heavy wooden doors at the rear of the church opened with a theatrical boom. The congregation stirred and stood, and in the brief silence the rustle of satin, silk, and good wool filled the church.
A
Celia Wakefield was teacup-sized, with short, silvery hair and huge doelike liquid-dark eyes that were today emphasized with the most extravagant false eyelashes A
Mason, on the other hand, was at least eighteen inches taller than his new bride. He was solidly built, not heavy, but she estimated he weighed close to a hundred pounds more than Celia.