The Week Before the Wedding Read online

  “You look like an angel straight from heaven,” Beverly gushed as she gazed at Emily.

  Georgia shot Bev a withering glance over the edge of her gold-rimmed teacup. “It’s very Mad Men chic, I’ll grant you that, but truthfully, Emmy, you could do better. You look a little…missish.”

  Bev stopped sniffling and dabbing. “She looks demure and elegant.”

  “She looks like she’s taking her first Communion.”

  “Stop bickering, both of you, or I will turn this car around.” Emily cringed as one of Grant’s nieces careened by, brandishing a harmonica in one hand and an open bottle of nail polish in the other.

  “Ava!” Grant’s sister Melanie chased after the giggling little blonde. “Put that down! You’re going to—” The rest of her sentence was lost in a blast of harmonica music.

  Georgia made a face and put her hands over her ears.

  “Sorry about that.” Melanie confiscated the nail polish from one daughter and a tube of glittery lip gloss from the other. “Aunt Rose bought them both makeup kits at the airport gift shop. And then Aunt Darlene gave them a harmonica and a pennywhistle.”

  Georgia grimaced. “Do your aunts secretly hate us all?”

  “Mother.” Emily shot her an admonishing look. “Rose and Darlene are amazing.” A wistful note crept into her voice. “The whole family is so thoughtful. They’re always giving each other gifts, and you can tell they really put a lot of time and thought into it.”

  Georgia regarded Bev with a mixture of pity and disdain. “Honey, where I come from, letting a preschooler loose with a harmonica is considered an act of war.”

  “My sisters mean well.” Beverly maintained her placid smile. “They forget what it’s like to have small children underfoot.”

  “I’d hand them over to Matt,” Melanie said, referring to her husband, “but he’s in bed with a massive allergy attack.”

  Bev tut-tutted. “Again?”

  “Every time we come up here.” Melanie didn’t try to hide her exasperation. “You know how the ragweed pollen knocks him out. And he forgot to get his prescriptions refilled before we left.”

  “Poor Matt. Well, if he needs medicine, just talk to Grant.” Bev beamed. “Grant will take care of everything.”

  “Hold still,” the seamstress ordered.

  Emily obeyed, standing motionless while the seamstress crab-walked around her feet, pinning and stitching. The dress technically fit, in that the fabric encompassed her body, but the margin of error was mere millimeters. She prayed the gown wouldn’t rip at the seams as she walked down the aisle.

  Don’t sneeze, don’t sneeze, don’t sneeze….

  Although she adored the vintage style and the exquisite details—the dainty pearl buttons, the lace appliqué hand sewn across the sheer illusion bodice, the airy tulle netting that floated around her calves in a full tea-length skirt—she couldn’t enjoy wearing it because she was too busy being terrified she’d inadvertently ruin it.

  “I feel like I have one foot on a live grenade,” she said.

  “Relax,” Bev urged. “Smile.”

  “And change your lipstick,” Georgia added. “That peachy shade is washing you out.”

  “Alexis!” Melanie let out a little shriek in the adjoining bathroom. “Is that thing alive? Put it back outside, this instant!”

  When Grant and Emily had first called his mother to announce their engagement, Bev had offered up the traditional Cardin family gown, which she and her mother had both worn at their weddings.

  “It’s good luck,” she’d assured Emily. “And it’s gorgeous. My mother bought it in 1950 from Priscilla of Boston and we’ve taken very good care of it over the years.”

  Emily had accepted at once, relieved that she could skip the hassle of shopping and rush-ordering a new gown from a bridal salon.

  She’d been so relieved that she’d neglected to ask about the dimensions of the dress. A major oversight, as it turned out. Who would have guessed that modest, matronly Bev had once had a waistline like Scarlett O’Hara?

  The tailor had let out the seams on the bodice as much as she could, but in order to fasten the back buttons, Emily had to cinch herself into a boned corset so tight, she could practically feel her blood circulation trickling to a halt.

  “Oof.” She exhaled and sucked in her stomach even more as the seamstress examined the panels of silk. “Hear that? It’s my liver screaming for mercy. Didn’t people eat in the fifties?”

  “They wore girdles,” the seamstress explained. “And women didn’t work out the way you girls do today. Their shoulders and chests were much narrower.”

  “Are we almost done here?” Georgia glanced at her delicate gold wristwatch. “I’ve got a date.”

  “You do?” Bev was shocked. (Emily was not.) “With whom?”

  “Tennis with Ted at two and cocktails with John at four thirty,” Georgia replied.

  “Who are Ted and John?”

  “Some lovely gentlemen I met in the bar this morning.”

  Bev looked as though she, too, were cinched into a constrictive corset. “So you’re…you’re socializing with strange men?”

  “Just as long as you’re not socializing with Cardin men,” Emily said.

  Georgia toyed with her emerald cocktail ring like a scheming movie villainess. “I make no promises.”

  “These stitches should hold,” the seamstress mumbled, a pair of straight pins clamped between her lips. “As long as you don’t dance too much or hug too many people.”

  Don’t breathe, don’t eat, don’t move until after the wedding reception on Saturday night. “No problem.”

  “Hey! Watch yourselves, girls,” the seamstress snapped at Ava and Alexis, who were now racing around the room brandishing sticky rainbow-striped lollipops.

  Melanie appeared to be on the verge of tears. “Where did you two get those?”

  “Auntie Rose.” Alexis took a bite from her sister’s lollipop, setting off a chubby-cheeked, blond-ringletted riot.

  Georgia fished through her purse and extracted her wallet. “Time for a game, girls. It’s called ‘Who Can Sit Down and Be the Quietest.’ Winner gets twenty dollars.”

  Ava and Alexis raced for the sofa.

  “Finished.” The seamstress stepped away, dusting off her hands with satisfaction. “Well? What do you think?”

  Emily gazed into the mirror and raised her hands to smooth back her long dark hair, then lowered her arms as she felt the tulle straining across her shoulder blades. “I look like Jackie Kennedy.”

  “If only my mother could be here right now.” Beverly twisted her handkerchief. “She would love you as much as I do.”

  Georgia glanced up from the compact mirror she was gazing into. “I know you’re obsessed with tradition, darling, but I’d suggest something a little more modern and slinky for your next wedding.”

  Bev’s smile vanished. “What do you mean, her next wedding?”

  Georgia waved her hand airily. “Oh, you know, just in case things don’t work out down the line.”

  “Mother,” Emily hissed.

  “Don’t be so sensitive. I’m only teasing.” Georgia glanced at her ring finger, then amended, “Or maybe I’m not. Men can be flighty, you know. They have midlife crises and lapses in judgment and sordid affairs with their secretaries.”

  Bev was staring at Georgia with a mixture of shock and horror. “We’re not talking about men; we’re talking about my son. Grant will never have a sordid affair. I raised him better than that.”

  “Don’t mind her.” Emily reached over and squeezed her future mother-in-law’s hand. “This is my one and only wedding gown, and I love it.” She leapt to one side as the seated, silent flower girls started dueling with their lollipop sticks.

  “I love that your family has so many traditions,” Emily told Bev. “Thank you for sharing them with me.”

  “It’s your family now, too,” Bev said. “After the wedding, we’ll have it dry-cleaned and treated, and
someday your daughter can wear it for her wedding.”

  At this, Georgia sat up a little straighter. “Our family has traditions, too, you know. Plenty of traditions. And you know you could have worn any of my gowns for this wedding. The Vera Wang, the Monique Lhuillier—oh, and the Amy Michelson was simply exquisite.”

  Melanie and Bev exchanged a look, and then Melanie asked, “You’ve been married three times?”

  “Four,” Georgia corrected. “It’s an art form.”

  There was a knock from the hallway, and as the door swung inward, Grant said, “Hey, Mom, have you seen—”

  All the females in the room started screaming.

  “Don’t come in!” Bev cried.

  “You can’t see her in her dress!” Georgia flung herself across the sofa to shield her daughter from view.

  “It’s bad luck!” Emily ducked out the sliding glass door and onto the balcony.

  In her excitement, she’d left her silver satin sandals in the bedroom, and the rough-hewn wooden planks on the balcony floor pricked her toes. But when she inspected the gown for damage, all the material looked intact: no stains, no tears, no splotches of sweat.

  I belong in this dress, she assured herself. I can pull this off.

  And for a moment, shaded by the pine trees and inhaling (in shallow, non-girdle-busting breaths) the fresh mountain air, she believed it. She listened to the birds calling and the faint sounds of splashing from the lakeside, and reminded herself what really mattered. The dress, a hotel full of wedding guests, all the flowers and French champagne—none of those things really mattered. What mattered was that she knew who she was and what she wanted. What mattered was being a good partner to the man she’d chosen to share her life with.

  A shrill, two-toned catcall knifed through her moment of Zen.

  “Nice dress, babe.”

  Emily inhaled sharply, caught a bug in her throat, and dissolved into a coughing fit. Her fingers curled around the wooden railing as she leaned forward to see who had whistled at her, then flung herself backward just as fast.

  She felt the tulle start to give way along her bicep, but she didn’t even glance at the damage. She was too busy fending off a full-blown panic attack.

  It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. You’re having a girdle-induced hallucination.

  But then the deep, amused male voice spoke again, this time directly under the balcony. “Are you wearing pearls? It’s official: Hell just froze over and the devil is serving gelato.”

  Emily edged back toward the railing and peered down at the ground, where a shaggy tan dog was wagging its tail next to a tall, dark, and devastatingly handsome man.

  He looked so different, she didn’t even recognize him at first glance. But when she closed her eyes, she knew.

  And when she opened them again, he was still standing there, staring up without a trace of surprise.

  “Ryan?”

  “What are you doing here?” Emily demanded.

  “You seem less than thrilled to see me.” Her ex gave her a thorough once-over, his gaze lingering on her lace-encased bosom.

  She felt dizzy and breathless from sprinting down the stairs, through the hotel lobby, and across the gravel parking lot in her bare feet. She might have blown by Grant in her desperate race to get to Ryan before anyone else could. Her groom might have seen her in her wedding gown.

  But she didn’t care about that right now. All she cared about was Ryan.

  Oh, and breathing.

  She knew that the slightest sign of weakness would be detected and used against her. She had to remain calm. Cool. Untouchable.

  He took in her panicked hyperventilating and offered her a steadying hand. “Can I get you anything? Maybe some smelling salts?”

  “No,” she wheezed, swatting away his outstretched fingers. “I’m fine.”

  “Obviously.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Okay, then let’s start over. Hi, Emily, it’s nice to see you again.”

  She stalked toward him, her hands clenched into fists by her side, and backed him around the corner so that no one from the Lodge’s parking lot or front lawn could see them. “You’re not here. You cannot be here.”

  He didn’t argue with her. Instead, he settled back and watched her with disconcerting intensity. She had forgotten how completely he could focus, shutting out everything else in the world. And right now, he was focused on her.

  Ninety-nine percent of her was horrified and irate. But the other one percent…well, she’d deal with that later.

  He watched her watching him and gave her a slow, sexy smile. “I missed you, too.”

  Cursing her own lack of self-control, she glanced down at his left hand. He wore a blackened silver skull ring on his third finger.

  She glanced back up at his face and asked, “Did you get remarried?”

  “Does that look like a wedding band to you?”

  “No, but, I mean, you’re not exactly a traditionalist.”

  He took off the ring to reveal her name, still tattooed on his finger. “It tends to kill my game when women see ‘Emily’ already branded into my flesh, so I try to cover it up.” He paused, his gaze roaming all over the sweet, frothy gown—the gown that Georgia had accurately described as “missish.” He was not looking at her as though she were Grace Kelly or Jackie Kennedy.

  He was staring at her as if he wanted to unzip her gown with his teeth.

  She started to cross her arms, then stopped when she realized she was straining the shoulder seams. “Keep looking at me like that and you’re going to lose an eye.”

  “I can’t help it. You’re a temptress in a tutu.”

  Emily stopped glaring at him just long enough to look over her shoulder to make sure no one else had overheard. “Please stop. This is not funny. This is my wedding.”

  “So I see.” He rubbed the shadow of stubble on his jawline. “That’s a hot dress.”

  “No, no, it is not. It is elegant and ladylike and it belonged to my fiancé’s grandmother.” Since she couldn’t cross her arms, she settled for putting her hands on her hips. “Hey! My eyes are up here. You know what? It doesn’t really matter why you’re here. Whatever you’re doing, whoever you’re with, I hope your whole life turned out great. I hope it’s unicorns and gumdrops and fluffy pink clouds every day. But you need to go now. Okay? You, me, this whole thing never happened.” She leaned forward just far enough to air-kiss each side of his face. “Mwah, mwah. Take care. Bye-bye!”

  His expression went from wryly amused to rankled. “I have news for you. A lot’s changed since we were twenty-two. You don’t get to send me on my way and forget I ever existed.”

  She froze, her lips still puckered into a little moue. “I haven’t forgotten you ever existed.”

  If only it were that easy.

  Of all the crazy things Emily had done in her youth, marrying Ryan was by far the craziest. And when she’d filed for divorce five months later, she’d been absolutely confident she was doing the right thing for both of them. Ryan Lassiter was not husband material. He was reckless. He was headstrong. He was trouble.

  And yet.

  He had lingered, in the back of her mind, in the depths of her heart. Even as she plowed forward without him, she had been unable to completely sever the connection between them. The intensity of their chemistry was a byproduct of adolescent hormones, or so she told herself. Their love, although intoxicating and all-consuming, had been shallow and unsustainable. The marriage they’d envisioned as twenty-two-year-olds didn’t exist and never could.

  And yet.

  When she had stormed out of their squalid apartment all those years ago, when she’d bargained her way into business school and bought her first suit, she’d fantasized about the day when she’d run into Ryan again, perhaps at a college reunion. She would be poised, professional, married to a guy like Grant and living in a home that could double as a Pottery Barn catalog. Ryan would still be scruffy, repentant, working at a dead-end job a
nd watching Quentin Tarantino movie marathons on Friday nights. She planned to act gracious, even a bit consolatory about the fact that her life had turned out so much better than his.

  The real-life version of events was not going as planned. Ryan didn’t appear the least bit broken or despondent.

  Instead of sallow skin and dark undereye circles, he sported an expensive haircut and an air of understated confidence. His black leather jacket, artfully aged and distressed, hinted at motorcycling in northern California and first-class jaunts to Europe. She didn’t know what he’d been doing for the last decade, but he’d finally put some muscle on his rangy frame, and the frenetic brightness in his haze eyes had given way to a powerful, purposeful magnetism.

  And judging from the way he was looking at her, he knew exactly what she was thinking.

  Inhale, exhale. She could handle this.

  She would get rid of him, and then she would forget this whole thing ever happened. She would tell no one, especially not Grant, and her world would go back to spinning on its axis.

  “You’re right,” she said. “You’re right. You absolutely exist, and you know what? You’re probably too good for me now.”

  “Probably,” he agreed.

  She ground her molars together in a tight smile. “But I am asking you—no, I am begging you—to please not be here right now. Please just move along.”

  “Can’t.” He pulled a smartphone out of his jacket pocket and checked the little screen. “I’m scouting some filming locations, and the rest of my production team will kill me if I don’t stay on schedule.”

  Her shock vaulted to new levels. “You…you’re a movie scout?”

  He didn’t look up from his phone. “Technically, I’m a production executive, but fancy titles aside, I do whatever needs doing.”

  “So you make movies? Real movies?”

  He seemed amused by her incredulity. “Yeah, I’ve done a few features. Maybe you’ve heard of them: Homework, The Tunnels, Vespers of Death.”

  She nodded, recognizing the titles from cinema posters and television ads. “I’ve heard of them. But I haven’t seen them—horror movies give me nightmares.”