LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

custom-built cradles. What a dream!

      When the photographer finished, the bride turned her back to the group, and the ladies resumed shouting as eagerly as the most talkative catcher behind home plate at Augusta Middle School, where Roger’s son played league softball.

      Isabel bit her tongue and crossed her arms in front of her. She had no business catching the bouquet. She was only standing with this group now because one of the bridesmaids had dragged her out here.

      The bouquet left the bride’s hands and arced over the space. Isabel watched the gorgeous pink mixture sail past the others, heading straight for her nose. At the last minute, she reached up and caught it.

      Groans and chuckles filled the cool April air while Isabel righted the bouquet and inhaled its fine scent. Any magic in these flowers, she knew, was merely in the enjoyment of them.

      The other women scattered into the crowd, and Isabel carried the bouquet across to the chairs, where Roger’s six-year-old daughter looked as if she might burst from excitement.

      “You catched the flowers,” Angie hollered, jumping up from her seat to clap her hands on either side of her punch-stained mouth. “I know what that means. If you marry my daddy, you’ll be my ee-bil ol’ stepmother, right?”

      “The word is evil, birdbrain,” eleven-year-old R.J. said.

      “I said ee-bil.”

      As the pair began their umpteenth squabble of the afternoon, Isabel claimed a chair near them and scowled at the bouquet.

      Evil! Her sisters always told her she was too nice. And old? At twenty-seven, Isabel was hardly close to spinster age. The little girl must have heard a few too many fairy tales.

      “But will you be my stepmother, Izza-bell?” Angie asked.

      Isabel was still scrambling for a wise, motherly response when the groom hollered for Roger, saying he needed to join the bachelors for the garter toss.

      “Where did your dad go?” she asked the kids, and when she noticed the heaping plateful of cashews and mints that R.J. was trying to hide, she confiscated it and scooped half the pile into her palm before handing it back. “R.J., do you know?” she prompted.

      “He had to check his soybeans,” R.J. said, speaking around a mouthful of nuts. “He said females like all this flowery junk, and since you drove your own car and all, you could stay.”

      Angie peered across at Isabel, her brown eyes wide and serious. “You’re sposed to bring us home after the cake an’ ever-thing.”

      Roger had warned Isabel that he had some work to finish before dark, but Isabel was surprised that he hadn’t offered her the option of leaving with him.

      “Sorry, he left,” she shouted to the waiting men.

      As Isabel watched the George Clooney guy catch the garter, then ignored the couples dancing to a few last wedding songs while she ate cake with the kids, she consoled herself that Roger’s actions were probably normal for a boyfriend of over three years.

      His early departure wasn’t an act of neglect. He simply had chores to do. He was a good guy, overall. Honest, hardworking.

      He was a great guy, and handsome, too. Hadn’t she caught the banker eyeing him during the ceremony today? Roger’s thick auburn hair and tanned, even features caught the attention of other women all the time, especially now that he’d slimmed down some. But he didn’t flirt, even when the ladies invited it.

      To a woman whose mother had taught her that all men were either fickle or worthless, that kind of predictability counted for a lot.

      Isabel watched the crowd begin to leave, mostly in man-woman pairs. She might have the bouquet in her possession, but she’d never be the next to marry. Weddings had been too abundant in her circle lately.

      She wondered if Roger had any idea that she might like to be a bride someday. His bride, and stepmother to his kids, whom she cared for on a regular basis. Whom she cared for, period.

      On the way home in her car, Isabel got a clear idea of Roger’s intentions. R.J. and Angie were both buckled into the backseat. As usual, R.J. had requested that Isabel turn on the radio so he could, as he’d put it, tune out the motormouth.

      “I wish Daddy would marry Izza-bell,” the doggedly chatty Angie murmured to her brother a moment later. “She’d be the best ee-bil stepmother in the whole U.S.A.!”

      Isabel smiled at the contradiction, until she heard R.J.’s response.

      “Her name is Isabel, and Dad isn’t going to marry her.” The boy’s low voice and bold statement suggested that he thought Isabel was listening to the music.

      “Izza-bell,” Angie repeated, still pausing before that last syllable in the cute way she had. “But why won’t Daddy marry her?” Her question spared Isabel the trouble of butting in to ask it herself.

      “He’s never getting hitched again. He says it all the time at home.”

      “He does?”

      Again, Angie had voiced Isabel’s own musings. She slowed her approach to Roger’s farm, but worked to control her reaction. She wanted to hear the rest of this particular squabble.

      “He likes her okay, though,” R.J. said. “She’s not exactly ugly or anything, and he says he craves adult company.”

      “Izza-bell isn’t like other adults, dummy,” Angie said. “She pushes me on the swings and plays house wif me.”

      “Jeez, Ange, she probably plays with you because she doesn’t have her own kids or a dumb career or anything more important to do.”

      Ye-ouch!

      Isabel pulled into the long drive at Roger’s farm and left the car idling. She’d heard enough. Roger’s truck and tractor were parked in their usual places next to the cottonwoods, so she knew he must be inside by now.

      She wouldn’t go in. Let him pull together his own dinner and tend to his own artlessly honest kids. “If your dad asks where I am,” she said, “tell him I had plans for tonight.”

      And she did.

      Now.

      Oblivious to her changed mood, R.J. said goodbye and disappeared into the house.

      Angie remained in her seat. “R.J. doesn’t know ever-thing. Daddy will marry you.”

      Isabel turned around in the seat to peer at her tiny buddy, who must have realized she’d been listening to the backseat conversation. “What makes you think so, hon?”

      “Cuz you’re nice, an’ Mama has a new boyfriend, anyways.” The little girl sat up straight and grinned, showing off a missing front tooth. “’Sides, I’m not gonna grow up an’ be like Mama. I’m gonna be like you.”

      “How so?”

      “I don’t want a dumb c’reer. I want to stay home and make stuff and play Barbies wif a little girl, like you do.”

      Well, ouch, again.

      Isabel had a career. She owned and operated Blumecrafts, the home-based business her mother had started. Her handmade quilts and baskets might not earn her a doctor’s or a banker’s wages, but she made enough to pay her bills and then some.

      And she had time left over to entertain a certain redheaded six-year-old and her outspoken older brother.

      “Well, thanks, hon.” Isabel got out of her car, then went around to the back to help Angie unbuckle her seat belt. “Just remember you can do anything when you grow up. Okay? Anything at all.”

      Angie nodded, her expression serious.

      As Isabel watched her young friend get out of the car and skip up the gravel drive to the house, she realized something. The impression she’d left on those kids wasn’t the one she’d intended.

      Living

Скачать книгу