Drawn by the sight of the wedding veil waiting just a few feet away, she stepped over the threshold.
“Delaney? Where did you go?”
Distantly, she heard her friends calling to her, but she did not turn around. She just kept moving, pulled inexplicably toward the veil. She reached out a finger and stroked the glass case.
Up close it was even more compelling. The delicate lace pattern formed a myriad of butterflies sewn with thread so fine it was almost invisible.
“May I help you?”
Startled, Delaney jumped and tore her gaze from the veil to meet the eyes of a soft-voiced, black-haired woman in her early forties. The shopkeeper wore a gauzy, purple crinkle skirt and a lavender sleeveless knit blouse. She studied her quietly.
Delaney felt a subtle but distinct atmospheric change. The room grew slightly cooler, damper, and she experienced a strange but familiar sense of connection. “Have we met?”
“Claire Kelley,” the woman said with the faint hint of an Irish brogue. Her handshake was firm, self-assured.
“Delaney Cartwright.”
Claire raised an eyebrow. Delaney knew that look. The woman recognized the Cartwright name, but to her surprise, Claire did not ask her if she was one of those oil money Cartwrights the way most people did.
“Tell me about the veil,” Delaney said.
“You have a very discerning eye. It’s a floor-length mantilla style made of rose point lace, created with a very fine needle. Rose point is considered the most delicate and precious of all laces.”
“May I see it?”
The woman hesitated and then said firmly, “I’m afraid it’s not for sale, Ms. Cartwright.”
Delaney’s father, the consummate oilman, had taught her that everything was for sale for the right price. “If I may just examine the design up close, I’d like to have one just like it commissioned for my wedding.”
“That’s impossible. It’s one of a kind.”
She couldn’t say why this was suddenly so important, but need settled like a lead weight in her stomach. She curled her fingernails into her palms. “Please, I must see it.”
Outside on the street she could still hear her friends calling to her, but they sounded so very far away—on another planet, in another dimension, far outside her realm of concern.
Reluctantly, Claire took a key from her skirt pocket and ticked the lock open. She removed the veil from the case and arranged it with great care on the counter in front of them.
The majesty of it hit Delaney like a softly exploding eggshell. For one incredible instant she felt as if she were floating. She forgot to breathe. She could not breathe. Did not want or need to breathe. Terrified that if she dared inhale, the veil would evaporate.
A second passed, then two, then three.
At last, she was forced to draw in a deep, shuddering sigh of oxygen.
“Butterfly wings,” she whispered.
The design was constructed of tiny roses grouped to form the butterflies. The veil was so white, so beautiful—almost phosphorescent. At any moment she expected it to fly right out the door.
Isn’t it amazing,
she thought,
to live in a world where there is such a work of artistic beauty.
Delaney blinked, blinded by the dazzle and the image of herself wearing the veil as she walked down the aisle to meet her groom. The image swept in and out before her eyes as if she were in a slow, dreamy faint. She stared at the veil, seeing her future wedding, seeing the man she was about to marry.
But it wasn’t Evan.
In his place stood a hard-jawed man with piercing dark eyes and a world-weary expression. He looked like a guardian, a soldier, a warrior. He exuded a strong, masculine quality. For the first time in her life, she had an overwhelming urge to kiss a man she knew absolutely nothing about. And she sensed, without doubt, he would taste like caffeine—strong, brisk, and intense.
A hard shiver ran through her.
She hitched in another breath. Her vision cleared and she was aware that while only an instant had passed, a vast expanse of time had swayed before her. A chasm into an unknowable dimension.
Claire was watching her, concern reflected in her pale blue eyes, yet there was also warmth and a steady quietness that reassured Delaney.
Whatever you see, it’s okay.
The shopkeeper did not speak the words, but Delaney heard them as clearly as if she’d shouted.
Like a magnet to metal, the veil tugged at something deep within her. Her body pulsed with buoyancy and desire. She shut her eyes and found the alluring pattern burned into the back of her eyelids.
“This veil is very special.” Claire’s voice grew sentimental and her mouth softened. “It’s over three hundred years old.”
An illicit thrill shot through her at the possibility. Delaney’s eyes flew open. “Impossible. It’s snow white. A veil that old would yellow with age.”
A slight, knowing smile lifted the corners of Claire’s mouth. “It’s rumored to be magic.”
“Magic?”
“There’s a legend.”
Delaney adored history and ancient lore and had a secret longing to believe in magic, to have faith in something beyond the five senses. She leaned in closer, her eyes swallowing the veil.
“A legend?” she whispered.
“Here you are!” Tish barged through the door, Jillian and Rachael following in her wake.
The interruption, like a knuckle scraped against a cheese grater, irritated her, but she loved her friends, so Delaney tamped down her annoyance and forced a smile.
“What’s up?” Tish asked, coming to stand at her elbow.
“Shh,” Delaney said. “Claire was about to tell me the story of the veil.”
“Oh.” Tish blinked, seeing it for the first time. Delaney heard her sharp intake of breath. “Wow, that’s some veil.”
Jillian peered over Tish’s shoulder. “It’s brilliant.”
“Strangely mesmerizing.” Rachael tilted her head to study it in the muted lighting.
“Go on with the story,” Delaney pleaded.
Claire paused.
“We want to hear it too,” Tish said.
The shopkeeper eyed them all, and then she cleared her throat. “Once upon a time, in long-ago Ireland, there lived a beautiful young witch named Morag who possessed a great talent for tatting lace.” Claire’s lyrical voice held them spellbound. “People came from far and wide to buy the lovely wedding veils she created.”
“I can see why,” Delaney murmured, lightly fingering the veil.
“But there were other women in the community who were envious of Morag’s beauty and talent. These women made up a lie and told the magistrate that Morag was casting spells on the men of the village.”
“Jealous bitches,” Jillian said.
Claire arrowed Jillian a chiding glance.
“The magistrate,” she continued after Jillian got the hint and shut up, “was engaged to a woman that he admired, but did not love. He arrested Morag, but found himself falling madly in love with her. Convinced that she must have cast a spell upon him as well, he moved to have her tried for practicing witchcraft. If found guilty, she would be burned at the stake.”
“Oh, no.” Rachael brought her fingers to her lips.
“It’s just a myth,” Tish said, but Delaney could tell that her friend, who pretended to have tough skin to hide a tender heart, was as enraptured with the story as the rest of them.
“But in the end, the magistrate could not resist the power of true love. On the eve before Morag was to stand trial, he kidnapped her from the jail in the dead of night and spirited her away to America, giving up everything for her love. To prove that she had not cast a spell over him, Morag promised never to use magic again. As her final act of witchcraft, she made one last wedding veil, investing it with the power to grant the deepest wish of the wearer’s soul. She wore the veil on her own wedding day, wishing for true and lasting love. Morag and the magistrate were blessed with many children and much happiness. They lived to be a ripe old age and died in each other’s arms.”
“Ah.” Rachael sighed. “That’s so sweet. I was afraid they were going to burn her at the stake.”
Tish snorted and rolled her eyes.
“Humph,” Jillian said. “I don’t think it’s fair that she had to give up the very thing that defined her just for the love of a man.”
“The magistrate gave up his job for her,” Delaney pointed out. “And he was exiled from his homeland.”
“Morag was exiled too.” Tish narrowed her eyes at the veil as if she didn’t trust it.
“You must remember,” Claire said, “this was three hundred years ago. Things were much different then. And the magistrate wasn’t just any man, but her soul mate. There’s a very big difference. You can love all manner of people, in all manner of ways, but we each have only one soul mate who not only completes us, but challenges us to grow beyond our fears.”
Was it true? Delaney wondered. Was there really such a thing as a soul mate?
Whether it’s true or not,
muttered a saucy voice in the back of her head that sounded a whole lot like her sister, Skylar,
one thing’s for sure. Evan Van Zandt is definitely not your soul mate. You’re too much alike. Peas in a pod. No challenge. No emotional growth going on in that relationship.
Delaney nibbled her bottom lip, disturbed by the thought. Maybe Evan wasn’t her soul mate, but he was kind and good and honest. As children they’d played in the sandbox together.
Evan was the one person who had told her she was pretty when she was chubby and bucktoothed and nearsighted and had a hump in her nose. Both of their families heartily approved of the marriage, and she did love him. Maybe not with a magic-wedding-veil-soul-mate-for-all-eternity kind of love, but she did love him. So what if there was no red-hot chemistry? In Delaney’s estimation sex was way overrated anyway.
Too bad you don’t have a magistrate to kidnap you and take you away with him.
It’s my fault,
Delaney thought,
not Evan’s
. She hadn’t tried hard enough to make their sex life something special and then she’d gone and agreed to the celibacy thing and now he was going off to Guatemala to heal crippled children.
She pushed the troubling thoughts away and leaned down to examine the veil more closely. Poetry in lace. It spoke to her in a singsong of the ages. It might not be rational or practical or even sane, but she could feel an enchanted force flowing through the air.
Goose bumps spread over her arms. What if there was some truth to the legend? What if she wore the veil on her wedding day and wished that her sexual feelings for Evan would grow stronger, richer, deeper, and truer? Would it happen?
A compulsion quite unlike anything she had ever felt before gripped her. The feeling was much greater than an itch or a whim. It gnawed at her. No matter how much it might cost, she had to have this veil. Weird as it sounded, Delaney just knew that if she had the veil she would get the happily-ever-after she so desperately desired.
But what about her mother? How could Delaney begin to explain this to Honey and convince her to let her wear this veil on her wedding day?
You can figure out how to deal with her later. Just get your hands on it.
There it was again. The undisciplined voice that sounded like Skylar. A voice boldly inciting her to do things she wouldn’t ordinarily dare.
“I’ll give you a thousand dollars for the veil,” she blurted, surprised at her feelings of desperation.
Claire shook her head. “I’m sorry, but it’s not for sale.”
“Three thousand,” Delaney said firmly, acting as if there was no way the woman could refuse. Three grand was probably twice what this little consignment store netted in a month.
“It’s not a matter of money.”
“Five thousand.” Enough haggling. She was determined to possess the veil.
“You would spend that much for a wedding veil?” Claire’s eyes widened.
“Her grandmother left her a two-million-dollar trust fund and she just turned twenty-five,” Tish interjected. “She can spend as much as she wants.”
“No.” Claire shook her head.
“If it’s not the money,” Delaney asked, “what is it?”
The shopkeeper took a deep breath and looked as if she wished they would all just go away and leave her alone. “There are complications.”
“Complications?” Delaney frowned. “What kind of complications are we talking about?”
“Um… well… throughout the years the veil has… er… backfired,” Claire stammered.
“Backfired? What does that mean?”
“There’ve been a few incidents.”
“Like what?”
“Whenever people hear about the legend, they feel compelled to wish upon the veil.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
Claire nervously moistened her lips. “Nothing in and of itself. The problem occurs when people wish for one thing and what their hearts really want is another thing completely. Because you see, when you wish on the veil, you get whatever your soul most deeply hungers for. It’s just that some people aren’t ready to face what’s truly in their hearts and souls.”
“Be careful what you wish for because you just might get it,” Jillian said.
“Exactly.” Claire nodded.
“But this wedding veil is absolutely perfect,” Delaney said, feeling wildly out of control, but unable to reel herself in. “I have to have it. Would seventy-five hundred dollars convince you?”
A long silence stretched across the room. All five of them were staring at the wedding veil.
“You really are desperately needin’ a bit of magic in your life, aren’t you,” Claire Kelley murmured, her Irish brogue more noticeable now.
Delaney looked from the wedding veil to Claire and saw understanding in the shopkeeper’s eyes. Eerily, it seemed as if the woman comprehended all of Delaney’s doubts and fears concerning her impending marriage.
“Yes.”
Far more than you can ever know.
Delaney raised her hands in supplication. “Please, sell me the veil.”
“I cannot sell it to you.”
An emotion she could not name, but that tasted a bit like grief, took hold of her. Why was possessing this particular wedding veil so important? There was no rational explanation for it, but an odd feeling clutched deep within her. The yearning was almost unbearable.