No, she would steam the gown and dress the bride and adjust the lace and straighten the train and flounces before Johanna started the march to the altar, the same way she did for every other bride she costumed. Any variance in her routine would only draw attention.
The last thing she needed was Callaway McIntyre's attention.
A few minutes before nine, she reached Fair Meadows. The large antebellum home east of Atlanta was an imposing venue for Johanna’s wedding.
At the rear entrance, Amanda stopped at the intercom and showed identification to a camera. When the gates opened, she drove by a small white cottage half-hidden by rhododendrons and wisteria, and continued down a graveled drive lined with cherry trees profuse with flowers.
According to instructions, she bypassed the full circle lined by crepe myrtles that would have brought her to the front of the house with its six-columned, two-tiered portico, and pulled around to the back.
Of white frame construction similar to the cottage she'd passed, the main house had been enlarged by two additions, one on either side of the boxy two-story middle. The only vehicle in sight was a caterer’s van at the main rear entrance, its doors open.
Amanda pulled her minivan up beside it.
A blue-jeaned Johanna skipped out. “Hi, Jane, I'm glad you're here.”
Behind the greeting, excitement sparkled. She looked as excited as Noelle when she’d married Edward.
Amanda had been so relieved to see her sister settled, so happy. Thank heavens she’d managed to save Noelle’s future.
She wouldn't think about Noelle now, nor worry about why she couldn't get hold of her. There was no time. Johanna was talking.
“… bring in my dress but could you possibly drop Claire's dress off at Cal's cottage on your way out this afternoon?”
“Cal's cottage?” Amanda's throat threatened to close.
“The little frame house you passed coming in. Nice and secluded. Cal can't stand noise, believe it or not.” Johanna laughed as if the idea of her brother not liking noise was hilarious.
When Amanda said nothing, Johanna's laughter died away. “It would be such a big help if you can drop it off,” she coaxed. “After all, we can't have Claire seeing her birthday present, can we? If it's anywhere in the house, she's certain to find it, and that would spoil the surprise.”
Amanda gathered herself together. “Will your brother be there to take it?”
Johanna's smile grew brilliant. “If he could, I wouldn’t have to ask you to help us out. No, Cal will be tied up here all day but he’s leaving the door open. He said you can go right in and hang it in the living room coat closet. You're so sweet, Jane, to do this. And you look so elegant. Can I help get your things out?”
Johanna was a nice girl. “Yes, please. Come take the veil bag, and my appliance case.”
He won't be there when I drop off the dress, Amanda reassured herself. Still, she didn't trust this twist, not one bit.
* * * *
When Claire Winslow put in an appearance later that morning, Amanda forgot her own worries.
Johanna's half-sister looked tired. More tired than could be blamed on the approaching wedding. Perhaps the peach and beige of Johanna's bedroom made Claire's complexion seem sallow, or perhaps it was the lack of makeup. Though neatly dressed in slacks and sweater, she seemed dispirited.
Amanda wondered why, but she had too many problems of her own to worry about Claire's. She still hadn’t been able to talk to Noelle, and the possibility of meeting Callaway McIntyre scared her to death.
Also, the insurance adjusters had yet to decide whether or not to total her car, and she couldn't do anything about replacing it until they did. To top everything off, last night's burglary attempt had left not only a damaged entrance at her apartment but the prospect of a visit to police headquarters to finish filling out yet more forms. Not to mention the repair bill for the sidelight and door still to come.
Too much paperwork entirely in life. Maybe the same thing was wrong with Claire.
“Your dress is gorgeous,” Claire said to Johanna as Amanda finished steaming the silken creation. “Those pearls make the gown. Oh, gosh, I'm going to miss you, Princess.”
“I'm only moving to Charlotte,” Johanna said. “It's not Timbuktu.”
“I know. But it's a four-hour drive.” The sisters looked at each other. Tears glistened, threatened to fall, but conscious of Amanda's presence, the two women laughed shakily and embraced.
An elderly man looked in, dressed in striped pants and dress shirt. “Claire, Johanna. Will one of you help me with these dratted buttons? My fingers are so stove up I can't fasten them.”
“Let Johanna. I need to get dressed myself,” Claire said. “Jane, this is Tip Lathen, my stepfather and the father of the bride. Tip, this is the Jane you've heard Johanna and me raving about. Hasn't she given Johanna a magnificent dress? You will forgive me, won't you, Jane, if I run on to change?” With a smile slightly askew, Claire left.
Tip was a kindly old soul, the sort of man who'd make a good father and grandfather. Though like Claire, he seemed too solemn for the occasion.
A cellphone rang. Johanna looked indecisively from her father's sleeve to the purse on her bed.
Amanda put down her steamer. “Let me finish that.”
“Oh, thanks,” Johanna said, running to pull out her cell. Her voice softened. “Oh, Jeremy. Hey. Don't you know you aren't supposed to speak to me till the wedding?” She carried the phone outside onto the balcony.
Tip Lathen chuckled. “I remember when she was born,” he said as Amanda took his cuff. “She was the tiniest, most perfect thing I'd ever seen. I was assigned to a small town in Italy, and the nurses didn't speak English. They couldn't tell me if she was a boy or a girl, but she was so beautiful, I knew right off she was a girl.”
Amanda finished one cuff, started on the second. “I believe I heard someone say you were in the diplomatic corps.”
“Yes, but I resigned when Johanna was three and Lila took a greater role in the business. Johanna used to complain, very vociferously at times, I might add, that she missed out on a lot of exciting travel.”
“Whenever I complained, Mother always told me I was lucky to be here at all.” Johanna floated in from the balcony. “She said that you and she were out of your minds, starting a family at your ages. She said I was an embarrassment, coming along when Cal was nearly fourteen years old and her in her forties.”
Tip mistook her needling for a real grievance. “My dear, you were a blessing. You know the teasing was just her way.”
“Of course I do. I'm the luckiest person in the world. I just wish she could be here.” Johanna threw her arms around her father and kissed him.
Amanda hesitated. “Do you need help with your tie, too?”
“Would you mind?” He turned back gratefully. “My hands are so arthritic that I can't do a thing for myself. It's a burdensome thing, growing old.”
“The photographer should be here any minute,” Johanna told Amanda as her father left, studs securely fastened and tie neatly tied. “It'll take an hour to get the photographs and then it'll be time to go down. It's going to be so beautiful.”
Her sister might be under the weather, but Johanna was deliriously happy. Again, Amanda stanched memories of Noelle on her wedding day.
A car horn sounded from outside and Johanna ran to the French windows opening onto the balcony to wave. She came back inside, laughing. “That's my maid of honor,” she said, with a lilt in her voice. “Lynette introduced me to Jeremy.” She danced over to the door where Amanda steamed the lace veil. “The rest of my bridesmaids should be here soon, too. I need to make sure they stay away from Cal! One of them’s a redhead.”
“Oh?” Amanda felt constrained to say something. “Does he like redheads?”
Johanna snorted. “I’ll say. Actually, he likes anything in panties.” She laughed again. “I never thought I'd be so happy. Now where, oh where, did I put my bridesmaids' gifts?”
Chapter Seven
The garden wedding of Johanna Maria Lathen to Jeremy Bartram Carruthers, scion of an old banking family from North Carolina, went off as planned, with but a few minor deviations.
Tip Lathen, the bride's ailing father, was suitably subdued, blinking to hide the moisture in his eyes as he handed Johanna over to her groom. When he pulled out a handkerchief and loudly blew his nose, every woman and several fathers smiled with sympathy.
Then there was the charming moment as rings were being exchanged, when the bride's pet cat strolled out from behind a fern and batted at a bead on the train. The flower girl stepped aside and picked it up, reproving it in a loud whisper. She held onto the squirming feline for the rest of the ceremony and carried it out at the end, still audibly scolding.
Many guests chuckled out loud.
On the lawn, the lunch reception was blessed with spring sunshine and blue skies. The dogwoods and cherries were at their height of color in the background, while fading iris and drifts of daffodils set off the pink azaleas leading to the formal gardens.
Eating at small tables near the patio buffet, people laughed and exchanged remarks about how well the ceremony had gone. They talked about how the adorable flower girl handled the cat's
faux pas
, how lovely the bride looked, how well-behaved Claire's twin sons were as ushers, and wasn't it a pity poor Lila hadn't lived long enough to see her youngest daughter looking so radiant?
Amanda moved among the chattering guests, dodging Callaway McIntyre.
“There's Senator Swift,” she overheard one fortyish woman say to another while nodding toward a handsome man near the fountain. “Isn't he luscious? If my husband could look half that good when he's that age, I'd die happy.”
“Honey, if my husband could look like that
now
, I'd die happy,” came the quick retort.
They roared with laughter.
Amanda felt ancient. Had she ever been so carefree?
She studied Matthew Swift. Okay, he did have a certain appeal about him. Straight of figure and courtly of manner, he was the epitome of a southern gentleman. Still, to go around rhapsodizing about him or any other man was not her style.
Images of Callaway McIntyre's laughing face came to mind to be hastily discarded.
She felt very virtuous and superior. There was no reason at all for her to feel she had lost something, somewhere, somehow, during the years she'd been struggling to succeed.
I made my choices. I can live with them.
While the obligatory wedding pictures were staged, she sipped on a cup of punch and stayed out of the way. Once the reception luncheon was over and the bridal gown safely put away, she could leave. She'd drop off Claire's dress in the cottage and be done with the McIntyres forever.
Thank heavens Callaway McIntyre was occupied with the photographer. She had no desire to come face to face with him again, watching in agony for that flicker of recognition that might or might not come.
He, she couldn't help noticing as he posed in his gray striped pants and morning coat, had more than his share of masculine appeal. Long legs, wide shoulders, easy smile. The chocolate eyes that told a woman she was fascinating.
Senator Swift's genteel manner was all very well, but there was something about Callaway McIntyre's insouciance that Amanda preferred.
If she had to choose between the two.
Which she didn't, because she wasn't interested in any man. Not even one whose remembered touch sent chills tumbling around her stomach.
Firmly expunging thoughts of Callaway McIntyre, she edged toward a secluded corner of the sunny garden and sat down on a wrought iron bench placed against a high boxwood hedge.
A man's voice, smooth and apologetic, came from behind the hedge. “Of course it could be a forgery. I only know what I got in the mail, but if you feel—”
“I feel threatened,” a second voice, precise and mellifluous, interrupted. “I'm a politician, remember? How do we know this person hasn't made more copies?”
Matthew Swift. Who did the senator feel threatened by? Who was he talking to? Amanda looked over her shoulder, but the boxwood hedge was too dense to see anything or anybody.
“Copies aren't worth the paper they're printed on,” the first man answered. “Anybody can forge something and make a copy. The original diary is all that could hurt any of you, Senator. I hate to say it, but if the papers get hold of this...” The words trailed off into a pregnant silence.
“The papers would almost certainly get hold of it, wouldn't they?” Contempt rasped the senator’s tone. “Even if I agree, it's Sunday. I can't get that amount of cash today.”
A burst of hilarity came from a noisy group approaching from the side. The footsteps behind Amanda's seat retreated.
The loud group went by her and toward the pond below. She crossed her ankles.
Hmm. Sounded like Senator Swift was being blackmailed, but that had to be an occupational hazard for politicians. Too bad. From everything she’d read, he was a decent man.
His wife had developed Alzheimer's in her thirties, but he'd dealt with it till she died some years back. He hadn’t remarried, but finished raising their son by himself. Thoughtful and informed on big issues before Congress, he never displayed himself to disadvantage on television or press conferences, an almost impossible achievement for anyone in this Internet age.