professional lives, Lucy’s parents had not left the country for the summer but had, instead, come to Merritt to be with Lucy and get to know Brantley. Michelle Meade, Aunt Annelle, Miss Caroline, and the book club girls had insisted that Lucy just tell them how she wanted her wedding and they would make it happen.
“After all,” Tolly had said, “it’s your turn. You practically slaved over all of our weddings.”
“It’s not our fault that she’s the one with flair,” Missy said. “When we get done with this wedding, it’s liable to look like a barn dance.”
“It will not,” Lanie said. “She’ll tell us what to do. And you never mind Missy, Lucy. We’ll take care of everything.”
And that had been fine with Lucy—more than fine. She’d had the interior of a building to finish restoring. Now, the Alden Fairfax Brantley Cultural Center was complete and the first function to be held in the Eva Brantley Kincaid Ballroom was Lucy’s wedding reception.
She stood in the corner, not minding one bit being a wallflower at her own party. Her husband wasn’t beside her and she didn’t mind that either—especially since he was playing the piano so everyone could continue to dance while the musicians took a break.
Lucy had not understood the significance of the piano playing until late last spring when he had nonchalantly strolled to the piano at Miss Caroline’s and started to play. There had been tears, first from Miss Caroline, then Charles, and finally, Lucy, once she understood what a hurdle he had crossed. But Brantley hadn’t cried. He’d just smiled and continued on with his rusty rendition of “Brown Eyed Girl
It had not always been easy. He’d made progress, had setbacks, but he had not run. He’d wanted to a few times, especially the night they had their first argument—something that was also progress but sure hadn’t felt that way at the time. She’d never meant to bring up Savannah, never meant to make a snide remark about how he’d rejected her, but it had been hot, she was tired, and he was being an ass about something. She couldn’t even remember what now.
But the words came out and he was not one bit humble or apologetic. He claimed he’d done the
Then one of them laughed and they made up in the most miraculous way. It was in the sweet moments after making love that he told her that he had finally been able to have a disagreement without thinking someone was going to die because of it.
His therapist would be pleased.
If she had had any doubt that he was going to heal, she would have known better when in June he finally came to her, as he said, “on bended knee.” The ring he presented to her was not the platinum and diamond one that he had pulled out of his pocket all those months ago at the parade party.
No. It was antique rose gold, set with rubies and diamonds—his mother’s ring. And just hours ago at the same altar where he’d been baptized and laid his mother and grandfather to rest, Brantley had slipped Eva’s wide wedding band on her finger.
Now, she ran her finger over the rings and sent out a promise and a prayer.
“Hello, baby girl.” She looked up to see Charles, handsome in his black tie attire. “Admiring your rings? I sure love seeing them on your hand.”
She tried to swallow her tears and failed miserably. “Just making someone a promise that I’ll do my best to love her baby the way she would want him to be loved.”
“Oh, I think she knows that. We all do.” He took a snowy handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her eyes. “But no tears tonight. There’s too much happy here for that.”
And there was. She looked out on the dance floor, where her three best friends and bridesmaids were dancing with their husbands to the beat of Brantley’s questionable rendition of “What Becomes of the Brokenhearted?” No broken hearts there. Her parents were drinking Champagne with Annelle, Lou Anne, and Miss Caroline. Tiptoe Watkins danced in a circle of three with Emma and Beau. And though Evelyn was a guest at the wedding, she was tidying the buffet and seemed to be giving the caterers a piece of her mind. And, oh, look! Arabelle, who, to Lucy’s delight, had come for the wedding, was letting Will Garrett lead her onto the dance floor.
Brantley hit a sour note, but never slowed down and neither did the dancers.
Charles and Lucy laughed together.
“He never was very good,” Charles said.
“Yet he plays on,” Lucy said.
Just then Brantley ended with a flourish and called across the room. “I’ve got time for one more before those hired musicians run me off this fine instrument that my dad bought for this room. But I can’t play this next one without my bride sitting with me on this bench.” He patted the place beside him and gave her a wink and smile.
Then he broke into “My Girl” as she wove her way through the crowd to him.
About the Authors
Before they began writing as Alicia Hunter Pace, Stephanie Jones and Jean Hovey were friends—not just friends, but the finish each other’s sentences and swap shoes on the sidewalk kind of friends.
They had no idea their writing styles would be so different but, upon reflection, they could have looked at their travel styles for a clue. Jean once got off a plane in London with eight dollars, an ATM card, no reservations of any kind, and a vague idea that she wanted to go to the Victoria and Albert museum. When Stephanie travels, she arrives with a detailed concrete plan written in a notebook that she carries in a coordinating tote bag that matches her calendar and her shoes.
There’s something to be said for both philosophies. Traveling by the seat of one’s pants—whether in a foreign country or on the printed page—can lead to adventures never recorded in a guide book, but it seems to work out better if there is a plotter along with her hand on the rudder.
Writing with a partner—most people wouldn’t do it; most people shouldn’t do it. It could easily lead to hair pulling, lawsuits, and funeral food.
But it works for them.
Stephanie lives in Jasper, Alabama, where she teaches third grade and wishes for a bigger bookstore. She is a native Alabamian who likes football, civil war history, and people who follow the rules. She is happy to provide a list of said rules to anyone who needs them.
Jean, a former public librarian, lives in Decatur, Alabama, with her husband in a 100-year-old house that always wants something from her. She likes to cook but has discovered the joy of Mrs. Paul’s fish fillets since becoming a writer.
Stephanie and Jean are both active members of the fabulous Heart of Dixie Chapter of Romantic Writers of America.
For Luke and Lanie’s story, check out
For Nathan and Tolly’s story, check out
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