But she’d slapped his hand away, which—with all their years together—hadn’t surprised him. She’d pretty much been slapping his hand away since the night seven years ago when a high school football game slated them for the state championship. A night when he’d noticed her—really noticed her—for the first time, cheering from the stands for the team. From that night on, they’d been an item—”Patterson Thacker and Mary Helen Robinson”—the golden couple, the couple most likely to …
But she’d kept him on a tight physical leash from night one. Sticking to group dating and closed-mouth kisses and hands kept at safe distances. A fact, he convinced himself, in keeping with the standards of her being “the kind of girl a man brings home to Mother.”
“The ones you bring to your bed,” his father had informed him in one of the rare moments when they spoke of such things, “and the ones you bring home to Mother are not the same girls.”
Time had proven his father’s sage words—advice, perhaps—to be true. There had been a girl during his first three years at Princeton—a flower-child-hippie-type named Dani—who’d fit the first bill just fine. He would have never brought Dani home to Mother. Or to Atlanta for that matter.
Fun while it lasted, but once he’d proposed to Mary Helen, he kissed Dani goodbye.
So to speak.
He sighed deeply now, thinking of her … wondering where she was and how she was and if she ever thought of him fondly. The heat through the window—or was it the memory of Dani tangled in threadbare sheets—warmed him enough that he tugged again at the collar of the overly starched tuxedo shirt. And, again, the blindingly white bow tie resisted the insert of his index finger as though its ulterior motive—and perhaps Mary Helen’s—was more to strangle him than to make him look debonair.
“A sign of things to come,” his best friend—and best man—said from behind. Patterson turned to smile at Dexter Holloway, who stood peeling his tux jacket off. “Goodness, man. Could Mary Helen have picked a hotter day? Even the air conditioner can’t keep up.”
“Don’t start,” he answered. “She got so emotional after the weather report the other night, I thought she was going to have a meltdown that would make every Southern woman worth her salt stand up and take notice.” He stepped away from the window. “I mean it, Dex, if it weren’t for all those gifts at her mama and daddy’s house, she probably would have cancelled the whole thing.” He grinned to lighten the notion. “You know Mary Helen can’t resist a good china pattern. And the thought of returning all that Limoges …”
Dexter slid the cuff of his shirt over his watch. “Son, you’ve got about ten minutes before the reverend comes in here to get us.” He looked up with a grin. “Run now and I’ll provide cover.”
“Come on. After seven years, you think I’m about to run off now?”
Dexter nodded, bringing his hands to rest on his narrow hips. “Seven years and counting. Son, I cannot believe you two held out this long.”
“Wasn’t my idea.”
“But tonight’s the night.”
Heat—different than before—slid over Patterson, and he smiled. “Let’s certainly hope so.” He looked at Dexter then, a man who’d been married two years now. A man whose wife was about to pop, ready to bring his baby into the world. “Ever hear of a woman balking on her wedding night?”
“I’m sure some woman somewhere …”
Patterson raised his brow in jest. “But Mary Helen will be worth the wait.”
Dexter laughed. “Oh, I’m sure …”
Patterson paced the room then, the thick red carpet soft beneath shoes that had been polished to such a shine he could see his reflection in them. When he stopped at the window again, he tapped the toe of one to the beat of a rhythm only he could hear. One that came out of nowhere. One with lyrics he whispered under his breath.
“What’s that?” Dexter asked.
Patterson looked up. “Nothing,” he said with a shrug. “For some reason I’m singing ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues.’ I got the album last week and—other than when Mary Helen’s had me at this function or that—I’ve listened to it nonstop.”
“I read somewhere that Dylan’s recording another one soon.”
“Oh, yeah? That would be cool.” He paused, thinking. “Man, I love Dylan …”
Dexter plopped down onto a charcoal-gray sculptural sofa that appeared to have been dropped onto one too many times by one too many groomsmen. “This waiting …”
Patterson found the nearest chair, unbuttoned the tux jacket, and eased down. “You think you’re anxious. What about me?”
“Different reasons,” Dexter teased, which made Patterson chuckle.
“This time tomorrow …”
“. . . the wait will be over.”
The door slid open bringing both men to their feet, turning to see Reverend Pinkerton peering around it. “Patterson,” he said, entering with his hand extended. “You ready, my boy?”
Patterson looked at Dexter and winked. The reverend meant one thing, but the two of them were thinking another. “Yes, sir,” he answered, taking the pastor’s hand and giving it a firm shake.
“Well, then,” Reverend Pinkerton drawled. “Just to let you know, I stopped by the Bride’s Room a moment ago, and Mary Helen is as pretty a picture as you could ever imagine.”
Patterson’s smile grew, his cheeks growing taut at the thought of her both in and out of her wedding gown. She’d told him all about it, but of course he’d yet to see it. Tradition prohibited and, God knew, Mary Helen was a woman of tradition. But she’d talked about the lace and the satin and the fullness of the skirt brought about by layers of netting and the veil and her shoes and her bouquet and even the bridesmaids’ gowns and shoes and bouquets until he wondered if she were marrying him because she loved him to the ends of the earth the way he loved her or because
