An Honorable Man

“Libby and I wanted different things. We married pretty young and we had some idealistic notions about what marriage would be all about. But we were still growing and changing and figuring out who we were. And in the end…our goals in life were polar opposites. Maybe if we’d gotten counseling or something…” He shrugged. “But we were just dumb kids.”

“It’s still sad.” She processed this new information about Roark, trying to fit it to the man as she knew him. “You don’t seem jaded, like a lot of divorced people are.”

“Cautious would be more accurate. But not without hope.” He smiled enigmatically at her. Instantly her chest tightened in a not-unpleasant way.

“I hope this won’t bring back sad memories for you,” she said.

He shrugged. “I got over all that a long time ago.”

She wondered. Did anybody truly get completely over a divorce? She and Cory hadn’t even gotten to the wedding-plan stage before their relationship had ended, but she wasn’t sure she would ever be able to talk about it as casually as Roark talked about his previous marriage.

She shivered.

“You cold?” Roark asked.

“Maybe a little.”

He inched the thermostat up a bit.

They took advantage of the valet parking that had been arranged—Priscilla didn’t want to drag the dress any farther than she had to. Roark courteously carried the rest of her things, so she could hold the dress well off the ground.

The church did look like a medieval cathedral. Since she’d been attending services here her whole life, she’d never thought about it much. But it was grand to the point of ostentation. Everything was white and gray marble, punctuated by intricate stained glass and pseudoancient tapestries.

The wedding consultant, whose name was Elisha, greeted Priscilla like a long-lost best friend. “The others are all here. Hurry, now, hurry!” Then she gave Roark a quick once-over, gasped daintily and directed them toward the dressing room.

“You want me to go to the dressing room with you?” Roark asked, looking doubtful. “I can just go sit in the church.”

“Oh, no,” Priscilla said, “you have to come with me. My mother is already half-inclined to believe I made you up.” She grabbed his hand and dragged him with her. A few seconds later she realized she had voluntarily touched him. As soon as he appeared to be following willingly, she dropped his hand like a hot coal.

She knocked on the dressing room door, which opened instantly. Her mother stood blocking the entry and looking worried. “Priscilla. Where have you been? I was starting to get concerned.”

Priscilla checked her watch. She was only five minutes late. “Sorry, traffic was bad.” Which was true. Traffic in Dallas was always bad.

“Hang your dress up over there, but don’t get it mixed up with the others. Christina will do your makeup as soon as she gets done with Judith’s. And then Rebecca will do your…” Her tirade halted abruptly when she saw Roark. “Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you weren’t alone. This must be your young man.”

Gawd, where did her mother come up with these archaic expressions? She’d grown up in the sixties. Surely she hadn’t referred to her boyfriends as “young men.”

“Mother, this is Roark Epperson,” Priscilla said dutifully. “Roark, my mother, Lorraine Garner.”

Roark took her mother’s hand and squeezed it. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Garner.”

Lorraine’s attention was so fixed on Roark she forgot she was in the middle of giving Priscilla her instructions. Priscilla couldn’t help but smile. Roark had that effect on women, no matter what their age.

She was sure Roark could hold his own, so she skulked past her mother and into the room where she could properly greet the bride with a dainty hug.

“You look beautiful, Marisa,” Priscilla said, meaning it. Although her cousin was still in a dressing gown, her lush, curly black hair had been piled on top of her head in a style worthy of a Greek goddess. “You’re just…radiant.”

“Thank you,” Marisa said regally. Then she whispered, “The guy is gorgeous. And you let him see you in curlers!”

“Couldn’t be avoided. You know my hair doesn’t hold a curl for more than five minutes.”

“And mine frizzes in the humidity. Remember when we used to want to trade hair?”

Priscilla nodded and swallowed hard. She hadn’t thought she would get mushy—especially because Marisa and she hadn’t been as close in recent years. They’d gone to different colleges, cultivated different friends. But they’d shared a lot when they’d been younger, including their attempts to thwart their pushy mamas.

“Come and meet everyone, Roark,” Lorraine was saying. And she performed introductions. To his credit, Roark didn’t even flinch when seven women, some of them wearing identical hideous pink dresses, all tried to introduce themselves at once. Three of them were already married, yet to a woman they eyed Roark with predatory interest.

Even the prospective bride, who should have had thoughts only for her groom, sparkled a bit as Roark was introduced.

“Thank you so much for coming,” Marisa simpered. “It’s such a pleasure to have you at my wedding. I’ve seen you on TV.”

“The pleasure’s mine.” His voice was low and sexy as he shot Priscilla a look that could melt cold steel.

Again Priscilla was sure everyone in the room read between the lines and knew they’d slept together. This was not what she’d asked him to do.

“Well,” Roark said briskly, “I’ll let you ladies get back to…whatever it is women do before a wedding.” Every female in the room but Priscilla giggled—even her aunt Clara, who was normally about as giggly as a Star Wars storm trooper.

Priscilla walked him to the door. “You’re supposed to be devoted and besotted,” she whispered, “not hot to trot. Try to remember the difference!”