Wedding at Wildwood

Wanting to show him he couldn’t get to her the way he used to when they were younger, Isabel retorted, “I think a better question would be—what are you doing back here, Dillon?”

He dropped her arm then to step back, away from the accusation and condemnation he saw in her eyes. “Well now, that’s real simple, Isabel,” he said in a voice silky with sarcasm. “I came back at my mother’s request, to witness my brother’s happy nuptials.” He shrugged, then lifted a hand in farewell, or maybe dismissal. Backing away, he called, “Yes, the prodigal son has returned.”

With that, he turned into the gathering twilight, his dark silhouette highlighted by the rising moon and the silvery shadow of Wildwood—the house that once had been his home.

“Dillon, wait,” Isabel called a few seconds later. When he just kept walking, she hurried after him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t question your being here. You have every right to be here.”

“Do I?” he asked as he whirled around to face her, his hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans, his eyes flashing like quicksilver. “Do I really, Isabel?”

“It’s still your home,” she reminded him as they faced each other in front of the house. “And it’s still beautiful.”

Dillon snorted and inclined his head toward the other side of the country road, away from the mansion. “That’s not my home, and that house is not beautiful. Not to me.”

Isabel shifted her gaze to the big house sitting across the way. Eli’s modern new luxury home. Grammy had told her he’d built it a couple of years ago. Now, their mother, Cynthia Murdock, lived there with her son.

“I guess Susan will be moving in soon,” she said, very much aware of Dillon’s obvious scorn for the elegant brick house with the lavish landscaping.

“I guess so,” Dillon replied, his gaze reflecting the timid moonlight covering them like a fine mist. “Hope she can stand the squeaky clean linoleum and all the gadgets and gizmos my brother had installed.”

“It’s probably more convenient for your mother, at least,” Isabel said, trying to be tactful.

Dillon scoffed again. “Yeah, well, Eli always did have Mother’s best interest at heart.”

He turned then, his eyes moving over the old plantation house. He stood stoic and still, then said in a voice soft with regret, “I miss this house. I wanted to come home to this house.”

Isabel’s heart went out to him. Dillon, always the wild child, always the scrapper, getting into trouble, getting into jams that his father and older brother had had to pull him out of. Dillon, the son who’d left in a huff, mad at the world in general, and hadn’t looked back. Now, he was home, for whatever reason.

Isabel could feel sympathy for whatever Dillon Murdock was experiencing. He’d had it all handed to him. His life had been so easy, so perfect. And what had he done? Thrown it all back in his parents’ faces. What she would have given to have been able to live with that kind of security, with that kind of protection. But instead, she’d had to live in a house so full of holes, the winter wind had chilled her to the bone each night as she’d lain underneath piles of homemade quilts. She’d had to live in a house with run-down plumbing and a leaky roof, simply because the Murdocks didn’t deem her family good enough for repairs. They lived in the house for free; what more did they want anyway? That had been the consensus, as far as the Murdocks were concerned. No, she couldn’t feel sorry for Dillon Murdock. Yet she did, somehow. And that made her put up her guard.

“I always loved this house,” she said now as she strolled over to the raised porch of the mansion. Swinging her slight frame up onto the splintered planks, she sat staring out into the night, into Dillon Murdock’s eyes. “It’s a shame it has to stand empty. Some people don’t realize what they have, obviously.”

She hadn’t meant the statement to sound so bitter, but she could see Dillon hadn’t missed the edge in her words. He came to stand in front of her, his eyes lifting to meet hers. “You’re right there. It took me a long time to learn that lesson.”

Isabel studied him, searching for clues of the life he must have led. But Dillon’s face was as hard as granite, blank and unflinching, unreadable. Until she looked into his eyes. There, she saw his soul, raw and battered, his eyes as aged and gray as the wood underneath the peeling paint of this old house.

“So, you’ve come home,” she said, accepting that he didn’t owe her any explanations. Accepting that she didn’t need, or want, to get involved with the Murdocks’ personal differences.

Dillon stepped so close, she could see the glint of danger in his eyes, could feel the warmth of his breath fanning her hair away from her face. His nearness caused a fine row of goose bumps to go racing down her bare arms, in spite of the warm spring night. Yet, she didn’t dare move. She just sat there, holding her breath, hoping he’d back away. But he didn’t.

“We’ve both come home, Isabel,” he observed as he leaned against the aging porch. “But the question is, what have we come home to?”

With that, he turned and stalked away into the night, leaving her to wonder if she’d made the right decision after all. Taking a deep breath, she pushed her hair away from her face and wondered if maybe she should have stayed away from Wildwood a little longer. Well, she was here now. But while she was here, she’d be sure to stay clear of Dillon Murdock.

She didn’t like feeling sorry for him. She didn’t like feeling anything for him.

Yet, she did. Even after all these years, she still did.

Chapter Two

The smell of homemade cinnamon rolls greeted Isabel as she entered the screened back door of the old farmhouse. Grammy had already set the table, complete with fresh flowers from her garden. Touching her hand to a bright orange Gerber daisy, Isabel closed her eyes for just a minute. It was good to be home, in spite of her feelings regarding Wildwood. The meeting with Dillon had left her shaken and unsure, but being here with Grammy gave her strength and security. Grammy always made things seem better.

“There you are,” an aged voice called from the arched doorway leading to the long narrow kitchen off to the right. “I was getting worried.”

Isabel set her camera down on a nearby rickety side table, then stepped forward to take the two glasses of iced tea from her grandmother’s plump, veined hands. “Sorry, Grammy. I got carried away taking pictures of the wildflowers.”

She didn’t mention that she’d also gotten carried away with seeing Dillon Murdock again. She wasn’t ready to discuss him with her grandmother.

“You and that picture taking,” Martha said, waving a hand, her smile gentle and indulging. “The flowers are sure pretty right now, though.” Settling down onto the puffy cushion of her cane-backed chair, she added, “Miss Cynthia always did love her wildflowers. I remember one time a few years back, that Eli got it in his head to mow them down. Said they were an eyesore, what with the old house closed up and everything.”

“He didn’t do it, did he?” Isabel asked, her eyes going wide. “That would have ruined them.”

Martha chuckled as she automatically reached for Isabel’s hand, prepared to say grace. “Oh, no. He tried, though. Had one of the hired hands out on a mower early one morning. Miss Cynthia heard the tractor and went tramping through the flowers, all dressed in a pink suit and cream pumps, her big white hat flapping in the wind. She told that tractor driver to get his hide out of her flowers. She watched until that poor kid drove that mower clear back to the equipment barn. Then she headed off, prim as ever, to her Saturday morning brunch at the country club.”

Isabel shook her head, sat silently as Grammy said grace, then took a long swallow of the heavily sweetened tea. “I was right. Some things never change.”

Martha passed her the boiled new potatoes and fresh string beans. “Do you regret taking the Murdocks up on their offer?”

Isabel bit into a mouthful of the fresh vegetables, then swallowed hastily. “You mean being the official photographer for Eli’s extravagant wedding?”

“I wouldn’t use the same wording, exactly,” Martha said, a wry smile curving her wrinkled lips, “but I reckon that’s what I was asking.”

Smiling, herself, at her grandmother’s roundabout way of getting to the heart of any matter, Isabel stabbed her knife into her chicken-fried steak, taking out her frustrations on the tender meat. “Well, I’m having second thoughts, yes,” she admitted, her mind on Dillon. “But I couldn’t very well turn them down. They’re paying me a bundle and I can always use the cash. But, I mainly did it because you asked me to, Grammy.”

“Don’t let me talk you into anything,” Martha said, her blue eyes twinkling.

“As if you’ve ever had to talk anyone into anything,” Isabel responded, laughing at last. “You could sweet-talk a mule into tap dancing.”

“Humph, never tried that one.” Her grandmother grinned impishly. “But I did bake your favorite cinnamon rolls, just in case—Miss Mule.”

“For dessert?” Isabel asked, sniffing the air, the favorite nickname her grandmother always used to imply that she was stubborn slipping over her head. “Or do I have to hold out till breakfast?”

Martha reached across the lacy white tablecloth to pat her granddaughter’s hand. “Not a soul here, but you and me. Guess we can eat ’em any time we get hungry for ’em.”

“Dessert, then, definitely,” Isabel affirmed, munching down on her steak. “Ah, Grammy, you are the best cook in the world.”

“Well, you could have my cooking a lot more if you came to visit more often.”

Isabel set her fork down, her gaze centered on her sweet grandmother. She loved her Grammy; loved her plump, sweet-scented welcoming arms, loved her smiling, jovial face, loved her gray tightly curled hair. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to move back here permanently, a subject they’d tossed back and forth over the years.

Her tone gentle, she said, “Grammy, don’t start with that. You know I have to travel a lot in my line of work and I don’t always have an opportunity to come home.”

Martha snorted. “Well, you told me yourself you didn’t have any assignments lined up over the next few weeks, so you can stay here and have a nice vacation. Living in a suitcase—that is no kind of life for a young lady.”

“I have an apartment in Savannah.”

“That you let other people live in—what kind of privacy does that give you?”

“Very little, when I manage to get back there,” Isabel had to admit. “Subletting is the only way to hold on to it, though.”