Wedding at Wildwood

Blinking, she called out, “Couldn’t talk anyone else into it, huh?”

“Right. You seem to be the only woman around these parts willing to put up with me.”

Opening the door just a fraction—she surely didn’t want him to see that picture of himself—Isabel pasted an indulgent smile on her face. “You have such a unique way of asking a woman for a date, Dillon.”

Dillon stood back in the small hallway, his eyes sweeping over her face, his half grin teasing and tempting. “And you, dear Isabel, sure have a way of looking as refreshing as a tall glass of lemonade. How do you do that?”

Ruffled, she lowered her head and crossed her arms around her chest, sure that she looked raggedy and drained from working in her makeshift darkroom all afternoon. Conscious of her faded cotton T-shirt and old shorts, she asked, “Do what?”

“You look different now, you know,” he said instead of explaining himself. “I think it’s the hair. You never wore it long before.”

She left the bathroom and moved up the hall to the front of the rickety old house, running her hands through the swirls of loose curls falling away from her haphazard ponytail. “No, I didn’t. Mama made me keep it cut. Said it was too much of a handful, what with all these waves and curls. I hated wearing it short.”

He caught up with her in the kitchen. “So you let it grow.”

“And grow,” she said as she turned to hand him a glass of iced tea. “I guess it’s silly, wearing it so long—”

“No, it suits you.”

“Thank you,” she said, acutely aware of his eyes on her. “I think it’s probably more of a personal statement than a fashion decision.”

“The rebellious daughter doing what her parents didn’t approve of?”

She nodded, then lifted a brow. “Takes one to know one, I guess.”

“I am one,” he agreed. He set his now empty glass in the wide single sink and held out his hand. “C’mon, Issy, let’s go for a long walk.”

Stopping, Isabel stared across at him. “You called me Issy.”

“Yeah, well, don’t tell me you don’t allow people to do that anymore.”

“No, it’s just that…no one besides you and my immediate family even knows about that horrid nickname.”

“Issy, Issy, Issy,” he teased, his grin widening.

Isabel’s breath lifted right out of her body. She had forgotten what a lethal smile Dillon had. Maybe because she remembered his smiles being so rare. Coming up for air, she said, “Dilly, Dilly, Dilly,” as a retort.

“Oh, boy. I should have never reminded you.”

She took his hand in spite of all the name calling, very conscious of the rough calluses on his fingers. “I really need to finish developing that roll of film.”

He gripped her fingers against his. “It’ll keep.”

He led her out the back door. The late afternoon air was ripe with the scents of early summer. Peaches growing fat on nearby trees, lilies blooming in her grandmother’s carefully tended flower beds, roses drifting like rich cotton candy in the warm summer breeze. How could a woman resist such a day? Isabel believed God saved such days for special times, when people needed them the most.

She sure needed one. But with Dillon? How was she supposed to resist him and the sweet summer air, too?

“Who let you in, anyway?” she asked, looking around the yard for her grandmother.

He let go of her hand to turn and walk backward in front of her, much in the same way he used to do when they’d walk home after getting off the school bus. “I saw Martha on the road. She was headed to the Wedding War Room to help Mama with her dress. Told me to come and keep you company.”

“How very thoughtful of my dear old grandmother.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “I thought so. Took her right up on her suggestion.”

“Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“I’ve made a few calls, done my work for the day.”

Catching up to him, she asked, “And just what is your line of work these days?”

He turned serious then. “I run my own company, so I can set my own hours.”

“Really?” Surprised at this revelation, she asked, “What sort of company?”

As smooth as the flattened red clay underneath their feet, he changed the subject. “I don’t want to talk about work. I want to enjoy what’s left of the day.”

Isabel sensed his withdrawal, remembered it all too well from their years of growing up together. “Okay. You want to be irresponsible and play, right?”

He gave her that classic Dillon salute. “Right. It’s what I do best, or so they tell me.”

She didn’t miss the sarcasm or the tinge of pain in his words. But she wouldn’t press him to talk. That had been one of the things between them way back when, that is, when he hadn’t been ribbing her or pestering her. Sometimes, they’d just sit quietly, staring off into nowhere together.

“Race you to the branch,” she said, her long legs already taking off, her baggy walking shorts flying out around her knees.

Dillon was right on her heels. Just like always.

The branch was a shallow stream of clear, cool water that ran through a pine-shaded forest toward the back of the estate. The path to get there took them through the rows and rows of cotton just beginning to bud white on ruffly green vines.

“Eli and his cotton,” Dillon said, the note of resentment in his voice echoing through the trees. “Our ancestors raised cotton on this land, but we quit growing it years ago. They say cotton’s making a comeback, though. A good moneymaker, I reckon. And Eli sure likes his money.”

“Is that so wrong?” Isabel questioned as she settled down on the same moss-covered bank she’d sat on as a child. “I mean, do you resent your family’s wealth?”

Dillon snorted, then picked up a rock. With a gentle thud, he skipped it across the water, then plopped down beside her. “No, I don’t resent my family’s wealth. Thanks to my mother, I certainly spent my share of it before I settled down. It’s just that Eli puts money and prominence before anything else.”

“And you don’t?”

“Not anymore.”

Isabel glanced down at him, her heart skipping like the rock he’d thrown earlier. He looked so at home, lying there on a soft bed of pine straw in his faded jeans and Atlanta Braves T-shirt. She hadn’t realized until this very moment how much she’d missed Dillon.

And he chose that very moment to look over at her, his eyes meeting hers in a knowing gaze that only reminded her of his kiss, his touch, his gentleness.

“You’re pretty, Issy,” he said, his voice as low and gravelly as the streambed.

To hide her discomfort, she said, “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I am surprised,” he admitted, his gaze moving over her face. “I don’t remember you being so attractive.”