The Secret Wedding Dress

She shut the book and slid it back in the shelf. One could hope that working in the city had polished him up a bit. She really wished she hadn’t suddenly remembered her father calling the fourth Jarvis Deaver a stuffed shirt. Oh well, it was only one night out of her life. She’d gotten through all the other blind dates scrounged up by her well-meaning family and friends by keeping that thought uppermost in mind.

Having stored the lace from her recent delivery, Sylvie had just finished checking the packing slip against the invoice when Oscar went berserk. Maybe this time he’d flushed a rabbit or a squirrel. Or else…the Mercer’s cat was out again.

Sylvie knew that was the case the minute she stepped onto her back porch and heard Rianne Mercer calling for Fluffy. The girl’s dad thundered from an upper window, “Rianne, what’s the racket now? Tell me you didn’t let Fluffy out!”

“It was ’nother accident, Daddy. Fluffy’s on Sylvie’s fence and I can’t get her.”

“All right. Give me a minute and I’ll be down to help.”

Sylvie was sure she heard his irritated sigh. Did that man do nothing downstairs? For crying out loud, did he live in that one room—a bedroom, if Sylvie recalled the layout of the Whitaker house. But then, Rianne had mentioned he worked at home and that he now had a bedroom and a separate office, instead of the two combined. Probably the sunnier corner room had become his office.

She wondered again what kind of career he had. Something to do with computers? Of course, her father had always worked at home, his cabinet shop was attached to the house. Until she’d gotten too involved with extracurricular activities at school, Sylvie had virtually been his shadow. She still loved the smell of fresh-cut wood and wood shavings. As well, she loved the way her father made gorgeous furniture from raw lumber and a pattern. Her love of crafting and designing clothing had probably come from spending hours in that woodworking shop.

She suspected that Rianne Mercer had no idea yet what a lucky girl she was to have her daddy working at home.

“Hi,” Sylvie called over the fence to the child who was still trying to coax her cat down. “I’ll put Oscar inside and come back and help you with Fluffy. Or maybe she’ll jump down on her own like she did the last time.”

“Okay, but Daddy’s coming to help me, too.”

“You can run in and tell him, so it doesn’t interrupt his work.” The girl glanced toward the house. “Yeah, that’d be good.”

Sylvie dragged Oscar away from the fence, up her back steps and into the laundry room, where she checked to be sure he had food and fresh water. She dashed back outside and stood on tiptoes to grab the cat as Joel burst out of his house.

He met Sylvie at the gate to take the fat animal out of her arms. “I gave Rianne strict instructions to not let Fluffy out. I bought some litter and put her litter box in our laundry room.”

“Yeah, but Daddy, it’s so pretty in the yard. Fluffy likes to play dolls with me. I thought she’d stay there. I didn’t see Oscar. I s’posed his owner took him home.”

“There’s a hopeful thought,” Joel said. “It seems you and I are doomed to meet over the back fence to deal with our wayward pets, Ms. Shea.”

“Having a pet next door is new for me. Iva didn’t have any animals when I moved here, so my occasional boarders weren’t an issue. After she passed on, I got used to the house being vacant. Uh—Homer, our mailman, said you’re Iva’s great-nephew.”

“I am.” He petted the cat, which snuggled happily in his arms.

“You’re nothing like her, if you don’t mind my saying. I was sure her relatives must’ve sold the land.”

“I considered it. Her death took me by surprise. I had developers contacting me—and they all expressed interest in the land fronting the lake. At the time, my tax man said I’d be better off sitting on the property, that it would only increase in value.” Joel raised one shoulder. “I didn’t need the extra tax burden that selling would’ve added. One year ran into two, and two into three. Then…” He broke off speaking suddenly, and said, “It seemed like a good idea to move here.”

Sylvie had seen the way his eyes shifted toward Rianne. She wondered if his abrupt departure from his rambling explanation had to do with his divorce. She assumed that was the case. Of course, she could be completely wrong. Maybe the Mercers had an open marriage. One of these days, his wife might show up.

“Well, I’m wasting time I ought to be using more productively,” he said.

Sylvie airily waved a hand. “Yes, Rianne mentioned you work at home. Home-based jobs are certainly becoming more popular.”

“They are. I feel fortunate that the arrangement works for me. Rianne, remember I said don’t chatter and make a pest of yourself with Ms. Shea.”

“Oh, she’s not at all,” Sylvie inserted quickly. “I don’t mind a bit. I work at home, too, so I’m well aware of how people assume you have all the time in the world.”

“You work at home? Oh, the kennels, you mean?”

“Actually,” Sylvie explained, “I’m a seamstress. I board animals now and then. The kennels were my grandfather’s. I assume you knew he was the only vet in town. After he retired, he bred and sold Red Bone hounds.”

“Are you referring to Mr. Shea?”

“My grandfather, yes. Bill Shea.”

“He didn’t have dogs when I used to stay with Iva, which was shortly after my great-uncle Harvey died. I know he loved to fish. I came here four or five different summers and he always took me fishing. So, he was a veterinarian who later raised hounds? I probably should’ve known.”

“It’s odd to think you fished with Gramps, and yet I don’t remember you.”

“Nor I you.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-three going on a hundred,” Joel said, smiling.

“Ah, that makes me seven years younger. Depending on which years you stayed with Iva, I may not have spent much time here. My folks owned a beach house, and mom took us girls there most summers.”

“So, are you studying to be a vet? Following in Bill’s footsteps?”

“Not hardly. I operate a part-time mobile grooming service. Briarwood is a community where residents commute to the city for their jobs, or else they’re retired. Both groups benefit by having someone—moi—groom pets in their homes. Because the kennels are out back, I occasional board someone’s pet.” She didn’t mention that Oscar stayed in the house.

“So it’s just my luck you’re keeping a moose at the same time I move Rianne’s poor defenseless kitty in next door.”

Sylvie was intrigued by his uncharacteristic grin, which brought deep creases to his cheeks and fine laugh lines around his eyes. Or maybe it wasn’t that uncharacteristic. She hardly knew the man.

Mercer seemed struck, uncomfortably so, by the fact that he’d stepped out of his tough-guy shell. Sobering, he said a quick goodbye and headed for his house.

“Hey, wait. I have to make spritz cookies for our Sunday school this week. If Rianne’s at loose ends, maybe she’d like to come here and help.”

“Daddy, can I? Please. Please?”

Joel turned slowly back, frowning.

“Sorry,” Sylvie mumbled. “I shouldn’t have asked in front of her. Uh, maybe your dad needs your help unpacking,” Sylvie said in a rush. “If so, the offer remains open. I’ll be making cookies another time.”

“No. It’ll be fine.” Joel’s grudging capitulation sounded anything but fine. “Just don’t be talking Ms. Shea’s ear off. And she has my permission to send you home if you ask why, why, why three or more times in a row.”

Rianne ducked her head. “’Kay, Daddy. I’ll try and remember.”

Sylvie laughed spontaneously. “I have a niece and nephew whose every other word is who, what, why, where or how. Rianne’s very polite. I think we’ll get on famously. Oh, and do call me Sylvie.”

Joel rocked forward and back on his heels and narrowed his eyes, as if her request was an imposition.

What was the man’s problem? One minute he seemed a nice, decent guy. The next, a grouch. Sylvie’s concentration on the father was broken by a question from the daughter.

“I don’t know what those cookies are, the ones you said you were making. Actually, I’ve never helped make cookies. Is it all right if I don’t know how?”

Sylvie gazed down into the girl’s anxious blue eyes. “Never? Maybe your mom calls these sugar cookies. They’re made from dough you refrigerate and squeeze out in different shapes from a cookie gun.”