The Secret Wedding Dress

Rianne continued shaking her head. “I don’t think my mama makes cookies at all. She only talks on TV.”

Sylvie felt herself nodding. “Oh, uh, then you’re in for a treat, honey. I already have the dough made. You get to help with the good part, squishing it through the press and painting the shapes with edible paints after they come out of the oven and set for a while.”

The girl’s dragging steps sped up and she gave a few little skips. “What’s edible paint?”

“Just what it sounds like. Paint you can eat.” Sylvie smiled over Rianne Mercer’s obvious skepticism. “They didn’t have such a thing when I learned to make cookies. My sister owns a kitchen shop in town. She first tried these paints last Christmas. Our Christmas plates did look fabulous.”

“Daddy said the woman who used to live in your house made the yummiest oatmeal raisin cookies.”

“Really? That would be my Grandmother Shea. Hers were tasty. I have her recipe. If we have time, how would you like to mix up a batch to bake and take home to surprise your dad?”

“Yes, please.” Rianne beamed.

“I’m fairly sure I have all the ingredients we need. Oh—” She paused. “Unless you and your dad have too many desserts on hand as it is.” At Rianne’s vigorous shake of the head, Sylvie led the way into her kitchen. “First we have to wash our hands,” she announced.

“Why did all those ladies who don’t know us bring us food, Sylvie?”

“It’s called being neighborly,” Sylvie said, sharing a towel. “People wanted to welcome you to town.”

“Oh. Daddy thinks they just wanted to find out all about us.”

“That, too.” Sylvie laughed. “It’s the drawback of living in a small town, kiddo. Everyone wants to know everyone else’s business.”

“Why?”

“That’s a very good question.” She got out the bowl of chilled dough and put the first batch into the press. Talk fell off as she showed the little girl how to push the plunger to create a slow, steady flow. As the dough softened, Rianne grew more adept, and her confidence soared.

“Are you sure you aren’t teasing me about never making cookies before?”

“Nope. Daddy doesn’t like to cook. And Mrs. Honeycutt, who watched me after kindergarten, has something wrong with her blood so she can’t eat sweet stuff.”

“Diabetes?”

“Yes. You’re smart, Sylvie. You don’t even know Mrs. Honeycutt.”

“You’re pretty smart yourself. I’ll bet you’ll be taking on some of the cooking soon.” Sylvie was tempted to ask how long it’d been since the girl’s father had assumed meal preparations in the Mercer household, but she didn’t want Joel to accuse her of trying to pump information out of a kid.

The afternoon slipped by in a flurry of activity and laughter. Sylvie discovered the adorable little girl could converse intelligently at a level far above her age. And unlike the adults in Sylvie’s life, Rianne didn’t once question why Sylvie was still single. Why she’d never found some nice man to marry.

They’d painted all the designs on the sugar cookies and were sampling the ones that were broken as they waited for the last pan of oatmeal cookies to come out of the oven. Sylvie’s phone rang. She checked the readout. “Hmm. It says unavailable. Probably somebody wanting to sell me something I don’t need.”

“Daddy doesn’t answer those kinds of calls, either.”

The caller didn’t give up even after clicking into her answering machine. “Yeah?” she said to Rianne. “When you work at home, you learn that other people figure you aren’t really working. Even friends and people who should know how busy you are take advantage.”

Rianne wiped her hands on her shorts. “Yep. Daddy says if it’s ‘portant, the person wouldn’t have any reason to hide his name.”

Sylvie pulled on her oven mitt and bent to take the last cookie sheet out of the hot oven. Well, here, finally was an opinion she and Joel Mercer saw eye to eye on.

She had one row of cookies left to remove. In the back room, Oscar started barking furiously. The outburst was followed by someone banging loudly on her side door. “Can you ask whoever’s there to wait a minute? Don’t open the door, because I have no idea who it would be.”

“It’s my daddy!” Rianne announced.

“Oh, in that case, unlock the door and let him in.”

He roared in like a whirlwind. “I was afraid something was wrong over here. Why the hell didn’t you answer your phone?”

Sylvie calmly set the last cookie on the cooling rack before she turned to face him. “Was that you who just tried to call? It said unavailable, and Rianne told me you don’t answer those calls, either. Is there a problem?”

Color streamed into his cheeks. “I…ah, Rianne’s been over here for three hours. I thought I should see how you were doing.”

“Good.” Sylvie dumped the hot pan in the sink.

“Daddy, we had fun! Come see the cookies I squished out and painted all by myself.” Grasping her dad’s hand, she dragged him to the center island. He didn’t make it all the way; instead, his piercing gaze stalled on the latest batch of cookies.

“Are those by chance oatmeal raisin?” He leaned down to peer at them more closely and sniffed the steam rising from the hot cookies.

His daughter flashed Sylvie an unhappy glance. “He spoiled my surprise.”

“In that case, what can we do but give him a sample right now? Who better to tell us if these are as good as the ones he remembers?” Sylvie took a plate from the cupboard and piled it with cookies from the still-warm batch. Then she took three glasses, which she filled to the brim with milk. She motioned her guests to sit on the stools grouped at one end of her counter.

Joel bit into the first cookie gingerly, as if it might bite back. The grin that spread over his face spoke louder than any words of praise.

Sylvie nudged Rianne. “There’s your answer. Your surprise is a big success. You and I should probably eat only one apiece. Especially since we shared the sugar cookies we broke.”

“These are fantastic! I can’t tell you how many times I’d buy some bakery cookies and remembered these. Nothing I’ve tasted has ever lived up to them. Still, I wondered if I’d blown them out of proportion.” He grinned at Sylvie and then at Rianne. “I ask you, snooks, have you ever tasted anything quite this fantastic?”

Rianne nodded. “The chocolate chip ones Sylvie said her mother made. They’re my very favorite, and I’ve never had any that tasted better.”

Joel’s face fell, but Sylvie burst out laughing. “There you have it. That’s what I love most about kids. They’re so honest.”

“Meaning adults aren’t?”

Sylvie lifted her glass of milk and touched the rim of his. “More power to you, Mr. Mercer, if in your thirty-some years of dealing with people, you still believe they are.”

Considering that he twisted truths to make them humorous for his comic strip, Joel said nothing, but stole a second cookie.

“Ah, I see I made my point.” Still, she was thankful when her phone rang again. Anyway, Rianne rushed to show her dad the edible paints and explain to him, as Sylvie had to her, that they were made out of vegetable dyes.

Sylvie, who tended to see her life as an open book, answered the phone on the second ring, knowing her sister Dory was the one calling.

“I hear voices,” Dory said almost at once. “I won’t interrupt, since you’re with clients. Phone me back as soon as you’re free.”

“I’m free now, Dory. I’m in the kitchen with my neighbors. We’re drinking milk and trying out Grandma Shea’s oatmeal-raisin cookies. I haven’t made that recipe in years, have you?” The phone crackled with static but was otherwise silent.

“Dory? Did you put me on hold?”

“You’re serving milk and cookies in the middle of a work day?”