Wedding Belle

By Karen Templeton

Weddings, Inc.

PERPETUALLY ENGAGED

It was completely illogical for blue–blooded Charlotte Westwood to be fantasizing about blue–collar Gabe Szulinski. He was all wrong for her, and besides, this was one woman who wasn't ever getting married three engagements without one husband to show for them should have had her swearing off men forever. But then Gabe insisted he'd never pop the question to anyone. And with a challenge like that, as irresistible as the man himself well, what was a born and bred Southern belle to do except hope that wedding bells were in her future?

WEDDINGS, INC.
Because wedding planning is a tricky business but love makes it all worthwhile!

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781460869543

Karen Templeton

Since 1998, three-time RITA-award winner (A MOTHER'S WISH, 2009; WELCOME HOME, COWBOY, 2011; A GIFT FOR ALL SEASONS, 2013),  Karen Templeton has been writing richly humorous novels about real women, real men and real life.  The mother of five sons and grandmom to yet two more little boys, the transplanted Easterner currently calls New Mexico home.

Book preview

1

"I’ll sell snow cones in hell, Charlotte muttered to herself as she let herself into her parents’ house, before I ever go through this again."

She slipped her keys back into her black silk faille evening bag, the click when she snapped it shut resounding in the cavernous entryway. Her breath caught in her throat, but all she heard was her own hammering heart.

Good. No one was awake.

Her Ferragamo slingbacks clicked delicately on the marbletiled floor as she crossed the vestibule to the library. She stepped into the wood-paneled room, flipping the switch inside the door. A pair of carved jade lamps blinked to life on either side of the oxblood leather sofa in front of the mantel, casting a gentle light into the room. This had always been her favorite place in the house, with its rich, dark colors and classic furnishings. Unlike the other rooms in her mother’s obsessively decorated domain, this had always seemed to Charlotte to be a nonjudgmental space, one that didn’t seem to care what one wore or thought or did.

She wasn’t entirely sure why she was here, why she hadn’t gone back to her own condo. If she was independent enough to live apart from her parents, she should be independent enough to handle life’s little traumas by herself, as well.

As it happened, however, a large portion of her latest little trauma sparkled and gleamed in front of her like an after-Christmas sale in Bloomingdale’s giftware department. Perhaps she’d have to deal with the problem on her own, but this was where she’d have to deal with it.

Or, in this case, them.

Wedding gifts. Two-hundred thirty-seven by Charlotte’s last count, displayed on several tables brought into the seldom-used room just for this purpose. And that didn’t include the checks and gift certificates amassing in the top right-hand drawer of the desk in her father’s den.

Her new shoes skidded slightly on the lush carpeting as she walked over to the nearest table. As she had for nearly three years, she ignored the wet bar—and its complement of liquor—a mere ten feet away. Tonight, however, it sang to her like the Sirens. But she knew better than to give in. Maybe Julian had robbed her of yet another chance to wear a bridal gown, but she was damned if she was going to let him take her dignity as well. And the one thing Charlotte Westwood was not when she drank was dignified.

Like a child at someone else’s birthday party, she scanned the impressive spread with a little regret. Baccarat, Steuben, Stieff, Tiffany—vases and chafing dishes and candlesticks and silver platters and no less than a half-dozen cappuccino makers. There was even a Lalique crystal pitcher that she knew—knew—cost more than most people’s monthly house payments.

And, tomorrow morning, every single item had to go back.

Charlotte, honey? Her mother’s sleepy, syrupy accent poured into the room from the doorway. What are you doing here?

So much for her being asleep. The woman had hearing like a bat. Not yet ready to face—or speak to—her mother, Charlotte touched a Lladro figurine of a mother and child, her long scarlet fingernail a garish contrast to the muted pinks and grays in the piece, then clasped her hands behind her back.

A whisper of silk charmeuse and the gentle slap of mules on bare soles heralded her mother’s approach behind her. "Charlotte Suzanne Westwood—now you know you cannot fool me. What is it? Is something wrong, sugar?"

Charlotte twisted around, leaning back against the edge of the table with her hands on either side of her hips. She glanced down at her outfit for a moment, studying the way the dim light shimmered on the surface of the black duppione, then idly poked at one of the jacket’s rhinestone buttons.

The wedding’s off, she said quietly.

Her mother clutched her lace-trimmed robe to a set of award-winning bosoms. Oh…Charlotte…

Those two words spoke volumes. Charlotte knew her mother’s reaction couldn’t even be categorized into specific emotions, like anger or sadness or disappointment. Knew, because she felt the same thing. And, as this was the third time in as many years she’d felt the same thing, this little scene—telling her mother her engagement was broken—was getting very old.

What happened? her mother asked, sliding into one corner of the sofa.

Charlotte allowed a rueful smile: her mother had been tactful enough not to say this time.

Nothing scandalous. He just…changed his mind.

Stella Westwood’s overplucked eyebrows slid up underneath stiff black bangs. Four days before the weddin’?

Better than four years after, I suppose.

The silence in the room almost hurt. Charlotte’s ears as she waited for her mother’s expected response. She was not disappointed.

"Honey—what on earth did you do?"

Charlotte shut her eyes for a second, refusing to react to the unintentional barb. "I didn’t do anything, Momma. I…just wasn’t what he wanted, I guess. A deep breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding hissed from her lips as the pull toward the bar reasserted itself. It was easier to tow the line at her own place, where she kept nothing stronger than ginger ale. Oh, hell, Momma… Her eyes stung as if dirt had been flung in them. Who knows?"

Her face softening as much as repeated plastic surgery would let it, Stella held out her arms. Now you come right on over here and let your momma give you a hug.

There was little choice in the matter. Charlotte obediently allowed herself to be drawn into Estée Lauder-scented cleavage as she heard her mother murmur into her hair, "Well, no matter, sugar. Tomorrow, after we take care of…things, we’ll go on a great big ol’ long shoppin’ trip. Stella held her daughter away from her, a pained smile carved into stretched cheeks. You’re just havin’ a spate of bad luck, honey, that’s all. Atlanta’s a big city. Your Prince Charmin’ just hasn’t shown up yet. But he will, honey. He will."

If only her mother understood how pointless this pep talk was by now. As far as Stella Westwood was concerned, dropping a couple thousand dollars at Lenox Square was the cure for just about anything. And Charlotte had to admit, up until tonight, she’d been known to enthusiastically indulge in her mother’s remedy for the blues. After all, what else did she know?

But something had happened this evening when Julian had calmly announced, between fastidious bites of Cassis’s renowned rack of lamb, that he’d made a mistake and he hoped this wouldn’t prove too inconvenient? Charlotte’s initial impulse, harking back to the days when she’d let her alcohol do her talking for her, was to dump his turnip-potato gratin into his Brooks Brothers lap. However, with sobriety came the remarkable ability to remain a lady, no matter what the circumstances. Besides, his flaccid dismissal of their engagement didn’t even provoke her enough to work up a full head of steam.

By the time he’d put her into a taxi an hour later, however—an hour in which she’d ordered enough extras to give his American Express card a good scare—she felt much differently, as if someone had cracked open a window shade in a room that had always been dark. A thin ray of light now seeped into her consciousness, illuminating the idea that maybe, just maybe, she’d been going about things the wrong way.

Now, if someone would be so good as to tell her what the right way was, maybe she could get herself on the right track before…

Charlotte’s eyes widened as she observed her mother, prattling about God-knew-what beside her, who wore her money and her position and her narrow-minded attitude about anyone or anything not in her circle of Atlanta society like badges of honor.

Before, she thought with an inward wince, she turned into that.

Gabe Szulinski pulled his twenty-year-old Ford pickup into his driveway, killed the engine, and waited, a smile of anticipation curving his lips. Sure enough, a small whirlwind with blue eyes and blond curly hair shot out of the front door and across the porch of the modest Chamblee bungalow in which he’d been renting an apartment with his son for the past eight years. Close on the child’s heels followed the seventy-two-year-old angel in scuffs and a shapeless white cardigan without whom his life would undoubtedly be a shambles. And lumbering between the two of them, nearly knocking the slim elderly woman over and eliciting a string of colorful what-fors, was an adolescent shepherd-mix pup yet to grow into his feet or ears.

Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! yelled the little boy over the dog’s enthusiastic yapping. The minute Gabe opened the driver’s side door, his son hurtled himself into his arms, the dog scrambling in right behind. You’re late! came the high-pitched accusation, accompanied by a dramatic scowl. Vinnie said you were gonna be home by six.

Waylaid by a sweet-talking woman, Gabe said around a grunt as he managed to squeeze out of the truck with his son still attached to his rib cage. As usual. He let the boy down, then watched as boy and dog dashed around the side of the house and into the backyard.

Then he noticed the black woman’s grim expression, her thin arms locked over her flat stomach.

"Uh-oh. I know that look. Gabe pulled a denim jacket off the front seat, then slammed the door closed. What’d he do now?"

You want the whole list or just the highlights?

Ouch. Gabe slapped the jacket over his shoulder and squinted at his landlady as a shaft of late-spring sun pierced the full-bloom dogwood at the side of the drive, hitting him right in the eye. Just answer me one thing—will I have to take out a loan to pay for the damage?

They walked back to the small house that Lavinia Jackson had converted into a duplex of sorts after her husband’s death ten years earlier. Gabe’s side was straightforward, compact and kept in scrupulous working order. The unforeseen bonus to the apartment was that his landlady was the best baby-sitter he could ever wish for.

Lavinia was getting up there, though, her own sons long since grown and gone, and she was no longer used to the energy level of eight-year-old boys. Still, the last time Gabe suggested making other child care arrangements, he’d ducked just in time to avoid being smacked with a wooden spoon.

He wondered, however, if she might be having second thoughts today.

A loan? Probably not, the former second-grade teacher allowed. But you do owe me a couple dozen bedding plants. Between the child’s big old feet, and that mutt you got him… She stepped onto the porch, shaking her head, then whipped around, one hand on her hip. "What were you thinking, getting him a dog? Especially one with feet bigger ‘n yours?"

A boy needs a dog, Vinnie, he said with a grin, knowing full well she was almost as crazy about the new pup as she was about the child.

"The boy needs a momma. Preferably one with small feet and enough sense to stay outta my flowers."

His fingers already curved around the screen door handle, Gabe looked down into the unintimidated dark brown eyes. You want those flowers replaced? he said affably. Don’t start up with the ‘child needs a momma’ routine. Like I said—

"And don’t you go giving me ‘when would I have time for a woman?’, either. You’re almost finished with that law degree. You could at least start looking."

He swung open the door and walked into his apartment; she unapologetically followed.

I look, Gabe said over his shoulder as he walked through to his bedroom, stripping off his dirty T-shirt, sticky with sweat and wallpaper paste. He pushed his door partway closed for modesty’s sake, slipped out of his running shoes in order to remove his equally grungy jeans, then shrugged into a fresh pair and a clean T-shirt.

Not hard enough, he heard from the living room.

With a wry laugh, he pitched the dirty clothes into an overflowing laundry basket, made a mental note to squeeze in the Laundromat sometime this weekend and walked back into the matchbox-sized living room, which seemed even smaller with his six-foot-three frame squeezed into it.

He sank onto the end of the futon sofa and started to put his running shoes back on. I do look, Vinnie, he repeated, propping one foot on his knee to tie the laces. Trouble is, I don’t see anything I like.

He wondered how long he could keep Lavinia at bay with the bones he tossed her about his love life. Oh, sure…saying he hadn’t seen anything he liked was true enough. But, not being born yesterday, what he didn’t tell Lavinia was that he never would. While being a single dad was tough, being unhappily married was a lot tougher. He wouldn’t risk it again, for anyone or anything.

You’re something else, you know that? the old woman said on an exasperated wheeze. Atlanta’s probably got the highest percentage of pretty girls per capita in the whole United States, and you expect me to believe you haven’t seen even one that catches your fancy?

I did ‘pretty’ once already, he said, planting the second foot back on the floor. Think maybe this time around I’m in the market for a little more substance.

Another bone.

So what about someone from the university? Gotta be some substance there, if they’re going to college.

Gabe shook his head and laughed. Have to give you ten points for persistence, Vin, he said, getting to his feet. I haven’t met anyone that interests me, all right? He shrugged, lifting both hands in the air. So sue me.

Lavinia grunted a little, then said, Got some trout fillets at the store today. Can I interest you in dinner?

They went through this little ritual nearly every evening. Gabe knew that it did the old woman just as much good to have someone to cook for and keep her company as it did him to have someone cook for him, kitchen skills not being his strong suit. But asking if he was interested, rather than assuming, allowed them both to maintain their independence. Still, he knew she missed him on those nights when, for one reason or another, he had to decline her invitations. Which made her pushing to see him married—and out of her life—an enigma.

He gave Lavinia’s deceptively thin shoulders a quick hug, then went into the kitchen for a glass of iced tea. I don’t want you to go to any trouble… This, too, was part of the ritual.

As was Lavinia’s reply. It’s already cooked, she said, following him into the kitchen. And, as usual, I made too much. It’ll just go to waste. You got class tonight?

Nope. He poured himself a huge glass of tea and chugged half of it down. Not until Monday.

Good. Then we can go over to Home Depot after dinner so you can buy me those plants.

It’s a deal. Gabe rinsed out the glass, his attention diverted by the sound of crazed barking out in the yard. Daring to look out the back window, he groaned, scrubbing one hand over his face.

I don’t want to know, do I? Lavinia asked behind him.

Let’s put it this way. While we’re at Home Depot, maybe we should check out new lawn chairs, too.

Chairs? The small woman stormed to the back door and yanked it open. If that mutt doesn’t watch out, he’s gonna meet his maker sooner than he figured on!

Charlotte was supposed to be on her honeymoon in the Caymans, lolling on a white beach, drinking virgin piña coladas. Not still in Atlanta, on her way to pick up her friend Heather for lunch.

All weekend she’d kept waiting for something—anything—to hit. She was numb, she decided, as if she’d returned her emotions as well as the wedding gifts.

Good Lord, she thought, thinking about how long it had taken to repack everything so UPS could come pick up the stuff. If she ever became engaged again—which she wouldn’t—she could forget having a big wedding. To begin with, no one would believe her. She’d become the nuptial equivalent of the little boy who cried. Wolf who would show up? Or send her presents again after three botches? As it was, she was pretty sure some of the gifts had been recycled. There was a silver frame from the Goldfarbs that she could have sworn she’d sent back after Botch Number Two.

Ah, yes. Her second engagement. Had to give the prize to that one for being the most demoralizing. Which was going some. After all, having your photo in the society section three times in three years next to three different names definitely ranked right up there in the mortification department. However, walking in on your fiancé going at it with his receptionist in his office…

She sighed and felt slightly nauseated, even after a year. On his desk, for God’s sake. The whole thing was so…trite.

Charlotte pushed her sunglasses up on her nose and turned down the street that led to Heather’s Brookwood Hills house. The dogwoods were at their peak, their blossoms just beginning to loosen. Occasionally a gust of wind snatched the pale pink petals off the trees and swirled them around like snow. Tulips were in full bloom, too, lawn after fastidious