If pressed, Annie would have gone on to explain that although she had nothing against marriage, it wasn’t high on her list of priorities. She craved a challenging career and the opportunity to establish herself as an independent woman. When she imagined the sweet smell of personal success, it didn’t include the delicate odor of orange blossoms.
Her feelings about getting married hadn’t changed much in the nine years since Eden’s wedding. She’d thought they might when she’d reached thirty. This expectation had been the result of watching a significant number of her contemporaries go into husband-hunting frenzies after they’d passed the Big 3-0 unwed.
While the spousal search had paid off for some, it seemed to Annie that most of her single women friends were still frantically seeking Mr. Right. There were even a few so desperate to do the nuptial deed that they were ready to settle for Mr. Not Too Obviously Wrong...or worse.
“Don’t you want to get married, Annie?” an unattached acquaintance had recently demanded of her. The context of the question had been a discussion—a one-sided litany of complaints, really—about the lack of eligible men in Atlanta and the abundance of competition for them.
“Not particularly,” she’d answered frankly. “Although I’m certainly not ruling it out. If I meet someone wonderful and we fall madly in love with each other, I’ll probably want to get married. But I’m not really looking. I like the life I have. The life I’ve made for me. Being on my own is—”
The sound of her name summoned Annie back to the present. She looked across the table at Matt, wondering how long she’d been caught up in her thoughts.
“Have a nice trip?” he inquired wryly.
“Sorry,” she apologized, reaching for the glass of unsweetened ice tea she’d ordered when they’d sat down. She sipped at it, trying to recall what they’d been discussing before she’d gotten so enmeshed in her marital musings. “I, uh, what...?”
“We were talking about your keeping Eden’s bridal bouquet.”
“Oh.” Annie set down the glass and shifted in her seat. “Right.”
“It’s not like you to be so sentimental,” Matt asserted, then paused for a few moments. When he resumed speaking, his tone was tender. “Now if it had been Lisa who’d caught Eden’s bouquet...”
Annie’s breath wedged at the top of her throat as the half-whispered words gave way to an emotionally charged silence. She watched, hands clenched, heart hammering, as Matt retreated into himself—into a world of memories she knew she’d never share.
Lisa, she thought. It’s always going to be Lisa.
“Lisa” was Lisa Anne Davis.
Lisa...
The new girl in school with whom Matthew Douglas Powell had fallen head over heels in love on a September morning nearly a decade and a half ago.
Lisa...
The young woman Matthew Douglas Powell had married in a joyous June ceremony some nine years later.
Lisa...
The adored wife Matthew Douglas Powell had laid to rest on a bleak February afternoon a few months shy of his fifth wedding anniversary.
Annie had been with Matt at the beginning and the end...and afterward. Monitoring his well-being had been one of her chief concerns since Lisa’s tragic passing, fifteen months ago. She’d done everything she could to help him piece his shattered existence back together.
She’d held him while he’d wept for his lost love.
She’d soothed him while he’d raged against the unfairness of life.
She’d spent hours—aching, seemingly endless hours—listening while he’d recalled the soaring happiness that had been his.
The first year after Lisa’s death had been hard on Matt. So hard that there’d been a few desperate days when Annie had genuinely been afraid that he might surrender to his grief and do something irreparable.
Thankfully, those desperate days—and the heartsick fears they’d engendered—had passed. Anger had eased. Sorrow had yielded to resignation, if not acceptance. In recent weeks Annie had begun to believe that Matt had finally come to terms with what had happened and had started to heal.
Or had he? she wondered uneasily, studying the lankily built man sitting across the table from her. If the look on Matt’s face was any indication—
“It’s chow time, y’all.”
The ebullient announcement jolted Annie out of her anxiety-tinged reverie. Its source was a ponytailed young waiter named Rudi. The possessor of an eager-beaver grin, a bodybuilder’s physique, and an apparently inexhaustible store of enthusiasm for his job, he’d served Annie and Matt during many of their previous visits to the Rio Bravo restaurant.
“For the lady, the usual fajitas con pollo.” Rudi said, plunking a sizzling platter of chicken chunks, onion strips and sliced green peppers in front of Annie. “Hold the guacamole, double the side order of pico de gallo. Watch the plate, it’s really hot.”
“Thanks,” she managed, still a bit off-balance.
“You’re welcome,” came the cheerful response. “And for the gentleman—what else but tacos al carbon. Heavy on the onions, forget the sour cream.”
“It looks great, Rudi,” Matt said, surveying the feast being placed before him. The introspective expression that had troubled Annie was gone. He looked as though the weightiest matter on his mind was how to fill his mouth as quickly as possible.
“We aim to please,” the waiter answered. “Although it’s not very difficult with you two.” He tilted his head to one side. “Look, I realize it’s none of my business—but do y’all ever eat anything besides chicken fajitas and beef tacos?”
“Oh, sure,” Matt said easily, flashing a quirky, crook-cornered smile. “Whenever we go out for Chinese, I get shrimp fried rice and she gets Moo Goo Gai Pan.”
“Sometimes we split an order of stir-fried green beans with garlic,” Annie noted.
“In other words, y’all know what you like and you stick to it.”
“At least as far as food goes,” Matt qualified.
Rudi considered this for a few seconds, then glanced back and forth between Matt and Annie. “Anything else?” he asked helpfully. “Another beer, maybe? Or a refill on the ice tea?”
“I’m fine for now,” Matt said, picking up his fork.
“Me, too,” Annie concurred.
“Okay. I’ll check back with y’all later. Enjoy your meal.”
“We always do,” Matt replied.
Rudi grinned in response, then pivoted on one heel and bustled away, his ponytail bobbing against his bulked-up neck.
Matt dug into his entrée almost immediately. Ignoring the tantalizing aroma of her own main course, Annie studied him as he ate. While his show of appetite was reassuring, her mind kept flashing back to the expression she’d seen on his face when he’d uttered Lisa’s name.
He’d seemed much more at peace with himself lately, she reminded herself. And today, when he’d helped her unpack at her new home, she’d felt as though the “old” Matt had been restored to her. The old Matt, who’d never been touched by true love or untimely death—who’d laughed easily, shared unstintingly, and embraced each new day as having the potential to be better than the one before it.
Finding Eden’s bridal bouquet hadn’t appeared to have had an adverse effect on his mood. In fact, if she’d been asked to compare their reactions to the discovery,