“She’s not a complete nightmare,” Sammi defended halfheartedly. Mr. Barclay had carefully chosen the wedding coordinator, both for his only child’s wedding and because he wanted an expert on hand to advise them before they launched Weddings at the Barclay Inn.
As both the bride and the assistant manager of the inn, Sammi was a little disappointed that he wasn’t letting her handle it on her own. But it was the end result that mattered, she told herself as she unhooked and unzipped the amethyst satin dress on the hanger. In a few short weeks, she’d be married to a man she respected who’d then gain her the respect of others. And if this new venture worked as well as she hoped, she might even get that long-promised promotion to manager.
She gave a happy sigh. Manager of an inn that offered the loveliest wedding packages in western Texas. Didn’t that sound awesome?
“Mrs. Ross knows this event will kick off Weddings at the Barclay Inn.” She handed Blythe her bridesmaid dress, noting that it weighed a lot less than her own. “She’s probably a little overenthusiastic.”
“Uh-huh.” Blythe twisted her mouth but didn’t say anything else as she stepped into the dress. She tugged the fabric chest-high, then turned so Sammi could zip her up. Strapless and fitted to the hips like Sammi’s, the rich purple exploded over the knees in petal-like layers. “I notice you didn’t deny that she’s lording over the dresses.”
“The woman watched while I washed my hands to make sure I did it right before she’d let me touch my dress.” Giving in to her own sense of the ridiculous, Sammi rolled her eyes.
“You manage the fanciest inn in the county, you’re so organized it’s scary and you have exquisite taste. Why wouldn’t old man Barclay let you arrange your own wedding?” Blythe tweaked her shoulders this way, then that, arching her back and trying to make it look as if she had breasts holding up that fabric.
“I’m assistant manager,” Sammi corrected meticulously. Don Reedy was the actual manager. Sure, he was away as often as he was here, given that he handled a number of Mr. Barclay’s properties. But he still had final say in everything, and the inn was run to his specifications.
“But didn’t Barclay promise over a year ago that he’d promote you to manager?”
“Once I proved myself.” Sammi nodded. And she had, hadn’t she? In the past year, she’d increased reservations by 20 percent, arranged for the launch of a new website for the inn and had cut kitchen expenses by purchasing from local farmers and suppliers. “I think the wedding venture will do the trick.”
“Hmm.”
“You doubt me?”
“You, no.” Blythe shook her head. “Barclay, yes. So far he’s managed to give credit for everything you’ve accomplished to someone else. All the while, he’s got you living on the property as a full-time caretaker while paying you minimum wage by claiming he’s covering your wages with room and board.”
Sammi waved that all aside with a flick of her hand. She’d explained plenty of times that while Mr. Barclay had shared the credit for those improvements she’d implemented, he’d still thanked her personally. And though it hadn’t been her idea to take room and board instead of a salary, Mr. Barclay’s reasons were sound. After all, any cash she made was like a red flag waving high over the town, just daring her mama to come sashaying in with her hand out. And Sammi did owe Mr. Barclay for paying for college, at least for the part that her scholarship hadn’t covered.
Blythe unknotted her hair, letting it fall to her shoulders. As she fluffed it around her face, her eyes met Sammi’s in the mirror.
“I suppose the RSVPs are coming in,” she asked, her voice so casual it was an instant tip-off.
“They are and she’s not,” Sammi said, her voice as tight as the knot in her stomach. Buying time, she rummaged through a tackle box labeled Bridesmaids until she found a new comb to give Blythe.
“You’re really going to get married without Cora Mae?”
“Well, I graduated high school without her. And college. Why should getting married be any different?” Sammi shoved her fingers into her hair, but they got stuck in the fancy French twist. Glad for the distraction, she started tugging hairpin after hairpin loose.
“Is she not coming because she objects to who you’re marrying? Or because you don’t want her there?”
Not want her there?
Sometimes it felt as if Sammi had spent her entire life wishing her mother would be there, really be there.
Like when she’d found herself home alone at ten when her mother took off for a week in Vegas with a guy named Spike.
Or at eleven when she’d been so excited to play an angel in the holiday show and had stood there on stage, waiting and watching the audience with her hopes high. Only to walk home alone with her tinsel wings drooping to find that Cora Mae had found herself a new beau when he’d stopped in at the Quickie Mart where she worked for cigarettes, and simply hadn’t been able to tear herself away.
At thirteen, Sammi had given negative attention a try, getting into fights and ditching class. But after Cora Mae had skipped four meetings with the principal in a row, she’d had to accept that even that wouldn’t work.
At sixteen, she’d told herself she didn’t care anymore. She’d gotten a housekeeping job at the Barclay Inn and, with Mr. Barclay’s help, she’d had herself declared emancipated. She’d left the trailer park, and her mother, behind. At least, that’s what she’d told herself.
Except some sad part of her buried deep in her heart kept wishing otherwise. It was easy enough to ignore most of the time. It was just the occasional event, like Mother’s Day, Christmas morning—or whenever that cheap beer commercial played on TV—that her heart ached a little.
But no amount of aching was going to change anything.
“Sammi?” Her hair fluffed around her face like static-charged fur, Blythe pointed the comb. “What’s the deal? Why isn’t Cora Mae coming?”
“Mr. Barclay put his foot down.” Leaving her own hair still tangled with the couple of hairpins she hadn’t found yet, Sammi hit the tackle box again, this time for a bottle of hair serum. She dabbed about a half-drop on the palm of one hand, then rubbed both together before smoothing them over Blythe’s head. As her fingers slid through, separating the curls and taming the frizz, she met her oldest friend’s gaze in the mirror. “He was right to ban her, wasn’t he? I mean, she’d be a nightmare. You know how she is.”
“She is a nightmare,” Blythe agreed quietly, her eyes dark with sympathy. “She’d probably get drunk and dance on the tables, fall into the cake and hit on the minister.”
It shouldn’t be funny, but Sammi’s lips still twitched at the image. She gave Blythe’s hair a final smooth, then sighed and started searching for her hairpins again. Blythe found them faster.
“Still, it should be your choice,” Blythe said, handing Sammi the comb.
But by not having to make the choice, she avoided the guilt of not wanting her mother at her wedding, dancing drunk on the tables with the minister. Was that so wrong?
“Why would anyone object to my marrying Sterling?” she asked instead of answering, focusing on Blythe’s earlier comment.
“You are kidding, right?” Blythe snorted. “Bless her heart, your mama probably figures that she has more reasons than a dog has fleas for hatin’ on the idea of you marrying a Barclay.”
Sammi didn’t need to see Blythe’s face to know that dislike for Sterling Barclay and the fact that grass grew green were about the only things she’d ever agree with Cora Mae about.
“That’s