Jennifer’s expression indicated she agreed with her baby sister’s assessment of the situation, but she diplomatically refrained from comment. Instead, she said with a bright, lip-glossed smile, “So…how about lunch? Then I can tell you my news.”
The sigh just sort of slipped out. “This have anything to do with the wedding?”
“Now, how’d you know that?”
“Thank God—oh, be still, you nasty beast—we only have a week more to go through this,” Sarah groused good-naturedly. She finished with the cat and pushed him into a carrier. “But lunch ain’t gonna happen today, as you may have guessed.” Shoving a hand through her cropped hair, she added, “Ed’s out on farm duty, and Doc’s off, so it’s just me. I can’t leave. So you’ll have to tell me here.”
Jennifer squinted at her through smoothly mascara’d eyelashes. “I was trying to.”
“Sorry. So…spit it out.”
But “spitting it out” had never been part of Jennifer’s repertoire. She paused for dramatic effect, which had been part of her repertoire since she was two and a half. “We-e-ell…you know how Tim Reynolds couldn’t be Lance’s best man after all ’cause he’s got National Guard training camp that week?”
Sarah leaned one hip against the examining table. “Ye-e-es—”
“But did you know Tim wasn’t Lance’s first choice, anyway?”
“He wasn’t? But they’ve been best friends since kindergarten—”
“I know,” Jennifer said with a slow, conspiratorial nod of her head. “But, see, turns out Lance had someone completely different in mind. He just didn’t think he could convince him to do it.”
“Jen. Today, please.”
“Oh, all right.” She struck a pose, hands splayed out to the sides. “Ta-da! Dean said he’d be Lance’s best man.”
Sarah went catatonic, staring at Jennifer with what must have been an incredibly stupid expression on her face. Her sister however, continued bubbling away like a just-poured glass of warm Dr. Pepper. “Isn’t that the best? Lance is so excited he’s been talking a mile a minute ever since Dean called him and said he’d be in tonight.”
That brought Sarah back to the land of the living. Underneath her smock, her sleeveless cotton blouse fused to her back. “He’ll be here tonight?”
“Uh-huh,” Jennifer continued in euphoric oblivion. “And he’s gonna be here for a whole week, I guess since he hasn’t been here in so long. Anyway, Mama said to tell you dinner’s at our house, and for you to get your skinny little butt home on time. You know, hang the little sign on the clinic door that says Closed?”
For emphasis, her sister mimed hanging up the sign, flashing long, tapered fuchsia fingernails the same color as the six-inch flowers splashed across her romper. Then she let out a little squeak, as if she’d been pinched.
“Oh! Oh, my God! I just realized…” Jennifer grabbed Sarah’s wrist, sending a cloud of flowery perfume wafting up from between a set of breasts that had been making men bump into things since she was fourteen. “Here the two of you were high school sweethearts, and now, after all this time, he’s going to be best man and you’re going to be maid of honor at my wedding!” Her palm flattened over the magnificent bosomage. “What a hoot!”
“Yeah,” Sarah said weakly. “Hoot.”
“Well, hey, listen, I’ll get out of your hair.” Jennifer flapped at her sister’s boyish ’do. “What’s left of it, anyway.” She scooped up her handbag and straightened out her perfectly straight collar. “Oh—don’t forget. Gown fittings tomorrow morning at Miss Ellis’s.”
Sarah managed something close to a smile. “How could I forget?”
Jennifer paused by the door, her hand on the frame. “Isn’t tonight just going to be great?” She crinkled her nose in time-honored cute Southern cheerleader tradition, giggled and disappeared like Tinkerbell. Poof! Gone.
Sarah sank onto the desk chair in the examining room, dropping her head onto her arms. She wasn’t sure what she felt at that moment, but great was not one of the choices. What most shocked her was that the prospect of seeing Dean again should be producing any effect at all. She’d long since gotten over him.
Long since.
“Sarah? You okay?”
She lifted her gaze to a pair of large, worried eyes the same whiskey color as hers set in a face with the same narrow nose, the same wide mouth, the same square jawline ending in an incongruously pointed chin. People always said they’d never seen sisters look as much alike as Katey and Sarah. Like twins born eighteen years apart.
Sarah let out a long, shaky breath and clasped the little girl’s slender waist, forcing a smile which God knew she did not feel. “Sure, baby. Just resting my eyes for a moment. Why don’t you go tell Mr. Arby to bring Bojangles on in?”
As Katey scampered over to the door, Sarah rubbed her makeup-less eyes with a stubby-nailed forefinger. According to Jennifer’s count, she had at least a half-dozen cases to see, and that wasn’t counting later appointments or any emergencies that might come in. Of all the times to be the only vet in the clinic. Well, she told herself as she got to her feet and smoothed out the front of her smock, she’d just have to deal with her ambivalent feelings about Dean Parrish later. Preferably before she came face-to-face with him in her living room.
Panic sliced through her.
She heard extra-large-size canine toenails scraping on the linoleum floor as Ben Arby half lugged, half shoved the reluctant Great Dane into the examining room. The black behemoth took one look at Sarah, yelped, and promptly piddled all over the floor.
“Oh, come on, now, sweetie…” She ripped off a half-dozen paper towels from the spindle over the sink and tossed them onto the floor, stepping on them to soak up the puddle as she scratched the dog’s ears. “How bad can it be, huh?”
She didn’t want to know.
Dean wished he were invisible. At least for a hour or so, anyway, just until he got used to the idea of being back in Sweetbranch before anyone else noticed he was.
That not being an option, he decided to hide out in his pickup for a bit, cruising the back roads, trying to come to terms with that weird sensation when you return someplace after being away for a long time and everything seems so familiar and strange all at once. And here he’d gone and said he’d stay for a whole week. Lord. If he’d been a drinking man, he’d’ve sworn he’d had one too many when he’d made that promise. He’d figured he’d feel unsettled. What he hadn’t figured on was how right it felt to be home.
And he didn’t quite know what to do with that feeling.
Nine years. Nine years of growing up, of making something of himself in spite of a reading disability that had finally bested him halfway through his junior year of high school. Nine years of forcing himself to stay away from everything good he’d ever known in order to give Sarah Whitehouse the chance to become everything she could. Nine years of wondering if he’d made a dumb-assed mistake.
Well, he thought as he took a swallow of warm Coke from the almost empty can he’d been nursing since Atlanta, nothing to be done for it now. Not a dad-blasted thing.
For a long time, he’d tried to blame his leaving on his Aunt Ethel, his father’s older sister, who’d taken him and Lance in after his mother died when he was fifteen, with her constant harping on the differences between him and Sarah. She’s a doctor’s daughter, not the offspring of some small-time country carpenter. Lookit how bright she is, gettin’ straight A’s in school, and that scholarship to Auburn. What’s a poor country boy got to offer a girl like that?