The other sisters followed her in rapid succession, waving at Connie and saying that they’d see her in a little while. Connie smiled, genuinely admiring the Cutler sisters, each in her own way. As the last one hurried off, Connie took a final measure of the chapel.
The white of the antiqued walls had aged to a soft butter-yellow, which complemented the gold carpet and pale, natural woods in the room. Tall, narrow stained glass windows glowed vibrantly in the afternoon sunlight, while brass gleamed overhead.
The altar had been draped in an ivory satin cloth and topped with a basket of bloodred roses and a gold cross. The canopy of ivory ribbon and greenery elegantly draped the brass kneeler before it.
A tall, heavy glass pedestal decorated with twining ivy stood to one side, holding an ornately carved unity candle. The Cutler sisters had crafted unique bouquets of greenery with lengths of red satin cloth gathered into soft, billowy clumps, which now adorned the ends of the pews. Connie found them especially appropriate for Jolie, who, though very pretty, was not, as Olivia put it, the “girly” type.
The final touch was an artful scattering of almost two hundred tiny votive candles in simple, clear glass containers, which Vince’s older nephews would light at the beginning of the ceremony.
The attendants’ dresses were a shade of pale yellow trimmed with green ribbon, which, oddly enough, brought the whole scheme together perfectly. When Jolie had first chosen that particular shade, all of the sisters had protested, but it hadn’t taken long for everyone to realize that Jolie had not only her own distinctive style but also a gift for putting colors together.
It truly was going to be a beautiful wedding.
Smiling, Connie went to pick up her son at the church’s day care, situated on the back corner of the grounds.
Rather than erect a shiny new building, the congregation had opted to purchase houses surrounding the historic old church, link them with covered walkways and renovate them for administration, education, fellowship hall and day care spaces. In doing so, they had created a quaint campus reminiscent of a gingerbread village with the chapel at its center. The result felt more like a community than a church, and Connie would be forever grateful for the haven she’d found here.
Snagging her tan wool coat from a peg in the foyer, Connie shrugged it on over her straight-legged, brown knit slacks and matching turtleneck sweater. She felt that the monochrome color scheme made her look taller that her mere five-foot-three frame and balanced her top-heavy figure.
In actuality, her neat, curvy shape was well proportioned to her height, giving her ultrafeminine appeal that her taller, leggier older sister had often envied. Connie, however, remained unaware of this fact, just as she remained unaware that her wispy, golden-blond, chin-length hairstyle often garnered more appreciative glances than her sister’s long fall of straight, thick, golden-brown hair.
The one trait that the two sisters shared, other than their jade-green eyes, was a simplicity of style. In Connie, that translated into an almost-elfin elegance that made her seem vulnerable and quintessentially female, as opposed to Jolie’s earthy, Amazonian womanhood.
Unfortunately, like many women, Connie tended to concentrate on her shortcomings. When she gazed into the mirror, she saw not a pert nose but a childish one, not a classically oval face but a too-sharp chin and wide cheeks, not a full, luscious mouth but a mundane one, not arresting, gold-fringed eyes like jade glass but odd-color eyes and lashes that were too pale.
As she tugged open the door and stepped onto the covered walkway, a cold gust hit her with the force of an icy slap. The wind had a wet, chilly feel to it, but the sky remained blue and clear overhead.
February usually yielded an ice storm that would paralyze north central Texas for at least a day or two, but so far so good. It could ice up tomorrow, she thought, right after Jolie and Vince head off to a beach in Mexico for a honeymoon.
She was thinking how lovely that beach was going to be as she walked up the ramp to the day care center and pulled open the door.
A late-model, domestic luxury car was parked beneath the drive-through cover, but Connie thought nothing of it. Parents came and went all day long, and from the sound of wails in the distance, some little one had either fallen ill or gotten injured. Of course, if it had been serious, an ambulance would have beaten the parent here.
Connie smiled at Millie, a spare, quiet, attentive woman whom everyone referred to as “The Gatekeeper,” and jotted her name down on the pickup sheet beneath that of Kendal Oakes.
Ah, that explained a great deal, she thought.
Mr. Oakes was a new member of the church, having just recently moved to the community, although he did not reside in Pantego itself. Sandwiched between Arlington and Fort Worth, Pantego, along with Dalworthington Gardens, was regarded as a small bedroom community. Landlocked by its larger neighbors, it had little opportunity for growth. As a consequence, many of the church’s members came from outside the community.
Unfortunately, Kendal Oakes’s young daughter had already earned a reputation as a problem child, and it was no wonder considering what she’d been through, poor thing. Connie felt deep compassion for the troubled toddler and her father. Marcus told her that Mrs. Oakes had died suddenly months earlier and that the child, Larissa, had suffered great trauma as a result.
Connie knew Mr. Oakes only in passing, but she’d had dealings with Larissa that past Sunday when she’d stopped by the church’s day care to check on Russell and found herself calming the shrieking child. The day care attendants—most of them older ladies—were beside themselves when she happened along, and their relief was painfully obvious when Larissa unexpectedly launched herself at Connie and held on for dear life. It took several minutes for the sobbing child to exhaust herself, but she was sleeping peacefully against Connie’s shoulder when her father arrived to gently lift her away.
Recognizing a deep sadness in him, Connie supposed that, like his daughter, he must still grieve his late wife dearly. He had whispered his thanks, and in truth Connie hadn’t minded in the least, but she’d come away from the experience more grateful than ever for her son’s placid—if somewhat determined—nature. It was a trait, or so Marcus insisted, inherited from Connie. It certainly hadn’t come from his biological father.
She pushed thoughts of Jessup Kennard to the farthest recesses of her mind as she walked along a hallway toward the toddler area. No good ever came of dwelling on anything to do with Jessup. She prayed for the man regularly, but she couldn’t help but feel relieved that he would very likely spend every day of the rest of his life locked behind bars. And yet, she’d have done much to spare her son the shame of carrying the name of such a father.
Wails of protest had turned to angry screeches by the time Connie turned the corner and came on the scene. Kendal Oakes was doing his best to subdue his child above the closed half door of the room, but while he attempted to capture her flailing arms and twisting little body, Larissa was alternately bucking and clutching at her teacher, Miss Susan.
For some reason, all of the day care workers went by the title of “Miss.” Only twenty and still a college student, the young woman looked as if she was near to tears herself, while Miss Dabney, the day care director, hovered anxiously at her shoulder.
Tall and whipcord-lean, Kendal Oakes looked not only agonized but also out of place in his pin-striped suit and red silk tie tossed back haphazardly over one shoulder. One thick lock of his rich nut-brown hair had fallen forward to curl against his brow, and the shadow of his beard darkened his long jawline and flat cheeks. He was speaking to his daughter in a somewhat-exasperated voice.
“Larissa, please listen. Listen a minute. Daddy is taking you to play with Dr. Stenhope. You like Dr. Stenhope.