My Favorite Mistake. Stephanie Bond

trimmed with ribbon and lace, crammed with studio-quality photos of them in their designer gown, a glowing groom, twelve bridesmaids, twelve groomsmen, three flower girls and a ring bearer. Other women had 5x7s, 8x10s and 16x20s of the special day. I had three blurry Polaroid pictures.

      The first showed the two of us smiling at the camera through the driver’s-side window of Redford’s rental car. In the second picture, I wore a paper veil and held a small bouquet of silk flowers. We were exchanging vows—Redford’s mouth was open slightly, caught midword. His voice came floating back to me, a deep, throaty drawl that had wrapped around me and stroked me like a big, vibrating hand…silken sandpaper. A shiver skated over my shoulders—apparently memory cells existed in every part of one’s body.

      The third picture showed us kissing as man and wife. Unbidden, my mouth tingled and the elusive elements of his kiss came back to me—the way his eyes darkened as he inched closer, the possessive feel of his mouth against mine, the promise of his tongue…

      With effort, I forced myself back to the present and to the photo in my hand. We were covered in confetti the witness had tossed on us through the open window. Redford was wearing a black sweatshirt. I couldn’t tell from the photo, but remembered that I’d been wearing a T-shirt with no bra, my hair messy and hanging around my shoulders, not a speck of makeup. Natural, hedonistic…what had I been thinking?

      In hindsight, I hadn’t been thinking—at least not beyond the next orgasm. Redford had been the first man to tap in to my sexuality and I’d been blinded by lust. I had mistaken enthusiasm for love.

      I did have a fourth picture, although not of our wedding. I carefully withdrew the framed 5x7 from the box, drinking in the sight of First Sergeant DeMoss in his dress uniform, achingly handsome in his official U.S. Marine Corps photo. He had given it to me somewhat sheepishly at the airport, and I had clutched it all the way back to New York. I ran my finger over his face, my heart full over my naiveté at the time.

      The phone rang and I picked up the handset on the nightstand, happy for a diversion from the troubling thoughts on the continuous loop in my head. “Hello?”

      “Hey, it’s Kenzie.”

      I smiled into the phone. “Hey, yourself.”

      “So, did you wow the boss lady last night?”

      “The dress was a hit. Thanks again for your help.”

      “Did you get the account?”

      “I’ll find out more this week, but I’m hopeful.”

      “You’ll have to call me in Jar Hollow to let me know how it goes.”

      “You’re not coming back to the city this week?”

      “No, that’s another reason I called—Oh, wait, Sam just walked in and I need to, um…give him a message. Can I call you back?”

      “Sure,” I said, then hung up with a smirk. A message—right. Good grief, the two of them were like teenagers. But I wasn’t jealous…really I wasn’t.

      I tried not to imagine the acrobatics going on in Jar Hollow while I stared at Redford’s picture and waited for Kenzie to call me back. The phone rang again less than two minutes later—of course, if the stories were true, she and Sam had had time for a quickie. I picked up the phone and sighed dramatically. “Please stop dangling your sex in front of me.”

      Dead silence sounded on the line.

      My chest blipped with panic. “Hello?”

      A deep, rumbling laugh rolled out. “Well, that’s what I call picking up where we left off.”

      I swallowed. “Who…who is this?” But I would have recognized that orgasmic voice anywhere.