Season of Sisters (6 page)

"You really like mine best?" Maggie asked.

"I do."

"Better than your mama's gown?"

Holly's hand trembled slightly as she looped the train around the hanger. "This is not my mother's wedding gown. It's similar, but not the same one."

"But it makes you think of her. I think you should try it on."

Holly lost her grip on the dress and it floated to the floor. She ignored it, glaring at Miss Meddling Maggie Prescott.

"I'm not trying on any wedding gown."

"Why not?"

"I'm not getting married. Surely you didn't miss that little fact."

Maggie picked up the fallen gown, held it up, and studied the design from top to bottom. She fiddled with a loose hook here and the hint of a stain there, then turned a speculative, measuring gaze toward Holly.

"Stop it," Holly insisted, grabbing the gown from Maggie. "I don't like it. I wouldn't buy it even if I were going to ruin Justin's life and marry him. Look at it." She held it up against herself. "It's at least four inches too short."

"You're right." Maggie tapped her lips with her index finger. "I bet that doesn't happen often, tiny thing like you are. You could add—"

"No." Holly hung the dress back on the rack. "It's not that pretty. Just because my mother wore one like it doesn't mean I would have to wear it. Sentiment doesn't mean stupidity. A bride can honor her mother other ways than by wearing her gown. If my mother were alive, she'd be the first to tell me to buy a dress I adored. If my mother were alive, I'd be looking for a gown like yours."

"So buy my dress. It would be perfect for you."

"I'm not buying any dress. I'm not getting married."

Maggie shrugged, her mouth twisting in a sad smile. "And I never thought I'd give away my wedding gown, but there you go."

Hearing the pain in Maggie's voice, the fight drained out of Holly. She tilted her head to one side and watched the other woman closely as she asked, "So why are you doing it? You obviously still have an emotional tie to it. Why give it away?"

Maggie glanced away and avoided the question. "Well, well, look at that."

Holly followed the path of Maggie's gaze toward the check-out table, where a silver-haired gentleman leaned over to kiss Grace's cheek. The smile Grace beamed up at him was filled with such tenderness and love that it took Holly's breath away and brought Maggie to tears. But then, judging by their short acquaintance, just about everything brought Maggie to tears.

Maggie wiped her eyes and sighed. "That's got to be her husband. Do you know what she told me? She collects angels and he—his name is Ben—e-mails her an angel picture every day from work."

"How sweet." Holly fell instantly in love with Grace's Ben.

"When Mike and I were first married, he used to call me at lunchtime every day." Now Maggie's expression hung between wistful and another waterfall. "It didn't matter whether he was in his office or eating out with a client, he always took a moment to call. I haven't thought of that in years. I don't quite know when it stopped."

Then she squared her shoulders and added, "I don't guess it matters anymore."

Maggie had shared a brief synopsis of her marital troubles in the ladies' lounge, promising to add further detail once she had chocolate within reach. The sadness in her voice now tore at Holly's heart and caused her to reach for a distraction.

"Look at this dress." Holly grabbed blindly from the rack. "Isn't it just... uh..."

Awful. It was truly ugly. The gown was a shimmery material with poofy, Jane Jetson wings at the seams of the sleeves.

"Oh, sugar," Maggie said, clucking her tongue. "When I see a fashion accident like that, I always try to remind myself that I once wore a dress made from the Yellow Pages to a job interview."

"You wore what?"

Maggie waved her question away, saying, "Something good must have happened to Grace."

Holly glanced across the ballroom to see Grace stand and hug a woman wearing a Pink Sisterhood tee shirt, then go up on her tiptoes to give her husband a loud smooch right on the mouth. He looked bashful; Grace glowed. Then, catching sight of Holly and Maggie, she waved them over.

"I want to introduce you to a couple of people. Maggie Prescott and Holly Weeks, this is Charlene Roberts, the founder of the Pink Sisterhood Foundation."

The women exchanged greetings and a few sentences of small talk, then Grace linked her arm through the gentleman's and added, "And this is my darling, Ben."

"Hello, Darling Ben," Maggie said with a teasing smile.

"Gracie," he protested gruffly. Turning to Maggie and Holly, he added, "I'm Ben Hardeman and I'm pleased to meet you, ladies. Gracie tells me she's coerced the two of you into joining her as she feeds her chocolate cravings."

Holly grinned. "I don't know that I'd call it coercion, exactly."

"Sure it is," Maggie interjected. "I'd never indulge in something as decadent as triple chocolate cake if I weren't forced. Will you join us, Ben?"

"No, thank you. I'd love to visit with you ladies more, but I have an important appointment soon and I can't be late. I just stopped by to check on Gracie on my way."

Grace shook her head. "He and our two sons have tickets to the Ranger baseball game."

"That's almost as good as chocolate," Holly said.

"Much better," Ben insisted.

He and Holly discussed the home team's chances for the season, then Ben excused himself and prepared to take his leave. He turned to his wife. "Promise me you won't overdo, honey."

"Be-en," Grace protested, drawing his name out.

He shrugged, gave her hand a squeeze, then sauntered away whistling "Take Me Out to the Ball Game."

"He is a darling, Grace," Maggie said, a hint of envy in her tone.

"For the most part, he is." Grace smiled after her husband, then continued, "Our fiftieth wedding anniversary is three months from Tuesday."

"Your golden anniversary," Holly said. "That's wonderful. Congratulations. How do you plan to mark such an auspicious occasion?"

"We're going to have a party. A wonderful party. All the family will be there. I intend for it to be a completely happy occasion. I'm very excited about it."

"Of course you are," Maggie said. "Fifty years. Imagine that. If that's not the most beautiful thing I've heard all day. I think we should adjourn to the restaurant and lift our forks full of triple-fudge decadence in toast to the Hardemans' accomplishment, don't you, Holly?"

"Either that or go buy stock in the Kleenex corporation," Holly replied in a dry tone as Maggie wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Kimberly-Clark," Maggie offered. "Mike's been buying it for years because of me. I tend to tear up rather easily."

"No," Holly replied with patent disbelief. Both Grace and Maggie chuckled at that, and the mood among them brightened. Ten minutes later, the three women sat at a small round table in the hotel restaurant as a waitress placed three plates, three forks, and a huge slab of chocolate cake in front of them. Without exchanging a word, each woman took a bite. Flavor exploded on Holly's tongue and she groaned with delight.

Maggie moaned. "That's the closest thing to an orgasm I've had in months."

"And just who the hell's fault is that?" came a man's furious voice from behind her.

Holly's jaw gaped. Grace murmured, "Oh, my."

Maggie's fork slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor. "Mike."

* * *

He held her note in his hand as if it were something rank. With exaggerated care, Maggie lifted her napkin and wiped her lips. Though outwardly calm, inwardly Maggie trembled like a tree in a gale. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"I kinda gathered that when I found the note you left on our bed." He made a show of lifting the note up to read. " 'I've gone to the Greystone Hotel to give away my wedding gown. Perhaps while I'm there I'll find a man and give away something else, something you don't seem to want anymore. I understand there is an antique fishing bait show at the hotel. What do you want to bet I can do a little luring myself?'"

Blood thrummed in Maggie's veins and her every muscle went taut. A dozen different emotions buffeted her heart, including fury and embarrassment and a little bit of shame.

Bracing herself, she looked at her husband—really looked at him—for the first time in weeks, maybe even months. At forty-seven, Mike Prescott continued to get better-looking every year, curse the man. He had a golf pro's good looks: light brown hair going gracefully gray at the temples, a square jaw, and a thin straight nose.

The fury in his ice blue eyes took her breath away.

At a nearby table, someone smothered a laugh. At them? She shot a look to her left. Well, spit. Mike had made them a public spectacle.

Maggie's own wrath flared in response. How dare he track her down like this, filled with righteous anger and accusations when
he
was the one who'd ignored her all day yesterday. Yesterday. Their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.

Jerk.

She drew a deep, controlling breath and exhaled it just as carefully. "A public restaurant is not an appropriate place to have this conversation, Mike. If you'll wait until I'm through visiting with my friends I'll be happy—"

"Dammit, Maggie," he exploded. "All I've done is wait. I've been waiting for months now and I'm sick to death of it. But guess what? I'm done with it. I'm through waiting." He tossed the note onto the table. "Since I'm already downtown, maybe I should stop by the lawyer's office."

With an abrupt about-face, Mike marched out of the restaurant and toward the front door. Maggie sat straight as a board in her velvet upholstered chair, frozen inside and out.

As if through a haze, she saw Grace and Holly exchange a concerned glance. Holly whispered, "Maggie should be crying. Why isn't she crying?"

Maggie wondered that herself. The waterworks had hardly stopped since yesterday when she realized Mike had either forgotten or, more likely, decided to totally ignore their silver wedding anniversary. She couldn't have cried right now if she wanted to. In fact, she couldn't work up a spit to save her life. Mike's cruelty had sucked all the moisture right out of her.

Grace snapped open her purse and removed a pair of bills from her wallet. She folded them and stuck them beneath her plate, then stood and said to Holly, "Let's get her somewhere private."

They guided her toward the logical spot—the ladies' lounge. Halfway there, as if from a far distance, Maggie heard Holly say, "He's come back inside. He sees us."

Maggie suddenly found her running feet, and she dashed for the bathroom, Grace and Holly following closely. Inside, she leaned against the door, breathing as if she'd just run a mile rather than twenty feet.

Grace led her over to the sofa, sat her down, then took a seat beside her. Holly frowned at the two women drying their hands at the sinks, silently demanding they leave. When finally they did, Holly checked the rest of the stalls and observed. "Thank goodness for low-traffic ladies' rooms."

Maggie began to shake as Holly sat in the chair beside the sofa. She accepted the box of tissues the younger woman offered—the lounge had been supplied since their last visit—and instead of using the tissue to wipe away tears, she shredded it into paper snow.

"We have a little tradition for our wedding anniversaries." Her voice sounded dead to herself. "It began on our first—we were young and too poor for gifts. We wrote love letters. They were our gifts to one another. Later when we had money, we'd buy a little something, but we continued to exchange letters, too. I have a special box I keep them in. Twenty-four of them. Once or twice a year, I'll read through them."

Maggie tugged at the collar of her cotton shirt, even though it wasn't close to binding. The constriction in her throat come from within. "Yesterday was our twenty-fifth anniversary. Mike didn't leave me a letter. He was already gone when I got up. His secretary called and passed along the message that he was going straight from work to the baseball game with clients. I waited up for him until after midnight. By then, our anniversary was over. Twenty-five. Silver. Tarnished silver." Her voice broke around the harsh words. "I don't know if he forgot or if he simply didn't care."

"I didn't forget, Maggie," Mike said softly from the doorway. "I cared. I wrote a letter, but I couldn't... it's not... a letter isn't the right way this time."

Maggie closed her eyes.

Grace stood and grabbed Holly's hand, tugging her to her feet. "I'm beginning to think this must be National Ladies' Room Invasion Day."

"No," Maggie said, pleaded. "Don't go."

Holly hesitated, but Grace was determined. The two women slipped past Mike and disappeared out the door.

Maggie stared blindly at the magnolia painting on the wall. For a long moment, the only sound to be heard was a drip from a faucet in the lavatory. Maggie thought about making a dash for a stall and locking herself in, but she couldn't quite make herself move.

She breathed deeply, almost choked on the rose scent wafting from the bowl of potpourri. "All right, Mike. What was in the letter?"

Wordlessly, he reached into his pocket. Instead of pulling out an envelope or even a folded sheet of paper, he removed a TV remote.
His
TV remote.

The one she'd hidden a month ago.

As her stomach dropped, Maggie did her best to innocently ask, "What's that?"

"I think you know." He tossed it onto the sofa. "You've watched me tear the house apart for a month looking for it. Didn't say a word.
Pretended
to help me look."

Oh, spit. Busted.

"Why did you bring it here? Now?"

He didn't answer.

Maggie decided she didn't feel the least bit guilty. Instead, she looked at him and worked up a fume. In her mind, the TV remote control symbolized the trouble at the heart of their marriage. It made her sadly furious that it had taken him this long to locate it, so she lifted her chin and said, "It started out as a joke. I expected you to find it sooner."

He looked at her as if she'd grown two heads. "So you admit it? You hid the remote?"