Sweet Caroline (23 page)

Sage words from an old doc who ascribed to the same philosophy as Luke—a husband and a baby, the treatment for all that ailed her.

Oh, Doctor, you'd better keep that prescription pad handy,
because I'm in love with a man who is as drawn to marriage
and babies as fire to snow.

With that, she popped a pill in her mouth, washed it down with lukewarm coffee, shut down her computer, and headed 219

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home.

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Sweet Caroline

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CAROLINE SURFED FROM radio station to radio station a dozen times while she inched along with the stream of cars that clogged the two-lane Gravenstine Highway a mile east of the Golden S & T Ranch. For the first time since she'd arrived in California, the weather had turned uncomfortably hot. The late afternoon sun, still high at 6:15 p.m., seemed to burn especially bright in the still air. No fog billowed over the western ridge as it usually did at this time of day to cool the valley. If she was warm sitting in an air-conditioned car, she knew Ramona had to be sweltering in full wedding regalia. Ramona had shown Caroline a picture of a dress similar to hers in a bride's magazine—high neck, long sleeves, a bustle and train. Caroline could feel her hair curling tighter at the thought of it. If this were her wedding, her hair would be a mass of orange kinks and knots about the time she said "I do."

But it wasn't Caroline's wedding, and attending this one would be as close as she'd ever stand to Mick while marriage vows were exchanged. With that glum thought, she realized it was finally her place in the auto queue to turn into a parking lot that had not been there last Saturday when she and Mick drove by.

The lot, surrounded by vineyards, bordered the highway. Although she was far from tardy, it was already threequarters full, with a half-mile logjam waiting to turn in behind her. Whoever had designed the logistics was a genius. Once 221

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inside the lot, guests left their cars with one of a dozen young valets all dressed alike in Kelly green polo shirts and white chinos. Another six or so staff, teenaged boys and girls armed with clipboards, checked names off the guest list and escorted the people to waiting trams, replicas of San Francisco cable cars on wheels, that transported them a half-mile into the ranch.

"Your name, ma'am?" a blond, rosy-cheeked teenager, not more than seventeen asked.

"Caroline Spring."

He didn't hesitate a second before saying, "Ah, Mick's girl."
Mick's girl?
Had she heard right?

"Come with me, please." He offered his arm, giving her little time to think about what he'd said. The construction crew that cleared the area to make room for the parking lot had covered the soil with a layer of lava rock. It did a great job of keeping the dust down but wreaked havoc on spiky strapped sandals.

Aboard the tram, Caroline had a few minutes to consider what lie ahead as the trolley lumbered through neat rows of vines before ending at a paved drive leading to the DeSantis/Mahoney residences.

The main house, a three-story brick Tudor, served as a beacon for the group. Fanning out into a crescent from the north and south wings of the main house were smaller dwellings, each single-family residences of complimentary design. Three looked homey and lived in, with swing sets on the porches and toys, wagons, and trikes on the lawns. The fourth house was still under construction but close to 222

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completion. The fifth, the one that looked like it had been standing the longest, appeared vacant, without shades or window coverings, no outdoor furniture or lights on inside—

only a Jeep parked in the drive—Mick's Jeep. He hadn't exaggerated. He loved his family, but he obviously loved his independence more.

The houses formed a semi-circle around a large expanse of lawn about the size of two football fields. Tonight, only patches of the deep green grass were visible among the large white tents, tables and chairs decorated with flowers, bows and candles, and the dance floor and bandstand. The tram pulled to a stop in front of the main house where a second corps of young people helped the passengers disembark and guided them to a path cordoned off by white satin ribbons and large-globed kerosene lamps. This time, Caroline had a good look at the polo shirt her escort wore, and saw the insignia of the Calla Lily Inn. She had no doubt now who'd been placed in charge of logistics—

the eldest son, Mick. After a closer look at the escorts, she realized they were the waiters, bussers, and other staff she'd seen scurrying around the Calla Lily the nights she dined there.

The ribboned path led around the main house, past the swimming pool, which was covered, fenced and locked for the night, and into an orchard. In a clearing, with the mountains as backdrop, Caroline saw a huge altar made of weathered granite. Rows of chairs, fifty on each side of the aisle, stretched from the portal through the orchard and up to the altar.

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On a summer's night like this, no bride could wish for more—a sky streaked with gorgeous pinks and lavenders—an inspirational setting for a wondrous occasion. Caroline saw that most of the chairs were already occupied. A camera crew busily tested its equipment near the front, off to the left. Of course they'd tape the ceremony. Everyone did these days, rich or poor. With so few chairs, and so many guests, she supposed the latecomers would witness the ceremony in one of the large lawn tents, via simulcast. She smiled and shook her head. These folks really knew how to party.

At the entrance to the orchard, a man in his early twenties, dressed in a dark suit, starched white shirt, and red tie stepped forward to greet her. "Are you a guest of the bride or the groom?"

"Both." She pointed to an empty chair in the back row. "I can sit there if it's not reserved for someone else."

"I don't think Mick would like that," a man behind her said. She turned to find Seth, the bartender from the Calla Lily. He was not on duty tonight. Like the fellow escorting her, Seth was dressed in a dark suit and tie, clean-shaven, with his shoulder-length hair tied back in a sedate ponytail. The woman with him, older by a few years, was beautifully attired in satin and lace. "Mario, this is Caroline Spring," he said.

"Mick's girl."

"I'm not his girl," she protested, but it made no difference. Mario placed his hand on her elbow and urged her forward, past rows of Mahoney relatives and close friends, straight to the front.

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"Are you sure this is where I'm supposed to sit?" she whispered, feeling every eye on her, speculating about who she was. How many of those eyes belonged to women who'd once thought of themselves as 'Mick's girl' too?
Dear heaven,
don't let me trip and fall flat on my face.
To distract herself, Caroline tried to remember the order of these things. The first row consisted of only five chairs. Those would be for the groomsmen during the actual ceremony. Across the aisle, on the bride's side, she saw five matching chairs for Ramona's bridesmaids.

The second rows were usually reserved for the parents and grandparents of the bride and groom. Ramona's grandparents were already seated, but not any of the Mahoney elders. Traditionally, the third and fourth rows were reserved for the immediate family and special friends. Those rows were full on both sides of the aisle. Caroline had slipped the Mahoney reunion postcard into her purse before she left home. If she could find a discreet way to do it, she knew she'd be able to fill in the blanks by looking around her. There was only one seat left in the third row, right on the aisle. Mario nudged her toward it.

"Are you sure?" she asked again. "Shouldn't one of the family..."

"Very sure." He smiled, and in that smile, Caroline saw his resemblance to Ramona—if not a brother then surely a cousin.

At precisely five minutes before seven, an organist took over for the string quartet that had been playing since she arrived. At the same time, a fair-skinned, red-haired 225

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teenager, definitely a Mahoney, escorted another woman down the aisle. From her very first glimpse, Caroline knew exactly who she was.

Mick had told Caroline she was only eight years older than he. That made her forty-seven, but she looked far more youthful. Her short red hair was trimmed close and curled into tight little orange kinks and knots. She wore a dark blue suit with a white high-necked blouse and no make-up. Her violet eyes sparkled brightly enough to light up a room as she walked along waving to friends and pausing for hugs. For jewelry, she wore only a pair of tiny pearl earrings and a gold cross and chain around her neck.

Caroline watched, transfixed. She knew she was staring, but she didn't care, and she couldn't have stopped herself if she'd wanted to. The indescribable force that had drawn Caroline to this woman's photograph now held her in its palm. They'd never met, but it was as though Caroline had known her for a lifetime.

The woman walked past and slid into the row in front of her. Caroline's gaze followed, watching how she carried herself. She'd almost floated, and now she bowed her head and gracefully blessed herself before lowering her lids in quiet prayer.

With Caroline still staring, the woman raised her head, turned and held out her hand. "I'm Annie Mahoney," she said.

"Sister Anne. You must be Caroline Spring." Sheila DeSantis was escorted to her seat right after Sr. Anne, and Ramona's mother took hers. The party was about to begin. The music swelled, and the first of five bridesmaids 226

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began the trek to the altar. The wedding clothes reflected Ramona's personality perfectly, a bit flouncy and overdone but charming nonetheless.

While Caroline and Annie had been introducing themselves, two priests alighted the dais on which the altar stood, beaming while they waited for the attendants to file forward. From somewhere off to the right, the five groomsmen, the best man, and Brian had lined up waiting their turn. A small buzz of appreciation came from the guests when they saw the best man was not one of Brian's friends or brothers, but a thin and slightly bowed older man, who had to wipe tears from his eyes more than once while he waited for the maid of honor. Brian, in an ultimate compliment to the man who had raised him, had chosen Tony DeSantis to stand beside him.

Mick was the first groomsman and devastatingly handsome in a dark tux with a bright Kelly green bow tie and cummerbund. In that moment, Caroline ached to really be Mick's girl.

He moved forward a step at his bridesmaid's arrival. In the waning sun, with shadows filtering the light, Mick stood in profile. If Caroline's mouth had dropped open to her chest, she wouldn't have been surprised. Seeing him in that light, with his face looking so perfect—weathered, masculine, and yet aristocratic—she thought her knees might melt and she'd slide to the ground, a blob of Silly Putty. The wanton smile his bridesmaid flashed at him sobered Caroline. In her early twenties, she was a stunning girl with 227

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dark hair and eyes from her Italian ancestry. She'd met Mick before, Caroline surmised, and had enjoyed the experience. She took his arm, but Mick glanced away, into the crowd. He smiled at his mother and aunt, and paused to look at Caroline, and to relish what he saw. His mother and aunt, as if reading his mind, inched further apart to give him a better view.

Caroline felt a surge of heat and excitement she ought not feel—not with two priests and a nun standing only a few feet away.

Mick didn't need to say a word. Reading his mind wasn't difficult from his appreciative smile before he moved on. After that, the wedding was a blur. Caroline knew she stood and sat at the right times and applauded with the rest of the guests when the good padres presented "Mr. & Mrs. Brian Timothy Mahoney" to the crowd and invited Brian to kiss his bride. But if asked to describe a single detail, she would not have been able to do so. Her mind, her attention, and her heart were focused solely on the man who, for most of the ceremony and wedding Mass, had sat two rows ahead of her.

Caroline was falling in love with Mick, the kind of love that, if she allowed it to, would consume her every waking moment. He was already the first person she thought of upon awakening each morning, and the one whose mischievous eyes and sensual mouth carried her off to sleep at night. She only hoped that she had not returned his appreciative glance with that same pathetic puppy-dog yearning she'd seen in the eyes of his bridesmaid. Caroline wasn't a kid anymore, and 228

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what she felt for Mick wasn't puppy love. It was that once-ina-lifetime-and-forever love that had eluded her, even during her time with Luke. Earlier today, she'd promised Mick she'd stay with him tonight, and heaven help her, she wanted to more than she'd ever wanted anything. But not before she'd had a chance to show him the birth certificates and the postcard, and not before they'd proven beyond any doubt that the ties that bound them were of the heart and the mind, not shared DNA.

* * * *

CAROLINE HAD EXPECTED a receiving line, but the latecomers mobbed the bridal couple. Afterward, the wedding party was called back to pose for formal photographs. It would be at least another hour before they were seen again. The band was revving up, the hors d'oeuvre tables laden to capacity, the staff of servers and bartenders poised and ready.

Caroline had just gotten a glass of ice water to wash down another of her migraine pills when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned and saw a priest, somewhere between her age and Mick's.

"Ms. Spring, I know we haven't met. I'm Chris Mahoney, one of the ten thousand Mahoney cousins you'll meet tonight."

"Fr. Mahoney, it's a pleasure," she said, trying to juggle the water, the pill and to shake hands, too.