Nesting in North Carolina Page 2

  “Calm down,” Emily said soothingly, patting her hand. Thankfully, it was just the two of them. “Trust me. Dr. Lachele knows what she’s doing. Plus, you’ll only be a couple hours away, so I can come straight to you any time you need me.”

  Becca studied her face in the mirror. She looked pale, her blue eyes standing out darkly against her white skin. “I can’t do this,” she said to her best friend, feeling dizzy with nervousness. “I just know I’m going to go out there and . . . puke on the minister or something. I have literally never been this scared in my entire life.”

  “I’ve got this.” Dr. Lachele’s determined, cheerful voice startled Becca, and she jumped. “Emily, hon, give us a minute, will you?”

  “I’ll be right out there in the front row if you need me, Becca, even if I have to kick somebody out of the pew to do it,” Emily assured her and gave her another quick hug. “Trust me. This will all work out beautifully.”

  “All right, now, Becca. It’s almost go-time,” Lachele said. “You look gorgeous, and you’re going to knock the socks off your groom. I have to tell you a secret before you go out there, though. I picked this man for you because he needs a strong woman—a strong partner. And I know you’re going to be that for him. You just have to believe that you can be, too.”

  Becca stared at Lachele. “You think I’m strong?” She let out a burst of slightly hysterical laughter. As if the pressure of becoming a stranger’s wife wasn’t enough, now she had to be strong, too?

  “Yes,” Lachele replied firmly. “Shy, yes. But shy and strong are two completely different things. You’ve got a backbone of steel in there, girlfriend, and you’re going to have to figure out how to use it. Now come on. Give me a boobie bump, and let’s get this dog and pony show on the road.”

  Becca laughed helplessly, feeling strangely better as she followed Dr. Lachele out the door. The woman was a little crazy, but she sure had confidence to spare. It wouldn’t hurt her to borrow some.

  Her father was waiting for her outside the door to the sanctuary. “Ready to go, baby girl?” he asked gruffly. He was big and broad, his blonde hair just starting to fade to gray, and his smile was bright and wide, but his eyes were sad. Becca noticed his suit was outdated and just a bit tight around his waist, but he was still the most handsome man in the world to her.

  “I love you, Daddy.”

  “Love you, too, honey. This man of yours better be a good one, or he’ll answer to me.”

  He took her arm and led her through the heavily carved double doors, the intimidating sound of the “Wedding March” booming right up to the vaulted ceiling. Instantly Becca wanted to retreat, but she forced herself to take the measured steps forward that would carry her to the front of the room. “Who are all of these people?” she whispered to her father a little frantically.

  “Beats me. Maybe the groom has a big family?” he whispered back.

  She looked out over the sea of unfamiliar faces. There must’ve been a hundred well-dressed strangers filling the pews, all watching her with curiosity. Her racing heart calmed a little, though, when she saw her Granny Jones waving one gnarled hand enthusiastically from the front pew, Becca’s mom beside her, trying to pull her arm down. Emily and Brodie Callahan sat beside them, with William and Alec. The Callahan’s son crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out at her, and Becca smiled back reflexively. He was such a little rascal. Then, she gathered her courage and looked toward the altar.

  Becca’s heart stuttered in her chest. The man of her dreams stood there. “Tall, dark, and handsome” didn’t do him justice. In crisp, black and white formal wear, her groom stood about six feet tall, trim and well-built. His face was unsmiling, but his deep blue eyes were watching her with a curious, cautious intensity that made her feel warm inside. His dark brown, almost-black hair looked expensively cut, and she wondered if it would feel as soft under her fingertips as it looked.

  Shyness forgotten, she nearly floated to the altar on the power of his sharp blue gaze alone. She couldn’t wait to meet this man.

  Archer felt like he’d been punched in the gut. The ethereal-looking beauty coming down the aisle had her gaze fixed on him like he was the most important man in the world. She wore a long, lacy white dress and seemed to glide, willowy and graceful. Her hair was long and pale blond, twisted back at the sides to leave her face uncovered, and what a face it was. Her skin was porcelain-fine, flushed delicately pink at her cheekbones, and her cobalt eyes looked as serene as a deep, calm lake.

  The big, shabbily dressed man who escorted her down the aisle took the woman’s hand and placed it in Archer’s, and he barely noticed the man’s scowl. The woman’s hand wasn’t smooth or delicate. Her callouses told of a life of hard work, and he was struck by curiosity.

  “Hello,” he offered quietly, barely mindful of their large audience.

  “H- hello,” she whispered back, giving him a tentative smile, her pink lips parting to reveal even white teeth and an enchanting smile. In the audience, a loud, dramatic sob broke the stillness, and Archer winced. It was his mother.

  Startled, Becca turned around. An older woman, dressed in an extravagantly beaded black dress more appropriate for a funeral, stood up and let out another wail. “Don’t do this, Archer! I want you married but not to her!”

  Becca’s jaw dropped at the woman’s utter rudeness. Archer squeezed her hand reassuringly, but before he could respond, Granny Jones pushed to her feet and hollered, “Pipe down, lady, and act your age instead of your gol-danged shoe size. Can’t you see we’re trying to have a wedding here?” She waved her cane at the woman threateningly, almost whacking the person behind her. The man ducked, wide-eyed. The rude woman dropped down in her seat, abruptly lapsing into astonished silence.

  Becca let out a low groan, her face pinkening in mortification, but Archer just chuckled and squeezed her hand again, his palm broad, warm, and comforting. “Sorry, sweetheart, but I think I’m going to have to marry her instead. No one’s stood up to my mother like that in years.”

  Oh, goodness, Becca thought. She’s going to be my new mother-in-law? But the way Archer’s eyes gleamed at her settled her fears a bit even as her heart started fluttering double-time. She had a feeling that this man might just be worth the torture.

  The elderly minister cleared his throat, his watery brown eyes wide. “Are, uh, we ready to begin now? Or should I ask the guests if anyone else has objections first?”

  Becca and Archer spoke at the same time: “No!”

  To Becca, it seemed like only moments later they were being declared Mr. and Mrs. Archer Hayes. The kiss Archer gave her was restrained, almost polite, but it buckled Becca’s knees. She’d never felt a man’s mouth on her own, and even though it was brief, the feel of his firm lips on hers, his breath scented with peppermint, made her lightheaded. Her new husband’s guests applauded politely as they walked down the aisle together, Becca’s wobbly legs hurrying to keep up with Archer’s stride. Meanwhile, Becca’s family cheered and whistled rowdily and Archer’s mother sobbed dramatically.

  When they exited the church, the crowd of guests surging behind them like a wave, Dr. Lachele was there to motion them over to a long black limousine, Becca’s wrap in one hand to protect her from the chill in the air. “Hop in,” she said cheerfully, snugging the imitation white fur around Becca’s shoulders. “Get to know each other before you get to the reception! I’ll see you both there.” Lachele bussed them both on the cheek, reaching up on her tiptoes to get to Archer’s, and she ushered them into the limo, closing the door behind them.

  Then, Becca was alone with her groom.

  In the dimness of the interior, he grinned at her and stuck out his hand. “Archer Hayes. Nice to meet you.”

  Becca laughed shyly and stuck out her own hand. “Rebecca Hayes. But, since you’re my husband, I guess you can call me Becca.”

  His hand lingered on hers for a moment, his eyes intent on hers. “Becca. That’s a pretty name. It sounds sweet and innocent. Ma
y I kiss you, Becca? I’d like to try again, without an audience this time.”

  Archer leaned forward when she nodded hesitantly, putting a hand to her face. Unlike her rough hands, the skin of her cheek felt satiny smooth and cool, like porcelain, beneath his touch. He lowered his mouth to hers as her eyes went round and surprised before drifting closed, her pale lashes fanning against her cheeks. Innocent, he thought before his mind went blank. Her small hands went to his shoulders, as if to anchor herself and his hand slid over the furry wrap covering her back to pull her closer. She kissed him back, eager, if inexperienced, and her enthusiasm ignited him.

  Pulling away after a moment, he looked at his beautiful blond bride. Her cheeks were crimson now, much warmer than they had been, and her blue eyes sparkled with wonder. He’d never had anyone look at him like this. Like they saw him for who he really was and not for what they could get out of him. This was why he’d wanted a matchmaker. Becca had no idea that he was ridiculously wealthy, and by the look on her face, she wouldn’t have cared if he lived in a cardboard box.

  Archer felt something unfurl in his chest that felt suspiciously like hope.

  Becca’s mind felt fuzzy. She wasn’t sure if it was because she hadn’t been able to eat breakfast that morning, or if it was the aftereffects of Archer’s kiss. She almost forgot to be shy—she was too overwhelmed with everything that had happened. She was about to ask Archer about himself, since she couldn’t wait to find out more about this dazzling man who seemed to be just as attracted to her as she was to him, but the limo was pulling to a smooth stop.

  “We’re here already,” she breathed in disappointment.

  He tucked a finger under her chin and tilted her face up. “Don’t worry,” his voice rumbled. “A couple of hours and we can be on our way to my . . . on our way to our home.” He kissed her again, gently, and opened the door, getting out first so he could help her. Becca’s eyes widened. In front of them was a sprawling red brick building with huge, arched windows, surrounded by sprawling hills.

  “What is this place?”

  “Rolling Brook Country Club,” Archer said casually. “I let my mom book the event, since she insisted on being involved, and she wasn’t able to get our regular club with such short notice. Prepare to hear her complain.”

  Archer took her arm and led her up to the wide front porch bracketed with tall white columns. A country club. Becca had been in one before but only as a temporary waitress for a catering gig. It mostly hadn’t been bad, since she hadn’t been noticed by the patrons any more than the potted plants were, but her cheeks heated as she remembered one man had pinched her bottom and called her “sugar.” She could only hope that Archer’s friends weren’t like that. With his casual attitude about the whole thing, fancy country clubs were nothing new to him.

  A skinny young man in a thin coat stood shivering in the breeze by the front door, waiting with a camera. Without asking, he snapped several photos of the two of them. Dropping his camera to hang around his neck from the strap, he pulled a small notebook out of his pocket and a stub of a pencil. “Mrs. Hayes,” he asked in a reedy voice, “Who designed your dress? Anna Kara? Vera Wang?”

  “Um, I’m not sure,” Becca answered. “It came from Wedding Warehouse?”

  The man snorted out a laugh. “Your new wife’s funny, Hayes. What about the wrap? Arctic fox?”

  “No, it’s fake,” she answered apologetically.

  “Vegan, must be,” he nodded, scribbling in his notepad.

  “Excuse us,” Archer smiled remotely. “I’d like to get my bride in out of the cold.”

  “Who was that man?” Becca asked as Archer led her through the door, feeling as if she’d done something wrong.

  “He writes for the society page in The Raleigh Caller.”

  Becca gulped and looked around her. They were in a wide foyer, with gleaming parquet floors and high, arched ceilings. A man in uniform deferentially took their coats and gestured them in to the ballroom, quietly offering his congratulations on their marriage, which Archer accepted with an absent nod. Becca smiled gratefully at the man and thanked him, and his eyes widened in surprise before he gave her a friendly grin. The ballroom was massive, decorated with enough flowers and greenery to fill an entire greenhouse and enough swaths of white satin and bows to outfit an entire battalion of brides.

  “Your mother did a lovely job,” she offered.

  Archer grinned down at her wickedly, raising his voice a little bit over the string quartet tuning up their instruments nearby. “Letting her do the reception was the least I could do after I opted not to pick a bride of her choosing.”

  Becca immediately felt a pang of worry. “I don’t want to drive a wedge between you and your mother.”

  “You won’t,” he assured her. “Would you introduce me to your family?”

  Becca heard a familiar squeal and turned to see Emily waddling to her as fast as her baby belly would allow. Hot on her trail was Granny Jones. She’d tied lace bows to her cane at some point for the occasion and wore a moth-eaten velveteen hat that looked as if it had fallen out of 1955. Behind them, the rest of Becca’s family was clustered into a knot, gaping at the beautifully decorated space. Streaming around both sides of them were Archer’s guests, already chattering and helping themselves to the champagne waiters were bringing around on trays. Becca’s heart squeezed with love. To others, they might be an odd-looking group, but they were all hers. She took Archer’s hand and led him to meet Emily halfway.

  Archer didn’t seem snobbish at all. He was smooth and polite, charming even, with Becca’s mom and grandma. Her dad, she noticed, wasn’t quite convinced, but he mumbled to Becca that Archer “had a good handshake,” which was one of his marks of approval. Becca’s dad couldn’t stand a limp handshake, so Archer had passed the test there, anyway. He seemed to hit it off with Emily’s husband, Brodie, right away, and the two started talking about horses. Becca felt the nervous tension in her chest start to ease a little as it became obvious that Archer wasn’t going to snub any of her friends and family. Until she saw his mother bearing down on them. Despite her “crying” at the wedding—crocodile tears, Becca was sure—her makeup was as pristine as a TV newscaster’s. She gave Becca a cool look before latching her hand on to Archer’s arm possessively.

  “Archer,” she said in a wheedling tone, “Don’t you think you should mingle with your . . . other guests? I’ve invited some very important people. The lieutenant governor is here, and I’ve promised you’ll come say hello.”

  Becca’s husband gave an almost unnoticeable sigh. “Mother, I’d like to introduce you to my wife.” He reached for Becca’s hand, dislodging his mother’s in the process. She gave him a fulminating glare, but he pretended not to notice. “Becca, my mother. Lavinia Sutton-Hayes.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Becca held out a hand, but Lavinia ignored it, and Becca let her hand fall back to her side awkwardly.

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” Lavinia drawled. “But Archer, dear, Gary Parker is here, too. Now’s the perfect time to talk to him about—”

  He cut her off again smoothly. “No work on my wedding day. Tomorrow’s soon enough.” He went on to introduce Lavinia to the rest of Becca’s family, remembering everyone’s names, she noticed. But tomorrow? Becca looked at him from under her lashes. He couldn’t be serious. He was planning to go back to work tomorrow? She’d been hoping for a little longer than an afternoon to get to know her new husband. More than an afternoon to get used to the idea that she was now married.

  Lavinia suffered through the introductions, her eyes narrowing into a glare on Granny Jones, who snorted wetly before shaking Lavinia’s manicured hand as vigorously as she would an old dust rag. But as soon as she’d acknowledged everyone, Lavinia turned on her heel abruptly. “As soon as you’re ready to greet them, Archer, your people are waiting to congratulate you.”

  As she sailed away, Granny Jones, loudly enough to carry across the room, said, “Land sakes. I’ve seen bette
r manners on a pig, bless her heart.” Lavinia’s back went stiff, but she didn’t acknowledge the insult.

  “Well, that went as well as could be expected,” Archer said dryly. “May I have this dance, wife?”

  He nodded to her family as he pulled her away to the dance floor. “I’m sorry about that,” he murmured to Becca as he drew her close. “You’ll get used to her. I promise.”

  But Lavinia was forgotten as the two of them began to move. Becca reveled in Archer’s strong embrace. He smelled of aftershave and peppermint, and he moved as if he’d been born to dance. She caught her breath as he twirled her, and she felt like a princess for a moment, her dress swirling around her legs. There was scattered applause around them as she laughed, and he dipped her deeply. The dance seemed to go on forever, and she was dizzy with happiness when they finally stopped, and Archer flagged down a waiter.

  “Champagne?”

  Becca sipped, the bubbles tickling her nose. Archer leaned down and kissed her again. “Mmm, I do love the taste of champagne,” he murmured, and she blushed hotly, aware they were being watched by dozens of pairs of eyes.

  Everything went wonderfully after that even though Lavinia sat at her left when they were seated for an amazing luncheon, served up in six courses. The woman ignored her, and Becca was able to ignore her as well until the woman abruptly stood up and tapped on her wine glass with a knife, drawing everyone’s attention.

  “I’d like to make a toast,” she announced. “To my beloved son and his . . . lovely bride.”

  Lavinia gestured to Becca a little wildly, a glint in her eye. Becca watched in almost slow motion as the ruby-colored liquid sloshed around in the full glass before Lavinia’s wrist seemed to twist, and the cup tipped. Becca stared in horror as the wine poured over her in a thick stream, drenching her hair, running down her nose, soaking into the delicate lace and silky fabric of the gown that she’d been so proud of.

  The wedding dress she hoped to pass on to a daughter someday.