Georgeanne turned and gazed up at him. He looked extremely fine in his wedding suit, except for the drooping red rose pinned to his lapel. He’d stuck the pin through the stem rather than the body of the flower. “We can’t leave until Wendell takes his pictures.”
“Who?”
“Wendell. He’s the photographer Mae hired, and we can’t leave until he takes the wedding pictures.”
John’s smile turned to a grimace. “Are you sure?”
Georgeanne nodded and pointed to his chest. “Your rose is about to fall off.”
He glanced down and shrugged. “I’m no good at this. Can you fix it?”
Against her better judgment, Georgeanne slipped her fingers beneath the lapel of his navy suit. With his head bent over hers, she pulled out the long straight pin. She was so close, she could feel his breath at her right temple. The smell of his cologne filled her head, and if she turned her face, their mouths would touch. She pushed the pin though the wool and into the dark red rose.
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
“I won’t. I do this all the time.” She ran her hand down his lapel, smoothing out invisible wrinkles, savoring the texture of expensive wool beneath her fingertips.
“You pin flowers on men all the time?”
She shook her head and her temple brushed his smooth jaw. “I pin them on myself and Mae. For our business.”
He put a hand on her bare arm. “Are you sure you don’t want to ride with me to the reception? Virgil’s going to be there, and I thought you might not want to go alone.”
With the chaos surrounding the wedding, Georgeanne had managed to avoid thinking about her ex-fiancй. The thought of him now formed a lump in her stomach. “Did you tell him about Lexie?”
“He knows.”
“How did he take it?” She slid her fingers over one more invisible wrinkle, then dropped her hand.
John shrugged his big shoulders. “Okay. It’s been seven years, so he’s over it.”
Georgeanne was relieved. “Then I’ll drive myself to the reception, but thank you for the offer.”
“You’re welcome.” His slid his warm palm up to her shoulder, then back down to her wrist. The hair on her arm tingled. “Are you sure about those pictures?”
“What?”
“I hate waiting around to get my picture taken.”
He was doing it again. Taking up all the space and sucking out her ability to think. Touching him was both sweet pleasure and sheer torture. “I would have thought you’d be used to it by now.”
“I don’t mind the pictures, it’s the waiting. I’m not a patient man. When I want something, I like to get it on.”
Georgeanne had a feeling he wasn’t talking about pictures anymore. A few minutes later, as the photographer positioned them on the steps in front of the pulpit, she was forced to endure the whole pleasure/ torture experience again. Wendell positioned them with the women standing in front of the men, while Lexie stood close to Mae.
“I want to see happy little smiles,” the photographer requested, his soft voice suggesting that perhaps he’d gotten in touch with his feminine side. As he looked through the camera on his tripod, he motioned them closer together with his hands. “Come on, I want to see happy little smiles on your happy little faces.”
“Is he related to that artist on PBS?” John asked Hugh out of the side of his mouth.
“The oil-painting dude with the Afro?”
“Yeah. He used to paint happy little clouds and shit.”
“Daddy!” Lexie whispered loudly. “Don’t swear.”
“Sorry.”
“Can you all say ‘wedding night?’ ” Wendell asked.
“Wedding night!” Lexie yelled.
“That’s real good, little flower girl. How about everyone else?”
Georgeanne looked at Mae and they started to laugh.
“Come on get hap-hap-happy.”
“Damn, where did you get this guy?” Hugh wanted to know.
“I’ve known him for years. He was a good friend of Ray’s.”
“Ahh, that explains it then.”
John put his hand on Georgeanne’s waist, and her laugher stopped abruptly. He slid his palm to her stomach and drew her back against the solid wall of his chest. His voice was a low rumble next to her ear when he said, “Say ‘cheese.’ ”
Georgeanne’s breath caught in her throat. “Cheese,” she uttered weakly, and the photographer snapped the picture.
“Now the groom’s family,” Wendell announced as he advanced his film.
The muscles in John’s arm tensed. His fingers curled into a possessive fist, and the hem of her dress rode up her thighs. Then he dropped his hand and took a step backward, putting a few inches between them. Georgeanne glanced at him, and again he gave her that pleasant little smile.
“Hey, Hugh,” he said, then turned his attention to his friend as if he hadn’t just held Georgeanne tight against his chest. “Did you check out Chelios’s when we were in Chicago?”
Georgeanne told herself not to read anything into the embrace. She knew better than to look for motives or attribute feelings that just didn’t exist. She knew better than to fall for his possessive embraces or pleasant smiles. It was best just to forget about it. They meant nothing, led nowhere. She knew better than to expect anything from him.
An hour later, as she stood in the banquet hall next to the buffet table laden with food and flowers, she was still trying to forget. She tried to forget to look for him every few moments, and tried not to notice him standing with a group of men who were obviously hockey players, and laughing with some leggy blonde. She tried to forget, but couldn’t. Any more than she could forget that Virgil was somewhere in the hall.
Georgeanne placed a chocolate-dipped strawberry on a plate she was preparing for Lexie. She added a chicken wing and two pieces of broccoli.
“I want some cake and some of those, too.” Lexie pointed to a crystal bowl filled with wedding mints.
“You had your cake right after Mae and Hugh cut it.” Georgeanne put a few mints on the plate along with a carrot stick and handed the plate to Lexie. Her gaze quickly scanned the crowd.
Then her stomach did a little flip-flop. For the first time in seven years, she saw Virgil Duffy in person. “Go stand by Aunt Mae,” she said, turning her daughter by the shoulder. “I’ll come meet you there in a minute.” She gave Lexie a little push and watched her walk toward the bride and groom. Georgeanne couldn’t spend the rest of the evening wondering if Virgil would confront her and imagining what he might say. She had to get the encounter over with before she lost her nerve. She took a deep breath and, with long, deliberate strides, moved to face her past. She wove her way through the crowd of guests until she stood in front of him.
“Hello, Virgil,” she said and watched his eyes harden.
“Georgeanne, you have the nerve to face me. I’d wondered if you would.” His tone suggested he wasn’t “over it” as John had claimed earlier at the church.
“It’s been seven years, and I’ve moved on with my life.”
“Easy for you. Not so easy for me.”
Physically he hadn’t changed very much. Perhaps his hair had thinned a bit, and his eyes were a little puffy from age. “I think both of us should forget the past.”
“Now, why would I do that?”
She looked at him a moment, beyond the lines on his face, to the bitter man beneath. “I’m sorry for what happened, and for the pain I caused you. I tried to tell you the night before the wedding that I was having second thoughts, but you wouldn’t listen. I’m not blaming you, just explaining how I felt. I was young and immature and I’m sorry. I hope you can accept my apology.”
“When hell freezes over.”
She was surprised to discover that his anger didn’t really bother her. It didn’t matter that he wouldn’t accept her apology. She’d confronted her past and felt free of the guilt she’d carried for years. She wasn’t young and immature anymore. And she wasn’t afraid either. “I’m sorry to hear you say that, but whether or not you accept my apology won’t keep me up at night. My life is filled with people who love me and I’m happy. Your anger and hostility can’t hurt me.”