My One and Only(37)

“Wills,” I said quickly, “I want to spoil beautiful nieces and nephews, too. It’s just that I don’t want to have you rush into something when there are some very good arguments to be made for waiting. Let your big sister be an example to you. Nick and I also loved each other, and we were done before we’d hit six months. Maybe we could’ve avoided that if we’d taken, oh, I don’t know, a year, two—”

“Your sister and I didn’t divorce because we were young, Willa. We divorced because—”

“You know what?” Willa said. “I’m good, you two. I’m all set. I love Chris and we’ll get married and sure, have some babies and live happily ever after.”

“Great,” Nick said.

I glared at him. “Or not great. Willa, listen. If you want to marry Chris, I think that’s fine. I’m sure he has some very nice qualities. But there are things you need to know first. Money. Work ethic. A five-year plan. Marriage takes work.”

“We can figure it out as we go along,” she answered, standing up.

“That’s what Nick said to me, interestingly,” I answered. “I’m just pointing that out.”

“Well, we’re not you and Nick.” She stood up and gave me a quick hug. “Thanks for doing my hair,” she said sweetly. “Now or never, I guess.”

“I’ll get Chris,” Nick said, giving me an evil glance as he left.

“He’s really great,” Willa said, checking out her reflection once again.

“So great,” I replied through gritted teeth.

“Angel baby, y’all ready?” BeverLee was back, along with my father. “Oh, my land! Look at your hair! Harper, you did a bee-yoo-tee-ful job! Just look at you!” My stepmother enveloped her only child in a huge hug. “Oh, this is such a happy day!”

I looked at my father, who was waiting in the doorway, a small smile on his face.

“Dad? Maybe some paternal advice?” I suggested. “Willa’s about to marry a man she met four weeks ago.”

“Six, actually,” Willa corrected.

“Are you having second thoughts, Wildaberry?” he asked, tilting his head.

The slash of jealousy that cut across my heart took me by absolute surprise. Would that Dad had asked me that same question on my wedding day. Would that he had a nickname for me. Then it was gone, and I was just grateful that he’d asked.

“I’m sure, Daddy,” Willa said, gliding over to give him a hug.

“You look very pretty,” he said. He glanced at me. “You too, Harper.”

“Thanks, Dad.” I grabbed the two bouquets off the bed and forced a smile onto my face. “Well, if you’re gonna do this, let’s get going.”

It wasn’t that I didn’t want Willa marrying Christopher Lowery. I just didn’t want her to end up divorced again, heartbroken again, confused and lost and full of self-doubt again. My advice was sound. Crikey, this is what I did for a living! And when the shit hit the fan, I’d be cleaning it up, just as I had after every one of Willa’s ill-fated moves in the past.

I traipsed down the stairs to the first-floor landing, checked behind me to make sure Willa, BeverLee and Dad were ready, then looked down at the guests.

The main room of the lodge had been transformed into a chapel of sorts…some sort of trellised archway brought in from the yard, buckets of Montana wildflowers here and there. Someone had found some white crepey material and draped it over the arch, and it would’ve all been very pretty, had it not been such a hugely bad idea. Country music played—something about being in love with your best friend. Right. Willa and Chris were virtual strangers, not best friends.

I could practically feel scales break out on my body as I walked down the stairs and up the makeshift aisle. Nick stared at me, his gypsy eyes narrowed. Jerk. I narrowed my own eyes back, then looked away. Oh, much better—there was Dennis, smiling appreciatively. “You look smokin’, dude,” he murmured as I walked past.

“Thanks,” I muttered.

“And oh, we just get closer,” the singer crooned—well, that wasn’t hard, given that the bride and groom hadn’t been together for two months yet. “You believe in me like nobody ever has…” Does she, Chris? Does she believe in the Thumbie? Christopher gave me a shy little nod and a half smile. Sure, he was sweet. All of Willa’s husbands had been sweet.

There. I arrived at the makeshift altar and turned to watch my sister approach. Didn’t look at Nick.

“I thought I asked you not to infect them,” he murmured. “What were you doing? Giving closing arguments?”

“I was trying to infuse some common sense into the proceedings,” I ground out through gritted teeth.

“You make me sad,” he said.

“And you make me feel like kicking you in the shins,” I returned. Christopher gave us an odd look. Nick smiled at him and punched him on the arm.

And here came the bride. Well, she was beautiful, that much was true. Beaming, radiant, yadda yadda. Against all expectations, a lump came to my cynical throat.

“Who gives this woman in marriage?” The justice of the peace, who appeared to have been dug out of his grave for the occasion, gave a phlegmy cough.

“Her daddy and me,” BeverLee said with a hitching sob, her peacock-blue mascara running à la Tammy Faye. As Dad and Bev took their seats, Willa handed me her flowers, then stepped up onto the little dais with Christopher.