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Abigail looked around. "Mom."
"I don't care who hears me. I don't even care if Cal hears me. You deserve to fall in love, to laugh, to have a future beyond being everyone's servant. You live for everyone else and not yourself. And that, my dear, is unacceptable. Now, I must go save Shelby's parents from Uncle Carlton. He's telling them about his hemorrhoid surgery."
Her mother walked away before Abigail could say anything more on the subject.
Abigail sighed and leaned her forehead against the chilled glass. She should go home. She didn't feel like celebrating and her mood wasn't fair to John or Shelby. She'd just turned to leave when her father, still wearing his vestments, tapped his champagne glass. The talking quieted.
"Usually the best man makes the toast, but tonight I want to be the first to lift my glass to the happy couple. Both John and Shelby walked a difficult road to get to this moment. Despite the potholes, dead ends, and the proverbial rocks in their shoes, they have persevered in finding love again. The good Lord knew what each of you needed."
John and Shelby looked at each other with such tender intimacy, it made tears well in Abigail's eyes.
"Here's to John, Shelby, and the triumph of love," her father said.
"Hear, hear!" several people said, lifting their glasses. Abigail swiped a glass off the side table and lifted it, too. Taking a huge gulp of chilled fizziness, Abigail caught Birdie's eye.
The girl smiled for the first time in forever and raised her glass of grape cocktail toward Abigail. Fancy always had fake champagne for the grandkids at any special event. Seeing her daughter's smile was like balm on the wound that ached inside her. Birdie might be difficult but she was worth it.
"She's looking more and more like you," Cal said from behind her.
"Well, I am her mother," Abigail said, turning to the man who had occupied her thoughts only moments ago. "She looks like you, too. That stubborn chin and those long fingers. Too bad she's not a boy. She would be a great wide receiver.”
"Or guitar player.”
Abigail didn't want to spend time with Cal. "She's a good artist. I think she's found her thing."
''Are you okay?" He looked at her with a yearning that made her shuffle backward.
"Fine. Just a lot going on."
"You going to the committee meeting this Thursday?"
"I have to. Hilda knows where I live," she said, giving the woman in question a nod when she glanced toward them. Abigail dreaded seeing Leif again. Maybe by Tuesday, she'd feel stronger.
"Could we step outside for a moment? I need to talk to you."
Abigail blew out a breath. "Fine."
She went where she always went when problems plagued her-the rose garden. Fancy had strung white Christmas lights around the perimeter, which would have been cheerful if the rosebushes had been full instead of spindly. She started walking the brick path. Cal fell into step beside her.
"Cold," Cal said, rubbing his own arms. He was over six feet and still as broad as he had been in the days he played football. His rugged jawline made him even more masculine, yet the lines around his eyes lent him some vulnerability.
"That's to be expected. It’s the end of February. But I'm guessing you didn't ask me out here to discuss the forecast."
"No," he said, frowning at her sarcasm. "I had hoped you might come to better accept me in your life."
"You're notinmy life. You're in Birdie's."
Cal made a noise in his throat and looked out at the dry creek bed at the rear of the property. "You remember the day we bought Laurel Woods?"
She didn't know where he was going, but she would shelve the prickliness for the time being. "Of course. In April. Those daffodils had sprouted by the back door."
"One of the happiest days of my life."
"Really?" she said, trying to keep the bitterness at bay.
"You wore that pink dress-the one with the white flowers on it. You looked good in that dress, and I kept thinking I'd have to be careful so the men who stayed at the inn didn't try to whisk you away from me."
"Oh, please. I can see you brought your charm with you tonight."
