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“Mmm,” her friend said. “So I need a favor.”
Georgia ripped her eyes from Reed and Wren—God, their names even sounded cute together—and focused on her friend. “What’s the favor?”
“I need you to do the toast. Rachel doesn’t want to do it. I think Marilyn’s in her head.”
“The toast? It’s not the rehearsal dinner.”
“I know, but Brad insists on doing one tonight with the whole town here. His best friend Charles is in tonight and he wants to... I don’t know. Something.”
“Why not Claire?”
“Because I can’t find her... or my brother.”
“Oh,” Georgia said, raising her eyebrows. “What’s up with that?”
Mary Catherine sighed. “I don’t know. Tyler’s acting weird. Claire’s acting weird. It’s—”
“Weird?”
“Yeah.”
Reed sauntered back. “Hey, Mary Catherine. Nice party.”
“We try.”
He handed Georgia the icy beer and looked at her friend. “Can I get you a drink?”
“No, thank you.” Mary Catherine smiled. “You’re such a lamb.”
Georgia almost snorted beer out of her nose.
Reed’s brow furrowed, and he looked confused. Any further response was interrupted by the clanging of the huge triangle Mary Catherine’s father kept outside the door. The old-fashioned call to dinner was a joke, but it came in handy for occasions such as this.
Billy Holly cracked a grin as big as Texas, eyes twinkling as his friends and neighbors gathered around. “Folks, folks, welcome to our annual barbeque.”
A couple of whoops and hollers accompanied the dying ringing of the triangle. Never one to miss playing lady of the manor, Marilyn Holly appeared at Billy’s elbow like clockwork, her little dog she dressed up under her arm. Marilyn drove to Dallas to see a “real” vet for her little fluffball. Bet Reed was glad of it.
“Now I don’t usually interrupt a good time, but this barbeque is a special one,” Billy said, his kind eyes searching the perimeter and lighting on his daughter. “Mary Catherine.”
Georgia shifted as her friend stood, a smile plastered to her face. “Right here, Daddy.”
“And where’s the fellow you’ve nearly hog-tied?”
Mary Catherine’s fiancé stepped into the courtyard, looking like an ad for Brooks Brothers in a cashmere sweater, needlepoint belt, and loafers. Here was the opposite of nearly every man present. “Right here, Bill.”
Together Mary Catherine and Brad stood basking in the glow of the flickering torches and the approval of their respective fathers. Their marriage would unite two of the largest ranches in East Texas. The whole thing was so fairy-tale, Georgia wanted to puke. She’d bet the last couple of thousand in her savings account, Marilyn had designed the whole relationship, pushing Mary Catherine the same way she pushed poor Rachel, Mary Catherine’s younger sister. Brad Hampton was Marilyn’s cup of tea with his prestigious job and million-dollar smile. Maybe Marilyn should marry Brad and spare Mary Catherine the misery.
For a few minutes, Bill waxed poetic over his daughter and the surgeon she would marry. Then Brad’s friend, a Dr. Charles Stanley, handsome and slick as greased owl shit, talked about how fabulous Dr. Hampton was and how lucky Mary Catherine was to net such a caring, ambitious ass.
Okay, he didn’t say ass.
Mary Catherine jerked her chin, motioning for Georgia to stand.
“Be right back,” she whispered to Reed, rising and grabbing the half-full beer.
Marilyn, holding a shimmering glass of bubbly, scowled when she saw Georgia approach.
Someone, likely Cooter, wolf-whistled so Georgia dipped a quick curtsey and took the imaginary microphone from the tall and dark MD. “Why, thank you, Charlie.”
