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Althea shrugged. “Suit yourself. But I’d pick him over Paul any day of the week.”
“Be my guest.” Holly gathered up her sweater and tote bag.
“Nope. I’ve got my man.” Althea gave a smug, satisfied smile.
Once I had mine, too, Holly thought. She didn’t say it. There was no reason to make Althea feel guilty because she had found the love of her life and Holly had lost hers. “Hang on to him,” she advised, getting out her share of the taxi fare.
“Put that away. The taxi is on me. I’m sorry we didn’t find a dress. Maybe next Saturday...”
“Can’t. I’m going to be kayaking with the kids from school next Saturday.” She’d only missed going today because Althea had begged her.
“Then maybe I’ll take Stig. Do you trust me to do it on my own?”
Trust her? After Althea had dressed her like a cupcake with too much frosting three times before?
Wincing inwardly, Holly pasted on her best resilient-bridesmaid smile. “Of course I trust you. It’s your wedding. I’ll wear whatever you choose.”
Althea gave Holly a fierce hug. “You’re such a trouper, Hol’, hanging in with me through all my weddings.” She pulled back and looked at Holly with eyes the same flecked hazel as Matt’s. “I know it’s been tough. I know it’s been an awful two years. I know life will never be the same. It won’t be for any of us. But Matt would want you to be happy again. You know he would.”
Holly’s throat tightened and her eyes blurred, because yes, she knew Matt would want that, damn him. Matt had never focused on the downside. Whenever life had dealt him lemons or a broken leg—though it had actually been Lukas who’d dealt him that, she recalled—Matt had coped. He would expect her to do the same.
“The right guy will come along,” Althea assured Holly as she opened the cab door. “I know he will. Just like Stig did for me when I’d given up all hope.”
“Sure,” Holly humored her as she stepped out onto the curb and turned back to smile.
Althea grinned. “You never know. It might even be Lukas.”
* * *
Lukas Antonides used to feel at home in New York City. He used to be in tune with its speed, its noise, its color, its pace of life. Once upon a time he’d got energized by it. Now all he got was a headache.
Or maybe it wasn’t the city giving him a headache. Maybe it was the rest of his life.
Lukas thrived on hard work and taking charge. But he had always known that if he wanted to, he could simply pick up and walk away. He couldn’t walk away from the gallery—didn’t want to. But being everything to every artist and craftsperson who was counting on him—and the gallery—when for years he had resisted being responsible for anyone other than himself made his head pound.
Ordinarily, he loved hard physical labor. Throwing himself body and soul into whatever he was doing gave him energy. That was why he’d taken over the renovation of not only the gallery, but the rest of the offices and apartments in the cast-iron SoHo building he’d bought three months ago. But the gallery cut into the time he had for that, and getting behind where he thought he should be was causing a throb behind his eyes.
And then there was his mother who, since he’d got back from Australia, had been saying not so sotto voce, “Is she the one?” whenever he mentioned a woman’s name. He knew she was angling for another daughter-in-law. It was what Greek mothers did. He’d been spared before as there were other siblings to pressure. But they were all married now, busily providing the next generation.
Only he was still single.
“I’ll marry when I’m ready,” he’d told her flatly. He didn’t tell her that he didn’t see it happening. He’d long ago missed that boat.
But more than anything, he was sure the headache—the pounding behind his eyes, the throbbing that wouldn’t go away—was caused by the damned stalagmites of applications for grants by the MacClintock Foundation, which, for his sins, he was in charge of.
“Just a few more,” his secretary, Serafina, announced with dry irony, dropping another six-inch stack onto his desk.
Lukas groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. The headache spiked. He wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing. He was an action man, not a paper-pusher. And Skeet MacClintock had known that!
But it hadn’t stopped the late Alexander “Skeet” MacClintock, Lukas’s cranky friend and opal-mining mentor, from guilting him into taking on the job of running the foundation and vetting the applicants. He’d known that Lukas wouldn’t be able to turn his back on Skeet’s plan for a foundation intended to “Give a guy—or gal—a hand. Or a push.”
