The Wish
Diane Pershing
All Gerri Conklin wanted was to do over the most disastrous week of her life. But wishes couldn't come true…unless the wish involved a pair of magic eyeglasses! This time, quiet bookstore owner Gerri wouldn't sprain her ankle or embarrass herself at the ball. She would win the heart of wealthy and handsome Rance Wallace III.But things were not turning out the way Gerri expected. This time, injury-free Gerri found herself spending time with rugged rancher Des Quinlan. This time, Gerri and Des shared intimate conversations–and a sizzling kiss! And this time, Gerri would end up with the man of her dreams…but which man?
All day, Gerri found her fingers touching her mouth, which she could swear still continued to vibrate from Des’s kiss.
Had the morning been as magical as it had seemed? Had she and Des really confided in each other, let each other in on early hurts? Had there been a kind of communion between them, real intimacy, for the first time?
Had he really kissed her as though she were an attractive and desirable woman? Had he promised more, if she wanted it?
And had she really told him she wanted it?
Dear Reader,
Spring cleaning wearing you out? Perk up with a heart-thumping romance from Silhouette Romance. This month, your favorite authors return to the line, and a new one makes her debut!
Take a much-deserved break with bestselling author Judy Christenberry’s secret-baby story, Daddy on the Doorstep (#1654). Then plunge into Elizabeth August’s latest, The Rancher’s Hand-Picked Bride (#1656), about a celibate heroine forced to find her rugged neighbor a bride!
You won’t want to miss the first in Raye Morgan’s CATCHING THE CROWN miniseries about three royal siblings raised in America who must return to their kingdom and marry. In Jack and the Princess (#1655), Princess Karina falls for her bodyguard, but what will it take for this gruff commoner to win a place in the royal family? And in Diane Pershing’s The Wish (#1657), the next SOULMATES installment, a pair of magic eyeglasses gives Gerri Conklin the chance to do over the most disastrous week of her life…and find the man of her dreams!
And be sure to keep your eye on these two Romance authors. Roxann Delaney delivers her third fabulous Silhouette Romance novel, A Whole New Man (#1658), about a live-for-the-moment hero transformed into a family man, but will it last? And Cheryl Kushner makes her debut with He’s Still the One (#1659), a fresh, funny, heartwarming tale about a TV show host who returns to her hometown and the man she never stopped loving.
Happy reading!
Mary-Theresa Hussey
Senior Editor
The Wish
Diane Pershing
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Morgan Rose, an excellent daughter, and George and
Ashley’s real mother. Thanks for letting me borrow them.
Books by Diane Pershing
Silhouette Romance
Cassie’s Cowboy #1584
The Wish #1657
Silhouette Intimate Moments
While She Was Sleeping #863
The Tough Guy and the Toddler #928
Silhouette Yours Truly
First Date: Honeymoon
Third Date’s the Charm
DIANE PERSHING
cannot remember a time when she didn’t have her nose buried in a book. As a child, she would cheat the bedtime curfew by snuggling under the covers with her teddy bear, a flashlight and a forbidden (read “grown-up”) novel. Her mother warned her that she would ruin her eyes, but so far, they still work. Diane has had many careers—singer, actress, film critic, disc jockey, TV writer, to name a few. Currently she divides her time between writing romances and doing voice-overs. (You can hear her as “Poison Ivy” on the Batman cartoon.) She lives in Los Angeles, and promises she is only slightly affected. Her two children, Morgan Rose and Ben, have completed college. Diane looks forward to writing and acting until she expires, or people stop hiring her, whichever comes first. She loves to hear from readers, so please write to her at P.O. Box 67424, Los Angeles, CA 90067.
Dear Reader,
As planned, I concluded Cassie’s Cowboy (released in April 2002) with the standard boy-gets-girl-and-kisses-her-a-lot, followed by those magic words The End. Which meant the book was done, right? Not quite.
Without any input from my brain, my fingers continued to type away on an epilogue, and I realized that, although I had supplied the reader with the happy ending required in romance fiction, I wasn’t quite ready to let go of a key ingredient in that book—the outlandish magic eyeglasses that granted one wish to the wearer. It’s not every day you get a shot at making dreams come true, so why not keep the magic alive? And so Cassie handed off the glasses to a tall, skinny, brainy young woman who owned a bookstore.
Her name is Gerri, and The Wish is her story. She’s a bit of a klutz and socially awkward; she’s also funny and good-hearted, and I’d be honored to call her my friend.
Gerri has an unrequited crush on the town’s most popular playboy; needless to say, her wish involves making him notice and appreciate her.
However, as the old saying goes, “Be careful what you wish for….”
Enjoy!
Diane Pershing
Contents
Chapter One (#u4f840709-9c6b-5294-b45b-71bba4266341)
Chapter Two (#ubf4eed4a-d917-5248-ae29-eafe28b6fedb)
Chapter Three (#u81b2b7bb-a531-5bbb-b57e-11682f61ab89)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Sobbing, Gerri ran out of the casino ballroom and into the night as though running for her life, the skirts of her gown flying in the dry evening breeze. Down the flight of stone steps to the street level she fled, but on the second to last step, her heel caught in the hem of her dress, and she tripped.
Cursing herself under her breath for her lifelong clumsiness, and with tears still streaming down her cheeks, she managed to disentangle her heel, avoiding a pratfall—but turning her already sprained ankle—as she landed upright with both feet on the sidewalk. Taking a moment to wince in pain, she took off again at a run, but when she rounded the corner of the building, she ran smack into a very solid, all male chest.
“Oof!” she said.
“Gerri?” the owner of the chest replied, surprise in his voice as he gripped her upper arms to prevent her from taking a header.
“Des?”
Unbelievable. She’d just bumped into Des, of all people, her good friend, or sort of good friend. Incredibly strong and wonderfully solid Des, solid being the operative word here. She’d just barreled into him, all six-feet-in-heels of her, but, bless him, he’d stayed right where he was, upright and planted firmly, so yet one more mishap in an evening of mishaps had been avoided.
Thank God for small favors, Gerri thought. After the social nightmare she’d just experienced, all she needed was another ungraceful, unfeminine, classless, ignominious, klutzy act on her part, and she might just as well die on the spot.
The pressure on her upper arms increased. “Hey, Gerri, what’s wrong?”
She looked up at him, then glanced away quickly, too uncomfortable to face Des’s probing gaze. “Nothing.” She shook off his grip and headed out into the night. “Thanks for catching me. I have to go home now.”
She was maybe two steps away when he caught up to her and pulled her around to face him. Again, she tried to avoid looking at him head-on, because she didn’t want him to see her face, which, as she well knew, was a total disaster. Her inexpertly applied mascara was dripping down her cheeks, her eyes were red, as was her nose, she was sure—she was not one of those women who looked beautiful when they cried. She’d long ago bitten off any lipstick she’d been wearing. The week-old bruise on her upper cheek was probably glowing all kinds of colors, making her look like a woman in need of shelter from an abusive husband. Her attempt at a hairdo had come partly loose and was hanging in funny clumps around her face. Her gown was wrong, her shoes were killing her, and although Des had surely never thought of her as anything approaching glamorous, somehow this final humiliation of his seeing her at her very worst was more than she could bear.
“Gerri?” He squeezed her arm, not unkindly, but to get her attention. “Look at me.” He followed this with a finger under her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.
Amazingly enough, he didn’t blanch at the sight of her ruined aspect. In the glow of a nearby streetlamp, his craggy face seemed less forbidding than usual, and his startling blue eyes less hooded and mysterious. His eyebrows, black as his thick head of hair, were furrowed, but with concern, not anger. There was no judgment in his gaze, none at all.
A sudden warmth filled her chest area, making her want to cry all over again. Dear Des, the only male friend she’d ever had.
“What are you doing here?” she managed with a lopsided grin, swallowing the urge to weep all over him.
The only answer he gave was one of his noncommittal shrugs. “Tell me what happened,” he persisted.
“Nothing,” she said brightly, but couldn’t keep it up. “Everything.” The traitorous tears came barreling up through her tear ducts once again.
He pulled her into his arms, enfolding her, pushing her head against his neck, offering friendship and comfort, both of which she sorely needed at the moment. Still, her immediate reaction was to stiffen. This was the first time the two of them had touched, really, the first time she’d felt the true strength of his long arms, ropy with muscles honed from years of ranch work.
Then she relaxed against him and sobbed into his shirt collar, worrying all the time if her mascara was the waterproof kind that would stain his shirt, but then realizing that the way the stuff had been leaking all over her face answered that question. It was on the tip of her tongue to offer to launder his shirt, but then she told her brain to turn off, please, and just let her rest here, enveloped by the first pair of strong male arms she could remember in years.
However, Gerri’s brain was rarely able to turn off—it was her life’s blessing and its curse—so she pulled away from him. “Please, Des, don’t,” she told him, taking a step back and swiping her index fingers under her lower eyelids, trying to soak up the blackness of the makeup. “I don’t deserve comfort. I should have known better.”
“Known what better? Has someone hurt you?”
Had someone hurt her? How about lots of someones? How about the fact that tonight, it felt as though her whole life was one big hurt? “It doesn’t matter,” she replied. “I’m going home.”
Again, she moved away from him and hurried down the street. But again, Des wasn’t going to let her go so easily. He walked quickly beside her. “Didn’t you go to this charity thing with Rance tonight? Why isn’t he seeing you home?”
“Because—” she began, but stopped. It was too difficult to explain.
After all, how could she tell her friend Des that she’d accepted Rance’s last-minute, totally unexpected invitation to be his date for a formal charity function because she’d seen it as a golden opportunity? That even though a little voice inside her had told her to say no, she’d said yes, despite her still-bruised face and her sprained ankle, both of which she’d gotten from falling off a ladder in her book-shop?
And how could she tell her friend Des that even with the rainbow-colored abrasion under her eye and a limp, another woman could have pulled it off, could have managed to appear elegant and self-possessed, making a small joke about her less-than-stellar appearance?
But that woman was not Gerri, never had been. She’d done it wrong, all of it. The hour she’d spent at the charity function had been the hour from hell, and had been from the start.
The moment she’d walked into the ballroom, looking, she imagined, like a refugee from the backwoods, her personality—which was often sunny, funny and most definitely friendly—had undergone a total collapse. Even on the arm of Terrance Wallace III, better known as Rance, her self-confidence, which she possessed under certain conditions, plummeted to an all-time low.
She’d wilted under the scrutiny of the town’s upper crust. She’d laughed too loudly and at the wrong places, apologized for her behavior, stumbled over her words, even stepped on Rance’s foot the one time they’d danced. She’d practically worn a sign on her saying Kick Me.
The coup de grace had been in the ladies’ room, to which she’d escaped in an attempt to force her flyaway hair back into its bun. While fussing at the mirror, despair fighting tooth and nail with an inner pep talk, she’d overheard a couple of other guests talking about her from their individual stalls.
The gist of the unflattering and mean-spirited remarks, after they’d done tearing apart her hair, her face, her dress, her body, was that the only qualities she had to recommend her were her sense of humor, her brains, and her ownership of a bookstore. It might be better, they suggested, if she stopped trying to do anything or be anyone else, such as an appropriate date for Rance, the town’s most eligible bachelor.
Choking down a sob, she’d run from the bathroom, tripping over her dress as she did, all the voices of a lifetime echoing in her head: Outsider. Different. Brainiac. Plain. Clumsy.
In grade school, she’d been given the nickname of “The Giraffe,” because she’d early on developed long, skinny legs with knobby knees and a long, skinny neck—minus the knobs—to match, none of which had changed as she matured. “Giraffe” had morphed into Gerri as she got older, which was a lot better than her given name, Phoebe Minerva, so it had stuck.
But the self-image had stuck, too.
There were other social disadvantages beside physical ones. Her brains put her way ahead of others her age, so she’d skipped a couple of grades and was always younger than her classmates. She didn’t develop breasts, for heaven’s sake, until she was a senior in high school. Along the way, there had been the occasional date, the rare brave boy willing to take a chance on a girl who was taller and most probably a lot smarter than he was. But socializing with the opposite sex was always excruciatingly uncomfortable, with Gerri trying too hard to relax and the boy trying too hard to impress.
The only one who’d gotten through had been Tommy Mosher, in college. But that too had turned out badly. Very badly. Nearly ten years later, his treachery still hurt, still informed her daily life. Men did not fall for her. Men did not find her attractive. The only thing they might want from her was her brainpower and what it could do for them.
But she still had normal female urges, and even with her history, a kernel of hope remained. Maybe, she’d dreamed over the years since college, maybe one day she would encounter a worthy man who would love her.
She’d had a crush on Rance, a regular customer in her bookshop, for months, so when, earlier that day, he’d asked her to go to a formal event with him, something inside her had screamed, “Here’s your chance!” Finally she would erase the past. She would do it right this time. She would feel and act like a princess, gliding easily and gracefully through the evening.
Fool, she called herself now. People didn’t change. Sure, the prince had asked her to the ball, but she was no Cinderella, with a fairy godmother who provided magic that would make her blossom and bring her inner beauty to the surface.
Inner beauty? Hah.
“Gerri?”
Des was still waiting for the answer to his question about why Rance wasn’t seeing her home. She glanced sideways as they rushed along, his long legs having no trouble keeping up easily with her hurried pace. The expression on his face, which was arresting rather than handsome, with its deep, attractive grooves from spending days on horseback, was stormy. Oh, no, she wondered. Was he angry at her for canceling their date tonight, so she could go to the affair with Rance?
But it hadn’t been a real date. Not between her and Des. They were friends, that was all, just a bite to eat together was all it was to be. So why would he be hurt? Still, she couldn’t avoid noticing the fact that his expression was fierce and combative now, erasing the genuine concern of moments earlier.
It was confusing. The whole evening was confusing. If only she could do it over.
“Why isn’t Rance here with you?” he persisted.
“He doesn’t even know I’m gone. You don’t have to walk with me, you know,” she told him, her voice breaking again. “I just want to go home.”
“How will you get there?”
That stopped her in her tracks, while other pedestrians on the neon-lit downtown Reno street hurried past them. She hadn’t thought that far ahead. She lived a couple of miles out of town, at the end of a long country road, and didn’t have her car with her. “I’ll get a taxi.”
“I’m taking you.”
She could have argued, but didn’t have the strength. Besides, she was grateful that the problem was solved. Her stupid heels, and her ankle, were killing her.
In Des’s pickup truck, after she’d given him directions to her place, Gerri stared out the window at the black night. As soon as you got outside of Reno proper, you could see all the stars that the casino lights obscured. The vast darkness was soothing, somehow, with its tiny, mysterious pinpricks of light, and had the effect of calming her down.
They drove in silence for a while, the only sound the shifting of gears. Eventually Des spoke. “Should I ask how it went?”
She snorted a quick laugh. “Probably not a good idea.”
“It’s okay,” he said, nodding, “it’s none of my business.”
“It’s not that,” she hastily assured him. “But let’s just say tonight was not one of my most rewarding life experiences. I’m lucky you showed up.”
Why had he shown up? she wondered once again. How had he happened to be there, right outside the casino, at the very moment she was coming out? She supposed it had been some kind of coincidence, although she was not a great believer in coincidence.
When she’d asked him about it earlier, he’d shrugged it off. Des was a pretty mysterious man in some ways, and the reason they got along so well was not only that they were both a little off-beat by nature, but also that each sensed in the other areas of privacy which were respected and not pried into.
They’d met because Gerri had been boarding her horse at his ranch for the past half year or so. They’d gotten into the habit of conversing while she saddled Ruffy and when she came back from her ride. Sometimes Des even came out on the trail with her; they rode together easily, joked and chatted. Correction: She did most of the chatting, he the listening. But there was an ease between them that Gerri—given her dismal history with men—appreciated deeply.
She’d never had a friendship with a man and, although their relationship didn’t extend past these morning rides, she didn’t want to spoil it. In truth, she’d been surprised that he seemed to enjoy being with her.
After all, Des was a looker, no doubt about it; in town, she’d run into him at the grocery store a few times and she’d seen many a female pause in her tracks when they saw him. She didn’t know exactly why he’d chosen her to be friends with, but it was probably because she wasn’t after him and therefore wasn’t a threat to his single existence. By now, she’d gotten beyond his rugged, decidedly masculine looks and just plain liked the man. If she wanted to know more about him and what made him tick, well, maybe in time he’d trust her enough to open up.
He pulled up in front of her pretty little house, a narrow two-story Victorian, which would have been more appropriate placed on a San Francisco street than up a country road, surrounded by mountains. The moment she’d arrived in town two years earlier, she’d seen this house, fallen in love with its charm and eccentricity, bought it and restored it to its current pristine condition. She’d had a full bank account at the time and still had most of it in careful investments, including the property on which she’d opened The Written Word. Moving to Nevada and owning the bookstore had been a lifelong dream, and now she had both.
Ah well, she thought philosophically, as Des turned off the motor, you can’t have it all. Despite tonight’s pain and regret and humiliation, it had still been the best two years of her life. She had friends, like Didi and Des, and a business she loved and supported. Her shop had an extensive children’s section, so there were always adorable little ones around to talk to and read to. She loved kids; if she never had any of her own, wasn’t this a fine substitute?
Before she could put her hand on the door handle, Des was out of the truck and pulling open the passenger door for her. Gerri stepped out, winced for a moment when she landed on her sprained ankle. Again, he held on to her elbow till she regained her balance.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Absolutely. I’m going to soak that stupid ankle in a nice basin of warm water right now.” She put a hand on his shoulder, considered kissing him on the cheek, but nodded instead. “Thanks, Des. I appreciate it.”
“You’re all right to go in alone?”
“I’m not alone. I have George and Ashley.”
“Cats aren’t a lot of comfort.”
“Says the non-cat lover. I’ll be fine. And thanks.”
As he observed Gerri limping into her house, it was all Des could do not to follow her, scoop her up and carry her inside. She was one stubborn woman, not good at accepting help. Although they were alike that way, he admitted to himself. Independent. Not just independent. Not trusting that if they fell, there would be someone there to pick them up.
Well, he’d been there to pick her up tonight. Good thing, too. Gerri had been through something upsetting, that was apparent. But what? Had Rance said something to her, insulted her? He felt his jaw tighten as he considered it, then he forced himself to relax as she turned at her front door and waved at him before she entered. He waved back, and felt a small flutter in his chest region as she winced once more before closing the door behind her. That ankle of hers was killing her and he knew it.
He got back into his truck and slammed the door shut. Why did this particular woman get to him? He never let anyone get to him. He’d kept himself detached from others and their needs for a long time. But lately, Gerri had gotten under his skin, and that made him uneasy. He wished he could turn it off. It was dangerous to get involved with others. He’d learned that lesson a long time ago.
“Damn,” he muttered, then backed the truck up, put it in gear and headed out to the highway toward his spread. In a way he was glad she’d canceled their dinner plans tonight, because he’d been on the verge of saying something to her, something he was sure he’d regret. It wasn’t easy, feeling so…vulnerable to any woman. Who knew what he might have said, what he might have regretted the minute it popped out of his mouth?
His reaction when she’d canceled on him, however, had not been one of relief, not in the least. In a breathy voice, she’d called and said Rance had invited her to this fund-raising event and she hoped Des wouldn’t mind, as they’d had casual plans, at best. Was it okay? she’d asked him, sounding apologetic and excited at the same time.
Sure, he’d told her, no problem. She didn’t have to know about the jealous rage that filled him when he hung up. Rance? That vain, spoiled excuse for a human being? Des was being replaced tonight by him?
The strength of his reaction took him by surprise. Scared the piss out of him. He hadn’t felt that kind of emotion since Stella had run out on him. Amazing. All these years later, and he still hadn’t managed to exorcise that possessiveness, that passion, from his makeup.
It was that same passion which had led him to head downtown, a couple of hours earlier, to stand on the street outside the casino where the fund-raiser was being held, not sure why he was there or what he would do or say if he ran into Gerri and Rance. Time and again, he’d told himself to go home, but he couldn’t seem to make himself leave. Bewildered by his lack of control, he’d paced. And waited.
And been rewarded, at least, by being there for Gerri when she needed him.
Disgusted with himself, Des shook his head then hit the highway, eager to get back to his ranch. He was better there, with his animals and his books, and his little secret of what he did to unwind, the secret that no one else on earth knew about.
Tonight he’d been about to let Gerri in on his secret, which was foolish. He’d been about to trust her. What a laugh. So, yeah, it was good that she’d canceled on him. More than good. It was a kick in the pants, a warning. It was better this way, best to cut it off before it had a chance to breathe.
So then why did he feel like taking his fist and punching his dashboard? And why wouldn’t the picture of Gerri’s mascara-smeared, bruised and grief-filled face leave his head?
Gerri kicked off her shoes and plopped down on the couch, sighing with relief. Who was the monster who invented high heels, anyway? She was too tall as it was. Didi was always telling her that she should be proud of her height and not slump over as though she’d committed a sin just by existing.
Didi. Wait till she heard about tonight’s debacle. Tomorrow, though. There’d be plenty of time tomorrow for girl-type analysis and dissection.
A small meow, followed by a deeper, bolder one, let her know the babies were aware she was home. Their paws padded over the hardwood floors; in the next moment, both George and Ashley were on her lap. Or one of them was. The other was on her thighs. And both were purring.
It was dark in here, she suddenly realized. She reached over to turn on the lamp when her hand brushed against an object on the side table. The light revealed the object as her bizarre pair of reading glasses.
She picked them up and stared at them, then had to smile. They were the ugliest pair of spectacles she’d ever seen—milky turquoise, fan-edged with rhinestones all over. Like something a female impersonator might wear when assuming the character of a gossip columnist or the president of the gardening club.
Still, they were special because the children’s author Cassie Nevins had given them to her at the first book signing Gerri had held in her newly opened shop, nearly two years ago. At the time, Cassie had confided that the glasses were magic: if you rubbed them and made a wish, you’d more than likely get it.
Gerri’s belief in magic rated right up there with her belief in ghosts and time travel, which was not at all, so she’d discounted Cassie’s claim. But tonight she smiled at the plastic frames, turned them over in her hand and stroked both cats with the other. Ashley, the huge gray-and-white longhair had, as usual, gotten pride of place on Gerri’s lap. George, smaller, sleeker and black as night, managed to find purchase on her narrow thighs, his front claws digging just a little bit into her dress. Fine with her, Gerri thought. Dig away. She’d give them the damn thing to play with to their heart’s content.
“What do you think, guys, huh? Should I wish for something?”
Well, duh. The obvious thing would be to wish that everything this evening had gone differently, that her fantasy of being Grace Kelly in her twenties, reincarnated, would be granted. But she’d still have to deal with the bruised face and the limp.
“Okay,” she said out loud, rubbing her thumb over the earpiece and smiling at her silliness. “Why not make a wish, right? What can I lose?”
She took another moment to gather her thoughts. All the awfulness had started a week ago, when she’d fallen off the ladder, so…
She took in a deep breath, then said, “Here’s what I’d like. I wish I could go back to the moment before I fell and do the whole week over, knowing what I know now.”
She added for emphasis, “And this time, I’ll do it right.”
Chapter Two
She got her wish. Just like that.
There was no drama about it, no breath-robbing, head-spinning whirling through space, no dramatic drumrolls, no eerie voices or otherworldly music. It just…happened.
One minute Gerri was sitting on her couch at home, petting her cats, and the next, poof! she was perched on the ladder in her bookshop, in the exact position she’d been in last Friday evening, looking for an arcane book on ancient Aztec tattooing rituals for an elderly customer currently waiting on the phone. Rance stood at the foot of the ladder, as he had then, talking to her about his family, complaining some, making some jokes, generally chatting with her as he liked to do now and again, using Gerri as an available ear.
“Mother is really getting into this whole I-want-to-be-a-grandmother thing. You know, we-need-heirs-for-the-family-name, and you-aren’t-doing-your-part. On and on. Like she did about six months ago. Back then, if you recall, I managed to distract her by taking that racing car course, which about drove her crazy.”
“That would certainly do it,” Gerri found herself replying, just as she had that night.
Inside, however, her mind was doing its own speed laps. She had to hold on tightly to the sides of the ladder to keep her balance. As her eyes couldn’t seem to focus, she wasn’t able to read the words on the books’ spines yet. Dear God, she thought, her heart rate accelerating, her mind filled with confusion, wonder, even some terror.
What was going on here? one part of her asked, even as the other part answered promptly. You just made a wish by rubbing a pair of ugly reading glasses. You are now where you were a week ago. Ergo: The wish has been granted.
Even so, her scholar’s mind shifted through alternate possibilities: she was in the middle of a dream, one of the wish fulfillment types that Freud had written about in his seminal work, The Interpretation of Dreams, in which the dreamer incorporates her daily worries or fantasies into a story, one that allows the dreamer to continue sleeping, achieving needed rest. Or…
She was hallucinating. Gerri pinched her upper arm, and it hurt. She gazed down and Rance was still there. So, no hallucinations. Or…
Someone was playing a joke on her, had snuck up behind her as she sat on the couch at home, conked her over the head, hauled her here, placed her on the ladder, arranged for Rance to be in attendance.
Not likely.
But then…how…? Was she really here, back through the time-space continuum, to exactly one week ago?
There was one sure way to check it out. She ran her fingertips over her cheekbone. No pain, no swelling. The shop’s round security mirror hung just to her left, so she leaned in to peruse her image. Nope, no discoloration or bruises. Just her extremely average face, with its hazel eyes, pale eyelashes and brows, a sprinkling of freckles across an average nose, a mouth of no particular distinction, except it wasn’t too large or too small.
But no swelling or redness in the least. The evidence of her accident had been with her all week, but right now, there was none. And her sprained ankle? To make sure, she put her weight on her right foot as she balanced on the ladder rung. No pain, no weakness there.
So, then it was the week before. Had to be.
Her mind reeled, searching and discarding one more time, all kinds of other theories: sci-fi ones like an alternate universe or a time machine, mathematical ones like relativity gone berserk, malformed logarithms. Logical explanations like…
None. There were none, no other explanation. Except the one that she knew, in her gut, was the one.
The magic glasses worked. Her wish had been granted. Period, end of discussion.
It was like someone had pressed the rewind button on a videotape, to the beginning, instead of fast forwarding to the end, which in her case had been the dreadful dinner dance and her making a total fool of herself.
She would get to do the week over.
She closed her eyes. Thank you, thank you, thank you! There was to be a reprieve from Gerri the klutz, the social misfit, the tall, brainy woman unfit to be on the arm of Terrance Wallace III. Now, cautiously, she even allowed a small ray of hope to shine inside. Maybe, if she was very careful, and paid a lot of attention to her behavior this week, maybe, just maybe, the prince would finally notice the existence of the right princess for him, even though she’d been part of his universe for what seemed like years and he hadn’t gotten the message yet.
Only one year, of course, since Rance had come into her shop, searching for a coffee-table book for his uncle’s birthday, but in that year, Gerri’s fantasies and dreams had been filled with him.
The subject of her thoughts was complaining again. “I don’t know what kind of distraction I can give Mother this time. I don’t intend to marry yet, if ever. And any grandchildren are way in the future. I’m only thirty-two, for Pete’s sake.”
“Maybe you should tell her that.”
“That I’m thirty-two?”
She grinned down at him. “That marriage is way in your future. You’re pretty independent, so let her know.”
“Done it and done it. Doesn’t get through. Hey,” Rance said with a speculative gleam in his eye, “you and I would have great kids, know that? With my looks, which I’m told are passable, and your brains, which are off the scale, the kid would be a major winner. Mother would finally shut up.”
On that previous Friday night, the one before “the wish,” Rance’s remark—even tossed off as lightly and mockingly as it had been—threw her. She’d been flattered that he’d even thought of her as a woman. In fact, her always-overactive brain had conjured up a picture of the physical act involved in making children. With Rance.
That graphic image had made her lose her balance. She’d slipped off the ladder, bruised her cheek on one of the rungs and had badly sprained her ankle. For the entire next week, she’d had to wear an Ace bandage and soak her foot morning and night. She’d missed riding her horse Ruffy, missed her nice morning visits with Des, hadn’t seen or heard from him all that week, in fact, until he’d called up on Friday afternoon and casually suggested they grab a sandwich together that evening.
And last week, needless to say, she’d looked awful at the ball.
Not this time, Gerri told herself. This time she would get to do it right.
“You know,” she found herself replying to Rance with a lightness that matched his, “a famous actress once said something like that to George Bernard Shaw. She suggested they have children together because with her looks and his brains, their offspring would rule the world. ‘But, madam,’ he replied, ‘what if they had my looks and your brains?”’
When that got a nice chuckle from Rance, Gerri congratulated herself on reacting with sophisticated badinage instead of taking a header off the ladder. Her fingers skimmed along the spines of the books on the top shelf—where she kept the most old, rare and valuable books—until she came upon the object of her search. “Aha!” she said aloud. “Native American Origins of the Art of Tatau, by Reginald D’Olivier, Ph.D.”
“Sounds weird.”
“Not to those who care about skin painting,” she said, and pulled it out.
“You’re just full of comebacks tonight, aren’t you?” Rance said, finally getting off his favorite subject of himself and grinning up at her in appreciation.
Again, she met his gaze, noted those sea-green eyes, that slightly shaggy dark blond hair that fell rakishly over one eyebrow, that GQ model’s perfectly chiseled face. And for a brief moment, she was unable to speak.
Then she shook herself, made herself say lightly, “I feel amusing tonight.”
“But that book looks heavy enough to hold down a tent. Want some help?”
No, I’ll manage.
The words were almost past her lips, but she stopped them before they made the journey to the outside world. Of course she could do it herself, she could do everything by herself. But wasn’t this a chance to appear just a bit, well, feminine? Not helpless, not in the least, but at least willing to let the big strong man help with what men did so well—lifting things?
This was another test, another chance to do it differently, to practice being…what?
A flirt and a liar?
No, to allow someone—a male someone—to help her. To not be so darned capable of taking care of herself that men rarely offered to let her lean on them.
She closed her eyes for a moment, saying a silent prayer of thanks to whatever power had arranged for this wish. She would try to be worthy, she promised.
She would do it right this time. “Thanks,” she told Rance. “If you’ll take the book, I can manage me.”
Gerri stepped down a rung, carefully this time, placed the book into Rance’s outstretched hands and watched him set it down on the counter. Then turning around again, so she could keep her balance, she began to descend even more slowly and was surprised to feel two hands around her waist, helping her to the floor. As he lifted her, she waited for a telltale grunt. She might be slender, but her height made her weigh more than a typical woman.
But he wasn’t even breathing hard as he set her down on the ground. She was afraid to turn around to thank him, afraid that his touch had set her cheeks to flaming. Due to her treacherously pale skin, she had never been able to hide it when she was embarrassed.
“Merci,” she managed, keeping her back to him.
“Hey, my momma raised me to be a gentleman,” he said into her ear, then turned her around to face him.
Now her nose was two inches from his, their mouths close enough to kiss. She knew her cheeks were bright red, but she managed a dry response. “And to give her grandchildren, it seems.”
“Ouch. Don’t remind me,” he said with a grin that was both charming and self-mocking at the same time. How was it, she wondered, that some people managed to make the smallest movement attractive, made it look so easy, when others had to struggle all the time just to appear part of the human race?
She’d been pondering that same question since early childhood and had come up with no solid answer yet. But at least now she was safely on the ground.
Did it! Gerri congratulated herself silently. Got down that ladder and no accidents, no bruises. She might even have appeared graceful. Well, probably not. Or perhaps, to be kind, as graceful as she could be, which was not very. And Rance hadn’t seemed fazed by her weight, gave no outward sign of having developed a hernia or back spasms. Yay for our side.
She picked up the book, hurried behind the counter, and picked up the receiver. “Dr. Albright? I’ve got it.” She listened to the retired professor’s pleased response then said, “Yes, the third edition…Well, thanks, I’m so glad I could be of help.” She felt a huge grin split her face as the elderly man went on about how long it had taken him to locate the tome, and what a treasure Gerri’s shop was, and how grateful he was that the young woman had decided to settle here in town, filling a void in the community.
Last week, there had been nothing like this response. Gerri hadn’t found the book by the time she’d slipped off the ladder, and poor Dr. Albright had been left on hold for quite a while, while she tended to her wounds.
“Yes, I’ll hold it for you till tomorrow. Just ask for it at the cash register.”
Rance watched her, an expression of amused affection—the way you looked at a pet—on his face. When she hung up, he said, “You’re terrific, you know that?”
She wrinkled her nose, felt her face coloring again. “No I’m not.”
“No, really, you’re such a, I don’t know, a giving person. It makes you so happy to help others, your face glows with it.”
“Enough,” she said, waving his compliments away, and loving them at the same time.
He walked to her side of the counter, reached behind her, and yanked at her ponytail. “If I had a sister, I’d want her to be just like you. Well, I have to head out. See you,” he said and headed for the door.
As her inner mind was repeating the sister remark, most definitely at the top of the all time kiss-of-death-to-a-future-relationship remarks, she asked, “Where to?” careful not to let her disappointment show.
“Gotta go meet a plane.”
“Oh?” She already knew the answer to her next question. “Who’s coming in?”
“Marla Connelly,” he said with a cat-who-got-the-cream grin.
“The model?”
“Yup. I met her in New York last week. She’s looking to buy some property for a ranch. I’ve offered to show her around town a bit.” He raised his eyebrows in a Groucho Marx way, indicating his plans would go a bit further than just showing the lovely, sophisticated woman around town.
A wrench of jealousy hit her gut, just as it had last week. But…wasn’t everything supposed to be different? Hadn’t she been granted the chance to do it right this time?
Wait, she reminded herself. The ball—No, she amended quickly, not “the ball.” She really needed to stop using fairy-tale vocabulary. The charity dinner dance a week from now, that was what she was supposed to do right. It was there that Rance would finally see what had been under his nose all along. Lovely, sophisticated Princess Gerri.
“Well, go on then,” she said, accompanying him to the door. “See you soon.”
Through the glass she watched him walk away until he was out of sight. Pleased with herself at having at least avoided injury, Gerri turned around and nearly fell across a carton of books that were still waiting to be shelved. Whoops, she said silently as she righted herself against the counter. Lesson number one—you can go back in time, but if you’re a klutz, you’re a klutz, magic or no magic. Good luck with that one, she thought sardonically, as she carefully steered her way around the carton. It would take more than a miracle to make her graceful.
SATURDAY: The morning was magic. Ruffy was in fine, frisky shape today as they cantered toward the hills where the sun was just making an appearance, casting all kinds of lovely colors over the distant Sierra Nevadas and the plains below. Gerri was full of hope this morning, having slept well—no pain from bruises that weren’t there, no ankle twinges, no aspirin or ice necessary. Last week she hadn’t been able to ride, but today she could. She was wondering if Des would be joining her, as he often did in the morning, when the sound of horse’s hooves behind her told her that the man himself was making an appearance. She slowed Ruffy down to a slow trot and waited for him to catch up with her.
“Hi,” she said as he joined her.
He nodded his greeting. A man of few words, was her friend Des. The laconic, solitary rancher who never said more than what was absolutely necessary. She liked that about him, especially as he never seemed to mind her chatter.
He trotted easily beside her. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” she said, inhaling a deep lungful of cool morning air.
“Uh-huh.”
“Race you to the tree!” She took off before he answered, knowing that her mount didn’t have a chance against his sleek black gelding, but going for it nevertheless. Within moments, he’d caught up to her and passed her, but kept just ahead of her instead of racing off into the distance, as he most certainly was capable of doing.
They ran the horses for fifteen minutes or so, until Des pulled up at a grove of cottonwood trees, the tallest of which leaned over the edge of a babbling creek. She’d come to think of it as their tree and had since the day months before when she’d dismounted here to adjust her stirrups and he’d ridden by, stopped and asked if he could help. She’d accepted gratefully because, back then, this whole horse thing had been new to her.
Born and raised in New York City into a family of academics and intellectuals, Gerri’s only previous experience with equines had been to watch mounted police during parades and to observe the aging, overworked animals that pulled carriages around Central Park. But she’d always been fascinated by the beasts—their sturdy musculature, the grace of their necks—and had vowed to have her own one day. And to learn to be a good rider.
After eighteen months in the Reno area, Gerri had bought Ruffy and boarded her at Des’s place, which had been recommended to her by the horse’s previous owner. She’d taken a few lessons and was now, if she said so herself, not bad, and getting better.
Thanks to Des. In his quiet way, he’d helped her learn how to saddle her own horse, how to watch out for tree roots and the occasional snake as she rode, how to water and brush her mount at the end of the ride. He hadn’t had to do all that, she knew it, and thought he must be a very kind person to have taken the awkward city slicker under his wing.
“Whoa!” she said now, pulling up next to him. She was as out of breath as Ruffy must be, but happy. “That was fabulous!”
“You’re doing fine,” he said, “getting better and better,” he added, just the hint of smile on his usually stoic face. Beneath his well-worn cowboy hat, she observed, not for the first time, his startling blue eyes and the lines radiating out from them, formed by years in the sun. Black hair and blue eyes. Black Irish coloring, he’d told her once, in a rare moment of talking about himself. His people had come to America during the potato famine and had led a hardscrabble life. He’d bought his ranch about five years earlier. It was small, but he worked hard, and she had a sense that he, too, was fulfilling a lifelong dream of having a place—even an identity—of his own.
She was naturally curious about his personal life. He wasn’t married, she knew, and lived alone. But there was an air of privacy about him that didn’t invite personal questions, so she hung back from prying. Once in a while, like when he stared at the mountain range to the east, she got a sense of loneliness, even a shadow of sadness, in the man. But mostly he seemed comfortable in his solitary existence. Except he seemed to enjoy her company when they rode together, which was once or twice a week in the mornings.
For the first time in her adult life, Gerri felt comfortable with a man. Consequently, when she was with him, her behavior was relaxed, not forced. He had the gift of making her feel good about herself, accepted her for what and who she was. All her life, Gerri had tended to say whatever was on her mind; as she had a really busy mind, poor Des had received an earful of opinions on books, ideas she’d read about and been mulling over, politics, new scientific breakthroughs, an interesting new word, the little miracles of daily life. She spoke to him sometimes of her past unhappiness, of not fitting in, of being too tall, too clumsy.
She’d never gone so far as to tell him about Tommy, her one unhappy love affair, but it still amazed her how she felt free to share just about everything else with him. Occasionally, she would stop and ask if she was talking too much, and always he said not at all, that he enjoyed listening to her. Once he’d even called her “a breath of fresh air.”
Bless him, she thought now, bless Des for opening a new world to her, one where men and women could be friends. She’d always had female friendships, but his was the first with the opposite sex, and she valued this relationship.
“One of these days,” she said with a grin, “you’re not going to be able to beat me so easily.”
Again, that small hint of smile. “I believe you.”
Together they sat on their horses while the animals grazed a bit on the nearby grass, Gerri gazing at the creek’s rushing waters and the way the rising sun glinted on it. Her heart felt so full this morning—the wish had made all kinds of new things possible. Suddenly she wanted to tell Des about that wish. She had to share the miracle with someone, for heaven’s sake. It was too good to keep to herself.
“Des, do you believe in magic?”
He squinted his eyes. “Magic?”
“Yes. You know, the kind where you say an incantation and all of a sudden you get this thing you’ve always wanted? Or you go to bed one way and wake up the next morning, different?”
He gazed at her for a few moments, considering her question. Then he shrugged. “I believe in what I can see and touch, Gerri.”
“So, you’re not into, you know, a parallel universe or communing with dead souls or the power of the unknown?”
“Afraid not,” he said, one side of his mouth curving upward slightly. “Why?”
No, she thought, not Des, the ultimate pragmatist. Maybe Didi, her friend who owned the antique shop next door to hers. Didi might be the one to tell about the miracle. “Just wondering. I’m always wondering about something, I guess.”
“I like that about you,” he said simply. “Ready to head back?”
Des, too, was wondering, but it was about what was going on in that furiously busy brain of Gerri’s. She seemed different this morning, exhilarated, somehow. Not that she wasn’t always pretty upbeat, but there was something about her, some…inner light.
A thought struck him then that made him scowl. Rance, he bet. He knew about her crush on him, even though she’d never actually said anything about it. When she talked about the good-for-nothing playboy, even casually, she usually blushed and got a stupid grin on her face. She thought she was in love with him. Des had never heard her say it, but some women, despite having good brains and common sense in most areas, fell for that kind of pretty boy who flirted and never stayed put, who promised and never followed through.
His ex-wife had been like that. After three years of marriage to Des, Stella had been lured away by some fast-talking agent type who’d seen her singing backup in Harrah’s lounge and told her he’d make her a star. Last Des had heard, she was waiting tables in L.A., and waiting for her big break.
It had probably not been a good match in the first place: a man who loved ranching and a woman with a decent voice and stars in her eyes. Still, Des didn’t have a lot of faith in the staying power of the female sex.
Gerri was different, though. He wasn’t quite sure how to categorize her, only knew that, over the months, she’d become more important to him than he’d intended. Whenever he realized it, the emotion not only took him by surprise, but scared the pants off him.
He was better off alone, that much he knew about himself. He was not what was known as a good communicator. Sometimes he tried to stay away when he knew she’d come to ride, but mostly he couldn’t seem to stop himself from riding out to meet her. He enjoyed her company. Hell, she even made him laugh sometimes, which was rarer than rare for him. Just a few minutes with Gerri and some inner tightness always eased up.
Unless, of course, she mentioned Rance. Then he found himself tightening up all over again.
“I’m dying of thirst,” Gerri said suddenly. “Let’s get back so I can gulp down some water from your barn hose.”
“No need,” he found himself saying, “come to the house. You can have a glass of water there.”
He saw the look of pleased surprise she gave him, and wondered himself how that one had popped out. He’d never invited her to his place, had never invited any woman to his place, not since Stella had taken off. It was his sanctuary, his cave, and being invaded by another human being—most of all a woman—was tantamount to losing a piece of his soul. Still, he’d said the words and it was done.
“Well, sure, thanks,” she said with a grin. “I’d love to see where you live.”
“Don’t expect much,” he warned.
“If you’re afraid I’ll be one of those fastidious ‘house beautiful’ types, forget it. I’m pretty messy myself, and my knowledge of home decor stops at what color to paint the walls, white or beige.”
He chuckled. How could he not? She was so self-effacing, so open about what she considered her multiple shortcomings. Over the months he’d heard about them all. He wondered if she’d ever had a boyfriend, wondered even if she was a virgin. A twenty-nine-year-old virgin? In this day and age? He’d never asked. If he had, it would have opened the door to her asking all kinds of questions of him.
Gerri had seen the outside of Des’s place before. It was a one-story, white stucco building with a tiled roof and large windows. Now, as he opened the door and she walked in, she was totally captivated by what lay within. The living room was cool after the heat from the morning sun, and was furnished with a cozy-looking couch and matching armchair, adjacent to a large stone fireplace. The floors were of natural-colored hardwood, dotted by several small Native American print rugs. Two of the walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling book-filled shelves. This pleased her inordinately. She had no idea Des was a reader; he’d shared none of that with her.
Off to the right was an archway leading to a hallway that seemed to be the bedroom wing. To the left was another archway, and it was through this he showed her to a warm, yellow-tiled kitchen. A scarred round wooden table with two chairs sat in the middle of the room under a ceiling fan.
“This is great,” Gerri enthused. “It’s so homey, Des,” she went on, “so comfortable.”
When he shrugged, she figured her compliments embarrassed him a bit. He went to the sink, got a glass from a long shelf over it, and poured her some water. She took the glass from him eagerly and downed it quickly. “More.” She handed it back to him. “I feel like I’ve been drained of all bodily fluids this morning. Might be the anchovies I had on the pizza last night.”
One eyebrow went up as he refilled her glass. “Anchovies, huh? You’re one of the only women I’ve ever met who likes them.”
“You, too?”
He nodded. “Anchovies, pepperoni and mushrooms.”
“Yes!” she said, pumping her fist in the air. “The big three. We need to get a pizza together sometime!”
Something in his gaze withdrew as she said this, and she knew she’d overstepped a line somehow. “Sorry. Did I say something wrong?”
“No, of course not,” he said. Then frowning, he added, “Why do you do that to yourself?”
“Do what?”
“Apologize. Assume you’re in the wrong.”
“Do I? Darn, I thought I’d gotten over that.”
He reached out a hand and she had the feeling he was going to stroke her cheek, but the moment passed and he dropped his hand to his side. “Sorry. It’s not my place to criticize you.”
“Of course it is. Now, who’s apologizing? We’re friends, aren’t we?”
Again, that shadow of something hidden behind his eyes. “Yeah, we’re friends. It’s just that you’re a terrific woman and you shouldn’t put yourself down.”
Terrific woman. His words warmed her. He really was the most special man. And it was true, she’d always put herself down, apologized for making anyone feel uncomfortable all her life. She’d tried, really tried, since coming west and starting her new life, to cut that out. But old habits, and old scars, ran deep. It would probably take a lobotomy to change her.
“Well,” she said, “thanks for that. I wish I believed it,” she added ruefully.
Inwardly Des cursed himself for snapping at her. Why had he said that? Because he cared about her, dammit. She was terrific, and he wished she knew it, could take it in.
An awkward silence descended over the room, so Des gestured toward the table. “Um, you want to sit down? Rest for a few minutes?”
“No,” she said brightly, “but I’d love to look at your books. May I?”
Then she was off to the living room, walking slowly along the shelves, oohing and ahing in that enthusiastic way she had. “Look!” she said. “You have all of Dickens. And Thomas Aquinas. And, oh, Des, so many volumes of poetry! Frost and Wordsworth, and look here, Rilke’s Duino Elegies. ” Hands on hips, she turned to him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“That you’re one of us. The word-lovers. Especially the poetry. How come I never knew that about you?”
Her enthusiasm made him feel even more awkward; he was already nervous about her being there. He wanted her to like the place, while at the same time he was kicking himself for caring. The woman knew too much about him already.
“It didn’t come up,” he said with a shrug.
“Sure it did. How many mornings have I bent your ear about new authors, especially poets, I’d been reading? And you just sat there on your big horse and nodded politely. Des, you’re a fraud.”
She said it with a grin, so he didn’t feel attacked. And she was right. She didn’t know, couldn’t know, how much of a secret life he’d led always, disguising his love of reading from his family because they would have laughed at him, called him names. He’d kept his books under his bed, read them with a flash-light way into the night, while everyone else slept.
“I don’t have much education,” he told her.
“Formal, you mean. Obviously you’ve educated yourself which, in my opinion, is a whole lot more meaningful. You read because you want to, not because you have to, like you do in school.” She snapped her fingers as an idea came to her. “You have to come to the shop on Tuesday night. We have poetry readings, you’ll love it. Why haven’t you ever come to my shop, by the way?”
He’d been there once, Des could have told her, and had seen her mooning over Rance, which had irritated him, so he hadn’t been back.
“Say you’ll come,” she persisted.
“I usually do paperwork in the evenings.”
“Try. Okay?”
He couldn’t help noticing the eagerness, the openness of her expression. Once again, he shrugged. “I’ll see.”
Chapter Three
SUNDAY: Gerri figured there was probably some kind of shopping gene she’d failed to inherit, because, quite simply, she hated the act, especially when it came to trying to pick out clothing for herself. She tended to dress simply, in blouses, skirts and loafers or jumpers and loafers. She knew she had little taste and no real sense of style; her skills were verbal and mathematical, and most definitely, not artistic. And apart from her lack of taste, it always seemed a waste of time because she never found just the right thing to make her look or feel more attractive than she knew she was.
“It’s an inside job,” her mother used to tell her. “Beauty is from within.” But Gerri always knew her brilliant and beautiful mom said that to make up for the fact that her daughter had gotten the worst of the family traits, physically, anyway: her mother’s intelligence, pale skin and freckles, but not her thick red hair, normal height or buxom, womanly body. Her father’s brain, plus his height, straight brown hair and a tendency to resemble a stork, but not his piercing gray eyes or regal nose. The co-mingling of DNA had worked out fine for Gerri’s brother Ned, who was handsome and tall and, of course, brilliant.
Still, Gerri knew she’d been lucky in her parents. In their large apartment on Central Park West, there had always been a lot of love and enthusiastic encouragement to pursue any interest she developed. The nightly dinner table discussions were lively and expressions of affection were constant. She’d traveled extensively and been given a lot of personal freedom. She knew her values were pretty solid, knew that when you wanted something, really made up your mind to have it, you needed to work very hard. There wasn’t a lazy bone in Gerri’s body and, self-perceptions aside, she had a real can-do attitude.
It was armed with this same attitude that she attacked the mall at opening time. She’d probably need all day to accomplish her mission. What a blessing that Didi had agreed to meet her here! This morning on the phone, Gerri had told her friend that she needed help choosing a dress and Didi had agreed, pleased that Gerri was showing some interest in fashion at last.
Of course, Gerri hadn’t yet been invited to the fund-raiser this coming Friday, but if that happened—and if the wish parameters continued to be followed, it would—by heavens, she would be prepared this time.
What she’d worn that night just before “the wish” was—she winced at the thought—the bridesmaid’s gown she’d been forced to buy for her brother’s wedding three years earlier. Even at the time Gerri had known it wasn’t the right color or cut for her, but Corrine, Ned’s intended, had wanted pale pink chiffon with lots of ruffles, and what the bride wanted, the bride got. Gerri knew in the dress, she looked like someone had covered a telephone pole with crepe paper bird plumage.
Needless to say, if she’d had time to get something else last Friday night, she would have. But Rance’s invitation had given her an hour to get ready, so her options had been limited.
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