The Perfect Wedding

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“Sometimes.”

“What do you begin with? A bolt of material and…”

“An idea,” she said. “It always starts with an idea.” She went to the drawing table and carefully peeled up a large sheet of paper.

Rod joined her, holding Heather to one side so that her tiny feet had no opportunity to kick at the drawing, and peered down over Layne’s shoulder to study the detailed rendition of an elaborate gown of medieval design. She heard the slow intake of his breath and the low whistle that followed it. He turned his head to look again at the mannequin. “Is that this?”

“No. We haven’t cut this one yet. That dress goes with the drawing pinned to the bulletin board over there.”

He strolled over to take a look, capturing Heather’s little hand in time to prevent her ripping down a bright pink invoice of some sort. He studied the drawing that hung beside it, then backed away, shaking his head. “You’re a woman of extraordinary talents, Layne,” he said, turning a look of more than mere approval upon her.

“Thank you.” She felt as if she were glowing. Her heart tripped like a jackhammer in double time, and the pleasure was almost too wonderful to bear. She dropped her head and angled it to the side, spying the chair for which they’d come. At the same moment, Heather popped the bottle nipple out of her mouth and filled the room with a soft gurgling sound, lending a touch of her own brand of baby normalcy to the situation. “We ought to get back,” Layne said with a smile.

“Oh, right. Is that the chair you want, the folding one?”

“Yes, but as you see, it’s very light. I can get it.”

“No, no. I’ll manage.”

Their hands collided against the smooth, cool metal of the chair back. Her immediate impulse was to withdraw, but his hand settled warmly over hers, his palm replacing the two smallest fingers that had initially made contact. Warmth spread up her arm and into her chest. Her heart swelled to the point of pain. For a moment she could neither speak nor breathe, but she looked away and the moment passed.

“This is silly,” she said, willing her hand to remain still beneath his. “You have the baby. I should carry the chair.”

“Or…” he suggested, and her gaze zipped up to the baby cradled in the crook of his arm.

Her own eagerness surprised and amused her. Sensing that she was suddenly the center of attention again, Heather snapped her bottle free and gave off a broad, wet smile that displayed all ten of her tiny teeth. Rod chuckled and wiped her mouth with the flat of his hand, drying his hand on his pants leg.

“She might get apple juice on that pretty outfit of yours,” he said.

Layne didn’t even bother to tell him how little that mattered. Instead, she asked, “Do you think she’d let me hold her?” Heather stuck the nipple back in her mouth and drew on it strongly.

“This kid is so secure,” Rod said, smoothing down her hair, “that she isn’t afraid of anyone, and we can credit her mama with that.” Suddenly Heather decided to change positions. Her bottle dangling from her mouth, she used her little hands to claw her way upright. Laughing, Rod allowed her momentum to carry her into Layne’s waiting arms.

The baby was surprisingly heavy, but it was love at first cuddle. “Hi, peach,” Layne said softly, using her father’s pet name for all three of his daughters. Heather dug a chubby finger into the center of a tiny crocheted flower on the tip of Layne’s collar. “You like my rose?” Layne crooned. “Pretty rose.”

To her surprise, Heather reached up a hand to unplug the bottle from her mouth and said, “Roe.”

Layne laughed with delight. Rod grinned, folding up the chair. “Another day, another conquest,” he said, sighing. “Must be nice to have all that charm.”