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“I like that song. She was on American Idol last year,” Theo said. “Did you watch it?”
“No.”
“It’s a pretty good show, but my wife says it’s not as good as it used to be.”
And that was the last thing Sam heard until Theo stopped for coffee and a transmission in a place called Big Timber.
* * *
“DO NOT LET HIM in here,” Meg ordered. Her customary jeans, T-shirt and apron had been replaced with a deep blue wool dress and vintage gold necklace, and she had a familiar trapped expression on her face. Meg owned the local café and was happier in work clothes. She was also unaccustomed to being the center of attention.
“He only wants a couple of pictures,” Lucia promised. She waved to Mike, the owner of the town’s paper, and gave him a thumbs-up while the future bride continued to grumble.
“I don’t want my face splashed on the front page of the paper next week.” Meg frowned at Mike and the smile on his round face dimmed. Lucia felt sorry for him. Clearly he’d hoped to stay and party with the women. But that wasn’t going to happen. There were few women-only events in this town of mostly single men, and the women in town protected their privacy at all costs. He held on to the cupcake he’d just plucked from a three-tiered cake plate, though.
“You’re news. Your bridal shower is news. It’ll probably end up on Jerry’s blog, too.” Lucia couldn’t hide her amusement. Meg’s romance with her high school sweetheart had finally worked out. The two of them were perfect for each other, and everyone in town knew it. Everyone in town had watched it happen, so it was only fitting that any prewedding celebration be detailed on the front page of the local newspaper.
“I don’t want to be news.”
Lucia laughed. “Meg, anything and everything that goes on in this town is news, and you know it.”
“Everyone looks really happy.”
“It’s not every day we get to celebrate a wedding,” Lucia pointed out. “We’re going to make the most of it.”
“I’m glad. Thank you,” Meg said, sniffling uncharacteristically. “I really like my party.”
“You are not going to cry,” Lucia ordered. “Aurora will have a fit if she thinks I’ve gone all sentimental and made you cry. She’s worked really hard to get the bar ready for this.” Lucia thought the room looked elegant. Even the stuffed grizzly in the corner wore a cummerbund and a black bowtie. A red silk rose was wired into one large paw, making the town mascot look absolutely gentlemanly.
That had been Aurora’s idea, and Lucia had found just the right supplies at a thrift shop in Billings. She and Aurora, her cohostess, had originally planned to hold the shower at the community center, but they’d had to change the venue to Aurora’s bar, the Dahl, because of a conflict with the senior citizens’ Christmas potluck later that evening. Lucia suspected that Aurora had planned to have the party at her bar all along. The Dahl, one of the original town buildings from the late 1800s, was almost unrecognizable at the moment, its pine tables covered in white linen and decorated with flowers. Candles lined the bar itself, along with red roses in bud vases.
Lucia assumed every woman in town was in attendance. What had begun as a ladies’ night to celebrate Meg’s engagement while Owen was away had turned into a full-blown bridal shower, despite the continuing silence of the future bride and groom about their wedding plans. In winter, even in December with Christmas approaching, no one needed an excuse to party.
Aurora, enigmatic and always glamorous, sauntered over, refilled Meg’s glass and set the half-empty pitcher of margaritas on the table. “This is a blast. I knew something was happening that night after the town meeting when you and Owen kept pretending you weren’t looking at each other. Your handsome future husband is our local success story, lady.”
“He’s a hero,” Lucia added, though Meg looked horrified.
“Oh, please,” Meg groaned. “You’re both being ridiculous.”
“Us?” Lucia feigned innocence by widening her eyes and keeping a straight face. “I’m the town widow and Aurora is the surly bartender. We know of what we speak.”
“Darn right,” Aurora agreed, tossing her platinum hair over her shoulders. Lucia envied the color, which she had decided was real. The woman looked like a supermodel, even when wearing a faded T-shirt, jeans and Western boots. “No one can stop talking about your engagement. Owen performed a miracle getting you to agree to marry him. Proposing right there in the parking lot by the café, with everyone watching out the windows. You were the talk of the town.”
“Th-that was two weeks ago,” Meg sputtered, but Lucia saw the way her best friend’s eyes softened when she remembered the moment. A large antique ring with sapphires and diamonds sparkled in the candlelight as Meg held up her hand seemingly to stop their teasing.
“Parking lots can be very romantic,” Lucia said. She took a careful sip of her margarita. “We both understand that. No one’s blaming you for weakening and finally saying yes to the poor man. And think of that honeymoon you’re going to have.”
Meg, bless her, blushed. “Stop,” she whispered.
“I wish you’d hurry up and set a date,” Lucia said. “I want to start planning the wedding cake. Do you want real flowers or frosting flowers?”
“Frosting.”
“Colors?”
“I haven’t a clue,” Meg answered, looking pained. “You’re the baker. What do you think? I’m not sure Owen would go for anything too pink.”
“Some of that depends on the time of year,” Aurora said, plopping a wedding veil on Meg’s head. She fiddled with the headband and fluffed the white tulle. “Red and white for Valentine’s Day would work. It’s a bit of a cliché, but Lucia could make it modern.”
“I could. Or if you prefer spring, I could do April violets,” Lucia murmured. “With yellow daffodils. Or daisies.”
“Pretty,” Aurora said, arranging the tulle so that it expanded like a cloud around Meg’s shoulder-length brown hair.
“A veil? Really?” Meg’s eyes narrowed. “How much have you two had to drink?”
“Very little,” Lucia assured her. “But I’ve been baking cupcakes since four o’clock this morning and I’m wobbly.”
“The veil was your mother’s idea. I guess it’s some kind of family heirloom. I’ll go get your wedding photographer,” Aurora said. “This talk of baking may make me break out in hives.”
Lucia laughed. Meg’s expression was anything but amused, though. “I worry about you,” she said. “You’ve been baking cupcakes at four in the morning for weeks.”
“It’s just for the holidays,” Lucia said, wondering how much longer she could keep up the pace. Early-morning baking, dealing with the boys, frosting and decorating dozens of cupcakes for the noon deliveries. Then picking up the boys at school, laundry, cooking and all the things that went into mothering. She loved it all—well, except for the laundry—but at this time of year she was wearing down fast. However, all the baking was adding to her special savings account in the hope of a March break trip to Orlando. “This is my busiest season, especially for pies. After the holidays I won’t have much to do until Valentine’s Day. So what about February for the wedding?”
“Maybe, but the baby is due that month and Shelly doesn’t want to miss the wedding.”
“Well, I’m not going anywhere at all until I know when you’re getting married.”
“You’ll be my matron of honor, right?”
“Absolutely.” Lucia was happy for Meg. Over-the-moon happy. She remembered those months before she’d married Tony, when the world had seemed made just for them, when every look or touch or kiss was magic and life was filled with endless years of possibilities.
“I can help you with the baking, remember,” Meg said. “My kitchen is your kitchen.”
“Thanks, but—” Lucia was about to remind her friend that her kitchen actually belonged to Al, a cook who preferred to be master of all he surveyed, when Aurora hauled Mike over to join them at the bar.
“I told Mike he can take one picture of you, one picture of the ring and one picture of the dessert table, but that’s it,” Aurora said. “And if he complained I’d have Loralee deal with him.”
Mike nodded his agreement, his mouth full of dessert. He wiped his fingers on a crumpled paper napkin before lifting his camera.
“That’s downright mean.” Lucia liked Meg’s mother, but the woman was famous for her multiple marriages and colorful observations, not to mention her flirting skills. Men in her presence were alternately charmed and terrified. She was as different from Lucia’s mother-in-law, Marie, as a woman could be.
“That’s the way it is,” Aurora said with a shrug. “It’s a tough world.”
Lucia moved out of camera range and surveyed the chattering crowd of hungry women. Mama Marie was fussing over the pile of gifts on the pool table, which had been covered with a huge white-and-silver tablecloth. Marie was just under five feet tall, and almost as wide as she was high. A descendant of Italian immigrants who settled in Boston, she had her roots in pasta, meatballs and “gravy,” commonly known in Montana as spaghetti sauce. Her graying hair was cut short and the only makeup she wore was pink lip gloss. She was the most maternal person Lucia knew.
Mike posed Meg behind the stack of presents, took a closeup of the engagement ring and the cupcake stand, then looked longingly at the food table before being hustled out the door by the ever-vigilant Aurora.
Lucia knew that Aurora, thirtyish, mysterious and very self-sufficient, had a lot of experience ushering men out that particular door. She didn’t suffer fools, drunks or boors lightly. Since she ran the only bar in town, the men played—for the most part—by her rules. Her customers minded their manners, their language and their alcohol consumption.
Meg, still wearing her veil, carried a paper plate piled high with meatballs and pasta salad over to Lucia. She nodded toward Loralee. “My mother just told me I needed to use more mascara. She seems to be having a good time.”
“As always.” Loralee, wearing silver boots, black jeans, a white sweater and glittery headband, was knocking back what looked like a blue martini and chatting with Patsy, the local hairdresser.
“She’s talking about coming back here when Shelly’s baby is born or maybe not even leaving at all.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Her broken wrist encased in plaster, Shelly moved carefully around the buffet table and chatted sweetly with Mrs. Parcell, an older woman who, along with her husband and grandson, ranched outside of town. The newest resident in town, the former runaway teen’s long blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she sported an overlarge pink sweatshirt that covered her growing baby bump. Lucia guessed the sweatshirt belonged to Loralee, the now-surrogate grandmother who had unceremoniously taken the girl under her wing.
“Has Shelly said what she’s planning to do?”
“Face reality,” Meg said. “At least, that’s what she told us.”
“What exactly is reality?”
“Raising a baby alone. Giving the child up for adoption. I don’t know.”
“We’ll all help her,” Lucia said. “Whatever she decides.”
“It won’t be easy.”
“No,” Lucia said, knowing full well how hard it was to raise children on one’s own. “It won’t be easy. Whatever happens, she’s better off with your mother to keep an eye on her.”
“Yes, which is amazing, since I’m the one who’s always had to keep an eye on my mother.” Meg smiled ruefully. “Do you think Loralee is finally growing up?”
“Well, she hasn’t been married in years,” Lucia pointed out. “That’s progress.”
“You’re right. I should be grateful.” Meg perched on a bar stool and surveyed the party.
Mama Marie hurried over. “You’d probably better start opening presents,” she told Meg. “You’ve got a lot of them, and it’s gonna take a while.”
“I can’t believe this,” Meg sighed. “A party and presents.”
“That’s what happens when you get engaged,” Mama Marie pointed out. “At last.”
“You didn’t have to add the at last,” Meg grumbled.
Lucia laughed.
“I’d like to make a toast!” Aurora lifted a glass of champagne. “Quiet, ladies! We also have several announcements.”
The crowd’s chatter died down, but excitement stayed in the air. Lucia met Mama Marie’s smile with one of her own. Loralee, standing beside her, winked.
“First of all,” Aurora began, “we’re here to congratulate Meg for having the good sense to wait for Owen MacGregor to return to town.”
“It only took sixteen years,” someone hollered. Lucia thought it was Patsy, but she couldn’t be sure.
“Whatever,” Aurora said, waving her elegant hand. “It finally happened, so let’s raise our glasses and wish the couple well. And then? Presents!”
Cheers filled the room as the women clinked glasses.
“Speech!” called Loralee.
“No speech,” her daughter said.
“Just a little one,” Lucia said, pushing Meg forward so she could see the crowd of friends gathered to wish her well.
“Okay.” Meg cleared her throat and smiled at her neighbors. “Thank you, everyone. And thanks especially to Lucia and Aurora for putting this together.” She raised her left hand and wiggled her fingers. “You’ve seen the ring?”
Another round of cheers.
“I wore this secretly for two weeks when I was a teenager,” she said. “Some of you have heard the story, I know. And I just want to say I’m really happy to have it back.” She laughed when several of the older women fist-pumped the air. “So thank you for coming. It means a lot to me.”
“Open the presents!” This came from Shelly, who looked ready to burst from excitement. At more than six months along she looked ready to burst, period.
Now it was Lucia’s turn to blink back tears. She remembered the sweet discovery of having created a life and feeling the baby move inside her for the first time.
Shelly had inadvertently created a baby with a man who turned out to be married, a man with the morals of a stray, unneutered dog, and her young life had immediately changed and shifted in ways she never could have imagined.
It was a tough thing to learn. Lucia herself had been smacked in the face with the reality that nothing was forever. You never knew what lurked around the corner.
She’d been tiptoeing around corners ever since.
* * *
“HEADING HOME?” The man in the seat next to him turned away from the window and adjusted his seat belt. They were about to take off from a dirt runway in Nicaragua.
“Not exactly.” Sam needed to pick up some things in Miami, then head to Los Angeles for production meetings. “Are you?”
“I’m getting closer,” he said, seeming happy with the idea of being on his way. He appeared about Sam’s age but had a military look, with his clipped dark hair. “You know what the opposite of the Amazon is?”
“Alaska?”
“Montana,” the man had said quite seriously, as though it were a well-established fact. He’d glanced out the window as the plane vaulted into the sky. Beneath them lay thousands of acres of green foliage, brown water and vague dirt roads twisting into the jungle.
“Montana,” Sam repeated. He’d never been there. “Any special place in Montana?”
“Willing,” the man replied immediately.
“Excuse me?”
“Willing. The center of Montana.” He’d flipped through the pages of a tattered airline magazine until he found a map of the United States. “There,” he said, tapping his index finger on the page. “That’s the best place in the world.”
Sam believed him. The stranger was earnest, his expression one of intense longing.
“And that’s home?”
“Yeah,” he said, flipping the magazine shut and stuffing it into the seat back pocket to join a wad of out-of-date reading material. “Always.”
“We’re here,” someone said. “Welcome to Willing.”
