The Matchmaker's Sister. Karen Toller Whittenburg
“you-think-I-don’t-know-this?” eyebrow at her friend, Miranda turned back to the depleted appetizer trays. “Nothing will get done if I don’t do it,” she said. “You know that as well as I do. Their wedding could be worse than Scott’s and they wouldn’t even notice.” Deciding against the cherry tomatoes—potentially too messy—she followed Erica along the curve of the buffet table, picking up only two carrot sticks and a tiny flat-looking quiche to place beside the solitary celery stick, with some horrible-looking cheese mixture spread over the top on her plate. “That’s the problem when someone as flighty as my sister falls in love with a man who’s sunny side is always up. Practicality gets smudged in the glow of their rose-colored glasses.”
Erica nodded agreement and ruthlessly stabbed several pineapple chunks in succession, nabbing the fruit just ahead of a solid-looking woman who was wielding a skewer from the opposite side of the table. “You’ll have to handle everything,” Erica agreed with sympathy. “And on such short notice you’ll never get Amy Ellen Vanderley. She’s always booked well in advance. Suzanne Sinclair told me that Millicent Richards has already put her daughter’s name on Amy Ellen’s client list and that child isn’t even out of braces yet.”
“I’m not going to hire a wedding planner,” Miranda said, making the decision on the spot. “I’m going to do it myself.”
Erica stopped in midcapture of a cocktail sausage—Imagine! Cocktail sausages served at a Danville wedding. There would be no such hors d’oeuvre at Ainsley’s wedding. Period. No discussion.—losing the sausage to the skewer by a quarter inch. “Miranda!” she said. “You can’t do it without a professional planner. There’s not enough time. Even you can’t work miracles.”
Actually, Miranda thought she could come close…if she had enough time to make the appropriate lists, hire appropriate help and attend to the details of coordinating all the little items that made up a “miracle.” “I can do better than this—” she gestured broadly at the scanty amounts of food “—in my sleep. And honestly, how hard can it be to plan a wedding?”
Erica’s round pixyish face crimped with worry. “Three months, Miranda. Think how stressed you’ll be.”
Miranda didn’t think she would be that stressed. She loved a challenge, loved being busy, loved proving she could do what others said couldn’t be done. “Stressed is desserts spelled backward, you know,” Miranda said, apropos of nothing. “I’ll be fine.”
“But what about the election?” Erica pressed, moving on down the line to trays that still held a few tidbits of smoked salmon, boiled shrimp and some sort of pâté. “Don’t you need to do at least some campaigning to keep your city council seat?”
Miranda laughed. “The only person in my ward to file against me is Beatrice Combs and everyone knows her only reason for doing it is so she can fuss about the tourists. No one will vote for her. A sitting councillor hasn’t lost a reelection bid in years. I’m not worried.” Picking up the tongs, she captured a skimpy portion of shrimp and dropped it onto her plate. “I have several private landscape-design projects under construction and the one large project still on my desk is an update of the Foundation’s Peace Garden. But my busiest schedule is always late winter, early spring, when people start thinking about new landscaping. I have plenty of time now to plan the wedding.”
“That’s very optimistic of you.”
“No, simply realistic.” She leaned over the table, reaching with the tongs to secure a tasty-looking but rather soggy chunk of the salmon. “Ainsley is getting married in October whether I’m up to my ears in work or just sitting around twiddling my thumbs. I have to plan the wedding, Erica, or it will turn out worse than this one.” She gestured to encompass the buffet tables again to emphasize her point, but the tongs made a sudden metallic clank as they connected with an obstacle of similar size and Miranda looked up just in time to see the chunk of smoked salmon fly through the air and splatter across a crisp white shirtfront.
Embarrassed beyond belief, she sent her gaze up the lines of a funky blue-and-yellow-print tie, past a solid, honest-seeming chin at the base of a charmingly handsome face. A pair of friendly, if somewhat startled, brown eyes met hers and a response as sweet as a hug wrapped around her, followed almost instantly by a quicksilver stab of attraction. He was attractive and the air felt suddenly charged with awareness, making Miranda almost grateful for the swift and distracting infusion of self-consciousness that warmed her cheeks. “Oh,” she said, her voice a breathy rush that couldn’t all be blamed on embarrassment. “I am sooooo sorry!”
His smile curved wryly as he plucked the salmon from where it clung tenaciously, and very messily, to his chest, and dropped it onto his plate. Then he licked his fingers. “In other circumstances, I might be a little upset that my shirt’s messed up,” he said, his voice unoffended and rich with humor. “But considering how hungry I am, I think I’ll just thank you for sharing and ask you to toss over that celery stick.”
She laughed. Breathily conscious of how flirtatious, how not like herself she sounded. “Really,” she said, forcing her voice to a more normal pitch. “I’m very sorry. I don’t know how that happened.”
“Our tongs collided,” he said. “It was fate.”
Fate. He believed it was fate. The thought danced through her mind like fairy dust while she stood there smiling, feeling a loopy impulse to giggle. Except she never giggled, didn’t even know how. “I don’t believe in fate,” she said, gathering some normalcy. “But I do believe in the power of club soda, and if I were you, I’d get some on that shirt before the stain sets.”
He glanced down, then brought his whiskey-brown eyes back to hers, puzzled, interested. “Club soda, huh?”
“That’s what I’d use,” she began. “Unless I had…”
“Nate! You old son of a gun! I thought it was you!”
Miranda’s advice trailed away, overpowered by the robust greeting of a slight, middle-aged man with more smile than hair, who’d cut into the line with the clear intent of intercepting the man she’d just been talking with. Nate. His name was Nate.
“I’d heard you were back in Newport, but I thought it was probably only a rumor,” the man said, one hand clasping Nate’s in a handshake, the other grasping his elbow in a good-buddy squeeze. “I’m glad to see you’re not holed up in that big house, waiting for some of the old gang to come and coax you out. We’re not any of us the party animals we used to be, you know. Though I don’t suppose you’re the good-time Charlie you used to be, either.”
“Mark.” Nate grinned and returned the handshake with gusto. “It’s great to see you. I’ve been home about a month now. Trying to get settled. You know how that goes.”
“Sure do,” Mark agreed amiably, nodding as if he did indeed know. Then his expression sobered. “Deb and I were really sorry to hear about Angie. We just couldn’t believe it. There’s nothing to say except I sure wish it hadn’t happened.”
“Me, too.” Nate’s expression was somber for a passing moment, but then his smile returned. “Maybe we can all get together. Recap some of our college adventures. Do you ever see Dalton Hughes? Is he still around here? And Jenny Oles? What about her?”
Mark laughed. “I always thought you had a thing for Jenny. Before Angie came along, anyway. Well, the last I heard, Jen’s in Boston. Married to a…”
“Miranda?” Erica, two steps down the buffet line, gestured for attention. “You’re holding up the line,” she said, loud enough to be heard, quietly enough not to be overheard. “And I think they’re bringing out the wedding cake. Maybe we can at least get a piece of that before it’s gone.”
Miranda moved forward, forcing herself not to look back at the man whose name was Nate. He should do something about that stain, she thought. He really should.
NATE WATCHED HER walk away, admiring the graceful swing of her hips, regretting the interruption, wondering if he even knew how to talk to