Wedding at Wildwood

“There you are,” an aged voice called from the arched doorway leading to the long narrow kitchen off to the right. “I was getting worried.”

Isabel set her camera down on a nearby rickety side table, then stepped forward to take the two glasses of iced tea from her grandmother’s plump, veined hands. “Sorry, Grammy. I got carried away taking pictures of the wildflowers.”

She didn’t mention that she’d also gotten carried away with seeing Dillon Murdock again. She wasn’t ready to discuss him with her grandmother.

“You and that picture taking,” Martha said, waving a hand, her smile gentle and indulging. “The flowers are sure pretty right now, though.” Settling down onto the puffy cushion of her cane-backed chair, she added, “Miss Cynthia always did love her wildflowers. I remember one time a few years back, that Eli got it in his head to mow them down. Said they were an eyesore, what with the old house closed up and everything.”

“He didn’t do it, did he?” Isabel asked, her eyes going wide. “That would have ruined them.”

Martha chuckled as she automatically reached for Isabel’s hand, prepared to say grace. “Oh, no. He tried, though. Had one of the hired hands out on a mower early one morning. Miss Cynthia heard the tractor and went tramping through the flowers, all dressed in a pink suit and cream pumps, her big white hat flapping in the wind. She told that tractor driver to get his hide out of her flowers. She watched until that poor kid drove that mower clear back to the equipment barn. Then she headed off, prim as ever, to her Saturday morning brunch at the country club.”

Isabel shook her head, sat silently as Grammy said grace, then took a long swallow of the heavily sweetened tea. “I was right. Some things never change.”

Martha passed her the boiled new potatoes and fresh string beans. “Do you regret taking the Murdocks up on their offer?”

Isabel bit into a mouthful of the fresh vegetables, then swallowed hastily. “You mean being the official photographer for Eli’s extravagant wedding?”

“I wouldn’t use the same wording, exactly,” Martha said, a wry smile curving her wrinkled lips, “but I reckon that’s what I was asking.”

Smiling, herself, at her grandmother’s roundabout way of getting to the heart of any matter, Isabel stabbed her knife into her chicken-fried steak, taking out her frustrations on the tender meat. “Well, I’m having second thoughts, yes,” she admitted, her mind on Dillon. “But I couldn’t very well turn them down. They’re paying me a bundle and I can always use the cash. But, I mainly did it because you asked me to, Grammy.”

“Don’t let me talk you into anything,” Martha said, her blue eyes twinkling.

“As if you’ve ever had to talk anyone into anything,” Isabel responded, laughing at last. “You could sweet-talk a mule into tap dancing.”

“Humph, never tried that one.” Her grandmother grinned impishly. “But I did bake your favorite cinnamon rolls, just in case—Miss Mule.”

“For dessert?” Isabel asked, sniffing the air, the favorite nickname her grandmother always used to imply that she was stubborn slipping over her head. “Or do I have to hold out till breakfast?”

Martha reached across the lacy white tablecloth to pat her granddaughter’s hand. “Not a soul here, but you and me. Guess we can eat ’em any time we get hungry for ’em.”

“Dessert, then, definitely,” Isabel affirmed, munching down on her steak. “Ah, Grammy, you are the best cook in the world.”

“Well, you could have my cooking a lot more if you came to visit more often.”

Isabel set her fork down, her gaze centered on her sweet grandmother. She loved her Grammy; loved her plump, sweet-scented welcoming arms, loved her smiling, jovial face, loved her gray tightly curled hair. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to move back here permanently, a subject they’d tossed back and forth over the years.

Her tone gentle, she said, “Grammy, don’t start with that. You know I have to travel a lot in my line of work and I don’t always have an opportunity to come home.”

Martha snorted. “Well, you told me yourself you didn’t have any assignments lined up over the next few weeks, so you can stay here and have a nice vacation. Living in a suitcase—that is no kind of life for a young lady.”

“I have an apartment in Savannah.”

“That you let other people live in—what kind of privacy does that give you?”

“Very little, when I manage to get back there,” Isabel had to admit. “Subletting is the only way to hold on to it, though.”

“And you always going on and on when you were little about having a home of your own.”

Her appetite suddenly gone, Isabel stared down at the pink-and-blue-flowered pattern on her grandmother’s aged china. “Yeah, I did do that. But I never got that home. And I’ve learned to be content with what I do have.” Only lately, she had to admit, her nomadic life was starting to wear a little thin.

Wanting to lighten the tone of the conversation, she jumped up to hug her grandmother. “And I have everything I need—like home-baked cinnamon rolls and a grandmother who doesn’t nag too much.”

Martha sighed and patted Isabel’s back, returning the hug generously. “Okay, Miss Mule, I can take a hint. I won’t badger you anymore—tonight at least.”

“Thank you,” Isabel said, settling back down in her own chair. “Now, how ’bout one of those rolls you promised me?”

“Glad to be home?” Martha challenged, her brows lifting, a teasing glow on her pink-cheeked face.

“Oh, all right, yes,” Isabel admitted, taking the small defeat as part of the fun of having a remarkable woman for a grandmother. “I’m glad to be home.”

“That’s good, dear.”

Isabel smiled as Martha headed into the kitchen to retrieve two fat, piping hot cinnamon rolls. Martha Landry was a pillar of the church, a Sunday school teacher who prided herself on teaching the ways of Jesus Christ as an example of character and high moral standing, but with a love and practicality that reached the children much more effectively than preaching down to them ever could.

Isabel knew her grandmother wouldn’t preach to her, either; not in the way her own parents always had. It was a special part of her relationship with her grandmother that had grown over the years since her parents’ deaths. She could talk to Grammy about anything and know that Martha Landry wouldn’t sit in judgment. One of Grammy’s favorite Bible quotes was from First Corinthians: “For if we would judge ourselves, we should not be judged.”

Isabel knew her grandmother believed in accepting people as humans, complete with flaws. And that included their mighty neighbors. Yet Isabel couldn’t help but judge the Murdocks, since they’d passed judgment on her a long time ago.

“I saw Dillon tonight,” she said now, her gaze locking with her grandmother’s, begging for understanding. “He’s home for the wedding.”

Isabel watched for her grandmother’s reaction, and seeing no condemnation, waited for Martha to speak.

“Well, well,” the older woman said at last, her carefully blank gaze searching Isabel’s face. “And how was Mr. Dillon Murdock?”

“Confused, I believe,” Isabel replied. “He seemed so sad, Grammy. So very sad.”

“That man’s had a rough reckoning over the past few years. From what I’ve heard, he hasn’t had it so easy since he left Wildwood.”

Hating herself for being curious, Isabel asked, “And just what did you hear?”

Grammy feigned surprise. “Child, you want me to pass on gossip?”

Isabel grinned. “Of course not. I just want you to share what you know.”

Martha licked sweet, white icing off her fingers. “Yep, you want me to spill the beans on Dillon Murdock. Do you still have a crush on him, after all these years?”

Isabel cringed at her grandmother’s sharp memory, then sat back to try to answer that question truthfully. “You know, Grammy, I had a crush on him, true. But that was long ago, and even though I saw Dillon each and every day, I never really knew him. And I don’t know him now. It was a dream, and not a very realistic one.”

“Amen to that. And now?”

Isabel couldn’t hide the truth from her grandmother. “And now, I’m curious about the man he’s become. Seeing him again tonight, well, it really threw me. He seemed the same, but he also seemed different. I’m hoping he’s changed some.”

Martha gave her a long, scrutinizing stare. “That’s all well and good, honey. But remember, the boy you knew had problems, lots of problems. And as far as we know, the man might still be carrying those same problems. I’d hate to see you open yourself up to a world of hurt.”

Isabel got up to clear away their dishes, her eyes downcast. “Oh, you don’t have to worry on that account, Grammy. When I left Wildwood, I promised myself I’d never be hurt by the Murdocks again.”

“Including Dillon?”

“Especially Dillon,” Isabel readily retorted. Then she turned at the kitchen door. “Although Dillon never really did anything that terrible to me.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really. Oh, he teased me a lot, but mostly his only fault was that he was a Murdock. Eli, on the other hand, made no bones about my being the poor hired help. I just can’t tolerate their superior attitudes and snobbery. Not now. I did when I was living here, but not now. Not anymore.”

Martha followed Isabel into the kitchen. “And did Mr. Dillon Murdock act superior tonight, when you talked to him?”

Isabel surprised herself by defending him. “No, he didn’t. Not at all. In fact, he was…almost humble.”

“I just hope that boy’s learned from his mistakes.”

“Me, too,” Isabel said. “Me, too.”

Dillon’s soul-weary eyes came back to her mind, so brilliantly clear, she had to shake her head to rid herself of the image. “You don’t have to worry about me and Dillon Murdock, Grammy. I don’t plan on falling for any of his sob stories.”

“Should be an interesting wedding,” Martha commented, her hands busy washing out plates.

Isabel didn’t miss the implications of that statement. She never could fool her grandmother.

Dillon stood at the back door of his brother’s house, every fiber of his being telling him not to enter the modern, gleaming kitchen. But his mother was standing at the sink, dressed in white linen slacks and a blue silk blouse, her curled hair turned now from blond to silver-white, her small frame more frail-looking than Dillon remembered. He smiled as he heard her loudly giving orders to the maid who’d been with their family for years.

“Now, Gladys, we want everything to be just right, remember? So finish up there, dear, then you can go on back to tidying the guest room for Dillon. He’ll be here any minute.”

Cynthia had written to him, begging him to come home for his brother’s wedding.

And so here he stood.

The minute he opened the glass door to the room, he was assaulted with the scent of dinner rolls baking, along with the scent of fragrant potpourri and a trace of his mother’s overly sweet perfume. At least some parts of Eli’s new home were familiar.

“Hello, Mama,” he said from his spot by the door.

Cynthia whirled from directing the maid to see who’d just entered her kitchen, her gray eyes wide, her mouth opening as she recognized her younger son. “Oh, my…Dillon. You came home.”

Dillon took his tiny mother into his arms, his hands splaying across her back in a tight hug, his eyes closing as memories warmed his heart even while it broke all over again. Then he set his mother away, so he could look down into her face. “This isn’t my home, Mother. Not this house. It belongs to Eli.”

“Well, you’re welcome here. You should know that,” Cynthia insisted as she reached up to push a stubborn spike of hair away from his forehead. “You look tired, baby.”

He was tired. Tired of worrying, wondering, hoping, wishing. He didn’t want to be here, but he wanted to be with his mother. She was getting older. They’d kept in touch, but he should have come home long ago. “I could use a glass of tea,” he said by way of hiding what he really needed. “Where’s Eli?”

“Right here,” his brother said from a doorway leading into the airy, spacious den. “Just got in from the cotton patch.” Stomping into the kitchen, his work boots making a distinctive clicking sound, Eli Murdock looked his brother over with disdain and contempt. “Of course, you wouldn’t know a thing about growing cotton, now would you, little brother?”

“Not much,” Dillon admitted, a steely determination making him bring his guard up.

His brother had aged visibly in the years that Dillon had been away. Eli’s hair was still thick and black, but tinges of gray now peppered his temples. He was still tall and commanding, but his belly had a definite paunch. He looked worn-out, dusty, his brown eyes shot with red.

“So, it’s cotton now?” Dillon asked by way of conversation. “When did we switch cash crops? I thought corn and peanuts were our mainstay.”

“We didn’t do anything,” Eli said as he poured himself a tall glass of water then pointed at his own chest. “I, little brother, I did all the work on this farm, while you were gallivanting around Atlanta, living off Daddy’s money. Why’d you come back, anyway—to beg Mama for your inheritance?”

“Eli!” Cynthia moved between her sons with practiced efficiency. “I invited Dillon home, for your wedding. And I want you to try to be civil to each other while he’s here. Do you both understand?”

Dillon looked at his mother’s hopeful, firm expression, then glanced at the brooding hostility on his brother’s ruddy face. “Why don’t you ask the groom, Mother?”

“I’m asking both of you,” Cynthia said, her eyes moving from one son to the other. “For my sake, and for Susan’s sake.”

Eli hung his head, then lifted his gaze to Dillon. “As long as he stays out of my way. I won’t have him ruining Susan’s big day.”

“Thoughtful of you,” Dillon countered. “But, hey, I won’t if you won’t, brother.”

“I’ll be too preoccupied with my bride to pay you any attention,” Eli retorted, a distinct smugness in his words.

Wanting to counter his lack of tact, Dillon said, “Well, it certainly took you long enough to find a woman willing to put up with you.”

That hit home. Eli set his glass down, then placed both hands on his hips. “I don’t see you bringing any young ladies home to meet Mama.”

Cynthia clapped her hands for quiet. “Enough of this. Can we please sit down to have a pleasant dinner together? Gladys and I made baked catfish and squash casserole.”

“Why did you have to invite him back here?” Eli asked. “And for my wedding, of all things?”

“I wanted your brother here,” Cynthia said, tears glistening her eyes. “I wanted my sons to make peace with each other.”

Eli stomped to the sink to wash his hands and face. Then turning to dry himself with a dishtowel, he said, “I don’t have to make peace with Dillon, Mama. He’s the one who should be doing the apologizing. He ran off.”

“No, you drove me off,” Dillon said, then he turned to his mother. “I’m sorry, I can’t stay in this house. I’ll be at the wedding, Mama, and I’ll show up at all the required functions, but if you need me, I’ll be at Wildwood.”

“You can’t stay in that run-down house,” Cynthia said, grabbing his arm as he headed for the door.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Let him go,” Eli called. “Let him try to survive in this heat, with no water or electricity. He’ll be back across the road soon enough.”

Dillon gently extracted himself from his mother’s fierce grip. “I’ll see you later, Mama.”

“That’s just like you,” Eli said. “Turn and run again. You never could stick around long enough to do any good around here.”

“Eli, hush,” Cynthia said. Then she called to Dillon, “I’ll bring you a warm plate over later.”

Dillon just kept walking, and he didn’t stop until he reached the wildflower field. Then he fell down on his knees and stared up into the starry sky. He wanted to get on his motorcycle and ride away. But, this time, something held him back. This time, Isabel’s green eyes and sweet-smelling hair haunted him and held him while her words came back to taunt him.

What are you doing back here?

Maybe it was time he found the answer to that question.

Maybe this time, he would stay and fight.

The next morning, Isabel remembered just how interesting things could become in a small town. The wedding of one of the most eligible, elusive bachelors in the county was the talk of the small hamlet, so everyone who was anyone would be invited to the event. And those who weren’t invited would bust a gut trying to hear the details.

Isabel was scheduled to meet Susan Webster at the bridal shop on Front Street at ten o’clock. Susan’s mother wanted Isabel to see Susan in the dress, then they’d decide where to start taking the preliminary pictures of the bride in all her splendor.

Pulling her rented Jeep up to the curve of the Brides and Beaus formal wear shop, Isabel got the strange sense that the curious townspeople were watching her return closely, too.

“Guess I’m a strange creature,” she told Susan after hugging the other woman. “The radical free spirit comes home to Wildwood.”

“We gave that particular honor to Dillon,” Susan said, her bright blue eyes lighting up in spite of the wisecrack. “Did you know he’s moved back in the old house? Opened up a couple of rooms. He refuses to stay in Eli’s house.”

Hoping she didn’t sound too interested, Isabel tossed her long braid aside and shrugged. “Dillon always was a loner.”

“Understatement,” Susan replied, dragging Isabel into the back of the long, cluttered shop. Past the pastel formals and tuxedos that went flying off the racks at prom time, they entered the bride room where Susan’s plump mother, Beatrice, sat going over the final details of the bridesmaid dresses with a clerk.

“Hello, Isabel,” Beatrice said, smiling up at her. “Isn’t this exciting? My baby’s finally getting married, and to Eli Murdock. I’m so proud.”

“It is exciting, Mrs. Webster,” Isabel replied, bending down to hug the older woman. She’d have to be careful about keeping her real feelings regarding this match to herself. “And I’m touched that you both wanted me to be a part of it.”

“Wait until you see the dress,” Beatrice enthused, her attention already back on her job as mother of the bride.

“Wow, look at all this lace and satin,” Isabel quipped, holding a hand to her eyes as she looked around at all the dresses and veils hanging in the prim room. “So bright and so white.”

“Still wedding shy, I see,” Susan said, sweeping around with her arms wrapped to her chest. “Not me, Isabel. I’m very happy.”

Isabel eyed her high school friend, wanting desperately to ask her how she’d fallen for a cold fish like Eli Murdock. But she wouldn’t dream of saying anything to hurt kind, gentle Susan. “You look sickeningly happy,” she told Susan, her smile genuine. “You were meant to be married.”

“Took me long enough to notice Eli, though,” Susan said as they settled down on a cushioned sofa. “Imagine, all those years in the same town, then one day we ran into each other at the Feed and Seed….”

“Very romantic,” Isabel said, grinning. “Tell me, did it happen over the corn seeds or maybe the…er…manure pile.”

“Oh, you!” Susan laughed, then patted Isabel’s hand. “I’m so glad you’ll be taking the pictures. I insisted, you know. I told them you were nationally famous and we might not be able to get you for such a frivolous assignment, so I convinced Eli to pay you big bucks.”

Isabel didn’t hide her surprise. “Well, that explains a few things. I couldn’t understand why the Murdocks wanted me so badly.”

“Oh, they do,” Susan assured her, her face flushing. “I mean, Mrs. Murdock agreed wholeheartedly—”

Seeing the other woman’s embarrassment, Isabel shrugged again. “I understand, Susan. Eli wasn’t too keen on the idea of hiring me to take your wedding pictures, huh?”

“I can explain that,” Susan began, clearly appalled that she’d let that little tidbit out.

“No need,” Isabel replied. “Eli and I never did see eye to eye. But that’s all in the past. And if the request came from you, then I accept completely, and…I don’t mind taking some of Eli’s money off his hands. Now, show me this dress everyone keeps raving about.”

Ever the excited bride, Susan hopped up. “It’s so beautiful!” Then she turned to stare down at Isabel, a troubled look on her pretty features. “Eli’s changed, Isabel. Really, he has.”

“I know you wouldn’t marry him if you didn’t believe that, Susan,” Isabel replied softly. “And I do hope you’ll always be as happy as you look right now.”

Just to prove her point, she snapped a picture of Susan. And captured the tad of sadness she saw flickering quickly through the girl’s eyes. Had Eli already started causing worry to his young bride?

“Susan,” she asked as she watched her friend chatting with one of the clerks, “you’d tell me if anything was wrong, right?”

Susan whirled around, her features puzzled. “Wrong? What could be wrong?” Then lowering her head, she sighed, “It’s just…I’m so excited I haven’t been able to eat or sleep. I’m so in love, Isabel.” With that, Susan was off to the dressing room to put on her elaborate bridal dress.

Not good at waiting, Isabel got up to saunter around the shop. She’d brought her own gown to wear to the wedding, but some of the dresses offered here were quite lovely. Remembering her first prom, she balked as a vision of a young Dillon in his prom tuxedo, with a popular cheerleader encased in satiny pink by his side, came to mind. Isabel’s dress that night had been homemade, an inexpensive knockoff made from a pattern with some gaudy material her mother had found on sale.

It had been Dillon’s senior year, but Isabel had still been a junior in high school. Dillon had teased Isabel about her date, a football player who had a reputation for taking advantage of young girls’ hearts, then later that night Dillon had asked Isabel to dance with him. She’d promptly refused, too afraid of her own mixed feelings to get near him. And too obsessed with Dillon to let the football player make any moves on her.

“Get over it, Isabel,” she told herself now as she watched a bright-eyed teenager drooling over the many formal dresses crushed together all around them like delicate flower buds. She refused to think about Dillon Murdock.

But when the front door of the shop opened and the man himself stepped into the room, she had no choice but to acknowledge him. His masculine presence filled the dainty store with a bold, daring danger. And his eyes on her only added to the rising temperature of the humid summer day.

“Dillon,” she said, too breathlessly.

“Isabel.” He strode toward her, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “I see they’ve put you straight to work.”

“Yes. I’m here to get a few shots of Susan in her dress and to set up a more formal location for her portrait shots.”

He nodded, then ran his fingers through his hair. “Mama wanted me to get fitted for a tux. I tried to get out of it, but—” His shrug was indifferent.

The image of him in a tuxedo made Isabel want to drool just like a teenager. But she quickly reprimanded herself, and putting on a blank expression, said, “But your mother persuaded you to come in anyway.”

He nodded, a wry grin slicing his angular face. “You know the woman well.”

Isabel wanted to remind him that she knew all the Murdocks very well. Well enough to be wary of any association with them. Instead she asked, “How is your mother?”

Dillon hesitated, then decided to keep his family problems to himself, not that it mattered. The whole town would probably soon be talking about his renewed feud with his brother, and the fact that he’d moved into the run-down plantation house.

He shrugged. “You know Mama. She’s tough. And she’s okay, I reckon. Stressed about this wedding.”

And probably about having him back home, no doubt, Isabel decided.

Just then a nervous female clerk came forward. “Mr. Murdock, I’m Stacey Whitfield. If you’ll just follow me, we can have you fitted in no time.”