W innifred Gardner wasn't a morning person. She usually had to claw her way up from sleep like a person brushing thick spiderwebs aside while ducking through an abandoned building. The next morning, however, she came awake as if a light had been turned on directly above her face.
Joseph Duggan, she thought, staring straight at the ceiling. You're going to see him again today! You're going to walk down an aisle with him. You're going to be photographed beside him. You're going to share the head table seated side by side with him. You're going to dance with him. She smiled, recalling that he'd claimed to be no dancer. She found that hard to believe. He was one smooth mover was Joseph Duggan. In more ways than one, she suspected.
The thought brought her up sharply. Whatever was she doing, lying here at six in the morning, woolgathering about Joseph Duggan when she was engaged to marry Paul Hildebrandt in three months?
Paul. He'd promised to make it to the wedding today, and she was holding him to it! Why couldn't he get it through his flawlessly groomed head she didn't give a tinker's damn whether or not they had a furnished living room by the time they got married? Or even the house he'd insisted was a prerequisite. He was living in it already-so proud of the fact that he'd managed to provide it for her even before the big day. But the house wasn't enough for Paul. He'd taken on contract work to earn extra money for all the worldly goods he told her she deserved, and had installed a computer terminal in one of the three bedrooms, where he often worked Saturdays and evenings, rapping away at the keyboard that produced all the mysterious solutions to problems she could not grasp, in a language she could not understand and in methods that made her feel ignorant when he tried to explain them to her.
But he'd promised: today he'd be with her at the wedding and the dance.
With that reassuring thought she got up, concentrating on Paul and the pleasant surprise in store for him when he saw her in the ultimate dress. If he complimented her today-and he'd better-she promised herself she'd accept it at face value and not search for ulterior meanings.
The day was clear and sunny, but by ten in the morning the March winds had picked up again. The bridesmaids were all meeting at McLean 's Beauty Shop to have their hair done into Gibson Girl hairdos.
When Winnie studied the finished results in the mirror, she knew instinctively Paul would glow with admiration when he saw her. He was as old-fashioned as a man could be when it came to women and femininity, and though it was often a burr under her saddle, preferring as she did casual clothing for her active personality, today Winnie could face him in a hairdo, hat and dress that would please him tremendously.
But-oh-it was a flattering hairdo. The style was chosen by Sandy to accommodate wide-brimmed straw hats, thus Winnie's streaked blond hair closely contoured her skull, lifting in the semidroopy Evelyn Nesbit coil that circled her entire head just within the hairline. She touched the puffy doughnut-shaped roll. Inside, a resilient "rat" added fullness. It felt foreign but not altogether alien. The dramatic change in her appearance made her smile at herself in the mirror and feel suddenly very, very impatient for two o'clock to arrive.
Shortly before noon Winnie stepped out of the bathtub, dried her freshly shaved legs, briskly toweled her belly, breasts and arms but stopped dead when she caught the reflection of her hair again in the mirror. She leaned closer, touched the loose tendril coiling upon her temple and decided to go the rest of the route and apply makeup in keeping with the same tradition as the hairdo.
But first she flapped a puffy mitt up one side of her body and down the other, liberally powdering her skin with the scent of Chanel No. 5, one of her few daily concessions to femininity. She was wild about the scent! She wondered what Joseph Duggan would think of it, but the sight of her naked puckered nipples made Winnie chide herself for caring what he thought. She had no business pondering the man's likes and dislikes, yet he'd been slipping into her mind, unbidden, all day.
Her new underwear-pure white-was again a nostalgic trip into the past, for the merry-widow bra cinched her waist and flared at the cutaway hips with boned stiffness that few modern-day women experience. But the confining strapless support garment was necessary, owing to the styling of the bridesmaids' dresses Sandy had chosen. Winnie wasn't certain, when she'd finished applying her makeup, whether she'd done the right thing. The plum eyeshadow and darker penciled undershadings duplicated the look of the women pictured on old tin Coca-Cola trays, as did the apple-cheeked look she'd created with bright blush. But it was the lips she studied critically. She'd used cherry red lipstick and an applicator brush, etching the upper lip with exaggerated peaks, then narrowing the corners of her mouth until it took on the Cupid's pucker of Miss Clara Bow. Maybe Paul was right-she ought to dress up more often. It felt marvelous!
She slipped on an everyday dress and then packed up her gown, dyed-to-match high heels, hat, makeup and hair spray, and glanced out the window to find the wind still bending the leafless treetops at a forty-five-degree angle. With a silk scarf wrapped around her precious hairdo she ran out to the taxi she had called.
Racing up the steps toward the church door ten minutes later, she felt a thrill of anticipation-Joseph Duggan was probably inside already. Would she run into him in the vestibule the moment she stepped inside? Well, if so, at least she didn't smell like gasoline this time! But dammit, she didn't want him to see her with this scarf clutched around her head like a babushka.
But the vestibule was empty except for the florist's delivery man and one of the ushers, still clad in blue jeans and sneakers, his tux in a bag over his arm.
The two dressing rooms were situated just off the vestibule, and when Winnie opened the door to the women's, everything was excitement. Sandy was there already, as well as one of the bridesmaids, Jeanne, and right behind Winnie entered the other, a cousin named Jacqueline. Lighted mirrors reflected long plastic bags, women in half-clothed states and a bride with a bad case of the jitters.
"Oh, Winnie, thank God you're here! I've been higher than a North Dakota kite, worrying that everyone wouldn't get here on time or that the flowers would be late, or the photographer would forget his camera or-"
"All right, Sandra Schaeffer, calm down! None of the aforementioned calamities is going to happen. All of us are here now. The photographer is setting up his equipment inside, and the flowers are already in the vestibule."
As if on cue, there came a tap on the door, and a gray-haired woman poked her head inside. "Anybody in here getting married?" Then she swept in, bearing a broad flat green box, followed by a series of concealing purple bags, and before she left, the excitement had heightened considerably. Mothers and the flower girl soon arrived, adding to the festive nervousness.
The four young women donned their dresses, growing more fluttery and exhilarated with each passing minute.
Sandy was in pristine white, of course, but each of the others wore a different pastel hue: Jeanne's powder blue; Jacqueline's daffodil yellow; and Winnie's that most feminine of colors-pink.
Stepping into the ankle-length gown, Winnie caught the scent of Chanel, drifting up to her nostrils as she lifted first one foot, then the other, and slipped them inside the shimmery taffeta underlining over which the body of the dress was fashioned of organdy. Its skirt was pure vintage 1910, fitting snugly at the waist and hip, then flaring to a bell-shaped hemline that revealed her pink satin pumps with tiny straps across the instep, secured by a miniature pearl button on the outer side of each foot. The bodice of the dress was of simple spaghetti-strap styling, but its elegance was created by the loose transparent lace overbodice that attached in a drooping fashion at the waist, then covered the chest to the throat. In the back it was hooked only once-at the nape-then gaped open in a long slit to the waist. Its sleeves were shaped much like the skirt-belled, loose and slightly slithery. The hat-that crowning touch-was of pink open-weave straw, a wide-brimmed leghorn style not entirely in keeping with the 1910 look, but utterly feminine. It had a pink silk rose nestled where crown met brim, and matching ribbons circling the crown, then streaming behind to the waist. While Sandy went gloveless and carried white gardenias, her attendants wore white gloves and held small wicker baskets of spring flowers whose colors coordinated with their outfits: one of purple iris, another of lemony jonquils, and the last-Winnie's-of blushing pink hyacinth whose fragrance was nothing short of overwhelming.
The two mothers, as well as grandmothers, nieces and flower girl, were all busy pinning on corsages. In the last-minute flurry Winnie caught a lingering glance at her own reflection.
It was crazy, she thought, standing here gawking at herself and wondering what Joseph Duggan would think when he caught sight of her, yet that's exactly what she was doing. The muse made her heart flutter as if she were the bride, and when the call came to exit to the nave for group pictures, she placed a hand over her heart, then realized her palm was sweating within her glove.
She picked him out with the surety of a wild bird seeking its life mate within a flock of thousands. Stepping out into the vestibule, she faced a duster of masculine backs, most of which were garbed in jet black. Even from behind, Joseph Duggan stood out, identifiable by his well-proportioned build and those dark brown curls. He stood with one hand in his trouser pocket, the vented tail of his tuxedo jacket caught on his forearm, tugging it aside to reveal a wedge of taut black fabric stretched across his flat backside. He was speaking to another man, gesturing with his free hand, which was covered halfway to the knuckles by a tier of white ruffles that sprouted from beneath his black cuff. Another band of white showed above his collar, and the relaxed curve of his knee was accentuated by a narrow stripe of black satin that crooked down the side of his trouser leg. His hand clapped the other man on the shoulder, and he laughed. The sound seemed to shimmy its way between Winnie's thighs and her sleek underslip, raising little ripples of pleasure.
Mick approached the pair of men just then, appearing like a snowy swan among crows, dressed totally in white, his tuxedo jacket sporting knee-length tails at the rear. Yet Winnie scarcely afforded him a glance. Her eyes were fixed upon the black-clad figure of Joseph Duggan as he swung to face the groom, and the two clasped hands, exchanging words too low for her to hear across the murmurous distance between them. Mick drifted away, and Joseph turned in her direction, his eyes slowly scanning the vestibule.
He homed in on her as surely as she had him, his eyes advancing no farther once they found hers. Something tight and restricting gripped her chest. A weightless sense of expectancy buoyed her stomach, and her heart danced hollowly against her ribs. His lips dropped open, and his eyes swept to her feet and up again. The hand came slowly, slowly out of his pocket. Then he smiled, and something sizzling and exciting exploded in her heart. Oh, that smile! That wondrous killing smile! She hadn't imagined its brilliance. It was as blinding as ever.
He shouldered his way forward immediately, excusing himself as he rested his hand on a woman's shoulder, gently nudging her aside, all the while holding Winnifred in his gaze.
He approached with both hands extended, palms up. "My God, you look beautiful!"
She gripped the basket in one hand but gave him her other. He pressed it between both of his palms, and she watched in fascination as he bent forward to kiss it. But finding it clothed in the white glove, he kissed instead the back of her wrist, just above the cotton. His lips were warm, his breath moist, and the back of his head a dark mass of ringlets as he bent to her and lingered.
By the time he lifted his eyes and straightened, she was the color of the flowers in her basket.
"Why, thank you, kind sir. And you look-" she braved a hurried sweeping glance "-dashing!" She tried to keep her voice steady, but telltale tremors made it quiver.
"Are you afraid?" he asked and looked down at her hand, working it now between his own. "You're shaking." He galvanized her with his stunning eyes again while squeezing hard on her glove.
She withdrew reluctantly from his warm hold. "Oh, it's just… just excitement! Aren't you excited?"
His eyes danced mischievously-around, above, then into hers. "Absolutely," he returned softly. And she was forced to turn away when his dark brown pupils settled upon her bowed red lips and stayed there. He watched her relentlessly-she could feel it-even though he stood at ease, a hand again casually draped inside his trouser pocket. She was conscious of the faint scent of incense and that of candlewicks, and the ever-present aroma rising from the sweet spring flowers resting against her trembling stomach. When she could stand it no longer, she gave in to the irresistible compulsion and turned to study him, though common sense warned her not to.
Whatever Winn had expected him to be wearing, it was not black. Most groomsmen wore baby blue, gray or rich nutmegs these days. Yet she thought she would never again believe black a drab color after seeing it stretched across the muscles and limbs of Joseph Duggan. It set off the froth of snowy ruffles at his chest in an utterly masculine manner. The crisp black bow tie made his sturdy neck look even more manly, and the skintight stretch of black vest was as tempting as a shadowed haunted house, inviting exploration in much the same way as forbidden, yet compelling things are wont to do. Her eyes were drawn to the deep U-curve low upon his midsection, where black abutted white as he again held the left panel of his jacket back, hooked behind his ruffled wrist.
"Did what's-his-name see you dressed like this?" he asked unsmilingly.
Her startled eyes swerved to his. "Paul. His name is Paul. And no, he didn't."
"So I take it he's not here yet." He glanced around, but his gaze returned to her as if there were no help for it.
"No, of course not. But he'll be here for the service." She fidgeted with the handle of her basket, suddenly wondering if the pancake hostess had made it back last night. "Did what's-her-name see you dressed like that?"
"Her name is Lee Ann, and no, she didn't get back yet that I know of. And even if she had, she wouldn't have seen me. We don't live together if that's what you're asking. I live in an old house in Osseo with my two younger brothers."
She felt the heat rising up her chest once again, staining her chin and cheeks. "I wasn't asking that."
"No, I suppose you weren't. But now you know just the same." Was it her imagination, or had his shoulders squared defensively? He had skewered her with a look that demanded she raise her eyes to his, but she took refuge in staring at the basket of hyacinth.
"Are you going to tell me, or not?" he demanded quietly, studying her averted face.
Her eyes flew to his. "Tell you what?"
"If you live with him."
"I don't think it's any of your business." Then why was her heart flailing around like some wounded bird?
"You're absolutely right. But I'm asking, anyway."
She considered lying just to set him in his place, but in the end couldn't. "No, I don't. He lives in the house we'll be living in once we get married, and I live in my own town house on Shingle Creek Parkway."
It hadn't been her imagination: he had straightened his shoulders, for now they relaxed noticeably as he released a pent breath.
"Everybody to the front of the church now, and we'll take the group pictures!" Winnie nearly sighed aloud when the call of the photographer released them from the tension that seemed to dominate both her and Joseph Duggan today.
At the open double doors he touched the holy-water font and crossed himself, just as she did, but he did not offer his elbow. They walked in businesslike fashion up the aisle, just as all the others did, then submitted themselves for juggling, posturing, sucking in and holding breaths, presenting left shoulders to the viewfinder, then right shoulders, then backing off so the bride and groom could be photographed by themselves.
Winnie looked across the way to where the groom's attendants awaited further instruction. Joseph was staring at her as if puzzling something out, and she turned to whisper a trumped-up question in Jeanne's ear just so she wouldn't have to confront his eyes.
The photos at the altar were done, and the photographer herded them back to the women's dressing room where he shot the bride with her mother and father, with the flower girl and quite naturally with her maid of honor. There was the traditional pose of Sandy displaying her ring while Winnie lightly held the bride's palm and admired. But the photographer had asked her to remove her gloves, and she was devastatingly conscious of her own diamond winking up at her reprimandingly. The sequence of shots seemed to go on endlessly, while several of the groomsmen lingered in the doorway, watching. Joseph didn't even bother disguising his obvious fascination with her-he came right in and stood propped against the back wall, watching the session with keen interest.
There followed the old showing-off-of-the-garter shot, then the photographer bellowed, "Who's the best man and maid of honor?" Winnie's eyes sought Joseph's, and he boosted himself away from the wall. "I'd like a shot of the two of you together. Over here, against this simple background." And they found themselves nudged, pulled and manipulated into positions that pleased the photographer's compositional eye. There was one shot of Joseph bending over to sniff her hyacinths. In the middle of the pose he ruined it by sneezing-and everyone in the room burst out laughing, which managed to relieve some of the tension spinning between Joseph and herself. But it returned in full force when the photographer backed her up against Joseph's chest and asked him to place his hands on her waist.
To Winnie's surprise the man behind her not only spanned her hipbones with his hands but pulled her back flush against his trouser front. She had a flashing forbidden thought that she was nestled against him at a very accommodating height-and yes, he was several inches shorter than Paul, and she immediately felt the intimate difference.
The photographer asked her to lift her chin and turn her jaw slightly toward Joseph's. The juxtaposition of their faces brought her into the realm of his after-shave, a totally rich and masculine scent she'd never smelled before. Once, while they stood that way, she heard him swallow.
Then, to her relief the torture was over. The photographer went off to get the flower girl and ring bearer, and Winnie drifted out to the vestibule, trying unsuccessfully to put Joseph Duggan from her mind. But during the relatively short time between then and when they were hustled into hiding so the guests could convene, he remained in her mind's eye, whether within view or not.
The next time they met, the church was filled, the organ was rumbling overhead, and the vestibule was silent of even the most secret whispers. She was vividly aware of how intimately he had pulled her against himself only a few minutes earlier and found it extremely difficult to meet his eyes. She held back, waiting until the last possible moment to join him and take his arm. Finally he came across to her and silently reached for her elbow, a sober expression robbing his eyes of their customary glint.
The organ belted out the opening strains of Lohengrin, and he urged her into line behind the lead couples. She felt herself acquiescing with a stiffness that had somehow overcome her since the picture-taking episode. But when he released her elbow and found her hand, then tucked it securely into the folded warmth of his black sleeve, she knew a forbidden delight at the warmth radiating from inside the crisp gabardine.
The flower girl and ring bearer stepped onto the white runner, and she felt Joseph cover her fingers on his arm, then squeeze them as he whispered, "I'm sorry, Winnie. I had no right."
If only he hadn't said that! If only he'd left things as they were! If only she could have walked up the aisle upon his arm with hostility simmering in her veins, everything might have been all right. But instead he had to go and apologize, and make her look up into his unsmiling brown eyes and see how genuinely he meant the apology. And it was at that precise moment it happened. Something fine and compelling and all-encompassing, a certainty that this day was destined to change them both in ways neither wanted nor welcomed.
Yet they were drawn to this place and time by forces beyond their control, with the organ playing a wedding march, and themselves clothed and coiffed in their regal best, stepping onto a white-lined center aisle, each of them trembling just a little and knowing beyond all certainty they should not be.
There is that about a wedding that compels and sweetens and woos like nothing except perhaps the sight of a newborn babe. It is as magnetic as the poles, as undeniable as gravity and as captivating as the quest for love. During the next hour and twenty minutes, while Winnifred Gardner and Joseph Duggan witnessed the marriage of their two dearest friends, murmured the vocal responses and heard the exchange of vows between bride and groom, that magnetic force worked upon them, drawing their thoughts solely to each other, trapped as they were in vulnerable roles.
The priest paused just before asking Sandy and Mick to repeat the vows after him and asked all married couples present to join hands and silently renew their own wedding vows, and reaffirm their own acts of faith.
For Winnifred and Joseph there were no spouses with whom to reaffirm vows. But their eyes locked and held, and bore no smiles, nor twinkles, nor hid the unquestionable fascination each held for the other. It was there. It had been born. And it flamed and burgeoned while the wedding vows were spoken. To love … to cherish … all the days of my life…
Everything was different when they reached the vestibule this time. It was joyous, celebratory and spontaneous. The bride and groom received a broadside of kisses from their closest relatives, while attendants, too, became swept up in congratulatory embraces. Winnie was fleetingly aware of being ensconced in Pete Schaeffer's arms and of receiving a tearful kiss on her cheek from Ann, another from Sandy and still another from Mick. But it was the inevitable full-length hug from Joseph she carried away in memory.
In all the confusion she missed Paul somehow, but Joseph's arm contoured her shoulders nearly all the time, and momentarily he squeezed her waist and said, "I'll be right back for you."
Then he disappeared along with the other groomsmen, while the wedding guests spilled through the open double doors onto the sunny steps of the church portal. Then Joseph reappeared at her side, grabbing her hand and pulling her out on the heels of Sandy and Mick, through a spray of rice and smiles and cheers to a waiting line of cars out front.
Joseph ran, towing her along, but Winnie planted her feet and dragged on his arm at the sight that greeted her.
"Wh-what's this?"
Sandy and Mick were already packing her voluminous white skirts into the back seat of a square black automobile with a running board, bug-eye headlights and a rectangular rear window. Behind it there were three others, each at least fifty years old.
"Vintage automobiles. Come on!" Joseph tugged on her hand, and before she could get more than a fleeting glimpse of gleaming maroon paint and a spare tire mounted on the cowl just behind the high curved crown fender, she found herself whisked toward the car. Her foot was directed not to a running board-nothing that modern-but to an individual metal foot plate. Inside, the roof was high, and there was ample space for her wide-brimmed hat, though the car was only a two-seater. As her door was slammed, she turned to find herself confronting a horizontally split windshield, its top half hinged to create a wind deflector when pushed outward.
Joseph jogged around the hood with its distinguished ornament, then clambered up beside her, smiling and reaching to depress a button on the instrument panel, setting the engine to life.
It was difficult to keep from giggling in delight. The steering wheel jutted up at a stern awkward angle, and Joseph looked tall and proper and straight as the engine rumbled beneath the pleated leather seat. Winnie couldn't swing her head around fast enough to take it all in. Her eyes shone with excitement as she turned to her escort.
"Where in the world did you get this?"
"In my grandma's and grandpa's chicken coop."
"It's yours?"
"Since my grandma died, it is. I belong to a classic-car club, and I talked a few of the other members into offering their jitneys for the wedding today, but as you can see, they all agreed with one stipulation: that they drive them themselves."
The cars pulled away from the church, heading toward the main drag of Brooklyn Park, a wide four-lane commercial street named Brooklyn Boulevard. Winnie peered at the lead car. Through its rectangular rear window all she could see was Sandy 's and Mick's heads-they were kissing. Craning around, she noted they were being followed by another shining vehicle of estimable age and condition, a stranger at its wheel. With a broad smile and an excited voice Winnie touched the wedge-shaped rear quarter window that gave the car a rakish roadster profile. Out the front she studied the rounded hood, the cowl lights on either side of the windshield and the tips of the side-mounted spare tires. She looked up to find mohair upholstery overhead and reached up to caress it in reaffirmation.
"Oh, this is absolutely beautiful! What is it?"
"A 1923 Haynes Sport Coupelet."
"I adore it! Why, it's perfect! I mean-" she shrugged expressively "-I feel as if we fit right in. I in my Gibson Girl hairdo and you in your elegant tuxedo. Straight out of The Great Gatsby or something. Except you really should have your dust coat and goggles."
He laughed-a deep rumble as smooth as the engine beneath them. "Oh, shoot, sugar pie, I forgot them at home. Next time."
"Where are we going?"
"Up and down Brooklyn Boulevard to toot and wave."
"Are we really?" Her voice rose excitedly.
"What's a wedding without a noisy procession?"
Just at that moment the lead car sounded a horn. It bleated out a raucous a-oooga before Joseph touched something on the dash that added to the blaring announcement of their coming. They passed Park Center High School, fast-food shops and gas stations and the city bank, while from the parking lots of McDonald's and Burger King teenagers turned from their prized vans and pin-striped Trans Ams to gawk in admiration at the procession of high-riding relics that paraded past.
They made an eye-arresting sight, chugging along with the sun gleaming off their vented side panels and spoke wheels: a 1932 Model B Ford in gleaming black; Joseph's own glistening '23 Haynes-55, whose original color he called "burgundy wine maroon"; a 1936 Plymouth in deep dark blue; a shiny black '22 Essex Coach with turtleback luggage compartment and drum headlights.
Laughter bubbled up in Winnie's throat as she saw heads snap around and mouths drop open all up and down Brooklyn Boulevard. She couldn't resist waving a hand at an awestruck teenager who was pointing a finger at them.
Turning, she beamed at Jo-Jo Duggan. "I suppose this was your idea."
"Mick's and mine. We decided to surprise you all."
"Oh, what fun! I've never ridden in anything like this before."
His eyes left the street for a moment to scan her lacy straw hat that threw dapples across her cheeks. "You look as classic as my car, Winnifred Gardner. Please wave some more to draw attention to the fact that I've drawn the prettiest girl in the wedding party."
It was uncanny, this wellspring of reaction his compliments unearthed. Perhaps it was the festive tenor of the day that made her respond so heartily with gay laughter and a tilt of her hat brim. Perhaps it was a release from the building tension surrounding her own wedding plans. Whatever it was, Winnie felt free and ebullient as they spent the next half hour riding proudly above the mundane modern vehicles going about their Saturday afternoon pursuits, looking too refined, too sleek and too powerful next to the charming '23 Haynes and its three contemporaries.
Winnie found herself totally relaxed as the minutes slipped by. She studied Joseph's profile as he told her stories about his grandfather, who had owned an auto dealership and had accepted this car as a trade-in during his early years but had never really driven it. Instead he had locked it in his chicken coop and allowed it to become his private obsession, coveted and polished, but never used. Only after the death of Joseph's grandmother three years ago had the car come out of mothballs-and then only on very special occasions and certainly never when the winter streets were spread with destructive salt.
The sun had turned warm. The sense of expanding familiarity and burgeoning acquaintanceship spun an ethereal web about the handsome man in his ruffles and tux and the dazzling young woman at his side.
Laughter came readily, and a certain amount of cavalier flirtation was inevitable. She found herself turning to glimpse his strong blunt fingers on the wheel with new interest, his jaw and mouth with forbidden curiosity.
"Isn't it odd that we've never met before?"
He turned, studied her silently, then nonchalantly returned his gaze to the open field beyond the city offices and the library on the outskirts of the suburb where it joined the corn and potato and gladiola fields at the edge of Hennepin County. The procession had broken up now, and the Haynes was purring along on its own.
"Yes, considering how long we've been friends with the bride and groom. I've known Mick since we were in elementary school, but then he went to the U and I went to Vo-Tech."
"And I've known Sandy since high school."
His eyes wandered back to her for a brief glittering second, then he looked away again. "Well, now that we've met, Winnifred Gardner, there's nothing we can do about it, is there?"
It was a startling question and raised a shiver of apprehension up her arms. Yet she could not be tempted to indulge in spring fancy regarding this man. "I think it's time we headed for the reception. It'll be starting in-do you have a watch?"
He lifted a hand from the wide thick steering wheel and pushed up a ruffled cuff to reveal a winking gold watch. The gesture was at once commonplace, yet captivating. It scared her, her gut reaction to such a simple movement.
"It's nearly four-fifteen."
"We have to be at the reception hall by five, and I've left my street clothes in the changing room at the church."
"We'd better head back, then."
He pulled into a side road and wheeled into the start of a U-turn. She watched his neck as he craned to check the stretch of road behind them. When he turned suddenly and caught her studying him, she shifted her attention to view the rank and file of dried ivory cornstalks marching across an unplowed field to their right.
One car whisked past, then another. It grew silent, and she turned to see what was holding them up. But Joseph was no longer checking behind him for traffic. He was staring at her.
"We've lost the others," she announced unnecessarily.
"Just as well." His hand fell to the shifting lever between their knees, and he nudged it into neutral. "Because there's something I've been wanting to do all afternoon." Her heart and blood sounded the alarm, but with a smooth commanding movement he slipped one arm around her shoulders, the other to her ribs, and pulled her close. He dipped his head to avoid the wide brim of her straw hat, still it all happened so fast she hadn't a thought of resisting until it was over.
He kissed her with a soft exploratory pressure that was rife with inquisitive speculation. His lips were hard, warm, and remained closed for the most part. The compelling contact lasted perhaps ten seconds, and during the last five her hand pressed his lapel more in surprise than resistance. Just before he pulled back, his lips parted to bestow a swift wet stroke of his tongue across her mouth, encountering the seam of her lips and the ivory texture of sleek teeth within. Her lips dropped open, but too late to encourage or to allow the kiss to become more intimate or lengthy.
His dark sparkling eyes were very close. His lashes caught chips of sun and threw them into her eyes. The brim of her hat touched his curls.
"Joseph…" she whispered upon the wings of surprise. "You mustn't do that." She treated him once again to that unconscious one-eyed blink that made him believe her the most charming creature he'd ever laid eyes upon.
"No one ever calls me Joseph. To my friends I'm Jo-Jo. To my brothers, Joey, and to most people, Joe. But I love the way you say it-Joseph."
Inanely she repeated her words of a moment ago, struggling for composure and a return of calm heart. "Joseph, you mustn't…" Pressing his chest, she felt his heart thudding.
"I know. But you mustn't move your lips along with the wedding vows when they're being pronounced and stare at a man with those irresistible blue eyes, either."
"I didn't…" Again she blinked, a slow-motion flutter of a single eyelid that captivated him. But she tipped her head aside slightly as a newborn smile began to play upon her lips. "Did I?"
He dipped out from under the brim of her hat but kept one arm around her shoulders, his other hand gripping her upper arm, keeping her turned partially his way. The shadows from the wide-brimmed bonnet flickered beguilingly across her nose and forehead. A strand of hair rested in a gentle coil against her temple. He inserted his finger into the lazy curl, and it gripped him like the clinging finger of an infant. "And who were you thinking of as you whispered the words?"
Her lips parted, and the tip of her tongue peeked out to wet the full upper one, but she remained silent, staring up at him.
"Paul Hildegard?" he prompted.
"Hildebrandt," she corrected in a rather dazed breathless voice.
"Hildebrandt, then."
"No, not Paul Hildebrandt."
He touched the end of her nose with a fingertip. "How naughty of you, Miss Gardner, and only three months before your wedding to the man."
She pressed her palm firmly against his lapel and eased away. Though he released her, his shoulder still curved in her direction. "Who?" he insisted quietly.
She dropped her eyes to the flower basket on her lap. "I wasn't thinking of anyone. I was concentrating on the words. They're very beautiful."
His left hand moved. Its forefinger curled, then pressed lightly beneath her chin until she was forced to tip it up. For a moment his eyes danced merrily into hers, then he accused, "Why, you little liar."
"There are times, kind sir, when lying is the wisest choice."
His eyes darkened thoughtfully. He stroked the hollow beneath her lower lip with his thumb-slightly rough on her fine skin-then his hand fell away, and he turned to put the car into gear. The road was clear, and he headed back toward town.
"You're right, of course. So will you lie to him about what just happened?"
"I… there'll be no reason. He'd have no reason to ask."
"Was he there this afternoon?"
"Yes."
"And he'll be at the reception?"
"Yes."
"Then I'd better be careful around you, hadn't I?"
She didn't know what to reply or what to make of him. He was utterly direct. She'd never encountered a person as straightforward as he before. It seemed impossible to combat the barrage of reactions he could unleash by such blatant innuendos as his last. Even though such words rolled from his tongue as glibly as quicksilver and sounded like the practiced lines of an actor, he was devastating, this best man with whom she'd been paired for the day. And Winnie knew, she, too, had best watch her step.
"You'll be pleased to know Paul isn't the jealous type."
"What type is he?"
She mused while they cruised southward on Zane Avenue. "He's logical. Computer nuts tend to be that way. If he can't feed the facts into his terminal and come up with a black or white answer-either yes, there's reason to be jealous, or no, there's none-he'll take the logical sensible route and not be."
"God, he sounds like a bore."
"I should resent that, Joseph Duggan."
"And do you?" He turned to chart her expression as she answered.
It rattled Winnifred to realize she'd had to think for a minute before deciding. "Yes. Yes, I do!"
"Wonderful! That's the first sign of a healthy relationship between you and your fiance that I've seen yet."
"Don't make assumptions. You don't know anything about our relationship since you've never even met him or seen us together."
"But I will on both counts before the day is over, won't I? What do you say we pick up this conversation at the end of it and see where we stand on the subject?"
"I'll be with him at the end of it, so don't wait around for me when the dance is over."
"In that case, remind me to steal a kiss sometime in the middle of the evening when he's not looking. The one I just got wasn't nearly good enough."
Her jaw dropped, and she smacked him on the arm. "Why, you arrogant, assuming… rake!"
His head dropped back, and he laughed with full-throated amusement. "Rake? God, I haven't heard that word since I saw my last Errol Flynn movie." With characteristic aplomb he captured her left hand and pressed it possessively to his thigh while she tried to yank it free. "Come on, don't get skittish. You look pretty enough for this rake to want to-what's the word-ravish? But I can hardly try it in the middle of a busy four-lane street in broad daylight, so let me console myself with your hand."
"That hand, Mr. Duggan, is wearing another man's engagement ring."
"And I'll turn you over to him as soon as we get to the reception. But in the meantime, quit pulling away."
She stopped resisting and let him hold her gloved hand palm down on his right thigh. His leg was firm and warm, and she knew she should withdraw, but it felt very pleasant, if very naughty, experiencing the flesh of a different man beneath her touch. He was much, much harder than Paul, and his thigh was larger in circumference, yet shorter in length. Realizing she'd been measuring the difference was unsettling. She tried to free her hand, but to no avail. He held it firm.
"Does he dance?" Joseph's eyes never left the road.
"Divinely."
"That won't work."
"What won't work?"
"I was thinking about stopping in there and catching a quick dancing lesson so I'd be one up on him in that department, anyway." He nodded toward a sign for the Gloria Allen Dance Studio as they passed it, then asked abruptly, "Does he smoke?"
"No."
"Mmm… we're even on that score. Is he rich?"
"He will be someday."
"Shot down again!" He eyed her askance. "Just how handsome is he?"
She growled suggestively, and he muttered a curse.
"Is he a good kisser?"
"Mmm… the best." She applied a slight pressure to his thigh for good measure.
"And how is he at-" His hand slipped from hers to clasp her thigh.
"Joseph Duggan, you cut that out!" She returned his hand to his own thigh, ignoring the pleasant tingle his teasing touch had brought.
They arrived at the church parking lot then. The other three cars were already there as Joseph pulled to a halt and killed the engine. He hooked an elbow through the steering wheel and turned to her.
"All right, then, a last resort-does he like dogs and cats and babies?"
"Babies, and that's all that matters." She was enjoying herself immensely by this time. They laughed lightheartedly, then Joseph threw a hand at the mohair upholstery overhead and barked in mock self-castigation, "God, is there anything the man hasn't got?"
She simpered, knowing she shouldn't. She gave him a coy pout, knowing she shouldn't. And even as the answer escaped her lips, she knew beyond a shred of doubt that she was shamelessly flirting. She peered up from beneath her darling hat brim and replied, "Yes… a 1923 Haynes."