A February Bride Read online

  ZONDERVAN

  A February Bride

  Copyright © 2014 by Betsy St. Amant

  This title is also available in a Zondervan audio edition. Visit www.zondervan.fm.

  Requests for information should be addressed to:

  Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530

  ePub Edition © January 2014: ISBN 978-0-310-33829-1

  All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide.

  Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by Zondervan, nor does Zondervan vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Interior design:James A. Phinney

  To my Groom, now and forever—Jesus Christ. Your romance and heart for me transcends any other love. I am yours forever.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Discussion Questions

  An Excerpt from a December Bride

  About the Author

  Special thanks to Becky Philpott, editor extraordinaire, for her heart, vision, and friendship. And to the entire team at Zondervan Fiction, for their hard work and dedication in putting out a product that entertains and inspires. Novel writing is such a team effort!

  A graceful curtsey in the general direction of my fellow “bridesmaids” in A Year of Weddings collection—you ladies know how to make weddings look good! I am so blessed to be in this series with all of you.

  As always, thanks to my super-agent team, Tamela Hancock Murray and Steve Laube, for their support, advice, and unceasing cheerleading. “Y’all rock!”

  Thanks also to my good friend, who offered his expertise in all things cars, to make a few scenes in this story jive. And just for the record, my Camaro can still beat your Mustang. (I’m just saying.)

  I couldn’t have made this story happen without my girl Kim! Thanks for dropping everything to respond to my SOS at Barnes & Noble. I owe you a mocha, a brainstorming session, and probably a nap. You are such a gift.

  Allie Andrews couldn’t breathe, and it had nothing to do with the yards of tulle wrapped around her waist. Or the fact that the air conditioner in the crowded small-town, southern church was on the fritz again, resulting in the sporadic waving of wedding programs in front of flushed faces she’d seen when she peeked through the sanctuary window ten minutes earlier. No, her lack of breath had everything to do with the ticking clock. The literal one on the wall and the figurative one thumping an unsteady rhythm in her heart.

  Married.

  A bead of sweat trickled between her shoulder blades, sure to dampen the silky ivory fabric that cascaded down her back like a white-chocolate waterfall gone wrong. So wrong.

  Married.

  She twisted the stem of her rose bouquet and paced the faded orange carpet inside the bride’s room, her thoughts churning along with her breakfast. She slipped one heel out of her three-inch pump, anxiety tying her stomach into a knot that would make a Boy Scout proud.

  Married.

  It wouldn’t take much to toe off one shoe, then the other. Dig her painstakingly pedicured feet into the carpet for traction, grab the hem of this cursed dress, and just . . . bolt.

  Better now than later, right?

  Marcus. She couldn’t do that to Marcus.

  But wasn’t marrying him doing him worse?

  She strode to the window overlooking the gravel parking lot and stared at the onslaught of cars baking in the late September sun. It was a good turnout. Looked as if half of Beaux Creek had shown up. There were probably loads of gifts on the covered table in the reception hall by now—a forever-sentimental collection of floral-patterned china she’d rarely use, gift cards to home repair stores, and likely more than one toaster and blender. All gifts she’d have to return if she let her toes touch the carpet.

  But would dividing them up in a divorce property settlement however many years down the road be any easier?

  She started to turn away, then squinted at her reflection, seeing skin at her shoulder where there should be lace. Oh no . . . yes. She twisted for a better view. A tiny tear, right on the seam of the sleeve. Her heart stammered.

  Not a sign. Just a rip. It happens.

  Right?

  She pushed away from the window, wringing her bouquet. Now what? She wished Hannah, her maid of honor and only attendant, was still with her, but she had taken the flower girl for one last trip to the bathroom. Besides, Hannah, while her best friend, was also Marcus’s sister. The loyalty line would be blurred if she knew Allie’s doubts, and Allie couldn’t do that to either of them. She had to figure this one out alone.

  Married.

  She swallowed hard and pressed one hand against her stomach. Just prewedding jitters, right? That’s all it was, surely. She loved Marcus.

  Maybe too much.

  The organ reached a crescendo, the opening strains building in strength and cuing her grandmother and her mom down the aisle. Soon it would be time for Hannah, followed by the flower girl, Marcus’s little cousin. The little curly-haired blonde would toss more red roses onto that awful carpet that they’d attempted to hide with a lacy runner, and then it’d be Allie’s turn, for better or for worse.

  She hated roses.

  What was she doing here? The flowers. The carpet. The dress. It was all wrong. None of it went together. It wasn’t . . . her. No, it was her mom. Her grandmother. Her aunt.

  Not exactly the role models on which to base a marriage. That poison was in her blood, and she couldn’t escape it. Just as she hadn’t been able to avoid this dress all the women in her family had worn in generations past, or been able to choose her own wedding venue or floral arrangements or even the topper on the cake, which, ironically, featured a groom dashing away from a wide-eyed bride clutching the back of his tuxedo collar.

  Marcus didn’t have a chance.

  And it was all her fault.

  The music faded into a key change and then struck up a slightly off-tune version of the wedding march. The unmistakable squeaking of bodies rising from time-warped pews filtered through the space leading from the bride’s room to the main entrance of the country chapel, sounding suspiciously like the creaking of gallows.

  And her poor groom didn’t have a clue of the noose dangling above him in the form of a white-gold wedding band.

  Allie toed off her shoes, hitched up her skirt, and dug her toes into the carpet.

  If wedding dresses could talk, Allie Andrews was fairly certain hers would have a sailor’s mouth.

  Four months later—to the day, actually, after she’d shucked out of her wedding dress in the backseat of the meant-to-be honeymoon car and gunned it down the highway with nothing but a bottled Yoo-hoo and her favorite faded jeans for company—the dress hung on the inside of her closet door, the once sma
ll tear in the seam now gaping and taunting her. Every time she opened the closet, that rip reminded her how she’d severed one of the few relationships in her life actually worth keeping.

  Which was precisely why she had to give it away in the first place.

  Allie grabbed her favorite purple sweater, the one she often wore to work at her antiques store since the air conditioner in the quirky old building refused to shut off year round, and tugged it over her head. She could use all the cozy comfort she could get today at lunch with Hannah. She’d put it off long enough. After ditching her best friend’s brother at the altar, she’d fully expected Hannah to hold a grudge. Hannah’s unconditional love expressed through multiple phone calls and text messages had been almost worse than the cold shoulder—harder to face than a much deserved grudge—which was probably why she’d been avoiding this meeting.

  Besides, Hannah looked so much like her brother.

  Allie’s arm brushed against the dress as she adjusted her sweater, and the frothy number swayed on its padded hanger. The swish of the fabric only seemed to whisper more condemnation.

  With a groan, she shut the closet door harder than necessary. She should just get rid of the thing, but it wouldn’t be worth the wrath of her mother, grandmother, and aunt. Yet even though they all threatened her within an inch of her life if she sold the dress or threw it away, not one of them would store it at her own house. “It belongs to you now, and will until you wear it. Then you pass it down to your daughter.”

  Right. A daughter? Not at this rate.

  And zero hope of getting over what she did to Marcus. Even if it was for his own good.

  A knock sounded on her apartment door, and Allie dashed to get it, checking her watch. She needed to leave in less than ten minutes if she didn’t want to be late, and with a long-time friendship already riding on this lunch, she really shouldn’t push it by appearing like she didn’t care. She pulled the door open.

  Hannah, looking at once like her best friend and a total stranger in a pink cashmere sweater and skinny jeans tucked into boots. She looked great—like she hadn’t lost her best friend or spent the past several months comforting a broken-hearted brother at all.

  Maybe Allie hadn’t mattered all that much to begin with.

  “I was just heading out to meet you.” Allie cautiously opened the door wider to allow her friend inside, bracing herself for . . . something. And not just the chill of the January air that rushed to meet her despite the heated hallway. “Did I mess up the time?”

  She took a step backward, and the heel of her boot caught on the striped rug under her feet. Maybe Hannah had changed her mind and decided to tell her off privately instead. Maybe she’d realized a polite lunch in public was way more considerate than Allie deserved.

  “I couldn’t wait another minute to tell you.” Hannah shoved her left ring finger in Allie’s face and let out an excited squeal. “I’m engaged!” She jumped up and down, her curly dark hair bouncing against her shoulders.

  Engaged.

  The word twisted in Allie’s throat and refused to rise to her lips. “That’s . . . that’s . . .”

  What was it? Surprising? Not really. Hannah and Zach had been dating for about six months, but she supposed not everyone had to be together for several years before tying the knot. A long courtship hadn’t exactly worked out for her and Marcus . . .

  “I know, right?” Hannah pushed past Allie and sank down onto the arm of the overstuffed turquoise chair, exactly as she’d done a million times over the years. As if it were that easy to pick up. Like the past few months hadn’t changed everything.

  Maybe they hadn’t.

  Hannah held up her hand again, this time keeping it steady enough for Allie to focus on the significant princess-cut carat adorning her finger. “Zach is perfect. Well, no, he’s not. He’s pretty much a slob, and we don’t like any of the same movies.” She snorted a laugh. “But we’re perfect together.”

  Allie slowly sank to the edge of the couch near Hannah. “Right. I understand.” Sort of. She’d never felt like anything between Marcus and herself had been perfect. He was perfect, to be sure. As much as any six-foot, dark-haired, chocolate-eyed, car-loving athletic guy could be. The problem had been Allie. She’d been the one to fall short, thanks to her family—and the curse that ran though her blood.

  Once upon a time, when gazing into Marcus’s eyes and feeling the heady weight of that diamond on her finger, she’d thought she could break the family scourge. Break the effect of the words her mom had whispered when Stepdad #2 had roared off on his Harley, and when Stepdad #4 had slammed the door on his way to the bus stop, and when unofficial Stepdad #5 had plucked his clothes from the front yard and shoved them into a trash bag before calling a taxi.

  “Remember, Allie, this is what Andrews women do. We break hearts before we get ours broken.”

  She could still remember the firm set of her mother’s lips, the expressionless twist of her eyebrows, the wall of steel in her eyes. It was the same look Grandma had when anyone mentioned her first or second husband, and the same look Aunt Shelly got when she announced she was meeting another man from her online dating profile.

  If a leopard couldn’t change its spots and a zebra couldn’t change its stripes, who was Allie to change her blood?

  Since Marcus was way too gentlemanly to break a promise or dodge a bullet, she’d been the one forced to remove him from the line of sight.

  A point no one seemed to understand.

  Hannah grinned. “Of course you get it. I knew you would, since you’ve been engaged . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she averted her gaze to the carpet. “I didn’t mean to bring that up. Honest.”

  Her eyes radiated sincere regret, and Allie relaxed slightly. No firing squads. Just good ol’ Hannah. “I was thinking George.”

  Hannah gave her a sharp glance, her brown eyes, as vivid as Marcus’s, sparkling suspiciously beneath her furrowed brow. “What are you talking about?”

  “Maybe Bob.”

  “I don’t get it.” Her voice hitched. “Are these guys you’ve dated since—”

  “Calm down.” Allie winked. “I’m just trying to name that elephant in the corner. He’s been sitting there since you walked in, so I thought we ought to give him a collar and a home.”

  Hannah stared at her a minute longer before her lips quivered into a hesitant smile, then morphed into a full-out grin. “Funny. You had me there.” She straightened her shoulders and arranged her features into a deadpan mask. “Clearly, though, he’s a Steve.”

  “Steve it is.”

  That hadn’t been so hard. Maybe her years of friendship with Hannah demanded loyalty in spite of the sibling relationship.

  Not that she would ever ask Hannah to choose—in fact, that was why she had refused all contact with her friend all these months. She didn’t want to put her in an even more awkward position. And Marcus had enough to deal with without her creating family drama for him.

  But the fact that Hannah was right here in her living room meant maybe they could find their way around this. After all, it wasn’t like she’d have to see Marcus if she and Hannah remained friends. Maybe he wouldn’t even have to know.

  “Anyway, Steve wasn’t why I came. You’ve made it clear you don’t want to talk about that, and I’ll respect your wishes.” Hannah rose from the chair and began to pace the small living area, pausing every few feet to nervously rearrange a knick-knack on the mantel or straighten the royal purple pillows on the couch Allie had recently recovered. “I came to ask a favor.”

  “Anything.” The word leapt from Allie’s grateful lips before she could self-edit. She really would do anything to get her relationship with Hannah back, to grasp something good and familiar during this dismal season in her life. Maybe she’d brought it on herself, but that didn’t make everything any easier to cope with.

  Because one fact remained—if she’d run down the aisle instead of to her car that day, she’d have been married for fo
ur months right now. She and Marcus would probably be getting ready to go to a celebration dinner, where he’d have sneaked a card under her dinner plate or arranged for the chef to make a heart with cherry tomatoes in her salad. That was Marcus. Considerate. Romantic. Always thinking.

  No question, she had done him a favor. They might have made it a few months, but they wouldn’t have made it a few years. No one in her family had ever made it past three—and good grief, they’d all given it multiple tries.

  “I’m glad you said that.” Hannah’s voice, and the squeak of a glass vase against the coffee table as her friend absently redesigned the floral arrangement, jerked Allie away from her thoughts. She wondered if Hannah realized that the vase had taken the place of the giant framed engagement photo of her and Marcus snuggled under an oak tree. “Because my favor is sort of big.”

  Couldn’t be as big as Steve.

  “You know how I’ve always wanted a Valentine’s Day wedding.”

  Hannah’s eyes gleamed, and Allie could almost see cartoonish, pulsing pink hearts shooting out of her gaze.

  “Well, that means we only have about six weeks. Actually, more like five.”

  “Five weeks. Wow, you’re right. That is soon.” Allie knew better than to assume there was a secret reason, though others surely would speculate. Marcus would hate those rumors about his sister. He’d always been so protective of the women in his life.

  “Really soon. So there’s no time to lose.” Hannah took a deep breath and twisted her ring on her finger.

  “Whatever it is, I’m in.” I owe you. The words faded from her tongue but still burned an aftertaste. She did owe her friend. Whatever Hannah needed, it was Allie’s turn to support her. After all, Hannah had reluctantly honored Allie’s desperate request to give her time and space after the wedding-that-wasn’t, time and space from all things Marcus-related. Hannah had met her several hours after Allie sped away from the church that day to pick up Marcus’s car, and their brief conversation had been tear-filled and beyond awkward. But Allie needed the chance to process her decision, and in allowing her that time, Hannah had given her a gift that beat all the premium toasters and coffeemakers in the world. Allie’d had to return those to the store, so it was the least she could do to return this favor for Hannah and keep their friendship alive.