The Husband School Page 20

  “And how many men did you m-a-r-r-y?” The producer clearly enjoyed proving she could spell, too.

  “Five, sweetie.” She held up one hand to display a beautifully manicured thumb and four fingers. Her nails were neon pink. “Five.”

  “What happened to them all?”

  “One disappeared on me, just walked out right before Margaret was born. One annulment. Two divorces, I won’t go into the sordid details, but we’re still friends, believe it or not. And the last one, my Bill, died of cancer. I’ve been single for fifteen years.”

  “S-i-n-g-l-e,” Shelly said, standing close to Loralee. Meg wondered why everyone was spelling all of a sudden.

  “I know a lot about men, but I’ve learned my lesson,” Loralee said. “There will be no more husbands for me, not at my age.”

  “And how old are you, exactly?”

  “Not old enough to brag about it.” With that, she turned on her aqua-booted heels and marched back to her seat.

  “Let’s go see how the haircuts are coming along.” Jerry’s face was flushed above his new navy Wrangler shirt.

  “Yes. Let’s.” The producer shot one last look over her shoulder at Loralee Smittle. “That woman sure has a mouth on her.”

  “That woman is my mother.” Meg wanted nothing more than to haul Miss California out the door and into her rental car.

  “My bad,” Tracy said quickly. “But we might be able to develop a character for her. Amy? Make a note of that.”

  “We have a lot of interesting characters around here,” Jerry said, pulling her away from Meg and toward the pizza. “That’s what makes the West so colorful. Wait until you meet Mrs. Swallow, our own Mama Marie. Have you tried the pizza?”

  “I don’t eat carbs,” the woman sniffed. “Is there any salad?”

  “Of course.” Jerry hustled her over to the tables against the wall. “I’ll show you.”

  * * *

  “IT’S NOT THAT I don’t want her to get married and give me grandchildren,” Loralee explained, stretched out on top of her bed. Her pajamas were satin and covered with pink flamingos. “It’s that I don’t trust him.”

  Shelly perched on the foot of her roommate’s bed and listened. She liked Owen, and she really liked Meg. But according to Loralee, Owen had broken Meg’s heart when she was eighteen. His father had caught them trying to elope and his mother had taken Owen away after the father died. Shelly had a hard time picturing Meg eloping. “Meg likes him.”

  “He was her first love,” Loralee said. “That mother of his wouldn’t even let her in the door after the funeral. She cried for weeks.”

  “Then what?” Shelly couldn’t picture Owen letting Meg cry. He looked at her as if she was the most special woman in the world. He came for breakfast every morning, didn’t he?

  “I’m not sure. Meg was determined to go away to school, so she packed up and headed east. She wanted to get out of town, get her education.”

  “He didn’t come back?”

  “Once,” Loralee admitted. “But Meg was back east, settled in college.”

  “Owen seems nice. I didn’t think he was at first, but now I do. He helped her a lot, you know. With the cabins.”

  Loralee didn’t seem impressed. “She went to the post office every day, waiting to hear from him. He never called her, either. He was angry, I think, because she went along with his father, stopping the elopement. She was scared and very, very young and I don’t think Owen understood anything but that he wasn’t getting what he wanted.”

  “That’s really awful.” Shelly knew how Meg must have felt. It was a lonely, sad story and she hoped she wouldn’t have to wait fourteen years to find Sonny again. She couldn’t wait fourteen weeks. “It’s hard to love somebody when they’re not there.”

  “Oh, sweetie, don’t I know it.” Loralee scooted over and wrapped Shelly in her arms. “I’m sorry about your boyfriend. And you’re so young. Too young to be going through this.”

  “It’ll be okay.” She absolutely, positively refused to cry.

  “What about your family?” Loralee sat back and looked as if she wouldn’t go along with any kind of fib, so Shelly told her the truth. Part of it, anyway.

  “I was in foster care,” she admitted. “My mother wasn’t around that much.”

  “And your father?”

  Shelly shrugged.

  Loralee sighed. “I want you to think long and hard about what kind of life you can give your baby, sweetie. Even if you find Sonny, that doesn’t mean everything is going to be roses and blue skies. I’ve been in your shoes and I know how hard it is.”

  “Don’t be hard on Meg.”

  “I’ll try,” Loralee said. “Especially since I’m the only one of the three of us who has any sense.”

  Shelly couldn’t stop laughing, not even when Loralee threw a pillow at her.

  * * *

  “MAN PLAN ALERT!” Lucia carried two more pies into the café and set them on the counter. “They’re heading this way for breakfast.”

  Loralee and Shelly stopped working, grabbed their phones from their apron pockets and started texting furiously. “What are they doing?”

  Meg opened the lids of the boxes and inhaled the scents of apples and cinnamon. “They’re keeping score—who can send the message first. I think there’s a prize involved, but I’m not sure. It’s been going on for days.”

  “How does anyone get any work done around town?” Lucia sat next to George. He was working on a stack of pancakes and reading the paper. “Hi, Mr. Oster.”

  “Good morning, Lucia. Where are those hooligans of yours?”

  “With their grandmother at the moment, so you can eat in peace.”

  “They’re not that bad,” he said, turning to page three. “I’ve seen worse.”

  “Do they know about their future horseback-riding trip?” Meg poured her a cup of coffee and placed a pitcher of half-and-half next to it.

  “Horseback riding? Yep. I’ve been using it for a bribe for days. They’ve been the best-behaved little hooligans ever.”

  “Owen’s looking forward to it, too.”

  “He’ll need the patience of a saint.” She swung her stool to face the door. “Speaking of patience, the Wicked Witch and her Three Musketeers have arrived.”

  “Cane isn’t so bad. At least she eats pie.”

  Conversation in the restaurant quieted, allowing Trace Adkins’s new song to be heard loud and clear. Men sat up straighter. Their wives looked to see what the Californians wore this morning. A table of four young men put their heads together and planned their strategy.

  Tracy had made it known Wednesday morning that she preferred the large corner booth, though Meg had reserved a large table in the middle of the room between the counter and the door. The original plan had been to allow plenty of space for the bachelors to walk past and, if encouraged, stop for a chat.

  But Tracy wanted to be in the corner, where she could sit with her back to the wall and watch the counter, the door, the cash register and every single person in the room. She couldn’t see around the corner to the back of the other dining area or the restrooms, but that didn’t seem to bother her. The table at the booth was large enough for paperwork, iPads, a notebook computer and various cell phones. The mass of technology discouraged visitors.

  “I wonder what they thought of the football game.”

  “I’m sure Jerry will tell us,” Meg assured her. She set the pies on stands and covered them with glass-domed lids.

  “I can’t believe he’s not here already.”

  “He fell asleep during the game. Right there in the bleachers. Kate Petersen—she and Kip are cheerleading this year—put a blanket over him. I think he’s just worn out. Owen said the game went into overtime.”

  “Owen said?”
Lucia took a sip of coffee. “What else does Owen have to say these days?”

  Meg blushed. “He calls every night, tells me about the day. Sometimes in the morning, too.”

  “Hmm. Is this getting serious?”

  “We talk. We’re getting to know each other again.”

  “What does he say about selling the ranch?”

  “Nothing,” she admitted, watching as Shelly hustled over to the booth to greet the latest arrivals. Men would start coming in any minute and the place would be busy for at least another hour. Business was good. Business was very good. She could only imagine how good it would be if they actually filmed a television show here. “They loved their cabins. Lin and Amy took the larger one with the double beds, and Cane and the Witch each have their own.”

  “That could be good,” Lucia said. “He’s coming to the party tonight, I assume. I mean, no matter what kind of fit Loralee throws?”

  “She’s been pretty quiet the past few days. She and Owen have managed to avoid each other.”

  “He’s a really good man,” Lucia said with a sigh. “And you look happy. Is this getting serious? From what I see, the man’s in love.”

  No one but Lucia heard her admit in a low voice that she was, too. George was in a deep discussion about the federal budget with Martin and Mr. Fargus. Loralee chatted with Hip, Theo and Amber at their table, while various other customers were intent upon their own meals and conversations. “In love, I mean. But I don’t want to rush into anything, you know? He may still intend to sell the ranch and move back to Washington. He could meet someone else and—”

  “And he could die,” Lucia said. She stared down at her coffee for a long moment before raising her gaze to Meg. “If you love him, let him know it. Let yourself love him back. Because there are no guarantees, Meg.” She slid off her stool and slung her purse over her shoulder. “I’d better go get my cowboys ready for the ranch.”

  “You’ll be at the party tonight?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Lucia?”

  Her friend paused.

  “I know you’re right. Thank you.”

  * * *

  SHE’D DRESSED AS the Bride of Frankenstein again.

  Loralee had dumped her box of treasured possessions, which consisted mostly of wedding memorabilia, in the middle of the bed, showering the pink bedspread with various tulle concoctions and dusty silk daisies.

  On the other hand, it could be worse: Loralee could have talked Shelly into wearing one of the veils and ringing her eyes with black shadow. Meg could see it now, Frankenstein’s ex-wife accompanied by the newer, fertile model.

  Now, that was a truly horrifying thought. She was almost glad she was running late. She’d been the last one to leave the café, but even closing early for the party hadn’t given her much extra time to get ready. Especially not when there were costumes involved.

  She’d only wanted to borrow eyeliner for her Annie Oakley freckles. A fringed leather vest, braided hair, her seldom-worn ivory Stetson and Davey Swallow’s toy holster made a good Annie Oakley. Lucia had insisted that she wear a short denim skirt, black tights and tall, black, vintage Tony Lama boots—which only just fit—giving her what Lucia called flair. Meg hoped the freckles would erase the naughty impression.

  Meg set the plastic box upright and, since it was second nature, cleaned up after her mother. She tossed the mess of lace, flowers, a pair of white satin gloves, two shawls, a miniskirted bridal gown, a beaded headband, two wedding guest books, a set of his and hers guest towels and Meg’s baby book—a faded pink Hallmark edition stuffed with report cards and school drawings—back where it had all come from.

  Those things reminded her of a different lifetime. She wondered if she’d ever have her own wedding. After all, the closest she’d come to that was with Owen.

  She’d never wanted anyone else.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “YOU LOOK LIKE an idiot in that outfit.”

  “What?” Jerry patted the ace of spades sticking out of his vest pocket. Aurora’s hostile comments had stopped bothering him months ago. “You’ve got something against Wyatt Earp?”

  “I’ve got something against someone who won’t sell me a worthless parking lot.” She grudgingly slid the beer he’d ordered in front of him.

  “Nice costume,” he said, pointedly noting the oversize witch’s hat she wore. Her platinum hair looked like a wig. “Looks good on you. Almost natural.”

  Content to have the last word, he turned his back on the bartender. The crowd never looked better. None of the town’s bachelors had opted for naked chests painted with the colors of their favorite football teams. No one had draped fake vomit on their shoulders or on top of their heads, a real crowd pleaser last year. The younger, good-looking men had taken his advice and wore their best Western wear. Why look like Sasquatch when you could be Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall?

  Meg strolled past. She looked a little lost without Owen hovering over her. The guy had it bad, but Jerry couldn’t blame him. The two of them had some kind of history, he figured. Even Owen MacGregor couldn’t have won over the previously hard-hearted Meg Ripley in a matter of weeks. “Hey, Meg! What do you think about a Willing Western-wear clothing line?”

  “Great idea. Maybe I’ll print up some ‘Willing Westauwant’ T-shirts, you know, to sell in the café.”

  “Ha, ha. At least that sounds better than the Dirty Shame,” he said. “Wasn’t that the original—”

  “Please,” she said, holding up her hand. “Sometimes history is best left buried. Trust me on that.”

  “What do you have all over your face?”

  “Those are my Annie Oakley freckles.”

  “It’s not your best look.” He turned back to the party while Meg asked Aurora for a glass of seltzer water. “Your mother’s outdone herself tonight.”

  Loralee wore a vintage 1950s waitress uniform, complete with a red-striped apron and matching ruby lipstick. Her blond hair was sprayed into some weird sort of thing on top of her head. Shelly, growing more pregnant by the minute, was at her side and dressed as a Beatles-era hippie with strings of beads and feathers. The flowing calico dress covered her belly.

  “Shelly looks so authentic it’s almost scary,” Aurora said to Meg. “The tie-dye headband must have been Lucia’s idea.”

  “It’s obvious who won the raffle,” Meg said, looking grimly at the bear, whose enormous head was topped with a fluffy white tulle bridal veil. Jerry had never seen anything like it. The crown was beaded, rhinestones sparkling in the light of the beer signs on the wall behind it. A bouquet of white silk roses drooped from its menacing paw. And since the bear was in attack mode, the expression on its face looked as if the groom would be eaten alive if he appeared within three feet of the bride.

  Tracy’s people had probably taken three hundred pictures of the beast. Now they were posing with it while Cane filmed them.

  “Who?” Jerry shot her a puzzled look.

  “It’s not going to be announced until midnight,” Aurora said. “We have hours left to guess. You mean you know already?”

  “I forget the two of you have only been here a couple of years,” Meg said.

  “Three and a half,” Jerry corrected her.

  “And how could anyone forget?” was Aurora’s dry comment.

  “My mother, you know, the woman who has been married five times? That’s her veil. One of many. The bear has worn wedding gear before.”

  “Poor bear,” Aurora said. “Especially since it’s a male grizzly.”

  “It’s inspired,” Jerry said. “Brides, bachelors and bears. We could have the image on coffee cups and aprons and coasters.” He thought harder, recognizing a brainstorm when it hit him.

  “Beautiful brides, bashful bachelors and badass bears,�
� Aurora drawled. “Catchy, isn’t it?”

  To his own embarrassment, Jerry didn’t reject it immediately. Aurora snorted and turned away to wait on three over-the-hill cheerleaders. Loralee bounced over and grabbed Jerry’s hand. “Come on, you promised the next fast one.”

  “Sure.” Jerry turned to ask Meg to join them in the crowd warming up to the introductory notes of “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy,” but she’d joined a butcher, a baker and a candlestick maker in conversation at the bar. He saw Owen, dressed as a mountain man, arrive and head over to Meg. Now there was an interesting couple.

  * * *

  “JUST EXACTLY WHO—or what—are you supposed to be?” Meg ran her hand up the sleeve of Owen’s rough leather jacket. “I’ve never seen you in fringe before.”

  “I’m a grizzled old trapper,” he said, rubbing his hand over his day-old beard. “Isn’t that obvious?”

  “Like Robert Redford in Jeremiah Johnson, I suppose?”

  “Yeah.” He took her into his arms and eased into the crowd of dancers. “Didn’t we watch that movie together?”

  “Yes. With Mrs. Hancock. She was a big Robert Redford fan back then.”

  “You look pretty cute, Miss Oakley,” he murmured into her ear. “I doubt Annie ever wore that short a skirt, but it looks good on you.”

  She laughed. “Lucia thought you’d appreciate it. She’s my fashion advisor.” Meg leaned back a little to look up at him. “You’ve been a big help to the town through all of this.”

  “It wasn’t—”

  “Yes,” she said, stopping his protest. “It was a big deal and you made a big difference. Once the show gets started, everyone will see what a great place this is. And Tracy loved the ranch. I think she might have a crush on you. Jerry told her you wouldn’t do the show, but—” She stopped as he winced. “What?”

  “You can’t count on the show,” Owen said, looking at the dancers two-stepping their way around the room. “It might not happen.”

  “I realize that,” she said, sensing there was more. “What else?” He didn’t answer, but the guilty flash in his eyes was easy to read. “The rumors are true?”