For Maggie and Travis, this Christmas would be a time of joy. For Katy, and maybe for Megan herself, it would be a time of hope.
Christmastime and wedding time.
A time when anything could go wrong.
Chapter 11
To Megan’s secret relief, Maggie’s bridal shower didn’t include a toilet tissue wedding gown. Instead, Clara passed out sheets of pastel notepaper and pens while Tracy gave instructions. Each guest was to write a note with a bit of advice for the bride. When the notes were handed in, Maggie would read them out loud. The notes would be anonymous. Advice could be funny, serious, even a bit naughty, as long as it was fit for the bride to read.
Megan glanced around the circle of women. Some, mostly the married ones, were writing eagerly, smiling to themselves as they scribbled. Others, like Megan, appeared to be at a loss. What kind of advice could you give a bride if you’d never been married yourself? She tried to imagine what it would be like, waking up in the morning to look into a pair of sleepy Texas bluebonnet eyes.
Why blue? What am I thinking?
Why did the face on the pillow next to hers keep materializing into Conner’s? She changed the mental image. This time, she was waking up first, her gaze caressing his sleeping face, eyelashes lying golden against his tanned cheeks, stubble shadowing his stubborn jaw.
She gave in to the fantasy. Maybe Conner would never be hers, but she could dream.
Without taking time to analyze her thoughts, she began to write.
At the end often minutes, Clara gathered up the pages, slipped them into a folder with a flowered cover, and presented them to Maggie.
“Now let’s see if our bride can read these without blushing,” Tracy teased. “With help, she might even be able to guess the writer.”
This was something new. The notes were supposed to be anonymous, weren’t they? Had the game changed?
The notepaper had come in a rainbow assortment of colors. Megan’s had been yellow. But she was already regretting what she’d written. It was too personal, too revealing to be shared, let alone have herself unmasked as the writer.
The first page was pink. “Here goes.” Maggie slipped on her glasses. “‘Love each other.’ I’ll bet I know who wrote this one.” She smiled at Katy, who was already blushing and giggling. “That’s the best advice ever.”
The next page was yellow. Megan shrank into her chair, but the note wasn’t hers. “ ‘Learn to laugh. It’s the only way to survive.’” After a few guesses, one of the older women confessed.
The next page was blue. “‘Sexy lingerie is always a great idea. Red and black are the best colors to get a man’s attention. And it doesn’t hurt to put a dab of perfume here and there. You’ll know where, honey.’” Maggie chuckled. “Francine, you naughty girl! That sounds just like you!”
Francine hooted with laughter.
Then Maggie drew out another yellow page. Megan’s heart sank. Why hadn’t she written something more conventional?
Maggie adjusted her glasses and cleared her throat. “‘Watch your man sleep. Touch his hair, feel his breath, and remember all the reasons you love him.’”
“Oh . . .” Maggie’s voice broke slightly. “This is beautiful—almost like a song. I don’t know who wrote it, but she sounds like a lady who’s very much in love. Does anybody want to fess up?” She glanced around the room. “No? Well, I’ll put it aside for now and guess later.”
As she slid another page out of the folder, Megan exhaled in relief. For now, she was off the hook. But she wouldn’t feel safe until the party was over.
The game continued to its end, followed by the opening of the shower gifts. By the time the last present was unwrapped, the afternoon was getting on, and most of the busy women needed to get home. Maggie stood by the door to thank each one as she left. Megan was among the last. As she approached the door, Maggie motioned her aside.
“What you wrote was beautiful, Megan,” she said. “It took me a little time to guess it was you. But when you didn’t admit to any of the others, I knew.”
Megan flushed. “Thank you for not giving me away. I was afraid I’d gotten too personal. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Maggie smiled. “I believe I do. And I hope things work out for you and Conner. You’re just the woman he needs.”
With a murmur of thanks, Megan squeezed her hand and left. Was Maggie right? Was she really the woman for Conner, or was she just one more in a long succession of girlfriends, to be cast off when someone more exciting showed up—like Lacy?
* * *
Still lost in thought, she drove home. She found the house quiet, her father gone, her mother in her studio, and Daniel at the kitchen table, munching cookies and poring over the Texas Driver Handbook.
“Aren’t you home early?” she asked.