Wedded Bliss

  Copyright

  ISBN 978-1-59789-616-0

  Copyright © 2007 by Kathleen Y’Barbo. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Truly Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 721, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

  All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  One

  Latagnier, Louisiana

  Today success smelled like fresh paint and coffee grounds. If all went well, Monday morning it would smell like buttercream frosting, pecan pralines, and freshly baked wedding cakes.

  Bliss Denison held the open package of dark-roasted chicory blend and inhaled its familiar aroma one more time before dumping two rounded tablespoons into the old-fashioned percolator. “There’s nothing better than a hot cup of coffee on a chilly February day, especially in an old place like this.”

  Even now as she traced a stencil pattern on the brick wall, Bliss could barely believe she stood in a homey but ancient building in her tiny hometown of Latagnier rather than performing her usual Friday morning duties of presiding over the gleaming kitchens of Austin’s exclusive Bentley Crown Hotel.

  Who would have thought a routine drive home from work on an icy Tuesday evening in November would have changed not only her career but also her entire life?

  “All the way up the ladder only to land right back where I started.” She sighed. “Well, next door anyway.”

  Her first real job, after years of tagging along behind her grandfather at the sawmill, had been next door at the now-defunct Latagnier Pharmacy. Where a wall of windows now pierced red brick and thick white mortar, old Mr. Gallier used to mix compounds by hand and seemingly see through walls to remind a sixteen-year-old Bliss that she was not employed to read the teen magazines but rather to straighten them. Mr. Gallier seemed to know that she hired on as much for the pittance she earned as for the fact that his son, Landon, was also on the payroll.

  Bliss’s heart lurched at the thought of Landon Gallier. Hair as black as night brushed his shoulders and jutted out of his football helmet to frame a face that remained etched in Bliss’s mind even now, silly as that seemed. And oh, that smile. Crooked, with just a hint of mischief, that same smile was used to fool parents into thinking him harmless.

  He wasn’t, of course, but that was part of his charm—a ruse he couldn’t have pulled off without his partner in crime, Bobby Tratelli. Bliss smiled.

  The lure of the forbidden, the joy of pulling the wool over their parents’ eyes, these were the guilty pleasures of a youth spent in a town where everyone knew everyone else. To get away with anything was an amazing feat, but to know that the town bad boy was held in great esteem by the older generation made his attentions all the more delicious.

  Landon called her once at the Bentley in Austin. He left an almost unintelligible message that made Bliss wonder if the man had been intoxicated when he dialed the phone. She should have returned the call. Stubbornness, however, advised her to wait for him to call again when he sobered up. He hadn’t. That was more than a decade ago.

  Just last year, her mother called to inform her that Landon had taken a job overseas with a company that put out oil well fires. They’d been working to cap an explosion on an offshore rig when Landon fell to his death in the waters beneath the flaming platform.

  Mama offered to send a clipping, but Bliss declined. She preferred to remember Landon as the boy upon whom she’d bestowed the honor of her first crush.

  The roar of a large brown delivery truck obscured her view of the front window, drawing Bliss from her thoughts. The bridal shop that now filled the space next door was going to be as good for business as the pharmacy would have been for her memories. She watched as the driver carried boxes inside Wedding Belles and decided to pay a visit to the owner.

  While the coffee perked, Bliss emptied the single brown sack she’d hauled from the grocer on Martin Street. True to what her physical therapist claimed, the brisk walk had done her good. It would balance out the contraband caffeinated delight now brewing.

  The coffeepot gave one last gurgle; then silence—and fresh coffee—reigned. Bliss pushed aside the ancient kitchen stool to retrieve one of her grandmother’s Apple Blossom coffee cups.

  On impulse, she grabbed another one and set it on the tray along with the sugar bowl, creamer, and two Gorham Chantilly spoons. A handful of pecan pralines completed the tray as she slipped into her shoes and headed next door.

  From the street, the building that used to be the pharmacy didn’t look much different as a bridal shop except for the contents behind the single broad window. The redbrick facade still sported double wooden doors reached by four wide steps.

  Before the accident, she would have climbed them two at a time. Today, however, Bliss grasped the familiar black iron rail and eased up the steps to reach for the brass handle, its gleaming surface polished by four generations of Latagnier’s shoppers.

  Warm vanilla scent met Bliss as she balanced the tray and pulled the door open with her free hand. In the back of the store, a lanky blond in jeans and a blue sweater rose above the sea of white gowns on a wooden ladder. She swung around at the sound of the front door’s jangling bell.

  “Welcome to Wedding Belles.” The woman gasped and nearly bolted off the ladder. “Bliss Denison? I can’t believe it’s you!”

  Bliss caught the tray just before the contents slid over the edge. “Neecie?” She stepped out of the way of the door and froze. “Neecie Trahan? Last time I saw you, you were playing saxophone in the Latagnier High marching band.”

  Neecie skittered down the ladder and wove her way through shimmering gowns toward Bliss. “And you were burning cookies in home ec.”

  Bliss nudged the tray. “Good thing I didn’t bring cookies. I never did figure out how to keep the bottoms from turning black.”

  “Oh, goodness.” Neecie gestured toward the back of the store. “Come on and sit down. Are those pralines? Here, let me take that.”

  She allowed Neecie to take the tray and wondered, for a moment, if sympathy rather than manners had dictated her offer. Relieved of the burden, Bliss easily followed the owner of Wedding Belles to a white iron table set beneath an arbor of climbing roses that almost looked real. “This is beautiful.”

  “One of my clients was a photographer. I traded her the arbor for an ecru gown with seed pearls and lace overlay.” Neecie reached for a white basket brimming with colorful floral cloth and retrieved two napkins, then handed one dotted with tiny red roses to Bliss. “I figured it would make the place look less like a drugstore. Occasionally I even rent the thing out for weddings.”

  Bliss’s gaze swept the room as she eased into the nearest metal chair. “It certainly doesn’t look like the place I remember.” She wrinkled her nose. “Doesn’t smell like it, either. How did you ever get that disinfectant scent out of here?”

  “Vanilla candles and elbow grease.”

  The front door jangled, and a postman walked in. “Your mail slot’s stuck again, Neecie.” He glanced in Bliss’s direction. “Well, I’ll be. Is that you, Bliss Denison?”

  She nodded while her mind searched for the name of the stranger. “It is.”

  A moment later, Bliss found herself catching up on old times with the person she used to babysit as a teenager. He’d been a toddler then, barely out of diapers, and now he worked for the post office.


  Suddenly, Bliss felt old. Very old.

  “Get that fixed, Neecie,” he said as he headed for the door. “Good to see you, Bliss,” he added. “You don’t look nearly as old as I expected.”

  “Thank you.” When the door shut, she added, “I think.”

  “Let’s have that coffee, shall we?” Neecie smoothed the front of her sweater and shook her perfectly coiffed head, revealing sparkling diamond studs in her earlobes. Bliss felt quite drab and underdressed. “So, what brings you back here?”

  “I’m your neighbor, actually.” Bliss tucked a wayward strand of the mess she’d tried to capture into a ponytail this morning behind her ear and gestured to their common wall. “I bought the Cake Bake.”

  “Did you, now?” Her smile deepened the lines at her temples. “What’re you going to do with it?”

  How much to tell her? While Neecie had once been a confidant on whom Bliss could rely, the years had come and gone. The last thing Bliss would tolerate was sympathy. Better to be brief, concise, and casual.

  “Monday morning, it reopens.” She affected a casual air and sipped at her coffee. “I’m still going to bake cakes, but I’m taking it easy. I plan to be open three days a week—Monday, Wednesday, and Friday—and one Saturday a month.” She paused to fumble with her napkin, then met her old friend’s gaze. “Everyone’s talking about simplifying their lives. I reached a point where it was no longer an option. My life’s so simple that I even live above the store.”

  Bliss held her breath and waited for the reaction. For the inevitable questions.

  After all, what sort of sane woman would leave a job like the one she had in Austin to bake cakes part-time? Who leaves a magnificent loft with a view of the capitol to live in a drafty old building over a cake shop?

  Neecie stared for a moment before her smile broadened. “I declare you’re brilliant. Good for you. You were in Austin, I heard. Working at the Bentley?” She gave Bliss a sideways glance. “That’s a really nice place. I’m impressed.”

  “So”—Bliss reached for a praline—“what about you? What have you been up to since graduation?”

  “The usual story. Got married, had kids. Got unmarried. Now I own this slice of heaven.”

  Neecie paused to sip at her coffee while Bliss tried not to gawk. Twenty-five years of time apart summed up so succinctly. Could she do that, as well?

  Of course, she could. Went to school, went to work, rammed my car into the Congress Street bridge, bought a cake shop.

  “Bliss, we all left high school with an idea of how things would turn out. I can’t say that I expected this, but you know what?”

  Bliss dabbed at the corner of her mouth with the napkin. “What’s that?”

  “Things didn’t turn out like I planned.” She met Bliss’s stare. “But, I’m blessed, hon, and that’s all there is to it. So many of our classmates can’t say that. I mean, sure, I would have chosen happily ever after with the man of my dreams over single parenting. And I’d prefer shopping till I drop over shop owning, but it is what it is, you know?”

  She did.

  “Well, I applaud your decision to drop out of the rat race.” Neecie reached to pat the top of Bliss’s hand. “Wish I’d thought of it. I tried taking Saturdays off. Left a sign on the door saying only to call in case of bridal emergency.”

  “A bridal emergency?” Bliss shook her head. “Is there such a thing?”

  Neecie hooted with laughter. “You’d be amazed at the calls I get. One gal called to say she missed her fitting on Friday because the hogs got out. Said she couldn’t come on Monday because they were getting a new batch of chickens.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Oh yes.” Neecie shrugged. “Now I’m closed Sundays and Mondays. And I don’t answer the business line on those days, bridal emergency or not. I get two days off, and the Lord gets a woman who can actually pay attention in church.”

  Ouch. When had she last managed that feat? For that matter, with Sunday mornings one of the busiest in the hotel, when had she last sat in a church pew? She immediately made a note to go with her mother to next Sunday’s later service.

  After all, working late nights at the hotel had robbed her of any ability to remember what it was like to be a morning person.

  Neecie seemed to understand Bliss’s need to refrain from comment. She made small talk about recipes, high school friends, and the latest episode of Dr. Phil. Safe topics exhausted, they lapsed into companionable silence.

  Only then did Bliss notice the lovely music. Seemingly coming from all around her, the soft acoustic hymn faded and another began.

  “I’ve never heard music like this,” Bliss finally said. “It’s beautiful.”

  “My Christmas present. My children love music. My daughter, Hannah, collected the music to every hymn she could find. That’s my son Andrew, the high school–aged skateboard designer, playing guitar. Hannah’s accompanying him on the harp.” Neecie pointed over her head to the corner of the shop. “The surround sound was wired up by the twins, mechanical geniuses Jake and Josh.”

  Bliss shook her head. “You have four kids?” She gave her friend a searching look. “How did you manage to do that, Neecie? You look amazing.”

  Her friend chuckled. “Well, hon, it happened in the usual way, but thanks.”

  She felt her cheeks grow warm. “Oh, that’s not what I meant.”

  Neecie laughed and popped another praline in her mouth. “Loosen up, Bliss,” she said when she’d swallowed. “I know what you meant. I’m just teasing.”

  The bell jangled as the door opened to reveal a gorgeous but flustered-looking young woman. Her suit jacket hung just awry of center, caught in the pull of the briefcase hanging from her shoulder. She quickly made an adjustment and smoothed her hair. By the time she and Neecie met halfway in a warm embrace, the woman seemed to have found her confidence.

  Holding her customer at arm’s length, Neecie shook her head. “Amy, honey, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” The woman’s formerly poised expression sank. “Everything. Just tell me the dress is ready for a final fitting, because I’ve got a plane to catch and a contract to negotiate in London, and my wedding planner hasn’t returned my call for two days.”

  Bliss exchanged a look with Neecie, then rose. “I should get back to the shop.”

  “Thanks so much for the coffee break. We’ll catch up more later.” Neecie rested her hand on Bliss’s shoulder for a second. “I’m so glad we’re neighbors again.”

  “So am I.”

  Bliss grabbed a daisy-strewed napkin from the basket and stacked the remaining pralines on it. The tray securely in hand, she made her way toward the door.

  She got all the way back to the Cake Bake’s kitchen before she realized she hadn’t thought to ask Neecie how she came to own the old pharmacy. “Guess I’ll leave that one for another day.”

  ❧

  “Daddy, please listen. I’m about to board the plane, and I won’t be able to speak to you again until I get to London. Everything’s completely under control. All you have to do is read the wedding planner’s weekly report and occasionally check on a few details.”

  “If everything’s under control, Amy, why do the details need checking on?” Bob Tratelli pushed back from the desk and whirled around to face the window.

  “The details need checking on because the wedding’s only six weeks away,” came his daughter’s sweet but exasperated reply.

  “It is just six weeks, isn’t it?” An image of Amy with skinned knees and a gap-toothed smile came to mind. It was quickly replaced by the photograph on the corner of his desk, the engagement photograph of the gorgeous brunette vice president who could handle the controls of an airplane almost as well as her old man.

  Where had all the time gone?

  “I just e-mailed Esteban’s contact information to you. If you don’t want to handle it, put Yvonne on the job.”

  No doubt his secretary would do a fine job of handling the details of Amy�
��s wedding. Everyone knew she practically ran Tratelli Aviation from her desk outside his office suite, and most of the time that suited him just fine. With the paperwork under control, Bob could give his full attention to the hands-on part of running the business his father founded. He glanced at Amy’s smiling photo again. Yvonne could do it, but this would be his last act of fatherly love before giving Amy away to another man.

  A question occurred. “Who is Esteban?”

  Bob couldn’t miss the exasperated sigh. “Our wedding co-ordinator. Remember, you and I met with him back in January at the Excelsior.”

  “Excelsior? The one in New York or—”

  “Baton Rouge, Daddy. Esteban’s offices are in Baton Rouge.” She paused. “Remember, he was the one with the purple suit.”

  Bob searched his brain. A vague memory of himself and Amy and a man in a purple suit surrounded by wedding cakes and plates of grilled chicken came to mind—one of several, as his daughter insisted on visiting a half dozen coordinators. But only one insisted on purple from head to toe, even to the streak in his hair.

  “Ah, Esteban,” he said as the image of a distinctly odd man with a thick accent came to mind. “Wasn’t he the one who kept calling me Mr. Fanelli?”

  Amy laughed. “That’s the one. He comes highly recommended, and he’s being paid well to handle everything. All you have to do is look over the weekly reports and make the occasional phone call to see how things are going.”

  “Can’t you do that from London?”

  Silence. In the background, he heard a boarding call for London.

  “So when’s the last time you talked to this Esteban fellow? Should I call him today or let it go for a week or so?”

  “Today, Daddy, please. I’m sure he’s been busy.”

  “Busy?” Bob tried to read between the lines of his daughter’s cryptic comment. “Does this mean he’s not calling you back? You know what I taught you about vendors who don’t return phone calls.”

  “Yes, Daddy, I know, but he’s not an aviation vendor. He’s a wedding planner. The best in the state. That means he’s busy.”