"Toss it to me!" hollered a petite blonde as she bounced
around on the lawn in front of Isabel Blume. The thirty-
something dynamo had introduced herself as Peyton at the
bridal shower, two weeks ago Isabel recalled, and she'd
arrived at this afternoon's wedding on the arm of a George
Clooney look-alike.
"Aim left and throw hard," another woman commanded from
her spot near the rose-trimmed arbor. Isabel didn't
remember the name of the tall redhead, but the Wichita ob-
gyn had celebrated her forty-first birthday last year by
touring French castles.
"Watch out, gals, this un's mine!" The husky female drawl
from the back had come from the bride's college roommate,
a Dallas banker who, at twenty-six, had recently been
promoted to VP of her company.
From the sound of things, a person might think the women
were throwbacks to a time when a nice, single gal over
twenty had cause to be concerned about a dwindling pool of
potential suitors. That wasn't the case here at all. Most
of these women had the world by the tail: careers, lovers,
numerous friends. Plans for houses and children and travel.
These women were bachelorettes, not spinsters. They were
merely having fun as they waited for the bride to stop
posing for the photographer and toss the bouquet.
Isabel wished she could get into a party mood, too, but
she had never felt comfortable around so many people.
She'd inherited too many of her mother's traits, she
supposed. She glanced toward the waiting crowd just in
time to watch Roger leave the backyard through the gate.
Where was he going?
Isabel scanned the folding chairs for Roger's two kids,
then offered a quick wave when she spotted them. Maybe
their dad had stepped out for a moment of quiet.
She was here as Roger's guest, of course — his cousin was
the bride. Isabel didn't really know these folks. Though
she'd grown up in the nearby Kansas countryside, she
hadn't gone to school in Augusta. Her mother, Ella, had
taught Isabel and her sisters at home. She'd kept them at
home, period, always insisting that a rudimentary life was
the better way.
How many times had Isabel wished she could trade places
with any other girl in town? To attend school in a
classroom with a desk her size. To accept birthday party
invitations and giggle with friends over cake and musical
chairs. To travel on cheerful yellow buses to the zoos and
museums she'd only read about.
Even now, she'd love to switch with one of these other
women for an hour — just long enough to feel her
confidence. Maybe Peyton, with her obviously devoted
swain, crisp gingham suit and slinky black thong sandals.
Or maybe Isabel would rather be the bride. Roger's cousin
had traded vows with an Arkansas man, and the couple was
moving to the Ozarks to run a shop specializing in custom-
built cradles. What a dream!
When the photographer finished, the bride turned her back
to the group, and the ladies resumed shouting as eagerly
as the most talkative catcher behind home plate at Augusta
Middle School, where Roger's son played league softball.
Isabel bit her tongue and crossed her arms in front of
her. She had no business catching the bouquet. She was
only standing with this group now because one of the
bridesmaids had dragged her out here.
The bouquet left the bride's hands and arced over the
space. Isabel watched the gorgeous pink mixture sail past
the others, heading straight for her nose. At the last
minute, she reached up and caught it.
Groans and chuckles filled the cool April air while Isabel
righted the bouquet and inhaled its fine scent. Any magic
in these flowers, she knew, was merely in the enjoyment of
them.
The other women scattered into the crowd, and Isabel
carried the bouquet across to the chairs, where Roger's
six-year-old daughter looked as if she might burst from
excitement.
"You catched the flowers," Angie hollered, jumping up from
her seat to clap her hands on either side of her punch-
stained mouth. "I know what that means. If you marry my
daddy, you'll be my ee-bil ol' stepmother, right?"
"The word is evil, birdbrain," eleven-year-old R.J. said.
"I said ee-bil."
As the pair began their umpteenth squabble of the
afternoon, Isabel claimed a chair near them and scowled at
the bouquet.
Evil! Her sisters always told her she was too nice. And
old? At twenty-seven, Isabel was hardly close to spinster
age. The little girl must have heard a few too many fairy
tales.
"But will you be my stepmother, Izza-bell?" Angie asked.
Isabel was still scrambling for a wise, motherly response
when the groom hollered for Roger, saying he needed to
join the bachelors for the garter toss.
"Where did your dad go?" she asked the kids, and when she
noticed the heaping plateful of cashews and mints that
R.J. was trying to hide, she confiscated it and scooped
half the pile into her palm before handing it back. "R.J.,
do you know?" she prompted.
"He had to check his soybeans," R.J. said, speaking around
a mouthful of nuts. "He said females like all this flowery
junk, and since you drove your own car and all, you could
stay."
Angie peered across at Isabel, her brown eyes wide and
serious. "You're sposed to bring us home after the cake
an' ever-thing."
Roger had warned Isabel that he had some work to finish
before dark, but Isabel was surprised that he hadn't
offered her the option of leaving with him. "Sorry, he
left," she shouted to the waiting men. As Isabel watched
the George Clooney guy catch the garter, then ignored the
couples dancing to a few last wedding songs while she ate
cake with the kids, she consoled herself that Roger's
actions were probably normal for a boyfriend of over three
years.
His early departure wasn't an act of neglect. He simply
had chores to do. He was a good guy, overall. Honest,
hardworking.
He was a great guy, and handsome, too. Hadn't she caught
the banker eyeing him during the ceremony today? Roger's
thick auburn hair and tanned, even features caught the
attention of other women all the time, especially now that
he'd slimmed down some. But he didn't flirt, even when the
ladies invited it.
To a woman whose mother had taught her that all men were
either fickle or worthless, that kind of predictability
counted for a lot.
Isabel watched the crowd begin to leave, mostly in man-
woman pairs. She might have the bouquet in her possession,
but she'd never be the next to marry. Weddings had been
too abundant in her circle lately.
She wondered if Roger had any idea that she might like to
be a bride someday. His bride, and stepmother to his kids,
whom she cared for on a regular basis. Whom she cared for,
period.
On the way home in her car, Isabel got a clear idea of
Roger's intentions. R.J. and Angie were both buckled into
the backseat. As usual, R.J. had requested that Isabel
turn on the radio so he could, as he'd put it, tune out
the motormouth. "I wish Daddy would marry Izza-bell," the
doggedly chatty Angie murmured to her brother a moment
later.
"She'd be the best ee-bil stepmother in the whole U.S.A.!"
Isabel smiled at the contradiction, until she heard R.J.'s
response.
"Her name is Isabel, and Dad isn't going to marry her."
The boy's low voice and bold statement suggested that he
thought Isabel was listening to the music.
"Izza-bell," Angie repeated, still pausing before that
last syllable in the cute way she had. "But why won't
Daddy marry her?" Her question spared Isabel the trouble
of butting in to ask it herself.
"He's never getting hitched again. He says it all the time
at home."
"He does?"
Again, Angie had voiced Isabel's own musings. She slowed
her approach to Roger's farm, but worked to control her
reaction. She wanted to hear the rest of this particular
squabble.
"He likes her okay, though," R.J. said. "She's not exactly
ugly or anything, and he says he craves adult company."
"Izza-bell isn't like other adults, dummy," Angie
said. "She pushes me on the swings and plays house wif me."
"Jeez, Ange, she probably plays with you because she
doesn't have her own kids or a dumb career or anything
more important to do."
Ye-ouch!
Isabel pulled into the long drive at Roger's farm and left
the car idling. She'd heard enough. Roger's truck and
tractor were parked in their usual places next to the
cottonwoods, so she knew he must be inside by now.
She wouldn't go in. Let him pull together his own dinner
and tend to his own artlessly honest kids. "If your dad
asks where I am," she said, "tell him I had plans for
tonight."
And she did.
Now.
Oblivious to her changed mood, R.J. said goodbye and
disappeared into the house.
Angie remained in her seat. "R.J. doesn't know ever-thing.
Daddy will marry you."
Isabel turned around in the seat to peer at her tiny
buddy, who must have realized she'd been listening to the
backseat conversation. "What makes you think so, hon?"
"Cuz you're nice, an' Mama has a new boyfriend, anyways."
The little girl sat up straight and grinned, showing off a
missing front tooth. "'Sides, I'm not gonna grow up an' be
like Mama. I'm gonna be like you."
"How so?"
"I don't want a dumb c'reer. I want to stay home and make
stuff and play Barbies wif a little girl, like you do."
Well, ouch, again.
Isabel had a career. She owned and operated Blume-crafts,
the home-based business her mother had started. Her
handmade quilts and baskets might not earn her a doctor's
or a banker's wages, but she made enough to pay her bills
and then some.
And she had time left over to entertain a certain
redheaded six-year-old and her outspoken older brother.
"Well, thanks, hon." Isabel got out of her car, then went
around to the back to help Angie unbuckle her seat
belt. "Just remember you can do anything when you grow up.
Okay? Anything at all."
Angie nodded, her expression serious.
As Isabel watched her young friend get out of the car and
skip up the gravel drive to the house, she realized
something. The impression she'd left on those kids wasn't
the one she'd intended.
Living frugally or surviving tough times or cherishing
loved ones, all the more important lessons Isabel had
learned over the years, weren't the ones they'd picked up.
No. They'd concluded that she had time for them because
she wasn't doing anything better.
Isabel drove the two miles between Roger's farm and the
country house she'd inherited from her mother, then
plunked the bouquet into a jug of water and changed out of
the lilac georgette dress she'd designed and stitched
expressly for this wedding.
An evening alone sounded nice. She hadn't ignored Roger's
unspoken expectations for a long time, but the thought of
doing her own thing for change gave her a strange thrill.