Page 56 of Emergency Engagement
“Gives you something to think about, doesn’t it?”
She had plenty to think about, and spent the short drive to the Oglethorpe Inn sitting next to Cheryl in the back seat of the Yukon, only half listening to her discuss the plan for a shared Christmas Day celebration between the Smith and Montgomery families.
When they arrived, Beau ushered her into the Oglethorpe, and she wondered if tonight represented the unwitting start of a family tradition. Would their little one grow up with fond memories of holidays spent in Magnolia Grove, surrounded by the grandparents, Aunt Sinclair…Mommy and Daddy?
Her mom found them just outside the banquet room and swept her into a quick hug. “There you are. I like that dress, though not quite as much as the last one I saw you in.”
She shot a glance at Beau. To her, the dress was still a sore point.
“Can’t wait to see it,” he said, and loosened his tie with a restless tug. “Is that Bill at the bar?”
Her mom turned and squinted at the bar set up across the room. “Yes. I took one for the team and asked him to fetch me a glass of wine after Mrs. Pinkerton corned us to get the latest gossip on the wedding.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“White wine?” Beau asked.
Without thinking, she pressed a hand to her stomach. “Nothing for me.”
He frowned and skimmed his fingertips down her cheek. “Still not feeling well?”
His show of concern warmed her heart, but then again, the man was a paramedic. “I’m fine. I just don’t want to tempt fate.”
The frown didn’t entirely disappear, but he nodded. “Okay. I’ll be right back.”
Savannah watched him thread his way through the clusters of people and tables and wondered when she’d become such a resourceful liar. A month ago, the only secret she’d harbored was Mitch’s name. Now she carried the weight of too many secrets, born of one massive lie. She wasn’t engaged. She had no need for a $3,000 wedding dress, and she didn’t feel fine.
“Sinclair wants to speak to you.” Her mother’s voice intruded on her guilty thoughts.
Yeah. I’ll bet she does. “Where is she?”
Two perfectly groomed blonde brows drew together as her mom scanned the crowd. “Try the cloakroom. She headed over there a few minutes ago. I’m guessing she ran into someone she knows. Otherwise, I can’t fathom what takes so long about hanging three coats. Oh, there’s Doreen Hightower. Doooreeen…”
Savannah edged away and then headed in the direction of the coat closet—a rack-lined room situated between the men’s and ladies’ lounges. As she stepped through the door, Sinclair appeared, snagged Savannah’s wrist, and tugged her into the ladies’ room.
“I’ve been texting you for hours. What the actual fuck, Savannah?”
“Why were you lurking in the coat closet?”
Sinclair strode to the farthest end of the counter and tossed herpurse. “I ducked in there to avoid Mrs. Pinkerton. I wasn’t in the mood to be pumped for information.”
“She’s harmless.”
“I beg to differ.” Sinclair pinned her with a sharp stare. “But we have more important things to discuss, don’t you think?”
Savannah looked over her shoulder to make sure the lounge remained empty, then turned back to Sinclair. “You’re going to be an aunt.” There. She’d said it out loud.
For a long moment her sister just stared at her, and she feared the reaction foreshadowed a near future full of strained silences and stunned looks, but then the dimple appeared in her cheek. She pulled Savannah into her arms and in an unsteady voice, said, “Congratulations. I’m so happy for you.”
Savannah closed her eyes and clung for a moment, eternally grateful for the sincerely happy reaction. Sinclair, of all people, could have called her out on every less-than-ideal aspect of the situation, every uncertainty concerning her and Beau’s relationship. And given all the challenges and uncertainties, she could have validly questioned the one decision Savannah had already made. But she didn’t. She smiled, and hugged, and…sniffled?
“Oh, no. Don’t you dare cry, Sinclair.” She pulled away and handed her sister a bunch of tissues from the box on the counter. “If you cry, I’ll cry, and then—”
The flush of a toilet cut her off. The last door in the line of stalls opened, and Mrs. Pinkerton waddled out and approached the sinks. Savannah nearly groaned out loud. “Hello, Mrs. Pinkerton.”
“Hello. My, don’t the Smith girls look pretty tonight.”
“So do you,” Sinclair said.
“Nonsense,” she dismissed as she washed her hands. “I aim for comfort, at my age. Not like you youngsters. Sinclair, that dress certainly catches the eye.” She dried her hands. “Andyou, Savannah”—she stood back and took stock—“why, you’re positively glowing. Don’t hide out in here all night, ladies.”
