Celebration's Bride. Nancy Robards Thompson

with a lived-in patina. He had to hand it to his old man. The guy would make sure his yard was manicured if he had to crawl around on all fours to get it done.

      Window boxes sported bright red geraniums. There were two white wicker rockers on the front porch that looked as if they’d recently received a fresh coat of paint. A closer look revealed that the seat cushions were fraying, but the paint made the chairs look nice and inviting, even if they weren’t brand new. That was his mom’s handiwork. So was the sunflower wreath on the front door. All these little touches made a person feel welcome and wanted.

      If that didn’t sum up the difference in his folks: his dad tended to the practical matters like the lawn, weeding and edging, while his mom added the nice touches that made this middle-class house a home.

      When he’d talked to his mom to tell her he’d be back in town, she’d assured him his father would be heartbroken if Miles stayed away.

      “Mom, Dad and I haven’t spoken in five years. What makes you so sure he’s so eager to see me now?”

      “You just leave everything to me, honey. I’ll deal with your father and he will welcome you as warmly as if nothing ever happened. Trust me.”

      That was another thing about his mom: when she got her mind wrapped around something—especially if it had to do with her family—nothing stood in her way. She was a woman of her word. So when she said, “Trust me,” she left no alternative.

      As he climbed the brick steps toward the red front door, a calico cat he didn’t recognize sprinted past him, making him do a stutter step so he didn’t step on it. The animal stopped under one of the rockers, eyeing him warily.

      “Don’t believe a word he told you about me,” Miles murmured. “It takes two to box.”

      Actually, his father had never laid a hand on him in anger. His words had always been his most powerful weapon. It was his military background that made him that way. Miles Mercer III was an army man through and through. He did everything by the book—well, his own interpretation of the book—and expected everyone to conform and follow suit.

      Few were brazen enough to dispute him, because when you did, well…you paid the price. In Miles’s case the price was exorbitant: excommunication.

      For a moment, he stood there watching the cat watch him, realizing he wasn’t sure if he should knock or walk in. This had been his home for the first eighteen years of his life. At twenty-nine, he’d still spent more time under this roof than anywhere else. But things were different now. As his father had so aptly pointed out the last time Miles had walked out this door—the last time they spoke—this was no longer his home.

      He pulled back his hand and landed three sharp raps with his knuckles. In less than ten seconds the door swung open and his mother’s squeal of delight pierced the air.

      She threw her arms around him.

      “Miles, my baby boy. I cannot believe you are finally home.” She pulled away from him suddenly and held him at arm’s length. “I just want to look at you for a minute. I cannot believe you are finally here.”

      Tears made her eyes sparkle.

      “Hi, Mom,” he said, unable to suppress a smile. “It’s great to see you.”

      She looped her arm through his and walked inside. “Everyone! Everyone! Come here! Miles is home.”

      As if someone had opened up the flood gates, about twenty people crowded into the foyer, each of them talking at once and nudging each other out of the way to give Miles hugs, handshakes, high fives and slaps on the back.

      His three brothers, Christopher, Grant and Ben, were there. His oldest sister, Patricia, her husband and their four kids were in the mix and over in the corner, he spied his baby sister, Lucy, hanging back from the rambunctious group, studying the display screen on her phone like kids these days tended to do.

      She looked up and flashed him a shy smile and gave him a little wave. Miles gave her a salute and she laughed and rolled her eyes.

      That’s when he saw it. She wasn’t such a little kid anymore. She had to be what—he quickly did the math in his head—she had to be fifteen years old by now. He’d sent her birthday presents every year, mostly cards with money tucked inside, but he was floored by how the years had stacked up and flown by.

      He also noticed that his father was not among the greeting committee. For an instant a thought burned inside him that maybe the old man had skipped out on the occasion. Then Miles took a deep breath, swallowing the bile burning his throat and forced himself not to jump to conclusions. That’s when he realized his mom was cooking something that smelled delicious. He breathed in again, this time letting go of the simmering anger and enjoying the familiar sights and scents of home.

      As if reading his mind, his mom asked, “Are you hungry?”

      “Starving,” he said. “Whatever you’re cooking smells like exactly what I’m hungry for.”

      “Okay, everyone take a step back,” his mom ordered. “Give Miles some room to come inside the house.”

      The family obeyed, except for a little girl who looked like a pre-teen, lingering in the foyer looking up at him expectantly.

      “You’re not Zoe, are you?” he asked. She beamed up at him, nodding her head.

      “Naah, you can’t be Zoe,” Miles teased. “Zoe was just a tiny little girl the last time I saw her. You’re a teenager.” A slight exaggeration, but something told him saying that would make her smile.

      “I am Zoe and I’m ten,” she said. “Do you work in the movies?”

      “I do.”

      “Do you know Justin Bieber? Has he ever been in one of your movies?” Her hazel eyes shone as bright as the sun.

      “I hate to disappoint you, but Justin Bieber has never been in one of my movies. I did see him once at an awards show in California.”

      Her mouth formed a perfect O.

      When she recovered, she asked, “If you ever put him in one of your movies, can I meet him?”

      “You’ve got a deal,” Miles said. “If he’s ever in one of my movies, I will make sure your mom brings you out to California to meet him.”

      “My mom’s your sister, right?” she asked as they made their way into the family room.

      “That’s right,” he said.

      “So you’re my uncle, right?”

      “Yep, and that makes you my niece.”

      “Cool!” she said and ran off to another part of the house, yelling to anyone who would listen that she was going to meet Justin Bieber someday soon.

      As Miles made his way into the living area, he glanced in the open door of the office, which was located between the family room and kitchen. There he glimpsed his father at the desk concentrating hard over notes he was making on a yellow legal pad. Miles hesitated, wondering if he should go in and say hello, but mostly hoping his father would look up, see him standing there, and break this insidious wall of ice that had stood between them since they’d last exchanged words.

      Before Miles could say anything, his brother Ben came up to him, clapping him on the back. “Hey, Mr. Hollywood, it’s about time you came home. Come over here, I want to introduce you to my fiancée.”

      What? With one last glance at his father, who was still presumably caught up in his work, as if nothing were going on outside of the ordinary day-to-day grind, Miles followed his brother into the kitchen where a pretty blonde was talking to his mom and making a salad.

      “You’re getting married?” he asked.

      “We are,” Ben said. “Miles, this is Jeanie, my future wife.”

      The blonde beamed as she wiped her hands on a dish towel,