The Summer Wedding: Groom Wanted / The Man You'll Marry. Debbie Macomber

man lived and breathed it, just like her father had. And, in the end, it had killed him.

      Dismissing Jordan from her thoughts, she collected her purse and hurried down to the lobby, where she was meeting the tour group.

      The sightseeing expedition proved excellent. Jill visited Pearl Harbor and the U.S.S. Arizona memorial and a huge shopping mall, returning to the hotel by three o’clock.

      Her room was cool and inviting. Jill took a few minutes to examine the souvenirs she’d purchased, a shell lei and several colorful T-shirts. Then, with a good portion of the day still left to enjoy, she decided to spend the remaining afternoon hours lazing around the pool. Once again she glanced over at Jordan’s room, her action almost involuntary. And once again she saw that he was on the phone. Jill wondered if he’d been talking since morning.

      Changing into her bathing suit, a modest one-piece in a—what else—Hawaiian print, she carried her beach bag, complete with three different kinds of sunscreen, down to the swimming pool. With a large straw hat perched on her head and sunglasses protecting her eyes, she stretched out on a chaise longue to absorb the sun.

      She hadn’t been there more than fifteen minutes when a waiter approached carrying a dome-covered platter and a glass of champagne. “Ms. Morrison?”

      “Yes?” Jill sat up abruptly, knocking her hat askew. “I … I didn’t order anything,” she said uncertainly as she reached up to straighten her hat.

      “This was sent compliments of Mr. Wilcox.”

      “Oh.” Jill wasn’t sure what to say. She twisted around and, shading her eyes with her hand, looked up. Jordan was standing on his lanai. She waved, and he returned the gesture.

      “If that will be all?” the waiter murmured, stepping away.

      “Yes … Oh, just a moment.” Jill scrambled in her beach bag for a tip, which she handed to the young man. He smiled his appreciation.

      Curious, she balanced the glass of champagne as she lifted the lid—and nearly laughed out loud. Inside was a large array of crackers topped with caviar. She glanced up at Jordan a second time and blew him a kiss.

      Something must have distracted him then. He turned away, and when Jill saw him again a few minutes later, he was pacing the lanai, phone in hand. She was convinced he’d completely forgotten about her. It was ironic, she mused, and really rather sad; here he was in paradise and he’d hardly ventured beyond his hotel room.

      Jill drank her champagne and savored a few of the caviar-laden crackers, then decided she couldn’t stand his attitude a minute longer. Packing up her things, she looped the towel around her neck and picked up the platter in one hand, her beach bag in the other. After that, she headed back inside the hotel. She knew she was breaking her promise to herself by seeking him out, but she couldn’t stop herself.

      Muttering under her breath, she took the elevator up to Jordan’s floor, calculated which room was his and knocked boldly on the door.

      A long moment passed before the door finally opened. Jordan, still talking on his phone, gestured her inside. He didn’t so much as pause in his conversation, tossing dollar figures around as casually as other people talked about the weather.

      Jill sat on the edge of his bed and crossed her legs, swinging her foot impatiently as Jordan strode back and forth across the carpet, seemingly oblivious to her presence.

      “Listen, Rick, something’s come up,” he said, darting a look in her direction. “Give me a call in five minutes. Sure, sure, no problem. Five minutes. See if you can contact Raymond, get these numbers to him and call me back.” He disconnected the line without a word of farewell, then glanced at Jill.

      “Hello,” he said.

      “Hi,” she returned, holding out the platter to offer him an hors d’oeuvre.

      “No, thanks.”

      She took one herself and chewed it slowly. She could almost feel his irritation.

      “Something I can do for you?”

      “Yes,” she stated calmly. “Sit down a minute.”

      “Sit down?”

      She nodded, motioning toward the table. “I have a story to tell you.”

      “A story?” He didn’t seem particularly charmed by the idea.

      “Yes, and I promise it won’t take longer than five minutes,” she added pointedly.

      He was obviously relieved that she intended to keep this short. “Go on.”

      “As I’ve mentioned before, I don’t know a lot about the world of high finance. But I’m well aware that time has skyrocketed in value. I also realize that the value of any commodity depends on its availability.”

      “Does this story have a point?”

      “Actually I haven’t got to the story yet, but I will soon,” she announced cheerfully.

      “Can you do it in—” he paused to check his watch “—two and a half minutes?”

      “I’ll hurry,” she promised, and drew a deep breath. “I was nine when my mother signed me up for piano lessons. I could hardly wait. The other kids dreaded having to practice, but not me. From the time I was in kindergarten, I loved to pound away at the old upright in our living room. My heart and soul went into making music. It was probably no coincidence that one of the first pieces I learned was ‘Heart and Soul.’ I hammered out those notes like machine-gun blasts. I overemphasized each crescendo, cherished each lingering note. Van Cliburn couldn’t have finished a piece with more pizzazz than I did. My hands would fly into the air, then flutter gently to my lap.”

      “I noticed you standing by the piano at the dinner party. Are you a musician?”

      “Nope. For all my theatrical talents, I had one serious shortcoming. I could never master the caesura—the rest.”

      “The rest?”

      “You know, that little zigzag thingamajig on sheet music that instructs the player to do nothing.”

      “Nothing,” he repeated slowly.

      “My impatience was a disappointment to my mother. I’m sure I frustrated my piano teacher no end. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t make me understand that music was always sweeter and more compelling after a rest.”

      “I see.” His hands were buried deep in his pockets as he studied her.

      If Jordan was as much like her father as she suspected, she doubted he really did understand. But she’d told him what she’d come to say. Mission accomplished. There wasn’t any other reason to stay, so she got briskly to her feet and scooped up her beach bag.

      “That’s it?”

      “That’s it. Thank you for the caviar. It was a delightful surprise.” With that she moved toward the door. “Just remember what I said about the rest,” she said, glancing over her shoulder.

      The phone pealed sharply and Jill grimaced. “Goodbye,” she mouthed, grasping the doorknob.

      The phone rang again. “Goodbye.” Jordan hesitated. “Jill?”

      “Yes?” The way he said her name seemed so urgent. She whirled around, hope surging in her heart. Perhaps he didn’t intend to answer the phone!

      It rang a third time, and Jordan’s eyes, dark gray, smoky with indecision, traveled from Jill to the telephone.

      “Yes?” she repeated.

      “Nothing,” he said harshly, reaching for the phone. “Thanks for the story.”

      “You’re welcome.” With nothing left to say, Jill walked out of his room and closed the door. Even before the lock slid into place she heard Jordan rhyming off lists of figures.

      Her