The Secret Wedding Dress. Roz Fox Denny

am.” He petted the cat, which snuggled happily in his arms.

      “You’re nothing like her, if you don’t mind my saying. I was sure her relatives must’ve sold the land.”

      “I considered it. Her death took me by surprise. I had developers contacting me—and they all expressed interest in the land fronting the lake. At the time, my tax man said I’d be better off sitting on the property, that it would only increase in value.” Joel raised one shoulder. “I didn’t need the extra tax burden that selling would’ve added. One year ran into two, and two into three. Then…” He broke off speaking suddenly, and said, “It seemed like a good idea to move here.”

      Sylvie had seen the way his eyes shifted toward Rianne. She wondered if his abrupt departure from his rambling explanation had to do with his divorce. She assumed that was the case. Of course, she could be completely wrong. Maybe the Mercers had an open marriage. One of these days, his wife might show up.

      “Well, I’m wasting time I ought to be using more productively,” he said.

      Sylvie airily waved a hand. “Yes, Rianne mentioned you work at home. Home-based jobs are certainly becoming more popular.”

      “They are. I feel fortunate that the arrangement works for me. Rianne, remember I said don’t chatter and make a pest of yourself with Ms. Shea.”

      “Oh, she’s not at all,” Sylvie inserted quickly. “I don’t mind a bit. I work at home, too, so I’m well aware of how people assume you have all the time in the world.”

      “You work at home? Oh, the kennels, you mean?”

      “Actually,” Sylvie explained, “I’m a seamstress. I board animals now and then. The kennels were my grandfather’s. I assume you knew he was the only vet in town. After he retired, he bred and sold Red Bone hounds.”

      “Are you referring to Mr. Shea?”

      “My grandfather, yes. Bill Shea.”

      “He didn’t have dogs when I used to stay with Iva, which was shortly after my great-uncle Harvey died. I know he loved to fish. I came here four or five different summers and he always took me fishing. So, he was a veterinarian who later raised hounds? I probably should’ve known.”

      “It’s odd to think you fished with Gramps, and yet I don’t remember you.”

      “Nor I you.”

      “How old are you?”

      “Thirty-three going on a hundred,” Joel said, smiling.

      “Ah, that makes me seven years younger. Depending on which years you stayed with Iva, I may not have spent much time here. My folks owned a beach house, and mom took us girls there most summers.”

      “So, are you studying to be a vet? Following in Bill’s footsteps?”

      “Not hardly. I operate a part-time mobile grooming service. Briarwood is a community where residents commute to the city for their jobs, or else they’re retired. Both groups benefit by having someone—moi—groom pets in their homes. Because the kennels are out back, I occasional board someone’s pet.” She didn’t mention that Oscar stayed in the house.

      “So it’s just my luck you’re keeping a moose at the same time I move Rianne’s poor defenseless kitty in next door.”

      Sylvie was intrigued by his uncharacteristic grin, which brought deep creases to his cheeks and fine laugh lines around his eyes. Or maybe it wasn’t that uncharacteristic. She hardly knew the man.

      Mercer seemed struck, uncomfortably so, by the fact that he’d stepped out of his tough-guy shell. Sobering, he said a quick goodbye and headed for his house.

      “Hey, wait. I have to make spritz cookies for our Sunday school this week. If Rianne’s at loose ends, maybe she’d like to come here and help.”

      “Daddy, can I? Please. Please?”

      Joel turned slowly back, frowning.

      “Sorry,” Sylvie mumbled. “I shouldn’t have asked in front of her. Uh, maybe your dad needs your help unpacking,” Sylvie said in a rush. “If so, the offer remains open. I’ll be making cookies another time.”

      “No. It’ll be fine.” Joel’s grudging capitulation sounded anything but fine. “Just don’t be talking Ms. Shea’s ear off. And she has my permission to send you home if you ask why, why, why three or more times in a row.”

      Rianne ducked her head. “’Kay, Daddy. I’ll try and remember.”

      Sylvie laughed spontaneously. “I have a niece and nephew whose every other word is who, what, why, where or how. Rianne’s very polite. I think we’ll get on famously. Oh, and do call me Sylvie.”

      Joel rocked forward and back on his heels and narrowed his eyes, as if her request was an imposition.

      What was the man’s problem? One minute he seemed a nice, decent guy. The next, a grouch. Sylvie’s concentration on the father was broken by a question from the daughter.

      “I don’t know what those cookies are, the ones you said you were making. Actually, I’ve never helped make cookies. Is it all right if I don’t know how?”

      Sylvie gazed down into the girl’s anxious blue eyes. “Never? Maybe your mom calls these sugar cookies. They’re made from dough you refrigerate and squeeze out in different shapes from a cookie gun.”

      Rianne continued shaking her head. “I don’t think my mama makes cookies at all. She only talks on TV.”

      Sylvie felt herself nodding. “Oh, uh, then you’re in for a treat, honey. I already have the dough made. You get to help with the good part, squishing it through the press and painting the shapes with edible paints after they come out of the oven and set for a while.”

      The girl’s dragging steps sped up and she gave a few little skips. “What’s edible paint?”

      “Just what it sounds like. Paint you can eat.” Sylvie smiled over Rianne Mercer’s obvious skepticism. “They didn’t have such a thing when I learned to make cookies. My sister owns a kitchen shop in town. She first tried these paints last Christmas. Our Christmas plates did look fabulous.”

      “Daddy said the woman who used to live in your house made the yummiest oatmeal raisin cookies.”

      “Really? That would be my Grandmother Shea. Hers were tasty. I have her recipe. If we have time, how would you like to mix up a batch to bake and take home to surprise your dad?”

      “Yes, please.” Rianne beamed.

      “I’m fairly sure I have all the ingredients we need. Oh—” She paused. “Unless you and your dad have too many desserts on hand as it is.” At Rianne’s vigorous shake of the head, Sylvie led the way into her kitchen. “First we have to wash our hands,” she announced.

      “Why did all those ladies who don’t know us bring us food, Sylvie?”

      “It’s called being neighborly,” Sylvie said, sharing a towel. “People wanted to welcome you to town.”

      “Oh. Daddy thinks they just wanted to find out all about us.”

      “That, too.” Sylvie laughed. “It’s the drawback of living in a small town, kiddo. Everyone wants to know everyone else’s business.”

      “Why?”

      “That’s a very good question.” She got out the bowl of chilled dough and put the first batch into the press. Talk fell off as she showed the little girl how to push the plunger to create a slow, steady flow. As the dough softened, Rianne grew more adept, and her confidence soared.

      “Are you sure you aren’t teasing me about never making cookies before?”

      “Nope. Daddy doesn’t like to cook. And Mrs. Honeycutt, who watched