Have Husband, Need Honeymoon. Rita Herron

married to Brady? Heck, technically she was still married to him.

      Maybe when she saw him today, she would realize they’d both changed and she’d finally be able to exorcise him from her mind. She squared her shoulders, waved to a few of the people she knew as she searched the growing crowd for her sisters, and tried to brace herself just in case she and Brady crossed paths during the day. Of course, with a ka-zillion people in town for the festivities, that would be unlikely.

      Besides, she had to decide what to do about Thomas.

      Planning other people’s weddings and seeing her sisters so happily married had definitely given her the bug for a family of her own. Thomas wanted kids, a house in the suburbs, the whole nine yards. His proposal bounced around in her mind, along with all his positive characteristics, just as she rounded the corner and bumped into him.

      “Hey, Alison.” A grin lit his green eyes. Kind eyes. Yes, Thomas was a kindhearted, considerate, ambitious, stable man who would make a wonderful husband. He slid his fingers through hers and squeezed her hand, then whispered in her ear, “I was hoping we could talk after the parade.”

      Alison’s stomach quivered. Was Thomas expecting an answer today?

      BRADY HAD BARELY GOTTEN off the plane when his sister and mother launched themselves into his arms. Then they shoved him in the car to go to the Fourth of July celebration, and he felt himself fast losing control of his life.

      “Mom, I told you I didn’t want to go to the parade.”

      She smiled sweetly, cranked up her Thunderbird and tore down the highway, ignoring his protests as she launched into complaints about the recent drought. “We haven’t been able to water the lawn for weeks. They’ve got us on one of those rotating schedules.”

      “Yeah, the water police come around daily to check,” his sister said with a giggle.

      Brady tried to smile, thinking the dying grass and shrubs resembled the way he felt inside.

      “Honey, we’re so proud you’re here,” his mother chirped. “You know one reason we have the parade is to honor the veterans, especially men who’ve given their lives for us.” She gestured toward his leg. “And all those who’ve been injured.”

      “In case you haven’t noticed, Mom, we haven’t been at war lately. And I wasn’t hurt in battle.” Quite the opposite, he thought, as renewed guilt gripped his stomach.

      “Nevertheless, your father served our country. He’d want you to be there in his place to honor the veterans just as he always did.”

      Brady’s throat closed. That he couldn’t argue with. He did respect veterans and all other soldiers, but he could never take his father’s place. God knows he’d tried. He’d failed miserably, though.

      “Relax, it’ll be fun,” Vivica whispered. She leaned over the edge of his seat and patted his leg. “All your old friends will be there. Johnny and Bobby Raye and, oh, Alison will probably be there, too. I think her daddy, Wiley, is the grand marshal of the parade. You know he was in the navy himself when he was young.”

      Brady glared at Vivica, but an image of Wacky Wiley Hartwell as grand marshal flashed in his mind, and he couldn’t contain a smile. Wiley had a reputation for cheesy, funny advertising stunts and was somewhat the clown of Sugar Hill. But the last time Brady had seen the man in person, Wiley hadn’t been happy. He’d just discovered he had a son-in-law, had reared up like a mother bear protecting its baby cub, and ordered Alison to get an annulment.

      “Is he still as flamboyant as ever?” Brady asked.

      “Is he ever!” Vivica said. “I heard he wore a ruffled shirt to Hannah’s and Mimi’s weddings.”

      “Last Thanksgiving he had live turkeys in one of his used-car ads,” his mother added with a chuckle. “I thought they were going to gobble up the old coot.”

      “Alison said he’s wearing his Uncle Sam top hat and coat for the parade,” Vivica added.

      Brady tried not to react to the sound of Alison’s name as he rubbed at his leg. The familiar scenery along the north Georgia highway rolled past, the parched grass and dry ground evidence of the drought across the southeast.

      “Is your leg bothering you much?” his mother asked, her voice riddled with concern.

      He ground his teeth, not wanting to worry her. “It’s fine, Mom.”

      Vivica must have sensed his discomfort. “It’ll be like new with some therapy. Just wait till I work my magic hands on him, Mom.”

      “I can’t wait,” Brady mumbled. “I’ve heard you’re worse than a drill sergeant.”

      “Whatever cures ya,” Vivica said with a wink.

      He gave her a grateful half smile, but she ruined his mood. “By the way, did I tell you Alison’s dating—”

      “About a dozen times already.” He sighed and lay his head back, pretending disinterest. “I think I’ll rest until we get there. It was a long flight.” And another long, sleepless night.

      Vivica lapsed into silence and he silently cursed himself for being short with her. But he didn’t want pity, not for his injuries, not for his personal life. He’d sit through the parade, then hightail it back to his mother’s.

      An hour later, they pulled into town, and he grimaced. The town square had been roped off, rerouting traffic in a wide loop to avoid food vendors, crafters and various other booths. The town bustled with activity, with locals eating hot dogs, preparing for an old-fashioned cakewalk, watering the ponies for the kids. His mother parked and they got out of the car—right in front of some town dignitaries. To his surprise, the mayor greeted him personally.

      “Let me shake the hand of one of our own heroes.” Mayor Stone pumped his hand, his ruddy face already flushed from the activities, a glob of unabsorbed sunscreen puddling on his bald head.

      Brady’s tongue completely tied itself into a knot with denials, but the mayor gave him no time for a reply. He immediately helped him onto a huge float draped in red-white-and-blue crepe paper resembling the flag. Brady felt like a fake among the other veterans as they rode down Main Street, waving at the kids and throwing candy. Children shouted while music blared from the high school band. The cheerleaders marched and chanted the familiar high school cheers. Shriners zipped by in go-carts, doing wheelies to entertain the crowd. Clowns passed out balloons to the children, followed by several antique cars carrying local beauty contestants—Little Miss Sugar Hill, Miss Teenage Sugar Hill, Little Mr. Sugar Hill. Unfortunately, the veterans float followed the line dancers and horses—a bad choice, Brady realized, when two of the huge mares decided to relieve themselves in front of them.

      Oblivious to the problem, Wacky Wiley belted out a speech about all the servicemen and women and how they were heroes for their country, naming each person on the float. The high school band burst into a slightly off-key version of “The Star Spangled Banner” in the background.

      Brady grimaced when Wiley called his name, his mind shouting that he wasn’t a hero, that he didn’t deserve to be up here with these other men. But Wiley continued, and Brady scanned the crowd for familiar faces. He spotted a few of his high school teachers, the football coach he used to think hung the moon, some high school football buddies. Hannah Hartwell was standing beside a big, dark-headed guy, her arm tucked in his. Must be the cop Vivica said she’d married. A pregnant Mimi Hartwell stood beside them next to a sandy-haired man.

      Finally he spotted her—Alison.

      Beautiful sweet Alison wedged in the crowd, yet sticking out from all the others like a diamond in a case full of cut glass. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. She’d trimmed her waist-length black hair to her shoulders, but the shorter length made her look even more lively than ever. Though she was still tall and slender, her curves appeared more pronounced, more womanly and enticing, especially in that slinky, pale blue sundress. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to savor the sight