“And that, sweet cheeks, is just a week away. Is everything ready?” Matt asked, picking at her plate from across the table.
“I think so,” she said, crossing her fingers. “The entertainment is lined up, at last. The caterers are all set. We got the temporary liquor license through, but Tom had to make some calls for that to happen. And the site is finally completed. The only thing I have left to worry about is what to wear,” she said.
Matt laughed. “That’s funny. You’re going to knock them dead, Miss Texas, even if you wear your work jeans.”
“I wish I could believe it. There will be some people who would like to see me fall flat on my face.”
“Like who?” Matt demanded, pausing in his scavenging of her dinner. “Give me their names and I’ll kick their ass.”
She flashed him an appreciative smile and said, “Like Bud. And some of our so-called friends from Dallas with lots of money. And then there are some who just make me really nervous, like Dad.”
“Don’t worry about him. He’ll be so proud, he’ll bust,” Matt said confidently.
“Not my dad. And I thank my lucky stars your parents will be out of town.”
“My parents love you, girl,” Matt said with an impatient frown. “You couldn’t do a thing wrong if you tried.”
“I just don’t want to mess this up. I feel like my whole life has come down to this one event and everything I ever was or thought I could be is going to be proven by its success or failure.”
Now Matt put down his fork. “That’s just crazy. It’s a party, Rebecca. Are you really that fragile?”
She looked at her wineglass, then at Matt, and said hopelessly, “Yeah, I think I am. Self-help books and transformation seminars notwithstanding, I am neither confident in my abilities nor prepared to pick myself up and dust myself off.”
Matt reached across the table, gripped her hand in his. “I’m confident in your abilities. Whatever you think is going to happen, it won’t, because I know you, and I know this will be a grand success. But if something happens, whatever the fallout, I want you to know you can fall on me and I will be there to pick you up and brush you off.”
Rebecca felt a rush of warmth as his sincere sentiment swirled around her heart. “Why, Matthew Parrish,” she said, squeezing his hand, “that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“I mean it.” Matt lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it, then asked, “Are you going to eat that?”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, dose-knit family in another city . . .
GEORGE BURNS
When Robin, Jake, and Cole arrived at the newly named Flying Pig Lakehouse (it said so above the gate) the night before the gala, Robin noticed immediately there was something different about Rebecca. Very different. What, exactly, she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She was pretty sure it wasn’t the dogs, although there were four or five (Robin couldn’t be sure), all of them looking a little knocked around by life. And Rebecca’s lack of makeup was highly unusual for her, being a former beauty queen and all, but Robin didn’t think that was it, either.
She watched Rebecca closely as Jake’s son, Cole (a few months shy of his seventeenth birthday and along to babysit Grayson, for big money, as he put it), handed Grayson a paper bag.
“What is it?” Grayson asked.
“Well, open it up, goof, and check it out,” Cole responded.
Very carefully, Grayson opened it, peeked inside, then gasped loudly as he turned to Rebecca. “It’s green slime!” he said in a reverent tone, and looked up at Cole with open adoration.
“Ever seen a dog eat green slime?” Cole asked, ushering Grayson out back, where the dogs were frantically awaiting any attention.
Something was different, all right—Rebecca was not the sort to beam so broadly at green slime. Quite the opposite, really. And the house. Sure, it was clean, picked up, as would be expected. But it was not . . . perfect. That was it! It wasn’t perfect! Rebecca wasn’t perfect. Robin had figured it out, and gleefully went about the rest of the afternoon looking to see how many imperfections she could find, sort of like looking for Waldo.
There were plenty—mismatched towels in the cupboard, one of Rebecca’s old oil paintings hanging slightly askew, a TV remote tossed carelessly onto the floor. Some life-changing thing had happened to her sister, and Robin figured she knew what it was. After all, the same thing had happened to her not all that long ago.
Naturally, Robin wanted all the gory details, but she had some news of her own she was dying to share. So when Rebecca was preparing a sumptuous supper of pork tenderloin, and asked Robin to open a bottle of wine and taste it, Robin sighed.
“You might as well tell her,” Jake said, pausing in the repair of a door hinge to frown at Robin, also anxious to have the news out in the open. “It’s not like you can hide it, you know.”
“I’m not trying to hide it, thank you, Mr. Fixit,” she said irritably.