“I can’t,” he said. “I’m at loss to say how beautiful she looks. God, Rebecca . . . you look like you walked right out of a movie.” Rebecca smiled self-consciously, did a little curtsey of thanks. “I mean, it’s stunning,” he said again. “You’re stunning. You’re . . .”
Robin tapped him on the shoulder. “Roll your tongue up and put it in back in your head. We don’t have all day.” And then she yelled for Cole and Grayson while Matt shoved a hand through his hair, still unable to take his eyes off Rebecca.
The four of them arrived early, as Rebecca wanted to make sure that everything was in order and that the groundsmen, supplied by the Three Nines ranch, had put everything up like she and Harold had instructed. Of course she knew what the place was supposed to look like, but she could not have prepared herself for the sight of the party grounds where the event would be held under an evening summer sky . . . it had been completely transformed, just like Harold promised. They walked through stone gates to the party area, and all of them came to an abrupt halt and stared at their surroundings as Harold came forward to greet them in a stunningly royal blue tuxedo.
Rebecca had wanted the place to look like Texas, with lush greens to represent the coastal plains and eastern pine forests, reds and browns to represent the canyons in the west, and dark blues and grays to represent the mountains around El Paso. Dozens of round tables had been set up, all draped in those colors. The centerpieces at each table, made by local art students (and for sale after the event) were three-dimensional representations of Texas; barbed wire and horseshoes for ranching, oil rigs and oil pumps, skylines of the major metropolitan areas, cattle . . . And in the pecans and live oaks that formed a canopy over the dining area, hundreds of small star lights had been strung to create the illusion of a big Texas night sky.
The stage was a long, rectangular raised platform, behind which a canvas was draped and painted with the Austin skyline—Rebecca had asked a woman she had once taken an art class with to do it, and she had been happy to oblige. The result was outstanding; one felt as if he or she were standing on a hilltop, overlooking Austin. The dance floor, made of oak planks from the original Three Nines ranch house porch, was off to one side, and was covered in peanut shells and sawdust for the boot-scooting tunes the live entertainment would provide—Rebecca had lined up four separate and well-known country-western bands.
At either end of the dance floor, and behind the dining area, were three bars fashioned out of wooden barrel horses, used by ranchers and rodeo enthusiasts to learn how to rope. And at the far end of the grounds, but within a short walking distance of the dining area, were the barbecue pits.
“It’s fabulous, Bec,” Robin said. “You’ve done such a fantastic job.”
“Thanks,” Rebecca said proudly. “I had no idea it would turn out so well.”
“You know, you ought to do this for a living,” Jake said. “You’re really good. There’s a huge market for it in Houston. I bet there is here, too,” he said. “I’m going to check out the barbecue—a man can’t ignore a scent like that,” he said, and offered his arm to Robin, leaving Rebecca with that stunning idea.
As the two of them trotted off in the direction of food, Rebecca turned slowly around, taking in the creation that had begun as an idea in her head one afternoon in Tom’s office, had been sketched and sketched on paper so many times that she could almost recite the exact number of chairs. As she came full circle, she noticed Matt was gazing at her.
“So what do you think?”
“I think,” he said softly, “that I am incredibly proud of you. It’s wonderful, Rebecca. Masterfully done. Bravo,” he said, applauding softly. “The party could never have created such an intimate feel to this venue, particularly on the budget you had.”
Rebecca grinned up at him as Matt encircled her in his arms. “Thanks, Big Pants—that actually means a whole lot coming from you.”
“Yeah, well, Miss Priss . . .” He paused to kiss her. “Jake’s right—you ought to give his idea some thought, because you can do as well as the big guns. Better, even. And if Tom Masters doesn’t give you the praise and glory you deserve, I will personally put this fine ostrich leather boot up his ass.”
“I’m sorry, I’m certain I didn’t hear you correctly. Would you please repeat that, only a little louder?”