A Ring For Christmas. Joan Elliott Pickart
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“In the courtroom,” Luke said. “Dealing with women is a whole different arena, Dad. It calls for understanding the female mind, and I’m not sure there’s a man on this planet who can do that.”
“Good point. I certainly don’t know what makes those wonderful creatures tick, even after all these years,” Mason said, stroking his chin. “Well, now, this is going to be quite a challenge for you, isn’t it?”
“The most important fight of my life,” Luke said. “I really, really need an idea.”
“Yep,” Mason said, nodding. “Keep me posted on this, son.”
“Yeah, okay. In the meantime, pass that champagne bottle down here, will you? Maybe there’s a magic answer waiting for me in the bubbly.”
Mason laughed as he handed his son the bottle. “All that is in there is a hangover waiting to happen.”
“Whatever,” Luke said, then filled his glass to the brim.
Late the next morning Luke rolled onto his back in bed, opened his eyes and groaned. He closed his eyes again, pressed his hand to his throbbing forehead, then dropped his arms to the bed with a thud.
He was a dying man, he thought, eyes still tightly closed. Some idiot was playing a bongo drum in this brain, every tooth in his mouth ached and even his hair hurt. To even hope to survive he’d have to cut off his head and grow a new one.
“Ohhh, I hate champagne,” he said aloud, with another groan thrown in for good measure. “I’m never drinking that junk again. This is somehow all Maggie Jenkins’s fault, damn it.”
Luke opened his eyes slowly, then eased upward and moved his feet cautiously to the floor. He propped his elbows on his knees and cradled his throbbing head in his hands.
He couldn’t believe he’d done this, he thought miserably. He hadn’t gotten smashed since his freshman year in college many years ago. But there he’d sat, filling his glass with expensive champagne, chugging it down, filling it again and again and again.
He vaguely remembered his father watching him and chuckling with maddening regularity, then finally extending his hand and asking for Luke’s car keys.
So how had he gotten home? Oh, yeah, his dad had driven him with his mother following in their vehicle. Well, at least his SUV must be parked in the garage beneath the building. His mother had seemed to get a kick out of her oldest son’s condition, too, now that he thought about it. What rotten parents.
At least Robert didn’t know what his big brother had done. Robert and Ginger had changed into their traveling clothes and with all the proper fuss had left the reception to catch the plane to their honeymoon in Greece.
Their honeymoon. Because they had just gotten married. Mr. and Mrs. Robert St. John. Robert and Ginger were so happy it was nauseating. No, that wasn’t fair. He was sincerely pleased that Robert had found his happiness in ditzy Ginger. By this time next year they would no doubt have produced the first St. John grandchild. How crummy was that?
“Knock it off,” Luke said, the sound of his own voice increasing the pain in his head.
He was so jealous of Robert and Ginger, it was a crime. And envious of his parents and every other dewyeyed in-love couple on the face of the earth.
Well, watch out world, because Luke St. John was in love, too, and…and had gotten as drunk as a skunk because the woman of his heart wasn’t remotely close to being in love with him. What a bummer.
Luke staggered to his feet, steadied, then shuffled into the bathroom, where he stood under a very hot shower for a very long time. He dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, consumed four cups of coffee with four matching aspirins and decided he might, just might, live.
He wandered into the living room and slouched onto the large sofa, resting his head on the top and staring at the ceiling.
How many people, he wondered, would decide to take the big step and get married after witnessing the faultless Barrington-St. John wedding Maggie had produced the night before? Would her phone be ringing off the hook Monday morning with newly engaged brides-to-be? That was sure what he would like to be doing come the first of the week—helping to plan the wedding of all weddings and…
Luke sat bolt upward, then smacked one hand against his forehead as the sudden motion caused a lightning bolt to shoot through his head.
There it is, he thought, his hear racing. Even through the last lingering fog of his hangover it was taking shape, coming together, clicking into place.
The Plan.
“Yes,” he said, punching one fist high in the air.
Maggie spent Sunday catching up on Roses and Wishes paperwork, tackling a mound of laundry and cleaning her neglected apartment on the upper floor of the old house.
That done, she shopped for groceries for her Mother Hubbard cupboards. She prepared a nice dinner for herself of baked chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy and a fruit salad, with the smug knowledge that the effort would provide enough leftovers for several days.
What she did not do was think.
Upon waking that morning she’d made a firm vow that she would not dwell on the subject of Luke St. John. Not relive the kiss at the altar during the rehearsal or the dances they’d shared.
No remembrances would be allowed of the heated sensations that had consumed her when Luke’s lips had captured hers and while she had been held so tightly in his arms during the dreamy waltzes.
She’d shoo away any images that threatened to creep into her mental vision of Luke’s deep brown eyes, his thick beckoning-to-her-fingers hair, his wide shoulders and those incredible strong but gentle hands of his.
Through the entire day she concentrated on her chores and kept busy, busy, busy, becoming extremely proud of herself for her restraint and self-control.
Luke and the success of the Barrington-St. John wedding were now old news, done, finished, kaput, and her thoughts were directed toward the start of the fresh week at Roses and Wishes. She focused on the hope that new business from all those cards she’d seen tucked away at the reception would cause the phone to ring off the hook.
She mentally patted herself on the back for doing such a stellar job of keeping her vow. The day had gone exactly as she’d planned.
But then she ran out of things to do.
She had spit-shined the kitchen after dinner, taken a leisurely bubble bath in her super-duper tub, then settled onto the sofa in an old-fashioned, pale pink, soft cotton granny nightgown that was perfect for the warm summer night.
Glancing at the little clock on the end table, she frowned when she saw that it was only a few minutes after eight o’clock. She was tired from her nonstop day but not sleepy enough to go to bed.
“Television,” she said, snatching up the remote.
She channel surfed three times, sighed, then turned off the TV realizing there was just nothing on that she wanted to watch.
“Read a book,” she said, grabbing a paperback novel on the coffee table.
After reading the same page four times and having no idea what it said, she plunked the book back onto the table and glared at it.
She wiggled into a more comfortable position on the rather lumpy sofa, crossed her arms over her breasts and stared into space.
And thought of Luke St. John.
“This is dumb, dumb, dumb,” she said with a cluck of self-disgust.
Well, she thought, maybe not. Perhaps she was approaching this all wrong. Granted, she’d kept Luke at bay during the hours of the day, but she couldn’t continue such a frenzied schedule or she’d collapse into an exhausted heap on the floor.
So.