“I want to apologize for just coming in before. I knocked, but nobody answered. I heard the music, so I just walked in, and then . . .”

“The rest is history.”

“Yes. Ah, don’t you want to turn the music off ?”

“Right. I stopped hearing it.” She grabbed the remote, hit Off, tossed the remote down. Before she could open the door, he moved in, opened it for her. “You still live in Greenwich?” she began as her breath sucked in at the shock of cold.

“Well, more again than still. I lived in New Haven awhile.”

“Yale.”

“Yes, I did some postgraduate work and taught for a couple years.”

“At Yale.”

“Yes.”

She narrowed her eyes at him as they walked the path. “Seriously?”

“Well, yes. People do teach at Yale. It’s highly recommended, given the students.”

“So you’re like a professor.”

“I’m like a professor, only now I teach here. At Winterfield Academy.”

“You came back to teach high school at your alma mater. That’s kind of sweet.”

“I missed home. And teaching teenagers is interesting.”

She thought it was bound to be more volatile, though that might be interesting. “What do you teach?”

“English Literature, Creative Writing.”

“

Henry the Fifth.”

“There you go. Mrs. Brown had me out here a couple of times when I was working with Del. I was sorry to hear about the accident. She was an incredibly nice woman.”

“Best ever. We can go in this way. It’s too cold to walk all the way around.”

She led him in through the mudroom, into the warmth. “You can stow your gear in here. You’re still on the early side. We’ll get you some coffee in the meantime.” She shed coat, scarf, hat while she spoke, moving quickly. “No event today, so the main kitchen’s clear.”

She picked up her bags again while he carefully hung his coat, as opposed to the way she’d tossed hers in the direction of the hook. She seemed to vibrate with movement while standing still as he hauled up the large bag again.

“We’ll find you a place to—” Mac broke off as Emma walked toward the main kitchen.

“There you are. Parker was about to . . . Carter?”

“Hi, Emmaline, how are you?”

“I’m fine. Good. How did you . . . Sherry. I didn’t realize you were coming with Sherry.”

“He is and he isn’t. He’ll explain. Get him some coffee, will you, and some ice for his head? I’ve got to get these to the bride.”

She grabbed the heavy bag from Carter, and was off.

Emma pursed her lips as she studied the scrape, and said, “Ouch. What did you do?”

“I walked into a wall. You can skip the ice, it’s doing okay.”

“Well, come in, have a seat and some coffee. I was just coming back to do a setup for the consult.”

She led the way, gestured to a stool and a long, honey-toned counter. “Are you here to give moral support to the bride and groom?”

“I’m standing in for the groom. He had an emergency.”

Emma nodded as she got out a cup and saucer. “You’ll have that with doctors. And aren’t you the brave brother?”

“I said no, in several different ways. None of them worked. Thanks,” he added when she poured the coffee.

“Take comfort. You’ll just have to sit there and eat cookies.”

He dumped some cream into his coffee. “Can I get that in writing?”

She laughed and began to arrange cookies on a plate. “Trust me. Added to it, you’ll score major good brother points. How’re your parents?”

“Good. I saw your mother last week, at the bookstore.”

“She loves that job.” Emma handed him a cookie. “Mac should be about done with her client. I’m going to take these in and I’ll come back for you.”

“I guess if I just hid in here, I’d lose the brave brother title.”

“You would. I’ll be back.”

He’d known Emma through Sherry, and their respective parents’ friendship, since they’d been children. It was odd, just odd to think of Emma making his sister’s bridal bouquet. It was just odd that his little sister would need a bridal bouquet.

It was as disorienting somehow as walking into a stupid wall.

He gave his forehead a little poke, winced. It wasn’t so much that it hurt, which it did, but that everyone would ask him what happened. He’d be explaining his own clumsiness repeatedly—and every time he did, he’d get a mental flashback to Mackensie Elliot in a really tiny bra and low-slung black pants.

He ate the cookie and tried to decide if that was a perk or a burden.

Emma came back for him, and for another tray. “You might as well come on out. I’m sure Sherry will be here any minute.”

“Because she’s already ten minutes late.” He took the tray from her. “She’s on Sherry Time.”

The house was much as he remembered it. The walls were a soft, muted gold now where his memory said they’d been an elegant, understated green. But the wide, ornate trim was as glossy, the space as generous, the furnishings as gleaming.

Art and antiques, flowers in old, exquisite crystal illuminated wealth and class. Yet, as he remembered, it felt not like a mansion, but a home.

It smelled female, sort of floral and citrusy at the same time.

The women sat, forming a cozy conversation area in the large, coffered-ceilinged drawing room where a fire snapped and sizzled in the big hearth, and winter sunlight splashed through the trio of arched windows. He was used to being outnumbered by females, as he was the middle child, with two sisters bookending him.

So he supposed he’d survive the next hour.

Parker popped out of her chair, all smiles and polish, crossing the room, hands extending. “Carter! It’s been a while.”

She kissed his cheek, kept his hand in hers as she drew him toward the fire. “Do you remember Laurel?”

“Ah . . .”

“We were all kids.” Smooth and easy, Parker nudged him into a chair. “Emma mentioned you’d come back to teach at Winterfield. Was it strange, going back as a teacher?”

“At first it was. I kept waiting for somebody to assign homework, then remembered, oh yeah, that’s me. Sorry about Sherry. She’s on her own clock, and it usually runs behind. I could call—”

The doorbell cut him off, and brought him desperate relief.

“I’ll get it.” Emma rose, headed out.

“How’s the head?” Mac asked, lolling back in her chair with her coffee cup tucked in both hands.

“It’s fine. It’s nothing.”

“What happened?” Parker asked.

“Oh, I just rapped it. I’m always doing things like that.”

“Really?” Mac smirked into her coffee.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Sherry came in like a whirlwind—color, energy, motion, and giggles. “I’m

never on time. I hate that. Carter, you’re the best—” Her happy, flushed face shifted into concern. “What happened to your head?”

“I was mugged. There were three of them, but I fought them off.”

“What! Oh my God, you—”

“I hit my head, Sherry. That’s all.”

“Oh.” She dropped down, easy and relaxed, on the arm of his chair. “He’s always doing that.”

Carter got up, and sort of tugged his sister into the chair, then tried to figure out how to hover discreetly. Emma simply shifted closer to Laurel on the couch, then patted the cushion.

“Have a seat, Carter. Well, Sherry, how excited are you?”

“Off the charts! Nick would’ve come, but he had an emergency surgery. It’s part of the package, marrying a doctor. But I figured Carter could give the male perspective, right? Plus he knows me, and he knows Nick.”

She reached over, grabbed Parker’s hand, did a little butt wiggle of joy in her chair. “Can you believe this? Remember how we’d play wedding when we were kids? I remember playing that a couple of times out back with you guys. I think I married Laurel.”

“And they said it wouldn’t last,” Laurel responded, teasing the quick, infectious giggle out of Sherry again.

“And here we are. Right here. And I’m getting married.”

“Slut threw me over for a doctor.” Laurel shook her head, sipped from a glass of ice water with a slice of lemon floating in it.

“He’s

amazing. Wait till you meet him. Oh God! I’m getting married!” She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “And I barely know where to start. I’m so disorganized, and everyone’s telling me I should be thinking about this or booking that. I feel like I’m running in circles, and I’ve only been engaged a couple months.”

“That’s what we’re for,” Parker assured her, and picked up a thick notebook. “Why don’t we start with you telling us what kind of wedding you want?” Just use three or four words to describe how you see it.”

“Um . . .” Sherry sent her brother a pleading look.

“No, jeez, don’t look at me. What do I know?”

“You know me. Just say what you

think I want.”

Damn it. “Just eat cookies,” he muttered. “Have fun.”

“Yes!” She shot out her finger at him. “I don’t want it to sound like it’s not important and solemn and all that, but I want the fun. I want a big, crazy, happy party. I also want Nick to lose the power of speech for five full minutes when he gets the first look at me coming down the aisle. I want to

kill him—and I want everybody who comes to remember it as the

best time. I’ve been to weddings that were really beautiful, but God, I was bored. You know?”

“Exactly. You want to dazzle Nick, then you want a celebration. One that reflects who you are, who he is, and how happy you are together.”

Sherry beamed at Parker. “I really do.”

“We’ve got the date down for next October. Have you got a ballpark number on the guest list?”