The Real Thing Page 3

  “Daddy.” I squeezed his hand. “I wish you wouldn’t drive that far by yourself.”

  “Now, don’t even start that. I changed your diaper, girl. I can drive forty-five minutes to Nashville. And I can walk my girl down the aisle. Are you ready? Your soon-to-be husband is waiting for you.”

  Emotion rose up, pressing against the back of my nose. The burning started, and I had to breathe deep to stop the tears. He’d done more than change our diapers. He didn’t even blink when one of the church ladies offered to take me and Marta to buy our first bras. He would take us himself, he told her. And when we started our periods, he drove to the store and bought every brand of pad he could find since he wasn’t sure what exactly we needed. He was there when pimpled boys picked us up for dates, making us stay seated on the couch until the boys got out of their honking trucks and knocked on the door. He made us change out of our denim miniskirts and into more appropriate clothing. He raised us all by himself, never shirking from things that moms usually took care of for daughters, and now he stood holding out his wrinkled hand to take my old yellow slip from me.

  I handed it over. “I can’t wear it.”

  He was confused, but smiled reassuringly. He’d done that a lot, too, when we were teenagers.

  “This will sound ridiculous, but I was standing there, ready to get married and all of a sudden I realized: the slip!—it’s the same one I wore at my first wedding.” I swiped at a tear, and there went my mascara. Marta would have her hands full touching up the muddy trails I was sure traced my cheeks. Isn’t there some saying that cowgirls don’t cry? Well, like I said, I’m not one.

  “It would be like wearing a hand-me-down from my last wedding, Daddy. Keith doesn’t deserve that, and it’s probably even bad luck.”

  He nodded, and my heart expanded to fill the far reaches of my chest. I loved this about him. I don’t know if he really understood all of the emotional dramas Marta and I went through, but he always tried.

  “You’re right not to wear it.” He tossed it into the closest apple tree where it snagged on a branch. I laughed, despite my tears, as he reached out to smooth a curl behind my ear. “This wedding, it’s a whole new first. This is a new day.” I hugged him for his goodness. If only everyone could see the world the way Daddy does.

  I spotted Marta’s leopard print cowgirl hat before I saw Marta herself behind Peyton, wobbling like a toddler to keep her matching high-heeled cowgirl boots from sinking into the loamy earth. She was a fancy farm girl if ever there was one. For about two seconds I wished I was wearing the leopard hat and boots, and I honestly preferred her shorter dress over mine, but dad had sworn he wouldn’t be walking me down the aisle if I insisted on showing off more leg than was decent for a bride in front of the church ladies.

  “Aunt Marta here to save the day,” Peyton proclaimed, as if all would have been lost had Marta not arrived at just that moment.

  And maybe it would have been, since I must have looked like a bird had nested in my hair after running a sprint through the orchard in my wedding outfit, not to mention that I really hoped she had some deodorant and perfume since I was starting to glow, and it wasn’t from bridal happiness, either.

  “What is it, cupcake?”

  “My makeup.”

  “And your hair,” she said, and I knew it was a travesty. Thank goodness Marta knew just how to salvage it, since she had the exact same hair. Our strawberry-blonde manes were not the only interchangeable thing about us, much to the exasperation of our teachers and friends when we were growing up, not to mention Daddy.

  In fact, we’d switched places so many times that, at that very moment, I couldn’t help but notice how fresh Marta looked compared to me after my sprint through the orchard. My wedding pictures could turn out so much better!

  “You are a bad, bad girl,” she exclaimed when I asked if she wanted to trade places right now. “You’d better be joking.”

  “Well, of course I am, mostly. Nobody’s kissing Keith, except me today, but you have to admit it’s tempting. You look a ton better than I do. Look at me. All sweaty.”

  “You do look awful, but let’s not resort to drastic measures. I happen to be an expert when it comes to you.” Marta reached into her bottomless gold sequined purse and began touching up my face, spraying things on my hair to make the frizz go away, and handing me her vanilla-scented deodorant before I could even blink.

  “Thank heavens you’re here, sissy.” There were many things I loved about having a twin, and one of them was that she knew exactly how to make me look good.

  I let Daddy and Peyton tell Marta about the slip.

  “Tell me you didn’t really do that!” Marta grimaced. “Oh, sissy. You’re so funny. But you’re right. You can’t wear that old thing.” A beauty pick fluffed up a curl, and I held back a sneeze as a brush swept powder across my cheeks.

  “I guess it’s silly, but I’m glad to be rid of that slip just the same.”

  “It was a sad slip,” Marta sympathized. Her four-inch hoop earrings, dangling back and forth, seemed to giggle along with her laughter. Peyton gazed at Marta like she was the queen of England, and I didn’t blame her. I idolized Marta, too. She was a breath of spring, of sparkling daring. Just having Marta there making me over made things right.

  “I wish we hadn’t done all this cowgirl stuff for the wedding,” I complained.

  “You told me you loved it,” she said.

  “I do,” I admitted.

  “And you’re about to marry a famous cowboy at that. It’s perfect.”

  “But don’t you think I look kind of fake?” The silver Concho bracelets jingled around my wrists.

  “Since when have you ever worried about fake?”

  I shrugged. “I guess never.”

  “Now let me check your nails. You haven’t popped one off, have you?” She’d done them herself, complete with jeweled flowers in the center of each pretty nail.

  “But all those people sitting on his side,” I said. “They’re the real thing. Did you see some of the outfits those rodeo queens have on?”

  “Former queens, most of them.” Marta pointed out.

  “They aren’t all queens,” Peyton assured. “Some of them are barrel racers, and a bunch of them are just normal ladies who can’t even ride a horse.”

  “Unlike you,” I said, reaching for her hand. “You’re a real cowgirl, Peyton. I showed your barrel racing trophies to Grandpa Marshall.”

  She blushed. Once, when I suggested she should enter the rodeo queen pageant, she was mortified. Not all horsewomen—so cute how she said that—want to be rodeo queens, she told me. I have to admit I was disappointed. She would make a darn cute rodeo queen.

  “Manda, you have to hurry. My dad is going to think you jilted him at the altar.”

  Marta giggled as she took the veiled hat from me. I watched the worry temporarily fall from Peyton’s face as she watched Marta carefully adjust the hat over my curly hair. Dad helped pull the lace and tulle over my face and I turned to smile at Peyton through the gauzy veil. She looked away like I had caught her eavesdropping. And I guess I had.

  After zipping her purse, Marta stepped back to admire her handiwork. Even Peyton stepped close to Marta and studied me.

  They all proclaimed my beauty, but it was Peyton’s voice that whispered through the branches.

  “You look nice.”

  My heart melted like ice cream on a hot sidewalk, especially knowing how hard it must have been to dole out a compliment to her soon-to-be-stepmom. Maybe, if I worked hard enough, I could make things new for her, for Stevie, and for Keith. I couldn’t replace their mother, but I could be the best stepmother ever. At least I could try!

  The other worries I faced were ridiculous, and I chalked them up to being a nervous bride. A pesky worry that Keith was going to try and make me ride a horse, concern that the kids were going to hate me, even the improbable chance that Keith, who in his single years was rumored to have had a string of cowgirls on his
arm, had secretly done something to make his ex-wife run off. What if she wasn’t the deplorable person I thought she was? Maybe whatever it was that made her leave would make me want to run away, too. I mean, look at me already. Running away on my wedding day.

  Oh no! I hope Keith doesn’t give up on me and ditch the wedding. I’d better hurry.

  “Peyton Black. You are a doll.” I smiled at her. “We need to get back to your dad now, but first, I want you to wear something for me.”

  I reached up and removed my hat, and then hers.

  “Let’s trade,” I said, placing her hat on my head. I couldn’t put myself in her boots, but I could wear her hat today and try to show her how much I loved her dad, loved little Stevie, and loved her.

  “Manda.” Marta’s voice dropped. “Are you sure you don’t want to wear that?”

  Peyton blinked through the lace as I settled the veiled hat on top of her pretty head. Tugging gently at the ends to make sure it rested prettily over her small shoulders, I said, “If this wedding is a new first for me, then it should be for Peyton, too.”

  I couldn’t make her love me right away, but I could do that one nice thing for her in that one moment.

  “I look silly,” Peyton said. “I don’t think it would be allowed anyway.”

  “It’s my wedding. I like to be different. If you want to wear it, you can.”

  “It is like you to do everything different than everyone else,” she said.

  I smiled. “You noticed that?”

  “Everyone has,” she said seriously, as if breaking a piece of news to me that I didn’t already know.

  “Then I might as well not have a veil,” I said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. Besides, it looks so much prettier on you,” I told her, wondering if it could ever be possible that she would want to be my daughter.

  If only we knew why her mother left, Peyton could move on. And that was the final worry I had about marrying Keith—that his ex-wife might show up out of the blue, or that she wouldn’t, and then Peyton would always be tortured by her mother’s abandonment. And of all people, I knew more about that than Peyton realized.

  Someday, I’ll tell her all about it.

  “Thanks.” Peyton focused on the toes of her boots and I marveled at the girl’s beauty, her dark hair muted by the lace and tulle, her tan shoulders peeking out beneath, and looking more like her rodeo-queen mother than ever in that moment. But Keith gave her his eyes.

  I bent slightly to gaze into those blue eyes, not at all sure she would let herself hear anything I’d say, and whispered. “I’m not trying to replace your momma, sweetie. I just want us to be friends.” I held my breath, wondering if I’d pressed too deep into her heart.

  She still stared at her boots, but I was close enough to see the slip of moisture trail down her cheek, even through the hat’s short veil. Without thinking, I pulled her into an embrace, but I’d gone too far. She gently wriggled away and trudged back toward the wedding party, where her bronco-loving father waited for both of us. At least she’d kept the hat. I wondered again how a mother could leave her children behind.

  I wanted to love all the sadness out of my stepchildren, but I had a feeling it would take a while. And then there was that silly worry that Peyton might get her wish and her mother would come back into their lives. What then? She’d vanished without a trace—the divorce papers delivered later the only evidence she was alive and well somewhere.

  “Let’s go,” Marta said. “Your cowboy awaits.”

  Daddy crooked his arm.

  “You sure he’s still waiting?” I asked, laughing when I said it. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about cowboys, it’s that they aren’t good at standing around.

  “If he’s not, then Daddy and I’ll find him and knock him into next week.” Marta declared.

  For Keith’s sake, I headed back up through the orchard toward the stand of oak trees, because even a cowboy like Keith was no match against Daddy and Marta. When I saw him still there waiting for me, I clutched the hem of my dress, sans slip, and ran to him.

  Chapter Two

  The wedding went off without a hitch, all except for the part where I ran away. But the important thing is, I went back, married my cowboy, and spent the next two weeks rocking my bikini for him in Hawaii. At least he said I did that and more, so I’m going with it. The fact that I got Keith to stay away from his horses for that long had to be a miracle I don’t even want to question, because as soon as we got back to Tennessee, he was rocking his cowboy hat on the road again.

  I guess I should’ve just been happy to have him to myself for all that time, but secretly, I wanted more. While I understood the rodeo way of life, it didn’t make me miss him less. Truth be told, I looked forward to him retiring from the rodeo the way so many men his age already had. I heard that Pro Rodeo Hall of Famer Billy Etbauer was almost forty-two when he won his last championship, but for the most part, saddle bronc riding is a younger man’s sport. Late thirties isn’t old, I obviously didn’t think so, but in bronco riding years, Keith was getting close.

  “I’m so glad you’re home,” Marta said, pulling a rainbow-colored smock from a closet where a dozen others with equally cheery colors and prints all hung neatly spaced. Back when we first started doing nails at The Southern Pair, we’d sewn the smocks with the prettiest, loudest fabrics we could find because we wanted our customers to feel happy. When I married Keith, I even sewed a few new ones with fringe on them, just to celebrate my new cowgirl side. We wear them all the time now, even when we’re helping customers shop.

  “Peyton and I played makeup when you were in Hawaii,” Marta said, leaning over to pump pomegranate-fragranced soap into her palm.

  “I wondered where she got that tube of mascara,” I said.

  “And the silver eye shadow,” she added. “Plus the mani-pedi.”

  Maybe I underestimated Peyton. She might have a sparkly side somewhere under those brooding teenager eyes after all.

  “This place does have a way of bringing out the best in a girl.”

  “You know it.”

  The Southern Pair was only ever empty when we flipped the closed sign on the door. From the shiny black and white tiled floors to the hot pink counter tops and turquoise barstools, it was one of the jewels of Castle Orchard, even if I do say so myself. We specialized in upscale vintage clothing, painted furniture, and artsy creations from repurposed objects for locals, as well as tourists looking to take a piece of the South home with them. In the corner, we also had a nail station. In addition to everything else we were, we were nail technicians, because even farm girls like fancy nails from time to time. Or, all the time if you’re me and Marta.

  Today, Marta studied my nails. “Hmm. I think red and white polka-dots. They’ll look fantastic with your white jeans. All sunshine and luscious cool at the same time.”

  “Okay, but no false ones today. Let’s be real.”

  “You know that’s going to take longer,” she said. “Your nails are a mess.”

  “It always does,” I replied. “And I don’t just mean the nails.”

  Marta laughed. Large gold hoops bobbled around her face while rhinestone-studded rings tugged at my own ear lobes, casting little jeweled reflections across the pink countertops. I tried to put disappointment about Keith’s travels aside and let Marta work her magic. I needed sister time anyway. I’d missed her and the shop as much as Keith missed the rodeo, and my nails were a mess.

  “I love that new top,” Marta said.

  We don’t dress identical anymore, at least not on purpose. Today Marta wore a canary yellow t-shirt and me a snug, red top with a bedazzled Plumeria blossom across the front. Keith gave it to me on our honeymoon and wearing it made me wish he weren’t gone to the rodeo.

  “Why didn’t you get me one?”

  “Because my husband bought it for me,” I said.

  “I was talking about the husband.”

  Our laughter ex
ploded into the room, drowning out the country music playing in the background.

  “I went on another online date while you were gone.” Marta looked like she’d just bit into a sour grape.

  “Oh, no.” I moaned. “You didn’t.”

  “I did.”

  “I hope it was better than the last one.”

  “Nope,” she said. “This one was worse.”

  I could tell by the tone in her voice that she was disappointed. One of the few downsides to small town life is that it’s hard to meet a man.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Dating stinks.”

  “It does. And so did you going off to Hawaii.” Marta moved her arms and hips in a mock Hawaiian dance. “Without me!”

  “It was dreamy,” I said. “But I’m glad you were the one watching the kids while we were gone. It made it easier for Keith to relax.” The kids usually stayed with Keith’s parents, but lately his parents were on a bit of a stubborn streak.

  After Keith proposed to me, they’d started taking extended vacations all over the place. I got the feeling Keith had overused them as babysitters since his ex had disappeared. Marta, on the other hand, craved time with anyone’s children since she didn’t know if she’d ever get married and have her own. She already wore the label of aunt as if it came from her favorite designer.

  “My biological clock is ticking like this,” she said stamping her foot in a good imitation of Mona Lisa in My Cousin Vinny. “And the way this case is going—”

  I laughed and joined her for the last line, “I ain’t never getting married!”

  She gave my nails a sad look. Two had popped off when I’d tried surfing.

  “Oh, Sissy,” I said. “You are too getting married. Your cowboy just hasn’t ridden this way yet.”

  “Well, he’d better hurry,” she said. “I want kids. I wish you could’ve seen our Peyton’s face when she saw the newspaper article about the wedding. I think she would’ve cleaned this place all afternoon after the ladies made all that hoopla about her.”