Spring fancy Read online

  Spring fancy

  Lavyrle Spencer

  Winn and Joseph met at a resplendent spring wedding, only months before Winn's own wedding. Confident and practical, she never imagined anyone or anything could overturn her own perfect wedding plans.

  Lavyrle Spencer

  Spring fancy

  Chapter 1

  The wedding rehearsal was scheduled for 7:00 P.M. Winnifred Gardner opened the door of St. Alphonsus Catholic Church at ten after. Hoping to slip in unobtrusively, she was dismayed when a howling gust of March wind caught the door and whipped it out of her hand, then sent it thunking against the brick wall before swirling inside the vestibule, announcing her tardiness to everyone. Muttering a curse, she tried to hold the hair out of her eyes with one arm while recapturing the stubborn door with the other.

  There must have been fifteen people in the vestibule, and every face turned to note her late arrival. Bride, groom, priest, servers, parents, groomsmen, ushers and bridesmaids all watched her rush in, breathless, smelling like old Earl Evvsvold's garage floor and looking as if her hair had been styled with his air hose.

  Sandy Schaeffer-tomorrow's bride and Winnie's dearest friend-left Father Waldron's side and hurried forward, smiling.

  "Winnie, you made it!"

  " Sandy, I'm so sorry I'm late, but my car-"

  Sandy waved away the explanation. "It's okay. The organist isn't here yet, either, so we've just been talking over the procedure before we walk through it." Sandy reached impulsively for Winnie's hand but had barely touched it before it was sharply withdrawn.

  "Don't touch me! I stink like gas. Oh, I hate those pump-your-owns!" Winnie sniffed her fingers, grimaced and hid the hand inside her coat pocket just as a stocky brown-haired man joined them.

  "There she is! The maid of honor." He plopped a platonic kiss on Winnie's cheek.

  "Hi, Mick. Sorry I'm late. Everything went wrong tonight."

  "No problem. We just got here ourselves."

  Winnie assessed Sandy 's prospective groom-a sturdy convivial man of Polish descent, who'd made his fiancee the happiest woman in Brooklyn Park, Minnesota. There were times when Winnie envied them immensely for sharing "that certain something" so elusive and necessary to a truly special relationship. They laughed often, teased each other and shared so many common interests. Mick draped an arm around Sandy 's shoulders and grinned down at her while Winnie began moving away toward the washroom.

  But Mick stopped her and crooked a finger at someone. "Hey, Jo-Jo, come on over here." A man turned from his conversation with Mick's parents, raised an index finger, turned back to the couple to excuse himself and approached.

  He clapped Mick's shoulder. "What's up, Ski, my man?"

  Mick Malaszewski slapped his friend's shoulder and caught Winnie's elbow with his free hand. "I guess it's about time you two met. Jo-Jo, this is Winnifred Gardner, Sandy 's maid of honor. Winnie, this is my best man and my best friend, Joseph Duggan."

  Jo-Jo. How many times had she heard the name? A firm square hand captured Winnie's before she could warn him to beware of gas. But a moment later she forgot all about warnings, except that of her own heart as she heard again the pleasant tenor voice, rich with expressiveness.

  "So this is Winnie. It's about time I met the woman I'm going to walk down the aisle with." He covered the top of her hand with his other and gave her a smile to match that in his voice.

  He was nothing at all like what she'd expected. Not as tall, not as crude, not as brooding. Somehow the name Joseph Duggan had conjured up a tough thuggish sort, a longshoreman, maybe, with a wild Irish temper and a burly body. Instead, Jo-Jo was a toned and tapered five-feet-ten, had a head full of wild fluffy brown curls and the most twinkly eyes she'd ever encountered. His hand was dry, hard and very commanding. And as Winifred placed her left hand atop his, she forgot the engagement ring upon it.

  "Joseph," she said simply. "It seems as if we should have met years ago after all I've heard about you."

  "I'll second that. I've heard plenty about you, too, and it appears none of it was quite true."

  "Oh?" She cocked her head inquisitively.

  "They've been holding out on me." For a moment his eyes flickered down to her mouth, then back up. Winnie suddenly realized how warm, personal and extended the handshake had become. She jerked free and leaped back a step.

  "Oh, you're going to stink like gas! I'm sorry! I ran the pump over just a few minutes ago while I was filling my… my car, and I got it all over my hand and on my shoe and my cuff, and I was going straight to the ladies' room to get rid of the stench, but I never got the chance and-" she raked her hair with four fingers "-and the wind practically tore my hair out, roots and all. I have to… to comb it."

  "A pity," he teased.

  "A pity? Why, I look like a disaster, and I… I didn't-" She stumbled to a halt. Winnifred Gardner, why ever are you prattling, she thought while Joseph Duggan watched a becoming blush inch its way up one of the most charming chins he'd ever seen, then pass an exquisite mouth whose lips had dropped open in surprise. He lifted his eyes to her beguilingly disheveled hair. In the muted amber light it appeared to be the color of peanut butter. Large wide eyes stared at him momentarily before she did the most amazing thing: she blinked… but with only one eye! It was the most unusual nervous reaction he'd ever seen. And it had been a nervous reaction, and it had been a blink, not a wink. For a winking face uses more than an eye to flash its message. This was a blink, pure and simple, but he'd never in his life seen anyone do it so charmingly.

  Her eyes flickered down to his Adam's apple, then away from him entirely, and he let his gaze wander downward. Her name doesn't fit. Winnifred Gardner sounds like a supercilious prude with lineage and laureateship. Instead, the woman before him seemed to blend the shyness of Winnie-The-Pooh with the conditioned body of Superwoman, and the whole bundle smelling like gas.

  Joseph Duggan was enchanted.

  "You have a few minutes yet. Father Waldron is still socializing over there."

  Winnie clapped her mouth shut and whirled toward the hall leading to the washroom. Behind her, she heard Jo-Jo Duggan's voice chiding Sandy and Mick. "Where in the blazes have you been hiding her all these years?"

  In the clean silent lavatory she doused her hands liberally with pink liquid soap and scrubbed furiously. After rinsing, she gave them a critical sniff and disgustedly began soaping again. This time she worked a thumb roughly over her knuckles in an effort to get rid of the smell. In the process she cut herself on her diamond ring. The swift sting of the soap in the cut brought her back to her senses.

  Winnifred Gardner, act your age. He's just teasing. And obviously a flirt. He probably said what he did just to see how you'd react, and you came through with classic feminine witlessness!

  Still, when she checked her reflection in the mirror, her cheeks held two bright patches of flustered blood, and her eyes were a little too sparkly, her lips quirked up in a grin that told how great it felt-witless or not-to be flirted with.

  She removed her coat and caught it over one wrist, scrutinizing her dress. It was a pale mauve shapeless thing that came alive when its belt was cinched. She smoothed the wool over both hips and recalled Paul's words: "Well, well, a dress. What do you know about that?" If he hadn't prefaced his compliment with that wry remark, she wouldn't have become so piqued. But by the time he'd got around to adding, "You look great, darling," the effect had been ruined. Next he'd dropped his eyes to her high heels, given a mock-lurid grin followed by a growl as he buried his face in her neck, whispering his intentions, had she not had to leave at that moment. Still stung by his earlier remark, she'd pushed him away and given him a conciliatory kiss instead of the dressing down he deserved. It wasn't as if she never wore
dresses!

  Winnie pushed aside the memory, stooped to wipe the dull spot where the gas had splattered the toe of her black-patent high heel. She felt uncomfortable in both dress and heels, but what else was a woman supposed to wear in a church to practice walking on a white linen runner on the arm of a best man?

  Back in the vestibule, Winnie felt his eyes following her as she slipped between Sandy 's mother and father to greet them warmly, looping a hand through each of their arms.

  "Why, Winnie, I didn't see you come in. Did the dress arrive?" Ann Schaeffer inquired.

  "All hemmed properly and ready to go. And how about at your house? Any last-minute complications?"

  "None. Everything's ready for tomorrow."

  "But I'll bet you're both exhausted."

  "I confess, we've-"

  A shrill whistle cut through the vestibule and echoed in the cavernous nave beyond the open double doors: Mick calling attention to Father Waldron, who began filling everyone in on the opening part of the service. As he talked, he entered the main part of the church, and the wedding party followed.

  Winnie moved toward the door, conscious that Joseph Duggan awaited there to escort her inside. She avoided his eyes until the last minute, then lifted her gaze to find him with a scintillating sparkle still in his eyes and the flirtatious expression on his lips. For the first time she realized why his buddies called him Jo-Jo. That name fit. While commandeering the coat from her arm, he gave her hair the once-over.

  "I liked it better messy, Winnifred Gardner, and there was something a little offbeat and amusing about a girl wearing gasoline for perfume. But anyway, may I?" He presented his right elbow in courtly fashion, still grinning devilishly as they moved inside.

  "Thank you, and no thank you, Mr. Duggan. I'm not certain if I've just been insulted, laughed at or both. But I can walk perfectly well without your elbow while I'm deciding."

  His grin became dazzling, and without a glance aside he dropped her coat in the last pew, then took a rather deliberate grip on her elbow as they moved toward the front pews.

  For the next five minutes Father Waldron outlined the procedures and rituals of the wedding service, explaining that both bride and groom had elected to walk up the aisle with their respective parents and have the attendants do so as pairs. Winnie had known this, of course, but had scarcely given it a second thought until now, seated on a hard wooden pew with Jo-Jo Duggan's knees sprawled wide, one of them only a scant inch from her own. He straightened, turned more fully in Father Waldron's direction and hung his wrist on the pew behind her.

  Not only a flirt, but an accomplished flirt!

  The door at the rear of the church slammed, and scampering footsteps clicked up the aisle, causing every head to turn.

  There stood a birdlike woman, pulling black gloves from her fingers, clutching a portfolio against her coat front. "I'm sorry, Father. I would have been here sooner, but somebody fed my cat beer and got it drunk and…"

  The rest was drowned out by laughter, and the twittery woman became more flustered. Father Waldron's voice echoed in the empty church. "Lent just being over, the cat probably needed it, Mrs. Collingswood."

  Beside Winnie, Jo-Jo Duggan's chest shook with laughter, and his eyes glinted as if he himself might very well have pulled such pranks once or twice in his day and sympathized not with the cat, but with the prankster.

  "We're ready for the music whenever you are, Mrs. Collingswood," Father advised benevolently.

  "Oh… oh, certainly, Father." Her footsteps carried through the church again, then became a series of muffled thuds on the stairway at the rear. There followed a silence, the rustle of sheet music and a few testing notes.

  Within minutes Winnie found herself walking beside Joseph Duggan toward the rear of the church. Father Waldron directed the proceedings like an elementary teacher at a school play, while everyone awaited instructions and cues.

  Standing in the shadowed vestibule, Winnie covertly studied the best man more carefully. He was dressed casually, as were most of the men present. His Levi's were dark and new and creased. They fit snugly across lean hips and partially concealed clean new tennis shoes with a neat blue wave curling along their sides. Beneath a lightweight spring jacket he wore a button-down shirt of pale yellow. While listening to the priest, Duggan stood with feet widespread, firmly planted, both his hands slipped into his rear pockets. The stance pulled his open jacket aside, revealing a sturdy chest and hollow belly. Through the thin cotton of his right shirtfront she saw the dim image of a nipple. His other was hidden behind a breast pocket pressed flat against his chest. Father Waldron gestured, and Joseph Duggan's head swerved to follow the pointing finger. His profile was startlingly attractive, and she wondered why, for he had the kind of face that would still look seventeen when he was fifty, a vernal combination of features contrasting oddly with his physically fit five-feet-ten frame and the dense whiskers that must-she was sure-require two shaves a day if he had evening appointments. His nose was slightly upturned, rather short, and his forehead unmarked by frown line or blemish. The amber lights gilded the top of his girlish locks, which fluffed out just enough to obscure his hairline and touch the perimeter of his shiny forehead. For a moment Winnie wondered if she'd ever touched the hair of a man who possessed such curls. Not that she could recall. Paul's hair was feather cut to ultimate perfection, never out of place, always blow combed away from his face and held lightly in place with hair spray. She was accustomed to Paul's fastidious ways and found the breezy natural look of Joseph Duggan's unfettered curls arresting. She'd always thought curly-haired men rather effeminate looking. But there wasn't a square inch of Jo-Jo Duggan that was effeminate. Shorter by a good two inches than most men she'd dated, shorter than Paul by at least six, he had a sturdiness that compensated for the difference in height.

  Perhaps it was the stance that caused her eyes to sweep his length and linger longer than was prudent: shoulders back, chest out, athletic, self-assured and perhaps a slight bit cocky.

  Or maybe she gave him the twice-over simply because he was so different. Different from Paul.

  He turned, caught her studying him and flashed a smile that transformed his face into a tableau of charm. He did it so effortlessly she wondered how many hearts he'd broken with no conscious intent. He smiled more with the right side of his mouth than the left, but with every volt of candlepower his eyes possessed. He had the most beautifully matched set of eyebrows she'd ever encountered, and when the lids beneath them lowered and crinkled at the corners, his smile was devastating. Bedroom eyes, some women called such as these, with their dark spiky lashes and that killing little flicker of teasing that would probably be present were he kissing the ring of the Pope of the Holy Catholic Church!

  It glittered out of the nearly closed lids now as he turned and moved closer. "Looks as if you and I come fourth."

  "Fourth?" She jerked awake, realizing she'd been preoccupied and had missed what Father Waldron was saying.

  "In the wedding procession."

  "Oh!"

  "We head out when Jeanne and Larry get halfway up the aisle in front of us."

  "Yes, I know." But she hadn't known. She'd been too busy assessing Jo-Jo Duggan to pay attention. "We'd better get behind them, then."

  The vestibule was crowded, everyone conversing softly, when the talk was brought to a halt by the resounding chords of Lohengrin's Wedding March. The traditional song was a surprise in today's upbeat world where everything from the Beatles to John Denver was used as wedding music. The staunch fortissimo chords had a legend of power and tradition that vibrated not only through the ceiling over Winnifred Gardner's head, but right through her body.

  Her head snapped up, and her eyes met those of Joseph Duggan.

  "I think that's our song," he said, offering his elbow. The grin had softened but was still on his face, disarming. "This time you have no choice."

  Her eyes dropped down to the cream-colored sleeve of his jacket, and a queer pre
monition joined the body vibrations already scintillating along her nerves in time to the music. Touch him, and you're a goner. The flower girl and ring bearer were being coaxed up the aisle, then the first pair of attendants had reached the halfway spot. Winnifred looped her hand on the crook of Joseph Duggan's arm and let him lead her to the double doors.

  It was disconcerting, being so drawn to a total stranger. The sleeve of his jacket was cool, but as her hand rested upon it, the warmth of his skin seeped up and made her aware of how solid his flesh was within. He stood with feet firmly planted, watching the couple ahead, waiting. Winnie was on his left, thus it was her right ringless hand resting on his elbow. She experienced a discomfiting jolt of guilt at the thought that she was glad she didn't have to expose her left hand just yet. There was a smell about him she couldn't identify, something purifying, but not perfumed. A utilitarian soap, maybe, mixed with fresh air and the faint odor of dye, as if it were the first time he'd worn his blue jeans.

  A twitch of his elbow made her look up into his face. "Ready?"

  She nodded.

  "On three, then, starting with the left."

  They concentrated on the couple ahead. "One… two… three," she whispered. He pulled Winnie's hand against his ribs as they took their first step down the aisle.

  It was the first time Winnie had been asked to act as a maid of honor. It was oddly disquieting. Why ever was she feeling so much like a bride? Programming, she supposed. Weren't all little girls programmed to respond to the song now beating upon her ears? Weren't they all taught to think of growing up in terms of "walking down the aisle"? Women's liberation had done virtually nothing to sway women's minds away from dreams of all that was traditional when it came to weddings.

  She watched Jo-Jo Duggan's walk for the first time from the very distracting angle of top to bottom. His unblemished tennis shoes made not a sound, but his crisp jeans crackled slightly, and within them his thighs pressed as firmly as air against the inside of a balloon. To her surprise he strode not with the haughty athletic swagger she might have expected after his stance in the vestibule but instead moved with relaxed poise, almost as if strolling in time to the music instead of marching to it. He had superb rhythm.