Runaway Bridesmaid by Karen Templeton

being held hostage by a dozen yards of baby-pig-pink polyester organza and a gazillion pins, in a room with five twenty-two-year-old women with perky breasts and perky fannies and even perkier high-pitched voices, four of whom were swathed in bilious lavender clones of Sarah’s dress.
    Sarah had flatly refused to wear lavender. If she had to spend an afternoon looking like a butch Little Bo-Peep, so be it. But filial devotion only went so far. So Jennifer agreed, reluctantly,that Sarah could wear pink, her sister’s second favorite color. All Sarah could say was, at least it wasn’t lavender.
    Now, if she could just talk Jen out of the hat.
    â€œSarah Louise?”
    Oh, joy. That would be Melanie, Jennifer’s best friend. Blond curls, violet eyes, pink cheeks. Shirley Temple with boobs. On her, lavender made sense.
    Sarah tried to smile. “Yes?”
    â€œJennifer says Lance’s brother’s back. And that he’s real cute.”
    Just the person she wanted to talk about. She shrugged. “He’s okay, I guess. If you like that type.”
    Melanie giggled, curls and bosoms bouncing in sync. The girl was nothing if not talented. “He’s gorgeous, he’s got a good business going, and he’s male. With a capital M, if even half of what I hear is true. What’s not to like?”
    â€œDon’t get your drawers in a twist, Melanie. He’s only here for a week.”
    â€œA week, huh?” Two of the cutest dimples you ever did see popped out as Melanie flashed a smile. “Honey, that’s more than enough time.” The lips pouted. “Unless…you have some sort of claim on him? I mean, you’re not going with him to the Jenkinses’ pot luck tomorrow or anything, are you?”
    Girls like this should come with warning labels. Sarah stretched her lips into what she hoped looked like a smile but which probably more nearly resembled an iguana’s smirk. “Me? Heavens, no.” She waved at the young woman with the back of her hand. “Have at him, honey. With my blessings.”
    The girls all tittered—loudly—and Sarah cringed. She loved her sister dearly, but one of her was quite enough, thank you. Five Jennifers was cause for Alka-Seltzer.
    She’d have to make do with coffee. That, at least, was something to be grateful for. Black, hot, there. All the criteria neatly met in one steaming cup. Sarah sipped, sighed, and tried to lean back in the chair without doing herself major damage. Miss Ellis, her mouth full of pins, was holding forth about how she had gone to this huge wedding in Atlanta and the bridalgown came from this really fancy salon named Fairchild’s—and would you lift your arm, darlin’?—and the owner now manufactured her own line of bridal gowns but had still custom designed this absolutely stunning dress for the bride and do you know Thelma Rose Entwhistle told her it cost nearly ten thousand dollars?
    They all gasped, right on cue, then proceeded to assure the dressmaker that her dresses were every bit as pretty, they were sure, and how clever of her to be able to make them for such reasonable prices.
    Sarah rested her head on the back of the chair and shut her eyes. This was proving to be the longest morning in the history of mankind. She hadn’t slept at all, she had to go into the clinic in the afternoon, her head hurt and the dress itched. And through it all needled the intense desire to throttle the living daylights out of Dean Parrish.
    Somewhere around 3:00 a.m., after she’d gone over his “confession” for at least the hundredth time, she’d finally heard what he was saying.
    So what was with this inferiority business, anyway? How could he have possibly thought he would have ever gotten in her way, as if loving him would have ever interfered with her career goal? And how the hell did he figure he was worthless just because he hadn’t finished high school?