In Samantha’s opinion, the ceremony on Saturday was every bit as adorable as the bride. Everyone in the wedding party wore western boots, both guys and gals. The bride and her attendants had knee-length skirts, and the groom and his groomsmen wore jeans and long-sleeved black shirts with white piping. Sunflowers were everywhere, including in the bride’s bouquet. The service itself was conventional, the couple promising to love and honor each other until death parted them, and when the groom kissed the bride at the end—without bending her over backward as he had at the rehearsal—Samantha had to wipe away a few tears with a tissue.
At the dinner the previous night, she had been able to stay somewhat in the background, observing the Chastains, listening to their easy banter and their lively laughter, learning a little about the family dynamics. It had made for an enjoyable evening for a confessed introvert.
Today was different.
“Mom tells me you knew Nick in Oregon,” Jeff Chastain said. He was seated on Samantha’s left at a large round table, both watching while another photograph of the bride and groom, their parents, and the attendants was taken.
“Yes.”
“It was rough on him, letting go of the life he used to have there. I thought for a while the loss would leave him bitter.”
She turned toward Jeff. He looked the most like Rocky of the three brothers who were present, and he seemed the more serious one too.
“All we cared about was that he would live through it,” Jeff added. “We almost lost him a time or two early on.”
“Nick and I have never talked about what happened to him on that kayaking trip. Not in any detail. He doesn’t seem to like to talk about it, so I haven’t asked him to share more.” The admission made her wonder if she’d done the right thing. Perhaps it wasn’t Nick who was reluctant to talk as much as it was her not wanting to listen.
Jeff’s gaze moved back to Nick. “Well, he sure looks happy and healthy now. Coming to Idaho has been good for him.” Once more he looked at Samantha. “Maybe it’s running into you again.”
She felt warmth enter her cheeks. Embarrassment or pleasure? She couldn’t be sure. She lowered her eyes to her hands, now folded in her lap.
“What I can’t figure out,” Jeff continued, his voice louder now, “is why someone as pretty as you is with him. You could do a whole lot better, Ms. Winters.”
“Get lost, Jeff,” Nick said from somewhere close by.
Surprised by his nearness, Samantha looked up. He was scowling at his older brother from the opposite side of the table, but there was humor in his expression too.
“For some crazy reason, bro,” Nick said, “Rudy wants a couple of photos with you in them.” He jerked his head toward the photographer.
Laughing, Jeff rose from his chair. His gaze went to Samantha. “Don’t go too far. I’ve got stories about some of this guy’s antics that’ll curl your hair.”
“As if I’ll let him do that,” Nick muttered as he sat in the chair next to hers. The teasing grin returned. “I prefer your hair straight rather than curled.”
“I don’t need to hear his stories to do that. I remember what you were like.”
Her honesty surprised them both. She saw it in his eyes and felt it in her heart. But perhaps it was good to remember what he’d been like before—and to let him know she remembered. Because a man never strayed too far from who he was at his core. Right? Nick might seem different now, but how long would it last? How long before he reverted to the man he’d been when they were together?
She needed to heed the warning in those questions. Or was it too late for that?
Nick felt something trying to inch its way in between them, and he knew what that something was. His old self. Her memories of him, the way he used to be. He wanted to tell her that he wasn’t the same man, that he would never be the same again.
She wouldn’t believe me. I have to prove it to her.
But would God give him the time he needed to do that? The weeks were melting away. Her grandmother was on the mend. All too soon she would go back to Oregon.
Say something, his heart demanded. Ask her to give you time to prove you’re different now.
Jeff returned to the table, his hand landing on Nick’s shoulder. “You’re wanted at the mic. Time for the toast.”
Samantha glanced away, and the opportunity to speak vanished.
He stood. “I won’t be long.” He headed toward the small stage, pulling a slip of paper from his shirt pocket as he went. He’d made sure to write down what he wanted to say since he wouldn’t have trusted himself to remember more than three words once he was at the microphone.
“Hello.”
The mic squealed and he took a step back, wincing. Soft laughter rolled over the room. He stepped forward again.
“I’m Nick. Rudy’s brother. And it’s my job to give the toast.”
He glanced at the sheet of paper.
“I plan on making this short and sweet.”
He looked up again, and his gaze went to the newlyweds.
“I don’t think it’s a secret that Rudy fell in love with Chelsea at first sight. So, when I was looking for something to say today and came across a poem by John Clare, I was convinced Rudy could have written it for his lovely bride.”
He drew a breath. “It’s titled ‘First Love’ . . .
I ne’er was struck before that hour
With love so sudden and so sweet,
Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower
And stole my heart away complete.
My face turned pale as deadly pale,
My legs refused to walk away,
And when she looked, what could I ail?
My life and all seemed turned to clay.
And then my blood rushed to my face
And took my eyesight quite away,
The trees and bushes round the place
Seemed midnight at noonday.
I could not see a single thing,
Words from my eyes did start—
They spoke as chords do from the string,
And blood burnt round my heart.
Are flowers the winter’s choice?
Is love’s bed always snow?
She seemed to hear my silent voice,
Not love’s appeals to know.
I never saw so sweet a face
As that I stood before.
My heart has left its dwelling-place
And can return no more.
Pausing at the end of the poem, he looked up. This time his gaze went to Samantha, and the dreamy expression on her face made him long to be more like his younger brother, the romantic. If only . . .
Realizing the entire room was waiting for him to say more, he cleared his throat and checked the paper in his hand again. Quickly, he repeated the words in his head before looking toward the bride and groom.
“And so, in the words of St. Augustine, I say, ‘Insomuch as love grows in you, so beauty grows. For love is the beauty of the soul.’ And in the words of Lennon and McCartney, I remind you that ‘love is all you need.’ ” He lifted a champagne flute. “To the bride and groom.”
“To the bride and groom,” voices echoed throughout the room.
As Rudy leaned in to kiss Chelsea, Nick stepped off the stage. At the same time the lead singer invited the bride and groom to the floor for their first dance. Rather than make his way back to his table, Nick stopped to watch the couple.
The band began to play a Chris Young song, “You’re Gonna Love Me.” Nick saw Rudy mouthing the lyrics to Chelsea as he turned her around the dance floor, and he felt another tug at his heart. Once again he wished he was more like his brother.
Only he didn’t want to be more romantic with just anybody. He wanted it with Samantha. He wanted to take her in his arms, to move with her in time to the music, to ask her to take a chance on him a second time.
But would that be fair to her? He frowned, hating the question he returned to again and again. After all, what could he offer her? The career he’d once had was gone. His life’s savings and most of his material possessions had been eaten up by hospital and doctor bills. And the brain injury he’d incurred might continue to impact him for the rest of his life.
He’d tried to tell her that day in Ruth’s kitchen how bad things could still be for him, but pride had kept him from being thorough. Maybe he’d hinted at things a time or two since then, but no details.
And yet, what if he was over the worst of things? What if he could offer her more than he thought? He didn’t want to throw away a chance at happiness with her. Not if one existed.
Movement on the dance floor pulled him from his inner thoughts. The bride now danced with her father while the groom danced with his mom.
I envy them.
Drawing a breath, he made his way toward Samantha. When the ritual of wedding dances was over, he wanted to be ready to ask her to dance with him before someone else could. As he neared the table, she looked his way. A faint smile appeared, as if to say she was glad he’d rejoined her.
Another song began. Nick glanced toward the floor. More couples had joined the newlyweds. He returned his gaze to her and held out his hand. “Shall we?”
Her eyes widened, and he suddenly remembered that she’d once told him she loved to dance. Yet even knowing that, he’d never taken her dancing. Not even just to please her.
I was a lousy boyfriend. What did she see in me back then? Why should she give me another chance now?
He took her in his arms, grateful that their first dance together was a slow one. He wanted an excuse to hold her close. They moved easily in time to the music. He caught a whiff of her fruity-scented shampoo and wanted to bury his face in her hair.
As the melody ended, Samantha drew back and looked at him. “You’re a good dancer.” There was a hint of a question in the statement.
“Mom made sure her boys all had lessons. But I never cared for dancing much.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed.” Her tone was wry.
“I think I may have been mistaken in my opinion.”
That faint smile returned. “Really?”
A different song began. Another slow one.
“Mind helping me be sure?” He held out his arms again.
She stepped into them. He hoped they would keep playing slow dances for hours.