Page 45 of Tell Me (Savannah 3)

“Why don’t you draw something for Aunt Nikki?” Lily had asked, and Phee flew to the table, where crayons and art paper were already waiting.

“A horse!” Phee proclaimed, her dark eyes sparking. Her skin was olive in tone, her eyes a light brown, nearly gold in color, her hair thick and near-black, unlike anyone else in the Gillette family. Obviously the dominant genes in Phee’s makeup came from her father, but on that topic Lily had remained mum since the day she’d broken the news to her parents that she was going to have a baby, and that the delivery would be without any husband or known boyfriend waiting in the wings.

Big Ron and Charlene had been scandalized, of course.

Lily, at least outwardly, hadn’t given a damn.

When the precious little girl had been born, however, all perceived shame had disappeared into thin air. Of course, there had been questions about the baby’s paternity, but Lily had blithely refused to name the baby’s father and had kept the secret close to her vest.

After years of prodding, Charlene had finally quit asking questions or speculating or even being ashamed of the circumstances of Phee’s conception, because she adored her slightly precocious granddaughter, as did Nikki. No child was more loved, even if there wasn’t a strong father figure in Phee’s young life.

That day in August when Nikki had driven to her mother’s to explain about her feelings on the wedding, Phee had finally wound down and was coloring at the table, Lily standing at the island of their mother’s kitchen and rearranging a vase of roses and gardenias while enjoying the argument brewing between Nikki and their mother.

Charlene Gille

tte’s appearance was frail, as it had been for the past five years, but her hands were steady as she had carefully poured them each a glass of sweet tea. “Lemon?”

“None for me. Look, Mom, I just don’t want it to be such a big show,” Nikki had said. “I think a wedding should be personal, between two people.”

“Why even bother?” Lily snagged her glass and stirred it with a long spoon she’d found in a drawer. “It’s just a formality, you know. Nothing more than a piece of paper.”

“It is not!” Mother had been highly offended, her cheeks coloring, her eyes snapping fire. “I don’t know where you get your obscene ideas! Marriage is an institution, a sacrament!”

“If you live under Pope Pius the Fifth in the sixteenth century, maybe,” Lily replied lazily. “But come on, Mother, we’re not even Catholic, and the last I checked we’re in the new millennium.”

“Don’t get so high and mighty with me.” Despite all her health issues, Charlene Gillette still had a lot of spunk. “I’m just saying that a woman needs a man, legally, socially, and morally. Marriage is the answer.”

“Not for me. Not legally. Nor socially, and especially not morally,” Lily said.

“I’ve heard all about your marching to a different drum, Lily, but it’s not for everyone, dear.”

“Nor is marriage.”

Their mother had carried her tea into the family area and sat in “her” chair, an apricot-hued, tufted wingback with a tiny ottoman that, separated by a small table, was dwarfed by her deceased husband’s recliner. Though Big Ron had been dead for four years, his La-Z-Boy, complete with favorite throw and empty cigar humidor, stood at the ready, as if the judge were expected to burst through the door at any second.

Charlene had eyed Nikki as she’d joined her in the family room. “We’ve already reserved the country club and spoken with Pastor Mc-Neal. It’s too late to back out now,” she’d said. “Besides it’s expected. You’re Judge Ronald Gillette’s daughter.”

“It’s not his wedding,” Nikki had pointed out.

“No, you’re right,” her sister said as she’d reached for her pack of super-long, black cigarettes. “Apparently it’s Mother’s.”

“Oh, Lily, for the love of God, don’t smoke in here.”

“Dad did.”

“He smoked on the veranda,” Charlene said tightly.

“Whatever,” Lily dismissed. “Watch Phee for a second, will you?” She slid her gaze from her sister to her mother. “I’m going out to the veranda,” she said, carrying her cigs and glass of tea.

The memory faded. Nikki had lost the battle over the country club, conceding to her mother’s wishes more as a means to keep peace in the family than because it was anything she wanted.

Now she pulled into the long drive of her mother’s home and parked behind a white van decorated with images of happy brides painted on its sides. The script over the sliding doors read A TO Z WEDDINGS, ARIELLA ZONDOLA, THE WEDDING PLANNER.

Nikki inwardly groaned. This was so not her. She should have probably tried harder that day in August, but she hadn’t had the heart to destroy Charlene’s dream of watching at least one of her children walk down the aisle. Andrew was dead, Lily a lost cause, and who knew when, or if, Keith would even have a girlfriend. Nikki, in her mother’s eyes, was her only chance.

Switching off the ignition, she picked up her phone and speed-dialed Reed. He answered on the second ring. “I was wondering if I would hear from you.”

“Wondering or dreading?” she teased.

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