a small part of Rod’s sleeve and tugged it, saying, “You’d better get Sammy.”
Rod sent her an irritated look and turned back to Layne. “Does it have anything to do with money?” he asked bluntly.
Layne lifted both brows. “Not really. Cash as an incentive never hurts where suppliers are concerned, but the real problem is simply time. It takes time to decide specifics, to make arrangements, to order materials, to create designs…” She shook her head. How could she make him understand the myriads of details to be addressed? “I’ve been doing this a long time now,” she said. “Trust me.”
“I do,” he told her flatly. “That’s why I’m asking you to help me make it happen sooner.”
It was not an appeal she could ignore. The tone, the look, the posture, everything about it was totally sincere. He needed her help. It was as simple as that. She swallowed. “I hope you’re prepared to spend a lot of time on this,” she said.
He reached out and laid his hand over her wrist, squeezing gently. “Thank you,” he said, relief softening his voice to a near whisper.
It was almost her undoing. She fought the impulse to cover his hand with her own, to answer his soft look with her own. She edged away from him, breathing deeply and forcing her focus back to business. She made a decision. “Four months,” she said, “and that’s really pushing it.”
“That’s the best you can do?”
“The very best, and you’re going to have to put yourself completely in my hands at that. We won’t have time for second choices.”
He nodded. “All right.”
To Layne’s surprise, Dedrah leaped to her feet. “I’m going after Sammy!” she announced. “You promised him!”
Sammy? Layne looked to Rod for an answer, but he turned his gaze to Dedrah. “I said it’d be done as quickly as possible,” he told her patiently, “and that’s what I’m doing.”
“But four months!” the girl cried.
Rod jerked a thumb in Layne’s direction. “You heard what she said,” he argued reasonably. “Four months is the best she can do, and I think we ought to be grateful that she’s willing to do it for us.”
Dedrah glared down at him with very large, very liquid eyes. “You promised Sammy,” she whispered.
“So I did,” Rod admitted.
“Who—” Layne began, but Rod suddenly stood up and strode away. Impulsively, she went after him. “—is Sammy?”
“My nephew,” he snapped without slowing a bit.
Layne threw a smile at the Stapletons as she passed. This was impossible. This whole thing with Rod Corley was just impossible, and she made up her mind to tell him so. They hadn’t the foggiest idea really what they were doing, and she certainly didn’t need this kind of aggravation. Four months was in all likelihood not enough time, and probably after she’d knocked herself out for them, they’d decide they were making a mistake and cancel! Suddenly she didn’t know which would be worse, if they canceled or if they didn’t. All she really knew was that she didn’t feel up to the task of seeing Rod Corley and Dedrah March “properly” married. Surely God intended her to say no to this. As soon as they emerged into the front showroom, she lifted a hand to halt his progress, only to watch him stride out of reach and through the door.
“Oh, Lord,” she muttered frantically, “what’s going on here? What do you expect of me?” She’d just have to tell Dedrah that she didn’t want to handle this affair after all. She nodded in satisfaction, then walked to the window and boldly spied on Rod Corley as he stood at the passenger window of the pickup truck, obviously arguing with someone. After a moment, he backed up, and a tall, lean, young man got out and gestured toward the shop. Both turned in that direction, sending Layne scurrying back into the showroom. Angie, she noticed, sent her a curious glance, which she ignored.
Momentarily, the door opened amidst chimes, and Rod Corley stepped inside, the young man at his elbow. “Miss Harington,” he said, “this is my nephew, Sammy Corley. Sam, this is Miss Harington. If you won’t believe me, then maybe you’ll believe an expert.” He glanced at Layne. “Tell him.”
Tell him what? And why tell him? She opened her mouth and closed it again, forced a smile and said to Sammy, “What is it you’d like to know?”
He pushed a hand through his close-cropped hair, allowing her a few seconds to look him over. The family resemblance was strong, from the color of their hair—though Sammy’s was lacking the streaks of silver—to the planes of their faces and the color of their eyes. Sammy was simply a younger, slimmer version of his uncle. Even the timbre of their voices were alike.
Sammy struck a cryptic pose, jerking a thumb at his uncle. “He says it can’t be done in less than four months.”
He had to be talking about the wedding, of course, but she still didn’t understand what he had to do with it. She wondered if she ever would, but nodded and gave him his answer. “Yes. Four months.”
“We don’t want to wait that long!” he said urgently.
We? Her jaw descended slowly. He couldn’t mean him and Dedrah! Could he?
“It’s just the best that can be done,” Rod was saying. “You understand why, don’t you?”
“I understand,” Sammy replied, “and we appreciate what you’re trying to do, but we don’t want to wait.”
“I thought you said you wanted it done properly,” Rod countered.
“We do!” Sammy said. “We just don’t want to wait.”
“Well, four months is the best that can be done,” Rod said impatiently. “She wanted eight!” He pointed at Layne, who was listening with her mouth hanging open.
“Eight!” Sammy erupted. “No way!”
“Then be grateful she’s agreed to do it in four!”
Sammy opened his mouth to make a retort to that, but Layne had had enough. She forestalled him by stepping quickly forward and raising a hand. “Wait a minute!” she commanded, employing a tone usually reserved for the hired help, and Sammy snapped his mouth shut. In the ensuing silence, she tried to decide how to proceed, but there was only one question that really needed answering. She pinned Sammy with a stern look and addressed him. “Who are you?” she said, enunciating clearly.
Sammy passed a look to his uncle, who was clearly as befuddled as his nephew. The young man shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I’m—”
“In regard to this wedding,” she clarified. “I mean, who are you in regard to this wedding?”
Again, uncle and nephew traded looks, then it was Rod who answered. “Why, he’s the groom,” he said. “Who’d you think?”
The groom? The groom! Layne stepped back and lifted a hand to her mouth. The wave of relief that hit her nearly buckled her knees. “Oh, my,” she said, looking at Rod Corley with fresh eyes. A generous uncle. He was nothing more than a generous uncle. This boy was going to marry that girl in there. He had fathered her child. Whose sweet girl are you? Are you Mommy’s girl? Are you Daddy’s girl? Or are you Uncle’s girl? Layne laughed aloud. If that child had any sense at all, she was her uncle’s girl and blessed at that. Layne composed herself and offered her hand to Sammy Corley, ignoring the tremor in her voice. “Pleased to meet you,” she said, thinking, Thank you, Lord. “Miss March is waiting in the next room.”
“Thank you,” he muttered, then with a speculative look that he shared between them, he slowly turned and started into the consultation room. Layne stood as if rooted to the spot, wondering what to say to the man at her side.
“You didn’t really think…”
The