CHAPTER 32
Spring
W atching Kennedy dart back and forth from her closet to their bedroom like a crazed squirrel twelve hours before an approaching storm, Matt was tempted to offer advice. But he hadn’t reached his age without learning a thing or two—the most important being that dressing for an important occasion was serious business. At least it had been for Helen, his girls, and now, it seemed, Kennedy.
Experience had taught him a thing or two, too. It did no good to make comments, watch the clock, or give opinions. Not even when they were asked for. All those things did was cause an argument, panic or—in Beth’s case—tears.
He’d do a lot to avoid tears.
Therefore, even though they really should have been heading to the door, he leaned back in the pretty paisley-upholstered chair in the bedroom.
He also took a moment to give thanks for the hot cup of coffee in his hand. And, more importantly, for the fact that his bride of two months was in his life. Kennedy was a wonderful woman. Sometimes he couldn’t believe how lucky and blessed he was to have found her.
“Matt, what do you think about this dress?”
He carefully set the cup down.
Kennedy now had on a pale rose-colored sheath. The fabric was silk, and the dress had embroidery and seed pearls stitched into the hemline. It was a beautiful dress. So were the neutral heels on her feet.
Honestly, he didn’t think a woman could ever look more beautiful.
Except, perhaps, the way she’d looked on their wedding day. He’d thought she’d looked positively angelic.
But was he going to say that? Nope. Actually, he knew better than to offer any opinion. “What do you think, Ken?” he asked.
“I think I need your opinion.”
Umm . . . probably not. “Well . . .”
Tapping the toe of a brand-new shoe, she exhaled. “Matthew Schrock, don’t you start that with me.”
“Start what?” He attempted to look innocent but was pretty sure he was failing. Badly.
“You know what. Don’t you start not telling me how you really think about something.”
He stood up. “Kennedy, are you sure you want my opinion? And I’m asking because you looked kind of irritated the last three times I told you I thought you looked pretty.”
“That’s because you were unhelpful.” Before he could say a word about that, she added, “We’re about to go to your son’s wedding. His Amish wedding. I’m his non-Amish stepmother.”
“And . . . ?” He didn’t want to sound idiotic, but he truly didn’t know where she was going with that.
Her eyes widened. “And I don’t want to look completely out of place.”
“You won’t. You’ll be with me.”
“Matt, that is not what I meant, and you know it.”
“I don’t care if that’s what you meant or not. I’m just being honest.”
“But—”
“You’re going to look beautiful, and I’ve got on a new navy suit that looks pretty good, I think.”
“You should. You’ve been working out for months.”
He had, both for vanity and because Jonny’s health scare had encouraged him to work out more—and, of course, take up bike riding. “What I’m trying to say is that you’ve got nothing to worry about. We’ll look great.”
“You’re being no help.”
“Actually—”
She interrupted. “You know that this whole ‘what to wear’ thing is different for women.”
Realizing that no amount of reassurance was going to do the trick, he took another sip of coffee and sat back down. “I reckon so.”
“Are you sure I shouldn’t wear a longer dress?”
“Yes.”
“But what if other women are wearing them? What did you say Helen was wearing?” Turning to the mirror again, she groaned. “I knew I should’ve called her. Do you think I should call her?”
“Now?”
“Well, yeah.”
Staring at her, Matt realized he was out of words. There was only so many compliments and reassurances words could provide. He stood up, crossed the room, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her soundly.
She stiffened, then—as he’d hoped—melted into his arms. Running a hand down her back, he deepened the kiss until he feared they were going to lose track of time.
When he lifted his head, he said, “Kennedy Schrock, you look gorgeous, everyone is going to love your dress, my mother does not expect you to look Amish, I don’t care what Helen is wearing . . . and you need to grab your purse so we can go because I’m not going to show up late to my son’s wedding.”
She froze. Scanned his face. And then nodded.
“Okay.” She turned, reached for her bag, then headed down the hall.
He was left to follow behind, leaving the pile of dresses on the bed and the array of shoes littering the floor.
Reaching for her pashmina, he settled it around her shoulders, double-checked that he had his wallet and phone, then opened the door leading to the garage.
At last they were on their way.