Megan sat back in her chair as the wedding talk buzzed around her. In her mind, she pictured Conner, so handsome in his tux, standing next to his friend. Subtly, the dream image shifted. Conner was standing in the groom’s place now, watching with love in his eyes as she floated down the aisle toward him. Her long white veil drifting behind her . . . but it was far too soon for such imaginings.

Rousing herself from her fantasy, Megan glanced over at Katy. She was listening raptly to the wedding talk, her lovely blue eyes shining, her fingertips resting on the tiny lapis stone of the friendship ring Daniel had given her. She deserved to be happy and to be loved. So did Daniel. Maybe, in the months ahead, their dream of a wedding would come true.

For Maggie and Travis, this Christmas would be a time of joy. For Katy, and maybe for Megan herself, it would be a time of hope.

Christmastime and wedding time.

A time when anything could go wrong.

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

To Megan’s secret relief, Maggie’s bridal shower didn’t include a toilet tissue wedding gown. Instead, Clara passed out sheets of pastel notepaper and pens while Tracy gave instructions. Each guest was to write a note with a bit of advice for the bride. When the notes were handed in, Maggie would read them out loud. The notes would be anonymous. Advice could be funny, serious, even a bit naughty, as long as it was fit for the bride to read.

Megan glanced around the circle of women. Some, mostly the married ones, were writing eagerly, smiling to themselves as they scribbled. Others, like Megan, appeared to be at a loss. What kind of advice could you give a bride if you’d never been married yourself? She tried to imagine what it would be like, waking up in the morning to look into a pair of sleepy Texas bluebonnet eyes.

Why blue? What am I thinking?

Why did the face on the pillow next to hers keep materializing into Conner’s? She changed the mental image. This time, she was waking up first, her gaze caressing his sleeping face, eyelashes lying golden against his tanned cheeks, stubble shadowing his stubborn jaw.

She gave in to the fantasy. Maybe Conner would never be hers, but she could dream.

Without taking time to analyze her thoughts, she began to write.

At the end often minutes, Clara gathered up the pages, slipped them into a folder with a flowered cover, and presented them to Maggie.

“Now let’s see if our bride can read these without blushing,” Tracy teased. “With help, she might even be able to guess the writer.”

This was something new. The notes were supposed to be anonymous, weren’t they? Had the game changed?