But she’d thought it all through and made up her mind before Parr had called her and got her to come here. Sometimes you had to be a little bad to get a good man, and not care what people might think. As it had turned out, most had been rooting for her and Parr all along.

“I had it fixed. Nothing to it. Then I hung on to it because it sure as hell didn’t belong to Bobby Joe and I didn’t know if you wanted it.”

She opened the box. The ruby pendant caught the fire of the flickering candle on their secluded table. The delicate gold chain shimmered as she lifted it out. It was back to its original length. The other chain she’d added to it to hide it from prying eyes had been removed. “Thank you, Parr. I do want it. You know I do.”

He glanced at her slender fingers, bare of rings. She’d been happy to give those back to her former fiancé. Alma and Howard seemed more relieved than anything else once they’d been informed of the bare facts.

She wasn’t out for revenge. Neither was Parr. The past months seemed like a bad dream—but they were over.

“So what now?”

Mary Beth rose and went over to his side of the table and sat on his lap. “Would you mind putting it on for me?”

“Not at all.”

She bent her head forward, smiling as the fine chain tickled her neck. He fastened the clasp and pressed a kiss to her nape.

She turned gracefully and returned the favor, right on his lips.

“The waiters are watching,” he murmured.

“I don’t care,” she said.

Epilogue . . .

Epilogue . . .

They’d gone to Jackson just to get out of Iminga and have some not-married-yet fun away from the parents. True, Mary Beth had a hidden agenda. She’d wanted to visit a bridal boutique famous for southern charm and one-of-a-kind dresses.

“Don’t make me go in there, Mary Beth.”

She had just come out. Parr was seated on a wrought-iron bench on the sidewalk, between two planters of moon-white flowers.

“Brave men do it all the time. Why not you?”

He didn’t seem bothered by her affectionate joke. “Why can’t your gown be a beautiful surprise?”

“It will be. I haven’t even decided on the style. I just wanted to ask you about colors.” She held up different swatches in her hand.

“What if I pick the wrong one?”

“Parr, please pay attention. The maid of honor—that’s Eve—and her daughter, Carrie, the flower girl, and Amanda, the flower baby, will wear a coordinating shade, but first I have to pick mine.”

She riffled through the swatches.

“They all look the same to me.”

“They’re not. Snow or vanilla? Sugar or milk?”

“Are you eating it or wearing it?”

“Funny. Come on. Which?”