Runaway Bridesmaid by Karen Templeton Page B

I kinda figured. The other vet, right?”
    â€œThat’s me.” He gave Dean’s hand a quick, firm shake, then took hold of his plate again before disaster struck. “And you’re…Dean, right?”
    He allowed a short nod, then said, “My brother’s marrying Sarah’s and Katey’s sister.”
    â€œSo I’ve heard.” Ed balanced a chicken leg on the top of an already enormous pile of food, then looked around, presumably for some place to sit.
    Dean nodded toward the house. “Porch steps,” he said, then, to Katey, “You going to sit with us?”
    â€œYou kidding?” she said, scrunching up her nose. “I’ll be over there…” Her tiny hands busy balancing an amazingly full plate for such a bit of a thing, she tossed her head in the direction of a clump of assorted giggling little girls seated in the shade of a huge oak away from the house.
    â€œOkay, honey,” he replied before she glided toward her friends, the long braids swishing like pendulums against her back. “Well, there goes my date.”
    â€œHey, at least yours went through the food line with you.” The two of them gravitated toward the front porch. “I lost mine long before that.”
    â€œYou here with Sarah?” Dean asked, gingerly settling on the top step. He hoped the question had sounded nonchalant.
    â€œSupposedly.”
    There was a pause. Curious, Dean glanced over, noticed Ed staring at his plate. “Something moving?”
    â€œWhat? Oh! No, no, no…” Ed sighed, then waved his plastic fork over the plate as if performing a magic rite. “Where do you start?”
    â€œAh…the ancient Riddle of the Potluck,” Dean said, realizing he liked this kinda crazy-looking guy with the hairdo that reminded him of a combed-out poodle. “From the top, is what I usually find works best.”
    Ed laughed, bit half the meat off the drumstick, then said through a full mouth, seeming neither concerned nor annoyed, “Anyway, Sarah invited me, told me to bring drinks, got me here, then vanished.”
    Relief sluiced over Dean’s nerves like a spring shower, comforting and startling all at once. “Probably in the kitchen,” he mumbled.
    â€œSarah?” Ed chortled. “You have been away a long time.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œShe’s a great vet, but she can’t cook worth diddly. She had me to dinner one night, right after I got here. Man, I thought I’d been poisoned. Now I make it a point only to accept dinner invitations when I know her mother’s cooking. Whoever marries that lady had either be a great cook or be wealthy enough to hire one.”
    Dean laughed and stuffed half a roll in his mouth.
    â€œSo. Sarah tells me you make furniture?”
    â€œUh…yeah,” he allowed, wondering how much weight he should give to the fact that he’d been the topic of at least one conversation. “I’ve got my own shop in Atlanta.”
    â€œShe said. You do all new stuff, restorations, what?”
    â€œIf it’s out of wood, I make it. My specialty is period reproduction work, though.” He speared a piece of ham with the flimsy plastic fork and waved it around as he spoke. “People sometimes bring in pieces that are either unsalvageable or that they just want duplicated, and I can usually match the original so closely you’d think it was an antique.” The ham went into his mouth.
    â€œModest, too.”
    He shrugged. “What can I tell you? My daddy taught me well.”
    â€œMmm.” Ed’s dark eyes swept out over the front yard as he chewed. Then he swallowed and asked, “You do well?”
    Although he wondered where the conversation was headed, Dean saw no reason not to be honest. “Well enough, I suppose.”
    â€œLooking for a talented pair of hands to help?”
    Dean set down his empty plate and picked up a