The Wedding Tree by Robin Wells Page A

to learn the ins and outs of a new plane.”
    She fluttered her eyelashes. “Well, then, you’d better make the most of your time in New Orleans.”
    â€œI intend to.” He looked at me again. I started to attempt another smile, then gave up and glanced down at the punch.
    â€œWould you like some cake?” Marge pressed.
    â€œMaybe later.” His voice was deep. There was a throb in it—or maybe that was my own pulse, pounding in my ears. I risked a glance up, and found him still gazing at me. I nearly melted under the blaze of his smile. “What I’d really like is some of that punch.”
    I picked up the punch ladle. My brain was so fizzed by his smile that it couldn’t send the proper signals to my hands. The ladle slipped through my fingers and crashed to the table, knocking over the vase of tulips.
    His hand zoomed out and caught the vase before it tumbled to the floor—but the good deed came at a cost. Water splattered all over his uniform.
    â€œOh no!” I gasped. “Oh, dear. Oh, I’m so sorry!”
    I was beyond sorry; I was mortified.
    â€œNo harm done.” He set the vase upright. One of the tulips had fallen out and the others listed forward.
    â€œYour uniform is soaking wet,” I murmured.
    â€œHere.” Marge handed him a stack of napkins.
    Mrs. Brunswick bustled over. “Good heavens, Addie,” she scolded. “You must be more careful!”
    â€œIt was entirely my fault,” the man said. “I was reaching for a napkin and I knocked the ladle out of her hand.”
    He’d done no such thing. It didn’t seem right to let him take the blame, but then, I couldn’t very well call him a liar—especially in front of Mrs. Brunswick. My face burned.
    â€œI should have had a better grip on it,” I stammered. Not to mention on my nerves.
    He bent and quickly wiped the floor with the napkins. “There. Good as new.” Picking up the fallen flower, he straightened and held out the tulip to me. “Please accept this, along with my apologies.”
    The flower wasn’t his to give, but Mrs. Brunswick gave me a nod, indicating I should accept it. I smiled. “Thank you.”
    He tossed the napkins in the trash can against the wall. Satisfied that the situation was handled, Mrs. Brunswick moved away.
    I twirled the tulip in my hand. “That was very chivalrous, taking the blame for me.”
    â€œYeah,” Marge chimed in.
    It was as if Marge hadn’t spoken—as if she weren’t even around. I know it sounds corny, but it really felt like we were the only two people in the room.
    â€œI’m afraid you’ve gotten water on your dress, as well.”
    I glanced down. Sure enough, water spots splotched my skirt.
    â€œWell, there’s only one solution for this,” he said. “We’ll have to dance together until we dry.”
    â€œOh—I can’t! I have to stay here and man the punch bowl for the first hour.”
    â€œI’ll get you a replacement.”
    â€œWhat?”
    He held up a finger. “Be right back.”
    A crowd of servicemen converged on the refreshment table, relieving me of the need to talk to Marge. As I ladled punch and handed it out, I caught glimpses of the airman heading to the registration table. Flora’s face turned the color of an inflamed tonsil, and Betty put her hand on his arm. He said something to her and she laughed.
    I lost sight of him for a few moments as I served three sailors. When I looked up again, the airman was talking to a chaperone at the door, Betty clinging to his arm.
    A serviceman from Wyoming tried to start a conversation with me. When he finally left the table, a line had gathered behind him. Marge leaned over to me. “Looks like Buxom Betty stole the prize.”
    I followed her gaze. The tall airman was crossing the room, the curvy brunette clasping his arm. To my chagrin, they stopped in the