The Wedding Tree by Robin Wells Page B

punch line.
    I handed out glasses to the sailors and soldiers ahead of them, my heart racing harder and harder, until they stood right in front of me. “Betty here has generously agreed to do me a favor,” the airman said.
    â€œAnything to help a serviceman,” she said in a breathy voice.
    â€œAnything?” Marge asked pointedly.
    Betty didn’t have the grace to blush or the wit to respond. She batted her eyes at the airman.
    â€œWell, that’s wonderful,” he said, “because I’d like you to take Addie’s spot serving punch.”
    Betty’s face fell. “But . . . I . . .”
    He put his hand in the small of her back and guided her around the table, then took the ladle from my hand and placed it in Betty’s. “This is what I love about you southern girls,” he said. “You’re so polite and helpful and genteel. Not to mention lovely.” He flashed Betty a smile that left her dazed and glassy-eyed.
    He took my elbow and inclined his head toward the dance floor. “Shall we?”
    Feeling dazed myself, I let him lead me through the crowd. His fingers were warm on my bare skin. My elbow had never felt so alive.
    â€œThat was shameful,” I said.
    â€œI think you mean shameless.”
    â€œIt’s shameful to be so shameless,” I said.
    He laughed as we reached the dance floor. The band was playing “I Remember You.” He took my right hand, put his other hand on my back, and pulled me into a foxtrot. “Well, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”
    The heat of him, the brightness of that smile, the scent of soap and faint aftershave and virile male made me slightly dizzy. “And what, exactly, do you have to do?”
    â€œGet to know you.” He spun me around. “I knew it from the moment I saw you.”
    I felt like I was still spinning even though the twirl had ended. “I’m disappointed,” I said. “I thought you’d have more original material.”
    â€œThat’s not a line.” He pulled me closer, smoothly moving me across the dance floor. “I mean it. And here’s something that’s going to sound even cornier: I feel like I already know you. As if I’ve seen you in my dreams.”
    â€œYou’re right. That
did
sound even cornier.” But the funny thingwas, I felt the same way. It was as if my soul had recognized him, as if a puzzle piece had just slipped into the right slot.
    He guided me backward. “Seriously. Have you ever been in California?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œTexas?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œIs your picture on a billboard or a soup can or something?”
    â€œNo.” I laughed at the outrageous question as he spun me around. “I tend to stay behind the camera, not in front of it.”
    â€œYou’re a photographer?”
    â€œYes. For the
Times-Picayune.
” I felt so proud, saying it.
    â€œA newspaper woman? Like Katharine Hepburn in
Woman of the Year
?”
    â€œOh, exactly like that.” I gave a dry smile. “Minus the wardrobe, the salary, the hairstylists, and the ability to dance in and out of the newsroom at will.”
    â€œStill, that’s really something.”
    I was pleased that he thought so. “I love it, although right now I spend most of my time in the darkroom developing photos shot by more experienced photographers.”
    â€œYou’re far too pretty to be kept in a darkroom.”
    â€œNo,” I said, tilting my head up at him. “I’m far too good a photographer to be kept in a darkroom.”
    He laughed. “Maybe so, but you’re also awfully pretty.”
    I felt my face heat.
    â€œSo what makes a good photographer?” he asked.
    The music swelled around us. “Timing. Getting the moment right. Framing things. Lighting. Trying to see just what the camera will capture—although you never entirely do. It