Chapter 2

"Okay, so how did we get from 'I don't think we need a ceremony' to shopping for a wedding gown?" Tess looked sideways at Cat as they maneuvered their way through pedestrian traffic in the upscale shopping district.

"Dress. Wedding dress. 'Gown' sounds way over the top."

"I thought this was over the top. Whatever. 'Dress,' then."

"I don't know, Tess. Vincent wants this to be as much like a real wedding as possible."

"Real, just secret. I get it. Either way, it's an excuse to buy a new dress and get all dolled up. Hey, here's the place I was thinking of." She drew open the door to a small but elegant boutique and they stepped inside. As the motion detector tinkled, announcing their arrival, the noises from the street seem to disappear.

Tess started forward as two saleswomen eyed them, but Catherine held back. "Maybe this is a bad idea. You know, I can just wear something from my closet."

Tess grabbed Cat's arm before she escaped and pulled her forward. "Nope. Not gonna fly. You want a real wedding, you need a real dress."

"What if," Catherine said, looking anxiously around, "someone recognizes us? How will we explain it?"

"You're seriously worried that someone you know is going to walk into this shop, right now, miles from your apartment and the precinct, and call you out on it? That isn't going to happen. And if it does, you don't owe them an explanation. Now go. You check out that rack; I'll look on this one. Hide yourself among the frothy folds if you must, but look for a dress."

"It's just a dress."

"A very special dress."

It took an hour, but eventually Catherine found a few she was willing to try on, but her frown in the mirror wasn't encouraging.

"That one looks beautiful on you."

Cat sighed. "It's all right, I guess. It's just—"

"What?"

"Nothing I see says 'me' or 'us.' I'm thirty years old, Tess. These dresses were made with younger women in mind."

"Wedding dresses are only made for younger women? Wrong. And Cat, you deserve a beautiful wedding dress, even if it is for a fake wedding."

"It's not fake."

"Just not legal," Tess argued.

"There's a difference. And it could be legal if things change."

Tess lifted an eyebrow and walked to the wrack where they'd hung a few possibles. "All right. How about this one?"

"Too austere."

" 'Austere?' "She laughed and shook her head. "Okay. This one?"

"Too Princess Diana."

Tess held up one more.

"Too . . . Madonna."

"Okay, you do want to find a dress, right?"

"Yes, of course. I'm just not seeing anything I like."

"Well, there are plenty of other bridal stores, but we'll need to get a move on if we want to get this done today."

They re-hung the gowns and exited the front door.

"Wait." Catherine stopped mid-step. "What about that shop across the street?"

"The vintage place? It isn't a wedding boutique."

"No, but—"

"That dress." Tess saw what had caught Cat's eye.

"Yes. Let's check it out."

Hanging in the display window among a plethora of knick knacks, colored glassware, and books was a dress covered in elliptical bands of ice-white lace. It was tea length in front, but longer in back, the bell shaped train falling almost to the floor. The bodice sported a fitted, sweetheart neckline with shimmery shear sleeves covered in mini pearl triplets. The shopkeeper, a middle-aged woman with a healthy smile, offered to take it in for a better fit and did so while they waited. The same store owner also produced a pair of white leather short-cut boots to match.

"It isn't traditional," Cat said, as the two women studied her reflection in the mirror.

"But it's the one."

"It's the one."

(Cat's Apartment)

"Heather. Hi, it's Catherine. Oh, not much really. Hey, I was just wondering," Catherine looked up at Tess for moral support. "Do you still have that pin of Grandma Chandler's—you know, the one with the tiny seed pearls? Yeah? Do you think I could borrow it? Oh, no, nothing important."

Tess rolled her eyes at that.

"I just got this new dress—for a function at work—that I thought it would go nicely with, but if it's a problem—oh, great. I appreciate it. No, I'll just swing by your apartment and pick it up from you later tonight, if that's okay. All right. See you soon. Bye."

She looked up at Tess after disconnecting the call. "That didn't sound too suspicious, did it?"

"No, but I'm betting now she'll want to see that new dress. Okay," she waved off Cat's panicked look. "That was the 'something old.' The dress and boots are new. I have a hair pin you can borrow. But what about 'something blue?' "

Catherine thought a moment, then got up and headed for the bookshelves. "Wait. I think I have an idea." She pulled a thick volume off the shelf and brought it over."

"A book?" Tess looked doubtful then tilted her head to read the title on the binding. 'The Poetry of Dylan Thomas'?" Tess frowned. "A little heavy, don't you think? And it's not blue."

Catherine ignored her and thumbed through the pages. "No. Here. Look." Finding the right spot, she carefully lifted out a fragile petal from the pages of her favorite poem, "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night," and held it up. "Kind of a bluish-purple, but what do you think? This is from a flower Vincent gave me in Milltown."

"To put in your hair or bouquet?"

"Nope." Catherine tucked it into her blouse. "Here."

"Sweet."

"Sweetheart."

Tess laughed. "Okay, that works. What's left?"

"I picked out a ring yesterday. It's just a simple gold band, but I wanted him to have one, too. Other than that, I think we're set. The dress was the last thing on my list. Well, except—"

"Uh-oh. You have that look. What?"

"I want to visit Dad. I mean, Thomas. Before 'The Day.' "

"Cat—"

"Not to tell him anything, just to be with him. Vincent said I should bring pictures of my family to the wedding so they can be there with us 'in spirit.' I thought I'd use the excuse of feeling nostalgic; tell my dad I wanted to scan some old family photos for an album. He won't . . . he won't be there to walk me down the aisle, so—"

"I think that's a really great idea, Cat. Go see him. Spend time with him."

(The Chandler House)

"Catherine, come in sweetheart."

"Hi, Dad."

Thomas Chandler greeted her at the door. When she looked at the cane with surprise, he shrugged. "Brooke insists I use it. I told her I didn't need it but she's being over-protective—"

"Am not!" Brooke called from the kitchen, the laughter in her voice tempered with steel.

"It's just for stability. They don't want me taking another spill anytime soon."

"Well, good for Brooke, then. I approve. I don't want you to, either. It's so good to see you."

"Haven't seen enough of you in the last couple of months. Heather said work is keeping you really busy?"

Sweet of Heather to have given her an excuse, lie though it was. She just smiled and he waved her in.

"I've got the pictures boxes in here," he motioned to the living room and she took a seat. "There are a lot. Brooke had started to go through them. She wanted each of you girls to have a set, but since you're scanning them in, maybe you could make a copy for your sister."

Catherine cringed, realizing she was going to have to actually make said CD. "Sure."

He opened the first box and they went through them together. After passing several photos to her, he stopped on one. "Ah. Look at this one. You looked so much like your mother, all dark eyes and dark hair—you had a lot of hair when you were born." He laughed and the crinkles around his eyes deepened. "The most beautiful baby I'd ever seen. I instantly fell in love."

At his words, Catherine felt that pressure behind her eyes again. He may not be her biological father, but he'd been there at her birth, and ever since. That counted for something. As much as she wanted to ask him about Michael Reynolds, now was not the time. She finally picked out a selection of photographs and tucked them into a briefcase.

As they stood at the door, she suddenly reached for him. "I love you, Dad." Her voice broke on the last.

"Hey. What's this about? You almost sound as if you're saying good-bye. You're not going away somewhere, are you?"

"No. I guess I just miss these moments. After seeing you in the hospital—"

"Hey. I may have been an invalid for a little while, but I've got a clean bill of health now. I'm going to be around for a good, long time." He sent a smile toward his young wife, who had joined them at the door. "I've got a lot to live for."

She didn't need to worry about him. "Okay. Then it's just 'bye' for now. And I'll be back soon, I promise," Catherine assured him after a deep focusing breath. But the next time you see me, I'll belong to another man. She sniffed back the tears that had started to fall in the back of her throat. "Very soon."

(At the Club)

"You sure you two don't want to fly to Vegas and let Elvis do this?"

Vincent ignored his friend's sarcasm. "Everything is in place. I just wish Catherine's father could be there to walk her down the aisle."

JT raised his hands in protest. "I can't do it. I'm already doing double-duty during the ceremony as it is."

"I know. It's a pretty exclusive group who knows about me. I just feel bad."

"What about Catherine's real father, you know, that guy—"

"Absolutely not.

"Then I've got it. Gabe."

"Gabe?"

"I know you had issues with him at first—the whole jealousy thing, but—"

"JT, it wasn't jealousy."

"Whatever. But now that he's 'recovered,' well, he already knows about both of you and keeps your secret."

Vincent mulled that over. The man was practically falling all over himself trying to make it up to them for saving his life—not an easy feat with 16 bullets in his chest. He did owe them, especially Catherine. "I'll go see him."

The next thing they knew, an entire truck load of plants was being delivered to their back doorstep.

Gabe greeted Vincent at the door.

"What is this?"

"Well, you said there was going to be a wedding on the roof."

"A wedding, not a botanical garden!" Vincent said, astounded.

"I thought you could use a little ambiance."

'Ambiance' included hundreds of strands of white, twinkling lights, fragrant barrels of flowers and yards and yards of tulle.

(Cat's Apartment)

"So, Tess said you got a dress." Vincent's breath fluttered the hair at her nape as he punctuated that statement with a toe curling, open-mouthed kiss to her neck.

Catherine halted mid-breath then realized what he'd said. She turned and looked at him. "Since when do you talk to Tess?"

"She's my new bff," he rumbled, this time against her ear.

She wasn't having it. Catherine laughed. "That is so not what I picture."

"So . . . ."

"So, nothing. And stop trying to distract me. You do not get to see it—not until tomorrow morning; which, if we're going to be getting up long before dawn, is going to come sooner than we know. We better think about getting some shut-eye. I am not going to have bags under my eyes for the most important day of my life." She tried to twist away from him, but he grabbed her and started doing things to her neck that she seriously could not pull away from.

"The most important, huh?"

"Yes," she said on a sigh. She was having difficulty concentrating. "One of them. The first was when I met you. But everything is going to change now."

He lifted his head. "How so?"

"I don't know. We'll be different."

"Not really. You were my partner before this. Tomorrow it will just become official." He leaned back into her musky warmth.

Catherine gave up. She lifted her arms around his neck and offered herself up to his loving touches. "By the way, have I told you lately that I am 'officially' madly, desperately, fiercely and passionately in love with you?"

"Oh? Define passionately . . . ."