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For Better or For Worse

Thomas Nelson

As the morning sun peeks over chilly mountaintops, warming frost from grassy tips and shaking loose the musky scent of bark and soil, I'm inspired to break into my own rendition of "the hills are alive with the sound of music," punctuated by a couple of twirls. But I don't share the talent of Julie Andrews, and the fact that I am jogging in Craggy Park at a mountainous altitude makes twirling—and singing—out of the question.

Barren trees stand cold and shivering in the late January breeze, but it's only a matter of weeks before spring comes calling in Smoky Heights, Tennessee—and with it, hope. That's what I have these days. After a rough season of grief, I've finally settled into the single life, and things are looking up ...

Until I see Marco Amorini jogging my way with his dog.

Lean and muscular, Marco has a comfortable stride. Confidence looks good on him. Wish I could wear it. The morning breeze ruffles his dark, wavy hair, reminding me of how my own must look, since I only whipped it up into a scrunchie before leaving the house.

Before I have time to worry about it, a black cat dashes across my path. For the record, I'm not superstitious. But any colored cat crossing my path is not a good thing—for me or the cat.

Marco's boxer peels into a cheetah-like run, heading straight for me, leash straggling behind, slobber splashing the air, ears pointed and reared back, eyes focused on the cat.

"Brutus, get back here."

Before you can say Lassie, the boxer darts in front of me, causing me to fall in a heap at Marco's feet.

"Are you all right?" He bends over me, places one strong arm around me, his other hand warm and reassuring on mine, lifting me to my feet as though I were the size of Tinker Bell.

Oh, why didn't I put on makeup this morning?

After dusting myself off, I look straight into eyes the color of cocoa beans and try not to gulp. I will myself to breathe while shamelessly taking in his sculpted cheekbones, the firm set of his jaw, his straight nose. He blinks, causing Logan's words to shake loose in my mind.

Amorini victimizes women and laughs himself all the way to the bank.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Marco's voice is gentle and kind, not at all what I would have expected. Though something about him seems guarded. He's not smiling—although that could be because I'm standing on his foot.

"Are you all right?" he asks again.

I'm fine. Thank you, Mr. Amorini."

"Do I know you?" Dark, neatly trimmed eyebrows lift in a quizzical fashion. "Represent your husband in a divorce action?"

"My husband died three years ago."

"I'm sorry."

"Our kids went to school together," I continue. "Well, my son and your daughter, anyway."

He nods, but I can tell by the look in his eyes he has no idea who my kids are.

"I'm Wendy Hartline." I extend my hand. "My daughter, Brooke, is older, though, so you wouldn't have known her. But Colin was in Sophia's grade. He's away at college now."

Strong, rough fingers—calloused by years of paperwork, no doubt—curl around my palm, making me feel petite.

Still no noticeable spark of recognition. He thinks a minute and shakes his head. "Sorry, doesn't ring a bell. But I do recognize your name. We're going to be neighbors soon."

His teeth are white and dazzling. I can almost picture him in a top hat and dancing shoes. My heart skitters with the speed of hummingbird wings.

"Neighbors? You're moving into Mountain View Addition?"

"No, actually, I'm moving onto Appalachia Boulevard, right next to your chapel."

A hesitating breath hovers in my chest, refusing to release.

"The lodge that's been standing empty. You probably know the guy who built it filed bankruptcy. He had hoped to build a resort out of that area. I suspect he wanted to buy your place eventually."

The close flap of bird wings causes us both to look up briefly.

"The construction is pretty much finished, just a few tweaks needed, furniture set in place."

He stops and studies me while I try, in vain, to speak.

"Anyway, I bought the lodge and plan to open just after Valentine's Day. Which reminds me, I'd like to talk to you about co-owning the pond area. That would give my guests the opportunity to sit out there or walk the path around it."

This man is moving into my corner of the world, threatening my business, wants to co-own my pond, and I'm supposed to be okay with this?

"I'll have to think about it," I manage to speak out.

"It could benefit us both, you know. I'd help you with the maintenance of it, give you some extra cash."

Before I can respond, he glances at the gathering clouds.

"Yes, ma'am, the lodge is going to be first class all the way. Restaurant on the main floor. Heated pool, exercise room, honeymoon suites with heart-shaped tubs. For now, you can get them married. I'll take care of the honeymoon."

Hot adrenaline rumbles in my ears. And when things don't work out, they can come to you to handle the divorce?

I keep the thought to myself, as usual. I always thought by the time I reached middle age I'd be able to speak my mind, but I've never figured out a way to quell my constant need for approval.

"There's nothing worse than a job unfinished," he says.

"And how nice for you to profit from the other businessman's misfortune."

He shrugs. "Last time I checked the law books there was no crime in making money. I'm not the one who made him go bankrupt."

Whatever.

Not that I would wish bankruptcy on anyone, but once I had heard the lodge was no longer a threat, I was sleeping better at night. Now this. What would it mean for my wedding chapel and cozy cabins?

Marco is still defending himself. "What's the harm if I help myself in the process?"

Something tells me I hit a nerve.

His penetrating gaze causes me to shift on my feet.

"Besides, I don't know why you're complaining. For now, it should bring in more business for you."

"I'm not complaining, Mr.—"

"Marco."

"Amorini," I finish stubbornly. "I'm merely interested in how it will affect my business. Being a business owner yourself, I'm sure you can understand that."

So much for liking the man.

"So you're afraid I'll be competition?"

"I'm not afraid of anything," I say, carefully measuring my words to hide my annoyance.

This guy is a piece of work. I don't care if he does have good legs. Actually, now that I've gotten a better look, his knees are knobby.

Amusement lights his eyes. "Let's be candid, shall we? No doubt your little cabins have their place. Let's see ... Snow White, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and ..."

"The Little Mermaid," I say dryly.

He snaps his fingers. "Yeah, that's it. A little cheesy, but to each his own."

My mouth dangles like a broken door hinge while my voice hides in some dark corner of my esophagus.

He hesitates momentarily. "We'll be catering to different wallets."

Pete's Dragon has nothing on me. With the least bit of encouragement, I could scorch Marco Amorini in one breath.

Brutus tugs on his chain, causing Marco to sidestep. "Guess he's ready to go. No doubt I'll run into you again soon, Wendy."

Not if I can help it. I don't care in the least that the way he says my name takes my breath away. Once I get it back, he'd better run.

Marco Amorini has met his match.

On my way to work, I spot vultures circling roadkill. That pretty much sums up my morning. Well, if Marco thinks I'm going to roll over and play dead while he takes away my business, he's got another thing coming.

"Wow, Antonio Banderas moving to our neck of the woods," Roseanne Raynor, my assistant and best friend, says in reverent awe while her nails clatter through her office desk drawer in search of something.

"Good morning to you too," I say, closing the door behind me and shrugging off my jacket.

Though we met about ten years ago when Roseanne and Gill started attending our church, I feel as though I've known her all my life. She stood by me through the dark days of losing my husband, held my hand when I struggled to breathe, and spoiled me with chocolate when I needed it.

"Oh, good morning." Whatever it was she needed from her desk, she didn't find. She gets up and walks over to peek out the blinds. "I still can't believe how much that man looks like Antonio," she says with a sigh.

"You think everybody looks like Antonio Banderas." Should I point out Marco's knobby knees?

Our office in the chapel smells of coffee and sweet perfume lifting from the potpourri—or Roseanne, I'm not sure which. With two desks, several filing cabinets, a table and chairs for conference purposes, and a couple of extra chairs for waiting, it's small but adequate. Our walls are a mixture of wedding white, burgundy wine, and rosebud pink. Wine-colored accents splash about the room in pictures and accessories. Warm and romantic, and just right for a wedding chapel office.

"I do not. Logan doesn't." Roseanne walks back to her desk, plops in her chair, adjusts the zirconia-studded turquoise bifocals perched atop her strong nose, and clicks on the small desk fan in front of her, causing her dangling earrings to jangle with abandon. Some days I worry that they'll get caught in the fan and suck her right in.

"Logan has blond hair and blue eyes. He could hardly look like Antonio Banderas."

"Exactly." She straightens the gold chain attached to her glasses. Something in her tone tells me I should be offended, but I ignore her.

"And Gill?" I ask, referring to her husband of twenty-two years.

She gets all dreamy-eyed. "Gill doesn't have to look like Antonio. He's, well, Gill."

"You are profound beyond words." I dig in my purse for my hand lotion.

She gives a slight nod. "It's a gift." With her back to me, Roseanne thumbs through the green hanging folders in the filing cabinet, charm bracelet tinkling.

"There's no reason you can't be friends with Marco, Wendy. Just give him a chance." Roseanne shoves the filing drawer back into place, causing it to close with a bang. "So he's a divorce attorney. There's no law against divorce, you know."

I glare her way, but she doesn't notice. "This coming from the woman who recites the consequences of divorce like a schoolgirl quoting the Pledge of Allegiance?"

"Hey, I just want to spare others from going through what I did." She gets a whiff of the lotion I've just rubbed into my hands. "Oh, that smells delicious, like a mixture of citrus and mint."

"Good nose. Want some?"

"Sure."

I put a swirl in her hand. "Besides, Mr. Amorini took almost everything Logan owned in the divorce settlement and gave it to his adulterous wife. That's just wrong."

Roseanne pulls out an emery board and begins to saw on her fingernails, which, by the way, look lethal. "Logan's a nice guy, but I'm not sure he's the one for you."

"No one said I'm ready to meet him at the altar. But he's nice to have around."

Just then the front door swishes open. A young man's smiling face peers over the top of a dozen red roses. He looks at Roseanne. "Are you"—his gaze flits to the card on the vase—"Wendy Hartline?"

She sighs and points in my direction.

"For me?" I bury my face in the abundance of fragrant petals and take a deep whiff. "Thank you."

He smiles and walks out the door.

Roseanne crosses her arms at her chest and stares at me while tapping her toe. She's a multitasker, that one.

I glance at the card from Logan. "See what I mean? Nice to have around," I say, drugged by the flowers' sweet perfume.

She sighs. "He's romantic—I'll say that for him." She fingers a petal. "But I thought you preferred daisies."

"I do, but Logan always forgets that. Hey, who am I to complain? Nobody's perfect." I look up at her. "Did I tell you we both love coffee shops?"

"On this you would base a lifetime commitment?"

"I told you—I'm not ready for the altar." After I find a spot on my desk for the vase of flowers, my fingers work through the arrangement, moving a sliver of baby's breath to the front of the vase, plucking one rose and putting it behind another.

"Well, that's what you're all about, right? Surely that has to be where this is headed, or you wouldn't still be with him after, what, a year?"

"Seven months." Her comment sucks the joy right out of me. I jot a note on a slip of paper to call the photographer to finalize plans for the Nelson wedding next month. "We're comfortable with things the way they are. Besides, I'm not sure I want to get married again. I'm just beginning to enjoy the single life. I can do what I want, when I want, with no one to answer to."

I can't imagine another man coming close to Dennis. We had a great marriage. Before I can allow myself to sag into a blue funk, I walk over to the coffeepot and pour myself a cup.

"Hey, how come you're limping?"

I turn around. "Was I?"

She nods.

"Wonder if I should sue Marco's dog?" I say with a vindictive laugh, then tell her what happened this morning.

Roseanne shoves her chin onto the edge of her palm and gazes dreamily into the distance. "Two lovers find each other in the misty dawn ..."

I'd better hide the wedding books.

"Stop talking that way right this minute, Roseanne. Logan could walk in."

She rolls her eyes. "Logan Schmogan."

My face must show my distress, because she begins to babble. "I'm sorry. I know Logan is a good guy. He's handsome, romantic, all the things a woman wants in a man, but Antonio, er, uh, Marco—"

Holding up my palm, I say, "Let's not go there. The Anglin wedding is this weekend, and we have plenty to do." I flip through my wedding schedule to the appropriate page, pause, then look up at Roseanne. "And, just for the record, I plan to stay as far away from Marco Amorini as I possibly can."

Just after dinner, I step into my workroom in the basement. I figure I have a little time to do some work before Logan comes over.

This inner room blocks out all distractions, and I'm free to let my creative side soar. The smell of fabric tinges the air. Large industrial machines hug the cream walls. Bolts of cotton, polyester, and silk line a shelf. A variety of laces bulges from another.

Settling into my padded chair, I lift the gauzy material that will go in my dining room. Out of one piece of material I plan to make a throw swag that will fall to the floor; then I will bunch it into bishop sleeves with decorative ties to give it a more elegant appearance. Without a man in the house, I figure I can do frilly.

The serger hums along the material, wrapping the thread around the edge, giving it a nice, finished look. Snipping off the excess thread, I pull it out and look it over. "Perfect."

After Dennis died, some of our out-of-town friends came for a visit. Our guest room was in need of redecorating, so I created curtains, bed pillows, a duvet, and comforter. A couple of my church friends saw them and wanted me to make some for them. So now I usually have a project of draperies, pillow shams, or bed covers going.

Roseanne joked once that I should sell the chapel and start a new business, but I could never do that. The chapel was Dennis's life.

It just wouldn't be right.

"Here we go." Handing Logan his iced soda, I reach for mine, along with a deep bowl of popcorn, and settle in beside him on the plump, blue-and-yellow-patterned sofa in my living room, tucking my feet beneath me.

Smoke curls from a flickering candle nearby, lifting the scent of freshly scrubbed apples. Logs simmer and hot twigs snap and crackle from my stone hearth. Before long, it will be too warm to enjoy the fireplace.

"This is nice." Logan smiles, gives my lips a quick brush with his own, then shoves another handful of popcorn into his mouth.

I give him a sideways glance. His shirt puffs at belt level, threatening to spill over and run amuck. His jeans have seen better days. Logan is no clotheshorse, but I'm okay with that. He's at home in flannel and jeans, and when the weather is too warm, he'll happily don an oversized T-shirt, no matter if it boasts the latest college team or a Shakespeare quote. He wouldn't wear a suit if you paid him, though he does wear a sport jacket and jeans to class.

"Thank you for the beautiful roses, Logan. What was the occasion?"

"As I said on the card, just wanted you to know I was thinking about you." He gives my hand a quick squeeze, leaving behind a smattering of salt, which I discreetly brush with a napkin.

"Well, it was very thoughtful. They're beautiful." Not daisies, but still beautiful.

We munch quietly on our popcorn, mesmerized by the bluish-gold flames in the fireplace.

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Excerpted from For Better or For Worse by Diann Hunt. Copyright © 2007 Diann Hunt. Excerpted by permission of Thomas Nelson.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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