5.12.06 :: Match Game is a finalist in the Oklahoma Romance Writers of America National Readers Choice contest in the Mainstream category!

11.01.05 :: Wendy Keel at The Romance Readers Connection says, “ Brandt has written a delightful book that is sure to leave you smiling!” Read the entire review.

11.01.05 :: Patti Fischer at Romance Reviews Today asks, “Who would ever have thought a story about a tax accountant can be amusing? Everyone needs a laugh, or life will get dull. For a fun tale, pick up the witty Match Game today.” Read the entire review.

11.01.05 :: And Barnes & Noble’s staff reviewer Ginger Curwen adds, “Beverly Brandt turns identity theft into a surprisingly wonderful plot device in this contemporary romance that begins with heartbreak and humiliation.”

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:: The idea for Match Game came to me when I happened upon a book called Quiz Therapy at my local bookstore. The first quiz in the book is titled “What Goddess Are You?”  You answer questions like “What is the most important thing in your life?” and “If you were to throw a luncheon for your friends, whose names would be on your guest list?”  When you’re done, you find out if you’re more like Aphrodite, Artemis, Hera, etc. Turns out that if I were a goddess, I’d be Athena. 

You’d think that would be good, right? I mean, Athena is “bright-eyed, shrewd, resourceful, and inventive.”  However, unlike all the other goddesses listed, Athena comes with a warning. If I don’t bring my strength together with my vulnerability, I risk coming off as unaffectionate and self-righteous. Huh?  No fair! I want to be Aphrodite (the goddess of love)—feminine, passionate, charismatic, and draws men to her like bees to flowers—not unaffectionate and self-righteous! 

This got me thinking that what I should have done was to read the scoring first and figure out what answers went with the goddess that I want to be. That way, I would have ensured the correct outcome (but would I have even come up with this plan if I weren’t shrewd and inventive, hmm?).

We’ve all seen these types of quizzes in magazines like Glamour and Cosmo. How many of us have taken them and then wished our answers had shown us in a better light?  What if, instead of changing your answers, you could change yourself -- that is, actually become the goddess you wanted to be? 

That’s how the character of Savannah Taylor was born—a woman whose identity has been stolen and has the luxury of making herself over into whoever it is she wants to be. Only, it’s never that easy, is it? 

And why is it that we can’t accept the good qualities about ourselves as easily as we believe the bad? That’s the lesson Savannah learns in Match Game... and why I’ve decided that it’s not so bad to be Athena, after all!

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CHAPTER ONE

It all started with the September issue of All About Brides magazine.

Newly engaged Savannah Taylor had run down to the Super ShopMart on her lunch hour to pick up a six-pack of Diet Sprite and a jug of Chardonnay for predinner drinks with her friends that evening when she spotted the 720-page special edition sitting in the rack next to Glamour and Cosmo and the latest National Enquirer (which claimed to have actual photos of aliens abducting Julia Roberts, but Savannah guessed the aliens in question were just a pair of Julia’s normal, non-movie-star friends).

“Everything You Need to Make Your Wedding Perfect,” the banner read, and Savannah thought, Wow, everything I need in one place. Since she was an accountant and the IRS had over a hundred publications to explain the proper filing of one simple tax return, she was thrilled to think that everything she needed to plan her wedding could be found in this one edition of All About Brides. She didn’t even balk at the $16.99 price tag—more than the oversize bottle of wine and six-pack of soda put together.

When she got back to the Maple Rapids, Michigan branch of Refund City—a nationwide accounting firm that specialized in completing tax returns for their mostly walk-in clientele who squeezed tax planning in between trips to RadioShack and picking up two-for-one gallons of milk at the new Super ShopMart—Savannah put the Chardonnay and the soda in the overpacked fridge in the employee lunchroom to chill. Then, knowing her co-workers as she did, she grabbed a pad of yellow sticky-notes from the counter, wrote “Touch this and die,” and stuck the Post-it on the bottle of wine. The Diet Sprite, she figured, was safe.

Her best friend, Peggy, used to drink regular Sprite with her vodka, but she’d switched to diet when Savannah had asked her to be a bridesmaid in Savannah’s wedding. Savannah thought the whole idea of losing weight for a wedding was ridiculous. A reunion, she could understand. You wanted to show off to people you hadn’t seen for years that you were no longer the chubby geek you were in high school. That made sense. But, presumably, the people at the wedding had seen you recently and they knew you were carrying around an extra ten pounds. It didn’t make sense to try to lose weight for them.

Savannah was happy to have her theory confirmed in the article “Wedding Dos and Don’ts.” Number 4 on the “Don’t” list was “Don’t buy a too-tight dress and promise yourself you’ll lose that extra padding in time for the wedding. Instead, buy a dress that fits a little loose and schedule your final fitting no more than one week before the big day. The last thing you need is to exhale right before your groom says ‘I do’ and end up blinding him with a popped button flying at him at the speed of light.” Solid advice, as far as Savannah was concerned.

She had lost track of time that day, sitting at the wobbly table in the lunchroom poring over all that needed to be done in the next five months. Savannah was surprised to discover that she was already behind schedule. Who knew that you were supposed to reserve both the church and the reception hall a year before the wedding? Or that most caterers expected a 25 percent deposit six months in advance of the big day?

Feeling nervous that she had missed these deadlines without even realizing it, Savannah took the magazine back to her desk and, hiding it in between the pages of IRS Publication 1212 (List of Original Issue Discount Instruments), she carefully marked the articles she wanted to keep with colored flags. After a while it occurred to her that she should color-code the flags. Maybe red for anything to do with flowers, green for bridal gowns, yellow for the reception, and blue for the wedding itself. After another twenty minutes she decided that four categories weren’t enough. All About Brides was filled with information about photographers, flowers, bridesmaids’ dresses, bridal gowns, tuxes, musicians, caterers, cakes, rings, and wedding planners. And although she didn’t know anyone who had ever hired a wedding planner (wasn’t that what mothers were for?), Savannah thought it was important to at least know what one could do for her.

In the end she took off work a few minutes early—God knew she’d make up the lost time once tax season got in full swing—and walked over to the Kinko’s next to the Super ShopMart, where she used the industrial-sized paper cutter to cut the spine off the magazine. Before leaving work, she had “borrowed” a three-ring binder, a set of tab dividers, and a handful of plastic sheet protectors to put together her new wedding bible. Okay. She hadn’t exactly borrowed them since she didn’t plan on giving them back. But it wasn’t like she had taken a stapler or something really expensive.

“You’re not going to go to hell for lifting a few office supplies,” she assured herself, carefully binder-clipping the now-loose pages together so they wouldn’t go flying everywhere as she stuffed the magazine into her bag along with the loot she’d taken from the office.

Loot. As in stolen goods.

Savannah sighed as she walked over to the office supply section of the copy shop and picked up a large three-ring binder, a set of tab dividers, and a box of plastic sheet protectors. She could almost see her former Sunday School teacher nodding approvingly as she dropped her items on the counter and waited the requisite six and a half minutes for an employee to notice her and amble over to the cash register so she could pay for her purchases. She’d return the stolen goods to the supply room tomorrow, hoping her boss wouldn’t notice her petty larceny and fire her on the spot.

That night Savannah shared her find with Peggy and rest of her friends. To Savannah, the “Step-by-Step Guide to a Flawless Wedding” (p. 623-37) alone was worth the cost of the magazine. It even had boxes she could check off as each task was completed. Each section was broken up by a time period: a year before the wedding, eight months before, six months, four months, two months, one month, two weeks, seven days, six days, etc., until it actually started counting down the hours until the big event. She had slipped these pages into protective plastic sleeves and given them a tab all to themselves, right in the front of her binder. As the months passed, other sections got cluttered up with articles from other bridal magazines and pockets for swatches and samples and pictures Savannah found while waiting at the doctor or the dentist or the minister’s office (she and Todd were required to complete eight hours of premarital counseling before Reverend Black would perform the ceremony), but the “Step-by-Step Guide to a Flawless Wedding” section remained pristine, marred only by Savannah’s neatly penciled checkmarks.

The wedding was set for the afternoon of February 14. Todd had joked that this date had received his vote because, as he put it, “Now I won’t have to buy gifts for both our anniversary and Valentine’s Day.” As much as she loved him, Savannah feared that Todd wasn’t kidding. As a matter of fact, she suspected that if it were possible, he’d ask her to change her birthday from April 15 (her oldest sister Miranda often said this was a sign that Savannah had emerged from the womb destined to become an accountant) to February 14 so he could kill all three birds with one stone. Truthfully, by the time April 15 rolled around, Savannah was so exhausted from working around the clock to get people’s taxes filed on time that it didn’t take much in terms of gifts to impress her. Which worked out well for Todd, who, for the three years they’d been dating, had taken her to the Olive Garden for her “special” birthday dinner.

“All the salad and breadsticks you can eat,” he always said, grinning as if he’d made some sort of joke.

Savannah often found herself thinking that it was a good thing she loved Todd.

Of course, she’d better love him, she reminded herself as she nervously checked her “Step-by-Step Guide to a Flawless Wedding” to make sure everything was on schedule. With just over an hour to go before the exchanging of “I do’s,” it was a bit late to be questioning her feelings for her fiancé. Not that she needed to. Todd was nice, safe. Reliable. He’d never cheat on her. And he’d asked her to marry him. No other man she’d ever dated had done that. What more could a woman ask for?

“How are you holding up?”

Savannah took a calming breath and turned to answer her sister Belinda, who looked great wearing nothing but matching pink bra and panties. Before Savannah could say anything, Belinda’s cell phone rang—a not uncommon occurrence. Belinda held up a finger as if to say, “Back to you in one,” as she flipped open her phone and answered, “Hello.”

There was a slight pause before Belinda said, “I know your parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary is tonight, but that allocation needs to be ready for the Monday morning meeting in Phoenix. Maybe we should meet later tonight and work through the night to get it done. I’ll limit myself to one glass of champagne if you will.”

Belinda never let anything stand in the way of work, not even her baby sister’s wedding.

Savannah sighed and looked around the vestibule at the back of the church that had been set aside for the estrogen-producing half of the wedding party. It looked as if Macy’s had exploded. Assorted makeup and hair accessories were strewn about the room, curling irons and hot rollers plugged in and ready to go. The clothes Savannah, Belinda, Peggy, and Todd’s best man’s girlfriend Trish had worn into the church that morning were draped atop tables and chairs, some neatly folded, and others tossed down without care.

“The florist just arrived and the flowers aren’t right. They clash with Todd’s cummerbund. Didn’t you take swatches with you when you went to pick out the flowers?”

Savannah turned to find her oldest sister Miranda peering around the vestibule door, looking like a fairy-tale princess with her shiny black hair and pale skin and large green eyes. All three of the Taylor girls had the same coloring, but it was almost as though Belinda and Savannah were muted replicas of their older sister, each of them successively less stunning than the previous sibling.

“Of course I did,” Savannah said, gathering up her train to go check out the extent of the floral crisis.

She grabbed her three-ring binder from a table and felt a draft of cold air wash over her as she stepped out of the quiet back room. The First Baptist Church that Savannah had attended all her life had a high, peaked ceiling that made it difficult to heat. Once the pews were full, the church would warm up, but for now, the chilly atmosphere made Savannah shiver.

She followed the sound of raised voices and found the florist at the front of the church, crouched over a box behind the wooden altar.

“This just won’t do,” Savannah heard her mother’s familiar voice say. “These flowers are violet, not magenta.”

Savannah stepped up onto the raised dais where Reverend Black delivered his sermons every Sunday to find her mother and the florist squatting on the orangish carpet, staring in a dejected manner at the box of various corsages, boutonnieres, and bouquets.

“I’m certain I ordered the right color,” the florist said.

“Oh, Savannah honey, there you are. Didn’t you take a swatch with you when you picked out the flowers?” her mother asked.

Savannah swallowed a sigh before answering, “Of course I did, Mom.” It was no use reminding her mother that she was not a baby anymore. Her protest would only fall on deaf ears. Savannah set her wedding notebook on the pulpit, flipped to the tab marked “Bridesmaids’ Dresses,” and pulled out a piece of fabric.

“Here, the flowers are supposed to match this,” she said, holding out the scrap of magenta cloth.

The florist took the swatch and held it against the flowers.

Savannah cringed.

“It doesn’t match,” the florist said glumly.

“No, it doesn’t,” Miranda agreed from behind her little sister.

“Are you sure these are the flowers for the Everard-Taylor wedding?” Savannah asked, hoping the florist would smack her wide forehead with her hand and say, “What? This isn’t the Miller-Tompkins wedding? Silly me, I must have switched the deliveries.” Instead, the woman nodded and said, “Yes. This is the only wedding we have this weekend. We were too busy with Valentine bouquets to take on another wedding.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any way you could swap out the violet flowers with something that isn’t quite so . . . purple?” Savannah asked.

Again, the florist shook her head. “I’m sorry, but by the time I took these all back to the shop and fixed them, you’d already be on your honeymoon.”

Savannah closed her eyes and put two fingers against her throbbing left temple. How could this have happened? Hadn’t she followed her “Step-by-Step Guide to a Flawless Wedding” exactly? Opening her eyes again, she flipped to the front section of her notebook and slid her French-manicured finger down the second page, stopping when she got to the heading that read “Two Months Before the Wedding.” There, next to the line about placing an order with the florist (with the accompanying note about making certain to bring a sample of the bridesmaids’ dresses to ensure proper color-matching), was a neat check mark.

She flipped the book closed heavily and turned back to the group gathered around the offending floral arrangements. “Well, there’s nothing we can do but try to make the best of it. At least it won’t make a difference in the black-and-white photos.”

“No, they’ll look lovely,” her mother agreed, patting her youngest daughter’s back comfortingly.

Miranda refused to meet her eyes, and Savannah knew her sister was dying to tell her what she should do to fix this problem. That was Miranda’s assigned role in the family. She was the adviser—the one who knew the right thing to do in every situation. At least she thought she did. As a child Savannah found herself giving in to Miranda because every time she tried to do something for herself, Miranda would stand back and shake her head as if to say, “If you would just listen to me, I could tell you how to do that. Here, I’ll just do it for you.” It was either engage in a constant battle for independence or let Miranda have her way. Since Savannah looked up to her big sister, she chose the path of least resistance, which earned her the label of being passive and unable to stand up for herself. Which was fine, Savannah supposed. That was her role in the family.

Miranda was the bossy oldest, Belinda the overachieving middle kid, and Savannah the placid youngest.

On her way back to the vestibule in the rear of the church, Savannah gave a little snort. She was thirty-one years old, owned her own home, had a responsible position as a CPA, yet still struggled to get her family to see her as anything but a helpless baby.

Halfway down the hall she was stopped again; this time by the photographer, a thin young man whose cameras looked as if they weighed more than he did. He’d come highly recommended by her mom’s best friend, and Savannah had been impressed by his portfolio (tip number 6 in “Twelve Tips to Pulling Off the Perfect Wedding” was to check out the photographer’s portfolio, no matter how many referrals he had), so she assumed that he wouldn’t collapse under the weight of his equipment mid-photo shoot.

“Are you girls about ready?” he asked, apparently eager to get this over with.

Savannah couldn’t say she blamed him. Despite her organized approach to planning this wedding, the potential for disaster was enormous. It would only take one clumsy guest bumping against the cake table to turn her elegant reception into a joke that would be told and retold thousands of times for the rest of her life. Or one hung-over groomsman to throw up on a bridesmaid’s shoes. Or one unity candle to catch her dress on fire. Or . . .

Savannah shuddered. No, she had to stop thinking like that. Everything was going to turn out perfectly. Hadn’t she followed the instructions in her wedding planner down to the very last detail? Well, with the tiny exception of this morning, when her “Step-by-Step Guide” said she was supposed to be getting a manicure and pedicure with her bridesmaids and she was actually at work, going through Mrs. Jackson’s receipts one last time so that her client could face her audit on Tuesday without worrying that the IRS would find something amiss.

Savannah hadn’t filed Mrs. Jackson’s return—the woman had actually done her taxes herself, which was something Savannah always discouraged. “You wouldn’t perform brain surgery on yourself, so why do your own taxes?” was her motto.

But Mrs. Jackson had used some supposedly foolproof software to calculate her taxes, turning to a professional only after her return had been chosen for an audit. At that point she’d dropped by Refund City, loaded down with a Palm Pilot box (shoeboxes were so last millenium) bubbling over with receipts. She’d dropped the mess on Savannah’s desk, nearly in tears as she explained about the letter she’d received from the IRS telling her to report to the IRS office in Flint on Tuesday, February 17at 1:00 p.m.

“Why did they pick me? I haven’t done anything wrong,” Mrs. Jackson had wailed.

Savannah had murmured soothingly to the older woman as she brought her some hot tea. She assured Mrs. Jackson that the IRS was not picking on her, nor were they suspicious that she was hiding anything. It was merely a routine record check, probably brought on by Mrs. Jackson’s claim that she used her personal vehicle in her home business.

“Self-employed taxpayers are audited much more frequently than those with regular jobs,” Savannah had said, calmly dumping the receipts out onto her desk and beginning to sort them into neat little piles.

“You seem to be very good at this,” Mrs. Jackson had remarked after raising her teacup to her mouth with shaking hands.

“I am,” Savannah answered. “Now, there’s nothing to worry about. Let’s just get this all organized for the big bad auditor, shall we?”

That’s when Mrs. Jackson had set down her cup and rummaged around in her handbag for a Kleenex to wipe away the tears that had sprung into her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she apologized gruffly. “I lost my husband two years ago, and some days it feels as if the whole world is against me.”

Savannah reached out and squeezed the other woman’s hand. “Believe me, this audit is nothing personal. The IRS probably just selected your return at random. They do that to a small percentage of the total returns filed in any given year just to keep taxpayers honest.”

Mrs. Jackson had been so grateful that Savannah felt compelled to go to the office this morning and check for the third and final time that everything was in order for Mrs. Jackson’s audit. She didn’t want to suddenly realize that she’d missed something crucial while sunning herself on the sandy beaches of Cozumel next to her new husband. Besides, she’d taken care of the mani/pedi task yesterday, for once springing for the acrylic tips on her fingernails that she loved, but which tended to get stuck in between the keys on her keyboard, making her clients’ “Wages, Salaries, Tips, etc.” come out as something like $27,4855555555555555 instead of $27,485. Obviously, from an income tax perspective, this was not a good thing.

So, three hours before the wedding, satisfied that everything was in order, Savannah had reclipped Mrs. Jackson’s receipts together and put everything back in the file her co-worker Josh would take to the audit on Tuesday. But just because Savannah had deviated from the plan didn’t mean that disaster was imminent.

Right?

Savannah took a deep breath and pushed open the door to the vestibule to see if her bridesmaids were ready for their photos. She’d left Miranda up at the altar—probably muttering to their mother that if Savannah had let her be in charge of the flowers, this wouldn’t have happened. Belinda still had her cell phone attached to her ear and was helping Peggy zip up her dress, but Trish seemed to have disappeared.

“Where’s Trish? The photographer is ready to get started with the pictures,” Savannah said, speaking softly so as to not interfere with Belinda’s call. She supposed it should annoy her that her sister was absorbed with work on Savannah’s wedding day, but the truth was, she accepted her sister’s workaholic tendencies. It was just the way Belinda was. Getting angry with her for it would be like getting angry at Miranda for being bossy, or at Mom for being incapable of balancing a checkbook, or at Dad for his inability to work common household appliances like dishwashers and irons.

Ugh, we’re the Cliché family, Savannah thought with a surprised chuckle.

“I don’t know,” Peggy answered, interrupting Savannah’s thoughts. “She got a call on her cell five minutes ago and dashed out without saying anything. You look gorgeous, by the way.”

Savannah checked herself out in the mirror on the opposite wall, running a critical eye over hair, makeup, and dress. She was willing to admit that she looked pretty good, her makeup slathered on heavier than usual, her dark hair shiny and healthy after the previous day’s visit to the beauty salon. And she loved her dress—a shimmery white silk with beaded lace at the hem and sheer long sleeves that were perfect for a winter wedding.

“It’s my wedding day,” Savannah said, turning from the mirror. “I have to look good. It’s one of those unwritten laws of the universe, like the one that says you must lose at least one sock per month in the dryer.”

Peggy laughed and Belinda finally hung up her phone and asked, “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Are you ready for pictures?”

Belinda fluffed her hands through her hair, tossed her cell phone into her purse, and looped her arm through Savannah’s. “Let’s go,” she said.

Just then the vestibule door flew open and an out-of-breath Trish nearly fell into the room. Her formerly neat dress was rumpled and there was a dark spot near her left hip.

“What’s wrong?” Savannah asked, afraid that Trish had gone outside and slipped on the icy sidewalk and hurt herself.

“What? Nothing. Why do you ask?” Trish nervously ran her hands down the front of her dress.

“No reason,” Savannah said with a shrug. “Here, your dress got a little wrinkled. Let me steam it for you.” She was glad she’d paid close attention to the article “Ten Things No Bride Should Be Without” and made sure to bring clear nail polish (to fix runs in pantyhose), extra tissues (for obvious reasons), a steamer (the article actually said to bring an iron, but Savannah loved her little portable steamer, so she’d brought that instead), Tums, aspirin, Super Glue (in case one of the bridal party broke a heel), a curling iron, Band-Aids, Saltine crackers, and baby wipes (to wipe frosting and other sticky substances off people’s fingers).

Trish quickly shucked off her dress and held it out for Savannah to work her magic on. Savannah frowned at the spot, which didn’t seem to be drying very quickly. Hmm. She should write to the editor of All About Brides and tell them to add a blow-dryer to their list of “Ten Things No Bride Should Be Without.” Of course, that would make it “Eleven Things No Bride Should Be Without,” which probably wasn’t as catchy a title, but still . . .

She handed the dress back to Trish, who hurriedly smoothed it back into place and presented her back to Savannah for zipping.

“Okay, looks like we’re all ready. Time to say cheese,” Savannah said, ushering her bridesmaids out into the church, where Todd and his groomsmen were waiting. Besides Todd’s best friend Robert, Todd had asked his cousin Ryan and Miranda’s husband, Alex, to stand up with him. Savannah’s gaze fixed on Todd, who looked suave in his black tuxedo with a crisp white shirt and magenta—he never would have agreed to wear this color if she’d mentioned the word pink—cummerbund.

Normally, Todd wasn’t the sort of man who would attract a lot of female attention. Not that he was unattractive. More like unassuming. He had what would be referred to in non-beauty salon circles as dishwater blond hair and brown eyes that were not a dark chocolate brown or brown with golden flecks or anything like that. They were just plain old brown. Todd liked to joke that his appearance worked to his advantage down at his dad’s car lot. He said people saw him and expected him to be a pushover.

“They don’t see the shark underneath the sheep’s clothing,” he’d told Savannah once, and she hadn’t had the heart to tell him that he’d mangled the saying. He had a habit of doing that. One time he’d called Savannah at work to tell her that he’d just managed to sell a loaded Toyota Camry to a woman who had come in looking for basic transportation.

“She bought it all—the six-disc CD player, the $800 undercoating package, extended five-year warranty—the whole Chihuahua.”

Savannah had nearly snorted root beer out her nose at that. But mangled sayings aside, Todd looked every inch the handsome groom today in his tux and tails.

She heard someone giggle and turned her head to see that Trish’s cheeks were as bright as her dress. When she followed Trish’s gaze to Robert and saw the smug look on his face, she swallowed a shocked gasp. Her gaze flew back to Trish.

Oh, for God’s sake.

Robert and Trish had just had premarital sex. Very satisfying premarital sex, too, by the look of things. And that spot on Trish’s dress . . .

No, she didn’t even want to think about that. Her mother was coming down the aisle, laden down with flowers, so Savannah grabbed a bouquet and pushed it toward Trish with a whispered, “Use this to hide that spot on your dress.”

If anything, Trish’s blush got even pinker as she looked down, realizing that she was inadvertently wearing a little token of her boyfriend’s affection. “I’m sorry,” she whispered back. “I’ll just go to the ladies’ room and see if I can get this out.”

“Hurry,” Savannah encouraged, noting that her photographer had now disappeared.

Quickly counting heads to make sure she hadn’t lost another bridesmaid to prewedding lust, Savannah satisfied herself that all were present and accounted for just as the photographer came from the direction of the men’s room, looking a little green.

Great, just what she needed. Something else to clash with the bridesmaids’ dresses.

She got as far as “Are you feel—” before the look on his face warned her that no, he was not. Without thinking, Savannah grabbed the photographer’s arm, jerked him through the waiting wedding party, and pushed him into the vestibule just in time to hear the telltale sounds of retching. She stepped back, pulling the door closed as she fought her own instantaneous gag reflex.

Ugh. There was nothing worse than hearing someone throwing up. Unless it was smelling— Savannah quickly plugged her nose and backed away from the door. No, she was not going to be sick at her own wedding.

Aargh. What else could go wrong today?

The thought entered her consciousness before she had the chance to stop it. Savannah closed her eyes, knowing she had just cursed her own wedding. Now all bets were off.

She dropped her forehead into her hands, moaning, “No, no, no,” under her breath.

“Do you want me to do anything?” Miranda asked, clearly eager to be allowed to manage something today.

“No,” Savannah said, straightening her shoulders and taking a deep, calming breath. “Everything’s going to be all right. I can get Uncle Dave to take photos after the ceremony if the photographer hasn’t recovered by then. He took pictures at Cousin Jerry’s graduation last year and they turned out great.” She scrunched up her nose, thinking. People would start arriving soon, and the wedding party needed to disappear. But with the vestibule . . . um, otherwise occupied, they were going to need to go somewhere else.

“All right,” Savannah said, taking charge and shooing everyone with her hands like a border collie with a herd of recalcitrant sheep. “Everyone downstairs. Robert, you and Trish stay where I can see you. Belinda, get away from the vestibule door. I’m sure Todd will let you borrow his phone. If we get a whiff of that odor, we’re all going down.”

Savannah was surprised when everyone, including Miranda, allowed her to shepherd them toward the back stairs, and she smiled with pleasure when Todd pulled away from his friends to come walk beside her.

“Hey, you look great,” he said, as if it had just occurred to him that today was a special occasion.

“Thank you. You do, too.”

Todd’s chest seemed to swell with pride as he smoothed his hands down the lapels of his jacket. “Yeah, this is a good look for me. I might try to convince my dad that all the salesmen down at the lot should dress like this. Give the place a little class, you know?”

Savannah blinked at the image of a bunch of tux-clad used-car salesmen wandering Mr. Everard’s lot. She wasn’t quite as convinced as Todd that it was a good idea, but figured she wouldn’t tell him how to sell cars if he didn’t try to do her taxes.

The wedding party traipsed down the narrow stairs and into the basement of the church, through the kitchen, where potluck suppers were held every Wednesday night, and into the first of several Sunday School classrooms filled with child-sized multicolored plastic chairs and the felt boards Savannah remembered from her childhood. Her Sunday School teacher would tell Bible stories by moving felt people around on the board, the fabric sticking to it as if by magic.

Soon the sound of footsteps could be heard from upstairs, along with the faint strains of the organist playing Muzak versions of standard wedding fare such as “I Will Always Love You” and “The Wind Beneath My Wings.” Savannah, who had a fondness for eighties hard rock, had jokingly suggested that “Love Bites” by Def Leppard be included in the medley, but the disapproving looks from both her mother and Todd had quashed that idea. Still, Savannah found herself humming “Love bites, love bleeds” under her breath as she sat with her friends and family in the cluttered K-2nd Grade room, listening to muffled voices overhead and waiting for her wedding to begin.

When her father opened the classroom door and poked his head inside the room, Savannah felt her stomach do a slow roll. Up until that moment she hadn’t been nervous about getting married, despite the mini-disasters that had marred her perfect day. After all, it wasn’t like she and Todd were rushing into this. They’d been dating for three years—if Todd had a foot fetish or a penchant for wearing ladies’ underwear, Savannah would have discovered it by now.

No, there were no surprises awaiting either one of them after today. So why was her stomach lurching like a zombie in Night of the Living Dead?

Just normal prewedding jitters, she assured herself, putting a hand against her stomach to stop it from gurgling.

“All right, gang. It’s time,” her father announced.

Next to her, Todd stood up and straightened his shoulders, nodding as if he’d just been given some critical mission to complete. “See you up there,” he said solemnly, then patted her hand.

Her father stepped back to let Todd and his groomsmen pass him in the hall. When Savannah heard their low, muttered conversation, she figured Dad was giving Todd the required “You’d better treat my daughter right or you’ll have to answer to me” speech. Since Dad was a pudgy insurance executive and not some slick Sopranos type, Savannah didn’t figure this threat struck much fear in Todd’s heart, but she appreciated the gesture.

And then it was time.

Peggy left first, followed by Belinda and then Miranda, who stopped at the doorway and turned back, her eyes moist with unshed tears.

Savannah waited for her big sister to say something touching or profound, but instead she said, “Remember, wait until the organist begins the Wedding March before you start down the aisle.”

Resisting the urge to say, “You’re not the boss of me,” Savannah sighed and said, “I know,” as patiently as she could manage, and without even so much as a slight rolling of her eyes.

Her father waited until Miranda was out of earshot before offering Savannah his arm and saying, “She means well.”

Savannah took her dad’s arm, the rented tux scratchy beneath her fingers. “I know, and I love her for it. I just wish sometimes that she would stop treating me like a baby.”

“You’ll always be my baby,” her father said, squeezing Savannah’s arm against his side. He was warm and soft and he smiled down at her with such affection that Savannah had to blink back the tears that threatened to spill over her lashes.

“Don’t say things like that. You’ll make me cry,” she said.

“It’s your wedding. You’re supposed to cry.” He squeezed her arm again and then the look on his face turned serious. “Are you sure you’re ready to do this?” he asked.

“Of course I am, Dad,” Savannah answered, briefly resting her head on his shoulder and suddenly wanting very much to curl up in his lap and feel coddled and completely safe again.

Reg Taylor cleared his throat and blinked away a suspicious wetness from his eyes. “Sorry for asking, but I’m your father. It’s my job to question decisions like these.”

Savannah pressed her nose into her dad’s chest, inhaling the scent of the Old Spice he still insisted he loved, which was a good thing because his three daughters had bought enough of the stuff over the years to keep him smelling like a dad for several decades to come. Taking a deep breath, Savannah finally released her father, shook out her dress, picked up her bouquet, and said, “I’m ready.”

She and her father slowly made their way up the basement steps, Savannah being careful not to trip on her own dress. When they appeared in the back doorway of the church, the organist gave a sharp nod and took his fingers off the keyboard, presumably to add an air of suspense to the proceedings.

There was a short, anticipatory silence before the familiar notes of the Wedding March sounded. On cue, the congregation stood up and looked toward the back of the church, gasping as if they’d never expected to find a bride and her father standing there. Savannah fought the urge to laugh and wondered if her attack of nerves was making her hysterical.

They started down the aisle, Savannah feeling a bit ridiculous with everyone staring at her. Finally they reached the front of the church, where her father handed her over to Todd after kissing her on the cheek with a murmured, “Your mother and I love you,” which inexplicably made Savannah want to cry again. She knew her parents loved her. What was it about weddings that made everyone so emotional?

And then Reverend Black began the ceremony, his familiar deep voice doing that “love is a never-ending circle which cannot be broken” thing that he did at every wedding here in the First Baptist Church. When that was over, he did Savannah’s favorite bit—the part where he turned to the congregation and asked, “If anyone here can show just cause why these two should not be joined, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Savannah loved that line and she had to admit that a part of her (the part that loved to watch old Doris Day-Cary Grant movies and sighed from deep in her soul every time Colin Firth wrapped his coat around a half-naked Renée Zellweger at the end of Bridget Jones’s Diary) wished that the church doors would be flung open to reveal a dark and tortured hero who had fallen in love with her from afar and had nobly tried to stay away from her but could no longer deny his feelings. Then he’d sweep her off her feet and carry her back down the aisle to his waiting black Ferrari and Savannah would look back and shrug apologetically, as if to say, “What was I supposed to do? I had no choice.”

Oddly, she didn’t imagine Todd putting up much of a fight as she was whisked away by another man, her silky white train scattering the violet rose petals that her niece had strewn along the aisle.

“Well then,” Reverend Black began, clearing his throat and bringing Savannah’s attention back to her less-than-swashbuckling fiancé.  Obviously, there would be no objections to the Everard-Taylor nuptials—no dark, conquering hero coming in from the cold to sweep Savannah off her feet.

Only, before the pastor could continue, the church doors were flung open, letting in a blast of frigid air from outside. With a gasp Savannah dropped Todd’s hand and turned toward the back of the church, dreading that she may have actually conjured up a broodingly mysterious man with her silly fantasies.

And—ohmigod!—not one, but three broodingly mysterious men stormed the church, their hard faces impassive, their navy suits crisply pressed.

Savannah’s mouth hung open as she watched the men stalk toward her. Had her fantasy man sent these henchmen to bring her to him? She shivered and closed her eyes, telling herself to stop being ridiculous. There was no fantasy man. She loved Todd and she was marrying him and that was that.

Her father stepped forward, halting the men before they could reach the altar.

“Here now, what’s this all about?” her father asked.

The man Savannah assumed was the leader pushed aside his suit jacket, and Savannah’s eyes widened at the sight of the gun he had holstered at his left side. The congregation began to buzz with whispered questions.

The man unclipped something from his belt and showed it to her father, who automatically took a step back. “I’m Special Agent John Harrison with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” the man announced, turning his head to look at Savannah, whose hands had started to shake, dislodging several of the flowers in her bouquet. Purple and white petals wafted to the floor in front of her, forming a little pile that looked like a grape-flavored Sno-kone at her feet.

“Savannah Taylor?” Agent Harrison asked, looking into her eyes as if he could read all her secrets there.

Savannah tried reminding herself that she couldn’t possibly be in trouble with the law. She didn’t have so much as an unpaid parking ticket on her rap sheet.

She swallowed, trying to moisten her parched mouth. “Yes,” she croaked, waiting for the punchline. Maybe these guys were really strippers that Peggy had hired to come to the bachelorette party, but they’d somehow mixed up their schedule and arrived here at the wedding instead. Or maybe . . . maybe . . . Savannah’s stunned brain couldn’t come up with any other scenarios.

Agent Harrison nodded and his two cohorts stepped forward until they were flanking her, their bodies so close that Savannah could have reached out her hands and touched them both. Okay, she silently willed them, go ahead and tear off your pants now. Let’s hear the Velcro rip. Give the people of Maple Rapids a reason to talk about my wedding for years to come.

The FBI agent complied with her request—but not in the way she had meant—when he announced flatly, “You are under arrest for tax evasion and money laundering. You’ll have to come with us.”

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