“I wanted to get your thoughts on the dinner jackets for the groomsmen and myself. What should I tell the tailor?”
“What do you mean? I thought you said you’d already made arrangements.” She worked to keep her voice calm, in control. She would not bite his head off.
“About that. I hadn’t. But I’m at the rental place now, and I wanted to run it past you.”
“Wait. You lied about having taken care of this? Preston, the wedding is a month and a half away. And we already agreed on what kind to get.”
“Well, I had planned to take care of it. And I’m here now. I know we decided on the modern, but he’s asking about a slim fit kind. Should I get that?”
She straightened her spine, some of her old cares, her old self, trickling into her. He rattled off more choices. Normally, she gorged on details—how else to ensure her life and their relationship went smoothly? But all the details of the wedding were burying her. Couldn’t he figure this out on his own? Couldn’t his mates help him? But she tamped down her instinct to pitch a hissy fit, because losing control of her emotions never ended well.
Be calm. Be calm. Usher him through this hurdle, and everything would be okay. They’d be married soon, and everything would be okay. It would be. Preston depended on her organizing ability, her talent for making sure all ran smoothly, and she’d make sure this went smoothly too. She had to.
“Put the fitter on the phone.” She sighed and answered the questions he peppered her with. Soon Preston was back. Since she’d already allocated a phone-time chip, she took advantage of the opportunity. “Everything else okay?”
“Yes. Try to relax, sweetheart. It is your holiday. I have your instructions, in triplicate. I even put a copy in my car visor’s flap.”
He knew her so well. Yes. This. His easy acceptance of her need—her obsessive need for feeling connected—threaded another hook back into her reality. This was Preston. Solid, dependable Preston, who’d never leave her. Unlike Isabelle. Unlike her father.
But his voice didn’t calm, and that sent another ripple of doubt through her. And why was she even grasping at his voice’s threads as if she were the one being abandoned, being left behind? Being drowned by a dream?
Really, Preston was great. The ideal husband. Sizzling passion and sappy soul connections were for romantics and romance novels. Their relationship was a partnership. Their relationship made sense. Their relationship kept her strong.
But her pep talk did nothing to shove aside this sense of unease that constricted her chest. Or the haunting images of the man from last night’s dream.
Verdant green and burnt umber hills dominated both sides of the road as their rental car tooled down the lonely road that meandered through the Dysanni Valley to Castell y Bere. Katy put down her window, the fresh air buffeting her skin, her hair, her thoughts.
Catherine snagged the guidebook. On their trip, they had settled into a routine—she read the blurb of the upcoming tourist site. She opened the book to the next numbered tag Katy had placed within.
“All right, ladies, what we have here is…” Catherine wiggled in her seat and straightened, donning her Official Tour Guide voice and demeanor. Like her brother Preston, she had strawberry blonde hair with a cowlick above her forehead, though she tried to disguise it with a loose perm. “ ‘The Welsh prince Llywelyn Fawr, or Llywelyn the Great, commissioned Castell y Bere in 1221 to secure his dominion in Merionnydd.’ ” She plopped the book into her lap. “Seriously. These Welsh words are bloody murder on the tongue.”
Traci elbowed her. “We don’t know the difference. Keep going.”
“Quite.” Catherine giggled. “All right, it says it was ‘the last Welsh castle to fall to the English during King Edward’s final conquest of Wales in 1283. The D-shaped towers are typical of Welsh strongholds. Today, the once proud castle lies in ruins, burnt and abandoned after a Welsh siege during Madog’s Rebellion in 1294.’ ”
Katy let the stark scenery of the valley scroll by, undulating in greens and ochre and bursts of trees and the occasional cute puff of a sheep. A harsh landscape to make a living on but eerily beautiful.
Catherine’s voice continued, weaving into the landscape. “The write-up prattles on about the type of stone used, blah, blah, blah.” A page turned. “Oh, listen to this. This couldn’t have made the Welsh