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enter the master bedroom carrying yet another tray—this one bearing two glasses of white wine for the women and two bottles of handcrafted beer for Owen and his dad. He hadn’t taken any meds since yesterday, so Owen figured he could enjoy a good brew.
    His mom shot him a disgruntled look and turned her attention to the younger woman. “Isabella,” she said, “your new husband’s being very close-mouthed about your wedding. Please tell me a detail or two.”
    “Well…” Izzy bent to put the tray onto the narrow coffee table in the room’s sitting area.
    There was a couch, an easy chair that he was sitting on and an ottoman that was being used to prop up his lower legs, as well as a second matching chair, all gathered around a fireplace. Owen’s dad had busied himself setting a small fire inside it when he’d first arrived. Now that he’d helped Owen in and out of a shower—thank you, plastic stool and a waterproof covering for his cast—his father kneeled to light the kindling and logs. As the autumn dusk settled outside, the reflection of the flames provided a camouflage for the blush Owen suspected was warming Izzy’s cheeks.
    “Our wedding?” Izzy repeated. “I, um…”
    June Marston took the wineglass the younger woman handed over and returned an easy smile. “At least tell me about your dress.”
    Izzy shot Owen a look. Oh, yeah. Her dress. While like every other man he knew he wasn’t particularly style-conscious, no way could he forget that dress. Strapless. Spangled. Low cut in the cleavage area. High cut in the leg area.
    And fire-engine red.
    In Vegas you could rent just about anything, and he’d shelled out a couple of twenties for ten minutes with a poof of white stuff that she’d pinned in her hair as a veil and a bouquet of white roses she’d held in her hand while they repeated their vows. He remembered thinking she looked as sweet and spicy as peppermint candy, and his mouth had watered in anticipation of sampling her flavor.

    “My dress, uh…” The next look she shot him snapped him out of his happy little reverie. Get me out of this, it said.
    He supposed she didn’t want to tell his mother she’d married him wearing a barely there dress and a pair of scarlet, spike-toed high heels that had made him swallow, hard, so he wouldn’t let out his groan of lust—or “approval,” as some others liked to term it.
    Owen cleared his throat. “Mom, that reminds me. Izzy wants you to tell her something. She was asking about what I was like as a kid, and I thought you’d be the best source for that.”
    Izzy latched onto the idea in a way that would have been flattering if he hadn’t known she just wanted to avoid the subject of their impromptu wedding. “I’d love to hear everything you can tell me about him.”
    Owen glanced at his father, now seated beside his mother on the couch. The older man wore a half-smile and sported an amused glint in his eyes. Nice dodge, he mouthed to Owen.
    You could fool some of the parents some of the time….
    And this time he’d succeeded in veering his mother onto a different track. He relaxed with his beer, letting her talk of his Little League years, then seasons of peewee football, followed by details of his high school endeavors.
    “Salutatorian,” his mother told Izzy. “He graduated second in his high school class. From there he went on to college where he was an economics major, heading for an MBA degree. Which I always considered a very useful field of study.”
    “Unlike how I’m employed today,” Owen couldn’t help put in, “because doing things like, I don’t know, saving property is just so…irrelevant.”
    His mother frowned. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”
    She probably didn’t, but he still had a sharp chip on his shoulder left over from the discussions he’d had with his parents and grandfather years ago when he decided against a master’s degree and for a place in the fire academy instead. He watched