Wyatt felt like a third wheel. “What needs to roll?”
Luke opened his mouth to talk, and Melanie cut him off. “I was supposed to be the one who left here and came back rich and powerful.”
Wyatt met Melanie’s eyes and saw the raw disappointment in them. This meant something to her . . . this censure from her peers of the past.
“The problem with class reunions is everyone judges the others on wealth and the size of their waists. Personal happiness and health never seem to be a part of the measurement. Are you happy, Melanie?” Jo asked.
Melanie glanced at Wyatt, the smile on her lips finally met her eyes, and his stomach twisted. “I’m working on it.”
Wyatt saluted her with his beer before taking a swig.
Bed-and-breakfasts didn’t often have a rush . . . but Miss Gina’s was the exception on the Wednesday before the high school reunion. It helped that the closest motel was a good ten miles outside of town, and a handful of RV parks rounded out the accommodations for visitors.
Melanie forced herself to smile in the face of her high school nemesis. “Hello, Margie.”
“My goodness, just look at you.” Margie Taylor stood beside her fiancé, her arm looped through his as if she were the prize. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
Melanie found her eyes traveling to Margie’s excessive cleavage. Cleavage that certainly hadn’t been there in high school. Cleavage Mel was used to seeing in the big cities of Southern California, but saline cleavage that didn’t exist in River Bend.
“We’ve all changed.” Melanie attempted to smile and look beyond the boobs. She suddenly felt like a member of the opposite sex. Who knew boobs had such radar.
“Jonathan, Melanie and I were on the cheer squad together.” Margie draped an arm over her fiancé’s shoulder, pressing her massive rack into his arm.
Jonathan had to be a good ten years older than Margie, the suit he wore wasn’t terribly expensive from what Mel could tell, but it wasn’t ill-fitting either. He was reasonably attractive with a strong jaw and completely disinterested eyes.
“I quit cheer my sophomore year,” Melanie reminded her.
Margie waved her hand in the air. “Splitting hairs, Melanie. Once on the squad, forever on the squad.”
That wasn’t how she remembered it. Instead of offering an argument, Melanie pulled out the key for Margie and Jonathan’s room and set it on the registration counter. “Miss Gina has you down as staying through Sunday.”
“It’s so nice of you to help Miss Gina out. Poor woman isn’t getting any younger.”
Don’t let her hear you saying that sat unsaid on Melanie’s lips. Let Miss Gina overhear Margie and see how fast it would take for Margie and her suit-wearing fiancé to find themselves at the RV park inside their car.
“Do the rooms have Internet access?” Jonathan finally spoke.
“The house has Wi-Fi access throughout,” Melanie told him.
“Is there a code?”
Melanie forced herself not to laugh. “No one is concerned with stealing Miss Gina’s Internet service.”
“I told you it was a small town, darling,” Margie said.
Jonathan let his eyes wander the foyer without an ounce of amusement.
“It’s only a few days.”
Melanie clicked a few keys on Miss Gina’s computer and removed a receipt for Margie and her reluctant fiancé’s room.
“Breakfast is from seven to nine thirty. There are refreshments in the sitting room throughout the day, and a wine and cheese reception between five and six thirty on Friday and Saturday.”
Margie offered a plastic smile to match her plastic breasts. “That’s lovely . . . isn’t that lovely, Jonathan?”
Jonathan didn’t comment as he grumbled and let Margie pull him away.
“The garden view room is on the second story, first door on the left.”
Jonathan said something about a lack of a bellhop, and Margie tugged on his arm.
“Thank you for waiting.” Melanie addressed the young family standing in the space Margie and her squeeze had just vacated. A boy, not more than six, attempted to climb up onto the counter.
“Is it our turn?”
“Samuel . . . get down.” The young mother removed her son from Miss Gina’s desk with an arm around his waist. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay . . . been there.”
“He’s been in the car for hours.” The man Melanie assumed was Dad removed a wallet from his back pocket as he spoke.
“My daughter’s the same way after a long car ride.” Melanie took his credit card and checked his name. “Wait.” She snapped her eyes back to the man. “Mitchel Giesler? Holy cow . . .” The man was no longer the boy. He had an extra thirty pounds and a beard.
“Melanie Bartlett,” she said, pointing at herself.
“Oh, hey . . . how are you?”
“Good. Not bad.” She looked down at the boy again. “Is this your son?”
“Yeah, and my wife, Letty.”
Melanie glanced between the three of them. “Wow, how much we’ve all changed. Last time I saw you was at graduation . . . you were really . . . celebrating.”
“Yes,” he said with a knowing smile. “I certainly was.”
Samuel was pulling out of his mother’s arms with enough energy to power the house.
“Settle down.”