Sam, not being privy to Jane's criticisms, pulls me into his arms once again and sets my mouth aflame with another slow kiss. I'm flying on the wings of ecstasy and disbelief, which make a heady combination. Needless to say, I've never forgotten how good he is at the whole kissing thing-and time has only improved his skill. Even being a strong modern woman, I'm hardly unresponsive.

Plus, the pull of a traditional happily-ever-after finale to my life's story is compelling, both for its own sake, and even more so because it feels potentially within reach for the first time in eons. The only problem is that I could be completely wrong about Sam and me being right for each other.

I step back from this second kiss, my lips and heart both trembling, and stare at him.

Anyone but him, Jane urges. Please, Ellie, promise me you will not enter into an engagement with that man. Promise me this and...and I shall tell you a secret.

What kind of a secret?

One you long to know. One I have kept from you all these years. She hesitates, obviously debating, before adding, The ident.i.ty of my one true love.

The Clergyman By The Sea? The Mystery Man? I say to her, stunned.

The possibility of this more than intrigues me, I admit, but is the knowledge worth my giving up the chance to find out what might happen next with Sam?

There is more than my love's name at stake, Ellie. It involves you directly. And your family.

I gasp and my heart pauses mid-beat. Is it as I've always hoped? Oh, G.o.d, Jane! Am I a relative of yours after all? Was there a secret baby somewhere and now I'm- Dear heavens, no. You are not an Austen or a descendant of one. But in a way you are like my child, one I vowed long ago to guide and protect. There IS a reason I chose you, beyond the lessons we needed to learn. And I shall tell you what it is, but only if you leave Mr. Blaine this instant.

I breathe in. I breathe out. I twirl my hair and shuffle my feet while sneaking glances at Sam, who's staring at me strangely.

"Ellie?" he says, eyeing me as he might a psych-ward escapee.

Ellie? Jane says.

But I can't do it.

I'm sorry, Jane. I can't promise to stay away from Sam. Not even for you. Not even for a secret like that.

Because, see, as much as I want to know what Jane has to reveal, the truth is smacking me in the face today. It won't be denied, although I'd all but tramped down my own deep, dark secret and buried it: I'm an optimist.

Still.

Even though it isn't the '80s anymore. Even though I've been hurt by romantic warfare time and again. Even though I'm not a fifteen-year-old geek with my nose buried in a book who, for some mysterious reason (that I'll probably never know now), has Jane Austen as my Personal Spiritual Guide.

Hey, I waited almost twenty years for an answer to that question, what's another decade or two?

But here I am at this moment, a thirty-four-year-old geek, and against my will and against my reason (although, okay, not against my character), I still want that f.u.c.king Cinderella story for myself.

More than an amazing, no-one-else-on-the-planet-knows-this secret.

More than anything else.

I want that happily-ever-after ending I imagined, as a teen, I'd get someday. That daydream I held on to as my prize for surviving those sucky years of adolescence.

Dammit, I deserve that ending.

It's just that, if I'm truly honest with myself, I can no longer tell if it's Sam, specifically, I want or if it's the nearly two-decade-old fantasy featuring him as the heroic lead.

So, at the last second, I cop out.

"I need to think about this," I tell him. "But I'm glad you came back so we could talk." I nod ever so rea.s.suringly and begin to back away.

He squints at me, perplexed. "But Ellie? Wait-where are you going?"

"See you at the wedding, Sam," I say. Then I turn and run back home, as though the magic were about to wear off and the naked simplicity of my desires revealed.

17.

Oh! how heartily did she grieve over

every ungracious sensation she had

ever encouraged, every saucy speech

she had ever directed towards him.

-Pride and Prejudice Three days later, at the wedding, we have forty-five minutes to go before the ceremony....

Di is freaking out over some Cover Girl Orange Creme nail polish. (It matches her original sardonyx engagement ring and it looks great, but she chipped a nail, so now what's she gonna do?) Our mother is trying to calm her down.

Angelique and Nadia are in their bridesmaids' dresses, helping their respective husbands straighten their respective groomsmen ties.

Cousins Aaron and Andy show up late for their ushering duties (because the Twin Terrors may have grown taller, but they never grew up), and neither of them have their tuxes on yet. My father and my Uncle Craig are chewing them out in the dressing area.

The groom is soothing his pre-wedding jitters (with the help of his brother, Nick, and a well-concealed flask of bourbon) in the men's bathroom.

And Aunt Candice is put in charge of corralling the youngsters into the church playroom. I hear one of the triplets shriek in terror at the sound of her voice.

I grin and say under my breath, "I know the feeling, kid."

I put the finishing touches on my makeup and smooth out my somewhat racy maid-of-honor dress. It's scandalously clingy and lusciously purple, the kind of dress I always wanted to wear but needed a tad more nerve. I have more than nerve today. I have my sister's direct orders.

"I'm the bride," Di reminded me a few months ago when we were selecting gowns. "I want you to look hot on my wedding day, and that's final."

A note to all wise wedding attendants: What the bride wants, the bride gets.

Thirty-two minutes before the ceremony...

I leave the dressing area to locate where the florist left our bouquets, corsages and boutonnieres and to make sure everything we need to have on hand is waiting for us. I find them on a table near the back of the church and count out the number of items. I compare this figure with the number of attendants, ushers, parents, etc. in need of floral adornment. Fortunately, there are roses for all.

Early-arriving guests begin to flutter in. I pause in the foyer to say h.e.l.lo to Terrie and her boyfriend Everett (I knew they were a serious couple), several friends of the family and Reverend Jacobs, who'd officiated at Di and Alex's last wedding.

"This time it'll be forever," the Reverend says to me with a hearty laugh.

I'm about to chime in with my agreement when a shrill "Oh, my G.o.d!" interrupts us.

It's my mother. She's standing three yards away, looking at her cell phone like it just mooned her.

"What's wrong, Mom?"

"They have food poisoning," she says, her voice a shocked whisper.

"Who? The caterers?" I'm seriously praying it's not the caterers.

"The band. Three out of the five members. Something about tainted shrimp at their gig last night." She covers her mouth with her hand, her chest heaving hard. I'm worried there'll be hyperventilating soon if I don't do something quick.

I s.n.a.t.c.h her cell phone. "Just relax, Mom," I say, although I'm on the verge of panicking myself. "I'll make some calls and see if we can get a last-minute replacement for the reception." But I know this'll be next to impossible. You just don't try to book a live band a few hours before they have to start playing.

Reverend Jacobs beats a hasty retreat, Mom continues to stand in place and gulp air, and the pews begin to crowd up as the well-wishers fill the church.

"What's going on?" says the most recognizable American male voice on the planet.

I swivel around to face Sam. "We're having a little problem."

Sam stares at me, but doesn't speak. He's stunning to behold in his navy suit but, then, he always did clean up nice. I watch him scan my hair, my dress, my mouth. Then he shuts his eyes and bows his head.

"What?" I say.

"Nothing. I mean, you look incredible, but we'll discuss that later." He glances up at me and grins faintly. "How can I help with the 'little problem'?"

I shake my head and glare at Mom's cell phone. "You can't." Then I turn to my mother. "I'm going to need a phone book."

Mom runs off to snitch one from the Reverend's office and almost collides with Di, who's sprinting toward us in full (albeit low-cut) ivory-and-lace bridal regalia.

"Oh, my G.o.d. Oh, my G.o.d," Di says, panting. "We're so screwed!"

"Shhh, we're in a church," I tell her. "Keep your voice down, but don't worry. I'll find another band."

"A band?" Sam says, his eyes widening. "For the reception? Tonight?"

Di gives him a fretful nod. "Can you play Billy Idol's 'White Wedding' on electric guitar?"

Sam shakes his head.

"s.h.i.t," Di mutters.

"What about Alex's musician friends?" I ask. "Could some of them pull together and do it?"

"Most of them are either out-of-state now or not speaking to each other anymore," Di says. She pauses, her cheeks flushed, her eyes feverish with alarm. "Wait. How about Andrei? He can play anything!"

"What?" I say. Then, "Absolutely not."

"Oh, c'mon, El. He'd do it for you. The guy's still in love with you, you know."

I conclude that Wedding-Day Malaria must've set in or Di would never ask this of me. I open my mouth to contradict the love thing, but Sam interrupts.

"Who's Andrei?" he says.

"Ellie's rock-star ex-boyfriend," Di explains. "He's got an incredible voice and a Top Twenty hit on Russian radio right now. He still lives in the Chicago area and she has access to his private cell number." My sister jabs a finger in my direction. "So, call him. For me. Pleeeea.s.sse."

"I don't think-" I begin to say, then stop. I do have Andrei's number-memorized, even. I could call him. He'll probably rush right over to do this for me if he's available. But I don't want to. I don't want to use him when I know nothing will ever happen between us again.

"You were dating a...uh, Russian rock star?" Sam's brow scrunches up.

"We dated some years back," I explain with a shrug, "before he hit it big. But I go to watch his band perform downtown every now and then."

I don't tell Sam the rest, though. That Andrei sends me the tickets. That he's mentioned-repeatedly-us getting back together and even hinted at marriage and kids. That the certainty of seriously hot s.e.x (in addition to the husband and child thing) makes his proposition tempting, but that emotionally I moved on a long time ago. He was great, yes, and I learned a lot about myself from being with him, but it turned out he wasn't The One after all. And I'm not settling for anything but a Forever Love now.

Still, my sister's eyes are pleading with me to do something, and I figure for her sake I can deal with all the awkwardness and personal discomfort later.

I sigh and say, "Okay, Di." I punch in the first couple digits of Andrei's number, but Sam's hand closes over mine. He clicks off the phone.

"Hang on," he says to me, his expression cautious but compa.s.sionate. Then, to Di, "Do you and Alex have to have a band? Or would a really good DJ do the trick?"

"At this point, if that DJ has a decent copy of 'White Wedding,'" Di says, "I'm fine with it."

Sam nods. "I'll see what I can do." He reaches for the cell phone just as the organist strikes the first few chords of the pre-ceremony music.

"Oh, c.r.a.p!" Di says, her eyes darting wildly around the church foyer.

I glance at my watch. Eight minutes before the ceremony and counting down...

Mom comes rushing toward us. "I found the Chicago Yellow Pages." She thrusts the fat phone book at me. "Will this be enough?"