The Sometime Bride

well-placed circular tables that dotted the perimeter of the room.
    White linen tablecloths lapped hand-sewn oriental carpets. And above the clatter of clinking glasses and conversation, a band played jazzy eighties tunes from a stage set up far against a back wall.
    The mood was all genteel opulence. They’d been standing there scarcely five seconds when a server strode briskly over, offering up a tray of champagne.
    “Carrie?” Mike asked, lifting a single flute off the tray and extending it in her direction.
    From the trailer park to this. All at once, the disparity hit her. “Thank you,” Carrie said, accepting the champagne.
    Mike picked up a glass of his own, and the white-gloved server made himself scarce.
    Carrie took another look around the room. “I said it before, but it bears repeating. Wow.”
    “I know it must seem odd,” Mike said. “I mean, after seeing the place I grew up.”
    Carrie heated at the notion that he’d read her thoughts. How embarrassing. He probably assumed her to be judging him. “No, actually—”
    “It’s all right. Really. Though I may have been somewhat ashamed of my humble roots as a teenager…”
    “You should never have felt ashamed of your father, Mike. He’s a wonderful man.”
    “Easy for me to accept now,” he told her as they made their way into the busy room. “Not so easy for a boy in high school. I landed at Ashton Academy like a total fish out of water.”
    “Scholarship?” Carrie guessed.
    “Swimming.”
    She might have known. “Well, I think it’s fantastic you had the opportunity. When I was a teenager, I didn’t even know places like this existed.”
    An attractive couple wandered over. A pretty blonde and a stocky brunet about Mike’s age. The husky fellow set his glass on a nearby table and took up Mike’s free hand with great gusto. “Mike the Spike!” he said, cheerily pumping Mike’s arm. “Great to see you, buddy!
    Mike’s eyes lit up. “Figaro? Oh, my… How are you?” he asked with unfeigned delight. “Uh, oh, forgive me. Carrie St. John, this is Fig.”
    “Fig’s not his real name,” the blonde interjected. “It’s Paul. Paul Westinghouse III.”
    Mike chuckled and turned his eyes on the woman. “Why, hello. Are you the lucky missus?”
    “Am at that.” She smiled. “My name’s Wendy. And you, officially, are…?”
    “Mike Davis,” Carrie supplied, easily following the protocol where the women spoke for the men. She could get used to that. “But I want to know where that ‘spike’ part came from,” she said, playfully poking Mike in the chest.
    Mike looked down at her rigid finger and chuckled at their private joke. “Now, don’t go getting any dirty ideas,” he whispered in her ear. He turned and winked at Paul. “Spike comes from the way I used to dive.”
    “Straight out like this,” Paul said, striking a pose by extending his arms arrow-straight over his head. The group broke out laughing.
    “And Fig?” Carrie asked with a grin. “I can’t fathom that one.”
    “That’s because he swam like a song,” Wendy reported. “You know, Figaro, Figaro, Figaro …”
    “Yeah, a swan’s song,” Mike chimed in.
    More companionable laughter.
    “So, you two were on the swim team together?” Carrie asked.
    “Yes, ma’am,” Paul answered, “though it looks like your husband’s keeping much more fit than I am. Congratulations, by the way,” he said, turning to Mike and once more pumping his hand. “Somebody made an honest man of you after all.”
    “Well, not quite,” Mike began.
    “Yeah,” Carrie said. “He’s still as dishonest as they come.”
    Paul and Wendy roared.
    “Know what you mean,” Wendy added. “Once incorrigible, always incorrigible. Wedding band or no.”
    Wait a minute! What was happening here? He was assumed to be married? Mike shifted and dug his left hand into his pocket.
    “Well, buddy,” Paul said, lifting his glass in Mike and Carrie’s direction. “Guess you had us all fooled. Heartiest congratulations on your excellent taste.”

    When Paul and Wendy had made their polite good-byes and departed to mill with other guests, Mike turned to Carrie. “Holy cow, those guys thought we were married!”
    “Imagine that,” Carrie said with a curious poker face. “Well,” she said after a brief silence, “stop staring. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To be known as the man who beat his perpetual bachelor status?”
    “Well, yes, but—”
    “Look,”