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When Debbie Macomber first decided to write a novel, people called her a hopeless dreamer. As a young, dyslexic mother of four active children, no one believed she had what it took to write a book, except Debbie. She wrote – for years. But each time she completed a story and mailed it off to a publisher, the manuscript was returned, stamped ‘‘Rejected’’. As tough as it was to keep her spirits alive, Debbie never gave up.

But all her perseverance paid off and Debbie’s heart-warming novels have made her a New York Times bestselling author with sales of over fifty-one million novels worldwide. Wednesdays at Four, Debbie’s charming tale about love and friendship, is available now from all good bookshops, and watch out for a brand-new title later this year.

The First Man You Meet

by

Debbie Macomber

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Chapter One

IT HAD BEEN one of those days.

One of those hellish, nightmarish days in which nothing had gone right. Nothing. Shelly Hansen told herself she should have seen the writing on the wall that morning when she tripped over the laces of her high-top purple tennis shoes as she hurried from the parking lot to her dinky office. She’d torn a hole in the knee of her brand-new balloon pants and limped ingloriously into her building. The day had gone steadily downhill from there.

By the time she returned to her apartment that evening she was in a black mood. All she needed to make her day complete was to have her mother pop in unannounced with a man in tow, convinced she’d found the perfect mate for Shelly.

That was exactly the kind of thing Shelly had come to expect from her dear, sweet desperate mother. Shelly was twenty-eight now and single, and her mother tended to view her unmarried status as something to be remedied.

Never mind that Shelly felt content with her life just the way it was. Never mind that she wasn’t interested in marriage and children…at least not yet. That time would come, she was sure, not now, but someday soon—or rather, some year soon.

For the moment, Shelly was absorbed in her career. She was proud of her work as a video producer, although she continually suffered the cash-flow problems of the self-employed. Her relaxation videos—seascapes, mountain scenes, a flickering fire in a brick fireplace, all with a background of classical music—were selling well. Her cat-baby-sitting video had recently caught the attention of a major distributor, and she couldn’t help believing she was on the brink of being discovered.

That was the good news.

Her mother hounding her to marry was the bad.

Tossing her woven Mexican bag and striped blue jacket onto the sofa, Shelly ventured into the kitchen and sorted through the packages in her freezer until she found something to strike her fancy for dinner. The frozen entrée was in the microwave when the doorbell chimed.

Her mother. The way her day was going, it had to be her mother. Groaning inwardly, she decided she’d be polite but insistent. Friendly but determined, and if her mother began talking about husbands, Shelly would simply change the subject.

But it wasn’t Faith Hansen who stood outside her door. It was Elvira Livingston, the building manager, a warm, delightful but insatiably curious older woman.

‘‘Good evening, dear,’’ Mrs. Livingston greeted her. She wore heavy gold earrings and a billowing, bright yellow dress, quite typical attire. She clutched a large box protectively in both hands. ‘‘The postman dropped this off. He asked if I’d give it to you.’’

‘‘For me, Mrs. L.?’’ Perhaps this day wasn’t a total waste, after all.

Elvira nodded, holding the package as though she wasn’t entirely sure she should surrender it until she got every bit of relevant data. ‘‘The return address is California. Know anyone by the name of Millicent Bannister?’’

‘‘Aunt Milly?’’ Shelly hadn’t heard from her mother’s aunt in years.

‘‘The package is insured,’’ Mrs. Livingston noted, shifting the box just enough to examine the label again.

Shelly held out her hands to receive the package, but her landlady apparently didn’t notice.

‘‘I had to sign for it.’’ This, too, seemed to be of great importance. ‘‘And there’s a letter attached,’’ Mrs. Livingston added.

Shelly had the impression that the only way she’d ever get her hands on the parcel was to let Mrs. Livingston open it first.

‘‘I certainly appreciate all the trouble you’ve gone to,’’ Shelly said, gripping the sides of the box and giving a firm tug. Mrs. Livingston released the package reluctantly. ‘‘Uh, thanks, Mrs. L. I’ll talk to you soon.’’

The older woman’s face fell with disappointment as Shelly began to close the door. Obviously, she was hoping for an invitation to stay. But after such a frustrating day, Shelly wasn’t in the mood for company, especially not the meddlesome, if well-meaning, Elvira Livingston.

Shelly sighed. This was what she got for renting an apartment with ‘‘character.’’ She could be living in a modern town house with a sauna, pool and workout room in an upper-class yuppie neighborhood. Instead she’d opted for a brick two story apartment building in the heart of Seattle. The radiators hissed at all hours of the night in perfect harmony with the plumbing that groaned and creaked. But Shelly loved the polished hardwood floors, the high ceilings with their delicate crystal light fixtures and the bay windows that overlooked Puget Sound. She could live without the sauna and the other amenities, even if it meant occasionally dealing with an eccentric busybody like Mrs. Livingston.

Eagerly she carried the package into the kitchen and set it on her table. Although she wondered what Aunt Milly had sent her, she carefully peeled the letter free, then just as carefully removed the plain brown wrapper.

The box was an old one, she noted, the cardboard heavier than that currently used by stores. Shelly gently pried off the lid and set it aside. She found thick layers of tissue paper wrapped around…a dress. Shelly pushed aside the paper and painstakingly lifted the garment from its box. She gasped in surprise as the long white dress gracefully unfolded.

This wasn’t just any dress. It was a wedding dress, an exquisitely sewn lace-and-satin wedding dress.

Surely it couldn’t have been Aunt Milly’s wedding dress… No, that couldn’t be… It wasn’t possible.

Anxious now, her heart racing, Shelly carefully refolded the dress and placed it back in the box. She reached for the letter and discovered that her hands were trembling as she tore open the envelope.

My Dearest Shelly,

I trust this letter finds you happy and well. You’ve frequently been in my thoughts the past few days. I suppose you could blame Mr. Donahue for that. Though now that I think about it, it may have been Oprah. As you’ll have gathered, I often watch those talk shows these days. John would have disapproved, but he’s been gone eight years now. Of course, if I wanted to, I’d watch them if he were still alive. John could disapprove all he wanted, but it wouldn’t do him a damn bit of good. Never did. He knew it and loved me, anyway.

I imagine you’re wondering why I’m mailing you my wedding dress. (Yes, that is indeed my infamous wedding dress.) I suspect the sight of it has put the fear of God in you. I wish I could be there to see your face when you realized what I was sending you. No doubt you’re familiar with its story; everyone in the family’s known about it for years. Since you’re fated to marry the first man you meet once the dress is in your hands, your first instinct is probably to burn the thing!

Now that I reconsider, I’m almost certain it was Donahue. He had a show recently featuring pets as companions to the elderly, lifting their spirits and the like. The man being interviewed brought along a cute little Scottish terrier pup and that was when the old seamstress drifted into my mind. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew the six o’clock news was on.

While I slept I had a dream about you. This was no ordinary dream, either. I saw you plain as day, standing beside a tall young man, your blue eyes bright and shining. You were so happy, so truly in love. But what amazed me was the wedding dress you were wearing.

Mine.

The very dress the old Scottish woman sewed for me all those years ago. It seemed to me I was receiving a message of some sort and that I’d best not ignore it. Neither had you! You’re about to embark on the grandest adventure of your life, my dear. Keep me informed!

Believe me, Shelly, I know what you’re thinking. I well remember my own thoughts the day that Scottish seamstress handed me the wedding dress. Marriage was the last thing on my mind! I had a career, back in the days when it was rare for a woman to attend college, let alone graduate from law school.

You and I are a great deal alike, Shelly. We value our independence. It takes a special kind of man to be married to women like us. And you, my dear niece, are about to meet that one special man just the way I did.

All my love,

Aunt Milly

P.S. You’re only the second person to wear this dress, my dear. Never before have I felt like this. Perhaps it’s the beginning of a tradition!

With hands that trembled even more fiercely now, Shelly folded the letter and slid it into the envelope. Her heart was pounding loud and fast, and she could feel the sweat beading her forehead.

The phone rang then, and more from instinct than any desire to talk, Shelly reached for the receiver.

‘‘Hello.’’ It hadn’t dawned on her until precisely that moment that the caller might well be her mother, wanting to bring over a man for her to meet. Any man her mother introduced would only add to the growing nightmare, but—

‘‘Shelly, it’s Jill. Are you all right? You sound…a bit strange.’’

‘‘Jill.’’ Shelly was so relieved that her knees went weak. ‘‘Thank heaven it’s you.’’

‘‘What’s wrong?’’

Shelly hardly knew where to begin. ‘‘My aunt Milly’s wedding dress just arrived. I realize that won’t mean anything to you unless you’ve heard the family legend about my aunt Milly and uncle John.’’

‘‘I haven’t.’’

‘‘Of course you haven’t, otherwise you’d understand what I’m going through,’’ Shelly snapped. She immediately felt guilty for being short-tempered with her best friend. Making an effort to compose herself, she explained, ‘‘I’ve just been mailed a wedding dress—one that’s been in my family for nearly fifty years—with the clear understanding that I’ll be wearing it myself soon.’’

‘‘I didn’t even realize you were dating anyone special.’’ Jill hadn’t managed to disguise the hurt in her voice.

‘‘I’m not getting married. If anyone should know that, it’s you.’’

‘‘Then your aunt simply intends you to wear it when you do get married.’’

‘‘There’s far more to it than that,’’ Shelly cried. ‘‘Listen. Aunt Milly—who’s really my mother’s aunt, a few years younger than my grandmother—became an attorney just after the Second World War. She worked hard to earn her law degree and had decided to dedicate her life to her career.’’

‘‘In other words, she’d planned never to marry.’’

‘‘Precisely.’’

‘‘But apparently she did.’’

‘‘Yes, and the story of how that happened has been in the family for years. It seems that Aunt Milly had all her clothes professionally made. As the story goes, she took some lovely white material to an old Scottish woman who had a reputation as the best seamstress around. Milly needed an evening dress for some formal event that was coming up—business related, of course. The woman took her measurements and told her the dress would be finished within the week.’’

‘‘And?’’ Jill prompted when Shelly hesitated.

This was the part of the tale that distressed her the most. ‘‘And…when Milly returned for the dress the old woman sat her down with a cup of tea.’’

‘‘The dress wasn’t ready?’’

‘‘Oh, it was ready, all right, only it wasn’t the dress Aunt Milly had ordered. The Scottish woman explained she was gifted with the ‘sight.’’’

‘‘She was clairvoyant?’’

‘‘So she claimed,’’ Shelly said, breathing in deeply. ‘‘The old woman told my aunt that when she began the dress a vision came to her. A clear vision that involved Milly. This vision apparently showed Milly getting married. The old woman was so convinced of it that she turned what was supposed to be a simple evening dress into an elegant wedding gown, with layers of satin and lace and lots of pearls.’’

‘‘It sounds beautiful,’’ Jill said with a sigh.

‘‘Of course it’s beautiful—but don’t you see?’’

‘‘See what?’’

It was all Shelly could do not to groan with frustration. ‘‘The woman insisted that my aunt Milly, who’d dedicated herself to her career, would marry within the year. It happened, too, just the way the seamstress said it would, right down to the last detail.’’

Jill sighed again. ‘‘That’s the most romantic story I’ve heard in ages.’’

‘‘It isn’t romance,’’ Shelly argued, ‘‘it’s fate interrupting one’s life! It’s being a…pawn in the game of life! I know that sounds crazy, but I’ve grown up hearing this story. It was as though my aunt Milly didn’t have any choice in the matter.’’

‘‘And your aunt Milly mailed you the dress?’’

‘‘Yes,’’ Shelly wailed. ‘‘Now do you understand why I’m upset?’’

‘‘Frankly, no. Come on, Shelly, it’s just an old dress. You’re overreacting. You make it sound as if you’re destined to marry the next man you meet.’’

Shelly gasped audibly. She couldn’t help herself. ‘‘How’d you know?’’ she whispered.

‘‘Know what?’’

‘‘That’s exactly what happened to Aunt Milly. That’s part of the legend. She tried to refuse the dress, but the seamstress wouldn’t take it back, nor would she accept payment. When Aunt Milly left the dress shop, she had car problems and needed a mechanic. My uncle John was that mechanic. And Aunt Milly married him. She married the first man she met, just like the seamstress said.’’

Chapter Two

‘‘SHELLY, THAT doesn’t mean you’re going to marry the next man you meet,’’ Jill stated calmly, far too calmly to suit Shelly.

Perhaps Jill didn’t recognize a crisis when she heard about one. They were talking about destiny here. Predestination. Fate. Okay, maybe, just maybe, she was being a bit melodramatic, but after the ghastly day she’d had, who could blame her?

‘‘Aunt Milly came right out and said I’m going to get married soon,’’ Shelly explained. ‘‘The family legend says that the first man you meet when you get the dress is the man you’ll marry.’’

‘‘It’s just coincidence,’’ Jill reassured her. ‘‘Your aunt probably would have met her husband without the dress. It would’ve happened anyway. And don’t forget, she’s an old woman now,’’ Jill continued soothingly. ‘‘I know this wonderful old lady who comes into the pharmacy every few weeks and she always insists I’m going to get married soon. I smile and nod and fill her prescription. She means well, and I’m sure your aunt Milly does, too. She just wants you to be happy, the way she was. But I think it’s a mistake for you to take any of this prediction nonsense seriously.’’

Shelly exhaled sharply. Jill was right; Aunt Milly was a sweetheart, who had Shelly’s happiness at heart. She’d had a long, blissful marriage herself and wanted the same for her great-niece. But Shelly had a career. She had plans and goals, none of which included meeting and marrying a stranger.

The story of Aunt Milly’s wedding dress had been handed down from one generation to the next. Shelly had first heard it as a child and had loved it. In her young romantic heart, she’d ranked the story of her aunt Milly and uncle John with her favorite fairy tales of Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty, barely able to distinguish truth from fantasy. However, she was an adult now. Her heart and her life weren’t going to be ruled by something as whimsical as a ‘‘magical’’ wedding dress or a fanciful legend.

‘‘You’re absolutely right,’’ Shelly announced emphatically. ‘‘This whole thing is ridiculous. Just because this wedding dress supposedly conjured up a husband for my aunt Milly fifty years ago doesn’t mean it’s going to do the same thing for me, no matter what she claims.’’

‘‘Well, thank goodness you’re finally being sensible about this.’’

‘‘No one bothered to ask me what I thought before shipping off a so-called magic wedding gown. I don’t want to marry just yet, so I certainly don’t need the dress. It was a nice gesture, but unnecessary.’’

‘‘Exactly,’’ Jill agreed.

‘‘I’m not interested in playing déjà voodoo.’’ She paused to laugh at her own joke.

Jill chuckled, too. ‘‘I wouldn’t be, either.’’

Shelly felt greatly relieved and sighed expressively. The tight muscles along the back of her neck began to relax. Jill was, as usual, full of sound, practical advice. Aunt Milly was a wonderful old lady, and the legend was a delightful bit of family lore, but it would be laughable to take any of this seriously.

‘‘How about meeting me for lunch tomorrow?’’ Jill suggested. ‘‘It’s been ages since we got together.’’

‘‘That sounds good to me,’’ Shelly said eagerly. Although they’d been good friends since college, it took some effort on both their parts these days to make time in their hectic lives to see each other. ‘‘When and where?’’

‘‘How about the mall?’’ Jill asked. ‘‘That would be easiest for me since I’m scheduled to work tomorrow. I can get off a few minutes before twelve.’’

‘‘Great. I’ll see you at noon at Patrick’s,’’ Shelly promised. Meeting her friend for lunch was just the antidote she needed after the terrible day she’d suffered through. But then what did she expect on Friday, April thirteenth?

SHELLY OVERSLEPT, then got caught in a traffic jam on her way to meet Jill the following morning. She detested being late, although she often was. Rather than fight for a convenient parking spot in the vast lot that surrounded the mall, she took the first available space and rushed toward the nearest entrance. Patrick’s, a cozy, charming restaurant on the mall’s upper level, was deservedly popular for business lunches. Shelly had eaten there often and especially enjoyed the spinach-and-shrimp salad.

A glance at her watch told her it was already after twelve, and not wanting to keep Jill waiting, she hurried toward the escalator. The shopping center was especially busy on weekends, she noted, as she weaved her way around several people.

Her mind must have been on the salad she intended to order for lunch instead of the escalator because the moment she placed her foot on the first tread, she lost her balance.

‘‘Oh…oh!’’ Swinging her arms out at both sides in a futile effort to remain upright, she groped at thin air. She tried frantically to catch herself as she fell backward.

Landing in someone’s arms shocked her as much as having lost her balance. Incredulous, she twisted around to thank her rescuer but this proved to be a mistake. Her action caught the man off guard, and before he could prevent it, they both went crashing to the floor. Once again Shelly expected to experience pain. Instead, her waist was surrounded by arms that were surprisingly strong. His grip was firm but gentle, protective. As they fell, he maneuvered himself to take the brunt of the impact when they landed. Sprawled as she was above him, Shelly found herself staring down at the most attractive man she’d ever seen. Her heart thrummed. Her breath caught. Her body froze.

For a moment neither of them spoke. A crowd had gathered around them before Shelly managed to speak. When she did, her voice was weak and breathless. ‘‘Are you all right? I’m so sorry…’’

‘‘I’m fine. What about you?’’

‘‘Fine. I think.’’

She lay cushioned by his solid chest, their faces scant inches apart. Shelly’s long hair fell forward, framing his face. He smelled of mint and some clean-scented soap. Her gaze wandered curiously over his features; at such close range she could see the tiny lines that fanned out from the edges of his sapphire-blue eyes as well as deep grooves that bracketed his mouth. His nose was classically straight, his mouth full and sensuous. At least his lower lip was. It didn’t take her long to recognize that this man was uncompromisingly male. His eyes held hers reluctantly, as if he, too, was caught in the same powerful trance.

Neither of them moved, and although Shelly was convinced the breathless sensation she felt was a result of the fall, she couldn’t seem to breathe properly even now.

‘‘Miss, are you hurt?’’

Reluctantly Shelly glanced up to find a security guard standing over her.

‘‘Um…I don’t think so.’’

‘‘Sir?’’

‘‘I’m fine.’’

The arms that were holding hers securely loosened.

‘‘If we could have you both sit over here for a moment,’’ the guard instructed, pointing at a bench. ‘‘We have an ambulance on the way.’’

‘‘An ambulance? But I told you I’m not hurt,’’ she objected.

The guard gently helped Shelly to her feet. Her legs were shaky and her breathing a bit uncertain, but otherwise she was unhurt.

‘‘Officer, there’s really no need—’’ the man who’d fallen with her protested.

‘‘Mall policy,’’ the guard interrupted. He hooked his thumbs into the wide leather belt and rocked gently back on his feet. ‘‘It’s standard procedure to have all accident victims checked immediately.’’

‘‘If you’re worried about a lawsuit—’’

‘‘I don’t make the rules,’’ the guard interrupted her rescuer once again. ‘‘I just see that they’re carried out. Now, if you’d both sit over here, the medical team will be here in a couple of minutes.’’

‘‘I don’t have time to wait,’’ Shelly cried. ‘‘I’m meeting someone.’’ She glanced longingly at the upper level, wondering how she could get word of her delay to Jill. It didn’t reassure her to notice the number of people clustered by the railing, staring down at her. Her little escapade had attracted quite a bit of attention.

‘‘I’ve got an appointment, as well,’’ the man said, looking pointedly at his watch.

The security guard ignored their protests. He removed a small notebook from his shirt pocket and flipped it open. ‘‘Your names, please.’’

‘‘Shelly Hansen.’’

‘‘Mark Brady.’’

He wrote down the information and a brief account of how they happened to fall.

‘‘I won’t have to go to the hospital, will I?’’ Shelly demanded.

‘‘That depends,’’ the guard answered.

This whole thing was ridiculous. She was perfectly fine. A little shaken, true, but uninjured. She suddenly realized that she hadn’t thanked this man—Mark, was it?

‘‘I’m terribly sorry about all this,’’ she offered. ‘‘I can’t thank you enough for catching me.’’

‘‘In the future, you might be more careful.’’ Mark glanced at his watch a second time.

‘‘I will be. But if it ever happens again, might I suggest you just let me fall?’’ This delay was inconvenient for her, too, but that wasn’t any reason to be quick-tempered. She studied her rescuer and shook her head slightly, wondering why she’d been so impressed. He looked as if he’d stepped off the Planet Square. Dark blue suit and tie, crisp white shirt with gold cufflinks. This guy was as original as cooked oatmeal. About as personable, too.

If she was giving him the once-over, she discovered he was eyeing her, too. Apparently he was equally unimpressed. Her sweatshirt was a fluorescent orange and her jeans as tight as a second skin. Her ankle-high boots were black, her socks the same shade of orange as the sweatshirt. Her hair cascaded about her shoulders in a layer of dark frothy curls. Mark was frowning in obvious disapproval.

The wide glass doors at the mall entrance opened, and two paramedics hurried inside. Seconds later, when the ambulance arrived, two more medical people entered the building. Shelly was mortified that such a minor accident would result in all this attention.

The first paramedic knelt down in front of her while the second concentrated on Mark. Before she completely understood what was happening, her shoe was off and the man was examining her ankle. Mark, too, was being examined, a stethoscope pressed over his heart. He didn’t seem to appreciate the procedures any more than she did.