by Regina Duke
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Blurb
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Regina's Books
Regina's Bio
THE WEDDING SONG
by
Regina Duke
The Wedding Song
Copyright © 2019 Linda White
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from Regina Duke.
Published by RD Books
United States of America
Electronic Edition: September 2019
Digital ISBN 978-1-944752-36-1
This book is a work of fiction and all characters exist solely in the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any references to places, events or locales are used in a fictitious manner.
Digital formatting by StevieDeInk, [email protected]
Edited by Marian Kelly, RavensGateEditing.com
Cover design by StevieDeInk
Cover photo from Fotolia
Zinnia Clausen hides her gift from everyone except her best friend. She jumps at the chance to follow her dream, but falling in love was never part of the plan. Will family secrets destroy her future and her hopes for a happy ending?
Bart Hazen’s art career has finally taken off, but when he finally has a chance at a showing in New York, he discovers there are conditions. He must change his appearance and find a bride. His brother in Eagle’s Toe can provide a new wardrobe, but will meeting Zinnia solve his larger problem?
The Wedding Song is #10 in the Colorado Billionaires series.
CHAPTER ONE
Zinnia Clausen had done it again. She’d nodded off during the sermon. Her friend Rose nudged her so sharply, she jerked awake, opened her mouth, and sang the first two syllables of “Amazing Grace.”
“A-maze—!” It escaped before she could clamp her hand over her mouth. Too late. The entire congregation and the minister and all the other members of the choir were staring at her. Glaring at her. She was pretty sure that was the right word. After an eternity—two full seconds—a couple of people giggled and someone dropped a hymnal. Zinnia uncovered her mouth and apologized. “Sorry.”
Minister Dan finally let his reproachful stare shift to the back pew where Rose’s fiancé was red-faced and fishing for the hardbound hymnal he’d dropped. Then, with a long-suffering sigh, Minister Dan picked up where he’d left off.
Zinnia leaned toward Rose and whispered, “Tell Chester I owe him one.”
Rose tittered, then dropped her chin when the choir director shook a finger at her. It felt like forever before they stood to sing the final hymn. Once that was done, Zinnia gathered up her things and groaned, “Oh no, I told Mrs. Swinson I’d bring a dessert for luncheon today.”
“And you forgot?” teased Rose.
“Totally.”
“No problem.” She opened her backpack, shoved her music folio into it, and pulled out a box of chocolates. “Never been opened. Fresh. Give her this and meet me out front.”
“You’re the best BFF on the entire planet.” Zinnia took the box and pasted on a perky face for Mrs. Swinson. When she was finally able to make her escape, she shoved her arms into her coat and scurried down the center aisle, out the huge front doors, then stopped short. Why did she even bother to hurry? Rose and Chester were necking on one of the benches that lined the entrance to the church. They were both wearing winter jackets and seemed oblivious to the February cold. She plodded over as if every step was a testimony to the things she was forced to endure in order to have a best friend. “Are you done?”
Rose giggled. “We think we’ll get married in May instead of June.”
Chester swaggered—not easy to do while sitting on a bench. “June is old-school.”
Zinnia pinned him with a who-are-you-kidding stare. “And May is a month sooner.”
Rose snapped, “Zinnia! May was my idea.”
Chester laughed. “It’s okay. I have to go pick up Gran.” He planted one last kiss on Rose’s mouth. “See you tonight? Square dance. Don’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” promised Rose, sighing as she watched him move toward his truck.
Zinnia pretended to gag. “I never thought you’d marry a local farmer.”
“Rancher,” corrected Rose.
“Huge difference,” said Zinnia sarcastically. “I thought you were going to hold out for a movie star or something?”
Rose made a face. “High school graduation was three years ago, Zin. All the other girls in our crowd are already married, Jennie is pregnant with baby number two, and we are still single.”
Zinnia nodded. “I know, I know, but we had big dreams. Jennie’s biggest dream was that her graduation robe would hide her five-month baby bump.”
Rose tossed her short dark curls. “Good one. Let’s go get ice cream.”
“I thought you were worried about fitting into your mother’s wedding gown.”
Rose smiled like she had a secret and motioned Zinnia to follow her to her little Morris. Once they were in it and on their way, Rose said teasingly, “Guess who else had a baby bump when she got married?”
It took a moment before Rose’s meaning dawned on Zinnia. When it did, she shrieked, “Oh my God! Your mother?”
Rose gave three little shrugs in a row. “Let’s just say, I can eat ice cream without worrying.”
“Gosh,” said Zinnia. “I can’t even imagine my parents having sex.”
Rose grimaced. “I know what you mean. But Mom thought she should give me her best advice when we told her we were engaged, and that turned out to be: Make sure you’re on the pill.”
Zinnia was horrified. “But we made a pledge!”
“Don’t worry, I’m making Chester wait.” She wiggled in her seat. “But I am on the pill. We don’t want to get pregnant right away. I told Chester I want to see Paris.”
Zinnia relaxed. “And London. Don’t forget London.” It was part of their Big Dream. They’d been sharing their dreams and hopes since the first day they met in first grade. Zinnia had been embarrassed because she’d had the funniest name of anyone in class. Then she met Rose, another girl with a flower for a name, and they’d been inseparable ever since.
Rose pulled up to the drive-through and ordered two soft-serve cones. While they waited, she assumed her best woman-of-the-world expression—after all, she was getting married first and was already on the pill—and asked, “What about you, Zin? Are you holding out for the Big Dream?”
Zinnia played with her long blond braid. “Sor
t of.”
“Meaning?” Rose handed her a cone.
“Meaning I haven’t met anyone I can stand the thought of sleeping with. Besides, what are the chances of meeting a famous artist in Eagle’s Toe?”
Rose pulled the Morris into a shady spot beneath a catalpa tree. “Look, no pressure, but…I need my BFF to get married. How else are we going to travel the world together?”
“Considering that Chester is a rancher, he won’t want to be gone all that long. I figure you’ll go on your honeymoon and show me pictures afterward.”
They both took her meaning intentionally wrong and burst out laughing.
* * *
Bart Hazen marveled at the exquisite irony of life. A week ago, he’d texted his father and told him, in no uncertain terms, that although Taylor and Don had succumbed to his pressure, there was no way on Earth that Bart was going to chain himself down to a wife. Out of the question. His career was just starting to take off. Last summer’s show in Paris had been a huge success, and he’d sold several high-priced pieces. Before it was over, he’d been invited to do a show in Madrid. Critics were throwing around words like “new Gaugin” and “elements of Van Gogh,” while the Spanish gallery owners were talking about the “influence of Picasso.” The Madrid show had been a stunning success, and he’d begun seeing his name in all the best magazines. In France he was called “Le Bart,” and in Spain, they’d dubbed him “El Barto.” He loved both nicknames.
Then came the offer of a New York show. He was on cloud nine. That very day, he’d received a text response from his father, saying no pressure on getting married because no woman in her right mind would want to marry a paint-smeared, long-haired, attic-dwelling refugee from the most expensive art school in the world. He’d read it and laughed long and hard.
He bought a first-class ticket and headed back to the States for the ultimate “I told you so” moment. Everyone who’d ever ridiculed him for pursuing his dreams would have to eat their words, and if they wanted to own a painting by the world’s foremost up-and-coming star, they’d have to pay in a big way. He’d immediately doubled all the prices on his work. The long weeks of packing and shipping and making all the tedious arrangements for his show had been worth it, or at least they would be, as soon as he sold a single painting.
The gallery manager, a sharp-edged older woman called Woodsy, had treated him with the utmost respect. She’d even presented him with a gift bag upon his arrival, full of hair products to care for his bohemian beard and long, thick brown mane. He kept it in a man bun while working, but it was in a low ponytail today. Woodsy’s effusive admiration had him thinking he would let it bounce around his shoulders in an egregious display of artistic élan during the opening.
He got a surprise, though, when Woodsy, his contact throughout the process, introduced him to the gallery owner. The last thing he’d expected was a carefully coiffed and elegantly dressed Chinese businessman, Chen Wei, and his equally uptight-looking wife, Peng, who made her distaste clear from the first moment they met. The tension in the air during that meeting made it the longest thirty minutes of his life. Even Woodsy had lost her lust for his artistic look by the time Mrs. Chen made it clear that no ruffian would pass himself off as a civilized man in her gallery. Woodsy fidgeted nervously as the Chens had a rapid-fire conversation in Mandarin, oblivious to their presence and not at all worried about being overheard. At last, Mrs. Chen left the gallery, accompanied by two ominous-looking bodyguards.
Mr. Chen offered Bart a tight-lipped smile. “Forgive me.” His English was softly accented. “My wife has very high standards. I have assured her that your current appearance was merely assumed for the benefit of the art community in Paris. I explained that such things can happen in Western culture. She has agreed to continue with the opening if you will agree to arranging your appearance so that it might be worthy of our gallery and not embarrass her family. She also looks forward to meeting your wife.”
Bart froze. “My wife?”
Mr. Chen nodded vigorously. “I took the liberty of assuring her that under your rough exterior dwelled the civilized soul of a married man. She made it clear that she expects you to bring your wife when you arrive for the opening of your show to meet her very important and most highly honored guests.”
Bart stood there, blinking in shock, as his grand dreams of making a splash on the New York art scene scrambled away from him like gold-plated cockroaches running from the glaring light of reality.
Woodsy took over. “Of course, Mr. Chen. Please let Mrs. Chen know that I, um, already investigated Bart’s personal situation before extending an invitation to show in her gallery.” Her wide-eyed insistent glances at Bart made it clear to him that he’d better play along or there would be no opening. “Isn’t that right, Bartsy?”
From somewhere inside, he found the strength to smile and say to Mr. Chen, “I look forward to earning your wife’s complete approval on the night of my opening, sir.”
Chen bowed perfunctorily, pressed his palms together in appreciation, and left him standing there next to Woodsy, who was barely holding herself together. Two dark wet circles had appeared under the arms of her green silk blouse.
“I swear to you,” she cooed, “I had no idea Mrs. Chen would make demands about your appearance and your marital status. But we have to do what is necessary to make our way in the art world, do we not? And there’s plenty of time…three weeks until the opening…I’m sure I can supply the necessary professionals to see to your…transformation.”
Bart thought of all the money he’d invested in shipping his work and all the money he stood to lose if the show was cancelled. His father had made it clear that after this showing he would no longer be donating to the pursuit of artistic fame. It was “make it or break it” time. He turned hard blue eyes on Woodsy.
“I have my own experts.” His tone could slice through stone. “Take care of my canvases when they arrive or I will bill you for them.”
Woodsy nearly wilted with relief. “So you’ll still do the show?”
“I’ll be back for the opening with my wife,” said Bart icily, adding, “on one condition.”
Woodsy gritted her teeth, expecting the worst. “Which is?”
“Never call me Bartsy again.”
CHAPTER TWO
Zinnia had to admit that she was jealous of Rose for being engaged. It wasn’t the falling in love she envied. She’d watched in horror as Rose fawned over Chester, cooed about Chester, gave up her hobbies so she’d have time for Chester. No, Zinnia could see that falling in love was like a drug. Rose had lost all control over her own life. But she did envy Rose one thing—the feeling that her future was secure, all wrapped up with a bow for the next fifty years or so.
Falling in love wasn’t high on her list because the boys she’d yearned for in high school—the ones she was sure she loved—had never returned her affections. One of them had made fun of her in home room, and another stood her up on prom night. Rumor was his uncle came home from the Navy and decided to make the boy a man by driving him to a house of ill repute somewhere on the outskirts of Pueblo. Zinnia had found out about it because Rose had been dating the boy’s best friend.
No, it wasn’t love that Zinnia longed for. It was financial security and peace of mind. The prospect of being able to go shopping for shoes and clothes whether she needed them or not was something she dreamed about.
When the time came that Sunday for Rose to go meet Chester, Zinnia chose to walk the last six blocks home so she could prolong her alone time—her peace of mind—and put off the onslaught of noise and drama that waited for her every time she walked through the door of her parents’ house.
She was the oldest of five children, now staring twenty-one in the face, with no boyfriend, no full-time job, and no prospects for the future. Her twenty-year-old brother, Rowdy, was commuting to junior college in Pueblo. This semester, he’d taken to sleeping over with a friend who had an apartment close to school, and every time he fa
iled to show up for dinner, he caused a ruckus in the household. Her mother worried that he might not be eating right, and her father expressed his hurt feelings as anger. Zinnia envied Rowdy because he had a place to go when he’d had enough of family life. Rose used to be Zinnia’s escape hatch, but she now spent nearly all her evenings with Chester and his family.
Bernard, Zinnia’s dad, had been warning her that when she turned twenty-one, she better have her own place because he was going to kick her out of the nest. But he’d been saying that every time she had a birthday since she was sixteen. She hardly paid it any mind anymore and her mother laughed whenever he said it, so she let the words run off her like water off a duck’s back.
She’d no sooner crossed the front porch and walked through the door when the family drama picked up where she’d left it that morning before church. Bernard was working on beer number five and was in rare form.
“You’ll never make on your own, Zinnia, if we keep letting you mooch off us.” He always couched it in terms of being for her own good. Zinnia, however, was the one who helped her mother, Lily, take care of the cleaning and cooking and laundry.
“Bernie, don’t go chasing out my best helper. Zin dear, would you mind peeling these taters over there next to Timmy? He’s having trouble with fractions, and he’s got a test on them tomorrow.”
“Sure, Mom.” She took the metal bowl of Idahos and a paring knife over to the crowded dining room table and settled on the chair next to Timmy. Her niece Melmac—she was born Melanie but Bernard immediately nicknamed her Melmac because she was, in his words, “a cute little dish”—was strapped into a high chair, snacking on brown crayons.
Zinnia said, “Chrissie, your daughter is eating Crayolas again.”
Chrissie—Chrysanthemum was her given name—had gotten pregnant her junior year in high school, and Melmac was the result. Chrissie went back to school after her daughter was born and graduated an hour before delivering her baby boy, Wedge, who was under the table with his dump truck, loading and unloading wooden alphabet blocks. Chrissie sat on the other side of Mel, her nose buried in a fashion magazine while clean laundry in a plastic tub at her feet waited patiently to be folded. She pretended not to hear Zinnia.
