by Lila Monroe
“We’re busy, Paula,” I said firmly. “And if you’ll recall our procedures for belligerent callers—”
“Oh, you go on ahead. I’ll be fine waiting,” Jennings said amiably. It was the first time I’d heard him speak in anything less than a roar, and for some reason that worried me. “As long as I have the lovely Miss Newman to keep me company.”
Grant shot him a look that told me he was wondering if Jennings had engineered this call himself just to get me alone, but removed himself graciously.
The second he was out of the room, Jedediah Jennings turned to me and took my hand. “Oh, sweet child. Now I want you to know—I want to believe that nice young feller. But I’m going to need you to tell me the truth.” His twinkly blue eyes were grave. “Don’t protect him now just because you love him, because there’ll be a line of gentlemen around the block to love you if he’s not the one. You’re a good girl, and I know you’ll tell me the truth, won’t you?”
“Of course I will, Mr. Jennings.” My throat was dry. Oh God. He was going to ask me about the engagement. He knew it was a ruse.
“Now, I could swear on a stack of Bibles, I must have told you before to call me Jed,” he said. “Lacey, what I need to know is: can I really trust Grant with my company?”
I took a moment to breathe a sigh of relief, another moment to mentally smack myself upside the head for freaking out about the wrong question, and a third crucial moment to compose my answer.
“I can see why you would be uncertain,” I said, placing my hand on his where it covered mine. “A few months ago I would even be telling you not to, but— but you can trust Grant.” I leaned forward, urgent. “If you could see him as I do—he’s really stepping up to the plate, I’ve seen such change in him, I never dared hope—”
My voice almost broke on that last word. Hope and I had a rocky relationship, especially when it came to Grant, and what I could never really have with him.
Before I could try to repair the damage, Grant sailed back into the room.
“So sorry, everyone, had to put out a couple of fires with the personal touch.” He turned to Jennings. “Sir, I hope I addressed any qualms you have, but if you have anything more to ask or say—”
“Not a thing, my boy,” Jennings boomed, standing. “Except congratulations, and to start calling me Jed, dammit! You’re lucky to have found this little lady, and I’m lucky, too. I’ll sign the papers and we’ll all move on.” Sotto voce—or as sotto as Mr. Jennings’s voce could go: “Everyone’s got a bit of a past. All you can do is keep it from dragging down your future.”
“I couldn’t agree more, sir,” Grant said, with the grace to look repentant.
They shook hands, and as Jennings left, Grant swept me into a bear hug.
“I am so lucky to have you.”
“Damn straight,” I whispered into his ear.
I would have walked through fires to have this hug.
He laughed, and I loved the way his body felt against mine when he did.
“You said it, partner.”
I was glad he couldn’t see my eyes welling up as I dried them against his collar. Anyway, they were mostly tears of joy.
All that good luck must have made a huge dent in my cosmic bank account, because when we got back to Grant’s office, Portia was waiting for us.
She rose slowly, all blue and black and white, like a bitchy Siberian tiger stalking its prey. “Well, Grant dear, it looks like your inability to walk without tripping and falling into someone’s cunt has come home to roost at last. I’m only impressed that you somehow managed to get your dick stuck in two at the same time.”
I saw red, and words flew out of my mouth before I could stop myself. “Look, it was just a stupid mistake, it’s not as if he did anything really terrible—”
Portia steamrolled right over me as though I were a paper cup in the path of a tank. “I’m not going to let you throw your family’s name away like this, Grant. I’m moving the wedding up!”
Well, if that was all she wanted, that wasn’t too bad, I’d been expecting her to get out the iron maiden at least—
“The two of you are getting married this weekend!”
…holy fucking hell.
23
I couldn’t believe that girl in the mirror was me.
She was clad in a wedding dress like a cloud, sleeveless and low-cut but slowly expanding into a lacy sweetheart train embroidered with silver thread and seed pearls. My dark hair was twisted into a simple but classic updo, and my makeup had been done professionally for the first time since my college graduation.
Then the fitter pricked me with a pin, and I definitely believed the girl in the mirror was me. “Ouch!”
“Watch it!” Kate said. “This is a bride, not a pincushion.”
“Thorry,” the woman said through lips clenched tight around spare pins. “It’th a bit tricky. I’m doing my betht.”
“It’s all right,” I said absently, my gaze drawn back to the mirror. The girl in the mirror mouthed those words along with me, and I imagined her speaking other words: …till death do us part…I do…
“Breathe,” Kate said. “I’ve heard most people need to do that.”
“This is happening too fast,” I whispered, steadying myself with a hand against the wall. “There was just supposed to be a month-long pretend engagement, and now I’m actually going to be walking down the aisle in this—” I gestured weakly at the dress.
“Work of art,” Kate supplied.
“’Ank you!” the fitter said with a pin-filled grin.
“It doesn’t feel right.” Ha. That was the understatement of the century. I was in a dress worth more than some small countries, I was being jabbed with pins by a complete stranger, and the man I was putting all this effort in for didn’t even love me. Somehow, I had never imagined the fitting for my wedding dress feeling quite so wrong.
So why wasn’t I calling it off? Why wasn’t I marching back to Grant and throwing his engagement ring in his face?
When had I become so conflicted?
Kate put her hands on my shoulders. “It’s still a business arrangement, just a different ring on your finger. And if there’s one thing my girl Lacey Newman knows, it’s business.”
I shot Kate a warning look—better not to gossip in front of the employees. Who knew what tabloid they might sell their eavesdropping material to?
“Excuse me,” I said to the assistant. “I’m getting terribly thirsty, do you think you could get me some water? And a straw so I don’t drip on your dress?”
“Thertainly, Mith Newman!” she said, spitting her pins into her hand.
I felt my spine relax instantly, and I wondered how much of my anxiety had been fear that she was about to swallow one of them.
“The lies are just getting bigger and bigger,” I said to Kate when she was gone, twisting the engagement ring around on my finger. “Plus, after we…hooked up, again…”
I flashed to the feel of Grant over me, setting a steady rhythm as his hands stroked my breasts, my stomach, my thighs…
“So you get to marry a rich guy you like having sex with, awesome!” Kate said. “You gotta look on the bright side, girl! This is basically the ending of every single fairy tale ever.”
I forced a smile. “Well, when you put it like that…”
I wished I could explain to Kate that it wasn’t just the sex that was making things complicated, it was the feelings attached to the sex. But to explain that to Kate I would have had to explain it to myself first, and if there was one thing in life I didn’t understand, it was how Grant made me feel the way he did.
Maybe Kate was right. Everything she was saying made sense. Everything I was thinking and feeling made no sense at all.
But Kate was right, why couldn’t I be happy?
The universe refused to respond to my questions with a detailed essay whose footnotes laid out the crux of all my emotional difficulties, and so there I was at our apartment, trying to sort o
ut my feelings about all this while also trying to run interference between Grant and my parents so they all got off on the right foot.
Grant had chosen the caterers well, good delicious food that was organic and ethical and local but not too fancy; the high price tag came from the plants’ and animals’ quality of life, not a publicity campaign or a lot of imported ingredients.
There was deep-fried okra, vegetable pie, chicken soup, ginger carrot soup, local beer, and chocolate chip cookies spread out all over the counter in the kitchen; the four of us had pulled up stools and we passed the baskets of food around to whoever wanted to try them.
I wanted to address the elephant in the room right away, but Grant had persuaded me to let him ease them into it, so right now we were chatting about the weather, local sports, and the apartment.
“It’s a bit empty at the moment, but I do think that sort of highlights its potent energies,” Mom was saying. “I know a wonderful feng shui master who’d be willing to give it a look over, Grant, if you’re interested.”
“I’m always open to suggestions, ma’am,” Grant said, while shooting me an amused look.
I just raised my eyebrow. I had tried to tell him they were hippies.
“Oh, call me Emma, dear,” Mom said. “Or would you prefer Mom? Lacey, would you prefer he call me Emma or Mom—”
I figured there had been enough easing, and that this was a ready-made opportunity.
“Actually, Mom, Dad, there’s something I wanted to tell you…”
They took it amazingly well.
I mean, I knew they were hippies and believed in peace and love and everyone following their own path...but they took it amazingly well.
“I support whatever Lacey wants to do,” Mom said. “If you’re willing to go along with this, Pumpkin, I know you’ve got a good reason.”
“Got a good head on her shoulders, and a good heart,” Dad said.
If I didn’t know they viewed the accumulation of wealth as a stain upon the soul of Mother Earth, I would have suspected Grant of bribing them.
“Practical gal, but she never lets that override her morals,” Dad said. “Remember the lemonade stand?”
“Oh, not this story again,” I protested.
“I want to hear the story,” Grant volunteered, a wicked grin on his face.
“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” my mom said with a reproachful look at me. “Well, it was the hottest summer on record, and Lacey had opened up a lemonade stand, charging fifty cents a cup. Well, one day this homeless man came by, and Lacey gave him a cup for free. Our snooty neighbor didn’t like that at all, so she came charging out and Lacey just looked at her and said—”
“Oh hey Dad, did you know Grant collects cars?” I interrupted before Mom could get to the embarrassing part where I dumped lemonade over that lady’s head. “You should go look at his cars! They’re mostly old ones, but there are some new fuel-efficient ones too! Go look at cars!”
I hustled Grant and Dad out of the room, Grant mouthing over his shoulder I will find out what happened, and turned back to my mom, who was digging into the chocolate chip cookies with gusto.
“You’re really cool with this?” I asked.
“Yes I am, young lady. We’ll stick to the script in any interviews, too,” Mom promised. She giggled. “Oooh, interviews! Listen to me, like some kind of movie star!”
“Yeah, you’ll be in the spotlight for sure.” I toyed with a piece of okra, but my nerves had destroyed my appetite. “You’re really okay?”
“Sounds like maybe you want me to not be okay with it. Are you happy, Pumpkin?”
I looked away so she wouldn’t see me tear up. “Don’t know what you mean, Mom.”
“Oh, Lacey Spacey Pumpkin Pie, I wasn’t born yesterday.” She covered my hand with hers. Her hand was warm, the skin just starting to paper with age. “I can see you like him a whole lot. Seems like he likes you too. Is this what you want, doing the marriage this way?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered.
“Maybe if you and Grant talked—”
“No.” My voice cracked. “No. I can’t.”
“Well, you know your father and I will support you, whatever you do.” She squeezed my hand. “Follow your heart, Lacey. Your heart beats with the ancient wisdom of Mother Earth, and it sings in symphony with the dust of stars. It’s very important to remember that, especially since you’re a Taurus.”
For a moment I wished that my mom were still the kind of person who would have cut that speech off at ‘follow your heart,’ but no matter what silly stuff my mom spouted, I was lucky to have her, and grateful.
‘Follow my heart.’ Yeah.
I just wished my heart had provided me with a map so I’d know where the hell it was leading me.
24
The sun through the window brought out the gold in Grant’s hair, lighting him up like an angel. It softened the lines of his face, too, or maybe it was sleep that did that—made him look so young, so sweet, so vulnerable. I lightly traced the lines of his face and neck, not wanting to wake him. Needing to touch him nonetheless.
This was the man I would marry today.
We hadn’t had sex last night; just cuddled. And talked. Talked for hours. I loved the way he said my name. I loved the way he talked in the darkness about all the things he couldn’t in the light of day, all his insecurities and worries and dreams.
I loved the way he stroked my hair until I fell asleep.
I loved—
I loved him.
There. I said it.
I slipped out from under the covers as quietly as I could to avoid disturbing him, and stole just one more moment looking at him asleep. The line and shape of him under the sheets, his arm thrown carelessly overhead, his mouth hanging slightly open as if there were one more thing he had left to say. I savored one last look at that beautiful face—those eyelashes, so long and fine, that skin I knew the feel of so well.
I very nearly kissed him goodbye, but I told myself I’d be back before he even knew I was gone.
I stepped through the doors of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel and into their dramatic Italian travertine marble lobby, trying not to feel like I was trespassing. I had a perfect right to be here; Portia had, through an amount of wrangling, backroom deals, and downright threats that I did not even want to think about, reserved the hotel’s event space for our wedding. So what if that wasn’t for another several hours? I didn’t want to get married in a strange place.
Staff and security did double-takes as I glided by, starting forward as if to eject me from the premises before recognizing me and performing an about-face. I glided unmolested up the striking grand staircase, outfitted with curved glass and mapa burlwood veneer. Whatever else our wedding was, it was certainly going to be fashionable as hell.
On the second floor, preparations were in full swing.
Sunlight streamed through the large windows, letting in the sounds of the waking city. Fresh daffodils and irises were being cut and placed in vases around the California Room, their bright colors offsetting nicely the tasteful beige and white décor. White tablecloths were being shaken over tables, chefs were barking out lists of ingredients, bottles of wine were being carted in by the truckload.
So many people! They were doing this all for us. They were doing this all…for me.
For a lie.
Guilt crashed over me like a tsunami wave, drowning me in self-recrimination. This was all fake. This was all nothing. Oh God, I wanted it not to be, I wanted it to be real, I wanted to be able to stand here knowing that Grant and I were really going to be married, that he really loved me, that we were going to spend the rest of our lives together—
I couldn’t. I couldn’t do this to him. I couldn’t nod and smile and pretend to have nothing more than lust and friendship for him, and all the while be stewing in my own loss and grief.
I couldn’t spend months—or maybe it would even be years before we could convincingly amicably
separate—mooning after him, taking the scraps of affection he could give. Waiting up nights wondering why I couldn’t make him love me, feeling resentment start to wear its way into my heart. I would start twisting my own feelings around until I hated Grant as much as I loved him, for not loving me back.
And I didn’t ever want to hate Grant again.
I ran downstairs as fast as my feet could carry me. I wasn’t thinking; just operating on autopilot. My mission: save Grant.
“Excuse me,” I said breathlessly to the woman at the desk. “Can I leave a note with you for my fiancé? Grant Devlin? He should be here later.”
“Certainly, ma’am, and congratulations, we’re all so excited to be hosting—”
“Thank you,” I said automatically, and scribbled a note on my steno pad, trying not to burst into tears as I remembered what my mother had said to me about following my heart.
Dear Grant, I am so, so sorry. I can’t do this. Don’t look for me
Love, Lacey
I took off the ring and put it into an envelope with the note. The staff person’s eyes widened, and I saw her mouth open as if to ask a question, but I was already out the door and gone.
The muffler on my rented car groaned and sputtered as I roared down the road, a quickly tossed-together bag of belongings in the trunk, my phone turned off, and the radio blaring mindless pop songs and no news. The sun blazed bright as if in mockery of the pain I felt, tearing me up inside like I had swallowed cut glass.
“I’m doing the right thing,” I said to myself, revving the engine to get to my parents’ house faster. I would be safe there; I would know what to do there. “I’m protecting him.”
I could hide at my parent’s house; hide from Grant, hide from the whole world. But could I hide from my own heart?
TO BE CONTINUED
25
