by Jane Porter
Big trees bordered the city park, the leaves just starting to change, and the breeze rustled the green, rust and gold leaves, catching some, sending others scuttling down the road.
He braked at Church Avenue, watching the swirling leaves, then glanced right, left, and was just about to continue east when a flash of white caught his eye.
Gaze narrowing, he leaned on his steering wheel to get a better look.
A girl in blinding white, standing on the corner.
He’d intended to continue to Bramble Lane but impulsively he turned left, onto Church, driving toward the girl on the street corner, her gown reflecting light, dazzling white light, with bits of iridescent sparkle and shimmer.
He eased off the accelerator as he approached her, intrigued.
Princess at the bus stop.
Cinderella without a glass coach.
As he drew near, her head turned. She looked at him. Her veil had been pushed back from her face. Her eyes were brown. A brilliant liquid brown.
She’d been crying. Or maybe trying not to cry.
His chest tightened, the sensation sharp, and hard, and unexpected.
Then her gaze lifted another inch, and she looked unflinchingly into his eyes. Her gaze held his, challengingly. She dared him to speak. Dared him to criticize.
Princess bride.
Air hitched in his chest, his fingers tightened on the hard steering wheel. Princess Bride, like the movie by the same name. He’d loved that film as a kid.
And here was a girl who looked just like the princess in the movie.
This girl on the street corner was that beautiful.
Film star beautiful, with gold hair. Lots of it. And cheekbones like a question mark, high and full, never mind the sweet, soulful mouth that tilted down at the corners even as tears darkened the thick black fringe of eyelash.
Beauty broken from the Beast, looking for a way home.
Colton, who’d learned long ago not to get involved in other people’s business, told himself not to get involved now. But he couldn’t just leave her here. Couldn’t ignore her. Princess brides didn’t belong on street corners.
He rolled down his truck window. “You okay, darlin’?”
She glanced at him, then away, and nodded, her gaze riveted on the majestic peak of Copper Mountain behind them. “Yes.”
Her voice was soft, low, and it made his chest ache again. He didn’t understand the pang, just knew that something wasn’t right and he couldn’t continue to Bramble Lane and admire Marietta’s big old houses when Beauty stood here all alone. “Need a ride somewhere?”
She shook her head once, briefly. “No. But thank you.”
She was dismissing him. He understood, and didn’t blame her. She was a princess and he was a dirty, dusty unshaven cowboy driving a dirty, dusty old truck. “Waiting for the bus?”
She shook her head again.
“Good,” he said. “’Cause I don’t think there is bus service this late on Saturday afternoon. At least, the last bus used to stop around three and it’s got to be going on four.”
“Probably closer to four-thirty,” she agreed. The wind caught at her veil, blowing it up, haloing her head. She reached up to catch it, and tugged it back down. “It’s breezy.”
“Almost always is. You’re not from around here.”
“No, I am. I was born here, but I haven’t lived here in years. I just came home for my—” she broke off, looked away, two spots of color high in her cheeks. For a moment the only sound was the wind rustling leaves, and the cling-clang as an empty aluminum can bounced across the St. James parking lot.
But she didn’t need to finish her sentence. Wasn’t necessary to complete it. She’d come home for her wedding and yet here she was, alone on Church and First Street, as if all brides hung out on street corners on their wedding day. “You look beautiful.”
She made a soft, hoarse sound and her eyes welled with tears. She bit hard into her lower lip. “It’s the dress.” She lightly ran her fingertips across her middle, skimming the silk. “It cost a fortune.”
And then she looked up, into his eyes, and he hitched a breath, feeling as though he’d been punched in the gut. There was so much in her eyes, so much emotion. He could see her hurt. Feel her pain.
He didn’t like it.
He didn’t know her. He didn’t want to feel this, or anything, not for her. Not for any woman. He’d provide for his mom and sister, but he was done with emotional entanglements. Women felt good and smelled good and were good for some old fashioned loving, but he didn’t need problems. And this princess was most definitely a problem.
“Wedding dresses usually do,” he said.
A flash of fire lit her eyes. Pride squelching the hurt, making her look more like a warrior than a princess in distress. “You know a lot about wedding gowns, cowboy?”
He didn’t know if it was the words or her tone that made him smile, but he did. Reluctantly. He liked her fire a hell of a lot more than the sadness. Pride was good. Backbone even better. “I’ve seen Say Yes to the Dress before.”
She shook her head, disgusted.
“Not by choice,” he added.
“Of course not,” she said, her chin notching up.
“So when is the wedding?” he asked.
“Now. At least, it was supposed to be now. Everyone’s there, waiting.”
Thus all the cars in the St. James parking lot, and the overflow cars lining the street. “And you’re what… running away?”
“No.” She exhaled hard. “My groom did.”
“Cold feet?”
She smiled, a tough not-going-to-cry smile which made his chest burn as if he’d swallowed whiskey straight. “Cold heart.” Her lips twisted ruefully. “Turns out I’m not good enough for him.”
Colton’s gaze swept her, from the top of her head to the toes of her elegant white silk shoes. “How’s that possible? You look like a fairy tale princess come to life.”
Her eyes locked with his and for a moment she looked open and soft and so very, very sweet. And then her slim shoulders twisted and she lifted her chin again. “Ah, cowboy, but that’s the problem. Fairy tales don’t exist.”
And then she flashed him another tough-girl smile that would have broken his heart if he’d still had one, before scooping up the train of her dress and walking away from him, heading for the entrance to the gray gothic-inspired St. James, the stunning Protestant church he’d never been in, because this wasn’t his side of town. He’d been raised in north Marietta, where rent was cheap and opportunity non-existent. That’s why he’d left Marietta the day after his high school graduation. He left the very first chance he could.
*
Jenny walked quickly away from the cowboy in the truck, surprised. Unnerved. Goose bumps covering her arms, her skin prickling all the way down her back.
Colton Thorpe.
Colton Thorpe was back in town.
She clutched her fragrant bouquet, her steps unsteady as she climbed the stairs to the church.
Colton. Wow.
Wow.
Talk about a blast from the past.
She’d had the most ridiculous thing for him. One of those hopeless crushes that kept her awake at night and filled a diary with adolescent longing…
The crush had lasted for years. Fortunately, he didn’t know how she’d pined for him, craving his attention, wanting him to just look at her, acknowledge her…
It was embarrassing. She was embarrassing.
She’d thought the years in Chicago had changed her. She’d thought she’d conquered her demons—the insecurity, the poor self-esteem—but here she was on her wedding day, in her wedding gown, alone.
It was almost laughable.
Her worst fears, her very worst fears, had just come true.
As she reached the top step, the dark stained arched doors opened, and guests poured into the crisp late autumn afternoon, voices, whispers, nervous laughter.
Not all voices were hushed tho
ugh. There were a few that were loud and sharp and they carried on the breeze with the surging crowd.
“Can’t believe it. A wedding without a bride or groom.”
“I knew something was wrong when the service didn’t start on time.”
“What a waste of time. I wish I hadn’t bought a new dress for this. I’m hoping I can still return the gift!”
Jenny flinched at the last, recognizing Carol Bingley’s strident voice. But then, it was hard not to. Carol Bingley, Marietta’s town gossip, had never been particularly fond of the Wright family, or the three blonde Wright girls, saying quite cuttingly a decade ago that ‘it was a shame those three Wright girls were all wrong.’
As Carol marched towards Jenny, her stout figure swathed in an appalling yellow, turquoise, and black print, Jenny’s sense of self-preservation kicked it. It was time for fight, or flight, and there was no way she could fight Carol here, with others watching.
Jenny fled.
It was the coward’s way but she was ashamed, deeply ashamed, and a latent survival instinct drove her back down the church’s steps, across the pavement to the street. But once she was on Church Avenue, Jenny kept running, racing to the corner of First and turning right, cutting between homes that were a mix of residential and commercial before reaching Crawford Avenue and then on to historic Bramble Lane.
It was on Bramble Lane, with its treasure-trove of sprawling Victorian and Queen Anne homes, that she slowed.
She loved Bramble Lane. It was like a storybook street and her favorite street in all of Marietta.
She remembered the first time she actually rode her bike down this street. She was in second grade and she’d just gone to the library and returned books and instead of going straight home, she decided to go see all the big pretty houses. She’d seen them before, from the car, but had never explored the street on her own.
She rode slowly, wonderingly down the quiet tree lined street, awed. Dazzled.
This was where the rich people lived. This is where little girls who studied ballet and took piano lessons lived. She could even see a big piano in one of the bay windows.
Her house was so small you couldn’t even put a grand piano in the living room. First, it wouldn’t fit through the front door. And second, it’d take up the entire room. There’d be no place for a couch or the TV, and her dad needed both—bad.
No, her house was the size of a matchbox compared to these two- and three-story homes. A few of the houses, like the gorgeous Bramble House, were built of mellow red brick with doors and windows trimmed in thick, white, glossy woodwork, while others were Victorians, ornamented with lavish latticework, asymmetrical turrets, and colorful paint. Regardless of the style, every home at the south end of Bramble Lane was situated on a half acre or more, and had gardens and gates and big front porches with wicker chairs and flower pots.
From second grade on, Jenny desperately wanted to live in one of these beautiful houses. The houses looked perfect, and good, and to Jenny, it seemed only good things could happen inside such elegant walls.
In houses like these, daddies didn’t drink too much and yell and break things because they’d drunk too much.
In big beautiful houses mommies wouldn’t take to their bed and cry so hard they’d get headaches which meant they couldn’t make dinner or put their children to bed because their head hurt.
Jenny was in kindergarten the first time she made her sisters’ dinner.
She was still making dinner for her two younger sisters until the day she left for Chicago.
She’d never blamed her parents for their family’s difficult circumstances—poor, struggling, unhappy—but Jenny vowed when she left Marietta, that she’d never ever let herself become like her mother. Dependent on a man. Helpless without him and yet miserable with him.
Nearly limping from the rub of raw blisters, Jenny walked carefully, trying not to aggravate the tender skin more than necessary, trying not to think because really, how could she think? It was impossible to process that today had finally arrived, the day she’d spent months and months planning for, only to have all her dreams collapse.
It was shocking. Shattering. She still couldn’t believe it was over. Couldn’t believe that Charles had refused to marry her, throwing her family’s weaknesses in her face, throwing the things about her that she couldn’t change, reducing her to a weakness, too. As if her parents’ struggles were all that she was… all that she could be.
Jenny ground her teeth together.
He was wrong. Not just about Jenny, but about her parents too, because both her mother and father had struggled, but they finally got help, going to counseling and attending meetings and coming out stronger and more committed to their marriage than ever before. She was proud of them, fiercely proud.
She drew a slow, deep breath, trying to ease the wild staccato of her heart.
She wished she hadn’t run from the church.
She wished she’d gone to the church’s parish hall, where she’d dressed in the side room with the help of her sisters and bridesmaids. She should have headed there and waited for her sisters and friends, because they would have returned eventually to collect their purses and street clothes. If she’d thought clearly, logically, she wouldn’t be on yet another street corner, with blistered feet and no money or phone.
An engine sounded behind her, a loud engine that was almost familiar. She stepped back and turned to Colton Thorpe’s rusty red truck drawing alongside her.
“Where are you going, darlin’?” Colton asked, pulling to a stop next to her, and rolling down his window.
Ambivalent emotion rushed through her. Years ago she couldn’t get him to talk to her, and now he was talking and she didn’t want the attention.
But she needed to get home. She needed out of this dress, and shoes and veil. He could get her home, too. Stressed, she sucked in her lower lip, chewed it. “I don’t know,” she confessed.
“Just out walking?” he asked, blue eyes settling on her face.
“Yes.”
“It’s a nice fall afternoon.”
“It is,” she agreed, thinking this was the most ludicrous conversation, but it was better than saying anything that was real or important. Better than crying. Better than falling apart. She couldn’t fall apart in public. Couldn’t let anyone, much less Colton Thorpe, see her pain.
But conversation seemed to stall out there and as silence stretched, Jenny’s heart pounded.
Her world had just turned upside down. And a strange crazy sixth sense whispered that for reasons she didn’t yet understand, her world would never be the same.
Jenny swallowed hard and looked at Colton. His gaze met hers. Held.
His eyes were blue.
Strange.
Lots of people had blue eyes. Charles had blue eyes, too. But not like this. Colton’s were a deep brilliant marine blue.
Denim blue.
She knew a lot of things about Colton Thorpe. Knew he’d struggled in high school. Knew he’d gone from gangly pre-adolescent to a hot-headed teenager, quick with his fists. Jenny’s parents hadn’t approved of him. Most parents hadn’t approved of him, not with his dangerous reputation for fast driving, fighting, and ruining good girls. Colton left town the day after graduating from Marietta High, wasting no time in finding bigger, greener pastures, and at the same time, leaving a string of broken hearts behind.
She remembered all that, but she didn’t remember his blue eyes. Or how square his jaw looked with a little bit of stubble. Or the slightly raised scar on his left cheekbone.
His dirty blonde hair was darker now, more golden brown than blonde, and long enough to hang over his collar. If he wore a collar. Instead he wore a thin cotton t-shirt that stretched tautly over his big shoulders, the soft gray fabric hugging the planes of his broad chest and clinging to his thick biceps.
Colton Thorpe wasn’t a teenager, wasn’t a kid, wasn’t a city sophisticate, either.
He was a man. A big, tough, tough,
hard, man with muscles and a piercing blue gaze that made her suddenly doubt everything she knew, and everything she believed.
Her heart did a funny little beat, a sickening one-two, that made her long to sit down, put her head between her knees.
“You feeling all right, darlin’?” Colton asked.
Jenny licked her lower lip. It was dry, so dry, like her mouth and throat. Her heart continued to pound. Her head swam. She was feeling faint, but she couldn’t admit it. Jenny Wright was nothing if not professional, having spent far too many years as an executive assistant, working with prickly management, solving difficult problems, putting out real or perceived fires, to fall apart at the drop of a hat. “I’m fine.”
He waited a moment before asking, “Do you live here on Bramble Lane?”
“No.”
“Going some place on Bramble?”
Her throat ached. “No.”
“Where’s your car?”
“I don’t have one. Not here. My car is in Chicago.” She averted her face, hating how her eyes pickled and burned. She couldn’t cry. She must not cry. Charles despised tears, and he’d taught her that she wasn’t allowed to cry. He viewed tears as a weakness, and manipulative, and his executive team needed to exude strength and confidence at all times, because Charles Monmouth succeeded where others failed.
She glanced down as rust and crackling brown leaves danced before her and swirled into the street. “The other Windy City,” she added, huskily. “It’s home. Now.”
“A big city girl… but you once lived here?”
“Born at Marietta Regional Hospital. Graduated from Marietta High. So yes, Montana born and raised.”
“So where are you staying now?” Colton asked. “With your family?”
She nodded. “I’ve been at my parents. But tonight I was supposed to be at The Graff Hotel. That’s where my things are now.”
“Let me take you to the Graff then.”
She pictured the old Graff Hotel, Marietta’s first hotel, a hotel that had burned down in 1912 and was then rebuilt and reopened with great fanfare in 1914. For three quarters of a century, the hotel had been the spot for weddings, graduations, reunions, and special events until it fell into disrepair. The hotel was closed in the mid seventies, and officially condemned in 1982 and for twenty years it sat, boarded up, a hulking giant, waiting for demolition. But instead of a wrecking ball, one of the Sheenan brothers who’d left Marietta, bought the former landmark and poured millions into renovating the property. The Graff Hotel had only reopened this summer, in time for the tourist season, and Jenny had been so excited to have her reception in the hotel’s stunning ballroom.
