Archer’s eyes narrowed. “That’s my wife, Becca, you’re speaking of. Show some respect.”
Derek’s dark eyes flashed at the sharp reprimand, but he smiled negligently. “Sorry, didn’t mean to rile you up.”
“Is that all you came for? To ask me to hand this seventy-year-old company over to a wet-behind-the-ears finance graduate? Or did you need another loan?” Archer asked pointedly.
Derek shrugged. “Just a couple thousand ought to do it. Dad’s cut me off for the month . . . and I’ve got bills.” Derek lifted one arm to glance at a shiny new Rolex that gleamed on his wrist.
Archer pulled out his checkbook and scribbled off a check for ten thousand. He pushed it across the desk roughly, and Derek caught it before it fluttered to the ground. “Thanks, cuz.” He winked, sauntering out.
Archer sighed, pulling together his notes for the meeting. Sometimes he wished he could just hand the company over to Derek. It would either make or break the younger man, and either way, Archer could do something else with his life. Hayes Investments was a ball and chain around his ankle.
Since the day had turned chilly, Becca decided that a nice, thick beef stew would be the perfect meal. She already had the fragrant dinner bubbling away on the stove and was putting together the dough for her Granny’s famous light-as-air biscuits. The way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, after all.
Flour tickled her nose, and she brushed at it with the back of her hand. Humming along with the country music song on the radio, she tried to decide how best to tell Archer he was going to be a daddy. Hon, I’ve got big news . . . I’m pregnant!
How would he react? She was so deep in thought, she didn’t hear anything other than the music until Lavinia’s sharp voice shook her out of her daydreaming.
“I knew it. You just couldn’t leave the menial labor to the staff, could you?”
Becca jumped, looking up.
Lavinia stood in front of her, dressed to the nines in a red suit and heels. Her hair was curled and shellacked into submission, and her blue eyes were narrow and mean-looking. Next to her was a slightly younger woman who looked similar enough to be her sister. She had darker hair, brown with blond-frosted highlights, but the aristocratic tilt of her nose and the pursed mouth made Becca think that they must be sisters.
“I told you, Lorena. My darling son has lost his mind. This . . . this little upstart thinks she can just climb right out of the haycart and into the lap of luxury, and then she doesn’t even have the decency to act like a Hayes woman should.”
Becca gasped. She felt her face flush with anger and opened her mouth to argue, but the other woman spoke first. “You’re so right, Lavinia. Is that a sweatshirt she’s wearing? And jeans?” She gave a disapproving sniff and a delicate little shudder, brushing at her powder blue slacks. “I wouldn’t be caught dead.”
Becca found her voice, though it was shaky. “Can I help you ladies with something?” Like a boot in the behind? she thought to herself. Right off the side of a mountain?
“Ladies. That’s right. At least you recognize your betters.” Lavinia’s lips curled in a malicious smile. “I just wanted to give you fair warning, dear. I’m going to talk my son into annulling this ridiculous farce of a marriage. He needs a suitable wife. You just don’t fit the mold of what a Hayes woman should. Now, Harper.” Lavinia sighed. “Harper would have made a lovely wife. Breeding, beauty, wealth of her own . . . No. I’m afraid you’re just a mistake that needs to be rectified.”
She and Lorena left, chattering together and laughing, and Becca looked down, realizing she’d pounded the delicate biscuit dough into an unrecognizable lump. The biscuits would be hard as hockey pucks if she baked them now. A tear splashed the back of her hand.
She carefully wiped her hand dry on a dishtowel. She’d just have to start over, that’s all. Archer would be home from work soon, and this dinner—and the announcement that came with it—had to be perfect.
Responsibility was a weight that felt like about a million pounds. Archer left the office at ten, feeling flattened by it. Every moment of the emergency board meeting felt like an hour, and now, he just couldn’t wait to get home to his undemanding bride. And then he remembered she asked him to be home at seven. He lifted one hand from the steering wheel to rub his temples and told himself that Becca wouldn’t mind. Becca never complained about anything. She was everything that was sweet and understanding.
The house was dark when he pulled into the driveway, looming in the night like a crouched beast. He felt a pang of concern. Without fail, Becca always left the living room light on for him. He fumbled for his keys and unlocked the door. He smelled something delicious, rich and beefy, and wondered if Jackie had come home early but bypassed the kitchen to check the living room, turning lights on as he went.
Becca wasn’t on the couch or in any of the other rooms on the main floor. She’d looked so tired that afternoon, he wouldn’t have blamed her for going to bed. But she wasn’t in their bed. He looked out the stairwell window—her car was parked in its usual spot. He was starting to panic when he opened the door to her little red and white room and saw a mound of blankets.
“Becca?” Archer said quietly, a little irritated after having been so nervous when he couldn’t find her. She stirred and sat up, clicking the lamp switch on the bedside table.
“Archer, where were you?” Her face was pale in the darkness, and her blue eyes seemed bigger than usual. Her hair was twisted into a long braid that hung over her shoulder. She wasn’t smiling.
“What are you doing in here?” His voice came out rougher than he intended, but his wife should be in his bed. Not a spare bedroom.
“I waited for hours,” she said instead. “Where were you? I needed you.”
Great. Looked like today was his day to let everyone down. “I was working. You know, paying for this beautiful lifestyle you married into.”
Becca gasped, stung at his cold tone. He acted like she’d married him for his money! “What do you mean by that?”
“Forget it,” Archer said dully. “I’m going to bed. It’s been a long day.”
“Wait,” Becca blurted, climbing out of bed and pulling on her robe, not noticing it was the old terrycloth one she couldn’t bear to get rid of. It was too comfortable. She followed him out into the hallway. “Aren’t you hungry? I can reheat the stew.”
“That’s okay. Jackie’s stew always tastes even better the second day.”
Becca felt the first real tickle of anger at the back of her throat. “This isn’t Jackie’s stew. It’s mine.”
Archer shrugged out of his suitcoat and draped it over the back of a chair. “Well, maybe we can have it for dinner tomorrow instead.”
“I needed to tell you something, though, and I’d hoped—”
“That’ll have to wait for tomorrow, too.” He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt.
Becca surprised herself. “No, it can’t wait.” She stomped her foot. “It’s important. Your mother stopped by today.” That wasn’t what she meant to say, but it didn’t seem the right time to tell him about the baby.
Archer looked over at her, his eyes narrowed. “And?”
“And she was horrible.”
“So?”
That one word felt like a dagger in her heart. “Don’t you care that she’s treated me like dirt?”
“Look,” Archer burst out. “I’ve had a long day trying to solve everybody’s problems, and I don’t have any more energy for this. If you have a problem with the way my mother acts, it’s your responsibility to tell her so. Dr. Lachele promised me a strong wife, and that means someone who doesn’t curl up in a ball and hide every time her mother-in-law comes around.”
Becca reeled back as if he’d slapped her. “You honestly don’t care that she constantly comes around and tells me I’m the worst mistake you ever made? Embarrasses me for being a ‘Tennessee hillbilly’? Says that you should have married Harper or one of the other girls she pic
ked out for you?”
“Tell her off, then,” he shot back. “Or aren’t you strong enough?”
“And if I’m not?” she demanded, hurt to her core.
Archer shrugged, simultaneously guilty about the hurt written all over her face and angry at the world for being against him today. “Maybe I should have married someone else, then. Just married a woman she picked out for me. Things would be a heck of a lot more peaceful right now, I’m sure.”
“You don’t mean that,” Becca whispered. “You wish I was a different person?”
Archer sighed wearily. “Right now, I wish everything was different.” Without another word, he went into the bathroom and closed the door behind him, leaving Becca standing motionless in the middle of their room.
She wanted to run away. She wanted to break down and cry. She wanted to scream at him to come back and talk to her like a man—a real husband—would. She didn’t do any of those things, though.
Becca gathered her robe around her, turned around, and went back to her own room. Archer could sleep by himself tonight. She was going to her little sanctuary room to lick her wounds.
Archer showered, hoping the hot, steamy spray would wash the aftereffects of the day away. He was so exhausted and couldn’t face the thought of getting up the next day to do it all over again. Not only that, but he’d shared his rotten mood with Becca of all people. The most caring, even-tempered, non-judgmental woman he’d ever met. He winced at the memory of some of the things he’d said to her as he worked shampoo into his hair. He owed her an apology.
He should also do something about his mother. Becca was right. It wasn’t fair that Lavinia should be making her life miserable, too. The thought of dealing with his mother, though, was almost worse than the thought of going back to work the next day. He’d have to do it, though, he thought, shutting off the shower and wrapping a towel around his waist. She was getting out of control.
He stepped out into the bedroom, ready to apologize to Becca, but she wasn’t there. He’d been sure she’d be in bed, waiting for him, and realized she must be sleeping in the room next door. Archer sighed and pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms. He’d deal with it all tomorrow.
His last thought before he fell asleep was that Becca had said she had a surprise for him. He wondered what it was.
Seven
Archer didn’t sleep well. He didn’t deserve to sleep well, he told himself the next morning in the pre-dawn light, getting up and getting dressed to go to work. He’d taken out his bad day on Becca, spoiled whatever surprise she had for him, and basically alienated the only person that had firmly been in his corner for as long as he could remember.
Becca wasn’t up and waiting with a smile like she usually was when he went down to the kitchen, and his regret and guilt doubled until he was feeling almost panicky—a completely alien emotion to him. He was Archer Hayes. He handled every issue that came his way. Then, why couldn’t he make himself go wake Becca up and apologize to her? He’d messed up. Bad.
Before he completely realized what he was doing, he pulled his wallet out and found the Matchrimony card Dr. Lachele had given him and was dialing her cell phone number. He didn’t stop to think about the fact that it wasn’t even five thirty in the morning. He needed advice, fast.
Becca heard Archer’s voice downstairs and jumped out of bed, pulling on her robe. She’d exhausted herself crying last night and slept through her alarm. She’d meant to talk to Archer, get everything straightened out before he left for work. She knew he was under a lot of stress, and she was willing to apologize—just this once—to make sure everything was okay between them before he left for another long day at the office. She could try a redo of the night before. Make something else special for dinner . . . maybe baby-themed cupcakes for dessert? But when she reached the bottom of the stairs, she stopped, curious as to who he was talking to so early in the morning.
“She’s just not used to this kind of life,” Archer was saying. “I don’t know what to do. Becca’s so sweet and innocent . . . did I make a mistake?”
A mistake? Becca put her hand over her mouth to stop the question from coming out. She backed up the stairs slowly, her hand on the railing. Was Archer trying to say he’d made a mistake in marrying her? What if he was talking to his mother? What if he wanted an annulment? Becca turned and hurried up the stairs, retreating to her room, the cold floor icy on her bare feet.
“Of course, you made a mistake, dummy!” Dr. Lachele’s voice had lost its sleepiness as soon as she heard who was calling. “You should have stood up for Becca the day of your wedding when your mother was pulling her shenanigans. Poor Becca didn’t deserve any of that.”
“But you promised me a strong wife,” Archer said defensively even though he knew the matchmaker was right.
“And Becca is strong. Strong and brave and kind, generous and selfless with others. Strong enough for you to fight for. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?”
Dr. Lachele was right.
“I have been a dummy,” Archer admitted, restraining the urge to whack his head on the kitchen table in front of him. “She’s everything you’ve described and more. Tell me what to do to fix this.”
“You think about how you can make this up to her,” Dr. Lachele ordered tartly. “Get your ducks in a row and show our girl what she means to you. In the meantime, I’m going to come right down there today and pick up Becca. She’s due for a little girl time, and I think a weekend in Charleston should do the trick.”
Becca didn’t want to get out of bed. She was tired. She was grumpy. She was mad at Archer, her marriage might be ending before it ever completely began, and she had no reason to go anywhere right now or do anything. So, she did something completely uncharacteristic.
She moped.
That is, until the doorbell rang at three o’clock that afternoon.
“Boobie bump!”
“Dr. Lachele?”
The purple-haired matchmaker stood beaming on the front steps in a plum-colored sweater and jeans, her arms thrown wide. “In the flesh! Now come here and give me a hug.”
Becca did, astonished to see her. “What are you doing here?” She couldn’t believe how right it felt for this woman to hold her for a minute. The “boobie bump” was just what she’d needed.
“Playing fairy godmother.” The other woman giggled. “Get dressed, and brush that bird’s nest on top of your head. We’re going away for a girl’s weekend.”
Lachele was like a velvet-covered steamroller once she got going. You either did what she said and got out of the way, or you got gently flattened. Becca was dressed and packed and tucked into Dr. Lachele’s rental car before she even realized what was going on.
The older woman patted Becca’s knee. “You try and relax and have some fun. We’re going to have a great weekend: spa, mani/pedi, some new clothes. . . . By the time we get back to town, I’m sure your husband will have a whole new outlook. Trust me.”
“Sounds fun,” Becca said weakly, holding on to the doorframe as they rocketed down the road that led away from her home, “but I think it’s going to take more than that to fix what’s wrong with my marriage. I’m not the kind of woman Archer needs as a wife.”
“Wrong,” Dr. Lachele countered cheerily, taking a turn on what felt like two wheels. “You’re exactly what Archer Hayes needs.” She breezed through a stop sign, and Becca said a silent prayer for her unborn child.
“But his mother . . . even Archer himself said I’m not the kind of wife he should have. Archer needs a prim, proper, well-bred wife suitable for his position in life.”
“Then, let’s turn you into that. See how he likes it.” Dr. Lachele took her eyes from the steering wheel long enough to wink at Becca. “Let’s do a makeover. We’ll trim you out just like a high-society broad. Haircut, wardrobe, the works. See how he likes it when he finally gets the wife his mother thinks he should have.”
Becca thought for a moment. What would he do if she came home a diff
erent person? Would he fall in love with her? Or would he want the old Becca back? “It’d be a pretty expensive experiment . . .” she said uncertainly.
Dr. Lachele only grinned wider and pulled a silver-colored credit card out of her pocket. “I found this platinum beauty in a basket on your kitchen counter. It’s got your name on it. And you do know your husband is worth millions, right?”
“He did tell me to use my credit card. I thought he meant if I needed anything, but maybe this kind of makeover is what he had in mind?”
“Honey, we’re going to find out.”
Becca was beginning to think that her old life—scrubbing floors, cleaning toilets, working 14-hour days sometimes—was easier than being the wife of a wealthy man. She’d been poked and prodded, wrapped and scoured, filed and pruned until she wanted to scream.
The snooty man who cut her hair sniffed constantly the whole time. Becca was about to offer him a tissue when she realized he didn’t have a cold. He just had a lot of disapproval. She shuddered when she saw long strands of blond hair falling to the floor. He wouldn’t even let her see herself in the mirror when he was done, and Pierre LaRue was so bossy, she didn’t argue. He was only five feet tall, but he carried very sharp scissors and waved them around in a way that made Becca nervous.
Instead, Becca was forced to wait until new clothes and makeup stylists were brought. She was getting more and more antsy, when Pierre did something that scared her more than anything else. He smiled.
“Becca . . . you’re not going to believe the way you look.” Dr. Lachele’s eyes were wide.
“Is it that bad?” Becca whispered.
“You were gorgeous before, and you’re gorgeous now. You just look so different.”
“Different is what we’re going for.” Becca squared her shoulders and turned to the three-way mirror on the wall behind her. She searched it for a moment before she realized the woman reflected back was her.
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