Lucy smiled. Chuck was so good at what he did, but his confidence had yet to catch up to his ability. “Hey, do you guys want to grab lunch afterward? Hang out—talk?” She had yet to process Clare Deveraux’s revelation. She wanted to share it with her friends and get their insight. And sympathy.
“We can’t,” Morgan said. “I’ve finally talked him into registering at the mall.”
Chuck greeted a passing couple. “Is it bad etiquette to ask for a new Guitar Hero?”
“Okay. Maybe later.” Talking would have to wait. “Good luck in there.”
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Morgan tilted her head and gave Lucy a questioning stare. “There’s someone waiting for you.”
Lucy looked beyond Chuck into the sanctuary. There on the tenth row sat Alex Sinclair. “Huh.”
“Yeah, I said the same thing.” Morgan frowned. “Lucy, what is going on with you two?”
Lucy shrugged. “Pretty much what it looks like.” Minus a few glaring details.
“So you’re serious? I mean, I know we haven’t gotten to hang out much lately, but him? And you?”
“Yes.” Lucy’s voice was a dry monotone. “He’s everything I could want and more.”
Morgan wasn’t buying it. “And you couldn’t tell me the two of you have been dating?”
“Look,” Chuck said, “we think you’re worthy of the best man on the planet—you know that. But Alex Sinclair—the Playboy? Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” He spoke in a whispered hush. “I might be a pastor, but if he messes with you, I will run my light saber right through his black heart, you got that?”
“I care about him. He’s actually not a bad guy once you get to know him.”
“What about Matt?” Morgan asked.
He had yet to return Lucy’s phone calls, and that only added to the yarn ball of stress in her stomach. “Let’s just discuss this later.”
Morgan shook her dark head and leaned closer to Lucy. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I want the truth. So as soon as I wrap up some of these wedding details, you and I are going to have a nice long chat.”
“I’d better go. Alex is waiting for me.”
She walked down the aisle, slipped past Alex and into the empty seat beside him.
“Saving this?” she asked.
“Yes. For my girlfriend.” He smiled, revealing a dimple in his cheek. “You can sit there until she arrives, but don’t be surprised if I get handsy during ‘I Surrender All.’” His arm curved over the back of her chair. “That song does something to me every time.”
“So what are you doing?” she asked.
“Going to church.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s Sunday.”
“Is this about your image?”
Something in those dark chocolate eyes shifted. “Believe what you want.”
She watched him for a moment, not sure what to make of his appearance. “Well, I’m not sharing my Bible.”
The frat boy grin returned. “I have my own.”
“Precious Moments?”
He smiled at the couple taking seats in front of them. “I hope you get your man-hating issues taken care of before our wedding. I can’t live with this abuse for fifty years.” He leaned closer, and she had to remind herself to breathe. The laughter left his eyes as he studied her. “How are you this morning? Have you had any more communication with Clare?”
She didn’t know what to do with the concern she saw in his face. Sarcasm and animosity she was comfortable with. But this fledgling friendship they were building? Terrifying. “She’s called a few times. But I haven’t picked up. I’ll get cotillion lessons from someone else.”
“I meant about your dad.”
“I can’t even think about that now.” Lucy watched Chuck take the pulpit. “But I am strangely glad you’re here. I just hope lightning doesn’t strike our row or anything.”
“For your information, I was raised in a church. I took first place in Bible drills in the fifth grade.”
Her lips shifted into an easy smile. “Really?”
He nodded. “I got a medal and everything.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be,” he said. “I got caught kissing Emily Fletcher behind the oak tree of Trinity Methodist, and Pastor Hamby took back my award.”
“You were totally robbed.”
Alex tugged on one of her curls. “Anything for a girl.”
She had to turn away from the warmth in that million-dollar smile. The guy was getting under her skin.
Yesterday had been quite an eye-opener. Watching him in his office fielding phone calls, holding a staff meeting, planning next week’s commercial shoots. She had expected to find Alex just going through the motions of the campaign—letting others do the heavy lifting. But the only thing he hadn’t weighed in on was lunch. That had been his sister Finley’s job. He was quite the big brother to her. How many times had Lucy caught him sharing a joke with his sister or praising Finley for helping make phone calls? And in the midst of it all, he had shown Lucy around, taken the time to introduce her to everyone on his staff. Like she was a part of his team. A member of Alex Sinclair’s inner circle.
And now he was leaning into her side like any boyfriend would. One who wasn’t a hoax for political gains. One who wasn’t paying her to date him. But if she closed her eyes, it was almost real. She could imagine her heart wasn’t breaking over Matt. It was too easy to step into this fantasy they were creating—that Alex was someone who cared about her. Who could comfort her in this confusing time of paternity bombshells and social suicide.
Chuck’s voice permeated her wandering thoughts. “In First Peter God says it’s time to be on alert. The devil prowls around, looking for our weakness. Do you know when we are at our weakest?”
At rich people parties, Lucy thought.
“We are such easy prey when we’re broken down like an old truck on the side of the road,” Chuck said. “When life has knocked you to your knees, and you have no idea how you’re going to fix it. When your brain is consumed with hurt . . . and all the solutions you’ve come up with are filling up your head.”
Beside her Alex scribbled notes on the back of the church bulletin. His hand covered up the page, and she couldn’t make out what he had written. Probably another one of his endless agendas.
“God tells us to get humble. To run to him and just say, ‘Take care of me. Take the decision-making out of my hands.’” The pinstriped shirt stretched taut across Chuck’s ample belly as he held up his Bible. “He promises to lift us up in due time. He says, ‘After you’ve suffered for a while, I’m gonna pull you right out, and you’re going to be stronger than ever.’”
If the Lord let Lucy dawdle in her misery any longer, she was going to be strong enough to lift a house. She was that misfit teenager again. It was a fine time for God to point out she wasn’t any more delivered from the old securities at thirty than she had been at sixteen.
“Guys”—Chuck let his eyes fall on everyone in the worship center—“we gotta stay tough. We have to stay in the Word and on our knees in prayer. Are you going through something?”
Yes, a fake engagement. Anyone else?
“Now is not the time to shrink back. Satan wants you to quit and run away. But the Lord tells us to face our problems bravely, because just like a young David facing his Goliath, we’ve got God on our side. He is our defense and our refuge. Does life seem unfair right now? Well, just hang on,” Chuck said. “Because your breakthrough is coming—for those who are courageous enough to wait it out.”
With the swishing lull of the ceiling fans overhead, Lucy’s mind wandered over her years in Charleston. It was like a play with two distinct acts. There was her miserable growing-up years, forced to attend that stupid private school. Her mother passing away. Then there was Lucy’s return three summers ago when she had been bent on coming back and proving to herself she could be someone in this town. Yet all she had proven to anyone watching was that she co
uldn’t adequately run a nonprofit.
And now these new developments. If Clare was telling the truth, her mother had lied to her. With no intentions of ever telling her about her real father. Clare’s belief that Steven Deveraux was her dad was preposterous, but yet there were holes in her mother’s stories about the man Lucy had presumed to be her father. Lucy had been raised on lies, and her mother had taken the truth with her.
“What is it that’s defeating you today? That keeps you up at night and makes you want to give up?” Chuck paced the length of the altar. “Are you ready to let God be your champion? Give him all your confusion, your worry, your past. And just let it go. Do not go one more day living in fear of defeat. We are more than conquerors.” Not even the toddler two rows up made a peep as Chuck surveyed the room. “Let’s pray.”
As Lucy lowered her head, she caught sight of the bulletin in Alex’s lap. His brother’s name was in blue ink at the top. Beneath it indecipherable fragments that clearly meant something to Alex in regard to Will. In an adjacent column, a list of points from Chuck’s sermon.
Lord, I lift up Alex to you. Help him in his grief with his brother and with the campaign. And father, give me answers. I need to know if everything I believed about my birth has been a lie. I’m not exactly deserving in the truth department at the moment, but I’m asking anyway. I have to get this settled. And yes, God, I’m going to go ahead and be bold and ask for the strength to do what needs to be done to be the best fake fiancée Alex could have. I’m through being the weakling.
At least for today.
At Chuck’s amen, the choir took over and sang everyone out. Alex slid his warm hand to the base of Lucy’s neck as they walked outside.
“Good service.” He shook Chuck’s hand.
“Thanks, man. Come back anytime.” Chuck dropped his preacher voice. “But if you hurt Lucy, I will be honor-bound to break both your kneecaps.”
Alex had more muscle in his right tricep than Chuck had in his entire body, yet he nodded solemnly anyway. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“Alex, can I have your autograph?” Mrs. Baker’s ten-year-old son stood holding a pen and notebook. Five of his friends stood behind him, looking as if they beheld a king.
“Sure, guys.” Sending a sheepish grin to Lucy, Alex signed two bulletins, one hat, two notebooks, and a gum wrapper.
He didn’t just hurriedly scribble his name, though. He looked at each boy, asked questions, chatted. Made them all feel important. Like they were the stars instead of him. She found herself smiling.
He wasn’t supposed to be charming. He wasn’t supposed to be intelligent and funny and kind to little boys. Say something arrogant. Refuse to take a picture. Lucy was seeing more and more of the workings of Alex’s heart. And it left her unsettled. No, she would not be taken in by this man. Not today and not ever. The last two days she had enjoyed her time with him. And that just couldn’t happen.
“Lucy, I see a couple of people I’d like to talk to,” Alex said. “Can you give me ten minutes, then I’ll take you to lunch?”
She knew she was supposed to smile and agree. Play the role of dutiful girlfriend. But Chuck was right. It was time to take care of some of her own baggage, and if she didn’t do it now, she might never have the nerve to face it again.
“I can’t.” She barely got the words out. “I . . . I have to go home and”— her mind was as empty as her bank account—“check on some things.”
“Things?”
“Yes. Important ones.” She couldn’t tell from his face whether he bought her lame excuse or not. She didn’t care. “I’ll see you later.” Lucy leaned up on tiptoes to press her lips to his cheek.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“You just kissed me.” He tapped a lean finger against his cheek. “Voluntarily.”
“I couldn’t bank my fiery passion.”
His smile was steamier than a summer rain. “It happens.”
She dug into her purse and pulled out her keys. “I’ll call you later.”
Leaving him staring after her, Lucy peeled open her creaky car door. Cranking up the radio, she drove away from the church, desperate to drown out the clattering, clashing thoughts in her head. She had to silence at least one source of the noise.
Twenty minutes later she cruised by the Battery downtown, past homes that had withstood the Civil War, hurricanes, and the heavy hand of the sea. The live oaks hung over a narrow driveway, making a canopy over Lucy’s car as she pulled in. Getting out, she approached one of the only brick homes on the street. With trembling fingers, she pushed a red call button. A small camera above her head captured her every move.
“Yes?” A male voice said.
“Julian?”
“Yes?”
“It’s—”
“Please say it’s Madonna.”
“Um, no.” A red bird landed on a perfectly shaped shrub. “It’s Lucy. Lucy Wiltshire.”
“Shoot.” And then a sigh. “I guess you’ll do.” The gates creaked as they began to move. “Come on in, honey. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Chapter Fifteen
Lucy.” Julian pulled her into a light embrace and air-kissed both cheeks. “I’m so glad you came. It’s been dreadfully dull around this neighborhood since Tizzy Washington went to rehab and quit dancing on the lawn in nothing but her girdle and Dr. Scholl’s.” He pulled her into the entryway. “You’re just in time for Sunday lunch.”
Lucy stared at the wealth around her. Hardwood floors. A formal sitting room bigger than her apartment. Silk draperies. Fresh-cut flowers. Fine art perfectly centered on the walls.
“I know,” Julian said. “It’s a bit much. I’m more of a Pottery Barn fellow myself, but I cannot get Clare to go with the slip-covered look to save her Cole Haans.”
Looking down at her reflection in the shiny varnish of the floor, Lucy stood on the threshold of desperation and pride. How much time had Steven spent here? She had passed this neighborhood all her life. Had he and Clare known about her all along? Known she and her mother had lived from one meager paycheck to another? On secondhand clothes and borrowed credit?
“Um . . .” She needed cue cards. A script for this awkward moment. “I wondered if I might have a word with Mrs. Deveraux.”
“You got it. Let me page her.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small walkie-talkie. “Sugar Lips, you have a guest in the fourth dimension. I repeat, you have a guest in the fourth dimension. This is Tijuana Daddy, over and out.” With a smile he turned his attention back to Lucy, holding out a hand toward a brocade sofa. “She’ll be along shortly. Do make yourself at home.”
Lucy sat on the edge of the fuchsia couch, her posture as straight and proper as the room seemed to demand.
What was she doing? This was madness. But yet she needed answers. And she needed Clare’s expertise and wisdom. She was determined not to be a weak link in Alex’s campaign. She would succeed at this. She would show all those who thought she’d never amount to anything. Those who, for years, looked down their Southern belle noses and made her life miserable. Yeah, well, now she was going to be a congressman’s fiancée.
Sort of.
Lucy’s entire body tightened as she heard the unmistakable sound of a snotty woman in overpriced heels.
“Julian, how many times have I asked you not to use those ridiculous names and—” Clare stopped at the sight of Lucy on her couch. “Oh. It’s you.”
Her assistant planted a hand on his chino-covered hip. “I told you you had a guest.”
Clare pressed her lips together as she stared. “I didn’t expect Lucy.”
Julian rolled his eyes. “It is high past time you gave up on this little fantasy of George Clooney stopping by. Just because you’re friends on Facebook doesn’t mean a thing.”
Lucy twirled her earring. She wanted this over. And quick. “I’m here for two reasons, Mrs. Deveraux.”
“Please.” Clare sat opposite her in a cha
ir that complemented the pattern in the drapes. “Call me Clare.”
Lucy swallowed and said a short haiku of a prayer. “I came here to tell you I don’t believe you about my father. But most importantly, I wanted to . . .” Oh, it was so hard. Why this woman? “I mean, that is, I have realized that I do need some . . . help. Despite the fact that your family hasn’t exactly been kind to mine, I know there is no better expert on the political and social aspects of South Carolina than you. And I don’t want to be the bullet that wipes out Alex’s campaign. So whatever it takes, I want to succeed at this.”
Clare slowly blinked. “Julian, I do believe you were making us root beer floats. You may return to the kitchen, if you please. And add one to the order.” In her black pencil skirt, she crossed her slender legs. “Every week I’m trying a new thing. It was Julian’s idea, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, my little toadstool.” He left the room, muttering under his breath.
“I’ve lived a very genteel life. Always doing what others told me.” She drummed her red nails on the armrest. “I was raised old money, you know.”
Lucy glanced at her watch. “That’s something I never tire of hearing.”
“Yes, I know what you’re thinking. I’ve lived a wonderful life, but mistakes have been made. You were one of those extreme errors in judgment, Lucy.”
“Excuse me?”
Clare held up a hand. “I mean my treatment of your mother. Dismissing you both from our lives.” She paused for an unbearable length of time. “I have much to tell you.”
“I don’t want to know.” Now that she was here, she just couldn’t.
“Yes, you do.” She leaned forward. “I can see it in your eyes. I’ve watched you all these years. You’re proud. You hold that head up so high, but it’s just a façade. An act. You can’t stand me, can you? Me—or what I represent.”
Lucy could feel her skin warming. Her pulse accelerating. “You had my mother fired. You fabricated some ridiculous story and got her blacklisted as a housekeeper in Charleston.”
Clare nodded. “It’s true. I did that.”
Her voice rose. “And then my mother had to drive over an hour out of town to get cleaning jobs. And because she was no longer working for you and your elitist friends, she had to take on a waitressing job in addition to everything else she did. So if you’re wondering how it makes me feel to have to sit here in your fancy living room and ask you for the keys to Alex’s world, I probably couldn’t say, at least not without dropping a few words your newly churched ears wouldn’t want to hear.” As soon as the words were out, Lucy regretted them. But she wouldn’t take them back. What did a woman like Clare know of Christ and love? Of grace and mercy? Where had her mercy been all those years ago when her mother had worked herself to the bone?
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