Save the Date

by Jenny B. Jones

  “I deserved that.” Clare inhaled through thin nostrils. “And I won’t ask for forgiveness. At least not until you hear the whole truth.”

  “Thomas Miller is my father.” Lucy ripped open her purse. She rifled through until she found the photos. “Here.” She slapped the pictures down on the maple coffee table. Slid them toward Clare. “This is my dad.”

  Clare looked.

  Frowned.

  “It’s him,” Lucy said. “He was my mom’s old boyfriend.”

  Clare slipped on her bifocals. “I highly doubt it.” She held up the one of her dad on the beach. He wore shorts and waved to the camera. “This is Randy Pollack. He graduated with my son.”

  “But . . . that’s my dad.” She could hear the desperation in her own voice. “I have more pictures.”

  Clare picked up the other photo. “I’m telling you, the person in this photo could not be your father.”

  “And you know this because?”

  “Because Randy now lives as Rhonda Pollack in Reno. She sells Mary Kay, has a cabaret act at the Lucky Horseshoe, and makes her Presbyterian mother cry on a regular basis.”

  Lucy sat back against the couch. “Oh.”

  Lies. All of it lies. How could her mother have raised her on such fables and myths? Where in the world did she come from? Lord, I don’t want Steven Deveraux to have so much as dipped his toe in my gene pool. Anyone but him. Anything but this family. Why couldn’t I be related to a nice, wealthy Southerner? Like Paula Deen.

  “Are you ready to hear your story?”

  Lucy closed her eyes. Squeezed them tight.

  But when she opened them again, she was still there. Sitting in Clare Deveraux’s living room. And her life was still unraveling.

  “Yes.”

  Clare nodded solemnly. “Then we’ll talk. And eat.”

  Lucy pushed off from the armrest and came to her feet.

  “Oh, no, no.” Clare wagged a finger. “A lady does not schlump from her seat. She rises as if lifted by air. Watch me.”

  “Kind of not in the mood for this right now.” Lucy was just grateful her spine was still holding her up.

  With flawless posture and weightless grace, Clare stood. “See?”

  “Hey.” Julian stalked into the room. “You two gonna practice sitting all day, or will you be joining me for pot roast?”

  “On our way,” Clare said. “Lucy, you may follow me so you can study my stroll.”

  Clare went first. Followed by Julian, who, with a wink, walked in a perfect imitation.

  The dining room was a large, sunny space. A silver chandelier hung from the center of the floral-carved ceiling. Matching antique buffets flanked either side.

  Lucy sat down and rested her napkin in her lap. Clare shook her head. Was there anything she did that was correct? Did she really think there was a proper way to unfold a napkin?

  Julian set the final platter down. “Okay, let’s eat.”

  Lucy pulled herself from her fog long enough to take in the spread before her. “Roast, french fries, Kraft Mac & Cheese, root beer floats, and pudding?” And this woman had just corrected her napkin usage?

  Clare shrugged. “As I was saying earlier, I have denied myself many common things that others take for granted. But those days are over. Julian has convinced me I need to branch out. Live a little.”

  Julian nodded, then folded his hands, ready to pray. “We made a bucket list. She’s already done all the big things—seen the world from the Eiffel Tower, toured the Holy Lands, sipped tea with the Dali Lama. What she needed to do was experience some of the smaller, simpler joys in life.”

  Clare wrapped her lips around her straw and took a drink. “Last week I went to a garage sale.” She shuddered. “Horrible thing.”

  “Oh, whatever.” Julian clearly wasn’t the least bit intimidated by the woman. “You came home with a Christmas sweatshirt and a toilet paper cozy.”

  “Just stop your insolence and bless our food.” Clare’s cheeks sunk in as she took another drink. “This is quite good. You may make these again.”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t lace yours with cyanide, you old bat.”

  She harrumphed. “All I’m leaving you in my will is my best pair of Gucci heels, so I’m pretty certain I’ll sleep well tonight.”

  Lucy couldn’t even focus on Julian’s short prayer for the questions dueling in her head. By the time she left, she would know if Steven Deveraux was her father, why her mother lied, and which fork to use for dessert.

  Taking the platter of meat from Julian, Lucy put a small helping on her plate. She knew it was more than she’d be able to choke down. “Start from the beginning,” she said. “I have to know everything.”

  Clare shot Julian a pointed look. He reached for Lucy’s knife and pulled it out of reach.

  “As you know, many years ago your mother cleaned our home. We lived in the governor’s mansion in Columbia, but this was our home and Steven and I stayed here often.”

  At the mere mention of her mother, the wound on Lucy’s heart peeled open again.

  “She was good at what she did. Your mother found a lot of work in this area. I recommended her to all my friends who didn’t have full-time staff.” Clare took a bite of macaroni and cheese and smiled like she was inhaling a fine wine. “That’s very nice, Julian. I like that a lot. Let’s have that tomorrow night.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “My son was a senior in college,” Clare continued. “His father was in office at the time, and Steven was being groomed for politics. Everyone likened him to John F. Kennedy. When we looked at our son, we thought we were looking at the future president of the United States.”

  But clearly something had gone wrong. Because Steven never went into politics. Lucy knew he had had a few failed businesses. And besides owning some shares in Sinclair, she thought he’d just lived off his trust fund.

  “The day my son came home from school for spring break, I knew there would be trouble. He took one look at your mother and he was a goner. Steven had quite the reputation as a ladies’ man.”

  Julian buttered a roll. “Happens to the best of us.”

  “And we’d had to get him out of a few situations before. But this time,” Clare said, “I could see things were going on we couldn’t stop. When Steven talked to your mother, she looked at him like he was a god. I forbid him to see her. She was a maid, after all. My son was a future leader—a Deveraux.”

  “My mom was better than your son on his finest day,” Lucy said, her food a weighted mass at the pit of her stomach. “She was kind and good. She didn’t judge people by their bank accounts or by which Civil War general they were related to.”

  “I was always a fan of Van Dorn myself,” Julian remarked.

  Clare dipped two fries in ketchup and continued. “My son was my world. At that time I thought I was protecting him. Looking back, I know how wrong I was. How horrible I was to your mother.” She pushed her plate away and focused her blue eyes on Lucy. “A few months after spring break, Steven came to me. Told me Anna was pregnant. He was inconsolable. Begged me not to tell his father. Of course, I didn’t. It would’ve killed my husband. And in those days, could’ve killed his career. Definitely would’ve ruined my son’s future. I couldn’t have him marrying the cleaning lady.”

  Lucy wanted to throw up as the truth bounced on her gag reflexes. How had her mother kept this from her?

  “Steven was still young, a fraternity boy. By this time he was already through with your mother and dating a woman who would’ve made an ideal wife. He begged me to help him. And hadn’t I always taken care of everything?” Clare stared at a spot beyond Lucy’s shoulder, her eyes distant and unfocused. “So I went to see Anna. Offered her some money to leave town. She refused. Said her home was in Charleston, and that’s where she would stay.”

  “Her parents’ graves are here,” Lucy said, her voice a dead monotone. “It was all she had left of her family.”

  “She refused to leav
e. So I set her straight about my son not wanting anything to do with her. She knew it herself by that time anyway. I upped the price for her silence, and she finally took it. But she still wouldn’t get out of town.” Clare nudged her head toward one of the buffets.

  Julian got up, grabbed an envelope, and handed it to Clare.

  “This is the check I wrote her.” She flipped it over. Her mother’s signature was still strong and black on the back. “And this is the legal contract I made her sign.” She slid it toward Lucy. “In exchange for a large sum of cash, your mother agreed to never speak of my son, never be in his presence again, and certainly to never claim he was your father.”

  Lucy’s fingers shook as she took the check. So this was how much she had been worth. All this time, and her mother had never said a word. Why hadn’t she told her the truth? Had she been afraid Lucy would judge her?

  That hideous private school. Bought with Clare’s blood money. And her mother’s dignity.

  More pieces locked into place. “So since my mom wouldn’t leave town, you made it impossible for her to work in Charleston.”

  “At the time I thought she was just a gold digger after my son. An opportunist. Yes, I wanted her out of my sight and away from Steven.” Clare clutched her napkin. “Lucy, I was wrong. I know that now. The guilt keeps me up at night.”

  “It’s true,” Julian said. “She watches a lot of infomercials. Last month she ordered a blender the size of a pencil.”

  “Please say you forgive me.”

  Lucy’s tongue could barely utter a coherent sentence. “So you’re telling me that you’ve known who I was this entire time?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the man you claim to be my father knew who I was?”

  “Also true.”

  “And he never had anything to say to me?” Her volume began to climb. “And the only energy you’ve wasted on me was to vote against my Sinclair funding.”

  “I voted for you. It’s important you know that. My life is completely different now.” The distinguished woman took a slurping bite of pudding. “See?”

  “I can’t deal with this.” Lucy stood up, tears clouding her vision. “I have to go.”

  “Lucy, wait—”

  She turned back to the table. “My whole life you’ve denied me. Rejected me. And so has my father. And you expect me to just open my arms and forgive you? Is that seriously what you thought would happen here? Do you have any idea what I’ve been through?”

  Clare’s eyebrows defied Botox and came together. “You asked for the truth. And I will remind you that you need me right now. I couldn’t work with you day in and day out and have that lie between us.” Clare stood and went to her side. “If I could go back and change it, I would.”

  “It’s too late.” Lucy reached for her purse. “It’s just too late.” She stepped around Clare and sailed out of the dining room and out the door.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Moving boxes stood in neat stacks against the wall of Matt’s open garage. Lucy didn’t know whether to knock on the front door or the garage entrance, so she just stood in his driveway for a few moments waiting for enlightenment.

  Maybe she should leave. Try this another day. Sunday was a day of rest, after all. And telling the man you had once hoped to marry that you had the hots for a quarterback just sounded like work. She pivoted on her shiny red heel and made a step toward the car.

  “Lucy?”

  As she froze, she briefly wondered about the possibility of starting this day over.

  “Hello, Matt.” The distance to where Matt stood at his front door stretched out like the last mile of a marathon. Her energy depleted, her mind the consistency of mush, Lucy walked toward him.

  “It’s still a mess, but come inside.” He made no move to touch her but held open the door as she squeezed by him.

  His home was a modernized ranch-style. New beige carpet covered the floors. His brown leather couch sat adjacent to his matching loveseat. A large-screen TV hung over a fireplace she knew he would never light. He wouldn’t like the mess. White walls framed every room she could see, reminding her of the walls in his old apartment. She had surprised him one weekend, getting his key and painting his kitchen a beautiful spun gold. His appreciation had been kind and gracious. But by the next week, the cotton white walls had returned. Change made Matt uncomfortable, and while it was occasionally annoying, Lucy had admired his stability.

  “Take a seat.” Dressed in khaki pants and a three-button polo, Matt gestured toward the couch.

  Inhaling the scent of new carpet, Lucy sat down. And saw the paper on the coffee table.

  There on the front page of the society section was a color photo of her and Alex at the ballet. With his arm anchored around her, Alex looked like a man staking his claim, letting the world know that Lucy Wiltshire was spoken for.

  Matt cleared his throat. “When I saw the first pictures of you two, I laughed it off. I knew you would never date a guy like Sinclair.”

  Right. Because who would ever imagine the maid’s daughter growing up to fall for Prince Charming?

  “Matt, I—”

  “But it is true.” He walked to the table and picked up the paper. “Isn’t it?”

  Her tongue was a foreign object in her mouth. “I . . . we . . .”

  “Are you seeing this guy?”

  Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Lucy could only nod.

  “And you couldn’t tell me?”

  “I wanted to, but—”

  “What about that night at the gala—when I saw you two outside the hotel? Were you together then?”

  Nothing like lying on the Lord’s day. “Yes.”

  “And you let me take you home?”

  “Alex and I were . . . fighting.” Technically it was sort of true.

  “It didn’t look like it to me.”

  “Yes, fighting.” She dragged her eyes away from the paper. “About football. He . . . um, watches it all the time. I’m trying to get him to go to an . . . ESPN recovery group.” It was like God was holding the pause button on her brain. Not a single coherent thought would form. “I’m sorry.”

  In three strides he was in front of her, looming, his voice sharp with hurt. “I don’t believe you, Lucy.”

  “But I am sorry. I—”

  “I don’t believe you’re seeing this guy.”

  The tears pushed at her eyes, and she blinked them away. “Because he’s better than me?” Later she would think about how this bothered her more than having to tell Matt good-bye. But for now, Lucy was that girl at Montrose Academy again. Doing the walk of shame down the hall in her worn uniform and garage-sale shoes.

  Matt went to his knees and reached for Lucy’s hands. “He doesn’t hold a candle to you. Don’t you get that? What are you doing with a guy like him? He’s arrogant, conceited, cares nothing about anyone but himself.”

  “That’s not true. He’s surprisingly kind. Polite. He can’t help it how the media has portrayed him. How would you like it if cameras followed your every step? How perfect would your life look then?” Lucy closed her eyes on an indrawn breath. Had she just taken up for Alex? It was like something had invaded her body. She didn’t even know who she was anymore. Steven Deveraux’s daughter. Clare’s grandchild. And now Alex’s champion? Next she’d be spitting tobacco, quoting stats, and scratching in indecent places.

  “I love you, Lucy. I want us to build a life together.”

  She blinked back the tears. “It’s . . . it’s too late.” It was too late for her dream of a home. A family of her own, gathered around the kitchen table on Friday nights playing Monopoly and eating popcorn. Gone. She had traded it all in for Saving Grace.

  Sniffing once, Lucy looked at the man who could’ve been her world. “You are a good guy, Matt. And it would’ve been an honor to have married you.”

  “You still can.” His grip was strong on her hands. “I know you still care.”

  She couldn’t deny that. It would be
too much, even for her. “But my place is with Alex now.”

  “We’re good together. No one knows me like you.” His voice dipped. “Do you love him?”

  It was like twisting a rusty knife into her own heart. “I’m going to marry him.”

  Matt rose to his feet and put some space between them. “We talked the other night. You said nothing about any of this. I know you were going to come back to me.”

  She shook her head. “I was confused.”

  “Because you know being with Alex is a lie.”

  Oh, he had no idea. “I have to go,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. You will never know how truly sorry I am.” She wanted to throw herself at him and beg him to wait for her.

  “I’m not giving up on us. I threw it away once, but I won’t do it again.”

  It was like he had a script—saying all the right things.

  “Alex Sinclair can’t make you happy. You once told me I was everything you wanted in a man.” His eyes searched hers. “He’ll never be able to give you what you need.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” On shaking legs, Lucy stood up and forced herself to meet his hard stare. “Because he’s given me exactly what I need.”

  “I won’t let you go, Lucy.”

  She pulled her purse to her and gave a weak smile. “If only you had said that two years ago.”

  “It’s not too late,” he said.

  Her mind turned to the girls, the home, and where she would be six months from now.

  And she hoped Matt was right.