Save the Date

by Jenny B. Jones

  “Fine,” she huffed. “Take me there.”

  Holding his hand, she paused at the door and wondered if her home wasn’t the only thing deteriorating.

  Like her willpower.

  And her forcefield against hot, emotionally unavailable football stars.

  She closed the door and said a prayer for her heart.

  Because for the first time in her life, Lucy Wiltshire, being of sound mind and strong backbone, didn’t feel quite so immune anymore.

  In fact, what she felt . . . was a totally unwelcome kinship with all those cheerleaders.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  She had been at Clare’s Den of Antiquities and Archaic Manners for almost a whole week now. When her landlord had told her that her apartment wouldn’t be ready for weeks, Lucy had merely nodded, then gotten in her car and driven straight to Baskin-Robbins.

  Clare’s idea of tutoring resembled Lucy’s idea of torture. Quizzes on Alex’s campaign platform. Flash card reviews on state and county leaders. Even a history of former White House first ladies, with a special emphasis on Lady Bird Johnson and that “tragically slighted Pat Nixon.” She was grateful to Julian, who played along and offered prizes at the end of the mind-numbing sessions, rewarding Lucy with homemade cobbler on Saturday and cream cheese strudel this morning. Lucy was learning a lot. Like the fact that she couldn’t fit into any of her skirts anymore, giving Clare the perfect excuse to buy Lucy more clothing “better suited for a woman in politics.”

  The Monday afternoon heat gave way to rain showers, turning the clouds into puffs of gray as they fought to overtake the peeking sun. Lucy flicked on her windshield wipers and squinted as she struggled to stay within the white lines.

  “Are windshield wipers supposed to squeak like that?” Marinell asked from her spot in the passenger seat.

  “They’re fine.”

  “Sounds like an angry pig to me.”

  “You’ve been hanging out with Alex too much.” He had been stopping by Saving Grace the past few nights, helping Marinell with her summer school homework. Every time Lucy saw him, she was reminded of their kiss. But he hadn’t so much as mentioned it. When your nickname was the Playboy, anything less than third base probably didn’t even register.

  “Tyneisha said you left the house last night after curfew.” Lucy veered onto the exit that would take her to the Children’s Hospital. “We discussed this. If you need to see your brother, you can call me—”

  “I get it.”

  Lucy checked her rearview mirror and watched her bodyguards follow in the car behind her. “Marinell, we have rules. Third strike and you’re out. I can’t let you stay.”

  “Sometimes I just need to see my brother at night, okay?”

  “So long as you’re back before curfew. I don’t think that’s a lot to ask.” Something wasn’t right, but Lucy hoped Marinell would figure it out fast. She didn’t want her to leave. “I know you’re not sleeping well, and I can tell you’ve lost more weight.”

  “I’m going for the supermodel look.” Marinell chewed on a ragged thumbnail. “I hear the waif thing pays major bucks.”

  “If you want to be there for your brother, you need to keep yourself healthy. And that includes eating—whether you feel like it or not.” Some people lost their appetite when they got down, and Marinell appeared to fall into that category. Lucy wondered what that was like.

  “So you and Alex seem to be pretty serious.”

  “Yes,” Lucy said dryly. “He’s the wind beneath my wings.” She didn’t want to talk about Alex today. The man consumed too much of her thoughts, and life was too short to think all day on a sexy, political-minded, emotionally void man. No matter how well he kissed.

  “He says he’s taking you to a fancy party Friday night.” Marinell cracked a rare smile. “On a yacht. I mean, for real?”

  Alex was having another one of his soirees, this time on a friend’s swanky yacht. Lucy’s threat to wear her one-piece and flippers had made Clare even more determined to help her shop for just the right dress.

  She zipped into a parking spot and held a polka-dotted umbrella over Marinell’s head as they ran inside the hospital lobby.

  Squishing across the floor in wet flats, Lucy fumbled with the button on the umbrella. “C’mon, c’mon,” she muttered, shaking and twisting the handle.

  “Lucy?”

  Pushing the hair out of her eyes, Lucy looked up. And her heart sank. “Matt.”

  There he stood, his dark-blond hair newly trimmed, a crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and charcoal slacks with a crease a four-star general would be proud of.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “I’m going to go on up,” Marinell said. “I’ll meet you in the room.”

  Lucy could only nod as the girl walked away.

  “It’s good to see you.” It sounded so trite to Lucy’s ear. “How’s work?” Did he miss her? Still love her? Pine for her and write dark anguished poetry during his midnight hours?

  “Work is fine.” The way he stared at her. Had he ever looked that hungry to see her?

  “Do you know someone here?” Lucy asked.

  “Hospital outreach for church.”

  He visited sick children on his lunch break. She would remind herself of this the next time Alex put the moves on her and robbed her of her ability to reason.

  “I saw in the paper where you had an accident.” Matt gestured to her hand.

  “It was nothing.”

  “I always said those pipes were a disaster waiting to happen.”

  Was this small talk code for I still love you and will wait the rest of my life to be your man? “I’ve missed . . .” Lucy forced her errant thoughts back in line. “I’ve missed talking to you.” And seeing his face. Hearing his voice. Imagining his perfectly starched clothes hanging in her closet.

  A couple walked by hand in hand, and Matt stepped closer to Lucy to get out of the way.

  “I think about you all the time.” His eyes searched hers, asking questions Lucy couldn’t answer. “I wish . . . I wish things had been different. I have so many regrets.” Lucy could fill a book with her own. “I keep reminding myself that you’re happy.” He took another step closer. “You are happy, right? Because some of those photos I see—they make me wonder if—”

  “I should find Marinell.” Her heart gave a little tremor. Standing in this hall, everything she wanted was just a touch away. Everything except the security of saving her girls. “Take care of yourself.” Her voice broke, and she knew she had to get away before she dissolved into a puddle and confessed it all.

  “Lucy—”

  “I have to go.” She eluded his outreached hand and ran all the way to the elevator.

  Just four more months. She could do this. It was a lot to ask, but Lucy repeated her prayer that Matt would still be there when it was all over.

  Lucy found Carlos’s room, rapped lightly on the door, then let herself in. Machines talked in beeps and clicks next to a small boy who sat up in bed, a Transformer in one hand and a crayon in the other.

  “Hey, Carlos,” Lucy said. She had taken Marinell to see her brother a handful of times, growing more attached to the boy with every visit.

  Marinell stood near his pillow, her hand lightly combing through his black, wavy hair. A woman Lucy had never seen before sat in a chair nearby, her eyes downcast.

  “Miss Lucy, this is my mother. Esther.”

  “Hello, there,” Lucy said. Digging in her purse, Lucy pulled out the coloring book and markers she had bought for Carlos.

  Esther Hernandez stood up. “You help my daughter,” she said, struggling with the English. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. We’ll take good care of her.”

  “Mom comes almost every morning when I can’t be here,” Marinell said. “But sometimes it’s hard for her to get a ride.”

  Marinell spoke to her mother in rapid-fire Spanish, and Lucy used the time to sit with Carlos and show him h
ow each marker smelled like fruit.

  “I tell my mother that they started Carlos on the dialysis,” Marinell said to Lucy. “Two days a week. It takes many hours, and he gets bored, so your coloring book will be something for him to do.”

  “I go now,” Esther said, her worried eyes trained on Carlos. “You be brave and do what doctor tell you.”

  “No,” Carlos whined. “You said you’d stay. Why won’t you come back when Papi is here?”

  The woman’s eyes went wide, and she spoke to her son in fierce Spanish. The boy dropped his head, and a pitiful bottom lip pooched out.

  Esther kissed the sad-faced Carlos. “Be back later.”

  Marinell nudged her brother. “Tell Mama good-bye.”

  Esther turned back twice before reluctantly letting herself out the door.

  The sadness in the room was as palpable as humidity after a rainstorm. Carlos turned his head into his pillow and covered his face with his arm.

  Marinell made shushing noises as she rubbed the shoulder of his dinosaur pajamas. “It’s okay, mi hermano. She’ll see you soon.” She glanced at Lucy.

  “And Papi? Will he be back again tonight?”

  “Yes, Marinell,” Lucy said. “Will your father be making an appearance tonight?”

  Lucy waited until she and Marinell were back in the car before starting her interrogation. “So do you want to tell me why you’ve been meeting your dad at the hospital at night?”

  “I haven’t. Carlos didn’t mean his dad. He gets confused.”

  Confusion over your father’s identity wasn’t that far of a stretch for Lucy at the moment. “I’ve done this job a long time, Marinell, and I’ve heard it all.” She reached for her hand. “You can trust me.”

  Marinell clutched her seatbelt and stared out the window. “It’s complicated.”

  “The man I thought was my father is a cross-dressing lounge singer. Try me.”

  “My dad lives . . . somewhere else. He grew up in Mexico, got recruited into a gang early. He rose up in the ranks, but then he met my mom. The gang wouldn’t let him out.”

  “Drug gang?”

  “Yeah. Really horrible people. Before I came along, my parents emigrated to Texas. But the gang came after my dad. He’s been running ever since.”

  “And so have you.”

  “We know they’re still out there, and it’s dangerous for him to be around us. The last few years have been the worst, and he can’t contact us much. Can’t send money. Can’t see us. And my mom is doing the best she can, but we struggled when my brother got sick. That’s when someone turned us in to child services. It’s been a mess ever since.”

  “So he comes and sees your brother at night?”

  “He’s only been twice. Sometimes I go to the hospital just in case.”

  “What can I do to help you?”

  Marinell turned in her seat, a teenager barely holding her world together. “Just don’t let my little brother die.”

  “Shopping.” Julian clapped his hands together in the limo as the late afternoon sun finally reappeared, warming Charleston with a renewed vengeance. “This is going to be so much fun, isn’t it?”

  “The best,” Lucy muttered. “Just pull over at the nearest Target,” she called to the driver.

  “Nonsense.” Clare tsked. “Alex said to get you a fabulous gown for Friday night, and that’s what we’re going to do. My way.”

  “I still think my red dress would’ve done nicely,” Lucy said.

  “That is a dress for land," Clare snapped. “You need one for water.”

  “I sold them all at my garage sale last year.”

  “I hear your impertinence, but I know what I’m talking about. My dear, my job is to make you the best complement to Alex I can.”

  “If you put me in something nautical, I’m going to flush it down the toilet and go in my Mickey Mouse cover-up.”

  Clare’s chandelier diamond earrings swayed as she shook her head. “I see we still need to work on your attitude. Julian, take note of that.”

  “Writing it down right now.” Julian held out his hand and studied his nails.

  “I like Charlaine’s for evening dresses, don’t you?” Clare asked, flipping through a fashion magazine as they all three sat in the back.

  “Yes, her creations are divine.” Julian patted Lucy on the leg. “You’re so lucky.”

  “By the by, Lucy, I hear you ran into your old friend, a Mr. Campbell.”

  Lucy’s hand froze on the armrest. She turned to stare at Clare. “How did you know I saw Matt?”

  “My dear.” Her voice held censure that could only be delivered by South of Broad royalty. “I have friends all over this town. And you’ll do well to remember they’re all watching—just waiting to see either you or Alex misstep. Given the special importance of this Friday’s event, I would think you would want to stay away from the likes of Matthew Campbell and keep your pretty blue eyes focused on your handsome young man.”

  “What do you mean special importance?” The thought of shopping for yacht-wear wasn’t the only thing putting Lucy on edge. “This is just another political event. Just another social gathering for the campaign.” Lucy stared at Clare. “Right?”

  “If that’s what you want to call it.”

  “Then what do you call it?”

  Clare pressed her hands together and gave one of her first genuine smiles. “A wonderful night to propose.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Hyperventilation. Fever. Dizziness. Rampant desires for carbs and calories.

  And those were the fun aspects of a panic attack.

  Lucy sat on the cold tile floor of Clare’s guest bathroom and waited for the anxiety to roll out like the tide. Instead it pushed and shoved with the ferocity of a squall.

  In thirty minutes Alex would arrive, dashing and confident, to whisk her away to some hoity-toity yacht, where she would smile at him like the arm candy she was. And where he would propose in front of hundreds of onlookers.

  Lucy couldn’t do it. They’d never pull it off.

  In third grade she had auditioned for the class play. Lucy had memorized lines and practiced for weeks, because she’d known in her young soul that she had been born to play Sacajawea. But when the curtain rose, there she stood in the back of the stage, partially hidden by a curtain, in the role of Native American Number Thirteen. No lines. No action.

  Because Lucy was not an actress. Her teacher had seen it then. And it was just as true today. And girls assigned the part of a mute Native American did not grow up to pull off a fake proposal.

  “I do,” Lucy whispered weakly. “I do.” This time with a little more enthusiasm.

  Lord, what if his friends laugh at me? What are the tabloids going to say? Alex Sinclair finds a bride and marries down?

  “How’s it coming, honey?” Julian asked from the other side.

  “Awful.” Hot tears spilled down her cheeks. Was it too late to cancel? Postpone the event? How hard could it be to call two hundred close friends and political connections and tell them to come back another time?

  “Can you open the door?” Julian wiggled the handle.

  “No, it’s stuck.” Her evening gown hung from a hook on the door with a mocking sway. “Guess I’ll have to stay in here a while.”

  “Open the door, peaches.”

  “I can’t do this. Tell Alex I’ve changed my mind. He’ll understand.” She fingered her hair and stifled a groan. In her attempt at chic, she had taken a straightening iron to her stubborn curls, only to produce something in between a wave and a disaster. Like a bad ’80’s crimp job—only worse. “I’m not going to the party. Tell Alex I’m sick.”

  “Don’t be silly. The man will be here any moment.”

  “I’m not joking.” She would not be the laughingstock of those Charleston highbrows. “I’m staying in tonight. I don’t care how you get rid of him, but just do it.”

  “Baby, I know show business, not the miracle business. There is
no getting rid of Alex. When he wants something, he gets it. And what he wants is you.”

  All because of a stupid contract. Alex didn’t possess one ounce of real affection for her.

  “Tell him I break up.” Lucy’s breath hitched. “Because I’m never coming out.”

  At seven o’clock Alex pounded on the bathroom door.

  “Lucy, open up.” He used the voice of authority that his team had followed for years. No one contradicted him.

  “Buzz off.”

  Leave it to Clare to take it upon herself to tell Lucy about tonight’s proposal. He had wanted it to be a surprise, so Lucy wouldn’t work herself into a panic. Like this one.

  He jangled the knob. “Julian says you’re not coming out.”

  “At least one man on the planet listens to me.”

  Alex lowered his voice until it was a calm drawl. “I know you’re nervous about tonight. But you’ll do fine. I’m going to be right there with you.” He dug deep and threw her a lifeline. “I’m a little nervous, too, if it helps.”

  “It does not.”

  They were going to be late if he didn’t get her out of that bathroom. And a man couldn’t be late to his own party. “Lucy, I want you out of this bathroom on the count of three, you got it? One . . . two . . .” This was not looking good. Not good at all. “Two and a half. Two and three-quarters . . .”

  No response.

  He ran a rough hand over his face and leaned against the door. “Tell me what this is about.”

  “Don’t you get it? I’m not Sacajawea.”

  Alex pressed his head against the door frame and closed his eyes.

  “I can’t do this anymore,” she said pitifully. “Why did I think I could pull this off? That I was someone who could run in your circles? I can’t even fix my own hair.”

  “Put it in a ponytail. Heck, wear a shower cap for all I care.”

  “This isn’t a tennis match at the country club! Nobody else on that boat’s gonna have a ponytail.”

  “I don’t care about other women, Lucy. Just you. Just like you are.”

  He could hear her deep inhale. “That is . . . strangely hot.”