The Wedding Night Before Christmas

by Kati Wilde

  “To…apologize?” Christopher’s brow furrows. “If you are sorry now for having us evicted from our home, surely that can be easily amended—”

  Caleb barks out a laugh. “Hell no. In her will, Eleanor said she wasn’t leaving anything to you all because you’re ‘lying, cheating, backstabbing, greedy vermin.’ I don’t know anything about that. But I’m pretty damn sure that Meredith is wearing the necklace you all accused my mother of stealing—the one that got her sent to prison for two fucking years.”

  Prison? I suck in a breath, my gaze flying to the diamonds around Meredith’s neck. She stares back at Caleb, absolutely frozen, before she looks to Christopher as if for help.

  Caleb doesn’t give her brother time to offer it. “Is wearing that necklace supposed to be a joke? Did you think I wouldn’t recognize it from pictures in the police reports? Or that I wouldn’t have looked up the court transcripts that could tell me why she missed out on the first years of my life? Or maybe you just forgot how you ruined a woman’s future with that necklace. An event so goddamn insignificant to you, but the moment that changed everything for her.”

  “Mr. Moore,” Sylvia says placatingly, “please understand how young Meredith was and how she didn’t fully understand the consequences of—”

  “She was eighteen, which means she knew damn well. So did you. The assistant district attorney who first looked at the case decided not to pursue prosecution because there were too many conflicting witness statements. None of the staff remembered seeing any of the same shit that you all said you saw. Then you asked your district attorney friend to take another look—and those conflicting accounts went away. So did my mother. For two years. Even though you all knew she was pregnant.”

  Oh my god. I had no idea about any of this. I thought he hated them for being snobs who blacklisted his mother. Which was enough of a reason. But this.

  “And when she gave birth to me—while in prison for a crime she sure as fuck didn’t commit—you all made sure that everyone thought she was a liar for putting Robert’s name on the birth certificate. And you”—the furious heat of his gaze lands on Christopher—“claimed to have seen her whoring herself out to every rich asshole she could find at your lakeside club. You give me this bullshit now about welcoming me into the family, but you all sure as fuck made certain that I went into state care as a baby. And even after she got out on parole, it took four more years before she got full custody of me again. Working her ass off every goddamn second. Then after she got me back, taking on two or three jobs at a time, because the kind of work a woman can get after a felony theft conviction doesn’t pay shit. Those jobs are also why she was on that fucking road so late. Why she was so damn exhausted. Why she had a shitty car and shitty tires. As far as I’m concerned, what you all did to my mother put her on that patch of ice—and you all killed her.”

  Christopher is shaking his head. “Surely you can’t hold us responsible for an accident—”

  “You killed her,” Caleb repeats flatly. “Don’t look for any forgiveness here, because any possibility of that died with my mother. If you’d shown her any mercy at all, I might have reconsidered. Instead I intend to take from you every goddamn thing that I can.”

  “Ah,” I say as it all clicks into place. That small sound draws their attention, so I continue, “Eleanor knew. Didn’t she? You told her all of this at your mother’s funeral—when you declined her invitation to lunch.”

  “Yeah, I did,” he says gruffly.

  I look to the Wyndhams, and direct the remainder to each of them. “Our lawyers wanted to affirm Eleanor’s statements that you were lying, backstabbing vermin, but they didn’t know what you’d done to Caleb’s mother. We knew about Meredith silencing the girl who was recently assaulted at the party her son threw for his lacrosse team by threatening a defamation suit against her family, and about the charities Sylvia uses as her personal piggy bank, and of the bribes that Christopher took from John Bennet in exchange for city council votes. But clearly Eleanor learned how you all framed and discredited the mother of Robert’s baby—probably so you wouldn’t have to share your inheritance with Robert’s son.” And I laugh, because that’s just too good. “Oh, but Eleanor made you all pay for that, didn’t she? Because after discovering the truth, she turned around and gave everything to Caleb—and nothing you all did in the past ten years changed her mind, because you’re all horrible people. Ah, that’s fun. And I think we’re done here. Shall we go, then?”

  Caleb rises to his feet, holding my hand. The Wyndhams regard us with a mixture of outrage and fear and worry, and Christopher opens his mouth, yet Caleb doesn’t give them another chance to plead their case.

  “You start packing up,” he tells them. “But keep in mind that Eleanor had the contents of this house and her jewelry collection inventoried less than a year ago. When all this shit passes to me, I’ll make certain everything is accounted for. And if one thing is missing, just one goddamn thing, I will have you hunted down like the thieves you accused my mother of being. So Merry fucking Christmas. You have two weeks to get the fuck out of my house.”

  Oh, that was lovely. By the gleam in Mr. Ferry’s eyes as he opens the drawing room door and ushers us into the corridor, he thinks so, too. Yet Christopher’s voice brings us to a halt a few steps outside of the drawing room.

  “Miss Clarke!” Faintly sweating, he catches up to us in the wide hallway, his jaw lifted pugnaciously. “Considering the upcoming city council vote regarding the rezoning of the Sandpipe property, you might reconsider the way that you and your fiancé—”

  “I’ll reconsider nothing,” I interrupt, absolutely disgusted. “And you should recuse yourself from the vote. You have a clear conflict of interest.”

  His smug smile appears. “You need my vote for the rezoning to pass.”

  “No, I don’t. I’ll flip Kaser or Andersen when I throw my weight behind the Green Spaces project.” Though he knows I’m right, his expression barely flickers. So I apply more pressure. “But since we are speaking of things that ought to be reconsidered, I advise you to think carefully about how you will soon have no access to the Wyndham fortune—which means that your wife’s fortune will be your sole means of support. So the pictures that my investigators took of you and a female companion on Wednesday afternoon might disrupt your access to her fortune, as well. Unless you intend to give your wife a Christmas speech about forgiveness and healing, too?”

  Now his expression flickers. His face becomes a mask of self-righteous anger. “Are you blackmailing me?”

  “No. I don’t want to sway your vote—I want you to recuse yourself. And if you don’t do it voluntarily, I will explain in detail to the city council how your impartiality is compromised, but only with respect to my fiancé’s relationship to you and our current legal battle. Your private business is your own. It might be to your benefit, however, to examine all the areas of your life that could damage you professionally and personally. Because if the court case drags on, with your side questioning Eleanor’s mental acuity and judgment, my lawyers might feel compelled to offer evidence that supports Eleanor’s assessment of you as ‘cheating vermin’…and you can be certain those photos will end up in a publicly accessible docket.”

  He goes absolutely silent.

  “See? Not blackmail. Just friendly advice. Legal battles involving inheritances are notoriously ugly. And this is only after a single week of investigation. Who knows what we might turn up by the end? Though I suppose you and your mother and sister know all the things you each have done and everything we might find. So you all should decide what really matters to you—your past, or your future.” I smile at him. “Goodnight, Christopher.”

  Though Caleb’s fingers tighten on mine as we walk toward the front door, he doesn’t say anything until we’re outside, where fat snowflakes have begun falling. I automatically tip my head back to catch one on my tongue.

  He grins at me. “That felt damn good.”

  Yes, it did.
“Christopher did say that he brought us together in the hope of healing our old wounds.”

  His deep laugh rumbles out. “He’s probably not real happy with how that healing turned out.”

  Probably not. But I am. And I feel so much relief after that confrontation with my parents. As if the pain hadn’t been an open bleeding wound at all, but a festering boil that needed to be lanced and drained. It’s still sore but…it’s better. And Caleb has been carrying around pain even deeper than mine, because I’ve been able to address mine through therapy—and to control their access to me. Yet he’s never had the opportunity or the power to confront the Wyndhams before. So laying it all out before them and making them pay for what they did to his mother must have been incredibly satisfying.

  And he’s clearly not only driven by spite, though maybe there’s some of that, too. But I just witnessed something much more powerful—a man seeking justice for his mother and finally being able to deliver it.

  Though maybe he could do even more. I glance back at the house just before I slide into the car. When he settles into his own seat, I tell him, “I don’t think you should burn it down.”

  “No?”

  “I think you should turn it into a home for women who have been incarcerated and recently released, and who need help getting back on their feet or to regain custody of their children. You could call it the Phoenix House. Where they get their second chance. Or rise from the ashes—oh!”

  One moment I’m sitting. In the next I’m straddling his lap, with Caleb’s fingers buried in my hair and his mouth opening beneath mine as he draws me down into a hot, deep kiss. Lust immediately flares through my blood, and I can feel Caleb’s desire in the thick ridge between my legs. But despite his arousal, he breaks away after only a minute, his breathing rough and close in the darkened car.

  “Your parents are so fucking blind, Audrey,” he says in a low, urgent voice. “And I know you don’t like to talk about them, so I won’t bring it up again. But I need you to know that I’m not like your mother. I see you. I see how much you have to give. And how much you do give every day. You don’t have to go around hugging anyone to prove a damn thing.”

  Emotion swells inside my chest, so big. So frightening. Because if Caleb sees all that, then he must know that I love him. Must know that, even now, the way that I can sit here so close—not because we’re kissing or in a sexual embrace but an emotionally intimate one—is a wordless display of how much I trust him, and how safe I feel…and how I know that he’ll take care of my heart, even if I don’t hold his.

  My voice is thick as I tell him, “Then I want you to know that I’m not like her, either. I won’t ever ask for more than you want to give—or for something you can’t give.”

  Like his love—or more time with him.

  Softly he kisses me. “I know you won’t, baby.”

  That gentle response both eases and deepens the ache in my heart. He’s such a good man. How could I not love him? And how can I not yearn for his love in return? But I won’t be like my mother in that, either—always throwing my emotions and wishes into his face, so he feels obligated to reciprocate my feelings.

  So despite the love bursting inside me, I only tell him haltingly, “But…I do have to ask for something. Because I don’t want to ruin our wedding night. And I’m sorry, because I know it’s not what you wanted.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “We need to have sex after the party tomorrow.”

  His body reacts, stiffening beneath mine—but for the longest moment, he doesn’t respond. I hunch my shoulders, preparing for his rejection…yet when his reply comes, it’s only a simple, “Why?”

  I draw a shuddering breath, so glad of the dark. “I won’t talk about all of this again, but since we’ll be living together, you need to know anyway. I don’t handle pain well.”

  “I know.” His voice is gentle. “You’ve said that before.”

  “But not why I don’t, or what happens when I get hurt. Not that I know why I don’t handle it well. But…” I’m babbling. As if I’m nervous. But I shouldn’t be. Because this is Caleb. And he understands who I am. So he’ll understand this, too. On a deep breath, I start again. “You just met my mother.”

  “Yeah, I did.” Steel hardens the words.

  “She wasn’t exaggerating about my tantrums. When I was younger, I couldn’t control my emotional reactions. And when I became overwhelmed, I would scream and cry and…sometimes, I was physically violent. Hitting her or kicking her. But you don’t have to be afraid of that now,” I rush to add. “I learned to control that by the time I was eight.”

  He softly brushes a strand of hair away from my face. “I’m not afraid.”

  “I’m glad,” I whisper, and draw another ragged breath. “But it wasn’t always when I was overwhelmed. Whenever I got hurt, I would go to her for help, and then I would cry and scream—and I wouldn’t be able to stop. Even if it was just something like a splinter in my finger or a stubbed toe. She would tell me it was nothing, and I suppose that, rationally, I knew it was. But it didn’t matter. Until it stopped hurting, I couldn’t think of anything else or feel anything else. And if she tried to help, I would scream more and fight her because I was afraid touching it would just hurt more. Because it always did. Pulling out the splinter, or the way antiseptic burns. And she would get so frustrated and angry and…she would say that if I knew what real pain felt like, I wouldn’t freak out over a splinter. Then she’d show me. Most of the time it didn’t leave marks. Though some did. Like her curling iron. And none of it ever taught me anything, except that I shouldn’t go to her for help anymore.”

  Caleb makes a rough sound in his throat. “I’m so fucking sorry, baby.” His palm smooths up and down my back. “What did you do, instead?”

  “Hide. Usually in my closet, because I could cover my mouth with a blanket or pillow and scream and cry as much as I needed to until I stopped hurting.”

  “And it was dark and quiet there.”

  “Yes.”

  His body suddenly tenses. “Did she break your arm, too?”

  “No. I fell out of a tree.”

  He releases a heavy breath. “Okay. I’d been thinking that maybe… But I forgot you don’t lie.”

  Though Caleb doesn’t finish what he thought, it’s easy to guess. He thought I was concealing her abuse. I wasn’t hiding it, though. I just don’t like to think about it or talk about it.

  But that’s what we’re doing now. This one time. So he can understand what I’m asking from him.

  “I didn’t lie,” I say quietly. “But I didn’t tell you all of it. After I broke my arm, I went to my closet but it didn’t stop hurting. So I was there for a while and wouldn’t leave. And they all thought I was freaking out about another little injury. Until my father got upset that I was causing so much trouble and grabbed my broken arm and jerked on it to drag me out of there.” I close my eyes and rest my forehead against Caleb’s. “I don’t like remembering the rest.”

  He makes another rough sound and says in a raw voice, “Then don’t, baby.”

  “But it was better after that. Because they sent me off to boarding school. I met Reverend Foster there—he was the school chaplain back then. And he was someone I could go to for help again. Not if I was hurt, because I still just hid. But while I was working through…emotional things. Mostly regarding my parents.”

  “He didn’t preach forgiveness?”

  “No. Mostly just acceptance. That they were who they were, and I am who I am—and understanding that, because of who they are, they will always hurt someone like me. And then teaching me to accept who I am. Which was the best lesson I ever learned.”

  “Because who you are is fucking amazing.”

  All that sweet warmth fills my chest again. I want to kiss him for that, but I’ve already gotten off track. And this needs to be settled. “I’m also someone who doesn’t handle pain well. I’ve learned to withstand those mild pains better—or use it, like w
hen I snap my rubber band. But even a splinter can still be overwhelming. And sometimes I still have to run off to hide and cry. And if I have to do something that hurts me—like get an immunization—it’s hard. Especially if I might bleed. I panic a little. I don’t scream or cry when they’re coming at me with a needle but it’s really difficult to not run away. You might think it’s childish, but I just can’t process—”

  “I don’t,” he reassures me, his hand soothing up and down my spine again. “I don’t think it’s childish.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that so much,” I say, though words could never convey how much. And my heart thumps wildly, a bit of panic settling in already when I think about the rest. “But having sex is supposedly painful the first time—and it might make me bleed. I didn’t think about that until after you mentioned being gentle with me. But even if you’re gentle, I might not handle it well. That’s why I want to do it after the party tomorrow instead of our wedding night.”

  For a long moment, the only sound is the soft brush of fabric under his palm as he continues that slow, soothing massage. His voice is all gravel when he finally asks, “If I come at you with my cock, you think you’ll panic and run away?”

  “Maybe.” I pull in a shallow, shaky breath. “But I can probably make myself stay. Like when I learned to ice skate. It hurt every time I fell down, but I wanted to do it so much, so I just…pushed through. As best I could. But I might cry. Then go and hide when it’s over.”

  “When it’s over?” He makes a rough, explosive sound in his throat. “Baby, if you’re crying, I’m sure as fuck not finishing anything.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper thickly. “It’s not going to be sexy.”

  “Don’t you be sorry.” He falls quiet again before saying, “You’re not really asking me to fuck you. Just to pop your cherry, so it won’t hurt the next time. Is that right?”

  “Yes. I would do it myself with a dildo or something but I can’t…I can’t even pierce my ears. And I trust that you’ll make it hurt as little as possible.”