Bellamy's Redemption

by Holly Tierney-Bedord

  Bellamy’s Redemption

  by Holly Tierney-Bedord

  More books by Holly Tierney-Bedord

  Novels:

  Coached

  Run Away Baby

  Surviving Valencia

  Novellas:

  The Snowflake Valley Advice Fairy

  Right Under Your Nose: A Christmas Story

  Ring in the New Year

  Sunflowers and Second Chances

  Young adult novels:

  The Pinky Bean Chronicles

  Children’s books:

  Bagels for Barkly

  The World’s Trickiest Mazes for Kids

  **********

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Holly Tierney-Bedord using artwork licensed from Gillham Studios.

  Bellamy’s Redemption by Holly Tierney-Bedord

  ©2013

  All rights reserved.

  Chapter 1

  Everyone watched the night Bellamy Timberfrost got his heart broken on national television. My friends and I did, anyhow. The five of us were at Betsy’s house, drinking wine and munching on extra spicy pretzel mix. It was an evening we had all been anticipating for months, having endured the rollercoaster ride of love that Alanna Rutherford had taken us upon. From her quaint cottage home in Quebec where we started the journey with her, through Mayan ruins and Moroccan markets, we had watched the raven-haired beauty painfully narrow down suitor after suitor. We cried along with her when it was discovered that Charles, the frontrunner, had a girlfriend and child at home. We booed him off the television and uncorked another bottle. That was the night that Bellamy was promoted to our favorite.

  Standing there in the moonlight on a beach in Portugal, smoothing back Alanna’s hair and kissing her tear-stained cheeks, Bellamy cemented his place in our hearts, as well as hers. Or so we thought. So the evening of the proposal, a month and countless romantic dates later, as Bellamy stood in his tuxedo on the steps of the Taj Mahal, shaking, a cushion cut yellow diamond engagement ring bulging suggestively in his pocket, we were all so sure of what was about to transpire that some people (Judijean, for example) were not even paying proper attention.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” said Betsy, shushing Judijean who was trying to show Lauren a new crochet stitch. “Something is wrong.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Rachel.

  “Isn’t it obvious? They’re showing Bellamy first. Why are they showing Bellamy first?”

  It was true. This was not the way it was supposed to go. The munching and chatter halted as we all leaned in, staring at Betsy’s tiny, ancient television.

  “Is that a tear in Alanna’s eye?” Rachel whispered.

  “I can’t tell,” said Lauren, shooting Judijean a quick, angry glare. We were supposed to be watching the finale at Judijean’s house, on her seventy-three inch high definition flat screen television, but at the last minute her fiancé Bud (Butt) had decided a poker party and vintage Beevis and Butthead-a-thon trumped our Ladies’ Night plans.

  “It’s a tear,” Betsy confirmed.

  Bellamy was smiling. He was getting down on one knee.

  “Don’t do it, Bellamy,” Lauren whispered.

  Judijean pursed her lips and flared her nostrils at the television.

  “Easy, Horsey,” said Lauren, patting Judijean’s head.

  “Alanna Roxanne Rutherford,” said Bellamy, “from the moment I stepped out of the limo and saw you, I knew my life would never be the same.” He wiped his hands on his pant legs and reached into his pocket.

  “How is he not noticing that Alanna looks like she’s about to barf?” asked Rachel.

  “He’s too in love,” I said solemnly.

  He opened the box and the camera zoomed in, freezing on the sparkling ring, and for a moment everything stopped as the Diamonds by Deluxe jingle played its familiar tune: Show her, show her, you love her, love her, in a special way that shines, shines, shines like the stars above… Diamonds by Deluxe!

  “I want a Deluxe Diamond someday,” said Lauren.

  We all ignored her. There was no way her boyfriend Nick could ever afford a Deluxe Diamond with his salary as a pizza delivery guy.

  The camera panned back to Bellamy. His eyes were full of sweetness and hope. I couldn’t control myself; I started to bawl.

  “Emma, it’s okay,” said Rachel. She sat down beside me and squeezed my shoulder. I wiped at my eyes and squinted at the television screen, in time to hear Bellamy ask, “Will… you… marry… me?”

  Alanna Rutherford shook her head and wiped two perfect tears from her wide, hazel eyes. “I’m so sorry, Bellamy, but I love… Antonio.”

  And suddenly there was Antonio, riding up on a camel. Judijean clapped and squealed in delight.

  “I always liked Antonio better than Bellamy,” Lauren admitted.

  “You’re crazy,” said Betsy.

  “Bellamy is perfect,” I whispered.

  Antonio climbed down from the camel and handed the reins to Bellamy. Some belly dancers helped him up onto the camel and he clomped away.

  “I don’t think those belly dancers are authentic,” said Betsy.

  “Please, it’s just a show,” said Judijean.

  “A reality show,” said Betsy.

  “Alanna,” Antonio was saying, “from the moment I first stepped out of the limo, I knew my life would never be the same…” The camera focused again on Bellamy, growing smaller and smaller as his camel retreated into the sunset.

  “I have to go,” I said, standing up and brushing crumbs off my skirt. I was still in my work clothes, and the long day was catching up with me. I picked up the scarf I’d been knitting and stuffed it in my tote bag.

  “Emma, aren’t you going to watch him propose?” asked Lauren.

  “No, I really can’t bear to see it,” I said. I carried my wineglass into Betsy’s kitchen and set it beside her sink. She and Rachel followed after me. They are my two oldest friends; the three of us met in Green Frogs Preschool and we have been together ever since. Judijean and Lauren didn’t come along until high school. They were already best friends with each other when we met them. They bicker and fight like an old married couple. As united as we five are to the outside world, there is often a subtle divide in our group, with unshakeable loyalties between us three and those two.

  “I cannot believe you’re missing this,” Lauren shouted.

  “Go watch it,” I said to Betsy and Rachel. “You don’t have to hang out in here with me.”

  “But you’re crying,” said Betsy.

  “I’m fine. I’d better go,” I said, giving them both hugs. I smiled bravely to prove I meant it. They looked skeptical.

  “Seriously, this is the best show I have ever seen in my whole life,” Lauren yelled. Betsy and Rachel rejoined them. I waved to Lauren and Judijean on my way out; they were too enthralled in Antonio and Alanna’s elaborately choreographed dance routine to be interrupted with hugs.

  I walked the seven blocks to my apartment, through freshly fallen snow, wishing I’d brought along some comfortable shoes or boots. By the time I reached my door, I could barely hobble up the stairs. Before I sat down at my computer or sifted through the mail scattered in my foyer in front of the old-fashioned mail slot, I turned on the bathwater and added some lavender oil. My feet were throbbing. Even worse than the pain was the realization that I would need to wear sensible shoes for the next several days while today’s blisters healed.

  My apartment was cold and dark. I
wished I had a cat or dog, but I knew it wouldn’t be fair; I’m never home. I turned up the heat and ate a piece of leftover pizza while the bath filled and the radiators clunked into action. Snow was gathering on my windowsills and swirling flakes twirled beneath the street lamps. I imagined for a moment that tomorrow might be a snow day. I got into the bath, plotting out the details of tonight’s snow turning to ice and the entire city being shut down.

  Tomorrow’s clients were all out in the suburbs. I was scheduled to meet with Mrs. Norman Fillmore (as she primly referred to herself) at ten o’clock, to discuss the remodel of her entire downstairs. Although she was so elderly that I half-questioned the ethics of engaging in a revamp that may not be finished in her lifetime, she seemed mentally intact, so I was going along with it.

  Nothing in her home had been touched since the 1980’s when the house was built, and even then she was old, with a fondness for old-lady tchotchkes. Walls and surfaces were drenched in worn, faded, peacock blue decadence. When she first met with me at my office, I thought there was hope. She had just lost her husband after being his caretaker for many years. She seemed like a fragile old rose, ready to dip her toes back into the water. We had looked at fabric swatches and had taken a fieldtrip to a furniture store. All was well until she discovered houndstooth. “Oh, myyyyyy,” she’d crackled, “I remember this pattern. Is this back in fashion?”

  “Houndstooth is always in fashion. It’s considered a classic, and when the two colors are similar and muted it can even be considered a neutral. We can incorporate some touches of this pattern into your design.”

  “I want to steeeeer cleeeeear of bluuuue this time around,” she said in her strange way of annunciating certain words very slowly.

  “We can do that,” I assured her.

  “But I still looooove goooooooold. And red. I want it to feel riiiiiich.”

  “Mixing colors and patterns works in moderation,” I said, wondering how I was going to reel her in.

  Then she went nuts, pointing out every houndstooth patterned item in the store, and branching out to love checks, plaids, and backgammon triangles. Anything devoid of pattern was red or gold. Bright red drapes with heavy gold trim. Brass lamps with red velvet shades. Her home was quickly turning into something from Alice in Wonderland. I was dreading seeing her again, since the time had come to convince her to learn to edit.

  In the afternoon it was Felicity Snell, whose industrial kitchen remodel was on target to be slightly less cozy than the set from the movie Saw. Having never cooked, or apparently eaten, she didn’t see the need for cupboards, a pantry, drawers, or any other form of storage. So far the design incorporated high-end stainless steel appliances with wine racks and one exposed shelf of petal thin, asymmetrical, white ceramic dishware. I was not sure where a bag of potato chips or a can of soup could go, and I was dreading the fight that would ensue when I tried again to discuss this with her.

  I added some more hot water to the bath, opening the tall, frosted glass window a crack. Cold air and the city noises came rushing in as I peeked out at the snowy winter night, enjoying the juxtaposition of my private nakedness and the cold city.

  “I want to be here tomorrow,” I said aloud. I closed the window since my bathwater was rapidly cooling. I added even more hot water, trying to get the image of the tasseled, harlequin patterned overstuffed ottomans that Mrs. Fillmore was in love with out of my mind. “I’m doing it,” I whispered. Calling in sick. I never did anything remotely irresponsible, but what the heck. I would say I had food poisoning. No, I’m such a bad liar. Maybe I could have a personal emergency. But that might make me seem crazy. The weather could be my excuse. Obviously it would have to be the weather. I needed a break, and Mrs. Fillmore and Felicity Snell could wait another day.

  As soon as I’d decided this, and firmly convinced myself that I really would go through with it, an unexpected wave of relief washed over me, relaxing me more than the bath had been capable of. I must really hate my job, I realized. But I didn’t. I loved it. I loved design, anyhow. And I loved the pride and satisfaction of a great end result. And I loved making people happy, and impressing them with my skills. It was just all the work it took getting there that I hated.

  Feeling rejuvenated and like I no longer needed to get right to bed, I stepped out of the tub, put on my robe and slippers, and went out into the living room. My office is in a tiny alcove filled with windows that used to be a porch. It’s well insulated enough that even on a night like tonight it’s the perfect place to sit and work, watching the traffic below. I checked facebook and then checked my email. Nothing was happening. So I googled Bellamy Timberfrost. I needed to see his face again.

  His brown curls and blue eyes appeared on the screen, imploring me to love him. I swear, they seemed to be looking right into my soul. Next I logged into my favorite celebrity gossip website, hoping to see some candid shots of Bellamy at Starbucks or leaving the gym. Those are always my favorite pictures because I can imagine myself there with him. “It’s a little pathetic how attached you’ve gotten to him,” I said to myself. And then I wrote firmly with a black Sharpie on a yellow Post-it note Stop talking to yourself and stuck it on the corner of my computer monitor.

  “Tune in tonight to hear Bellamy’s side of the story!” said the caption beneath his photo on celebstalker.com. I panicked, checking the clock. Had I missed it? Not yet. I don’t have a television because I think they make people dumb, so I ran next door to my neighbor Pete’s apartment.

  “Pete, it’s me, Emma,” I yelled, pounding on his door. He answered the door in a flowered, vintage bathrobe, nibbling on some string cheese. His blonde hair was smooshed against one side of his stubbly face. He looked cute and dirty, as usual.

  “C’mon in.”

  His apartment is a sad reminder of what mine would look like if I had not made it over to the pristine temple of gray and white simplicity that it now is. And to think the landlord gave me a giant discount off rent and reimbursed me for supplies, for doing what I would have done anyhow.

  “Cheese?” asked Pete.

  “No thanks.”

  “Well, at least have something to drink,” he said, handing me a Capri Sun.

  “Thanks Pete. I appreciate it. I’m here on important business. Can we watch The Late Show with Bobby Maze? Bellamy Timberfrost is going to be on. It’s starting any second.”

  “Help yourself,” he said, handing me the remote.

  “No Pete. Too many buttons. You’ve got to help me out. Hurry!”

  “Geez, Emma,” he said, shaking his head. He found the correct channel and plunked down beside me on his green velour sofa.

  “It looks nice in here,” I remarked as we sat through some commercials, since it was, technically, a bit cleaner than usual. “Very thrifty,” I added, giving an approving little nod.

  “Can you believe I found this couch on the street?”

  “Do you mean literally? I guess so.”

  “I changed out the legs for these new ones, and it gave it a whole new look.”

  “Clever. Ooh, look! It’s starting!” I popped my Capri Sun straw into the pouch and took a sip.

  “Do you ever think it’s weird how much time we spend together in our bathrobes?” asked Pete.

  “Shhh. There he is. Bellamy Timberfrost. That’s him.”

  “That’s him?”

  “Be nice. I love him.”

  Pete took a radish off a small chipped plate and crunched into it, turning up the television as a courtesy to me.

  “So… Bellamy Timberfrost, ladies and gentlemen!” Bobby Maze was saying, holding out his hands to display my future husband. The audience clapped and cheered as Bellamy gave them a nervous little wave and took a seat.

  “I love shy guys,” I said.

  “I’m shy,” said Pete.

  “You do infomercials for a living.”

  “But it’s a struggle for me.”

  “Shhh. You’re not taking this seriously.”

  H
e made the gesture of locking his lips with a tiny key and tossing it over his shoulder.

  “Well Bellamy, let me just say, it’s a pleasure to have you here. Now, for those of you at home who are not familiar, let me give you a little background: America watched tonight as Bellamy proposed to Alanna Rutherford…” Bellamy noticeably flinched at the mention of her name. Alanna’s glorious likeness appeared on the screen. She was beaming, looking youthful yet wise, draped in a sparkly purple gown and posing in an angular hunch like a supermodel.

  Pete bit into another radish, rolling his eyes, but honoring his pledge to not talk.

  “So Bellamy,” said Bobby Maze, his brow creasing in practiced conspiratorial empathy, “did you watch tonight’s episode?”

  “Um, yeah. Yeah, I watched it.”

  “And was it hard to relive that night?”

  “Yeah, it was.”

  “I take it you had no idea that Alanna was going to choose Antonio?”

  “No idea, man. I had no idea.”

  “Let’s watch it again, in case anyone at home missed it,” said Bobby. I felt tears welling up in my eyes at the depressing image of Bellamy, dropping to one knee, his eyes full of hope. Then they cut to Antonio and Alanna kissing, and finally to Bellamy clomping off on the camel.

  “That was hard to watch,” said Bobby Maze, shaking his head.

  “Yeah,” said Bellamy. He looked like he wanted to die.

  “But I hear you have some great news for America. Can you tell us a little more about that?” asked Bobby Maze, raising one eyebrow in that humorous, light hearted, subject-changing way of his.

  “Oh no. Oh no,” I said. “Don’t tell me he already found someone else!”

  “Um, sure, Booby, I mean Bobby,” said Bellamy. His lips began to form another word and then he froze. “Ugh. I’m so dumb,” he muttered.

  “No you’re not sweet baby,” I whispered.

  Pete threw his string cheese wrapper on the floor and buried his face in a cushion. I pulled him back towards me, partly so he wouldn’t miss anything, and partly to protect him from germs.