Wedding Bands

by Ev Bishop

“Kind of,” Callum repeated with a bitter note in his voice that Jo didn’t understand—and that pissed her off. What the hell did he have to be bitter about?

  There was a moment of uneasy silence, then Callum had the nerve to laugh. “Sisters. Wow.” Jo hated the sexy, low timber of his voice and his easy confidence. “Here I’d just assumed the Josephine Kendall everyone in town was talking about, and that you went on about, was some aunt or something. I didn’t link Jo to Josephine at all.”

  “Well, it’s a terrible name, but it’s better than Jo,” Samantha said.

  “She doesn’t really strike me as the next thing to a bag lady,” Callum said, his head tilting as he studied Jo.

  The next thing to a bag lady? What on earth had Sam been telling people?

  Samantha sounded as affronted as Jo felt. “Have you taken a good look at her?”

  Callum was still gripping Jo’s hand and she yanked away, suddenly conscious of her muddy jeans, old man’s shirt, and—no doubt—leaf and branch strewn hair. Shit. She was making an excellent first impression as a business professional, able to single-handedly turn the old cabin and overgrown property into a successful bed-and-breakfast, wasn’t she? She could practically hear Samantha’s victory chant.

  She tried to fight the heat rising to her cheeks but failed, imagining how the room looked from his eyes. Breakfast and lunch dishes piled messily by the sink. A mishmash of junk littering the floor by the dishwasher. . . . She’d meant to box it up for Goodwill, but the beautiful fall afternoon had called to her. And what kind of ignoramus shows up unannounced and basically breaks into someone’s house anyway?

  “I’m not sure what my sister told you, or why either of you thought an impromptu, unscheduled appointment would be at all appropriate or beneficial”—she glared at Samantha for a moment—“but it’s neither of those things. It’s a Friday night, and I have plans. We can set up a time next week to meet at your office to discuss the estate and terms of my uncle’s will, or, if you’re from out of town, we can conference call.”

  Oh-so-confident Callum looked startled, and Jo made a couple more observations, all equally irritating. Time had been more than kind to him. While she’d found him gorgeous, like a rock god or something, back in the day—his tall, lanky frame had filled out with age. He looked more like a professional athlete than what her mind conjured for a lawyer. His icy blue eyes were still penetrating—and stood out spectacularly against his shock of silky raven hair—but he had just the start of crinkling laugh lines that softened his intensity. And he smelled good. Like fresh baked cookies, vanilla, cinnamon—

  Callum’s voice, sharp and irritated, cut through the buttery attraction melting through Jo. “You didn’t arrange this? We just surprised her?” he said to Samantha.

  Samantha waved her hand dismissively, and Jo wished she could lop one of those constantly gesturing hands right off. “She would’ve stalled indefinitely. And she doesn’t really have plans. She’s having dinner by herself.”

  Like it’s a capital crime or something, Jo thought.

  Callum cleared his throat. “Sounds nice, actually. I’m sorry for the misunderstanding—sorry we disturbed you.”

  Jo didn’t lie and say it was fine. She herded them to the door.

  “I don’t know why you’re being like this. We need to talk, get this figured out, decide what works best for everyone.”

  “We have talked, Samantha. We disagree on what ‘works best’ means. Your lawyer may call me next week, anytime Monday through Friday between nine and five. I’ll consult my schedule and we can set an appointment.”

  “Your schedule?” Samantha mocked.

  Callum placed a hand low on Samantha’s back and guided her toward the door. “She’s right, Samantha. This wasn’t the right way to proceed.”

  “And just so you’re aware. If you break into my house again, I’ll call the cops and press charges.”

  Callum turned back from the door. “I’m not sure it’s so simple as ‘your’ house, Jo—but again, my apologies for the intrusion. It was a misunderstanding. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Jo—”

  “Let’s just go, Samantha.”

  “Yes, go, Samantha. Take your slimy lawyer’s advice. That’s what you’re paying him for right?”

  Jo leaned against the mudroom’s wall after they left and closed her eyes. Why had she been so rude? Yes, even after all these years, the very thought of Callum was a slicing barb—but that was no excuse. They’d been kids. She needed to let him off the hook. For her own sake, not just his.

  Chapter 2

  “Bitch!” Samantha slammed the Mercedes SUV’s door, making the whole vehicle shake. Callum didn’t agree with Samantha’s pronouncement, but he was distracted. Jo. Back in Greenridge. Jo.

  As the months turned to years after that disastrous summer—the summer he’d been stupid enough to think they’d get married and love each other for life—he’d gone away, gotten a couple degrees like his dad wanted, and eventually returned to town with plans to settle down and raise a family. Not something (understatement of the century) that had worked out well. But the point was, he’d come to terms with the fact he’d never see her again. After all, she’d been clear in all their time together that once she left Greenridge, she was never coming back.

  And now here she was. In the flesh—and what flesh it was. He would’ve known her anywhere. And from her derisive snort at his compliment, she still had no clue how beautiful she was. Short and curvy. All that crazy, curly red-gold hair. Those warm brown eyes of hers, such a contrast to her light hair. She was like a mermaid crossed with a fairy crossed with a—ah, he didn’t know. Something sexy though. But it wasn’t just her looks that captivated him. Not when they were younger, not now. She still seemed passionate and insanely optimistic about every little thing—or did according to the details Samantha had given him about “Josephine.” Now that he realized the ideas about turning Ray’s cabin into a bed-and-breakfast were Jo’s, it sounded like she hadn’t changed a bit.

  Callum fastened his seatbelt as Samantha peeled out. The only thing that kept her tires from spraying a fan of gravel was how the long, bumpy driveway was mostly bare earth and potholes—showing Samantha was right about another thing, too. There was a load of work to do if the old place was ever going to be the business Jo envisioned, and it would take a long time to make enough money to pay Samantha out.

  The vehicle jounced over the asphalt ridge where the winding drive joined the main highway, and Callum’s shoulder banged against the window. He rubbed the painful spot. Yep, the driveway needed work all right. The house, however, wasn’t as bad as Samantha made out. It had potential, though Samantha seemed to think Jo wanted to morph it into a posh hotel-like venture.

  “Posh” seemed out of character for the Jo he’d loved, the girl whose yearbook write up said something like, “Most hoped for career? Pah—make love not war!” and who’d been dubbed, “Most likely to end up a hermit living off the land with no electricity.” It also seemed incongruous for the woman she’d become. Who’d wear faded flannel and rubber boots and catch her own fish if striving for some uppity resort? But as he’d proven so mightily over the years: he didn’t really understand people.

  To reaffirm the truth of his last thought—or perhaps just to cruelly remind him of the second biggest mistake of his life, all too related to his lack of understanding—Nina’s voice shrilled in his memory. “This is not about not understanding me, Callum. This is about you. You never got over her—a high school romance. You’re pathetic!”

  But that was ridiculous. He’d gotten over Jo Kendall. He had. So why was his heart pounding now? Well, it was just the surprise of seeing her again, of course, the stress of confronting his past. That was it. That was all.

  “Callum?” Samantha’s long nails dragged over the back of his hand. He started, but managed, barely, to not jerk away from her touch.

  “I’m sorry, Samantha. What were you saying?”

  “Wha
t was I saying?” A tittering laugh punctuated her sentences. “So many things, silly. I’ve been talking since we left Jo’s house.”

  Interesting. Samantha referred to Ray’s as if it did indeed belong to Jo. “I’m sorry,” Callum repeated. “I guess I was distracted, thinking about your situation. Trying to figure out what we should do next.”

  The ear-splitting titter sounded again. “Situation, smituation. I know you’ll take care of things satisfactorily. I have your daddy’s word, after all.”

  She came to a fast, hard stop at the first set of lights into town. Callum braced himself, hand on the dashboard, and resolved that he didn’t care what Samantha or his “daddy” thought of his Honda. It was a fine, reliable car, and he wasn’t riding in this death trap ever again.

  “Oh, don’t scowl,” Samantha said sweetly. “Is your father a sore point? My bad. I wasn’t aware.”

  Not aware my ass, thought Callum. There wasn’t a thing Samantha did or said that wasn’t one hundred percent calculated (plus tax!)—an insight that focused him.

  “So what was that back there anyway?”

  Samantha turned her head, fluttered her eyelashes at him—and almost took out a pedestrian.

  “What was what, back where?” She whipped into a tight spot between a red Ford and a superman-blue Toyota in front of Archer and Sons, seemingly without looking, and parked perfectly. It made him crazy that she was actually an excellent driver—for a totally insane person.

  His hand was on the door, but he paused before opening it and escaping. “Showing up at your sister’s, being in her house, unannounced like that?”

  Samantha considered him. “I thought it would unnerve her. She didn’t think I’d lawyer up. And she pissed me off. It was time to get even.”

  In his head, Callum gave Samantha a small kudos for honesty. At least she didn’t waste her time trying to people please all the time.

  A depressing drizzle had started and the sidewalk glistened under the streetlights. He was surprised when Samantha hollered for him to wait, but he did as requested—and was further surprised when she didn’t continue to yammer through the window, but got out and ran—or, rather, tottered—over to him on those ridiculous high heels of hers.

  She held her Gucci bag over her head and looked up at him. Staring at him beseechingly with her big green eyes, while trying futilely to avoid getting soaked, she was kind of cute. He shook his head, before he even heard her request.

  “One beer,” she repeated. “Mix a little business and pleasure. It’ll be fun.” She tapped her foot, and as she’d most likely intended, he looked down the considerable length of her long, lean leg.

  She was smiling when he brought his eyes back up to hers.

  “Don’t let the rumors about Archer men proceed me,” he muttered. “And don’t misread my attention. Business is all I’m good for—if that.”

  Samantha’s fingers danced up his forearm, then rested on his bicep. “And don’t misread me. I’m not looking for a relationship. I just want a drink and a good time. We could even start by talking about work.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Oh, come on. Don’t be coy. You must’ve inherited more from your dad than just his good looks.”

  “God, I hope not. I’ll call you Monday after I’ve contacted your sister.”

  He left Samantha pouting prettily, but looking only slightly miffed—and more like she’d received some sort of challenge—and walked around to the building’s side entrance. He held up his fob, pushed the heavy door open when the light flashed green, and waited until he was safely down the dark hallway before he leaned against the wall and exhaled.

  He just needed to hang in for one more job. He could do it. Get slightly odd Jo to sell, receive a fat slice of scary Samantha’s share and pay off his father. Then be free. He could do it. And he would. If trying didn’t make him jump off a building or something first.

  His thoughts turned to his apartment’s fridge and he felt himself relax. The weekend wouldn’t be a total horror show. He wouldn’t let it.

  Chapter 3

  Aisha studied herself in the white-enamel Cheval mirror by her highboy dresser, which was also white enamel with brass and ceramic ornamentation, like the desk, like the canopy bed. It was a babyish, girly set that no longer suited her, but she hadn’t parted with it because redecorating the bedroom and picking out new furniture was one of the last things she and her mom had done together before her mom died.

  She turned this way and that, first pressing her T-shirt against her stomach, then fanning it, trying to make it billow out. It remained snug. Soon other people would notice her “condition” no matter what she wore.

  Knocked up. Preggers. Preggo. With child. Bun in the oven. Stupid. And why was she so big anyway? She was only three months along—okay, maybe “big” wasn’t the right word. Different was more like it. Her stomach looked different. Already. And unless it was her imagination—and she was sure it wasn’t—her face had changed too. It was slightly chubbier, softer.

  She thought she heard a door slam downstairs and cocked her head, listening. A car engine roared to life in the driveway. Her dad, still blocked in his novel and off to the gym, she supposed. And apparently still not talking to her. Ah, well. She totally got it. If she didn’t have to, she wouldn’t be stuck in her head talking to herself either.

  She pulled on black skinny jeans—yes, she saw the irony—that she’d recently altered, adding a stomach panel of stretchy skull print (Maternity clothes for Goth girls—it could be the new rage, yeah right!), then zipped herself into a massive black hooded-sweatshirt. She ran kohl liner around her eyes and a swath of fire engine red lipstick over her mouth. Her hair was its usual frizzy mess. She scooped it up, gave it a violent twist and shoved a chopstick up, then inverted it and pushed down—and repeated the action with another stick. “You look like a fat manga chick,” she snarled at the mirror. Then felt badly. What if the kid could hear her? “Not that ‘fat’ or ‘manga’ or ‘chicks’ are bad things,” she added.

  In the kitchen, she forced down a glass of milk, a banana and two pieces of cheddar cheese. Eating breakfast, yuck, was a new thing for her . . . but necessary if she didn’t want to barf. She packed wheat thins and a small jar of peanut butter into her backpack, knowing she’d be starved like she’d never eaten in her life in about half an hour.

  She paused by the computer in her mom’s room—yes, both her and her dad still referred to it as “Mom’s” three years later—then sank into the worn, burgundy office chair and contemplated the list she’d printed out and accidentally on purpose left for her dad to discover. She had wanted his opinion, even though she didn’t want to hurt him. And he’d given it, but yes, been hurt. Didn’t understand why she needed advice or information from her biological mother—or why she wanted to find out who her biological father was. And Aisha didn’t understand it either. She just needed to.

  She scanned the repeating surname, Kendall, Kendall, Kendall . . . twenty-two of them, all women in the right age range, all still living in B.C. There was a chance, of course, maybe even a high probability that her birth mom no longer lived in the province, but she had to start somewhere. And until she talked to her birth mom, met her in person, for reasons Aisha couldn’t articulate, she felt powerless to decide what to do with the baby.

  Ah, well. Commencing the cold calling—fun, fun—would have to wait. She needed to get to work and though the Return-It Depot wasn’t her dream job or anything, she wanted to keep it as long as possible before the lifting got to be too much. She’d needed to earn and save every dollar she could right now. Getting canned for being late wouldn’t do.

  Chapter 4

  Jo considered her clothing choices, and once again cursed Samantha for launching a surprise attack when she was all grubby from a fishing trip.

  She liked her outfit, but how would Callum see it? What would a lawyer read into it? The black silk tunic was lovely. The pendant she wore—a moon shaped chunk o
f labradorite on a heavy silver chain—was striking, but not over the top. She wore jeans, and not just because she didn’t own more formal attire. They were practical, and made it seem like she wasn’t trying too hard, or so she hoped.

  That said, she really did need to make a better impression at this meeting, or Callum would write her off as being as eccentric as her uncle was. Normally she’d be proud to wear the title, but it wasn’t a helpful label when it came to trying to inspire confidence in a business plan.

  “You’re a liar,” she muttered at her reflection. “Liar.” The full and only reason she was contemplating her appearance was because Callum was still ridiculously attractive, maybe even more so with some years on him. She wanted him to think she’d held up okay, too—and she needed to appear strong, put together, and long over him. Which she was. She totally was.

  She tromped through the house locking doors, resenting the fact that she had to, but wanting to establish the habit so that if Samantha decided on any repeats of the other day’s behavior, she’d be stuck waiting on the porch.

  Outside, it was raining—or, more accurately, misting. Great. Her hair would be a mess of frizz. She called Hoover, and he must’ve realized she was leaving the property because for once he came without being asked twice. She opened the truck’s passenger door, and he jumped up eagerly, turned three circles on the wide canvas seat and settled into a crescent roll shape with a small grunt.

  Jo scratched his soft ears, a total anomaly from the rest of his wire brush fur. “It’s a good thing you’re cute because you’re a useless watch dog.” Hoover grunted again and rolled to his back. “And no,” she added, rubbing his belly obediently, “you’re not forgiven for letting Samantha and he-who-shall-not-be-named into the house without giving me so much as a whimper of a warning.”

  *

  “Mr. Archer will be right with you,” the secretary, a slight, red-haired woman in a leopard print skirt and jacket, assured Jo. “Can I offer you tea while you wait?”