Wedding Bands

by Ev Bishop

  “I don’t—Ray’s property mess aside. And I’ve never meddled or brought this up before. We’ve never even really talked about it.”

  “I’m sorry, Jo. I really am. Tell her I’ve left town—that’s why you couldn’t get me yesterday.”

  “Have you left town?” It actually would be like Sam. Exactly like her, in fact.

  Sam sighed. “Not yet, no—but I have given notice and started packing.”

  “So rescind your notice and stay another month. Just one, and not just for Aisha. For me. I want to show you River’s Sigh B & B.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “So it’s game on between you and my lawyer, then? Things are all hunky-dory?”

  Jo laughed. “He was my boyfriend before he was your lawyer, and yes”—Jo glanced down at her ring shining in the sunlight—“things are great.”

  “How wonderful for you.”

  “Oh come on, don’t be like that.”

  “I’m not—or, well, I don’t mean to be. I’m sorry. I am happy for you guys. I know you’ve always wanted this, it, him. . . .” Jo could practically see Sam’s hands waving about as she spoke.

  “Stay, Sam. Stay.”

  There was a long, long pause. Finally, sounding sad but resolute, Sam answered. “No. And hey . . . I’ll contact you in a few days and let you know where I am.”

  “But—” It was no use. Jo was talking to dead air.

  Chapter 35

  The incredibly tiny church had seating, literally, for a max of nine people, and it still wasn’t filled to capacity.

  “It’s like a doll church or something,” Aisha said, turning her head to take in the petite pews, small stain-glassed windows, and aisle that was all of ten feet long.

  “Yeah, I know. Isn’t it lovely? It’s always amazed me that the early settlers even built it. It’s like it was created for one family or something. Callum and I used to sneak in here, back in the day. We even pretended to get married once, went through the vows everything—”

  “Were you drunk?” And there it was again: Sam’s sentimentality and rosy outlook on life alive and thriving in the flesh of her biological daughter.

  “Well, maybe,” Jo admitted grudgingly. “But even then, we really felt we were meant to be together.”

  Aisha squeezed her hand. “That’s so nice—and anyway, you’re not drunk now.”

  Jo looked over at her niece and squeezed her hand back. One day Samantha would realize, hopefully, that yes, loving and letting yourself be loved opened you up for potential hurt and pain—but also for incredible joy and fun and, well, everything that made life worth living. “I’m glad you’re here, Aisha.”

  “And I’m so glad you and Callum have that little cabin that’s in decent enough shape for me to stay. I’ll be a big help around the place. You’ll see.”

  Jo nodded. She wasn’t sure how much help her growing-larger-by-the-day niece would really be—or even why Aisha was so determined to stay in Greenridge to have her child, especially when it seemed to be breaking her father’s heart. Still, she was happy to get to know Aisha better, regardless of what work she might or might not do, and she was willing to wait for Aisha to open up—

  And suddenly her mind wasn’t on Aisha or on her sadness that Sam wasn’t there. Callum bounded through the door at the back of the small church, and he was all she could see. His eyes sought hers, only hers, and she couldn’t breath. This was actually happening. She was marrying Callum Archer! She stood up and together they approached the simple pulpit. The minister appeared from a side door, followed by their witnesses, Callum’s brother Brian and his date, and the ceremony proceeded. They had written their own vows and Jo was sure they each spoke their hearts—but she was glad they’d put them on paper to treasure later because she was hardly aware of what they said. Her heart pounded and her blood thrummed.

  “Do you Callum Archer, take this woman, to love, honor and cherish till death do you part?”

  All she could hear, all she wanted for the rest of her life, was his simple, low-voiced promise. “I do.”

  Epilogue

  Jo retrieved the light blue envelope from where it was wedged between the window frame and the wall in her office and opened it. She smiled as she read the note—then shook her head, cheeks warm, as her insides tightened and heated in delightful, if slightly torturous, anticipation.

  Callum—what a weirdo! Her business partner. Her chief cook and bottle washer. Her husband. Would any of it ever get old? She hoped not.

  Meanwhile she picked up her cell phone, hit reply, and—after a moment’s thought—sent a few lines that would hopefully bring him as much immediate discomfort as his letter had brought her. And then she got to work. Their first guests were arriving in two days, and Aisha, though only weeks away from being “ready to pop” in her own oh-so-eloquent words, had proven worth her now considerable weight in gold. The cabins were in beautiful shape. Jo just needed to plan breakfasts to wow their company and make sure the finishing touches were just right. And then, she was sure she’d have time, she might sneak away. She had a new lure to try—a flashy yellow and black thing called a Hornet. She suspected she’d still add a wedding band though. Wedding bands, after all, were precious things.

  Dear Reader,

  I loved getting to know Jo and Callum and seeing the birth of River’s Sigh B & B, my own dream getaway. If you enjoyed it too, you’ll be happy to know their story—and the stories of so many other people living in or visiting Greenridge—continues in Hooked, Book 2 of the River’s Sigh B & B series.

  Click here to sign up for my newsletter to learn about upcoming books, and/or visit evbishop.com, find me on Facebook, follow my Tweets, or drop me a line at evbishop@evbishop.com. I’d love to hear from you! And on a similar note, reviews really, really help authors. Please consider leaving a rating and a few kind words on GoodReads, your blog, Facebook, or anywhere else you like to hang out when your nose isn’t in a book. Thank you so much for reading.

  Warm regards and best wishes,

  For a sneak preview of HOOKED read on. . . .

  Chapter 1

  Fresh from the shower, barefoot and dressed only in a robe, Sam wrapped her arms around herself and turned in a slow circle. Five stars or not, a hotel room was always just a hotel room, wasn’t it? It was beautiful with its teak four-poster bed, matching highboy and desk, and snow-white linens, but generic nonetheless.

  She settled into the leather wingback chair, the room’s best feature in her opinion—a lovely, comfortable thing that felt like it hugged you—and put her feet up. A niggle of surprise tickled her as she uncapped a pen and reached for the spiral bound notebook on the table beside her. Who’d have thought? Samantha Kendall using a diary. But she couldn’t help it. The movement of her hand across page, the scent of the paper, the process of filling the sheet with the mess in her head—slowly at first, then so fast her hand cramped—soothed her and helped her see more clearly than she had in a long time. Her life, once so beautiful and busy, felt empty. Come to think of it maybe that was the appeal of the journaling. She filled something. Created a tangible mark that she was here. That she lived.

  The coffee pot on the desk across the room sighed and sputtered.

  “Ah, my faithful friend,” she whispered, then got up, doctored herself a mug of the dark espresso blend, and settled down again.

  She sipped her hot drink and drummed her fingers on her notebook. What to say, what to say?

  She paused, drank more coffee, and ran her fingers through her damp hair. Finally she began to write.

  Sheesh, three pages minimum is going to take forever today.

  But it didn’t. By the time she had two cups of caffeine in her, she’d churned out her minimum, plus another three pages—yet she wasn’t calmed down any. She was edgier than ever. She scanned the last bit of the page, biting her lip and barely resisting the urge to tear the sheets loose and throw them away.

  There’s nothing I ha
te more than my sister being right about anything, but I have to hand it to Jo. She is right about this, and the pro and cons I wrote yesterday only confirm it.

  I always figured Aisha would reenter my life at some point, if only, like seems to be the case, for medical information and “closure.” (How I hate that damn word!). I just thought I’d be at a spot in time, personally and professionally, that I could be proud of—or at least not a bloody embarrassment. But at the same time, I guess it’s not about me, is it? (Ha ha, quick, someone tell Jo I actually said that!) I would’ve done anything to have someone to talk to, when I was stuck in the same boat Aisha’s in, so how can I refuse her request to meet?

  My two biggest fears: that she’ll ask about the asshole who fathered her and I’ll break down (No, I won’t—but what can I say about him that won’t just be this huge ugly shadow over her?), or that she’ll hate me—which is pretty hilarious because I definitely don’t want her in my life permanently.

  That was the line that stopped her. She shook her head, bit deeper into her lip, then crossed the last line out, drew an arrow, and scribbled furiously.

  That she’ll hate me, which I’ll totally understand, or worse, want something I don’t have to give her. All of my love for her went out the door with her the day I gave her a chance for a better life. (Don’t even get me started on how I feel about her idiot parents letting her get knocked up. Her life was supposed to be better than what I could give her!) What if she wants a relationship? I have no frigging clue what I’ll do.

  Samantha closed the book, tucked her pen into its coil binding, and stashed them in her suitcase.

  She paid special attention to her outfit and did her makeup and hair just so, but it wasn’t until she sprayed a light mist of perfume in front of her and walked through it that she admitted she’d made up her mind.

  Yeah, yeah, yeah. She’d return to Greenridge. She’d see if she could be of any help to Aisha and answer any awkward questions her biological daughter had.

  And then, so long as Jo and Callum were willing to let her monopolize one of their B & B cabins—and why wouldn’t they? Her cash was as good as anyone’s—she’d spend some concentrated time figuring out what exactly she herself wanted next and why her life, which she’d always enjoyed, wasn’t enough for her these days.

  She cocked her head, smiled at her reflection in the mirror, and nodded approval—both at the image she projected and the new thoughts in her head. She was an excellent planner and there was no reason she couldn’t get herself back on track. And once she had a new direction in mind, she’d leave Greenridge in the dust and never return. The place was a black hole. In lieu of a welcome sign at the beginning of town, there should be a plaque that read, “Abandon all hopes of having a life, ye who enter here.”

  And if Jo wanted to visit now and again? Well, she’d have to sojourn out of her hobbit village and head for the city. Sam was done with the ghost town of bad memories. She was sick of the family-focused “great place to raise kids” motto that everyone in town seemed to spout. Not everyone had kids—or wanted them. And she was beyond weary of how the place reminded her that except for her one solitary sibling, Jo, she had no family. Everyone was dead. There’d be no TV movie worthy reunion or redemption scene. Greenridge was like one big beer commercial for all the things she didn’t have. And didn’t want, she reminded herself.

  *

  Charles stubbed his toe on the stuffed-to-bursting rucksack he’d stowed by his office door and stared at the ringing phone like it might bite. The call display showed T.C.O. Literary Management all too clearly—and unfortunately his agent Theresa, the “T” in T.C.O., knew he was home. After all, he’d just sent an e-mail seconds ago admitting it. He sighed heavily and picked up.

  “Theresa, hi. Good to hear from you.”

  “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, and get real. You knew that e-mail wasn’t going to fly.”

  “But—”

  “And no buts.” Her voice softened. “I feel for you. You know I do—and I’m on your side even if it doesn’t feel like it, but it’s time, Charlie. Past time. And if you can’t see that, maybe it’s time to rethink your career.”

  Charles sank into his office chair and rolled back and forth across the room. He didn’t want to “rethink” his work. He loved what he did, what he wrote. Or he used to. And anyway, it wasn’t like he hadn’t considered doing something else. Just absolutely nothing came to him that didn’t sink him even more deeply into the mire of apathy and disillusionment he seemed unable to pull himself from—and now, with his daughter, Aisha, living God knew where and insisting she was staying there to have her baby, he didn’t even have the occasional bright spot of her presence.

  “You’ve used up all your reserve books—even your earliest ones that were previously unpublished for pretty good reasons. It’s just a good thing some loyal readers don’t care what you write as long as the story says Jax Bailey on the cover.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Oh, you know what I mean. Don’t get pissy. I love your books. You’ve earned reader loyalty—but even diehard fans are starting to grumble on the Interwebs. You can only play the dead wife card for so long before people start to think you need to get over it.”

  Charles managed to not throw the phone across the room, but only just.

  Theresa seemed to sense she’d crossed a line. “Sorry, that was crass. Obviously, healing to a place where you can write again isn’t an easy one, two, three process. I know you’re doing the best you can, just barely hanging on, and I know it will take time—but I’d hate to see you lose everything you worked so hard to build.”

  Too late. Everything he’d worked for died when Maureen did. Still, Theresa wasn’t the enemy and she was on his side. He knew this. He also knew he’d probably exhausted every extension possible on his contract. And he made a decent living—and Maureen’s life insurance had paid off the mortgage and left a little besides, but not enough to see him through life—and definitely not enough to provide ongoing stability to Aisha and her little one, should she decide to keep it. And he was a young(ish) man. Forty-four was nowhere near the time to retire even if it felt closer to eighty these days.

  “They need a new book, or, and it’s pretty nice of them, almost human in fact, they’ll forgive the contract without penalty, but if you ever want to write for them again, it’ll be like starting new.”

  Perish the thought—and no, that wasn’t melodrama. “How long?” he asked.

  “I got you six months, but that’s it, final offer, last extension.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Okay?” Even though their connection was a little static-filled, the surprise in Theresa’s voice was loud and clear. “Just like that you say okay?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No, but I still thought you’d be a harder sell.”

  They wrapped the conversation up quickly from there, and Charles was careful to sound more positive than he felt. Six months, if he was his old self, was more than enough time to get a solid book to his publisher. But he wasn’t his old self—and didn’t think he ever would be again. Maureen had been gone three years, yet in some ways it was like she’d passed away yesterday, the grief would hit so fresh and raw. In other ways, however, it was like she’d left a lifetime ago, which, hard as it was, was sort of the truth. Neither his nor Aisha’s lives were the same. They had new existences altogether, as if their time on earth had been divided into separate realities: Life with Mo. Life without her.

  He stood up, scooted his chair under his desk and turned off his computer, then grabbed his laptop. He was sick of himself and the endless woe-to-me pool he wallowed in. Even his self-pitying thought, “Everything he’d worked for died when Maureen did,” wasn’t fully honest. Only half of what he worked for and lived for had passed on when she did. He still had their daughter, and who knows, maybe a grandbaby too.

  He hit the lights and hefted his rucksack. Soon, with any luck, he’d be in a
better writing space and headspace. For a moment he wondered if he should’ve told Theresa his plan, then shook his head. Where he spent his time wasn’t her business and she’d just worry. Besides, though she’d be skeptical, he could write—or not write, heh heh—just as easily in the boonies as he could at home.

  And if Aisha was intent on setting up a temporary home in Greenridge, wherever that was, with this aunt whoever she was, in the hopes of connecting with her birth mom—who back in the day had seemed level-headed, but now he worried was a callous flake . . . well, he wasn’t going to just abandon her to the wolves and wilds. He’d take up residence in one of the cabins that were “so far beyond cool that he couldn’t possibly imagine how cool they were,” to quote Aisha, and support her in whatever ways he could. His daughter was the only family he had left and if anything came between them, damaged their relationship, or hurt her it would be over his dead body.

  What’s ahead for Charles and Sam? Find out today!

  HOOKED, River’s Sigh B & B, Book 2

  About Ev Bishop

  Ev Bishop lives and writes in wildly beautiful British Columbia, Canada. She is a long-time columnist with the Terrace Standard, and her articles and essays have been published in a variety of magazines and journals. Storytelling is her true love, however, and she writes fiction in variety of lengths and genres.

  To see a full list of her published short stories, novels, and poems, please visit her website: www.evbishop.com.

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