“Going somewhere?”
I look up at the beast. “You have to let me in there. That’s my dad.”
“I know all about you. Christina told me you’d try and stop the wedding.” He shakes his bulldog head and smiles. A gold tooth winks back. “Not going to happen.”
“Oh yeah?” Ruthie leaps out of nowhere, her slingshot poised. “Take this!” She fires away at the brute, pelting him with one rock after another. “Go, Bella! Go!”
I jump around the shrieking thug and yank open the sanctuary doors. “Noooo!”
Two hundred heads swivel my way. Whispers skitter across the aisles.
My dad stands at the end of the church, his hand over Christina’s.
It isn’t too late! They’re not married yet! Thank you, Jesus! I sooo owe you one! Or fifty. Okay, a million. “You have to stop!” My voice echoes in the rafters as I speed toward my dad. “Christina isn’t who you think she is.”
“Get on with the ceremony,” she hisses to the preacher. “I warned you his daughter might try and sabotage this.”
I stop before them, and the balding minister nods my way. “It’s true. She did.”
“Bella, this is madness. I waited for you. You said you were coming, and I wanted to believe it.” Dad takes in my disheveled state, his mouth tight in fury. “I held this ceremony off for twenty minutes hoping my only daughter would come through for me. And this— this is what I get?”
“You don’t understand, I—”
“Christina was right. She said you’d try and ruin this day, and I didn’t believe her.”
“Of course she said that.” I glare the woman down. “She’s a liar!”
Gasps bounce all around the room.
“Bella, you need to leave.” Dad lowers his voice. “Now.”
“Listen to me. This woman”—I jerk my finger toward his waiting bride—“is the sister of Sadie Vasquez, your former accountant.
Sadie, also known as Mercedes, is the woman who was staying at the hotel all this time. She’s the woman I saw your fiancée plotting with. They’re going to take your money—again.”
Dad’s brown eyes travel back and forth from me to Christina.
“This can’t be true.”
“Believe it.” I hold up my photo. “Check out this photo.”
He squints and holds the phone close. “It looks like the face of a rhino.”
“It’s her sister!”
“Bella, I don’t know, I—”
Ruthie takes that moment to charge through the doors. “Wait!”
She plows right down the aisle. “I have proof!” She squeals to a stop, and with a heaving chest, pulls the framed photo out of her shirt.
“How does she do that?” Dad mutters.
I shake my head. “I don’t know. It’s like a Mary Poppins bag down there.” I shove the picture into his hands. “Does this woman look familiar? It’s Sadie. And you”—I growl at the woman who would’ve been my stepmother—“are her sister.”
Marisol latches onto Christina’s leg and begins to cry.
“I love you, Kevin,” Christina says. “Please believe me. I love you.”
I pull the picture from the black frame and show my father the names on the back. “She lied to you. This whole time, it was all a lie.”
The evidence dangles in Dad’s hand. “What about our future?
What about the show in Brazil? Was that just a lie too, Christina?”
She shakes her head, her eyes brimming with tears. “Yes. At first. But I could’ve made it happen—somehow.”
“But that wasn’t the plan you and Mercedes had, was it?” I challenge as the pieces fall into place. “You had Dad sign that ridiculously generous prenup where you got a lump sum. An amount that would’ve been chump change to a guy who thought he had a multimillion dollar television deal.”
Dad’s eyes could freeze dragon fire. “You were going to leave me before the final round of contract negotiations were finalized, weren’t you? Trump up some excuse for a quickie divorce?”
Christina throws herself on my father, her hands clutching his shoulders. “I didn’t mean to fall in love with you.” She rubs a manicured hand over her wet cheek. “You had that careless fling with my sister and just discarded her.”
I glare at my dad. “You had an affair with your accountant?” No wonder she took all his money.
Christina continues. “Mercedes got away with your money, but it wasn’t enough for her. She became obsessed. Desperate. Nothing I could say would reach her and her broken heart.” She sniffs loudly. “I feared daily she would take her own life. One day . . . I promised her I would do whatever it took to avenge her honor.”
What is this—honor-code according to Sex and the City?
“We formulated a plan. And I was to marry you, convince you there was a show.”
“She knew where my weak spot was.” Dad drops his head and pushes Christina’s hands away. “Seduce my ego first, right?”
I glance back at the wedding crowd. They sit motionless on the edge of the pews, taking in every morsel of this living soap opera.
“I didn’t plan on falling in love with you.” Christina’s voice is a weak whisper. “But I did. Do you have any idea how this has killed me?”
Ruthie cracks her knuckles. “Wanna brainstorm some ways we could make that happen?”
“You don’t love my dad. Stealing his money isn’t love.”
Christina lifts pitiful eyes to my father. “I do care for you, Kevin. We could still work this out.” Her voice lowers to a whisper. “Please don’t send me to the police.”
“You were actually going to go through with it.” Dad glances down at a weeping Marisol. “Was it worth it? How could you do this to your little sister?”
“She’s not her little sister.”
Everyone pivots toward the doors. Mercedes Vasquez saunters down the narrow aisle. People rotate as she passes by, turning like dominos.
“You’re supposed to be on a plane,” Christina hisses.
“I couldn’t leave without you.” She ambles forward and joins our awkward grouping. Her wild eyes cut to me. “Nice dress, by the way.”
“More of your sister’s good taste.” Even a crazy woman recognizes this frock is hideous.
Dad’s laugh is ripe with disbelief. “What are you doing here, Sadie?”
“Mommy!” Marisol runs to Mercedes and clings to her pant leg.
“Mommy?” the church crowd echoes.
“That’s right. This is my daughter—Christina’s niece. If Marisol was Christina’s sister, you wouldn’t go looking for any long-lost relatives.” She shakes her bleached-blonde head. “I knew this was over.
First of all, I knew my sister couldn’t pull it off.” She stumbles to Dad and stabs him in the chest with a pointy nail. “And since your bratty kid here”—she tips her chin toward me—“messed everything up, I wanted to at least be here to see your face when you realized the woman you loved didn’t love you.”
“Don’t say anything more, Mercedes,” Christina pleads with her watery eyes. “It’s time to go.”
“I called the police fifteen minutes ago,” Ruthie says. “I don’t think you can get too far.”
Dad runs a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to wipe away a sour taste. “My own daughter tried to tell me. And I wouldn’t listen to her.” He looks at me with an unspoken apology. “What an idiot I’ve been.”
Can’t argue with you there, Pops.
Dad reaches out and brushes his fingers through Marisol’s hair. “So you wanted revenge—fine. But how could you do something so heinous to this little girl? Who’s going to take care of her when her mother and aunt are behind bars?”
Marisol turns her face to her mom’s waist and lets out a wail that pierces my heart. Even brats don’t deserve this.
Mercedes laughs as police sirens call in the distance. “I’ll get off. We both will. It’s a crime of passion. Who would ever lock me away after the horrible way
you treated me, Kevin?” She pats her daughter awkwardly on the back. “And besides—her father can take care of her.”
“Shut up, Mercedes,” Christina warns. “Don’t say another word until we talk to lawyers.”
Dad’s eyes widen as his tanned face turns the color of the white church walls. “No. I don’t believe it.”
Craziness shines in Mercedes’ dark eyes. “Oh, did I forget to tell you?”
My father shakes his head. “That’s not even possible.”
The skin at the back of my sweaty neck tingles. “What? Dad, what’s she talking about?” I don’t feel so good.
Dad’s tortured eyes flit from me to Marisol.
“That’s right, Kevin.” Mercedes cackles and pushes her daughter forward. “Marisol, dear . . . say hello to your father.”
chapter thirty-four
At two a.m. I tiptoe downstairs, dragging my hand down the banister with each slow step. I’m sure there are conversations that every parent must have with his child that he dreads. The period talk. The alcohol lesson. The sex lecture. But they have to be nothing compared to the “Why Did You Have a Fling with Your Accountant and Have a Love Child” talk I must give now. Parents have no idea the burden of being a kid.
I check the living room for my dad, but find nobody but my grandfather snoring on the couch. An infomercial blasts from the TV, and noticing my grandfather’s credit card in his hand, I hope he didn’t just order the Sand Away Hair Remover.
Detouring through the kitchen, the floor is cold on my bare feet. I stick my hand into the cookie jar and extract two snicker-doodles. This chat requires reinforcement. Snagging a Sprite from the fridge, I plod on to the office. Still no dad. Between talks with his attorneys and the police, I haven’t seen him since I left the church.
After completely searching the house, I ease the back door open, and that’s where I find my father. Sitting in a metal chair on his tiny inch of grass, staring at the dark sky.
Slumped down in the seat, elbows on the armrests, he reclines back, still garbed in his crisp tuxedo shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. Reminds me of the way Luke wears his button-downs.
But that’s pretty much where the similarities end. This flawed man before me is hurting . . . damaged . . . and in need of an instructional manual more than Ruthie could ever be.
“Hey.” My voice sounds harsh in the quiet evening air. “We missed you at dinner.” I hand him a cookie.
Dad lifts his head. “You mean your grandmother drove you nuts, and you wish I had been there to intercede.”
“Something like that.” The woman lectured me on the improper etiquette of busting up a wedding. For two hours.
I sit down on the grass and contemplate the polka dots on my pajama pants.
“Ruthie asleep?” Dad asks.
“Yeah, she went a few rounds with Grandfather on Rock Band, and it totally wore her out.”
“Your grandpa can’t remember anything beyond 1966. How could he play that?”
“He has a surprisingly good grasp of everything Metallica ever did.”
Minutes trickle by as I pick at some grass and try to think of something to say. Do I go with the blunt truth and say, “Hey, you royally jacked up. Again.” Or maybe something deep and inspirational like, “The Bible says you can be lifted up on eagles’ wings. Yeah, Dad, even you.”
I inhale and decide to give it a go. “I—”
“Isabella—”
Our voices trip over each other, and my dad holds up a hand. “Me first.” He pulls himself up in the chair and leans forward, resting his hands on his knees. “Bel, I messed up. I don’t even know where to begin.”
“You could try the beginning.”
He nods. “Sadie—or I should say Mercedes—had been my accountant for years. She came highly recommended about nine years ago. We instantly clicked, and eventually one thing led to another.”
“Like Marisol.” Mercedes was in jail tonight, but Christina, who had confessed to being a small part of the embezzling crime, was out on bail and in a nearby hotel with Marisol. It still weirds me out to think I could have a half-sister. Does this mean I have to take her bra shopping when she’s twelve? She’ll probably strangle me with it.
“Marisol cannot be mine.”
“But you’ve known her long enough.”
“Not in that way. We began seeing each other about three years ago. You’ve got to believe me.” He pushes his fingers through his hair. “Things got really awkward with Mercedes, and I ended it. It didn’t go well. She went a little nuts.”
“Well, obviously she matured. Because now she’s full-on psycho,” I say. “Did Mom ever know about Mercedes?”
“She suspected. But she was suspicious of every woman I met.”
“Can’t imagine why.”
Instead of calling me on my disrespect, Dad nods. “And look where it got me. I’ve really done it this time.”
“But why would Marisol stay with Christina?”
“I think that was Christina’s choice. Probably knew Marisol wasn’t safe with Sadie. I mean, did you see the woman?”
I take a bite of snicker-doodle. “She looked like Lord Voldemort’s sister.”
“As the police were cuffing the ladies, Christina told me Sadie has been getting steadily more unbalanced. She begged me to protect Marisol. Aside from the man I thought was my best man and television producer, Marisol has no family in America.” He sends me a wary look. “I’m going to keep her.”
“Marisol’s not a puppy.”
“No, but she’s going to need a home. At least until Christina gets her stuff straightened out. I don’t think she’ll do much time. But Sadie—who knows.”
I can’t help the anger that spurts to life. “Do you seriously think you can take care of a kid? By yourself?”
“I’ve got Luisa.”
The old bitterness bubbles up and threatens to spill over like a volcano. “So you’re just going to let the nanny raise her. Like you and Mom did with me.”
Dad straightens his spine. “I know I’ve messed up with you. Obviously your mom has made changes in the right direction. I can tell you two are closer.” He sighs and looks at the ground. “But I’m still this huge failure to you. Right?”
This is probably the part where I rush to him, throw my arms around his neck, and say, “Gosh, Daddy, no! Don’t say that about yourself.”
“You’re the best plastic surgeon on the planet.” I twirl my finger around a dandelion and smile wistfully. “I remember sometimes I used to come visit at the office, and watching those famous people stroll in and out would be like stepping into a fairy tale. And they were all there to see my dad.”
“But?”
“But then you never came home. You lived at that office. And when you were home, you just avoided me. And I thought when I moved to Oklahoma things would change. I thought you would change. How could you stand to let me go, Dad?” My throat thickens.
“I had to, Isabella.” Dad slips out of his chair and sits on his knees in front of me, the tails of his shirt dragging the ground. “Your mother needed you, and you had this whole life waiting for you.”
My bangs fall into my eyes, and I push them back. “And then I thought when I would come for my monthly visit to Manhattan that you would drop everything to spend time with me. I mean, to see your daughter forty-eight hours a month, who wouldn’t make the most of it?”
“But not me,” he says heavily. “I was too busy working.”
I lift my head and look my dad directly in the eye. “You don’t know what to do with me, do you? When I’m here—you don’t know how to just be my dad.”
“I guess you’re right.” His laugh is wrapped in bitterness.
“Frankly, Bella, you scare me. I looked up one day and you were this young woman—a young lady I didn’t even recognize.”
“Because you didn’t bother to get to know me. And now you’re going to take on Marisol like you get to start over or something.
<
br /> You’ve got a daughter—me.”
He rests his surgeon’s hands on my leg. “I know my slate is far from clean with you. And you may not believe me, but I want to work on that. I don’t think Marisol is my chance for a redo.” Dad grimaces. “If you think I’m scared of you, you have no idea what I feel for that little tyrant.”
“And now she’s going to be your tyrant?”
“Maybe.” He pats my knee. “But so are you. And I want to change, Bella. I do. For us. I want to be a better man. Maybe that’s why I feel so strongly about taking care of Marisol. I know I have to change—for your sake. And mine. I’ve missed out on so much.”
“Yes.” Flashes of my life spin through my mind. Ballet recitals, first dance, skinned knees, my first short story Luisa hung on the refrigerator. “You have missed out on a lot. And that makes me sad. And mad.”
“I don’t want to be left out of one more thing. I don’t want this rift between us to be how it is forever, you know?” Dad reaches out his ringless hand and closes it over mine. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. Because, baby, I have no idea.”
A tear falls from my eye, and I brush it away with my knuckle.
“I’m the kid, Dad. It’s time you figured out how this parenting stuff works. Because I sure don’t know.”
He gives a weak smile. “You’re right a lot, you know?”
“Maybe you could tell Mom that.”
Dad pulls me to him and envelopes me in his strong arms. “I want my daughter.” He smoothes my hair and presses a kiss to my temple. “I know I want my daughter.”
More stupid tears fall and dampen my face. Must’ve been that Hallmark commercial I saw earlier. Because I am so not a crier. “Love is a risk, isn’t it, Dad?” I think of all the breakups in my life, my family. And I think of Luke.
“It’s worth it, though. You’re worth it. I love you, Isabella Kirkwood.”
Nose drips. “Right back at you.”
“I’m going to figure this dad stuff out. I promise.”
“Hey, Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“I hear credit cards are a great way to show affection.”
Later, as I push open my bedroom door, I’m greeted by the buzz-saw noises coming from Ruthie’s open mouth. The stress of the day caught up with my crime-busting partner.
A Charmed Life Page 74
