The Moretti Marriage

by Catherine Spencer

  “But she is miserable! Anyone who knows her can see that.”

  “She is not miserable enough. If she were, she’d do something about it.”

  “What if she doesn’t have the strength?”

  He poured the coffee. “Then she must live with the consequences.”

  “Perhaps you can abide by that, but I’m her mother, and I can’t,” Jacqueline said, accepting the mug he passed to her. “She’s my only child, Nico, and she’s suffered enough in her twenty-eight years. I can’t stand by and watch her stumble into more unhappiness because she thinks it’s all she really deserves.”

  Seeing the distress on her face, he touched her arm in sympathy. “Yes, you are her mother, Jacqueline, but you are also wise enough to know that you cannot always protect your child from hurt. Chloe is a grown woman. An intelligent, educated woman. She understands better than most what heartache a marriage gone wrong can cause, and not just from her own experience. She deals with such cases every day in her work. If, despite knowing this, she persists in going forward with her plans, there isn’t a thing you or I can do about it. We have interfered enough. More, some would say, than we had any right to do in the first place.”

  A sheen of tears filmed her eyes. “I really thought all that time the two of you spent alone on Tuesday evening would do the trick. When nine o’clock came, and you still hadn’t brought her home, I hoped it was because you were keeping her out all night. That would have been enough, Nico. She’d have canceled the wedding by now, if the two of you had made love. But of course, you’d never have let things go that far without declaring yourself.”

  He could not look at her, this woman who’d welcomed him into her home and her heart, and who continued to treat him like a beloved son. Your faith is misplaced, he should have told her. I do not deserve your trust or your affection.

  In truth, he could barely look himself in the eye. He’d snatched at the excuse to be with Chloe, to make one last bid for them. He’d done it because he couldn’t let her go, because he loved her still—or so he’d told himself. But what kind of love brought a woman nothing but pain and heartache? By what right did he march back into her world and turn it on its ear?

  Was it really for love, or because he wanted to punish her? Because she’d been his trophy, and he couldn’t stand the idea of her belonging to another man? Was that why he’d refused to say the words he knew she’d longed to hear, the I love you which would have set her free to be with him again?

  Or had it more to do with his being afraid? He didn’t like to think of himself as a coward, but was there not the very real fear, buried deep inside him, that the only reason she was turning to him was to have him bail her out of her current predicament?

  His doing so offered no guarantee that she’d still want him afterward. Sure, she’d said she loved him, but so what? She’d loved him before, but it hadn’t stopped her from leaving him.

  Jacqueline sipped her coffee, her face the very picture of distress. “I honestly don’t know how I’m going to get through the wedding, Nico,” she confessed. “Thank goodness a marriage commissioner’s conducting the ceremony and there won’t be any of that ‘does anyone know just cause why this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony’ stuff, because I really don’t think I could keep my mouth shut.”

  “There’s still a chance she’ll come to her senses before then,” he said, wishing he believed the tripe he was handing out. But he hadn’t walked the floor all night because he needed the exercise. His mother-in-law wasn’t the only one in agony. He was grappling with his own set of demons. He just managed to hide them better, was all.

  “You think?” A sliver of hope lightened Jacqueline’s expression.

  “I know she is a woman of conscience, and too morally upright to enter into a binding contract under false pretenses. She will not go through the motions of marriage unless she is willing to embrace it fully, with her whole heart.”

  “I pray that you’re right.”

  She wasn’t the only one! He’d spent much of the last twenty-four hours making bargains with God. “There is still time, Jacqueline. What is it you told me, just the other day?”

  “It’s not over till the fat lady sings?”

  “Sì.” He kissed her cheek. “And we do indeed have a fat lady, in the person of Baron’s mother. Truly, Jacqueline, I cannot imagine such a harridan bursting into song. There is hope yet that all is not lost.”

  “I suppose,” she said, returning his hug. “But I’d feel a lot better if you hadn’t retired from the field.”

  “Let me put it this way,” he said. “If Chloe decides I’m the one she wants, she knows where to find me. My door is always open, cara. But I cannot force her to cross its threshold.”

  An influx of out-of-town relatives, beginning late Wednesday morning and continuing well into the afternoon of the next day, turned the house into one long party. Chloe, caught like a piece of driftwood drawn ever closer to the eye of a vicious whirlpool, was helpless to fight the unrelenting current.

  She was the bride, the center of all attention; the reason for all the fuss. But gripped by an emotional paralysis, she relinquished her role as guest of honor and became merely an observer, one whose fixed smile never wavered, and whose spirit was so devoid of life that she might as well have been a portrait hanging on the wall.

  When everyone went upstairs to dress before dinner on the Thursday, she hadn’t resolved a single one of the dilemmas facing her. Baron still believed they were getting married two days later. Mrs. Prescott, caught between sour, albeit justified disapproval of the bride, and the overweening need to show everyone she was au courant with her duties as mother of the groom, was still of the opinion that she was hosting the rehearsal dinner the next night.

  And Jacqueline continued to behave as if she’d never once questioned the wisdom of Chloe’s decision to marry Baron, and greeted every new arrival on her doorstep with a smile that stretched from one ear to the other.

  Only Charlotte seemed aware that all was not well with her granddaughter, but she was too discreet to say so openly. Of course, she might have been more forthcoming if Nico had been around to encourage her, but there’d been no sign of him since Tuesday night. Once he’d succeeded in destroying any hope Chloe had of making a go of things with Baron, he’d made himself scarce, although the lights shining in the lodge at night showed he was still in residence there.

  “We’ll be so many for dinner tonight that I’ve reserved a private dining room at the Inn,” Jacqueline announced to the house guests gathered on the patio for the cocktail hour. “It’s only a ten-minute walk away.”

  “And will the groom and his family be joining us?” a second cousin, twice removed, inquired.

  “Of course.” Her mother shot Chloe another in her seemingly endless supply of fond and brilliant smiles. “Baron and Chloe can hardly bear to be apart. The wedding day can’t get here soon enough, can it, darling?”

  Chloe feared her answering smile more closely resembled the rictus of a woman suffering death throes.

  The Trillium Inn, renowned for its fine dining room as well as its old-world hospitality, sat among several acres of beautifully landscaped gardens. The Dogwood Room enjoyed a particularly spectacular view of the large man-made lake where black swans floated majestically among the lily pads. Even the hard-to-please mother of the groom was impressed.

  “I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t have held the wedding here,” she fluted, over her duck à l’orange. “It’s quite charming, and much more suited to a large affair such as you have planned.”

  “My bride wanted to be married at home,” Baron said, inching his chair closer to Chloe’s.

  “And how about your wishes, Baron? Don’t they count for something?”

  “Whatever Chloe wants is fine with me, Mother,” he said easily. “All I really care about is that we’re getting married.”

  Oh, Baron! Chloe mourned inwardly, her stomach tied in such knots that she was
afraid she might throw up. You deserve so much better than what you think you’re getting.

  Her face must have given away something of her inner distress, because he bathed her in a glance filled with loving concern. “Sweetheart, is something wrong?”

  He was handing her the perfect opportunity to come clean, but his timing was completely off. “I need to be alone with you for a while,” she hedged, excruciatingly aware that his mother sat close enough to hear every word. “We haven’t had a moment to ourselves in what seems like days and there are…things that we need to talk about.”

  “Next week,” he promised, stroking his hand up her back and massaging the nape of her neck. “We’ll have all the time in the world, then. It’ll be just us, the moonlight and the tropical breezes.”

  “No,” she said urgently. “I can’t wait that long, Baron.”

  Mrs. Prescott didn’t quite snort with contempt; she was above such things. Instead, she wagged a reproving finger and proclaimed, “If that’s not typical of young people nowadays! You don’t know the meaning of self-denial. You want instant gratification—preferably yesterday.”

  It was all Chloe could do not to bite that fat, ring-laden finger clean through to the bone. “Don’t presume to tell me what it is I want, Mrs. Prescott,” she said, more beside herself by the second. “You haven’t known me long enough to have the first idea.”

  Although the general level of talk and laughter at the table was loud enough that most people weren’t aware that the bride and her prospective mother-in-law had taken off the gloves and were ready to go ten rounds, the sudden lull in the conversation of those sitting closest made it glaringly apparent that Baron wasn’t the only one taken aback.

  Charlotte stared fixedly at her plate, Phyllis sputtered into her wineglass, and even Jacqueline’s mouth fell open in shock. The only person unaffected by Chloe’s outburst was Mr. Prescott, who continued to chew his way stolidly through the steak he’d ordered.

  “Perhaps not,” his wife said, dropping her reply, syllable by crystal-clear syllable, into the small well of silence surrounding her. “But I do know my son, and he is not given to the rather bizarre impulses which seem to be part and parcel of your makeup, Chloe. I refer not just to the here and now, but more specifically to the afternoon we found you cavorting in the pool with your ex-husband. I can’t help but think that, although Baron might presently consider such odd behavior charming, he will find it tiresome, once the novelty wears off.”

  “That’s enough!” Baron, normally so mildly spoken, issued the order with the crisp authority of a sergeant major. “You will apologize to Chloe for that remark, Mother.”

  “No.” More embarrassed than she’d ever been in her life before, Chloe laid a hand on his arm and turned to his mother. “I’m the one who should apologize, and I do, Mrs. Prescott, most sincerely.” Her mouth trembled and she made a monumental effort to control it, before continuing, “I’m afraid I’m not myself tonight. I haven’t been myself for quite some time. Please forgive me.”

  Mrs. Prescott hesitated fractionally, then inclined her head. “Certainly. I’m sorry, too, if I spoke out of turn. I’m afraid weddings are emotionally taxing, not just for the bride, but for the mothers whose children are about to take such a life-altering step.”

  “It doesn’t have to be like that, Myrna,” Baron’s father stopped chewing long enough to remark. “It’s all a matter of how you look at it.”

  Ignoring him, she turned again to Chloe, an unexpectedly compassionate gleam in her cool gray eyes. “Men just don’t understand, do they?” she said quietly, as if she and Chloe were the only two people in the room. “They just take everything at face value, and never bother to scratch below the surface to find out what’s really going on. But we know better, my dear. We might fool ourselves for a little while, but eventually we have to confront the truth, regardless of how painful it might be.”

  Chloe met her gaze head-on. “Yes, we do.”

  “Then I apologize again for my previous comment.” She held Chloe’s gaze a moment longer, then gave a tiny, conspiratorial nod. “If you and Baron have matters to discuss once dinner is over, his father and I will take a taxi back to our hotel.”

  “Thank you.” Chloe turned pleading eyes on Baron. “May we please do that?”

  “No,” he said flatly, even though his calm smile never faltered.

  Stunned by his refusal, she said, “But it’s important, Baron.”

  “I’m sure you think so, but it’s going to have to wait a few more hours.”

  “It can’t!” she insisted. “You don’t understand—”

  “But I do, Chloe, much better than you seem to realize. All these weeks of wedding preparations have left you worn to a shadow. More than anything else, you need rest, my love. Whatever it is that has you looking so wretched won’t seem nearly so bad after a good night’s sleep.”

  He spoke with such kindness, looked at her so sorrowfully, as if, deep down, he already knew his hopes of a happy ending with her grew slimmer by the second, that her heart almost broke. How could she let him down at this late date and live with herself afterward? Surely, if she tried very hard, she could make him the one to haunt her dreams, the one she wanted with desperate, driving hunger?

  His gaze roamed over her face as if he were committing every last feature to memory. “Please don’t look so anxious,” he murmured. “I promise you, everything will be all right. One way or another, we’ll sort out whatever’s troubling you.”

  She wanted to believe him. Had never wanted anything as much in her entire life…except for Nico. Dear God, what kind of monster did that make her?

  Still in a festive mood when they returned from the Inn, the house guests weren’t at all interested in making an early night of it. More wine flowed, music filled the downstairs rooms, someone started a conga line. And suddenly she was the only one not taking part.

  “Come on, Chloe!” they urged, laughing, and dragged her into the middle of the floor. “Live it up while you can!”

  They all wanted so badly for her to be happy, that it pained her to look at them. Trying to match their smiles was as impossible as staring into bright, oncoming headlights and trying not to squint.

  Perhaps Baron had been right in refusing to let her talk to him tonight. Although outwardly serene, inside she was like a wild animal, trapped and running blindly in all directions, seeking escape. But no matter which way she turned, she ended up banging into the bars of the cage containing her—except that, in her case, they were bars of her own making, and until she broke them down, she had no right inflicting pain on anyone else. One way or another, she had to resolve her fluctuating ambivalence, and put an end to the maelstrom of emotion tearing her apart inside.

  Unwilling to give rise to unwelcome speculation and injured feelings by openly shunning the party, she chose her moment when everyone was admiring the wedding gifts, muttered the excuse that she needed a breath of air, and slipped through the French doors to the garden.

  Once there, she simply opened her consciousness and let the tumult of her thoughts run wild in whatever order they chose. One strand overlapped another, untangled again, and eventually came together in a certain logical sequence that hinged entirely on one thing: love.

  She’d learned years ago that it wasn’t simple or easy. It didn’t die on command. Despite her best efforts not to do so, she still loved Nico. She’d always love him. How could she not, when he was her son’s father?

  Yet that didn’t preclude her loving Baron, too. Not quite the way she loved Nico, perhaps—nothing would ever equal that blind, youthful intensity—but sincerely nonetheless, and deeply enough that the thought of hurting him made her physically ill.

  He was such a good man; such ideal husband material. They’d started out as colleagues, become good friends, and on that solid foundation of mutual respect gradually made the transition to romance.

  She’d loved his integrity, his sense of fair play, his dry humor and un
failing good temper. Wearing his ring had made her proud, and if fireworks didn’t explode around her when he kissed her, that was all right, too. He was, after all, a man of contained passions. It was what made him such a good lawyer.

  But sex would be good between them. Not earth-shattering, the way it had been with Nico, but good just the same. Baron would be a tender and considerate lover. If there weren’t any soaring highs with him such as she’d shared with Nico, she knew for certain that there’d be none of the despair-filled lows, either.

  She’d thought it was all she ever wanted: to know that she’d never again have to visit that dark and dreadful place of grief; to live with the sure knowledge that she wouldn’t be blindsided by a vicious stab of sorrow because she happened to look at her husband’s face, and see there a living resemblance to the child she’d lost.

  All those reasons remained valid. None of the fine qualities which had drawn her to Baron in the first place had lessened since Nico had come back on the scene. If anything, she esteemed him even more for the generous way he’d accepted the presence of a man few other people would have tolerated.

  She tried to imagine not having him by her side, and could not. Could not begin to comprehend the gaping hole his absence would leave in her life. Yet she was tormented beyond endurance by longing for another man.

  If only Nico would disappear and never come back! If only she could scour away the memory of that scene in the town house, on Tuesday, and the residual guilt that went with it!

  If only she could stop loving him!

  Music filtered from the open windows of the house, a number from the soundtrack of Mamma Mia, so haunting and unbearably beautiful that she wanted to weep.

  Clapping her hands to her ears, she ran down the brick path, to the gate beyond the rose garden. A lilac hedge rose up on the other side, its blooms long since withered, but its leaves offering concealing sanctuary from anyone who might be watching at the house.