An Unexpected Bride

by Shadonna Richards

“Hello?” Emma’s head felt sore. Her temples throbbed without mercy.

  “Hey, Emma. So sorry I couldn’t call you before.” She recognised the deep, sexy voice on the other end of the line. God, it was like a fresh wave of hope. After the fiasco she’d just been through, it was as if the Red Sea parted and she was finally able to get through and escape from Pharaoh’s mouth—or horses.

  “Evan?”

  “Evan?” Her mother echoed, listening in to her conversation. Now the look of shock was spread on her face.

  “Listen, I’m still with my father. There’s been…an accident.” His voice reflected his extreme exhaustion. He sounded nothing at all like the strong, energetic, confidant boss in New York. It was like he’d just been through hell and back and had to go back to do another round but wasn’t quite up for it.

  “What? Is he alright?”

  “I hope so. I’ve been at the Dan Baker Center all weekend. Serious crisis. But I’ll explain later. Everything go okay with your grandfather? We still on for Friday?”

  Emma swallowed. “Um. Yes. Of course. And Gramps is doing fine. Holding on, you know Gramps.” Emma tried to play brave.

  “Please give your father my love for me. Hope he’s feeling better soon.” A smile perched on Emma’s face, but it was nothing compared to the one in her heart.

  Wait a minute. Did he just say the Dan Baker Center? There was only one Dan Baker Center she’d heard about.

  The Dan Baker Center for Mental Health. Formerly called The Insane Asylum.

  15

  Evan sighed and rubbed his forehead when he got off the phone with Emma. He hesitated before going back into the hospital room where his father rested on his bed.

  The inpatient mental health unit at the Dan Baker Center for Mental Health was rather serene—not quite what he expected. When he heard his father had been transferred there from the county hospital, he was thinking more along the lines of insane asylum prison décor. Still, he quickly went from royally peeved to royally pleased.

  The dim lights, earth-toned tiled floor, the oil paintings of greenery and natural landscapes were surprisingly calming.

  Soothing.

  Just what he needed on Saturday to settle his nerves by the time he’d arrived to see his father and find out just what happened while he was out of town.

  The doctors and nurses were dressed in regular business casual attire. No scrub uniforms like the medical units of regular hospitals.

  The whiff of fresh cut flowers caught his nose. The aroma mixed in with the pine scent of disinfectant mingled with the smell of leftover food on trays—mashed potatoes with slices roast beef and gravy with carrots on the side.

  He walked closer to the bed, which was elevated to a thirty degree angle. Evan’s hands remained shoved in his pants pockets, head tilted, thinking.

  Pondering.

  What if he hadn’t been around at that time to intervene?

  Yes, his father was far more subdued, relaxed, restrained than he was that morning when he arrived from New York.

  He had planned to give Emma a call when he rose Saturday morning at his condo, but instead he was awakened at four o’clock in the morning by Bianca, his ex, the community mental health nurse he hired to stay overnight to assist his ailing father while he could not be there.

  She’d told him that his father started tearing down the drapes in the house and screamed profanities. She rushed to calm him down then went for his anti-neurotic medication used for whenever he had a breakdown or became agitated or in a presumed crisis. Like the one he had.

  It was futile.

  He’d fought her and knocked her over. Then he went into the kitchen and flung all the pots and pans about.

  She was worried he’d hurt himself or do much worse. Bianca called the ER to report his psychiatric crisis. She was lucky—it didn’t take as long as she thought it would for the ambulance team to arrive on the scene. They were there in good time and the senior Mr. Fletcher was rushed to the hospital. Later, he was transferred to the Dan Baker Center for a three-day observation.

  So far he’d been okay at the facility after the crisis team de-escalated his situation.

  Apparently, the doctor said, the problem stemmed form lack of attention. From his son. Yep, attention.

  Mr. Fletcher started to behave well when Bianca began to care for him. But then he won her trust over, then started to play tricks with her mind. Just as he’d done with the other psych nurses who visited him.

  He could not believe they eventually all fell for the old pretend-to-take-the-pill trick.

  Got them every time.

  He would pretend to take his pill, then distract them. When they weren’t looking he’d either drop it down his shirt, in his pillow, or spit it out, if he did take it.

  Discreetly, of course.

  He’d even mastered the art of keeping the pill to the side of his mouth. Careful not to dissolve it with his saliva, then he’d discard it as soon as he was in the clear.

  The doctor had told Evan that his father simply missed him and felt the recurrence of being abandoned.

  All over again.

  Only it wasn’t abandonment from his ex-wives, he feared. It was abandonment from his own, beloved son.

  He figured Evan’s moves out to a tee. Evan happened to be around more often and for longer periods of time when his father was having a meltdown or a crisis.

  Evan felt a pull at his stomach.

  A taste of guilt.

  Maybe he had been working too hard with his business. It wasn’t as if he were in the beginning stages of his ad agency. Heck, he’d been around for over a decade.

  Well established.

  Armed with a damn good team at his side.

  Why couldn’t he be more like Emma? She visited her grandfather, not just once a week or month, but religiously—daily. Often twice a day. It was as if she incorporated it into her daily routine without fail.

  Like bathing, eating, working.

  "Gramps" was very much a part of her daily life. And she loved him—cherished the time she spent with him. It was as if she’d been given golden nuggets of quality time with her ailing grandfather.

  Evan gulped down another lump of guilt. He inched closer to his dad and sat beside him on the bed. He stroked his old man’s forehead then leaned over to kiss him on his bold spot.

  “Dad, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you. I’m gonna be around a lot more now. I promise you.”

  He placed another gentle kiss on his old man’s forehead.

  The nurse came in and wrote her name on the white board in the room. It was shift change. They worked twelve-hour shifts at that facility. Evan wondered how the medical staff did it. From 7:30 in the morning right up until 7:30 in the evening. That was a long day managing psychiatric crisis and intervention. Working at the office had a bit more flexibility. Yes, he was responsible for client accounts, but not exactly people’s lives.

  His admiration for the medical and nursing profession ran deep.

  The nurse noticed Evan’s five o’clock shadow coupled with dark shadows under his eyes. She’d read Mr. Fletcher’s chart under the social work notes where it noted Mr. Fletcher’s family support system.

  “Hi, I’m Calli. You must be Evan.”

  “Hi, Calli. Nice to meet you,” Evan said wearily as he reached over to shake her hand.

  He made it a point to be grateful to all the staff who cared for his father. In the past, when his father was an inpatient at a regular hospital’s inpatient mental health unit, he’d often bring in treats for the nursing staff.

  He even had flowers delivered to thank them for all their meticulous care.

  “I’m your father’s nurse for the night," she continued and smiled. Her voice was soothing, gentle. “I’m just on rounds to see how the patients are doing. I see your father’s still sound asleep.” The nurse’s expression turned to one of concern when she glanced at Evan’s face.

  “You okay?”

  “Oh, I
’m good,” he said in a voice so low, it was barely audible. He still held his father’s hand and stroked his dad’s arm as he lay still, sedated.

  “You know—you should probably try to get some rest. You’ve been here all weekend, I understand.”

  “I’m good, really. I need to spend a little time with my old man, that’s all.”

  “Have you been home at all over the weekend? Even for a break?” She looked aghast. Concerned dressed her face. “Is there anyone else who could stand in for you and give you a respite?”

  Evan thought of Emma. A strange thing to do at that time.

  At times like this it would be so nice to have a caring companion by his side. A good-hearted person who had the patience and unselfish, noble heart to stick around when things got rough.

  Someone to support you. To comfort you.

  He didn’t know why but she just popped into his mind. Then there was that whole wedding bit he’d committed to for this week. He mentally clapped his hand on his forehead.

  He shivered to think of getting married—even if it were for pretence. Just look at what getting married did to his old man.

  Talk about bad timing.

  Still, it wasn’t as if it was going to be a real wedding.

  “No. There’s no one else,” he answered the nurse quietly. A trace of humility laced his voice.

  Evan was then slammed with another horrible thought. If he wasn’t around at all.

  Out of the picture.

  Non-existent.

  Who would watch out for his old man? Who would be there for him? With him in his time of emotional turmoil? Who would lovingly put up with his verbal abuse—something he simply couldn’t help because it was a part of his symptoms. His illness.

  Who would give him unconditional love? Gentle care.

  Unadulterated compassion.

  He’d been wrapped up and absorbed in his business affairs for so long. But the truth was, work couldn’t provide comfort at night or a substitute caregiver for his old man, could it?

  Work was magnificent.

  Fulfilling.

  It was something incredible to do. Something to become. A challenge. A provider for his financial and egotistical needs. But even after all of this—clearly work wasn’t everything.

  In Evan’s book, if you can’t care for your own family, then whatever success you do have outside the home was virtually meaningless.

  Pointless.

  Evan spent the next fifteen minutes speaking with the nurse about his father’s plan of care. He ordered dinner again for the patriarch of his dwindling family. His dad’s favorite was Mexican. Old Mr. Fletcher wasn’t very fond of the hospital food—not that Evan could blame him.

  Evan hadn’t checked his BlackBerry all weekend. He’d wanted to focus all his energy on supporting his dad through the meltdown, his crisis. He’d already e-mailed Lucinda, the receptionist and office manager, as to when he would return to the office. As well as where he could be paged in dire emergency.

  That was sufficient enough, in his book.

  16

  Evan would be back in the office on Tuesday—tomorrow. But then there was that little fake wedding thing he’d promised Emma. He estimated it would probably take no more than an hour, tops, if that.

  Still, he had to hand it to Emma. She had guts and was all heart. To do what she was about to do. Just to make her grandfather happy. What a woman! She’d make some lucky guy happy one day. Too bad he wasn’t the marrying-type.

  Right now work would just have to be on hold for a little while. Evan already had a good team working on his accounts. They were independent enough that he didn’t have to babysit them or hold their hands through client negotiations.

  He just couldn’t let his old man down. Not now.

  Besides, if it weren’t for his father, where would he be now?

  His father practically raised him on his own. He never got a chance to know his real mother. She passed when he was born. And those substitutes who came by over the years?

  The now ex-Mrs. Fletchers.

  In Evan's eyes, that was all a joke. They each seemed to have their own agenda and being the dutiful wife and doting mother to a child who was not their own, that didn’t seem to fit into their world. The hubby and kid combo wasn’t on their menu.

  He tried to quell the thoughts for the sake of anger management. He felt heat rise in his chest with each recollection of his former stepmothers.

  Not good.

  When his father woke—Evan didn’t want to be caught with a disgruntled look spread on his face. He certainly didn’t want to convey a spirit of contempt. He smoothed out his expression and tried to grasp at a more pleasant thought in his head.

  Emma.

  New York.

  They were the most memorable nights of passion he’d ever had. And he’d had many in his lifetime thus far. There was something special about her. He couldn’t quite pinpoint it. She would be the one to drive him to the mad house if he allowed himself to deepen his feelings for her.

  Evan rubbed his forehead as he sat watching his father. He was seated in the chair, the room was dim, soothing. Calm. He felt like he would need a rest, too. Not just from the exhaustion of the weekend, but his recurring thoughts.

  Why couldn’t he banish Emma Wiggins from his mind?

  “So, that was your fiancé!?” Ms. Wiggins cast her daughter a disbelieving look. “You really are getting married?”

  “Well, of course, I am. Why would I lie?” Emma stopped herself cold. She swallowed hard but the lump in her throat remained—with a vengeance.

  Guilt 101.

  Of course, the truth was, she was lying like a rug in the middle of a Persian rug gallery.

  Ms. Wiggins scanned Emma’s cosy but small apartment. “I thought you were- Listen, I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions. You hadn’t mentioned anything to me about having a fiancé and getting married. I heard about if through your grandfather.”

  She laughed nervously. “I thought your grandfather cooked this whole thing up to avoid giving me back the pearl necklace your grandmother got married in. You know. She handed it to me but somehow your father got a hold of it when we broke up and returned it to your grandmother. Now, I’m told that you have it, for your wedding day.”

  Ms. Wiggins plopped herself down on Emma’s cream-colored couch with the oversized cushions. She had to push one of the cushions aside so that she could squeeze her bottom on the chair comfortably.

  There, Ms. Wiggins faced a twenty inch flat screen TV, a small glass coffee table with a few pictures of Emma’s grandparents on their wedding day, Emma’s parents on their wedding day, and a snapshot of happier times.

  Her parents when they were together.

  A close-knit family unit.

  Before the messy divorce. A picture of Emma at three-years-old with her puppy, Ruffles, before he passed away. She missed that dog.

  Ms. Wiggins reached over to grasp the picture of her own wedding day. Water misted her eyes. Sadness glazed her expression. She was suddenly aware that her daughter’s eyes were on her and promptly shifted her expression.

  “Aw. Well, isn’t that sweet,” she sighed. “A picture of happier times.” She almost voiced it nonchalantly.

  Her mother was ever so good at hiding her true emotions. Emma could never understand why she wanted to though. She wondered if it had something to do with her crippling paranoia.

  Empathy settled itself in Emma’s heart. “Yes, it was happier times, wasn’t it, Mom?” She felt sorry for the loss of her own father. So young. She hardly remembered him.

  Her mother seemed unhearing of Emma’s comment and continued to scan the pictures throughout the living area of the apartment. A photo of a vacation spot with her friends, including Genie, hung over by the wall.

  Ms. Wiggins looked aghast. “Where is Evan?”

  “What? I told you, Mom, he’s not here.” Emma just remembered the call. “He’s at the hospital with his father. Been there all weekend.�
�� Well, at least that was the full truth. No lies in that bologna sandwich.

  The truth was, Evan had been really preoccupied with tending to a sick relative in the middle of a health crisis. Who could blame him for keeping away and focusing on his loved one?

  Emma certainly understood to a tee, the complexity of caregiving for an ailing family member.

  “No. No.” Ms. Wiggins shook her head. She got up again and moved over to the old, crooked bookshelf—one that Emma assembled herself.