And she’d be right.
They were all right.
I am not just involved with Bailey, I am sleeping with her.
Fucking her.
Dammit.
I am making love with her, and when she looks at me and says, very softly, that she knows she did the wrong thing, the only way I can think of assuring her that she didn’t is to get her back to the inn, out of the ’Vette, into our room and into my arms.
Because I don’t give a crap what you call it.
What’s happening between us in that bed and, okay, out of it, is something I’m not yet ready to define.
Or give up.
* * *
We shower again.
We get dressed.
Bailey looks spectacular. Long pale pink gown. Matching heels. Hair loose and lightly curling.
I’m in my tux. It’s hand-tailored. After I moved up in the construction field I found myself attending lots of banquets and awards ceremonies. I’ve even won a couple of those awards. The point is, I figured that it would be sensible to own my own monkey suit instead of having to rent one and once I reached that conclusion, having one made to fit me made sense.
Bottom line?
We both look pretty damn good.
I put my arm around Bailey and draw her to the mirror. We stand before it and gaze at our reflections.
“Ms. Abrams,” I say.
“Mr. O’Malley,” she replies.
We smile. Then I turn her towards me and give her a soft kiss. She reaches up and adjusts my bow tie.
“Showtime,” she says, only without any of the nervous anticipation of last night.
Tonight, we’re going to have fun.
* * *
And we do.
First, of course, we sit through the ceremony. And, despite everything, it’s, you know, it’s okay. I don’t know if Violet and Chester wrote their own vows or if they had some help. Either way the vows are the kind people should be willing to make at the start of a marriage. The judge who marries them says some corny crap, but even that’s not bad. And when Chester kisses his bride, we all applaud.
Even my Bailey.
She leans to me and whispers, “Violet looks beautiful, doesn’t she?”
Well, I wouldn’t go that far, but Violet looks better than she did last night or this afternoon, so I clasp Bailey’s hand and say yeah, she does.
Afterwards, we go through the receiving line. Bailey embraces the mother and father of the bride, she embraces Chester’s folks, then Chester and, finally, Violet.
She holds Violet’s hands and speaks softly to her. I am, of course, right next to Bailey so I hear every word.
“Vi,” Bailey says, “I know we’re cousins, but I’m sorry we were never really friends.”
I’m amazed. Violet is clearly shocked, but the real shocker is when she says she’s sorry too.
Bailey smiles and hugs her. “I just know you’ll have a wonderful honeymoon with Chester, and a long and happy life.”
Violet’s eyes tear up. Chester’s been eavesdropping and now he yanks his handkerchief from his pocket and hands it to his bride.
“Thank you, Bailey,” Vi says.
Chester and I exchange a quick smile. “Congratulations, man,” I say.
“Thank you. And when Violet and I get back…Can I call you? Take you to lunch? Ask you a few questions about, you know, my business?”
I think of telling him I don’t know jackshit about washers and dryers, but this isn’t a time for that.
“Sure,” I say, and he grins and pumps my hand.
So all is well. Bailey has faced her demons. Violet has shown she has a human side…
Maybe not.
“We’ll get together when Chester and I get home from Greece,” Vi tells Bailey. “I’ll take you to my hairdresser. I’m sure he can do something with that mane of yours. Not that the way you wear it doesn’t have a certain, you know, Nature Girl charm.”
Her smile would put a diabetic into a coma.
Bailey draws back. It’s barely perceptible, but I can see it and I prepare for the worst.
The worst doesn’t come.
Instead, my girl smiles. “Thank you,” she says pleasantly, “but I like my hair just the way it is.”
“Oh,” Violet says, and the conversation ends because I put my arm around Bailey and lead her into the ballroom.
No buffet this time, just a lot of formally dressed tables. A ten-piece band is playing a credible cover of an old tune, While My Guitar Gently Weeps. I’m not sure it’s wedding music, but I’ve always liked it and I draw Bailey close.
“You were wonderful,” I tell her quietly.
She looks at me. “Really?”
“Yeah.” What I want to tell her is that she’s always wonderful, but I sweep her into my arms and out onto the dance floor.
* * *
The evening passes quickly. And yes, we have a good time.
We’re seated at a table with a bunch of cousins and they turn out to be nice people. We laugh and drink champagne—the real stuff this time. And we dance a lot. Bailey thinks she can’t dance, but once she relaxes and lets go, she’s fine.
Besides, I don’t really want to dance.
I just want to hold her in my arms and sway to the music.
Everything is going fine. This whole weekend was about helping Bailey find her wings and it’s turned out to be more than that. It’s turned out to be—special. Hell. There has to be a better way to describe it. Not just what’s happened in bed. The rest of it. We’re having fun. Enjoying being together. Bailey is blossoming, and I’m not foolish enough to think it’s because of me.
I’m simply fortunate enough to be watching a woman come into her own.
And, in a way, so am I.
The past couple of days have been, I don’t know, a kind of exploration of myself and my life. I guess this is mindfulness, maybe even the next step one of the monks talked about. Joyfulness. The realization puts a prickly sensation on the nape of my neck, kind of the way you might feel standing in the doorway of a dark room, trying to decide if you’re frightened or excited by what 's ahead. It’s pretty much what the monks told us would happen at some point in our lives, Coop’s and mine, if we let it. I always thought my moment had come when I realized being in finance wasn’t for me, but now I start to wonder if it might be something more than that…
And then it all comes to a screeching halt.
Bailey and I are alone at our table. Everybody has abandoned us in favor of the dessert carts that have just been wheeled in, meaning these are our first few moments alone in what seems like hours, and we are making the most of this quiet time together.
I’ve pulled my chair against hers. My arm is around her and her head is on my shoulder. We’re talking about things. Nothing important. Just things, the way people do when they’re comfortable together. I’ve just said something about who-knows-what, certainly nothing urgent or brilliant, but she’s listening to every word with her face turned up to mine and a sweet smile on her lips. It’s so sweet that I kiss her. It’s a demure kiss, the kind that’s okay in public, but then I run my hand over her shoulder and into her hair, and she sighs and I kiss her again…
That’s when a woman’s voice screeches my name.
“Matthew O’Malley! Matty, it really is you!”
Bailey jerks away as a hand lands hard on my shoulder and waves of perfume envelop us. I look up, but I already know who it is. The perfume, the screechy voice, the Matty.
Nobody’s called me that since I was maybe nine or ten…
Except for Jessica Simms.
I look up and yes, holy crap, there she is. My mother’s friend. No. Not at friend, exactly. A neighbor. Okay, she’s more of an acquaintance.
Fuck.
What she is, is a pain in the ass. She’s the world biggest gossip, so if you figure she’s the worst person Bailey and I could run into this weekend, you just scored one hundred percent, because if you also figur
e I have no intention of mentioning this weekend to anyone, you’re right.
Certainly not to my mom.
And there’s not chance in a million Mom won’t find out about it now.
Which is not good.
See, Mom knows Bailey. She likes her. A lot. She’s always asking after her. I’ve heard her muse over why a girl like Bailey is still single. At one point a couple of years back, Mom even ran this little campaign that involved telling me how terrific Bailey was, how some man would be incredibly lucky to find her, and after a while I’d started to think—hint hint—that maybe I was supposed to be that man. The idea had seemed so ludicrous that I hadn’t even bothered telling my mother there was no way I’d ever be interested in Bailey as a woman.
“Matty? Aren’t you going to say hello?”
I rise to my feet, take a deep breath and, I hope, smile.
“Mrs. Simms. What a surprise.”
She beams at me. “For me too. I had no idea you’d be here.”
“No. Well, it was—it was sort of last minute…”
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
You can almost see the word friend blinking on and off in neon.
“Oh. Sorry. This is Bailey. Bailey Abrams. Bailey, this is my parents’ neighbor. Jessica Simms.”
“Neighbor,” Jessica Simms says with a roll of her eyes. “I’m his mother’s best friend.”
Bailey stands up and holds out her hand. Mrs. Simms takes it. She’s also taking in everything else about Bailey, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Bailey says.
“Oh, believe me, Miss Abrams, it’s a pleasure to meet you!”
“Call me Bailey, please,” Bailey says.
She’s smiling, but she glances at me. I can read the question she’s asking. Is this bad? I try to look at her in a way that says it’s nothing to worry about, but I don’t think I do a very good job of delivering the message.
“Well,” Mrs. Simms says, “why don’t we all sit down?”
I pull out a chair for her and she plops into it. Once we’re all seated, she beams at me.
“So what are you doing here, Matty? Is the groom—my nephew—a business acquaintance of yours?” She looks at Bailey. “Chester owns a big dry cleaning business,” she confides.
That Bailey doesn’t correct her about Elevator Boy’s profession is a hint that she’s as concerned about this situation as I am.
“And who are you related to, my dear? Well, silly me. The bride, of course, because I’d know you if you and the groom were relatives.”
“I’m the bride’s cousin.”
“Ah. Violet. A charming girl who’s made an excellent catch.” Mrs. Simms winks. “But you’ve made the better catch. Our Matty here might as well be called the Bachelor of the Year.”
“Oh,” Bailey says quickly, “Matthew isn’t…I mean, Matthew and I…”
“We work together,” I say. Bailey flinches. “What I mean is, we’re friends.” Another flinch. What the hell, I go for broke. “Very good friends.”
Mrs. Simms laughs. I’m not trying to be cruel when I say her laugh has always reminded me of a horse’s whinny. In the past I found that kind of amusing. Right now, nothing is amusing. I can absolutely, positively, no-doubt-about-it see where this is heading.
“An understatement,” she says. “I can’t believe your mother didn’t tell me!”
“Tell you…?”
“You know, Matty. That you were seeing somebody. She must be thrilled! Every mother wants to see her son find the right girl and settle down.”
Bailey casts me a pleading look, but I can’t come up with anything that will dig us out of this.
“I thought I’d spotted you. And right then, Chester and his lovely bride came by our table to say hello and I asked if I was right and my dear friend’s son, Matthew O’Malley, was a guest tonight and the bride said yes, he was, he was here with his fiancée…”
I lose the thread of conversation for a couple of seconds as I contemplate how you’d manage strangling someone discreetly when you’re in a room with a couple of hundred people.
“You know,” Mrs. Simms says with a sly smile, “while I was watching you two, I wondered how often it must happen.”
“How often what must happen?” I croak.
“You know, Matty. A young couple in love goes to a wedding and, wallah, before you know it they’re planning a wedding of their own.”
She just said wallah when what she meant was voila. I’ve heard other people do that. Normally, it drives me whacko—my mom’s DNA at work—but right now I’m whacko enough without worrying about Jessica Simms fucking up French.
“That’s the thing,” I say. “See, Bailey and I aren’t—”
“You aren’t ready to talk about it yet. I understand. I’ll be our little secret.”
Meaning the inhabitants of Drury Drive for two miles in an ever-expanding circumference will hear news of the impending nuptials of Matthew O’Malley and Bailey Abrams by tomorrow lunchtime, the latest.
I want to protest, but what would I say? The truth, a little voice in my head whispers, but the truth is complicated and involved and…
And—and I can’t do that.
The truth is too messy. It would hurt Bailey, and hurting her is the last thing I’d ever want to do.
We get through another few minutes. Bailey and I are silent while Jessica Simms berates the Beef Wellington for being half raw and the Chicken Divan for being overcooked. At last, mercifully, she gets to her feet. We rise too, and she hugs us both, wishes us well, gives that whinny of a laugh as she prepares to gallop off to another pasture. She says she can’t wait to talk to my mother and tell her how happy she is that someone’s finally caught me.
She leaves. Bailey and I sit down. I run my hand through my hair. “Wow,” I say. “Who’d have expected…”
“Yes,” Bailey says. “Who’d have expected.”
Bailey’s voice is low. Her face is pale. She looks the way I feel.
“Hey,” I say softly. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
She’s not. I can tell. And, idiot that I am, I figure I can improve things by making light of what just happened.
“Well,” I say brightly, “I’m in for an interesting phone call from my mother.”
Bailey swallows hard. I know because I can see her throat constrict as she reaches for her purse.
“It’s late,” she says. “I’d like to leave.”
“Honey. Don’t let that woman spoil things. She’s just a busybody.”
“A busybody with news she can’t wait to spread.”
Bailey starts to move back her chair. I clasp her wrist.
“She saw us here together. So what? You were going to a wedding. You needed a—What’s it called?”
“A plus one.” Bailey looks at me. “But she saw you acting as a lot more than my date, Matthew. She saw us, you know, together.”
Kissing, is what she means. Touching.
“And then my stupid cousin told her we were engaged.” Her eyes flash. “I’ll bet Violet did it deliberately. To stir up trouble.”
“This is one time Violet’s probably innocent of any wrongdoing. She’s seen us the way you just said. Together. Maybe she, you know, jumped to conclusions.”
“Is it impossible for you to construct a sentence without saying ‘you know’?”
Whoa. Bailey said the first you know. I’m only responsible for the second one. My girl is angry. But at me? What have I done?
“Look, sweetheart—”
“I am not your sweetheart.”
Dammit. This is going downhill fast.
“Bailey. Calm down.”
“I am absolutely calm.”
The hell she is. Still, confused as I am, I know better than to contradict her. Instead, I link our fingers together.
“Is it a problem? Violet—” The phrase you know is on my lips Fortunately, I
catch myself just in time. “Violet thinking we’re engaged?”
“Is it a…” She pulls her hand from mine. “Of course it’s a problem. Bad enough I let people believe you were my date. My boyfriend. By the time tonight is over, everybody will believe you and I are getting married.” She shakes her head. “I cannot, I cannot believe I thought this would work!”
She’s upset. I’m baffled. “Yeah, but it did work. Didn’t you just say that?”
“Don’t be an idiot, Matthew! Violet will make sure the real story gets out. That this was all a sham.” She buries her face in her hands. “My mother’s going to be horrified.”
“Honey…”
She looks up. There’s fire in her eyes. “Do not call me that.”
I can feel the situation snowballing. There must be something I can do to stop it, but I’ll be damned if I can think of what it is. Plus, dancing around in the back of my head is what faces me unless I get to my mother before Jessie Simms does. Mom will go from joy that I’ve finally come to my senses to dismay that I haven’t in less time than it takes to blink.
Bailey shakes her head. “I should have known this wouldn’t work!”
“But it did. Everybody who saw us believes we really are a couple.”
“You mean, we were excellent actors.”
“Right!”
Her cheeks flame. Her mouth thins. She’s either going to slug me or kill me and as soon as I realize how idiotic that Right! must have sounded, I know I can’t blame her if she does either, but what she does instead is snatch her purse from the table, shoot to her feet and head for the ballroom exit.
“Bailey. Wait!”
I am fast, but she’s picked up the pace. She’s all but running and now I am too—and, of course, people are craning their necks to watch the show.
Violet and Chester loom up in front of me.
“Everything okay?” Violet purrs. “Oh, and by the way, you two put on a great act.”
In an instant it all comes together. Bailey was right. Violet did deliberately tell people we’re engaged. Then all she had to do was wait for the hammer to fall.
The F-Word: A Sexy Romantic Comedy Page 18
