Wild Card (Wild At Heart Series Book 3)

by Christine Hartmann

  Bree chuckled. “You don’t even see it, do you? The way women think you’re a god who’s dropped in from heaven?”

  Ryder pulled his hair back from his face, letting it feather over the nape of his neck. “Women?” He looked around him. “What women?”

  “Never mind. Some things don’t change.”

  Ryder drained his cup. “I nearly forgot.” He removed a thin, oblong box wrapped in silver paper from his pants pocket. “An early wedding present.”

  Bree wiped her hands on a napkin.

  “Open it.”

  She ripped the paper and paused when she encountered a velvet box. She raised an eyebrow but said nothing and opened the lid. Inside lay a delicate platinum chain on which dangled two intertwined hearts with two diamonds in the center. Bree covered her mouth. The air in the coffee bar felt suddenly close. She raised it from its case and spoke in a voice barely audible above the insistent chatter. “It’s like my mother’s.”

  “I remembered it from back then. Checked with Kacey and Stephanie to make sure I had it right.” He reached for it.

  Bree turned her back to Ryder and tears fell silently from her eyes as he clasped it around her neck.

  She fingered the pendant. “It must have cost…”

  “Screw that.” Ryder went back to twirling his saucer. “Thought you could use something from your family.”

  Bree retrieved a stack of unused napkins from a nearby table. “I’ve been missing them so much recently.” She blew her nose. “It’s nuts, I know.”

  He grabbed the top of the stack and thrust the napkins into his pocket. “Makes a world of sense.” He glanced at the necklace. “It suits you.”

  She raised it to her lips and kissed it lightly. “It was supposed to be one heart for my mom and one for my dad.”

  Ryder guided her to the door with his arm resting gently on her back. For once, Bree didn’t notice the swarm of envious glares from the women left behind. Her fist was still clasped tightly around the two hearts, as though she could feel them beating. When they stepped onto the sidewalk, she pulled on her sweater. They stood facing each other for a moment. Then Bree balanced on tiptoe and gave him a light kiss on the lips.

  “Thank you, Ryder.” She turned to go but he touched her arm.

  “Remember, Bree.” He bent and kissed her just as lightly back. “Family isn’t what you’re given. Family is something you have to create.”

  Back in the restaurant, Bree held the roll to her mouth, noting the butter dripping down her fingers. “Mal knows he’s my friend.”

  Juli began arranging Soumil’s silverware. “My son’s girlfriend was his friend before. What he wasn’t knowing was that his feelings were growing.”

  “My feelings aren’t growing. Ryder’s like…a brother.” She bit into the roll.

  The old woman’s eyes snapped up. “And your brother is kissing you like that on the dance floor and you are slapping him?”

  Bree choked on the dry bread, coughing until her face turned beet red and the crumbs finally dislodged from her windpipe. She wiped her eyes and lips with a napkin before she looked again at Juli. “You saw?”

  “At the nightclub.” Again she rocked her head.

  The bench on which Bree sat felt as though it were levitating. She clutched the tableside to ground herself as a thought worse than the one Juli had just put in her mind gripped her. “Did Mal see?”

  Juli pursed her lips. “He was going to the bathroom. Like his father.”

  Bree hardly knew which way was up. In the space of a few minutes, this woman had upended three stories Bree had accepted as truth. Her father-in-law to-be was an unromantic, mostly unfeeling man. Her friendship with Ryder was not something to cause anyone shame. And that kiss on the dancefloor had passed into ancient history, never to be spoken of again.

  “You are thinking that I am punishing you. Accusing you.” A light brown, heavily creased palm glided across the table top and motioned toward Bree.

  Bree laid her plump hand over the thin fingers. “I feel horrible.”

  “My marriage was arranged.” Her gray head fell to one side and her eyes gazed at the ceiling, as though trying to extract long buried memories. “I was not having the choice of a love marriage like you. Soumil’s father was not…” The deep brown glittered with a thin film of tears. “He was having much anger inside him. It was not good for the children. Bad emotions were leading to many terrible things. Many secrets. And now I am having many regrets.”

  Bree released her hand and shifted out of the booth. She slid in beside the thin woman in the sari and reached for her hand again. “I’m not going to have regrets. I know what I’m doing.”

  Juli’s fingers clasped Bree’s. “We aren’t always knowing when we are making mistakes, Bree. Sometimes we are realizing too late.”

  “But Mal and I aren’t…” The shadow of someone close to the table caught her attention and stopped her midsentence.

  Soumil glanced uncertainly at the empty side of the booth, his hand still in his pockets, as though he had never left. “Are we switching seats?”

  Bree felt Juli’s elbow tap lightly against her ribs and rose.

  “Come here, my son.” The older woman patted the now empty seat next to her. “I am wanting to keep an eye on you.”

  Chapter 20

  The morning of her wedding, Bree’s eyes popped open before the six a.m. alarm. For a moment, she couldn’t remember where she was. The vastness of her surroundings disoriented her. She was used to her tiny San Francisco apartment and the queen-size bed that occupied most of the floor space. Instead she lay in the middle of an enormous circular bed, her legs seizing in cramps because she had been afraid she would roll off the strange configuration in the middle of the night. Who, she thought, thought curved sides on a bed was a good idea? It looked like a flying saucer. She felt like an alien in the middle.

  The room was silent without Mal’s snoring. She stretched, luxuriating in the wide space now that she was awake and aware. Her calf muscles relaxed. She turned on her phone, which she had connected the previous night to the room’s overhead speaker system. She turned up the volume on the kind of music Mal couldn’t stand. It was nice, she thought, to have some time to herself.

  When Faye insisted the night before that Mal sleep on the pullout sofa in his mother’s room, Bree’s mouth fell open. Now she’s going to stand on ceremony and say we can’t sleep together? It seemed ridiculous, and she expected Mal to put up a fight. But he acquiesced immediately, sweeping his half-unpacked clothes back into his suitcase and zipping it shut without a word. Maybe, Bree thought later that night, as she lay in the room’s Jacuzzi under dim lights, he didn’t fight because it didn’t matter. They hadn’t slept together in the biblical sense for months. First there was his over-the-top reaction to his parents’ divorce that completely sapped his libido. Then her attempt at reigniting the romantic spark through a trip to Puerto Rico resulted in the opposite effect when he spent half the vacation hunkered over a toilet. And her work group’s trip to Eastern Washington fell, unfortunately, at a point when Mal wasn’t yet fully recovered. He asked her to remain in San Francisco so she could help him at the dog wash in the evenings, because he still felt weak. But in her mind the opportunity to advance her own career took precedence.

  After that decision, it seemed as though he didn’t quite trust her anymore. Their previously smooth relationship bounced off its tracks. It wasn’t anything she could point at, but he frequently took the negative view on things she said. On her side, with the wedding to plan for and Mal not helping much, she felt righteous in her irritation. She fought against it, trying to remain upbeat, but eventually something snapped. The rupture was small but painful. Neither of them talked about it. And Bree guessed that Mal, like her, understood it was temporary. Hang on until the wedding, and everything will be all right. That was her mantra, and in the moments in which their relationship bumped temporarily back on track, Bree felt it was Mal’s mantra too.
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  She rolled on her side, lifted her phone, and called room service on her way to the bathroom. She and Mal had a date at seven that morning. She ordered banana pancakes, maple syrup, orange juice, Earl Grey tea, and a bowl of fresh blueberries for him. Her entrée choice was Belgian waffles with whipped cream, strawberries, and powdered sugar. She chose strong black coffee with heavy cream on the side. “And a papaya with lime wedges,” she added before hanging up.

  She used to eat papaya with lime with her parents on birthday mornings. Lime juice would squirt across the table as the three squeezed together and laughed.

  “A papaya without lime is like a marriage without love,” her father used to say.

  She slipped on a brand new negligée, pulling the neckline down so her full cleavage showed. She caressed the front of the smooth silk, feeling the pent-up longing in her body. She bit her lip, trying to tamp down her expectations. If not now, then tonight, she told herself. When the stress is all over, things will get back to normal.

  She threw a hotel terrycloth robe on when room service knocked at the door. A young woman in a dark gray bellhop outfit with gold buttons maneuvered a white tablecloth bedecked cart to the living area and, in fewer than five minutes, created an appetizing display framed by two chairs. When she was finished, she reached under the cart and extracted a large bouquet of red roses in a fluted porcelain vase, which she placed at the edge of the tableau.

  Bree stared at the flowers. “Part of your usual room service?”

  The woman’s blonde bob cut bounced around her ears. “A gift. There’s a card.” She proffered an open palm toward the base of the snow white vase and backed away. Bree slipped her a tip before leaning the door ajar. The envelope of the card read simply, “Ms. Acosta” with her room number scrawled below. Inside were computer-printed words, “With love on your wedding day.” There was no signature, no name. The handwriting on the envelope was unremarkable. Bree was still standing with the card in her hand when Mal entered the room.

  “What’s that?” He latched the door quietly behind him.

  “Nothing.” Bree slipped the envelope and card into the pocket of her robe and, upon seeing his face, immediately realized she had done the wrong thing. She pulled the card back out and handed it to him. “Stephanie and Kacey sent some roses.”

  He handed it back to her without reading it. “Nice.”

  Mal was wearing slacks and a dress shirt and had obviously showered. She tugged the neckline of the robe closed and tightened its belt. “I’m starving.”

  Mal peered at the display. “Had something with Mom.”

  Bree willed herself not to look disappointed but knew she failed. “I got your favorite tea.” She pulled out a chair for him.

  Mal laid his hand on hers. “And blueberries.” He lifted the silver lid covering his plate. “And pancakes. Maybe I’ll force them down.” He grinned.

  Bree sighed with relief and sat opposite him. “Banana pancakes.”

  “Didn’t eat much with Mom anyway.” He poured syrup until the stack of golden cakes was swimming in a sea of amber liquid that threatened to wash over the sides of the plate. “She kept quizzing me on people’s names for today.”

  Bree spread the whipped cream in a smooth layer, nestled a row of strawberry slices on top, and covered her creation with a second waffle. She sliced slowly, dislodging as little cream as possible, and skewered a morsel.

  Mal glanced at the papaya and limes. “Mind if I put that over by the minibar?” He gestured across the room.

  Bree stopped chewing. “Why?”

  Mal shoved his chair back and lifted the plate, the orange fruit with green citrus slices arranged in a band around its sides jiggling. “You know I can’t stand this since the Puerto Rico trip.”

  Bree put down her fork. “Give it to me.” Her voice was harsher than she intended. “I’ll put it here.” She pointed at a small end table near her.

  Mal strolled toward the bar. “Over there’s better. I don’t like the smell.”

  Bree stepped after him. “I’ll cover it with one of the lids.” She reached for the plate, expecting him to let go. He didn’t. She pulled harder.

  Mal wrinkled his brow.

  “I’ll keep it away from your precious nose.” She jerked the plate.

  The dish slipped from both their grasps. The papaya sailed in an orange arch to the floor, in a fluttering cascade of green. Bree stared at the mess, blinking back tears. Mal kicked a lime that had fallen near his foot. She bent and scooped it up, cupping it as though it were a baby bird with an injured wing. She peered up at him, her cheeks wet.

  He focused on her face. “You’re crying.” His voice sounded astonished.

  She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, still cradling the lime. “Why does this have to be so hard?”

  “It’s just some fruit.”

  Her eyes fixed on his. “Don’t you remember why I like papaya so much?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t know you liked it.” He shrugged.

  Bree squatted and picked the remaining fruit off the floor, depositing it onto the plate.

  Mal looked around the room. “Where’s the phone? I’ll order you some more.”

  Bree didn’t say anything. By the time he returned to the table, she was back at her place, sawing gingerly at the waffle, the makeup she applied in anticipation of a potential pre-or post-breakfast romantic interlude smeared. She carefully settled her fork next to her plate.

  Mal covered his sodden pancakes with a silver lid, edging it into position. “Things don’t fit like they used to.”

  Bree draped her napkin over the waffles. “Maybe we’re not trying hard enough.”

  Mal picked up a blueberry. “People say you grow into marriage. Like my parents…” The blue orb slipped from his fingers and dropped to the floor. “Or my grandparents, anyway. That was an arranged marriage, but they were together till he died. They were happy.”

  Bree felt tears stinging her eyes again. She poured herself a cup of coffee. When she had finished doctoring it with cream, Mal was standing.

  “Mom’s kind of a wreck. See you at nine?”

  Bree nodded and walked him to the door.

  Don’t go. She wanted to say it aloud, but couldn’t.

  He scanned her face, trying unsuccessfully to catch her eyes.

  A few minutes after he left, someone knocked. She ran to the peephole. A bent man in a wrinkled gray uniform stared at the door through thick rimless glasses. She hid behind the door, not wanting him to see her tear stained face and held out her hand. He handed her a plate with a fresh papaya. Only after he retreated down the hall did she notice there were no limes.

  ***

  Early that afternoon, in the dressing room outside the hotel’s wedding chapel, there was a moment when she thought her dress wasn’t going to zip closed. She felt Stephanie hauling two sides of the material together with one hand and clutching the fastener with the other.

  Bree tugged at her neckline and hoped the seamstress who had refashioned her mother’s dress had added enough new material.

  “Suck it in, amiga.” Stephanie grunted as the closure inched higher. “More.”

  The zipper finally reached the top and Stephanie let out a cry of triumph. Bree exhaled in a burst of laughter. “I thought last night’s key lime pie was going to do me in.” She tested the dress seams by gently inhaling and exhaling. “Looks like it’ll hold. Thank God for Lycra.”

  Her jaw dropped when she turned to face herself in the set of floor to ceiling mirrors. The recessed ceiling lights and tasteful wall sconces cast hardly a shadow on her white gown. Overlapping layers of crepe flowed downward from the waistline at a sassy angle, creating an effect somewhat reminiscent of a flamenco dress. A multitude of ruffles flounced around her like a bell. But while the bottom of the modified A-line dress cascaded out in a design that evoked movement, energy, and uninhibited joy, the top layers wound tightly around her chest and overlapped across her breasts in bands of crum
pled silk that reminded Bree of a comforting cocoon. While anyone who saw her mother’s wedding photograph would recognize the dress in an instant, the new creation was unmistakably her own. There were no more pearls sown into the fabric. The lace sleeves had disappeared. Where her mother wore a veil, Bree wore a tulle bow on the left side of her head that complemented the flow of her hair, which was curled and tumbled across her left shoulder.

  Stephanie peered over her shoulder and fussed with the bow. “I think she put this in upside down.” Her hands disappeared under the gossamer fabric.

  Bree laughed. “Leave it. It’s symbolic of how I’m feeling right now.” Her eyes swept the room. “These places think of everything. Do you think they have an airsick bag tucked into a corner?”

  Stephanie slapped Bree’s wrist playfully. “You’ll be fine when you get out there.”

  Bree’s heart was pounding so quickly she couldn’t keep track of the beats. Her hands were cold and her head felt light enough to float off her body. “Seriously. I feel nauseated.” Her dress rustled as she stepped toward the bathroom.

  Stephanie hiked up her pale orange bridesmaid dress and dashed to block the entrance. She raised her arms against the doorframe. “I am not putting you back into that.”

  Bree tugged at the flounces near her tummy. “I can’t even sit down.”

  “Tough.” Stephanie led her back to the mirrors, then dug in her purse that stood on a glass table nearby. “Almost forgot. You told me to put this on you.” Her hand emerged with an oblong box. She removed a necklace. Its intertwined hearts sparkled in the light. Bree held her hair out of the way while Stephanie fastened the clasp.

  Bree let out a sigh. “That’s better.” She fingered the design. “Forget all this borrowed and blue stuff. At a time like this, you need your family.” She kissed Stephanie lightly on the cheek then checked her lipstick in the mirror. “Tell the troops I’m ready.”

  After Stephanie left, Bree pressed her hands over the necklace. “I wish you were here to tell me how you made your marriage work. Things don’t have to be perfect.” She peered at the ceiling. “But close would be nice.” She smiled in the mirror just as Stephanie popped her head in.