Liz Fielding - Secret Wedding.txt

by Secret Wedding (Lit)Rar

  She suddenly thought of something else on her to-do list.

  “Oh, heck,” she said again and Tom’s brows rose in query. “I’ve got to call Jerry.”

  Tom’s brows snapped together. “Jerry?” he repeated. “I thought his name was Harry.”

  Chapter Six: Page Two

  Tom knew about Harry.

  All through a long and blissful night spent in passionate rediscovery of each other, their need had been to touch, to hold each other. They had all the time in the world for the whys and the hows, at least that was how it had seemed to her.

  But Tom didn’t need the whys, or the hows. He hadn’t said a word to her, asked about their son. Yet he’d known about Harry all along.

  And in that split second she knew what Tom had done. In her mind she saw again the check that her father had laid in front of her with the cashier’s stamp on it, proof of her brand-new husband’s betrayal.

  He was doing it again. The ridiculous story about attending the workshop to brush up on his technique. This was Tom Garrick, for heaven’s sake…

  Then there was the cliché of the collision in the car park, the pretence that he didn’t know who she was.

  The publishing world was small. He’d probably found out who she was purely by chance. Dug around a little. Then remembered that there was a second seam to the gold mine.

  Charles Harrington had paid up without a murmur to get his pathetic daughter back. How much more would he give to keep control of his grandson?

  Tom had been so clever. She hadn’t suspected a thing, not even when he’d switched the rooms. The phone rang once, twice, three times before she could force herself to move, lift the receiver.

  “Mollie Blake,” she said. She was cold. So cold that if someone just tapped her she would shatter…

  “Mollie, thank heavens. Now, lovie, you’re not to worry…” She heard Angie’s voice, but nothing registered until “worry.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Harry’s had a tumble on the stairs. You know how excited he gets and the phone rang and he thought it was you. We’re at the hospital and the doctor’s with him now — “

  Mollie’s mind was suddenly crystal clear. “Which hospital? I’ll be right there.”

  She grabbed the first clothes that came to hand and, shedding the robe, began to dress

  Chapter Six: Page Three

  She stared at Tom for a moment. Then she said, “He’s had an accident. I’ve got to go to him.”

  Tom saw her face and knew that he was in trouble. She cared about this man, really cared and he allowed himself the indulgence of five seconds in which to hope that his rival was in serious pain. Then he flung back the bedclothes and joined her in the scramble for clothes.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You’re in no fit state to drive.”

  “Forget it, Tom,” she said. “It’s not going to work.” Her eyes were swimming with tears but as he put out a hand to touch her, reassure her, he saw every shade of emotion cross her features from pain to guilt. “Please just go away and forget it.”

  “I can’t. Not after last night.”

  “You don’t have a choice. I’ve made two mistakes in my life. The first one was marrying you. The second was last night.”

  He let his hand fall to his side. This was not the moment to point out to her that last night had been her idea, that she’d led every step of the way. And definitely not the moment to bring up the way she’d clung to him, the need in her voice as she cried out for him. It was the moment to be practical.

  “You can’t drive the Porsche,” he reminded her. “The rear lights are smashed.”

  “I’ll call a taxi.”

  “You won’t do anything of the kind.” Guilt was driving her to reject him. Harry had been in pain while she’d been in his arms. She was pushing him away, trying to wipe out the night they’d spent together. Tom wasn’t going to let that happen. “It’ll take forever for a taxi to get here,” he said, taking her coat from the wardrobe, gathering her handbag as she still hesitated, glancing uncertainly at the phone. “He needs you now, Mollie.”

  She turned on him. “Please don’t pretend you care — “

  “Mollie, please don’t — “

  “What?”

  Blame yourself. That’s what he’d been going to say. Please don’t blame yourself. Bad idea. What, then? Please don’t worry about this man who, despite last night, I can see from your eyes means everything in the world to you? He tried not to think about that.

  “Please don’t let’s waste time arguing.”

  That did it. With a small mew of anxiety that tugged painfully at his heartstrings, she turned and headed for the door.

  Chapter Seven: Page One

  The romance reader is looking for warmly observed characters and deeply felt emotion.

  — Mollie Blake’s Writing Workshop Notes

  ***

  Mollie never wanted to live through another journey like that, her mind running over every nightmare scenario a mother feared, while Tom, grimly silent, concentrated on the road, edging the speed limit every inch of the way.

  He pulled up at the entrance to the hospital and made a move to get out, open the door for her.

  “Don’t!” she said. Then, “You can’t stay here.”

  “I know. I’m going to park — “

  “There’s no need. I appreciate the lift but you don’t have to stay. I don’t want you to stay.” She climbed out as quickly as she could, discovering too late that her legs were like jelly and she was shaking uncontrollably. Tom was at her side in a moment, his arm at her back, holding her gently while she steadied herself.

  “He’ll be all right,” Tom said, reassuringly.

  “Will he?” Angie had said it was nothing serious, but… “He fell on the stairs — “

  For the briefest moment he put his arms about her and she clung to him for comfort as he hugged her. Then he straightened, pointed her in the direction of the door. “Go,” he said. “Go and find him. I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve parked.”

  “No.” Her ache for her husband had never diminished and last night was a memory that she wanted to keep as something special, untarnished. But Tom was so good at this, his warmth so seductive. She didn’t care about herself, but Harry would love him too and then Tom would leave them both.

  She took a deep breath. “I don’t want you to stay,” she repeated, pushing the words out, one at a time, each one a blow to her heart. “You tried, Tom. It didn’t work. Please don’t make things worse.”

  Tom could feel her pain and it twisted his gut like a fork tangling up spaghetti. “Mollie, you’re stressed. Let’s talk about this later.”

  “Please! For once in your life do something completely unselfish. Walk away. Drive away. Now.”

  He understood why she felt she had to send him away, but he wasn’t going anywhere. “You’ll have to go back to the hotel for your things. If I leave now how will you get there?”

  She groaned. “The hotel! The workshop! They’ll all be waiting — “

  Chapter Seven: Page Two

  “Trust me,” he said. “I’m a writer.”

  “‘That’s not a character reference.”

  “No, but it means I can find someone to take on your wretched workshop so that you can forget it. Go and see what’s happened to Harry.”

  She hesitated, then accepting she needed him for this said, “Thank you.”

  “You’re entirely welcome,” he murmured, giving thanks for this one small victory as she walked away from him and was swallowed up in the frantic swirl of activity in the accident and emergency department.

  He parked, found a phone, called a well-loved writer who lived 10 minutes’ drive from the hotel and promised her his soul in return for taking over the workshop, then he called Rachel and put her in the picture. Only then did he head back to Accident & Emergency.

  Tom knew that very formal “thank you” from Mollie had meant goodby
e, but she’d need him, if only to get home. Maybe, if Harry was badly injured, she’d need him for a lot more than that and he’d be there. Always.

  He wasn’t fooling himself. Last night was rapidly looking like a one-off. What, for a moment, had seemed like a new start to a golden future had been put on indefinite hold by Harry’s accident.

  Mollie wasn’t in the waiting room and he realized he didn’t have Harry’s surname to inquire where he’d been taken.

  “Tom Garrick? You are Tom Garrick? I’ve seen your photograph in the newspapers.” He smothered a groan. The last thing he needed was an eager fan and he turned reluctantly to be confronted by a small motherly woman. “Mollie’s with the doctor.”

  “You were with Harry? Is it very bad?”

  “He’ll survive.” That could mean anything. Years in a coma, life in a wheelchair. And he knew that he could do nothing to protect Mollie from the consequences of that. He would never persuade her to leave Harry if the man needed her.

  “I’m Angie Blake in case you were wondering,” the woman added.

  “Blake?” So that’s where Mollie had acquired her new surname.

  “We spoke, or at least you spoke, on the phone last night,” she said.

  “Last night? But — “

  “I cleaned for Lady Harrington, years ago,” she said, taking pity on his confusion. “I only stuck it out for Mollie. You know, her parents had always wanted a boy, never forgave her for being a girl, poor mite. She came to me when she finally made the break from them.”

  Chapter Seven: Page Three

  He spun round. Mollie had her back to him as she thanked the doctor. She was gloriously, beautifully disheveled in the mismatched assortment of clothes she’d thrown on in her rush to get to the hospital, and he loved her so much that it hurt. But love sometimes meant sacrifice. Making things easy for the other person —

  He watched as she shook the doctor’s hand, then turned to look around the waiting room for Angie. That’s when he saw the child she was holding, his little arm protected by a light cast.

  A child who could only be a few months over four years old, with a mop of dark curly hair and laughing gray eyes. A boy he recognized from faded photographs of himself at that age. The boy wriggled in his mother’s arms, impatient to be let down so that he could show Angie Blake his cast.

  Tom took a step forward, tried to speak, say something, anything. “Harry?”

  The child stopped fidgeting, glanced at him curiously. Turned to his mother. “Who’s that?”

  Mollie thanked the doctor, then turned to look for Angie and with a sinking heart realized that Tom was with her.

  But as he turned, saw them, she saw no gleam of triumph, or avarice light up his eyes. There was only confusion swiftly followed by recognition and color-draining shock.

  Then he took a step forward as if in a dream, and reached out for the boy, said his name. Asking who he was, Harry stopped wriggling then, after a moment’s thought, leaned away from her, holding out his arms, eager to make a new friend.

  The child reached out to him and Tom took him, held him for a moment, settled him against his chest, robbed of speech by the purest wonder.

  Harry, though, wanted to show off his battle trophies. “I’ve broken my arm,” he said, confidentially. “Look.” And he held up the cast for Tom to see.

  Tom’s throat was so tight that he was forced to swallow before he could speak. “Did it hurt?”

  “A bit,” Harry admitted. “I didn’t cry though.” Then, with a tiny frown, he asked again, “Who are you?”

  “I…I’m your daddy.”

  Chapter Eight: Page One

  A satisfying ending provides a final moment of discord before all the loose ends are gathered in, reassurance that the hero and heroine get to live happily ever after!

  — Mollie Blake’s Writing Workshop Notes

  ***

  Mollie’s throat was tight with suppressed tears as, with a look of wonderment, Tom gently brushed his finger against Harry’s cheek. “I’m your daddy,” he repeated, as if the words were brand new. As if he were the first man in history to say them.

  “Really?” Tom nodded wordlessly, as Harry considered his response. “I didn’t know I had a daddy.” Mollie’s hand flew to her mouth as Harry turned to her. “Can I show Daddy my car when we get home?”

  “You’ve got a car?” Tom asked.

  “It’s got a horn and lights and everything. I have to drive it in the garden though, not on the road.”

  “Will you give me a ride?”

  Harry giggled. “You’re too big.”

  “It’s a pedal car,” Mollie cut in, quickly. Speaking had been a mistake. It reminded Tom that she was there. And his eyes, as he looked up, lost the soft mistiness of emotional overload, warning her that she’d better have a good reason for keeping his son from him.

  Well, he needn’t think that a belated attack of fatherly feelings would impress her. She’d had a good reason as he very well knew.

  “I’ll go and fetch the car, shall I?”’ Angie suggested.

  “Good idea,” Tom said. “We’ll all go home together.”

  “But your car — ” Mollie interjected. She was losing control. Correction, she’d lost control the moment Tom Garrick walked back into her life.

  “I’m coming with you and Harry,” he said. His voice remained quiet, but with a strand of steel that warned her she’d better not argue.

  And for the first time in five years she felt a moment of doubt.

  ***

  “How could you have done it? Kept him from me?”

  They were home. Tom had admired Harry’s car and every possession he held dear with a patience that left her pulling her lips tightly back against her teeth. Finally, Angie had tempted Harry away for lunch and now they were alone.

  “You really didn’t know?” Mollie asked.

  “Do you think that if I’d known I had a son, anything would have stopped me from finding you both?”

  The doubts intensified and she swallowed hard before she forced out the words. “Not even a hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”

  “Is that how much they said I took to walk away?” He shook his head, then bit out, “I don’t know which is worse. That you believed I’d take their money. Or that you’d value yourself so low.”

  “Then…what did you think I’d done, Tom?”

  “Don’t ask.” Don’t ask him to tell her about the painful images that he’d lived with. Tom couldn’t believe he’d been so gullible, so easily taken in. But the letter had been in her handwriting, signed by her.

  Chapter Eight: Page Two

  “It was all a lie. A filthy, stinking, rotten lie and I believed it.” He rubbed at his face as if to wipe away the guilt. “God help me, I believed it. I suppose I’ve got no more than I deserved for not trusting in you.”

  And the elusive thought that had been bothering him before they’d made love last night finally crystallized perfectly in his mind. “I mean, what was I thinking? Your parents couldn’t bully you into a divorce so why on earth did I believe that you would have surrendered on something so much bigger, so much more important?”

  “Tell me, Tom,” she insisted. “Tell me what they said.”

  “Said? They didn’t have to say anything.” He’d carried the letter with him always. A warning never to love again, never to trust his heart. He reached into his jacket and from the back of his wallet he extracted the letter, turned and held it out to her.

  Mollie took the wretched piece of paper. It had been ripped into pieces, then stuck back together. The creases were worn with handling and it was only the tape that was holding it together. It didn’t take long to read.

  Tom — it’s all been a terrible mistake. I’ve had an abortion. I don’t want to see you ever again, Mollie.

  She made a small, involuntary sound as she imagined his pain… Then she looked up. “I didn’t write this, Tom, my mother did.” She folded it back up into the worn crease
s and offered it back to him. He shook his head. “She had such beautiful handwriting. I worked hard to copy it.” Then, “If it’s any consolation, trying to persuade me into an abortion was the last straw. I left with Angie and we’ve never been back. They’ve never seen Harry.”

  “‘Don’t apologize. Don’t ever apologize for your family. I’m the one who should be groveling here.”

  “No — ” She lifted her chin a little. “‘We both made mistakes. I should have been stronger — if I’d had the courage to tell them that I loved you instead of persuading you into a secret wedding, if we’d stood together they couldn’t have parted us. But penniless writer runs off with heiress… That put you in the wrong from the word go.”

  “Not penniless. Far from it.”

  She shrugged, hopelessly. “Who would have believed you wanted me just for my body?”

  “It’s a great body, but I swear I love your mind, too…” He offered a tentative smile along with his hand.

  She took it briefly, then turned to a small desk. “My mind isn’t that great. I doubted you too, when I should have believed.” She opened a drawer, stared for a moment at the check for one hundred thousand pounds bearing a cashier’s stamp: Paid in full. She picked it up, turned and gave it to him.

  “I’ve never seen this before.” He looked up. “It’s made out to me but — “

  “Lies,” she said. “They did it to both of us. My father laughed when he gave it to me. He said you were cheap, that he’d have paid five times that amount to prove to me what kind of man you were.”

  “What kind of man do you believe I am, Mollie?” He laid his hand against her cheek, his eyes soft as melted toffee.