The Honeymooner (A Paradise Bay Romantic Comedy Book 1)

by Melanie Summers

  Shoulders drop in relief around me, and I watch as my family disappears through the side door to join over three hundred people who are waiting for me to walk down the aisle so Richard and I can become Mr. and Mrs. Happily Ever After.

  My pulse thumps in my ears and my hands shake as I dial his number. Holding the phone slightly away from my ear, it occurs to me that I’m filled with dread at what he might say. I gaze down at my diamond ring as I wait for him to answer.

  When he finally picks up, his voice is quiet. “You had your phone on driving mode, didn't you?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  Why am I not screaming at him? I should be screaming into the phone right now. If ever there was a time for anyone to really let someone have it, it would be me at this moment, speaking to this man. And yet, I feel so utterly confused, there’s no room for anger.

  “Are you having car trouble? Because I can send the limo for you. Or maybe you’re trapped under the refrigerator and need to be rescued. Is that it? Because I can’t think of a reasonable explanation for you not to show up.”

  “I’m so sorry, Libby. I should have told you weeks ago, but I thought it was just cold feet.”

  I gulp down some air. So this is really happening. My hands go all tingly. I hear him talking, but none of it makes much sense. Cutting him off mid-apology, I say, “Is there someone else?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  This revelation hurts almost worse than if he had fallen for another woman because this means it's simply about me not being good enough, not because he's found someone better.

  He lets out a long sigh. “It's just that…over the past few weeks, I’ve realized I'm not in love with you anymore. To be really honest, I'm not sure I ever was. I think I was more in love with the idea of us than us as a real couple.”

  “The idea of us? That's a little cliché, don't you think? I thought you hated clichés, Richard.” I find my voice, and it turns out it's an extremely bitter one.

  “You're right. I'm sorry. This is why I thought it best to text you. I knew I was going to say the wrong thing.”

  “This is not about you saying the wrong thing. It’s that you didn’t say anything!” I stand and pace the lawn while I rant, completely forgetting my nose. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this before I spent months of my life planning this and thousands of dollars paying for it. Before I got up at 4 o'clock this morning to get my hair and makeup done so I could look beautiful for you! Before all of our relatives travelled from all over the bloody kingdom to be here! Before we had a church full of people waiting for us! Who’s going to tell them the wedding's off, Richard? WHO? Clearly not you, since you've decided not to come today!”

  “Perhaps Alice could do it?” he says weakly. “Or, if you'd like, you could leave now and I can show up just to tell everyone the bad news. It's my responsibility after all.”

  “Forget it. I'll take care of it, just like I took care of every other detail of the wedding you no longer want to have.” A rush of anger flows through me as I stare at the door to the church.

  “Are you sure? I don't want you to face that type of humiliation alone.”

  I let out a forced laugh. “If you didn’t want to humiliate me, you should've done this much, much, much, much, much, much sooner!”

  “I know. I’m so sorry for putting you through this, Libby.”

  Instantly, I go from furious to horribly hurt. Tears prick my eyes, but I will them back inside with everything in me. “I just have to know, what is it about me that makes you not…?” My voice cracks.

  There’s a long pause, then Richard says, “I don’t think it’s such a good idea to get into this right now. Not when things are still so raw.”

  “Is it because I don’t want to do the butt stuff? Because if it is, that is really unfair. You know I had that hemorrhoid and it will flare up if we—”

  I stop talking, suddenly aware that my Aunt Bea and Uncle Geoffrey are standing to my left with their mouths open. My face flames with embarrassment while my aunt whispers, “We’ll just go inside and wait.”

  “Yes, thanks,” I say, nodding.

  “You’re going to want to wash up, love,” Uncle Geoffrey says. “You’ve got blood all over you.”

  Shit.

  As they walk inside, I catch a few bars of the string quartet playing The Best is Yet to Come.

  “Oh, Libs, did someone just hear all that?” Richard asks.

  “My Aunt Bea and Uncle Geoffrey.” I swallow, trying to hold it together long enough to ask my fiancé why he’s decided not to come today. “I need to know why you don’t love me anymore, Richard. It’s the least you can do.”

  He sighs as though this is such a chore for him. “I promise it’s not the butt thing. That might matter to some guys, but for me it’s no big deal.” I can picture him, rubbing his temple and giving me an apologetic look. “It’s just…don’t you sometimes think our life together is…well, sort of…boring?”

  Boring? “I love our life together. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be standing here in this stupid dress.” The tears are coming out now, and I pat at them, hoping to salvage my makeup.

  “How can you love it? We’ve been having the same day every day for the past six years. We go to the same restaurants, watch the same TV shows, eat the same meals. Saturday mornings we read the paper in bed, then go to the farmer’s market, then cook an early dinner… It’s like we’re in our seventies instead of our twenties. I’m not ready to be old yet, Libby. I’m young. I want to be spontaneous, you know? Have some adventures in life, like…I don’t know…skydiving or bungee-jumping or booking a trip at the last minute without checking TripAdvisor for any mention of bed bugs.”

  “Bed bugs are a lot more serious than most people realize. It costs thousands to—”

  “Libby,” he says, raising his voice so I’ll stop. “We’re just not a good match anymore. I want different things. I know it hurts right now, but someday you’ll meet the right guy for you, someone who will be thrilled to live by Libby’s routine. I’m just not that guy. I’m going to hang up now, okay? This is just too hard for me.”

  “Too hard for you? Oh, I didn’t realize I was making you feel awkward. In that case, maybe I should be apologizing to you.”

  “No, it’s okay. You don’t have to.”

  “I was being sarcastic.”

  “Right. Of course. Sorry,” he says.

  “Well, I should go tell everyone you aren’t coming today.”

  “I guess so.”

  I hang up without saying goodbye, which quite frankly feels like a total power move because I’ve never done it before, and certainly not to Richard, not even the time he forgot my birthday and went for drinks with his workmates.

  I stop at the steps to the back of the church and grasp the handle, my mind racing with what’s just happened. I’m gripped by fear because the entire future that was so perfectly laid out before me has now gone up in smoke.

  No, this isn’t how my fairy-tale is going to end. No way. Not if I have anything to say about it. It’s not only up to Richard. It’s also my decision, and I say we are getting married. Not today, mind you, but I am definitely going to be Mrs. Libby Tomy someday very soon and we are going to live happily ever after.

  Shaking my head, I say, “No. This is not happening. I will not let this happen.”

  I can fix this. I just need a plan. I’ll deal with the people in the church, then go back to our flat and make Richard see the light. We’re perfect for each other, and deep down he knows it. He’s just having some quarter-life crisis. No, that’s wrong. A third-life crisis? What’s it called when a guy is twenty-eight? Oh, Libby, it doesn’t matter, you idiot. Just get in there and fix this.

  Taking a deep breath, I walk into the church and straight up the aisle as quickly as possible. By the time I reach the front of the church, the string quartet has stopped playing Pachelbel’s Canon, and the only sound is coming fro
m my heels on the stone floor.

  Lifting the hem of my dress, I hurry up the steps to the altar and nudge the Minister out of the way of the microphone. When I look up, I see the horrified faces of everyone I know, and it's clear to me they’ve already heard rumblings of what's going on. Christ, I hope Aunt Bea hasn’t told anyone about the butt stuff.

  Clearing my throat, I say, “Well you've probably heard the groom is not going to make it today. Please don’t be alarmed, however. He’s very sorry, but he’s had a…work emergency…so we’ll have to postpone to a later date. In the meantime, we’d love it if you’d stay and partake in the luncheon and enjoy the photo booth and the dance. It's all paid for and it’s too late to get a refund, so…”

  I lift my chin and smile serenely. “Oh, and don't forget to take your presents and your cards with you when you leave. Thank you for coming to support us. Have a wonderful weekend.”

  An audience of stunned faces stares up at me. I find my mum in the front pew, and the very sight of her strengthens my resolve. I won’t end up like her, flitting from man to man. I already have a man. I just have to convince him to change his mind.

  FOUR

  I Never Liked That Song Anyway…

  Harrison

  Easy come, easy go. That's what I’ve been telling myself all day about selling Waltzing Matilda, my yacht — well, Stew Milner's yacht now, I guess. He's been wanting to get his hands on her longer than Harvey Weinstein has been wanting to get his hands on young actresses. Matilda, who used to reside in Australia, is a 90-foot classic schooner that they never should've stopped making. Reliable, sleek, with clean lines and polished wood, it's the type of yacht people take photos of when it's sitting at the harbour.

  I don’t even want to think about how pissed Will and Emma are going to be when they find out. We spent half our childhood on Matilda. Uncle Oscar would be rolling over in his grave if he knew she was about to be boarded by Stogie Stew. On the other hand, I'm pretty sure Oscar would much rather I sell the boat than sell out Paradise Bay’s staff to some evil corporation. There was an article in The Post a while back about some study that showed how one in five corporate CEOs fit the clinical definition of a psychopath. So if me letting go of Matilda is the one thing stopping my friends from ending up in the clutches of Tony Soprano, it’s kind of a no-brainer.

  I stand on pier 15 at the San Filipe Yacht Club, waiting for Stew to bring me the cheque that's going to solve my current financial crisis. I let out a long, slow breath, wishing there were some other way than sacrificing Matilda. I stare at her and strongly consider getting back on and sailing away where nobody needs anything from me ever again.

  I shouldn’t have let my mind go there. That thought is far too tempting.

  My mobile buzzes. It’s an email from that irritating Libby Dewitt person from Avonia. I sigh and open it.

  Dear Mr. Harrison,

  I’m on my way to my wedding and had a slight traffic delay so I thought I’d touch base. I’ll be arriving tomorrow in the early part of the afternoon and plan to spend the first two days of my trip honeymooning. As I haven’t heard from you, I’ve booked a time for us to meet Tuesday morning through a woman in your office. I look forward to seeing you then to discuss how we can be of help to each other.

  All the best,

  Libby Dewitt

  What kind of nut is sending work emails a few minutes before her wedding? A future CEO who’ll gain easy entry into the 1-in-5 Psychopath Club, that’s who. When she shows up at my office next week, I’m going to give her a hard no on the takeover, ask her to pass along my apologies to her new husband, then show her the door.

  That settles it. No sailing off into the sunset with Matilda. I really do have to hand her over to Stew.

  My mobile phone buzzes again, and I swipe to ignore another call from Rosy. She’s been trying to find me all day about the loan, but I’m purposely avoiding her until the sale is final.

  I force my feet to remain planted on the wide slab of concrete. I smell Stew before I hear him walking up behind me — the stench of the Kristoff Maduro cigars that precedes him everywhere he goes. I turn, trying not to think about the fact that Matilda will soon smell like a manure-filled barnyard.

  Stew holds a cheque in one hand and a handkerchief in the other. He’s walking much faster than he usually does, probably to get the deal finalized before I can think better of it. A transplant from northern Scotland, Stew loves the heat more than the heat loves him. He runs the handkerchief over the top of his grey hair and pats at his forehead and ruddy cheeks while he beams at Matilda. Shoving the handkerchief in the back pocket of his Bermuda shorts, he takes the cigar out of his mouth and flicks some ash into the water next to the pier. Arse. “Glad you finally came around, Banks. A beauty like that needs a real man to handle her.”

  Gross, isn't he?

  Stew hands me the cheque, and I take a moment to look it over, making sure it's dated and signed — I wouldn't put it past him to ‘accidentally forget’ so he’ll have a few more days with his money. I fold it in half and tuck it into the pocket of my shorts. “Enjoy, Stew. May you captain her in good health.”

  “I will, I will. Do you need a ride back to the resort?” Pinching the cigar back in between his lips, Stew chews on it, allowing a little bit of yellow juice to dribble down his chin.

  “Thanks, but I haven't had a chance to get a run in yet today, so I figure I’ll make my way back along the beach.”

  “You’re going to run all that way? In this heat?” He shakes his head at me, looking bewildered.

  “I have to find some way to stay in shape for the ladies. It's either run or give up fried food and beer.”

  “Well, I suppose at your age, you might as well enjoy the women. I'll just settle for enjoying my money and my new boat.” He laughs, which turns into a wheezy cough that makes me wonder how many months he'll have to defile Matilda. “Oh, and when you’re ready to sell that little hotel of yours, let me know. I’ll be waiting.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” No, I won’t. No fucking way is he getting his hands on the resort.

  I slide my mobile phone in my arm band, put my earbuds in and set off, walking to the end of the dock. With one quick look back at Matilda, I pick up my pace, telling myself I’ve done the right thing.

  Go with the flow, even when it hurts.

  ***

  Forty-five minutes later, the resort is coming into view along the beach. The late day sun is making the ocean look awfully inviting. I consider diving in for a long swim when I hear my name being called.

  Squinting, I’m just able to make out Rosy standing on the steps that lead to the beach from the resort. She’s dressed in her usual uniform — a bright button-up shirt (today’s is lime green) and a long colourful skirt with one pair of reading glasses on a chain around her neck and her other pair sitting on top of her head. Her black hair is pulled back into what she calls her ‘facelift bun.’

  “Shit,” I mutter under my breath. I should have answered that last call from her. I knew I was pushing it.

  If Rosy’s outside, it means I’m in trouble. She hates the sun, the sand, and pretty much anything else that has to do with nature, which is exactly what makes her the perfect manager. There's nothing she likes more than being in the air-conditioned office bossing people around.

  Even though Rosy’s just about to turn sixty, she’s not going to retire anytime soon. It would be the end of her forty-year marriage to Darnell, who retired from the fire department a couple of years ago, because as calm as Darnell is, there’s no way he’ll put up with being ordered around twenty-four seven. He says doing what Rosy wants is more of a weekends and evenings pastime.

  When I get closer, I can hear her foot angrily tapping away. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to phone you all day.”

  Giving her an easy smile, I come to a stop. “Good afternoon, Rosy. Nice to see you outside getting some sun for a change.”
Oh, I should not have said that. She’s literally snorting mad now.

  “Don't screw with me, Harrison Theodore Banks. I swear to God, I will leave you.”

  “All right, sorry. I’ll straighten up.” I’m not and I won’t, by the way. It’s far too fun for both of us, even though she’d never admit it. “I don’t know where I’d find another tiny dictator to keep me in line.”

  She purses her lips together and rolls her eyes before letting out a long sigh of irritation. This means I've got room for maybe one more joke before she really loses it. As much as I like to wind her up, Rosy can be a little scary when you push her too far. But I’m an adrenaline junkie, so… “You look stressed, Rosy. Maybe you and Darnell should take a vacation. I know a nice resort with some empty rooms. I know the owner, so I could probably get you a deal.”

  “I've had it! You're off doing God-knows-what all day while I'm trying to figure out how the damn loan is going to get paid.” She spins on her heel and starts up the steps, miming washing her hands of me. “I'm going home. I don't need this shit.”

  “Wait!” I jog up the steps, following her as she heads down the path toward the main building. “Don't you even want to know where I've been?”

  She turns and glares at me. “This better be good.”

  “It is.” I glance to my right and see that we've stopped right next to the beach bar. “I just need to grab a water first. I'm really parched from my run.” I go around to the back of the bar, ducking under the counter and making a beeline for the refrigerator. Calling over my shoulder, I ask, “You want anything? A mojito or a margarita, maybe?”

  “No, I do not want a damn drink! I want to get back inside.”

  I grab a bottle of water, then jog over to her. “Yeah, I suppose you don't have time for a drink anyway. Not when you need to take this over to the bank.” I pull the cheque out of my pocket and hand it to her.