“Sir, yes, sir.” She gave him a salute.
“I mean it. You need to take better care of yourself.” His frown deepened. “I need to take better care of you.”
“We take care of each other,” Emily said. “And we always will.”
“Be right back.” As he opened the door to the hallway, his cell phone chirped, and he answered with a terse, “Dr. Cardin here.”
Thirty minutes later, he hadn’t returned, and Emily felt fully restored. Forty-five minutes later, she was starving and restless.
After an hour passed, she dialed room service and requested grilled salmon and steamed veggies with no butter, oil, or sauce. She ate her meal and drank her water and waited and waited for Grant.
Then she opened Caroline’s gift and slipped a DVD into the room’s little media console.
She didn’t know what was more worrisome—the fact that her fiancé hadn’t come back to be with her, or the fact that she was relieved to be left alone.
Grant waited until the last quarter mile of their five-mile run to break the bad news to Emily.
They’d spent the previous four-and-three-quarter miles chatting about the campfire scheduled for that evening and Emily’s plan to help Bev bake sugar cookies to give out as favors to the wedding guests.
“Your mother has a lot of strong opinions on frosting,” Emily said. “I mentioned buttercream and she practically had a stroke. Apparently, royal icing is the only acceptable option.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Grant replied. “She’s like a drill sergeant when you put a whisk in her hand. And my aunts are even worse. Watch out for that tree branch.”
As they emerged from the forest into a clearing, Grant said, “The hospital called again. We got the green light for the lung transplant. They’re doing the surgery tonight, and I want to be there.”
Emily never faltered in her stride. “Okay.”
“I’ll be back early Friday morning. You won’t even notice I’m missing.”
She could tell from his tone that he expected an argument. “Okay.”
“That’s it?” He glanced over at her. “You’re not upset?”
“Well, this guy’s been your patient for years, right? I’m sure he wants you to do the transplant. You’re the best.”
“You’ve definitely been spending too much time with my mother.” He broke into a sprint as they neared the resort, and she sped up alongside him. “I know the timing’s terrible, but—”
“Grant, look at me. It’s fine.”
“I feel like I’m disappointing you. And to be honest, I’m not used to disappointing people.” He said this sheepishly, without a shred of ego.
“This is your calling, and you have to answer,” she said. “I get it.” She paused. “As long as you’re not bailing on Bora-Bora.”
He slowed to a walk and held up his hand as though swearing in at a witness stand. “I am not bailing on Bora-Bora.”
“Then we don’t have a problem.” She started to ask for more details on his trip, but the roar of an engine drowned out her words.
A motorcyclist wearing a black helmet and a familiar leather jacket swung a cherry red bike in a swooping arc before parking next to Grant’s Audi. Grant shielded Emily from a spray of gravel with his shoulder.
“You’re kidding me,” Emily muttered.
Ryan pulled off his helmet, shook out his hair, and strode toward them.
“Hey.” He nodded pleasantly. “How’s it going?”
“Nice bike,” Grant said, running his hand along the burnished leather seat and chrome work, so shiny that Emily could see her reflection in it. “Is that a real Indian?”
“Yeah, 1951 model.”
“Look at those lines,” Grant said in the hushed, reverent tones of an art history major viewing the Sistine Chapel for the first time.
“One of my director buddies just signed a ridiculous three-picture deal, and he asked me to pick out a bike for him.”
Grant couldn’t keep his hands off the motorcycle. “Where did you find a 1951 Indian in Valentine, Vermont?”
“Are you kidding? This is rich-summer-people territory. There’s a specialty dealer near Woodstock. I drove over there last night and told the guy I’d need a few days to test-drive it and make up my mind.”
Emily grabbed her ankle and stretched out her quads. “Let me guess: They don’t usually do that, but you got them to yes?”
He winked. “How well you know me.”
“You’re just coming in from last night?” Grant asked.
“Yeah.” Ryan glanced at his watch. “Time got away from me.”
Emily wrinkled her nose. “You reek of cigars. What were you doing all night?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“You know what? I don’t.”
Ryan followed Grant’s gaze back to the motorcycle. “Want to take her out for a spin?”
Grant hesitated for a second before shaking his head. “Nah. I’ve got to run back to the city for a couple of days.”
Ryan leaned in, keenly interested. “You’re leaving? This morning?”
“He’s coming right back,” Emily said. “Forty-eight hours.”
Grant explained the transplant situation. “The last thing I need is to show up for surgery on crutches.”
“Oh, come on,” Ryan urged. “The weather’s perfect; the road’s dry. Just a quick little drive around the lake.”
Emily held her breath, hoping that Grant would succumb to the temptation of the spotless red paint and purring engine.
But Grant held firm. “Thanks, but I better not. You work in a hospital long enough, you start to get paranoid about motorcycles.”
“Got it.” Ryan turned to Emily. “Any chance I can talk you into it?”
If she opened her mouth, he would find a way to get her to yes. So she turned on her heel and strode away as quickly as she could. Grant followed her, obviously confused.
“Good luck with your surgery,” Ryan called after them. “And don’t worry about Emily, bro. I’ll keep an eye on her.”
“You.” Emily found Summer curled up in a white Adirondack chair, flipping through a magazine and eating a Fudgsicle for breakfast.
Summer looked around, the very picture of innocence. “Me?”
“Grant’s leaving. Ryan’s staying. Everything’s going to hell in a handbasket. And I know you had a part in this.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Summer removed her flip-flops from the chair next to hers and indicated Emily should sit down. Then she offered her the Fudgsicle. “Care for a bite?”
“Give it up, Benson.” Emily remained standing, the better to tower over her friend. “I saw the guilty looks zinging around yesterday morning. I know you sold me out. Do yourself a favor and come clean. Don’t make me force you to go running again.”
Summer studied a shampoo ad with rapt attention. “What makes you think it’s not just a coincidence? Coincidences happen, right?”
“Not like this, they don’t.” Emily confiscated Summer’s magazine. “Come on. Of all the rustic resorts in all the towns in all the world, Ryan has to walk into this one?”
Summer turned up her palms. “I know, what are the odds? It must be a sign.”
“It’s not a sign. It’s a planned ambush with malice aforethought.”
“Listen to you. ‘Ambush.’ ‘Malice aforethought.’” Summer slid on her sunglasses to avoid Emily’s probing gaze. “You sound like the narrator on one of those true-crime TV shows.”
“So you deny you had any involvement in any of this?”
“Em.” Summer looked stricken. “I shouldn’t have to deny anything. I’m your sister. We’ve been best friends for years—decades—and you have the nerve to accuse me of—”
Emily held up a hand. “Did you or did you not?”
“You’re nuts,” Summer sputtered. “How would I even get in touch with him?”
“You tell me.” Emily watched as Summer hemmed a
nd hawed but failed to issue a flat-out denial. “Oh my God. You did. You set me up. You betrayed me.”
Summer bit into her Fudgsicle in a show of defiance. “First of all, I would never betray you, and you know it. Second of all, Ryan is not the enemy.”
“Oh yes, he is.”
“No. He’s your ex.”
“Which by definition makes him evil.”
Summer lowered her sunglasses and gave Emily a look. “He was never evil. He might’ve been a little immature and a little too intense, but he was always a good guy. And you two love each other like crazy.”
“Loved.” Emily sat down next to Summer. “Past tense.”
“And then you broke up, and you pretended he never existed.”
Emily nodded. “Just like I pretended none of your boyfriends existed after you broke up with them. So far, I’m not seeing the problem here.” She tried to sound upbeat, but the truth was, her breakup with Ryan had been mercilessly swift and strict. Once she’d signed the divorce papers, she’d never contacted him again, by phone, e-mail, or social media. She’d forced herself to look only ahead, never behind. On some level, she knew that one slipup, one brief point of contact, would cause her to relapse and she would succumb to Ryan again—his charm, his enthusiasm, his body against hers.
Like she was relapsing right now.
“Well, here’s the thing, Em: He did exist. And you can’t put him in the same category with any of my ex-boyfriends,” Summer said. “Because he wasn’t your boyfriend, he was your husband.”
“A minor technicality.”
Summer made a noise like a basketball buzzer. “Wrong. It’s a huge difference, and you know it.”
Emily waved this off. “Ryan and I may have signed some paperwork, but we were boyfriend and girlfriend in all the ways that mattered. We were just playing house. Grant’s going to be my husband.”
“Well then, what difference does it make if Ryan’s here or not? Just ignore him.”
“I’m trying. But he refuses to be ignored.”
“It’s true. The man is impossible to say no to.” Summer examined her cuticles. “And that’s why, if I did accidentally tell him about your wedding—and I’m not saying I did, but if—you should understand that it wasn’t my fault.”
“Understood.” Emily tilted her head back, momentarily indifferent to the risk of sunburn and freckles in her wedding photos. “So what happened?”
Summer let out a heavy sigh of defeat. “We ran into each other a few weeks ago. I was working a red-eye from Los Angeles to New York, and he was sitting in seat 3C.”
Emily raised one eyebrow. “First class?”
Summer nodded. “He recognized me as soon as he sat down. He started asking about you before I could even offer him a drink.”
“So you ratted me out and poured him a soda. Instead of pretending he didn’t exist.”
“That’s my job.” Summer grabbed her magazine back. “And would it make you feel better if I said I spit in his Diet Coke?”
“Ryan doesn’t drink Diet Coke.” Emily snorted. “And save those puppy dog eyes for a Humane Society commercial.”
“You’re right. He just wanted water. He was a great passenger—patient, polite, and low-maintenance. So after the other passengers fell asleep, we got to talking.” She shrugged. “What are the odds that he would be on my flight?”
“You’re the one who’s always telling me that sooner or later, everyone is on one of your flights.”
“Not Ryan Gosling. I’m still waiting for him.” Summer rubbed her palms together. “But he’ll show up one of these days, and when he does, I’ll be ready.”
“Forget Ryan Gosling. Back to Ryan Lassiter,” Emily said. “So you told him I was getting married. And where and when and to whom.”
“No! I didn’t tell him anything. Every time he asked about you, I changed the subject.”
“Then how…?”
Summer bowed her head and muttered, “He took me to breakfast when we landed and plied me with mimosas at the Four Seasons.”
Emily clapped her hand to her forehead. “You’re killing me.”
“I couldn’t help it! He kept complimenting me and topping off my glass. And you know how chatty I get when I have champagne.”
“Apparently, so does Ryan.”
“One thing led to another, and I mentioned a few details about your wedding. But I had no idea he’d actually show up here! I mean, really, who does that?”
“My ex-husband.” She shaded her eyes and looked back toward the parking lot as she heard a motorcycle engine revving. “The lost cause with no boundaries.”
“Lost cause?” Summer’s jaw dropped. “He matured into a responsible adult who’s still fun and funny as hell. He’s the Holy Grail of dating.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m telling you, he’s like a unicorn. We may never see another one in our lifetime. If I could find a guy like that, I’d marry him tomorrow.”
“You’re welcome to him,” Emily said. “He’s showing off his vintage motorcycle in the parking lot right now. Go grab a helmet and some leather chaps, and have at.”
Summer made a face. “Gross. He’s like my brother. Besides, he only wants you.”
“Not according to the World Wide Web.” Emily pulled up some Internet photos on her phone. “Here he is at a red carpet event last year. Check out his date—she looks like Gisele’s younger, hotter sister. Oh, and here he is at a fund-raiser with some other blindingly hot blonde.”
Summer leaned over to inspect the pictures. “I see a trend here.” She took the phone and clicked through more search results. “Oh, yet another one that’s the polar opposite of you.”
“That’s what he wants now: physical perfection. I mean, look at her body. And her hair. And her face!”
“Forget her,” Summer said. “Look at his face. Does he look happy? No. He looks bored. He’s all empty inside because his one true love abandoned him.”
“You’ve been watching too many in-flight rom-coms.” Emily rolled her eyes. “He’s gone Hollywood, and I’m trying to have a real life in the real world. With, you know, yard work and in-laws and dentist appointments.”
“Ooh, sounds fun.”
Emily laughed. “That’s my point. Marriage isn’t all wine and roses and sex on the kitchen counter. I’m trying to have realistic expectations this time around.”
“I know why you had that anxiety attack yesterday,” Summer said. “It’s because you can’t shut your brain off.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“You know I love you, but sometimes you just need to live in the moment. Having a conversation with you is like playing chess with a supercomputer. Your mind is always, like, twenty moves ahead. And you didn’t used to be like that. You were the original fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants girl.”
“True.” Emily sighed. “And look where that got me.”
“I’d say your life turned out pretty well.”
“So did Ryan’s. He’s got everything he ever wanted.”
“Wrong.” Summer repositioned her chair to get a better view as a pair of shirtless lifeguards started their morning workout on the beach. “He’s got everything he wants except what he wants the most.”
Emily made Summer come with her to Bev’s baking extravaganza (“All the bridesmaids have to help assemble favors. It’s the law”), and they ran into Caroline in the lobby.
“Want to come bake eighty million sugar cookies shaped like tiny wedding cakes?” Emily coaxed.
“She has to,” Summer said. “She’s a bridesmaid. It’s the law, remember?”
“I’d be delighted,” Caroline said. “I love baking. Are we making the cookies from scratch?”
“It’s Bev. What do you think?”
Georgia waltzed through the lobby in a floaty turquoise sundress.
“Look at you!” Emily was impressed. “You’re right on time.”
Georgia blinked. “On time for what, sweetie?”
&
nbsp; “Baking with Bev.”
“Oh, that.” Georgia made a face. “Maybe later. I’ve got a hot date!”
Caroline checked her watch. Emily said, “At ten o’clock in the morning?”
Georgia’s blue eyes sparkled. “I’m going water-skiing with one of the gentlemen I played tennis with yesterday.” She pulled a mirrored compact out of her bag and checked her reflection. “Most men his age are just looking for a nurse with a purse, but not him! I’m telling you, Em, he’s a dynamo. Might have real potential.”
Summer nudged Georgia’s side. “Two dates in twenty-four hours? You vixen, you.”
“Oh, and he has a house in the Hamptons. Just think of the parties!”
“So you’re bailing on the baking,” Emily said.
Georgia wrung her hands in a totally insincere show of distress. “Unless you’ll be terribly disappointed.”
“No, no. But you know, people might talk.”
“The only person who’s going to talk is that sourpuss Bev and her sourpuss sisters.” Georgia harrumphed. “And girls like them have been talking about girls like me since the beginning of time. Jealousy, pure and simple.” She waved like a beauty queen as she headed for the exit.
“Have fun,” Summer called after her.
“Oh, I will.” Georgia dashed back and confided, “I have a new bikini I’ve been dying to wear. Black, chic, very European.”
Summer wagged her index finger. “Make sure you double knot the strings. We wouldn’t want a wardrobe malfunction.”
“Wouldn’t we?” Georgia laughed and traipsed out toward the waterfront in five-inch sequined silver stilettos.
Caroline stared after her, wide-eyed and speechless.
Emily extended her right arm. “Ladies and gentlemen, my mother.”
“That woman needs her own reality show,” Summer said.
“I’m sorry,” Caroline finally said. “Did she say ‘a nurse with a purse’?”
“She did.” Emily tugged the elastic band out of her ponytail. “She and Bev don’t really get along.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“Girls! Stop poking the butter! Girls! Stop throwing the flour! Girls! Stop drinking the vanilla!” Bev’s placid, sweet veneer was cracking right before Emily’s eyes. The Lodge’s catering kitchen, which had started the morning as a pristine expanse of stainless steel and marble countertops, had slowly given way to a greasy, sugarcoated disaster area as the flower girls continued their campaign of destruction.
The Week Before the Wedding Page 14
