by Jackie Braun
“You can’t just leave.”
“Watch me. To hel…” He glanced around, half expecting to catch the glint of a lightning bolt. Hastily, he amended, “To heck with him. I didn’t want to come today anyway, at least to the ceremony. It’s a farce.”
Simon folded his arms over his chest. He was being belligerent, borderline petulant, and he knew it. Hated it. But damn if he didn’t feel like a child again, one told how to act and how to react to being manipulated by the adults in his life.
Chloe, now as back then, was the voice of calm and reason. “You’re here. You’re wearing the tux he paid for.” She ran her fingers under the edge of the lapels. The gesture had Simon forgetting his irritation with his father for a moment. “What will it hurt to do this for him, Simon?”
He bent closer, lowered his voice, though his words came out no less vehemently. “I hate being a party to it, Chloe. Even if I’m an adult now, I hate getting to know someone, maybe even starting to like her, and then—bam! Dad or his new wife moves on to greener pastures.”
He swallowed. It was a truth he wouldn’t have spoken to anyone else.
Her hands were now resting on his chest. Her cheek mere inches from his mouth. A stray curl tickled his jaw and the simple scent she’d worn since high school twined around him. To anyone watching, they would appear to be a couple, lovers lost in an intimate moment. Only part of that was true. They weren’t lovers, but he’d never achieved the same level of intimacy with another woman, even those women with whom he’d made love. Chloe pulled him into a hug, pressing her lips against his cheek.
Afterward, she told him, “As I said in the car, you have to go in hoping for the best. Maybe this marriage will work.” She coughed delicately. “The vast differences in their ages notwithstanding.”
“You don’t honestly believe that?”
“For their sake, yes.” She smiled. The arms that were still encircling his shoulders tightened. “You can do this. You can get through this.”
The words she spoke were familiar, he realized. She’d told him the very same thing on occasions in the past when he’d found himself facing something seemingly insurmountable, whether it was finishing up an award-winning project for the annual science fair or getting his IT business off the ground on a shoestring budget just after college graduation.
“You always have faith in me.”
“Of course I do.” She grinned. “And, I’ll be right here the whole time for support. Or to supply liquor.”
Of course she would.
“You know what you are, Chloe?”
“A good friend,” she replied.
She was much more than that, but he nodded. “The very best. And always grace under pressure.”
She snorted at the compliment. “Don’t expect any grace out of me. You’ll probably have to carry me at some point. As it is, I’m already all but maimed from these shoes. And the night is young.”
A moment ago Simon had longed for the day to be over. He’d wished himself to be anywhere but in this quaint church in rural Connecticut about to witness his father’s latest attempt at matrimony.
But now, with Chloe at his side, the night stretching out in front of him seemed to hold much more promise.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Best Dancer
“I CAN’T SIT at the head table,” Chloe hissed through a brittle smile as Simon guided her from a seat at the rear of the banquet hall to the long table at the front.
The bride didn’t look happy about the arrangement, and no wonder. The symmetry of the head table was off now that the waitstaff had hastily added a place setting next to Simon’s on the groomsmen’s side.
“Sure you can,” he told her.
“I’m not a member of the bridal party.”
“I’m making you an honorary one. I have that power as the best man, you know.” They reached their destination and he pulled out a chair for her. “It’s one of the perks.”
“It is not.” But she was hard-pressed to keep a straight face.
“Sure it is. At least in my case. See, when I agreed to do this after talking to you, Dad said he owed me.” Simon settled into the seat next to hers. “Well, I called in the debt.”
Chloe glanced down the table and intercepted twin death stares from the young woman wearing white and the chartreuse taffeta-clad maid of honor. “The bride is not very happy.”
“She’ll have to get used to it. It won’t be the first time she’s unhappy while married to my father,” he said.
“Simon, this is her day.”
“I’ll make it up to her with the toast,” he said. “It will be inspired.”
That caught her off guard. She blinked, impressed. “When did you have time to write a toast?”
Every second between the ceremony and the limousine ride to the banquet hall had been taken up by the photographer, a demanding perfectionist of a man who’d insisted on every possible shot. Bride holding flowers in front of her. Bride holding flowers slightly offside. Bride smelling flowers. Bride balancing bouquet on her nose and clapping like a seal. Well, maybe not that one, but the session had taken forever. Thank goodness Chloe had been able to sit in a church pew and remove her shoes for the duration, although it had been all the harder to stuff her feet back inside afterward. The pumps now felt about two sizes too small.
Of his toast, Simon was saying, “I haven’t actually written one. But I remember bits and pieces from the ones that Dad’s other best men have given over the years.” He shrugged and reached for his water glass. “Change a couple of names and dates, add in a personal story or two that she probably hasn’t heard and, voila. It will be as sweet as saccharine.”
“Simon, I meant it when I said this is…um…” Bethany? Brittany? Brandie? “What’s her name’s day.”
“Call her sweetheart,” he suggested with a wink. “Or baby will do.”
His sarcasm in this case was understandable. The woman was very young. In fact, Chloe wasn’t sure the bride was of the legal age to indulge in the champagne she was sipping. “She’s the bride. She’s in love. She’s dreamed of this day for a long time, making plans, picking out colors and cake designs. Under her bed, she’s probably got half a dozen scrapbooks filled with pictures of wedding dresses that she’s collected over the years.”
Simon’s brows puckered at that.
“Never mind. What I’m saying is, don’t spoil this moment or this memory for her just because you’re ticked off at your father.”
“He’ll ruin it. Maybe not today, but eventually. He always does.”
“Then let him be the jerk. You don’t need to be one.”
Simon didn’t say anything. Rather, he fiddled with the handle of his soup spoon for a moment before tapping the end against the side of his water goblet. The clanging caught the attention of the other guests. Conversations quieted as they picked up their own utensils and joined in the quaint tradition.
Simon nodded to Chloe before glancing down the table at his father.
“Hey, Dad, in case you’ve forgotten, this means you’re supposed to kiss your bride.”
Afterward, Chloe leaned over and said, “Now, that is true grace under pressure.”
“That’s only because you bring out the best in me.”
A little while later, Simon gave his toast. It was simple and eloquent if not completely sincere. Only Chloe, of course, recognized the latter.
Rather than plagiarize the toasts of his father’s previous best men, he said, “Someone once told me that love is a gift to be cherished. I was a kid at the time and I don’t think I gave the words much thought. But as an adult, I know them to be true.” He raised his glass then. “To the bride and groom and a gift to be cherished.”
The room echoed with “hear, hears” and the sound of glasses clinking together.
“I’m proud of you,” Chloe whispered when Simon returned to his seat.
“You should be. And thanks for the inspiration.”
She frowned.
/> “You were the one who told me that. It was just after Clarissa left.”
Ah. His first stepmother and the only real mother he’d ever known. She remembered now. Simon had vowed that he would never love or trust anyone again. Chloe had told him he wasn’t being fair to himself or the other people in his life. She hadn’t been quite as eloquent as he’d been just now.
As she recalled, she’d said, “It’s like chocolate. I love chocolate. Last year, when I got the stomach flu, I barfed up the candy bar I’d just eaten. Now, if I’d given up chocolate after that bad experience, I would be depriving myself.”
“Gee, you should work for a greeting card company,” he’d replied drily.
But they’d both laughed.
“I’m glad you didn’t use my analogy,” she told him now.
“I thought it best not to given that we’re about to eat.”
“Do…do you really believe love is a gift to be cherished?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
He twisted the stem of his glass between his fingers. “Yes.”
This was news to her and an even bigger surprise than his revelation of a mystery woman. Were they one and the same? Perhaps not since he said they’d never dated and never would. Her mind flipped through the mental index of his past girlfriends. “Who?”
“Someone really special.”
He was being evasive. And she was being nosy. Even so, another question popped out. “Does she have a name?”
“Let’s just call her sweetheart.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “That is so unfair.”
“What?”
“You know the vital statistics of every guy I’ve ever fallen for, not to mention the kind and quantity of ice cream I ate after the breakup.”
“You’re an open book.”
And he was being way too closemouthed, which wasn’t like him. “A little quid pro quo, please.”
But he sipped his champagne and remained silent.
“God! Please tell me it wasn’t that horrible Daphne Norton woman.”
“What did you have against Daphne?”
“She was rude, self-centered and…and a lingerie model.”
Simon chuckled. “I fail to see how her being a lingerie model made her horrible.”
“You wouldn’t,” Chloe grumbled, and since her glass was empty, she reached for his champagne. After taking a sip, she said, “Not Gabriella.”
“Ah, Gabriella.” He made a humming sound of appreciation. “We had some good times.”
“No doubt. The woman was capable of putting both of her legs behind her head.”
“Very flexible,” Simon agreed with a fond smile. “She was a former gymnast, you know. Went to college on a scholarship and nearly secured a spot on the U.S. Olympic team.”
Chloe’s lips curled. “I didn’t want to mention this, but she hit on me once.”
“She did not.” He took back his champagne.
“Well, not overtly, but I sensed some…vibes. I think she was only using you to get to me.”
He laughed. “It’s a good thing I didn’t love her, then.”
“So, who? It’s not like you to hold out on me.”
“Someone who hasn’t got a clue,” he said softly.
“Unrequited love,” she murmured on a sigh. As romantic as she found such things in novels, she ached for her friend. At least that’s what she told herself caused the twinge in the region of her heart. “I’m sorry, Simon.”
“It’s okay.” He handed his glass back to her. “Actually, it’s for the best.”
“How can you say that?”
“We’ll never have a chance to hurt or disappoint one another.”
Over the next couple hours, dinner was served and the dishes cleared away. The cake was cut and the bouquet tossed. Chloe managed to be elsewhere during the last event. As far as she was concerned, nothing shouted desperation more than a gaggle of single women jockeying for position behind a bride, so eager to catch a bunch of wilted blooms that they would mow down anyone who stood in their way.
Chloe should know. She’d sustained bruised ribs at her sister, Frannie’s, wedding after their cousin Marilyn had launched herself over the competition like a heat-seeking missile. Marilyn caught the bouquet and was spared injury thanks to a soft landing…on Chloe.
The incident was family lore now and preserved for succeeding generations thanks to the video taken on a cell phone camera and uploaded to the internet. Last time Chloe had checked, it had been viewed four hundred and seventy five thousand times. She’d even been recognized on the street once by a teenage tourist, who’d pointed to Chloe and hollered excitedly to her friends, “Oh, my God! It’s the woman from the Battle of the Bridesmaids video!”
The girls had actually asked for her autograph. More mortified than flattered, Chloe had signed their I Love New York T-shirts with an alias.
As she returned to the head table from her hiding spot in the restroom, the lights were lowered and the disc jockey announced the bridal dance would soon commence.
“Duty calls,” Simon said, resigned.
“Where’s your better half?” Chloe looked around for the maid of honor.
“Probably texting the pimply-faced kid who caught the garter to see if he wants to take her to the prom.”
“She’s not that young.” Chloe slipped off her shoes on a groan. “And we’re not that old.”
“Says the woman with the arthritic feet.”
She reached over and punched his arm. “They’re not arthritic. They’re blistered. Big difference.”
He pretended to rub his biceps. “Does that mean you won’t be able to dance with me tonight?”
“I can still dance.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“Nothing fast, though,” she said. Just the thought had her wincing.
“Perfect. You know me. I don’t do fast. Nor does any other man who is sober and prefers not to make a fool of himself.”
She laughed until she spotted a blur of chartreuse. “Uh-oh. Maid-of-honor closing in at three o’clock.”
“Damn. I thought for a moment that I might be off the hook. Save me the next slow one?” he asked.
Just the thought of squeezing her sore feet back into her pumps had Chloe wincing anew. “Can I leave off my shoes?”
“Sorry.” Simon’s expression turned appropriately rueful. “It’s the bride’s wedding day. What’s Her Name has been dreaming of this day for years. Everything must be perfect. Barefooted guests? That’s not so perfect.”
“It’s all right. I know the best man.” She winked. “I hear he has pull.”
“Okay, but it will cost you.”
“What’s the going rate for a shoeless dance?” she asked.
“I’ll let you know,” he replied just as the maid-of-honor reached them.
He pushed to his feet and buttoned his jacket, looking handsome and sophisticated and miserable, though the latter was only obvious to Chloe. She knew that polite smile to be a fake, his polished manners a facade behind which he hid his true feelings. What’s Her Name and What’s Her Name’s Friend, had no idea what this was costing him. But Chloe knew. And so did his father.
Sherman stopped behind her chair on his way to the dance floor. He was a big man, his build leaning more toward stocky than muscular. But he had a charming smile—it was where Simon got his—and a way with women. Another trait his son had inherited. It was hard not to like him, even if he had a lot of qualities that made him a bad father and a lousy role model.
“I wanted to thank you, Chloe.”
“For what, Mr. Ford?”
“For getting Simon to do this for me today. I know he wasn’t happy when I approached him about being my best man before the ceremony.”
That was because he’d felt trapped and played, but Chloe kept those thoughts to herself. “Oh, I had nothing to do with it. He might have been a little upset at first.” Total understatement of
the year. “But you’re his dad. He wanted to do this for you. He was actually looking forward to the toast,” she embellished.
“You’re a rotten liar, kiddo.” His face split into a wide grin that took the sting out of his words.
“Okay, maybe not looking forward to it, but he…um…rose to the occasion.”
Sherman sobered at that. “He certainly did. Surprised me, I have to say. I was prepared for him to launch a verbal grenade or two.”
“I’m sure that never crossed his mind.”
“I’m sure it did.” Sherman laughed again before leaning down to kiss her cheek. “So, thanks for talking him out of it.” Before she could deny it, he added, “We both know you’re the only person in the world my son listens to.”
“Would you listen to me, already? I’m telling you, Burton Cummings was no longer with The Guess Who when he recorded ‘I Will Play a Rhapsody.’”
But Simon was shaking his head before she finished. “You’re wrong.”
The pair of them had become fans of the Canadian singer/songwriter in high school after some students lip-synched the words to “American Woman” during a mock rock competition. They both were partial to the stuff he’d recorded as a solo artist.
“I’m not wrong,” she insisted. “I can’t believe the DJ has that one in his collection.”
“Actually, he doesn’t. But he did have another one of Cummings’s songs.”
Chloe’s eyes narrowed. “Which…” The music started and she had her answer: “Stand Tall,” a ballad about a man pining for his lost love. Cummings voice was flawless, the melody moving, but the song wasn’t exactly standard wedding fare. In fact, it was downright inappropriate.
“Simon, you didn’t.”
“What?” He shrugged innocently. “I like this song. You like this song.”
“I wouldn’t say I like it,” Chloe muttered. The truth was, she only played it after breakups, singing into an empty spoon between mouthfuls of ice cream.
