Stop the Wedding!

by Stephanie Bond

  So Annabelle Coakley had secrets, did she? He knew the concerned-daughter act was too good to be true—she was up to something. After excusing himself, he walked into the house, pulled out his cell phone, and punched in a number from memory.

  While the phone rang, he couldn’t decipher the tickle at his conscience that he hoped he was wrong this time. But he always trusted his instincts, and right now they shouted that the young Miss Coakley was the most hazardous person he’d encountered in some time.

  And who the devil was Mike?

  When the person on the other end answered, Clay spoke in a low tone. “Henry, this is Clayton Castleberry. I need a background check, basic stuff for now. The name is Belle Coakley.” He spelled his father’s fiancée’s name, her street address, and approximated her age. “I have another name for you, Henry, but I’ll need the works on this one, plus local surveillance. Ready? A-N-N-A ...”

  Chapter Five

  “HOW’S IT GOING?” Michaela asked.

  Annabelle glanced across the crowded court of the upscale mall to where her mother stood waiting for her. Belle looked small and soft and vulnerable—God, how she loved her. Annabelle swallowed and spoke into her cell phone. “Not so well, Mike.”

  “Your mother hasn’t been receptive to your advice?”

  “I, um, actually haven’t had the chance to speak to her much about the wedding. She wasn’t home when I first arrived, and when she came home, Melvin was with her.”

  “I thought his name was Martin.”

  “Whatever. Anyway, she wanted to spend the afternoon by his pool so she could get to know his son—”

  “Heeeeey, a son?”

  Annabelle frowned. “Don’t get excited, Mike. He’s a Castleberry through and through—rude, arrogant, pushy—”

  “How old?”

  “I don’t know, mid-thirties, I guess.”

  “Good-looking?”

  “No.” She hesitated as Clay’s blue eyes rose in her mind. “Well...maybe in a dark and brooding kind of way, but that type went out with Wuthering Heights.”

  “What’s his name? Is he rich? Is he single?”

  She sighed. “Clayton Castleberry, probably, and I couldn’t care less.”

  “Gee, since you’re there, Annabelle, you might as well—”

  “Mike!”

  “Sorry. What were you saying?”

  “Well, after I spent an afternoon by the pool watching Mother and Melvin—”

  “Martin.”

  “—fawn all over each other—” she rubbed her sunburned nose which had become even more populated with freckles, “—she and I went home to have a nice, long talk.”

  “And?”

  “And she’d drunk three glasses of wine by the pool, so she fell asleep before she could change into her pajamas. My mother—the woman who used to think cooking with sherry was naughty.”

  “So what did you do all evening?” Mike asked in a sing-songy voice.

  “Worked on my laptop,” she answered in a similar tone. Actually, she’d sat with her hands on the keyboard and sent hateful vibes to Clay Castleberry, wherever he was, for the way he’d treated her. The man threw her off balance, made her feel as if she were always in response mode. “Anyway, mother and I are getting ready to have lunch, and I hope to talk some sense into her.”

  “Go easy, Annabelle.”

  “One day she’ll thank me.”

  “Good grief, you sound like a mother yourself.”

  “Bite your tongue. How’s everything at the office?”

  “Fine. Your real estate agent called—her e-mail is broken.”

  Annabelle smiled. Mike was an able paralegal, but she wasn’t exactly computer savvy. “Does she have a date for closing on the house?”

  “Thursday of the week you return. And she’s faxing a form you need to fill out listing the source of your down payment—she said the bank needs it for their records.”

  Annabelle frowned and chewed on her lower lip. “Okay, um, sure. Can you scan in the form and e-mail it to me?”

  “You’re asking me?”

  “Mike, you have to join the rest of the world sooner or later.”

  “Later is good.”

  “I’ll be looking for a note and the attachment. Have Mitch in the systems department show you how to use the scanner—he has a crush on you anyway.”

  “Oh, great. You have a handsome, rich, single, son of a celebrity on the line, and I have Mitch and his pocket protector.”

  “I don’t—” Annabelle stopped, refusing to be lured into a response that might be misinterpreted, although her blood pressure was definitely escalating. “How is everything else at the office?”

  “Quiet, actually. I’ve been taking advantage of the time to call around about apartments. My rent just increased by half, and I have thirty days to find a new place.”

  “My apartment will be up for grabs soon.”

  “Yeah, but it’s too far away from the university. By the way, I stopped by to pick up your mail and change Shoakie’s litter box.”

  “Did the little princess show herself?”

  “She hissed at me from the top of the bookcase. I felt honored.”

  Annabelle laughed. “Thanks for checking on her. I have to run.”

  “Try to be nice around the young Mr. Castleberry, and please don’t let him see you in your overalls.”

  She looked down at her sole outfit and frowned. “Bye, Mike.” After hanging up, Annabelle threaded her way through the crowd back to her mother. Belle, looking smart in a white pantsuit, smiled wide. “Our table is ready, dear.”

  The hostess of the little bistro gave Annabelle’s overalls a quick once-over, then led them to a tiny table set with a pale yellow tablecloth and fresh flowers. The brunch menus were hand printed on thick greenish paper textured with seeds and leaves.

  “This restaurant is one of my and Martin’s favorite places to eat,” her mother gushed.

  “All roads lead back to Martin,” Annabelle mumbled under her breath.

  “Hmm?”

  “I asked what do you and Martin usually order?”

  Her mother rattled off a list of elegant dishes. Annabelle stared and tried to listen, but she kept fading out, picturing the times when her mother sat across from her at the elbow-worn family dinner table, sifting through recipes to create a Fourth of July or Thanksgiving feast. The consummate homemaker and matriarch, Belle Coakley’s life revolved around her husband, her daughter, and her neighborhood. To Annabelle’s knowledge, her mother had never set foot in this mall—she said the atmosphere was much too pricey and snobbish, preferring suburban discount stores and clearance sales.

  Now she wore department store makeup and designer jeans—jeans, for heaven’s sake—and seemed impossibly happy. Hurt stabbed at Annabelle. If her mother was happy with all the trappings Martin Castleberry could provide, had Belle been unhappy while living with her father?

  “Annabelle?”

  She blinked her mother’s worried face into focus.

  “Are you feeling all right, dear?”

  “N-never better.”

  “Is everything all right at your office?”

  “Hm? Oh, yes, Mike said things were actually quiet. She’s keeping an eye on Shoakie for me, too.”

  “Such a nice girl.” Her mother lifted her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “I can’t understand why neither of you beautiful young women has been snapped up by a husband.”

  “Mom—”

  “Speaking of which, I have something for you, dear.”

  Annabelle watched her mother rummage in a huge black tote, half afraid she would whip out a six foot accountant. Instead Belle withdrew a small black velvet jeweler’s box with a silver bow and handed it to her.

  “What’s this?”

  “Open it.”

  Baffled, she removed the bow and opened the lid of the hinged box. A familiar small square diamond in a white gold setting winked back at her, and a lump immediately lodged in her thr
oat. “Your engagement ring?”

  Belle nodded. “I want you to have it, and I know your father would be pleased.”

  Blinking rapidly, she shook her head. “But Daddy gave you this ring—”

  Her mother shushed her. “It was going to be yours someday anyway, and this way you’ll have it to enjoy for many years. Try it on.”

  With shaking hands, she slipped it onto her left ring finger, honored to wear the symbol of her parents’ matrimonial promise, but troubled to see it leave her mother’s hand. “It’s a little big,” she murmured, turning the ring freely.

  “We’ll have it sized,” he mother said, nodding with approval. “It’s beautiful against your long fingers. And there’s still plenty of room for other rings,” she added with a wink.

  Annabelle swallowed, but the lump remained. “Thank you.”

  Her mother clasped her hand. “You’re welcome.”

  She stared at her mother’s hand and a question she’d pondered yesterday resurfaced. “Where’s your…?” A flush warmed her cheeks and she let the question die on her lips when she realized she might not want to hear the answer.

  “My wedding ring?” Belle filled in. “I took it off,” she said, pulling her new engagement ring up to her knuckle to reveal a dip in her flesh made from wearing a band for thirty-some years. A warm smile played over her mouth. “But it will always be close to my heart.”

  Hurt plowed through Annabelle’s chest, leaving a wide, raw furrow. Protest hovered on her tongue. No, don’t divest yourself of Daddy’s things…don’t forget the life you had with him…don’t forget who you are. Instead she simply stared at an unfamiliar, sophisticated version of her mother and wondered how much more of her she would lose before this situation ended.

  A waitress came by to deliver fresh-squeezed orange juice and to take their orders, bridging the bittersweet moment. While her mother communicated her somewhat complex order—she was counting her fat grams—Annabelle slipped off the ring and tucked the box safely into her purse.

  “So,” she said when they were alone, forcing cheer into her voice and lifting her glass. “What’s on the agenda for the rest of the day?”

  “I was hoping you’d help me choose a wedding gown.”

  She swallowed hard and the tart citrus burned her throat. “A wedding gown?”

  “And your dress, too, of course. I was thinking a mother-daughter combination, you know, like when you were little?”

  Seizing the opening, Annabelle wiped her mouth, then spoke carefully. “Mom, don’t you think you’re rushing into this wedding just a tad?”

  Her mother dimpled. “Probably, but that doesn’t make it wrong.”

  “You once told me that few good decisions are made quickly. Why are you in such a hurry to be married?”

  Belle blushed and glanced down at her folded hands. “Why are most couples in a hurry to marry?”

  She translated her mother’s expression, then gripped the edges of the table. “Oh my God, you’re pregnant.” Her mother was in her fifties, but hadn’t a woman in her sixties given birth not too long ago? Her mind swirled with the medical implications, and perspiration warmed her hairline.

  Belle’s face crinkled in laughter. “No, dear, I’m not pregnant.” She leaned forward slightly and lowered her voice. “In my day, a man and woman were eager to marry so they could become intimate.”

  At that moment, Annabelle not only wished she hadn’t broached the subject, but she also regretted having made the trip to Atlanta. Mortification washed over her and her tongue felt gluey. “You’re going to marry Melvin Castleberry so you can sleep with him?”

  “It’s ‘Martin,’ dear, and I want to marry him because I adore him.” Her mother hesitated, then added, “And yes, I have to admit the strain of resisting one another physically is becoming somewhat unbearable.”

  Annabelle rested her elbows on the table and pressed fingers to her temples. Her trained mind sifted through the options and came up with two: She could either encourage her mother to set aside her moral beliefs and have premarital sex with this playboy in the hopes she would get him out of her system, or she could stand by and watch her mother marry him for all the wrong reasons. I-yie-yie, what a choice.

  “I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” her mother murmured. “I assumed you were no longer a virgin, what with college orgies and all.”

  Annabelle peeked at her mother through her fingers. “Mom, what on earth are you talking about?”

  “Sex, dear.”

  “I know, but I’ve never—” She frowned, flustered. “This is not about my sex life!”

  The three women at the nearest table cast curious glances in their direction. Annabelle glared back until they feigned interest in the menu, then she heaved a deep breath. Where had she left off? Oh yeah—the impossible decision. She took another sip of her juice, then began again, calmer now. “Mom, I admire your um, abstinence, but surely you realize that physical attraction is not enough reason to say ‘I do.’”

  Belle nodded. “I agree that a good marriage can’t be based on sex, but it’s impossible to have a good marriage without good sex.”

  I can’t believe we’re having this conversation, I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. Annabelle reached into her purse and pulled out a folded newspaper page. Clearing her throat, she flattened the creases against the smooth tabletop. “Have you seen this article printed in the entertainment section of America’s News a few months ago?”

  Belle frowned. “No.”

  Annabelle pushed the paper across the table. The headline read ‘Casanova Castleberry Cashes in on Claim,’ and the article was surrounded by photos of Martin Castleberry with some of his former starlet girlfriends.

  Her mother dismissed the piece with a wave. “The studio Martin made movies for finally agreed to pay him the money he earned, and the papers are making a big deal out of it. Frankly, they should expose those producers who tried to steal from him.”

  Annabelle pressed her lips together, then said, “The only person exposed in this article is Martin Castleberry. The reporter spent ten words describing his settlement with the production company, and ten paragraphs describing his penchant for young women.”

  “Martin is different now.”

  “Leopards don’t change their spots, Mom.”

  “He loves me,” Belle insisted.

  She clasped her mother’s hand. “I don’t want to see you get hurt. Maybe Martin does love you, for now. But as soon as the novelty of your romance wears thin, he’ll be looking for…more excitement. That’s how men like Martin and Clay Castleberry operate.”

  Her mother angled her head. “Clay? What does Clayton have to do with this?”

  A flush tickled her neck, and she averted her eyes from her mother’s perceptive scrutiny. “Nothing. Other than it’s easy to see the man is following in his father’s wayward footsteps.”

  “You’re still upset about the bathing suit?” Belle smiled. “I told you, Clay is accustomed to lots of female attention.”

  “I thought you were referring to Melvin.”

  “Martin, dear. And maybe he was a bit restless in the past, but now my Martin is a one-woman man. Clay, on the other hand, is a very eligible bachelor.”

  Annabelle bristled because his name resurrected thoughts of his baited bantering. “Bachelor, yes. But ‘eligible’ implies that a person is someone others would find desirable.” She swallowed. Had she actually said ‘desirable’? “And desirable isn’t a word I would attribute to Clay…I mean, to Clayton…Castleberry.”

  Her mother quirked an eyebrow, but before she could speak, Annabelle tapped her finger on the article. “Don’t change the subject. I don’t want to pick up the paper a few months from now and see you listed as a—” She consulted the article. “A ‘Castleberry cast-off.’”

  Her mother seemed infuriatingly unmoved. “Really, Annabelle, I appreciate your concern, but you’re worrying for no reason.”

  “Worrying for no r
eason?”

  A man being seated at a table behind her mother jerked his head around at her raised voice. Her mother looked disapproving.

  Annabelle puffed out her cheeks with an expelled breath. “I’m sorry, Mom, but I have more objectivity about this marriage than you do, and I worry because I love you.”

  Belle squeezed her hand. “You need to get a hobby, dear.”

  Shocked into silence, Annabelle simply stared. When she recovered, she struggled to keep her temper at bay. “What?”

  “A hobby. You know—line-dancing, photography, origami—something to occupy your time.”

  She poked her tongue into her cheek, then said, “Typically, my seventy-hours-a-week job keeps me pretty occupied.”

  “I mean something fun. Do you have a manfriend?”

  “If you mean a boyfriend—”

  “Don’t waste time on the boys, love, you need a man, a worthy partner.”

  “Mom, I don’t have the time or the inclination—”

  “Ah, here’s our food,” Belle exclaimed. The waitress lowered their plates to the table, and Annabelle stared miserably at her Belgium waffle sprinkled with pecans. Her mother lifted a bite of fruit quiche into her mouth and closed her eyes in appreciation. When Annabelle remained frozen, her mother looked at her watch. “I hate to hurry you, dear, but I know you need to shop for a few things, and they’re expecting us at the bridal boutique at two.”

  Exasperated and exhausted, Annabelle simply nodded, unreasonably disturbed by her mother’s words. A manfriend? She squashed the sudden image of Clay Castleberry’s mocking face. Her hunger, she decided, was making her light-headed. They would eat, and she would try to get through to her mother again later.

  She sighed. “Pass the syrup, please.”

  *****

  “Dad, how much do you really know about this Coakley woman?” Clay slowed his jogging pace so his father could converse without becoming winded in the mid-morning heat, although Martin’s physical condition never failed to impress him.

  Martin cocked one silver eyebrow. “What are you getting at, Clay?”