Stop the Wedding!

by Stephanie Bond

  “I’ll help you, Mom,” Annabelle said, making comforting sounds as she joined her. Martin walked away from the picnic table, shaking his head. Clay looked at his sandwich with longing, then begrudgingly re-wrapped it and shoved it into his backpack.

  His father stood with one hand leaning against a sycamore tree, staring out over the valleys of northern Georgia, the hues of green hinting at the distances—hunter, evergreen, olive, emerald, pistachio. Martin’s head was down, reminding Clay of a little boy, and the irony of the child becoming the parent swept over him. His father’s sadness always shook him—he remembered the ghastly weeks following his mother’s and baby sister’s funerals. Only the knowledge that his father’s heart was resilient and his affection for Belle temporary kept Clay from feeling morose for the current situation.

  “Great place,” he observed, filling his lungs with pine-scented air.

  Martin remained silent and Clay was startled to see his eyes were unusually moist. A blink later, the sheen was gone. “Your mother and I used to come up here.”

  Clay’s heart squeezed. “I didn’t know that.”

  “We brought you once or twice, but you were small.” Martin laughed suddenly. “Delia wouldn’t even put you down for fear you would run off the edge of some cliff.”

  “I don’t have clear memories of Atlanta until just before she died,” Clay admitted.

  His father turned back to the view. “The two of you were with me most of the time in Los Angeles. When she became pregnant the last time, she wanted to come back home to Atlanta and be with her mother, and I agreed. By that time I was tiring of L.A. myself, so I sold the house there and secured an apartment to work out of, then commuted back and forth to see her.” Martin looked back and smiled. “And to see you, of course.”

  Clay’s throat tightened.

  His father sighed. “I guess I thought by bringing Belle up here, I’d recapture some of the happiness I had with Delia.” He looked past Clay’s shoulder. “Maybe I was trying too hard.”

  One aspect of Martin’s personality that had always kept Clay at arm’s length was his father’s capacity for melodrama—the few times he’d invested himself in whatever Martin was passionate about at the moment, he’d been left holding the bag while his father moved on to another pursuit. Clay closed his eyes against a mounting tension headache. Why couldn’t life be simple?

  “We’re ready to go if you are,” Annabelle called.

  And if he didn’t already have enough to worry about….

  Suppressing a groan, Clay inhaled deeply for strength to turn and face what was rapidly becoming his most perplexing problem of all.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “SO, THE LOVEBIRDS are having second thoughts?” Michaela asked.

  “Uh-huh.” Annabelle sat in a chaise lounge beneath a small elm tree in her mother’s back yard. “They decided to postpone the wedding and give each other a little space. Mom agreed to come back with me and stay until I’m settled into the house.” She frowned up at the scant branches swaying above her. Trapped in the shadow of Martin Castleberry’s towering pines, her mother’s trees would never have a chance to grow. How very fitting. “We’re catching a flight to Detroit the day after tomorrow.”

  She squirmed in the piece of wicker furniture, restless and itchy. The temperature teetered on the verge of ninety, as did the humidity level. The sky was a hodge-podge of clear patches, cottony clouds and distant charcoal-colored thunderheads. Somewhere in Atlanta it was raining, but at the moment, the real storm raged here, inside her.

  “I thought that was what you wanted,” Mike said, bringing her back to earth. “Why don’t you sound happy?”

  She laid her head back and sighed. Why, indeed? “Because Mom’s been crying for the last three days.” The tears wrenched her heart and reminded her of the dreadful days following her father’s funeral.

  Mike made a sorrowful sound. “Poor Belle. Maybe she really loves this man.”

  “Maybe she does,” Annabelle conceded. “But that doesn’t mean that Melvin—”

  “—Martin—”

  “—loves her, or will be faithful to her.”

  “And you’re positive that he doesn’t, and won’t?”

  She stood and rolled her neck side to side to help ease the tension in her shoulders—sleep had eluded her again last night. “Mike, the man’s history with women is irrefutable.”

  Her friend laughed. “Always the lawyer. Can’t people change?”

  She frowned. “No.” She thought she heard a splash from the other side of the fifteen-foot wooden privacy fence that separated her mother’s backyard from the Castleberrys’. A swim would feel fabulous about right now. She wondered if it was Martin or Clay indulging in the cool water.

  Or perhaps a female guest?

  “People can’t change?” Mike whistled. “You’re being awfully defensive. What else is bothering you?”

  Annabelle picked her way between the orange day-lilies toward a coin-sized hole in a fence plank left by a knot. “Nothing is bothering me. I mean, I’m sorry that my mother is upset, but she’ll recover.”

  “Why do I have the feeling you had something to do with their little spat?”

  “Clay and I—”

  “Clay?” Mike cut in. “So you’ve been plotting with the junior Mr. Castleberry?”

  She bristled at her friend’s insinuating tone, and pushed away the memory of sneaking a photo of the man on their hike. “We have the same goal, that’s all. And we might have given our parents a little push, but better they acknowledge their differences now rather than later.”

  Annabelle leaned forward and pressed her eye to the opening just in time to see Clay hoist himself up out of the pool. Her pulse surged.

  “So you’ve been seeing a lot of him, have you?”

  He stood about ten yards away, facing her, unaware he was being observed. Water rushed off his body, pulling at his dark swim trunks and emphasizing his muscular build. Not to mention his maleness. She swallowed hard.

  “Annabelle?”

  “Hm?”

  “I asked if you were seeing a lot of the son?”

  Angling for a better view, she frowned as he walked out of her vision. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Is he absolutely divine?”

  She straightened, suddenly sheepish, and looked around to see if anyone had caught her spying. “I honestly wouldn’t know, Mike. What’s going on at the office?”

  “Quiet as a morgue, but at least I’ve had time to catch up on this cyberspace stuff. I actually logged onto the Internet to search for an apartment.”

  “Any luck?”

  “I’m looking at two tonight. Oh, and I’ll check in on Shoakie while I’m out.”

  “Thanks. I owe you one.”

  Michaela sighed dramatically. “I guess it was simply too good to be true.”

  “What was simply too good to be true?”

  “That Mr. Right would walk up, sweep you off your feet, and take you far away from this dreary office.”

  “You watch too much television,” she admonished her dreamy friend. “Assuming there is such a thing as Mr. Right, which I highly doubt, he’s not likely to just walk up—”

  The snap of a twig caused her to jerk around. Clad in jeans and a damp T-shirt, Clay stood at the edge of the back yard staring at her, one arm stretched up, leaning against a tree.

  A tapping sound came across the phone. “Annabelle, are you still there?”

  “Um, yes,” she murmured.

  Clay pointed to himself, then back down the path, indicating he’d leave if she wanted him to. She shook her head.

  “What happened, Annabelle, is someone there?” her friend whispered.

  “Um, yes.”

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” Mike squealed. “Oh, I knew it!”

  “Listen, Mike,” Annabelle said. “I have to run, but I’ll call you back this afternoon. Thanks for handling the details surrounding the closing.”

  “Te
ll me you’ll be home soon,” her friend said.

  “What?”

  “Just tell me!”

  “All right…I’ll be home soon.”

  “And that you miss me.”

  “What?”

  “Say it!”

  “And…I miss you.” She fidgeted, feeling like a fool and wondering what her friend had up her sleeve. “Goodbye.” She punched a button to disconnect the call and conjured up a smile for her unexpected guest. “Hello.”

  He gestured toward where she stood. “What are you doing way over there?”

  She realized she was standing in a bed of pine bark mulch, behind a row of thorny barberry bushes. “Um, weeding.” She moved away from the fence and the telltale peephole, wincing when a briar snagged her bare knee.

  His eyebrows rose. “Weeding?”

  She leaned over to rip out a stray runner of Bermuda grass and held it up. “See?”

  He walked closer, nodding at the phone in her other hand. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation.”

  She remembered Michaela’s teasing and felt warmth travel across her cheeks. “Just checking in back home.”

  He studied her for a few seconds. “I hear you’re leaving,” he said, his tone casual. Pleasant. Nonchalant.

  She nodded, stepping closer. “Yes. Mother agreed to go back with me.”

  His mouth quirked from side to side. “No doubt it’s for the best.”

  He was glad to see her go—why did his words hurt her feelings so much? Wasn’t she just as glad to be going? “So,” she said lightly, “did you come over to offer me cash again?”

  A wrinkle appeared on his forehead. “Actually, I wanted to tell you—”

  “Annabelle, dear?” Belle stood in the opening of the sliding glass door, shading her eyes from the sun and looking strained.

  “Yes, Mother?”

  Belle stopped and touched her hair self-consciously. “Oh, Clay. I didn’t realize you were here.”

  “Mrs. Coakley,” he said with a respectful nod.

  Her mother looked back and forth between them in a way that alarmed Annabelle. “Mom, did you need something?”

  Belle nodded. “I was going to make a cup of tea and noticed I’m down to one bag. I don’t feel like getting out, dear, with so much packing yet to do. Would you make a run to the supermarket for a few things?”

  She opened her mouth to say yes, if the car would start, but Clay spoke up. “Mrs. Coakley, I was on my way out to run some errands myself—I’d be glad to take Annabelle.” He looked her way for approval and she felt her head move up and down.

  A distracted smile curved her mother’s mouth. “Thank you, Clay.” She started to go back inside, then turned. “Clay, how is your father?” Realizing it took a lot of courage for Belle to even ask, Annabelle allowed herself a moment of remorse for her part in her mother’s loss.

  “He’s fine,” Clay said without emotion. When the silence stretched around them, he added, “He said he had some business to attend to, and left early this morning.”

  Belle nodded, then turned and disappeared inside the house. Her mother’s listlessness tugged on Annabelle’s heart, and after arranging for Clay to pick her up around front, she hurried inside.

  “Mom?” She walked from room to room, surprised to find her in the little study off the living room, standing inside a closet, her face buried in a checked shirt Annabelle recognized as her father’s. She blinked away abrupt tears. “Mom?”

  Belle swung around, her eyes shimmering. Seeming embarrassed, she smiled and stroked the threadbare shirt. “Your father wore this ratty old thing the day before his heart attack and left it hanging on the bedpost.” She laughed through her tears. “He was always so bad about putting clothes in the hamper.” Belle’s face crumpled and she lifted her lost gaze to Annabelle. “It doesn’t smell like him anymore.”

  Annabelle went to her mother and wrapped her arms around her, allowing her own tears to flow. “Oh, Mom, I can’t imagine how much you miss Dad.”

  Belle clung to Annabelle and her shoulders shook. Helplessness paralyzed Annabelle, and she thought her heart might break for her mother’s sorrow. But then Belle sniffed and extracted herself, visibly trying to shake her mood. “Look at me, making such a fuss.”

  “Mom,” Annabelle said, shushing her, “you’re allowed to make a fuss.”

  Her mother pulled a silver chain from the neck of her blouse. Annabelle teared up again at the sight of her mother’s wedding ring dangling from the end.

  “I thought all these schoolgirl feelings meant I was in love again,” Belle murmured, fingering the worn band. “But maybe I just wanted it to be so.” She pressed her trembling lips together, then said, “Maybe I’m just an old fool.”

  Strange, but she’d always thought of her mother as being above the simple needs of most women “Oh, Mom,” Annabelle whispered, stroking away her mother’s tears. “You’re not a fool, you’re human. Everyone wants someone to love.”

  Belle smiled through her tears. “Even you, Annabelle?”

  She blinked and struggled for words, pushing away the image of Clay’s teasing smile. “I’m not immune. I want th-that. Someday.”

  Belle tilted her head and her eyes softened. “I was beginning to worry that job of yours had hardened your heart.”

  Had it? Annabelle wondered. Had her job hardened her heart to the possibility of a love for all time? “I’m just realistic about the odds of maintaining a long-term relationship.”

  “You’re right,” Belle said, nodding. She blew her nose, then sniffed. “Martin doesn’t really love me, or he’d never have given up on us so easily. I think he sees my going to Michigan as his way out.”

  Annabelle agreed, but remained silent. She did, however, wish she could assume some of her mother’s hurt, which was palpable.

  But her mother’s expression suddenly changed, every feature lifting with her smile. “But I’m so lucky to have you,” she said, framing Annabelle’s face with her hands. “This time together will give us a chance to catch up on what’s really important, and your father would like that.”

  Anna, promise me you’ll look after your mother if something happens to me.

  “Yes,” Annabelle said, enormously relieved that her mother seemed on her way to healing.

  “Now,” Belle said, wiping her cheeks. “I’ll finish packing. When you get back from the grocery, let’s go through the flower bulbs I have in the garage and pick out enough to get a perennial garden started around your new house.” She smiled. “Clay must be wondering where you are.” She fingered a strand of hair back behind Annabelle’s ear. “At least the two of you seem to have become friends.”

  Her heart beat a wild tattoo. “We’re hardly friends, Mother.”

  Belle patted her hand. “Friendly, then. I’m glad my and Martin’s differences haven’t come between the two of you.”

  “Mom—”

  Belle turned to rehang her father’s shirt among the winter garments in the closet, then closed the door and presented a placid face to Annabelle. “We’re also out of milk, dear, but a quart will do since we’re leaving so soon.”

  And just like that, gone was Belle the woman, and back was Belle the mother.

  “Of course,” Annabelle said, retreating from the room. “I won’t be long.”

  She walked through the house, confused by the emotions pulling at her heart—remorse, relief…and something unidentifiable.

  Pulling apart the curtain at the living room window, she was surprised to see an oversized black pickup sitting at the end of the driveway, with Clay at the wheel. She smiled—the man was full of surprises. And in that instant, she ruefully identified the other sentiment plucking at her.

  Anticipation.

  *****

  Clay didn’t mind waiting, because he dreaded admitting he’d been wrong about her. Henry hadn’t yet delivered his report on Annabelle Coakley, but he’d come to believe he’d misjudged the young beauty—maybe she did simpl
y have her mother’s best interests at heart. She seemed eager enough to spirit Belle away to Michigan to get her out of his father’s grasp.

  But he frowned when he recalled the phone conversation he’d interrupted earlier. Was this Mike fellow part of the reason Annabelle was so anxious to return to Detroit?

  Clay massaged the bridge of his nose because he suspected another cause for the rock of dread lodged in his chest. He was beginning to have these strange feelings—

  “Sorry for the wait!”

  He jerked his head around at her voice coming through the lowered passenger window. She opened the door and he leaned over to give her a hand up, gentling his grip to accommodate her slim fingers.

  “Thanks,” she said, breathless as she fell into the seat and closed the door with a bang. He didn’t realize he was still holding her hand until she stared down at their twined fingers. With a fair amount of embarrassment, he released her. She planted her purse on the seat between them, then looked around the quad-cab pickup. “This is some truck.”

  Her rich-colored hair was bound up, giving him an unobstructed view of her profile—wondrously sculpted nose and chin, curving brow, jutting cheekbones. She wore denim shorts and a sleeveless green T-shirt with a yellow sunflower on the front. No makeup that he could tell, because her freckles stood out. The woman radiated health, and he was struck by his desire to put his hands around her, not to arouse himself, but simply to keep her close until he could sort through the disconcerting feelings she evoked.

  Dismayed at his train of thought, he nonetheless managed a smile in her direction. “I’m not sure whether that was a compliment or an insult.”

  Annabelle lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug, distracted by the digital compass on the overhead console. His frustration rose a notch because he was trying to engage a serious conversation and she seemed oblivious.

  “Why do you have a truck?” she pressed, looking and sounding impossibly young for a divorce attorney.

  “The truck comes in handy for hauling equipment to the piece of property I own north of here.” He put the vehicle in gear. “I need to run out there and drop off some papers to a surveyor—do you mind riding along?”