by Zara Keane
“Drunk Elvis started going on about the number of couples he’d married and how he always knew whether they’d last. He said he could see we were the real deal, and we should definitely tie the knot. At first, it was all a drunken joke. But the more we drank, the more convinced Gavin became that we should do it.”
“Wow. How drunk was he?”
“Very. If even I noticed he was hammered, he had to be in a state.” Fiona began to pace. “Drunk Elvis offered to do us a special offer on the ceremony. He’d say a few words, sing a song, and we’d sign the papers. I don’t know why I went along with it. It was insane. For a moment, I actually hoped Gavin would fall in love with me.”
“And that didn’t happen,” Olivia said.
“No. We had sex. That much I remember. I also remember it was fantastic, but I digress.”
“Digress all you want,” Olivia said. “I’m intrigued.”
“You can stay intrigued. You’re getting no details out of me.”
“Ah, Fee. You’re no fun.”
“The morning after was no fun, put it that way. When I was done retching, Gavin made it clear he wanted out of the marriage and was going to talk to Drunk Elvis. He’d read the fine print in our marriage guide and realized our marriage wouldn’t be legally binding until Drunk Elvis lodged the papers with the marriage bureau. Gavin wanted to offer to pay for him to stay in the motel for a couple of weeks, give him time to get on his feet after his personal drama. In return, he would agree to forget the ceremony ever happened.”
“And did he?”
“I guess. I never heard anything to the contrary. For all I know, Drunk Elvis wasn’t a real officiant. And even if he was, maybe the marriage isn’t valid because we were all under the influence at the time.”
“Aidan’s had clients who married in Vegas. It’s easy enough to check if the papers were registered. It’s all online.”
Fiona’s stomach flipped. “If he said he wouldn’t register the papers, why would he have done so?”
“Don’t you want to be certain?”
“I’m not the one about to walk down the aisle.”
“In that case, you’ve got nothing to lose by checking. Why don’t we look up your Drunk Elvis and see if he’s genuine?”
“Okay,” Fiona said, thinking of all the reasons it was not okay. “I’ll fire up my laptop.”
“Right.” Olivia glanced at the provisional certificate. “Drew Draper. What a name. Come on, Google, do your magic.”
“Wow,” Fiona said. “Who knew there were so many Drew Drapers in the world?”
“Here we go,” Olivia said. “Drew Draper, preacher. Wow. He doesn’t look like an Elvis preacher, but he seems legit. I say we check the online registry.”
“Do we have to?” The room was starting to spin around Fiona.
“If you’re convinced Drew Draper destroyed those papers, why are you afraid to look up the wedding registry?”
“I don’t know.” Fiona took a deep breath. “Sometimes it’s best to leave well alone. Gavin’s about to marry Muireann.”
“Exactly. That’s my point.” Olivia tapped the keyboard keys. “Here goes. What year was it, again?”
“Two thousand six. June two thousand six.”
“Right. Oh… there’s a match.”
“What? No. No way.” Fiona stared at the screen.
Olivia read the entry aloud. “Fiona Mary Byrne and Gavin Aloysius Maguire. Gavin’s middle name is Aloysius?”
The room tilted under Fiona’s feet. “This can’t be happening.”
Olivia drew back from the computer screen, her face a mirror of Fiona’s emotions. “Fee, what are you going to do?”
Chapter Eight
“WHAT DO YOU THINK?” Nora Fitzgerald, proprietor of The Black Tie, Ballybeg’s only suit rental establishment, stood back and admired her handiwork.
Gavin stared at his reflection in the shop mirror, poleaxed. “It…it’s…” he stuttered.
Jonas regarded it dubiously. “It fits. Which is probably its only redeeming feature.”
“I look like a character in an old John Travolta film.”
“You’re certainly rocking a seventies vibe.” Jonas’s voice cracked under the strain of repressing his laughter. “The matching boots are a great touch.”
Gavin looked down at the white, fur-trimmed boots and cringed. “Have you no other suit, Nora?” he asked, wide-eyed. “Anything except this one.”
Nora compressed her lips into a scarlet slash. “Sure, it’s hardly my fault you left it till the last minute, Gavin. It’s still wedding season, and the debs season is starting. I don’t have many suits in stock for men your height.”
“If I take it, we’ll need to double back to the cottage and get different shoes.”
Jonas pointed to his watch. “I hate to break it to you, mate. Your bride is due at the church in fifteen minutes, and you’re supposed to be there before her.”
“Fuck.” Gavin ran his hands through his hair. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“That’s terrible language to be coming out of a man on his wedding day,” said Nora, pretending to be shocked.
“Sorry, Nora.” Why hadn’t he remembered to wear a pair of formal shoes when he’d left the house? Now he was stuck with the prospect of wearing his runners, going barefoot, or keeping on the furry boots. He rubbed his chin. With everything that had gone wrong this morning, at least he’d remembered to shave.
Nora crossed her skinny arms over her bony chest. “Are you taking the outfit or not?”
“Fine,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll take it.”
If Muireann reacted the way he suspected she would, theirs would be a very short marriage.
Fiona stared at the computer screen. “Please tell me I’m hallucinating.”
“’Fraid not, Fee.”
“Surely to goodness they checked Gavin’s marital status before issuing his marriage license?”
“If the local Registrar couldn’t find a record of him being married in Ireland or the UK, they’d issue the license,” Olivia said. “Aidan’s dealt with cases of bigamy before, so I’m familiar with these issues. Unlike some countries, Ireland doesn’t keep tabs on weddings performed abroad. We don’t have the resources.”
“Seriously?” Were they living in a banana republic? Ireland was a first-world country, for feck’s sake. “Not even an Internet search like we did?”
“But we knew where to look. There’s no single worldwide registry of marriages, and the Irish are scattered across the globe.”
“So any fool can lie and say they’re single? That’s disgraceful.”
Olivia shrugged. “This is Ireland, Fee. We don’t do paperwork. And when we do, we fuck it up.”
Fiona massaged her temples. “This can’t be happening.”
“What are you going to do? You’ll have to tell him.”
“What? Wait a minute, Liv. Let me think this through. What do you expect me to do? Crash into the church and announce it to the whole congregation?”
Olivia pointed to the bedside clock. “Whatever you’re doing, you’d better do it fast. The wedding starts in ten minutes.”
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Nope. Grab your bag and let’s go.”
“Wait.” Fiona’s voice broke on a note of desperation. “What am I going to say? I can’t barge in and wreck his wedding.”
“You’d seriously let him marry another woman when he’s already married to you?”
“I don’t know.” Fiona slumped into a chair and buried her head in her hands. “Why does life have to be so damn complicated?”
“Take a deep breath and come on. We can figure out a plan in the car.”
Olivia drove even faster than she talked, which meant Fiona prayed for her life.
“I can simply ask to have a word with Gavin, right? Discreetly. No need to barge in and announce we’re married.”
“Right,” Olivia said, swerving to avoid a tractor. “Great idea. What
then?”
“I dunno. Drag him into the vestry?”
“Sounds indecent.”
“I can hardly have a private talk with him in front of three-hundred-plus people.”
“Point taken. But what happens after? Let’s say you tell him. What are you going to do if he tells you to forget it and marries her anyway?”
“Then that’s what he does,” Fiona said. “And let’s face it, that’s probably what he will do. Muireann will kill him if he jilts her.”
Olivia took a sharp turn, almost collided with a taxi, and applied the brakes. “Will you keep mum if he does marry her?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I will.” Fiona rubbed her neck. She’d have whiplash by the time they reached the church. “I’ll have done my duty and told him about the Vegas wedding.”
“What if you want to get married in a few years’ time?”
“I guess I’ll deal with it if and when the situation arises.”
“It’ll be a hell of a lot messier if you need to divorce Gavin after he’s already married.”
The spire of St. Mary’s was visible now. Fiona’s stomach lurched. “Can’t we divorce quietly in Vegas?”
“Nope. Not unless one of you is a legal resident. Sure, if divorce were that simple, people would be hopping over to Vegas all the time instead of dealing with our poxy legal system.”
“Damn. There goes that plan. How long does divorce take in Ireland?”
“Depends.” Olivia rolled to a stop at a red light. “If you say you’ve been living apart for at least a year, and neither of you contests the financial settlement, it’ll be over in four years.”
“What the feck?”
“Didn’t you know that?”
“I’d heard it took longer for a divorce to go through in Ireland than in many places, but I didn’t realize it was that long. That’s insane. So if a couple says they’ve literally just split up and one or the other contests, it can go on even longer?”
“Oh, yeah.” Olivia hit the accelerator. “Five years is the legal minimum. Certain lawyers don’t demand proof of separate residences for the first year, meaning their clients can do it in four.” She screeched to a halt in front of St. Mary’s Church. “Here we are.”
“Damn. The doors are closed.”
“So?” Olivia turned to face her. “You’re going in there and saying what you have to say. Whatever that is.”
Fiona took a deep breath. “I can do this.”
“Fee, you’re still wearing your slippers.”
“What?” Fiona glanced at her feet. Two bunny slippers stared back at her. “There’s no time to go back.”
“You can’t go into a church wearing bunny slippers.”
Fiona pushed open the car door. “At least I’m not in my Docs. Aunt Deirdre will be pleased.”
“I’ll follow you in once I’ve found a parking space.”
“Thanks, Liv. Wish me luck.” Fiona ran up the path to the church’s imposing wooden doors and stopped.
Could she do this? Should she do this? How could she not?
She pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Dragging oxygen into her lungs, she uttered the words that would damn her in the eyes of her family, friends, and half the town of Ballybeg. “Stop the wedding.”
Chapter Nine
THREE HUNDRED HATS SWIVELED in Fiona’s direction.
She stood in the doorway of St. Mary’s Church, heart pounding, legs quaking.
A sea of spray-tanned faces stared back at her. The guests blurred together in a jumble of wedding finery, ostentatious hats, bling jewelry, fake nails, and even faker expressions of horror. Fiona would bet her comic collection that most were thrilled by this turn of events. Who hadn’t wondered what it would be like if a wedding ceremony were to be disrupted?
They were about to find out. What a bloody nightmare.
She glanced down at her fluffy bedroom slippers. Had she known “Disrupt a Wedding” was on today’s to-do list, she’d have dressed for the occasion.
Fiona wet her lips and shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “I said, stop the wedding.” Her voice was stronger now, less croaky.
For an instant, silence thick with tension strained the walls. Then came a feminine shriek, followed by an almighty crash.
Fiona’s gaze was drawn to the front of the church and the bridal couple. With their blond hair and blue eyes, they looked more like brother and sister than future man and wife, albeit with a significant difference in height. In a gesture of togetherness, they both wore white. Muireann’s dress was a meringue creation with skirts wide enough to make Scarlett O’Hara jealous. Gavin wore a hideous satin and velvet suit, teamed with a pair of furry white boots. Had it been the seventies, he might have been fashionable.
Muireann sagged against a pillar, clutching a statue of the Virgin Mary for support. The remnants of a floral arrangement lay at her feet in a tableau of petals and smashed porcelain.
Gavin stood by the altar, stock-still and slack-jawed. Despite his ridiculous outfit, he was bone-meltingly gorgeous. His broad shoulders strained his suit jacket, reminding her of what lay beneath. She’d loved running her fingers over those shoulders, feeling the taut muscles of his upper arms.
Her stomach did a rollercoaster flip. Oh, hell. If only they’d never found that piece of paper.
“What is the meaning of this, young lady?” The stern tones of the parish priest boomed through the church. For such a small man, Father Fagin had a powerful voice. He placed the bible on the pulpit with trembling aged hands, and creaked down the aisle. When he was a few steps away, he paused and squinted at her through rheumy eyes. “Is that you, Fiona?” The furrows on his brow deepened. “What’s this about?”
Her legs wobbled but she stood her ground. “I need to speak to Gavin.”
Father Fagin’s furry gray eyebrows shot north. “Can’t it wait until the reception?”
“No. I need to speak to him now.” There was a hint of exasperation in her voice. “In private.”
“What nonsense.” Uncle Bernard stomped out of his pew to loom over her. His walrus moustache bobbed in indignation. “You’ve always been eccentric, Fiona, but this… this is outrageous.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t have a choice.”
“Why?”
Fiona’s neck jerked. The old zing of awareness made the hairs on the nape of her neck spring to attention. In his ludicrous white velvet wedding suit, Gavin resembled a cross between the blond fella from Abba and the yeti. How he still managed to exude sex appeal was a conundrum she’d rather not contemplate.
“Why do you need to speak to me?” His deep voice broke in panic. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he must remember Drew Draper.
Guilt gnawed her insides. “It’s best discussed in private.”
His mouth opened and closed, fish-like. Eventually, he nodded. “Is there somewhere we can go, Father?”
“Well, I… Yes. There’s the vestry.” Father Fagin appeared flummoxed. She could hardly blame him. It wasn’t every day a crazy lady burst into his church and crashed a wedding.
The vestry of St. Mary’s was a small wood-paneled room located at the back of the church. Fiona followed Gavin inside and shut the door behind them.
He was pale and flustered. “What’s going on, Fiona?”
“Do you remember Las Vegas?”
“You want to discuss that now? Seconds before I marry your cousin?”
“I don’t have a choice, not morally.” Not to mention legally…
“What do you mean?” He was pacing the small room, his face the same shade as his suit.
“We got married, Gavin.”
“No, we didn’t. The papers were never registered.”
She exhaled in a rush. “Unfortunately, they were.”
“What?” His stopped short, his handsome face frozen in an expression of horror. “That’s impossible. Your man—what was his name?”
“Drew Draper.”
“
He said he wouldn’t register the papers with the wedding bureau.”
“Well, he did register them, or someone else did it on his behalf. Olivia and I checked the Las Vegas online register, and our wedding details are in there.”
“No way.”
“Yes way.” She pulled up the search results on her smart phone and shoved the display in front of Gavin’s face. “See? Fiona Mary Byrne and Gavin Aloysius Maguire, 16 June, 2006.”
His eyes met hers briefly, then moved toward the glow of the screen. He hesitated before taking the phone, a flash of uncertainty quickly replaced by determination. When he reached out, it was with steady hands.
As he scanned the contents of the display, his jaw tightened.
Sick fear sent Fiona’s world into a spin. This was pure sensory overload. A smorgasbord of emotions, and none of them were positive.
An eternity passed before his eyes rose to meet hers. Those sea-blue eyes framed with dark blond lashes. She’d loved him once. Fiona’s heart did a slow thump and roll.
“Please tell me this is a joke.” His voice was low and gravelly. The deep bass had always reminded her of James Earl Jones.
“No joke, Gav. We’re married.” She attempted a nonchalant shrug, but her shoulders were pliable as cement. “By the way, I didn’t know your middle name was Aloysius.”
“Not something I care to share.” Gavin put the phone on a large mahogany desk and ran a hand over his rugged features. “I don’t fucking believe this. I’m supposed to be getting married today. What am I going to tell Muireann?”
“It’s up to you what you tell her.” She paused and took a deep breath. “It’s up to you if you tell her.”
His eyes shot up, clashing with hers. “What do you mean?”
“I mean we can invent a reason for my crashing the wedding. I’m willing to play the part of the loony cousin, keep my trap shut, and pretend the document doesn’t exist.”
“You mean lie?” he asked in a monotone, his brow creased in thought.
