CINDERELLA BRIDE

by Monica McLean

  Her gaze swept across the spacious, U-shaped kitchen, where whitewashed wood and beveled-glass cabinets afforded a view of a neat and orderly lifestyle. Burgundy-tiled countertops splashed warmth into the otherwise-neutral decor. The kitchen seemed to have two of everything: an indoor grill on an island in the center, another range on the counter with double ovens just to its side and a double glass-doored refrigerator within arm's reach.

  Marly felt as though she'd stepped back into another world, until she glanced up at the ceiling and noticed a simple, hand-stenciled border. It seemed oddly out of place with the ultramodern appliances. She didn't know why, but she liked that.

  Wandering down the hallway, she flipped light switches on and off until she came to a large, airy room with cathedral ceilings that could only be the living room. A large stone hearth in the center. Wall-to-wall bookshelves at the far end. Navy blue leather furniture with burgundy throw pillows. The decor was simple, yet inviting—neither plain nor pretentious.

  Lured by two framed photographs, she crossed to the mantel. She lifted one and peered at two people sitting on a silver bench eating hotdogs: a blond-haired woman who looked at least forty and a young boy of ten or so. In the background, a wall displayed colorful graffiti. The boy held a backpack between his feet and flashed a big, crooked grin at the camera. The woman's smile was only slight, the gray shadows under her eyes making her look tired. One of her hands rested on the boy's leg. The protective gesture combined with the glitter of pride in her eyes seemed to convey a deep, maternal bond.

  Marly replaced the first photograph and reached for the second. It was a graduation photo from Buckhead Preparatory High School, as indicated by the blue print on the bottom. She could tell it was the same woman and boy. The boy looked as though he'd aged about a decade, although the woman appeared to have aged two. Her gray shadows had turned to circles beneath eyes that now seemed hollow despite their sparkle. Her hair hung limp and lifeless around her sunken face.

  Though she sagged against the boy, this time no weariness weighed down her smile, which spread from ear to ear. Instead, it was the boy whose crooked smile now appeared only slight. Wearing a black graduation cap and gown, he towered over the woman by more than a foot, one arm encircling her shoulder. It was almost as though their roles had changed, and he was now her protector.

  Marly replaced the photograph and retraced her steps out of the room. Down the hall, she found a room with another stone fireplace and a wet bar. Her gaze swept from light oak floors to soaring ceilings, while her mind grappled to make sense of the images she'd seen in the past few minutes, to connect them with the man she would soon marry.

  There was something terribly disquieting about Carter's home. Decorated with simple furnishings, the rooms used colors and textures that seemed to aim at warmth and comfort, as if in invitation to come home and be oneself.

  It was too much. Too earthy. Too artless. It was out of character, out of sync with the portrait she'd painted of Carter. She shook her head, trying to make sense of it all and coming up empty. She was too tired, too exhausted, to think anymore. The past week had been filled with sleepless nights and unparalleled fear. Now, for the first time in too long, she felt the first signs of peace.

  Carter would keep Tyler safe until this Billy Ray situation passed. She believed that. And she, in return, would do whatever she could to make their marriage work. She owed him that much. She just prayed that in the years to come, she could keep up her guard, lest he slip by her lowered defenses and realize she wasn't the woman he thought he'd married.

  Crossing to the wet bar, she scanned the labels until she found a bottle of brandy. After removing the cap, she poured herself a generous amount, watching the thick liquid slosh around in the snifter. As a young girl, she'd often watched her father swish his brandy. The way the brandy clung to the glass always reminded her of the toilet bowl cleaner the maids had used.

  Raising the goblet to her lips, she sniffed the aroma concentrated at the small opening before taking a tentative sip. The blackberry-flavored liquid swirled around her mouth. When she swallowed, it burned a hot, pleasantly numbing path down her throat and into her stomach. Marly closed her eyes and wrapped both hands around the glass, taking another sip and then one more, until she'd drained the contents of the glass and the brandy's warmth numbed her frazzled nerves.

  She poured another finger of brandy into her snifter before recapping the bottle and returning it to the shelf. Then she carried the goblet to a green-and-white pin-striped armchair and eased her stiff muscles down onto the cushions. Her head felt heavy, her entire body weighed down with fatigue as she raised her sore feet onto the matching ottoman, careful so as not to jostle the brandy.

  In her mind's eye, she saw the mother and son and wondered, what kind of man had the boy in the photos become?

  What kind of man was Carter King?

  * * *

  He was a jerk.

  Carter leaned against the entryway to the great room and shook his head. Curled up in one of the chairs lay his Cinderella, fast asleep with her "glass slippers" on the floor nearby, her fingers laced around a brandy snifter. He stooped to pick up the sneakers, lingering for a minute by her side.

  If he had even one shred of decency in his body, he would have grabbed the opportunity to level with her earlier. She'd given him the perfect opening. It would have been so easy to say, "You're wrong, Marly. I do understand. I spent eighteen years of my life in the slums."

  Eighteen years of my life.

  Sometimes he wondered if he'd been honest with Eva Ann from the start, things might have worked out differently between them, and they both could have been spared the ugliness of their breakup. To think that they'd built their entire relationship on witty, meaningless repartee and equally meaningless sex. Sure, it had been all right in the beginning, until Eva Ann had tired of what she called his insatiable appetite. But one thing was for certain: they never would have married had she known the truth about him—nor he about her.

  She'd been a spoiled, pampered princess who had grown up with everything she'd ever wanted, yet she'd expected even more from Carter. More as in more than everything. Kind of a neat concept if he thought about it. Problem was, he really hadn't thought about it during the three years he'd spent foolishly trying to give Eva Ann the world. Her world, that is. Certainly not his. And, as she'd told him on more than one occasion, most memorably when she'd dropped the divorce papers in his lap, Eva Ann was a firm believer in "never the twain shall meet."

  That's why this time was so different, so important. Carter had thought this relationship through with his head instead of his hormones. Marly was different, the P.I.'s extensive background check had revealed. Different from any woman he'd ever known, different from any woman he'd ever find again. If anyone would understand and not judge him, she would. If anyone would value what he had to give, she would. And if his calculations proved correct, Marly Alcott wouldn't give a rat's tail about muddying a family lineage with his peasant ancestry.

  Carter reached behind the couch and withdrew an afghan. He thought about taking her upstairs, letting her sleep on a mattress instead of in a chair, but despite her obvious exhaustion, she looked so content to be sacked out right where she was. And damn, if he didn't like the sight of her curled up in his favorite chair.

  With infinite care, he reached to take the brandy snifter from her hands, noticing the splotchy pigmentation from the scar tissue. He also noticed her fingertips left no prints on the glass, just smudges. But not just chance—Marly had no fingerprints, he learned from the P.I.'s report. The fire had burned them right off.

  Carter winced, remembering all the gory details contained in the dossier. It happened when she was abroad, serving in the Peace Corps. There had been some sort of explosion. Her village had turned into an inferno. She'd escaped, just barely, after a futile attempt to rescue her best friend from the blaze.

  She was a survivor, his Cinderella. Just like him, she'd been to
hell and back. But unlike him, she wore her battle scars on the outside.

  Marly Alcott had worked harder and given selflessly to others more than any woman he'd ever known. If anyone deserved riches, she did. And he would see that she got them.

  He draped the afghan over her body, folding the corner back under her chin. He leaned down and tucked a fallen lock of hair behind one ear. Soon, he would show her all that worry had been for naught. Soon, he would tell her about his past.

  Soon.

  * * *

  Carter didn't sleep. Though he closed his eyes, he lay awake well into the early hours of morning, trying to chunk all the little details that still needed ironing out. He wondered if Tyler needed a child psychologist to help him with the trauma of his mother's death, and if the place he had in mind could accommodate such requests.

  Before even the first rays of morning sunlight filtered in through the windowpane, Carter rose and showered, then went upstairs to check on the boy.

  A lamp in the corner cast a glow over the guest room, outlining a small form in the middle of the queen-sized bed. Relaxed in sleep, Tyler looked cute and content, but then, what kid wasn't cute when he was asleep? Mama had often said that was when she liked her children best, and with Carter's siblings, that came as no surprise.

  Leaning against the doorjamb, he watched the steady rise and fall of the comforter that covered Tyler. Though the guest room itself was rather plain and nondescript, the boy's presence made Carter envision how he'd redecorate if he had a son. Race cars and sports paraphernalia, play tools and musical instruments that made a lot of noise.

  Of course, a girl would be fine, too. Growing up the youngest of five boys, he didn't know much about girls—even less about women, he mulled. Still, Anil and Reva sure were crazy about Sarina, and Carter imagined he'd feel much the same if he had a daughter. Either way, he wouldn't be too picky when the time came. Only one thing was for certain: boys or girls, his children would have their own rooms.

  Even when he and Mama had been on their own, neither of them had had their own room. At the time, the efficiency apartment had seemed like a giant step up, since in their old place, Carter had shared sleeping quarters with his four brothers, while Mania had slept on the living-room couch.

  His brothers, all much older than he, would often leave home for stretches of time, only to return days, weeks, sometimes even months, later. Mama cried when they left and cried when they came back, so Carter never knew which was worse, having them gone or having them around.

  His mama always had a hard time saying no to a person in need. As he looked back, it wasn't difficult to see how she'd ended up marrying so many times and giving birth to five babies. She'd never been one to refuse her home to anyone, not in the beginning, anyway. All that changed the day she'd packed their bags and announced to his older siblings that she and Carter were moving out of their subsidized housing project in the inner city of Atlanta and they weren't coming back.

  The full impact of her decision hadn't hit Carter until much later in life, when he'd realized not only what a grave disappointment his brothers had proved to be, but how much faith his mama had put in him and his abilities. His mama…

  Shifting from the doorjamb, Carter swallowed around a sudden tightening in his throat. Damn, but he missed her.

  He'd just turned to leave the room, when a slight movement caught his eye. Turning back, he noticed Tyler's head was no longer on the pillow, but buried underneath the comforter. Not wanting the boy to suffocate in his sleep, Carter approached the bed and peeled back the edge of the comforter, when like a sand crab, Tyler's head burrowed even deeper. Puzzled, Carter again tugged back the comforter, and to his surprise, watched a little ball scamper underneath the covers and across to the other end of the bed.

  "Tyler?"

  A small thump resounded on the wooden floor.

  "Tyler? You all right?"

  Silence.

  Curious, Carter rounded the foot of the bed just in time to catch two round pools of trepidation peering up at him before darting under the bed.

  Frowning, he took a step back and then another, until he retraced his steps to the door. There he crouched, leaning back on his haunches. "Hey, Tyler." He tried to make his voice as nonthreatening as possible. "There's nothing to be afraid of. My name's Carter. I'm a friend of Miss Marly's, and I'd like to be your friend, too. Miss Marly brought you here to visit for a while. She's downstairs right now. Would you like to go see her?"

  Nothing.

  "I'd leave you alone, but it's a pretty big house, and I wouldn't want you to get lost trying to find her. You sure you don't want to come downstairs with me? It's still pretty early, but we could get something to eat. Are you hungry?" Carter thought he heard something shift underneath the bed. "We could cook up a good, old-fashioned Sunday breakfast. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausage, the works. I'm getting hungry just thinking about it." His stomach growled on cue. "Of course, there's always cold cereal if you prefer that."

  One little hand poked out from the dust ruffle, lifting the edge up just enough that Carter could see the whites of two eyes.

  He tilted his head sideways. "What do you say? You hungry?" He heard a slight shuffling and imagined Tyler nodding underneath the bed. "Well, come on, then."

  The boy hesitated for a brief moment, then slithered out on his belly. He looked wary, refusing to make eye contact with a stranger, but Carter didn't press. He started down the corridor, allowing Tyler to maintain a safe distance behind him, pausing every few feet to make sure he hadn't lost him.

  In the den, Marly slept where he'd left her. She'd turned onto her side in the night, her legs slightly bent. Tyler went to her like a magnet, all thought of food apparently abandoned. Carter tried again to tempt him, but he shook his head and immersed himself in tracing the pin-striped pattern of the armchair.

  Unabashed, Carter went to the kitchen thinking to lure the boy with the tantalizing aroma of breakfast, but by the time he returned, Tyler had ensconced himself in the chair next to Marly and fallen asleep. He shook his head and started to leave.

  "Smells great" came a soft voice, still raspy with sleep. "You didn't tell me breakfast in bed was part of the deal."

  Carter closed his eyes, and for just a minute imagined how it would feel to awaken to that voice after a night of lovemaking. His lips twitched at the thought. Not bad. Not bad at all. "Do you want it to be?" he asked.

  "I—I was just kidding."

  He turned around but saw no evidence of humor reflected in her face. He felt suddenly awkward. Had he stepped out of line again? Was she, too, remembering last night in the weed patch? The feel of their bodies pressed together, his hands in her hair, his lips against hers…

  Damn. Carter raked his fingers through his hair. He'd chosen Marly because she was safe, because he didn't envision himself falling in love with her, because he wasn't attracted to her. But the direction of his thoughts told him otherwise about the latter, and that was a bad sign.

  A very bad sign.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  « ^ »

  Why did he have to be so handsome? He was dressed in faded blue jeans and a Duke Blue Devils sweatshirt, his broad shoulders nearly filling the door frame. His shower-dampened hair only increased his lazy sensuality. And those long legs… Of course she found him attractive. She wasn't dead. Not yet, anyway.

  Her attraction to him was perfectly understandable. A perfectly understandable nuisance at best, but at least it made sense. Unlike Carter's attraction to her.

  "What time is it?" she asked.

  "A little past five. You don't have to get up yet."

  "Too late. I'm up." Marly eased herself free from where Tyler had sandwiched her in the chair and self-consciously ran a hand through the knots in her hair. "I'm an early riser."

  "I'm an insomniac."

  "And a workaholic, I imagine."

  "That, too. It's not as if there's been anything to come home to. I mean, until n
ow."

  She didn't return his smile, but followed him into the kitchen, massaging a kink in her neck. Strange how even the most trivial facts held paramount importance now. Little pieces that would somehow fit into the big picture. Sleeping habits. Work styles. Priorities. They had done everything backward, agreeing to marry before they had a chance to get to know each other. Still, it was to her benefit. She had to remember that.

  "Have you seen my overnight bag?"

  "Yeah, I stuck it in here." He gestured for her to fallow him down the corridor.

  They came upon a large room she gathered was the master bedroom. She must have missed it in the night. It was decorated in dark greens and burgundies, and a king-sized four-poster stood in the center. Plush cream carpet provided the necessary balance of light with the dark color scheme.

  Her overnight bag sat on a chair in the corner, but she hesitated to enter the room, as if by crossing the threshold, she would somehow admit there was no going back. The notion seemed silly after a few seconds, since she knew in her heart she'd already crossed the point of no return sometime last night in the middle of Annie Lou's garden.

  She turned her gaze to Carter and noted the room seemed scaled to fit him, high ceilings and a large bed.

  He looked so clean-cut this morning, with his fresh shave and golden hair that seemed to fall naturally into place. She could even smell the barest hint of soap on his skin. A wave of self-consciousness washed over her, and she tugged at the hem of her T-shirt. "Would you mind if I got out of these grungy clothes?"

  Carter's brow raised almost imperceptibly. "Not at all."

  "I mean," she rushed to add, "I'd really like to take a shower. Can you keep an ear out for Tyler? I shouldn't be more than a few minutes."

  "No problem. Towels are in the linen closet." He flicked on the bathroom lights and gestured toward a door.

  "Thank you."

  "You're welcome."

  They stared at each other a few pounding heartbeats before Carter turned and left. For some stupid reason, Marly felt a strange sense of loss. She shook it off, closing the door and locking it.