by Cheryl Holt
Chantal took that moment to arrive. Not in a cab, though. In a limo, complete with uniformed chauffeur.
Amy watched as the man pulled past her, parked, then exited to open the rear door.
Chantal climbed out, looking like the model she was, in a white fur coat and hat, red slacks and high-heeled white boots. She could have just stepped off a fashion runway in Milan.
Her attire was almost an affront to Amy who stood there in her scuffed snow boots, faded jeans, puffy parka, and mittens.
He gazed from Chantal to Amy to Chantal, and even though Chantal was tall and slender and gorgeous, Amy was—in his eyes—so much prettier.
"I hope I'm not late," Chantal called down the long driveway to Dustin.
"No, you're not late." He gestured to the house. "Go on in. Mother's expecting you. I'll be in in a minute."
Amy peered over at him and asked, "Are the two of you having breakfast with your mother, Dustin? How nice that Chantal gets to meet her. How nice that you have a female companion who is up to your mother's lofty standards."
He felt horrid and unbelievably snobbish, when he hadn't meant to insult her, at all. She was too kind, too decent, and he would never subject her to his mother's vitriol. He was the lowest form of vermin, like something she'd wipe off the sole of her boot.
"We're having a quick bite," he tried to explain, "before we leave for the airport."
"I'm sure the meal will be superb. Have a good trip home."
She rounded her car and opened the door, and he suffered another wave of panic that was much more intense than the first one had been.
Several alarming visions popped into his head, of himself living out his life as his mother would: alone and despised by all who knew him. Is that what he wanted? A solitary existence in LA? With Chantal? Or if not Chantal, with a steady stream of other vapid, vain beauties who were exactly like her?
He could have Amy. He could move to Gold Creek and be surrounded by people who loved him, people who would accept him as he was.
"Would you just…wait?" he pleaded.
"For what? For you to be a better man? For you to be someone else? For you to keep your promises? For you to grow up? I don't have that much time."
"I need to…to…"
To what? Talk to her? Lie to her? Defend himself?
Conversation was pointless. He could talk to infinity and never tell her what she was desperate to hear.
"I'm sorry," he said again. It was the only thing he could say.
"I'm sorry, too," she retorted, "but only that I wasted so much gas in coming here."
Chantal crept up behind him, and he whirled toward her, frowning. She hadn't proceeded into the house as he'd suggested, but had sauntered down to join him on the front walk.
She slipped her arm into his and snuggled herself to him in a possessive way.
"Let's go in," she said. "I hate to have your mother waiting on me."
"Yes, Dustin," Amy spat, "don't let your girlfriend keep your mother waiting."
He nearly replied with, She's not my girlfriend, but had the good sense not to.
"Let's go," Chantal repeated, ignoring Amy, tugging him away.
He felt like a puppet on a string, like a robot that didn't have a mind of its own.
Would he snub Amy and stroll off with Chantal? Obviously, he was about to choose between them and he was choosing Chantal. Why was he positive it was the wrong decision? Why couldn't he fix what he'd done? Why couldn't he ever make anybody happy?
He was anxious to stay with Amy, to apologize and calm her, but what was the use?
Still, he said, "I'll call you when I'm home."
"Don't you dare," she fumed.
"I will. We'll figure this out."
"I'll shut off my phone. I'll get an unlisted number."
"Amy…"
She leapt into her car and sped away.
If Chantal hadn't been gripping him so tightly, he might have raced over to his own car and chased after her.
He almost did. He almost yanked away and did exactly that.
But sanity returned with a vengeance.
There was no reason to follow Amy. There was no reason to pursue a relationship with her. Where she was concerned, there was no reason for anything.
"Look," Chantal beamed, "there's Jacquelyn in the window. She's seen us."
Chantal smiled and waved at his mother.
Dustin took a deep breath, spun away from the street, and escorted her inside.
CHAPTER TEN
Pamela tiptoed into the house and scooted through the living room like an intruder.
Chad would be back in Gold Creek for supper, so she'd stopped at the liquor store to pick up some wine. Yet no matter what she purchased, he would hate it.
For the last few days, she hadn't been able to do anything right. Ever since the party in Denver, he'd been a grouch. He'd been quiet and preoccupied, and whenever she tried to probe his thoughts, he'd insist he was fine.
Fine… The kiss of death in a relationship.
She hung up her coat and arranged the room for an intimate evening. He'd gone to Steamboat Springs and was supposed to return by five. It was already half past, but his car wasn't in the driveway.
She dimmed the lights, lit some candles, then went to the bedroom to change. As she walked in, she frowned.
Chad's suitcase was on the bed. She lifted the top and peeked in. All of his clothes were packed.
When he'd left for Steamboat, it had just been for two nights, and he'd used a small duffle. Obviously, he'd come back while she was out. Obviously, he was leaving and taking his things.
She had no idea where she fit in that scenario, but she didn't think she'd wind up on any side that would benefit her.
Hands shaking, she hastened to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine. She was sipping it as the front door opened. Chad bustled in, and she pasted on a smile and rushed out to greet him.
"Hello, darling," she cooed, concealing any hint of what she'd just discovered. "How was the drive? I hope the roads weren't too bad."
He scowled as if he didn't know why she was in his house.
"Pam, oh." He looked distracted. "You were out when I arrived. I was going to write you a note."
"About what?"
He took her glass of wine for himself and downed the contents.
"I need to ask you a question," he said.
"About what?" she repeated.
"Are you Amy's mother?"
She barely had time to mask her panic before she scoffed and replied, "Don't be ridiculous. She's my sister."
"Then let me ask you this: Have you ever been married?"
"No," she answered more vehemently.
His chuckle was spiteful and snide. "You're good, I'll give you that."
"What do you mean?"
He reached into his coat and pulled out a piece of paper. He thrust it at her, and she saw that it was a police booking photo from when she'd been arrested many years earlier for a DUI. It wasn't the most flattering photo, but there was no doubting it was her.
"It's amazing," he sneered, "what you can find out on the internet."
"So I had a DUI years ago. Sue me."
"How old are you, Pamela?"
"Thirty—the same age as you."
He pointed to a line on the paper that showed her birth date.
"It's not a crime to be forty-two," he said, "but it is a crime to lie to me. And it's an absolute crime to have a couple of kids you don't claim, to have been married over and over, but to pretend that you haven't been."
"I've never been married"—she was prepared to deny to the bitter end—"and I don't understand why you're acting like this." She motioned to the sofa by the hearth. A cozy fire burned in the grate. "Let's sit down, and you can tell me about your trip."
She moved as if to herd him over to the sofa, but he pushed by her and went to the bedroom. She followed, glumly watching as he riffled through the drawers and closets to be sure he ha
dn't forgotten any items.
"What are you doing?" She felt sick and alone.
"I can't get Merriweather to make any decisions, so we won't start construction for months. I don't need to stay."
"Where are we going?" she cheerily inquired. "Can we fly to Mexico as we planned? It's been so cold and snowy. It would be fun to lounge on the beach."
"We aren't going anywhere, Pamela. I am going to visit my mother, then I'll be in Denver—where you most definitely are not welcome to join me." As he zipped his suitcase, he actually shuddered. "Thank God, I didn't take you to meet her."
Her temper flared, and she couldn't tamp down a sneer of her own. "I'm glad I didn't have to meet the sainted woman, either."
He yanked the bag from the bed and stomped off. If she hadn't scooted out of the way, he'd have knocked her over.
She staggered after him, wondering who had tattled on her. It couldn't have been Amy. She didn't like Chad enough to speak to him about Pamela, and Chad wasn't curious enough to have searched himself. So who might it have been? Pamela couldn't imagine, but she hated the internet.
How was a person supposed to keep her mistakes private if they were on display for the whole world to see?
"The lease is up on Thursday," he informed her. It was three days away. "You can stay here until then, but don't you dare take anything when you go. I refuse to lose my security deposit over you."
She flinched as if he'd slapped her. "There's no need to insult me."
"I'm not insulting you. I'm just being honest. Don't take anything that's not yours."
He opened the door and marched out, and the entire scene was so surreal that she couldn't process what was happening. She had to physically shake herself out of a stupor to chase him into the driveway.
"Chad!" she snapped as he hurried to his car. "Let's talk about this."
"No."
"But…but…we've been living together for almost seven months."
"Yes, and it's been about six months too long for me."
He tossed his suitcase in the trunk, then slammed it with a resounding crack. For a moment, he calmly studied her, and she thought he might offer a kind farewell, that there might be an opportunity for discussion or debate.
But he said, "Tell your bitch-of-a-daughter to get out of her apartment."
"She's not a bitch," Pam fumed.
"When I come back in the spring, I better not find her still in there." He gestured to the house. "The landlord will be by on Thursday morning for the keys."
"Who told you?" she forced herself to ask.
"Told me what?"
"Who told you about my past? About Amy?"
"Chantal."
It was the last name she'd expected, and it took her a few seconds to realize he meant Dustin Merriweather's mistress.
"Chantal? Why would she?"
"She really, really doesn't like you—or Amy. Goodbye."
He got in the car and drove off without another word.
She lingered until her fingers and toes turned to ice, then she stumbled inside.
Her head was spinning with regret, confusion, and fury.
A week earlier, before they'd attended that dratted Merriweather party, they'd talked about a trip to Mexico, how they'd travel to Aspen and Vail after that. He had projects all over the Rockies, and he journeyed from place to place to check on his work crews.
He'd been happy; he'd been including her in all his plans.
She sat down in the chair by the front window, pulled back the corner of the drape and stared out at the dark, deserted street. The clock ticked over on the mantle. A log cracked in the grate.
She was all alone, and it was dreadfully quiet. Her heart was breaking. Not because Chad had left, but because she couldn't stand to be by herself. There wasn't a soul in the world she could call. There wasn't a soul in the world who would care about what had occurred.
Amy was the only person who might be the least bit interested. But if Pamela confided to Amy about Chad, Amy would say, good riddance, and Pamela couldn't bear to hear it.
She continued to stare, considering what she should do next, where she should go. To Vegas to start over again? The prospect exhausted her, and she lurched over to the sofa and drew a knitted afghan over her shoulders.
She was on her own—as she'd always been—and it was the saddest, scariest notion ever.
* * *
"I thought you might bring Amy Dane with you."
"Amy? Why would I bring her?"
Dustin struggled to maintain a bland expression, which was difficult. His new sister-in-law, Faith, was shrewd as a viper. She could sense the slightest lie, and when he was with her, he was constantly on guard.
She was in her wedding dress, the ceremony over, the toasts and dancing about to begin. She looked so sweet and innocent, but it was all a charade. She was smart as a whip and sly as a fox.
He'd never liked astute women, and he had no intention of letting her see how conflicted he was over Amy. It had been a month since their quarrel in Denver, and even though she'd insisted he shouldn't, he kept wondering if he should call her.
He'd actually picked up the phone one night, when he was rattling around his big, empty house and feeling out-of-sorts in a way he hated.
She was like a thorn that jabbed at him so he couldn't get her out of his mind.
When he'd dialed her number, he'd received an auto-reply that it had been disconnected. He didn't know if he'd made a mistake in punching the buttons, or if she'd really done as she'd threatened and turned off her phone—idiotic female!—but he hadn't tried again.
Instead, he'd called the newspaper office, but no one answered there either.
After he'd bought the paper, he'd subscribed to it, and several belated issues had come in the mail. Like an imbecile, he'd read them over and over, thinking about Amy, thinking about Marge, about the two of them diligently writing the stories, drafting the ads, delivering it to customers. The past week, however, the paper hadn't arrived, and he couldn't decide what that indicated.
Had the exasperating pest quit her job? Had Marge quit, too? Wasn't the Gazette publishing anymore? He was such a pitiful owner that he didn't have another contact in the town who might check for him.
He couldn't imagine her giving up her salary. She'd be jeopardizing the twins' security, and she wouldn't do that just to spite him.
Still…
Once the wedding festivities were over, he might drive up to Gold Creek. If he could be sure she was okay, he wouldn't be so disconcerted.
"I thought you liked her," Faith said, slipping her arm into his.
"I did. I do."
"I thought maybe you more than liked her."
"Let's not get crazy."
"Oh, that's right." She grinned up at him. "You're a Merriweather male. Heaven forbid that you fall for a mere woman."
"It's rare."
"It certainly is."
"How did you snag my brother?"
"Don't you know?"
"No, I never heard the story."
"I brought him to this hotel and seduced him."
They were at a small and exclusive hotel in the mountains up above Boulder. Lucas had rented the whole property for the wedding so they could have three days of private celebration.
Dustin was aware that the place had a special significance to the bride and groom, but he hadn't been told what it was.
"You seduced him?"
"Yes." She batted her lashes. "In Room Number 6. After I worked my feminine wiles on him, he couldn't resist me."
"And the rest—as they say—is history?"
"Pretty much." She rose on tiptoe and surprised him by kissing him on the cheek. "Thanks for coming to my wedding."
"You're welcome."
"It meant so much to Lucas to have you here."
He waved a hand, not wanting to have a maudlin discussion. "It was no deal, Faith. Of course, I'd come. Of course, I'd be here. Wild horses couldn't have kept me away."
At least, he'd showed. His sister, Brittney, hadn't attended, although she'd been trapped in a snowstorm in Europe, so she'd had an excuse. His mother wasn't present, either, and she had no excuse—other than her behaving in her usual rude and condescending way.
Her loss…
Across the banquet hall, the band members were tuning their instruments, and Lucas was up at the head table gesturing for Faith to join him.
"Time to make your toasts, big boy," she said to Dustin. "Are you ready?"
"Yes, I'm ready."
He'd never been anyone's best man before, and he was absurdly happy and proud that Lucas had asked him.
"You better say nice things about me," she warned.
"I don't know anything but nice things."
"Ha! You liar." She squealed with laughter. "Lucas and I have no secrets."
"Uh-oh."
"He told me how hard you tried to keep him from marrying me."
"Crap."
His cheeks flushed bright red, and she winked.
"I like you anyway." She patted his chest. "Call Amy, would you?"
"Amy? Why would I call her? I haven't even thought of her in weeks."
"You're miserable without her, Dustin."
"I am not."
"Everybody's mentioned it. You're pathetic. So call her." She leaned nearer. "Maybe you can bring her to this hotel and rent Room 6. It might work wonders for your relationship."
She flashed a saucy smile and waltzed away.
* * *
Dustin turned off the motor of his rented SUV and stared at the darkened windows of the newspaper office of the Gold Creek Gazette. He climbed out and went over, cupping his hands over his eyes to peer inside.
The place was closed, the lights off, the computers off, and it was the middle of the afternoon. Where the hell was the blasted woman?
After Lucas's wedding, he'd had a perfectly good plane ticket in his pocket that would have whisked him to Los Angeles, but Faith had needled him about Amy to the point where he hadn't been able to focus during the entire celebration.
