"What if I chunk up in the next month and a half? Isn't it better the dress be too big than too small?"
"You aren't pregnant?" With a gasp of distress, Penelope Richards clasped her hands to her chest. "With all three of you children I lost weight the first few weeks. After that, I blew up like a float in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade."
"Something to look forward to."
"Then you are pregnant! Belle, how could you? In a pinch, I suppose we can increase the size of your bouquet."
"Relax, Mom. I'm not pregnant. It was just a joke."
"Goodness." Penelope fanned herself vigorously. "I will never understand your sense of humor."
"I know." Contrite, Belle squeezed her mother's hand. "But you love me anyway."
"True." For the first time since Belle arrived, Penelope smiled. "And you love me."
"Without reservation." They were as different as different could be, but there was a soft spot in Belle's heart reserved just for her mother. No matter how much frustration the woman caused her, that would never change.
"Then do me a favor and try on the dress. For my peace of mind."
"Fine. For you."
Belle trudged up the stairs to her old room. Except for a fresh coat of paint and new curtains, it looked exactly as she had left it when she moved out. She remembered begging her parents for the canopy bed. It seemed so romantic. Now it looked like what it was—a thirteen-year-old girl's skewed fantasy of what romantic really was.
Pink gauze. With a shake of her head, Belle thanked the Lord her tastes had changed.
The walk-in closet was mostly empty. One side stored a few of her mother's winter coats that would soon be swapped out for the lighter fare she wore when the weather was warm. In the back was Belle's wedding dress. Unzipping the garment bag, she pulled it from the padded hanger. Speaking of changing taste. Around the time of the canopy fiasco, this was exactly what her thirteen-year-old self would have wanted.
Belle moved to the floor-length mirror, holding up the reams of stark-white ruffled tulle. The caption could read, Psychotic Ballerina. Reexamining the color of her dress and what it represented, she added delusional. This was her mother's dream dress—not hers. If white was meant to represent purity, her mother had missed that boat by almost a decade. It was another sign—in flashing neon—that she shouldn't have let things get this far.
Removing her clothes, Belle felt a wave of guilt. It seemed wrong to go through the motions. However, she consoled herself with the knowledge that after tonight, she would no longer need to play along with this charade. Belle would happily donate the dress to a needy bride with a tulle fetish.
The low-cut back made it easy for Belle to zip herself in. Hmm. Pinching the side of the fitted gown, she noticed it was a bit loose. Maybe five or six pounds worth. She didn't know how it had happened. Certainly not on purpose. Between her busy schedule and worrying about the marriage that wouldn't be, Belle supposed she might have missed a meal or two.
Unconcerned, Belle slipped on the three-inch lace pumps before adjusting the matching headdress. In for a penny, she decided. Since it was the last time she planned on ever putting it on, Belle left the closet, planning on calling her mother. That was when she allowed her gaze to fall on the window. The window. How many times had she sat there hoping for a single glimpse of Ashe? Then crawled under the Pepto-Bismol canopy, falling to sleep, hoping to dream of her crush?
Convincing herself it wasn't nostalgia that propelled her across the room—the room was stuffy—Belle opened the window and leaned out. Then with a yelp, jumped back in. It couldn't be. Her head was filled with thoughts of Ashe. That was why she thought she saw him. He was in Los Angeles living his exciting life. Making music. Bedding beautiful supermodels and movie stars.
Calm down, girl, Belle chided herself, rubbing her churning stomach. Take a deep breath. Calm down. Now, look again. He won't be there. He can't be there. Just as she reached for the curtain, ready to peek, a familiar voice called out.
"I know you're still there, Belle. It won't do any good to hide."
There was a time when Belle would have given almost anything to hear Ashe call out to her from his window. She dreamed of morphing into a self-confident flirt who would dazzle him with her smile. Now, all she wanted to do was dissolve into vapor, escaping unseen.
"Are you going to keep me waiting?"
You kept me waiting all through my adolescence. The thought popped into Belle's head, reminding her that she was no longer a gawky girl—unsure and inexperienced. A woman didn't cower in her childhood bedroom. Straightening her shoulders, Belle pushed her head through the drawn-back curtains.
"Hello, Ashe. This is a surprise." Good. Cool, calm, and collected. Very mature.
"I was thinking the same thing." Ashe's eyes narrowed. "Are you wearing a wedding dress?"
A piece of tulle fell over Belle's right eye. Well, crap. How could she have forgotten Ballerina Barbie? With as much dignity as she could muster, Belle pushed the fabric aside.
"Yes," she nodded, causing another swatch of the ridiculous material to fall over her face.
"Costume party?" Ashe inquired lightly.
"No." Belle wished mightily that he would let it go. No such luck.
"Wedding?"
"That's right."
"Yours?" Ashe's smile had disappeared, a tightness entering his tone.
"September fifth." Now, why had she said that? Belle meant to correct herself, but Ashe didn't give her a chance.
"Son of a bitch, Belle. Either it was a whirlwind courtship, or you were engaged when we—"
"Quiet," Belle gave a whispered hiss, craning her neck out the window. He wouldn't dare shout to the world that they had slept together. Would he? "My mother might be in the garden. She has the hearing of a bat."
"You should have thought of that before you let me go down—"
"Enough!" Sex was bad enough. Oral sex? Belle's mother would have a coronary in the middle of her marigolds. Realizing Ashe was not in the mood for discretion, she decided to end this wedding-themed farce. "Welcome home, Ashe. Bye."
"Belle!" Ashe shouted. "Don't you dare shut that—"
The word window was muffled but distinct. It was followed by a string of curse words. Belle didn't care if the entire neighborhood heard Ashe's foul-mouthed tirade. As long as he didn't drag her name back into it, he could yell obscenities until the cows came home.
"Belle?" Her mother opened the bedroom door. "How does the dress look?"
Like the designer dropped acid and went on a bad trip to end all bad trips, Belle wished she could respond. Instead, she muttered, "Fine. Good. Great," while reaching for the zipper.
"Careful. You'll rip it." Penelope rushed to help. "What is the hurry?"
"I'm cooking dinner for Theo, and I have to stop at the market." Until that moment, Belle had forgotten all about Theo but wasn't above using him as a plausible excuse. Getting out of here in case Ashe got it into his head to finish their argument—at closer quarters—was all Belle cared about.
"That's nice." Treating the gown with more care than Belle would have, Penelope laid it on the bed. "I know it's an old-fashioned notion, but a man's heart and his stomach are closely linked."
And the only reason Belle took gourmet cooking classes was to hook a man. The words hadn't come out of her mother's mouth. However, Belle knew it was what she thought. It was old fashioned. Harking back to Donna Reed preparing a meal in a crinoline-lined dress, high heels, and a string of pearls. In many ways, Penelope Richards was a woman of the twenty-first century. But Belle suspected—deep inside—her heart belonged in the nineteen fifties.
"I think you're right, Belle. The dress doesn't need altering."
"Okay." Pulling on her jacket, Belle brushed her lips across her mother's cheek. "I have to run."
Penelope followed Belle down the stairs. "Drive safe."
Belle waved. Rushing to her car, she had just buckl
ed her seatbelt when her phone rang. If it was Theo telling her he couldn't make it, she was going to tear him a new one.
"There is no excuse good enough."
"My thoughts exactly," Ashe said.
Silently, Belle groaned. "How did you get my number?"
"You have more to worry about than that, Belle. Are you still in your room?"
"No. I'm on my way home." Which was the truth.
"We need to talk. Should I come to your place?"
Absolutely not. Belle took a deep, calming breath. "There isn't anything to say, Ashe."
"I don't agree. Should I ask your mother her opinion?"
"I thought you were a nice guy," Belle grumbled.
"I'm a pissed-off guy. Where and when, Belle?"
Quickly, Belle ran through her options. They weren't sizable. Meet with Ashe or take the chance that he wouldn't spill the beans about their brief—but memorable—encounter. Normally, Belle would tell him to go to hell and spill away. Unfortunately, the little problem of her soon-to-be broken engagement stood in her way. She couldn't help it. Disappointing her parents once was inevitable. Belle couldn't face doing it twice.
"Are you busy tomorrow?"
"I'll make the time."
Mentally, Belle went over her schedule. There wasn't anything after lunch that couldn't be moved to another day. She didn't want to fit Ashe in, but he gave her no choice.
"Two o'clock. My apartment." Belle rattled off the address. "And Ashe?"
"Yes."
"Thank you."
There was a pause. When Ashe answered, he did so hesitantly. "What for?"
"I've been crushing on you since I was twelve years old. Now that you've shown your true colors as a blackmailing asshole, I can honestly say that is no longer a problem."
CHAPTER FIVE
BELLE CHECKED THE lasagna. It was bubbling nicely. Removing the blue casserole dish from the oven, she set it aside to rest. At least fifteen minutes or the cheese and sauce would run all over the plates. A loaf of crusty bread was buttered, waiting in a foil packet to heat as soon as Theo arrived. Along with a tossed green salad, it was Belle's go-to meal when she didn't have a lot of time. Tasty and filling, the spicy aroma filled the apartment, making her mouth water. Tonight wasn't going to be pleasant, but at least the food would be good.
What a day. Belle poured herself a glass of wine, taking a grateful sip. The hot shower she jumped into almost as soon as she walked in the door had helped. Donning a pair of loose-fitting pale-blue linen pants and silk t-shirt in a contrasting darker blue didn't hurt either. Makeup free, her hair held back by a glittery clip, Belle padded barefoot around her kitchen.
This was her happy place. Belle could forget about everything when her mind was occupied with spice blends and caramelizing onions. Her best friend, Tracy Drake, once asked why Belle didn't open her own restaurant. Cooking was her passion, not helping to run a multi-million-dollar corporation. The world was filled with brown-nosing would-be vice presidents. But how many people could make a lemon cheesecake scrumptious enough to bring a sane person to tears? Belle simply shook her head. Cooking would cease to be fun if she were out to make a profit.
Looking at the clock, Belle sighed. Quarter after seven. Theo was notoriously late. His mother loved to joke that he made her wait an extra seven days to be born. Since it was expected, Belle always laughed. For the life of her, she didn't get the joke. Babies came when they came. An adult who didn't have the good grace to be on time made a choice—a bad one.
With a sigh, Belle took another drink of the crisp white wine. The problem with extra time was it gave her time to mull certain matters over. Specifically, Ashe. The big jerk. Why couldn't he have looked out that window a few minutes later? Or earlier? Why was he in Boston?
Boosting herself onto one of the red leather-covered retro bar stools that lined the small island in her kitchen, Belle put her elbow on the black granite, resting her chin on her cupped palm. As far as she was concerned, Ashe had broken an unspoken agreement. Los Angeles was his. Boston hers. Or at least this part of the city.
How dare he…? What? Visit his family? Alone with her musings, Belle had the good grace to chide herself. She was glad Ashe had ended his ten-year estrangement. For his sake as well as the rest of the Mathison clan. But why, oh why, had he chosen the exact moment to look out his old window? Any other day, Belle would have looked like… well, she would have looked like Belle. Instead, he found a slightly disheveled marshmallow.
Draining the last of the wine, Belle set the glass down with a firm click. Embarrassment aside, what she had told Ashe was true. Her crush was history. A thing of the past. Just the thought of him used to make her stomach turn over, and her palms dampen. Turning her hand over, Belle rubbed the surface, her lips curving with satisfaction. Dry as a bone. Take that, Ashe Mathison. The crush has been crushed.
Contemplating re-popping the cork on the excellent Chablis, Belle had just decided one solo glass was enough when the doorbell rang. Theo. Finally! And only thirty-five minutes late. For him, that was practically on time.
"I know." Theo walked through the open door, kissing the air in Belle's direction. "I'm late."
"Stating the obvious doesn't help, Theo."
"I was held up."
"At gun point? Tonight, that is the only explanation that will fly."
"Work."
Belle took in Theo's Hawaiian-print cotton shirt and bright green fashionably baggy shorts. Add the flip-flops and the fact that his tan was deeper than the last time she saw him and Belle felt her temper rise. Late she expected. But a bald-faced lie? No matter their problems, she thought they were friends. Now, she wasn't so sure.
"Is that how you're dressing for the office these days?"
"Fine. I took the afternoon off." Theo flushed, but there was a defiant set to his chin. "I work hard. Don't I deserve a few hours of downtime?"
"I'm not your father, Theo." Or your wife, Belle could have added. "Save your half-assed excuses for him."
"Belle—"
"Did you get the tips of your hair frosted?" Theo's natural color ran toward dirty blond. No matter how much time he spent in the sun, those highlights did not come from Mother Nature.
"What do you think?" Theo moved to the mirror by the door, turning his head from side to side.
"I don't know. Do you like it?"
Theo paused, almost posing, before shaking his head. "I wasn't certain at first. But now, I think it suits me."
Had Theo always been this vain? Tall and athletically slim, he had the kind of good looks that her mother called patrician. He always wore his hair short, but lately started growing it out. Something had changed, and Belle had a good idea what it was. His primping simply solidified her suspicions.
"Theo." Belle rolled her eyes. It was like trying to distract Narcissus from his reflection. "Dinner is ready. Would you like a glass of wine?"
"Just water for me." Theo patted his flat stomach. "Do you know how many calories there are in alcohol?"
Belle poured herself a glass, deliberately filling it to the rim.
"Is that lasagna?" Theo watched her put the casserole on the table. "Carbs galore. I'm cutting way back."
"I told you what I was making. Why didn't you say something then?"
"Sorry. I had my mind on a dozen different things."
"Obviously one of them wasn't me." Belle dished herself an extra-large helping. Taking a bite, she had the satisfaction of seeing him track the movement with an envious gaze. Nodding toward the refrigerator, she tore off a chunk of warm bread. "There's green salad. Undressed. Help yourself."
"Belle…"
"Let's save each other another moment of aggravation, Theo. I know there's somebody else."
"You do?" Theo flopped into his seat, lettuce flying from his plate as he dropped the plate onto the table. "How? When? I—"
"I wasn't one hundred percent certain until now."
"Oh, God." Theo covered his face with his hands. "I'm sorry, Belle. I didn't mean for it to happen."
"Are you in love?"
"Yes. Maybe. I think so."
"As long as you're certain." For the first time in hours, Belle felt like laughing. In deference to Theo's distress, she settled for a slight smile. "I think that's great."
"You do?" Theo spread his fingers, peeking at her. "I dreaded telling you."
"Relax. It makes things simpler."
"The hell it does." Jumping to his feet, Theo almost overturned the table. Somehow, Belle was able to save her wine and prevent the plate of lasagna from landing in her lap. "I am stuck. In love with one person, engaged to another. Do you know what my father would say?"
"Will say." Belle felt it important that Theo got his tenses straight.
"What?"
"What your father will say, Theo. You have to tell him." Belle started to slide the seven-karat diamond off her finger. "This engagement is officially over."
"No!" Theo fell to his knees, frantically pushing the ring back onto Belle's finger. "Please. I think we should go through with the wedding."
"I don't." Belle and Theo played tug of war for a few seconds before she gave up, knowing how ridiculous they must look. If brute force wouldn't work, she decided to try reason. "Don't you want to be with the woman you love? What's her name?"
Theo looked away before swallowing.
"You can tell me, Theo. Unless it's Mona. Anybody but her." Belle's adversarial relationship with Mona Workman began the first day of elementary school and continued to this day.
"Not Mona. Blaine."
"Blaine?" It took a moment for the implications to sink in. "Blaine? As in testicles instead of ovaries Blaine?"
Still not meeting Belle's gaze, Theo stood, nodding.
"Holy shit, Theo. You're gay?"
"No! Maybe." With a deep sigh, Theo ran a hand through his blond-tipped hair. "There's a chance that may be the case."
Belle's thoughts bounced in every direction like an out-of-control pinball. This revelation explained a lot. For instance, their lack of a sex life—a handful of times and lukewarm at best. It didn't excuse Theo's behavior.
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