A Bride For Christmas

by Marion Lennox

  ‘What the…?’

  ‘It’s a very good idea,’ she said. ‘You know Anna’s a local girl? She’s hardly been home for twenty years, and by local I mean Sydney, but she bought a property here two years back. She and Barret flew in here after Amazon Trek for a break, and the town went nuts. It seems they were planning a Christmas party, but suddenly they’ve decided it would be an excellent time to get married. Only nothing’s organised. A blank canvas, Mr Carver, just how you like it. So now you have your very first Australian Carver Bride raring to go. Three hundred guests on Christmas Day.’ She smiled some more. ‘Ten days. You’ll be very busy. But me…I have a little boy, who’ll have Christmas with his mummy. Which is just as the world should be. Now me and my disreputable handbag will take ourselves out of your life. Good luck, Mr Carver. And goodbye.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  THIS was no drama. Guy watched her go with mixed feelings. There was a part of him that felt a strange lurch that she should walk away, and it had nothing to do with the bombshell she’d thrown at him. As usual, though, he attempted to shove personal thoughts aside and slip back into business mode.

  It was difficult to shove the vision of Jenny away. The way she’d carried her handbag…

  Barret and Anna. He had to think.

  Barret Travers and Anna Price had a hugely powerful media presence. With Barret in a movie, an immediate box office hit was assured, and Anna’s profile was almost the same. Their impending wedding would turn the eyes of the world right here.

  To what? He couldn’t put on a huge, media-circus-type wedding with this much notice. The booking was only five minutes old. He had to cancel, and fast.

  That shouldn’t be a problem. He’d phone Malcolm and get contact details straight away. But before he could lift his phone the fax machine on Jenny’s desk hummed into life. Bemused, he watched the feed-out, recognising it for what it was. A press release.

  ‘Barret and Anna to Wed!’ the caption blared. ‘Wedding to be in Sandpiper Bay, Australia. Guy Carver’s first Australian wedding.’

  They’d had it planned before they’d contacted Jenny, he thought. They’d had this press release ready to go.

  Why? What could possibly add more media hype to this pair?

  Carver’s first Australian wedding. Guy thought about it, and his heart sank.

  Anna had been pilloried in the press for her bad taste. Of course she’d want pink tulle, he thought. Pink tulle would be right in her league.

  How to get pink tulle but still be thought cool by the cognoscenti?

  Have a Carver wedding.

  He had to cancel.

  He stared down at the press release. Specifically at the tiny cc…

  This was not a press release sent early just as confirmation to him. This was a press release which was simultaneously being read by every media outlet in the western world.

  They’d been expecting his yes as perfunctory. Jenny had given them their yes, and they’d told the world.

  If he pulled out now…

  Carver Event Management pulling out would be news. People knew he was in Australia. Jenny had just confirmed it. So why couldn’t he organise the wedding? No matter how carefully he explained it, Anna would take his refusal as a personal slight, and the world’s press would agree.

  Which meant problems for Anna.

  The paparazzi spent their life reporting on Anna-and Barret. Barret was a loud-mouthed boor, but he was number one at the box office. In contrast, Anna was struggling a little. A few months ago she’d spent time in drug rehab. and the press had had a field-day. Her life seemed to be together now, but the media still wavered between idolatry and ridicule.

  If they knew he’d knocked her back-International Events Organiser Guy Carver Refuses Anna/Barret Wedding-the world’s press would say it served her right. They’d say she’d got what she deserved and the balance might well tip on the side of ridicule.

  Which she didn’t deserve.

  Damn, he didn’t get emotionally involved. He didn’t.

  He was. Right up to his neck.

  He thumped the desk with his fist, and a fluffy stuffed dog, endowed for some reason with a disembodied head, started nodding in furious agreement. He stared down at the stupid creature and came close to throwing it through the pink-tinged windows.

  Jenny was outside the window.

  Over the road was the beach. A group of teenagers were clustered by the side of the road, leaning on their surfboards and chatting to Jenny. She was laughing at something one of them said.

  She looked…free.

  ‘Of course she looks free. You’ve just sacked her.’

  Except he hadn’t. She’d walked out on him. The thought was astonishing.

  Focus on this wedding. How long did he have? Ten days?

  The idea was ridiculous. He went through his top people in his head, trying to figure who could come.

  No one could come. Everyone held parties at Christmas. And every event he had in his mental diary was major. There’d be repercussions if he pulled anyone out.

  For a wedding like this, at this short notice, he needed local people. He needed…Jenny.

  She was climbing into an ancient Ford, a wagon that looked more battered than the decrepit vehicles the surfers were using. While he watched, she backed out of the parking spot, then headed right. Her wagon passed the teenagers and did a backfire that made everyone jump.

  ‘She’d be hopeless,’ he told no one in particular, and no one in particular was interested.

  ‘I can’t ask her.’

  No one was interested in that, either.

  He stared at the fax again and swore. ‘Do I care if the wonderful Anna’s career goes down the toilet?’

  He did, he thought. Damn, he did. Two months ago he’d catered for a sensational Hollywood ball. Anyone who was anyone had been present. He recalled a very drunken producer hitting on Anna. When she’d knocked him back he’d lifted her soda water, sniffed it, and thrown it away in disgust.

  ‘Once a tart, always a tart, love,’ he’d drawled at her. ‘You’re not such a good little actress that you can pretend to be something you’re not for ever.’

  Guy had intervened then, handing Anna another soda water, giving her a slight push away and deflecting the creep who’d insulted her by showing signs of investing in his latest project. But he’d seen Anna’s white face, pretence stripped, and he’d also seen how she’d stared into the soda water, taken a deep breath, and then deliberately started to drink it. To change your life took guts-who should know that better than him?

  If Anna wanted him to cater for her wedding then he would.

  ‘Even if it does mean I have to go on bended knee to the Widow Westmere.’

  Jenny pulled into the front yard of her parents-in-laws’ farm, switched off the ignition, took a few deep breaths-how to explain all this to Lorna and Jack?-and a car pulled in behind her.

  A Ferrari.

  Ferrari engines were unmistakable. What are the chances of someone else with a Ferrari pulling into my yard? she thought, and decided she ought to head inside fast, close the door and not even look out to see whether Mr Guy Hotshot Carver was on her property.

  ‘Mrs Westmere,’ he called, and the moment was lost. She sighed, leant back on her battered wagon with careful insouciance-and folded her arms.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about your contract.’

  ‘It’s clear,’ she said, trying to be brusque. ‘I have the right to work for you for a year, and I also have the right to walk away any time I like. Your business manager seemed to think I’d be jumping all over myself to stay, but the obligation is on your side; not mine.’

  ‘I’d like you to stay.’

  ‘Nah.’ She should be chewing gum, she decided. She didn’t have the insouciance quite right. ‘You’re pleased to be shot of me.’ Then she broke a bit-she couldn’t quite suppress the mischief. ‘Or you were until I landed you with the wedding of the century.
You’re going to have to cancel on the biggest wedding we’ve seen in this place. What a shame.’

  ‘I can’t cancel.’

  ‘Come on. You can afford to lose one wedding. All that hurts is your pride. And pride doesn’t matter to you. Just look what you did to Kylie.’

  ‘I-’

  ‘Is that you, Jenny?’ Jack’s voice interrupted, and Jenny hauled herself away from the wagon and abandoned the insouciance. ‘I need to go inside. You need to go…wherever rich entrepreneurs go when they’re not messing with this town. See you later.’

  ‘Do you have someone out there?’ Jack called.

  ‘Jenny, I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Mrs Westmere,’ she flashed. ‘It’s Mrs Westmere, unless I can call you Guy.’

  ‘Of course you can call me Guy.’

  ‘Bring your visitor in, Jenny.’

  ‘Go away,’ she said.

  ‘I need you.’

  ‘You don’t need anyone. You come waltzing into town in your flash car…’

  ‘It’s borrowed from a friend.’

  ‘You borrowed a Ferrari?’ she demanded incredulously. ‘Someone just tossed you the keys of a Ferrari and said, “Have it for a few days.” Like he has one Ferrari for normal use and another to lend to friends.’

  ‘His other car’s an Aston Martin,’ he said apologetically. ‘And his wife drives a Jag.’

  ‘I so much don’t need this conversation.’ She made to turn into the house, but he stepped forward and caught her shoulders. The action should have made her angry-and at one level it did-but then there was this other part of her…

  He really was a ludicrously attractive male, she thought. She wasn’t the least bit afraid of him. Well, why should she be when she had Lorna and Jack just through the screen door? But there was more than that. His grip felt somehow…okay.

  It wasn’t the least bit okay. This was those damned hormones working again, she thought. She’d been a widow for too long.

  But she had protection-against hormones as well as against marauding males. She hadn’t answered Jack, and Jack and Lorna had grown worried. Now the front screen slammed back and Jack was on the veranda. Jack was a wiry little man in his late seventies, tough as nails and belligerent to go with it. He was crippled with arthritis, but he didn’t let that stop him.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he growled, before Jenny could say a word. He stalked stiffly down the veranda, trying to disguise the limp from his gammy hip, trying to act as if he was going to lift over six feet of Guy Carver and hurl him off the property.

  Guy dropped his hands from Jenny’s shoulders. He didn’t step away, though. He stood a foot away from her, his eyes filled with quizzical laughter.

  ‘You have a security system?’

  ‘I surely do,’ she answered, taking a grip of her wandering hormones and turning to face her in-laws. ‘Jack, Lorna-this is Guy Carver.’

  Lorna was out on the veranda now. She’d pushed her wheelchair though the doorway, rolling to the edge of the ramp but no further. Lorna had once been a blousy, buxom blonde. Her hair was still determinedly blonde, and her eyes were still pretty and blue, but a stroke had withered one side of her body. One side of her face had very little movement and her speech was careful and stilted.

  ‘Mr Carver,’ she managed.

  ‘He says we can call him Guy.’

  ‘Why are you manhandling my daughter-in-law?’ Jack barked, and the lurking laughter behind Guy’s eyes was unmistakable.

  ‘I was just turning her in the right direction. Towards you.’

  ‘It’s okay, Jack,’ Jenny told him. ‘Mr…Guy’s just leaving.’

  ‘Look at the car,’ Lorna said, suddenly distracted. ‘What is that?’

  ‘A Ferrari,’ Guy said, bemused, and at that the screen door swung open again.

  ‘Don’t come out, Henry,’ Jenny said quickly, but it was too late. Henry was already on the veranda.

  She winced. She badly didn’t want Guy to see Henry. He’d already shown himself to be insensitive. How much damage could he do now?

  For the crash that had killed his father had left Henry so badly burned that for a while they’d thought he might not live. The six-year-old was slowly recovering, but the scars on the right side of his face were only a tiny indication of the scars elsewhere. His chest and his right leg bore a mass of scarring, and he was facing skin graft after skin graft as he grew.

  Henry should be a freckle-faced kid facing life with mischief and optimism. There were signs now that he could be again, but the scars ran deep. His thatch of deep brown curls stopped cruelly where the scarring began, just above his right ear. His brown eyes were alive and interested-thank God his sight had been untouched-but he’d lost so much weight he looked almost anorexic compared to most six-year-olds. His right leg was still not bearing weight, and he used crutches. His freckles stood out starkly on his too pale skin. Standing on the veranda in his over-big pyjamas-Lorna was sure he’d have a growth spurt any minute, and she sewed accordingly-he looked a real waif. The surgeons said that in time they’d have his face so normal that, as he matured, people would think of him as manly and rugged, but that time was a long way off from now.

  ‘I want to see the car,’ Henry said.

  She held her breath, waiting for Guy to respond. If she had her druthers Jenny would keep her private life absolutely to herself. A private person at the best of times, these last two years had been hell. She’d been forced to depend on so many people. The locals had been wonderful, but now she was finally starting to regain some control of her shattered life, and the look of immediate sympathy flashing into Guy Carver’s eyes made her want to hit him.

  What’s wrong with your little boy…?

  How many times had that been flung at her since Henry had recovered enough to be outside the house? It was never the locals-they all knew, and had more sense than to ask about his progress in front of him. But the squillionaires who arrived for a week or two were appalling, and she wanted to be shot of the lot of them.

  Maybe now she’d sold the business she could move, she thought. She could get a great place if she was prepared to go inland a little. But Jack and Lorna had lived here all their lives. She and Henry were all they had.

  She couldn’t leave.

  So now she flinched, waiting for Guy to say something like they all did. What’s wrong? or, Gee, what happened to your kid? Why is he so scarred? Or worse, Oh, you poor little boy…

  But Guy said nothing. He had his face under control again, and the shock and sympathy were gone. Instead he glanced at the Ferrari with affection. ‘It’s a 2002 Modena 360 F1,’ he told Henry, man to man.

  ‘It’s ace,’ Henry whispered, and something in Guy’s face moved. Something…changed.

  ‘If it’s okay with your mother, would you like a ride?’

  Henry’s small body became perfectly still. Rigid. As if steeling himself for a blow.

  ‘I…Mum…?’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ she said to Guy.

  ‘I don’t kid,’ he said, and his voice had changed, too. It had softened. ‘I mean it. I’m assuming this is your son?’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘I’m Guy,’ he told Henry. ‘And you are…?’

  ‘Henry,’ said Henry. ‘Is this your car?’

  ‘It’s borrowed.’

  ‘Do you have a car like this?’

  ‘I have a Lamborghini back in New York.’

  ‘Wow,’ Henry breathed, and looked desperately at his mother. ‘Is it okay if I take a ride with him?’

  ‘It’s dinnertime.’

  ‘Dinner can wait,’ Jack growled. Jenny’s father-in-law was looking at the car with an awe that matched his grandson’s. ‘If anyone offered me a ride in such a car I’d wait for dinner ’til breakfast.’

  ‘You’re next in the queue,’ Guy said, and grinned. ‘I’d take you all at once,’ he added apologetically, ‘but it’s hard to squeeze three people in these babies. Jenny, you can go third.’
>
  ‘I don’t want to go.’

  ‘Is it okay if I take Henry?’

  ‘Of course it’s okay,’ Jack snapped, as if astounded that anyone could ask that question. ‘Isn’t it, girl?’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, defeated, and Henry let out a war-whoop that could be heard back in Main Street. Then he paused.

  ‘You don’t mean just sit in it?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Can we go out on the coast road?’ Henry asked, eyeing his mother as if she’d grown two heads. Never go with strangers… Her consent meant she knew this guy and trusted him. His mother had a friend with a Ferrari. She could see she’d just raised herself in his estimation by about a mile. ‘The coast road winds round cliffs. With this car…it’ll go like it’s on rails.’

  ‘You won’t go fast?’ She knew her voice was suddenly tight, but she couldn’t help it.

  ‘We won’t go fast,’ Guy told her, and there was that tone in his voice that said he understood.

  How could he understand?

  The remembrance of his hands on her shoulders slipped back into her mind. Which was dumb.

  ‘Henry’s in his pyjamas,’ she said, too quickly, but suddenly that was how she felt. As if everything was too quick. ‘Does he need to change?’

  ‘No one notices who’s in a Ferrari,’ Guy told her. ‘They only notice the Ferrari. If you’re in a Ferrari you can wear what you d-whatever you like. You’re cool by association. Are you ready, Henry?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Henry breathed, and tossed aside his crutches and looked to his mother for help to go down the ramp. ‘Yeah, I am.’

  ‘He seems lovely.’

  ‘He’s not.’ Back inside, Jenny was trying to explain the extraordinary turn of events to her in-laws. ‘He won’t do Kylie’s wedding. She’s not good enough to be a Carver Bride.’

  ‘Kylie is a bit…’ Lorna said, and Jenny glowered and tossed tea into the pot with unnecessary force.