A Summer Wedding at Cross Creek Inn

by Cheryl Holt

  Jennifer blew out a heavy breath. “It’s ancient history, so please don’t mention it. At least not quite so loudly. And could we not talk about the skeletons in the Benjamin family closet? We’re not exactly the epitome of stability ourselves.”

  “We’re more stable than they are.”

  “It might be a close race.”

  Jennifer had figured she would loaf in the Great Room, that she’d eagerly watch the door so she could greet anyone who stepped through. But Rachel had already irked her, and she wouldn’t allow her sister to spoil a single second of such a glorious day.

  She pushed herself to her feet. “I’m taking a walk. It’s so pretty outside. I thought I’d check out the grounds.”

  “Don’t ask me to come with you. I’m happy right where I am.”

  “I didn’t ask,” Jennifer said more testily than she should have.

  Rachel pointed to some brochures on a nearby table. “There’s a grotto with a hot springs pool that guests can use. Let me know what it’s like. I might jump in it later.”

  It was an apology of sorts. “I will snoop it out.”

  “What if Eric’s mom shows up? She’ll wonder where you are and when you’ll be back. What should I tell her?”

  “I won’t be gone long. My nerves are shot, and I just need to clear my head. The fresh air should do me good.”

  “You’ve never been a hiker, so I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “Maybe I’m about to turn over a new leaf.”

  “I doubt it.” Rachel snorted, and Jennifer had started off when Rachel called, “Hey, there’s one other thing.”

  Jennifer halted and glanced over her shoulder. “What is it?”

  “I think I might have left my bridesmaid dress at home.”

  Jennifer’s heart plunged to her toes. “You what?”

  “I haven’t unpacked my suitcase yet, but I searched through it a bit ago, and the dress didn’t seem to be there.”

  “Don’t joke about it.”

  “Who’s joking?” Rachel casually retorted, then she shrugged. “I’ll look again next time I’m upstairs.”

  “You do that.”

  They were having a small wedding, with her and Eric each having only one person stand up with them. Eric had picked his best friend, Josh, and Jennifer had picked Rachel. They had another sister, Amy, but she was lost in an odd world and had announced she couldn’t attend, which was sad, but a relief too.

  Jennifer had expected to lean on Rachel—even though she shouldn’t have expected to. As the official maid of honor, Rachel was charged with hosting the bridal lunch on Friday, and during all of the festivities, her role was to pamper, fuss over, and help Jennifer maneuver the various stresses that would arise. She was supposed to act as her most stalwart friend and supporter, but Jennifer had never been able to rely on Rachel.

  From the instant Jennifer had sent a picture of the dress she’d chosen for Rachel to wear, her sister had been complaining about it. She didn’t like the color or the style, and she insisted it wouldn’t highlight her hair or figure. Once the garment had been delivered to her in Oregon, so she could have it altered and hemmed, she’d complained about how it hung on her frame, how the length was wrong for the kind of ceremony Jennifer envisioned.

  Jennifer thought the dress was perfect, and she couldn’t convince Rachel otherwise. She’d stopped arguing about it, but now this? Would Rachel have deliberately left the dress at home? Would she sabotage Jennifer in such a cruel way? Could she truly be that spiteful?

  Well, yes, she could be.

  Rachel was miserable and discontented, and she’d always been jealous of Jennifer. She was envious of Jennifer’s life in LA, of her rich fiancé and fancy wedding. She repeatedly expressed those opinions in a manner Jennifer couldn’t fail to notice.

  They were out in the middle of nowhere, the Inn located on the edge of the tiny mountain village of Cross Creek. Cell service and Wi-fi were sketchy. It wasn’t as if they could drive to the mall and buy another dress. If Rachel hadn’t brought hers, what would they do?

  The answer to that question was too infuriating to contemplate, and at the moment—faced with the prospect that her sister might have gleefully ruined the wedding photos—Jennifer couldn’t answer it.

  She whipped away and stomped out, and when Rachel called to her again, she pretended not to hear.

  The view out the window of her suite was spectacular, and Sharon was trying to enjoy it. She was surrounded by thick, verdant woods, and off in the distance, stark mountain peaks rose, seemingly to the stratosphere. Even though it was mid-July, they were dotted with snow.

  She’d never been what might be described as a mountain person. Being a typical Californian, one who’d been born and raised in Los Angeles, she’d had her auras read and her chakras aligned and her pores opened. She was a water person, and she lived on the beach in Malibu where she could stare out at the ocean.

  Still though, the Colorado scenery was beautiful, and she had to remember that it was and focus on that fact. It was awfully quiet though, and the silence would take some getting used to. In Malibu, with its lone highway that was constantly clogged with cars, there was always a hum of traffic. It was a regular drone that never ended.

  She wondered if the serenity and isolation might gradually drive her crazy, but then, she was staying in Colorado for four short days. She could endure any torment for four days. Couldn’t she?

  On Sunday morning, after Eric and Jennifer departed on their honeymoon, she would head back to California, and the appalling weekend would be over.

  As the mother of the groom, she should have been more excited, but she couldn’t muster the necessary enthusiasm. Initially, she’d decided she wouldn’t attend, but friends had nagged until she’d changed her mind. So . . . here she was, but she wasn’t glad about it, and she had to alter her mood, bury her misgivings, and forge on with a positive attitude.

  She couldn’t display a hint of her immense irritation. Through every minute of the ordeal, she was determined to look terrific and happy. After the wedding was over, if anyone mentioned her at all, it was her specific intent that only upbeat stories would spread.

  She couldn’t have others supposing she was consumed by envy, dread, or fury.

  A knock sounded on the door, and she went over and peeked out. A pretty, petite woman, who was thirty or so, was standing there.

  “May I help you?” Sharon asked.

  “Mrs. Benjamin? You wanted to see me. I’m Victoria DeAngelo. I’m the event planner at Cross Creek Inn. We’ve corresponded.”

  “Thank you for being prompt. And it’s Ms. Kildare. Sharon Kildare. I haven’t been Sharon Benjamin in years.”

  She should have told the girl to call her Sharon, but in many ways, she was very old-fashioned. At fifty-five, she believed lines of age and authority should be respected, and she didn’t like younger people to be so familiar. It skewed relationships, and they lost track of who was in charge and in control.

  She gestured into the sitting room of her suite. “Won’t you come in, Miss DeAngelo?”

  “You can call me Victoria if you like.”

  “I will.”

  There was a brief pause where Miss DeAngelo waited for Sharon to request that she be called Sharon, so they could be on a first-name basis, but she didn’t.

  Suddenly, it seemed as if she was fussy and rude and overly concerned by the proper mode of address, but she didn’t correct the situation. During the entire debacle, she would be referred to as Ms. Kildare, and Victoria DeAngelo would just have to put up with it.

  There was a table by the window, a fresh breeze blowing in, and they sat down at it.

  “What did you need, ma’am?” Victoria asked.

  “I thought we should review the schedule for the next few days.”

  “I’d be delighted to discu
ss it with you.”

  Sharon didn’t actually require a recitation, and with how much money the idiotic place was costing, she was sure the staff was competent. If it wasn’t, people like her ex-husband, Dennis, would stop reserving it.

  It was just that she hadn’t had any involvement with the wedding plans or other arrangements. Dennis’s wife, Crystal, had picked the venue, and Dennis had paid for it. Sharon’s suggestions hadn’t been sought, which was galling, but she’d been careful not to let her pique be noted.

  Crystal would have been the one who selected the Cross Creek Inn. Not Dennis. Dennis was hardly a nature lover. He’d been born and raised in LA too, and he thrived in the city with his movie deals, public acclaim, and fawning starlets. A rural, mountain retreat was the very last spot he’d have agreed to hold Eric’s wedding.

  It was likely Crystal had heard it was currently chic, and she always had to be at the forefront of what was fashionable. With her health-and-wellness empire, and her constant posting of inspirational videos, she’d use the property as a marketing event. She would show her legions of fans that she was wallowing in the forest for the weekend, and they’d all be in awe—and eager to wallow in the forest too.

  Eric and Jennifer had been in such a hurry to marry that Crystal had dumped most of the details in Miss DeAngelo’s lap. Miss DeAngelo had been kind about keeping Sharon apprised, but during the whole charade, Sharon had been left with the distinct impression that she was being consulted merely as a courtesy. Her opinions and ideas were irrelevant.

  She had two sons, and Eric was the first to marry. Her other son, Alex, probably never would. He was working for a nonprofit agency, digging water wells in Kenya, and he wasn’t even coming to the wedding. He was that determined to avoid anything resembling a Benjamin family celebration.

  So Eric’s wedding was likely the only one she’d ever get to enjoy. She should have been grateful that the onerous chore of preparing, ordering, and choosing had been assumed by others, and later on, she was certain she’d concur with that statement. But for now, she was incensed at being out on the fringe of what was happening.

  As Sharon had discovered in their infrequent emails, Miss DeAngelo was very professional. She’d brought a folder with all the pertinent information, and they assessed the important facts: who would arrive and when, which rooms had been assigned, when and where meals would be held.

  There had been no changes since the previous occasion they’d communicated, so Sharon was obviously wasting Miss DeAngelo’s time, but the girl was polite and chatty. Sharon posed questions as long as she could, not in any rush to be by herself in the large, quiet space.

  Eventually, she ran out of reasons to delay, and Miss DeAngelo managed to slip out. The walls seemed to close in, and Sharon went over to the French doors and stepped outside. Her suite sported a small balcony that looked out at the woods. She stood and gaped, being riveted once again by the total, overwhelming silence.

  According to Miss DeAngelo, Jennifer, her father, brother, and sister had already checked in. A handful of Jennifer’s college and work friends had stumbled in too. Sharon had socialized with Jennifer—twice!—but she wasn’t acquainted with any of the others, not even Jennifer’s father, and it underscored how ridiculous Eric was being to marry the blasted girl in such a hurry.

  Who did that? Who met a girl, dated for two months, then planned a huge, expensive wedding a few weeks later? Who became engaged when the parents hadn’t even met? Yes, it was a new day and age, but every facet of the match appeared wrong to her.

  First off, there was the problem of Eric and Jennifer being from completely different backgrounds. He was thirty and she was twenty-five, so they were at a good age to marry, but Eric had grown up rich, spoiled, and entitled, while Jennifer had grown up middle-class, ordinary, and in humble circumstances.

  In a prior era, the pair would never even have been introduced, and there was definitely something to be said for a father picking his son’s bride.

  The bigger issue for her was that she knew Eric all too well. He was Dennis’s son in every conceivable way. There had never been a minute where women hadn’t been hanging all over him. She doubted he recognized the significance of traits like monogamy and fidelity. He certainly had no ability to be faithful.

  What was he thinking by getting married? Jennifer was pretty, smart, and educated, but why her? Why now? He’d never previously evinced the slightest interest in matrimony, and Sharon didn’t believe he’d fully considered the ramifications of being a husband rather than a bachelor.

  To him, it was probably like a fun stage play, where he was the lead character. In the future, he’d be stunned when he found out he couldn’t continue to live like a single man.

  Sharon had suffered her own train wreck by being married to Dennis for twenty years. He’d tossed her over the year she’d turned forty—for Crystal, a much younger, gorgeous trophy wife. Sharon had been so blind and so trusting that she’d had no warning, and the fallout was still pelting her.

  She wouldn’t wish her repugnant experience on any female, and she was terribly afraid Eric would deliver the exact same ending to Jennifer Layton. She couldn’t mention it though, but disaster had to be approaching.

  As she realized where her grim musings had wandered, she shook her head with disgust. She had to stop obsessing in such a negative way.

  She spent too much time alone, and her isolation was a general dilemma that needed constant fixing. She tried to rectify it by joining groups and clubs, but it was difficult to find women with whom she had much in common, so she had friends, but not many, and none of them were particularly close.

  The silence was excruciating, so it was easy to drown in misery. She had to force herself downstairs. She would sit in the Great Room and welcome their guests. When she’d staggered in, no one had been present to greet her. Not her ex-husband. Not her son who was the groom. Not Jennifer, the bride-to-be.

  She’d been shut out of most of the nuptial planning, but she could play the part of gracious hostess. Couldn’t she?

  She went into the bathroom and checked herself in the mirror. For being fifty-five, she looked good. Her brown hair (dyed and highlighted) was still lush and vibrant. Her face only showed a few wrinkles, seeming to indicate a carefree life, which it definitely hadn’t been. Not the prior fifteen years of it anyway.

  Her body looked fabulous too. Once she’d heard about the wedding, she’d detoxed and starved herself to lose ten pounds. With her having dropped a dress size, she’d borrowed a friend’s LA stylist and had bought new clothes to fill her suitcase, so she’d appear rich, stylish, and elegant.

  All in all, she was in prime condition, and there was no reason to mope and feel sorry for herself.

  She whipped away from the mirror and headed down the stairs. The Great Room was empty, but after a bit, an expensive SUV pulled up outside. There was a second one behind it, and a team of photographers and videographers jumped out of it. They positioned themselves around the first car, eager to capture the occupants as they emerged.

  Sharon watched, wondering who it would be, but figuring she could guess without exerting much mental effort.

  Her ex, Dennis, was famous in the LA movie business, but he never sought the limelight. It was just automatically shined on him. His wife, Crystal, sought it though. So did Crystal’s daughter, Lindsey. They were both internet sensations, Crystal with her health gibberish and Lindsey with her being what was called a trend influencer.

  Sharon had never snooped on-line to learn about the girl—she wasn’t interested in the wretched child!—but from listening to gossip, she’d discovered that Lindsey simply talked about fashion, cosmetics, and other topics. She was paid by companies to convince her gullible followers to purchase and wear what she promoted.

  The mother/daughter duo was like a force of nature. They lived their lives out in the open, in a very public
way, and they didn’t go anywhere or do anything unless they taped it and posted it for the whole world to view.

  Apparently, the moment Sharon had been dreading had finally arrived. Wasn’t it best to get it over with immediately?

  Since the day Dennis had apprised her that he was leaving her, that he’d already filed for divorce and was miles down the road to dissolving their marriage, Sharon had bumped into Crystal on precisely one occasion. It had been the afternoon when Sharon had stopped by their home in Brentwood for a nostalgic stroll through the rooms.

  She’d let Dennis keep the house where they’d raised their boys. After he’d ripped their family apart, she hadn’t had the heart to stay in it. The place would have echoed with the incessant reminders of all that had been lost. Instead, she’d made him give her their beach house in Malibu, and she was happy with that choice, but the final visit to the house had been incredibly traumatic.

  As she’d walked out the door to climb in her car and drive away, Crystal had blustered in with a team of interior decorators. Sharon had seen pictures of her in tabloid stories, so she knew who Crystal was, but it was the one and only time they’d come face to face.

  Crystal had been twenty-three, petite, gorgeous, thin, and blond. Sharon had been forty, taller, wider, and quite ordinary by comparison. Her brunette hair had been chopped at the shoulders (it still was) so she didn’t have to fuss with it, and she’d been dressed in cutoff denim shorts and flip-flops.

  Crystal had been attired in a white, skintight jumpsuit, with gold piping on the cuffs and shoulders, that had probably cost thousands of dollars. Her makeup and hair had been perfect, as if she’d just spent hours at the stylist. She might have been about to strut onto a movie set and be filmed in the most important scene.

  On their crossing paths so unexpectedly, Sharon had felt dowdy, fat, and old—when she’d been none of those things. But she’d never forgotten how pitiful she must have seemed, how betrayed, how hideously wronged by her husband.

  When she’d insisted Dennis could have their house, it had never occurred to her that he’d simply move Crystal into it. It had never occurred to her that he would substitute one wife for another, but that’s what he’d done. He’d brutally and quickly divorced Wife #1 so he could wed a much younger woman. Then he’d slyly persuaded Wife #1 to relinquish their marital home, and he’d snuggled into it with Wife #2.