by Cheryl Holt
“I’m ready, but first, let me introduce you to Dennis. Eric’s father?” She spun to Dennis and said, “Dennis, this is Jennifer’s father, Greg Layton.”
“Oh.” Dennis scrutinized him, and he seemed startled by how close she and Greg were.
And they were suddenly very close. The prior night, they’d loafed at the sports bar until the baseball game was over, then they’d headed to a country-western bar to dance. She couldn’t remember when she’d enjoyed herself so much.
He was kind, a good listener, and absolutely normal in his ideas and sentiments. She was halfway in love with him and had decided, no matter what else happened the rest of her life, she’d always be glad she’d come to Eric’s wedding, merely so she’d had the chance to cross paths with Greg.
He moved his arm off her shoulders and shook Dennis’s hand, saying, “Great to meet you.”
“You too.”
The two men studied each other in that peculiar manner men did. In Dennis’s world, he evaluated everyone with an eye toward how that person could make him richer or more powerful. He’d find little to appreciate in Greg, but Greg was so secure in his views and attitudes that Dennis’s opinion was irrelevant.
Sharon had gossiped with him about Dennis, about the awful period when Dennis had left her for Crystal. He’d been incensed on her behalf and had declared he was certain he wouldn’t like Dennis. She could sense him bristling, but then, Dennis wasn’t very likable.
“You’ll have to excuse us,” Greg said, “but we’re on our way out.”
“Sure, yeah.” Dennis was taken aback by Greg’s lack of awe, and he waved to the doors. “Go, go! Don’t let me delay you. I just staggered in myself, and I need to check in.”
“We’ll see you at the parents’ supper. We’ll talk then.”
It was the extent of their discussion. Greg guided her out to the car the valet had arranged for them. He didn’t wait for the valet to help her in, but helped her himself. Then he rounded the vehicle and climbed in the driver’s seat.
Dennis was staring at them. Not fondly or jealously. No, it was simply that he’d constantly heard stories over the years—most humiliatingly true—that she’d wound up miserable and alone after the divorce, that she was aging badly, and that she was still wretchedly unhappy.
It was the sort of news that would have had him preening and strutting. He’d have assumed he’d won a huge victory by leaving her devastated. But he’d been forced to accept that she was in terrific shape, so he’d be perplexed over how the reality could vary so sharply from the rumors.
Once the door was shut, she grinned over at Greg and said, “That might have been the best moment of my life.”
“Why?”
“Dennis is so impressed with himself, and he expects others to be too. You didn’t fawn over him.”
“Well, he’s an asshole. Why would I waste my breath?”
“You are perfect,” she said.
“I know.”
They drove away without glancing back, but she was positive Dennis watched them until they were through the gate and had disappeared down the road.
She sighed with pleasure and thought, Perfect. Yes, definitely perfect.
Crystal gaped at her laptop, at the links her publicist, Pippa, had sent, and she nearly slammed the lid down, being terrified Dennis might stroll up and peek at it.
He’d arrived a bit earlier and was in the bathroom, taking a shower. The water was running, so he wouldn’t suddenly waltz in, but she was nervous as a cat in a thunderstorm.
She scrolled through the first article Pippa had forwarded. It contained damning information about Lindsey and college. Words jumped out at her: spoiled brat, entitled, clueless, rich bitch.
A torrent of nasty publicity was raining down on Lindsey, which meant it would soon rain down on Crystal, which meant it might ultimately rain down on Dennis. If that occurred, he would kill her. He would literally kill her.
After she’d coaxed him into marrying her, he’d been very clear that he wouldn’t be a father to Lindsey. He’d bluntly announced that he was done having kids, and she was on her own with her daughter. Nor would he let Crystal get pregnant; he’d had a vasectomy to guarantee she couldn’t.
For the prior fifteen years, Crystal had worked valiantly to keep Lindsey away from him, so her daughter had mostly been raised by strangers who were paid to do what Crystal couldn’t be bothered to do.
Crystal hadn’t liked the burden of being a mother, but she received an enormous amount of notoriety due to Lindsey being the only child of her dead, rocker father. Crystal hadn’t ever been willing to have that part of her life fall by the wayside.
But it was growing more and more obvious that Lindsey had some serious problems. She’d inherited her father’s penchant for drugs and alcohol, and she was rude, lazy, and defiant. Crystal didn’t spend enough time with her to be irked by her bad habits, but Lindsey’s mess couldn’t be allowed to spread.
Earlier that morning, Crystal had ordered Lindsey to call Pippa and discuss strategy, but Lindsey hadn’t picked up her phone. Pippa had drafted frantic replies anyway, that the press had it wrong, that Lindsey loved college, that she was incredibly grateful to attend, blah, blah, blah . . .
The entire debacle was unfolding while they were stuck in the middle of nowhere, and Crystal couldn’t escape until Sunday after the newlyweds had flown off to their honeymoon. It was Thursday, so Sunday was three days away. In the fast-paced media world, the interval was an eternity.
The water quit running in the bathroom, and she tucked her laptop in a drawer and poured herself a glass of wine. She poured Dennis one too. Before he’d headed to the shower, they hadn’t spoken two words to each other, but anymore, that was how they interacted. He had some cob up his butt with regard to her, but he wouldn’t spit out what it was, and she wasn’t about to beg for an explanation.
He emerged naked, with a towel wrapped around his waist, giving her an unobstructed view of his drooping, bloated torso, and furnishing more proof that he wasn’t aging very well. He hadn’t dried off and was dripping on the floor.
“Geez, Dennis, you’re such a pig. You’re getting the place all wet.”
“Where are my jeans?”
“They’re in the bedroom, on the bed.”
When he’d initially walked in the door, he’d been surly and curt, his sole comment a barked command to lay out some clothes for him—as if she were his servant.
The Inn offered personal butlers, so she could have summoned one of them to tend him, but she didn’t want them lurking in the suite and eavesdropping on their conversations, so she’d have to tolerate his bossing her.
He’d never been particularly affectionate, and she wasn’t affectionate either, but she was starting to think she didn’t like him very much, and she wondered why she stayed.
The instant the thought popped into her mind, she scolded herself for permitting it to flourish. She stayed because he was Dennis Benjamin. Her existence revolved around LA, and in the glorious city, there was no more powerful or influential man than Dennis. If they split, she’d become his ex-spouse, and she’d lose the status she received from being his wife.
Years earlier, she’d signed a lousy pre-nup. Dennis had been a harsh opponent who’d scoffed at a more generous agreement. She’d been determined to wed him, so she’d stupidly relented, and he’d always refused to renegotiate it. If they parted, she’d be a lot poorer and a lot less important, and she was too arrogant to ever have that happen.
Plus, when she’d worked so hard to steal him from Sharon, she couldn’t wind up in the same pathetic boat of being divorced. Her vanity wouldn’t allow it.
She sipped her wine, cursing herself yet again for booking the isolated spot. With the drama exploding in LA, she was trapped in her own little Hell.
Eventually, Dennis waddled in, and he was just as slovenly w
ith his clothes on as he’d been with them off. He pictured himself as being young and sexy and thirty, but he was sixty. His body had betrayed him, so he simply came across as fashion-challenged and unkempt.
He was rich enough to dress however he liked, and it was exhausting to stand next to him when she spent hours every day to guarantee she was extremely glamorous. Then again, if she checked the term trophy wife in the dictionary, she’d find a photo of herself. It was her duty to look fabulous, so other men would realize Dennis was married to a babe and be envious because of it. She couldn’t ever forget that fact.
The wine she’d poured him was on a table by the window. She pointed to it, and he went over and grabbed it. He gazed out at the mountains, and the silence was oppressive, but she wasn’t about to fill it. He was grouchy from his trip, and if she tried to talk, he’d snap at her.
“This is a godforsaken place,” he ultimately muttered, and he glared at her over his shoulder. “What were you thinking, picking it for the ceremony?”
Her blood boiled. It was so typical of him to blame her. “I told you when I chose it that I’d heard great things about it from prior guests. It’s private and secluded, which is what you demanded. It’s quaint and chic. I asked your opinion, and you said it was okay.” He never paid attention to any female though.
“I said that?”
“Yes. You’ll get used to it, and if you don’t? You’re flying out on Sunday. I’m sure you’ll survive for three days.”
“I wasted a whole day traveling.”
“It’s your son’s wedding, Dennis. You can be forgiven for having to leave LA.”
“Eric is supposed to be here this afternoon. Is he really coming?”
“That’s the rumor.”
He snorted at that, then gazed out the window again. After a bit, he said, “I ran into Sharon down in the lobby. She looked good.”
Crystal wouldn’t touch that observation with a ten-foot pole.
“I’ve seen her around.” Crystal offered nothing more.
“I suggested we have a family breakfast tomorrow. She’s arranging it for me.”
Crystal bristled. “I wouldn’t be interested in that.”
“It would be a family breakfast,” he snidely replied, “so you wouldn’t be invited.”
Bastard! she fumed.
She liked to pretend she was a powerful, independent woman, but in her marriage, that wasn’t the case. Because of their age difference, he treated her as if he was her father rather than her husband. If she argued or stated an idea contrary to his, he’d reprimand her as if she were a child.
It was galling, but short of divorcing his ass, she couldn’t figure out how to change the dynamic, and the situation was growing worse.
“I was finally introduced to Jennifer’s father,” he said. “He was with Sharon in the lobby.”
“I’ve met him too. He’s so accursedly . . . normal. He bores me silly.”
“He would.” Was that a criticism? “He and Sharon are awfully friendly.”
“And I should care about that . . . why?”
“No reason.” He shrugged. “I was merely commenting.”
He continued to stare outside, and he was angry about something, but she didn’t inquire. If it was an issue he was eager to address, he’d raise it—and he did.
“Have you checked any media sites today?” He sounded much too casual.
“Just briefly,” she lied. “I’m on vacation, so I’m unplugged.”
“Liar. Who’s your publicist? That Pippa woman? Why hasn’t she quelled the stories about Lindsey?”
“She should have them tamped down in a few hours.”
“When I wake up in the morning, the gossip better have vanished.”
“Or what, Dennis? Are you threatening me?”
“No, I’m threatening Lindsey. I’ll obtain a court order to become her guardian, and I’ll send her to rehab. I’ll keep her locked away too.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t like Lindsey enough to exert yourself.”
“She doesn’t get to impact my business and reputation. If you can’t manage her, then I will take charge.”
“You’re being completely obnoxious. As usual.”
He spun to face her, and he shot such a virulent look that her pulse actually raced, then he smoothed his expression and said, “Sharon claimed the parents’ supper is being held tonight.”
“Jennifer insisted on it, and I couldn’t talk her out of it.”
“You promised—if I arrived late—I wouldn’t have to sit through it.”
“It won’t kill you, and in any ordinary family, the parents meet before the ceremony. Mrs. Layton died years ago, so you only have to meet one parent instead of two. Be glad for small favors, and if you intend to be a total prick about every little thing, you should have stayed in LA.”
“Yes, I probably should have.”
He started out, and she said, “Where are you going? I could accompany you. I don’t have any plans.”
“Since we pulled through the security gate, my phone has stopped working.”
“Really? I haven’t had a single problem with mine.” She hoped she appeared innocent as a nun.
“I have to find out who can get me reliable service, and I swear to God, if no one can, I will head back to the airport.”
“Fine, leave! Skip Eric’s wedding. It doesn’t matter to me if you’re here or not. He’s not my kid.”
She forced a smile, anxious to push him into a more pleasant space. If he went downstairs in such a bad mood, he’d throw his weight around and make enemies with the entire staff, but then, he was an expert at pissing people off.
“I’ve been wanting to ask you a question,” she said.
“About what?”
“Next year is my fortieth birthday. I was wondering if we could arrange our schedules so we can take a few weeks off together.”
At the prospect, he was aghast. “To do what?”
“To celebrate. We could treat ourselves to a holiday.”
“I have three new projects kicking up. I don’t have time to galivant with you.” He snorted again, with quite a bit of disdain. “Besides, you shouldn’t remind me that I’m about to have a forty-year-old wife. We should let that milestone fade into the background.”
What the hell did that mean?
Before she could demand an explanation, he walked out, the mild warning ringing in her ears.
“He’s landing in Aspen in an hour.”
“How will he travel to the Inn? Will he buzz up in a helicopter?”
Jennifer said to her brother, Kyle, “The clouds are too low, so he’s coming in a car.”
“Will he be here for the parents’ supper?”
“I’m sure he will.”
She wasn’t keen to discuss when Eric would show up. It seemed to her as if he was a year late rather than a day late, and she wouldn’t jinx it.
She and Kyle were in the Great Room, snuggled on a plush sofa. Most everyone had headed off to sightsee for the afternoon, and they were beginning to return, so she was greeting them and listening to them gush about their adventures. Though it felt petty, she envied them.
She had remained at the Inn, assuming she’d be overwhelmed by last-minute tasks, but she hadn’t been. Miss DeAngelo was very competent, and though Jennifer wasn’t certain, she suspected the woman was speaking with Crystal about issues or concerns.
Jennifer should have been consulted on every subject, but she was pretty much ignored. But then, the Benjamins were paying for the wedding, and the Laytons hadn’t been required to chip in a penny. Why would she expect to be consulted?
Except that she was the bride. She was trying not to be aggravated.
“What will you do this evening while the parents are eating?” she asked her brother.
>
“I’ll sit and watch your friends drink in the bar. I’m too young to join them, so I’ll just have to twiddle my thumbs.”
“There are all sorts of activities to keep you busy,” she protested, depressed to hear him complain. Wasn’t she providing an enjoyable event? “You could swim in the hot springs or there’s a movie room somewhere.”
“It’s already been booked.” She must have looked distressed, for he hurried to say, “Don’t fuss over me. You’re not my babysitter.”
“I want you to have fun, and it doesn’t sound as if you are.”
“It’s not your job to entertain me.”
“Yes, it is. It’s my wedding. The guests are supposed to insist it’s the best thing that ever happened to them.”
He grinned. “I will absolutely say that to anyone who inquires.”
Kyle was a lot like their dad. He was so laidback that he fit in nicely in any situation. He liked women too and worried about them. It was a burden all her siblings carried, as if they had a duty to protect those around them.
“Have you met Eric’s stepsister, Lindsey?” he asked.
“Just once. Why?”
“She’s kind of a mess. I feel sorry for her.”
“You feel sorry for every female.”
He stared at her, then asked, “Have you ever wondered if you’ll like being part of Eric’s family?”
“Well . . . ah . . . yes, I’ll like it. What a weird question.”
He shrugged. “They’re so different from us.”
“I’m not marrying Eric’s stepmother or stepsister. I’m marrying Eric, and he’s terrific.” He didn’t jump to agree, and she scowled. “You were there when he came to Oregon at Easter. You saw how good we are together.”
“I think you’ll be very happy with him,” he said, but insincerely.
Her temper soared. Had he been gossiping with their dad? Or with Rachel? Neither of them had openly disparaged Eric, but she was constantly left with the impression that they didn’t like him. Were they snickering that she was making a mistake?
Before she could delve into it, he changed topics. “Have you talked to Crystal Benjamin today?”
