When She Falls

by Jessie Clever

  “I don’t need any marijuana, Mum, but thank you for the suggestion.”

  His mum sighed. “Oh well, at least I tried. Remember to take care of yourself, Cam. You’re always looking out for everyone else.”

  He rang off with his mum and sat in the silence of the den for a few minutes thinking about what his mum had said. Not about her friends with benefits status with an old Italian man, but about taking care of himself. It sounded a lot like what Lydia was always accusing him of, taking care of her. But wasn’t that what he was supposed to do?

  He stood, scrubbing his face with his hands as he headed toward the kitchen and coffee. He’d grab a shower and get some work done. It would do him good not to think about his wife for a while, naked or otherwise.

  Lydia was almost certain Rebecca would not show for their appointment that day when suddenly she appeared, floating like an apparition between the racks of bridesmaids dresses along the staging dais.

  “Hi, Rebecca.” Lydia walked as carefully as possible up to the waif of a woman. “Glad you could make it.”

  Rebecca Hatfield nodded absently and bent to look at her smartphone. “I’ll just wait over here until my mom gets here.” Rebecca settled into one of the velvety upholstered slipper chairs that lined the dais.

  “Oh, it’s just you and me today, Rebecca. Did I not mention that on the phone?” Lydia asked, knowing damn well she had not.

  If she had any hope of securing this account, she had to ignore the rules, and if that meant omitting some information to get her perspective client in the building, then so be it. That was how she had gotten Rebecca here after all. She had called the woman that morning and advised her that they had an appointment today at five. The gullible girl had gone along with it, and Lydia was quite pleased with herself. Not that she enjoyed conning her clients, but there was something about the chase that thrilled her.

  Rebecca looked up from her smartphone, and for what seemed like only the second time in the span they had been acquainted, the young woman actually looked at her. “What?” she said.

  Lydia smiled. The shop was quiet around them, the last appointment ending nearly thirty minutes earlier. Annette and Shelly had gone home already, and Lydia had put the closed sign out on the front window. Rebecca obviously had not noticed it, as Lydia thought she would not.

  “I think family mean well when it comes to a wedding, but they can often get in the way.” Lydia took the chair next to Rebecca, casually leaning against the back on a single bent elbow. “But this is your day, Rebecca. This isn’t about anyone else but you. And part of this whole planning experience should be just that. All about you. And I thought tonight we could start working on that.”

  Rebecca watched her, her gray eyes cool in the soft light of the boutique.

  “What is it that you want out of this wedding day, Rebecca?”

  Lydia knew the question was explosive, knew that the answer could be not to have the wedding at all, but there was a risk involved in what Lydia was trying to do. If she didn’t push it, she may not get the result she wanted at all, which was the Hatfield account on the shop’s books.

  Rebecca stared at her, and Lydia thought no response would be coming when the young woman finally spoke, her answer startling.

  “Not what my mother wants, apparently,” she said.

  Lydia blinked, recalling Emily’s words from earlier and feeling a sense of understanding creep over her. It had been the same when she herself faced the walk down the aisle. Only now, Emily was making her begin to doubt her understanding of the event, and perhaps, Rebecca was also misguided in her mother’s wishes for the big day.

  Lydia leaned forward. “Your mother isn’t here, Rebecca,” she said. “So let’s talk about what you want.”

  Rebecca was silent for several moments, her gaze lingering on the gauzy fabric of her short skirt as she picked at the hem. Suddenly, her eyes shot up, her gaze focused on Lydia.

  “I want a beach wedding,” the other woman said.

  Lydia paused, not expecting that answer in the least.

  Finally, she recovered enough to say, “A beach wedding?”

  Rebecca nodded, straightening as life seemed to seep into her for the first time. “Yeah, I want to get married standing barefoot on a beach somewhere. Maybe in Cancun or something with just my sisters and Eric. That’s it.”

  “Beach weddings can be beautiful,” Lydia said. “You can get a gazebo or at least an arbor and some—”

  Rebecca stood so suddenly Lydia sat back to avoid getting hit. “You don’t get it either,” she said, her long legs quickly carrying her toward the door. Lydia stood, too, her heart racing as she watched the future of her shop near the exit.

  “Wait,” she called out even though she hadn’t worked out what to say beyond that.

  It was in that space that Cam popped into her mind. What would Cam do right then? What would he say to her? Whatever it was, it would be spoken with an excessively thick brogue, and she was certain to say something smart in return. But miraculously, Rebecca had stopped and turned to face her, and when the young woman actually looked at Lydia, Cam’s advice came reeling back to her, his advice about making the young woman believe a wedding was happening. There was no better way to make a person believe something than giving them something substantial to see with their own eyes.

  “A beach wedding?” Lydia said.

  Rebecca nodded.

  “Give me two seconds.” Lydia dashed into the back room where racks upon racks of gowns hung in eerily white silence, waiting for their turn at the one and only occasion at which they would be worn.

  She fully expected Rebecca to be gone by the time she returned to the main room, but the young woman surprised Lydia yet again by sitting in the chair she had taken earlier, her eyes scanning the screen of her smartphone. Lydia held up her right hand, a gown dangling from her grip.

  “Beach wedding, right?”

  With that, Rebecca Hatfield was suddenly paying attention to her own wedding.

  Several minutes later in the dressing room, Lydia turned Rebecca around to face the mirror when she had snapped the eye and hook closure at the top of the dress. She had already scooped Rebecca’s long tresses into a loose messy chignon at the back of her neck, the long brown layers trickling around her face. When Rebecca finally looked in the mirror, Lydia knew she had her, and quietly, she backed away to give the young woman a moment to realize she was wearing the dress.

  It was a strapless gown with a fitted dropped waist that accentuated Rebecca’s leanness, highlighting her beautiful collarbones. From the dropped waist, the skirt fell in puddles from an off center split, exposing Rebecca’s long, incredibly toned and incredibly tanned legs, giving her the mobility she would need to walk down a sandy beach. The skirt swept to the side to cascade into a moderate train of tulle layers, subtle and gorgeous, the perfect combination for a beach wedding dress.

  Rebecca’s tentatively reached for one of the tulle layers, her tapered fingers just brushing the edge of the fabric.

  Lydia knew what the other woman was thinking. She knew because Lydia had been thinking the same thing when she had found the dress. It was the same thing all brides thought.

  This is the beginning of my happily ever after.

  But Lydia never got her happily ever after. Instead she had gotten an estranged husband, and a secret she kept from everyone but her closest friends as she struggled to be the Lydia Baxter she thought she should be. Standing there behind Rebecca, watching yet another bride think it was the beginning of the best years of her life, the happiest day of her life, the happiest she would ever be, Lydia felt nothing but emptiness.

  It was worse than it normally was when she put the right dress with the right bride. It was worse because Rebecca Hatfield represented everything Lydia thought she wanted. The Hatfield account was the success she needed to finally prove to her father that the shop was not just some woman’s fanciful notion. That Baxter’s of Newbury was a serious venture, one
that Lydia planned to make flourish and someday pass onto—

  Who?

  Pass it on to whom, Lydia Baxter?

  But while she admonished herself in her head, Rebecca continued to lovingly touch the layers of the dress, her hands skimming the tight waist, the criss crossed layers of tulle across the bodice. Yes, now Rebecca Hatfield believed she was to be married. Lydia knew it.

  And then somewhere a smartphone rang, and the pulses of terrifying death march sounded through the small shop. The dreamy expression on Rebecca’s face vanished with the foreboding tones, and Lydia knew exactly who had been lucky enough to get that ringtone.

  “Rebecca—” Lydia started but the young woman was already ducking back into the dressing room, the metallic ring of the zipper and the gentle swish of falling fabric the only sounds in the room once the march stopped its invasion, and the caller had been sent to voicemail.

  Nine

  Cam had just finished reviewing the proposed lease for one of his properties in Cambridge — England and not the U.S. — when the sound of the front door opening reached him in the den at the back of the house. The familiar click of Lydia’s heels followed, a pair of soft slaps as she kicked them off in the front hall, the clank of her keys hitting the dish on the table by the door. He knew the sound of her footsteps would travel into the kitchen, and the pop of a cork would be followed the trickle of a glass being filled. But the sounds never came. Instead the footsteps went up the stairs, and the sound of running water as she must have started the shower. Cam looked at the ceiling above as if he could see her, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

  Lydia had only come home from the shop and immediately gone into the shower once in the short time of their marriage, and that was the day before she had told him to leave. Deciding it was probably best to confront her mood rather than hide in the den, he stood, going to the kitchen to get the glass of wine he knew she’d want when she got out of the shower. He had turned on the lamps in the hallway as the day had grown dark with storm clouds. As he reached the kitchen, the blustering wind was more noticeable, and he looked outside briefly, feeling the anticipation of a storm. He found it oddly appropriate, and grabbing a glass and a bottle, he headed for the stairs as the water turned off overhead.

  He entered the bedroom just as the bathroom door opened, and Lydia stepped out, a thick terrycloth robe belted loosely at her waist. She had tied up her hair, and it hung in a messy bun at the nape of her neck, some wet tendrils curling around her long neck. He wanted to reach up and brush the tendrils away, run his fingers along the line of her neck and feel her heartbeat. Instead, he raised the bottle of chardonnay in his hand.

  “Thought you might need this.” He caught the aborted smile on her face.

  He set the glass down long enough to pull the loosened cork on the bottle and pour a glass that he handed to Lydia as she padded over to him.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  Lydia took a healthy drink from the glass before setting it down with a ring on the hard surface of the bureau he was using as a bar. When she turned toward him, he expected a string of curses about her day or at least a scowl, but instead, she just looked at him, her face blank, her expression almost sad.

  It was because he was pondering her bleak expression, that she was able to lunge at him so successfully. Her arms sprang around his neck as her lips came up to his for a scorching kiss. Her nearly naked body melted against him, her curves falling perfectly into his hands as he reached out to steady her. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and he imagined the loosely tied robe falling open, her skin begging for his touch.

  He wrenched her away, putting much needed space between them. No matter the day she’d had, it wasn’t an excuse to take advantage of her now.

  “Lydia—” he tried, but she pushed his hands away, once more taking his mouth in a blinding kiss. Only now her fingers scrambled at the buttons of his shirt, the fabric parting beneath her questing hands until he felt her searing touch on his skin.

  He was lost. The moment her fingers touched his bare skin he knew there was no turning back. There was no pushing her away. There was no making a different decision. He had told her that when a clear invitation came, he would take it, and there was no clearer indication than the one she gave him as she pushed his shirt over his shoulders, the garment falling to the floor.

  He wasted no time in pulling the belt from her robe, it too falling to the floor.

  She was naked, completely and utterly naked, and he pulled her closer against him. He was hard in seconds, his erection pulsating against the zipper of his jeans. He ran his hands down her back, cupped her buttocks, trailed back up to her breasts. He couldn’t touch enough of her, caress all of her, feel her heat where he needed it most.

  It had been too long. Too long since he had felt her, too long since he had known the mind blowing heat that erupted whenever they came together. He didn’t know how long he could hold on, how long he could stand it. Her hands wrestled with the opening of his jeans, and he pushed her backward toward the bed. She fell back, the soft bed enveloping around her as he shed his jeans, springing onto the bed to join her.

  There was no hesitation, and there was no slowing down. He devoured her and she him. His mouth explored her, rediscovered her, a taste missed but not forgotten. His hands cupped her buttocks once more, fitting her tightly against his throbbing erection. He moaned, the feeling so intense, so acute he had to give it voice. Her hands reached between them, her slender fingers feeling him, cupping him, and he nearly came at her touch. Backing away, he slid down the length of her, his mouth dipping into the valley between her full breasts, the slight curve of her stomach, settling against the inner softness of her thigh. She bucked against him even as she pulled his head down.

  “Please,” Lydia moaned, and he put his mouth to her.

  She tasted like an old memory, coming out of the dark and exploding against him. Her hips came up off the bed, and he dipped his tongue into her. Her scream sounded around him, and he came up, sliding fully into her. Her heat shocked him, and he withdrew to slam into her again. It was harsh and crude, and she pulled at his hips, wrapped her legs around him as she rose up to meet him. He hung on, willing himself to wait for her, but the heat was intense, her muscles contracting around him. Her cry of release came quickly, and he welcomed it, letting it wash over him a second before he came, a moment before he could tell her he loved her.

  Cam was heavy and hot on top of her, his skin slick with sweat and a dampness between them that wouldn’t let her drift into oblivion. His breath was a shushing sound by her ear as his heart pounded against her chest. Her hands splayed weakly against his back as her own heart galloped, struggling to resume a normal pace.

  “I take it you had a bad day,” Cam murmured, and she couldn’t help a small smile coming to her lips.

  “I’m sorry I used you for sex,” she managed.

  “I’m glad you used me and not some other bloke.” He leveraged himself up enough that she could see his face. “You need to pee, lassie.”

  She frowned at him. “You didn’t forget that, did you?”

  He grinned, looking not unlike a child caught doing something naughty but unbelievably fun. “I didn’t forget that the love of my life spent the first three months of our relationship on antibiotics because of the honeymooners curse.”

  She frowned harder. “It’s not my fault I’m prone to UTIs.” She shoved at him. “Now get off of me.”

  He chuckled and rolled off of her. “Always classy when it comes to you, Lydia,” he called after her.

  “There are many women who have the same problem,” she returned as she made it to the toilet. “There’s nothing shameful in that.”

  “I didn’t say it was shameful. It’s just not what those romantic poets were always cooing about.”

  She flushed and washed her hands before returning to the bedroom to retrieve her discarded robe. It felt silly to cover herself after she had so wantonly
attacked her husband only minutes before, but her nakedness equaled vulnerability in her mind. Right now, she wasn’t sure she had it in her to be vulnerable.

  But then she turned around to the exquisitely naked display of her husband sprawled across her bed. There was so much of him, all muscly and hairy and beautiful, and God, she wanted to jump him again. She turned around, facing the mirror as she pulled out her hair tie. Gathering up the strands of her hair, she twisted it around into somewhat of a bun before wrapping the hair tie once more around it.

  “What do you know of romantic poets?” She watched his reflection in the mirror give a smirk.

  “What do you think I know of them?”

  She pursed her lips at him. “That’s not really the point, is it?”

  “It’s exactly the point,” he said, rolling off the bed and disappearing into the bathroom.

  He left the door open as he took a whiz, and she thought briefly that it was rather crude. But then, she hadn’t shut the door either, and she marveled at how comfortable they had become around each other. She paused and looked at the open bathroom door, listened to the sound of Cam washing his hands. She had never thought it would be like this, and she tried to think back to those few months of their early marriage. She turned away from the door before she could remember that back then she had always shut the bathroom door.

  Her smartphone rang, the sound startling in the quiet. Lydia bent, digging through the clothes she had discarded before stepping into the shower to find her phone. Shannon’s number sprawled across the screen, and she frowned. She hadn’t talked to Shannon in weeks, not since her best friend had become a little preoccupied with a delicious distraction Shannon had nicknamed Mr. Rocket Buns.

  Swiping the screen to answer the call, Lydia said, “Hey, Shan—”

  But her friend cut her off saying, “Lydia, my father’s gone.”

  Lydia paused, her mind trying to understand her friend’s frantic words. Shannon’s father had battled agoraphobia since before she had met Shannon. Lydia knew that her friend’s father still had anxiety, but she had thought Shannon’s physical proximity had helped the man grapple his issues.