Stealing the Bride

by Lee, Nadia

  It’s time for maximum charm. I’ve taken care to dress well—a blue silk shirt and light slacks. This is L.A., so you don’t want to go too formal. The key is tastefully luxurious without being overly stiff or ostentatious.

  When I arrive at Tony’s mansion, Ivy greets me. She’s in a simple T-shirt and shorts, her face free of makeup except for some lipstick, her feet bare. I like it. It’s almost like we’re back in time—before Mom ruined it for everyone. Ivy used to dress like this when she was home from Curtis.

  Since I’m not a total idiot, I brought donuts for her. A grad student who got pregnant was stuffing her mouth with them constantly last year, saying all pregnant women crave sugar. Between the calories and the baby, she blew up like dough in an oven, but she insisted she “pregnancy-glowed.” Anybody who disagreed got shit-listed. I can’t ever be careful enough.

  “Here you go, fresh donuts for you and my nephews or nieces. Love your pregnancy glow.” I kiss Ivy on the cheek.

  She laughs. “I don’t think the glow happens until later. I just found out, like, three weeks ago.”

  “Yeah, but the babies look magnificent.”

  Her perfectly drawn eyebrows go up. “How do you know?”

  “Tony texted me the ultrasound picture.” I still have no idea what the thing was supposed to show, but it’s probably best to just go with the flow.

  She pats her belly. “There’re just dots right now.”

  “Magnificent dots.”

  She laughs again, and I grin. It’s good to see her happy and relaxed.

  “And you’re going to be a magnificent uncle,” she says.

  “Of course,” I say. “I’m going to be so awesome that they will openly prefer me to Edgar.”

  She arches an eyebrow. “Oh? And how are you going to pull that off?”

  “I’m naturally charming, so it won’t be that hard. And gifts. Lots and lots of gifts.”

  She laughs, takes my arm and, carrying the box of donuts, leads me down the wide corridor toward her new practice room. Inside, the brand-new concerto piano sits in the center. A couple of couches take up space nearby.

  Damn. That thing is huge. Like a baby orca. It looks expensive as hell, too. But then it was handmade in Austria…and even supposedly has extra keys compared to your standard pianos. Tony went on and on about how amazing the Bösendorfer is when I made the mistake of saying no piano is worth half a million bucks…and how it’s only fitting Ivy got an Imperial. The side even has a tiger lily embossed on the wood, which I’m sure isn’t a standard feature. It’s Ivy’s favorite flower.

  She sits down on one of the couches and picks out a donut with extra chocolate glaze and sprinkles. “So. What do you need?”

  I shoot her a wounded look. “What, I have to need something to visit?”

  “No, but you brought donuts.”

  She’s got me there. “Just some wine.”

  “You know you’re welcome to take any bottle you like.”

  “Tony grumbles if I take too much, but if I say you let me have it, he shuts up about it because he’s crazy about you and you’re the best.”

  “I know I am. By the way, did everything work out with your fifty-dollar girl?”

  Ah, great. Should’ve known Tony would tell her. “Tony has a big mouth.”

  “We have no secrets. But I won’t tell anybody.” She leans forward. “Tony said he gave you a hard time, but don’t mind him. I think the situation is very intriguing.”

  “You do?”

  She nods. “It doesn’t matter what the explanation is or what Tony said. Leaving the money is asking you to contact her. Fifty dollars is an intriguing amount, you know? Otherwise she would’ve just walked out of the room.”

  “Precisely,” I say, since she’s basically telling me what I want to hear. It’s always best to get a woman’s perspective on stuff like this. Hopeful and excited, I tell her what happened in Maui and the dinner invitation, while she devours two more donuts.

  “Flowers always go over well,” she says. “You have anything in mind?”

  “Not really. I was thinking maybe taking something cheery, but…” I shrug to hide a mild discomfiture at not having figured out what yet.

  “How about something pink? Carnations or roses. They’re both classic and elegant.”

  Not pink roses. They used to be my mom’s favorite. “Carnations sound perfect. You’re a genius.”

  She laughs and pulls out another donut.

  “So what have you been practicing on this super-fancy piano of yours?” I ask because I know it’ll please her to tell me. It seems like the right topic to steer her to, since she’s been so helpful.

  “I was working on a piece by Schubert, transcribed by Liszt when you came. Wanna hear it?”

  “Of course.”

  Listening to Ivy isn’t like enduring some amateur’s painful attempt. She’s a concert-level pianist, and the sound she can pull out of a piano is pure magic.

  She wipes her fingers off, opens the Bösendorfer up and lays her hands on the keys. The notes she teases out of the piano are soft, delicate and haunting. Her long fingers move gently and seemingly effortlessly. Her eyes start to close, and it seems like the music is coming straight from her soul.

  I’m not particularly gifted in music, but something I can’t quite pinpoint stirs inside me as I listen. When she’s finished, she opens her eyes and looks at me. “What do you think?”

  “Riveting.”

  “It’s not bad. Just getting there. I need to smooth the phrasing in some places and give it a little more…depth and emotion. The sense of…you know…unrequited love and the deep longing and melancholy that won’t go away.”

  I just nod, not because I agree with her, but because that’s the only response I can muster. I don’t understand how she could think that there’s anything wrong with what she just played. But that’s why she’s a concert pianist and I’m not. I used to play the piano, and made everyone within hearing range throw the back of their hand against their forehead and despair. It didn’t help that I hated practicing.

  “Thank you for the lovely mini-concert, but I’ve got to get going if I don’t want to be late.”

  “Have fun.” She stands, then suddenly snaps her fingers. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, Yuna’s flying in tomorrow.”

  “She is?” She’s Ivy’s soul sister and one of the funniest people I know. Like Ivy, she’s a gifted pianist. I don’t get to see her as often as I’d like because she lives in Seoul.

  “Uh-huh. She’s dying to meet her honorary nephews or nieces. Actually, she’s convinced that they’re one of each.”

  “She could be right. That girl is right about a lot of things.”

  “Yeah. It’ll be fun if we have one of each.” She grins. “If you can, drop by tomorrow and we’ll have a nice dinner to welcome her.”

  “I’d love that.” The evening will be hilarious with Yuna around.

  Ivy gives me a look. “Bring a date.”

  “Ha.” What a thinly veiled attempt to meet Skittles. “We’ll see after I wow her with my wine.”

  But I do plan to invite Skittles to dinner. It’s only right after today’s dinner with her parents, but I have no intention of letting her meet mine. They’d scare her away like snakes scare away…well, most normal creatures.

  Besides, since I have no intention of going back to Louisiana, Tony and Ivy are the only nearby family that counts. Most importantly, they’re sane. Since I acted a little bit crazy in Maui, I want to show Skittles I’m a well-adjusted human being with a well-adjusted family.

  Ivy walks with me to the cellar. I take Tony’s best rosé. He won’t miss it. Not when Ivy says she gave it to me. “How about I take this?”

  “Go for it.” Ivy gestures carelessly. “Good luck with your girl.”

  I smile, liking the way she calls Skittles my girl. “Thanks.”

  I don’t think I’m going to need much of it with Skittles, especially with my action plan. But I will def
initely need some luck to smooth things out with her dad. I get the feeling that he doesn’t dislike me, exactly, but in my experience, what people say and do don’t always reflect how they really think. Just look at my mom. Besides, dads can be weird about their baby girls. Gotta count my blessings this isn’t Texas, where every father owns a shotgun.

  Then there’s Skittles’ mom, whom I never got to meet in Hawaii. She was probably busy trying to salvage the ceremony and reception after I crashed it. I sigh softly. Let’s hope she doesn’t sprinkle my food with broken glass.

  Skittles’ parents’ home is surprisingly modest. It’s in a nice neighborhood, of course. But it isn’t a mansion or anything ostentatious. I expected a bit of crassness after doing my homework and looking her family up.

  Her dad is the founder of SFG, a mid-sized financial services and wealth management firm. It does well enough, and from my experience, a lot of finance guys like to splurge on big houses and swanky cars. And trade their old wives in for newer models.

  Steve hasn’t done that, though. He’s still with his first wife, whom he married three decades ago. Wonder if she’s unusually well preserved…

  Like your own mom? I scowl. She’s the last person I want to think about right now, especially since she stopped calling and texting over the last few days.

  Taking in a breath, I look around the small fenced yard. The house may be humble, but the lawn is immaculate. Carrying a huge bouquet of carnations and the wine, I walk up the smooth concrete path and knock.

  High-pitched barking greets me first. Then a small, tidy woman opens the door with a big smile. A bright yellow apron is wrapped around her slim body. Her face is slightly lined with wrinkles and laughter. But they don’t make her look old or haggard. They make her face lived in, and show that she’s had a full, good life. The eyes that twinkle with humor are the same aquamarine as Skittles’. Even if the eyes didn’t give her away, I would’ve known she’s no hired help. She’s entirely too comfortable and assured.

  “Welcome.” Her voice is full of genuine warmth. “You must be Harcourt. I’m Esther, Pascal’s mom.”

  I smile. “Call me Court, ma’am.” I extend my hand and give her the pink blossoms.

  “How lovely! And how thoughtful of you. Do come on in.”

  She doesn’t look like she’s going to stab me with a kitchen knife for almost ruining her daughter’s wedding. I take a step in and get a whiff of meat and potatoes cooking that makes my mouth water.

  A tiny white Chihuahua rushes at me and barks, its tail raised high and quivering with every yelp.

  “Hey now. I’m a guest. I’m invited.”

  Esther shakes her head. “Nijinsky thinks she’s a Rottweiler.”

  “Nijinsky, huh?” Interesting name, since Nijinsky was probably the greatest ballet dancer of his generation, maybe in history. I watched a video of him with my ballet-crazed ex in college, and even I had to admit the man was divinely touched.

  “She chose it. We couldn’t decide on a name—Steve and I—so we put down top three names we wanted and let her sit on one.”

  “What were the other two choices?”

  “Einstein and Spock. I thought they sounded perfect for her.” She looks down at the dog. “Don’t you?”

  “Yes.” And this explains why Skittles and her twin sister have the names they do.

  Esther leads me to the living room. “Pascal isn’t here yet, and Steve’s on a call. He’s always working. Saturday, doesn’t matter. The market’s open somewhere in the world. He’s always worried about these things, but people shouldn’t work on weekends.”

  I find myself sympathizing. The man is responsible for not just his clients’ money, but the livelihood of everyone at the company. Dad and Edgar are always working too. “Your husband sounds like a very successful and ambitious man,” I say instead.

  She laughs. “He’s done well enough in his career. Thank God. When we first married, it wasn’t like this. It wasn’t until the girls turned fourteen that we could afford this home. I fell in love with it the moment I saw it.”

  I nod, unsure how to react. Mom always acts like the family’s huge mansion is just…normal. But people in Tempérane always seem to look at the Blackwood family mansion with undisguised envy.

  In many ways, it’s a huge relief that Esther is nothing like my image of a rich man’s wife.

  She continues, “My friends think that I should trade up, but the girls are gone. It’s just me and Steve now in this home, and if we get a bigger place, who’s going to clean it and take care of it?”

  A butler and a small army of housekeepers and gardeners. But I’m pretty sure that’s not the answer she wants, so I keep my mouth shut.

  “I can’t imagine having a stranger home all the time,” she adds. “Not that there’s anything wrong with meeting new people, but it would be awkward, I think. Besides, I enjoy taking care of the house.”

  I wonder for a moment if she’s pretending. It’s a little bizarre to hear that from a wife of a financially successful man, because why wouldn’t she want to have somebody take care of chores to maintain her home? Mom certainly never lifted a finger to clean or cook. That’s what our housekeepers and cooks are for.

  I look around the homey living room. No portraits of important-looking men gazing down at everyone from the walls. The TV and the sound system are all top-of-the-line, but the leather couch has a nice worn sheen to it that says this is a place where the family gathers regularly.

  “I can see that. Your home is very charming.” An afghan is folded neatly over the back of the couch. I run my hand over the soft material. “It feels nice.”

  “Thank you. I made that myself.”

  I run my hand over it again, just to get more of the texture. “I hear it’s very time-consuming.” Maybe Esther really does enjoy doing homey things.

  She laughs. “It’s an old hobby. I went through a phase.”

  I look at Esther more closely. There’s a comfortable, confident glow to her that shines from within. It reminds me of the happiness radiating from Skittles at the club.

  For a fraction of a second, an odd longing pings in my heart, creating a small ripple. Before I can process the emotion, loud thuds come from above and then Steve appears on the stairs. “Ah, you’re here now. Sorry about that. Business call,” he says.

  Unlike my dad, Steve is thin, with a long nose and a serious mouth. But his voice booms, like a professional announcer at a wrestling match.

  “Harcourt.” He shakes my hand.

  “Just Court, sir.”

  “Court.” He reaches down to pet Nijinsky. The dog closes her eyes and wags her tail in undisguised joy.

  “Look what he brought.” Esther shows her husband the flowers.

  “Nice.” Steve’s eyes warm, but I think it’s more in reaction to his wife’s pleasure than my gesture.

  I lift a glossy bag I filched from Tony’s place along with the rosé. “Wine, too.”

  At that moment, Skittles walks through the front door. An eye-searing purple maxi dress hangs from her long frame. Her presence is like a burst of sunshine, something that puts an intense bliss in your heart just by existing. And the odd pang that put an ache in my chest is gone, replaced by beautiful warmth.

  She lifts the plastic container she’s carrying. “Cherry pie. Your favorite, Dad.”

  Steve’s stoic face splits into a smile, and he leans over and gives her a kiss. “Thank you, dear. You bake the best pies.”

  I eye the round container and look at Skittles. Culinary talent. Who would’ve thought? Every business major I ever met lives on cup ramen and pizza.

  The flush on her cheeks looks delightful. And eminently kissable.

  I want to pick her off the floor, hug her tightly and twirl around, absorbing her body heat and scent.

  Control, control. Her parents are watching.

  “Hi, Court,” Skittles says, staying by her dad.

  Smart. “Hi, Ski—Pascal,” I say with my most charmin
g smile. “You’re looking well.”

  “I’ve recovered. It’s been a week.”

  “I heard you took care of Pascal during the reception,” Esther says. “How sweet of you. Steve said you studied nursing. Very unusual for a man, but so useful, isn’t it? There’s a huge shortage.”

  Skittles purses her mouth. I can imagine all the acerbic words she’s holding back.

  I bite my tongue so I don’t start laughing. “I only studied for a semester. No hospital’s going to hire me.”

  “What a shame,” Esther says.

  “He has other options,” Steve says. “Like his family company.”

  I smile blandly, since I don’t want to tell him I’d rather be a bum. That isn’t the kind of thing that impresses fathers.

  Something beeps in the kitchen. Esther wipes her hands on the apron. “Oh good, the food’s done. You all must be hungry. Let’s go eat.”

  She guides us toward the dining room, which isn’t exactly grand, but big enough. The open floor design lets diners see the kitchen island. The hardwood on the dining room floor is lightly scarred from use over the years. But a careful layer of wax shows that it is lovingly cared for. The cherry-colored table has six chairs around it. It’s already set with a bowl of salad, some rolls and mashed potatoes with gravy.

  Skittles takes the carnations and puts them in a vase. Esther walks into the kitchen and brings out a large covered dish. “Hope you like pot roast,” she says.

  I inhale deeply. It smells like hearth and heaven. My mouth waters, and I grin at Esther. “I love food, especially when it’s home-cooked. I almost never have it.”

  She looks at me like I’m some beggar out of a Dickens novel. “Is that so? If you want, I can pack some for you to take home. It’s better the next day.”

  No way am I going to turn that down. If it’s half as good as it smells, I might just polish it off later tonight. “That sounds fabulous. Thank you.”

  We all sit down. Steve takes the head of the table, Esther to his right and Skittles to the left. I sit next to her and enjoy the nearness and the subtle scent of her shampoo. It makes me hungrier, but for an entirely different reason that’s wholly inappropriate with her parents around.