Can't Buy Me Love (7 page)

NINE

B
ellamy had never doubted her brooch bouquet would have been unique. But now no one would ever see her walk down the aisle carrying the one-of-a-kind bridal masterpiece inspired by NaNa's brooch.

Elisabeth reached across the table and rested her hand on top of Bellamy's. “Why are you doing this to yourself, Belle?”

“Doing what?”

“Torturing yourself—spending a Saturday dismantling your bouquet.”

“I'm not torturing myself.” Bellamy removed another pin from the assortment of jewelry she'd arranged just-so in the bouquet form.

“Oh, right. Well, if you cry any more not-so-silent tears, you're going to rust all those thingamabobs in that bouquet of yours.”

Bellamy resisted breaking into a chorus of “It's My Party.” “I just think it's . . . silly to keep this . . . if I'm not getting married. The challenge is going to be returning the brooches I received as gifts—”

“But doing this makes you sit around and think about Reid—”

Like she wasn't doing that anyway.

Instead of answering her friend, Bellamy removed another pin. The bouquet had been more than half completed and now she was destroying it.

Elisabeth reached across the table and grabbed Bellamy's right hand. “What happened to your fancy nails?”

“Oh, those.” Bellamy shook off her friend's hold. “I soaked them off—turns out an adequate amount of acetone in a bowl works wonders.”

“You decided not to keep the long bloodred look?”

“I'd thought about switching to a classic French manicure for the wedding, but . . .” Her voice trailed off. Nothing more to say.

Bellamy traced the bow-shaped outline of a glittery art-deco-style pin. She'd discovered it at a garage sale in Manitou and almost danced down the woman's driveway at finding such a beautiful piece of costume jewelry. A swirl of rhinestone-embellished leaves had fit nicely next to it.

Wait a minute . . .

“Are you okay, Belle?”

“There's something about this pin, Lis.”

Bellamy removed the bow-shaped pin and ran her fingers across the jeweled surface, the looping double curves of the bow held in the center by a tiny round crystal . . . could it be a real diamond? Baguette and round stones were set throughout the rest of the pin.

“I need my laptop.”

Elisabeth peered over her shoulder while Bellamy set up her computer. “What are you thinking?”

Bellamy set the pin beside her computer, tapping her fingers on the table while she waited for her Mac to fire up.

“You know how I researched making the bouquets, right? Well, I also did a little research on brooches.” She Googled “vintage art deco pins” while she talked. “Some of these can be worth a lot of money.”

“You're kidding me.” Elisabeth moved to her side and settled in the chair next to her, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around her legs.

“No, I'm not. I mean, it's probably just wishful thinking . . . I got this brooch at a yard sale—found it in a pile of costume jewelry in an old tin. The woman said her kids had played with the stuff for years. What are the chances . . .” Her voice trailed off as she scrolled the pages of antique pins.

“I don't know—you tell me. What are the chances?”

Several pages in, a brooch almost identical to the one Elisabeth was now examining appeared on the page. She turned the laptop toward her friend.

“Look at this—” She pointed at the screen and picked up the pin, turning it over. “—and that.”

Elisabeth's eyes widened as she noted the distinctive mark on the back of the pin on the computer screen that matched the mark on the brooch in Bellamy's hand. “Belle, that's
this
.”

“I know.”

“It's worth . . . ten thousand dollars!”

“I know.”

“What are you going to do?”

Bellamy shook her head, words scrambled in her brain. “I . . . don't know . . . call someone. A jeweler? An appraiser?”

“Do you realize what this means?” Her friend's voice was a squeal.

“That I've got a very pricey bridal bouquet?”

“No!” Elisabeth grabbed Bellamy's hands, the brooch pressed between their hands, and pulled her up, dancing her around the room. “If this is worth ten thousand dollars, you can sell it and use the money to pay off some of your debt!”

• • • 

After spending almost an hour researching local jewelry appraisers, Bellamy had an appointment on Monday to have the brooch appraised.

“Well, that was an unexpected turn of events.” She ran her fingers through her hair as she collapsed back into a dining room chair. “I had no idea researching jewelers and making an appointment could take so much time.”

Her partially deconstructed bouquet still sat on the center of her table. She clutched the now-all-important bow brooch, almost afraid to let it go.

“I ordered Thai while you finished that phone call.” Elisabeth nodded to her iPhone on the coffee table as she finished fashioning her long brown hair into a French braid. “Pad Thai for you. Pineapple chicken for me. Spring rolls for both of us—and they're delivering it.”

“You are the best of best friends.”

Elisabeth shrugged off the compliment. “Hey, you hang around somebody long enough, you know what they like, you know what I mean?”

As Bellamy returned the pins to the waiting box, her emotions shifted, catching her off-guard.

“Was I so wrong about him? So wrong for him?”

Elisabeth had no problem keeping pace with the sudden change of topic. “I think it was more about you, Bellamy.”

Her friend's answer pierced her heart, like an invisible pinprick. “You do think I was wrong for him.”

“No.” Elisabeth squeezed her hand. “You'd have to know who you are to be right or wrong for him.”

Elisabeth set aside the bow and picked up the fleur-de-lis brooch Reid's mother had given her at the engagement shower, tuning it over and over between her fingers.

Elisabeth settled back in her chair. “Who are you, Belle?”

“Who am I? What's that supposed to mean?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I'm Bellamy Hillman. Number eight. The last in line.” She added three more brooches to the box with a trio of clinks. “I'm a dog groomer because I couldn't figure out what else I wanted to do with my life. It seemed as if my siblings had claimed all the options of athlete, artist, musician. Sure, I graduated from high school early, but I wrecked my college GPA because I waited too long to withdraw from my classes while I kept changing my major from pre-vet to special ed to general education. I'm impulsive. So . . .
impulsive
I forgot there was such a thing as a wedding budget and scared my fiancé into breaking up with me.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Elisabeth sounded as if she didn't know if she wanted to shake Bellamy or hug her.

“I'm just stating the truth—”

“No. No you're not.” Elisabeth set down the fleur-de-lis pin and picked up the art deco brooch. “You're playing some sort of awful negative tape that you've got on repeat in your head, Bellamy. Listen to yourself. You didn't say one good thing about yourself. Not one good thing.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say you're a loyal friend. I want you to say you're funny—and that your laugh is infectious. I want you to say you make a mean pot of chili. I want you to say you were worth something before Reid Stanton walked into your life and put a ring on your finger! But most of all, I want you to believe it.”

“I can't, Lis. I . . . can't.” Bellamy shoved aside the cardboard box of jewelry. “I don't see any of those things you say about me, so how can I believe them?”

Elisabeth pulled her into a strong embrace, cradling her like a child. “Shhhh. Shhh. I'll help you, Belle. I'll help you.”

“How? I'm twenty-five years old and I'm still trying to figure out who I am.”

Elisabeth rescued the art deco brooch. “I want you to think of yourself like this brooch.”

“What does that mean?”

“Just listen, okay? I'm about to be brilliant here—and that doesn't happen that often.” As she talked, Elisabeth pinned the brooch to the front of Bellamy's sweater. “You found this old pin at a garage sale, right? What did you pay for it—a dollar? Two? And yet you thought it was pretty. Beautiful enough to put in your brooch bouquet.”

“I paid two dollars—”

“Okay. Great. Listen now, okay?

“Even though you thought this brooch was pretty, you didn't know its real value—not until today. This brooch is amazingly valuable. It has great worth. And you, Bellamy, are more valuable to God than this brooch could ever be—even if you find out on Monday that it's worth twenty thousand dollars.”

Her friend's words watered her parched soul with truth.

“Let me pray, okay? You don't have to figure anything out. God already knows who you are. He created you . . . He knows.”

Bellamy rested her head on her friend's shoulder. Closed her eyes. Stopped fighting. And just listened as Elisabeth's prayer wrapped around her.

“Dear God, you created Bellamy. You knit her in her mother's womb—and you say she is fearfully and wonderfully made. Well, she may not believe that yet, but I pray you will open her eyes so she can see all the different ways you've made her beautiful. And wonderful. Help her to stop seeing herself as ‘the end.' And help her to finally, finally hear your voice telling her all the ways you have gifted her to reflect your image to the world.” Elisabeth's arms tightened around her. “And if it's your will for her life, I pray she and Reid would reconcile and get married. In Jesus' name I pray. Amen and amen.”

“Amen.” Bellamy sniffled and returned her friend's hug. “You are the best. Just the best.”

“Right back atcha. Now you . . .
you listen
to what God's going to tell you, okay?”

“Okay. I'm listening.”

TEN

T
onight was all about fading into the background. Being as close to invisible as possible—and then going home and avoiding the Stanton family for the rest of her life.

Bellamy was still struggling to realize who she was in God's eyes, despite spending time each night in the Word. Morning just wasn't the best time for her—she realized this after dozing off over her Bible several mornings in a row. But now that she wasn't engaged, she could spend the solitary evenings in her apartment searching out Scriptures about what God thought of her, instead of feeling sorry for herself.

Well, not too sorry for herself.

“Bellamy!” Lydia Stanton Webster advanced toward her like a bejeweled whirlwind.

What was Reid's sister doing behind the scenes? Lydia should be sitting at the reserved table with her actor-husband, her parents . . . and Reid. Instead, she seemed to glide past the auction workers, her red sheath dress a perfect complement to a glittering diamond pendant and a pair of diamond star-shaped earrings.

So much for being invisible.

“Lydia—how are you?”

If she and Reid had still been engaged, she wouldn't have to ask the question. Wouldn't have just arrived through the back door of the building, wearing jeans and a casual charcoal-gray turtleneck sweater. No, she'd have been at the reserved table out front with the Stanton family.

“It's been a lovely night. I only wish Linc and I were going to be in the States longer.” Lydia reached out and drew Bellamy into a hug. The wedding gown, which was protected by a white garment bag, hung over Bellamy's shoulder and down her back. “We're leaving the day after tomorrow—back to filming. At least he's shooting scenes in England now.”

“How wonderful.” Bellamy stepped back and repositioned the dress over her arm even as Lydia kept talking.

“I wanted to say hello—and to tell you I'm so sorry things didn't work out with you and Reid.”

“Oh.” Beneath the garment bag, Bellamy twisted her hands together, once again reminded of her bare ring finger.

“You were good for him—you made my too-serious big brother laugh again. I know he still loves you.”

“He thought he loved me, but then he realized he was mistaken—” Bellamy stumbled into silence. This was no time to be discussing her broken engagement. “I'd rather not talk about it.”

“I'm sorry.” Lydia scanned the backstage area. “Did my mother find you? She said she needed to talk to you about the live auction—”

“No, no, I haven't seen her—”

“There she is. Mother!” Lydia pulled Bellamy along behind her as she wove her way through all the men and women wearing black T-shirts with
BECAUSE OF THE
CHILDREN
printed on them. These people were responsible for lighting and sound and all the items that would be auctioned off later that night. “Weren't you looking for Bellamy?”

“Yes, I was—and you found her for me.” Mrs. Stanton pressed a kiss first on Lydia's cheek and then on Bellamy's. “I had a marvelous idea about auctioning off the wedding gown.”

“You did?” Bellamy struggled to sound detached. Someone here tonight would buy her perfect wedding gown—and would wear it to say “I do.”

“Yes.” Mrs. Stanton adjusted her gauzy silver stole around her shoulders. “I want you to wear it when it's time to auction it.”

For just a moment, the room seemed to tilt and spin, causing Bellamy to press her hand against her stomach. She couldn't have heard Mrs. Stanton right. “What?”

“What a marvelous idea, Mom!”

“As I thought about it today, I realized displaying it on a dress form just doesn't do the dress justice. It's so . . . so . . .
still
.” Mrs. Stanton said the word as if she were saying the gown was a corset and black leather. “A gown like that has to move to be truly seen and appreciated. I discussed it with the auctioneer. We both agree you should wear the gown and walk around at the very beginning of the live auction while he describes it and then while he auctions it off later in the evening.”

How could she wear the wedding gown again, much less parade around in it in front of everyone—
in front of Reid
? She'd agreed to drop the dress off—and make a quick getaway. The dress had already wrecked her life once—did Mrs. Stanton truly expect her to put it on again? Had the woman planned to humiliate her all along?

“Oh, I couldn't do that—”

“Why ever not?” Mrs. Stanton barely acknowledged her protest. “The gown fits you—there's no sense in trying to find someone else to model it. Lydia, you can do something with her hair, can't you? Dress it up a bit. They're serving dessert now, so we'll be starting in twenty minutes.”

“Absolutely.” Lydia linked her arm through Bellamy's so that she caught a whiff of Lydia's expensive perfume. “I've learned to always carry an emergency bag with me.”

Bellamy put her hand on Mrs. Stanton's arm as she started to move away. “I don't think this is a good idea—”

“Bellamy, think of how much more money this will bring in for the auction.”

Now Mrs. Stanton wasn't playing fair. How was she supposed to say no to helping ill children?

“Go on and let Lydia help you get into the gown and do something with your hair and makeup. Too bad I didn't think to have a bouquet—”

“It's fine. Fine.” Bellamy would submit to the gown. Have her hair rearranged. Her mascara reapplied. But she didn't want to be tricked out like an actual bride.

No.

And she wouldn't look at Reid while she walked around in her once-upon-a-time wedding gown that ruined her happily ever after.

• • • 

The gown no longer held any mystical delight for Bellamy.

Lydia had fashioned her hair into a classic chignon with a few well-placed bobby pins. Then she'd accentuated Bellamy's eyes with a dramatic cat's-eye stroke of eyeliner, while also deepening her blush and selecting a darker shade of lipstick.

Bellamy had held her breath as Lydia helped her into the gown, waiting for the familiar hum in her veins.

Nothing.

It was just a dress—an impulsive purchase that had revealed the weaknesses in her relationship with Reid.

Her own weaknesses.

“Oh, Bellamy. I've never seen anything like this—”

“It's something, isn't it?” Bellamy's hands brushed the gown's skirt.

“It's exquisite. I just know the bids are going to be fierce for this dress.”

“Well, that's why we're here, right?” How detached she sounded. “To benefit the hospital.”

“Let's get you out there for your first turn around the room.”

“Lydia, you don't have to escort me.” Bellamy put a restraining hand on Reid's sister's arm. “Lincoln is probably wondering where you disappeared to.”

“I don't mind—”

“I'll manage from here. All I have to do is wait for the auctioneer to introduce me—well, the dress, really—and then walk around the room. How hard can it be? Go on back to your . . . husband.”

“Fine. But I'll come back when it's showtime and just touch up your makeup—”

“Go, already.”

If she believed in penance . . . or karma . . . or paybacks, Bellamy would believe this was her time. Her rashness had racked up debt, ended her engagement, strained her relationship with her parents. And now she had to parade around in this wedding gown and pretend to feel beautiful—when all she felt was alone . . . and lost . . . and so, so sorry.

As she approached the edge of the curtained-off area, the auctioneer was already presenting the wedding gown.

“We wanted to offer a preview of one of our live auction items that you'll have a chance to bid on later in the evening. It's a designer wedding gown you can read about in your program. For now, just enjoy this glimpse of our stunning bride, Bellamy Hillman.”

Bellamy couldn't move.

Did he have to introduce the gown—
her
—that way? As a bride? It wasn't true . . . and there was no way she could go back in time and become a bride-to-be again.

A cold silence reigned in the room, seeming to freeze Bellamy's footsteps. But she'd promised Mrs. Stanton. This was for the children.

Where are you, God? How do I go out there and walk around in this dress—what was supposed to be my wedding gown? Do you really want me to do this? What good can come of this?

Help me, please.

Within seconds, a verse whispered across her mind:
Keep me as the apple of your eye; hide me in the shadow of your wings.

God considered her precious. God would protect her—even as she walked around in the object of her downfall.

• • • 

It was time to call it a night.

Reid had managed to get through dinner, chatting with his father's assistant. The woman who'd taken Bellamy's place at their reserved table. He knew how important this annual affair was to his mother—and that she'd never accept any excuse from him not to attend.

Certainly not an excuse as flimsy as a broken heart.

He'd even slipped out of the banquet hall during dessert—finally obeying the voice in his head urging him to find a quiet corner and call Bellamy. Figure out a way to apologize before she hung up on him. But she hadn't answered her phone—and he'd called her three times. And then he'd gotten stuck in the hallway talking to his father and one of his business associates. Only when his mother appeared, demanding they return to their seats for the live auction, was he able to escape the man's running monologue.

His mother opened the live auction with her usual gracious words, and the professional auctioneer took over from there. The audience bid with enthusiasm on items ranging from a balloon ride, to an amethyst necklace, a painting by a local Denver artist, and a meal for eight prepared by a chef. Linc won a set of eighteen-karat gold handcrafted earrings for Lydia, who thanked him with an effusive kiss. When his mother tried to bid on a purebred puppy, his father shook his head, and Reid whispered, “What would Wiley think if you brought him home?”

Reid bid on a custom fly-fishing rod, knowing his father would appreciate it as a Christmas gift, but had to laugh when his father outbid him. His mother bid on—and won—a lovely circular brooch. After almost an hour, Reid was ready to go home.

“And now for our last item, which you will see listed as an addendum in our brochure.” The auctioneer held up the single sheet of paper. “The wedding gown you saw earlier modeled by the lovely Bellamy Hillman.”

What?

Reid's hand shook as he removed the half sheet of paper he'd somehow overlooked. His parents and his sister and brother-in-law stared straight ahead—ignoring him. The lights in the room dimmed and a single spotlight centered on . . . Bellamy.

His Bellamy.

She seemed to waltz into the room to some silent melody, her eyes never quite making contact with anyone else's. Her smile was soft, a mere hint of the full-bodied grin he'd come to love. She held the gown's skirt so that it moved with her steps, the material giving off a faint golden shimmer, the crystals adorning the bodice and cascading down the waistline catching the light and seeming to reflect in her hazel eyes.

This . . . this was the gown she'd bought for their wedding day?

At times he'd imagined Bellamy as a bride . . . walking down the aisle toward him in the historic old church where his grandparents and parents had both gotten married. He'd imagined how he would smile at her, trying to say with his eyes how much he loved her.

But he hadn't realized how seeing her . . . like this . . . even in the wrong setting, with an auctioneer encouraging the crowd to bid on the dress she wore, would render him speechless. That all he would want to do was stare . . . no words.

No words.

He'd been so caught up in the wonder of seeing her again, Reid hadn't realized the bids were five thousand . . . six thousand . . . sixty-five hundred . . .

“Ten thousand!”

Reid's shout overlapped the auctioneer's next call and incited a chorus of laughter, as well as the stares of his family.

“Fine, Mr. Stanton.” The auctioneer bowed in his direction. “Ten thousand, it is. But in the future, just raise your numbered placard.”

Bellamy, who had been walking an elongated figure eight at the front of the room, halted, her eyes searching the darkness. Her hands clutched the skirt of the dress, and she blinked when she heard the auctioneer say “Mr. Stanton.”

Within seconds, Reid found himself embroiled in a battle with an older woman across the room. Why did she want the dress when she was at least eighty? Was she getting married sometime soon? Maybe she wanted it for her granddaughter. And why was he bidding on a dress that, in a very real sense, he'd already paid for? And that he no longer needed?