Can't Buy Me Love (9 page)

THIRTEEN

A
nd then there were three.

Thanksgiving dinner had been traditional—Reid's mother had made sure of that. And Lydia was missing for the first time this year, but it shouldn't have felt all that different.

Turkey with chestnut stuffing. Grape salad tossed with a sour cream and cream cheese sauce and topped with a mixture of chopped pecans and brown sugar. Mashed potatoes. Candied yams. Fresh rolls. Cranberry sauce.

The Stantons did not skimp on Thanksgiving even if only a trio feasted.

And now that the chef had served up slices of pecan or pumpkin pie, it was time to talk. Reid shoved his gold-rimmed china plate aside—the Stanton china, which they always used on holidays. Even the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee didn't tempt him.

“Mom . . . Dad—” Reid played with the heirloom silver spoon beside his coffee cup. “—I wanted to discuss several things with you.”

“And what's that, son?” His father sliced into his preferred piece of pecan pie.

“First, about the trust fund—”

His father nodded. “Your birthday is a week away, and then the restriction is lifted.”

“I don't want the restriction lifted.”

The unmistakable whisper of “Well, bless me!” came from his mother across the table, and Reid couldn't help but smile.

“Why wouldn't you want us to release the trust?” His father set his fork aside.

“I won't accept it unless you also remove the restriction from Lydia's trust. I don't want her to suffer for my mistakes.”

“Reid, this is a decision that your mother and I thought over carefully—”

“Yes, we did.” His mother's voice was soft, but strong. “But that doesn't mean we can't rethink it.”

“I have thought about this since it happened—and I have no problem with the decision you made after my colossal fail in college.” Reid focused on his father, knowing his mother listened to every word he was saying. “All I ask is that you don't make Lydia pay for my poor choices. And if you decide to make her wait until she's thirty, well, then I'll wait until I'm thirty-five for you to lift the restrictions off my trust fund.”

His father drummed the table with his fingers. “Is that an attempt to coerce us, Reid?”

“Of course not, Dad. It's my choice to wait. That's all.”

“Was there something else you wanted to talk about?”

“I want you to know I love you both very much.” He infused his words with as much emotion as he could manage—not a reserved Stanton expression of love. “But you also need to know I love Bellamy—and I hope to reconcile with her, if she'll still have me.”

“Reid, that's wonderful!”

“I know how you feel, Mom.” Reid turned his attention to his father. “But—and I'm going to be honest here—when we were first engaged, Bellamy seemed to think Dad didn't approve of her.”

Silence reigned in the well-appointed dining room.

“Well? Is this true?”

His mother twisted her wedding band. “Reid, your father and I have discussed this. And yes, while I have always felt comfortable with you dating and marrying Bellamy, your father had some reservations—”

“I don't need you speaking for me, Ava.” His father's voice was gruff. “Of course, everything you're saying is true—and I'm ashamed to admit it now. At first I was concerned we didn't know Bellamy or her family that well—that they weren't part of our normal circles—”

“And that's bad because?”

“Because I was being hasty and prideful.”

His father's blunt admission caught Reid off-guard, but only for a moment. He'd always been a plainspoken man.

“But I've come to realize, both by listening to your mother and your sister, and by watching you and Bellamy together, that Bellamy is a lovely young woman.” He reached his hand out across the table so that Reid's mother could place her hand in his. “She reminds me of your mother—the way she makes you laugh—makes you happy.”

“So there'll be no tension . . . no problem with me trying to reconcile with her?”

“Absolutely not. We've been praying for you, hoping that would happen.”

His mother reached for his hand, linking them all together. “Just let us know if there's anything we can do to help—anything at all.”

“Well, I was hoping you'd ask.”

• • • 

Bellamy usually enjoyed Thanksgiving. But not this year.

This year she was glad it was over.

Yes, she had much to be grateful for, including peace with her parents. Headway on paying back the money she owed them thanks to selling her car and wedding gown number one. And if the appraiser found a buyer for the art deco brooch, she just might make eight to ten thousand dollars. And thanks to Elisabeth recommending her to another elementary school teacher who was newly engaged, she was even considering a fun new hobby—career?—making brooch bouquets.

Most important, she was discovering who God said she was—something that ensured her a future grounded in truth.

A future without Reid Stanton.

And that heartbreaking fact caused her heart to waver at continuing to give thanks . . . and getting into the spirit of the upcoming Christmas season. She'd gotten past Reid's birthday by grooming dogs and offering to clean out the kennels in the back of the vet clinic. Now, the first Saturday of December, all she had to do was figure out how to get through the rest of December.

And the rest of her life.

Nine o'clock on a Saturday morning . . . and it looked like the rest of her life started with cleaning her apartment. Mopping the floors. Scrubbing the tub. Dusting. After she cleaned, maybe she'd haul out some Christmas decorations and deck the halls—and not think about how she would have been marrying Reid in less than four weeks . . . if she hadn't been so foolish.

Footsteps on the stairs up to her apartment had her opening the door and stopping her father before he could even knock.

“Bella-belle—” The sound of her nickname on her father's lips was a sure sign the tension had eased between the two of them. “I need to ask you a favor.”

“Sure, Dad.”

“It looks like the power has gone out in the back of the clinic where we have the fridge to store the immunizations. You know where the circuit breakers are—and I promised your mom I wouldn't go in this weekend unless it was a medical issue—”

“No problem, Dad. I can do it. I was getting ready to clean the apartment, that's all. Let me grab the van keys—”

“Take my car.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Once her father was gone, Bellamy slipped her coat over her thermal top and pajama bottoms and put on her worn clogs. No need to get dressed for a quick run to the clinic.

Less than thirty minutes later, the headlights lit up the front of the building. With the back office facing a small wooded area, she'd use the front entrance.

Her footsteps were muffled against the sidewalk, the morning air pinching her cheeks with invisible fingers. She'd woken up determined to immerse herself in gratitude. To not allow herself to think of all she'd lost—
the man
she'd lost.

What else was she thankful for?

Her family.

Her job—because she did love the dogs she groomed.

Her closeness with God, even though it had been the result of great loss.

She relocked the double-paned door behind her, flipping the light switch as she turned toward the waiting area . . .

. . . and confronted Wiley, Mrs. Stanton's dog, sitting in front of the receptionist's desk.

“Wiley . . . what in the world is going on?” Wiley's silence was no help, and no one else waited in the wings to help solve the mystery. “Wait a minute—what is that?”

Not that the dog was going to answer her second question, either—but she could figure out why there was a small envelope with BE
L
L
AM
Y scrawled on it suspended from a bright-red ribbon around his neck all on her own.

Her fingers shook a bit as she tore back the sealed edge and slipped out the folded sheet of paper. The typed sentences read:

Do WHAT the HUman teLLS you TO do. PLeAse and THAnk You. WILeY

“The human . . .” The paper almost slipped from her fingers when Elisabeth stepped from the room behind the receptionist area. “What are you doing here?”

“If you'll follow me.”

Bellamy rose to her feet. “I am not going anywhere until you tell me what is going on.”

Elisabeth disappeared into the back room again.

Wiley settled onto the tiled floor, resting his head on his paws, his ears at their odd full-up and half-mast angles.

“Obviously you're not going to be any more help.”

The faint hint of pine-scented cleaner lingered in the air. But was that . . . music? Her father didn't leave music on when the office was closed. The indistinct notes formed into a melody . . . and then a song.

Nat King Cole singing “I Love You for Sentimental Reasons.”

“Elisabeth . . . what is going on?”

Her friend appeared in the doorway of one of the exam rooms.

“If you step in here, and do as Wiley's note said, you'll understand.”

“What?”

“The note said, ‘Do what the human tells you to do. Please and thank you.' So just step into this room. Please and thank you.”

Bellamy stopped. “Elisabeth—”

“Belle.”

The two friends stared each other down.

“Please, Belle. You can trust me, right?”

Her friend's words, as well as the romantic lyrics of the song, tugged her forward. “Yes. Of course.”

The door clicking shut behind her almost had Bellamy reaching for the doorknob—but she turned on the light instead.

A black leather suitcase adorned with a red ribbon sat in the center of the room. A wooden coat stand was positioned next to it. Hanging on it was a dress—the emerald-green dress she'd worn the night Reid had proposed. A pair of her black high heels sat on the floor. And suspended on a red ribbon was another small envelope with her name on it.

The folded note inside read:

The pleasure of your company is requested for dinner tonight.

A car is waiting when you're ready.

With much anticipation,

Reid

Reid.

He was waiting for her.

He was
anticipating
being with her again.

God, what are you doing?

Bellamy left her pajama bottoms and cotton top in a heap on the floor, slipping into the silky dress and the strappy shoes. Her makeup bag, including a small bottle of her perfume, sat on the counter next to pamphlets about vaccinations.

Thank you, Lis!

Makeup done in less than ten minutes, hair brushed straight and pulled back in a half-up, half-down style with a silver clip—Elisabeth had thought of everything—Bellamy pulled open the door.

“What's next, Lis?”

No answer.

The building was empty, but Bellamy saw the shadow of a waiting car outside the clinic.

Onward.

As the nippy air slid against her bare legs and shoulders, Bellamy shivered. Maybe she should go grab her faded coat from the exam room—but it would ruin the effect of the dress . . .

“Good morning, miss.” Thomas, Mrs. Stanton's driver, stepped from the far side of the car. “Allow me to assist you.”

He carried a thick garment over his arm, unfolding it as he approached.

“Mr. Stanton thought you might be chilled, although I've kept the heater running.” Her hands touched the distinct softness of cashmere as Thomas slipped the coat over her shoulders. “Let me know if you're not comfortable.”

“I'm fine, Thomas. Thank you.”

Bellamy settled into the backseat of the BMW and, yes, another envelope waited on the seat.

Anticipating your arrival. Counting the moments. Relax and enjoy the ride.

Reid

“Your seat belt, please, miss?”

“Oh, yes. I'm so sorry.”

“Not at all.” The man's voice was kind, laced with a smile.

God, please go ahead of me and prepare the way. Prepare my heart for what is waiting for me.

• • • 

Reid was either getting the desire of his heart . . . or learning the toughest lesson ever about choices and consequences.

He tucked his hands inside the pockets of his coat, the air cool against his neck and ears as he paced back and forth. But he refused to go inside and wait for Bellamy—if she was even coming.

Another glance at his watch revealed it was ten fifty-eight. Elisabeth hadn't called or texted.

Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe Bellamy hadn't missed him the way he'd missed her. Restless nights. An ache so raw, so physical, he'd spent more hours at the gym than at his desk. As many hours spent praying. Asking God for his forgiveness. Talking with his parents—and asking for their wisdom.