Lori Wilde - There Goes The Bride (35 page)

“You figured out that she’s being blackmailed?” Nick didn’t look surprised.

Delaney stared at him. “You knew?”

“I didn’t know for sure, but I can guess why.”

All the blood seemed to drain from her body. Her skin felt at once icy cold and blistering hot. “Why’s that?”

“Because your mother isn’t Honey Montgomery Cartwright.”

Jim Bob Cartwright sat on a stool in a dark, dank-smelling bar not far from the oil refinery his family had owned and operated for three generations until economics had forced them to join forces with corporate America. He was a figurehead these days. No real power. His seat on the board of directors was little more than a commitment to the contract he and his brothers had signed. Jim Bob still made lots of money, but he had no real duties, no real influence in the company his grandfather had built. Without the Cartwright name, he was nothing.

Not even a good husband.

The place was almost empty. A couple of barflies hung off the other end of the bar, engrossed in a golf tournament on television. The jukebox was playing a Dwight Yoakam song.

Jim Bob stared at the double shot of Crown Royal he’d ordered. Stared and licked his lips and thought of Honey.

Correction.
Fayrene.

He gritted his teeth as fresh rage swept over him. He closed his fist around the shot glass. How could she have deceived him so thoroughly? Everything they’d built together had been based on a lie.

His stomach roiled.

He loved her so damn much, but how could he love her? He didn’t even know who in the hell she was. Fuck, but he felt like crying. His wife was a stranger, and his daughter had arranged her own kidnapping simply because she hadn’t been able to tell him she didn’t want to go through with her wedding.

Both his wife and his daughter had hidden their secrets from him. He’d failed them both. Failed them spectacularly. Jim Bob hadn’t felt so alone since he’d given up drinking.

He eyed the beautiful amber liquid, and then lifted the whiskey to his lips. The smell of it was like an old, familiar friend. How easy it would be to swallow it back, allow it to take him under.

It’s not the answer. Remember your vow of sobriety. Remember the night you swore it?

Until he took his dying breath, Jim Bob would remember the day he’d hit rock bottom.

It was the first anniversary of Skylar’s death, and the Dallas Cowboys had been scrimmaging the Buffalo Bills in the Super Bowl. Honey had planned a memorial service for eight P.M., and the Wildcatters bar was hosting a Super Bowl party with two-for-one whiskey shots.

He hadn’t purposely chosen the Super Bowl over his daughter’s memorial service, but the thought of putting himself through more emotional pain had overwhelmed him. He’d stopped by Wildcatters after leaving the office, intent on one shot of liquid courage before heading home to change into the black suit and tie Honey had laid out for him that morning.

A handful of his drinking buddies had been at the bar, rowdy and well on their way to getting drunk. He’d been jealous of how happy and pain-free they looked, and he wanted to join them in that blessed state of oblivion.

One shot of Wild Turkey had turned into two and two into three.

The next thing he knew it was almost eight o’clock, and the Super Bowl was starting and he was too drunk to drive. Guilt and grief had burned inside him. To kill the feelings he’d had another shot and then another.

But it couldn’t drown out the image of Honey standing at the front of River Oaks Methodist Church waiting and waiting and waiting for him to appear. In a whiskey-soaked stupor, he’d called a taxi.

He arrived at the memorial service ten minutes before nine and stumbled into the church in his khaki Dockers, plaid western shirt, and scuffed cowboy boots.

The altar was still set up with candles burning, pristine white lilies, and a big color poster from Kinkos with Skylar’s picture on it. But the pews were empty. He dropped to his knees at the altar. The smell of the cloying lilies, reminding him too much of the day he’d buried his precious baby, turned Jim Bob’s stomach.

Where was everyone?

You’re too late; they’ve already gone home.

But he knew Honey wouldn’t leave Skylar’s portrait behind. She had to still be here.

Then he heard the sound of muted voices somewhere in the distance, and he remembered about the reception Honey had put together.

Staggering to his feet, he swayed a moment, fighting off the nausea, and then lumbered to the rectory.

He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Everyone was dressed in black. They stopped talking the minute they spied him, his family and friends sizing him up with barely disguised disdain.

“Jim Bob.” His brother Lance had come toward him, but Jim Bob shoved him aside and barreled straight for his wife.

He would never forget the look of horror that crossed Honey’s face. It was as if someone had doused everything she owned in gasoline and set a blowtorch to it. Grief and disgust and embarrassment and fury flashed across the face she normally kept pleasant and controlled.

“My precious baby’s dead,” he wailed and fell against her, hoping she’d gather him up in her arms and hold him close. But she had not. “I’ll never love anyone the way I loved her.”

He sank to his knees, clutching the hem of her skirt in his hands. He’d cried, pathetic and maudlin, clinging to Honey as she tried her best to retain her dignity. She was the most stoic woman he’d ever known, and he was jealous of her ability to detach herself from her pain.

Jim Bob had looked up to see chubby little Delaney standing in the corner staring at him, her thumb in her mouth at age eight, her eyes wide as quarters. Shame engulfed him.

And then he’d thrown up all over Honey’s shoes.

The next morning he’d joined AA and hadn’t had a drink since. Hadn’t even come close.

Until now.

Temptation coaxed.
Drink it. Everything’s changed. Honey’s not who you thought she was. Your marriage is a sham. Your daughter doesn’t trust you to keep her confidences. You’ve no real purpose. Come on. Slide back inside the bottle.

Hand trembling, he touched the rim of the shot glass to his lips. The smell of the whiskey was nauseating now.

He gulped, opened his mouth.

And set down the shot glass. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t cross that line, couldn’t throw away his hard-won recovery.

Just then, his cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket, flipped it open, saw it was Honey calling.

He didn’t want to talk to her. Not when he was sitting so close to temptation.

But she wouldn’t stop ringing him. Not even when it forwarded to voice mail. She just hung up and called again. Four times, five, six.

What if it’s about Delaney?

He knew he had to answer. He pushed the TALK button. “Yeah?” he said gruffly.

“Jim Bob,” Honey said, startling him by calling him by his nickname. In the whole thirty-four years of their marriage he couldn’t recall a time when she’d called him Jim Bob. The sound of her voice, desperate and scared, wrinkled his heart. “Please, you’ve got to come home right away. I just received the ransom note. My mother’s threatening to kill our daughter if we don’t pay her ten million dollars.”

Chapter 19

W
hat do you mean my mother isn’t Honey Montgomery Cartwright?” Delaney blinked at Nick.

“We need to go someplace more private for this conversation,” he said. “It’s not the kind of thing you discuss sitting on the side of the road.”

She met his gaze. The serious look in his eyes scared her. “That bad, huh?”

“It’s probably going to rock your world.”

She considered the implications of that. “Let’s go to Galveston. Get away from the city. Sit on the beach and get rip-roaring drunk on umbrella drinks.”

They didn’t talk on the drive to the island. But Nick stretched his right arm out across the seat palm up, and Delaney rested her hand in his. He squeezed her fingers lightly, comfortingly. They held hands and watched Lalule dance and by the time they reached Galveston, Delaney was feeling somewhat better, even if anxiety over her mother’s identity was sitting squarely in the middle of her chest.

“Where to from here?” Nick asked. They couldn’t go to Lucia’s. The house was in escrow.

“I need someplace quiet where I can think.”

“I know just the place.”

He took her to a quaint little bed-and-breakfast close to the beach but a little out of the way of the usual tourist crowd. “I’ll get you a room for the night,” he said. “Until you can make up your mind what you want to do.”

“Thank you.” She smiled at him.

The proprietor of the B&B, June Harmony, was a plump middle-aged lady with a mischievous smile and an unexpected mane of glorious auburn hair that curled halfway down her back. She immediately assumed they were married from the way they were dressed and showed them to the honeymoon suite. After the woman gave them the usual welcoming spiel and details about the B&B, she turned to Nick and asked, “Where’s your luggage? I’ll send my husband, Henry, to bring it up to you.”

“Luggage got lost,” Nick explained.

“Well then.” June winked. “I’ll just leave you two alone to settle in.”

“Why don’t you take a shower,” Nick said. “And try to relax while I head over to one of those souvenir shops on the seawall and pick us up shorts and T-shirts.”

It was as if he’d read her mind. “Thank you.”

He leaned over to kiss her lightly on the cheek. It was the sweetest kiss she’d ever gotten, but it upped her anxiety. If he was being so sweet, what he had to tell her must be bad indeed. “Be right back.”

Nick left and Delaney shed her bedraggled wedding dress. Just looking at it lying in a heap on the floor made her feel wistful in a way she’d never quite felt before. It was a sadness tinged with relief and regret, concern and longing. Part of her wanted to pick up the phone right now, call her mother, and tell her everything. But another part of her, the rebellious part she’d hidden for years, needed to hear what Nick had to say before making any phone calls or drawing any conclusions.

She got out of the shower and wrapped herself in one of the thick terry-cloth robes provided by the B&B. BRIDE was embroidered across the pocket in maroon stitching. The matching robe said GROOM.

Pulling a comb through her wet hair, Delaney walked to the French doors leading to the balcony. She opened them up and a draft of sultry Gulf breeze blew back the thin white sheers. The sound of the water lured her out onto the little terrace barely large enough for two chairs and a bistro table.

On the bistro table sat two champagne flutes, a metal bucket filled with ice and a bottle of champagne. A note card propped against the bucket said: “To the Happy Couple, complimentary champagne to start your new life in style. Best wishes, June and Henry Harmony.”

For no good reason Delaney’s eyes misted and that sad, wistful feeling blocked up her chest again. She might not be part of a happy couple, but she was ready to start her new life in style. She pocketed the comb, picked up the bottle.

She’d just poured herself a glass of champagne when Nick returned, carrying a paper bag and wearing rubber flip-flops. She looked at his bare toes sticking out from under the cuff of his suit pants and smiled.

“Those dress shoes were killing my feet.”

“Still,” she said. “I’m betting they’re not as bad as stilettos.”

“You got me there.” He grinned. “Hey, champagne.”

“Compliments of June and Henry. I thought a drink was in order, considering the serious discussion we’re about to have. Pour yourself a glass while I change.”

She took the sack he passed to her and went into the bathroom to change out of the robe. He’d bought her a form-fitting, spaghetti-strap pink T-shirt, white denim shorts, and a pair of pink-and-white flip-flops. When she sauntered back to the balcony, she felt her cheeks warm as his eyes raked boldly over her body.

He too had changed into a T-shirt and shorts. His knee wasn’t wrapped, and for the first time she saw the network of purple-red scars. She sucked in her breath, startled by the extent of his injury.

His eyes tracked the direction of her gaze. “Ugly, huh.”

“No.” She shook her head. “Not ugly. Vulnerable.”

“Great. Just what every guy wants to hear.” He plunked down onto one of the chairs and self-consciously pointed his knee away from her. She found his embarrassment touching.

“You don’t have to hide from me.”

“Better sit down.” He waved at the chair beside him and ignored her last comment. “We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

She drained her champagne, poured herself another glass, and slid into the chair next to him. They watched the tourists walk along the seawall for a few minutes, then Delaney took a deep breath and plunged in. “Okay,” she said. “What’s this about my mother not being my mother?”

“She’s your mother. She’s just not Honey Montgomery.”

“I don’t understand how that can be.” From the moment he’d first told her that, she’d been trying not to think about it. The idea was so ludicrous she couldn’t really wrap her head around it.