Second Time Around (35 page)

“It’s not you,” Jamie said emphatically. “Trust me.”

“What am I going to do?” Sarah pressed her face into her palms. “Isn’t it kind of late in the game for me to pull a U-turn on my entire future?”

“Not at all,” Jamie said. “Ever heard that old saying, ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure’?”

“No. But I think I just found my new life motto. I almost called it off a few months ago, when I first heard all the
rumors about, well, you know what they were about. That’s why we didn’t have a June wedding. But Terry finally convinced me that I was crazy to doubt him.”

“He’s good at that.”

Sarah cast a long, speculative look at Jamie but didn’t ask any questions. She went back to attacking her pancakes and said, “You’ll have to tell everyone. I know I’m a wuss, but I can’t face them right now.”

“No problem,” Jamie said. “You take care of yourself; I’ll take care of everything else.”

Sarah glanced over Jamie’s shoulder, then shrank back against the wall.

“What?” Jamie whipped around.

“Don’t look now!” Sarah hissed, but it was too late. Jeff Thuesen had just entered the restaurant. He noticed Jamie and waved.

“Did he see us?” Sarah asked, her eyes huge.

Jamie nodded. “He’s heading this way.”

Before Sarah could duck underneath the table, Jeff arrived with a smile and a Styrofoam cup of coffee.

“Hi.” Jamie reciprocated with a wave and a refresher introduction. “Jeff, you remember Sarah Richmond.”

Jeff’s smile faded as he took in the bride’s expression. “Sorry. Am I interrupting a big wedding planning summit?”

“Actually,” Sarah said, “the wedding’s about to start without me.”

Jeff froze, the cup halfway to his lips. “Right now?”

“Yes. I had an epiphany. Unfortunately, I didn’t have it until the catering staff arrived and started passing out preceremony canapés, and now I’ve been reduced to a cute little cliché: the runaway bride. Except, let me assure you, when
you’re the bride doing the running away, there’s nothing cute about it.”

“I see.” Jeff glanced over at Jamie, then back to Sarah. “Where are you running to?”

“I have no idea. I already gave up my apartment in Manhattan.” Sarah’s tone changed from defensive to defeated. “I can stay with friends, I guess, although most of them are at Terry’s house right now, waiting for me to walk down the aisle.”

“Do you want me to call someone?” Jamie asked.

“No. I’ve dragged too many people into this mess already.” Sarah thought for a moment. “Book me a suite at the Gansevoort for the weekend, please. I’ll come out of hiding on Monday, but first I need forty-eight hours to pull myself together.”

“Will do.” Jamie scribbled the hotel name down on a napkin.

“I can give you a ride back to the city,” Jeff offered. “I just came in to grab a coffee to go. I’m heading back to Brooklyn right now. You can make a clean getaway before the next bus leaves town.” He paused. “But you probably want to be alone.”

“No, let’s go.” Sarah dug out her wallet and tossed some cash down on the table. “I’m ready. The sooner, the better.”

“What about your luggage?”

“Oh.” Sarah faltered. “Everything I own is in storage or at Terry’s house.”

“Sounds like some retail therapy is in order,” Jamie said. “Don’t worry. I’ll collect all your stuff and ship it back to you when you’re ready. Just send me an address.”

“I love her,” Sarah told Jeff. “Isn’t she amazing?”

“One of a kind,” Jeff said drily.

Jamie walked them both out to the curb. She gave Sarah a hug while Jeff jogged around his car to open the passenger door.

His eyes met Jamie’s as he walked back to the driver’s side, and they shared a poignant smile.

“Take care,” Jamie said.

“You, too.”

Before he closed the door, Jamie asked, “Hey, did you find any good candidates for that internship?”

“Yeah.” He laughed. “An English major, actually.”

“We’re the best; we do it all. Safe trip, you guys.” She banged her palm on the car roof and waved good-bye.

Then she returned to the pub, bought a pack of gum from the vending machine, and shoved two minty squares into her mouth. After a few minutes of deep breathing and furious chomping, she dialed up Anna.

“Where are you? I’ll swing by and pick you up in two minutes. I’ve gotta go break some bad news to a houseful of guests and one soon-to-be-former fiancé.”

W
hen Jamie pulled up in front of the president’s house, Terry was waiting for her on the front lawn. He’d removed his morning coat and vest, despite the whipping wind and the frost on the grass. Anna took one look at his face and prepared to bail out.

“One of the bridesmaids must have blabbed.” Anna reached for the door handle. “You don’t have to stop, just slow down and I’ll tuck and roll.”

A preternatural sense of serenity seeped through Jamie as
she parked the car and prepared to confront the man she’d once allowed to determine her worth.

“Well?” Terry scowled down at her. He seemed to almost vibrate with anger.

Jamie stood her ground and kept her voice low. “She’s gone.”

“Is she coming back?”

Jamie shook her head.

“What did you say to her?”

“Nothing, really. I simply asked—”

“You told her about us, didn’t you? This is your fault!” He jabbed an accusatory finger at her. “
You!
You did this!”

She stepped back and let his rage run its course. When he at last sputtered into silence, she turned on her heel, took one last look back over her shoulder, and told him, “Wrong. You did this all by yourself.”

I
always wanted to open a bed-and-breakfast like this.” The paunchy, gray-haired man settling into the sofa cushions wore dark green twill trousers and a plaid flannel shirt still creased from its original packaging. “But I was too cowed. I listened to my parents and my teachers, took the ‘practical’ route and went to law school. Ugh. Thirty years of corporate meetings later and look at me.”

“You look very successful.” Brooke set down a tray of Anna’s boudoir biscuits next to the assortment of cheese and fruit on the coffee table in front of the fireplace. She had arranged the sterling silver tea service set she’d inherited from
her grandmother alongside a row of flowered china cups. Mr. Croucher had shown up at three-thirty for Paradise Found’s four o’clock tea, but Brooke saw no reason to keep a hungry guest waiting.

“Success is subjective, young lady, and don’t you forget it.” The attorney helped himself to a biscuit and glanced around the living room. “This is quite a life you’ve made for yourself. No meetings, no commute, no deadlines.”

Brooke smiled and poured a cup of tea for the older man. “No end-of-the-year bonuses, no cushy retirement plan.”

“Money isn’t everything. I’m getting ready to retire and if I had a chance to do it all over again, I would’ve done things differently. Taken more risks, spent less time at the office.”

“It’s never too late to follow your heart.” Brooke used the ornate antique tongs to extract a pair of sugar cubes from the silver bowl.

“True enough.” Mr. Croucher propped his ankle on his knee and stared contemplatively out the window. “I’ve been thinking about moving out of Westchester County and buying a home upstate, here in the mountains. Why, if I had half a chance, I’d buy this place right out from under you.”

Brooke prepared to take a seat and share a few tales from the dark side of B-and-B ownership, but before the back of her knees even touched the chair, she noticed a drop of water plop down from the foyer ceiling onto the hallway rug. She slammed her teacup into its saucer and raced toward the staircase. “Won’t you please excuse me for a moment? I’ll be right back.”

The bathroom in Brooke’s suite was empty, of course, but the bathroom on the other side of the wall adjoined a guest room. Even out in the hallway, over the rush of running
water, Brooke could hear the laughter and guttural moans emanating from within.

After a full minute of agonized deliberation, she worked up the nerve to rap lightly on the door. “Excuse me?”

The moaning continued, accompanied by more splashing. Brooke envisioned a chunk of ceiling collapsing onto Mr. Croucher’s head. Mr. Croucher and his thirty years of litigation experience.

She pounded on the door. “Hello? Excuse me? I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s, uh, would you please make sure the shower curtain is tucked in?”

For a moment, there was silence on the other side of the door, then sloshing as the faucet turned off. “It’s tucked in,” a raspy female voice called.

“Thanks,” Brooke said. “I apologize for the interruption. Carry on!”

The guest room door opened and a middle-aged woman with dripping black hair stuck her head into the hallway. “Wait. You’re the owner?”

Brooke stared down at the baseboard. “Yes, and again, I hate to disturb you, but we have a slight plumbing situation.”

“Did you hire a decorator?” the guest asked.

“Oh no, I did it myself.”

“I love it.” The woman nodded, splattering droplets of water across Brooke’s shoes. “Very authentic to the region without being over the top.”

“Well, thank you. I put in the tile myself, too,” Brooke boasted.

The towel-clad guest didn’t bother to conceal her skepticism. “You did?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“By yourself?”

“Mm-hmm. The cast-iron toilet flanges gave me some trouble, let me tell you, but I had better luck with the tile and the sinks and installing those showerheads everyone seems to be enjoying so much.”

The woman opened the door wider and leaned back into the bedroom. “Did you hear that, Mitch? She renovated this place herself.”

“I also did the wiring, the painting, and the ceiling retexturing.”

“Mitch!” the woman hollered. “Get out here, pronto!”

Two seconds later, the nearly nude female was joined by her nearly nude male counterpart. The woman pointed at Brooke and crowed, “Look at her. Listen to her.”

“I’m looking,” the man said. “I’m listening.”

The woman clutched his shoulder. Her expression could only be described as giddy. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Unnerved, Brooke edged back toward the stairs. “What?”

“We’re in television production.” The woman accepted the dry towel her partner offered and wrapped it around her hair. “I’m Barbara Berkman; this is my husband, Mitch. Right now, we’re partnered with a cable home improvement network. We’re in talks to shoot a pilot for a concept called
Four-Wall Face-Lift
, and we’re still looking for a host. The show targets Gen-X females and we need someone adorable. Articulate. Accessible.”

“Really? That sounds …” Brooke tried to appear blasé. “Interesting.”

“You’re exactly what we’re looking for. You should come down and audition. Mitch! Where are our business cards?”

The ever-helpful Mitch ducked back into the bedroom
and returned with two business cards and a pair of terry-cloth robes.

“I’m going to take down all your contact information before we check out tomorrow,” Barbara Berkman said. “Do you have a head shot, by any chance?”

“Oh, goodness, no. Although I do have an official staff photo from the college alumni affairs brochure.”

Barbara waved her hand dismissively. “No matter, a Polaroid will do for now. The only catch is, if the network picks up the show, we’ll be filming in Manhattan. You’d have to relocate to New York City.”

Brooke paused for a moment, considering. She thought about how comfortable and safe her life in Thurwell had become. She considered how easy it would be to stick to the routine she’d established. Then she thought about Everett and Professor Rutkin, and how she’d started to love the feel of hardware in her hands. And how many more times she could realistically bring herself to reprimand mature, professional adults for having sex in her showers. “That wouldn’t be a problem for me.”

When she returned to the living room, the burned-out attorney was waiting for her with crumbs on his shirtfront and a wistful expression on his face.

She offered him a fresh pastry along with her most dazzling smile. “Mr. Croucher, were you being sincere when you said you would buy this place if you had half a chance?”

“Absolutely.” He rubbed his chin. “I’ve been trapped at a desk under fluorescent lights for too long. I’d love to finally get a crack at my dream job.”

“Well, your dream may be about to come true.” Brooke batted her eyes and offered him a pen. “Make me an offer.”