The Wedding Chapel (3 page)

“I told her the end of the month.”
End of the month
. . . a hundred times.

“Fine, just shoot her a text or an e-mail. She’s dying to get her pictures. I can’t blame her.”

“Guess not. A girl has a right to revel in her wedding.”

The only pictures she had of her wedding were snapped with her iPhone by the officiant presiding over their vows. She’d not even thought to take her Canon with her to the ceremony.

That’s how head over heels she was for Jack. Giggly. Forgetful. Spontaneous.

She hadn’t wanted to shoot Keri’s wedding because the job wouldn’t build the commercial résumé Taylor wanted. But Keri was a friend of Jack’s, a former client, and probably an ex-girlfriend, though Taylor wasn’t sure about that last part. Either way, she would do just about anything for Jack.

Even marry him when she didn’t believe in marriage.

He was her weakness. Her shoe sale, her milk chocolate, her ice-cream cone on a summer day, her high school crush come to life.

She didn’t know he was in Manhattan until that cold January afternoon when she literally ran into him coming around the corner of Madison and 67th. She’d just finished a job and thought a perusal of the Tory Burch store would be a nice reward.

Not that she had Tory Burch kind of money to spend, but looking and dreaming never hurt. She’d get a latte on the way home as another reward.

Instead, she’d rediscovered Jack. So much better than drooling over clothes she couldn’t afford. Yes, that’s it. Drool over a man she couldn’t
afford
either, but somehow her emotional bank was willing to risk investing in one Jack Forester.

At first it was, “Wow, hello!” Two friends from Heart’s Bend, Tennessee, in the Big Apple.

Then dinner, followed by lunch, and dinner again. Eight weeks later, he whispered two stunning words on a Martha’s Vineyard
beach.
“Marry me.”
She didn’t hesitate or take one contemplating breath.
“Yes.”

Eyes tired and blurry, Taylor closed her laptop. She’d finish in the morning and get them to Melinda on time. “A-are you going out?”

Jack cut a glance her way, then back to the TV where he’d landed on SportsCenter. “Yeah, Aaron called. Wanted to play basketball.”

“Now?”

“It’s been a long day. I need to burn off some energy. Hops is all in a wad over the FRESH Water account.”

Jack was an up-and-comer in the New York advertising world.
Ad Age
called him the “Charmer.” His work on a Super Bowl spot had won his agency their first CLIO Award.

“What’s going on with FRESH Water?”

She’d wanted Jack to recommend her for a FRESH shoot. But his boss, Hops Williams, deplored nepotism. It didn’t matter how good Taylor was, or how cheap—did free count? He’d not entertain the thought of his main man’s wife working on one of the accounts.

“Nothing, just working all the angles.”

Nothing? It didn’t feel like nothing. “Hops is in a wad over nothing?”

“Taylor—” Jack stood, moving to the kitchen. “It’s just business.” He jerked open the fridge.

She felt all this keenly, a sign their relationship was dying. In the beginning, they’d lain together in bed, legs and arms entangled while they talked about their work, their dreams, the funny bits on Jimmy Fallon. Then they would fall asleep in each other’s arms. But now they went to bed at separate times. Jack clammed up about his job, and by Taylor’s calculations, it’d been awhile since they’d . . . well . . .
entangled
.

“How’s Aaron’s new baby?”

Jack twisted the cap from a bottle of water as he returned to the
sofa, laughing low. “Why do you think he wants to play midnight basketball? Burn off some tension. I guess the thing is colicky or teething or something.”

The
thing
? One of the conversations omitted in the whirlwind was how many babies, if any, they wanted. Besides his standard response of “not now,” Taylor wasn’t sure of Jack’s feelings on family.

Other than that he loathed his own.

Taylor studied him, the palpitation in her chest tangible. Try as she might to get a realistic grip on her marriage, she was still a bit mesmerized by Jack. The troubled, brooding,
gorgeous
boy from high school who walked among the wounded yet excelled in everything. For some unknown, aggravating reason, she had this desire to get and keep his attention. To make him smile at her,
because
of her,
only
for her. To see in his eyes that she mattered to him. Made his life complete.

“Why do you have to do it?” she asked without preamble.

Jack peeked her way. “Do what?”

“Be . . .
perfect
.”

“Perfect?” He made a face and swigged from his water. “You mean besides spending too much money?”

“Jack—”

“I’m determined, purposeful, precise, maybe a
perfectionist
, but hardly perfect.” Another swig of water. “I don’t have perfection scheduled until I’m forty-five.” His wink and grin flooded Taylor with the warmth of want. “So relax.”

Beneath the fortitude and confidence, Taylor caught a glimpse of the boy from Heart’s Bend who wrestled with demons only he could see. He’d used all his skill and unique talents to act as his own healer; Taylor had yet to determine if he was becoming whole by his efforts or only more wounded.

Was his impulsive proposal another Band-Aid on the wound?
Another way to forget his pain? Had they been too impetuous? Too full of lust or something? Out of their heads?

Never mind that Jack could have
any
woman he wanted. Underline
any
. Models. Actresses. Beauty queens. She’d scanned his Facebook friends.

So why did he pick her? A throwback-hippie photographer. From their small hometown?

Back at the fridge, Jack checked a carton of leftover Chinese.

“Do we have anything to eat besides three-day-old fried rice?” He arced the small white box toward the trash, basketball style.

“I thought you weren’t hungry.” Taylor held her tone low and cool, trying not to be defensive.

“Changed my mind. Wow, we have a fifteen-hundred-dollar fridge with nothing but leftovers.”

“There’s milk,” she said as she went to the couch and sat next to where he had been. “And cereal.”

“Cereal?” His heavy sigh irritated her.

“What?”

“It’s just . . . you’re here during the day. At home. I thought you’d handle the food, the kitchen . . . dinner.”

“Handle dinner?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.”

“It’s just . . . you’re home.”

“I’m not
just
home, Jack. I’m working.” She motioned to her little office set up in the corner of their apartment. The space was small, but she had an amazing view of the East River and the lower end of Manhattan.

“Fine, but can we clean this out once in a while?” He made a show of it by tossing another carton of Chinese into the trash, then slamming the fridge door shut.

“Feel free, Jack.” Taylor reached for the remote, changing the channel. Resentment bubbled under her skin. He was gone all day, then walked in without a tender word, changed to go play basketball, and criticized her for having too many leftovers.

What was on TV at ten thirty? Something funny . . .

“What’s with you and leftovers anyway?” she asked. “I wanted to throw that stuff out two days ago and you said, ‘No, keep it.’ ” She landed on a rerun of an eighties show. “So eat it, Jack.”

He folded his arms and leaned against the counter. “I’m just saying, Taylor, the kitchen is sort of your domain.”

“My
domain
? What’s yours? Telling me what to do? I already do the cleaning, the laundry, the shopping and errand running.”

“Your time is more flexible than mine, Taylor.”

“That’s so not true, Jack. I’m every bit as busy as you, and I don’t have a big-name company to back me up. If I don’t have a job, I have to
find
one. Once I get said job, I have to book the studio, rent the equipment, do the scheduling, and organize the shot list. Then I do
research,
without assistants to help me.”

“What do you call Addison? She’s your assistant. One I agreed we could pay for out of the household budget.”

“Said the man with twenty-five pairs of shoes.”

“What do my shoes have to do with anything?”

“Your shoes, your spending . . . and you’re busting me because I wanted a bit of money to hire an assistant.”

“And is she assisting? Why are you doing Melinda House edits instead of Addison?”

“She’s not that good at it. Yet.”

“Then find someone who is good at it.”

“What? No. She’s organized and detailed, keeps me on track.”

She was too tired for this. And weary of this merry-go-round.
You do, I do.
How did they get
here
within a few words?

Jack opened one drawer, then another, making a racket of shoving the contents around and every few seconds flashing her with his blue eyes. “Don’t we have any paper and pens in this place?”

Taylor pointed to the canister by the phone. “What are you doing?”

“Making a list of chores.”

“Jack, come on.”

“Come on, what? I hear you. Things need to be more equitable. Let’s write
Taylor
on one side and
Jack
on the other.”

Why was he doing this? Taylor wanted to fly across the room and grab his arm, shake him, say,
“Let’s get back to where we were in the beginning or end this.”

With a sarcastic flair, Jack started detailing their respective chores. “You do . . . shopping, cleaning, laundry . . . Is that right? Did I get them all?”

“Finances.”

“Right, of course, the budget Gestapo.”

Taylor’s eyes misted. He’d asked her to do them because she was good with numbers. Good with denying superfluous expenses. But lately he didn’t even talk to her about his spending. Just handed her receipts.

“I handle the dry cleaning—” he began.

“Because you insist on that crazy cleaners by your office. He charges too much, you know.”

“—garbage, earning the money, supporting the house and your business—”

Taylor bolted off the couch and snatched the paper from under his pen, wadding it up. “Stop, just . . . stop. I said I’ll pay you back for Addison’s salary.”

“Did I ask you to pay me back?” He stooped for the wadded-up list. “I’m just trying to figure out the great divide in our responsibilities.”

“Then why did you say, ‘I earn all the money around here and support your business’?”

“Because I do. I don’t know why you’re so upset.” He tossed the pen back in the canister. “I was just commenting—”

“You were putting me in my place.”

“And you’re not putting me in mine? I get it, you don’t want to be responsible for dinner. Good to know. I should make another list. ‘Things to discuss before eloping.’ ”

There. Doubts, out in the open. She knew he had them.
Knew it
. So what choice did she have but to reel in her heart?

“I’ve got to meet Aaron.” Jack disappeared in their room, returning after a second with his keys. “Don’t wait up.” He glanced back to her as he reached for the knob, a flicker of something soft lighting his face. “Taylor, I—”

“Yes?” Her heartbeats thundered in her ears.

“I just want to say—”

The doorbell sounded, startling Jack backward and jarring the intimacy from the moment. Jack frowned, opening the door. “Who’s here at this hour?”

Doug Voss stood on the other side. Taylor exhaled, trembling.
Oh no.
Her Big Mistake. The one she escaped.

“What are you doing here?” Taylor moved toward the door, standing between her past and her present, the shadows in the room seeming longer and darker.

He smiled his perfect, oh-so-sly smile. “I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d visit the newlyweds.” He crossed the threshold without invitation, surveying the room as if he owned it.

“J-Jack, this . . . this is Doug Voss.”

“I know who he is,” Jack said, offering the publishing mogul a stiff handshake. “Publisher of
Gossip
.”

“Number one celebrity magazine. Thanks in part to this girl
here.” Doug motioned to Taylor as he moved through the living room. “Nice place. They’re doing a lot with these old refurbed buildings.”

Old
.
Refurbed
. A put-down if Taylor ever heard one.

“Again, why are you here?”

Doug’s gaze passed over her as he angled to see out the stacked panes. “Nice deck. Great view of the river.”

“We like it,” Jack answered, tense and suspicious, his tone marking his territory.

“Can I offer you some . . . tea or coffee? Water?” Taylor gave Jack a pointed look.
What? I don’t know why he’s here.
She felt trapped between Doug’s invasion and Jack’s stony stance.

“No, nothing for me.” Doug gave Jack the once-over. “You play ball?”

“Yeah, a little. Relieves the—”

“Tension. I’d agree. I shoot a bit of hoops myself.”

“Doug, I know you didn’t come here to talk basketball with Jack.” His presence seemed overbearing, nosy, as if inspecting where Taylor landed. Well, it wasn’t his business.

“I need you for a job.”

“A job? What sort of job?” Working for Doug and
Gossip
had kept her busy when she first came to the city eighteen months ago, kept her name out there and the bills paid. But they were the fame jobs. Not the fortune ones. Commercial jobs, like working for an agency like Jack’s, were where the money could be found.

“Don’t worry, not another Brandon Colter shoot.”

“Thank goodness. He was a real
treat,
” she said. The teen rocker showed up late, with glassy eyes, slurred speech, and five beautiful, very skinny girls as his entourage. It took Taylor two days to do what should’ve taken her one.

“Oh, say, how did the gig from CBS work out?” Doug asked, his eyes steady on her. “I told them you were the best.”

“It turned out. I’m shooting the cast of
Always Tomorrow
in the morning.” He was marking his territory. Letting Jack know he, the mighty Doug Voss, took
care
of his girl. But she wasn’t his girl anymore.