The Week Before the Wedding Page 10

  While Bev oozed down-home sweetness and sincerity, Darlene opted for more fashion-forward hair and wardrobe choices, and Rose tended to be bubbly and a little gossipy. But the three sisters banded together for every holiday. They were now the matriarchs of the Cardin family, and they kept tabs on all the children, grandchildren, and elderly relatives.

  “No second-cousin-twice-removed left behind,” Melanie had joked when describing the “small family get-together” Bev had hosted for Ava’s first birthday.

  “We brought tarts.” Rose started doling out hugs and kisses to everyone within reach.

  “And cupcakes.” Darlene patted her wavy brunette bob, then joined Rose in greeting the other guests.

  “Bless you, how thoughtful,” Bev said. “But you know, we already have plenty of food. Pastries over here and finger sandwiches over there.”

  “Oh, well. No such thing as too much pastry, right?” Darlene opened the lid of a pink bakery box and started lining up chocolate cupcakes next to the red velvet cupcakes already arranged on the catering platter. “And we certainly don’t want to run out.”

  “No,” Bev agreed. “We certainly don’t.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” Rose said. “Remember Mel’s baby shower?” She turned to Emily and confided, “We ran out of cookies. Poor Bev spent days in the kitchen, but we still didn’t have enough macaroons.”

  “Only because Mom’s macaroons are so delicious,” Melanie said. “Can you blame the guests for devouring them all before we even opened the presents?”

  Emily felt like she was watching a documentary—a documentary on a foreign and exotic tribe, where all the tribeswomen looked out for one another and baked pies from scratch and sang one another’s praises.

  A functional family. Right here in their natural habitat.

  And she was about to become one of them.

  “Oh!” Rose clapped her hands, then rummaged through another paper shopping bag. “Wait till you see what we bought downtown.”

  Melanie looked wary. “It’s not more musical instruments for the girls, is it?”

  “No. Although I did see a finger paint set that I know they’d adore.” Darlene took out three identical lavender angora cardigans. “Look, Bev! Can you believe it?”

  “We had a sweater just like this in high school,” Rose informed Emily and Melanie. “Of course, back then we all had to share clothes, so we fought over who got to wear it every week.”

  “When we saw this in the store window, we just couldn’t resist. And look—here’s the best part!” Darlene unfolded the cardigans and pointed out the initial embroidered on the left lapel of each one. “We had them monogrammed! Now we’ll always be able to tell whose is whose.”

  “All right, girls, let’s try them on!”

  Rose and Darlene slipped into their fluffy purple sweaters, then started giggling like teenagers when they saw each other. Their merriment faded, however, when Bev struggled to pull the sleeve over her upper arm.

  “Let me help you,” her sister offered.

  “It’s too small,” Bev whispered.

  “It fits,” Melanie said, tugging at the neckline. But the loosely knit yarn strained across Bev’s back. “It almost fits.”

  “Too many macaroons, I suppose.” Bev blinked several times, then regained her composure as she took off the sweater. “I’ll just wear it tied over my shoulders, the way we used to back in school.”

  Rose and Darlene exchanged stricken glances.

  “Oh, dear.” Darlene nibbled her lower lip. “We all wore the same size back in high school—”

  “We shared clothes, shoes, lipstick—everything!”

  “—so we bought all three in the same size, and we just thought…”

  “Don’t worry, Bev,” Darlene said. “I’ll take yours back and exchange it tomorrow.”

  “You can’t,” Rose murmured. “We already got the ‘B’ embroidered on it.”

  “Oh.” Darlene patted her dark hair again. “I’m so sorry.” She put her arm around Bev and gave her a side hug. “I feel terrible.”

  “Please don’t.” Bev busied herself with fanning out a stack of paper napkins. “It’s the thought that counts.”

  Emily admired Bev’s grace and good humor, and couldn’t help imagining Georgia’s response to the same situation. Woe unto anyone who dared to imply that anything was too small for Georgia, ever. Georgia would have screamed and stomped and—

  Right on cue, Emily heard the commotion in the hallway: glasses clinking, music playing, and high-pitched laughter.

  The subdued small talk inside the reception room ground to a halt as everyone listened to the party progressing toward them.

  “What on earth is that racket?” Darlene asked.

  “It’s not even five o’clock.” Rose sounded scandalized. “Isn’t it a bit early for carousing?”

  Emily squinched her eyes shut and prayed for a well-timed bolt of lightning.

  “We’re back!” Georgia trilled as she led a conga line of hotties through the doorway.

  “Arriba!” Summer hoisted a bottle of tequila, spilling a few drops as she headed for the antique crystal punch bowl.

  Three gorgeous, tanned lifeguards followed Summer, one of them shirtless and all of them under twenty-five.

  “Everyone, meet Todd, Tim, and Kyle. They’re here to spike our drinks and liven up our luncheon!”

  Aunt Darlene couldn’t have looked more appalled if she’d seen a rabid skunk rampaging through the room. “Who is that?”

  Emily sighed. “That would be my mother and my sister. Well, stepsister. Well, ex-stepsister. It’s a long story.”

  “Come on, girls—fall in line,” Georgia commanded. And several of the attendees did just that. The atmosphere grew louder and rowdier as women started laughing, dancing, and flirting with boys young enough to be their sons. Even Melanie slipped off her sandals and started to loosen up.

  But not Bev.

  Emily’s future mother-in-law perched on an upholstered armchair, flanked on either side by an equally prim-faced sister. Clearly, the Cardin matriarchs did not enjoy drunken debauchery, particularly during daylight hours.

  So Emily couldn’t, either.

  Summer bebopped over, holding a cup of spiked punch in each hand. “You know what the t in tea party stands for? Tequila.”

  Emily grabbed the drinks and set them down on a table. “This is Summer, my maid of honor. Summer, this is Beverly.”

  “I’m Grant’s mother,” Bev informed her icily.

  “And this is Darlene and Rose; Grant and Melanie’s aunts.”

  “Charmed,” said Darlene in a tone that conveyed she was anything but.

  “Rock on!” Summer flashed what appeared to be a gang sign at Mrs. Cardin. “Hey, Em, did you tell her about the time you—”

  “No.”

  “How about the time we—”

  “No.” Emily followed this with a shut-up-or-else glare.

  Bev folded her hands and rested them on her knee. “Your family is certainly…vibrant,” she said to Emily. Then she addressed Summer with pointed politeness: “Is this your first visit to Valentine? How are you enjoying the hotel?”

  “I’m used to overnight layovers at the airport HoJo’s in Houston, so this is like paradise!”

  “She’s a flight attendant,” Emily explained. This seemed to thaw Bev’s icy reserve a bit, but before she could ask about the job, Summer exclaimed, “This lodge, the lake, the lifeguards…This is way better than your first wedding!”

  “Shut up,” Emily hissed. Summer couldn’t hear her over the music.

  Bev leaned forward. “Pardon, dear?”

  Rose and Darlene circled like hyenas around a fresh kill. “What was that?”

  Summer continued, oblivious to the tension. “Em blew me off when she married her first husband. I didn’t even get to go to the wedding. No one did.”

  “Your…?” Bev’s smile flickered on and off. “Your first husband?”

&nbs
p; Summer froze, mid–booty shake. “Uh-oh.”

  “I…” Emily’s throat constricted. “Grant didn’t mention anything about that?”

  “No.” Bev’s pinched, worried face went pale. “Goodness, no. I would have remembered that, I’m sure.”

  Darlene turned to Rose. “Did you know about this?”

  “Sorry,” Summer mouthed over Bev’s head.

  “Let’s go somewhere and talk.” Emily hustled Bev out to the hallway and tried to explain. She could feel a trickle of sweat run down her back. “It was a mistake. A starter marriage! A tiny little blip!”

  “You’ve been married before,” Bev repeated. “And you think of it as a tiny little blip.”

  “That came out wrong.” Emily covered her eyes with her hands. “What I meant was—”

  But Bev wasn’t listening. The older woman strode toward the lobby in her sensible pumps.

  “Grant!” Bev shouted, louder than Emily had ever heard her. “Grant Cardin, I need to speak with you this instant!”

  That night, a series of tense negotiations ensued in Emily and Grant’s luxurious king-size bed.

  “Are you still awake?” he asked. The room was completely dark.

  “Oh yeah,” Emily said.

  He waited a few beats, then asked, “Are you freaking out?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  The sheets rustled and the mattress dipped as he rolled to face her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Other than the fact that your mother hates me now?”

  “My mother loves you.” He yawned and rolled back. “You just took her off guard. But I sat her down and talked her through it. She’s fine now.”

  “Ha. You didn’t see the way she looked at me when Summer mentioned I’d been married before. Like I suddenly showed up with multiple facial piercings. Or a green-and-purple Mohawk. And your aunts! If you go through with this, you’ll never be invited to the family Thanksgiving dinner again. We’ll be outcasts.”

  He stilled. “What do you mean, ‘if I go through with this’?”

  Emily readjusted the top sheet and blew out a big, nervous breath. “You still have five days to change your mind and go find someone who’s not damaged goods.”

  “Hey.” He sat up. “Don’t even joke about that. You’re not damaged goods. You’re perfect.”

  “But that’s the thing—I’m not perfect.” Her voice quavered a bit. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes. I have a less than stellar track record.”

  “Your history has nothing to do with who you are now.” His voice was firm. Grant had always refused to get into a detailed discussion of their respective romantic pasts. He subscribed to the “less history, more mystery” school of thought.

  “I don’t fit into your family. Everyone’s so normal and well-adjusted! No one else has to introduce their maid of honor as their ex-stepsister–slash–best friend.”

  “Give yourself some credit.” He settled back under the covers. “You’re well-adjusted. Totally normal.”

  She had to laugh. “See? That you would even say that just goes to show that you don’t know me at all!”

  “Maybe I know you better than you know yourself.” He sounded stubborn now, and determined. “I definitely know you’re the only one I want.” He paused. “And my family will never ban us from Thanksgiving. If I don’t go, my mom won’t go, and they’ll have no macaroons or pumpkin pie or gravy from her secret recipe. It’ll be anarchy. Riots in the streets.”

  “Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel better.”

  “Mom just wants us to be happy,” he said. “She’s a little old-fashioned, but she’s not judgmental.”

  “Please.” Emily scoffed. “Every mom wants a certain kind of wife for her perfect son the doctor, and it’s not some fly-by-night hussy with a starter marriage and a mother who goes through rich husbands like they’re free samples from Sephora.”

  “I’m sure your mother isn’t thrilled to be dealing with a woman whose idea of a good time is a trip to the yarn shop,” Grant said. “But they’re big girls. They’ll work it out.”

  “If we find my mom stabbed to death with a knitting needle, we’ll know who did it,” Emily said. “Or if your mom is mysteriously strangled with the strap of a Chanel bag.”

  They lay there, side by side, in silence for a few minutes, before Grant said, “You’re still freaking out. I can feel it.”

  This time, Emily rolled over to his side. “Why didn’t you tell her I was married before? Seriously?”

  “When you told me about it, you kept saying that it was no big deal and it was hardly worth mentioning.” Grant’s hand found hers under the soft cotton blanket. “So I took you at your word. I didn’t mention it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’re the only one who has a problem with the fact that you’ve been married before.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I care about you. Not your past marital status. You.”

  Emily knew when she was defeated. “How am I supposed to argue with you when you make such good points?”

  “You can’t. So stop obsessing and go to sleep.”

  She gave him a quick peck on the lips, readjusted her pillow, and kept perfectly still for as long as she could bear it.

  “What are you worrying about now?” he demanded.

  “What? I’m totally sleeping.”

  “Liar. I can hear the synapses in your brain firing.”

  “I’m just thinking,” she said. “We’re going to Bora-Bora, right?”

  “Yeah. I booked the tickets myself.” He squeezed her fingers. “Why?”

  “Well, Caroline says we’re not going.”

  Grant paused for so long that Emily wasn’t sure he’d heard her.

  “She says you and I aren’t actually going to have a honeymoon. Because she and Andrew didn’t. She says it’s a surgeon thing.”

  Another endless pause.

  Emily scooched over until she was practically on top of him. “Hello?”

  “Hi.”

  “Do you have a rebuttal?”

  “Yeah.” He looped both arms around her waist. “Never leaving the hospital isn’t a surgeon thing; it’s an Andrew thing. I love the guy, but he’s addicted to cutting. I’m pretty sure he can’t even use a regular knife anymore. He asks for a scalpel for his filet mignon at a steak house. But that has nothing to do with us.”

  “So we’re Bora-Bora bound? You promise?”

  “Yes. And when we get there, and all this wedding hoopla is behind us, I will cancel your fancy spa massage and rub you down myself.”

  There it was—the topic they’d been avoiding all day. The dirty little secret from her past who’d resurfaced and refused to go away.

  “Don’t let Ryan get to you. He’s so…”

  Grant chuckled. “He’s fine.”

  “I can’t believe you’re okay with all this.” Emily raised her head, wrenching her neck muscles. “My ex-husband shows up to torture me—”

  “He’s looking for places to film.”

  “My mistake. Torturing me is just an added bonus.”

  “He can’t torture you if you don’t let him, right?”

  Emily coughed. “Right.”

  “So why would I worry? In fact, he asked me to go fishing in the morning. He seems like a decent guy.”

  Emily dropped her head and murmured, “Not as decent as you.”

  And that, she reflected as Grant settled into slumber, was part of the problem.

  Emily had known that Grant was one in a million from the moment she’d met him. Her usual MO with men—flirt, have fun, and break up before things got too serious—hadn’t worked on him. Mostly because she hadn’t tried it. He took the lead from the beginning, easing them into a slow, sweet romance.

  To her unending surprise, she had loved it.

  “I need you to slap me,” she’d told Summer as they elbowed their way through the Friday evening crowd at an upscale cocktail lounge. “I need to you to put down your purse—very cut
e, by the way, is that new?—and smack some sense into me.”

  Summer used her pointy-toed stilettos to clear a path through the throng of dark-suited bankers and brokers. “Are you trying to get me tossed in jail for assault? Because that’s not going to work. This time.”

  “Hang on.” Emily leaned across the bar and shouted their order to the bartender. “No. I had a dream about Grant last night.”

  Summer lit up. “Do tell.”

  Emily hung her head. “It’s embarrassing.”

  “Ooh, was it steamy?” Summer tossed some cash on the bar and grabbed the two glasses. “I need to hear every inappropriate detail.”

  Emily opened her mouth, but couldn’t force out the confession.

  Summer’s eyebrows shot up. “Wow, this must be really good.”

  “I can’t even look you in the eye.” Emily bowed her head. “You have to look away while I tell you.”

  Summer did as instructed, turning her gaze toward the restaurant’s plate glass window.

  “Okay, so last night I had this dream, and in this dream, Grant and I were…” Emily trailed off.

  “Spit it out already.”

  “We were at the opera. And he reached over and took my hand.”

  Summer stopped looking out the window and stared at her. “And…?”

  “And we sat there, holding hands, and I felt so happy. Deliriously happy. My heart swelled ten sizes like the Grinch.”

  “At the opera,” Summer repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “And that’s it? That was your big dream?”

  “Yes.”

  Summer threw back half her drink in one gulp. “That’s the lamest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “I know, right?” Emily shook her head in chagrin. “I woke up all glowy and smiley, and I wanted to call him right away. But I didn’t.”

  Summer narrowed her eyes. “What is wrong with you?”