Out of Town Bride Page 9

  “All right, no, I wasn’t dating anyone seriously at that time.”

  She folded her arms and leaned back in her seat, staring out at the oncoming headlights as their car hurtled through the night. “You could have just told me the truth. It wouldn’t have hurt so much. I had feelings for you. Maybe it was just a girlish crush, but it felt very real to me. You hurt me.”

  The naked honesty in those three words got to him. They’d played a lot of games over the years, danced around the issues, alternately shown each other hostility or cool detachment. But they’d seldom been honest.

  “I know I did,” he said. “I hurt you on purpose.”

  “Why?” The anguish in her voice almost undid him.

  “It was the only way, Sonya. If I’d told you the truth, that I really did want you, you’d have found a way to talk me into making love with you. I wouldn’t have resisted too hard. I had to break it off clean, or we’d have wound up in bed. And that would have led to nowhere but disaster.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Sonya. You were a debutante, an oil heiress, destined to be one of the richest women in the state of Texas. I was the son of an alcoholic Irish immigrant. Do the math. It would never have worked, even in the short term.”

  “We live in America,” she grumbled. But she didn’t take that argument any further, probably because she knew as well as he did that her starry-eyed fantasies of ten years ago had been unrealistic.

  They rode in silence for the next hour or so. Sonya put in a CD—not one with wedding music, thank God. It was something she’d found in the glove compartment, a female blues singer who had died before either John-Michael or Sonya had been born. The music seemed to suit their collective mood.

  Closer to Houston, the traffic became stop-and-go as it almost always did, even in nonpeak hours.

  “I appreciate you doing all the driving,” Sonya said, breaking the silence. “But I really should spend more time behind the wheel. It’s embarrassing that I let myself get so dependent on you and Tim for my transportation.” She paused, a pensive expression on her face. “I can’t cook, either.”

  “You can do a valve job on a ’67 Mustang,” John-Michael reminded her. He’d taught her to do that himself, back when she’d been fifteen or so, following him around like a puppy.

  She smiled, the first time she’d done so since they’d left Cottonwood. “That’s true, I can. I don’t know that that’s a particularly useful skill, given that no one drives those old cars anymore, but I am handy with a wrench. Do you want to hear something really sad?”

  “Do I?”

  “This morning, Brenna asked me to fix coffee in the little coffee pot that was in our room. I didn’t know how. I thought she was going to rupture something laughing at me.”

  “And she’s your friend?”

  “Yes, she is my friend. She sees me as an elitist, high-maintenance snob who does not have the survival skills—or the intelligence—of a gnat, but she loves me anyway. Look what she gave me.” She held up her wrist, which was graced by a silver chain bearing one tiny charm. “It’s a tiny bottle of nail polish. When we were traveling together, she always gave me a hard time about my nails. She made this specially, just for me, because I helped her get her jewelry ready for the New York show. That’s a friend.”

  John-Michael thought Sonya’s enthusiasm over her new trinket was endearing. She hadn’t been that excited over her four-carat engagement ring from Marvin, even when she’d still believed it was a real diamond.

  Sonya was surprising him at every turn these days. He wondered how many more surprises he could stand. Right before his eyes, she was transforming from his ideal-woman fantasy prototype into a real-live, flesh-and-blood woman who was becoming more and more difficult to resist.

  It hadn’t escaped his attention that, during their frank conversation earlier, one question had gone unasked, and it was a doozy. Did he still feel the same about her as he had ten years ago? Or had he gotten over it?

  A few weeks ago, he could have answered yes, that he’d moved on. Now he wasn’t so sure. Those old feelings had sneaked up on him, returning with a depth that only maturity and understanding could bring.

  And what about her? Had her feelings changed completely? Again, a few weeks ago he’d have said, of course. She was marrying someone else, someone she professed to be in love with. But that was before he’d seen the utter devastation in her face when she’d learned of a ten-year-old deception.

  Maybe she did have feelings for him, something beyond the desire her kiss had communicated. The implications were a little scary. The idea that she’d carried some sort of torch for him all these years, even as she looked down her nose at him and treated him with utter disdain, colored the way he saw her, their history—everything. It also fueled his hope that his plans for the future weren’t just a pipe dream.

  IT WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT when Sonya arrived home. McPhee—or rather John-Michael, as she was determined to call him from now on—carried their bags into the foyer, then went to garage her car.

  Matilda was still up when Sonya went into the kitchen to grab herself a glass of milk, and maybe a couple of cookies, before bed. All that glaring honesty on the trip home had made her hungry.

  “Sorry, no chocolate chip,” Matilda said. “Dr. Cason nixed them. Now we have to make do with low-fat oatmeal raisin.” And the milk was skim. Blech.

  Sonya drank the milk and ate the cookies, anyway. She hadn’t exactly been the queen of healthy eating the last couple of days.

  “Your mother wanted to see you when you got home,” Matilda said.

  “Now? It’s late. Anyway, I talked to her just a few hours ago.” She’d called her mother frequently over the past two days, just to make sure everything was okay. Muffy had assured her she was fine.

  “I know. She wants you to wake her up. She has something she wants to show you.”

  Sonya was sure it could wait, but she dutifully trooped up to her mother’s suite and tapped on the door. When she got no answer, she eased the door open. The bedside light was on, but Muffy had fallen asleep reading the newspaper.

  She hoped Matilda or June had removed the sections that featured stories about war, politics and global warming, leaving only the light features.

  Sonya gently removed her mother’s half-moon reading glasses. Muffy stirred. “Oh, Sonya, honey, you’re home.”

  “I didn’t mean to wake you. Why don’t you go back to sleep? We can talk in the morning.”

  Muffy pushed herself up. “I know you’re probably tired, but I just want to show you this one thing.” She shuffled through the various sections of the paper, finally settling on Houston Living, which came as an insert in the Houston paper.

  “Judy Crandall’s daughter got married last weekend, and look at the spread she got on her wedding. You’d think she was a princess or something.”

  “Yes, it’s very nice,” Sonya said noncommittally.

  “This rag has been talking about her wedding for months, building everybody up to a fever pitch. Then, look, she actually had live doves in her wedding cake. When she cut the cake, the doves flew out like some miraculous thing. Can you imagine how dramatic that must have been?”

  “Mother, you aren’t suggesting I have live doves in my cake, are you? Mr. Phillips at the country club would have a fit. They’d probably fly around in a panic, pooping on the hors d’oeuvres—”

  “All right, maybe not doves. But we’ve got to do something even better. What about butterflies? Can’t you just see a cloud of exotic butterflies fluttering out of your cake—”

  “They’re bugs, Mother. Insects. No way.”

  “What if we did rose petals, then? A giant net, suspended above the dance floor. And when you and Marvin are dancing the waltz, a gentle shower of red and white rose petals could sprinkle over you. And they could continue to fall throughout the evening until the floor is covered with a carpet of fragrant petals…”

  “Maybe,” Sonya said.
She could live with rose petals. Then she remembered that it would never happen, and she felt another pang of guilt. “Did you say the waltz?”

  “Of course, dear. You know how to waltz, right?”

  “Um, yeah, sure.” Not one step. Her mother had signed her up for ballroom dancing when she was twelve, but she’d skipped out of almost every class as soon as Mrs. Linghorn had taken attendance. In cotillion, she’d sneaked out the back and smoked cigarettes with the cool kids rather than let some sweaty teenage boy drape his arms around her. At her debut, she’d placed her dainty white pumps on her escort’s feet and let him move her around the dance floor. But it didn’t matter. She didn’t need to learn how to waltz because the reception wasn’t going to happen.

  “I’ll arrange for you to take a refresher course on the waltz,” Muffy said. “And some other dances, as well. It wouldn’t hurt for you and Marvin to learn to foxtrot and tango. I don’t want you tripping all over yourselves when everyone’s watching.”

  “I’ll set up the lessons,” Sonya said dutifully. “You tell me who to call. You’re supposed to let me do the legwork, remember?”

  “Right. And the rose petals? You’ll look into it?”

  “Yes, Mother. Now go to sleep.”

  “The flight home was all right?” Muffy asked as Sonya cleared the newspapers away.

  “It was—” She stopped, her eyes riveted on a headline relegated to the very last page of Houston Living. “Um, it was fine. No problems. Good night, Mother.” She kissed Muffy on the cheek and retreated, the magazine tucked under her arm.

  In the hallway she read the story more carefully. It was only about four inches of type, so it didn’t take long. The headline read Out of Town Bride. The byline was Leslie Frazier’s, the perky redheaded reporter who had accosted Sonya outside the hospital.

  The gist of the story was that Leslie had been trying to get an interview with “society bride Sonya Patterson,” but that elusive Sonya had repeatedly refused to be interviewed or had been out of town. Leslie speculated how an absentee bride could possibly plan a wedding with a gravely ill mother and a fiancé who was Missing in Action.

  It was only a matter of time before Muffy got wind of this, Sonya thought in a panic. Muffy hated negative press. Sonya would have to nip this in the bud. She remembered deleting a few messages from the persistent reporter that had come through on her private line here at the house. Perhaps tomorrow she’d better call Ms. Frazier and wax enthusiastic over her upcoming nuptials, or the nosy reporter might get too curious and uncover much more than Sonya wanted to reveal.

  JOHN-MICHAEL HADN’T LIKED Leslie Frazier the first time he’d encountered her, in front of the hospital trying to dig up dirt on Muffy. She called herself a reporter, but she was more of a gossipmonger, more interested in juicy tidbits than balanced journalism.

  He liked her less after listening to the conversation between her and Sonya for the past forty-five minutes. He should have just stayed out in the car. But duty, not to mention a cold front, had propelled him to walk Sonya inside the newspaper building and all the way to Leslie Frazier’s office.

  Sonya had dressed for the occasion in a creamy white wool dress with berry-colored trim that reminded John-Michael of raspberry-swirl ice cream. Berry-colored, high-heeled ankle boots, matching purse, matching jacket—all contributed to her high-fashion image. It was the sort of outfit one saw on a runway, but few real women could pull it off.

  Sonya carried with her a huge portfolio stuffed full of pictures and notes about the wedding.

  John-Michael sat in a small lounge area just outside the door to Leslie’s office. He’d brought a book to read while he waited—he never went anywhere without a book, because in the course of his job he did a lot of waiting around. But Leslie left the door to her office open, so he heard most of the conversation despite his best efforts not to listen.

  Currently, the two women were discussing Sonya’s gown. A Paris designer had created it for her, and a Houston seamstress would handle all the final fittings.

  “I just purchased ten yards of Belgian lace for the edge of the train, and also here and here,” Sonya enthused, sounding for all the world like the bubble-headed bride he’d thought her to be not long ago. “Monsieur LeBreque allowed for some flexibility so my mother and I could incorporate personal preferences within the framework of textile choices he recommended.”

  “Speaking of your mother,” Leslie said, “what’s her condition?”

  “Oh, she’s ecstatic about the wedding. She’s having the time of her life helping me plan, and honestly I couldn’t do it without her.”

  “I meant her physical condition. Tootsie Milford confirmed that Mrs. Patterson is in cardiac rehab. Was there a cardiac event?”

  “She went in for some tests,” Sonya said firmly. “Her doctor has recommended a cardiac-health regimen to prevent problems in the future.”

  It wasn’t exactly a lie, John-Michael mused. June, the secretary, had crafted a cleverly worded statement, from which Sonya was quoting. Muffy did not want the press speculating that she was dying.

  “Now, would you like to see a picture of the cake?” Sonya asked brightly, though her voice had a brittle edge. “The entire thing is edible—even these sculpted doves. And each layer offers a unique dietary experience. We have a sugar-free layer for diabetics, a lowcarb layer for the Atkins folks, an angel-food layer for the Weight-Watchers crowd, a whole-wheat layer sweetened with honey, topped with tofu icing for the health-food types.”

  John-Michael rolled his eyes. He’d never heard of such a gimmicky wedding cake.

  “It must be a very tall cake,” Leslie said.

  “Almost six feet.”

  “My goodness! That’s almost taller than the groom! What does Marvin have to say about all this?” Leslie’s tone was deceptively casual, and John-Michael went on alert. She suspected something was up. No one had seen Marvin in weeks, and a few of Sonya’s friends had become openly curious.

  “You know men,” Sonya said in a conspiratorial tone. “He has no interest in the details of the wedding. He’s ecstatic with whatever I decide.”

  “What about showers? Are you planning any?”

  “Oh, sure! My maid of honor, Cissy Trask-Burnside, is planning a couples shower for December. Since it’s winter, she’s doing a tropical theme, and she’s rented out the Houston Aquarium for the event.”

  John-Michael wondered if Sonya was going to come clean before that stomach-turning party. How would she explain Marvin’s absence at his own shower? And how could she, in good conscience, allow Cissy to spend all that money on a shower for a nonexistent wedding, or accept gifts she knew she would have to return?

  This morning he’d tried to talk Sonya into telling Muffy the truth. There was no need for her to announce to the world at large that she’d been victimized by a con man, he’d reasoned. She could simply say that she and Marvin had changed their minds about getting married. But the longer Sonya put off her confession, the harder it would be on Muffy when she finally learned the unpleasant story.

  “One more week,” Sonya had promised. “She has an appointment with Dr. Cason next Monday. After he examines her, I’ll ask him if she’s well enough to withstand a shock. If he says yes, I’ll tell her. If not, we’ll have to keep up the pretext a while longer.”

  John-Michael would never do anything to endanger Muffy’s health. He would go with what the cardiologist recommended. But the minute Dr. Cason said Muffy was strong enough, John-Michael intended to hold Sonya to her word.

  Meanwhile, being forced to listen to all these froufrou wedding plans was about to make him heave.

  “I have the menu here,” Sonya said in response to Leslie’s question about food at the reception. “The Thousand Acres Country Club has one of the best chefs in Houston, as I’m sure you know, so Mother and I were only too happy to let him guide us in our menu selections. We’ll be starting with a lobster bisque…”

  The way Sonya was talking, the w
edding sounded very, very real. He wondered how many hours Sonya had spent fantasizing about being the Princess Bride, the center of everyone’s attention, wonder and envy, and how much it bothered her that this extravaganza would never take place.

  She was putting on a show for her mother’s sake. But how much of it was for Sonya’s sake? Was she delaying the inevitable return to Earth because she wanted to extend the fantasy for herself, bask in the attention just a bit longer?

  “The Brent Warren Orchestra will be playing a hand-selected list of classic, romantic torch songs and dance music mixed with some newer songs,” Sonya answered when Leslie asked about the reception music. “And we’re cooking up a special treat—I don’t want to give too much away, but it’s something I hope everyone will remember.”

  “You’re not doing a wedding cake full of doves, are you?” Leslie asked dryly.

  “Oh, no, no. Nothing that involves…creatures.”

  John-Michael could almost see Sonya shiver with revulsion, and it made him smile. She used to be such a little tomboy, but some time after the age of twelve she’d developed a healthy distrust of critters. Cats, dogs and horses were okay. Parrots were tolerable but even doves were highly suspect. On the other side of the spectrum, rodents were completely disgusting, and she was terrified of anything with more than four legs. She refused to go outside if there was any chance she might encounter flying grasshoppers, cicadas or clingy june bugs.

  She was such a complete girlie-girl, which was why he found the idea of her pursuing a career in engineering so hard to swallow. But he supposed those two weren’t incompatible, just not something the world was used to seeing—an engineer who jumped on a chair when she saw a spider.

  She’d started work on her résumé that morning.

  They wound up the hour-long interview with talk about reception gifts. Every female guest would receive a Limoges box, whatever that was, and the males would receive a deck of brass playing cards. John-Michael couldn’t imagine anything he needed less. But then, he probably wouldn’t have been invited to the wedding even if it did take place. As of January 8, he was no longer Sonya’s bodyguard.