Читать книгу The Goodbye Groom - Ellen James - Страница 8

He’ll be here.

If she just kept repeating those words, they would be true. They had to be true.

Behind her, she heard scraps of whispers.

“…minister wants to know…”

“Should the organist play that again…?”

“Hasn’t someone called him…?”

Then, at last, she heard the door to the bridal suite shutting and her mother coming to sit beside her. “I just knew he wouldn’t show.”

Jamie forced words past the tightness in her throat. “Mother, please. He’ll be here.”

“But…he’s not here, Jamie. That’s just the point. No groom…no word…no show…”

Jamie stood suddenly, the skirt of her wedding gown swirling around her. “He’s late, that’s all. You know how Shawn is. Can’t keep time to save his life.”

“Actually, I don’t know. I mean, what do either one of us really know about him?”

Jamie clenched her hands, then realized she was crushing her bouquet of pink roses and starflowers. Everything was perfect for her wedding day: the plaster-white walls of the old adobe church, the golden New Mexico sun streaming through the window, the dazzling blue of the sky. Only one ingredient was missing. The groom.

“If he’s going to break your heart, best he do it now. Not wait until you’ve been married ten years—”

“Mother, stop, please.” Jamie’s throat ached now. “Don’t make this about you and Dad.”

Beyond the closed door, the sound of the organ came again, a forced march. How long could the woman play without the main event?

Jamie sank back down into her chair. She gazed at her mother, saw the lines of pride and bitterness etched into her face. Pride because Caroline Williams had managed to live almost twenty years without a man. Bitterness because she had never forgiven Jamie’s father for walking out on her.

It won’t happen to me. He’ll be here.

“We have to do something, Jamie. This is becoming ridiculous.”

She could no longer deny that much. Her fingers trembling just the slightest bit, Jamie punched the number of his cell phone. No response. Then his apartment number. The usual debonair “Shawn here” message on his answering machine had been replaced by another recording. “I’m sorry, Jamie.” Just that, his voice subdued. I’m sorry, Jamie.

Very carefully she set down the phone. “Well,” she said, surprised at the absolute calmness in her own voice. “At least we can tell that poor, wretched woman to stop playing her music.” A deep breath. “There isn’t going to be any wedding after all.”

JAMIE COULD JUST imagine the headlines in the local newspaper: “Woman Arrested at Ex-Fiancé’s Home.” Of course, she didn’t know if, strictly speaking, Shawn was her ex; his phone message had been so maddeningly obscure. And she wasn’t exactly breaking into the house. She’d knocked at the door, then given in to the temptation to poke her head through a half-open window.

Why did she feel like such an intruder, then? Why did she know so little about the man she loved?

Jamie rested her arms wearily on the sill. Over the past twenty-four hours her usual levelheadedness had deserted her. Operating solely on emotion, she’d flown over a thousand miles to end up here at Saint-Anne—a tiny, unfamiliar island off the Washington mainland. Never chase after a man, her mother had warned her. Maybe Mom had been right.

Then again, Mom had been lonely most of her life.

“See anything you like?” asked a voice behind Jamie.

She started, straightening up so suddenly that she banged her head against the window frame. In all her twenty-eight years Jamie had never had so much as a dizzy spell. Not once during her tomboy days of bumps and bruises and broken bones. Not once during her years of flying. But now she was done in by a combination of hunger, exhaustion and the jolt to her head. The sky seemed to tilt, the ground to shift. Nothing steady remained. Even her stomach churned, a cold, sick sweat flushing her skin.

A hand caught her by the elbow. She found herself led along a pathway for a short distance and then lowered into a chair.

“Deep breaths,” commanded the masculine voice. Strong fingers deftly probed the bump on her head. It was, admittedly, a rather pleasant sensation.

She would’ve laughed if she could. Yesterday she’d been a joyful bride-to-be. Today she was a certifiable wreck. But at last her ridiculous shakiness passed. The haze in front of her eyes cleared, and she saw a swimming pool off to her right with a flagstone patio curving around the back of the rambling shingled mansion. A glass of iced tea appeared before her. She sipped gratefully and focused on her rescuer. He was a man of considerable height, obliging her to crane her neck a bit.

Dark hair curling over a stern forehead. Aloof blue eyes. A Mediterranean heritage suggested by strong cheekbones and a deliberate jaw. A dash of France and Italy, a hint of Spain. Something exotic and dangerous. Something forbidding….

Jamie took another sip of the cold, spicy tea. She felt oddly disturbed by the man, unable to glance away from him. He gazed back at her assessingly, not saying a word.

“I’m looking for Shawn,” she volunteered at last.

“Hmm… Shawn’s not here,” the man said.

A stab of disappointment went through her. “The ferry captain—he said Mr. Sinclair was in residence—”

“I suppose he meant me. I’m Eric Sinclair. Shawn’s brother.”

All Jamie could do was stare at him. “But he never said anything about a brother. I just assumed…” Her voice trailed off. One more thing she hadn’t known about her fiancé. He’d seemed so open and giving yet ultimately had shared so little. And she’d done her best to ignore all her doubts about his reticence. She’d been in love…was still in love.

As she considered Eric Sinclair, she could see only a slight family resemblance. Perhaps the determined shape of the nose. And the confident stance—she recognized that. But this Sinclair had a gravity, a formal demeanor, even a certain grimness.

She sighed. “I’m Jamie Williams. Shawn and I—well, we were supposed to be on our honeymoon right about now.”

The expression on Eric Sinclair’s face was skeptical as he sat down across from her. His attire was more suited for a corporate boardroom than an island retreat. He wore a richly shaded charcoal suit and a silk tie slightly loosened. Almost unconsciously Jamie smoothed a wrinkle from her cotton skirt. Her rumpled condition, however, was the least of her worries.

“It seems your brother neglected a few items. Such as inviting you to the wedding…or bothering to show up at the altar.”

Eric’s look remained doubtful.

“He left a message for me,” Jamie went on stubbornly. “He was sorry, he said. That’s all—he was sorry. I don’t even know what he meant. Is he sorry he ever met me? Sorry that he’s hurt me? I need an explanation. I deserve an explanation. When two people make promises to each other…that has to count for something. It might even be worth fighting for. Some things are worth the fight.”

Eric loosened his tie a little more, as if preparing for a long story, yet there wasn’t much left to tell.

“Your brother seems to have vanished from New Mexico, Mr. Sinclair. He’d told me about growing up on this island—I took a chance he’d be here.” She paused. “Do you have any idea where he could be?”

“Ms. Williams, in the past I’ve cleaned up a fair share of my brother’s messes. Swore I wouldn’t do it again.”

“I’m not somebody’s mess.”

Eric passed a hand through his hair. “No, I don’t know where he is.”

“You probably wouldn’t tell me even if you did know,” Jamie stated flatly. “There’s something you’re not saying. Just come out with it, please.”

“All right,” he said in a beleaguered tone. “My brother has a habit of…attracting attention. Sometimes it’s the family name, family wealth, whatever—”

He didn’t need to spell it out. Jamie thumped her glass down on the poolside table. She stood, pushing her chair back so quickly it almost toppled over. “I understand,” she said tightly. “You think I’m a—a gold digger. That’s the term, isn’t it? Let me tell you the truth. I don’t give a damn about your family money, your family position, whatever. I just want your blasted brother to face me and tell me what’s going on. And then I can tell him to go to…go to—” She couldn’t finish. Blinded by foolish tears, she turned and began striding away. Her dignity wasn’t helped when she stubbed her toe on a stone planter full of begonias.

Eric Sinclair came to the rescue again. He followed her, took hold of her arm and steered her back to one of the patio chairs. She grabbed a napkin from the table and impatiently swiped at her eyes. Eric stood in front of her, arms folded, looking more formidable than ever.

“I haven’t accused you of anything, Ms. Williams,” he said in a carefully expressionless voice. “Obviously you’re upset. My brother has that effect on women, too.”

She glared at him. “Shawn loves me. In spite of everything—I’m sure of that much. And that’s why I’m really here.”

Eric gave her a long, considering look. “You actually sound like you mean it. Maybe Shawn’s done it this time.”

“Done what?” she asked irritably.

He didn’t answer her question, merely went on looking at her with a distracted frown. He gave the clear impression that he had other matters on his mind and she was an unwelcome nuisance. At last, though, he gave a shrug.

“There isn’t another ferry until tomorrow at nine. I suppose you’ll have to stay here for the night, get yourself sorted out.”

She was used to being in control of her life, not someone who needed sorting out. “I’ve already registered at the hotel by the pier,” she said stiffly.

He gave just a hint of a mirthless smile. “It’s optimistic to call the Sand Castle a hotel. No…you’ll stay here. Mrs. Braddock will take you to one of the guest rooms.” He’d scarcely glanced toward the house when a sixtyish woman popped out a side door. She wore her graying hair in a ponytail, giving her a youthful appearance in spite of the fine lines etched into her face. Stepping closer, she treated Jamie to a frank perusal.

“You could do with a snack and then a rest before dinner,” she pronounced.

It sounded like exactly what Jamie needed, but she didn’t want to be managed—not by Eric Sinclair and not by this woman.

“I’ll be fine at the hotel,” she said. “My luggage is there already—”

“We’ll see that it’s delivered here,” said Mrs. Braddock. “You don’t want to stay at the Sand Castle.”

Eric almost gave a genuine smile this time. “Resistance is useless. She’s been running this family for years.”

“Someone has to,” the woman said crisply. She turned back to Jamie. “Come along, dear. I’ve made a blueberry pie.”

The prospect of having a piece of that pie weakened Jamie’s resolve—she hadn’t eaten all day. But she stayed where she was, watching Eric Sinclair. He sat down at the table, unsnapped an expensive but clearly well-used briefcase and took out some files. He immersed himself in them, seeming to have dismissed her entirely.

The incongruity of the scene was too much. A man who could devote himself to business papers when the shimmering turquoise water of the pool beckoned from only a few yards away. Not to mention all the rest of it. The engagingly rustic house and the hills forested with pine, sweeping down to Puget Sound. Breathtaking. Yet there he sat, ignoring this gorgeous summer day as effectively as he ignored her. So unlike his brother Shawn, who took advantage of every opportunity to indulge…

“This way, miss,” said Mrs. Braddock firmly. And Jamie, against her better judgment, ended up following.

SOME THINGS ARE WORTH the fight.

Those words wouldn’t leave Eric in peace. Cursing under his breath, he tossed yet another report on the table. He’d been staring at these same numbers for fifteen minutes. Leaning back in his chair, he rubbed the kink in his neck. Shawn’s latest escapade was already proving too much of a distraction.

Jamie Williams. Beautiful, passionate and angry. A potent combination.

Eric cursed again. It had been quite a while since he’d felt this distracted by a woman. Certain things tended to leave you numb: your wife announcing that she was going to leave you. Announcing that all along it had been your brother she’d wanted—and if she couldn’t have him, see you later.

Eric stood, pacing in front of the pool. Surely he’d learned by now. Any woman connected to Shawn was strictly off-limits.

So why had he given in to that impulse and installed Jamie Williams in the house?

“I’m ready.”

Eric turned at the sound of his daughter’s voice. Seven-year-old Kaitlin hovered by the door, clutching a towel under her chin. She’d armed herself with all the necessary accoutrements: bathing suit, swim fins, snorkel. Every weapon possible to belie the fact that she was frightened of water.

Eric felt something twist inside him. It seemed impossible that you could love a daughter this much and still not know how to reach her.

An all-too-familiar guilt surfaced. He’d forgotten their appointment. That was how Kaitlin had phrased it—she’d requested an “appointment” with him, as if she were a business client instead of his child. And it had slipped his mind entirely.

“Hey there, sweet pea.” Even as he spoke he knew his tone was too forced, too jocular. “Just have to change.”

Kaitlin stared at him solemnly. There was no accusation in her gaze, just a somber recognition. Clearly she knew that he’d forgotten about their swimming lesson.

For the first few years of her life he’d been far too busy to be a good father. After the divorce, he’d vowed all that would change.

“I’ll be right back,” he said. “Mrs. Braddock will stay with you.” Not that it was strictly necessary. Kaitlin’s fear of the water would keep her safely away from the pool. Mrs. Braddock, however, appeared like a genie from the greenhouse, ponytail swishing. She was always available. Perhaps too available, Eric thought wryly. She’d done more to raise him and Shawn than their parents ever had.

He went inside and jogged up the stairs to the second story. Moving down the hall, he passed a half-open door. Something made him slow down and turn back. He stood at the door, gazing inside one of the guest rooms.

Jamie Williams lay on the bed, fast asleep. In this light he could see the freckles scattered lightly across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Her red hair fanned against the pillow. He felt like a damn voyeur, but he just stood there…thinking all the wrong things about a woman who looked good in all the right ways.

What the hell was he doing? She’d come here searching for his brother. At last, Eric turned and strode to his own room. Only a few more moments and he’d changed into his swimming trunks.

Back down at the pool, he sat at the shallow end and beckoned to his daughter.

Kaitlin remained where she was, standing stiff and silent beside the housekeeper.

“Hmm… I have something to do in the kitchen,” Mrs. Braddock murmured diplomatically before she disappeared. Now Kaitlin stood all alone, clutching her towel.

“It’s okay,” Eric said. “Today we’ll just dangle our feet again.”

She inched closer to the pool, her eyes large and dark in her small face. Since the divorce, Eric’s seven-year-old daughter had taken it as a point of honor to confront her fears—fear of the water, of darkness, of school….

Her fear of water had been the most challenging. So far nothing had worked. Private instruction, lessons at the community-center pool…even Mrs. Braddock’s comforting ways had had no effect. Every effort had ended in misery and tears. For Kaitlin, the water seemed to contain unnamable demons. Yet, the greater her trepidation, the more she seemed determined to struggle against it. These sessions with Eric were always at her own request.

He moved his feet in the water. “Nice and cool,” he remarked.

Kaitlin tiptoed closer. She spread out her towel next to him and sat down. For a long moment she stared at her pink flip-flops. Then she slipped them off and stuck a few tentative toes into the water.

“Good,” Eric told her.

“It’s the same thing we did last time.”

“So?”

“So we haven’t made any progress,” she said scornfully.

“Sure we have. Two weeks ago you wouldn’t even stand this close.”

His comment earned him a resigned look. She stuck both feet into the water, sitting there rigidly. If her comfort factor seemed low, at least she’d made it this far. How could he convince her it was an accomplishment?

“You know,” he said conversationally, “I’m going to Seattle in a few days. You could come with me again. After work, we’ll go up the Space Needle. You can even stop by and visit your mom.”

“I’d rather not,” she answered all too quickly, ducking her head.

“Kaitlin,” he said as gently as possible. “You can’t avoid your mom much longer. She misses you.”

Kaitlin raised her head and stared at him with those enormous brown eyes. He saw the glisten of tears.

“Then why,” she mumbled, “did Mom divorce us?”

His daughter could get to him in a second. He put his arm around her, wishing he could protect her from every hurt.

“She didn’t divorce you, honey—just me. She loves you.”

Kaitlin blinked hard. She pulled away, her feet coming out of the pool with a splash. Her toes burrowed toward the pink flip-flops as if seeking refuge.

“We’re not making any progress at all,” she said, her voice trembling dangerously.

“You’re doing fine—”

“You know I’m not. What’s the point of lying?” She stared at him accusingly. Where had she learned to be so hard on herself? And why didn’t he know how to comfort her?

She marched across the patio and disappeared inside the house. Eric knew that she’d find some measure of solace with Mrs. Braddock in the kitchen. But that wasn’t good enough, not by far. A daughter should be able to count on her dad.

Eric debated following her, but lately the pattern had always been the same: he tried to be a good father; she pushed him away.

So he wasn’t trying hard enough, dammit. He had to come up with something better, and soon. Pacing to the table, he stared broodingly at the files scattered there. He was supposed to be working on the Garrett buyout. If he couldn’t be the right father, at least he should be focusing on business.

Instead he sat down and took another folder from his briefcase. He opened it and gazed at the rough sketches he’d made not so long ago. With a finger he traced the lines of his dream. His fantasy.

It would remain a fantasy, of course. He was too much a realist to believe anything else. But for now he could escape the problems confronting him: a family business that had begun weighing all too heavily upon his shoulders; a daughter who ran from him; a brother who’d ditched a fiancée.

Right now Eric could forget all that as he gazed at the pages before him.

He could dream.