Crush (31 page)

Lucas growled his frustration. He had called Miranda’s home number three times before trying her at the Park Plaza. As he’d expected, the hotel operator had claimed to have no such guest registered, so he’d tried her once more at home. Morgan had tracked down the phone numbers for Calista, Mr. and Mrs. Penney and Alec Henderson, but none of them were at their residences. Lucas was struggling to contain his annoyance and resentment—and jealousy—to work up enough gall to call Jordan Duquette when another option came to mind. He sat at his desk, put his table phone on speaker and dialed.

“What area code is 44?” Bernie greeted upon answering his phone.

“It’s the international calling code for Wales,” Lucas impatiently explained.

“Sir Lucas!” Bernie’s voice hid none of his excitement. “So good to hear from you.”

Lucas leaned one elbow on his desk and propped his other hand on his thigh. “Is she marrying that idiot?”

“I’m sorry,” Bernie said. “I’m accustomed to beginning a conversation at the beginning.”

“I was reading Saturday’s
Herald-Star
online and I saw a story about Jordan Duquette,” Lucas said. “He claims that he and Miranda are to ‘walk down the aisle together’ tomorrow at six. Is this another of your paper’s falsehoods?”

Bernie’s long silence seemed to lengthen the distance between Conwy and Boston.

Dread gripped Lucas’s heart. Feast had told him that pregnant women were capable of almost anything under the influence of their fluctuating hormones, but never had Lucas considered the possibility that Miranda would go utterly insane. “Mr. Reilly, I would appreciate an answer.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Bernie faltered. “I would have thought that Miranda would have explained what was going on. I’d like to tell you the truth, but on the other hand, a lie would make this situation much easier for everyone involved.”

“Mr. Reilly!” Lucas shouted.

“It’s true!” Bernie blurted. “Tomorrow at six, at the Park Plaza Castle in Boston, Miranda and Jordan will stand before God and family…and…well, you can fill in the rest.”

The pops behind Lucas’s eye became louder and stronger. “Miranda can’t be marrying Duquette. He’s the very thing she’s convinced herself that I am!”

“Well, she knows what she’s getting with Jordan.” Bernie seemed to be enjoying his role as beacon of bad news. “She’s been such an emotional wreck these last weeks. I said to her myself, I said, ‘Miranda, don’t go making any hasty decisions that you’ll regret,’ but you know how headstrong and stubborn she is. With Jordan constantly pressuring her and the hormones making her crazy, I guess she just gave in. Pity. I tried to stop her from making the second biggest mistake of her life…the first, of course, being her decision to let you go. I suppose she and Jordan make sense in a wholly nonsensical way. You know what they say…uh, women marry men like their fathers.”

“Over my bloody dead carcass!” Lucas spat. “Thank you, Mr. Reilly.” He hung up the phone and pressed a different button. “Morgan,” he directed into the intercom, “call the airport and tell them that I wish to have the plane readied to fly to Boston. I’ll be leaving immediately.”

He gave Jordan’s photo one last look of disgust as he sped past the computer and out of the solar, slowing only when he reached the garage, the stone building housing his collection of motor vehicles. Cars had been his indulgence in his youth, and the colorful array of driving machines lined the stone floor, each snuggled in its own assigned spot. Until he had turned his affections to his pups, creatures he loved that could love him right back, his cars had been his companions. He felt a twitch of guilt as he stared at them after not having driven them in so long, but it quickly passed. He glanced at each of them, trying to decide which would best deliver him to the airstrip.

The silver Lamborghini Murciélago could go from 0 to 60 mph in 3.5 seconds and had a top speed of 205 mph. The cherry red Porsche and the hunter green Aston Martin Vanquish would do just as well for speed, too. The sleek black Italian bike at the end of the first row made his mind up for him. Within eight seconds of straddling the Ducati 999R, and with nothing but the clothes on his back, Lucas was a black blur hugging the winding roads of Northern Wales as he sped closer to Miranda.

Chapter 13

“I’m supposed to be the best-looking woman in the world tonight,” Calista said after Miranda emerged from her bedroom. The hotel had delivered a full-length, tri-fold mirror to the bridal suite, and Miranda stood in the center of it, scared to look at her reflection. “You look amazing, Andy,” Calista said. “That dress looks better now than it did at your last fitting.”

“Thanks for saying that, Callie,” Miranda said, “but I’ve never seen you look more beautiful.” Calista, the full skirt of her ivory silk taffeta wedding gown spread carefully around her to avoid wrinkles, sat on the velvet-covered stool at the vanity table. Aña Penney fastened a string of heirloom pearls, Calista’s something borrowed, around her daughter’s neck. The princess-seamed bodice of Calista’s dress had a low-cut, straight neckline, and the pearls gave the dress the perfect finishing touch. Aña spent a moment more hovering over Calista before she turned toward Miranda.

Aña wore a pale peach suit dress that complemented her dark eyes and virtually unlined skin. Her black hair was swept into a snazzy chignon, and Aña had refused to let a stylist color the scant streaks of silver.

Miranda sighed as she stared at her sister and her mother. It hadn’t been easy growing up in the same house with two of the most beautiful women in Silver Spring, but now, it wasn’t envy that colored her perception of them. It was love, pride and gratitude for what a wonderful family she had. She turned away from them before the tears building behind her eyes found their way out.

Miranda finally caught her reflection and was startled by what she saw. The pregnancy that she had worried the dress would reveal actually complemented the garment. Her fuller breasts nicely filled the Empire bodice, balancing the slender lengths of her crinkled French silk chiffon sleeves. Layers of sheer silk fell to her ankles, beautifully camouflaging the swell of her growing abdomen as well as her cast. The pale apricot silk heightened the rosy undertones of her complexion, giving her a natural, healthy glow that cosmetics couldn’t duplicate. At Calista’s insistence, she wore a swipe of mascara and a bit of neutral lip gloss for the photos to come later.

Her hair had been done by Marc Antonio, Boston’s most sought-after stylist and one of Bernie’s close friends. Marc Antonio had trimmed Miranda’s “dead ends” before setting her hair with large plastic rollers. He’d used a blow dryer on a cool setting to give her loose, curling waves with maximum volume and shine. He had then styled her hair similarly to Calista’s, stacking the curls elegantly at the crown and back of Miranda’s head, leaving a few spiraling tendrils to caress her neck and shoulders. A pair of antique drop pearl and topaz earrings, Calista’s gift to her maid of honor, completed Miranda’s outfit.

Bernie joined Miranda in the mirror. He lightly gripped her shoulders as he set a delicate kiss on each of her cheeks. “You look like royalty.”

“Miranda, I can’t remember ever seeing you all dressed up.” Aña clasped her hands under her chin. “Look at you!” She held out a hand, drawing Miranda to her. She put an arm around each of her daughters. “My precious babies,” she nearly wept with happiness.

“Funny you should use that word, Mrs. Penney,” Bernie said. He looked at his wrist, which bore no watch. “Goodness, look at the time. I’m late for my very important ushering duties.”

“What word?” Aña wondered aloud.

“Baby,” Miranda muttered.

Aña waved the absent Bernie’s comment off. She helped Calista search through a velvet jewelry pouch. “I can’t help it. No matter how old you girls get, I still think of you as my babies…” Her words faded as she withdrew a triple-strand pearl bracelet. She took a hard, motherly look at Miranda, and then her eyes went wide. “Baby?”

Valiantly fighting back tears, the tip of Miranda’s nose pinked as she nodded.

“Oh my baby,” Aña gasped. “My little girl!” She took Miranda in her arms.

“Don’t be disappointed in me, Mama,” Miranda managed.

Aña drew away enough to cup Miranda’s face in both of her hands. “Never. Honey, I’m surprised, but it’s a good surprise. Isn’t it?”

“Hello?” Calista sang. “Remember me? The bride? What’s going on?”

“You’re going to be an aunt,” Miranda said. “And a godmother.”

Calista grinned as she clasped the pearl bracelet onto her left wrist. “I was wondering when you’d finally get around to telling us.”

“Did Dad tell you?” Miranda asked. “Or was it Bernie?”

Calista neatly folded her hands over her knee. “You’re lucky I’m getting married today, or I’d be pissed that you told Bernie and Dad before you told me. I figured it out on my own, actually. I suspected it at the final dress fitting. You looked like you’d gained at least one cup size. Plus, you had to lie on the floor to zip your jeans up.”

Miranda sat down on the chaise near the vanity table. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Callie. I didn’t want this whole baby thing to steal any thunder from your wedding. If it had gotten out any sooner, the media would have turned this place upside down and inside out.”

Calista took her sister’s hand. “I checked my messages this morning and Lucas called me from Conwy. He said he’s been trying to reach you. He knows about the pregnancy, doesn’t he?”

Miranda nodded. She brought her thumb to her lips, to gnaw on her cuticle, but Calista grabbed her hand and held it in her lap. “You just had a one-hundred dollar manicure,” Calista said. “If you’re hungry, have a cracker.”

“How do you and Lucas plan to handle this, Miranda?” Aña asked.

“I’m not sure what’s going to happen, Mom. I’m going to call him after the wedding.”

None of the Penney women knew that Bernie had returned until he cleared his throat from the archway adjoining the dressing room to the living room. “About the wedding, kitten,” he began. “We need to talk about Lucas and that remark Jordan made in yesterday’s paper. Did you see it, or hear about it on television?”

Miranda rolled her eyes. “I was right there when he said it.”

Clayton, dressed in a black tuxedo with a white vest and cravat, poked his head into the room. “My lovely ladies, it’s time.”

Miranda went to a small side table and picked up her sister’s bouquet. The scent of gardenias, ranunculus and stephanotis trailed Miranda as she crossed the room to Bernie. “I haven’t picked up a
Herald-Star
since I quit the place. You’d better go sit. We can talk later.”

“Miranda, honey,” Bernie started anxiously, “I don’t have proof to the contrary, but I have a sneaking suspicion that an unexpected guest might crash this wedding.”

“That’s why the Boston Police are patrolling the entrance and exits.” Miranda shooed Bernie toward the door while Aña gathered the train of Calista’s gown. “Thanks to Jordan, all of New England knows about Calista’s wedding.”

“But sweetie, Lucas thinks that you and Jordan—”

“If you say that name one more time, I’ll beat you with my ranunculus,” Miranda threatened.

“Which name?” Bernie asked.

“Either of them. Now go. I have a wedding to get through, then I can think about sorting out the rest of my life.” She patted her belly. “The rest of
our
lives.”

“That’s just it,” Bernie persisted. “I’m worried about what a sudden shock might do to you or your baby. If you’d only listen for one second, I—”

“Bernie!” Miranda snapped. “Nothing will go wrong today. This will be a gorgeous ceremony. It’ll be a wedding to remember.”

Bernie’s face suddenly relaxed and the tension left his shoulders as he accepted Miranda’s final edict. “That’s exactly what I’m hoping for.” He gave her cheek a tender caress before he turned and left the room.

“Are you ready, soon-to-be Mrs. Alec Henderson?” Miranda asked her sister.

Calista’s smile was affirmation enough, but she said, “I’m ready, Mama!” as she slapped her big sister a hearty high-five.

* * *

Security problems at Boston’s Logan Airport kept Lucas’s plane circling New England for two hours before the pilot finally got clearance to land at Manchester International in New Hampshire. A flight steward had radioed ahead to arrange ground transportation to Boston, and by five
p.m.
, Lucas was ordering his driver to break as many driving laws as possible to get to the Park Plaza on time.

Lucas had been traveling for the better part of a day. He drummed his thumb against his thigh and nervously tapped his foot, mentally willing something to happen to delay the wedding. He prayed for something small—an unstitched hem, a tardy clergyman, a squirrel loose in the pews—that would buy him more time. Karmic velocity doubled back on him when his limousine abruptly slowed as they crossed the boundary line into Suffolk County.

“What the devil is the problem?” Lucas demanded. “Whatever it is, can’t you drive around it?”

“The Red Sox have a doubleheader at Fenway, and this is a really nice June day,” the driver said apologetically. “Everybody’s heading for the ballpark, the Public Gardens, the Common and the Esplanade. This is I-93 in Boston. There’s always been traffic, there’ll always be traffic.”

“Tell me, how far are we from the Park Plaza Castle?”

The driver, more familiar with New Hampshire’s sites, checked his Global Positioning System for the castle’s proximity. “About two miles, as the crow flies.” He shook his head as he looked at the five-lane river of bumper-to-bumper traffic ahead of him on I-93. “In this traffic, about forty-five minutes.”

Lucas sneered at the digital clock built into the limo’s wet bar. “How would I get to the castle from here? On foot?”

The driver told him. Lucas closed his eyes to better visualize the driver’s directions, then he bolted from the back of the car. “Good luck!” he heard the driver call after him as he wove his way through the sea of motionless automobiles.

A few drivers recognized him and honked their horns as he hopped over their bumpers. Lucas ran along the shoulder of the off-ramp leading to the Museum of Science and the Arena where he had first met Miranda during his ill-fated opening night show in Boston. Traffic was even more snarled at the five-way intersection at the bottom of the off-ramp, but Lucas managed to safely jaywalk to the Charles River side of Storrow Drive.

“You!” shouted a mounted Boston Police officer who trotted up to Lucas from the river walk. “Don’t you know that jaywalking is a citable offense?”

“No, officer, I didn’t,” Lucas said breathlessly. The driver hadn’t exaggerated about the nice weather. Cold pellets of sweat ran down Lucas’s back within the lightweight leather jacket he wore. He stripped the thing off and cast it aside as he spoke to the police officer. “Perhaps you can help me, Officer. My girlfriend is getting married as we speak, and—”

The policeman tipped his round white helmet from his forehead, revealing a dark-brown bald head dotted with sweat. “Hold on, Romeo. Seems to me that if she’s off somewhere getting married and you’re here impeding the flow of traffic on Storrow Drive, she’s not your girlfriend.”

“I don’t have time to explain.” Lucas forced himself to stay calm. He would never be able to stop the wedding from a jail cell. “My name is Lucas Fletcher. The woman who’s getting married is Miranda Penney. She’s…”

“Loco Yoko!” the officer yelled, snapping his thick fingers. “I thought you looked familiar! My wife’s been following you and the Penney woman in the
Star
.” The officer dismounted and withdrew a notepad from his breast pocket. “Could I get your autograph for my wife? Her name is Delores. We just had a baby and she’s been a little down in the dumps, with all the night feedings and the crying. She’s crazy about you, and an autograph would be just the thing to put a smile on her face.”

As slow as traffic had been before Lucas was stopped, it was now at a standstill as drivers and passengers alike recognized Lucas. One enterprising tourist hung halfway out of the passenger side window, snapping photos of Lucas as his car crept past. Another young man, at his female driver’s insistence, hopped out of his car, grabbed Lucas’s leather coat, and then got back into the car, which kept on rolling. Lucas was deaf to the driver’s delighted screams.

“Officer,” Lucas said gravely, glancing furtively at a car that appeared to be parking right in the middle of the road, “if you get me to the Park Plaza Castle in the next five minutes, I swear to you on my own life that I will come to your house and not only personally give your Delores my autograph, I will vacuum, mop, polish, launder nappies, prepare supper and sing your new sprog to sleep before I leave.” Lucas eyed the officer’s disinterested, though fit-looking, horse. “Can you help me?”

The policeman’s hands tightened around his horse’s reins. His sweaty, sun-blackened face split in a huge grin as he held his other hand out to Lucas. “Officer Brian Petrie, Boston Mounted Police at your service, Mr. Fletcher.” The two men shook. “Let’s get you to that wedding.”

* * *

Miranda barely heard the clergyman’s words as she stood with Calista before two hundred and fifty friends and members of the Penney and Henderson families. In one hand she clutched a small bouquet of peach and white ranunculus, the moisture from her palm dampening the wide satin band binding their stems. In the other, she held onto a cane, which helped her stand on her broken foot. To spare Miranda the awkwardness of hobbling down the aisle at the end of the ceremony, Calista had decided that the wedding party would disperse with the guests, rather than pairing up and trodding after the newlyweds. Miranda was glad that she wouldn’t have to walk with Jordan. The last thing she wanted to see was a photograph of herself paired with Jordan, forever mounted in Calista’s wedding album.

She stole a peek over her shoulder. The inside of the castle was predominantly empty space. The walls had been hung with thick garlands of ivy, roses and gardenias that nicely concealed the heraldic banners and flags painted on the walls. Two sections of folding chairs covered in pale peach chintz lined the cement floor. High above them, wooden beams supported a giant chandelier comprised of hundreds of tiny light bulbs.

Miranda swallowed a longing sigh. The Park Plaza Castle was a lovely, romantic place to hold a fairy tale wedding…but it looked like it was made of Lego and cardboard compared to Conwy.