Daughters Of The Bride (4 page)

She’d been that way, once. She’d had hopes and dreams—mostly of finding her handsome prince. And when she’d laid eyes on Greg, she’d known, just known, he was the one. Back then
everyone
had believed he was the one. Greg had been the guy every girl wanted.

And she’d been the one to get him—right up until he’d cheated on her.

She turned the corner, then pulled into Lena’s driveway. Josh was out of the car before she’d come to a full stop.

“Bye, Mom. See you later.”

He ran into the house without bothering to knock. She was still shaking her head when her friend Lena appeared on the porch. Lena turned back to kiss her husband, then hurried to the car. She got inside and waved the bag she held.

“Great cheese
and
dark chocolate. Am I good to you or what?”

They hugged.

“You’re the best,” Rachel told her. “Thanks for coming over tonight. I could use some girl time.”

“Me, too. Tell me the wine is red.”

“It’s red and there are two bottles.”

“Perfect.”

She and Lena had been friends since elementary school. They were physical opposites—Lena was petite and curvy, with brown hair and dark eyes. Rachel was taller and blonde.

They’d played together, dreamed together, and when they’d grown up, they’d been each other’s maids of honor. They’d married young and then had sons within a few months of each other. But things were different now. Lena and Toby were still happily together.

“What?” her friend asked. “You’re looking fierce.”

“Nothing. I’m fine. Just the usual crap.”

“Greg?”

Rachel sighed. “Yes. Josh needs a new glove and his dad is going to buy it for him.”

Her friend didn’t say anything.

Rachel turned onto her street. “I know what you’re thinking. I should be grateful he’s an involved father. That the extra money he has could be spent on women and drinking, but he spends it on his kid.”

“You’re doing all the talking.”

Rachel pulled into her driveway. “I just wish...”

“That a really big rock would fall on him?”

She smiled. “Maybe not that, but something close.”

Because it was Greg’s fault their marriage had failed. He’d chosen to have a one-night stand with a tourist. She’d known the second she’d seen him—had guessed what he’d done. He hadn’t tried to deny it, and that had been that. Her marriage had ended.

When they got back to Rachel’s, they poured wine. Rachel eyed the beautiful wedge of Brie and knew there had to be maybe five thousand calories in that chunk of soft goodness, and she honestly couldn’t care. Had she put on weight lately? Probably, but so what? Her clothes still fit, at least the loose ones did. She worked hard and deserved to reward herself. It wasn’t as if she had anyone to look good for.

She sipped her wine and knew that the right response was that she needed to look good for herself. That she was worth it and all those other stupid platitudes. That if she wanted to feel better, she had to take better care of herself. All of which didn’t get the laundry washed or the bathrooms cleaned.

“You need to get over him.”

Lena’s comment was so at odds with what Rachel had been thinking that it took her a second to figure out what her friend was saying.

“Greg? I am. We’ve been divorced nearly two years.”

“You might be legally divorced, but emotionally you’re still enmeshed.”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “Did you have too much waiting time in a doctor’s office? Did you read some women’s magazine?
Enmeshed?
No one actually uses that word.”

“You just did.”

Rachel made a strangled noise in her throat. “I don’t want to think about him,” she admitted. “I want to move on with my life.”

“Find a man? Fall in love?”

“Sure.”

A lie, she thought, but one her friend would want to hear. Fall in love? She couldn’t imagine going out with someone who wasn’t Greg. He’d been her first date, her first time, her first everything. The world still divided itself neatly into Greg and not Greg. How was she supposed to get over that?

“You’re so lying,” Lena said cheerfully. “But I appreciate that you’re making the effort to humor me.”

“I want to move on,” Rachel admitted. “I just don’t know how. Maybe if I could get away from him. But with us having Josh together, there’s no escape.”

“You could move.”

The suggestion was spoken in a soft voice, as if Lena knew what Rachel would think. Rachel did her best to remain calm when on the inside she wanted to start shrieking.

Move? Move! No way. She couldn’t. She loved her house. She needed her house and all it represented. It was proof that she was okay. She would take a second job to pay for the house, if she had to.

None of which made sense. She understood that. She also knew she was reacting to a traumatic event in her childhood—the death of her father and the fact that her family had been forced out of their house a few months later.

Rachel remembered hating everything about living at the Los Lobos Hotel. Looking back, she knew she should be grateful that they’d been taken in, that they hadn’t had to live in a shelter. But she couldn’t get over the shock and pain the day she’d come home from school to find her mother sobbing that they’d lost everything and it was her father’s fault. She’d been so scared. Daddy was dead—how could he continue to be in trouble?

When she’d been older, she’d realized their father hadn’t been a bad man—just financially careless. There hadn’t been any life insurance, no savings.

When she and Greg had married, she’d been focused on buying a house. They’d been young and it had been a financial struggle, especially with a baby, but they’d made it. This was her home—she was never leaving.

But the price of that was living with the ghosts of her lost marriage. Greg’s memory still lingered in every room.

“Maybe I could get someone to do a spiritual cleansing of the house. With sage. And salt. Do you need salt?”

Lena briefly closed her eyes. “I love you like my best friend.”

“I am your best friend.”

“I know, so please understand why I’m saying this. The problem isn’t the house, Rachel. It’s you. And there isn’t enough sage or salt in the world to get you over Greg. You’re going to have to decide once and for all to emotionally move on. Until you do, you’re trapped. Forever.”

The truth, however lovingly delivered, could still hurt like a son of a bitch.

Rachel blinked a couple of times, then reached for the wine. “We’re so going to need another bottle.”

4

“YOU LIKE THIS, BABY
? I picked the leather to match your beautiful curly hair.”

Quinn Yates waited for his companion to say something, but Pearl only stared at the car as if expecting him to open the passenger door. Which he did. The large standard poodle jumped gracefully inside, then returned her attention to him as if ready for a compliment.

“You look good,” he told her. “Where do you want to go? For a burger?”

“She prefers ice cream.”

He turned to see his grandmother walking down the stairs by the side of the hotel. She was dressed as always in her beloved St. John tailored knits and Chanel flats. She wore her white hair in that poufy old lady bubble style he would always associate with her. He knew she would smell of L’air du Temps and vanilla. He crossed the driveway to meet her and pulled her into a hug. The tension that had been with him on the drive north faded.

“You made it,” she said, wrapping her arms around him as if she would never let go.

He’d always liked that about her. Joyce gave good hugs. When he’d been a kid, she’d been his anchor. When he’d gotten older, she’d always been there, ready to offer advice or a kick in the ass—depending on what she thought he needed. Now she was simply home.

He held on a few more seconds, pleased that she didn’t seem any frailer than she had when she’d visited him six months before. She was well into her seventies, but as vital and sharp as ever. Still, lately he’d found himself worrying.

“Ice cream, huh,” he said, glancing at the dog sitting in the passenger seat of his Bentley. “Then that’s what we’ll go get.”

Joyce stepped back. She barely came to his shoulder and had to look up to meet his gaze. “You’re not taking the dog for ice cream. I don’t know what ridiculousness you get up to in Los Angeles, but here in the real world, dogs don’t eat ice cream.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I’ve been back thirty seconds and you’re already lying to me.”

She smiled. “All right. They do, but at home. We don’t take them out. Besides, if you take Pearl, you need to take Sarge, too. He’ll get jealous otherwise.”

As if he heard his name, a small white fluffball barreled through the open doorway and down the path. Pearl jumped out of the Bentley and ran to greet her companion.

They were an odd pair. The tall, stately blonde poodle and the small, white bichon-poodle mix. Pearl was nearly four times Sarge’s size, yet he clearly ran the show. Now they circled Quinn, sniffing and yipping. He crouched down to greet them both. After letting them sniff his fingers, he offered pats and rubs.

“Your man arrived yesterday,” his grandmother told him.

“He’s my assistant, Joyce, not my man. We’re not living in a 1950 Cary Grant movie.”

“But wouldn’t it be fun if we were? I tried to check him into the hotel, but he said he was staying somewhere else.”

Quinn straightened and closed the passenger door of the Bentley. “He is. Wayne and I work best when there’s some separation between us.”

“You’re not moving back because you think I’m getting old, are you?”

She always did like to cut to the heart of the matter. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I’ve thought you were old for a long time now, and not everything is about you.”

She touched his face. “You are so full of crap.”

“That is true.” He held out his arm. She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and he led her back into the hotel.

Quinn’s mother had been Joyce’s only child. He’d spent as much of his childhood with Joyce as with his mom. By the time he’d turned fourteen, his mother had abandoned him and he’d moved into the hotel permanently.

Now as they entered the lobby, he took in the high ceilings, the crystal light fixtures and the big, curving reception desk. The furniture was comfortable, the food delicious and the bartenders generous with their pours. Add in the beachfront location in quiet Central California, and the Los Lobos Hotel had nearly everything going for it.

At seventeen, he couldn’t wait to be anywhere but here. Now some twenty years later, he was grateful to be back.

The dogs led the way into the bar. He and Joyce took seats at a corner table. The dogs settled at their feet.

He was sure having a couple of canines in an establishment that served food had to violate several state ordinances, but as far as he could tell, no one complained. If they did, they were told the dogs were excellent judges of character. That tended to quiet all but the most offensive of guests. And the ones who weren’t quieted were asked to leave.

A pretty redhead appeared at their table. “Hello, Joyce. Quinn.”

He recognized her face from his previous visits, if not her name. Fortunately, her name tag was easy to read.

“Nice to see you again, Kelly.”

She smiled. “What can I get you two?”

“I’ll have a glass of Smarty Pants chardonnay.”

Quinn laughed at his grandmother. “I can’t believe you’re still bitter about what happened.”

“I haven’t forgotten because I have an excellent memory. Besides, I love my new wines. I’m serving them as the exclusive house wine in the hotel.”

A few years back, the local winery Joyce had sourced from decided to change winemakers and therefore the style and taste of their wines. Joyce had complained, the winemaker had done his own thing and, in protest, she’d gone looking for wines she liked better. Middle Sister Wines, based in Northern California, had won both her taste buds and her business.

The chardonnay was very popular with the ladies who lunched at the hotel, with a fresh, California bouquet that had hints of citrus and pear. Another of their whites, Drama Queen pinot grigio, had been racking up awards from wine competitions around the country.

“They’ve become a tradition,” Joyce added.

He squeezed her hand. “You’re my favorite tradition. I adore everything about you.”

How could he not? She was delightful, and even if she wasn’t, she was the only family he had left.

Kelly turned her attention to him. “And for you?”

“I’ll have the same.”

White wine wasn’t his favorite, but when with Joyce...

“And a cheese plate,” his grandmother added. “Quinn is hungry.”

He wasn’t, but there was no point in arguing.

“Right away,” Kelly told them.

“I’ve reserved the groundskeeper’s bungalow,” Joyce said when Kelly had left. “You should be very comfortable there.”

He knew the cottage—it was at the south end of the property, private and large. “It’s one of your most expensive suites,” he protested. “I just need a regular room for a couple of weeks while I figure out what I’m doing.”

“No. I want you to have it. You’ll be more comfortable there.”

He knew she didn’t need the money renting it would provide, but still. “Thank you.”

“I’ve blocked it for the summer,” she added.

He raised his eyebrows. “I’m forty-one. Don’t you think it’s time I moved away from home?”

“No. You’re just back and you’ll find your own place soon enough. This way you can settle in and find what’s exactly right. Assuming you really are staying.”

“You doubt me.”

“Of course. You live in Malibu, Quinn. You have a business there. Whatever will you do in sleepy Los Lobos?”

A good question and one he was looking forward to answering.

“I can run my business from here. Once I get a recording studio set up, my artists will come to me.”

“You’re really that important?”

Her voice was teasing, her smile impish. He winked.

“I am all that and more.”

She laughed. “I hope it’s true and you do stay. And I don’t even care if you’re moving because you’re worried about me. What kind of place do you need for your studio?”

“Almost anywhere would do. We’ll be remodeling regardless. So a house or a warehouse. I’d prefer a stand-alone building with good parking.” And privacy. Where people could come and go without being seen or photographed.

“Is that nice mute man going to be joining you?”

Quinn sighed. “Zealand isn’t mute. He just doesn’t talk much.”

“I’ve never heard him speak at all. Are you sure he can?”

“Yes. He’s said words at least twice.”

Zealand might not have much to say, but he was the best soundman in the business. He would be the one deciding if the space Quinn was interested in could be converted into a killer studio. One where they could work and turn sound into magic.

Movement caught his attention. He looked up and saw a tall blonde walk to the bar. She had long hair pulled back into a ponytail and wore black pants and a long-sleeved black shirt.

It wasn’t her face that caused him to keep looking, although she was pretty enough. It was more the way she walked—partially hunched, with her shoulders rounded—as if she didn’t want to be noticed.

When she reached the bar, she and Kelly spoke. They both laughed. The blonde said something else, then turned to leave. As she took a step, she somehow got tangled in a bar stool and stumbled. She righted herself, glanced around to see if anyone had noticed, then hurried away.

“That was Courtney,” Joyce told him. “You’ve met her before.”

Quinn knew his grandmother well enough to say, “No,” in a firm voice.

“I’m only—”

“No. Whatever you have in mind, no.”

“There’s more to her than meets the eye.”

Kelly delivered their wine and the cheese plate. Pearl and Sarge immediately sat up. Quinn saw there were two dog biscuits on the tray. Kelly handed one to each dog, then smiled and left.

“You’re not too old for her,” his grandmother added, dashing his hope that the arrival of their drinks had been a distraction. On the bright side, there was obviously nothing wrong with her mind. On the not-so-bright side...damn.

“She’s what? Twenty-five?”

“Twenty-seven. That’s only a fourteen-year difference.”

“It’s not the years, it’s the miles.”

“You’re still a handsome man.”

He paused in the act of raising his glass. “Okay, that’s creepy.”

She laughed. “You know what I mean.”

They touched glasses. Quinn sipped the crisp, buttery chardonnay. “Nice.”

“I like it. Now, about Courtney—”

He held up his free hand. “Not happening. I love you like my grandmother, but I’m not going there.”

“You have to at some point. Don’t you want to fall in love?”

A familiar question. The answer to which had always been
hell, no
. But lately...he’d started to wonder. A year ago there’d been someone in his life who had made him think there were possibilities. Before he could figure out what, she’d fallen in love with someone else. While he’d gotten over her, the fact that he’d been considering more than his usual no-strings we’re-in-it-for-the-sex had surprised him. And gotten him to thinking. Did he want more?

He hadn’t reached the point of defining the question as
did he want to fall in love?
He wasn’t sure there was a guy on the planet who thought that way. But having someone around on a permanent basis—that might work.

“I need to figure it out,” he admitted.

“Figure fast. You’re not getting any younger.”

He laughed. “What happened to I’m a good-looking man?”

“Beauty fades.”

He raised his glass to her. “Not yours.”

Joyce rolled her eyes. “Your charm is lost on me. I’m old.”

“You are perfection.”

She didn’t smile back. Instead, she looked at him intently. “I mean it, Quinn. I want you to find someone. Settle down. Have children. I worry about you.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Yes, dear, but sometimes it’s nice if you don’t have to.”

* * *

Actually
writing
a marketing plan wasn’t that big a deal. It was getting to the point where it could be written that was the tough part. Courtney decided to reward her three hours of tedious research and number crunching with some ice cream and maybe a cookie chaser.

She stood and stretched as she weighed the sugar high against having to leave her room. In truth, the trip from the fourth floor to the kitchen was no big deal. Still, it was late and she should probably just go to bed.

But the thought of ice cream could not be denied. She saved her work on her laptop, then walked to the door.

Her room in the hotel was at the end of the hall, by the stairs. It was tucked next to the linen closet and right by one of the HVAC units, not to mention several water pipes. There was also a large tree that had grown tall enough to completely block any hope of a view beyond leaves. In short, a complete disaster to rent to guests.

Joyce had tried remodeling it several times and even offering it at a discount, but there were always complaints. A couple of years back, she’d come to Courtney with a trade. Free room and board in exchange for a certain number of hours of maid labor. For the time Courtney worked beyond that, she got a paycheck.

The deal gave them both what they wanted. Courtney had taken possession of an old twin bed Joyce had been ready to toss, along with a battered desk and a dresser. She was a sound enough sleeper not to care about the HVAC or pipe noise and the lack of view was totally fine with her. Free rent, meals and utilities meant she only had to work enough to pay for her car, cell phone and books. The money she’d saved for college wasn’t quite enough to cover tuition, but she’d been lucky enough to land a few scholarships and grants. Every semester she managed to squeak by. Now she was only a year away from graduating, and with luck she would do so without a loan.

“Yet another reason to celebrate with ice cream,” she told herself.

She took the stairs to the main floor and crossed the quiet lobby. Her sneakers were silent on the hardwood floor. While her threadbare jeans and secondhand USC sweatshirt weren’t exactly haute couture, she knew the odds of running into a guest at this hour were slim.

She didn’t bother with overhead lights in the kitchen. She knew her way in the twilight produced by the soft glow from under-the-counter illumination and exit signs. She collected a bowl and a spoon, then crossed to the walk-in freezer to pick her flavor.

She walked out with a three-gallon container of vanilla chocolate chip and found herself in the brightly lit kitchen, facing a tall, broad-shouldered man.