Love and Shenanigans (Ballybeg, Book 1) (The Ballybeg Series) (8 page)

“If the local Registrar couldn’t find a record of him being married in Ireland or the UK, they’d issue the license,” Olivia said. “Aidan’s dealt with cases of bigamy before, so I’m familiar with these issues. Unlike some countries, Ireland doesn’t keep tabs on weddings performed abroad. We don’t have the resources.”

“Seriously?” Were they living in a banana republic? Ireland was a first-world country, for feck’s sake. “Not even an Internet search like we did?”

“But we knew where to look. There’s no single worldwide registry of marriages, and the Irish are scattered across the globe.”

“So any fool can lie and say they’re single? That’s disgraceful.”

Olivia shrugged. “This is Ireland, Fee. We don’t do paperwork. And when we do, we fuck it up.”

Fiona massaged her temples. “This can’t be happening.”

“What are you going to do? You’ll have to tell him.”

“What? Wait a minute, Liv. Let me think this through. What do you expect me to do? Crash into the church and announce it to the whole congregation?”

Olivia pointed to the bedside clock. “Whatever you’re doing, you’d better do it fast. The wedding starts in ten minutes.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Nope. Grab your bag and let’s go.”

“Wait.” Fiona’s voice broke on a note of desperation. “What am I going to say? I can’t barge in and wreck his wedding.”

“You’d seriously let him marry another woman when he’s already married to you?”

“I don’t know.” Fiona slumped into a chair and buried her head in her hands. “Why does life have to be so damn complicated?”

“Take a deep breath and come on. We can figure out a plan in the car.”

Olivia drove even faster than she talked, which meant Fiona prayed for her life.

“I can simply ask to have a word with Gavin, right? Discreetly. No need to barge in and announce we’re married.”

“Right,” Olivia said, swerving to avoid a tractor. “Great idea. What then?”

“I dunno. Drag him into the vestry?”

“Sounds indecent.”

“I can hardly have a private talk with him in front of three-hundred-plus people.”

“Point taken. But what happens after? Let’s say you tell him. What are you going to do if he tells you to forget it and marries her anyway?”

“Then that’s what he does,” Fiona said. “And let’s face it, that’s probably what he will do. Muireann will kill him if he jilts her.”

Olivia took a sharp turn, almost collided with a taxi, and applied the brakes. “Will you keep mum if he does marry her?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I will.” Fiona rubbed her neck. She’d have whiplash by the time they reached the church. “I’ll have done my duty and told him about the Vegas wedding.”

“What if you want to get married in a few years’ time?”

“I guess I’ll deal with it if and when the situation arises.”

“It’ll be a hell of a lot messier if you need to divorce Gavin after he’s already married.”

The spire of St. Mary’s was visible now. Fiona’s stomach lurched. “Can’t we divorce quietly in Vegas?”

“Nope. Not unless one of you is a legal resident. Sure, if divorce were that simple, people would be hopping over to Vegas all the time instead of dealing with our poxy legal system.”

“Damn. There goes that plan. How long does divorce take in Ireland?”

“Depends.” Olivia rolled to a stop at a red light. “If you say you’ve been living apart for at least a year, and neither of you contests the financial settlement, it’ll be over in four years.”

“What the feck?”

“Didn’t you know that?”

“I’d heard it took longer for a divorce to go through in Ireland than in many places, but I didn’t realize it was
that
long. That’s insane. So if a couple says they’ve literally just split up and one or the other contests, it can go on even longer?”

“Oh, yeah.” Olivia hit the accelerator. “Five years is the legal minimum. Certain lawyers don’t demand proof of separate residences for the first year, meaning their clients can do it in four.” She screeched to a halt in front of St. Mary’s Church. “Here we are.”

“Damn. The doors are closed.”

“So?” Olivia turned to face her. “You’re going in there and saying what you have to say. Whatever that is.”

Fiona took a deep breath. “I can do this.”

“Fee, you’re still wearing your slippers.”

“What?” Fiona glanced at her feet. Two bunny slippers stared back at her. “There’s no time to go back.”

“You can’t go into a church wearing bunny slippers.”

Fiona pushed open the car door. “At least I’m not in my Docs. Aunt Deirdre will be pleased.”

“I’ll follow you in once I’ve found a parking space.”

“Thanks, Liv. Wish me luck.” Fiona ran up the path to the church’s imposing wooden doors and stopped.

Could she do this? Should she do this? How could she not?

She pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Dragging oxygen into her lungs, she uttered the words that would damn her in the eyes of her family, friends, and half the town of Ballybeg. “Stop the wedding.”

THREE HUNDRED HATS SWIVELED in Fiona’s direction.

She stood in the doorway of St. Mary’s Church, heart pounding, legs quaking.

A sea of spray-tanned faces stared back at her. The guests blurred together in a jumble of wedding finery, ostentatious hats, bling jewelry, fake nails, and even faker expressions of horror. Fiona would bet her comic collection that most were thrilled by this turn of events. Who hadn’t wondered what it would be like if a wedding ceremony were to be disrupted?

They were about to find out.
What a bloody nightmare.

She glanced down at her fluffy bedroom slippers. Had she known “Disrupt a Wedding” was on today’s to-do list, she’d have dressed for the occasion.

Fiona wet her lips and shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “I said, stop the wedding.” Her voice was stronger now, less croaky.

For an instant, silence thick with tension strained the walls. Then came a feminine shriek, followed by an almighty crash.

Fiona’s gaze was drawn to the front of the church and the bridal couple. With their blond hair and blue eyes, they looked more like brother and sister than future man and wife, albeit with a significant difference in height. In a gesture of togetherness, they both wore white. Muireann’s dress was a meringue creation with skirts wide enough to make Scarlett O’Hara jealous. Gavin wore a hideous satin and velvet suit, teamed with a pair of furry white boots. Had it been the seventies, he might have been fashionable.

Muireann sagged against a pillar, clutching a statue of the Virgin Mary for support. The remnants of a floral arrangement lay at her feet in a tableau of petals and smashed porcelain.

Gavin stood by the altar, stock-still and slack-jawed. Despite his ridiculous outfit, he was bone-meltingly gorgeous. His broad shoulders strained his suit jacket, reminding her of what lay beneath. She’d loved running her fingers over those shoulders, feeling the taut muscles of his upper arms.

Her stomach did a rollercoaster flip.
Oh, hell
. If only they’d never found that piece of paper.

“What is the meaning of this, young lady?” The stern tones of the parish priest boomed through the church. For such a small man, Father Fagin had a powerful voice. He placed the bible on the pulpit with trembling aged hands, and creaked down the aisle. When he was a few steps away, he paused and squinted at her through rheumy eyes. “Is that you, Fiona?” The furrows on his brow deepened. “What’s this about?”

Her legs wobbled but she stood her ground. “I need to speak to Gavin.”

Father Fagin’s furry gray eyebrows shot north. “Can’t it wait until the reception?”

“No. I need to speak to him now.” There was a hint of exasperation in her voice. “In private.”

“What nonsense.” Uncle Bernard stomped out of his pew to loom over her. His walrus moustache bobbed in indignation. “You’ve always been eccentric, Fiona, but this… this is outrageous.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have a choice.”

“Why?”

Fiona’s neck jerked. The old zing of awareness made the hairs on the nape of her neck spring to attention. In his ludicrous white velvet wedding suit, Gavin resembled a cross between the blond fella from Abba and the yeti. How he still managed to exude sex appeal was a conundrum she’d rather not contemplate.

“Why do you need to speak to me?” His deep voice broke in panic. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he must remember Drew Draper.

Guilt gnawed her insides. “It’s best discussed in private.”

His mouth opened and closed, fish-like. Eventually, he nodded. “Is there somewhere we can go, Father?”

“Well, I… Yes. There’s the vestry.” Father Fagin appeared flummoxed. She could hardly blame him. It wasn’t every day a crazy lady burst into his church and crashed a wedding.

The vestry of St. Mary’s was a small wood-paneled room located at the back of the church. Fiona followed Gavin inside and shut the door behind them.

He was pale and flustered. “What’s going on, Fiona?”

“Do you remember Las Vegas?”

“You want to discuss that now? Seconds before I marry your cousin?”

“I don’t have a choice, not morally.”
Not to mention legally…

“What do you mean?” He was pacing the small room, his face the same shade as his suit.

“We got married, Gavin.”

“No, we didn’t. The papers were never registered.”

She exhaled in a rush. “Unfortunately, they were.”

“What?” His stopped short, his handsome face frozen in an expression of horror. “That’s impossible. Your man—what was his name?”

“Drew Draper.”

“He said he wouldn’t register the papers with the wedding bureau.”

“Well, he did register them, or someone else did it on his behalf. Olivia and I checked the Las Vegas online register, and our wedding details are in there.”

“No way.”

“Yes way.” She pulled up the search results on her smart phone and shoved the display in front of Gavin’s face. “See? Fiona Mary Byrne and Gavin Aloysius Maguire, 16 June, 2006.”

His eyes met hers briefly, then moved toward the glow of the screen. He hesitated before taking the phone, a flash of uncertainty quickly replaced by determination. When he reached out, it was with steady hands.

As he scanned the contents of the display, his jaw tightened.

Sick fear sent Fiona’s world into a spin. This was pure sensory overload. A smorgasbord of emotions, and none of them were positive.

An eternity passed before his eyes rose to meet hers. Those sea-blue eyes framed with dark blond lashes. She’d loved him once. Fiona’s heart did a slow thump and roll.

“Please tell me this is a joke.” His voice was low and gravelly. The deep bass had always reminded her of James Earl Jones.

“No joke, Gav. We’re married.” She attempted a nonchalant shrug, but her shoulders were pliable as cement. “By the way, I didn’t know your middle name was Aloysius.”

“Not something I care to share.” Gavin put the phone on a large mahogany desk and ran a hand over his rugged features. “I don’t fucking believe this. I’m supposed to be getting married today. What am I going to tell Muireann?”

“It’s up to you what you tell her.” She paused and took a deep breath. “It’s up to you
if
you tell her.”

His eyes shot up, clashing with hers. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we can invent a reason for my crashing the wedding. I’m willing to play the part of the loony cousin, keep my trap shut, and pretend the document doesn’t exist.”

“You mean lie?” he asked in a monotone, his brow creased in thought.

“Why not? No one will ever know.”
Apart from Olivia, Drew Draper, and who-the-hell-else in Las Vegas.

“We’ll know. For feck’s sake, Fiona. I can’t commit bigamy.”

“That’s your decision. I’ve done my duty by telling you. What you do with the information is your call.”

She was dangling a carrot of hope before him, a way to get out of this bloody mess. A myriad of emotions flickered across his face—jerky, blurry, hypnotic, like an old film reel.

The door to the vestry burst open.

“What’s going on in here?” roared Bernard. “What’s the meaning of this, Fiona? Have you lost your mind?”

“I’m sorry, Uncle Bernard. I had to speak to Gavin.”

“What? He’s in the middle of marrying my daughter. How dare you interrupt their wedding?”

“I realize this is a question of some delicacy,” said Father Fagin, his creaky tread following in Bernard’s blustery wake, “but is there any reason the ceremony should not proceed?”

“Of course there isn’t.” Bernard glowered at Gavin. “Get out there right now and marry my daughter.”

Gavin straightened, swaying slightly. He brushed off the desk and sent Fiona’s phone flying.

Bernard caught it and scrutinized the display screen.

Then he let out an unholy roar.

GAVIN HAD A SPLIT SECOND to react before Bernard lunged. The punch caught him on the chin. He reeled back, and sidestepped a second blow. “Steady on. It’s not what you think.”

Bernard’s face was mottled, and his eyes were wild. “Not what I think? What the hell should I think? You’re already married to Fiona, yet you were about to marry my daughter.”

His bellows reverberated off the wooden walls of the vestry. There was little chance the people in the church hadn’t heard. Poor Muireann. Poor Fiona. What a flaming mess.

“Bernard,” said Father Fagin in the same authoritative voice he’d used when he’d had the misfortune to be Gavin’s secondary school religion teacher. “I will not tolerate violence in my church.”

Bernard glared at the elderly priest, but Father Fagin stood resolute. Bernard’s jowls spasmed with rage before settling into a stiff mask.

“May I see the phone?” Father Fagin extended a gnarled hand.

Bernard’s grip on Fiona’s phone was tight enough to render his knuckles white. He handed it to the priest. “Is this genuine?” he asked.

“Is what genuine?” Muireann appeared in the doorway of the vestry. Her breathing was shallow. Each breath made her narrow chest heave. Despite the silly dress, she was beautiful—like a porcelain doll in an antique shop.