Unwrapped (27 page)

“What's going on?” Wheezie asked. “Why did you leave church, and why are you two standing out here in the freezing cold?” When neither one said anything, she drew her own conclusions. “So I'm going to guess that you're having your first married squabble. Well, the holidays are notorious for putting undue stress on a relationship. It never failed that Neill and I got into it at least once between Thanksgiving and New Year's.”

“This isn't just a squabble, Aunt Wheezie,” Patrick said without taking his eyes off Jac. “It seems that Jacqueline married me because of a stipulation in her aunt's will.”

Wheezie shuffled up next to Jac almost as if she were choosing sides in a game of kickball. “I know.”

“You what?” Patrick finally looked at his aunt. “You knew and you never told me? Why?”

“Because it wasn't important.” She shrugged her bony shoulders. “People marry for a lot of reasons, Patrick. Babies and money are just some of them. But what matters is why they stay married.” She flapped a hand. “Now apologize to each other and let's get back to the service.”

“No,” Patrick growled. “I'm not going back to the service. I'm not apologizing. And I'm sure as hell not staying married to a woman who loves money more than she loves me.” He turned and started down the stone steps.

Jac wanted to stop him. To yell out everything that was in her heart. But somehow she knew that it wouldn't be enough.

But Wheezie wasn't letting her nephew get away so easily. “Now wait one darn minute, Patrick!” She went to follow him down the steps, but her leg gave out and she fell forward.

“Wheezie!” Jac grabbed onto the sleeve of her coat and pulled her back. Unfortunately, when Wheezie came back she stumbled into Jac. And in her heels, Jac lost her balance and fell down. She might've been all right if she hadn't tried to break her fall. Her weight and Wheezie's were too much for her wrist to take. There was a crack of bone, followed by searing pain.

“Wheezie! Jac!” Patrick's voice sounded distant, like he was yelling their names from miles away instead of feet.

Wheezie was lifted off her, and only a few seconds later Patrick knelt next to her. “Tell me what hurts, Jac.” He tentatively touched the arm she cradled. “Is it your wrist? Is it broken?”

There was little doubt that her wrist was broken. But looking into Patrick's green eyes, it was her broken heart that hurt the most.

Y
ou're lucky I ran into Wheezie before I ran into you.”

Patrick glanced over at Bailey, who sat on the edge of the bed in Jac and Patrick's bedroom next to her sleeping sister. Instead of a no-nonsense business suit, she wore faded jeans and a wrinkled sweatshirt. But her expression was all ball-buster. She had arrived at the emergency room right after they had x-rayed Jacqueline's broken wrist, but before they had done an ultrasound to make sure everything was okay with the baby.

Patrick glanced back at the images he held in his hands. Images of the tiny little being that grew in Jacqueline's uterus. He was surprised at how the image already looked like a baby—and even more surprised at the lump of emotion that swelled in his throat.

“I don't know what Wheezie told you,” he said. “But I am responsible.”

“Because you got ticked about the will.” Bailey got up from the bed and walked over to the French doors that led to the balcony. The early-morning sun was hidden behind a heavy layer of clouds, giving the sky a twilight feel. “I'm responsible for that. I thought it would be best if you didn't know the details.”

“Best for who? You and Jacqueline?'

She turned back around. “Whatever you might think, I never wanted my sister to marry for my aunt's money. I wanted her to marry for love. I thought she had the best chance of that with someone closer to her own age—someone she was attracted to. Someone who was attracted to her as well.” She released her breath. “But you're right, I shouldn't have kept the information from you. I guess I thought that it would be a deal-breaker.”

“It would've been.” He paused. “Still is.”

Bailey's gaze flickered back to the bed. “You want a divorce?”

He rested his head on the back of the chair. With no sleep the night before, he was running on fumes. Or maybe just emotion. “Cut the shit, Bailey. You know as well as I do that Jacqueline plans to leave me as soon as she has the money. Why would I wait?”

“That might've been true to begin with, but it's not true now.”

“And what makes you think that? Let me guess, your sister told you that she loved me and you believed her.” When she didn't deny it, Patrick continued. “Of course you did. She's your sister. But look at things from my perspective, Bailey. How can I possibly believe a woman who's lied to me from the moment I met her? She wasn't coming from a party on Halloween. She was running away from a wedding. Which makes me wonder why she didn't run away from ours. Of course she couldn't, could she? The deadline was almost up, and if she didn't marry me, she'd be out billions of dollars.” He snorted in disgust. “What kind of crazy woman puts that stipulation in her will?”

“One who hated anyone who had anything to do with her past.”

His eyes narrowed. “Your aunt hated you? Then why did she agree to take you in?”

Bailey walked back over to the bed and sat down. She looked as exhausted as he felt. “I'm sure she was worried about what people would think if word got out that Frances Rosenblum had ignored a couple of poor orphans. So she took us in and then promptly shipped us off to boarding school. I think we reminded her of a past she wanted to forget. I figured it out and stayed away from her. But Jac”—she smiled sadly—“Jac always looks on the bright side of things. She thought if she just worked harder at fitting into our new life, Aunt Frances would accept and love us. But the truth is that Aunt Frances was more like our mama than we thought. She was a manipulative bitch who cared nothing for us—who wanted control long after she was dead.”

It was hard not to feel hatred for a woman who couldn't open her heart for her two orphaned relatives, but Frances Rosenblum's behavior didn't justify Jacqueline's. “But she didn't control you. You chose not to follow your aunt's stipulation.”

“Money doesn't mean that much to me.”

“Just to Jac.”

Her shoulders stiffened. “That's easy for you to say, Patrick. You grew up with loving parents and plenty of money. The most you had to worry about was making your bed and getting your homework done. You didn't grow up with a bartender mother who loved men more than her children and thought it was a real funny joke to name her two daughters after brands of liquor.”

It took a second for Patrick to figure it out. “Jack Daniel's and Bailey's Irish Cream?”

She released an exasperated huff. “If Mama hadn't had a hysterectomy, I'm sure there would've been a Seagram, José, and Bacardi. She was a real jokester, our mama. Unfortunately, she wasn't as funny to her two kids as she was to the horde of losers she brought home. Losers who used and abused her—or maybe she used and abused them. I never could figure out which. About every six months, she'd get in a major fight with one of them and move us to another town, where she'd start the cycle all over again. It would've continued if one loser hadn't killed her by crashing his Harley into the back of a semi.”

Patrick face must've shown his shock and sympathy because Bailey quickly continued.

“You don't need to feel sorry for us. Everything turned out for the best. Or I should say that, thanks to Jac, everything turned out for the best. If not for her, we would've spent the rest of our childhoods living with our Uncle Bud.” Something crossed her features that could only be described as fear. And since Bailey had never shown an ounce of fear, Patrick figured Uncle Bud had been a real bastard.

“It was Jac who remembered our Aunt Frances,” Bailey continued, “and got it in her head that we were destined to be the next Little Orphan Annies. And once she fixates on something, there's no changing her mind. She bombarded Aunt Frances with phone calls and letters until the woman gave in.”

Too exhausted to comment, Patrick just sat there in a fog until the doorbell went off.

“That's probably Gerald.” Bailey started for the doorway.

Patrick got up. “I'll get it. You need to stay here with Jacqueline in case she wakes up.”

On his way down the stairs, he tried to process what he'd just learned. Step by step, things began to fall into place. Jacqueline knowing how to cook and play pool. Her love of pretty things and her strong desire to make his house a home. It all made sense. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, the two different pictures he held of his wife had become one. One heartbreaking picture of a survivor.

When he finally got to the garage and opened the door, Gerald was standing on the other side with a cardboard tray of coffee cups and a pharmacy bag. While Patrick and Bailey looked like they'd been pulled out of a trash compactor, Gerald looked neat and crisp in his red sweater and skinny jeans.

“I had to drive all over to find a pharmacy that was open on Christmas morning, but thankfully coffee shops aren't as religious.” He handed Patrick the tray. “I figured we could use a little pick-me-up after the night at the emergency room.” He rubbed his temple. “Not to mention my hangover.” He followed Patrick inside. “Who would've thought that eggnog could knock you on your ass? What did Wheezie put in it?”

“I would say an entire bottle of scotch.” Patrick set the tray on the breakfast bar and motioned at the coffee. “Which one?”

Gerald put the bag down and pulled out a cup. “I didn't know what you took, but I figured black and strong. Somehow I don't see you as the caramel-latte-with-extra-whipped-cream kind of guy.”

“Good guess.” Patrick accepted the cup and took a deep drink. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.” Gerald opened the bag and took out a bottle of aspirin. He tapped three out and popped them into his mouth before washing them down with his caramel latte. “I got Advil for Jac like the doctor recommended. How's she doing?”

“She's asleep right now. But I'm sure Bailey would appreciate the coffee.” Patrick took his coffee and walked over to the recliner that had arrived only a day earlier. Since Bailey had evicted the dogs from the bedroom so they wouldn't accidently injure Jacqueline's arm, Gomer and Gilmore were sleeping on the couch. His mother hadn't allowed animals on the furniture, but Jacqueline didn't have the same rule. She seemed to enjoy cuddling up on the couch with all the dogs and cats. Unless that was a lie too.

“Bailey can't drink coffee.” Rather than head upstairs, Gerald took the only space left on the couch, cautiously eyeing Gomer as he sipped his coffee. “She's wired enough without caffeine. The one time she drank a cup, she stayed up for three nights straight. And believe me, you don't want to deal with Bailey when she hasn't slept for three days. Picture Godzilla mixed with Richard Simmons.”

If he hadn't felt so shitty, Patrick might've laughed. Instead he rested his head back. The chair was damned comfortable. “I guess she and Jacqueline were pretty much on their own when they were kids.”

“I think that's an understatement. Their tough childhood probably explains why Jacqueline is so protective.”

Patrick lifted his head and looked at Gerald. “You mean Bailey?”

“I mean your wife,” Gerald said. “Her protection isn't as physical as yours. Or as verbal as Bailey's. Jac's protection of the ones she loves is much more subtle.” He set down his cup and turned toward Patrick. “I know you're not going to believe this, but Jac didn't want the money for herself—she wanted it for Bailey and for me. She wanted to make sure that we'd never go without, like she and Bailey had to. And the baby only made her more determined to get her hands on her aunt's billions. It was the only way she could figure out how to protect all of us.”

“That doesn't make her lying right.”

“No. But hopefully it makes it understandable.” Gerald paused, no doubt waiting for Patrick to say that he was no longer mad at Jacqueline. Patrick wasn't mad at her. The fear of her being injured and of losing the baby had wiped all his anger right out of him. Now he just felt numb. No, more like hurt. Hurt that Jac hadn't trusted him enough to share with him everything that Bailey and Gerald had.

“It's probably not my place to tell you this,” Gerald continued, “but I think you should know. Jac plans to sign over most of the money she inherits to a charitable organization run by none other than Mysterious Mr. Darby. It seems that Aunt Frances wasn't as evil as we all thought. She had been funding the organization for years and knew that Jac would continue to do so if she didn't marry a deadbeat who lost it all.” Gerald got to his feet. “I guess I'll take the Advil upstairs in case Jac wakes up and needs them.”

Patrick only nodded. His mind was too exhausted to make any sense of the jumble of information it had received that morning, so he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. It felt like he'd only closed them for a moment, but when he opened them, the lighting was different in the room. Someone had plugged in the lights of the Christmas tree and turned on the gas of the fireplace. The three stockings seemed to jeer at him.

Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he sat up and glanced at the window. It was still light—perhaps midmorning or early afternoon. It was hard to tell without the sun. The gray clouds had finally produced snow. It fell past the multi-paned glass in a swirl of winter white.

“I'm glad the storm didn't hit last night.”

The words were spoken so close that Patrick's muscles tightened. He turned to find the Santa Claus bum sitting on the couch between Gomer and Gilbert, his holey stocking feet resting on the coffee table. He smiled, and his eyes twinkled merrily.

“A bad winter storm always makes flying much more difficult.”

Patrick's eyes narrowed on the bum. “How did you get in here? And don't tell me that you came down the chimney, because I don't have one.”

The bum chuckled. “No. I came up the stairs.”

“Not likely. I closed the garage door when I let Gerald in.”

“Then Gerald must've been the one who left it open.”

Patrick's brow knotted. “Gerald's gone?”

Santa bent his leg and examined the hole in his stocking. “Gerald. Bailey. Jacqueline. They're all heading home.” He shook his head. “I'll have to get Mama to fix this.”

“Home? You mean my parents' house?”

The bum glanced at him. “I mean New York City.”

“Bullshit!” Patrick jumped up. “They wouldn't leave without saying good-bye.” He took the stairs two at a time, arriving in the bedroom completely out of breath. Not from running up the stairs, but from fear. The fear intensified when he found no shoes scattered across the floor. No flannel shirts draped over the nightstand. No bras hanging out of the drawers. Or cosmetics cluttering the top of the girly vanity. In fact the room looked much like it had before he married Jac. And that didn't just scare him. It terrified him.

A flash of plaid caught his attention, and he walked over to the kilt folded on the top of the dresser. The same kilt that Jacqueline had stolen Halloween night. A small folded piece of paper rested on top. His hand shook as he picked it up and opened it. The handwriting was as loopy and sprawling as Jacqueline. And damned if it didn't make his heart tighten before he even read the words.