by L. B. Dunbar
I turn to my brother, waiting on more…holding my breath with hope for something else. “And?”
“Here’s what I don’t understand. Why was she telling me all of this?”
I have no idea, I thought.
“Did you ask her?” I ask, my voice sharper than necessary.
“No, I thanked her for the information. Told her how I hadn’t visited Chicago in a long time but remember enjoying my stay there. Then I told her I hoped she’d be able to visit here again soon, seeing as she enjoyed it so much.”
“Did she say she would?” My voice rises as I sit up straighter. Hope is a dangerous emotion.
“Should she?” my brother inquires, lifting a brow as he suddenly plays coy.
“Charlie, don’t act like you know something when you don’t. There’s nothing to tell.”
Charlie shakes his head, disagreeing with me. “Here’s what’s to tell. A woman checked into Conrad Lodge and then checked out, saying she was going camping in the area. She let it slip she was headed to the Harrington cabin. For three days, your place was empty, and you didn’t answer your phone. James is called in for questioning about an incident up on the ridge, and he mentions your name as an alibi. Says he saw you with a woman up there.”
Jesus, will the whole town know?
“What did James do? And how do you know this other stuff?”
“Cora told Mati who told me. Gotta keep tabs on my siblings.” Charlie winks. “As for James, he claims it was target practice. God only knows why he loves that ranger station.” He waves a hand, dismissing our brother while knowing all the reasons that particular station means something to our brother.
“You know it’s typically my job as the eldest to know what everyone is doing.”
“Yes, but then who looks out for you?” Charlie laughs.
I sigh as I look away from Charlie. No one. No more Clara. No more girls. No more Letty.
“I don’t need looking after,” I snark.
“But it’d be nice if someone did, right? If someone worried about you. Or had sex with you. Or loved you.”
“Jesus, have you been talking to Mama?”
Charlie chuckles. “Fuck, no. I just know how you feel.” He probably does. Us Harringtons haven’t had much luck in love, and he’s had one of the worst deals as his wife divorced him right when his small-town career took off. She left behind their adorable daughter, Lucy, as well.
Charlie points to information on the final page of the document. “There’s a phone number for the real estate agency in Chicago.” He taps the page where a Post-it tab rests below the information. “And she gave me her cell phone number. She said I was free to pass it on to the property owner in case he had questions, wanted details, or just wanted to talk.”
“Did she really say that?” Then we can talk. We never had the discussion we needed to have after her third night. The conversation I hoped to have where I explained that I couldn’t sell the land, and I hoped she’d understand the reasons behind my decision, and then I’d ask her if we could somehow explore what we had, what we discovered between us in our adventure on the ridge.
“No.” Charlie chuckles. “But maybe you should call her?” There’s a hesitation in his suggestion.
“I don’t have any questions,” I gruff, more irritated than I should be. Am I angry with her or myself for not explaining everything? “She already admitted she’s no longer interested in the purchase.”
“And what about you? Are you no longer interested?” His brow tweaks upward.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie.
Charlie pats my shoulder. “Sure, you don’t.” With that said, he stands, leaving the copy of the document and the yellow tab glaring up at me.
Sometimes being a Harrington can be a pain in the ass.
16
Wedding presents
[Letty]
“And he washed your hair?” It’s said like a question, but it’s more of a statement, and Marcus has turned it into his greeting the last week. It’s not hello or how was your day? It’s He washed your hair, as if I need the reminder of the romantic gesture from a man who ripped my heart out.
“Sit,” I tell Marcus as he pulls out a stool at the high-top table. We’re both dressed in business attire, and over the last eight plus days, I’ve found the clothing itchy and restrictive. I’m exceptionally fond of my yoga pants and sweatshirts on the weekends, but these past days, I’ve longed for jeans and a flannel in an unhealthy way.
Marcus looks every bit the professional he is with his sandy brown hair perfectly gelled into a mini coif by his forehead. The sides are shaved, which is a modern style with a razor-sharp part. His brown eyes hide behind dark rimmed glasses. He smiles tightly at me.
“Be brave. Be strong.”
The night will be difficult, but I find I’m more sour over a man some thousands of miles away than the man kissing my sister on the cheek near the door. Mullen Realty decided to host a party to celebrate the nuptials of Dayna and Hudson at the end of the week, as if we weren’t already celebrating Dayna’s good fortune all year leading up to her special day. It’s turned into wedding week, like Shark Week on television, and being eaten by one might be more pleasurable than the experience of this wedding. Kill me.
My uncle Frank beams at Dayna, so proud of the connection her marriage to Hudson Rockford will provide to his realty company. I, on the other hand, have turned into the biggest disappointment again. My contact with one Charles Harrington, mayor of Blue Ridge, Georgia, didn’t go unnoticed.
“What do you mean you didn’t procure the property?”
“It’s not for sale nor can it be sold. Land entailment.” I’ve used the terminology to disguise my failure or, rather, my change of heart. I no longer want us to pursue Giant’s land—the land his precious Pap gave to him. It wasn’t just because he broke my heart, either; I truly didn’t feel right trying to obtain something so precious, so non-materialist from someone so genuinely content with something so simple.
Uncle Frank strangely knew the detail of the land but decided not to include it in the prospect report he gave me. He believed some simpleton in a small town would only see dollar signs and hand over his property for greener pastures. Or in George Harrington’s case, green papers with Benjamin Franklin on them. It appears Uncle Frank didn’t investigate the Harringtons either. How wrong he was about Mr. Harrington, his attachment to the land, and his lack of desire for money.
“You look lovely. Want a drink?” Marcus says, distracting me from my thoughts. He doesn’t mean what he says. He’s seen me all day in this outfit—a pencil skirt, a tight blouse, and a stiff suit jacket. I look a little worn from the day I’ve had, but not as frightening as I looked when I arrived at a hotel outside of Atlanta before flying back to Chicago. I don’t know how the woman agreed to give me a room. Maybe it was the tear-stained face and stiff, dirty clothes. I took an extra night to cry myself to sleep in a big, comfy bed with extra pillows after a long hot bath. It was heavenly…minus the crying part.
“I’ll have a margarita on the rocks with salt.”
“Oh, fiesta time?” Marcus wiggles his ass on the wooden stool.
“Get me drunk time,” I say with a laugh although it isn’t true. I want to keep my wits this week so I don’t say something I shouldn’t. I’m over Hudson and my sister, but a little liquid courage might not stop me from spilling the truth. He cheated on me with her. Hudson didn’t want the bad press, so he asked that we part, stating irreconcilable differences, as if we were getting a divorce. As if he wasn’t seen with my sister at some fundraiser a week later. I didn’t want to admit his indiscretion, equally embarrassed that he’d slept with my sister, of all people.
“Gonna make it through this week?” Marcus asks although he knows I will. I’ll put on my brave face and big girl panties because I don’t want to seem like the bitter, sniveling little sister.
“When’s the ax throwing?” I tease.
“And then he washed your hair.”
I laugh bitterly at the reference. Yes, he washed my hair, and made love to me, and then he snapped me like a twig.
It wasn’t just sex, he said. What else could it have been? His silence had unnerved me, but I had my answer. Just sex, is all it was.
Mindlessly, I stroke back my hair, pushing it behind my ear.
“I can’t talk about him. Not this week.” I’ve already told Marcus everything. Well, minus a few graphic details. Don’t want to get his knickers in a twist. He listened and sighed and held my hand. He sounds like a good man, Marcus said.
For the most part, Giant Harrington is a good man. He just didn’t understand I would never consider sleeping with someone to score a deal. Something happened to me on that mountain…with him. It was no longer about the land after that first night, and it wasn’t just the assistive hand during my self-soothing moment. I’d never done anything like what I’d done with Giant, and it made my feelings all the more real. To me.
“So ax throwing,” Marcus states, perking up. “Gonna chop some wood.” Marcus makes karate-chopping motions over his lap. He’s so inappropriate.
“Marcus.” I chuckle. “I can’t handle your sharp wit. Get it, handle? Sharp?”
“Oh, oh, good one. You’re quite the cutup.” He winks at me, lifting his chocolate martini to his lips.
“That was a good one,” I admit with a giggle. “How did you hatchet?”
He laughs, and then claps once, holding his clasped hands before his chest. “It was an ax-cident.”
I laugh in earnest. “How about he axed her to marry him after I tossed him over.” I nod in the direction of my sister and former fiancé, trying to be clever, which isn’t my strong suit.
Marcus gives a triple clap-clap-clap. “He axed for it.”
Tears roll down my face as I guffaw even harder. “I wasn’t cut out for him.” But somehow, this isn’t a joke, and the tears shift from humor to hurt as my thoughts wander. I’m no longer referencing Hudson.
“Oh, honey.” Being my best friend, he practically reads my thoughts and hands me two paper napkins. “He’s an ax-hole if he doesn’t realize how wonderful you are.”
I giggle with sadness because I don’t consider Giant an asshole. Not even close.
“I did this to myself,” I mutter.
“After the way you said he did you, honey, I think you’re mistaken. He wanted you as much as you wanted him,” Marcus tries to reassure me.
The land. He believed I wanted it more than him, and for a few hours, I did, but then I got to know him. The man. And nothing made sense anymore. Can you fall in love with a stranger in three nights? I don’t have to ax my heart because it’s all chopped up.
+ + +
The ceremony is held on a Friday evening because Dayna wanted a night wedding. Also, Friday night weddings are cheaper, but considering the money between Hudson and Dayna, the expense was not spared. Not to mention, my uncle has chipped in to make this a real business affair. Dayna also wanted October for her wedding, but the dresses we wear scream July. Despite the mild weather of Chicago, the breeze briskly blows as the day dips to nightfall, and we shiver in our ludicrous attire while taking pictures down by Lake Michigan. A trolley drives us up and down Lake Shore Drive before returning us to the hotel for the wedding dinner.
Marcus is my plus one even though he was already an invited guest. I didn’t have a date and didn’t feel the need to find one weeks before the wedding. I only want to sip wine, give my toast, and get the hell out of here. Yes, I need to give a speech congratulating my sister on marrying my ex-lover. It’s going to be short and sweet.
May you deserve one another.
The end.
The ballroom is dripping in yellow, and I feel as if I’ve entered a cream puff. I hate custard. I saunter up to the bar. Skipping the celebratory champagne, I decide wine will be my comfort.
“You doing okay?” Marcus asks me for the millionth time. I’m on the verge of making him into a cream puff if he asks me one more time.
“I’m fine,” I grumble, reaching for the glass the bartender hands me and guzzling heartily the crisp liquid. It isn’t as sharp and tangy as the beer I drank on a mountain ridge under the stars, but it will have to do. It’s a weak substitute, I realize and sigh. Marcus notices.
“Remind me why you can’t call him?” I made that absurdly stupid phone call to Giant’s brother, the mayor brother, and included all kinds of details in my long-winded explanation. Then I left my phone number—could I have been more desperately obvious that I wanted him to call me? I decided it had to be up to Giant to reach out to me. If he wanted to talk, he had to come to me. Which he didn’t do.
“Because I’d already said too much, and he accused me of sleeping with him…for business…no less.” I exhale, whispering the last part before taking another sip of wine and realizing I’ve finished the glass. Well, that was quick. “Marcus, you know how I am. I talk too much, but it’s normally nonsense. For once, I want someone to listen to me. Really listen.”
Marcus’s eyes widen as he glances over my shoulder.
“And what is it you would want a certain someone to hear?” His voice shifts as he holds his lips in a strange grimace.
“I want someone to listen to my heart. To what I had to say. Hear how I feel.” Jesus, this wedding is making me sappy and sentimental.
“And what does your heart feel?”
“Dammit, Marcus, you know this. I felt something for this man, who was a complete stranger, yet the strangest part was the immediate attraction I had to him. Like he knew me, or saw something in me, or…I don’t even know what I’m saying. It’s the wine talking.”
“Then I’m listening to a damn good bottle of Moscato.” The gruff voice behind me startles me, and my eyes widen as I stare at Marcus. The sound certainly didn’t come from his lips although it holds all the teasing Marcus would make. My head slowly shakes, but Marcus nods with a matching pace. He knows what I don’t. I lift a hand to my upper chest, my heart hammering under my skin, and the pinched smile on Marcus’s face curls into a wide grin.
Slowly, I turn to face the rugged tone and meet a tux-covered chest. My eyes climb the tall stature, taking in the black bow tie at his throat and the dark spark to his eyes.
I’m hallucinating, I tell myself.
Before me stands a giant of masculinity, polished with a trimmed beard and combed hair. A sharp gleam graces those bark-colored eyes. His broad shoulders are covered by a fitted black suit like he’s a member of the wedding party. My eyes roam the remainder of his large physique, drinking in the tux on him like it’s the bubbly wine in my glass. Gone is lumbersexual, replaced by dashy and debonair.
My God, he’s tasty.
“What are you wearing?” he asks, his voice gruff, reminiscent of our first meeting.
“He washed your hair?” Marcus gasps in a hushed tone from behind me.
“Giant,” I breathe out his name with shock and desperation and longing.
“Cricket,” he addresses me, and Marcus chokes at my back.
“He has a pet name for you,” Marcus practically squeals. “You didn’t mention a pet name.”
“Marcus,” I groan, keeping my eyes fixed on Giant, who isn’t grinning, but his lips twist. He wants to smile. He’s moving his mouth like he’s fighting it, and all I can think about is how I want that mouth on mine.
“This is Marcus?” Giant asks, offering a hand to my friend, but I don’t miss how he skims my arm to reach around me.
“George Harrington,” he says. “But people call me Giant.”
“Mmm…I bet you are,” Marcus purrs. He doesn’t play his gay card often or to the hilt, but this is over the top, even for him, and Giant quickly retracts his hand. Marcus steps around me and looks back and forth between Giant and myself. “The pleasure to meet you is all mine,” he states, and then he continues circling, taking a step behind Giant but still facing me. He lifts his fingers toward his
hardly-there hair and makes massaging motions as he mouths his new standard statement. I giggle as I wave him away.
“What are you doing here?” I ask of Giant, still breathless and stunned. He’s actually standing before me. In a tux!
“Heard there was a wedding happening, and the prettiest woman here needed a date.”
I step toward him, fighting the urge to wrap my arms around him and climb his body like the mammoth tree he is. He leans forward to kiss my cheek while he rubs my bare shoulder. It’s a little reserved. Where was the wild man from the ranger station? Or the adventurous one the first night in our tent? Or the one who kissed me senseless on our last night together?
You hurt him, I remind myself. He hurt you, my brain replies.
But he’s standing here before me.
In Chicago. “Let’s get out of here,” I whisper, and he chuckles, slipping his warm hand down my arm to my fingers. I grip them hard.
“It appears I might be late to the party. Don’t you have some obligations tonight?”
“You aren’t late.” I exhale. It’s only been twelve days, twenty hours, and roughly three minutes but not late. “I need to give a toast, but the second I’m done, you’re mine,” I groan, the wild in me clearly reaching out for him.
17
The man in the mirror
[Giant]
You’re mine. I shouldn’t like the sound of that as much as I do, but I do. I so do. Her dress is hideous, but she’s so beautiful with her chestnut hair piled at the nape of her neck and soft curls framing her face. She’s wearing makeup, which I hadn’t seen her wear while camping, so she looks different. Still pretty but polished. I want to smear her lips with mine. For a moment there, I thought she’d jump into my arms, but something stopped her. My heart dropped.
I’ve waited twelve days to see her. I can hold out another hour to have her alone.
“The wedding was on a Friday?” I expected to arrive in time for a rehearsal dinner, surprising her and giving us time to talk. Instead, I walked into the Drake without a room or a plan to find the placard in the lobby announcing the wedding in the ballroom.