by JoAnn Ross
“Why? Did you forget something, sir?”
“Yes.” He’d forgotten what was important, what life was, or at least should be all about. He’d forgotten that love was both the greatest risk, and the greatest reward of all. “I need you to take me back to Honeymoon Harbor.”
“Yessir.”
She wasn’t going to let him off easy. But like Seth did to win Brianna back when he’d almost lost her, Gabe was willing to grovel. Whatever Chelsea wanted, he’d do it. If she didn’t want to live in the lake cabin that had begun to feel like home, he’d build her a new one. Any kind, anywhere.
If she wanted him to crawl naked down Water Street over broken oyster shells, he’d do that. If she wanted him to give away all his money, he’d even do that. But hopefully she’d agree that he could do more good using it to help others then throwing it to the winds, then living with his wife and two, hopefully more, kids and a dog. Because after what he’d done to the kids today, Hailey was definitely getting her dog.
Whatever Chelsea wanted. He’d do anything for love.
* * *
THEY WERE STALLING. None of them had that much to pack, but Chelsea understood that this had been a special place for them. The first, probably, in a very long time that despite its excesses felt like home. Where, despite Gabe’s insistence that he’d be gone with the geese come summer’s end, they’d felt like a family. She knew that deep in their young hearts, the girls had believed that he’d change his mind. That he’d stay. Because they’d all been so perfect together. How could he not see that? She knew what they’d been thinking, because she’d been thinking the exact same thing.
He’d miss them. Terribly. He might not realize it now, but all the bright and busy days filled with all the expensive, shiny things were worth nothing in the end. There was one thing that all the money in the world could never buy. One thing that endured. The one thing only she and the girls could give him. Love. And he hadn’t accepted that gift.
Having changed from her bridesmaid’s dress into a pair of khaki capris and a T-shirt with the Einstein quote The only thing that you absolutely have to know is the location of the library, she was sitting in the library while Hannah took Hailey down to the beach to collect a final bag of shells and rocks, and maybe even a piece of sea glass, like the heart-shaped one Aiden had given Jolene so many years ago.
Chelsea wondered if years from now, when the girls were grown with their own families, they’d remember this day, and Gabe, and have sympathy for the man who’d chosen to live atop his gilded New York world alone.
“Chelsea!” Hailey came running into the library, dropping shells and rocks and spreading gray sand everywhere. “He’s here!”
“Quinn? I know. He’s taking us to the farm.”
“Not Quinn,” Hannah, who was following slowly behind so as not to drop her collected treasures, said. “Gabriel.”
It was true. Hearts really did stop. Fortunately, Chelsea’s began to beat again, albeit at a rhythm that couldn’t possibly be healthy for anyone. She put a hand on her chest, as if to calm it. Momentarily closed her eyes and drew in a breath. Held it. Then blew it slowly out. Again. A third time.
“What are you doing?” Hailey demanded, with more than her usual impatience.
“She’s meditating,” Hannah said.
“Why?”
“Maybe to calm down so she won’t stroke out. Or so she won’t shove him into the water. Which is what I’d do.”
Chelsea opened her eyes. “Don’t tempt me. I’m supposed to be the adult here... Okay.” Her heart was no longer in danger, her head was clear. “Clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose.”
“What does that mean?” Hailey said.
“It’s from a TV show,” Hannah said. “And I think a movie. And maybe a book. It means Chelsea’s planning to win.”
“And Gabriel will live with us, and we’ll be a family? Forever and ever?” Hailey asked.
“We don’t know why he’s come back,” Chelsea said. The hope in that young voice was breaking her heart all over again. Especially since, dammit, she was sharing that same hope. Maybe she would take Hannah’s suggestion and shove him into the water. “He could have forgotten something.”
Like her. And the girls.
“Or maybe he’s come here to apologize,” Hannah said. “You should probably give him a chance to try to fix this. And FYI, I wouldn’t go easy on him.”
Chelsea blew out a breath which finished clearing her mind. “I’ll be back,” she promised.
“Don’t come alone,” Hannah said.
Despite what had proven to be a horrible end to what had started out as a lovely day, Chelsea managed a ragged laugh. “You realize that I am, literally, going to be the boss of you. For many years to come.”
“It’s not my fault I haven’t had any loving parental discipline for a very long time. You’ll have to work on that, I suppose.”
“We’ll work on that,” Chelsea amended. “Together.”
With that, she walked out of the library, down the hall into the foyer and to the front door where Quinn was standing.
“If you need any help, just yell,” he said. “I can take him, easy. That manly jaw so many women have swooned over is pure glass. Just so you know.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Chelsea said. Not that she intended to hit him. Although there’d admittedly been a moment at the reception when she’d been tempted to.
* * *
GABE STUDIED HER as she walked out the door. For a woman whose every thought was always written on her face, and in those bright as sunshine eyes, she wasn’t giving him a clue this time. And what did you expect? Her to run into your waiting arms like a woman in a perfume commercial?
“I forgot something,” he said.
“Oh?” He didn’t realize she could arch a brow like that. It was definitely a librarian brow. He remembered Mrs. Henderson using it like a light saber. “What would that be?”
“You.”
“I see.”
“I had my priorities all screwed up. I have for a long time, which is how I ended up in the hospital with what the EMTs thought maybe was a heart attack.”
Her eyes widened, revealing a flash of emotion. “You had a heart attack?”
“No. It turned out to be an anxiety attack, but it got my attention enough that I came home to regroup. And get my mojo back. But even after I got here, I was too blind, or stupid, to realize how screwed up my life had become until I got to the ferry and knew that I didn’t want to spend my life anywhere else with anyone but you.”
The crickets were back. Bunches and bunches of them. Or, as he remembered his mother teaching them one summer evening, an orchestra of crickets. All playing a someone-done-someone-wrong song.
“I’m sorry,” she said finally. “Was that a proposal?”
He rubbed his jaw, saw Quinn standing in the doorway behind her, and hoped that he could get out of this mess he’d created without landing back in the ER.
“Yes. It was.”
“And you came up with the idea to propose when?”
“At the ferry.”
“Which you didn’t board.”
“No, because, well, there wasn’t any reason to. Because you were here.”
“That would be true. As are the girls.”
“I’m hoping that they’re a package deal.”
“That’s a big decision. Taking on a wife and two children. A proposal so important doesn’t seem something that a person should make impulsively. It should be given a proper amount of thought.”
He glanced over and saw the two faces pressed against the window. His girls. Just the thought of turning this real estate showplace into a proper home with the three of them gave him more happiness than any Wall Street deal had ever provided. He was going to have to write Dr. Doogie a thank-you note. Or better yet, invit
e him to the wedding. Then maybe, next year, they could all go summer skiing to meet the brother. Who wouldn’t be working. But then again, neither would he. Because it would be a vacation from the philanthropic equity fund he intended to run out of the housekeeper’s cottage.
The kids would definitely need a dog. One big enough not to slip through the spaces in the wrought iron fence surrounding the main part of the property.
He thought about taking them sailing in the bay. Not in the faering, which he was still sticking to his promise of auctioning off, but in a boat large enough for them to spend the night anchored in Serenity Cove. He thought about grilling fresh-caught salmon on the back deck, of family barbecues on the velvety green expanse of lawn. Of Christmas at his family’s farm, of the girls riding in the sleigh his father brought out every year for the festival.
He thought of growing old with Chelsea Prescott Mannion. Of sitting in rocking chairs on the deck, watching the lowering summer sun gild the lake to shades of gold and copper. He thought of watching the stars come out, glistening like diamonds in a dark blue velvet sky. Then later, finding yet new places and ways to add to the list.
“I think I’m going to be a dirty old man.”
“That’s a point in your favor. So long as you plan on keeping it home.”
“Anywhere you are.”
Chelsea’s slow smile gave him hope that she might not require the crawling on oyster shells penance. “That’s exactly the right answer.”
“I’ve thought about it.”
“And?”
“It is a proposal.”
“It took you long enough. I was getting a little worried that Hailey was going to come running out and do it for you. And how would we explain that to our grandchildren?”
“If you’re talking about her kids, they’ll totally understand.”
She laughed. Then closed the distance between them, went up on her toes and touched her lips to his.
“Welcome home.”
* * *
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
During the writing of Summer on Mirror Lake, I’ve had reason to be grateful for a number of special people: Dianne Moggy, who reached out and invited me home to HQN; Susan Swinwood, for her keen eye, thoughtful editorial advice, and who’s a joy to work with; Denise Marcil and Anne Marie O’Farrell, who are not only the wisest, most supportive agents in the business, but also managed to score amazing theater seats to Dear Evan Hansen during a super memorable NYC visit.
Again, thanks to Sean Kapitain and his fabulous art team, who not only patiently put up with all my photos and suggestions, but created another stunningly beautiful portrait of my beloved Pacific Northwest for this book cover.
Also huge appreciation to the always cheerful HQN publicist Lisa Wray for all her wonderful advance work; the terrific sales team who even laughed at my jokes; and all the others working so hard behind the scenes who kept Summer on Mirror Lake on track during its publishing journey. And I can’t leave out super-efficient Mandy Lawler, who frees up valuable time for me to write. I promise I’ll master Excel one of these days!
A shout-out to all the wonderful booksellers and librarians for getting my books into the hands of readers, and last, but certainly not least, smooches to all those special readers who’ve allowed me to live my dream for so many years. Because it’s truly all about you.
Once Upon a Wedding
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER ONE
ONCE UPON A TIME, in the early 1900s, a newly married royal couple of a small European principality decided to take a tour of America on their honeymoon. When the King and Queen of Montacroix had learned of the lush green majesty of the Olympic National Monument from their friend former President Theodore Roosevelt, they’d added it to their itinerary. As soon as that news reached Washington State’s Olympic Peninsula, the residents of the once prosperous but dying Victorian seaport town nestled up against the mountains had immediately voted to rename the town Honeymoon Harbor in hopes of using the royal visit to garner publicity.
It worked. As the years passed, the town became a popular wedding and honeymoon destination. Honeymoon Harborites had long grown accustomed to seeing brides decked out in white princess dresses and grooms in tuxedos exchanging vows in the town center’s lacy white Victorian gazebo, on the sand beside impossibly blue water, and barefoot in mountain meadows carpeted with wildflowers dancing on the breeze.
But they really perked up when the couples were locals. And any wedding became an event when it involved the Mannions or the Harpers, whose feud, mostly long past—but still occasionally simmering—had begun when Nathaniel Harper was the sole person to vote against the name change. Or, as some old-timers claimed, when, generations ago, Nathaniel and Gabriel Mannion were both courting the same woman, who’d ended up choosing Gabriel.
Today’s wedding between Kylee Campbell and Mai Munemori involved both families. Seth Harper had remodeled the Folk Victorian house for Kylee and Mai to live in, and they had chosen the back garden as the perfect location to exchange their vows. Meanwhile Seth’s fiancée, Brianna Mannion, had stepped in as wedding planner when the couple found attempting to coordinate events while learning the ropes of mothering their newborn adopted daughter more time-consuming and exhausting than they’d expected. Although the last wedding Brianna had organized had involved two King Charles spaniels, as a former executive concierge to the top rollers at the Las Vegas Midas Resort and Casino, she had no doubt that the small, intimate garden wedding would go off without a hitch. Little did she realize that she was about to learn the unfortunate lesson of best-laid plans.
* * *
DESIREE MARCHAND HAD loved baking ever since she’d been old enough to stand on a stool in her grand-mère Dupree’s kitchen, learning the many variations of French pastry dough, beginning with the basic distinction between viennoiserie and patisserie. “The Viennese may have given us pastry,” her grand-mère would say, “but we French are the ones who put the magic into the dough.” According to family lore, an old-line Creole ancestor, who could trace his roots directly back to France, had started the family’s first boulangerie in 1736, making bread for the patients at New Orleans’s Charity Hospital, which had continued to operate until Hurricane Katrina.
Today Desiree was in Kylee and Mai’s kitchen, singing to herself as she put together the happiest of pastries, a wedding cake. She was spreading French buttercream frosting on the three layers of cake, when an all-too-familiar baritone voice from her past began singing along. Spinning around, she found herself looking straight into a pair of dark chocolate-brown eyes.
“What are you doing here?”
Bastien Broussard lifted his hands. “Apparently I’m here to get stabbed with whatever that weapon is that you’re holding.”
She glanced down at the stainless-steel bench scraper she’d been using to smooth the buttercream. And lowered her hand. “I meant here.” She inadvertently swung it again as she waved her hand around the kitchen. “In this town. In this house.”
Before he could answer, Brianna came rushing into the kitchen, appearing nearly as flustered as Desiree felt. “Don’t tell Kylee and Mai, but we have a problem.”
She was not alone. What was the man Desiree had loved with all her heart, then walked away from, doing here, in the far northwest corner of the country?
“What is it?” she asked, trying for a reasonably calm voice. But from the way a corner of Bastien’s mouth quirked, he knew that he’d rattled her. As he’d always been able to do. In so many ways.
“We’ve lost our musician.”
“Lost, lost? As in you can’t find her? Or lost as in she’s not showin
g up?”
“The second. She’s in the hospital getting stitches for a cut she got opening a can of dog food,” Brianna answered on something close to a wail. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, seemed to be counting to ten, then opened her eyes again. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve dealt with being stuck in an elevator with snarling little dogs trying to rip each other’s tulle bridesmaid’s dresses off. I don’t know why I’m panicking over a musician.”
“Because this wedding is personal. Kylee’s been your friend all your life. You want everything to be perfect.”
“I always expect everything to be perfect,” Brianna returned sharply, then pressed her fingers against the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry. I’ve been working on that.” She took another breath. Let it out. “It’s not the end of the world.” Desiree couldn’t quite decide whom she was trying to convince. Her? Or herself? “If I can’t find a wedding singer in the next ninety minutes, I’ll simply have Seth figure out how to hook up my phone to a sound system. He’s a genius at that tech stuff. It won’t be the same as an actual performer, but it’s better than nothing.”
Do. Not. Say. A. Word. Desiree was afraid to even look at the man standing behind her for fear that he’d know that she knew what he was thinking, and she didn’t want to encourage him.
“What type of wedding singer was she?” he asked.
Damn.
“Marian Oberchain’s very versatile. She can sing pop, the oldies, ballads, even country. She could also play a classical harp, an acoustic guitar and the ukulele, which I really wanted because Mai’s from Hawaii, and Marian was going to play the ‘Hawaiian Wedding Song’... I’m sorry. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“I’m an old friend of Desiree’s,” he said. “Bastien Broussard.”
“You’re French?”
“Cajun.” He gifted her with one of his knee-melting smiles. Not the full-out sexy kind he used to turn on Desiree, but it was enough to bring a bit of color to the usually cool and composed Brianna’s cheeks. “A few centuries removed from France. But I lived in Paris for a while.”