In Name Only (A Pine Falls Novel Book 2)

by Jennifer Peel

  John didn’t agree and grabbed hold of the hilt of the knife and twisted it. “Love,” he flashed his politician smile at his wife, “what did you tell our son about our beautiful daughter-in-law?” Each word he spoke was covered in slime so thick it made my insides squirm.

  Sheridan brought her hands up to her face, bursting with joy. She obviously didn’t notice how rigid we stood or how Brock’s hand clenched near his side. “The way you looked at your future bride that day said it all. It said—”

  “I would change my life for you,” Brock finished his mother’s thought, making my head jerk up. When our eyes met, mine were filled with tears, his with despair. His hurt made my tears overflow. Then shame at admitting how much he’d once cared for me quickly replaced the hurt in his eyes. The pain that look caused me stole my breath.

  “And so you have.” Sheridan placed her perfectly manicured hand on Brock’s cheek. “I wasn’t sure we would ever see this day,” her voice cracked. No one had been more distraught than his mother the day we were told Brock had been killed. “But look at you now. Out of my deepest grief has come my greatest joy—seeing you happily married.”

  Did we look happy? We were better actors than I thought.

  Brock placed a hand over his mother’s, not saying a word. His silence was my protection.

  John gave his son an out by pulling over another parishioner. A distinguished gray-haired gentleman dressed to the nines in a designer suit. “Lance, come and meet my daughter-in-law.”

  Lance and the woman I assumed was his wife eagerly took the invitation and slid into the pew in front of us. Before Lance could say anything, his much younger wife, with hair of gold and teeth as bright as the sun, reached for Sheridan. “Please tell me you will be throwing a reception for these two.” She nodded toward us.

  I held my breath, silently begging Sheridan to say no. The story we had told everyone, including the press, when Brock and I got married was that we had done it so quickly and privately because we had realized life was too short and we didn’t want to spend another minute apart. How I wished it were true. However, with Brock recovering, and under the circumstances, we’d been thwarting any attempts by the well-meaning Sheridan to throw a celebration. Besides, we didn’t want to overshadow the other train wreck that was Brant and Jill’s engagement. Unfortunately, in a couple of weeks, we would be flying back east to attend a huge soiree in their honor being thrown by Jill’s family. Our attendance was nonnegotiable. I couldn’t imagine anything more uncomfortable than being at the engagement party for my child’s father while married to his brother. It’s not like Brant and I loved each other. At least not in the way our behavior indicated on that fateful night. I shuddered thinking about it. Our emotions had gotten the better of us. Neither of us were proud of it. But we had just lost the man we loved the most. The man who hated us both now.

  Sheridan’s pretty eyes lit up. “Believe me, I’m working on it.”

  Internally I groaned, while Brock hung his head.

  Sheridan swatted him. “Now don’t act like that. Everyone wants to celebrate your joyous union.”

  “Love,” John interjected. “Let’s discuss parties later. Lance is interested in learning more about the work Dani does with Children to Love. Perhaps even donating.”

  I had to refrain from throwing John a scathing glance. Nothing was sacred to him. Not even the foster children and young adults who had aged out of foster care that my foundation helped. John held it over my head like an anvil, waiting to crush me as soon as I slipped up. To him, though, my nonprofit work was what made me a suitable wife for his son.

  “I told him,” John continued, “he couldn’t find a worthier cause. That our Dani is a beacon of light in the valley.” John’s shrewd eyes reminded me I better give an Academy Award–winning response.

  I discreetly rested my hand on my midsection and reminded myself what was at stake before smiling. “Thank you for that ringing endorsement, but I’m not the heroine; it’s the children and our many volunteers and donors who deserve all the credit.”

  “Don’t be so modest, honey.” Sheridan reached over and tapped my nose. “This girl works tirelessly. Even going as far as making sure every foster child in the three counties has gifts to wake up to on Christmas morning. She hand delivers most of them too.”

  I tucked some hair behind my ear. “It’s the least I can do.”

  Lance nodded. “Sounds like we should get together and discuss how my company can be an ally.”

  “That would be wonderful. Thank you.” I reached into my purse and pulled out my no-frills business card and handed it to him. The one that still had my maiden name on it—Dani Kramer. John wanted me to order new ones with the name he had forced on me, but I’d resisted, citing that I hated wasting anything. I took any bit of defiance I could. Even something as small as the business card. And though I hated playing into John’s wicked game, I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Every donation counted.

  Lance took my card. “You’re a lucky man, Brock.”

  Brock cleared his throat. “Yes, I am.” Did anyone else hear how strangled that sounded? Or was I the only one who choked on his words?

  Thankfully, Brant and Jill entered the fray and everyone’s attention shifted toward the new senatorial candidate and his bride-to-be.

  Brock wanted even less to do with Brant than he did with me, so he grabbed my hand, making sure our fingers didn’t intertwine as he led us away from the crowd. Once we were outside in the mid-September sun, he breathed a sigh of relief and dropped my hand like a ton of bricks.

  Brock’s touch left me feeling cold and empty. I closed my eyes, seeking warmth from the light instead.

  “Let’s go home,” Brock growled.

  I opened my eyes and met his troubled ones. “I have no home.”

  Chapter Two

  Brock knocked on my bathroom door—the guest bath. “We’re going to be late.”

  My head was resting on the toilet seat after having lost the few bites of toast I’d gotten down for lunch after church. “I don’t know if I can make it,” I moaned.

  “Are you taking your B6 and doxylamine at night?” I could tell he tried to hide the bite in his tone, but anything surrounding my pregnancy irritated him.

  “Religiously,” I croaked.

  “I’ll write you a prescription for Zofran,” he huffed.

  “I won’t take it.” There was limited information about the side effects and, no matter the pain this pregnancy caused, I already loved my baby.

  “Fine, but we’re leaving in ten minutes.” His heavy steps could be heard marching across the wood floor.

  I slowly lifted my head and wiped off my mouth. The thought of having dinner at his parents’ and being interviewed by another reporter made me want to vomit some more. How many times was I going to be made to sit by Brock’s side and hold his hand while I shed a river of tears and recounted how devastated I was to learn of his death? After that I would share the relief and joy I’d felt when the intel they had received turned out to be wrong. Keeping on script, I would thank the team of Navy SEALs for rescuing him. Brock would make a lighthearted joke about how irked he was that it was the Navy that had saved him instead of his comrades in the Army. Then he would stare at me with faux adoration while I told the truth about how agonizing the entire ordeal was. Together we would lie about why we got married so soon, and that would be that. Once the cameras were turned off, Brock would scramble away from me as fast as he could.

  It took everything I had to stand up on my shaky legs and make it to the marble counter, which I leaned heavily on. I stared into the oval mirror at how pale my olive skin looked. The bags under my eyes spoke to how exhausted I was. Growing a life took everything I had. No makeup was going to hide how awful I felt. I brushed my teeth and did my best not to gag. There was something about dental hygiene that repulsed my pregnant body.

  Ten minutes turned into twenty when I threw up one more time and had to repea
t the process. By the time I wandered out of the bathroom, all I wanted to do was go to my designated room here and sleep forever, or at least until the first trimester was over. I had to lean against the wall for support as I walked down the hall, careful not to disrupt any of the artwork. The custom watercolors I had handpicked with Brock after he had bought the house six months ago. Those were happier days—house hunting with him. I’d fooled myself into thinking he wanted my input because perhaps one day he meant for the place to be ours. As I passed by the white french doors that led to his bedroom, I was painfully reminded that this house was his and his alone. I stopped, ran my hand across the smooth wood, and leaned my forehead against it. Wishing for the nausea to subside and aching for the doors to welcome me in. Both were futile dreams.

  The day we were married, Brock brought me here and took my luggage to the guest bedroom down the hall. Every day since, he’d spent most of his time behind these closed doors, unable to work until he passed all his physical and psychological evaluations. I knew he was anxious to return to his practice—at least that’s what he told the reporters in my presence. I wondered if it was wise. When I did spend the night here, I could hear Brock screaming out in his sleep: reliving the hellish real-life nightmare he’d endured in Afghanistan and probably since being home. I longed to go to him and comfort him, but I knew it would be unwelcome.

  I closed my eyes and thought of Kinsley, my younger sister. I heard her crying at night about Brant marrying another, when I couldn’t bring myself to stay the night here. Which was more often than not. Most of the time I slept at the loft I had once shared with both Kinsley and Ariana, before Ariana got married this past summer. Little did Kinsley know I played a part in her sobs. How it racked me with guilt, and how I prayed she would never find out what I had done. Still, the guilt was easier to bear than the loneliness. Which was why the nights when I should have been “home” with Brock, I found myself at the loft. I kept paying rent under the guise that I didn’t want to leave Kinsley high and dry. While it was true—she could have never afforded it by herself—the real reason was because it was the only place of refuge I had left to me.

  I took several slow, deep breaths before pushing myself off the door and facing the music once again. How I found myself in this position, I could still barely believe. I’d thought I was smarter and stronger than this. I’d fought too hard for the life I had to end up back in the clutches of another man stronger and more cunning than me. Yet, it wasn’t my life I was fighting for. A mother’s love was the most powerful force on earth. I had no idea until last month how real it was. My own mother had abandoned me as a child and let me fend for myself among the wolves in sheep’s clothing of my foster families. It wasn’t until the Kramers—Grandma Kay and Grandpa Sam—rescued me when I was seventeen that I learned what family truly meant. Theirs was the kind of family I longed to give the child I carried. The child I would do anything for—even live a lie.

  I trudged down the floating staircase and couldn’t help but admire the pristine surroundings. The completely open space below was breathtaking with a contemporary gray stone fireplace center stage. The clean-lined ivory furniture played beautifully against the dark wood floors. While beautiful, it didn’t scream child friendly. Brock said he would love this baby as his own—it was, after all, his niece or nephew—but I worried it was a promise he wouldn’t be able to keep. Not only did my baby represent my betrayal to him, but his life also wasn’t suited for children. Brock had talked of having a wife and children someday, yet he had never been in a hurry to make it a reality.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t hold off reality any longer. I padded across the house toward the garage entrance. There I found Brock impatiently waiting for me in his Audi SUV. His look of exasperation had my eyes tearing up. What had happened to the gentleman who always stood ready to open my doors? Or the man who had held my hair while I vomited into the toilet when I was away at school and sick with the stomach flu? It hadn’t mattered that we’d never had a romantic relationship. He had been my best friend—always the first one to call on my birthday and bring me my favorite spiced cupcakes. The annoyed man staring at me now, though, was not my Brock. His former self would have had words with the man who waited impatiently in the car for his wife to come out. Was he going to start honking at me next? If he did, he was going to find himself waiting for forever.

  Brock didn’t even wait for me to buckle my seat belt before he started backing out of the garage.

  “You don’t look good,” Brock grumbled.

  I leaned my head against the cool passenger seat window and stared out at the passing neighborhood, not really focusing on anything except trying not to vomit. “Thank you,” I growled.

  “You know what I mean,” he replied, the bite in his tone obviously reined in.

  “I’m happy not to go if you’re worried I’ll embarrass you.”

  “Damn it, Dani, you know that’s not what I’m worried about.”

  “Don’t swear at me.” I did a terrible job of hiding the emotion in my voice. I still wasn’t used to the callous way he treated me, and I hated that I couldn’t hide my vulnerable state from him.

  After several seconds, he let out a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry,” he reluctantly offered. “I shouldn’t swear at you.” He paused. “I’m worried we won’t be able to keep your . . . your state a secret much longer.”

  State? I wasn’t Montana. I was pregnant. Which did make me worry, but for many other reasons. Thoughts like, What if I ran away to another country and changed my name? started creeping in. Was that even a possibility? How far was John Holland’s reach? More than likely, farther than I could imagine. I raised my head off the glass, feeling defeated, and curled into my seat. “You’ve been back long enough . . . well, long enough for us to be pregnant.” How I wished it was us. “Maybe we should start—”

  “If we tell people now, they’ll know it happened before we got married.”

  If I weren’t so sick and tired, I would have laughed. It’s not that I didn’t appreciate his traditional views on the subject, but the brilliant doctor knew better than anyone how gestation worked. “Even if we fudge the due date some, there will be no hiding that,” I reminded him. The silver lining in all of this, if you could even call it that, was that besides Brock being the closest genetic match possible to Brant, he had come home only ten days after the, uh, event I regretted every minute since it had happened. That is not to say I regretted my child. I never would.

  Brock stewed on that while he stretched his neck from side to side.

  While he ruminated, I thought back to the day of his return. At his request, I’d flown to Washington, DC with his family to welcome him home. He was torn and battered, but despite his injuries, he hobbled straight to me as soon as he came off the plane. Not to his mother, father, or brother. Me. We fell into each other’s arms. He held on to me for dear life. Our tears wetted each other’s cheeks, and his salty kisses healed my soul. My other half had returned.

  Brock never left my side for the first few days. As wonderful as that was, my conscience began to nag me, even before I knew I was pregnant. It only got worse when he started talking about our future. It caught me off guard. We had never discussed our lives in terms of us being a couple. When he had returned, though, he’d just assumed we would be. His harrowing experience had him seeing life differently. And though I wanted nothing more than to be with Brock in every way, I knew I had to tell him what had happened between Brant and me. Brant and I both knew we had to, but we didn’t know how. Especially when it would hurt so many people we cared about. I would never forget the pain and utter revulsion on Brock’s face after I told him what had happened. I tried to explain that it was because Brant and I were hurting so much and emotions took over. Brock didn’t care. He’d walked out. It wasn’t until I’d found out I was pregnant that he had come to my rescue.

  “We should wait until your first trimester is over.” Brock shook me out of my thoughts. I was grateful
for the reprieve. The days after my confession still made me shudder.

  I nodded and went back to staring blankly out the window for the remainder of the silent trip.

  When we arrived at his parents’ place, he pulled around the back so we could enter through the mudroom, which was more like a hotel lobby, chandelier included. I got out of the car and smoothed out the lapel on my blush linen jacket. His mom had been playing dress up with me. I had spent more time in department stores and boutiques the last month than I had for my entire thirty-four years. It was one thing Brock had shared with me—his credit card. It felt wrong to take his money, but he’d insisted. More like his father had insisted. His dad didn’t like my bargain rack look, and I didn’t like him scrutinizing me, so I took the money.

  Brock met me at my door. It was showtime. He took a moment to give me more than his usual inconsequential glance before he had to torture himself by touching me. With every sweep of his eyes, my vulnerability ticked up. I tucked some of my dark hair behind one ear. “Do I look that awful?”

  He swallowed hard, keeping my gaze. For a second, I saw a glimpse of the man I fell in love with so many years ago. “No. You’re . . . never mind.” He shook his head and held out his hand, and I noticed that, like mine, it was once again adorned with a wedding ring. We never wore them unless we were out in public or around his parents. His plain, thin, solid-gold band had been his maternal grandfather’s. Sheridan was thrilled to pass it down to us. It had only added to the guilt. Brock’s grandparents had been married for sixty years, and Sheridan felt the ring was charmed. I was going with doomed.

  My ring, on the other hand, was purchased by John. Brock would have never picked out the ostentatious pear-shaped diamond that strangled my finger. I was embarrassed to wear such a monstrosity, especially around the kids I worked with. Kids who had known food stamps, empty bellies, and uncertainty. Kids like me. Brock would have known that. Although, I understood why he didn’t want to pick out my ring. It would have been like rubbing salt into the gaping wound I’d carved out of his heart.