The Last Plus One

by Ophelia London

  Laurel had given her that smile earlier today, when she had asked whether Claire had seen Tom. Claire had answered curtly, since she had no intention of worrying Laurel about the waste of the dead butterflies or how Janine had completely screwed up the one simple task delegated to her. She had simply said yes and moved on without discussing how Tom had, in initiating the impromptu service on the beach, driven her to agree to his truce, to a cessation of a decade of acrimony.

  The truce had lasted less than six hours. Because Tom Harrington was late.

  “I told you not to make him a groomsman,” Claire muttered as Laurel linked an arm through hers and led her back to the assembling group at the back of the church. “He’s late and he’s not taking his responsibilities seriously and if he screws up tomorrow—”

  Laurel squeezed her and laughed—laughed! “It’s fine, Claire. You’ll be there for him.”

  The church’s wedding coordinator and priest were lining up the flower girls, the groom’s parents, then the Ramseys. Claire followed the line up and counted off. “No!” she cried as another groomsman was sent to stand with Laurel’s cousin and she realized that she would be paired up with Tom. Which meant walking down the aisle with him, her arm in his, and at the reception they would dance and sit together. “Laurel, for God’s sake!”

  Her voice carried in the crowded wooden vestibule and the priest caught her eye. “Sorry,” she told him. Surely it wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever heard in a wedding rehearsal.

  She gave Laurel a beseeching look even as she was called to fill in her place in line—opposite a certain imaginary delinquent groomsman, of course—and got a weird two-thumbs-up gesture from Laurel instead.

  Clearly, the bride had gone bananas. All the Soul Cycling had wiggled a screw loose somewhere in that sweet blond head.

  The rehearsal started and most of it was a blur. The church coordinator told them how to walk, as if feet had recently been invented, and all the things not to do, like chew gum or show up drunk. While it all fell under the category of “things learned in kindergarten” for Claire, she couldn’t help but think that some of it might be helpful for someone like Tom, a hopeless, mannerless Neanderthal who couldn’t figure out how to read a digital watch.

  When it was her turn to rehearse walking down the aisle—by herself—she felt that old ire against Tom Horrible creeping in, like morning Atlantic fog. He better show up tomorrow night… And then she tried to clamp that thought down. Just six hours ago she had sat on the Virtue Cove beach with him, all at once comfortable with the man and enjoying the peace that had nestled between them.

  For a brief window, Claire could see a future where she and Tom talked instead of fought, smiled instead of scowled, understood instead of undermined. There on the beach, after hundreds of dead butterflies had slid into the Atlantic, somehow Tom had quietly made it possible for Claire to pick up her emotional pieces and patch them together again. More than that, for the first time in years, Claire felt like someone had really seen her. Tom had forgiven her weaknesses and built up her strengths.

  So where the hell was he?

  They stood in their places at the front of the church, the maids flanking Laurel, the men (absent one) lining up behind Tyler. Claire tuned out the reverend’s blathering on about the service and the stupid jokes about kissing and kept her eyes tuned toward the doors.

  If Tom burst in now, for some reason she wanted to be the first one to spot him, the first one to catch his expression when he saw her, righteous and furious in a blush lace number that looked a lot like lingerie. She’d been wondering what he would think about the dress when she put it on earlier, when she’d decided to let her hair curl and simply gather it back in a loose knot on the back of her neck.

  In a practical, Yankee way, the priest ordered them to go back and start over, once more for good measure, to make sure they had it down. The wedding party was ready for a second go round, almost everyone good-naturedly going with the flow. Then, right before they all trotted dutifully down the aisle again, guess who showed up.

  It was so like him, really. Tom Harrington, in his dirty old clothes and bashful grin, shot an apologetic look toward Bits and Laurel and all was forgiven. Shouts of “Tom!” rang out from all corners, from people Claire didn’t even know. That Maggie person was welcoming Tom, as were Tyler’s sister and the rest of the groomsmen. Not a single person asked, “Where have you been?” or commented that he was nearly forty-five minutes late and way underdressed. The church wedding coordinator was the one that pointed him toward his position…six inches from Claire.

  She purposely gave him the cold shoulder as he approached, pretending to listen to Tyler’s mother asking questions about how the ushers would seat the guests, but oh, she felt him when we was next to her. Heat seemed to blister the back of her neck as all of her senses alerted her to Tom taking his place as her escort. He calmly took her hand and put it in the crook of his arm, and even when they started walking down the center of the church, she studiously ignored him, wanting to send the clear, distinct signal that she disapproved of his conduct… Until he leaned in and whispered, “You look beautiful.”

  The ice inside melted instantly, leaving her a weak, wobbly mess. Of course, she tried to stay strong. “You’re late,” she said.

  “Something came up.”

  A horrible thought occurred to her, which made her eyes dart to her right. “Not Elmo? He’s okay?”

  Looking at him had been a mistake. Because at this distance, his eyes were electric blue, his expression was warm and intimate, and even when he whispered, “Elmo’s fine,” it didn’t erase the growing panic inside Claire.

  They separated and took their appointed spots in front of the church, and when the anxiety didn’t dissipate as the priest once again went over last-minute instructions for everyone, Claire knew the alarm inside her gut had nothing to do with any potential emergency the newborn foal had suffered and everything to do with her feelings toward a certain tardy blue-eyed veterinarian with a knack for calming frantic animals—and women.

  On the way back down the aisle (for the last time, the reverend promised), Tom leaned in and said in a low voice, “I need to show you something before dinner.”

  “Where?”

  “In the back of my truck,” he said. Sure enough, when the reverend finally gave them an A-plus for walking in a straight line and standing still, he found her and led her past the other members of the wedding party and out a set of side doors.

  They were supposed to go straight into their cars and head toward the country club for the rehearsal dinner. There was really no room in the schedule for Tom Harrington’s irrelevant show-and-tell items, and Claire was about to explain the precise nature of the day’s events when he pulled down the tailgate of his truck and she saw what Tom had brought.

  Two large kennels sat side by side, each one filled with at least ten puppies. A multicolored, wiggling mass of fur and paws and sweet chocolate eyes.

  Her mouth dropped open. “What…?” She didn’t even know how to ask.

  Tom pushed his fingers through a kennel and scratched various parts of puppies pressed up against the side. “The local SPCA cleaned out a puppy mill about thirty miles north of here. There’s about twenty more where these came from, but those and their mamas are all at foster homes right now. That’s why I was late. They called me to help check them out.”

  Claire couldn’t help but reach across the tailgate and stroke one puppy’s ears through the wire kennel door while simultaneously feeling like the biggest bitch in history. Of course Tom had been heroically saving puppies while she’d been mentally flagellating him for being late to a useless wedding rehearsal.

  “And, well,” Tom said, in a hesitant voice, “I had a crazy thought. I mean, instead of throwing things at Tyler and Laurel tomorrow night, like birdseed or rice, what about we, um, bring out some puppies?”

  Claire looked at him and froze. He was anxiously waiting for her answer, but why? Why wo
uld he be anxious when it seemed he knew her, down to the bones? It was a wholly impractical—ridiculous, even—superbly silly idea. And it was so amazingly right.

  A hard lump formed in Claire’s throat and she couldn’t answer him, but Bits and Laurel and Tyler walked up then and heard the last part. Bits, being the dog enthusiast that she was, immediately said yes, gushing over the puppies and Tom’s brilliance at incorporating them (and her favorite cause) into the wedding. Tyler was clapping Tom on the back, thanking him for finding a solution to the annoying birdseed versus bubbles debate. And Laurel? She was standing there, giving Claire that weird, overeager smile again.

  “Are you okay with this?” Claire asked, waving at the writhing mass of rescue puppies. To her surprise, Laurel’s eyes got shiny and she clasped her hands under her chin.

  “Oh yes!”

  Uh-oh.

  Laurel reached for Tom’s sleeve and tugged. “This is perfect,” she gushed. “You and Claire take them back to the house; get them set up at Mom’s kennel.”

  Claire opened her mouth to protest—the rehearsal dinner was starting in fifteen minutes, she’d need to be there, she would need to make sure the chef remembered Aunt Doris’ gluten insensitivity and the place cards—

  “Okay,” she heard herself saying.

  Laurel’s goofy grin widened. Tom’s gaze fell on her, a palpable question mark. After a shaky breath, she nodded. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 10

  It hadn’t been a surprise that Claire came back with him to Virtue Cove with the puppies. Even when they’d been mortal enemies, she would put on a good show in front of third parties. So when he’d parked the truck and she’d disappeared into the main house while he unloaded kennels at Bits’ dog sanctuary, it wasn’t unexpected. But when she’d returned a short ten minutes later, not in that lacy sex kitten dress she’d worn at the church but with jeans and a T-shirt, Tom was gobsmacked. She was staying.

  Then they got to work. Together, they bathed and groomed the animals for a good hour and a half before she disappeared again. When Claire came back into the Dog Den, she had three plastic sacks, and the smell of something hot and savory excited Tom and thirty-something puppies.

  Claire cleaned off a section of a plastic folding table and unpacked the Styrofoam containers.

  “Where did this come from?” asked Tom.

  Claire smiled faintly. “The coordinator at the country club sent it over.”

  The country club—where the rest of the wedding party was celebrating at the rehearsal dinner right now; where Claire should be, as the bride’s best friend and de facto wedding planner. Tom felt a fresh wave of asshole sweep over him. He hadn’t even questioned Claire’s help or involvement in caring for the dogs. It had felt so natural, so right.

  “Damn it. I’m sorry.”

  She handed over a white bowl of chowder—clam, by the smell of it. His favorite.

  “For what?”

  “You should go. It’s the rehearsal dinner.”

  Claire settled cross-legged on a desk chair in the corner, with a bowl of her own. “Bob said they’re all running on schedule. They can do this without me.’

  “Bob?”

  “The delivery driver.”

  Tom took a few bites of chowder—which was delicious—before he realized what was going on here.

  “You organized the rehearsal dinner.”

  Claire shrugged.

  Tom cocked his head. He was just a man, but he could still work this out. “Shouldn’t that be the groom’s parents’ job?”

  “They didn’t know the area, so Tyler asked Laurel and she asked…”

  Tom finished, “And you planned it all out, the menu, the venue, the seating.” He lifted his bowl of chowder. “So the event coordinator at the club and the delivery driver and probably the entire kitchen staff are making sure you’re happy.”

  A coolness came over Claire. “You don’t have to make it sound like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I’m some controlling bitch.”

  The words were so at odds with the picture in front of him, with the thoughts inside of his head, that Tom couldn’t reconcile them for a long moment. No. The woman sitting cross-legged in damp jeans and covered in puppy hair, the one who was sipping…

  Wait.

  Her soup was red. Definitely not clam chowder. Because she was vegetarian. “What are they having tonight? At the rehearsal dinner?”

  Claire’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “Just wanted to know what we’re missing.” Tom took a spoonful of clam chowder.

  She looked like she was debating something and finally answered, “Caesar salad, chowder, filet, and, for dessert, blueberry crumble.”

  Tom nodded. “And Bob the delivery driver knows you well enough to bring you vegetarian minestrone?”

  “I don’t know what that has to do with—”

  “Nothing,” he said. It didn’t have anything to do with anything except that he was struck, for the first time in years, that he didn’t know Claire Portelli like he thought he did. She wasn’t the controlling bitch that everyone thought she was—not all the time, anyway. She was fiercely loyal, a balls-to-the-wall hard worker, stubborn as a bull, and had a heart the size of the Ramsey electoral war chests.

  She was a woman who jumped in to plan other people’s rehearsal dinners—their weddings, for God’s sake—and earned the loyalty of staff who made sure she got her vegetarian selection, even when she was miles away, sitting in a worn-out vinyl recliner, missing out on her best friend’s celebration to take care of rescued puppies.

  It all kept coming back to the same thing. It was a conclusion he’d made years ago, even while he was dating Laurel. Claire was a one-of-a-kind woman and one he needed to know better.

  When they’d finished their dinner, and the puppies were snuggled up in sleepy piles, Tom said her name and outstretched his hand. “Want to go for a walk?”

  According to local gossip, Bits Ramsey’s father had given her the beach at Virtue Cove for a wedding present. Protected by the cove’s rocky points, the white sand that an Arizona millionaire had trucked in from South Carolina was unlike anything else found along this stretch of Maine coast. The beach was private and, at this time of day, bathed in a warm sunset glow. Claire and Tom walked down the beach, and when they reached the spot where they had released the butterflies, Claire paused.

  “Thank you again,” she said.

  “For the puppies?”

  Claire bit her lip. “Yes. And for being there when I was being ridiculous over the butterflies. I know, they’re only insects—”

  Tom interrupted her by taking her hand. “You weren’t being ridiculous.”

  “Animals have always been my biggest weak spot.”

  “As a duly licensed veterinarian, I have to disagree.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not a weakness to take care of things who can’t take care of themselves.”

  She didn’t seem to have a response to that. So Tom gently pulled her hand and they started to walk again. There, with the waves lapping and the cool evening breeze picking up, he had the distinct impression that he needed to do something. Now. Take charge, make it count, just do it.

  But how? What? He spoke the words that were on his mind. “Sometimes I wish we could start over.”

  Claire answered with a shake of her head and a resigned note in her voice. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

  “You don’t?”

  A dry laugh escaped her lips. “Maybe. If we were in an alternate reality. If your name wasn’t Tom Harrington…”

  “And your name wasn’t Claire Portelli…”

  “And we were just two people who met at a wedding…”

  They were at the steps leading up to the pool house, a small cabana meant for beach-goers and pool lovers alike. Tom felt a wave of regret when Claire pulled away up the stairs and let them in the door. She flipped on a light and retrieved a bottle of champag
ne from the fridge. He examined the bottle after she poured two glasses. “Good vintage.”

  Claire was amused by that. “How would you know?”

  Tom paused, the weight of the moment drumming into his head, under his skin. Just do it. Do it. DO IT.

  “It’s what they served at Will and Kate’s.”

  Claire halted her glass halfway to her lips, a smile lighting her up. “You know the Cambridges?”

  “For years. College friends.” Tom hoped his shrug was as casual as he wanted it be. He was a vet, not an actor.

  “You went to college in Scotland?” She knew full well he didn’t; she knew Tom was a Maine boy who’d spent four years at Columbia, four years at the state vet school. DO IT.

  “Study abroad.” He grinned at her. “I’m Dawson. Nice to meet you.”

  She accepted his hand, a look of surprise and pleasure and challenge on her face. “I’m Jasmine. Jasmine La Quinta.”

  “Not the Jasmine La Quinta? The hotel heiress?”

  “The one and only.” Her cheeks flushed. “What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a Formula One driver.”

  “Racecars? Sounds dangerous.”

  He moved closer to her, pressing her against the wall. “Only if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “Do you? Know what you’re doing?” The question was breathless. He took the champagne glass from her and set it on the table.

  “Yes.” He cupped her face, rubbed his thumb over her lips, a sign of what Dawson was about to do to Jasmine. Give her time to object, to laugh at him, to mock him relentlessly. But she opened her mouth and he would not hesitate again. Tom pressed his mouth against hers, tasting her champagne and twilight lips. Her tongue stroked his; her hands went to his neck and fluttered down his chest. It drove him crazy. He wanted her hands everywhere. He wanted his hands everywhere.

  Like there, the small of her back. And there, the tuck of her waist. And finally, the distracting curve of her backside, pulling her into him as he nibbled her earlobe, the underside of her jaw, the notch in her collarbone. The voice in Tom’s head grew louder, Just do it. Do it. DO IT.