Second Chance With the Rebel: Her Royal Wedding Wish

by Cara Colter

  And then hid it behind that charming smile.

  “After graduation you had a job with the town, digging ditches for the new sewer system.”

  “Not the most noble work, but honest,” he said. “And real.”

  So, who are you to be telling me to get real? He didn’t say it, but he could have.

  Noble or not, she could remember the ridged edges of the sleek muscles, how she had loved to touch him, feel his wiry strength underneath her fingertips.

  He mistook her silence for judgment. “It runs in my family. My dad was a ditchdigger, too. They had a nickname for him. Digger Dan.”

  She felt the shock of that. She had known Mac since he had come to live in the house next door. He was fourteen, a year older than she was. When their paths crossed, he had tormented and teased her, interpreting the fact she was always tongue-tied in his presence as an example of her family’s snobbery, rather than seeing it for what it was.

  Intrigue. Awe. Temptation. She had never met anyone like Mac. Not before or since. Ruggedly independent. Bold. Unfettered by convention. Fearless. She remembered seeing him glide by her house, only fourteen, solo in a canoe heavily laden with camping gear.

  She would see his campfire burning bright against the night on the other side of the lake. It was called the wild side of the lake because it was undeveloped crown land, thickly forested.

  Sometimes Mac would spend the whole weekend over there. Alone.

  She couldn’t even imagine that. Being alone over there with the bears.

  The week she had won the spelling bee he had been kicked out of school for swearing.

  She got a little Ford compact for her sixteenth birthday, while he bought an old convertible and stripped the engine in the driveway, then stood down her father when he complained. While she was painting her toenails, he was painstakingly building his own cedar-strip canoe in Mama’s yard.

  But never once, even in that summer when she had loved him, right after her own graduation from high school, had Mac revealed a single detail about his life before he had arrived in foster care in Lindstrom Beach.

  Was it the fact that he had so obviously risen above those roots that made him reveal that his father had been nicknamed Digger Dan? Or had he changed?

  She squashed that thing inside her that felt ridiculously and horribly like hope by saying, proudly, “I don’t really care if you come to the gala or not.”

  She told herself she was becoming hardened to rejection. All the people who really mattered to Mama—except him—had said they would come. But her own mother had said she would be in Africa on safari at that time and many people from Lucy’s “old” life, her high-school days, had not answered yet. Those who had, had answered no.

  There was silence from Mac, and Lucy allowed herself pleasure that she had caught him off guard.

  “And I am sorry about messing up your Mother’s Day.”

  “What do you mean, my Mother’s Day?” His voice was guarded.

  That had always been the problem with Mac. The insurmountable flaw. He wouldn’t let anyone touch the part of him that felt.

  “I chose Mother’s Day because it was symbolic. Even though Mama Freda has never been a biological mother, she has been a mother to so many. She epitomizes what motherhood is.”

  That was not the full truth. The full truth was that Lucy found Mother’s Day to be unbearably painful. And she was following Mama Freda’s own recipe for dealing with pain.

  “I don’t care what day you chose!”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “It’s all coming back now,” he said sardonically. “Having a conversation with you is like crossing a minefield.”

  “You feel as if Mother’s Day belongs to you and Mama Freda. And I’ve stolen it.”

  “That’s an interesting theory,” he said, a chill in his voice warning her to stop, but she wasn’t going to. Lucy was getting to him and part of her liked it, because it had always been hard to get to Mac Hudson. It might seem as if you were, but then that devil-may-care grin materialized, saying Gotcha, because I don’t really care.

  “Every Mother’s Day,” she reminded him quietly, “you outdo yourself. A stretch limo picks her up. She flies somewhere to meet you. Last year Engelbert Humperdinck in concert in New York. She wore the corsage until it turned brown. She talked about it for days after. Where you took her. What you ate. Don’t tell me it’s not your day. And that you’re not annoyed that I chose it.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Oh! I recognize that tone of voice! Even after all this time! Mr. Don’t-Even-Think-You-Know-Me.”

  “You don’t. I’ll put a check in the mail for whatever cause she has taken up. I think you’ll find it very generous.”

  “I’m sure Mama will be pleased by the check. She probably will hardly even notice your absence, since all the others are coming. Every single one. Mama Freda has fostered twenty-three kids over the years. Ross Chillington is clearing his filming schedule. Michael Boylston works in Thailand and he’s coming. Reed Patterson is leaving football training camp in Florida to be here.”

  “All those wayward boys saved by Mama Freda.” His voice was silky and unimpressed.

  “She’s made a difference in the world!”

  “Lucy—”

  She hated it that her name on his lips made her feel more frazzled, hated it that she could remember leaning toward him, quivering with wanting.

  “I’m not interested in being part of Lindstrom Beach’s version of a TV reality show. What are you planning after your black-tie dinner? No, wait. Let me guess. Each of Mama’s foster children will stand up and give a testimonial about being redeemed by her love.”

  Ouch. That was a little too close to what she did have planned. Did he have to make it sound cheap and smarmy instead of uplifting and inspirational?

  “Mac—”

  “Nobody calls me Mac anymore,” he said, a little harshly.

  “What do they call you?” She couldn’t imagine him being called anything else.

  “Mr. Hudson,” he said coolly.

  She doubted that very much since, she could still hear a raucous partylike atmosphere unfolding behind him.

  It occurred to her she would like to hang up on him. And she was going to, very shortly.

  “Okay, then, Mr. Hudson,” she snapped, “I’ve already told you I don’t care if you don’t come. I know it’s way too much to ask of you to take a break from your important and busy schedule to honor the woman who took you in and pulled you back from the brink of disaster. Way too much.”

  Silence.

  “Still, I know how deeply you care about her. I know it’s you who has been paying some of her bills.”

  He sucked in his breath, annoyed that she knew that.

  She pushed on. “Aside from your Mother’s Day tradition, I know you took her to Paris for her seventy-fifth birthday.”

  “Lucy, I’m dripping water on the floor and shivering, so if you could hurry this along.”

  She really had thought she could get through her life without seeing him again. It had been a blessing that he came back to Lindstrom Beach rarely, and when he had, she had been away.

  Because how could she look at him without remembering? But then hadn’t she discovered you could remember, regardless?

  Once, a long, long time ago, she had tried, with a desperation so keen she could almost taste its bitterness on her tongue, to pry his secrets from him. Lying on the sand in the dark, the lake’s night-blackened waters lapping quietly, the embers of their fire burning down, she had asked him to tell her how he had ended up in foster care at Mama Freda’s.

  “I killed a man,” he whispered, and then into her shocked silence, he had laughed that laugh that was so charming and distracting and sensual, that laugh that hid every
thing he really was, and added, “With my bare hands.”

  And then he had tried to divert her with his kisses that burned hotter than the fire.

  But he had been unable to give her the gift she needed most: his trust in her.

  And that was the real reason she had told him she could never love a boy like him. Because, even in her youth, she had recognized that he held back something essential of himself from her, when she had held back nothing.

  If he had chosen to think she was a snob looking down her nose at the likes of him, after all the time they had spent together that summer, then that was his problem.

  Still, just thinking of those forbidden kisses of so many years ago sent an unwanted shiver down her spine. The truth was nobody wanted Mac to come back here less than she did.

  “I didn’t phone about Mama’s party. I guess I thought I would tell you this when you came. But since you’re not going to—”

  “Tell me what?”

  She had to keep on track, or she would be swamped by these memories.

  “Mac—” she remembered, too late, he didn’t want to be called that and plunged on “—something’s wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You knew Mama Freda lost her driver’s license, didn’t you?”

  “No.”

  “She had a little accident in the winter. Nothing serious. She slid through a stop sign and took out Mary-Beth McQueen’s fence and rose bed.”

  “Ha. I doubt if that was an accident. She aimed.”

  For a moment, something was shared between them. The rivalry between Mama and Mary-Beth when it came to roses was legendary. But the moment was a flicker, nothing more.

  All business again, he said, “But you said it wasn’t serious?”

  “Nonetheless, she had to see a doctor and be retested. They revoked her license.”

  “I’ll set her up an account at Ferdinand’s Taxi.”

  “I don’t mind driving her. I like it actually. My concern was that before the retesting I don’t think she’d been to a doctor in twenty years.”

  “Thirty,” he said. “She had her ‘elixir.’”

  Lucy was sure she heard him shudder. It was funny to think of him being petrified of a little homemade potion. The Mac of her memory had been devil-may-care and terrifyingly fearless. From the picture on his website, that much had not changed.

  “I guess the elixir isn’t working for her anymore,” Lucy said carefully. “I drive her now. She’s had three doctors’ appointments in the last month.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “According to her, nothing.”

  Silence. She understood the silence. He was wondering why Mama Freda hadn’t told him about the driver’s license, the doctor’s appointments. He was guessing, correctly, that she would not want him to worry.

  “It probably is nothing,” he said, but his voice was uneasy.

  “I told myself that, too. I don’t want to believe she’s eighty, either.”

  “There’s something you aren’t telling me.”

  Scary, that after all these years, and over the phone, he could do that. Read her. So, why hadn’t he seen through her the only time it really mattered?

  I could never fall for a boy like you.

  Lucy hesitated, looked out the open doors to gather her composure. “I saw a funeral-planning kit on her kitchen table. When she noticed it was out, she shoved it in a drawer. I think she was hoping I hadn’t seen it.”

  What she didn’t tell him was that before Mama had shoved the kit away she had been looking out her window, her expression uncharacteristically pensive.

  “Will my boy ever come home?” she had whispered.

  All those children, and only one was truly her boy.

  Lucy listened as Mac drew in a startled breath, and then he swore. Was it a terrible thing to love it when someone swore? But it made him the old Mac. And it meant she had penetrated his guard.

  “That’s part of what motivated me to plan the celebration to honor her. I want her to know—” She choked. “I want her to know how much she has meant to people before it’s too late. I don’t want to wait for a funeral to bring to light all the good things she’s done and been.”

  The silence was long. And then he sighed.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “No! Wait—”

  But Mac was gone, leaving the deep buzz of the dial tone in Lucy’s ear.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “WELL, THAT WENT well,” Lucy muttered as she set down the phone.

  Still, there was no denying a certain relief. She had been carrying the burden of worrying about Mama Freda’s health alone, and now she shared it.

  But with Mac? He’d always represented the loss of control, a visit to the wild side, and now it seemed nothing had changed.

  If he had just come to the gala, Lucy could have maintained her sense of control. She had been watching Mama Freda like a hawk since the day she’d heard, Will my boy ever come home?

  Aside from a nap in the afternoon, Mama seemed as energetic and alert as always. If Mama had received bad news on the health front, Lucy’s observations of her had convinced her that the prognosis was an illness of the slow-moving variety.

  Not the variety that required Mac to drop everything and come now!

  The Mother’s Day celebration was still two weeks away. Two weeks would have given Lucy time.

  “Time to what?” she asked herself sternly.

  Brace herself. Prepare. Be ready for him. But she already knew the uncomfortable truth about Macintyre Hudson. There was no preparing for him. There was no getting ready. He was a force unto himself, and that force was like a tornado hitting.

  Lucy looked around her world. A year back home, and she had a sense of things finally falling into place. She was taking the initial steps toward her dream.

  On the dining-room table that she had not eaten at since her return, there were donated items that she was collecting for the silent auction at the Mother’s Day Gala.

  There were the mountains of paperwork it had taken to register as a charity. Also, there was a photocopy of the application she had just submitted for rezoning, so that she could have Caleb’s House here, and share this beautiful, ridiculously large house on the lake with young women who needed its sanctuary.

  One of her three cats snoozed in a beam of sunlight that painted the wooden floor in front of the old river-rock fireplace golden. A vase of tulips brought in from the yard, their heavy heads drooping gracefully on their slender stems, brightened the barn-plank coffee table. A book was open on its spine on the arm of her favorite chair.

  There was not a hint of catastrophe in this well-ordered scene, but it hadn’t just happened. You had to work on this kind of a life.

  In fact, it seemed the scene reflected that she had finally gotten through picking up the pieces from the last time.

  And somehow, last time did not mean her ended engagement to James Kennedy.

  No, when she thought of her world being blown apart, oddly it was not the front-page picture of her fiancé, James, running down the street in Glen Oak without a stitch on that was forefront in her mind. No, forefront was a boy leaving, seven years ago.

  * * *

  The next morning, out on her deck, nestled into a cushioned lounge chair, Lucy looked out over the lake and took a sip of her coffee. Despite the fact the sun was still burning off the early-morning chill, she was cozy in her pajamas under a wool plaid blanket.

  The scent of her coffee mingled with the lovely, sugary smell of birch wood burning. The smoke curled out of Mama Freda’s chimney and hung in a wispy swirl in the air above the water in front of Mama’s cabin.

  Birdsong mixed with the far-off drone of a plane.


  What exactly did I’ll be there as soon as I can mean?

  “Relax,” she ordered herself.

  In a world like his, he wouldn’t be able just to drop everything and come. It would be days before she had to face Macintyre Hudson. Maybe even a week. His website said his company had done 34 million dollars in business last year.

  You didn’t just walk away from that and hope it would run itself.

  So she could focus on her life. She turned her attention from the lake, and looked at the swatch of sample paint she had put up on the side of the house.

  She loved the pale lavender for the main color. She thought the subtle shade was playful and inviting, a color that she hoped would welcome and soothe the young girls and women who would someday come here when she had succeeded in transforming all this into Caleb’s House.

  Today she was going to commit to the color and order the paint. Well, maybe later today. She was aware of a little tingle of fear when she thought of actually buying the paint. It was a big house. It was natural to want not to make a mistake.

  My mother would hate the color.

  So maybe instead of buying paint today, she would fill a few book orders, and work on funding proposals for Caleb’s House in anticipation of the rezoning. Several items had arrived for the silent auction that she could unpack. She would not give the arrival of Mac one more thought. Not one.

  The drone of the plane pushed back into her awareness, too loud to ignore. She looked up and could see it, red and white, almost directly overhead, so close she could read the call numbers under the wings. It was obviously coming in for a landing on the lake.

  Lucy watched it set down smoothly, turning the water, where it shot out from the pontoons, to silvery sprays of mercury. The sound of the engine cut from a roar to a purr as the plane glided over the glassy mirror-calm surface of the water.

  Sunshine Lake, located in the rugged interior of British Columbia, had always been a haunt of the rich, and sometimes the famous. Lucy’s father had taken delight in the fact that once, when he was a teenager, the queen had stayed here on one of her visits to Canada. For a while the premier of the province had had a summer house down the lake. Pierre LaPontz, the famous goalie for the Montreal Canadiens, had summered here with friends. Seeing the plane was not unusual.