The Wedding Fling

by Meg Maguire

  Sigh.

  As for Dan himself, he’d stayed dutifully mum and cordial, with not a single snide sentiment to share on the topic of Leigh’s rather quick recasting of his role in their honeymoon. Her things had been carefully boxed and labeled and were waiting at her parents’ house, the paperwork to remove her name from their condo drawn up and ready to sign, her half of the money waiting to be transferred. Dan was as fair and sensitive as always, which let Leigh forgive herself for having loved him once. Their wedding day may have proved the most expensive breakup in history, but as the days went on, that’s what it was beginning to feel like. A breakup, no longer a crisis. Her friends would forgive her. All she needed was time and patience and humility, and things would be okay.

  Crashing with her parents felt comforting for a few days, but once things settled down, she found herself back amid their endless bickering. Bickering over Leigh’s choices, Leigh’s career, Leigh’s future. All these years and she was still their smoke screen. But let them waste their energy on it, if it was what they loved so much. Leigh had her own decisions to make now, whether they approved or not.

  Step one, figure out what to do with my life. Hell of a step. She renumbered it as step two, and made finding a temporary apartment across town her first priority.

  Though she’d hoped she’d left him behind on that dock, Leigh hadn’t forgotten about Will Burgess. Or what he’d said when they parted. Each day that passed with no fresh gossip leaked about their affair dulled Leigh’s pain. Her guard was still up, but after two weeks’ dead silence from Will, she’d begun to let herself feel optimistic.

  A more famous actress’s epic meltdown had overshadowed Leigh’s boring old flight-and-fling, and though her and Will’s story was disappearing from the Hollywood blogs, her memories of him weren’t.

  Troublingly, she thought less and less about how he’d hurt her, and more and more about the fun and passionate moments they’d shared. If he never told the press another thing about her, she’d probably be able to forgive him. She might be able to believe that he hadn’t conned her on purpose, that their romance had been the real deal....

  She hoped so. It had felt wonderful, loving someone that way. It was ruined with Will, but it heartened her to know she had the potential inside her, that she might be able to recapture that ecstatic, easy feeling with another man. Someday.

  It was a week later when Will suddenly burst back into her life, in the last place she’d expected.

  Leigh was flipping through magazines in the waiting room of her accountant’s office, twenty minutes early for her appointment. The agency handled entertainers’ finances almost exclusively, and communal narcissism dictated that the television set into the wall be tuned to the Hollywood news channel. The current show had been nothing more than a background drone to Leigh until it returned from a commercial, and her chin jerked up at the sound of her name.

  “Anyone wondering what became of Leigh Bailey’s hunky honeymoon rebound?”

  “Oh, dear God.” She craned her neck and found the secretary on the phone, no chance of asking for the remote to turn this nonsense off. Leigh looked back to the screen, groaning at the splashy graphic; Will’s handsome face above the obnoxious title Pilots of the Caribbean!

  “We caught up with Captain William Burgess in Bridgetown, Barbados. Here’s Erin with the latest.”

  The scene changed to a perky young reporter approaching Will. He was on the beach, busy with a hacksaw and a stack of two-by-fours. Leigh cursed her middle for fluttering the way it did. Traitor.

  “Captain Burgess?”

  Will stood, frowning, and set down his saw. “Yeah.”

  “Erin Mayfair, with The Daily Dish.”

  “Whatever you ask, the answer is ‘no comment.’”

  The segment was edited, jumping ahead to Will standing a bit closer, a microphone in his face, his resistance apparently worn down. Goddamn those eyes. Blue as real life in high definition.

  “Do you regret how things ended with Leigh Bailey?”

  “Leigh’s a lovely woman. I’m sure she’s doing just fine.”

  “Word has it your deal with the papers fell through and you had to sell your plane to buy this property.”

  The flutter in Leigh’s stomach collapsed to a lurch.

  A grim smile from Will. “Any deal I was offered, I refused. And yeah, I sold my plane. You think I’d be doing this myself if I could afford a crew?”

  Shows like this were geniuses at telling you who to like and who to hate, and the audience was clearly meant to hate Will. His appeal was an acquired taste, and although it worked well enough in person, he came off like a snarky jackass on TV. Leigh felt another funny pang in her middle, and realized she’d forgiven Will enough to feel badly for him.

  “And what exactly are you working on, Captain?”

  He nodded to the building behind him, and the camera panned. It was that derelict old property, just as Leigh remembered it, only infinitely less personal on screen. “Bit of renovation.” No plug for the club. No grasping for media pity by explaining about his father.

  “What else has been going on in your life since Leigh left for the States? Any love interests to report?”

  Will blinked at the camera. “I don’t seriously qualify as a celebrity, do I? You people don’t seriously care if some nobody who once crossed paths with a vacationing actress is dating or not, do you? Can I have my own show?”

  Having painted Will as a jerk, the reporter turned to the camera. “Erin Mayfair, Bridgetown, Barbados.”

  Leigh shook her head and a segment about Hollywood slimming secrets came on. She fished her phone from her bag and dialed Angela.

  “Hey, Leigh. What can I do for you?”

  “You weren’t watching the entertainment news just now, were you?”

  A pause, then Angela’s voice returned, cold with dread. “No. Why?”

  “Don’t panic, nothing too terrible. But I thought it might’ve given you a laugh. They had Will Burgess on. He didn’t fare so hot.”

  “No, I don’t imagine a man of his...charms would come off well with the press. Glad you sound okay about it, though. Does this mean your pride’s officially on the mend?”

  “I think so. I sure as heck hope so.”

  “Good. I’ve actually been sitting on some Burgess news of my own for a couple days, thinking I ought to wait until I knew you could bear hearing his name.”

  “Oh, what kind of news?”

  Angela laughed. “My turn to tell you not to panic. It’s good news—he’s finally agreed to a buyout offer. Of his own design.”

  Leigh cringed, not liking the sound of that. A fresh knife in the heart, after she’d just mustered sympathy for the man. She sighed. “Go on.”

  “He agreed to sign papers promising never to speak about your relationship, or you personally, on one condition. That condition being that I quit offering him money for it and never call him again.”

  Leigh felt her brow furrow. “I see.”

  “If I’d known his price really was zero dollars, I’d have quit ramping the offer up by five grand every time I called him. I was tempted to tell you the day it happened, but I thought it’d be kind to give you a little more time.”

  So he’d told her the truth about what he planned to do with what he knew.... Hell, now she had no clue what to make of him.

  “One other thing, Leigh, since you brought the guy up.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got a package from him, at the office.”

  “Oh. What was it?”

  “I don’t know. It’s addressed to you. Should I have it dropped off?”

  Leigh chewed her lip. How bad could it be? Well, it could be really bad, actually. Could be more photos or some secret sex tape, evidence he thought it was kind to surrender
to her, though knowing he’d ever done such a thing would destroy her all over again. But what the hell. Being destroyed—twice in one month, no less—had made her stronger in the greater scheme of things. “Yeah, fine. Send it over.”

  Her accountant appeared from the hallway. “Sorry, Angela, I have an appointment to go to,” Leigh said.

  “No worries. Glad for a chance to bring you up-to-speed. And please let me know what’s in this mysterious box when you get it. We’ve got a little pool going here in the office. My money’s on a big wad of Barbadian cash, to make up for ruining your luxury vacation. Most of the girls say if it’s anything short of his heart on ice, it’s not enough.”

  “I’m not interested in either of those things. But I’ll call you later and solve the mystery for everyone.”

  They said goodbye and Leigh headed into her appointment, curious to discuss the options for her finances, the options for her future. Whatever lay ahead, it was bound to be better than the way she’d been floundering for the past few years. And even if she drove herself into a ditch, finally steering her own life... Well, at least it’d be her hands on the wheel for a change.

  * * *

  LEIGH’S HEAD WAS SPINNING by the time she got back home, late that afternoon. She’d been presented with a virtual buffet of options for what to do with her money, and as exciting as it all was, she felt punch-drunk and overwhelmed. College? But to become what? More investments? Fund a business? Perhaps, but she wanted such a decision to feel personal, more than an investment of her savings. Rather, an investment of her excitement and energy and faith, and she didn’t know where such things ought to be directed just yet.

  She was so overloaded she’d completely forgotten about the package.

  The box, only as big as a brick, had been signed for by the doorman and left in her mailbox. Leigh brought it into her apartment, sitting on the couch with it. She peeled off the courier service’s slip and studied the address label. Funny how she could’ve felt so close to Will and not even known what his handwriting looked like.

  She grabbed a pen from her bag and slit open the tape. As she pulled crumpled newspaper from the box, something rolled out and onto the cushions. A peanut butter jar. Leigh laughed, more surprised than amused. It had been emptied and cleaned, and she unscrewed the lid to discover a wad of tissue paper and a curled-up card—a postcard.

  Sliding out the latter, she found a note taped to its edge. She flattened it against her leg and studied the glossy image, a sunset on a Caribbean shore, with Bridgetown set in fancy script along the bottom. Just a silly photo of a beach she’d never been to, but there she was again, in her mind’s eye, sitting on that warm white sand, drunk on all those colors.... Holding her breath, she flipped the postcard over. Will’s writing took up the entire back, growing smaller and smaller as he’d filled the space, then continuing on the attached notepaper.

  Leigh,

  You asked me to leave you alone, so let me preface this first and foremost with a fresh apology. It was selfish of me to make contact, though I suspect my selfishness won’t surprise you. But still, I’m sorry.

  I have no doubt that you won’t deem me worthy of indulging in your precious peanut butter therapy, so I’ve sent the tiniest, most inadequate token in its place. I thought the gift was a wise one. If you don’t like it as it is, you can smash it with a hammer while picturing my face.

  Leigh set the postcard aside and upended the jar, dropping the tissue-wrapped bundle onto the couch. Her fingers shook as she peeled the layers away, finding a jewelry box inside. She took the lid off, and sitting on a pillow of cotton was a pendant. Smooth glass, big as a domino. Clear, pale blue fading to turquoise, to aqua, to green and citron and yellow, then finally to opaque cream. A Bajan beach sunset, small enough to wrap one’s hand around. Leigh did just that, squeezing the glass in her fist as she picked the postcard back up.

  I signed some papers for your management agency, promising to keep my mouth shut, no bribe necessary. I’m sure that means more than a hunk of pretty glass, knowing you can sue my pants off if I’m lying. Which would be tragic, as my pants are about all I’ve got left.

  She recalled what she’d heard on the TV that afternoon. He’d sold his plane. She remembered, too, what Angela had said, and realized that Will’s severed heart wasn’t in this box. His heart was tethered to a strange owner’s dock or locked in a hangar someplace, someone else’s name on the deed, someone else’s fingerprints all over the console. Will could’ve made that money and more by selling Leigh’s secrets, but he hadn’t. He’d traded the thing she’d assumed he valued above all else—his freedom.

  Chest aching, sinuses stinging, Leigh turned back to his letter.

  To tell you I’m sorry may be the truth, but it’s also grossly inadequate. But I am sorry. For ever considering using you at first, and for humiliating you in the end. You’re the last person who deserves that.

  But I’m not sorry for what happened in the middle, what we shared before I wrecked everything, because it was the closest I’ve ever felt to a woman, ever in my life. It sucks beyond comprehension that it might feel like the opposite to you, nothing but a regret. Or maybe I’m giving myself too much credit.

  If I was a more eloquent man, I’d have come up with something worth your time to read. But we both know finesse isn’t my strong suit. So all I can do is say it again—I’m sorry. I’m sorry, and I meant everything I ever said to you, on the beach and in bed and on that dock, the day you left. If I manage to meet someone half as amazing as you in my next thirty-three years, it’ll be more than I deserve. Though for now, I’m still hopelessly, helplessly in love with you. It hurts like a bitch, but I guess that just proves karma’s for real.

  Best of luck with whatever you decide to do with your life. I hope you keep dancing. “Plain old Leigh” dancing on the sand is just about the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, so I hope you let her call the shots from now on. She won’t steer you wrong.

  Love (the really painful, torturous kind),

  Will

  She read the letter again, then set it aside, feeling more confused than ever, but softened. The knot in her chest had been slit, and though her edges were still frayed, she could breathe now. She could think of Will and not feel angry. It wasn’t clear exactly what had settled in to replace the anger, but it hurt far less.

  The pendant had grown warm against her palm and she opened her hand to study it. She’d seen plenty like it, hanging in craft stalls in the Bridgetown tourist district, anyone’s for a few dollars. It was just what Will had claimed, a token, but it meant as much as a blue box from Tiffany’s, rattling with diamonds. It meant as much as any mere object could—

  Leigh sat up straight. With a bolt of illogical, intuitive clarity, she knew something. She knew what her first new investment had to be.

  13

  ANOTHER GORGEOUS afternoon in paradise.

  The sun was shining, the breeze cool, the music playing from Will’s radio chirpy and buoyant. Yet he felt like a man apart from all this island cheer, cold in the shadow of his own private cloud cover.

  Still, as he surveyed his progress, there was a light glinting at the end of his tunnel.

  He downed a liter of water and went back to work, priming the freshly sanded exterior boards he’d replaced.

  It was tough, feeling trapped in the middle of this endless project. He had always been built for mobility and whim, not commitment. Harder still was not being able to glance to the water and see The Passport bobbing in the waves, promising escape.

  But Will’s wings had been clipped for weeks now, and the pain was fading in tandem with his fears that the house might never be done. It might not be a serviceable, licensed bar for months, but the wiring was complete, the top floor nearly ready to inhabit.

  Technically, Will had been inhabiting it for the last few weeks
, if crashing in a sleeping bag counted. The bedrooms’ furniture had been delivered and assembled that very morning; the bathroom was finished and the kitchen functional. Will’s dad had phoned the previous afternoon to confirm his flight details. One-way ticket to paradise...work-in-progress though paradise might currently be.

  The thought put a smile on Will’s face, letting him forget the ache in his heart, for a few moments, anyhow.

  All those years he’d spent free of guilt and obligations, his life built around avoiding a debt of conscience, each affair and friendship and promise designed with a ready escape hatch... Leigh had flown away and taken all that simplicity with her, and the hole she’d left felt like a physical wound, ragged and stinging. And it was far more than guilt. It was grief, for having stumbled into something that made the emotional investment so unquestionably worth the risk, only to wreck it all.

  Will paused to rub the back of his hand across his forehead, cursing the headache brewing there. He dipped the brush into the primer and swiped it down a bare board, each stroke a tiny step toward doing the right thing. Being the sort of man his father was, maybe becoming the sort of man a woman like Leigh deserved to—

  “Captain.”

  He jumped and turned, his world flipping upside down in a breath. “Leigh.”

  They stood in silence for an endless moment, and Will squinted at her from twenty paces away, hopeful and frightened and confused.

  “Are you actually standing there, or have I been breathing paint fumes for too long?”