by Laura Moore
He looked at her, trying to recall what he’d ever seen in her.
“I thought you’d be grateful to have avoided a terrible mistake by falling for Tess’s act. What better way to open your eyes to what she was really like than to introduce you to one of the people she’d hurt?”
“So charitable of you.”
She gave a light laugh as if he’d just delivered a really good joke. “I simply wanted you to see, Ward. I’m sure you’ve had some less-than-charitable thoughts about me since I stupidly called off our engagement, but now that you know what Tess is really like, maybe you’ll recognize—”
“Actually, the only thing I recognize is your role in this scheme. I assume the point in setting up this nasty encounter during your stepsister’s wedding was so that I might see you in a new light. Let me show you how successful you’ve been. The only reason I’m even willing to give you the time of day is because of Carrie—though I doubt she’d blame me if I refused to do even that. Unlike you, she’s got a heart.”
She looked at him. “You’re not the man I thought you were.”
For the first time in more than an hour he managed a genuine smile. “God, I hope not. Goodbye, Erica. I hope you find the man you deserve.”
He picked up his highball—it still had two fingers full of dark gold liquid—without bothering to watch her leave; for all he cared, Erica could go to the devil. He had more important things to do. He took a healthy swallow of the liquid fire and waited for numbness to settle like a heavy blanket over him.
The alcohol had almost performed its magic when his mother’s voice reached him.
“Whatever are you doing here, Ward, all by yourself? Where’s Tess? She and Anita must be done scattering the rose petals on the nuptial bed and setting up the table with nibbles and champagne for Brian and Carrie. I would have thought she’d be with you. The last I saw her—”
“I don’t know where she is.”
“Oh. So that’s why she’s looking like that.”
“Looking like what?” The words were out before he could stop them, and he couldn’t even blame the bourbon. A part of him missed Tess already. It had been hours since he’d caught her on the lawn, wrapped his arm around her, and breathed in her unique scent. He was so angry at her, yet he couldn’t stop himself from caring.
“Looking like the loneliest person on earth—oh, she was doing a good job of hiding it. It’s just that I’ve gotten to know her.”
He’d thought he had, too. “I don’t think you know her quite as well as you believe, Mom, or you probably wouldn’t have been so gung-ho to throw us together.” Christ, the alcohol had chosen a hell of a time to make him loose-lipped. “Her ex-father-in-law was here.”
“Edward Bradford? I thought he and his wife never responded.”
He put down his drink. “You knew Tess was connected to them?”
His mother crossed her arms over her pale blue sleeveless dress. “I knew Tess was married to a David Bradford. I had Neil in security find out who the family was. They’re wealthy Bostonians.”
He must have looked surprised, for his mother gave an exasperated “hmmph” noise. “You don’t honestly think I’d hire Tess as my personal assistant without doing a background check? So her former father-in-law doesn’t like her—yes, I knew that, too—does that justify turning away a lovely young woman who might love you?”
The pain in his chest spread. His mother was an eternal optimist, a totally out-of-the-closet romantic; it wouldn’t occur to her that Tess might just as easily not love him or that they might have been wrong about her character.
His voice was rough when he answered. “I’m afraid Neil missed a couple of minor details in the background check he ran. The father-in-law may have legitimate cause for his dislike. A million dollars’ worth.”
“Excuse me?”
Briefly he listed the accusations Bradford had cast. “Apparently Tess has also inherited her husband’s trust fund, so in Bradford’s eyes she’s not only a woman willing to turn her back on her dying husband; she’s also a hustler.”
“And you’re sitting here? Why haven’t you gone and talked to her about this?” It was infrequent, now that he was no longer a cocky, know-it-all teen, for his mother to sound genuinely annoyed with him, but the snap to her voice was unmistakable.
“I am assessing the situation. She admitted she took the money from Bradford.”
“Then she must have had an excellent reason to do so,” she replied crisply, unhesitatingly.
Ward looked at her and raised his glass, draining it. Another time he’d have been pleased that his mom was so quick to defend Tess. But no matter how much bourbon he poured down his throat, he couldn’t manage to drown his sense of betrayal. It hurt.
From his standpoint, he was the wronged party here, so why wasn’t he getting an ounce of sympathy from his mother?
As if she’d read his mind, which she probably had since she was far too perceptive, his mother shook her head. “No one ever said love was easy. What’s that line? ‘Life is messy. Love is messier.’ Go find her, Ward. For both your sakes.”
Of course he’d known he’d have to track her down eventually. He’d half-expected to see her step out of the dark night to hover at the edge of the dance floor, where she could monitor Brian and Carrie’s blissful state as they danced with their friends. She hadn’t. Perhaps something was wrong, some late wedding-related snafu had arisen—a passed-out guest or one who’d succumbed to a food allergy. Here was a wedding-related excuse that had nothing to do with the hurt he’d been dealt, a hurt that had sliced deeper than the wound he received when the gangsta with the switchblade had tried to slice him in two. Ward rose from his chair. To clear his head, he sucked in the night air.
It smelled sweet, like her.
Damn it to hell, he thought. He had to disengage—get some distance—or risk humiliating himself and letting her see his pain, the bloody wound that was his heart.
TESS USED THE garbage bags Ward stowed under his kitchen sink to carry her shoes to her car. So many damned shoes, she thought, hurrying toward the open hatchback, the car’s interior light providing a meager illumination. It didn’t matter. Her stride was a quick crunch, crunch over the gravel. She’d been in this hyper-efficient mode since making her decision. Her inevitable, inescapable decision.
All that remained was a rapid tour of the rooms in the house—something she’d gotten really good at in the past five months—to guarantee no offending trace remained: no forgotten panties or bras under the bed that had been sent flying there as she and Ward tore at each other’s clothes in desperation to reach skin, kissable, caressable skin; no hair scrunchies left lying on the bathroom vanity; no lipstick tube nestled next to Ward’s car keys on the side table in the entry; no raincoat hanging next to his suede-collared jean jacket in the front closet. There was nothing but the notes she’d left for Adele and Daniel and another for Quinn next to the coffee machine. None for Ward, however, since he was clearly uninterested in any explanation. That much had become clear hours ago.
She had no idea what time it was. Late, after midnight, she supposed, since she could no longer hear the band playing. There’d be a motel someplace east of here where she could crash for a few hours. Not to sleep. She didn’t dare let her guard down and allow her unconscious to assault her with more twisted images of Edward Bradford condemning her. The motel shower would have to suffice and revive her enough to get behind the wheel again. She’d make it an ice-cold shower. The question was whether she’d even feel it.
Distress had turned to anger as the minutes had turned to hours and Ward had kept his distance. Did he care so little that he wasn’t even curious to know why Edward Bradford had spat such vile slurs at her?
By now, though, her anger had turned to an awful emptiness. She tossed the bag of shoes onto the pile of luggage and clothes she’d gathered from her cabin and then reached up to grip the rear door panel. She slammed it shut and hurried back to the house.
<
br /> She made a final trip to Ward’s bedroom and opened the bifolding closet doors once more, scanning the rows of neatly hanging shirts.
She’d taken everything that belonged to her. There was nothing left here. She reached out to trail her fingers down the soft white cotton sleeves. Unable to resist, she lifted one, raising it to her cheek and inhaling. It smelled of laundry detergent and fabric softener. She summoned the man scent of Ward, of leather and citrus soap and fresh air. Her throat closed, clogging with unshed tears.
“What are you doing?”
Thank God she had her back to him. He couldn’t see what she’d felt: her face crumpling in anguish at the sound of his voice.
She swallowed. The shirtsleeve fell from her fingers. “I’m packing, of course. I’m going home.”
Steeling herself, she waited for him to come forward, to reach out to her. He was always touching her. She loved that. He didn’t move, keeping his distance.
“Why?”
To her ears, his question held only mild curiosity. Okay. There was her answer, she told herself. He didn’t care—or whatever emotions he’d felt for her had withered the second Edward Bradford opened his mouth. It was over.
She carefully closed the doors and then turned, keeping her back close to one of the panels. She needed the support.
“I can’t stay here. That’s obvious, isn’t it?” she said. At least her voice trembled only slightly. Unable to look at him, she fixed her gaze on the tan-and-black-patterned bedspread, staring at it until the arabesque lines blurred. They’d made the bed together this morning and then had sat outside on the patio, sipping their first cup of coffee and watching the sun come up. Ward had made a joke about this being the calm before the storm. And she’d laughed. So happy. It seemed so long ago.
Ward spoke. “You could have told me. For Christ’s sake, you didn’t even tell me David’s last name. Then I hear from his father that he had to give you a million dollars to get you to stay at the hospital, and you didn’t deny it. We were together for months and you never mentioned any of this. What am I supposed to think now?” He hadn’t raised his voice, but the raw betrayal in it carried.
She ducked her head and wrapped her arms about her ribs to keep from shattering into pieces. When she thought she could stand it, she looked at him. “When I got to the hospital in Boston, I hadn’t seen David in months, not since he’d left, telling me he no longer wanted to be married to a nagging bitch like me.” No point in prettifying the tale since he’d witnessed its ugliness firsthand.
“I’d barely gotten over David’s leaving me and maybe a part of me was hoping for something from him when I entered his hospital room. But he had only one word for me: ‘Sorry.’ That was it. I think it was his goodbye. Then he looked away and shut me out. It couldn’t have been more obvious that he didn’t want me there. Whatever we’d had was finished. This wasn’t going to be a made-for-TV moment where he repented of his terrible treatment and begged me to love him again.
“After he was wheeled away to pre-op I had no reason to stay. He didn’t need the wife he’d abandoned. And his parents were there. Though we’d never met, they didn’t exactly welcome me with open arms.”
“They’d never met you?”
“David wasn’t on speaking terms with them. Mr. Bradford’s attitude toward me has been remarkably consistent. So you can imagine my surprise when, in spite of his open dislike, he objected to my leaving. He demanded that I stay until David had recovered from the surgery to remove his brain tumor. He was fixated on the idea that because David said ‘Sorry’ to me, we still had a relationship—which only shows how toxic theirs was.
“I explained I couldn’t afford to stay away from my job. His response was to offer me a million dollars. I thought it was a sick joke, and I wouldn’t have stayed, but then David went into a coma and everything changed. From the way the doctor described his chances, I knew they were slim at best. David had broken my heart, but I stayed for the memory of what he’d been to me for that short period. And I stayed for his parents.
“Eight weeks later David lost the battle. He hadn’t been dead more than thirty minutes before his father shoved an envelope at me and told me to get lost. Pronto. He and his wife, Hope, wouldn’t even let me attend the funeral. That would have been the only thing I would ever have asked of them.”
There, she’d done it. She knew she should have gathered her courage and done this weeks ago, but why would anyone want to abase oneself by sharing such a tale? She felt so weary. Weary, dirtied, and unloved.
She straightened and made for the door, keeping her gaze fixed ahead. She went into the living room and looked around. No possessions here, either.
He followed her. “You didn’t marry David Bradford for his money.”
Her gaze swept over him. He looked so handsome. “No, I didn’t. But you don’t know that for sure, do you? And that’s the problem. You aren’t certain that I’m not just as mercenary as Mr. Bradford accused me of being. After all, I took that money, didn’t I? I didn’t tear up the check or mail it back. That I used the money to pay for my brother’s care doesn’t change the fact that I did take it. Christopher’s care is expensive. It’s drained my parents of every penny they saved. The money I put in my brother’s fund will run out eventually. Perhaps sooner than later.”
He was silent. She knew him well enough to realize he was digesting this new piece of information. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”
The anger returned. Blessed anger. “Why didn’t I tell you that my husband chose to hide from me that he’d suffered from a brain tumor as a teen and lashed out at me when I naively expressed concerns about his debilitating headaches and his mood swings? That if I’d known about his earlier illness I would have dragged him to a specialist—done everything I could to save him? Why didn’t I mention that my ex-in-laws loathed me? But because they clung to this illogical belief that my presence might help their son they chose to tolerate me? Why didn’t I tell you that David’s body wasn’t even cold before they paid me off like the prostitute they considered me to be—or that I, to my eternal humiliation, took their filthy money? Gee, I don’t know. It does make for such a fun tale.”
She made herself stop and draw a deep breath. “Let me ask you something. Have you ever in your entire life been made to feel unworthy of respect? Have you ever been treated like dirt because you didn’t have money or blue blood or a fancy job or a beautiful home?”
When he said nothing, she smiled tightly. “Right. You have no idea. When I came here and saw you, and realized how attracted to you I was, I fought it. I was worried that I was going to fall in love with another rich man who’d always had everything. But I fell in love with you anyway because you were wonderful and strong and generous. A part of me felt you could only love the Tess you knew, who’d driven here in that nearly kaput car. Not the whole me. So I kept my past locked away and tried to guard my heart as best I could—a big mistake since it didn’t do any good. So now I’ll go.”
He dragged a hand through his hair with rough frustration. “So you’ll just walk away? What about Carrie and Brian? What about my family?”
“I’ve left your parents and Quinn a note. I hope they’ll understand my reasons. I think Estelle Vargas would make an excellent replacement for me. And Natalie would be great at keeping the Twitter feed going and posting pictures on Pinterest. I already said goodbye to Carrie and Brian. I told them something had come up, so you don’t have to worry that they’ll ask questions, though I’m sure Erica will fill them in on the real story as soon as she can.”
“And what about us, Tess? Why are you turning your back on us and what we had together?”
She looked at him sadly. “Because I’m not sure it was real, any more than what I had with David was real. That love turned to ashes all too quickly. I kept something important about myself from you, and that was stupid, yes. Tonight, when I came up to you and Erica talking to Edward Bradford, I was so scared—terrified that my
actions had destroyed all my hopes for you and me and the future we might have. But you know what? A tiny part of me was hoping, just hoping, that you’d believe in me, Ward. That you’d think I’m even better than I am.”
“Tess—”
“No, I’m sorry. I can’t stay any longer. I’ve got to go. This hurts too much.”
“Tess, you can’t go. I want you to stay.”
“Don’t you see? It won’t work, Ward. You’ll always wonder whether or not I’m using you just like Erica tried to—” For the first time she glimpsed the naked pain in his eyes. Her heart sank when she realized she’d hit upon the truth. His next question seemed only to confirm it.
“And what about David’s trust fund? Did you know about that?”
“No.” She refused to say more. She was through trying to defend herself. He was going to think as he chose. Would it be easier for him to believe that she was a gold digger? Would it hurt her any more to know he thought of her as one? She knew the answer to that.
“Tess, you can’t leave. It’s late. It’s dangerous.”
“Yes, I can. I have to. Don’t worry, I’ve been through this before.”
She brushed past him, avoiding the hand that reached out to catch her. Grabbing her purse from the side table, she ran to her car, her heart shattered and bleeding.
At first, she was grateful for the darkness as she drove from Silver Creek. It hid from her the ranch’s lush green meadows, the sheep and cattle dozing on the other side of the fence line, the contours of the forest-covered mountains beyond. Seeing those would start the tears, and she couldn’t start crying. If she did, when would she stop?
At the end of the private road, she turned right. Her fingers were wrapped tightly around the steering wheel, and she stared at the inky blackness ahead. She knew the roads she had to take, knew now how to get to Route 101. Farther on she’d turn onto Route 20, which would take her to Route 80. Three thousand exhausting miles later she would reach New York. Home. Was it still?