by Jean Stone
They exchanged quiet smiles.
Sarah disappeared. When she returned, she wore a scowl. “Jo?” she asked. “There's a man here to see you.”
“A man?” Jo wondered. The noteman? No, she thought, getting up from the stool. It couldn't be him. “Excuse me,” she said as she stepped from the back room out into the light, and into the nightmare that once had been a dream.
44
Brian,” she said because there he was and what else could she say? Could she tell him about the crushing sensation in her chest or the heat that burned her cheeks? “Brian,” she said again.
He looked so much older. There was gray in his hair and gray in his skin and his blue eyes seemed pale and their shimmer was gone. How could he look so much older when it had been only months since that last night at the pub, since he'd calmly left the table and walked out of her life?
“Jo,” Brian said. “Oh, Jo, can you ever forgive me?”
If he'd used different words she might not have hesitated. But those were the same words he'd asked the night he'd found her in Boston after all those years, the night when she'd been foolish enough to take him back.
“Where's the woman?” she asked, remaining in the same place where her feet had rooted when she recognized his frame and his much older face. “Your wife, I believe?” She wondered why—and when—her feelings had swung to anger. No love. Only anger.
He shifted on one foot. “Frank told me that you knew,” he said. “Or should I say, Frank's investigator told me when he found me in Switzerland.” His tone was oddly accusing, as if his brother had dared to interrupt his life.
“So where is your wife? Did her money run out, too?”
He closed his pale eyes. “I don't blame you for that. Will you ever understand how ashamed I was of losing everything you had?”
He's looking for sympathy, she realized. “Feel sorry for me, baby.” She stood up straight. “You weren't ashamed, Brian. You were angry it was gone.”
He shifted again, onto the other foot. “I married her again so I could pay you back.”
“‘Again'?” Jo asked. “You married her again?”
The world stopped breathing then, awaiting the resolution of two former lovers: the deceiver and the deceived.
He closed his eyes. “What did you think I'd been doing all those years? Did you think I never had a . . . woman?”
She felt a slow burn now, a feeling she was unaccustomed to in Brian's presence. Brian-pain, she realized. Bastard.
She raised her head. “And did you think I never had a man?”
He sighed. “Jo, please. My first marriage to her hadn't worked. I thought about you too much.”
“Really?” Jo asked. “Or did it stop working because she stopped giving you cash?”
“You have no idea,” he said, “what it was like to always be second-best. Not as rich or successful as other people. Just like when I was a kid. Not as clever as my brother. Not as obedient. Not as good.”
“Stop blaming Frank for your failures, Brian. For once in your life, stand up and be a man.”
“I am,” he said. “I'm here, aren't I?”
Then his brother came through the front door. “He's only here because his wife told him to leave when she learned the truth,” Frank said. “Admit it, Brian. You came back because you figured Jo was the one woman you could count on. The one woman you could use.”
Brian could not, did not, speak.
And Jo's anger turned to pity for the man who, even as a boy, when the game became too stressful, simply packed up and ran. The realization almost made her feel sorry for his wife. Almost, not completely.
And then Jo said, “Brian, your charm won't work on me this time.” She took another breath. “Twice,” she said. “You left me twice. Once with a baby. Once with . . . nothing.” She shook her head as if to reassure herself. “You won't have the chance again.”
In the numbing death of love that followed, Andrew entered the showroom and sat down at the desk; Sarah moved into the doorway and leaned against the wall, arms folded, quiet.
Then the front door opened again. Lily came in, stood next to Frank. She must have gone out the back exit and come through the antiques shop.
Jo's friends had Brian surrounded: This time, he wouldn't get away.
Best of all, Jo knew that she no longer was alone.
And all Brian said was, “‘A baby'? There was a baby?”
“You're way too late,” Jo said. “Too late for a lot of things.” It sadly occurred to her that if there had been a child—an Amanda or an Emmett—Brian might have used her or him to try and stop Jo from doing what she did next.
She took a long, slow breath of strength gathered from the presence of her friends. Then Jo reached down, picked up the telephone receiver, and dialed the West Hope Police.
Embezzlement.
It would not be difficult to prove, according to the police who listened to Jo's story. It would, however, be tough to get her money back. Especially if Brian were in jail, doing ten to fifteen years.
The money didn't matter, Jo said. She no longer cared.
On the way from the police station back to Second Chances, Andrew suggested lunch at the luncheonette two doors down.
“I never wanted to press charges in Boston,” Jo said, staring at her uneaten grilled-cheese sandwich.
“He did it to you; he did it to others,” Andrew said, which turned out to be true. Frank's detective had found three other woman Brian had scammed in the years between Montreal and Boston, the years that Brian had been loving others while Jo had been working to succeed.
“It must have been difficult to face the truth about your brother,” Sarah said to Frank.
Across the table, Frank chewed his tuna sandwich and didn't say a word.
“Frank had covered up for Brian for years and years,” Lily explained. “Going back to when you were kids, right, honey?” She nudged Frank, who only nodded. “He was finally sick of it,” she said. “He was sick of Brian hurting other people, hurting Jo.”
So, Jo thought, Frank apparently had known much more about his brother than he'd been willing to divulge. Jo could hardly blame him. Brian had probably used his charm on Frank, as well, charmed him into thinking he was responsible for the detours in Brian's life. Frank had, after all, been the older brother. The one who had been clever, obedient, good.
Jo shook her head. “How could I have been so stupid?”
“Love,” the women said simultaneously.
The men, however, had no comment.
“I used to feel so smart,” Jo said. “No matter what was happening around me, I always felt that I was smart enough to make things work.”
“You are,” Sarah said. “We all are.”
“Speak for yourself,” Lily added, which made Jo laugh and that felt good.
“Hey, kids,” came a voice from the coffee-shop doorway. It was Elaine. “Mrs. Kingsley at the bookstore told me you were in here. Forget about your lunches. I have news.”
“As do we,” Andrew said, but she waved him off.
“We have an event to plan,” she said excitedly. “A woman is on the phone. She and her husband want a different kind of second wedding, a lavish affair in order to renew their vows. You won't believe this, but she said ‘the sky's the limit.'” Her cheeks became pinker as she quickly talked.
“She's on the phone?” Jo asked. “Now? Over at the shop?” Silverware rattled. Chairs clattered. They all stood up. Andrew pulled some wrinkled bills from his pocket, while the women scrambled for the door.
“She really means it,” Elaine chattered as they hustled from the place. “She's from New York and she has lots of money. Her husband is some kind of media mogul. Her name is Irene Benson. Her husband's name is John.”
EPILOGUE
DO
Enjoy your day!
Marion's wedding went off without a West Hope wrinkle, which was pretty surprising considering that the women of Second Chances were also immers
ed in planning a New Year's Eve extravaganza, two hundred New York wedding guests (small but tasteful, elegantly tasteful, Mrs. Benson had requested) to be held “somewhere in the Berkshires.” The event would infuse a cache of money into the second-wedding business: The women were in charge of everything from arranging the ceremony to securing food and entertainment for the guests, and hotel rooms for everyone, including the inevitable swarm of paparazzi who'd attend.
Marion's wedding, however, was first. It was a sparkling Indian Summer day. Sarah's linden tree leaves glimmered in the bronze sunlight; Lily's hand-calligraphied cards that noted the donation to The Mount were excitedly received; Elaine was a bridesmaid, not a bride, in a matching pearl gown made at the last minute by the grumbling but dependable woman from Chestnut Hill.
Jo stood up for her mother, still emoting disbelief that Marion no longer was a woman on her own.
Just before they walked down the gold-carpeted aisle, Marion said to Jo, “So, it's a happy ending after all.”
Jo did not quite understand, but Elaine nodded. “Thanks to your idea, Marion,” she said.
Marion then smiled. “Should I tell her or should you?”
And there among the linden trees, before the second-wedding vows were said, Marion Lyons told her daughter that Elaine's wedding had been a setup.
“‘A setup'?” Jo asked. “What on earth do you mean?”
It was simple, really, Elaine said. Oh, she had wanted to marry Martin, at least, she'd thought she did. But once again, she planned to marry at the town hall. She had not even thought about a formal second wedding. Until the night she'd announced her engagement at a library meeting.
“We need to talk,” Marion had said, so they'd gone out for coffee after the meeting. And they had talked.
“I'd give anything to have Jo home again,” Marion had said. “I don't know what's happened in Boston, but I think she's having a tough time. If you asked her to be a bridesmaid, maybe she'd remember that West Hope isn't hopeless after all.”
And how could Elaine ask Jo without Lily, without Sarah?
So the scheme was planned, Jo took the bait, and she came home.
“No harm done?” Marion asked and kissed her daughter on the cheek as the processional began.
And Jo just laughed and said no, no harm had been done at all.
After the ceremony, Jo and Andrew stood under the tent, sharing apple slices and cheddar cheese. She told him that, as a wedding gift to his bride, Ted had bought one of those new condos over by Tanglewood. Marion pretended she didn't need all the closet space, but seemed to revel in the thought of central air-conditioning.
“But now my mother wants me to move into her old house,” Jo said to Andrew now. “I told her no, I never dreamed I'd come back to West Hope. I sure don't want to move into that place.”
“There are worse things,” Andrew replied. He looked handsome in his pearl-colored tuxedo.
Jo supposed he was right. She could be Brian, now in jail, awaiting trial and a sentence and heavy restitution once he was released. Not that Jo expected any money. But at least he had been stopped, if only for a while. And at least her heart had, at last, caught up with her head. The Brian-pain was gone; Jo was ready to move on.
“I'm afraid we've kept you so busy,” Jo said to Andrew now, “that you've had little time for your dissertation.”
Andrew laughed. “Life's too short to spend it working.”
“I think you said that to me once,” Jo said with a broad smile. “And you might not believe this, but I listened. And now, I have a date.”
Andrew sipped his champagne, and looked off toward the wedding guests. “With a man?”
“Yes, silly,” Jo replied. “With a man. A man who lives in my building. He's from Brussels.”
“Brussels, as in Belgium?”
Jo slowly nodded, her gaze following Andrew's toward Marion and Ted, the happy couple.
“And you have a date?”
“Yes. Tomorrow. A real-live date. Who knows what it will lead to.”
“Right,” Andrew replied and sipped again. “Who knows anything.”
As the sun began to dip behind the mountains, a big, round harvest moon rose in the autumn sky. Dinner had been served, the tables had been cleared, and the air was filled with dance music from the small orchestra.
Andrew found Cassie by the gift table, examining the white-and-gold-wrapped boxes and the yards of ribbons and bows. He watched her for a moment: She looked so grown-up in the cranberry dress Jo had helped her find, her hair in curls atop her head, accented by a crown of Sarah's golden linden leaves.
“May I have this dance?” he asked, and Cassie turned to him and smiled.
“So,” she said, as he took her in his arms and eased her onto the dance floor. “You didn't tell her, did you?”
She meant, of course, that Andrew had not told Jo that he wasn't gay, that the whole thing had been a ruse.
He shook his head. “I can't, honey. I almost told them the day Jo said that they should close the business. But that would have been selfish again; I only would have done it so I'd have a chance with Jo.”
“What stopped you?”
“Lily. When she said she had no more money, I saw how they pulled together. It's what real friends do. Besides, I knew when the women heard about John and Irene's wedding everything would change. The media will be all over it; it will put Second Chances on the wedding-planning map. I don't want to blow that with headlines about how the former Andrew David had been a big, fat jerk.” He didn't add that between now and then, he could only pray that Jo wouldn't fall for this new man from Brussels. It was, indeed, his penance, reparation for his lies.
“Plus, now you won't feel guilty for spilling all their secrets in the magazine.”
“Not their secrets, honey. Just the things that make them real women, not shallow fakes.”
She seemed to think about that. Then she said, “Will you tell them after John and Irene's wedding?”
“Yes, honey.” It was a promise he'd made to himself, a self-imposed deadline that would determine his future after that.
“Well,” Cassie said and stood on her tiptoes to kiss Andrew on the cheek, “at least you saved their business. I love you, Dad. But sometimes it's not easy to figure out what makes men tick.”
Andrew tickled Cassie on her side, then twirled her around, savoring the mellow sounds of music mixed with the magic of her laughter. Then he realized he had gone through the entire day without thinking about Patty, so he guessed life could be good.
Lesson #9, he thought. Nothing ever stays the same. Which is why sometimes—if we're lucky—we get second chances.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JEAN STONE lives in western Massachusetts in the foothills of the Berkshires. ONCE UPON A BRIDE—the first in a series about the women of Second Chances—is her eleventh novel from Bantam Books. A former advertising copywriter, she is a graduate of Skidmore College, Saratoga Springs, New York. For more information on the author and her books, visit her web site at www.jeanstone.net.
OTHER BOOKS BY JEAN STONE
TRUST FUND BABIES
OFF SEASON
THE SUMMER HOUSE
BIRTHDAY GIRLS
PLACES BY THE SEA
TIDES OF THE HEART
SINS OF INNOCENCE
FIRST LOVE
IVY SECRETS
BEACH ROSES
AND LOOK FOR JEAN STONE'S
NEXT DELIGHTFUL NOVEL FEATURING THE WOMEN OF SECOND CHANCES . . .
TWICE UPON
A WEDDING
by
JEAN STONE
April 2005
READ ON FOR A PREVIEW. . .
TWICE UPON
A WEDDING
April 2005
It was one of those smiles.
It was secretive, mischievous, almost happily naughty.
It was not the sort of smile Andrew would have expected of Elaine. Especially on the day she should have been married. Especia
lly as she wore the gown of a bridesmaid, not a bride, and stood on the top of a grassy slope, overlooking the magnificent grounds of a magnificent estate, watching a wedding reception that should have been hers.
He crossed the lawn and moved next to her. She stood apart from her friends—Lily, Sarah, and Jo—yet was dressed like them in a Vera Wang gown of oyster and pearl. On Lily the dress looked like sassy haute couture; on Sarah, mysteriously earthy and sensuous; on Jo, heart-thumpingly gorgeous. On Elaine, it simply looked like a nice dress, more palatable than the clash of colors she often wore, more fashionable than the stretch pants and big shirts of the car-pooling, PTO-president Mom.
Elaine turned to Andrew, her smile unflinching. He knew that the past weeks had been tough, that she'd risked her future security, her children's happiness, and the success of her best friends' new business when she'd broken her engagement to Martin because “I just have to,” she'd said.
“Lainey,” he asked, “how are you doing?”
She tipped her head toward the crowd, her lacquered brown hair rigid in its French twist, as she'd called it (“An up-do,” Lily had corrected). “Fine,” Elaine said, “or at least I will be.”
“When this wedding is over?” It was the celebration of Jo's mother's new marriage, this one to Ted, the West Hope, Massachusetts, town butcher. It was also the debut event for Lily, Sarah, Jo, and Elaine, once college roommates, now partners in Second Chances, second-wedding planners for second-time brides.
Elaine looped her arm through Andrew's and stood a bit taller. “I'm tired of being ordinary, Andrew. I'm tired of having a predictable life.”
He kept his eyes on her. She didn't waver. “There's nothing wrong with being predictable, Lainey,” Andrew said, because so many times he'd longed for just that.
“But my kids are practically grown and I'm unattached. I'm forty-three years old and I want excitement. I want pizzazz.”