Second Time Around

by Beth Kendrick

  Brooke put her hands over her ears. “I’m not listening! La, la, la!”

  The next few hours passed in a flurry of activity as the three of them carried trays of food in from the caterer’s van, helped the florist drape the mantel in fresh greenery, and lined up rows of elegantly carved ballroom chairs in the living room for ceremony seating. Their efforts were rewarded by a brief appearance from the groom himself.

  “Everything looks wonderful.” Terrence bowed down to kiss Anna’s hand with old-world gallantry. He looked tall and dashing and Spencer Tracy–esque in his charcoal gray morning coat. Cait finally understood what a vibrant younger woman like Sarah saw in him. He exuded power and stability. “The cake is a work of art, truly.”

  “Thank you.” Anna beamed. “I just hope it tastes all right. I know orange-cranberry filling is a little unconventional, but Sarah was brave enough to let me take the risk.”

  “This is no time for false modesty.” The president chuckled and kept Anna’s fingertips clasped in his own. “Your reputation precedes you, my dear: You cook as good as you look.”

  Anna pulled her hand free with a flustered laugh. “President Tait! Who knew you were such a flirt?”

  His reply was drowned out by Jamie’s rallying cry:

  “English majors! Please report to the master suite immediately!”

  Cait, Brooke, and Anna raced upstairs to find Jamie clutching a clipboard and offering a box of tissues to a tearful Maureen Richmond.

  “What happened?” Cait asked.

  Jamie pointed wordlessly into the master suite, where a lacy wedding gown hung on the door of the armoire and the makeup artist awaited with her tools of the trade arrayed on the bureau. A quartet of bridesmaids milled around the doorway, whispering and glancing at Maureen.

  “Where’s Sarah?” Cait asked. “Shouldn’t she be here by now?”

  Jamie nodded. “She should be.”

  Maureen blew her nose with a mournful honk and retreated into the bathroom.

  “Oh no,” Brooke breathed.

  “Oh yes.” Jamie addressed the other three with flinty-eyed determination. “Let’s mobilize, ladies. We’ve got a bride on the lam.”

  “… She saw that they were in for what is known as ‘quite a scene …’”

  —E. M. Forster, A Room with a View

  Jamie dialed Sarah’s cell phone number again and gnawed her thumbnail. “I definitely should’ve waited til next week to quit smoking.”

  “You quit?” Cait asked.

  Anna patted her on the back. “Jame, that’s great!”

  “Don’t congratulate me just yet; I’m going to relapse with a vengeance if we don’t find this chick in the next fifteen minutes.” When Sarah’s voice mail picked up (again), Jamie hung up her phone and turned to Brooke. “Time check.”

  “Forty-five minutes until the ceremony is scheduled to begin.”

  She moved on to Cait. “Groom check.”

  “He’s still downstairs mingling.” Cait leaned over the railing and peered down at the guests starting to file into the front room. “As far as I know, he has no idea Sarah’s gone.”

  Jamie pushed up the sleeves of her black blazer. “All right, Brooke, you keep Maureen and the bridesmaids corralled. Everyone stays upstairs with their lips sealed until further notice. There are extra boxes of tissue under the sink in the guest bathroom. Cait, you’re running defense on the groom, and Anna, you’re going to help me go door-to-door looking for our fugitive.”

  Anna’s eyebrows shot up. “Door-to-door?”

  “Well, bar to bar.”

  Brooke blinked. “Why do you think she’s in a bar?”

  “Hello, where else is a bride on the verge of a nervous breakdown going to go?”

  “Maybe she went to a spa,” Brooke suggested. “Or, I know! In the movies, the jilted bride always goes off on her honeymoon alone.”

  “Who’s broken off three engagements here, you or me?” Jamie said. “Trust me, girlfriend’s holed up nearby with a bottle of booze.” She jingled her car keys. “Come on, Anna. We’ll start down on Pine Street and work our way out.”

  Five minutes later, Jamie pulled up the car in front of Pranza to drop off Anna—“Call me immediately if you see, hear, or suspect anything!”—and then continued on to the Pine Street Pub. The stools were stacked next to the long, brass-trimmed bar and the dining area was practically deserted at this hour on a Saturday morning, but Jamie strode over to the cash register and introduced herself to the short, spiky-haired waitress who appeared to be the only employee on the floor.

  “Have you by any chance seen a doe-eyed brunette in here? Pretty, petite, probably weeping?”

  The waitress tilted her head toward the far wall, indicating the booths beyond the flickering neon beer signs and the deserted pool table.

  Jamie found Sarah huddled in the back corner booth, surrounded by a veritable buffet of carbs: French toast, hash browns, blueberry pancakes.

  She slid into the bench seat across from Sarah and helped herself to a hot buttered biscuit. “Hey, hon. How you feeling?”

  Sarah didn’t look up from her plate. “You found me.” She heaved a weary sigh and shoved another forkful of pancake into her mouth.

  Jamie rested her chin in her hand and waited.

  Finally, Sarah stopped gorging herself long enough to say, “I’m starving. I can’t stand it anymore. It’s been six weeks since I had a bagel with cream cheese. All I do lately is fantasize about cheesecake and French fries and penne alla vodka. Vodka. I could do with a bottle of that right about now.”

  “There’s a whole cake waiting for us back at Terry’s house,” Jamie said quietly. “I could have Anna put together a preceremony pastry sampler, if you want.”

  Sarah put down her fork. “Are the guests already there?”

  “They’re starting to arrive, yes.”

  “Is the harpist set up for the ceremony?”

  “She was plinking out a stirring rendition of Bach’s ‘Ode to Joy’ when I left.”

  Sarah began shredding the paper napkin draped across her lap. “What about my mom? Is she—”

  Jamie leaned in. “Forget your mom for a second. What about you?”

  “I can’t go back there. I thought I could go through with this, but …” The bride’s lower lip quivered, and then she clamped her mouth into a tight little moue. “She’s going to be devastated. She’s been looking forward to this since the day I was born, basically.”

  “Maureen will be fine.” Jamie pushed aside the plates and silverware and patted Sarah’s forearm. “I promise. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying you should hit her up for a loan tomorrow, but she loves you. She wants you to be happy.” She echoed Sarah’s own words from the week before: “You know how mothers are.”

  Sarah slumped down even farther. “It’s not a good sign when you’re more upset about the prospect of upsetting your mom than you are about the prospect of losing the groom.” She glanced up, her expression strained. “I don’t know what happened. We were the perfect couple; you saw us. And then I spotted his assistant wearing that necklace. Do you know what he said when I confronted him about that? He said I was making something out of nothing. He said he loves me, but that he can’t be responsible for my insecurities.” Her eyes watered. “I don’t know if it’s him or if it’s me or what, but I physically couldn’t force myself into that wedding dress.”

  “It’s not you,” Jamie said emphatically. “Trust me.”

  “What am I going to do?” Sarah pressed her face into her palms. “Isn’t it kind of late in the game for me to pull a U-turn on my entire future?”

  “Not at all,” Jamie said. “Ever heard that old saying, ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure’?”

  “No. But I think I just found my new life motto. I almost called it off a few months ago, when I first heard all the rumors about, well, you know what they were about. That’s why we didn’t have a June wedding. But Terry finally convinced me that I was crazy to
doubt him.”

  “He’s good at that.”

  Sarah cast a long, speculative look at Jamie but didn’t ask any questions. She went back to attacking her pancakes and said, “You’ll have to tell everyone. I know I’m a wuss, but I can’t face them right now.”

  “No problem,” Jamie said. “You take care of yourself; I’ll take care of everything else.”

  Sarah glanced over Jamie’s shoulder, then shrank back against the wall.

  “What?” Jamie whipped around.

  “Don’t look now!” Sarah hissed, but it was too late. Jeff Thuesen had just entered the restaurant. He noticed Jamie and waved.

  “Did he see us?” Sarah asked, her eyes huge.

  Jamie nodded. “He’s heading this way.”

  Before Sarah could duck underneath the table, Jeff arrived with a smile and a Styrofoam cup of coffee.

  “Hi.” Jamie reciprocated with a wave and a refresher introduction. “Jeff, you remember Sarah Richmond.”

  Jeff’s smile faded as he took in the bride’s expression. “Sorry. Am I interrupting a big wedding planning summit?”

  “Actually,” Sarah said, “the wedding’s about to start without me.”

  Jeff froze, the cup halfway to his lips. “Right now?”

  “Yes. I had an epiphany. Unfortunately, I didn’t have it until the catering staff arrived and started passing out preceremony canapés, and now I’ve been reduced to a cute little cliché: the runaway bride. Except, let me assure you, when you’re the bride doing the running away, there’s nothing cute about it.”

  “I see.” Jeff glanced over at Jamie, then back to Sarah. “Where are you running to?”

  “I have no idea. I already gave up my apartment in Manhattan.” Sarah’s tone changed from defensive to defeated. “I can stay with friends, I guess, although most of them are at Terry’s house right now, waiting for me to walk down the aisle.”

  “Do you want me to call someone?” Jamie asked.

  “No. I’ve dragged too many people into this mess already.” Sarah thought for a moment. “Book me a suite at the Gansevoort for the weekend, please. I’ll come out of hiding on Monday, but first I need forty-eight hours to pull myself together.”

  “Will do.” Jamie scribbled the hotel name down on a napkin.

  “I can give you a ride back to the city,” Jeff offered. “I just came in to grab a coffee to go. I’m heading back to Brooklyn right now. You can make a clean getaway before the next bus leaves town.” He paused. “But you probably want to be alone.”

  “No, let’s go.” Sarah dug out her wallet and tossed some cash down on the table. “I’m ready. The sooner, the better.”

  “What about your luggage?”

  “Oh.” Sarah faltered. “Everything I own is in storage or at Terry’s house.”

  “Sounds like some retail therapy is in order,” Jamie said. “Don’t worry. I’ll collect all your stuff and ship it back to you when you’re ready. Just send me an address.”

  “I love her,” Sarah told Jeff. “Isn’t she amazing?”

  “One of a kind,” Jeff said drily.

  Jamie walked them both out to the curb. She gave Sarah a hug while Jeff jogged around his car to open the passenger door.

  His eyes met Jamie’s as he walked back to the driver’s side, and they shared a poignant smile.

  “Take care,” Jamie said.

  “You, too.”

  Before he closed the door, Jamie asked, “Hey, did you find any good candidates for that internship?”

  “Yeah.” He laughed. “An English major, actually.”

  “We’re the best; we do it all. Safe trip, you guys.” She banged her palm on the car roof and waved good-bye.

  Then she returned to the pub, bought a pack of gum from the vending machine, and shoved two minty squares into her mouth. After a few minutes of deep breathing and furious chomping, she dialed up Anna.

  “Where are you? I’ll swing by and pick you up in two minutes. I’ve gotta go break some bad news to a houseful of guests and one soon-to-be-former fiancé.”

  When Jamie pulled up in front of the president’s house, Terry was waiting for her on the front lawn. He’d removed his morning coat and vest, despite the whipping wind and the frost on the grass. Anna took one look at his face and prepared to bail out.

  “One of the bridesmaids must have blabbed.” Anna reached for the door handle. “You don’t have to stop, just slow down and I’ll tuck and roll.”

  A preternatural sense of serenity seeped through Jamie as she parked the car and prepared to confront the man she’d once allowed to determine her worth.

  “Well?” Terry scowled down at her. He seemed to almost vibrate with anger.

  Jamie stood her ground and kept her voice low. “She’s gone.”

  “Is she coming back?”

  Jamie shook her head.

  “What did you say to her?”

  “Nothing, really. I simply asked—”

  “You told her about us, didn’t you? This is your fault!” He jabbed an accusatory finger at her. “You! You did this!”

  She stepped back and let his rage run its course. When he at last sputtered into silence, she turned on her heel, took one last look back over her shoulder, and told him, “Wrong. You did this all by yourself.”

  “You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough.”

  —William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

  I always wanted to open a bed-and-breakfast like this.” The paunchy, gray-haired man settling into the sofa cushions wore dark green twill trousers and a plaid flannel shirt still creased from its original packaging. “But I was too cowed. I listened to my parents and my teachers, took the ‘practical’ route and went to law school. Ugh. Thirty years of corporate meetings later and look at me.”

  “You look very successful.” Brooke set down a tray of Anna’s boudoir biscuits next to the assortment of cheese and fruit on the coffee table in front of the fireplace. She had arranged the sterling silver tea service set she’d inherited from her grandmother alongside a row of flowered china cups. Mr. Croucher had shown up at three-thirty for Paradise Found’s four o’clock tea, but Brooke saw no reason to keep a hungry guest waiting.

  “Success is subjective, young lady, and don’t you forget it.” The attorney helped himself to a biscuit and glanced around the living room. “This is quite a life you’ve made for yourself. No meetings, no commute, no deadlines.”

  Brooke smiled and poured a cup of tea for the older man. “No end-of-the-year bonuses, no cushy retirement plan.”

  “Money isn’t everything. I’m getting ready to retire and if I had a chance to do it all over again, I would’ve done things differently. Taken more risks, spent less time at the office.”

  “It’s never too late to follow your heart.” Brooke used the ornate antique tongs to extract a pair of sugar cubes from the silver bowl.

  “True enough.” Mr. Croucher propped his ankle on his knee and stared contemplatively out the window. “I’ve been thinking about moving out of Westchester County and buying a home upstate, here in the mountains. Why, if I had half a chance, I’d buy this place right out from under you.”

  Brooke prepared to take a seat and share a few tales from the dark side of B-and-B ownership, but before the back of her knees even touched the chair, she noticed a drop of water plop down from the foyer ceiling onto the hallway rug. She slammed her teacup into its saucer and raced toward the staircase. “Won’t you please excuse me for a moment? I’ll be right back.”

  The bathroom in Brooke’s suite was empty, of course, but the bathroom on the other side of the wall adjoined a guest room. Even out in the hallway, over the rush of running water, Brooke could hear the laughter and guttural moans emanating from within.

  After a full minute of agonized deliberation, she worked up the nerve to rap lightly on the door. “Excuse me?”

  The moaning continued, accompanied by more splashing. Brooke envisioned a ch
unk of ceiling collapsing onto Mr. Croucher’s head. Mr. Croucher and his thirty years of litigation experience.

  She pounded on the door. “Hello? Excuse me? I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s, uh, would you please make sure the shower curtain is tucked in?”

  For a moment, there was silence on the other side of the door, then sloshing as the faucet turned off. “It’s tucked in,” a raspy female voice called.

  “Thanks,” Brooke said. “I apologize for the interruption. Carry on!”

  The guest room door opened and a middle-aged woman with dripping black hair stuck her head into the hallway. “Wait. You’re the owner?”

  Brooke stared down at the baseboard. “Yes, and again, I hate to disturb you, but we have a slight plumbing situation.”

  “Did you hire a decorator?” the guest asked.

  “Oh no, I did it myself.”

  “I love it.” The woman nodded, splattering droplets of water across Brooke’s shoes. “Very authentic to the region without being over the top.”

  “Well, thank you. I put in the tile myself, too,” Brooke boasted.

  The towel-clad guest didn’t bother to conceal her skepticism. “You did?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Mm-hmm. The cast-iron toilet flanges gave me some trouble, let me tell you, but I had better luck with the tile and the sinks and installing those showerheads everyone seems to be enjoying so much.”

  The woman opened the door wider and leaned back into the bedroom. “Did you hear that, Mitch? She renovated this place herself.”

  “I also did the wiring, the painting, and the ceiling retexturing.”

  “Mitch!” the woman hollered. “Get out here, pronto!”

  Two seconds later, the nearly nude female was joined by her nearly nude male counterpart. The woman pointed at Brooke and crowed, “Look at her. Listen to her.”

  “I’m looking,” the man said. “I’m listening.”

  The woman clutched his shoulder. Her expression could only be described as giddy. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”