A Far Cry from Home

by Peri Elizabeth Scott

  “Was it the thrill of the chase? And then when you caught me, you became afraid you were settling? That there’s something better around the corner?”

  She didn’t want to wait for a response. She had to leave. Now. What would get her past the sideways looks and the knowing stares? The church was full of family and friends—and others who had probably predicted this very moment…

  “Victoria. You need to calm down. It’s not like that.”

  “Calm. Down?” She was aware her voice was climbing as she talked over him, and the small room, the one where she and Logan would have been closeted to sign the papers finalizing their marriage, wasn’t soundproof. She modulated her tone the very best she could, humiliation and pain squeezing her very being. “What is it like, then, exactly?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Tell me.”

  He looked away. “I can’t.”

  Dropping her beautiful bouquet of red roses, entwined with baby’s breath and white, embossed ribbon on the desk, the air currents disturbed the uncompleted marriage papers. They fluttered, mocking her. She stared up at the face of the man she loved. And faced the realization that she indeed still loved him. That part, at least, hadn’t changed despite the mortification of being dumped at the freaking altar. Love. She thought it was love. Too bad it wasn’t real.

  “And I’m supposed to take that and be calm!”

  “Yes, calm down.” His face was set in grim determination, his eyes hot. “We’ll … we’ll get through this.”

  She narrowed her eyes and leaned into him. What couldn’t she be one of those classy women who took this kind of thing in stride and walked away without making a scene? Maybe she could be. Drawing on a reserve of strength she wasn’t aware she possessed, she said, “I’m calm. Dead calm. So shut up now. I never want to hear your voice again, let alone set eyes on you.”

  Squaring her shoulders, she closed off his next attempt to speak. She avoided his outstretched hand and ignored the sudden abject despair written across his handsome features. Was he embarrassed? If he didn’t want a scene, why in hell had he chosen this public place to dump her? Flinging the door open to the main part of the church, she surveyed the people filling the pews. Those congregated there stilled into silence, with only an occasional murmur marring the quiet. Dozens of pairs of eyes looked in their direction. Victoria stepped forward. Classy. She could do this.

  Logan was behind her—close enough to feel his heat—and the familiarity of it made her falter. Probably that very familiarity was what had palled. For him. The thought of losing him… She dug deep. The time to fall apart was later. Much later. If ever. Resolutely, she faced forward and spoke, projecting her voice into the corners of the vast space.

  “I’m sorry you all came out today. There will be no wedding. I’ll see to it that your generous and thoughtful gifts are returned. Thank you.”

  A swell of whispers and a few louder voices echoed and battered her ears, and she flinched. Logan placed a hand low on her back, but the touch no longer felt supportive or possessive, two sensations that had always thrilled her. Instead, it burned her very soul, because it was a mockery—and a reminder—of what they’d had.

  She jerked away, and marched, as best as a woman swathed in the wedding dress of her dreams could march, past the altar, where her four bridesmaids waited, and the worried-looking minister. Past the groom’s family, vaguely marking the snide twist on old man Doherty’s lips and the tears on Logan’s mom’s face. Past her horrified family, sans her father, of course, her mother scrambling up to follow. Her sisters abandoned their posts beside the minister to contain their children who were squealing with delight to see her, and her brothers-in-law frowned thunderclouds of destruction toward Logan.

  “Auntie!” Little Patricia struggled in her mom’s arms, her flower girl’s finery awry. “Come see me.”

  Victoria forced a smile and a wave before hustling to the door. If Logan trailed her, she didn’t care to know, holding it together with the last of her composure. She focused straight ahead and somehow managed not to view the sea of faces lining the aisle.

  “Tori.” Her mother’s anguished tone had her slowing to let her mom catch up. Together, they walked, side by side, not at all in the way Victoria had moved with her mom toward Logan, who’d been waiting for her beside the minister, flanked by his best friends, David and Patrick, and her brothers-in-law, Robert and Michael. Was that only a few minutes ago? The recollection of that hope, the anticipation and breath-stealing euphoria sucked the life from her as they crashed and burned forever.

  “I need to get out of here. Is there a car we can use?” She discounted the limo at the curb, its tasteful ‘Just Married’ sign surrounded by more red roses and ribbon.

  “Frank’s is over there. He never locks it and hides a key. We’ll take it.”

  Bless the woman beside her, in that she didn’t pepper Victoria with questions, giving her the immediate privacy she so badly needed to get to those four wheels denoting her escape. Although where would she go that she wouldn’t take herself?

  When had she suspected the instant her future was in shambles? It had been Logan’s inscrutable—blank—face, she decided, as he took her hand from her mom’s, his fingers curling so firmly. There had been a dire warning there, belied by the warmth of his touch. Not the proud, soon-to-be-groom she expected, with appreciation and admiration—and love—written large across his gorgeous features. And then he’d escorted her into that little room, the entire church speculating. So why had she even allowed herself a smidgen of hope?

  He’d swept her off her feet from the first, tearing down her defensive walls, softening her heart, gaining her trust, making her believe she could love him with all of her soul. He was such an amazing man. She’d opened herself up to him…

  Her heart skipped a beat as the air squeezed from her lungs, and it wasn’t the tight corset impeding her breathing. How far was the damn car? When she spotted the silver sedan drawn tight against the curb, she shuddered. Stumbling the last several feet, she sprawled into the passenger seat. Her mom shut the door, after making a half-hearted attempt to shove the material of Victoria’s wedding dress inside. Her veil tugged, caught in something, and she worked it out of her hair, squishing the netting with its beautifully applied pearls into an ungainly wad of fabric.

  Her mother slipped into the driver’s seat and fumbled at the visor. A key fob dropped and a small hand, tipped with pink varnish caught it, and then rammed it into the ignition. The motor caught and with a slam of the shifter, the vehicle rolled away. Victoria let down the window and tossed out her veil, watching in the side mirror as it unfurled, catching an updraft before drifting to settle on the street. Ruined and so defenseless.

  She supposed it would get run over by countless vehicles, torn and trashed beneath unrelenting tires until it was unrecognizable. Kind of like her heart. Leaning back on the head rest, she reached up to free the remaining pins securing her fancy up-do. Her long hair tumbled down, easing the massive headache settling in to grind against her temples. She let it swing forward to screen her face.

  “What happened?” There was a limit to her mother’s patience, and it occurred that maybe people thought Victoria had derailed the wedding. He hadn’t added his voice to hers when she made the announcement, and for an instant, she clung to the idea that she could put it about that she had stopped the proceedings. But her innate honesty put a stop to that. She wasn’t going to be responsible for concocting a story.

  Maybe using some succinct words would wrap it up and give her the opportunity to practice what she’d say to everyone else who asked. “Logan told me he couldn’t go through with the marriage.”

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t say.” I couldn’t bear to hear his excuses, anyhow, that it was about him, not me. Because that was what he’d have come up with, had she stayed. She knew it. He might have hurt her terribly with his rejection, but the Logan she knew wouldn’t have made it about her. Ex
cept she knew the truth, and why should he have to lie? It wouldn’t have changed anything or made her feel better.

  Victoria recognized the unvarnished truth about herself despite what other people said. The trauma of early years scarred deep, and for her, obviously lasted a lifetime. She’d been stupid to believe anything Logan said. Nothing was forever, except for maybe the survivors’ bond within her family.

  The tires whirred against the uneven pavement and some country and western tune on the radio whined quietly in the background. Why couldn’t they sing about trucks and horses instead of hearts? Broken ones. With shredded souls.

  “He didn’t say. O … kay. You weren’t curious to know why?” Despite her calm tone, Victoria could hear her mother’s pain, once she’d processed the information.

  “Sorry, he wouldn’t say. But whatever. I already know. What’s the point in him skirting the issue? And … I was overwhelmed. I mean, he couldn’t have told me before? Someplace a little less public? I was right there, Mom! Right fucking there, fifteen minutes away from being married. In front of everyone, like the worst kind of movie. You’d just given me to him. G … given me.” She swallowed against nausea, pretending the loss wasn’t real. Better she found out ahead of time, right?

  “I’d like to kill him. Slowly.” Her mom was always in her corner.

  “I’m not talking about him anymore. Okay? I need to get past this and move on.”

  “Tori, you can’t shove your relationship with Logan into some tidy little sack and tuck it away, like … like you’ve done with upsetting things all your life. It’s too big. You love him. He’s your life. There has to be an explanation.”

  Maybe her mom could find a really sharp knife and open her up with it too. Check her entrails and forecast the future. Sucking in a draught of air between her teeth, she formulated a reply. “All true, Mom. All of it. And look where it got me. I’ve got such fantastic judgment, despite what I know about men, huh?”

  “Not all men,” her mother responded. “But you could sue him. Breach of promise. Hit him where it hurts, right in the wallet.” Her mother was now dissolving into chaos too.

  She’d win any such lawsuit. She’d seen it in Logan’s eyes. He felt bad for leaving her at the altar, because he was a good man at heart, even if she wasn’t in it any longer. He’d throw money at the problem. This time, the nausea was intolerable and she gagged. Her mother shoved a wad of tissues at her.

  “We’re soon home.”

  True to her word, they pulled into her mother’s driveway and right up to the house. The sight of her childhood home broke that something deep within Victoria, and she sobbed into the tissues. It should have been a refuge, but only served to remind her of another man, another rejection.

  Tears welled, too numerous to hold back, and poured down her cheeks. The tissues couldn’t contain it all. Ducking her head, she watched as her makeup swirled and mixed with the moisture to drip free and soil the pristine white of her wedding finery. Murky gray mascara, tinted with foundation, was the final shade of her life.

  She might have sat inside Frank’s car for an eternity, sinking into that awful muddle of color, but her mom came around to yank open the door and urge her out.

  “C’mon. Let’s get you inside and out of … that.” That was probably an apt descriptor of the dress she’d chosen with such care and attention to detail. Not too sexy, not too poufy, not too prom-like. Just right. To marry the wrong guy. Correction. To be thrown over by the right guy.

  She couldn’t see past her tears, despite swiping at them to clear her vision. Careless of dragging her bridal gown across the greasy door mechanism, she clambered out, one heel tangling and tearing the hem. The tattered bride. Oops, the tattered bride-to-be. Not. Maybe it was something she could think on for the magazine, kind of a play on marriage, complete with pictures and personal experience.

  Laughter bubbled up and she choked on it, staggering behind her mother’s diminutive form. The heel caught in the hem gave her a curious gait, reminiscent of that strange little man in the western movies her dad favored years ago. The additional memory of her father drove her to her knees, and she wavered there, swathed in pain and bridal white. Wrenching off her heels, she waved away her mother’s help.

  “I’m okay. Just off balance.” The understatement called up the laughter again.

  “C’mon. Get up. Leave the shoes.” Her mom’s face was so creased with worry it added a decade to her appearance.

  The neighborhood was silent. They were probably all at the church. She clambered to her feet and tossed the heels at the recycling bin, laughing harder. Getting through the doorway into the back vestibule felt surreal, and her impromptu merriment ran down like a depleted battery.

  With help, she divested herself of the gown, leaving it in a crumpled mass on the kitchen floor. She stood, in her corset and tap pants, in her thigh highs with their wide band of sexy lace, and shivered. Here she was, half naked in her mother’s kitchen, instead of basking in the lustful gaze of her husband on her wedding night.

  There would be some of her old things in a closet. Her mom wasn’t a hoarder, but she unerringly kept things her daughters needed. “I’ll go change into something.”

  “There’s some items that’ll fit in the dresser in the spare room. Closet too, I think. I’ll make tea?”

  “Okay.” She was vastly fatigued and that one word took incredible effort.

  The short trek to the spare room—Juliana’s old room, the oldest girl—took forever, as though she was relearning how to walk. She wobbled and banged into the walls. Once inside, she doffed the corset and stockings, consigning them to the trash. Unearthing a light sweater in the dresser and a pair of leggings she was sure had been around since the nineties, she pulled them on. They mostly fit, and were as comfortable as an old shoe. Shoes. She refused to give in to the hysteria bubbling through her chest.

  Logan’s ring winked up at her as she smoothed the leggings over her thighs and she froze, staring at the beautiful canary diamond set with green tourmalines. Large enough to be noticed, but not ostentatious. He knew her well and understood she’d balk at an ice cube. He knew her well. She was close enough to the narrow bed to catch her weight on the edge of the mattress as she sagged.

  Logan had come to know her so well he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life with her. Clever man. She was hardly Logan Doherty wife material, after all. Oh, she was pretty enough, some might even say beautiful when she made the effort, with her thick, dark hair and pale skin with contrasting dark-blue eyes. She was tall and had a good body. She’d heard it all her life. The prettiest Sparrow girl, built like a brick shithouse. Not that it meant much in the end.

  And not that she traded on it. If anything, good looks got in the way of someone in the cutthroat advertising business. At twenty-eight, she’d been accused of sleeping her way to the top over the years, and people tended to get stuck looking at her instead of seeing who was behind the façade. Logan had looked behind it and said he loved the whole package.

  Indicated he was in awe of her drive while appreciating her ability to see the bigger picture and care for the little guy. She’d felt worshipped, special, like she’d finally moved past the crippling misery of her childhood and arrived in the company of a wonderful, trustworthy man.

  He’d said a lot of things, all of them now suspect, and she blessed the fact she hadn’t quit her job and joined his firm when he’d asked her to, so many times.

  “Tori?” Her mom stood in the doorway, watching her warily.

  She caught sight of herself in the mirror on the dresser and realized her mom had reason to be a tad cautious. Tangled hair and smeared makeup aside, it was the look on her face… With an effort, she wiped the desolate expression away. “Tea ready?”

  Her mom held out the phone. “You should take this.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Logan’s mother. Delores.”

  Air whooshed out of her chest and she nearly doubled over. Her v
oice squeaked as she replied. “Uh, no.”

  “She wants to explain something.”

  “Logan’s a big boy, Mom. His mommy doesn’t need to hold his hand.”

  “Maybe she’s trying to hold yours.”

  “I have a mother.” Victoria liked Delores a great deal, and a shred of remorse lingered, but surely she was entitled to establishing boundaries, at least while she recovered. There. She’d already decided there was the potential for recovery.

  With a nod, her mom turned and went down the hall, murmuring into the phone, while Victoria choked back a sob. How did one recover from having one’s heart ripped, live and beating, from one’s chest and sliced into irreparable pieces in front of one’s eyes?

  Tired of the drama, she tugged off her engagement ring and tossed it at the garbage can. It clipped the rim and ricocheted off, plinking against the wall before hitting the floor someplace. She fingered the lovely earrings her future mother-in-law had given her, and removed them, setting them on the nightstand. No doubt her mom would get them back to Delores. If not, she’d have then couriered, but the two older women had really hit it off, despite their very different social spheres. So, in all likelihood, they’d get together if only to discuss the almost marriage.

  Leaving the fine chain with the perfect pearl around her neck—a gift from her own mother, and one that had probably broken the bank—she shoved to her feet and shuffled into the bathroom.

  Scrubbing her face clean with a handy cloth, she then ran her fingers through her hair and bundled it at the nape of her neck, wrapping the long strands around to secure it, all the while avoiding the mirror. She made her way back to the kitchen, where her mom was still on the phone. There was no sign of her dress and she experienced not one iota of interest in its whereabouts.

  “I’ll tell her, Delores. I’m sure she’ll call once she’s had a little time.” Her mom locked stares with her before concluding the conversation and laying the phone down. “Come sit.”