The Wedding Plan

by Abby Gaines

  “Messier,” she agreed. “But also potentially more rewarding. If you’re prepared to work at it. I’ve accepted that a relationship—a marriage—isn’t always going to be the romantic idyll my parents were blessed with. I’ve even decided that compromising doesn’t have to mean settling for less than wonderful.”

  “So, you’re saying more or less what I’m saying.” That sounded too good to be true.

  “Not really,” she said.

  There you go.

  “Lucas…” She shredded some pancake between her fingers. “What exactly do you feel for me?”

  Merry watched the play of expressions across Lucas’s face: distaste, dismay, resolution.

  The question needed to be asked. Otherwise, a girl might make important decisions based on the euphoria of last night’s lovemaking, only to discover she’d made some wrong assumptions.

  Lucas put down his knife and fork, his gaze fixed on the rim of his plate, where a blob of maple syrup had landed. “I guess I should have seen that one coming,” he said lightly.

  She waited for him to sift through his thoughts. As she’d told him, she’d come a long way in the past few weeks. She wanted to believe he had, too. If it took him some time to figure that out…

  He lifted his head. “I love you, Merry.”

  Her heart leaped in her chest; her brain said, Don’t get excited, not just yet.

  “I do,” he said, sounding stunned. “I really do love you.”

  Merry crumpled her linen napkin and set it on the table. Now for the hard question. “What do you love about me?”

  He blinked. Raked a hand through his hair. “Am I supposed to answer that? I only now realized how I feel.”

  “Just tell me what’s on your mind,” she said lightly. “And then I’ll tell you.”

  Because the realization she’d had in the night would burst out of her heart if she didn’t say it soon.

  Please, let him love me the way I love him.

  He puffed out a breath and flexed his fingers on the table, as if she’d asked him to lift a two-hundred-pound weight.

  “I feel differently about you than I have about any other woman,” he said.

  Good start. She smiled in encouragement.

  “The fact that we’re already friends makes it easy to love you,” he said. “I know you’re going to be a wonderful mom, just like you’re great with Mia. I love making love to you, and I want us to do that forever. You’re cute, and pretty and loyal.” He stopped, as if even he could hear how scrappy his answer was.

  Merry swallowed her hurt. Lucas was new to the idea of emotional commitment; she couldn’t expect miracles. Best to lead by example.

  “Let me tell you what I love about you,” she said.

  Surprise and pleasure flared in his eyes. “Really? You love me, too?”

  She nodded.

  He leaned back in his chair, his face alight with anticipation, his posture wide open as if to say, Lay it on me.

  “Let me start with the obvious. I love making love to you,” she said. “I love your hands and your mouth, and the things you do with them.”

  “Duly noted,” he said.

  “I love that you have so much physical strength, but your touch can be gentle and coaxing. I love that you use your strength to protect others. That you care what happens to the people around you, and you take it upon yourself to get involved…even when you’re misguided.”

  “Thanks, I think.”

  “I love that you make decisions based on a skewed view of what you can do and what you’re responsible for. I love that you jumped into this marriage because you were too kind to disappoint my dad, even though I forced you into it. And then you stuck around because you have this crazy idea that you can’t let anyone die on your watch.”

  “That’s not—”

  “I love that beneath your swoop-in, swoop-out attitude, there’s a man who loves for a long time, who honors the people who’ve shaped his life. Your dad has been a jerk for as long as I can remember, but you’ve always respected him—and you offered my dad a kidney out of respect for the connection between our families. And when I called you on your attitude to Mia, you made a real effort with her, even though you couldn’t see the point of getting to know a one-year-old.”

  His smile had turned uncertain.

  “And your mom,” she said. “I love that it still hurts you to think of her. I love that you’re too stubborn to talk about her, but you keep her in your dreams. I love that you have this inflated view of your own abilities that lets you think you might have saved her.”

  “That’s enough,” he said sharply.

  “I love your bossiness, your integrity, your unreasonable conviction that your way is always the right way. I love how you’re fearless in the face of death, but petrified in the face of love.”

  She stopped. Lucas wasn’t smiling anymore.

  His expression was a mix of shock, pity, confusion. And understanding of what she’d been trying to tell him: that when he said I love you and she said I love you, they were talking about two different things.

  “I love you, Lucas,” she said. “Not as a good husband or a great father, though I’m sure you’ll be those things. I love that you need me—”

  He recoiled.

  “—even though you don’t know it. I don’t want a hero, Lucas. I don’t need you to rescue me, and I won’t stop loving you if you fail. I love you, for better or for worse, no matter what.”

  She stopped, her heart completely bared.

  * * *

  THERE WAS A LONG SILENCE.

  Lucas poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the table between them. It saved him having to speak for another moment or two.

  He didn’t know what to say. He’d been happy—proud, even—to lay out the feelings he had for her. Believing they would, what—impress her? Move her into staying married to him?

  His offering had been a carefully measured teaspoonful. Hers was an overflowing bowl, an extravagant mix of words that made no sense and truths that pinged somewhere deep inside him, thoughts spoken in a language he only half understood.

  One thing he did understand: her feelings were in a different league from his.

  He sipped the coffee, which was almost cold.

  He had two choices. Accept the vast gap between them—and its implications—or step up into her league. Pulling her down to his wasn’t an option.

  “Merry, I’m honored by your feelings,” he said. “But we want different things. I do love you, please believe that.”

  She bit her lip.

  “But you have a picture of me as this vulnerable person who… And I guess there is some of that in me,” he conceded. “But that’s not the person I want to be. I don’t want to be open to—to all that. I want to be back in the Gulf, doing what I do best.”

  She nodded. “I understand.”

  His laugh was shaky. Tomorrow, he would be his old self again, he promised silently. “You’re doing better than I am, then,” he said. “I’m in way over my head.”

  “Poor Lucas.” Her smile was sympathetic, not teasing.

  “When the baby comes,” he said, “you’ll help me to be a good dad, right? Even though we won’t be together.” He understood that now, though acceptance might take a while. “You’ll tell me when I screw up.”

  “I tell you that now. Why would things change?”

  He laughed, reassured that she sounded like the old Merry. Despite all that had happened, they might still be friends. “I know you don’t want my help,” he said. “But you’re going to have to accept it as far as our child is concerned. Financial help, help with finding a house, making those big decisions…”

  “Performing the Heimlich maneuver,” she interjected.

  “Definitely.” He rubbed his palms down his face. “And I’ll put in a leave request so I can come back when the baby’s due. I want to be here.”

  She touched her stomach briefly. “You think you’ll get a retest, then?
Did your father say something?”

  “I already heard from Admiral Tremaine,” Lucas said, feeling embarrassed. “I have a new physical scheduled next Friday.”

  She absorbed that fact, and the fact that he hadn’t told her. Her face gave nothing away. “If you pass, you’ll go back to the Gulf right away?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If you’re leaving, we need to tell our parents the truth,” she said.

  “What about your dad’s blood pressure?” Lucas asked.

  “Keeping up this marriage act was always a temporary thing while you waited for a retest,” she reminded him. “Dad’s had a few weeks of more stable blood pressure, and Cathy will be monitoring him.”

  Lucas folded his napkin. “I suppose you’ll want to file for divorce before I go.”

  “Actually…I was thinking we could wait until after the baby’s born,” she said. “That way there’ll be no confusion about your parental rights.”

  “Thanks, Merry.” He touched her hand across the table. “I wish we’d been able to work this out better.”

  “It was never going to work,” she said.

  “How would you know?” he asked, annoyed. She sounded like the smart-aleck Merry who liked to foil his plans.

  “Ask yourself this question.” Her smile was sweet, but sad. “If I wasn’t pregnant, would you want to stay married to me?”

  Why hadn’t he asked himself that question before?

  Because he didn’t like the answer.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “WHERE’S LUCAS?” MERRY’S father asked when she arrived at Cathy’s town house alone that evening.

  “Long story. I’ll tell you tomorrow.” She and Lucas had agreed they would give their parents the news of their divorce the following day. She’d declined his offer to come with her this evening. Why bother with another night of pretense? Besides, she needed some time away from him. “I need a drink,” she told her dad. Then she remembered. “Of orange juice,” she said without enthusiasm.

  Cathy’s place was cozier than Merry might have expected for a woman who acted so aloof. Her dad had said she’d lost her twin sister recently. Maybe that was why she was so moody.

  She certainly didn’t seem bad-tempered tonight. She wasn’t effusive—Merry suspected she didn’t have that in her—but she smiled and made easy conversation. When she looked at John, she seemed to glow with pleasure.

  Did the nurse love him? In the way that he deserved to be loved? If so, then who was Merry to say they shouldn’t be together? She’d learned that compromise was not only possible, but desirable in her own life; it might prove key to her father’s happiness, too.

  As they chatted over a predinner drink, Merry’s resentment lessened. If Cathy and her dad could work out a way to be happy, then Merry shouldn’t hold him to his undying love for her mother. Of course, that old love didn’t have to die, even if he found happiness again.

  “Is this you with your sister?” Merry asked Cathy, crossing to a framed photograph on the living-room wall. Silly question, since the two women in the photo were identical. Even though the clothing suggested the picture had been taken in the eighties, there was enough of today’s Cathy in the women to make it clear who they were.

  “Yes.” She seemed glad to be asked. “That was taken on vacation in the Florida Keys. Rue loved the sun.”

  In a spirit of conciliation, Merry examined a couple more photos and asked enough questions not only to please Cathy, but to limit opportunities for her dad to quiz her about Lucas’s absence.

  “Unfortunately, I don’t have any photos of the two of us that are less than ten years old,” Cathy said when they reached the end of the collection. “I kept hundreds of them on my digital camera, but Rue took it on vacation with her. It got lost in the confusion after her heart attack, and never turned up among her belongings.”

  She went very quiet at that. Merry cast around for another topic of conversation. She found it on the wall: a cross-stitched sampler that read “The more people I meet, the more I like my dog.”

  “This is cute,” Merry said. “Did you make it?”

  Cathy nodded. “For Rue’s birthday, a few years ago now. She loved dogs, but I was never a dog person, I must admit. I gave her dog away when she died. I didn’t think I could look after him with my shift work.” She pressed her lips together. “Sometimes I wish I’d kept him.” She looked tearful, and Merry winced. It seemed all roads led to her twin sister.

  “Maybe you should get a dog of your own,” John said. “For companionship.”

  “I have enough companionship.” Cathy smiled warmly at him.

  Merry saw her father’s ever-so-slight withdrawal. Uh-oh. She hoped she hadn’t been so negative about the nurse that she’d put him off.

  When her father excused himself to go the bathroom, Merry said, “Cathy, tell me honestly, how do you rate Dad’s health at the moment? His blood pressure?”

  She switched into efficient nurse mode. “He’s doing great. His BP is consistently around the 150 over 100 mark. I’m hopeful it will go lower—the doctor is still tweaking the dosage and mix of drugs.”

  “So you think it’s the drug that’s helping,” Merry said. “Rather than the fact that he’s not worrying about me.”

  “Everything helps,” Cathy said. She hesitated. “I know this is none of my business, but are you asking if a change in your marital situation—a separation or divorce, for example—would send your father’s blood pressure up?”

  Merry grimaced. “I knew you saw that message on my phone.”

  “I don’t want to know any details,” Cathy said. “My concern has only ever been your father’s health.”

  “Lucas and I plan to tell our parents tomorrow that we’re splitting,” Merry said. “I’m worried how Dad will react.

  “Truthfully, it’s not helpful,” Cathy said. “But overall, your father’s health is much better than it was before. Bad news of the kind you’re talking about might cause a short-term spike, but that can be taken into account by the doctor monitoring the efficacy of his meds. Plus,” she added carefully, “your father has someone in his life to share the stresses.”

  She meant herself, of course.

  “I’m sorry I was rude to you when you came to my place for dinner,” Merry said. “I behaved like a spoiled brat.”

  She guessed she shouldn’t be surprised when Cathy nodded, rather than uttering platitudes about how Merry hadn’t been that bad.

  “Is there any other news you’ll be telling your father?” Cathy’s gaze flickered in the direction of Merry’s stomach.

  “What makes you think…”

  “You’re drinking orange juice while looking longingly at my wineglass, and I’ve noticed you scratching your palms once or twice.” She took Merry’s right hand and turned it over. “Palmar erythema—often starts in the second month of pregnancy. Your palms will be pink and itchy probably right through the birth.” In response to Merry’s questioning look, she said, “I’ve done my share of obstetric nursing.”

  Somewhere down the hallway, the toilet flushed. Her father would return any moment.

  “I don’t want Dad to know before twelve weeks,” Merry said. “It would be devastating if something went wrong.”

  “He won’t hear it from me,” Cathy said.

  * * *

  JOHN RETURNED FROM THE bathroom to find his daughter and his girlfriend—after half a dozen dates, Cathy probably qualified for that title—getting along just fine.

  “Let’s eat,” Cathy said in a tone that almost qualified as bright.

  John had brought a birthday cake as his contribution to the meal, along with a birthday present for Cathy. Merry had brought flowers, which she’d handed over when she arrived. He should have given his gift then, but he’d missed the moment. It sat on the sideboard, wrapped in red paper, tied with a gold ribbon, as they ate chicken casserole, then sang “Happy Birthday” and cut the cake.

  He’d spent hours, days, deciding h
ow personal this present should be. Yes, he and Cathy were dating. But they weren’t intimate, and he still had that sense that if she walked out of his life tomorrow, he wouldn’t miss her.

  Now he worried that his present had been sitting there so long, she’d be thinking it was something really significant.

  He went to get it from the sideboard. “You’d better open this.” He wished the store hadn’t used such fancy wrapping, but it had been easier to accept their offer of free giftwrap than do it himself.

  “Thank you, John.” She met his eyes, smiled.

  “It’s nothing much,” he warned, but he could tell by the careful way she undid the ribbon and slid a fingernail under the tape that she wasn’t listening.

  Merry was watching as if it was a big deal, too. John felt suddenly hot. Maybe if he said he wasn’t feeling well… Come to think of it, he was a bit achy....

  Too late. Cathy pulled away the last of the red paper and opened the plain white box. She pulled out his gift.

  A coffee mug. Emblazoned with the slogan Nurses are IV Leaguers. It had seemed funny in the shop.

  Cathy turned the mug around in her hands, as if to check there wasn’t more to it. She turned it upside down.

  “It’s bone china,” John said. “Dishwasher safe.” Ugh, he was trying to sell her on a gift that looked cheap and thoughtless. It hadn’t been that cheap—in his book, twenty-five bucks was a lot for a cup—but now it looked tacky.

  “I’m pretty tired. I think I might get going.” Merry jumped to her feet. “Cathy, that dinner was delicious, and I so enjoyed talking to you.”

  John stayed sitting while Cathy saw Merry to the door. Cathy hadn’t said a word about the mug yet, not even the neutral thank-you he’d expected.

  She came back, sat down. Still saying nothing.

  “I’m sorry it’s not a very special gift,” John said. “I couldn’t think of anything.” Which wasn’t true. He’d discarded earrings, a journal and a scarf as too personal.

  “No problem,” Cathy said. “After all, it’s not like you’re serious about me.”

  John blushed. “We haven’t known each other long.” I should have got the damn earrings.