The Marriage Campaign

by Karen Templeton

  Then she spun around, fighting to keep her balance as she tramped toward her car.

  Frowning, Wes plowed his hands into his pants pockets and watched her go, hardly noticing when Bear trotted up to him, nudging a soggy stick at his hand. Only after he heard the growl of Blythe’s car engine as she took off did he acknowledge the dog, hurling the chunk of wood out near the shoreline before starting back toward his own car. Four, five times they repeated the game, Bear easily keeping Wes in his sights as they progressed along the shore. The epitome of doggy bliss, he’d bound up and present his prize, bound off again after it was tossed, his joyful determination unflagging no matter how often Wes threw the stick.

  Or how far. Or what obstacles lay in his path.

  Because that prize, by gum, was worth any amount of effort to retrieve.

  Not that Wes thought of Blythe as a stick, he thought on a dry laugh as he desanded both himself and the dog before getting into his car. But she was a prize, whether she understood that or not.

  And somehow it was up to him to make sure she did.

  Because this campaign wasn’t over yet, boys and girls. Not by a long shot.

  Chapter Eleven

  Soon, it would all be over.

  But not, Blythe thought, glimpsing Wes as she started down the short aisle toward the flower-smothered gazebo, nearly soon enough. They hadn’t seen each other, or even spoken, since that last conversation on the beach. So, as far as she was concerned, they were done. And yet, the way he was looking at her, his gaze riveted to her like he wanted to crawl inside her head, maybe not as much as she thought. Hoped. Especially when his mouth tilted in that half smile that reminded her way too much of...things. Things indelibly branded in her memory, things she wanted to forget and knew she never would.

  Moving on, she thought, fixing her own gaze straight ahead, to the pair of nervously grinning grooms waiting on either side of the jovial, slightly paunchy justice of the peace Blythe had scared up in Annapolis.

  Quinn, as well as Patrick’s daughter Lilianna, were already in the gazebo, adorable in their fancy outfits, both smiling so widely Blythe half expected to see the sun glint off their teeth, as it was off the breeze-rippled water in the estuary beyond. Yes, it was a picture-perfect day, sunny and not too warm, the bright-blue sky having shucked its customary bay haze. Yes, she thought as she took her position in the gazebo, turning to watch Mel and April start down the aisle, the brides both looked as beautiful as she ever remembered seeing them. April even had a little cleavage going on, thanks to the wee human growing apace in her tummy.

  And, yes, her mother was indeed present, wearing something resembling a real dress, and real shoes, her silver hair almost as short as Blythe’s, her smile when she caught Blythe’s eyes almost as pained.

  Her cousins reached the end of the aisle, took their soon-to-be-husbands’ hands.

  “Dearly beloved...”

  Blythe couldn’t decide if she was more angry with her mother for not telling her she was coming, or that she’d shown up for her cousins’ wedding and not her own. Actually, what most annoyed her was that she was angry at all, that Lynette still had that much power over her. Or rather, that Blythe still ceded her that much power. She’d thought she’d let go of the pointless resentment years ago.

  Apparently not.

  “...to join these couples in matrimony...”

  Weddings always made her weepy, anyway, she told herself as she blinked back tears, as the ceremony progressed through the vows to the exchange of rings. Happy tears, for her “sisters” and their terrific guys, for the happy grins on Quinn’s and Lilianna’s faces. For the heartfelt cheers from the audience as the couples kissed, signifying the beginning of their new lives together.

  Then she noticed Wes again, his attention focused on her rather than the blissful newlyweds. And the tears welled anew, dammit, for what she wanted but wasn’t hers to have.

  And wallowing, especially today, was not only as pointless as the resentment, but downright selfish. After all, happiness was contagious, right? So bring it on.

  Sooner rather than later would be good, she thought morosely as she and the girls followed the couples back up the aisle. A fake smile stretched her cheeks, making her feel like a creepy, chiffon-clad clown.

  Todd and Michael, the fabulous couple April had hired to help her run the inn, had insisted on seeing to the reception, leaving Blythe free to mingle. They’d thought they were doing her a favor. In reality, not so much. Especially when she turned to see her mother, like a drag queen but without the fashion sense, striding toward her, reminding her eerily of her grandmother. Despite having married into St. Mary’s upper echelon, Nana had never done dresses very well, either.

  Not surprisingly, Lynette didn’t reach for her. Instead she stopped far enough away to respect Blythe’s “space,” but still close enough that they could hear each other over the din of laughter and excited chatter.

  Fidgeting with her clunky necklace, her mother gave Blythe a strained smile. “You look very nice.”

  “Thanks.” The embodiment of an elegant, Ethiopian prince, Michael swooped past, bearing a tray of filled wineglasses. Blythe snatched one, took a long slug. On an empty stomach. “Why are you here, Lynette?”

  Once upon a time she’d called her mother Mommy. Until she realized the word actually made her mother flinch.

  Something Blythe couldn’t quite define flashed in Lynette’s eyes. “Because my nieces invited me.” Her chin—yes, chin, singular, she was still thin and striking even in her fifties—came up. “And it sounded like fun.”

  More wine slipped down Blythe’s gullet. A soft, warm glow ensued. “My wedding was fun.”

  “Your wedding was a mistake,” her mother said bluntly. Again, exactly like Nana. Forget falling far from the tree—this apple still had a death grip on the branch.

  “You met Giles exactly once,” Blythe said. Stubbornly. Stupidly. Considering the whole thing had been a mistake. And a colossal one at that.

  “Which is all it took to know he was exactly like Ronald.”

  Irritation spiked...until Blythe realized her mother was right. Hell, Giles could have played her father in the movie, they were so much alike. Only at the time Blythe had been too besotted to see it. But the realization that her mother had, and still remained silent, galled her even more.

  “So why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Would you have listened? Especially to me—?”

  “You must be Blythe’s mother,” Wes said, appearing out of nowhere, hand extended, campaign grin on full display.

  What the hell? At least her mother looked as nonplussed as Blythe felt.

  “Yes, I am.” Her reluctance obvious, she shook his hand. “Lynette Broussard. And you are...?”

  “Wes Phillips.” He slipped his hand into his pants’ pocket. Still grinning. “Neighbor, five houses north. It’s been great to watch the old inn come back to life. Your daughter’s done a fantastic job with it. Not that I know a lot about design, but she certainly seems very talented to me. You should be very proud of her.”

  Her mother actually blushed. As well she should, since prior to the inn she’d never seen any of Blythe’s work. Not her design work, anyway. And her attitude toward Blythe’s earlier artistic endeavors had ranged from dismissive to uninterested. But now her eyes veered to Blythe’s, followed by a small smile.

  “Yes, she is. And I am.”

  Talk about your out-of-body experiences. And the wine wasn’t helping—

  “Good,” Wes said, briefly touching Blythe’s shoulder as he sauntered off, but not before giving her an I’ve-got-your-back look that seared her all the way through. Followed by a jolt to her midsection when she caught the all-too-knowing one in her mother’s eyes. Lynette may have been aloof, but she wasn’t an idiot.

&nb
sp; “Now that one’s nothing like your father,” she said, watching Wes’s departure for a moment before facing Blythe again. “We need to talk.”

  Blythe glowered at the shimmering liquid in her still half-full glass, then let out a sigh as she set it on a nearby table. Because running was running, no matter what form it took. She did, however, wobble back toward the wedding venue—not because she was tipsy, but because her heels kept gouging the damn grass—where she grabbed a folding chair out of Todd’s hands before he could stack it on a cart, yanked it open and sank on it. Graciously, the bearded redhead opened another one for her mother, who’d followed.

  Then Blythe leaned back in the chair, letting the breeze clear the muzzies from her brain, and waited for her mother to say whatever she had to say.

  * * *

  “Hate to tell you this, but your face might as well be a CNN news crawl right now.”

  Wes turned from watching Blythe and her mother to face the radiant, satin-gowned brunette at his side. The inn’s long back porch, where they were doing cocktails and appetizers before dinner, gave him—and everyone else—an unobstructed view of the mother-daughter chat going on down on the lawn. But between the distance, the constant breeze and the thrum of conversation, listening in was not happening.

  “Blythe ever talk about her relationship with her mother?”

  “Not much,” Mel said, leaning on the porch railing, cradling a glass of wine. “In fact, when we were kids she barely mentioned her childhood at all. I remember seeing Aunt Lynette once or twice, when she’d drop Blythe off at our grandmother’s, but that was it. I don’t think I ever actually spoke to her. Not a close family, as you may have gathered. Then the three of us lost touch for years, of course. And since we’ve reconnected...”

  She took a sip of the wine. “Blythe’s always given off this whole ‘I’m so in control’ vibe, but if you ask me there’s a boatload of hurt simmering inside that woman.”

  “Simmering? Try a furious boil,” Wes said.

  Mel’s brows rose. Wes wondered if her cousins knew about Blythe’s “bad girl” years, decided this wasn’t the time to bring them up. Nor was it his place to do so. Even so, Blythe’s opening up to him had been gratifying, in a weird sort of way. If nothing else, she apparently trusted him. As much as he suspected she trusted anyone, that is.

  As though reading his mind, Mel said, “As I said, she’s never said much. But she’s dropped enough hints to make April and me think she’s had things a lot rougher than she lets on. That the people she should have been able to rely on let her down the most. I’m guessing nobody’s ever, not once, put Blythe’s needs ahead of their own.”

  “And I’d say your hunch is dead-on. And yet...she does for everyone else.”

  “Exactly.” Her eyes slanted to his again. “I take it you do like her?”

  Wes sighed. “You might say. Although she accused me of being fascinated by her. Intrigued.”

  “Are you?”

  After a moment, Wes said, “Yes. In the same way complex math problems used to intrigue me as a kid. As though I can’t rest until I figure her out.”

  That got a soft chuckle before Mel laid a hand on his wrist. “And right there is probably more than anyone else has ever given her. Let me tell you something about our Blythe—when we were kids, she used to lord it over us like nobody’s business. Probably because, now that I think about it, that was one of the few ways she felt in charge of her own life. But she was also the big sister neither of us had. In a good way, I mean. She watched out for us and covered for us and would let us crawl in bed with her when it was storming or we’d had a nightmare. And it kills me to think she never had anyone do that for her.”

  “It does me, too,” Wes said, watching as Blythe and her mother both stood, staring awkwardly at each other for a moment before Blythe stalked back toward the house, her gait hitching slightly when she realized he was watching her.

  He sensed Mel’s taking in the silent exchange before she said, “You could be the one to change all that for her, if you’re so inclined. Because I can tell she’s intrigued, too, by the possibility of finally getting what she’s never had. Scared, but curious. But it won’t be easy—”

  “Wondered where you’d gotten off to,” Ryder said, the dark-haired doctor coming up to slip an arm around his wife’s waist. And, truth be told, envy pinched when Wes witnessed Mel’s soft smile for her husband, even if the envy was almost immediately followed by another wave of determination.

  “Considering my day job?” Wes said to Mel. “I wouldn’t know ‘easy’ if it bit me in the butt.”

  Leaning into her husband’s embrace, Blythe’s cousin lifted her glass to him. “Then go get her, cowboy. And don’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

  But before he could do that—his gaze wandered out to the gazebo, where Blythe’s mother stood by the railing, looking out over the water—there was someone else he needed to have a little chat with.

  Lynette angled toward him as he approached, a suggestion of a smile on a face thinner than Blythe’s, the bone structure more pronounced. “So my suspicions were correct,” she said, facing the water again. “You’re interested in my daughter.”

  Wes lowered himself to one of the built-in seats, tugging slightly at his tie in the rising temperature. “If I was only ‘interested,’ Ms. Broussard, I doubt I’d be here right now.”

  “With me, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  She smiled again, more fully this time, then sat as well, on the bench across from him. “She tells me you’re in Congress.”

  “Three-quarters through my first term, yes.”

  “So you’re up for reelection in November?”

  “That’s right.”

  Lynette’s eyes narrowed, just slightly. “And you have a son?”

  “Jack. He’ll be twelve next month.”

  “That’s quite a full plate, isn’t it?”

  Fighting a smile of his own, Wes nodded. If he wasn’t mistaken, he was being interviewed. If not grilled. “If you’re asking if there’s room for your daughter on that plate, the answer is absolutely. And yes, I know all about her background.”

  “I see. And you don’t think that could be an issue? For your career?”

  The very question that had plagued him to the point of wondering how he’d been able to get any work done at all—let alone sleep—during the past week. But like those math problems that, as a kid, he’d refused to abandon unsolved, Wes refused to accept that there wasn’t a solution to this one, as well. One that benefitted everyone.

  “And what if I said that Blythe’s worth that risk?”

  Tears bloomed in Lynette’s eyes before she stood again, leaning hard on the railing facing the water so Wes could only see her profile. He got to his feet, too, propping one shoulder on a support post with his arms crossed, his relaxed posture giving the lie to the anger seething inside.

  “Blythe also told me why she did the things she did, in a desperate attempt to get her parents—you, in particular—to pay attention to her. To love her. That nothing worse happened—that nobody got hurt, that her spirit wasn’t completely crushed—is a damn miracle.”

  Finally, Lynette looked at him, guilt screaming in her eyes. “I suppose you think she has every right to hate me.”

  Wes thought about that for a moment. “The right to? Maybe. Not my call. But do you think she does?” Slowly, Lynette shook her head. “I don’t think so, either.”

  “And do you?” Lynette quietly asked.

  “Hate you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What I think,” Wes said after a pause, “is that you and her father—and Blythe’s actions, as a consequence—made an incredibly generous human being believe she’s inherently unlovable. That she’s not worth anybody’s putting their butt on the line fo
r her. And that breaks my heart. Not to mention makes me mad as hell.”

  Several seconds passed before Lynette sank back onto the bench, hunched over her folded hands. “Believe it or not, it breaks my heart, too. That I couldn’t see past my own pain to realize what I was doing to my daughter.” She lifted her eyes to his. “I was a terrible mother, Wes. And I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive myself for that. But if you can give her even some of what I never did, if you could...could...” Her eyes watered again. “If you could somehow help her find her way out of that dark place her father and I put her in, I’d be more grateful than I can say.”

  “There’s nothing saying you can’t still do that, you know.”

  Lynette gave him a weak smile. “In the time I have left? I doubt it.”

  Over the punch to his gut, Wes said, “Then I promise you, I’ll do what I can,” before he walked away.

  Chapter Twelve

  Two days later, Blythe slumped on Mel and Ryder’s new couch, in their new house in town, trying to focus on some dance movie Quinn had picked from the On Demand cable menu. Except two days later she still hadn’t been able to shake her unease over seeing Wes’s making a beeline for her mother after the wedding. Or catching him talking to Mel before. Because no way could either of those things be good, or good for her.

  Unfortunately, all she could do was sit here—in the same tank top and drawstring pajama bottoms she’d worn to bed—and speculate as Channing Tatum flexed his mighty fine muscles on Mel and Ryder’s huge TV, since she doubted Mel would appreciate a “What the hell was all that about?” phone call on her honeymoon. Or any phone call, probably. And confronting her mother before she’d returned to Harper’s Ferry had been an exercise in futility, since the woman had gone all cagey on her about what she and Wes had actually discussed.

  Of course, she could call Wes himself, she supposed. Suuuuure she could. And say what, exactly? Act like some paranoid loser chick, demanding to be made privy to the conversations?