Finding out I was pregnant had been like playing one of those games: thrilling and hopeful and every good excited feeling wrapped into one. I’d felt that way, reveling in the idea that when the baby comes I’ll be winning something that is against the odds, like an honest to God accomplishment or something.
Now as I lie on the examination table with the cool gel slipping the ultrasound wand over my belly, I just feel like the carny manning the game station has been using superglue on all my pins.
“We should discuss what to do from here.”
That’s all the doctor says before leaving the room to give us time.
I laugh bitterly and continue to stare up at the white ceiling, my emotions seesawing between anger and weariness.
“Dove.”
I hear the sadness and the need to comfort in his voice, and I finally turn my head to meet his eyes, my own gaze rueful.
“I guess it was too good to be true anyway.”
The baby, or what we’d thought was a baby, is nothing more than a fertilized egg currently trapped in one of my fallopian tubes. Ectopic pregnancies apparently are not as rare as one might think, according to Doctor Barrows, but I have to go in for a procedure to get ‘it’, as the doctor had so tactlessly called my kid, removed.
“I’m…disappointed,” I say, watching his pale face tighten into that familiar mask.
“It will be all right, dove. Barrows said there’s no reason you can’t get pregnant again. We’re lucky to have caught it this early before something bad happened to you.”
Like getting all excited about a baby and then learning that I can’t possibly carry it to full term without dying?
“We should call him back in and talk about this.”
I know he’d prefer to talk, to assure me that these things happen and that everything will be okay, but I just can’t. I need action now, not hours to sit and stare at the weary disappointment written all over his expressionless face.
And…I need to get to grips with the fact that instead of soul-crushing sadness I’m just relieved that this didn’t go any further, to the point of actual attachment before I’d have to let go of an actual baby.
Sounds harsh, I know, but I’m comforting myself with the fact that the egg isn’t a full baby yet. I have to, or I’ll probably break down and get all hysterical.
So much for this being the day of new beginnings, I think, remembering that I was going to declare myself and demand answers from Vincent. Instead of getting a new start and the happiness I’ve been lacking, I now have to face a ‘procedure’, and, ironically, the crushing disappointment of realizing that Vincent and I no longer have to get married.
Chapter Twenty Five
Only time can heal wounds. At least, that’s what my dead Grammy Elsa had always said. I’d been six at the time and hadn’t quite understood her reasoning because, of course, I’d been a smart ass and taken it literally, telling her in an imperious voice that she was wrong. Band aids and stitches are what heal you, and medicine, of course.
Now I know what she’d meant, and I still don’t believe her, because instead of feeling like shit four days after my procedure, I feel great from nothing other than the affectionate support that Vincent has given me.
I must be heartless to have gotten over a failed pregnancy this quickly, or so I keep telling myself, but instead of moping around, pining for a baby I never truly had, I am spending the day sightseeing with the man I love.
“You’re looking better, dove. You’ve got your color back,” he says, pulling me down to laze on the grass surrounding the Statue of Liberty.
“I feel better, babe,” I say honestly, picking at my half eaten egg salad sandwich.
The tour guide starts rounding everyone up for a last hem and haw about the landmark, and I lace our fingers together as we amble over, listening with only half an ear.
I’ve enjoyed this time together and the reprieve he’s given me after everything, but it’s high time that I stopped being such a baby and started facing some of my issues.
Number one: I need clarification on the whole love thing.
Number two: I want to know if he still intends for us to get married, something I am now fully on board with and quite excited about. If it happens.
Number three: Eric fucking Brennan needs to be removed from my life immediately, before I lose my shit—the crank calls started again after I’d come out of the hospital, so I know someone’s definitely watching me.
Number four: I need to get back to painting my happy shit again, and for that to happen I need to be happy.
Number five: I absolutely do not want to live in some pretentious piece of shit mansion in the ‘burbs, and I won’t compromise, even if things work out and we stay together and have another kid.
That set, I continue to stroll around as he listens attentively to everything being said by the tour guide.
Two hours later, just as we get home, my cell rings, and this time when I answer it I know exactly what to say.
“Leave me alone, asshole.”
Vincent frowns at me before grabbing the phone, his grimace pronounced when he puts it to his ear only to find the line dead.
“Cecelia.”
That one word, spoken in that tone, is a warning that I take seriously. Vincent never uses my given name, or even ‘Sissy’, for that matter, unless he’s genuinely annoyed.
“Come on into the living room, Vin. We need to talk,” I say over my shoulder as I waltz in and immediately walk over to the bar, grabbing two beers, just in case.
He accepts his, grimacing—Vincent likes English beer, and not the ‘watered down American variety’—and spears me with a look.
“I have a few things to say, so let me finish before you go all Vincent on me. One, I want to know whether you love me at all. See, I love you, and I really want that sentiment returned before we can go any further. Two, I want to know if, now that we’re not having a baby, you still intend to marry me. Three, you need to quit talking about moving. Four, yes, that was probably Eric calling, since I’ve been getting crank calls for well over a week now. And lastly, five, if you don’t really love me, please, just let me go so I can go on with my life.”
When I finally wind down enough to look back at him without hyperventilating, it’s to see him laughing silently at me, his full lipped mouth spread so wide I can count his teeth without trouble.
“I’ve always appreciated your lack of guile, dove. Have I told you that lately?” he asks on a laugh, his body language going loose and relaxed as he leans back in his chair and sips his beer.
“Good, because I’m not into playing any more mind games. Now answer the damn question. Do you or do you not love me?”
“Of course,” he answers, seeming offended. “Do you think I fly across the country only to endure hours of interrogation from your brother just for laughs? I’ll have you know—”
He doesn’t get any further because I’m in his arms and kissing him to death, my mouth grinning so hugely it’s hard to kiss without our teeth clacking together.
“You could have said something, Vincent,” I say later, after some really intense love making—oral only for the time being, thanks to Doctor Barrows. “I’ve been all wound up and miserable. I even painted a gloomy landscape!” I accuse, slapping his chest.
He chuckles and pulls me back to his chest, his fingers running through my hair in a comforting caress that lulls me.
“I haven’t answered any of your other questions, so let’s clear a few more things up before you fall asleep, dove. Yes, I love you, wholly and completely. Of course we’re still getting married; that’s never been up for debate. We won’t move if you don’t want to, and though those leads on Brennan did not pan out, I will find him, even if I have to do it myself.”
I fall asleep a few minutes later after a toe-tingling kiss, a smile on my face and the sudden idea for a new piece swirling at the edges of my consciousness.
Chapter Twenty Six
�
��Oh, my God. Who elected me to walk down the aisle in lieu of a bridesmaid?”
I giggle at Parker and turn away from the mirror to see him sprawled across the sofa in the little room I’ve been allowed to use to get ready for the ceremony.
Mama and Daddy have flown in for the little service and the wedding breakfast, along with Justin and Bee. While I still consider Bee a friend, I haven’t been that up to a reconciliation, so that’s left Parker as my only pal, and thus his recent designation of bridesman, my take on the modern manmaid.
He’s dressed in a white tux, his only consideration to my color scheme a bright yellow rose, pinned rakishly to his lapel.
“Me,” I say, giggling when he scowls and eyes the bouquet I’ve gotten him.
“Can I at least ditch the flowers? Jesus, Sis, if your wedding pictures leak to the press I’ll be a laughingstock.”
“Nope. I want you strolling your sexy ass down that aisle holding those flowers as if you were born a freaking queen. This is my day,” I warn, my eyes daring him to naysay me.
It’s something I have to do. Not because I’m some sort of sadistic bitch or anything, hell no, that designation belongs fully with Julia, the woman I’ve convinced to attend my wedding in the hopes of setting Parker up with his long lost love.
Her reception had not been warm till I’d let it slip that Parker was performing bridesman duty. That she’d loved, a lot. To the point that I’d had to listen to her chuckle for a full two minutes before she’d whammied me.
If Parker carried a bouquet, she’d be there with bells on. And she’d go so far as to give ‘the asshat’ a chance to convince her of his worth.
The things I’ll do for love are just plain weird, so I’d agreed and spent the next two days bullying Parker into accepting the inevitable. He’s gonna walk me to my guy, carrying yellow roses like a pro, or I’m gonna drag him there by the roots of his hair.
“Christ. Fine. But you’re gonna owe me big for this,” he mutters, glaring at the roses with a baleful sneer. “You sure you’re ready for this? If you’re not, there’s no shame in pulling a runner.”
“No. God. I’ve told you a million times, I want to get married to Vincent. Now quit your griping and come fix my train.”
My dress is a simple off the shoulder gown that pools in loving layers at my pump-clad feet. It reminds me of those dresses from the medieval period, only it has no sleeves, and it’s got a short lace train that trails at the back.
“Sooorry! I just don’t see what the rush is, not that—” he breaks off suddenly and looks away, his face so guilty.
“Calm down, Meryl Streep,” I say when he starts babbling apologies. “I’m not gonna have a nervous breakdown just because you mentioned it. I’m fine,” I assure him, checking my hair one last time. “But yes, we were getting married before because of it, and when that…didn’t work out, well…” I say with a shrug. “We still love each other and want to get married.”
I’d told Parker everything about my ultimatum and Vincent’s response, though I’m not exactly thrilled by his dubious attitude to Vincent’s sudden declaration.
Okay, so maybe there was a tiny little voice in my head questioning his sudden capitulation, when I know that Vincent has always been the kind of guy to ignore emotional entanglements…
A knock on the door interrupts us, and I watch as Mama bustles in, her eyes shining with tears of happiness when she sees me in my wedding dress, all dolled up and looking gorgeous, if I say so myself.
“Oh, Sissy, you’re a beautiful bride. Daddy is so happy he’s pure busting at the seams to walk you down the aisle. Come on slow pokes, let’s go get you hitched.”
The rest of it is a joy-filled blur as I meet my father at the set of double doors and watch Parker keep his end of the bargain, his hips swinging wildly as he sashays his way down the aisle.
I giggle and feel my father laugh when Parker sees Julia and almost trips over his own feet, he comes to such a sudden halt. He makes it to his spot—by sheer force of will on his part—and then I’m floating toward Vincent on Daddy’s arm, my eyes misting over when he winks at me and stands taller.
The vows go quickly, and soon I am kissing my husband and accepting the well wishes of everyone in attendance—Bee’s included, as I’m not a total monster.
When we’re finally seated and eating a late breakfast in a reserved suite at the Carlton, I look over and just enjoy the sight of all the people I love together, their laughter and conversation sending a warm flood of pure happiness to my heart.
“Happy, dove?” Vincent asks, placing a reverent kiss to my hand right over my wedding band.
“Very,” I sigh, smiling contentedly. “That was the perfect wedding. I was half afraid Mama would go rogue on me and pull together one of those society fiascos she’s been dreaming of since I was a little girl.”
“She felt that we deserved a break after…the loss,” he murmurs, running his stubbled cheek along my knuckles.
The reminder fizzles some of my euphoria, and I just nod, looking away to fiddle with my cold eggs. While I’ve forced myself to move on and not dwell on something that wasn’t meant to be, it rips me up every time I see his sadness.
Vincent…well, he’s taken this a lot harder than I have, and some days I catch him staring at me in that inscrutable way he used to, as if he’s seeing something that disturbs him.
A few times he’s started to tell me something, something I think is important, but he never quite gets there and ends up changing the subject.
It makes me antsy, but as I’ve said, time is what we need right now.
“Sis, come on over here and tell Julia about your new series. She didn’t get to buy any of those from the last exhibition, and she wants dibs on one from the next.”
I roll my eyes at Parker—really, the man’s practically jumping through hoops to impress the woman—and shuffle over with a smirk, shaking off the melancholy from Vincent’s words.
By the time I’ve told her everything there is to know about what I plan to do next, and have practically signed a promise in blood, Vincent is nowhere to be seen.
“Hey, Mama, did you see where my husband ran off to?” I ask, bending down to wrap her in a quick hug.
“No, baby. Beau is also MIA. Maybe try one of the bedrooms? They’re probably taking calls already. You know how these businessmen are,” she says with an eye roll.
“Yeah, but no business or work at my wedding breakfast,” I mock growl, giving her a kiss before going in search of my errant husband and his partner in crime.
The soft murmur of voices pulls me down the passage, and I shake my head with a laugh, thinking ruefully that there’s no changing a tycoon. Pausing at the door to the master bedroom, I slowly push down that handle and inch in, not wanting to cause a stir in case one or both of them are on a call.
“You deserve this, son. You did everything I asked and more. I couldn’t have chosen better for my Sissy girl.”
I stop dead in my tracks and duck to the right, my breath stalling as I plaster myself to the wall behind a thin, decorative bookcase at the door.
“As you said, sir, she needs a strong hand. Now that we’re married, I can guarantee Cecilia won’t be running wild in the streets of New York.”
“Good, good. I’ll transfer my shares in Blake’s over to you immediately, as well as my proxy. That should get you enough of a controlling share to shut those bastards down.”
The words become a blur of smug crowing and backslaps that stutter through my heart with resounding force. I’m frozen, numb as I half listen to what they’re discussing, my blood frozen in my veins as the extent of their duplicity finally sinks in.
This… I can’t even compute what this is, but as they talk it all comes down to one thing: Vincent and my father are in cahoots. Daddy has used me, trapped me with a man whose only interest in me is—
“You son of a bitch!” the word explodes from me as I come away from my hiding place and glare at them, my heart
breaking so hard it’s difficult to catch my breath. “You used his interest in his family’s company…you…”
I can’t finish, not when I look up at Vincent and see the truth in his cold green eyes. I see nothing there anymore, no trace of the lovingly attentive man he’s been. Only calculation and a satisfaction that makes bile rise up in my throat.
“You never loved me. Did you?” I ask, feeling the sting of tears and deep humiliation.
The hard look, that coldness that has managed to seep straight into me wavers, and he shakes his head regretfully.
“Let me explain, dove.”
Chapter Twenty Seven
“Yo, Lily, order up, girl.”
As Nico dings the little bell at the window and pushes two orders of eggs over easy, bacon, toast, and lamb sausage my way, I wipe a bead of sweat from my brow and huff out a wired breath.
“You okay, Lil?”
“Fine, Nic, just tired. My section’s busting at the seams, and I still have to cover half of Ginger’s tables. Fucking college brats aren’t making it easy, either. Just don’t screw up their order, huh? Those rich idiots are already making my life a misery.”
He grins at me and hocks back, waggling his brows at me in a yay or nay move that makes me laugh and shake my head. The brats may be working on my nerves, but no one deserves a booger sandwich, and I say so.
“Your call, babe. Not me who has to serve the little assholes.”
I snort and grab the order, walking away with a bright smile plastered on as I deliver it to Earl and his wife Pearl and trudge back to get them coffee.
The last three and a half months-not that I’m counting—have been…enlightening. After confronting Vincent and my—Beau, I’d run out of the hotel wearing a ten grand wedding dress and nothing else.
I couldn’t go home because right now that was Vincent’s house, and I had no money, ID, nothing, so I’d grabbed a cab and begged the cabbie to use his phone.
JARED (Lane Brothers Book 4) Page 26