Never a Bride

by JoAnn Ross

  Cait shrugged. “Beats me. She was always the most outgoing of the three of us.” Lily Padgett’s warm, generous heart and open, gregarious midwestern ways had contributed to her immense charm. Apparently it had also contributed to her downfall, Cait mused.

  There had been a time, only a few weeks ago, when she would have used Lily’s tragic mistake as additional proof that giving away your heart could only result in pain. But now those days seemed a lifetime ago. Before Sloan.

  “It’s sad thinking of her keeping such a dark secret.”

  “We should have been there,” Blythe stated firmly.

  “I should have shot him,” Cait said, just as firmly.

  They had no more time to discuss it as Lily finally appeared. It crossed Blythe’s mind that she should have exited the plane sooner, with the other first class passengers, but then the three women were hugging and kissing and crying and the thought was immediately forgotten.

  After collecting Lily’s luggage, Blythe drove them to Venice, where they ate grilled chicken and roasted red pepper pizza at the Sidewalk café on the ocean front. Although there were certainly more glamorous spots to dine in Los Angeles, Blythe had thought her friend might get a kick out of the small restaurant that had long been a hangout for L.A.’s most eclectic creative community.

  “This is wonderful,” Lily said with a long, drawn out sigh as she settled down at an open-air table.

  “You must be exhausted.” Blythe’s judicious gaze swept over Lily’s pale features. She was still lovely, with her long hair fashioned in a French braid that fell nearly to her waist and her wide blue eyes. But before her marriage, she’d been bright and lively, a literal whirlwind of activity that belied her fragility of looks. Now, in contrast, she seemed merely fragile.

  “It was a long flight,” Lily agreed with a faint smile that was worlds different from the bright and sunny one Blythe and Cait were used to seeing. “And the baby seemed determined to jog all the way from Kennedy to LAX.” She pressed her palms against her swollen belly.

  “I still can’t believe that you’re pregnant,” Blythe said, wanting more than anything to touch Lily’s rounded stomach, but unwilling to invade her space without being invited. “It must be the most amazing feeling.” Remembering all Lily had been through in these past months, Blythe guiltily tapped down the faint envy that stirred through her.

  This time Lily’s smile reached her weary eyes. “Amazing. And exhausting.”

  Blythe had been right when she’d given her opinion that Lily was upset about something, Cait determined. Something was very wrong.

  “So, are you going to tell us what the problem is?” she asked with her typical forthrightness. “Or are we going to spend the rest of the day playing twenty questions?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lily hedged, proving herself a miserable liar. She turned her attention to the row of psychics who’d set up shop at card tables along the sidewalk. “I’ve always wanted to have my fortune told.”

  “My treat,” Cait said. “After you tell us what’s got you so depressed. Besides the obvious, of course.”

  “Nothing.” Her unpainted lip began to tremble. “Really. It’s just that it was a long flight, and I’m still trying to get over Junior’s death, and—”

  “Junior was a womanizer,” Cait argued. “For Pete’s sake, Lily, the man was with his mistress when his car ran off that bridge.”

  Lily lifted her chin but her eyes watered. “He was my husband.”

  It was bad enough that she was on the verge of crying. Again! Lily absolutely refused to put a pall over Blythe’s wedding by revealing how much she hated her dead husband for leaving her—and their child—at the mercy of his icy but horrendously treacherous parents. Once again her hands settled on her stomach, this time the gesture one of maternal protection.

  “Stop subjecting Lily to the third degree,” Blythe instructed Cait firmly. “She’s flown all the way across the country and she’s undoubtedly worn-out.” She reached out and patted Lily’s hand, which was no longer adorned by the diamond solitaire Junior had given her for an engagement ring.

  Although Blythe now knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that something was terribly wrong, she didn’t want to push. “Meanwhile,” she said, “let me fill you in on the plans for the wedding. Such as they are.”

  Blythe was grateful when Lily did not point out the obvious lack of planning given to the ceremony. She could only hope that her friend assumed that all California weddings were taken more casually than her own New York one had been.

  Although Lily had professed a desire to get married in Iowa, in the Methodist church where she’d attended Sunday school, where her parents had sung in the choir every Sunday morning, she’d been quickly and firmly overruled by her future in-laws. They had pointed out that a rural wedding would make it impossible for their numerous friends and business acquaintances to attend.

  Desperately in love, and seemingly born with a desire to please, Lily had caved in without putting forth any argument. It was better this way, she’d assured Cait and Blythe, who’d both counseled her to have the wedding she wanted. There was no way her farmer parents could afford even a small wedding, let alone the elaborate ceremony the Van Cortlandts were expecting.

  Which was why, on a rainy summer morning, Lily and J. Carter Van Cortlandt, had exchanged vows to a packed crowd in the Gothic Revival-style St. Thomas Episcopal Church on Fifth Avenue.

  Lily looked up from the single page of typed paper. “Do you love Alan, Blythe?” she asked suddenly.

  “Of course.” Blythe ignored Cait’s grimace. “I wouldn’t be marrying him if I didn’t love him.”

  “And does he love you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Does he make you crazy?”

  “If you mean does he have any nagging little flaws—”

  “No.” Lily leaned forward, her gaze turning inordinately serious. “I mean, in bed. Does he drive you mad when you make love?”

  Remembering all too well that Lily, ignoring all the young men who’d tried to change her mind, had insisted on going to her nuptial bed a virgin, such a question surprised Blythe.

  “That’s a rather personal question, Lily,” she said softly, glancing around to see if anyone else had heard them.

  “You and Cait always told me about the men you slept with,” Lily pressed on, seemingly determined to discover the truth. “Why should this be any different?”

  “Because Alan’s different.” Just as she’d hedged when Cait had asked a similar question, Blythe was not about to admit to those times when she’d felt vaguely disappointed after their lovemaking. “He’s the man I love, Lily. The man I’m gong to spend the rest of my life with. I don’t feel comfortable sharing our intimate moments. Not even with you.”

  Lily gave her another long, unfathomable look. “I suppose I can understand that,” she decided finally. “And I realize I don’t have all that much experience, but the one thing I have learned, Blythe, is that if a man can’t make you fly, and you can’t make him burn, you’re probably letting yourself in for a lot of pain down the road.”

  Cait realized that with that single statement, Lily had told them more about her marriage than she’d intended. She also made Cait realize exactly how special her lovemaking with Sloan was. Although Lily was right about Blythe and Cait having experienced more lovers, never had Cait ever met a man who could make her fly like Sloan Wyndham.

  That thought led to another. Sloan’s belief, which was admittedly seeming less crazy by the day, that they were destined to spend their lives together.

  For the next hour, the trio gossiped about old school-mates over lunch, watched the parade of in-line skaters and joggers as they indulged in gooey hot fudge sundaes, after which they had their fortunes told by three separate psychics, each of whom assured them that after a few heartbreaks, they would all find true love, wealth and fame.

  “The hell with the love and fame,” Lily decided as
they walked back to the beachfront lot where Blythe had parked her car. “I’ll take the wealth.” Her tone was, for her, strangely firm.

  Cait and Blythe exchanged a brief look, both remembering the young farm girl who’d never professed any desire for money. Which had made the fact that she’d married into one of the wealthiest families on the eastern seaboard even more surprising.

  Once again Blythe reminded herself this was not the time to delve into the obvious changes in Lily.

  “I’ll settle for fame,” she decided, already secretly imagining Alexandra Romanov’s story rocketing her into the lofty realm of Academy Award-winning producers.

  “I guess that leaves me with love,” Cait decided.

  Knowing Cait’s feelings on the subject, Lily and Blythe both laughed. Wondering what they’d say if they knew she actually considered it the best choice of the three, Cait merely grinned.

  For that suspended, perfect moment, they could have been back in college, sharing a giggle while studying for finals.

  Unfortunately, Lily thought sadly, as Blythe drove up into the hills after the lengthy, enjoyable lunch, life didn’t stop when things seemed perfect. Like the age-old rhythm of the sea, it continued its eternal ebb and flow.

  Whether you wanted it to or not.

  * * *

  THE DAY FOR THE WEDDING dawned bright and clear and sunny. Although Alan had wanted a large church wedding to which he’d be able to invite numerous members of the hospital staff, in the end, he’d settled—begrudgingly—for a private affair with close friends in Blythe’s garden.

  Once again it was like old times as the three women dressed and primped for the ceremony together in Blythe’s second-floor bedroom.

  Outside, a harpist, hired for the occasion, was entertaining the small gathering of family and guests seated on the rented satin-covered chairs. Beneath a white arbor emblazoned with scarlet Don Juan roses, Alan stood tall and straight, with his groomsman—another doctor—by his side, waiting for his bride to join him.

  He looked extremely handsome in his dark suit, Blythe considered, looking down at him from behind the French doors leading out to the balcony. His blond hair gleamed golden in the sun, the random strands of silver glistened at-tractively.

  I love him, Blythe told herself. I do. Truly. Oh, he could be a bit stuffy from time to time, she admitted. But she’d much rather her husband be accused of being dull than carousing around like some out-of-control adolescent.

  As for the fact that Alan didn’t really appreciate her work, Blythe knew she could be accused of possessing tunnel vision from time to time. Especially like now, when she was working on a project she cared deeply about. Without Alan around to complain, she could easily become one of those grim, humorless, driven females Joan Crawford used to portray in those black-and-white career woman movies.

  Alan was good for her, Blythe assured herself yet again. He’d be a decent, caring husband. And a strong male role model for their children.

  “You’re lucky,” Lily murmured, her soft tone breaking into Blythe’s thoughts. She was gazing out the French doors at the garden below. “My grandma Padgett always said, ’Happy is the bride the sun shines on.’”

  She was smiling, but both Blythe and Cait would have had to have been deaf not to hear the sadness in her soft tone. Her words reminded everyone of how it had been raining cats and dogs the day Lily had married the scion to all those New York banking millions.

  “As nice a thought as that is, Lily,” Cait drawled, “I’m not sure it counts out here. Since the sun shines just about every day. And Lord knows, California’s divorce rate isn’t anything to brag about.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Lily smiled and ran her palms down the front of her pleated maternity dress. “It’s just a saying, after all.”

  “But it’s still a nice thought,” Blythe said, wanting to bring a smile to those pale lips.

  The anniversary clock on Blythe’s dresser chimed the hour, signaling it was time for the trio to go downstairs.

  Blythe took a deep breath that was meant to calm, but didn’t, and pressed her hands against her stomach, where giant condors had suddenly taken up residence.

  “There’s still time to change your mind,” Cait advised, determined to give it one last shot. Having fallen head over heels in love with Sloan, she wanted both her friends to be as happy as she was.

  “Don’t be silly.” Blythe threw back her bare shoulders, reminding Cait of a death row inmate preparing for the long walk to the electric chair. “I’m not going to disappoint all those people down there.”

  Cait found herself wishing for a call from the governor, offering Blythe a reprieve. When Lily gave her a puzzled, concerned look, she knew their thoughts were running along the same track.

  “Better to disappoint a few friends than spend the rest of your life regretting what you should have done,” Lily advised, her own expression now as grave as Cait’s.

  “Honestly.” Blythe shook her head and managed a weak laugh. “You two are overreacting to a normal, everyday case of prewedding jitters.”

  She scooped up her white orchid bouquet from the bed and marched out the door. Toward her groom.

  Cait took a quick glance in the mirror, assured that her makeup covered the yellowing bruises that had not yet faded. Then, exchanging another frustrated, worried look, she and Lily followed the bride downstairs.

  Lily was first to walk down the white runner. Although her obviously pregnant condition drew a few murmurs—and a slight frown from the groom—most people smiled.

  Cait was next. Sitting in the front row between Blythe’s parents and Natalie Landis, Sloan watched the woman he loved approach on that sure, long-legged stride and decided that she’d make a stunningly beautiful bride. Which, now that they’d gotten over the hurdle of his mother, he’d already vowed would be sooner than later.

  When the harpist viewed Blythe’s appearance in the arbor, she broke into the wedding march. The assembled guests all turned to view the bride.

  Gage, who’d been given a verbal invitation during their lunch at Le Chardonnay, was sitting on the aisle midway down the white runner. As she approached, Blythe’s attention was suddenly drawn to him.

  Their eyes locked. The same way they had during that brief, startling moment on his boat. But this time, instead of her mind being washed clear, as impossible as it seemed, she felt it melding with his.

  You can’t do this, his suddenly stormy eyes told her.

  I have to, hers answered back.

  You don’t have to do anything, his countered on a flare of passion. But leave with me. Now.

  I can’t. Unaware that she’d stopped beside his chair, Blythe also failed to hear the curious murmur of the assembled guests.

  You can. He was holding her wary gaze to his with the sheer strength of his will. I’ll help you.

  They still hadn’t said a word out loud. But it wasn’t necessary. Not when their eyes and their minds were exchanging such intensely sensual messages.

  Heaven help her, Blythe found herself unreasonably tempted to take Gage up on his outrageous invitation when suddenly there was a low, deepening rumble, like an approaching freight train.

  Then it happened.

  The massive, upward jolt beneath her feet hurled Blythe into Gage. They were both thrown violently to the ground. As if the garden were nothing more than a glass ball being shaken by the angry hand of an ancient, mythic god, the white satin-covered chairs bucked wedding guests in all directions, causing them to land on top of one another, their cries of alarm unable to be heard over the deafening roar of the trembling earth.

  The water in the nearby fountain sloshed over the rim, drenching Alan who was thrown against the arbor, where he became hopelessly tangled amidst the thorny rose bush.

  The violently shaking ground disoriented Lily, who felt as if she’d suddenly dived beneath the sea, in the dark. Knocked to her knees by the first jolt, she folded her arms across her distended belly in an ins
tinctive maternal effort to protect her unborn child from nature’s raging forces. Closing her eyes tightly, she began reciting prayers learned in childhood.

  Time took on a strange, slow-motion feel. Sloan, who’d been hurled from his chair in the front row, attempted to make his way to Cait, whom he could see lying nearby, seemingly unconscious beneath one of a pair of white-framed French doors that had literally burst out of the house.

  It was not the first earthquake Blythe had experienced. But it was the most terrifying. Because it seemed to last a lifetime. Shattered glass from the windows was raining down all around them. Unable to run, she clung to Gage, who was lying on top of her to protect her from the falling debris, and waited for the nightmare to be over.

  And then, just as suddenly as it began, everything, including the ground, went deathly, silently still.

  Desperate to reach Cait, Sloan pushed himself up to his feet, only to be tossed back to his knees by a second, even stronger shock.

  Shouting her name, he struggled to crawl to her, feeling as if he were slogging through a mass of quivering Jell-O. Every atom of his being focused on the woman he loved, Sloan was only aware on the vaguest level of the pande-monium going on around him as he made his way, inch by painful inch, toward her.

  He’d managed to reach her side just as the second tremor ceased and, pulled the door from her body, fear supplying an adrenaline rush that allowed him to toss the heavy wood frame away as if it were no heavier than a feather.

  “You’re going to be all right,” he insisted, as if determination could make it so. He pressed a handkerchief against the gash on her forehead.

  To his vast relief, her lashes fluttered. Her dazed eyes opened. “Oh, God, I thought I’d lost you.” Sloan rained kisses all over her smudged face. His heart was still pounding with a rhythm that couldn’t possibly be normal for anyone, but at least it no longer felt as if it were going to burst out of his chest.

  “Never.” She lifted a hand to his cheek, trying not to flinch when the gesture caused a shock to shoot through her wrist. Her head was throbbing painfully.