Belle's Secret

by Victoria Purman

  And then it had all gone too far. To hell in a Las Vegas handbasket, to be exact.

  She tried to stop shaking. “How did you find me?”

  “Now there’s a story.” He took a big step up over the lavender hedge on to the verandah, right next to her. “I’ve been searching for you for a year, did you know that? I’ve looked all over the damn world. Searched every social media site I could think of. Even considered contacting Interpol. But …”

  He raked a hand through his hair and chuckled but it sounded like he was laughing at himself. She felt herself grow smaller and smaller.

  “Belle, or whatever the hell your name is. It’s like you disappeared into thin air. So, I decided to celebrate eleven months of searching the globe for you by giving up. I mean, I deserved a break, don’t you think, from beating myself up about being the kind of dipshit loser who exchanges vows with a woman who can only stand to be married to him for less than twenty-four hours? So, I decided to take up the invite of my old college roommate to fly all the way to Australia for his wedding.”

  Harry took a deep breath, as if the effort of telling her that part of the story had exhausted him.

  She hadn’t wanted to be found.

  She hadn’t wanted to be found out, more like it.

  “You went to college with Han Solo? I mean, Simon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s …”

  The full enormity of what was going on finally hit her. She gasped and covered her mouth with her left hand to stop any more words from coming out that she might regret.

  And that’s when he saw it. Harry’s eyes widened and then flashed and he cursed under his breath. “That’s my ring. You’re wearing my ring.”

  She splayed the fingers of her left hand in the air between them, as if she was seeing the band of silver for the first time. “Oh. Yes. I …”

  He took a step closer. Her hand was still floating in the space between them and he reached for her, took the fingers of her left hand in his and stared at one in particular: ring finger, left hand. She flinched at the arc of electricity that struck when his fingers touched the sensitive pads of her palm.

  “I can’t believe you’re actually still wearing my college ring.” His voice was quiet, disbelieving. “I turned that hotel suite upside down looking for that ring after you left.”

  Isabella had no sensible explanation to give him. They stood staring at it, the traitorous silver signet ring. So precious to him, such a falsehood to her. She squeezed her eyes shut and every lie she’d ever told about it rang in her ears. It was my husband’s idea. He thought it was kind of cool to propose with his college ring and then I got so attached to the sentimentality of it, I never wanted to take it off.

  Oh, how she’d lied. She’d been able to baffle prospective brides and grooms with talk about it being an American tradition. If there even was such a thing. It was probably something she’d soaked up from a childhood watching reruns of American sitcoms, like Happy Days and Family Ties. Shows where families were happy and boys gave girls their class rings. When she’d left Harry in that Vegas hotel room the morning after, him still fast asleep—naked and fast asleep—she’d grabbed her bags and jumped into a taxi to the airport, forgetting that he’d slipped it on her finger at the chapel when Elvis had married them.

  Obviously, not the Elvis. A middle-aged man in a white Lurex jumpsuit and a bad wig with the authority, apparently, to officiate weddings in the state of Nevada.

  And in the year since, the ring had become a ruse, a costume … a big, fat, whopping lie. She’d let her loved-up brides and grooms believe that she too was married, because if they bought that illusion, they would trust every word falling from her lips during the ceremony—words like commitment and honour and protect and respect. They would believe she was someone who understood love and that overwhelming desire to spend the rest of your life with just that one special person. Your person.

  She needed them to believe she was someone who knew all about love.

  Because, deep down, she didn’t have a freaking clue. The truth was, she didn’t know a damn thing about love.

  She was a fraud. She was a phony and a fake and a liar.

  And the evidence of her failure in that department was standing right in front of her, looking understandably as angry as hell. He deserved an explanation and right now, in this moment, she could give him at least half the truth.

  Their marriage was a lie, she could admit to that. It had lasted merely hours and had only ever been consummated once. Hang on. Three times. For all intents and purposes, the Belle Harry had married had never existed beyond that one reckless night in Vegas when she’d let herself be the person she was so scared of, the one she’d wrapped layers and layers of protective coating around so that person would never escape again. Because bad things happened when the real Isabella Martenson escaped.

  “The thing is … I forgot to leave it behind,” Isabella stammered. “At the hotel. When I … the morning after …”

  “When you ran out on me.” Harry glared at her and she felt frozen.

  “When I … when I left. And I only realised I was wearing it when I was already on the plane on my way back to Australia. I had to go home. I didn’t know how to get it back to you.”

  Isabella pulled her hand from his, and pinched two fingers from her right hand around the ring. She could just give it back to him right now and all trace of their marriage would be over. Good idea. She gripped, tried to twist it. But the summer heat had swollen her fingers and the damn thing wouldn’t budge. She worked it to her knuckle but her finger suddenly felt like a fat pork sausage. No, no.

  “I can’t seem to get it off.”

  Harry stepped back. “Whoa, wait a minute.” When she looked up at him, his gaze was fixed on something over her shoulder. “You think I want it back? After all this time? After everything you’ve done?”

  Isabella sighed, blinking back frustrated tears. “I can’t keep it. I shouldn’t have taken it. I’ll run my fingers under some cold water when I get back to my cottage. I’ll drown it in olive oil. Melted butter. Something. It’s yours. You should have it.”

  When he met her gaze, she felt pummelled. She’d hurt him. She could see it in the clouds in his eyes and the set of his mouth. The shock of that was worse than anything she’d felt in her whole life.

  “Just tell me one thing, Belle.” Harry pulled his shoulders back and his glance dipped to his shoes for a moment. “Are you in witness protection or something?”

  “What … what are you talking about?”

  “No one knew who you were. It’s like you turned up in Vegas out of nowhere and disappeared right back there. It didn’t help that all I had was ‘Belle.’”

  “Well, I …” Would any reason make sense to him? She’d made herself invisible. On purpose. She hadn’t left any explanation or forwarding address. She wasn’t on Facebook or Instagram or Twitter as Belle or even Isabella. She didn’t do Snapchat. She’d restricted her online presence to pages for her business, Wedding Belles, and that was it.

  “Of course, I’ve got all the paperwork from the Marriage Licence Bureau. You know, the legal documents we had to fill out before we got married. You may not remember, but you conveniently left all that behind when you disappeared. I thought that would help, but your handwriting is crap and I couldn’t make out your last name.”

  She felt a flush heat her cheeks. “I was never known for my penmanship.”

  He sighed. “And the conference people had no record of a Belle anyone who’d registered.”

  “Oh. Right. About that …”

  Harry was close now, his dark eyes on her mouth. He was so close she could smell the wine on his breath and an aftershave she wasn’t familiar with. Something American and manly.

  “So, tell me this, Mrs Harrison. Who the hell did I marry in Vegas?”

  All her chickens had come home to roost. She deserved to be censured about what she’d done. She had to own her mistake. />
  “Me. You married me.”

  “Call me old-fashioned, but when you marry someone you kinda expect them to be there the next day. And the day after that and, you know, until death or annoying personal habits do us part.”

  Annoying personal habits? She had loads of those. Lucky she ran off before he got to discover them for himself. “We all make mistakes, Harry. You were mine.”

  His voice was full of regret. “And you were clearly mine.”

  Isabella tugged at the ring a second time. “I’ll try to get this off. Where are you staying? I’ll drop it by tomorrow.”

  He shook his head. “Oh no, sweetheart. I’ve been looking for you since Vegas. I’ll be back here, tomorrow. Now that I’ve found you, I’m not letting you out of my sight. There’s something you need to do for me.”

  She owed him. She knew that. “Anything, of course. What do you need?”

  He pulled himself up to his full height. “What the hell do you think? I need you to sign the divorce papers.”

  The word echoed inside Isabella’s head. “Divorce?” She began to shake.

  It was bad enough that she’d invented a husband.

  How the hell could she hold her head up in Wirralong as a divorced marriage celebrant? The nausea rose in her chest and she wobbled, reaching out for one of the verandah posts for fear she might topple off into the lavender bushes.

  Harry’s hand was suddenly on her shoulder, steadying her, his grip firm and strong. “Hell, Belle. You all right?”

  “I’m … okay.”

  Gently, he urged her to sit down on one of the chairs by the table. She allowed herself to be guided and sat.

  “Can I get you a glass of water or something?”

  “No, thank you. I’m just feeling a little …” Dizzy? Overwhelmed? Foolish? Humiliated? Tick all of the above.

  “Sit here for a minute,” he said. Isabella fluttered her eyes and sucked in a few deep and slow breaths. Maybe when she opened her eyes he would be gone, back in America, and none of this would be happening. If only she could click her heels together and make it all go away.

  The scented gums tickled her nose and the roses were sweet. Harry’s aftershave was strong. When she blinked open her eyes, he was kneeling in front of her, staring at her with a concerned expression.

  “It’s probably hard for you to believe, but I really am sorry about everything, Harry.”

  He covered her hand with one of his. Such a beautiful hand. Long fingers. A firm grip, she remembered that.

  “Belle …”

  “And … the thing is … the thing I’m most sorry about is that … there’s no way I can sign those divorce papers.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “This is my career. This is my life. I can’t be a divorced marriage celebrant in this town. You know … why can’t we just pretend it never happened?”

  He took a step back from her. “Because I can’t marry someone else if I’m still married to you, can I?”

  A headache began to pound between her ears. “You’re marrying someone else?”

  Harry paused, looked off into the distance. Voices from the wedding party floated over the green lawn to them. Laughter. The tinkling of glasses. The faint strains of the Star Wars theme.

  This was the ultimatum: her career or his future happiness with someone else. After what she’d put him through, what choice did she have? How cruel that she would have to sacrifice everything she had built—everything she had helped Maggie build here at Wirra Station—because she’d been so reckless. This is what failure feels like, she thought. It hurt her more because she was always so careful, so cautious, so safe. And then the one time – the only time – she’d let go, that she’d unleashed that wild Belle inside her – she’d hurt this man.

  “Okay,” she murmured, staring down at her entwined fingers, Harry’s ring still glinting in the warm late afternoon light. Her voice sounded small and defeated. “I’ll sign the papers.”

  “Okay,” he repeated on a deep sigh that didn’t sound like victory, but strangely, defeat.

  Isabella watched the sun glint on his ring, a symbol of her stupidity, one she couldn’t shake off no matter how hard she tried, and listened to the wild heartbeat inside her chest.

  “What’s that?”

  She looked up slowly. Harry had cocked his head to the sky.

  “What?”

  “That bird call.” They sat in silence. The familiar koo-koo-koo-kah-kah-kah echoed across the property.

  “It’s a kookaburra,” Isabella told him. “A couple nest in that big lemon-scented gum over by The Woolshed. They mate for life, those birds.”

  She glanced at him. His eyes were on her. Then he looked away.

  “I’ll get my lawyers to send the paperwork to me here. It might take a couple days, given it’s the weekend and the States is a day behind Australia. Where can I find you to sign everything so we can make this official?”

  “I’ll be here at the station. I live in the cottage near the creek. The one with the vine growing along the verandah. Ask anyone here, they’ll know where to find me.”

  “I’ll find you,” Harry said. “Again.” He stepped off the verandah and strode away.

  Isabella watched him go. He was entitled to his revenge, wasn’t he? It was what she deserved after all.

  Her stomach roiled. She stood quickly, felt her head pounding and then vomited into the lavender hedge.

  Chapter Three

  “Isn’t it a lovely wedding?”

  Harry turned at the sound of a woman’s voice. He didn’t know why he was hoping it was Belle, but it wasn’t her.

  Belle had been wearing some kind of sensible pencil skirt and soft flowing shirt. This woman was dressed in a strappy outfit that showed lots of skin. Her lipstick was bright red and her hair electric blue.

  “Excuse me?”

  She leaned in closer and smiled broadly. “Lovely wedding.”

  “Yeah. Sure is.” Harry scrambled to get his head into gear. Where the hell was he again? That’s right. He was at a wedding reception in Australia, some place outside Wirralong. He’d flown into Melbourne that morning, hired a car at the airport terminal, and then driven north-east for three hours. Thanks to the GPS instructions from some dude who sounded like Crocodile Dundee, he’d arrived at Simon’s wedding just in time. Flying first class from San Francisco had helped with the jet lag, but he felt dazed. And that wasn’t something he could entirely blame on the time difference.

  The woman with the blue hair held out a hand. “I’m Serenity. Pleased to meet you.”

  They shook. “Harry. Pleasure to meet you.” Harry had made his way back to the marquee by The Woolshed, which was cooled by the dappled shade created by two towering white eucalypts. Inside the historic-looking stone building, long and low with a corrugated iron roof, there were twinkling lights just starting to glow in the late afternoon shadows. Off in the distance, Simon and Amanda were posing for wedding photographs. Was he in the mood to make small talk with the blue-haired woman? What the hell. It sure beats thinking about his wife.

  Fuck. His wife.

  “How do you know the bride and groom?” Blue-haired woman—what was her name again?—was looking at him, wide-eyed, expecting an answer.

  The groom. Yeah, that’s right, Simon was the groom. Simon was somebody’s husband now. Harry was someone’s husband too, but there’d been no fancy reception dinner for hundreds of friends and relatives or work associates. They hadn’t had a photographer to snap mementoes of the precious occasion. They hadn’t even taken any selfies on their phones. They’d been too determined to get the ceremony over with so they could get to the honeymoon part of the proceedings.

  At times during the long search for Belle, Harry had woken up in a cold sweat, fearing he’d imagined the whole damn thing. But then he’d take a look at the finger where his college ring had been and once again study the wedding licence with her scrawled signature on the dotted line. She had been real then and
she was damn real now.

  “I know the groom. Simon. We shared a dorm room back in college. We’ve been best friends ever since.”

  She nodded. “I thought that was an American accent. What part of the States are you from?”

  “California.”

  “I’ve never been to America. I’ve always wanted to go to Disneyland, even though I’m not a kid anymore. Always fancied myself with one of those hats with the round black ears and having my name embroidered on it.” The blue-haired woman laughed. “I don’t think you ever stop being a kid, deep down. Do you?”

  He didn’t feel young. He’d felt old for about twelve months.

  “Do you live near the movie stars? Ever seen some of those fancy houses they live in?”

  “No. I’m not from Hollywood. I’m a winemaker in Napa Valley, near San Francisco.”

  “Oh. Wine.” She nodded appreciatively. “We do a little of that around here too.”

  “Sparkling pinot?” A young waiter appeared, dressed crisply in a white shirt and black trousers with a black apron tied around his middle. Harry gave him a nod of thanks before lifting a glass from the silver tray.

  “And you, ma’am?”

  Serenity laughed and batted the comment away. “C’mon, Matty. You know I prefer a vodka.”

  “Hey, Serenity. Try the bar inside The Woolshed.” The waiter winked at her, then moved off into the crowd. Harry sipped the sparkling pinot. He swirled it over his tongue, lingering, before finally swallowing. It was actually pretty damn good, sweet but nicely dry on the palate. He’d drunk a lot of wine in his life, and a lot of Australian wine, and this ranked highly. He’d have to go to the bar later and check out the label.