by Zara Keane
“Why not? No one will ever know.” Apart from Olivia, Drew Draper, and who-the-hell-else in Las Vegas.
“We’ll know. For feck’s sake, Fiona. I can’t commit bigamy.”
“That’s your decision. I’ve done my duty by telling you. What you do with the information is your call.”
She was dangling a carrot of hope before him, a way to get out of this bloody mess. A myriad of emotions flickered across his face—jerky, blurry, hypnotic, like an old film reel.
The door to the vestry burst open.
“What’s going on in here?” roared Bernard. “What’s the meaning of this, Fiona? Have you lost your mind?”
“I’m sorry, Uncle Bernard. I had to speak to Gavin.”
“What? He’s in the middle of marrying my daughter. How dare you interrupt their wedding?”
“I realize this is a question of some delicacy,” said Father Fagin, his creaky tread following in Bernard’s blustery wake, “but is there any reason the ceremony should not proceed?”
“Of course there isn’t.” Bernard glowered at Gavin. “Get out there right now and marry my daughter.”
Gavin straightened, swaying slightly. He brushed off the desk and sent Fiona’s phone flying.
Bernard caught it and scrutinized the display screen.
Then he let out an unholy roar.
Chapter Ten
GAVIN HAD A SPLIT SECOND to react before Bernard lunged. The punch caught him on the chin. He reeled back, and sidestepped a second blow. “Steady on. It’s not what you think.”
Bernard’s face was mottled, and his eyes were wild. “Not what I think? What the hell should I think? You’re already married to Fiona, yet you were about to marry my daughter.”
His bellows reverberated off the wooden walls of the vestry. There was little chance the people in the church hadn’t heard. Poor Muireann. Poor Fiona. What a flaming mess.
“Bernard,” said Father Fagin in the same authoritative voice he’d used when he’d had the misfortune to be Gavin’s secondary school religion teacher. “I will not tolerate violence in my church.”
Bernard glared at the elderly priest, but Father Fagin stood resolute. Bernard’s jowls spasmed with rage before settling into a stiff mask.
“May I see the phone?” Father Fagin extended a gnarled hand.
Bernard’s grip on Fiona’s phone was tight enough to render his knuckles white. He handed it to the priest. “Is this genuine?” he asked.
“Is what genuine?” Muireann appeared in the doorway of the vestry. Her breathing was shallow. Each breath made her narrow chest heave. Despite the silly dress, she was beautiful—like a porcelain doll in an antique shop.
Gavin squeezed his eyes shut. This could not be happening. His orderly life was unraveling faster than the curtains Wiggly Poo had desecrated the previous day.
He opened his eyes and addressed his bride. “I can explain.”
“Explain what?” She sounded shrill. She looked beseechingly at Bernard. “Daddy, what’s going on?”
Her father opened and closed his gob, but no words came out.
“Muireann, my dear, let me examine this for a moment.” Father Fagin peered at the phone through lenses thicker than triple glazing. He lowered the device and shook his head. “Until I know whether or not this is legitimate, I have to assume there’s an impediment to proceeding with today’s ceremony.”
Muireann’s eyes narrowed to mascaraed slits. “What impediment?”
Gavin’s stiff bow tie was tighter than a noose. “I married Fiona in Las Vegas eight years ago.”
She turned chalky white under her tan. “What? You married her?” She half walked, half stumbled into the room, hampered by the meringue dress. Her blond hair was teased into a bouffant style that, like the dress, engulfed her tiny frame. She looked from Gavin to Fiona, then back to Gavin. “Tell me this is a joke.”
Sweat gathered beneath the collar of his ridiculous suit. “I wish I could.”
She slapped him. Despite her petite stature, she delivered a decent hit. “Tell. Me. Everything.”
He tried to clear the frog in his throat, but his voice still sounded croaky. “Until a few minutes ago, I had no idea the marriage was legally valid.”
“If you got married, why wouldn’t it be valid?” Her voice was reaching a crescendo.
His jaw twitched, and his gaze slid toward Fiona. “Because the wedding officiant was drunk, and I paid him off the next morning. A Vegas wedding must be registered within ten days of the ceremony. I gave the guy who married us money not to file the papers.”
“When did this happen? When we visited Fiona on her au pair year?”
“Yes,” Fiona said. With her pale face whiter than usual, she looked as wretched as he felt. “The rest of you had a falling out with Gavin and left him stranded on Route 64. I collected him, and we headed for Vegas while you went on to the Grand Canyon.”
The nostrils of Muireann’s button nose flared. “You wasted no time getting your clutches into him. Well, you can’t have him.” She pivoted on a stiletto heel. “Father, surely you’re not taking this seriously?”
“I can’t perform the ceremony until I’ve confirmed their marriage isn’t valid.”
She placed a delicate hand on the elderly priest’s sleeve. “Everyone’s here,” she said in an imploring tone. “You have to marry us.”
“Not if I have reason to believe one of the partners might already be married,” Father Fagin said sternly. “It would be bigamy.”
Her lower lip trembled, and tears filled her large blue eyes. “But it’s my wedding day. Everything’s ready. Everyone’s here. Everything’s supposed to be perfect.”
“I’ll fix this,” Gavin said. “I don’t know how, but I’ll fix it.”
Her tears were falling now, forming jagged lines of color down her face. “I should have listened to my parents. They always said you were beneath me. You’ve wrecked everything.”
“Muireann—”
“Don’t ‘Muireann’ me,” she screamed. “Look at the state of you. You stink of mothballs. Where’s the beautiful suit Claudette made for you?”
He swallowed a treacherous laugh. “Wiggly Poo ate it.”
“You’re blaming the dog?” She was shaking now, rage emanating from her every pore. “You’re unbelievable.”
“It’s true,” he said. “Ask Jonas.”
“Jonas is a writer. He lies for a living.”
“I had to swing by Nora Fitzgerald’s suit rental place. I’m sorry about the suit, but it was the only one she had in my size and I was desperate.”
“Desperate is right,” she said, indicating his feet. “So desperate you let her kit you out in one of her husband’s old Elvis impersonator costumes.”
“What?” Gavin looked down at the suit and the furry boots. Now she mentioned it, they did have an Elvis vibe. Jaysus. He was being haunted by Elvis impersonators today, all intent on ruining his life.
“Tell me, Gavin. Did you sleep with Fiona? Was it a once-off, or did you regularly cheat on me with my first cousin?”
“He didn’t cheat on you,” Fiona said with quiet determination. “You and Gavin weren’t an item yet.”
“Why should I believe a word you say?” Muireann snarled.
“It’s true,” Gavin said. “It was just a one-night stand.”
Fiona teetered as though he’d punched her.
Aw, crap.
“A one-night stand that ended in marriage,” Muireann snapped. “Let’s not gloss over the salient part.” She stepped forward and jabbed a talon into his chest. “You’re going to tell our guests the wedding’s off, and you’re going to tell them why. You screwed up, Gavin. You face them.”
“We’ll both go.” Fiona placed a firm hand on his arm. “This mess is of both our making.” She stood regal in her plain black dress and bunny slippers. He’d always admired her fiery determination, appreciated her dry sense of humor. Fiona was as much a victim of this cock-up as Muireann.
He
squared his shoulders and inclined his head a fraction—it was the best he could do with the tight bow tie around his neck. “Fair enough. Let’s get this over with.”
With the notable exception of the rip-his-clothes-off-and-shag-him-senseless variety, walking up the aisle with Gavin Maguire had been Fiona’s favorite teenage fantasy. Strangely, her daydreams skipped a few details: the yeti suit, the bunny slippers, the bigamy.
United in matrimony and bad footwear—what a flaming nightmare.
During the short journey from the vestry to the altar, the collective gaze of the wedding guests bore into their backs.
She kept her head down and struggled to keep up with Gavin’s long strides. His broad shoulders strained his suit jacket, and the trousers were several centimeters too short. A treacherous fit of the giggles threatened, like they always did whenever she found herself in a situation where laughter would be deemed inappropriate.
The entire scenario was absurd. How could vows they had been too drunk to enunciate be legally binding? How could Drew Draper be a legit wedding officiant? And how the feck had her weekend turned into such a train wreck that running back to Dublin and the faithless, feckless Philip seemed preferable?
They reached the altar and turned to face the guests.
The murmurs faded into expectant silence.
Fiona surveyed the crowd. Deirdre wore an expression of petulant impatience. Bridie’s brow was crinkled in confusion. Olivia sat next to the odious Aidan, tense as a wound spring.
The other guests’ faces displayed a myriad of emotions. Some were thrilled by the unfolding drama, others horrified.
Well, their emotions are about to be amplified.
When Gavin spoke, his voice was thick. “I’m sure you’re wondering what’s going on. Long story short, the wedding’s off. I accept full responsibility for the situation.” He paused to clear his throat. “Eight years ago, I had a drunken night out with Fiona in Las Vegas. It seems we got married.”
There was a gasp from the crowd, followed by a scream.
Deirdre rose from her pew like an avenging Valkyrie. Her thin lips quivered, and her body vibrated with tension. “You’re calling off the wedding? Now? In front of everyone? Because you married her?” On each sentence, her voice rose higher.
“I have no choice.” He squirmed in his yeti suit. “I can’t marry Muireann until I annul my marriage to Fiona.”
Bridie sat stunned in the pew next to Deirdre. Fiona read shock and anger in her expression. Bridie’s gaze met hers, and she flinched at her aunt’s look of hurt disbelief.
Deirdre advanced, wielding her wedding handbag like a weapon. She grabbed Fiona’s arm and dug sharp nails into her skin. “You were determined to ruin Muireann’s big day. I knew it the moment you ripped your dress.”
Fiona backed into the stone altar and jerked her arm free. “Get off me. You know perfectly well the dress was the wrong fit.”
“You’ve always been jealous of her.” She was up in Fiona’s face now, wafting breath mints and Chanel No. 5. Her veiled hat was askew, making her resemble a Cyclops.
The hard stone of the altar dug into Fiona’s back. “Don’t be daft. Muireann and I aren’t close, but I wouldn’t wish this experience on anyone.”
“As for you, Gavin Maguire.” Deirdre eyes burned with hatred. “How dare you humiliate my daughter?”
“I’m sorry, Deirdre. I truly am.”
“Sorry isn’t good enough. Do you know how much we’ve spent on this wedding?”
Fiona rubbed her sore arm and sidled out of Deirdre’s reach.
“I’ve a fair notion,” he said. “After all, I’ve paid half.”
“I expect you to reimburse our share of the wedding expenses.”
“Of course, but this is hardly the time—”
Deirdre hurled her handbag at Gavin’s head. “Get out of my sight, both of you. Get out!”
Gavin ducked, but he needn’t have bothered. Deirdre’s aim was lousy. The bag hurtled through the air, hit a vase on the altar, and sent shattered porcelain, water, and flowers flying.
As if jolted out of a stupor, Bridie blinked, stood, and marched up behind Deirdre. “Stop the carry-on,” she said, grabbing her sister-in-law’s arm. “Hurling handbags won’t fix this problem. Why don’t we sit down with a cup of tea in the vestry? Aidan Gant is a solicitor. He’ll know what to do.”
Aidan, stiff in his wedding suit, sat beside an ashen-faced Olivia a couple of rows behind the bridal family. “I’d be happy to give my legal opinion on the matter.”
“I don’t want tea,” sobbed Deirdre. “I don’t want a solicitor. I want a wedding!”
“Unfortunately, there won’t be a wedding today.” Bridie looped her arm through Deirdre’s and guided her toward the vestry.
Muireann emerged from the small room, supported by Bernard’s hammy arms on one side and Father Fagin’s frail ones on the other. “Oh, Mummy,” she said, tears fluttering on the ends of her eyelashes. “What am I going to do?”
Deirdre stepped forward to embrace her daughter and lost her footing on a wet patch of smashed vase and broken flowers.
The next few seconds passed in slow motion. Deirdre’s bony hands groped the air as she fell, finally grabbing on to Bridie’s leg for support.
Bridie was wrenched sideways, lost her balance, and crashed onto the hard marble floor.
Chapter Eleven
THERE WAS A SECOND OF STUNNED SILENCE followed by a guttural moan from Bridie.
Gavin was the first to react.
He closed the space between him and Bridie and squatted beside her. His stomach lurched. Her face was leached of color, and she was lying at an odd angle. Moving on instinct, his hand slipped into one of his suit’s many pockets and felt for his phone. “Can you move your legs?”
She tensed and scrunched her face with effort before collapsing onto the hard tiles. “My hip,” she gasped. “I think it’s broken.”
Fiona knelt by her aunt’s other side and took her plump hand. “It’s okay. I’ll call an ambulance.”
“I’m on it.” He punched numbers into his mobile phone. A woman from the emergency services answered his call on the first ring. “We need an ambulance,” he said without preamble. “St. Mary’s Church in Ballybeg. Possible broken leg or hip.” He listened for a few seconds while she repeated the information back to him. “Yeah, that’s correct.”
“The ambulance should be with you in fifteen minutes,” she said in the calm, authoritative tone teachers and medical professionals seemed to be born with.
He thanked her and disconnected.
“An ambulance is on its way. Should be here in within a quarter of an hour.”
The crowd parted, and Jonas emerged carrying an armful of cushions. “I raided the vestry.”
“Good man.” Gavin eased Bridie’s head and shoulders off the ground, and Jonas slipped a couple of cushions beneath her. “I’m reluctant to move her any more than this,” Gavin said, wiping his brow. “Not before the paramedics arrive.”
“Can I get you a glass of water, Bridie?” Fiona’s foot tapped an anxious rhythm on the stone tiles. He was close enough that the fruity smell of her shampoo teased his senses.
“Feck water. I want alcohol. Can’t you give me some of that there wine?” She gestured at the chalice on the altar.
“What?” exclaimed Father Fagin. “That’s holy wine.”
“I don’t give a feck what it is. I need something to take the edge off the pain, and I’ll be damned if I stoop to taking a nip out of Deirdre’s hip flask.”
Deirdre’s sinewy hands fluttered to her throat. “What do you mean?”
“The hip flask filled with gin you always keep in your handbag. Why do you think your little bag had the power to topple a huge vase?”
“Ladies, please,” said Father Fagin, radiating desperation from every creaky joint. “Stop bickering. If Bridie wants wine, I’ll bring her the chalice. I suppose a small sip won’t do too much harm.”
/> “Small sip me arse. I’m in agony.”
Father Fagin handed the large vessel to Gavin with trembling hands, and Gavin held it to Bridie’s lips.
She downed a considerable quantity of the watery red liquid before shoving it toward the flabbergasted priest. She shuddered. “Rotgut. How do you priests stand this stuff?” Weary with pain and shock, she slumped onto her pillows, and her eyelids drooped.
“Rotgut or not, it appears to have done the trick,” Gavin said.
Bridie was sliding into unconsciousness. “So sore,” she whispered.
Panic flitted across Fiona’s pale features. “Did she hit her head when she fell? Could she have a concussion?”
“From what I could tell, her right side took the brunt of the fall.” He gave her a tired half smile. “I’m sure they’ll check her thoroughly at the hospital.”
In the distance, the sound of sirens echoed. Within minutes, the paramedics had placed Bridie on a stretcher and bundled her into the ambulance. The vehicle pulled away from the curb, blue lights flashing.
Muireann pushed herself through the crowd and glowered at Fiona, who was being comforted by Olivia. “This is all your fault.” She hissed. “And as for you…” She tugged her diamond engagement ring off her finger and hurled it at Gavin. It bounced off his velvet-ruffled chest and tumbled to the ground with a clang. “You can sell the ring to pay back my parents.”
He took a step toward her and reached for her arm. “Muireann, please. Can’t we discuss this?”
She shrugged herself free. “Leave me alone. I never want to see either of you again.” Sobbing, she collapsed into Deirdre’s arms. “Oh, Mummy.”
Deirdre gave her daughter an ineffectual hug, artfully shielding her clothes from Muireann’s streaky mascara.
“Come back into the vestry, my dear.” Father Fagin hooked his arm through Muireann’s. “Let’s get you away from the crowd.”
Muireann allowed herself to be led away, supported on one side by the reluctant Deirdre and on the other by the elderly priest.
Gavin bent to retrieve the ring. In the palm of his hand, it felt light and inconsequential. He closed his fist, wincing when the sharply cut diamond dug into his flesh.