Stand-in Groom

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Chelsea stood next to Johnny, in the shadows. “What is this?” she whispered.

  “It’s a support group for people who’ve lost a child or a parent or a spouse to urban violence,” he whispered. “Listen, okay?”

  “I should have been home,” a woman was saying, her voice tearful. “Or I should have somehow taught her not to open the door for anyone. Not for anyone. I should have spent more time with her, teaching her things like that. And I keep thinking about all those times I was too tired or too busy or too wrapped up in figuring out how to pay the bills to play with her. I keep thinking about all those times that I didn’t take the time to give her a hug and tell her how much I loved her. …”

  “I think that’s something we all feel,” another woman said, her voice stronger, clearer than the first. “This sense of wasted opportunity, this sense of wishing we’d been a little more aware of how precious life is, and how quickly it can be taken from us. I think we all wish we had one more chance to tell our loved ones that they were, indeed, loved.”

  A man spoke up. “My wife was killed four years ago by a car being chased by the cops. As I was watching her casket being placed into the ground, I couldn’t remember the last time I told her that I loved her. I tried, but I just couldn’t remember. It may well have been years. And I remember thinking, sweet Jesus, I’ll never have another chance. So now I tell our daughter and son how very much I love them every single day. And I like to believe that somewhere up in heaven, LaRae can hear me.” He laughed, but it was laughter filled with sorrow. “She always did have good ears, that woman. I like to believe she knows I’m talking to her too.”

  “I love you, Chelsea,” Johnny whispered.

  Startled, she turned to look at him. Despite the shadows, she could see the shine of tears in his eyes.

  He tried to smile. “That’s why I want you to move your office out of that part of town,” he told her softly. “That’s why it’s so important to me that you’re safe. I know damn well that you could’ve died today, and then I would’ve spent the rest of my life sitting in a group like this one, filled with regret that I never told you that I love you.”

  He loved her. Johnny Anziano loved her.

  “Oh, my God,” she said, forgetting to be quiet, and across the room, a number of heads turned toward them.

  “May I help you?” one of the women called out.

  “No,” Johnny said. “No, thank you. I’m sorry we disturbed you.”

  “Johnny Anziano, is that you?” another woman asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “How are you, Mrs. Samuels?”

  “It’s Dr. Anziano’s boy,” Mrs. Samuels told the others. “Who’s that with you, Johnny?”

  “This is my wife. Her name is Chelsea,” Johnny told them.

  “Your wife!” a man called out. “Congratulations, young man!”

  “Thanks, Mr. Hart.”

  “What are you doing out this way?”

  Johnny hesitated. “I wanted to … show Chelsea the church.”

  “The sanctuary’s open, sweetie,” Mrs. Samuels said. “Just go on up.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. S. Sorry to interrupt your meeting.”

  Chelsea let Johnny lead her out of the room and up a flight of stairs. He loved her. He loved her. “Everybody knew you.” Somehow her voice sounded normal when she spoke. How had she managed to do that?

  “About ten years ago I was tapped to join a gang,” Johnny told her, “and when my mother found out, she made me sit in on these meetings. Needless to say, it was an eye-opener.”

  Johnny opened a set of doors and they stepped into the church.

  The late-afternoon sun was shining through the stained-glass windows, giving the sanctuary an otherworldly, shimmering glow.

  She followed him down the aisle and up toward the altar.

  “I always thought if I ever got married, I’d be married here, in this church,” Johnny said. Even though he spoke softly, his voice seemed to echo in the stillness.

  He turned to look at her then. The ghostly light cast shadows, but even they couldn’t disguise his face—a face she’d come to know so very well over the past few short weeks. His eyes were lazily hooded, as ever, and, as ever, they seemed to gleam with an intensity that was far from lazy.

  “I don’t want to join one of those support groups, Chelsea,” he told her. “I don’t want to sit in that circle and cry while I talk about losing my wife. I know I said some things to you this afternoon that I shouldn’t have. You’re right. Even though you’re my wife, even though we’re married, I don’t have the right to tell you what you can or can’t do. But I do have the right to ask. So I’m asking. Please, please move your office to a better part of town. I’ll beg, if you want. I’ll crawl if that’ll make you understand how important this is to me. I need to know you’re as safe as you can possibly be.”

  Chelsea couldn’t speak. Her heart was in her throat.

  “I know you were surprised when I told you that I love you.” He cleared his throat. “And I don’t have a clue what you’re thinking, but don’t freak out, because I know that falling in love wasn’t part of our deal, and I know that you’re in this marriage thing for only a year, and I swear, I’d never hold you to anything more, and even if you don’t want to stay with me, I’m not going to take that money from your father and … Okay, now I’m babbling.” He took a deep breath. “At least tell me you forgive me.”

  “I forgive you,” she whispered. “Promise you’ll try not to do it again?”

  He nodded, tears again gleaming in his eyes. “Please,” he said again. “Let me help you move your office somewhere safer. Please, Chels. If you care for me even just a little bit …”

  “I do,” she said. “I will. Move the office. But I will need your help—”

  He stepped toward her. “You know you’ve got it. I promise.”

  “What I really want you to promise me …” Chelsea had to stop and blink back her own tears. “Promise me you’ll love me forever.”

  She saw disbelief flash in Johnny’s eyes. “Do you want me to?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “More than anything.”

  The disbelief turned to sheer joy. He laughed aloud, then raised his voice so his words rang out in the church. “Then, yes, I promise.”

  “For richer or poorer?”

  Johnny held out his hand to her, again letting his words echo. “I do promise.”

  “For better or for worse?” She slipped her hand into his, and it felt like coming home.

  The look in his eyes was one she’d seen there before. When she’d woken up in the middle of the night and found him gazing down at her, when he thought she didn’t see him watching her from across the room—that was love she’d seen in his eyes. He truly loved her.

  “I do,” he told her.

  “In sickness and in health?”

  “Yes. For as long as we both shall live,” he said.

  “I love you, Johnny,” Chelsea said. She smiled at him through her tears. “I think you better kiss the bride.”

  Johnny was nervous. He knew he shouldn’t be. He knew he held the upper hand, along with the element of surprise.

  He stood up as Howard Spencer came briskly out into the waiting area.

  “Why don’t you come on back into my office,” the older man said, leading the way to a huge corner office with a gorgeous view of downtown Boston that was almost as good as the view from Johnny’s condo. “I have the contracts all drawn up for you to sign.”

  Johnny waited until Mr. Spencer had closed the door behind him. “Actually, Mr. Spencer, I have no intention of signing your contracts, because I have no intention of taking your bribe. As a matter of fact, I came here today to tell you that your daughter and I have come to a new agreement. We’ve removed the end date from our relationship and hope to have as long and as happy a marriage as you and Julia have had.”

  Howard Spencer was not the kind of man who sputtered, but he was as close to sputtering now as he ever
had been.

  “Also—for your information—I’ve made Chelsea sign an addendum to our prenupt, saying the financial deal’s off. I made her sign an agreement saying that her money is her money, and my money is our money.” Johnny smiled. “I know, I know, you’re thinking, if she ever leaves me, I’m going to get royally screwed, but you know what, Mr. S.?”

  Howard Spencer seemed unable to respond.

  “She’s never going to leave me. I’m going to do my damnedest to see that Chelsea stays madly in love with me for the rest of our lives. Because I love her that much. Look at me and read my lips, Mr. S. I love your daughter. There’s no amount of money in the world that would make me walk away from her. I’m going to make her happy—and that’s what you want for her, right? For her to be happy? Nod your head. Yes.”

  Howard Spencer managed to nod his head. Yes.

  Johnny smiled again. “Then I’m your man. We’re on the same team now, Howie.”

  He turned to leave, but then turned back. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “This conversation? And the one we had previously? They never happened.”

  Johnny walked out of the office, but then stuck his head back in the door. “One more thing. Chelsea and I would love for you and Julia to join us for dinner Friday night—in Lumière’s private dining room. Chelsea tells me you haven’t had any luck getting a reservation for the private room—I don’t know why. But from now on, when you call, tell ’em you’re Johnny Anziano’s father-in-law.” He winked. “That’ll get you in.”

  EPILOGUE

  CHELSEA COULDN’T BELIEVE what she’d found.

  She’d been looking for a spare book of stamps in Johnny’s desk, thinking if she found one, she wouldn’t have to pull on her boots and trudge out into the snow, shovel out her car, and drive through the slushy streets to the post office vending machines.

  She hadn’t meant to pry. But the envelope was right there, top slit open, sitting next to the computer. The return address said it was from the International Culinary Institute in Paris.

  Johnny had told her he’d get a response to his application for the Paris study program by December. And it was definitely December.

  Chelsea picked up the envelope and held it up to the light, which of course revealed nothing. She put the envelope down and picked up the phone, pressing the speed dial for Lumière’s.

  Johnny answered on the fifth ring. “Anziano.”

  “Hi,” Chelsea said. She held the envelope up to her nose and smelled it. It smelled like paper. “Are you busy?”

  “For you? Never. Well, almost never. What’s up?”

  “That’s what I was going to ask you,” Chelsea said, tapping the envelope on the edge of his desk. “What’s up?”

  Johnny laughed. “Didn’t you call me?”

  “Yes, but, I was just …” Chelsea sighed. “We’ve both been so busy lately, we haven’t had as much time to talk, and …”

  “Well, let’s see. Jean-Paul’s wife is pregnant again—have I told you that?”

  “Yes,” Chelsea said. “Yes, I think you mentioned that last week.” She tapped the envelope on her teeth.

  “Your father called me again—he wants to back me in whatever kind of restaurant I want to open.”

  “Don’t even think about—”

  “I made polite, vague noises. Don’t worry about that. Let’s see. … You knew that my latest tofu recipe was getting a huge write-up in Vegetarian Times. I saw the article today—it’s great. I’ll bring it home for you. They’re calling me the ‘Tofu Gourmet.’ There’s been a huge demand for the dish here at the restaurant—I just wish tofu weren’t so damn ugly. But that’s all I can think of. Nothing else is new. Hang on a sec.” There was a pause, and Chelsea heard muffled voices, as if Johnny had put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. “I’m sorry, Chelsea, I gotta go. I’ll try to get home early tonight, okay?”

  “Johnny—”

  “I love you, Chels.”

  “Wait!”

  But he’d already hung up.

  Chelsea slowly put the handset back in the cradle of the telephone and looked at the envelope she was still holding. Nothing else was new?

  She couldn’t help herself. She pulled the letter out and opened it and …

  Dear God, he’d been accepted.

  She skimmed the page, then went back and read the next-to-last paragraph. Dear God, he’d not only been accepted, but he’d been asked to give a seminar on his new specialty—gourmet cooking with tofu. It was an honor beyond compare.

  The letter was dated October 25. Even if it had been sent via surface mail, Johnny must have gotten it weeks ago. Longer.

  Yet he’d said nothing about it to her.

  Feeling a total sneak, Chelsea turned on Johnny’s computer and accessed his word-processing program. It didn’t take her long to skim his list of files and find one labeled Paris.ICI. She clicked on the job and, saying a silent pray asking forgiveness from the God of Nosiness, opened it.

  Dear Admissions Committee,

  It was with great pride that I received your letter requesting my presence as part of your Paris study program this May. And it is with great regret that I inform you that I am unable to attend for the full three months. I understand that—

  Chelsea clicked out of the job. She’d seen enough.

  Unable to attend. Regret.

  Oh, God, Johnny was turning down the chance of a lifetime—because of her.

  Oh, God, this was her worst nightmare come true. There was no way she could leave Spencer/O’Brien Software in May for three months.

  But it didn’t matter anymore. He’d turned the opportunity down. Without even talking to her.

  Chelsea turned off Johnny’s computer and went to pull on her snow boots.

  Johnny was preparing the fourteenth order that afternoon for his tofu dish when Chelsea burst into the kitchen.

  “I need to talk to you. Now.” She then added the word they’d promised each other they’d always use, even when they were upset. “Please.”

  Johnny nodded to Philippe, who took over his pan of sautéing vegetables. “Let’s go into my office,” he said, but she was already heading there. What had he done? He couldn’t think of a single thing. Maybe it had something to do with that weird phone call she’d made just a little while ago. He closed the door behind him. “Are you mad at me?”

  “Yes, I’m mad. And I’m hurt, and upset, and disappointed and sad and—”

  “What? Why? Chelsea, wait a sec, I’m clueless here. What’s this about?”

  She smacked him in the chest with an envelope. Johnny fumbled, but caught it before it hit the ground. He recognized it immediately.

  “How could you not talk to me about this?” Chelsea looked ready to cry. “How could you just turn down their offer without even telling me?”

  “How do you know I turned down their offer?”

  “I searched for your return letter on your computer.” She was too upset to be embarrassed.

  Johnny had to laugh. “But you didn’t read the whole thing, did you?”

  “I read all that I needed to.”

  Johnny pulled her into his arms. “Chels, if you’re going to be nosy, don’t be nosy halfway—or you’ll get only half the story. The letter I faxed them said that at this time I couldn’t stay the full three months, but I proposed that I attend for a few weeks to give the seminar they requested. I asked if I could postpone taking part in the full three-month program until next year. I’m waiting for their response.”

  She looked sheepishly up at him. “I didn’t read that far.”

  He kissed her. “No kidding.”

  “Johnny, why didn’t you tell me about any of this?”

  “I was waiting to hear back from ICI before I told you. It seems like a good compromise, don’t you think?”

  “What if ICI says it’s now or never?”

  Johnny shrugged. “By May, you’ll have the money from your trust. You can fly me ho
me for weekends—I don’t know. We’ll figure something out.”

  “We can compromise,” Chelsea said. “You can fly home for some weekends, I can fly to Paris for others. We can definitely make this work.”

  As Johnny gazed into Chelsea’s ocean-blue eyes he knew she was right. Together, with compromise, they were unstoppable.

  Johnny smiled, and then kissed his wife.

  about the author

  Since her explosion onto the publishing scene more than ten years ago, SUZANNE BROCKMANN has written over forty books, and is now widely recognized as one of the leading voices in romantic suspense. Her work has earned her repeated appearances on the USA Today and New York Times bestseller lists, as well as numerous awards, including Romance Writers of America’s #1 Favorite Book of the Year—three years running, in 2000, 2001, and 2002—two RITA awards, and many Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Awards. Suzanne lives west of Boston with her husband, Dell author Ed Gaffney. Visit her website at www.SuzanneBrockmann.com.

  Stand-in Groom is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  2009 Bantam Books Mass Market Edition

  Copyright © 1997 by Suzanne Brockmann

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Bantam Books is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  Originally published in mass market in the United States by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc., in 1997.

  eISBN: 978-0-553-90713-1

  www.bantamdell.com

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