His mouth opened slightly, and those blue eyes softened.
"I love you more than I can say," she said, and tears flooded her eyes. God, she hadn't cried as much in her entire life combined as she had in the past three months. "I've wasted enough of my life not being married to you, so I'd like to fix that. Right now. Marian brought the marriage license from town hall, and Mr. Holland will do the ceremony, and...and we could be husband and wife in about ten minutes, if you want."
He was still just looking at her.
No doubt about it. The bar was silent.
Then he smiled. "Okay," he said, and he kissed her, and her whole being seemed to fill up with light and happiness, even if she was crying. A roar went up from the restaurant, but she barely noticed.
"Thank you," she whispered against his mouth. "Thank you for putting up with me."
He kissed her again, then rested his forehead against hers. "You know how it is, Jess," he said, smiling. "Anything for you."
EPILOGUE
Eleven months, one week and two days after the woman once known as Jessica Does became Jessica O'Rourke...
CONNOR O'ROURKE REALLY liked being married.
In the spring following their impromptu wedding, Jess, Davey and he had moved to Connor's bigger place on the other side of the green. Jess didn't want to add too much to Davey's list of life changes, so they lived on Putney Street through the fall and winter. And when Jess did sell the Victorian--at a tidy little profit, no less--she insisted on buying half of his house from him. It was the principle, she said.
He understood.
First thing she did was buy six huge hanging baskets for the front porch. A porch swing that dangled from the overhead beams. Wicker chairs and tables. Connor wondered how it was that he'd owned the house for five years and never thought to sit out here and watch the sky darken, wave to the neighbors, just sit with his arm around his wife and want for nothing.
Davey lived in the apartment, a little more independent than he had been. They had a security lock put on the oven and stove so he couldn't cook without one of them entering the code, and they'd done their best making the place safe. But he made his own toast now, and Connor was working on figuring out how to teach him to make his own nachos without starting a fire. Miranda came over to visit sometimes, always with her mom, and The Avengers had been played so many times that Connor could now recite it by heart.
And for three days a week, Davey stayed with Jessica's father. And that was very nice, too.
Connor had changed his hours so he could work more day shifts and let Rafe have a little more say over the kitchen. "A control freak changes for the love of his woman," Colleen had murmured. "Call the newspaper." Maybe it was true.
About six weeks after Jessica Dunn became Jessica O'Rourke, Connor got some surprising news. Greg Gennaro, also known as Generic, the president of Empire State Food & Beverage, ponied up the money. "Find someone else to be the face of the company," he advised when they signed the papers. "But you make great beer, son. Just go easy on it, you hear?"
In addition to the brewery, Connor also had a new brother--Ryan, a ten-pounder with a head of red hair. Connor visited them at the hospital, and even brought Gail flowers and thanked her, saying that since Colleen was clearly deficient as a sibling, he really appreciated Savannah and Ryan. This comment earned him a smack from his twin, as he'd known it would.
Life was good. He and Davey got along great for the most part, only one or two meltdowns, but not the head-banging kind. Connor was learning how to deal with his brother-in-law, how to be clear and specific, how to see his frustrations coming and hopefully help him deal.
And Jess...she was perfect.
Not really, of course. She still was learning to rely on him and not see it as weakness, but instead as what it was. Love. But every night when he came home, or sometimes in the middle of the night, he'd just look at her sleeping face, still a little stunned that she was his.
Then he'd wake her up. Slowly, kiss by kiss.
She loved him. She always had. Yep, stunned had it covered.
It was a beautiful evening, summer just a month away, the trees in bloom, the peepers calling. Connor was alone for the moment; dinner in the oven. He took a beer (a small one) out onto the porch to wait for his wife to come home.
Wife. The word still sounded so damn good. A hummingbird buzzed in for a drink at the hanging baskets, and across the backyard, he could hear Noah Cooper shrieking with glee, the Gomez kids shooting hoops down the block. Davey was at Keith's tonight, so it would be just him and Jess.
Con sat on the porch swing, then lifted Fluffy up to sit with him. Jess was a little late; she'd gone to visit Honor, who was still on maternity leave, and little Elizabeth, who was an extremely beautiful baby with wide gray eyes and a solemn way about her. A sharp contrast to Isabelle, a tiny tyrant, whose first word was Con. Connor planned on lording that over his sister's head for the rest of their lives. Colleen had another baby on the way. She hadn't told anyone, but he knew. Another girl, he thought.
Babies were all around, it seemed; just last night, Connor had rung the bell at the bar, offering a round of drinks on the house with the news that there was another John Holland in the world, courtesy of Emmaline--and Jack. Connor had always loved the Hollands, but now they were truly like his own family. They'd brought Jessica in and made her feel like one of them, so Connor was more than happy to part with $400 worth of alcohol.
And one of these days, maybe Jess would be ready to have a baby, too. They didn't talk about it too much, and honestly, if it never happened, Connor wouldn't mind. He had enough. His life was full. He had a niece and a baby brother and a little sister and an irritating twin. He had Lucas, and he had Davey.
He had his wife.
And speaking of... Jess pulled into the driveway and got out of the car.
"Hello, beautiful," he said, and she smiled. Looked even more beautiful than usual.
"Hey," she said, sitting down next to him. The smell of her shampoo, familiar as it was, still got to him. She kissed him, soft and sweet with a hint of sly and still that bit of shyness.
God, he loved her. She pulled back and smiled at him.
"How are Honor and Tom and their crew?" he asked.
"Everyone's great. But I actually had an errand to run, so I cut the visit short."
"What errand was that?"
She reached into her bag and pulled out a shiny piece of paper.
He looked at it. His beer glass slid out of his hand and thunked on the porch floor. Connor looked at the paper more closely.
Looked back at his wife.
Jessica was smiling. "Hope you meant it about having kids. Seems like we're having twins."
*
Keep reading for an excerpt from IF YOU ONLY KNEW by Kristan Higgins.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As ever, deep thanks to Maria Carvainis, my wonderful agent, as well as Martha Guzman and Elizabeth Copps, who do so much for me. At Harlequin, I am blessed with an amazing team headed by my brilliant editor, Susan Swinwood, as well as Dianne Moggy and Michelle Renaud. A thousand thanks to them and all the others at Harlequin who work so hard to get my books out to the world. I have the pleasure of working with the energetic and brilliant Sarah Burningham at Little Bird Publicity, and the ever constant and lovely Kim Castillo at Author's Best Friend. Thanks also to Beth Robinson at MacBeth Designs for my beautiful website.
To Shelly Fisher and Douglass Schuckers, owners of the Brewery of Broken Dreams in beautiful Hammondsport, NY: thanks for a lovely afternoon of conversation, smelling hops and tasting beer. What a nice way to spend a day!
Many thanks to Stacia Bjarnason, PhD, for her sensitive and in-depth assistance in helping me develop the character of Davey Dunn. You're the best, Stacia!
I am forever indebted to the Fulkerson family, whose winery is the basis of Blue Heron, and whose generosity with time and information have been key in writing this series.
For the use o
f their names in the Blue Heron series, thanks to Jordan Reynolds, Gerard Chartier (my friend!), Lorelei Buzzetta (my friend!), Norine Pletts, Shelayne Schanta, the fabulous Murphy girls, the Hedberg family, Allison Whitaker, Brandy Morrison, Laura Boothby, Dr. Buckthal (my friend's dad!), Grace Knapton, Ryan Hill, Dana Hoffman, Julianne Kammer, Nancy Knox, Luanne Macomb, Eleanor Raines, Kim Garvis (my friend!), Sharon Stiles and especially Carol Robinson, my darling and tolerant second mother. Special, heartfelt thanks to Anthony DeFilio, who asked me to put his late wife in a book three years ago--every time I typed Theresa's name, I remembered her and how much she loved her family.
To the world's best writing friends--Shaunee Cole, Jennifer Iszkiewicz, Huntley Fitzpatrick, Karen Pinco and the amazing Robyn Carr--how lucky I am to have you!
To the loves of my life--McIrish, Princess and Dearest--thank you for filling my life with such joy and happiness. You are my favorite people on earth.
And thank you, readers. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for reading my books.
If You Only Knew
by Kristan Higgins
Jenny
Today is one of those days when I realize that staying friends with my ex-husband was a huge mistake.
I'm at the baby shower for Ana-Sofia, Owen's wife and my replacement. Indeed, I'm sitting next to her, a place of honor in this circle of beaming well-wishers, and I'm probably beaming just as hard as everyone else. Harder, even, my "gosh, isn't it wonderful, she's so radiant" smile that I give at work quite often, especially as my brides get bitchier or their mothers get more critical or their maids of honor get more jealous. But this smile, the baby-shower smile...this is superhuman, really.
I know that coming today is incredibly pathetic, don't worry. It's just that I didn't want to seem bitter by not showing up--though I'm pretty sure I am bitter, at least a little. After all, I'm the one who always wanted kids. Every time I brought it up, though, Owen said he wasn't sure the time was right, and he loved our life the way it was.
Yeah. So. That turned out not to be quite true, but we did stay friends. Coming today, though...pathetic.
However, I woke up this morning utterly starving, and I knew the food would be amazing at the shower. Ana-Sofia inspires people. Plus, I'm moving out of the city, so for the past three weeks, I've been trying to eat or give away every morsel of food in my apartment. Let's also mention that I couldn't figure out an excuse that people would buy. Better to be an oddity here than Poor Jenny at home, scrounging through a box of Wheat Thins of indeterminate age.
Ana-Sofia opens my gift, which is wrapped in Christmas paper, despite it being April. Liza, my host, glowers; the red-and-green cocoa-swilling Santas are an affront to the party vibe, which Liza noted on the invitations.
In an effort to create a beautiful and harmonious environment for Ana-Sofia, please adhere to the apricot-and-sage color scheme in your clothing and gift-wrapping choices.
Only in Manhattan, folks. I'm wearing a purple dress as a middle finger to Liza, who used to be my friend but now posts daily on Facebook that she's LOL-ing with her BFF, Ana-Sofia.
"Oh! This is so lovely! Thank you, Jenny! Everyone, look at this! It's beautiful!" Ana-Sofia holds up my gift, and there are gasps and murmurs and exclamations and a few glares that I have brought the best present. I cock an eyebrow at the haters. Suck it up, bitches. My gift was actually dashed off last night, as I kind of forgot to buy a present, but they don't have to know that.
It's a white satin baby blanket with leaves and trees and birds stitched into it. Hey. It only took me two hours. Nothing was hand-stitched. It wasn't that big a deal. I sew for a living. A wedding-dress designer. The irony is not lost on me.
"Couldn't you have just bought a stuffed animal like a normal person?" murmurs the person on my left. Andreas--born Andrew--my assistant, and the only man here. Gay, of course--do straight men work in designer bridal wear? Also, he hates and fears children, which makes him the perfect date for me under the circumstances. I needed an ally.
Have I mentioned that the shower is being held in the apartment I once shared with Owen? Where, so far as I could tell, he and I were extremely happy? Yes. Liza is hosting, but the power went out in her apartment, thanks to the ham-fisted construction crew installing her new glass countertops--granite being so very last decade--and so we're here instead. Liza is sweaty and loud, rightfully worried about being judged on her prowess as hostess. This is the Upper East Side, after all. We're all about judgment here.
The gifts--including mine--border on the ridiculous. The shower invitation--engraved from Crane's--asked, at the behest of the parents, for donations to the clean-well-water charity Ana-Sofia founded--Gushing.org, the name of which brings to mind a particularly bad menstrual period, but which raises funds for wells in Africa. Yeah. Therefore, everyone donated fat checks and tried to outdo each other with gifts. There's a Calder mobile. A 1918 edition of Mother Goose stories. A mohair Steiff teddy bear that costs about as much as the rent on my soon-to-be former apartment in the Village.
My gaze drifts across the now-tastefully furnished apartment. When I lived here, it was cozier and boho--fat, comfortable furniture; dozens of pictures of my three nieces; the occasional wall hanging from Target, that bastion of color and joy for the middle class. Now the decor is incredibly tasteful, with African masks on the wall to remind us what Ana-Sofia does, and original paintings from around the globe. The walls are painted those boring neutral colors with sexy names--October Fog, Birmingham Cream, Icicle.
There's their wedding photo. They eloped, so thank God I didn't have to go to that--or, heaven forbid, make her gown, which I would've done if asked, because I'm still pretty pitiful where Owen is concerned and can't figure out how to divorce him out of my heart. Though the photo was taken by the justice of the peace in Maine, it's perfect. Both bride and groom are laughing, slightly turned away from the camera, Ana's hair blowing in the sea breeze. The New York Times featured the photo in the Sunday Vows section.
They really are the perfect couple. Once, it was Owen and me, and while I didn't expect perfection, I thought we were pretty great. We never fought. My mom felt that since Owen is half-Japanese, he was a better bet than "those simpletons" I dated--all of whom I hoped to marry at one point or another, starting with Nico Stephanopolous in eighth grade. "The Japanese don't believe in divorce," Mom said the first time I introduced her. "Right, Owen?"
He agreed, and I can still see his omnipresent, sweet smile, the Dr. Perfect Smile, as I called it. It's his resting expression. Very reassuring to his patients, I'm sure. Owen is a plastic surgeon, the kind who fixes cleft palates and birthmarks and changes the lives of his patients. Ana-Sofia, who is from Peru and speaks five languages, met Owen eleven weeks after our divorce when he was doing his annual stint with Doctors Without Borders in the Sudan and she was digging wells.
And I make wedding dresses, as I believe I've already said. Listen, it's not as shallow as it sounds. I make women look the way they dreamed they would on one of the happiest days of their lives. I make them cry at their own reflections. I give them the dress they've spent years thinking about, the dress they'll be wearing when they pledge their hearts, the dress they'll pass on to their own daughters someday, the dress that signifies all their hopes and dreams for a happy, sparkling future.
But compared with what Owen and his second wife do, yeah, it's incredibly shallow.
In theory, I should hate them both. No, he didn't cheat with her. He's far too decent for that.
He loves her, though. Ostensibly, I could hate him for loving her and not me. Make no mistake. I was heartbroken. But I can't hate Owen, or Ana-Sofia. They're too damn nice, which is incredibly inconsiderate of them.
And being Owen's friend is better than being without Owen entirely.
The quilt has made the rounds of admiration and is passed back to Ana. She strokes it tenderly, then looks at me with tears in her eyes. "I don't have the words to tell you how much this means."
&
nbsp; Oh, shut up, I want to say. I forgot to buy you a gift and dashed this off last night with some leftover Duchess satin. It's no big deal.
"Hey, no worries," I say. I'm often glib and stupid around Ana-Sofia. Andreas hands me another cream puff. I may have to give him a raise.
"I'm so excited about your new shop," Ana continues. "Owen and I were talking about how talented you are just last night."
Andreas gives me a significant look and rolls his eyes. He has no problem hating Ana-Sofia and Owen, which I appreciate. I smile and take another sip of my mimosa, which is made with blood oranges and really good champagne.
If I'm ever pregnant, though the chances of that are plummeting by the hour, I imagine I'll have the unenviable "I sat on an air hose" look that my sister had when she was percolating the triplets. There was no glow. There was acne. Stretch marks that made her look as if she'd been mauled by a Bengal tiger. She gnashed on Tums and burped constantly, but in true Rachel fashion, my sister never complained.
Ana-Sofia glows. Her perfect olive skin is without a blemish or, indeed, a visible pore. Her boobs look fantastic, and though she is eight and a half months pregnant, her baby bump is modest and perfectly round. She has no cankles. Life is so unfair.
"We just found out that our daughter's classmate is her half brother," says the taller woman in Lesbian Couple #1. One of them just became a partner in Owen's practice, but I don't remember her name. "Imagine if we hadn't known that! She could've ended up dating her half brother! Marrying him! The fertility clinic gave out fourteen samples of that donor's sperm. We're filing a lawsuit."
"It's better than adopting," says another woman. "My sister? She and her husband had to give back their son the fourth time he set fire to the living room."
"That's not so bad. My cousin adopted, and then the birth mother came out of rehab and the judge gave her custody of the baby. After two years, mind you."
On the other side of the circle, there seems to be a heated debate over whose labor and delivery was most grueling. "I almost died," one woman says proudly. "I looked at my husband and told him I loved him, and the next thing I knew, the crash cart was there..."
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