by Meghan March
“She’s taking her out to buy her a bridesmaid dress tonight. Probably going to get her hammered afterward so she can’t change her mind. I’m going to track them down in a couple hours to make sure they’re not getting into too much trouble.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve done enough. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Hunter doesn’t wait for me to respond before he hangs up, and I feel like a shitty friend. I fucked up with Whitney, screwed up her aunt’s job, and my best friend is pissed because I put his future bride’s happiness in jeopardy.
And I’m going to fix all of it.
Hunter has forgotten one important thing—I’m the CEO of a billion-dollar company, and that’s what I do. Fix problems.
First, I’ll deal with the easiest one. Jackie’s job.
I point my SUV in the direction of the estate. It’s time to talk to my mother. She’s due for a serving of humble pie.
* * *
“I will not apologize. That girl is trash. She’s been trash since the day she was born, and she’ll die trash.”
McKinley glares at me. “Dr. Green said we’re supposed to keep her out of stressful situations, and this is what you do first?”
My mother’s chin points skyward. “He doesn’t care if I die. I’m sure he’d be happy if I did.”
The bullshit that passes for truth in this house is one of the biggest reasons I moved out.
“Mother, you know that’s not true. I love and respect you, and I know that you understand the magnitude of the problem you’ve caused for McKinley today.”
“She shouldn’t be running that hotel to begin with.” With her words, my mother did exactly what I expected her to do—piss my sister off.
“Thanks a lot, Mother,” McKinley says with a sigh. “It’s great to get your vote of confidence—again.”
My mother’s chin cuts toward my sister. “You were supposed to find a husband. You failed. Don’t blame me for wanting a better life for you than toiling away behind a desk.”
“I like toiling away behind a desk. I’m a successful CEO. I love my job. I’m happy. I think that means I’m doing just fine.” McKinley glances at me. “Lincoln’s right. I would like my head of housekeeping back. She’s one of the most reliable employees I have.”
“I’m not apologizing to her for anything. You can’t make me.” My mother looks and sounds like a petulant child, with her arms crossed over her chest.
“Maybe your son and daughter can’t, but I can, Sylvia.” Commodore rolls into the living room with his dog trailing behind, and I have no idea how long he’s been listening or how he got here. “I wanted to see for myself that you’d survived your episode. Since you’re throwing a tantrum, you must be perfectly fine.”
Commodore and my mother have never gotten along, but he is the only person who can control her because he still holds the keys to the kingdom—and keeps a tight grip on the purse strings. It’s not hard to conclude that a large part of my mother’s bitterness comes from the fact that she expected Commodore to die, leave the family fortune to my father, and then she’d be able to freely spend all the money she married. Expectations have robbed her of any kind of happiness, because life hasn’t gone according to her plan.
Instead of sniping back at Commodore, however, my mother goes silent, her eyes blazing with rage as she holds back what is no doubt an impressive volley of vitriol.
“Now, tell me what the hell is going on. Who quit? Is it going to impact the company negatively?” Commodore asks the room in general.
McKinley speaks up. “Jackie Gable. My head of housekeeping. And yes, she’s one of the best employees I had, and I’d like to get her back.”
Commodore looks at me. “And she quit why, exactly?”
“Mother had some things to say about her niece that she objected to, and she resigned.”
The old man’s gaze shifts to my mother. “Sylvia, you have an apology to deliver. Feel free to put it in writing if you can’t manage to keep a civil tongue around the Gables.”
My mother’s mouth drops open, and I can’t hide my shock at his declaration either.
“Over my dead body,” she snaps.
Commodore smiles, but there’s no kindness in it. “Since you failed to die once today, I think that’s highly unlikely.” His gaze sharpens. “As soon as you start interfering with business, you start interfering with me. We both know how that battle will turn out, don’t we?”
The old man is savage with her, and while I respect my mother, she does need to be reined in. It’s my only chance of repairing the situation I promised to fix.
Commodore maneuvers his chair to face me. “If your mother wants an allowance for next month, she’ll deliver the apology in your presence or in writing. If in person, it will not be delivered publicly. Am I understood?”
Mother fumes in silence.
“Anything else, sir?” My question is more of a formality, but Commodore rolls closer to me.
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” He stops in front of me and lowers his voice so only I can hear him. “You know what my expectations are. Think very carefully about how you proceed with that Gable girl.”
He doesn’t wait for a response before spinning around and exiting the room, leaving us all staring after him and no doubt cursing his name.
42
Whitney
The past
Commodore Riscoff scared the ever-loving hell out of me, and not just because he was looming over me in the dark. I’d never seen him this close up before, and I’d never wanted to.
His face was lined with wrinkles as he peered down at me. Water beaded off his rain jacket. “I don’t want to know what you’re doing here, do I, Ms. Gable?”
I didn’t know why I wasn’t surprised he knew who I was. Commodore Riscoff was akin to the Great and Powerful Oz in this town. He knew everything, and no one questioned him.
I answered as honestly as I could. After all, what more did I have to lose when it came to this family? They’d already taken the farm. And I’d left most of the shreds of my pride on the floor of the cabin where Lincoln essentially called me a whore.
“No, sir. But I suspect you’ll find out all the same.”
His attention lowered to my bare feet. I’d dropped my shoes somewhere in the woods when I fell, and I wasn’t digging for them right now. They could serve as a grave marker for the death of whatever Lincoln and I had thought we had together.
“Do you need a ride home?”
His question surprised me, and even though I wanted to deny it, I told the truth.
“Yes, sir. I would appreciate a ride. It’s a long walk in the rain.”
His gaze shifted toward the cabin, lights ablaze, and at the long driveway. His lips pressed together as he looked back at me and held out a hand.
“Come on.”
I reached out with my uninjured wrist, and he helped me to my feet. Shock numbed the pain of what had happened in the cabin as the Riscoff patriarch helped me into his SUV. Hell must have frozen over. He shut me in the car, and I shivered on the leather seat despite the warm summer night.
Commodore climbed into the driver’s seat and looked at me. “Your dad bought a place on the other side of the tracks, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
He backed the SUV onto the road and shifted into drive, heading in the direction that would take us to my parents’ house. For the first few minutes, we were both silent, but then he finally spoke.
“You know, Ms. Gable—”
I interrupted him because whatever he had to say, I wasn’t sure I could handle hearing it.
“I would really, really appreciate it if you could spare me the lecture about how I’m not good enough for your grandson, and that he’s destined for better things and a woman who doesn’t have my last name. It’s been a shitty night, and he’s already made that fact perfectly clear. I have no designs on your grandson. He’s safe from me.�
�
The old man glanced at me and returned his attention to the road.
For some reason, I wanted him to know the truth. I wanted him to know that I wasn’t some gold digger who was going after his grandson.
“I told him it was a mistake from the moment I found out his last name. He’s the one who pushed me to change my mind and give him a chance.”
“The boy could charm a rattlesnake if he put his mind to it,” the old man remarked, and I nodded in silent agreement. “He’s also quite rebellious.”
I rolled my eyes at that statement. “So I’ve heard. Along with the fact that I was his method of getting back at you for making him come home before he planned. That was great to hear, by the way.”
“And who did you hear that from?”
“Your son and daughter-in-law.” I looked at him. “I hate to say this, sir, but they’re both assholes.”
Instead of slamming on the brakes and throwing me out of the car, he burst out laughing. The deep rumbles seemed to come straight from his gut.
I studied his profile. Despite his snow-white hair and thick beard, it was obvious to see where Lincoln got his features. His grandfather was probably a good example of exactly what Lincoln would look like in about sixty years.
“You’re bold, girl. I respect that. And you’re also right. My son didn’t follow in my footsteps the way I’d planned.”
I sensed that this wasn’t something he would normally say, but nothing about tonight was normal. “What do you mean by that?”
“Riscoff men have always been faithful. We’ve always married not just for money but because our partner makes us better men. My wife was a good woman. Fiercely loyal and as smart as she was beautiful. She was the kind of woman who, in a different day and age, would have been an incredible force to be reckoned with at the bargaining table, mostly because she was so damn stubborn. She kept me on my toes. Made me look forward to waking up every day. That’s what I wanted for my son, but that’s not what Sylvia turned out to be.”
“It sounds like Lincoln’s mom doesn’t care about any of the things you did either. It sounds like she only cares about him marrying for a name and prestige.”
Commodore slowed at a stop sign and his dark brown gaze was pointed. “The idea is to find all of those qualities in one person—rather than needing multiple women to fit the bill. That’s where my son went wrong, and I’m not going to let my grandson make the same mistakes.”
He didn’t have to elaborate for me to understand that I would be one of those mistakes.
“I’m sure you’ll do a much better job molding Lincoln in your image now that you’ve learned from those mistakes.”
Instead of continuing through the intersection, he asked me another question. “Is that what you’re going to do, Whitney Gable? Learn from your mistakes?”
I turned to stare out the window so he didn’t see the tears burning my eyes. “I’m damn sure going to try.”
Finally, he hit the gas and we turned. “You would’ve had an uphill battle if you’d tried to make it work. Everyone would’ve been against you. His family. Your family.”
“Isn’t that what life is about? Fighting an uphill battle when it’s worth it? And what’s more worth it than fighting to be with the person who makes you excited to wake up every day?”
“You sound like a wise girl, despite the fact that you’ve made some questionable decisions.”
“Haven’t we all?”
“Indeed we have, Ms. Gable.”
We made the rest of the drive in silence, mostly because there was really nothing more to say.
When Commodore pulled up in front of my parents’ house, it was completely dark, for which I was thankful. That meant my dad wouldn’t be coming out with a gun to try to kill the old man. Lord only knew what he would think if he saw Commodore Riscoff giving me a ride. Undoubtedly, he’d come to the very worst conclusion imaginable.
I reached for the door handle and paused. I needed Lincoln’s grandfather to know one more thing. At least, my pride needed him to know.
“I never wanted to be with Lincoln because of his name or your money. Whatever we had, it was despite both of those things.”
I didn’t wait for an answer before I climbed out of the SUV and headed inside, dripping wet and clutching my burning wrist and my tattered pride.
43
Whitney
Present day
“What is this color, anyway?” Cricket flips up the tag on a gray dress I’m holding. “Mercury? That shit is poisonous, and you’re not wearing it at my wedding.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I thought I got to pick whatever I wanted.”
“Not if it’s toxic. You need something like willow, or meadow, or clover.” Cricket sweeps her hand toward another section of the rack.
“So, what you really mean is that I can pick anything as long as it’s green?”
Her lips quirk up. “You know green would look stunning on you, and I’m a bit of a forest sprite myself.” Her brown hair flutters around her shoulders as she twirls.
“How about you pick the color you want me in so I don’t screw up your plans, and I’ll pick the style.”
My cousin’s smile grows until I’m afraid she might strain a muscle in her face. “You’d really let me pick?”
“Of course. It’s your wedding.” To myself I add, It’s not the dress that’s the hard part; it’s sticking around long enough to wear it.
The song playing over the bridal salon stereo changes, and I cringe at the familiar opening bars that I know by heart.
Ricky’s voice is going to haunt me forever. I curse my own stupidity every time I hear a song I wrote on the radio. My hard work added up to four albums in ten years, plus who knows how many songs he sold to other people.
Every time I insisted on getting some sort of credit, Ricky talked me out of it by convincing me his career would go to shit if I made it look like he was a poser who couldn’t write a song by himself.
Which was the truth.
When I finally put my foot down six months ago, when he started working on his fifth album, he pushed back the recording date and stopped asking for help. This was his game. Wait until there was no more time to extend the deadline, risk breach of contract, and then convince me I was going to ruin both our lives if I didn’t do my part like I promised.
But he never made it that far. And he managed to spend every penny anyway.
I pretend to flip through the racks, but mostly I’m blocking out the music, feeling like I can’t breathe right until the song finally changes.
When it does, to something with a terrible chorus and bridge, I think about all the notebooks of songs I’ve written that were never sold or recorded. I know I have skills. Ricky’s rock-god status cemented that without a doubt. But those songs aren’t worth a damn thing sitting where they are, and I’m fresh out of rock stars to sell them to. My other choice is to try to record demos myself . . . which I would never do. My singing voice is strictly for the shower. Besides, Ricky was the one with the great guitar skills. I just knew how to write songs that people loved.
“What about this one?” Cricket interrupts my train of thought when she holds up a bright orange dress that, with my black hair, would make everyone think of Halloween. “It’s called persimmon.”
When I offer complete silence in response, she laughs. “That was a test. I knew you would hate it, and now I also know what your no way in hell face looks like.”
A smile tugs at my lips. My cousin knows me well. “Touché.”
“At least I’m not making you wear a mushroom.” She points to a cluster of brown dresses. “Truffle and morel.”
“How about we skip the food colors?”
Cricket turns back to the rack and flips through hanger after hanger. “So that means no apricot, peach, cherry, apple, pear, or guava. Good Lord, what is the obsession with fruit?”
I reach for a dress that’s a vivid blue.
“Ohhh, what’s th
at?” Cricket grabs the tag. “Sky. I love that. And it would look stunning on you and only marginally okay on Karma.”
There’s a high-necked halter option that looks like it would strangle me . . . and then a one-shoulder design that is actually quite pretty.
I hold it up in front of me. “What about this one?”
Cricket claps her hands. “Yes! Try it on!”
The saleswoman, who has been attempting to hover unobtrusively nearby, rushes over at Cricket’s exclamation. “This one is a little big for you, but it would only take a week or so to order.”
“Good, because we’re only three weeks out from the wedding.”
When Cricket mentions the date as I step into the fitting room, it hits me that I’ve been a terribly shitty cousin because I never asked for her actual wedding date.
Turns out, it’s scheduled for the same weekend I married Ricky—when Lincoln’s legendary objection happened. I desperately hope that’s not a bad omen.
And what’s even worse . . . tomorrow is the ten-year anniversary of something I’ve worked really hard to forget.
44
Whitney
The past
The house was empty when I walked inside, and for once I was thankful that my dad was likely out drinking, and my mom . . . Well, according to Karma, she was probably out with a man who wasn’t my dad.
I shook off the thought. Karma couldn’t be right. It had to just be bullshit gossip. I’d borrowed Mom’s car a few times that I met Lincoln, so maybe the local gossips had seen me and thought I was her?
But I’d never been to the Wham Bam Motel.
After my second shower of the evening, I pulled on my comfiest sweats and a ratty old T-shirt and flopped onto my bed with a bag of frozen peas wrapped around my wrist.
Even though I was clean and dry, I felt as bruised and battered as Bouncer, our cat. He walked along the edge of the bed, his tail batting me in the face. He was missing an ear from a fight with another cat in the neighborhood, but he kept coming home, even when I thought he was going to run off for good.