by Cheryl Holt
Very quickly, those poignant recollections were replaced by the raw insult of that final, horrid morning in Denver.
Chantal had been welcome. Chantal had been invited inside, but Amy had not.
"I have to get back to work," she murmured, and she stood.
"No, you don't."
"I can't be fired because of you."
"You won't be fired."
He was grinning again, a sure sign that he was up to no good.
"Why not?" she asked.
"You quit."
"I…what?"
"You quit. I explained everything to your boss."
"You can't do that!"
He feigned innocence. "Really? No one told me."
"Oh, you miserable jerk."
"Can we leave now?"
"No! I have three more hours on my shift."
She peered around, looking for her boss. She was anxious to locate him, to tell him that Dustin was a maniac and she wasn't quitting. Yet all she saw was the other waitress approaching with Amy's parka and purse.
"This is so romantic," the woman gushed, "like a scene in a movie."
She lurched over and gave Amy a tight, awkward hug, but Amy slipped out of her grasp. She scowled at Dustin, at her coworker, at Dustin. They were both smirking, happy as clams.
"You won't get away with this," Amy ludicrously warned Dustin.
"I already have."
"You are insane," she mumbled.
She grabbed her coat, jammed her arms into the sleeves, and stomped out.
The tears that had threatened dripped down her cheeks, and she walked along, furiously swiping at them.
She was so…sad. She couldn't have him showing up, intruding where he wasn't wanted and wrecking everything before he headed for LA again.
The prior autumn, her life had been perfect. She'd still been in her apartment, the twins content and settled. She'd been employed at a job she loved. Marge had lived downstairs and played the part of doting grandmother to all of them.
But after he'd appeared, her entire world had been destroyed. He was like a comet, one of those harbingers of doom that the ancients used to fear. He'd swept across her sky, bringing destruction and gloom and ruin.
From the day she'd last seen him in Denver, she'd been picking up the pieces of all that he'd shattered in his wake. He'd wreaked such havoc that she'd begun to wonder if she'd ever get back on track.
After how he'd treated her, she'd refused to keep working for him, had refused to remain in Gold Creek, watching while he sold his family's heritage to Chad.
Marge—bless her heart—had been in total agreement. They'd shut the newspaper office, loaded a U-Haul, and moved to Colorado Springs.
As they'd been preparing to drive away, Pamela had staggered in. Chad had dumped her—no surprise there—and she was depressed and eager to make amends. She'd seemed contrite and sincere in a way she'd never been, and Amy had been so dispirited herself that she hadn't had the energy to tell her to leave them alone.
So Pamela had come with them, and they were all—herself, Marge, the twins, and Pam—crammed into a small, dilapidated house. It was drafty and rundown and located in a rough neighborhood. Pamela's stipend from her trust fund was paying the rent, but it wasn't nearly enough to cover their bills.
Amy was working, Marge searching for work, and Pamela lounging at home—what she was absolutely best at—so someone would be there for the twins after school.
It was a stressful, ridiculous situation, and Amy felt as if they were hunkered down, waiting for the next shoe to drop, the next bomb to explode, the next catastrophe to swamp their little boat.
And now, Dustin Merriweather had waltzed into the middle of it, expecting to be welcomed back, expecting her to be glad he'd arrived.
Well, she wasn't glad!
How had he found her? Why had he even been looking? How long would he stay? An hour? A whole day? By the time he flew on to LA, how much more damage would he cause?
With each stride she took, she grew more irate and depressed.
A car drew up behind her, and it slowed. She glanced over to see Dustin trailing after her in an expensive SUV.
She ignored him. She lived six blocks from the restaurant, and she'd already crossed three of them. If she could hold it together a few more minutes, she'd be there and could lock herself inside.
He rolled down the window. "Do you want a ride?"
"No."
"You've been up on your feet all day."
"I'm used to it."
"It's silly to walk when you don't need to."
She whipped around to face him. "Go away."
"Why are you so stubborn?"
"I'm not stubborn. I just hate you, and I'm not getting in your car."
She continued on, her fury escalating as he dogged her every step. She arrived at her gate, and he asked, "Aren't you going to invite me in?"
"Go! Away!" she repeated.
She stormed in and slammed the door, as he pulled into the driveway and parked his SUV—as if that's where it belonged.
"Bastard!" she snarled.
Too late, she realized that Jen and Jess were back from school and sitting on the couch.
"Amy," Jess scolded, "you said a bad word."
"Sorry," she mumbled.
Pamela was in the kitchen, and she poked her nose in. "You're home early. I take it you saw Dustin?"
"Don't mention his name to me, and don't let him in this house ever again."
Just as she issued the command, he strolled in without knocking—as if he owned the place.
"Dustin!" the twins squealed, and they leapt off the sofa and rushed over to him.
"Hey, guys." He hugged them close, as he gazed at Amy over their heads. He was preening, pleased with himself, with his reception, and practically daring her to toss him out.
Marge bustled in. "Get your coats," she told the twins. "Amy has to talk to Dustin. Alone."
"I'm not talking to him alone or any other way," Amy insisted.
"Get your coats," Marge said, ignoring her.
"Talk to him," Pamela urged, ganging up on Amy. "Don't be stupid for once. Swallow your pride and do what's best for yourself."
Amy was too exasperated to be civil. She pushed past Marge, went over to the stairs, and proceeded up to her bedroom.
Her window faced the street, and she stood, watching as Marge exited with the twins. Pamela tagged after them. They scrambled into Marge's car and drove away. Dustin never followed them, so he had to be down in the living room.
Well, she could wait him out. She could stay in her room forever if that's what it would take to get rid of him. He'd grow bored soon enough and leave.
But she should have known it wouldn't be that easy.
"Coward!" he called from the bottom of the stairs. "Get your ass down here—right now."
Against her better judgment, she marched over to her door, opened it, and shouted down, "I have no desire to speak to you. How many times must I tell you to go away?"
"Don't make me come up there," he threatened like an angry parent.
His comment was so annoying that she rolled her eyes with disgust. "Or what? Will I get a spanking?"
"Don't tempt me. I might like it too much."
"Why won't you leave?"
"If you come down, I'll let you know."
She hesitated, dithering, when she heard his foot on the stair. She was not about to have him in her bedroom, and he was so pompous that he'd think he could simply barge in.
She went down to him so he wouldn't climb up to her. He was sprawled on her couch, an arm tossed across the back, an ankle balanced on his knee. He looked much too comfortable, as if he always sat there, and he was arrogantly grinning, having never doubted his ability to lure her down.
"Let's get one thing straight," she fumed before he could steer the conversation.
"What is it?"
"I don't want you here, and I don't want you bothering my family. You can't show u
p unannounced, and you can't glom onto them as if you…mean something to us."
"That's four things."
She scowled. "What?"
"You said we'd get one thing straight. That's four things."
She threw up her hands. "Fine. It's four things. Now I'm busy, and I don't have the energy to fuss with you."
"Why are you busy?"
"Some asshole just cost me my job, and I have to start searching for another one."
"You don't need another one."
"Yes, I do. In case you didn't notice, I am supporting everybody."
"I noticed, but don't worry about it."
"Spoken like a rich idiot who has never been concerned about money so he has no idea what things cost or how difficult it is to find a job these days."
"You don't need a job," he said again.
"Why is that?" she jeered.
"Because you're marrying a rich idiot."
"I'm…what?"
"You're getting married."
"To who?"
"To me."
"In your friggin' dreams."
He unfolded himself from the couch. He was handsome and obstinate and determined to have his way, which only made her more determined to have hers.
"Marry me," he said.
"What? No. The last time I saw you, I was on the sidewalk in front of your family's house in Denver, and you wouldn't even let me inside."
"Trust me: I was doing you a favor."
"A favor!"
"You don't want to ever meet my mother."
"Is that supposed to convince me to say yes to your proposal?"
"No, this is." He came over to her, and he actually dropped to one knee like an old-fashioned suitor.
"Get up!" she demanded, panicking, yanking on his arm and attempting to tug him to his feet, but he wouldn't budge.
He reached into his coat, and when he drew out his hand, he was holding a diamond engagement ring. She stood like a statue, too paralyzed to react as he slipped it onto her finger.
"I love you," he murmured. "Will you marry me?"
Her knees weak, she staggered away and collapsed onto the bottom stair. The ring felt heavy and grave, as if glued to her skin and she'd never be able to remove it.
Rubbing her temples, she stared at the floor, trying to make sense of what was happening.
She hardly knew him, and what she did know, she didn't like. He was lazy and overbearing and spoiled and wretchedly irritating. She couldn't rely on him, and they had nothing in common. Not background, not acquaintances, not lifestyle or status or hobbies or interests.
The man was a lunatic.
She glanced up, and with her sitting and him standing, he towered over her.
"Kiss me," he said.
"No."
"You know you want to," he insisted.
He leaned down and touched his lips to her own. The contact was brief and chaste and marvelous, and she yearned to fall into the embrace, to hold tight and never let him go.
What was wrong with her?
She pushed him away and stumbled to her feet. She was confused, frantic, pacing, and he watched her, balanced indolently against the banister as if he hadn't a care in the world.
"What's the matter?" he finally asked.
She halted and glared. "You'd like to get married. To me."
"Yes."
"And this just occurred to you because…?"
"It didn't just occur to me. I've been thinking about it for awhile."
"Really?"
"Yes, really. When I returned to LA in December, it dawned on me that I don't make very good choices."
"You can say that again."
"I'm lonely, and I've never been happy. But guess what I figured out?"
"What?"
"There's a simple way for me to be happy forever."
"How?"
"I could marry you. You would make me happy forever."
He took a step toward her, and she took one back. He took another and so did she. They kept on till she was at the wall and could go no farther.
"You are crazy," she said.
"I agree, but it's all your fault."
"Then why on earth would you want me to be your wife?"
For a long while, he stared, smiling, looking content as he'd never been in the short time she'd known him.
"Because," he said, "I love you so much I'm dying with it."
She scoffed. "You love me? That can't be true."
"Why not?"
"You don't love anybody. You don't care about anything."
"I care about you—and your family. Have me, Amy. Make me yours, and you'll never be sorry."
She was bewildered and torn. Marry Dustin Merriweather? The notion was bizarre—but riveting, too.
Life was so easy for him. His money ensured that he never had to worry or struggle. If she was his wife, that same life of comfort could be hers. She could share it with her sisters, with Marge who'd always worked hard and had so little to show for it, with Pamela who—it was becoming clear—would never find a man to support her and who was completely incapable of supporting herself.
Amy could say yes to Dustin. She could help everyone. Why would she hesitate for even the slightest second?
She hadn't thought she'd ever marry. Who would ask her? Who would take the chance? With her sisters and her mother, she had so much baggage that an entire army of porters would be required just to carry it all.
But he—wealthy, entitled Dustin Merriweather—was willing to risk it. Why would he?
"I don't understand any of this," she said.
"What's to understand?"
"You barely know me, and I'm not your…type."
"My type? What type is that?"
"Skin and bones, all leg, high heels, mini-skirt, real fur, sleazy character, and bitchy personality."
"You have a bitchy personality. Are you claiming you were meant for me?"
She snorted with offense, and she would have stomped away again, but he clasped her hand, where the ring fit just right. He ran his thumb over the diamond.
"I want us to move to Gold Creek," he told her.
"To do what?"
"To make it our home."
"You and me"—she gestured from herself to him—"in Gold Creek."
"Yes. We're restoring the town. We'll fix everything you were nagging at me about."
"I don't nag."
"Yes, you do, and I figured the only way to get you to stop is to do what you want."
"Fix up Gold Creek…" she murmured, tantalized by the prospect.
"All the Merriweather property. We'll begin with the two mansions at the top of the hill and work down from there."
"You're serious?"
"Yes. Marge has already agreed to research the décor, so we can shoot for an authentic—"
She frowned. "When did you discuss this with Marge?"
"Last week when I phoned Pamela."
"You talked to Pam last week?"
"Yes."
"Nobody told me."
"We all decided it wasn't any of your business until we had it all arranged."
I'll kill them, she mused. "Go on. Tell me more."
"We'll start with the house where you and Marge had your apartments. Once it's done, we'll live there—as a family."
"You want to live with all of us? Kids, wife, grandmothers? All in the same house?"
"It's a big place, Amy. We'll fit in it just fine."
"You have to be joking."
"I never had a family."
"And you think I can give you one?"
"Yes."
"You're from LA, where the world is fast and crazy and loud. You'd be bored silly after the first month. You'd leave me. Then where would I be?"
"I'll never leave you," he vowed.
She gaped at him. He seemed so sincere, so eager to proceed. He was simply waiting for her okay.
She could consent to the whole ball of wax. She'd have her family together. She'd have a job an
d a purpose in life. Most of all, she'd have him as her husband. She'd have him to cherish and fuss over and scold.
What a fascinating, glorious, frightening notion. She didn't know how to reply, didn't know what was best. She'd like to say yes, but she was so afraid of him.
They'd had such a limited acquaintance, and every time she'd seen him, he'd fled immediately after. He'd never even provided her with an address or phone number. If she'd needed to contact him, she couldn't have.
If she married him, and he grew bored and abandoned her, how would she survive it? How would the twins manage? They all loved him, and she thought—maybe—he could learn to love them in return.
But what if he didn't? What if he tried, but found it too difficult or too inconvenient? What if he left—after promising he'd stay?
"You'd never leave me?" she said, dubious.
"Never."
"You'd remain in Gold Creek—with me? Until your dying day?"
"I'd become a ghost and haunt you after that."
"My worst nightmare."
She chuckled miserably and yanked her gaze from his. She was reeling with choices, with decisions, with hope for what could be.
Her greatest dreams were hovering right in front of her. So close. So attainable.
Reach for them, reach for them, a voice in her head was shouting.
"You know how stubborn I am, Amy."
"Yes, I do. I definitely do."
"I'm determined to marry you, and I always get my way."
"Yes, I know that, too."
"Since I'm positive this is what I want, how will you ever get rid of me?"
She snorted again, then was quiet.
He was the most intriguing, infuriating, magnificent man she would ever meet. And he was claiming he wanted to be with her forever.
It might turn out to be true or it might not.
If she rejected him, he'd leave, and she'd never learn what might have happened. Or she could say yes, and eventually, she would discover precisely how the future was to unfold. Wasn't it better to take a chance?
Someday, he might reassess and wish he hadn't wed her. He might not stick around. Yet before that occurred, she'd have him for awhile. If she was lucky, she might have him for a long time.
She was too proud and always had been. Would she allow him to walk away?
"Make me happy, Amy," he said. "Let me be yours."