In the Best Man's Bed

by Catherine Spencer

  “That’s right.” She dared to look him in the eye again and raised her glass in a mocking toast. “Here’s to going back to being the people we were before we met.”

  But the truth was, she’d never be the same again. A broken woman had replaced the heart-whole, successful business entrepreneur who’d landed on Bellefleur well over a month ago and who was now gone for good. All those things she’d once thought important had been eclipsed by love for a man who didn’t want her, and a little boy who needed her but couldn’t have her.

  That night, as always, he stopped by Adrian’s room last thing. From the beginning, it had been his favorite time of day, with the house quiet around him and his son peacefully sleeping, but it had become particularly important since Lisa had left.

  During those few quiet minutes, Ethan could search the child’s face without worrying that his own might give away the doubts which hounded him. Could silently convey the words he wished he could speak openly.

  Am I enough, mon petit? Do you blame me for your mother not being here? Should I have gone after her and brought her back, for your sake? Do you dream about her, miss her, cry for her when I’m not there to dry your tears? Do you worry that, one day, I, too, might leave and never come back?

  Sometimes, a great upsurge of paternal love choked him and nothing would do but that he hold Adrian close, as he had when the boy was still an infant. Curbing the urge to hug him too fiercely, he’d cradle his son against his chest and attempt to absorb into his own cold soul the warm innocence and trust that childhood was all about.

  Occasionally, the boy would stir, scour his eyes with a chubby fist, and murmur sleepily, “I love you, Papa,” before falling instantly asleep again. At such times, Ethan’s heart would swell with gratitude and he’d steal from the room, knowing he himself would sleep in peace.

  Not tonight, though. Tonight, he felt more at a loss than he had the day his ex-wife had bailed out of motherhood and marriage, and he approached the bed with a heavy heart, dreading what he might find imprinted on his son’s sleeping face.

  The cheeks were flushed, the eyelashes a dark sweep of color, the mouth soft as a woman’s. But the dried tear tracks told of the emotional storm which had taken place earlier, as did the foolish garment lying crumpled on the floor beside the bed.

  Why can’t I wear it? It’s mine, and I like it!

  It isn’t suitable, my son.

  But Anne-Marie made it specially for me. She said—

  It doesn’t matter what she said. She doesn’t understand how we live on Bellefleur. She’s not one of us.

  She is so! Why do you always spoil everything? Anne-Marie will go away, the same as Mama did, and it’s all your fault! I hate you, Papa!

  About to reach out and smooth the unruly spill of hair on the pillow, Ethan stopped, afraid not that his touch might awaken his son, but that he himself wouldn’t be able to bear the disillusionment he might find in those dark, sleepy eyes.

  I brought this on both of us, he thought, sick with regret. I have rocked the foundation of both our worlds by allowing her to grow close to us. If I’d paid attention to my instincts and kept her at a distance, things never would have come to this.

  A perfect sunrise greeted the wedding day. Awake early, Anne-Marie stepped out into a morning filled with bird-song and the scent of flowers.

  I can do this, she told herself. I can cope with everything I have to face today. I can walk down the aisle knowing Ethan’s standing at the altar, and not let myself get swept away by impossible dreams. I won’t pine for what I’m never going to have.

  She held on to that thought throughout the private breakfast with Solange, her parents, and the other bridesmaid, Angelique Tourneau. She managed to laugh when they went through the ritual of giving the bride “something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.” She swallowed hard when, an hour before the ceremony began, her hours of labor were rewarded by the sight of Solange, blindingly radiant in her cloud of white silk organza, and told herself again, I can do this! I can!

  When they gathered in the forecourt where two horse-drawn carriages waited to take them to the church, and she saw Adrian looking like a miniature of his father in the formal morning suit, she blinked and clamped her lips together and willed herself not to think about saying goodbye to him the next day. One step at a time, Anne-Marie! she ordered the quivering mass of emotion hidden under the pale aquamarine silk of her dress. You can do this!

  “You look so beautiful, Anne-Marie,” Adrian said, running up to clasp her hand and gazing up at her as if she were the most exquisite creature ever born. “Beautifuller than Solange. Beautifuller than anybody in the whole world!”

  Just briefly, she almost broke down. Then, at the last second, she wrestled the huge lump in her throat into submission and sternly repeated her mantra. I can do this!

  “And you’re the most handsome young man I’ve ever seen,” she managed, hoping he wouldn’t notice how her voice wobbled and her smile kept slipping out of place.

  Shortly after, with the faint echo of church bells drifting over the island, they climbed into the carriages and set off. Half the population of Bellefleur lined the sun-splashed roads, eager for a glimpse of bride as she passed by. The other half crowded the square in the center of town.

  And throughout all that followed—entry into the old stone church, the processional up the aisle, and the ancient, beautiful words of the marriage ceremony—somehow, Anne-Marie held fast to her resolve. I can do this!

  But, in the end, when it came time to take Ethan’s arm and walk beside him in the recessional march back down the aisle, she could not do it, after all. The sheer willpower which had carried her that far evaporated, and she started to shake so badly that her little bouquet of gardenias trembled as if caught in a sudden breeze.

  “Hold on,” Ethan murmured, his free hand reaching over to steady her. “It’s almost over.”

  It wasn’t, though. She had to pose beside him for interminable photographs. Had to join him in the carriage on the return journey to the villa. Had to sit beside him during the long, elaborate reception, and smile graciously when he toasted her and thanked her for all she’d done to make the day so memorable. Then, as the early tropical twilight descended and a thousand candles added to the moonlight spilling through the lacy iron doors of the inner courtyard, she had to dance with him. Feel his arm around her, his thigh brushing against hers, his hand warm and compelling in the small of her back.

  It was too much. Too painful, too ironic, too everything!

  “I can’t take much more of this,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut against the persistent prick of tears.

  “Of me, you mean?”

  “Of us.”

  “There is no ‘us.’ There never was, not really. The way I see it, having you step in as my hostess lulled us both into a false sense that we belonged together, that we were a couple, and we somehow forgot it was all just pretense.”

  “Blame everything on that, if you like, but what really sank us is that you lied to me by omission and didn’t like being caught at it.”

  “By all means believe that, if it makes you feel better,” he said. “The important thing is that we came to our senses before any lasting damage was done.”

  Oh, how she envied him his resilience! And how, for a brief, blessed moment, she hated him for emerging unscathed when she herself was wounded to the core. “Speak for yourself, Ethan, but don’t ever presume to know what I’m feeling! You’re the one who sabotaged our relationship, and I’ve had about enough of listening to you trying to rationalize your way out of it.”

  He swung her into one last turn as the music died, and released her. “Then you’ll be relieved to know the ordeal’s almost over,” he said. “It looks as if the newlyweds are preparing to leave. Better join the other unmarried hopefuls milling around the bride.”

  “No,” she said, a terrible chill chasing over her where, a moment before, she’d felt the warmth of his to
uch.

  “Yes,” he said, taking her elbow and almost dragging her toward the grand staircase where Solange stood four steps up, ready to toss her bouquet over her shoulder. “It’s expected of you.”

  She shrugged herself free of his grip. “Fine! I’ll perform this one last service, and then I’ll be free of you and all your inflexible, impossible expectations!”

  Disgruntled, disheartened, she deliberately stood apart from the women clustered eagerly at the foot of the stairs. Let one of them catch the damned flowers, if being the next bride meant so much to them! After her recent experience with love, marriage came so far down her list of priorities that it didn’t rate a mention.

  But either Solange had lousy aim, or the demons weren’t yet done tormenting Anne-Marie, because the bouquet sailed clean over all those immaculately coiffed heads and aimed directly for her. Instinctively, she reached up and caught it—it was either that, or have it smack her squarely in the face.

  It appeared to be a popular decision. Everyone cheered and applauded. Everyone, that was, but Ethan because, when she turned to acknowledge the crowd, he was no longer part of it.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SHE was packed and ready to leave by ten the next day. The letter to Ethan was written, she’d phoned Morton to arrange for her luggage to be brought up to the main house and for a car to take her to the airport. All that remained was to pay one last visit to Josephine. At that hour, she’d be taking coffee on the verandah outside the morning salon.

  Curiously numb, Anne-Marie stopped to take one last look around the guest pavilion. Already it wore the deserted air of a place filled only with ghosts, but they’d be chased away soon enough, when the next batch of visitors arrived. Would that she could be as easily rid of them!

  Burying a sigh, she turned and walked slowly through the gardens, memory after memory layering her mind. Here was the trail where she’d ridden behind him on horseback, her body still sweetly singing from their lovemaking, and here the koi pond where she’d first seen him. And finally, as she emerged from the shade of the overhanging greenery, and followed the winding path to the south terrace, there the big infinity pool where he’d forced her into an impromptu swimming lesson.

  As expected, Josephine sat in her usual high-backed wicker chair, a tray on the table before her. “What do you mean, you’re leaving?” she demanded, pausing in the middle of refilling her coffee cup, and regarding Anne-Marie with a mixture of surprise and indignation. “Child, I expected you’d stay at least another week. Now that all the excitement’s over and we have the place to ourselves again, I was looking forward to our spending some quiet time together.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I simply can’t do that, Madame Duclos. I don’t belong here, and now that Solange and Philippe have left for their honeymoon, there’s no reason for me to stay. But I couldn’t leave without first telling you how much your friendship has come to mean to me.”

  “Friendship? Child, you’re part of my family, and blood ties be damned!”

  Family. The one thing she missed so much. Oh, if only it were possible to be absorbed into this one! But it couldn’t be. She had no interest in becoming Ethan’s adopted sister or cousin.

  “That’s the nicest thing you could have said to me,” she sniffled, forgetting any idea she’d entertained that she might make a dignified exit, “and I love you for it, I really do.”

  “Enough to start calling this old woman Tante Josephine, and keep her company a while longer?”

  “I’d be honored to call you Aunt, but….” She fought a losing battle with the lump in her throat and choked out, “I have to go.”

  “Things didn’t work out with Ethan, then?” Josephine eyed her shrewdly. “I suspected as much, the way you both behaved yesterday.”

  “Were we very obvious?”

  “Only to me, child. Suffice it to say, I’m very sorry.”

  “The odds were against us from the beginning.”

  “Isn’t it possible, if you stayed, that the two of you might be able to work things out?”

  “No.” A single tear tracked down her face. Wiping it away, Anne-Marie looked out at the hummingbirds fighting over territorial rights in the garden. Such beautiful creatures, but so fiercely protective of their own! Had they taken lessons from Ethan, she wondered. “You yourself warned me, the second night I was here, that once Ethan makes up his mind, nothing changes it. And I’m afraid he’s made up his mind about me.”

  Josephine sighed and laid her head against the back of her chair. “It would appear that you’ve made up yours, too.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll be coming back you know. Often. We won’t have it any other way.”

  “Perhaps I will. But not for a long time.”

  “Because of my nephew?”

  “Because I’m not very good at saying goodbye. Which is why I’m going to ask you to give this to Ethan for me.” She dropped the letter on the table. “I really can’t face seeing him again.”

  “You don’t have to,” Josephine said wearily. “He left for Venezuela last night, immediately after the wedding was over.” She hauled herself upright and fixed Anne-Marie in one of her penetrating stares. “If you’re adamant about leaving, I’ll do as you ask and give him your note when he returns, but I will not act as your messenger with Adrian. He’ll be devastated if you leave without seeing him.”

  “I know.” Anne-Marie swallowed. “I dread having to tell him. I’ve come to love him—to love all of you, dearly.”

  “As we have come to love you, ma chère—those of us with any sense, at least.” She eased herself out of the chair and held out her arms. “Give me a hug to remember you by until we meet again.”

  Half-blind with tears, Anne-Marie went to her, kissed her cheek and inhaled the delicate, powdery fragrance that was Josephine.

  I’ll never smell heliotrope again without thinking of her, she thought, as another tear slipped loose. “Au revoir, ma tante.”

  A discreet cough from within the morning salon ended the moment. “The car is waiting to take you to the airport whenever you’re ready, Mademoiselle,” Morton announced. “And I have advised the pilot that you’ll be needing the jet to take you to the mainland.”

  Voice cracking, Josephine murmured, “Au revoir, child, and Godspeed.”

  Not trusting herself to speak again, Anne-Marie nodded, pressed a last kiss to her cheek, and followed the butler out to the forecourt. There, Adrian huddled in the shade of a coconut palm, his little face creased with misery.

  “I don’t want you to go,” he whimpered, the minute he saw her. “Please, please, don’t!”

  She hadn’t thought she had the capacity to endure any more angst, but the sight and sound of him dealt yet another blow to her battered heart. “Oh, Adrian, I’d stay if I could.”

  “That’s what everybody always says,” he cried, “but they go anyway and leave me by myself. First Maman left, then Papa went away, and now you’re going.”

  “But Papa will be home again soon,” she said, kneeling in front of him and gathering him close. “He always comes back, darling, you know that.”

  Adrian, though, had worked himself up into such a state that he was inconsolable. “No,” he sobbed against her neck. “He went away because I was bad. He doesn’t like me anymore.”

  “You’re never bad,” she said, shocked that he’d even think such a thing. “You’re the best little boy in the whole world, and your papa adores you.”

  “Not anymore,” he said again, a fresh spate of tears shaking his little body. “Nobody likes me anymore. They don’t even notice I’m here.”

  Anne-Marie raised her eyes, mutely asking for help in coping with the situation from the nanny hovering in the background. The nanny stared back, unable to offer any. And in all fairness, how could she be expected to, when much of what Adrian said was true?

  Apart from his brief role in yesterday’s ceremony, he’d been shunted aside in all the pre-weddin
g hype of the last few days. And now that it was over, the people he most relied on were abandoning him, one by one, first with Solange leaving, then Ethan, and now she herself.

  “I’m so sorry,” she murmured, kissing his mop of soft, dark hair. “I’d stay if I could, but if I don’t leave now, I’ll miss my flight.”

  “No, you won’t,” he wept, lifting his tear-drenched face to hers. “It’s Papa’s jet, and it won’t go ’til you tell it to. You don’t have to go yet, Anne-Marie. You could stay a little bit longer if you really wanted to…if you really loved me the way I love you!”

  If she hadn’t come to know him well enough to recognize that he was the least likely child in the world to resort without cause to such a torrent of emotional blackmail, she wouldn’t have caved in. But even a stranger could have seen his distress was genuine, and she couldn’t turn away from him. Her bruised heart wouldn’t allow it; it had taken enough punishment.

  “I suppose I could stay another day or two,” she conceded, “but only until Papa comes home. You do understand that, Adrian, don’t you?”

  His lip quivered. “Yes.”

  She looked over to where the ever-patient Morton waited at the car, and shrugged. “You must have heard.”

  He inclined his head. “Oui, mademoiselle.”

  “I’m sorry for the inconvenience—”

  “Not at all,” he said sympathetically. “Monsieur’s son is more important. We all understand.”

  Josephine’s response was much less restrained when she learned of the change in plans. “Well, hallelujah!” she exclaimed, her wise old eyes suddenly misting over. “Adrian succeeded where I failed, and managed to talk some sense into you!”

  “It’s only until Ethan comes back,” Anne-Marie cautioned her. “Please let’s all be clear on that.”

  “We’ll take whatever we can get. Mademoiselle will be staying here in the main house, Morton. Put her bags in the suite beside Adrian’s. The boy will feel better knowing she’s close by, and so will I.”