Finally, when they were both seated at the table, thick slices of cake and steaming mugs of tea in front of them, Bonnie was ready to tell her mom the whole story. Everything. Even the most unsavory parts.
“On Grandma Mary’s quilt?” her mother asked.
Bonnie nodded, poking at the crumbs on her plate.
Mom crossed herself. “Don’t tell your father that part.”
“Tell me what part?” Dad asked.
Bonnie and her mother both jumped, exchanging uneasy glances as her dad joined them at the table.
“Let me get you some cake, Bill.” Mom sliced a generous slab.
He thanked her but kept his attention pinned on Bonnie. With a thatch of unruly black hair and piercing dark eyes beneath a slash of thick, black brows, like all the Blythe boys, Dad was what was often referred to as “Dark Irish.”
Mom’s coloring was more muted, a soft brown like that of a wren. She looked like a little bird now, hopping around Dad, clucking and fussing. Watching them, Bonnie recognized her parents were a good match—Mom’s good-natured happy-go-lucky personality rounded the edges of her father’s sharp trademark temper.
Despite growing up Protestant, Connie had been happy to embrace her husband’s Irish Catholic heritage, learning how to cook his favorite foods and following the rituals of his faith, even raising her daughter in the traditions of her husband’s family. But, easygoing as she was, Connie had insisted on doing a few things her way, such as letting Bonnie decide for herself if she wanted to take communion.
And after her college graduation, when Bonnie had announced she was planning to move in with Gabe, even though they had yet to be officially engaged, it had been Mom who convinced Dad it was okay, cajoling him into joining the twenty-first century. When Gabe had proposed two Christmases ago, Dad had finally stopped grumbling about how his daughter’s virtue was in peril.
Now she was going to have to tell her father it was over—that she would not, in fact, be marrying the man she had been “living in sin” with. Why? Because her fiancé had been busy committing a few other sins. Bonnie gulped the rest of her tea and tried to figure out the best way to broach the subject. This shouldn’t be so hard. She was an English teacher; words were her world.
“Gabe cheated on her,” Mom said.
Well, that was one way to say it.
“Is this true?” Dad’s dark intense stare bored into her. “He told you that?”
“I, uh…” Bonnie broke eye contact and focused on the dregs in the bottom of her mug. “I caught him in the act.”
“You mean you … oh.” Her father cleared his throat. “I see.”
“Be glad you didn’t,” Bonnie quipped, going for levity.
It didn’t work. An awkward silence filled the kitchen. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
“Whatever for?”
“I know you’ve been looking forward to planning the wedding with me. And then of course, the honeymoon…”
“Oh, Bon-Bon, don’t worry about any of that,” her mother said, reaching out to smooth a hand over Bonnie’s curls. “None of that is important. Your happiness is what matters to me.”
Bonnie nodded, eyes stinging.
“Do you want me to kill him?”
“William!” Mom gasped.
The ghost of a giggle escaped her. Bonnie couldn’t be sure her father was joking. It was a good thing Gabe was over an hour away in the city. Come to think of it, maybe it was best if she kept news of her breakup under wraps from the rest of her family for a while—or at least the reason behind it. Too many uncles and cousins were in spitting distance of the apartment she’d shared with Gabe.
Even if Gabe deserved it, the last thing she needed was a Blythe Brigade showing up on his doorstep. Still, a small bloodthirsty corner of her soul would have liked to see what happened if they did. Her cousin Michael Jr. was an MMA fighter, and all the Blythe boys were born knowing how to throw a punch.
“That won’t be necessary, Dad.” She kept her voice light. “I’d prefer it if my next visit to see you wasn’t in prison.”
* * *
Later that night, Bonnie curled up under the pastel comforter in her old bedroom. Like the rest of the house, this room hadn’t changed much over the years. Never really a fan of boy bands or television heartthrobs, her walls were covered in posters of Shakespeare and Oscar Wilde, interspersed with framed prints of some of her favorite paintings.
She rolled onto her side and studied the picture over her dresser. A poster-sized version of Millais’s Ophelia. Again, her mind drifted to Theo. He’d been so easy to talk to. And fun. Constantly surprising her with his knowledge of artists and playwrights. Bonnie wrapped her arms around her pillow, wishing she could talk to him now. She squeezed the pillow and wished she could do a few other things with him too. Her skin tingled, pulse fluttering as she recalled the way he’d kissed her, the way he’d touched her … the way he’d made her feel.
Bonnie had been with Gabe a long time. Things in the bedroom had become routine, and, to be honest, rather dull. Over the last year or so, the number of times they’d had sex dwindled from a few nights a week, to weekly, to monthly—if that. She’d chalked it up to their hectic schedules, and in a way, she wasn’t wrong. Gabe had been busy … getting busy with someone else.
That part hurt more than all the rest. The fact he’d cheated hurt, yes, but the fact he’d lied and been able to hide it from her for so long—that’s what stung the most. Bonnie prided herself on her intelligence and insight. Yet she’d been completely oblivious.
From somewhere deep inside, the cold logical part of her stepped forward with an observation. If it was her pride that was hurt more than anything else, maybe it was best she wasn’t marrying Gabe. If she regretted the past more than she mourned the future, if she was bothered by all the time she’d lost investing in their relationship more than she was upset about losing him … well.
Acknowledging this fact still didn’t address the Theo issue. She realized she missed him. And that didn’t make any sense. She barely knew him.
Done thinking about men but too wired to sleep—and not ready for any more sex-fueled dreams featuring a dimpled too-beautiful-for-his-own-good Brit—Bonnie got out of bed and crossed the room to sit at her old desk. She shuffled around in the drawers, searching for paper and something to write with.
It was an old habit, one she hadn’t indulged in much lately. When she needed to work through stuff, she wrote. Not like a diary, where she wrote her thoughts and feelings down, but more like a story, where characters from other places and other times—even from other worlds—picked up the narrative of her life and acted it out.
As Bonnie began to scrawl sentences across the paper, she realized she missed this. Missed the escape writing provided. Sometime later, she put the pencil down and slowly uncurled her cramping fingers. Streaks of gray from the pencil lead were smudged across her palm.
She sat back, blinking at the little digital clock on her desk. It was after two in the morning. She glanced at the papers scattered across her desk. Gathering them together, she tapped the pages against the desk, forming a neat pile. It had felt good to let loose and just write. Really good.
Standing, Bonnie stretched, shoulders and spine popping. Writing was her first love. She’d been tinkering with novels since her early teens and had always hoped to finish at least one book while still in her twenties. But her teaching position had kept her busy, and the steady income from directing productions for the college had been too good to pass up, especially with Gabe working on his doctorate. She’d decided to set aside her writing and focus on teaching and directing, supporting him and saving money for their future.
The plan made sense. Once he was Dr. Gabriel Shaughnessy and they were married, she could take a year, maybe even two, off, go on sabbatical, and devote time to finishing a book. When he’d proposed, she thought it was all perfect, things were going exactly as planned, and soon she’d have everything she’d ever wanted.
Now, everything had changed.
Bonnie crawled back into the squeaky hideaway bed, pulling up the covers. She rolled onto her side. Eyes growing heavy with sleep, she stared at the neat stack of papers on her desk with a deep sense of satisfaction. Inspiration bloomed in her chest. With ten months to go before she turned thirty, it was not too late to accomplish at least one of her goals.
CHAPTER 16
THE NEXT MORNING, Bonnie pried her cramped body out of bed and fixed a pot of tea. She’d love nothing better than to sleep until noon, but she had papers to grade. She grabbed her laptop and settled into the big pink chair that had been in her room since she was a baby. She was pretty sure her mom had nursed her in this chair.
Procrastinating on the chore of grading, Bonnie pulled up the Cambridge University website and browsed the summer programs, getting a sense of the schedule and typical classes offered. She kept getting sidetracked with pictures of the gorgeous campus. Excitement bubbled up inside her. She was going to be spending her summer there, waking up in one of those lovely old brick dorm buildings, walking those garden paths, teaching some of those classes.
Argh, classes. She clicked on a saved file and began to sift through the analysis papers she needed to grade. She attempted to start in on one, but as she tried to focus on the words, her attention kept drifting, mind landing again and again on a certain pair of blue eyes matched with a set of dimples.
He hadn’t called, but she hadn’t expected him to. He’d told her to look him up when she arrived in England. She decided to look him up now. Opening a new browser tab, Bonnie typed Theo’s name into the search box. She clicked, doing a double take as the results loaded. That can’t be right.
Bonnie switched to image search. Oh my God … She clicked on another image. And another. Oh. My. God. There was no mistaking those eyes or those dimples. She skimmed article after article, soaking up tidbits on his family (there were those three sisters he’d mentioned), on his time playing rugby at St. Andrews (she remembered he’d mentioned going to school there, it’s where he met Logan), and on his appearances at charity events (including, holy shit, a fundraising gala in Chicago last week).
For the rest of the morning Bonnie clicked and skimmed and skimmed and clicked some more until her eyes were dry and itchy. At last, brain on overload, she stopped.
Theo Wharton was a duke. An honest to God, living, breathing peer of the realm.
And she’d made out with him.
* * *
After several torturous hours grading papers, Bonnie was more than ready to meet Delaney for a drink. Cozied up to the bar at Finn’s, the Irish pub across from Delaney’s apartment in the little downtown area on Main Street, Bonnie shared her tale of woe once again.
“On the quilt … really?” Delaney asked, eyes wide with horror. “The one your grandma Mary made?”
Bonnie nodded, staring at the perfect line between the dark stout and golden lager of her Half and Half. Mick, the owner, was a master at pouring the drink. Just don’t let him ever hear anyone call it a Black and Tan. “Yep.”
“Did you burn it?”
“Nope.” Bonnie shook her head and wiped a bit of foam from her mouth. “Sadie wanted to, but we decided multiple trips to the dry cleaners should sufficiently sanitize it.”
“Too bad you can’t dry clean your brain, right?” Delaney lifted her glass in a bottoms-up gesture.
“Right.” Bonnie clinked glasses and swallowed a rueful chuckle. Yeah, she wouldn’t be wiping away the awful memory of what she’d witnessed happening on that quilt anytime soon. Though having repeated the story to Theo, Cassie, Ana and Sadie, her mother, and now Delaney, the edge had worn off. Rather like the way her beer was taking the edge off the shock of this morning’s discovery about Theo.
A band climbed the steps to a small stage set up in one corner of the pub and introduced themselves. Finn’s often had live music on the weekends, and when the band began their set, Bonnie wasn’t surprised to hear them playing an Irish tune. Mick liked to keep to his pub’s theme.
For a few minutes, they relaxed, toes tapping against the rungs of their barstools in time to the fiddle as they sipped their beers.
“Have you talked to Gabe?” Delaney finally asked.
“Not since last Saturday.” She set her glass down and rubbed the knuckle on her bare ring finger, thinking of their little chat in the library. “We said all we needed to say. There’s nothing more to talk about.”
“How’d your mom take it? When you told her the wedding is off?”
“Better than I expected, actually.”
“And your dad?”
Bonnie shook her head, a reluctant grin breaking across her face as she recalled her father’s answer. “He offered to kill Gabe.”
“Good man.” Delaney laughed, clanking her glass against Bonnie’s again. “To Irish fathers.”
“Sláinte,” Bonnie toasted, the word falling off her tongue automatically. As she drank, she kept an eye trained on her friend. Delaney rarely mentioned her dad. Once the town’s chief of police, Daniel Mason had been killed on duty almost a dozen years ago. Bonnie’s heart squeezed when she realized the anniversary was coming up. “You okay?”
Delaney nodded, eyes on her nearly empty glass.
On stage, the band shifted to a new song, music rolling from a jaunty Celtic clip to a smoother, flowing melody. Delaney looked up, eyes meeting Bonnie’s. “That was one of Dad’s favorites.”
“Laney…” Bonnie reached a hand out to her friend. Delaney had been a bit of a wild child in her teens. Forever getting into trouble, eventually she’d landed in a juvenile detention center for over a year. It was the summer after she came back, the same summer her father died, that Delaney turned over a new leaf and enrolled in college with Bonnie and Cassie.
Delaney tapped the counter by their empty glasses. “One more?”
Bonnie began to shake her head, then stopped and changed her mind. “Sure. Why not?”
“So,” Delaney said as they watched Mick top off their pints with stout, “you’re going to be spending the summer in England.”
“Hard to believe, right?” Bonnie followed the change of subject without comment.
“It’s cool. I’m jealous.”
“Yeah.” Bonnie grinned. “It is cool.”
“The part I find hard to believe is how we’re all going to be back in Europe together less than a year after our trip.” Delaney shook her head. “I didn’t see that one coming.”
“I don’t think any of us did. Least of all Cassie.”
Delaney snorted into her beer. “I can’t believe Cass is getting married. And in Scotland! In a castle!” She paused, glancing over at Bonnie.
“Stop doing that,” Bonnie snapped, surprising them both. She took a sip of beer, smothering the burst of anger that had erupted out of nowhere. “You don’t have to check in with me every time the word marriage comes up. I’m fine.”
“Of course, you’re fine,” Delaney agreed serenely. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
They sat in silence for a bit. Bonnie gave her friend the side-eye. She had the distinct impression Delaney was employing one of the tactics she used when dealing with her preschoolers. And it was working too. Because after a moment, Bonnie couldn’t resist the urge to keep talking. “I should be fine with it. I want to be fine with it. But this was supposed to be the summer I got married. We were supposed to be planning my wedding. And now we’re not, and I sound so selfish and—”
Delaney cut her off. “You’re not selfish.” She tossed her ponytail over her shoulder. “Well, maybe a little selfish.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“But there’s nothing wrong with being a little selfish. You have every right to be. You’ve been with Gabe forever, and Cassie met Logan…” she paused and counted on her fingers, from August to April, “… what, ei
ght or nine months ago? It’s okay to be upset.”
Bonnie kept her gaze trained on her glass. This was nothing she hadn’t told herself already. “I’m not upset.”
“Come on. I know how long you’ve been waiting to plan your wedding. Planning someone else’s instead—even if it’s your best friend’s, especially if it’s your best friend’s—has to suck.”
“Has anyone ever told you you need to learn some tact?”
“I work with four-year-olds all day.”
“Uh-huh. And?”
“They are the most tactless creatures on earth.” Delaney tossed back the rest of her beer. “Those sugar biscuits tell it like it is. The unvarnished truth.”
Bonnie laughed. Knowing Delaney as she did, “sugar biscuits” was likely code for a variation of something crass and four-lettered. When Laney had become a preschool teacher, she’d learned to curb her perpetual potty mouth by substituting other words, and since she also had a perpetual sweet tooth, her preferences leaned toward the dessert aisle.
“Fine, you’re right,” Bonnie admitted. “It does suck.”
“There.” Delaney grinned impishly and waved at Mick for another round. “Doesn’t that feel better?”
“A bit.” Bonnie returned the grin and finished off the rest of her beer as Mick set the fresh drinks in front of them. She traded her empty glass for the full one, recalling how badly things went the last time she’d agreed to a third drink. “To all the things that suck.”
One strawberry-blond brow rose. “You wanna toast things that suck?” Delaney asked.
“Why not,” Cassie breathed, feeling giddy.
“Okay, but I think I’m driving you home, lightweight.” Delaney lifted her beer. “To things that suck.”
“Sláinte.” Bonnie clinked her glass against Delaney’s.
Maybe it was the release that came from admitting things sucked, or maybe it was the buzz from the two beers she’d already downed, but as the cool foam hit her lips, Bonnie decided that perhaps things didn’t suck so bad after all.
Smitten by the Brit--A Sometimes in Love Novel Page 17