by Cheryl Holt
A Summer Wedding At Cross Creek Inn
Copyright 2021 by Cheryl Holt
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ISBN: 978-1-63732-818-7 (Paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-63732-811-8 (eBook)
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Cover Design: Angela Waters
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Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Invitation
Wednesday Morning - Jennifer
Wednesday Afternoon - Jennifer
Wednesday Night - Jennifer
Thursday Morning - Crystal
Thursday Afternoon - Sharon
Thursday Night - Jennifer
Friday Morning - Amy
Friday Afternoon - Jennifer
Friday Night - Kyle
Saturday Morning - Lindsey
Saturday Afternoon - Kyle
Saturday Night - Sharon
Sunday - Amy
Thanksgiving Day - four months later... Eric
About the Author
Praise for New York Times Bestselling Author Cheryl Holt
Cheryl's Booklist
“It’s so beautiful here!”
Jennifer Layton spun away from the stunning scenery out the window of her hotel room, and she smiled at her father, Greg.
“I suppose it’s all right,” he replied.
“You suppose?” she asked. “Don’t injure yourself by exhibiting too much enthusiasm.”
She had three siblings, but she’d always been his favorite. It was an open and established family fact about which they all joked. On hearing her remark, he was instantly chastened.
“I’m sorry, peanut. It’s marvelous, and I’m delighted by it too.”
She grinned. “That’s more like it.”
From the minute she’d phoned to tell him she’d gotten engaged and was planning a quick wedding, he’d been slow to exhibit the attitude a girl ought to expect from her only parent. He was a widower and carpenter whose wife had died of cancer when his four children were very small. Jennifer had just been eight at the time.
He’d spent his life providing for them as best he could. He was sensible and pragmatic, with strong views about the world and his place in it. He’d never been the type to reach out and grab for more than he’d been given, but he’d wanted more for her and her siblings than he’d ever been able to supply. In that, he’d been very generous.
He’d encouraged her to spread her wings, to go to college and move on to a great future, and she’d done exactly that. She’d fled their home in Portland, Oregon, to attend college in Eugene, then she’d flitted off to sunny, exciting Los Angeles.
In the process, she’d fallen in love with Eric Benjamin. He was disgustingly rich and had grown up in an environment so different from hers that he might have been raised on the moon.
His father was a Hollywood producer who’d shaped the movie industry and had become wealthy from his endeavors, so Eric was the complete definition of a trust fund baby. He didn’t have to work unless he was bored and felt like expending the energy. He loafed and traveled and pampered himself in outrageous ways.
He was exasperatingly handsome too, so he occasionally posed as a male model, which was where they’d crossed paths. She’d snapped pictures of him for a magazine ad. She was a photographer who earned a living mostly from taking headshots for budding LA actors who had to look glamorous.
On the side, she glommed onto every other job she could find, and it shoved her smack in the center of the gig economy where she constantly had to hustle and count her pennies. But there was never a dull moment, and she was content to be chugging forward in a positive direction.
Now, with her having snagged rich, wonderful, amazing Eric for her very own, she was walking on air.
Yet her dad had never liked or trusted rich people, so she was stirring a ton of drama without even trying. He was descended from a lengthy line of union men who were suspicious of money and the power it could buy. He hadn’t explicitly admitted it, but she was terribly afraid he was opposed to the marriage simply because Eric was from an elevated social class.
It was like a problem that might have arisen in the Victorian era. She’d never put him on the spot by demanding he confess his reservations, and it would hurt her to have him be candid, so they danced around the edges of what was wrong.
She was happy, and his goal had always been to help her be happy, but—through her engagement to a wealthy man—she was prodding at the boundaries of his comfort zone.
Eric had spent the Easter holiday with them in Oregon, and he could blend into any circumstance, so they’d all gotten along fine. She was certain, once her father had more chances to socialize with him, his qualms would wane. She wouldn’t hope for any other conclusion.
“When will the blushing groom be joining us?” he asked.
“He’ll stagger in this afternoon. I’m not sure when. He’s flying into Aspen, then renting a car to drive the rest of the way.” Eric had been in New York the prior week, and she’d been in LA, so they hadn’t come together. “Shall we go downstairs and hang in the lobby? Guests will be arriving all day. We should be there to greet them.”
He stared at her forever, and she could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he tried to devise reasons not to accompany her. Eventually, he said, “Will you be disappointed if I stay up here? I might take a nap. The high altitude is making me drowsy.”
It was a pathetic excuse for hiding out, and she sighed with aggravation. “If you don’t want to meet Eric’s parents, just say so.”
“I want to meet them.” His comment was incredibly tepid.
She laughed. “They’re not aliens from Mars, Dad.”
“I know.”
“It won’t kill you to be introduced.”
“It might,” he claimed, and she rolled her eyes.
“Is it your intent to be a nuisance the whole weekend?”
“You can introduce me tonight at supper. Isn’t that the plan? I’m good with that.”
She studied him caustically, eager to scold him for being selfish, for not embracing the spirit of the celebration, but at age fifty, having reared four children pretty much on his own, he could be pushed on some thi
ngs, but not on others.
He wasn’t cuddly or effusive, and she had to stop wishing he was. He would never rush into the center of any gathering, would never deliberately draw attention to himself, and suddenly, she was missing her mother.
It would have been lovely to have a mother present to fuss and commiserate and jump in with both feet. She had two sisters and a brother, and if either of her sisters had been a normal sibling, one of them could have assumed the role of mother, but she was on her own.
“If you get bored,” she said, “there are plenty of hiking trails outside. You could take a walk.”
He scoffed. “I’m not a hiker.”
“Or there’s a bar down in the lobby.”
He might not be a hiker, but he was definitely a drinker.
“I’ll think about it.” He nodded to the door. “You go on. Have fun. Don’t worry about me.”
“I won’t,” she said, but in a kind and teasing way. It was futile to nag or pester him. It never worked.
She left the suite Eric’s stepmother had arranged for them, and she headed down the hall to the grand stairs that would lead to the lobby.
It was Wednesday, the day for arrivals. Thursday would be a day for socializing and sightseeing. Friday would be busy with last-minute fittings, a bridal lunch, and the rehearsal dinner. The wedding was scheduled for Saturday afternoon. Then she’d be Mrs. Eric Benjamin, and they’d leave on their honeymoon.
Eric hadn’t told her where it would be. The location was a secret, but he’d advised her to pack shorts and bathing suits so, evidently, it would be somewhere luscious and warm. She couldn’t wait.
The prior three months had been a whirlwind of trips, gifts, and surprises. Nothing had been the same after they’d stumbled on each other at that photo shoot. As they’d chatted, they’d realized that they’d once gone to the same summer camp as kids. She’d been in middle school, and he’d been the cool, much older lifeguard who’d tantalized all the girls.
She’d obsessed over him as only a twelve-year-old girl could obsess, but he’d scarcely known she was alive. And they hadn’t had any contact after the camp ended. But their encounter at the photo shoot had generated a sense of destiny, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that their relationship was meant to be.
He was thirty, and she was twenty-five, and before she’d connected with him, she hadn’t thought she’d wed so early. In fact, she’d often wondered if she’d ever marry at all, but he’d changed her mind.
He spoiled and doted on her. He frittered away money merely to make her happy. She couldn’t stop smiling, and when he’d proposed—during a romantic supper on a secluded beach in Tahiti—she hadn’t been able to refuse.
She reached the stairs and paused to stare over the railing down to the floor below.
They were staying at the very private, very ritzy Cross Creek Inn, which was a luxurious haven tucked away in the Colorado Rockies. It boasted rural extravagance, being a place where the rich and notorious could host an event without the whole world snooping and spying.
Eric’s family was so wealthy and famous that they were exactly the sort of people who would choose it for a wedding. Since his dad was paying for everything—a situation that irked her own dad enormously—she could hardly complain about the spot that had been selected.
If it had been left up to her, she might have headed to City Hall to have a judge read the vows. Or she and Eric could have taken the five-hour drive to Vegas and had a cheesy Elvis wedding there. But it hadn’t been left up to her, and she viewed all of it as an astonishing gift from his parents. She wouldn’t protest a single decision.
What did she know about a posh wedding anyway? And she wasn’t fussy.
She was barely acquainted with his parents, and she was anxious for them to like her. With that as her goal, she was trying to be amenable and easy-going. She suspected they were suffering immense doubts about her marrying their son, about it happening so fast, so she would never give them a reason to regret that she was about to be their daughter-in-law.
So . . . the Cross Creek Inn it was.
The isolated venue had guaranteed that everyone had to fly across the country to attend. None of the family members on either side lived in Colorado, so it had disrupted many plans. It was the middle of July, so they’d had to rearrange vacations and request time off from work on short notice. Luckily, Eric’s dad had paid for all the plane tickets too. If he hadn’t, her section of the wedding chapel would have been empty.
She and her relatives didn’t have money to throw around like Eric and his parents. On thinking about that notion, she bit down a grin. She didn’t want to ever seem greedy or smug over the prospect that she was about to be very rich too, but it was a new reality she couldn’t ignore.
She’d sworn to herself that she’d never let the affluence change her. She’d always been down-to-earth, ordinary, pleasant Jennifer Layton. After the wedding was over, and she was Eric’s wife, she would continue to be that steady, normal woman.
The stairs looked down on the Inn’s Great Room, and the only person she saw was her sister, Rachel, who was snuggled on a couch and gazing into a huge fireplace that had a fire burning. Even though it was July, it wasn’t that warm outside, and the fires were always lit, no matter the season.
At the moment, with her nerves on edge and her mood bouncing in all directions, she couldn’t bear to chat with her sister. If it had been up to Jennifer, she’d have slipped away and returned to her room, but Rachel glanced up and waved, so she couldn’t slink off. Jennifer forced a spring into her step and marched down.
“Has anybody arrived?” she asked as she slid into the chair across.
“Not while I was sitting here, but then, I haven’t been here very long. But it’s not up to me to greet your guests. Besides, I don’t know any of them.”
Because the Inn was an exclusive, gated location, with stringent security, the people in residence during the celebration would be either wedding guests or staff. Anyone who strolled through the front doors would be someone who’d been invited. Yet Rachel wouldn’t lift a finger to welcome them. She considered it as being Jennifer’s burden and problem.
“You know Eric,” Jennifer said.
“He’s not gracing us with his presence today, is he? Isn’t he going to be fashionably late?”
“I expect him in a few hours.”
“It was horrid of him to make you travel alone from LA. What kind of fiancé does that? Why didn’t he come with you? It’s bad behavior on his part.”
“He was in New York, and I wasn’t. Don’t read more into it than is there.” Rachel smirked, and Jennifer asked, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I simply think it’s bad behavior. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Your opinion is noted,” Jennifer said, and she tamped down a sigh.
Rachel was younger by a year, just twenty-four, and she might have been described as a plainer, plumper version of Jennifer. They were both five-foot-five, and they had their dad’s brown hair and eyes, worn straight and hanging to their shoulders. But the similarities stopped there.
Jennifer was gregarious, pretty, and interesting. Rachel was grouchy, sullen, and prone to lengthy silences where she moped and fumed and wouldn’t confess her grievance. She still lived with their dad. She could have attended college, could have moved to Eugene and started a new life, but she’d felt a duty to take care of him.
Because their mother had died when they were so little, they were incredibly close to him, and they mothered him more than other daughters might have. Rachel claimed she didn’t dare leave him on his own, but she wore her choice like a yoke and constantly flogged Jennifer with it.
She frequently, slyly reminded Jennifer that she’d escaped their stifling world, that she’d flitted off, initially to college in Eugene, then to her career in LA, while Rachel was trapped.
Secretly, Jennifer suspected that Rachel had stayed with their dad because she was too much of a coward to venture out and build a place for herself away from him.
He had certainly never chained her to the house and insisted she remain.
After Jennifer had gotten engaged to Eric, Rachel’s envy had grown worse. Not only had Jennifer managed to flee, but she’d latched onto a rich, uber-handsome boyfriend who was about to be her husband. Rachel hadn’t come out and said she didn’t like him, but—in a myriad of quiet ways—she voiced her impression that Jennifer had once again received more than her fair share.
Rachel’s pettiness was exhausting, and it skewed every facet of their relationship. Jennifer wanted to shout at her to fix herself, to fix her life, to do something, but she would never vent any of her frustrations. In the Layton home, no one shouted or fought. They didn’t call each other names. Their mother’s death had altered them so dramatically that they tiptoed around, not ever anxious to rock a boat or create a scene.
“Since it won’t be Eric who waltzes in first,” Rachel said, “who are you betting it will be?”
“His mother should be here any minute. His stepmom too. I’m not sure about his dad. He’s involved in an important business deal in LA, so he might not stagger in until tomorrow.”
“Eric’s mother and stepmother might arrive at the same time? Didn’t you tell me they don’t get along?”
“I’m positive I never explained it like that. They don’t socialize is all.”
“Because they don’t get along.”
“I guess that could describe it,” Jennifer grudgingly admitted. She wouldn’t gossip about Eric’s dysfunctional family.
“I read up on the stepmom,” Rachel said like a threat. “She seems to be the classic definition of a home-wrecker. Didn’t she lure Eric’s dad away from his wife and children?”