A Summer Wedding at Cross Creek Inn

by Cheryl Holt

  “I’m heading to California. For now.”

  Alex looked from her to Greg, saw how they were smiling at each other, and he snickered. “Maybe you will be in Portland before I am.”

  “Maybe,” she said, and they went out to the driveway.

  The taxi rattled to a halt, and Crystal jumped out so fast she practically fell onto the pavement. It had taken her thirty hours to fly from Aspen to LA. Dusk had descended, and evening was about to arrive. She was so relieved to be home!

  The entire trip had been a nightmare. It was summer, so flights had been full. She’d had to circle through three cities, with long layovers and crappy connections. In addition to her travel issues, there was a problem with her credit cards. She’d grappled with numerous clerks who’d claimed they’d been cancelled. Finally, she’d had to use an old one she’d found tucked in her wallet.

  It was an ancient account she’d started prior to marrying Dennis, and she hadn’t even remembered it was there.

  Through the whole exhausting journey, her lawyer had sent cryptic messages about a meeting he’d had with prosecutors on her legal case. The more intently he’d pleaded for leniency, the more inclined they were to have her arrested. The bastards!

  When she hadn’t been swearing at her attorney, she’d been fighting with publicist Pippa who was frantically trying to save Crystal’s sponsors, but apparently, it was a lost cause. Her social media sites were filled with such hateful vitriol that she’d had Pippa shut them down.

  Pippa charged a fortune, and Crystal should have had her own assistant handle the chore, but the woman had quit answering her phone. So had Crystal’s housekeeper. So had their security detail. No matter who she contacted, they’d vanished.

  What the heck had afflicted all her lazy minions? Yes, it was Sunday, but no one had Sunday off anymore. Her temper was flaring, and she was in an awful mood. Once she had a shower and changed her clothes, heads would roll.

  The taxi driver had parked by the curb of their Brentwood house. The gate prevented him from pulling into the driveway, and she didn’t have the remote.

  He didn’t bother to slither out and help with their things. He simply popped the trunk and slouched in his seat. From how he was glaring, he appeared to know who she and Lindsey were, and he was delivering a silent signal as to his view of her parenting skills.

  What kind of world was she trapped in? Were even taxi drivers loathing her? Well, screw him! Her credit cards were messed up, so she was out of cash. She’d spent it getting to LA, so he could kiss his tip goodbye.

  “Wait for me to open the gate,” she told him. “We need you to drop our luggage at the front door.”

  She went over to the keypad and punched in the code, but nothing happened. She punched it in over and over, but without success.

  Behind her, Lindsey complained, “Hey! Knock it off!”

  Crystal glanced around to find the driver had climbed out and put their bags on the sidewalk. Then he slammed the trunk, hurried to grab the wheel, and he raced away.

  “Prick!” Lindsey called, and she threw a rock at his rear window, but he was out of range. She stomped over to where Crystal was fussing with the keypad and asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “The code won’t work.” She began buzzing the house, expecting the housekeeper to reply, but she didn’t.

  The place was mostly shielded by shrubbery, but she could see a portion of it up at the top of the driveway. There were lights on in a few of the rooms, so some of her staff was definitely there.

  Suddenly, a man marched down the driveway toward her. He was a large, muscular oaf who looked menacing and dangerous. He was dressed like a security guard, wearing a navy-blue uniform and sunglasses, even though it was nearly dark.

  He wasn’t a member of their normal protection contingent, and she was swamped by the worst sense of foreboding.

  He exited through the pedestrian gate and came over to her.

  “Crystal Benjamin?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m Crystal.”

  He clasped her hand, slapped several documents into it, and folded her fingers around them.

  “Consider yourself served.”

  “Served with what?”

  “Your husband, Dennis Benjamin, has filed for divorce.”

  “He has not!” she huffed, struggling to appear stern and in the right.

  He gestured to the papers. “As per your pre-nuptial agreement, you’re entitled to a separation allowance of a hundred-thousand dollars. It’s been deposited into an account for you. There’s information included as to how you access the money.”

  “But . . . but . . .” she stammered, “this is insane. My daughter and I have been traveling since yesterday. We’re anxious to relax and take a shower.”

  “Sorry, but the locks have been changed, and you won’t be permitted inside.”

  If the idiot had hit her, she couldn’t have been more stunned.

  The whole trip from Cross Creek, she’d been pondering Dennis and how he’d likely react to her being caught with Eric. Initially, she’d been terrified, so she’d fled Colorado rather than face him, but she’d calmed down and had convinced herself that he wouldn’t lash out until they’d talked about what had occurred.

  He wouldn’t set her aside over a ridiculous sexual encounter. When she’d reached that point in her mental wrangling, she’d ceased to worry.

  Evidently though, while she’d lulled herself into a fantasy, while she’d persuaded herself it would blow over, he’d been busy. He’d changed the locks, filed for divorce, and had forked over the funds listed in the pre-nup.

  Why, exactly, had she accepted such a paltry amount? In the early days of their relationship, she’d been so young, and so pompously sure of herself, that she hadn’t been thinking clearly. He’d insisted on the small sum and had refused to budge. She’d had to consent or he wouldn’t have married her, and she’d been so determined to be his wife.

  She’d told herself the contract didn’t matter because she’d never make the mistakes Sharon had made. She’d stay thin, beautiful, and exotic, so he’d be happy. She’d kept her part of their bargain too, and this—this!—was how he repaid her?

  The security guy continued, yanking her out of her miserable reverie. “He’s closed any joint bank or credit card accounts he had with you. He’ll also be sending legal notices to newspapers and other sources that he won’t be responsible for any debts you incur.”

  “I don’t agree to any of this!”

  “Read the documents I gave you,” was his brusque reply. “It’s spelled out in the fine print.”

  He spun away and slipped in the pedestrian gate before she could stop him, but how could she have stopped him? She was too shocked to move.

  “I’ve got my kid with me,” she shouted to his retreating back. “Where are we supposed to go?”

  He peered over his shoulder. “I have no idea, and it’s none of my business.”

  “What would you suggest?” she stupidly asked.

  “I’m not the person to advise you on any topic.”

  He was swallowed up by the foliage, but Lindsey scrounged in the dirt and found another rock. She hurled it over the gate, but as with the taxi driver, the oaf was too far away, so the rock clattered into the grass.

  A weighty silence descended, and Crystal felt a hundred years old.

  She wasn’t destitute. She had a stable revenue stream from her body-care products and her YouTube channel. She had the pre-nup money from Dennis, and Lindsey had royalties from her dead father’s rock songs. The amount had dwindled recently, but still, money was money.

  They wouldn’t starve or wind up living on the streets, but they wouldn’t have the funds required to thrive in the world she enjoyed in LA. And her legal fees were mounting.

  “What should we do?” Lindsey asked.

 
“How would I know?” she caustically retorted.

  “You’re the mom in this pathetic duo. It’s your duty to know.”

  “If only that were true.”

  Her temper bubbled even hotter, and she thought about that smug jerk, Eric, how he’d used her for ages, but how—when they’d been caught together—he hadn’t bothered to defend her. But then, he’d always been a conceited asshole.

  She thought about imperious, rude Dennis Benjamin, what a slob he was, what a prick he was. She’d given him the best years of her life, and what had she received in return? A locked gate and divorce papers!

  She suspected she’d buy a gun someday and shoot him right in the middle of his cold, black heart. Who would miss him? She couldn’t think of anyone.

  Lindsey laughed snidely, and Crystal said, “What’s so funny?”

  “I just realized that you’ve ended up in the same boat as Sharon. Isn’t this how Dennis acted when he dumped her? The similarities have to be killing you.”

  Crystal blanched. The notion hadn’t occurred to her, but now that Lindsey had mentioned it, she’d constantly reflect on it.

  “Shut up, Lindsay,” she furiously spat. “For once, just shut the hell up.”

  She marched over to the curb, grabbed her luggage, and stomped off into the deepening darkness. Did Lindsey follow?

  She didn’t glance around to find out.

  The weather was perfect, the sky a blinding blue, the waters of the Caribbean a sparkling turquoise. He was lounged on a beach chair and staring out at the ocean. A gorgeous blond was stretched out on the chair next to him. What was her name? Brenda? Brittney?

  He couldn’t remember, and after awhile, the girls who glommed onto him were all pretty much the same.

  Since the debacle in Colorado in July, he’d been traveling. After he’d fled the Inn, he’d flown to New York, then to Europe. Eventually, he’d landed himself in the Caribbean, where he’d been island hopping. He couldn’t settle down and stay in one place, and in his more sober moments, it dawned on him that he was running away from himself, but wherever he went, he came along.

  His hangover was killing him again. Every afternoon, he swore he’d cut back on his drinking, but when evening arrived, he couldn’t find a reason to lay off.

  He lifted his sunglasses, so he could check the screen on his phone. The bright sunshine reflected on it, so it was hard to see. Even though it was a holiday in the States, he was desperate to hear from his agent. He hadn’t booked a modeling job in forever, and his agent couldn’t explain why.

  His viability had plummeted, and for once, he needed to work, but no one was impressed by him anymore. His name and face weren’t opening any doors, and if he didn’t know better, he’d suspect his father was furtively sabotaging him.

  He wasn’t ready to admit it though. Dennis didn’t care about anyone but himself, and Eric simply couldn’t envision him exerting the effort required to screw his own kid. Then again, Dennis could be really vindictive. Might he still be pissed about Eric’s hook-up with Crystal?

  Geez, it had been four months, and Dennis didn’t even like Crystal. Why bear a grudge over her?

  Though it was odd, he was feeling lonely and adrift. Normally, he was content in any situation, but after he’d scurried away from Cross Creek like a whipped dog, his life had been on a downward spiral.

  Neither his brother nor his mother had reached out since the fiasco. Eric had wanted to contact his dad, but hadn’t dared. He’d assumed his dad would calm down and make the first move, but that miracle hadn’t occurred.

  Even Josh was keeping him at arm’s length. Eric had received one curt text from Josh, apprising him that he’d retired from baseball. Eric had immediately replied and invited him to join forces for some serious partying, but Josh had declined, claiming he was wrapping up loose ends and couldn’t get away.

  Eric had been left with the distinct perception that Josh was disappointed by Eric’s behavior at the wedding. Well, hell! Eric was disappointed too!

  That insane shrew, Crystal, had texted him dozens of times to complain about how Dennis was divorcing her, how her social media sites had been shut down due to hideous publicity, how she was frightened over how she might be arrested in that college bribery thing, how Lindsey was a spoiled brat. Blah, blah, blah . . .

  He hadn’t answered a single one, and gradually, she’d quit pestering him. He couldn’t figure out what role she’d like him to play in her pile of problems. With her being caught naked in his bathroom, he was partially to blame for her troubles, but she was such bad news.

  He wouldn’t ever communicate with her.

  Thoughts of Crystal and Dennis had him realizing he was incredibly homesick. Not for them. No, he wished he was a boy again and sharing the day with his mom and Alex at their house in Brentwood. Dennis had rarely been around on weekends or holidays, always using work as an excuse to avoid family gatherings, but Sharon had guaranteed they had fun without him.

  She was a terrific cook, and their home had been filled with the scent of baking turkey and pumpkin pie. The memory caused a wave of nostalgia to sweep over him. It was Thanksgiving Day, and he was missing people who’d meant so much to him in the past.

  He typed a simple note: Happy Thanksgiving! Haven’t heard from you in ages. What’s up?

  He read it over and over, trying to decide if it set the right tone, if it sounded too needy or too sentimental. Finally, he told himself it was okay.

  He mustered his courage and sent it to his dad. Then to Josh, his mom, his brother. Even Jennifer. He hadn’t ended their relationship very well, and it bothered him to think of how much she must hate him.

  As his messages winged across the universe, he pictured where everyone would be when they received them. He had no idea where Josh was, but Alex was probably back in Kenya, so it might be the following day before he saw it. His mom would be sitting on her patio in Malibu and staring out at the ocean. She’d be lonely and delighted that he’d reached out.

  His dad would be in LA. He never liked to leave the city in case a huge deal popped up and he had to jump on it, so he’d be at their home in Brentwood, the one he’d kept when he’d kicked out Sharon and dragged in Crystal. Crystal would be gone, but Eric was sure he’d have selected another gorgeous woman to take her place.

  Jennifer was likely in LA too. She’d be partying at somebody’s apartment. There would be a dozen guests present, and they’d all have brought something: wine, beer, food. It would be a loud, boisterous event, and to his great surprise, he’d like to be enjoying it with her.

  For the next hour, he repeatedly checked his phone. No reply from his dad. No reply from Alex. No reply from Josh.

  The phone ultimately pinged, and the response was from Jennifer. Initially, he was thrilled, but her request was short and to the point: Please don’t ever contact me.

  He snorted with disgust. What had he expected?

  After a bit, it pinged again. More slowly, he picked it up, and it was from his mother. Her words were bland and abrupt: Happy Thanksgiving to you too! Hope all is well!

  He sighed. He’d been an ass to her for years, and obviously, she’d grown weary of his poor treatment. He supposed more than a paltry text message was necessary to fix his many errors.

  He looked a final time, yearning to hear from someone—anyone!—but the screen was empty, and it stayed that way.

  His home office was too quiet, and he was antsy. He wanted to go somewhere, but with it being a holiday, there weren’t a lot of options. Most stores and restaurants were closed.

  He gazed out the window into the backyard, assessing the intensely manicured area. The water in the pool was clean and clear, and for some reason, the sight annoyed him.

  Why the hell did he have a pool? He recognized it was an LA status symbol for a man in his position, but he couldn’t recall when anybody had used
it. Lindsey must have, but he couldn’t remember.

  It was a stupid expense, as were the flowerbeds and fruit trees, and all for one occupant who didn’t even notice any of it. He ought to sell the blasted mansion and move into a luxury condo. Why not? What was stopping him?

  When he realized the level of his bad mood, he got even grouchier. He was running the numbers on a new project, and he liked that sort of task very much. He hadn’t cared that it was Thanksgiving, and he’d given the staff the day off. His chef had offered to prepare a big dinner with all the trimmings, but he’d told her he didn’t need her to fuss over just one person.

  That bimbo, Liberty Bell, had begged to come over, but he was tired of her, and he’d rather have a root canal than listen to more of her babbling.

  He’d planned to utilize the solitary interval to concentrate on several important chores, but he was distracted by how there was no one to talk to. No one was in the kitchen, whipping up a huge meal of his favorite dishes. No one was hollering that the football game was about to start and he should hurry to the den for the kick-off.

  Those were the normal things that occurred on Thanksgiving, and suddenly, he was missing all of it.

  To his considerable astonishment, he wondered what Sharon was doing. She was probably at her house in Malibu, surrounded by a dozen friends she’d have invited to dinner, and though it was bizarre, he was anxious to be there too. Not to see her specifically, but simply to chat, eat, and interact like an ordinary human being.

  Despite how he’d behaved toward her, she was very kind. If he texted her and just happened to mention that he wasn’t busy, she might ask him to join her and her guests. He pictured himself being introduced to them. They’d be LA people, and they’d be excited to have him stroll in.

  Then, when he departed, Sharon would load up a bag of leftovers for him to take home. He’d try to refuse, but she’d insist. There was plenty about her that aggravated him, but she’d been a great cook, and he’d be pleased to have some of her food in his refrigerator.