How ironic that they were both back in Gold Creek after years away. She hoped that he was just passing through, staying only long enough to watch the wedding ceremony, then climbing back into his beat-up pickup and taking off for parts unknown.
She’d leave, too, if she could, but her father’s health wasn’t what it once was. The doctors thought he’d had a series of tiny strokes, and he’d been forced to stop working for a while, maybe forever. Carlie’s mother was sick with worry. Carlie, as the only child, had offered to stick around until things were settled.
And she’d found a job. Not just a job. A “career opportunity” Rory Jaeger, her old boss, had told her when she’d approached him about working part-time. He’d scoffed at her proposal. Hadn’t she been a New York model? Hadn’t she seen Paris? What could she possibly want with his little business? She’d explained that though she didn’t need work, not desperately, quite yet, she needed a studio to develop her pictures. As well as a place to put down a few roots—shallow ones perhaps, but roots nonetheless.
Rory had become more interested and they’d struck a deal. For a small investment, she could own half the shop. He was close to retiring anyway and they’d shook hands on their agreement, sealing her fate to stay in Gold Creek for at least a year, probably longer, at which time she could sell her interest back to Rory or to someone else, upon Rory’s approval.
The documents were being drawn up by the lawyers and within the week she would become part owner of the shop. If she needed extra income, she could drive to San Francisco and talk to a modeling agency there and she’d called her old agency in New York, giving the owner, Constance, her telephone number and address. The modeling was a long shot; she hadn’t been in front of a camera in years and she didn’t have much interest in trying to revive a career that had barely gotten off the ground. Still, she couldn’t afford not to keep all her options open.
So she was stuck in Gold Creek for a while and she’d just have to be able to face Ben if she ran into him again, which, in a town this size, was a foregone conclusion.
She locked her Jeep and started walking to one of the largest houses built upon the shores of Whitefire Lake. The house was cozy, despite its size. Now, in the coming twilight, Monroe Manor looked like something out of an old-fashioned Christmas card. Snow was piled on the third-floor dormers, golden light glowed warmly through frosted windows and smoke drifted lazily from a chimney. Icicles hung like crystal teardrops from the gutters that separated the house from the garage. Two dogs, one black-and-white, the other a yellow Lab, wandered through the tree-covered acres.
It’s now or never, she thought, wondering what she would say to George Powell. Before she could second-guess herself, she rang the doorbell and prayed that she would be inside before Ben arrived.
She heard the rumble of a truck’s engine as the door opened and a boy of about seven or eight, with red-blond hair, freckles and mischievous hazel eyes stood before her. Dressed in a black suit and white shirt, he shoved out his hand in a gesture that looked as if it had been practiced a hundred times over. “Hi, I’m Bobby.”
Ah. Nadine’s younger son. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Carlie.” She shook his hand firmly.
His nose wrinkled thoughtfully. “You’re the model, aren’t you?”
Laughing a little, she said, “I was, but that was quite a while ago.”
“Wow! Wait until I tell Katie Osgood. She said you wouldn’t show up and that—”
“Robert!” A short, blonde woman whom Carlie recognized as Ben and Nadine’s aunt Velma, came to the rescue. “We’re glad you could come,” she said with a smile, then shooting a warning look to Bobby.
“Thanks.”
Bobby, suddenly remembering his manners said, “Oh...um, can I take your coat?”
“Sure.” Carlie peeled out of the coat and watched as the boy tried diligently not to let the hem drag as he carried it upstairs. He looked over his shoulder at the landing. “You’re s’posed to sign the book!”
“The guest register,” Velma clarified, “when you have a minute. Now, come on in.” She touched Carlie on the arm. “The ceremony’s going to start in about ten minutes, so you might want to grab a seat pretty quick.”
The doorbell chimed and Carlie’s stomach tightened, thinking that the next guest might be Ben. Rather than wait for round two of their argument, she walked through the foyer to the living room where folding chairs had been set up to face the fireplace. Soft music drifted through hidden speakers to vie with the sounds of laughter and conversation flowing through the spacious rooms. Flowers and ribbons decorated the walls and stair railing and the scents of carnations, roses and lilacs mingled with an underlying smell of burning wood.
She recognized more than a few people. The Fitzpatricks, though separated, were together. Despite rumors of impending divorce, Thomas sat by his wife, June, and their daughter, Toni. As Carlie walked in, Thomas glanced in her direction. Beneath his mustache, his lips curved into a quick smile of recognition, but quickly faded and Carlie was reminded of all the times she’d met him as a girl—and how uncomfortable he’d made her feel.
Along with the Fitzpatricks, the Reverend Osgood and his family, as well as the Nelsons, Pattons, McDonalds and Sedgewicks, were already taking seats.
“About time,” a voice called from the stairs. Carlie’s best friend, Rachelle, was hurrying down the steps. Her mahogany-colored hair was curled and fell to the middle of her back. “I was afraid you were going to chicken out,” Rachelle teased. “Looks like I lost that bet.”
“You bet on whether I’d come or not?”
Rachelle winked. “Couldn’t help myself. There was this pool, you see. Heather, Turner, Jackson and I—”
“I don’t want to hear it!” Carlie said, though she relaxed a little at her friend’s gentle teasing. “And I hope you lost big-time—thousands of dollars. You deserve it. Besides, I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”
“Oh, sure. Remember, Carlie, I know you. I can just imagine how desperately you wanted to be here.” Grinning, Rachelle grabbed Carlie’s hand. “Jeez, you’re freezing!”
“I stopped for a walk around the lake.”
Rachelle’s eyes narrowed a fraction, but the smile didn’t leave her lips. “Getting your nerve together?”
“Something like that.”
“Think you can handle seeing Ben again?”
Carlie lifted a shoulder in nonchalance. “Now that I’m here, I guess I don’t have much choice, do I?”
“It won’t kill you,” Rachelle predicted with a knowing smile. “In fact, it could be fun.”
“Fun? Yeah, about as fun as having all my teeth extracted.”
“You might be surprised.”
“Don’t count on it.” But Carlie felt more relaxed than she had since she’d decided to attend the wedding. She’d been friends with Rachelle for as long as she could remember. “Friends for life,” they’d once pledged and so far, despite the miles and years that had separated them, they were still as close as sisters.
“Come on,” Rachelle urged, “Heather and Turner have saved us seats up near the front.”
Rachelle pulled on her hand and soon Carlie was standing in front of a folding chair facing the fireplace. She didn’t see Ben come in, but she knew the moment he entered, sensed his presence, as surely as if she’d watched him stride across the threshold. The air against the back of her neck felt suddenly chilled, but her shoulders burned where his gaze bored into her. Cold and hot—like dry ice. Ignoring the temptation to glance over her shoulder, she sat in her chair and watched the ceremony unfold.
Reverend Osgood stood before the fire as Nadine’s older son, John, gave the bride away. Then, while Carlie’s throat grew tight, Nadine Powell Warne and Hayden Monroe IV stared into each other’s eyes and pledged their lives and their love for all time.
To have and hold...from this day forward. Bits and pieces of the traditional words filtered through her mind, and she thought back to her own w
edding day, so distant now. She and Paul had stood before a judge and the entire ceremony had lasted less than ten minutes. Cold, stark, without feeling.
Just like her short-lived marriage.
Blinking rapidly, she turned her attention back to the preacher. “You may kiss the bride.”
Reverend Osgood didn’t have to repeat himself. With a rakish grin, Hayden took Nadine into his arms and kissed her with a passion and love that nearly melted Carlie’s bones.
Only one man had kissed her with the same blinding passion that Hayden so obviously felt for his wife, and that man was standing somewhere near the back of the room, regarding the ritual with jaded eyes.
Holding his bride at arm’s length, Hayden winked at her, then, as the piano player began playing, they walked between the beribboned chairs and mingled with their guests.
“Don’t you just love a wedding?” Heather said on a sigh. Her blond hair was curled away from her face and she wore a shimmery pale blue dress that didn’t hide the fact that she was pregnant again. Dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, she sighed. “It’s so romantic.”
Her husband, Turner, looked at his wife and clucked his tongue. “Women. Emotional.” He grinned irreverently and Heather rolled her eyes.
“Men. Stoic.”
“That’s me,” Turner replied, but he linked her hand with his as their son, Adam, ran toward the tiered cake and punch bowl to take stock of the refreshments.
Jackson laughed as they walked past the den. “Bring back memories?” he whispered to his wife, though Carlie overheard and understood that he was talking about this very room where Jackson and Rachelle had taken refuge, where they’d first spent the night together, where Jackson had been hiding when he’d been hauled into the sheriff’s office for questioning the next morning.
“Great memories,” Rachelle said, blushing slightly. Her hazel eyes twinkled wickedly. “I just wonder why Deputy Zalinski wasn’t invited.”
“You’re trouble, Mrs. Moore,” Jackson said as he guided her away from the crowd.
“Absolutely,” she replied while Carlie, wanting some time alone, wandered toward the stairs where Nadine and Hayden were posing for “spontaneous” snapshots. Velma clicked off a picture as Nadine’s boys, John and Bobby, rushed into the foyer.
Bobby tugged on his mother’s skirt. “Katie Osgood’s trying to sneak some of the champagne,” he said, his eyes wide.
“Is she?” Hayden said. “Well, we’ll just have to see about that.”
“That girl’s a wagonload of trouble,” Velma said, rewinding her film.
John yanked at his bow tie. “Troublemaker,” he snarled at his younger brother.
“It’s true!”
“Yeah, and it’s true that you’re a dweeb!”
“Later, boys,” Nadine said, but Hayden glanced pointedly toward the fountain and a girl of about nine or ten dashed quickly out of the room.
The older boy, John, saw Carlie for the first time. “You’re—”
“John, this is Carlie Surrett,” Nadine said. “We’re really glad you could come.”
“Thank you,” Carlie replied, then shook John’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“She’s a model,” Bobby supplied.
John’s face wrinkled and he glanced up at his mom. “Is she the one who posed for the swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated?”
“Don’t I wish,” Carlie said, and John grinned.
“Forgive them,” Nadine said as her sons caught up with a group of other children about their age.
“Nothing to forgive.”
“They’re pretty impressed with your life.”
“If they only knew,” Carlie replied, thinking of the loneliness she’d felt in New York. “Believe me, it’s not as glamorous as it seems.”
Nadine and Hayden were called away and Carlie found herself alone. She wondered where Ben was, decided it didn’t matter and wandered over to the fountain for a glass of champagne. Just a little while longer, she told herself as she sipped from a fluted glass and took a seat on a window ledge near the stairs. Then the ordeal would be over.
* * *
BEN TRIED TO keep his eyes off Carlie. After all, there was no reason to torture himself. If she felt she had to make a statement and show up, who gave a rip?
His father, for one. George had declined giving his daughter away, proclaiming that one time was enough. He’d blamed every member of the Monroe family for stripping him of his life savings. Though Hayden Garreth Monroe III and Thomas Fitzpatrick were solely responsible for the scheme, George still blamed everyone associated with the rich men. Including Nadine’s new husband whom he considered “a spoiled playboy with too much money and too little sense.”
George had watched the ceremony without any trace of emotion. His lips had tightened when he’d noticed Carlie, but he’d held his tongue and only stayed long enough to shake Hayden’s hand and hug his daughter, then had asked his new friend, Ellen Tremont Little, the woman who had sat with him and been the only person to coax a smile from his lips, to take him back to town.
Nadine, for her part, had braved her father’s disapproval and had refused to let anyone spoil her day. She’d gone upstairs for a moment, returned to the landing and, to the surprise of everyone, thrown her bridal bouquet into the group of guests milling around the base of the stairs.
Girls squealed, hands raised, fingers extended, but the airborne nosegay had landed squarely in Carlie’s lap. She’d been sitting on the window seat, staring out the window when the bouquet had soared over the anxious fingers to rest against the blue of her dress. So startled she nearly dropped the flowers, she’d blushed a dozen shades of red.
Fitting, Ben thought, his jaw tightening a little. Hadn’t Carlie always been the center of attention? Even now, at Nadine’s wedding, she’d somehow managed to steal the show. Hell, what a mess. He would have walked up to Carlie and made a comment, but he didn’t want to ruin Nadine’s happiness by causing a scene. So he held his tongue and glowered at the woman who had been on the edge of his thoughts for too many years.
Leaning a shoulder against the archway separating the living room from the foyer, he kept his distance—from Carlie and the dangerous emotions that always surfaced when he thought of her. He snatched a glass of champagne off a silver tray carried by a waiter, then drained the drink in one swallow. Restless, he had to keep moving. He walked into the living room and noticed that the folding chairs had been stacked, the carpet rolled back, and Hayden and Nadine were dancing together for the first time as man and wife. He couldn’t stand it. He needed some air. Turning his back on the bride and groom, he shoved open the front door and strode outside.
Carlie watched him leave and let out her breath. Maybe now she could relax a little. She forced her fingers, wrapped tightly around the stem of the bridal bouquet, to loosen.
From a baby grand piano tucked in a corner of the living room, strains of the “Anniversary Waltz” drifted through the hallways. Nadine and Hayden glided across the soft patina of the old oak floors. The guests, citizens of Gold Creek, dressed in suits or tuxedos and dresses of vibrant silk or simple cotton, talked among themselves, watching the newlyweds, laughing and sipping champagne that flowed endlessly from the fountain.
Hayden and Nadine danced as one. He whispered something in his bride’s ear and Nadine tossed her head and smiled up at him, her green eyes flashing impishly, her red hair reflecting the soft illumination of the tiny lights.
Carlie saw the exchange, noticed Hayden brush Nadine’s forehead with his lips as he guided her around the floor. Other couples joined the newlyweds.
Heather and Turner swept by. They looked like a cowboy and a lady, he in a black Western-cut suit and polished boots, she in quivering pale silk. They swayed around plants decorated with a thousand tiny lights and behind them, even though it was long past the season, the Christmas tree loomed twelve feet to the ceiling.
As the dance floor became more crowded, Hayden and Nadine disappeare
d through the French doors. No one but Carlie seemed to notice.
At last she could go home. She’d done her duty. She found her coat in the closet of an upstairs bedroom and, after saying hasty goodbyes to Rachelle and Heather, she started for the door.
“Carlie?” Thomas Fitzpatrick was wending his way through a crowd of guests and making his way toward her. Her muscles tightened, though he posed no threat. A distinguished-looking man with patrician features, silver hair and a clipped mustache, he smiled evenly as he approached her and she told herself that she’d imagined his leers all those years ago.
Still, she didn’t completely trust him. She’d seen what his hatred could do—even to his own kin. Hadn’t he tried to blame Jackson Moore, his illegitimate son, for the death of Roy, his favorite child? He’d pitted one of his sons against the other, never recognizing Jackson, then allowing him to take the blame for a murder he didn’t commit. No, Thomas Fitzpatrick was no saint, but only a few people had ever had the nerve to stand up to him and Carlie had been one of those very few.
“Can I have a few minutes of your time?” he asked, touching her arm with the familiarity of a favorite uncle.
“I was just leaving.”
“Please...it will only take a few minutes. It’s about your father.”
Her heart nearly stopped. What was wrong with Dad? Surely Thomas wouldn’t lay him off now, not while he was still recuperating. Dread inching its way into her heart, she followed the richest man in Gold Creek into the kitchen, where there were only a few caterers filling trays.
“I know things are difficult right now for Thelma and Weldon,” Thomas said, his forehead furrowing in worry.
Carlie braced herself against the counter. “It’s hard. Dad doesn’t like being cooped up.”
“Understandable.” Thomas smiled, that cold snakelike smile that chilled Carlie to her bones. “He’s been a valued employee at the company for years.”
Here it comes! Carlie’s fingers curled over the smooth marble edge of the counter.