Love Entwined (3 page)

As I pulled a stunned Katie through the vestibule doors, I spotted him. Our eyes locked and I felt all the blood rush to my head.

“Whoa, Ireland! Are you OK?” Katie asked frantically. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost! You need to sit down before you pass out. I already have to worry about Greg collapsing at the altar, I can’t very well worry about you now, too.”

“I’ll be fine. Who . . . Who’s that guy standing over there chatting with your brother?” I asked with a quiver in my voice.

“Oh, that’s Jamie. Why? Do you know him?” She questioned.

“Are you sure? It looks like . . . are you sure that’s Jamie?” I asked, confusedly.

“Yes, I’m sure. He’s Greg’s best friend. I’m pretty sure I would know my future husband’s best friend. Why? What the hell is going on with you right now? You’re scaring me,” she nearly screamed.

“Shhhh. Stop yelling. People are going to start looking. He’s going to come over here.”

“Of course, people are going to start looking, Ireland. It’s my wedding and you’re my maid of honor. We’re going to be front and center here in a minute and I hate to break it to you, but he’s the one walking you down the aisle.”

I took a few deep breaths and convinced myself that the wedding just had me in a nostalgic mood and I was seeing things. There was no way that Jamie was Bentley—none. After all, we both lived in Nashville as kids not in Michigan. Why would Bentley be an architect in Detroit? What are the odds of us both ending up in the same place—over five hundred miles away from where our story began?

“Is everything all right over here,” Jamie asked, walking over toward us. “Katie, my best friend sure is one lucky man. You look beautiful.”

“Thank you, Jamie,” she said, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pulling him in for a warm embrace and a gentle peck on the cheek.

“Jamie, this is my best friend and maid of honor—Ireland.”

Recognition swept across his face at the sound of my name. “Ireland? That’s a pretty uncommon name?” he mumbled.

“Yeah, my mom was pretty much obsessed with the Emerald Isle. I guess I should be thankful that she didn’t name me after the Blarney Stone,” I chuckled, weakly.

“I knew an Ireland once, back when I lived in Nashville,” he began to explain. “I haven’t seen her in almost twenty years though. She had to move away suddenly,” he continued, lost in his own memories. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to ramble. I’m sure I’m boring the two of you.”

That’s when the pieces began to come together—
Roberts, Nashville, architect . . .

“That’s ironic,” Katie interrupted. “Ireland is originally from Nashville, too. Do you two know each other?”

“Bentley?” I asked, swallowing back the lump in my throat. “Bentley—Is it really you?”

“Shamrock? Those eyes—I knew those were my girl’s eyes,” he said, pulling me into his well-defined chest. Even under his crisp, white button-down, I could make out his well-defined six pack.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” I whispered into his ear.

“I’ve missed you,” he said, planting a kiss on the side of my cheek. His breath on my skin sending a shiver up my spine.

“Bentley?” Katie questioned, her eyes widening as recognition set in. “As in THE Bentley?”

I just stared back at her, hoping my eyes would tell her I would answer her questions later.

“Yes, Katie, I am THE Bentley,” Jamie explained. “At least I hope I am anyways. And, I also hope you’ve only heard good stories.”

“OK, but I’m still confused. Why have we only known you as Jamie? Are you in the Witness Protection Program? Oh dear god—are you in the mafia? Is my wedding going to be under siege?”

“While that would be a much better story, you can relax Katie, I’m not in the mafia and your wedding will not be under government attack,” he chuckled, rubbing her on the shoulder. “Actually, it’s pretty simple, and not that exciting of a story, really. My middle name is Bentley. I was named after my Uncle James and everyone in my family called me by my middle name so we wouldn’t be confused. He was my role model growing up. I wanted to be an architect just like him.

“After the accident,” Bentley paused, looking toward me as if asking for my permission to continue. I nodded before he proceeded. “When he died, I decided I’d begin using my first name as a tribute to him. His connection has also worked to my advantage in my career. My uncle was highly regarded during his time as an architect.”

“Oh, OK,” Katie responded, biting her bottom lip. “Well look at me asking too many questions and making everyone uncomfortable. I’m going to go check my lipstick one more time and then we can get this show on the road.”

“I think I’ll come help you,” I told Katie, excusing myself to Bentley
. I hope he didn’t really expect me to call him Jamie. He would always be my Bentley—my one and only.

“Are you OK?” she asked as we walked toward the ladies’ room.

“I’m going to have to be, aren’t I?”

B
entley and I first met when I was seven and he was nine. It was during my Aunt Char’s wedding. Bentley, my new Uncle James’ nephew, had the honor of being ring bearer while I was the flower girl. The dress I wore was made of white satin with pink trim and resembled Aunt Char’s gown. A second skirt of white tulle under the satin dress made it nearly impossible for me to sit without drowning in a sea of fabric. Thinking back on it, I’m fairly positive that I looked like the little girl version of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

I remember my hair bouncing up and down in the tightest ringlets under a crown of white roses and baby’s breath. At the rehearsal dinner the night before, my aunt and new uncle had given me a silver chain with an attached arrow pendant to wear around my neck. It’s something I still wear daily—attached to the same silver chain with the locket Bentley had given me on my tenth birthday. That chain, the two pictures secured in the tiny locket, and my mother’s Claddagh ring that my father had given her when he proposed were all I had left from any of them. Those three pieces of jewelry are all that remain from my former life—a life that I so desperately wish was still mine. I wear them all, closely tucked near my heart.

“Mommy, these curls are making my head hurt,” I complained, twirling them into an even tighter circle around my middle finger.

“Ireland, stop fussing. Are you ready to do the most important job? Your Aunt Char is counting on you.”

“Yes, I’m ready, but do I really have to walk with a boy? All the boys at school have cooties. I’m sure this one does, too,” I whined to my mother.

“Ireland, I assure you that boys don’t have cooties. One day, a VERY long time from now, I’ll be helping you get ready on your wedding day—to a boy,” she chuckled, reaching out to tickle my sides.

“Ewww, Mommy, that’s gross. Besides, if boys don’t have cooties then why don’t I have a daddy?”

“Ireland, stop it! You know you have a father!” she exclaimed with a hint of desperation in her voice.

“I know you don’t remember much about him, but you do have a daddy. He’s just in heaven. But, he loved you so much, darling. So much. I’m sure he’s watching down on us today with that big, ol’ dopey grin on his face,” she continued, before pausing to wipe a stray tear from her cheek. “But, no more sad tears today, right? He’d only want us to cry happy tears.”

“OK, Mommy,” I said. “But, will you tell me more about him—about Daddy?”

“Your Daddy was a hero, Ireland. Of course I’ll tell you all about him, but first we need to get to a wedding,” she insisted. “Let’s get you down that aisle, shall we? We don’t want to leave your Aunt Char waiting.”

My dad died when I was just a little over two years old. He was an officer for the Nashville Police Department and was killed during a routine traffic stop when a drunk driver slammed into him as he was issuing a ticket on the side of the interstate. The only memories of him came from stories that my mother shared with me before her own tragic death.

I remember seeing a few pictures of him cradling me as a newborn. But, a weathered photo of him holding me just a few weeks before his death would forever remain engraved in my mind. I’d been sick, probably with one of those nagging ear infections I’d often suffered as a toddler. My cheeks were tear-stained, my eyes swollen and my nose chapped and reddened.

Snuggled up on my dad’s bare chest, I wore flannel, pink-footed pajamas with my favorite, green checkered blanket resting against my back. If I closed my eyes tight enough, I could almost feel the back of his hand resting gently across my cheek and the smell of his rugged, woodsy aftershave. I couldn’t be sure if it was really my dad’s scent I was remembering, or just the way I always imagined he would have smelled.

I’d do anything to have that photograph now, but after my mother was killed all our stuff just vanished. I was never able to collect my keepsakes such as my green checkered blanket, the box of photographs from my parents’ wedding or any other items left of my childhood.

A basket filled to the brim with white rose petals was waiting for me as my mother and I entered the church antechamber. From inside the church, I could hear the faint hum of violins over the soft whispers of the guests. There was a nervous energy filling the room as the bridesmaids and groomsmen began to take their places.

It was as if a sea of rosy pink had exploded around me. Even the men were dressed in white tuxedos with thick pink belts wrapped around their waists, a color reminding me of the medicine my mother had given me last week when I woke up complaining of an upset tummy.

“You need to stand here right behind me, Ireland. I’m going to walk up the aisle first and then you’ll follow behind me just like we practiced last night, OK?”

“OK,” I nodded, as I noticed a boy, about my age, standing alone in the corner playing with a Game Boy. He was wearing the same matching white tuxedo as the older men.

I stepped out of my place in line and went over to him.

“Are you the ring bearer? The boy who will be walking with me down the aisle?” I asked.

He looked up briefly from the electronic game. “Yep, I guess that’s me,” he said, before lowering his head.

“I’m Ireland. What’s your name?”

“That’s a funny name,” he said without raising his head. “And, I’m James, but everyone calls me Bentley. It’s my middle name.”

“Humph, well Bentley, you aren’t very nice.” I responded with a scowl. “I think my mommy is wrong. I think you probably do have cooties.”

He looked up at me and I actually saw hurt in his brown eyes. They were the color of Hershey Kisses—my favorite candy. Maybe this boy wasn’t so bad after all. I was willing to give him another chance.

“I’m named after the country,” I explained. “My daddy was Irish and my mommy loves telling me stories about my heritage. She’s even told me stories about giants living in Ireland once. Isn’t that cool,” I said. “What game are you playing?”

“I’m playing Tetris and you sure do talk a lot.”

“I’m sorry. I just want to get to know you better. My mommy told me that once Aunt Char and James get married we’ll be like family. She told me to be nice. So, I’m being nice,” I giggled. “Mommy plays that Tetris game on my big Nintendo that’s hooked up to the TV. She really likes that Zelda game, too. I really only like my Barbie game and the Chip ‘n Dales Rescue Rangers game. Have you played those before?”