Marrying Maddy (2 page)

He stopped moving, with his back to her, and smiled at her over his shoulder. Sandy hair much too long, but just right for him, slid down onto his forehead. His blue eyes sparkled with mischief. Physically the man was a near god, even in cutoffs. Maybe especially in cutoffs. He had great legs for a man. “Well, come on, Mad. Don't leave me hanging here. Am I a groom's groom, or what?”

“You're a nut,” Maddy said, and he completed his fashionable “turn” before grabbing her close, kissing her senseless.

Joe O'Malley was very good at kissing Madeline Chandler senseless. Very good. It was one of his most adorable attributes.

It was also, most probably, what had led to the two of them standing outside the small white chapel on the Strip in Las Vegas, ready to recite their vows to each other in front of God and an Elvis impersonator.

Possibly not the best reason to marry someone,
but not that bad a reason, not when you got right down to it. At least that was what Maddy had convinced herself. Was still trying to convince herself, even as the sane, rational part of her—admittedly having been considerably downsized since meeting Joe—fought to maintain some sort of control.

Because, although a smiling Joe, a joking Joe, and a loving Joe were all wonderful, they'd had their share of disagreements. Even arguments. And those arguments most often concerned not the present, but the future. Her place in that future, his function in that future.

Even in the heat of Las Vegas, the heady excitement of an impromptu elopement, Maddy still had that small nagging
sane
part of her trying to throw a last-minute monkey wrench into her happiness.

Which probably meant something. Something like, hey, maybe postponing this wedding until they'd worked out a few things. Like, where they would live. How they would live. Small stuff like that…

She put her hands on Joe's forearms, pushed him slightly away from her. And asked a question she didn't want to ask. “I heard the phone ring early this morning, while I was in the shower. Was it Larry?”

Joe nibbled at her left ear. “Um-hmm.”

Maddy's knees were crumbling, but she wouldn't let them. She might be the youngest Chandler. She might have been hiding behind the door when the Chandler common sense had been handed out. But she did know when it became time to trust her instincts. And her instincts were telling her that Larry Barry and his lamebrained ideas showed all the signs
of becoming the “other woman” in her marriage. “And Larry wanted what?”

Joe backed off a little, kissed the tip of her nose. But did not look into her eyes. “You know. Typical Larry stuff. We're brilliant, megatalented, and we're soon going to be rich, rich, rich. Right after we're done being poor, poor, poor, not that we talk about that part much.” He took Maddy's hand, gave it a tug. “Come on, sweetheart, let's get married.”

Maddy's feet stayed firmly planted on the sidewalk. “How poor, poor, poor? You did something, didn't you, Joe? I can tell, because you're not looking at me. It's our wedding day, and you've barely looked at me, talked to me. What did you and Larry do?”

Joe sighed, stabbed his long, straight fingers through his hair. “Never could fool you, could I? Sometimes it's hard to believe we've only known each other for three months. Okay, Maddy. Larry and I both quit our jobs last week—”

“You did
what? Last week!
”

“Yeah, last week. That's why I could fly here to Vegas. We quit our jobs, cashed in our IRAs and any stocks and CDs we had, and we're going to risk it all on this one roll. You're now looking at one half of Barry and O'Malley Software. Incorporated, no less. It was going to be a surprise, a wedding present. Now, aren't you sorry you made me give away the surprise?”

“Oh God.” Maddy walked away from him, turned in a full circle, glared at him, then walked back, not sure if she should give in to impulse and hit him, or just brush past him, keep on going. How could he do this to her? And today of all days!

Joe put his hands on her shoulders, gave her a small, encouraging shake. “Come on, Mad, don't look like the world is coming to an end. You know this new idea of mine is going to fly. Bill Gates isn't the only guy who can get an idea, you know. And Steve Jobs. Those guys started out working out of their own garages, and now look at them.”

Maddy ignored the sales pitch, as she'd heard it all before. They'd argued about all of it before, again and again. Joe was the computer genius, Larry the businessman. Together, they were going to conquer the world.

“Let me get this straight, Joe. You quit your job, liquidated all your holdings and went into business with Larry Barry the Loser? A week before you knew we were going to come here and maybe be married? When were you going to tell me all of this? Oh, yes, it was to be a surprise. You were going to tell me while we were on our honeymoon. Which will be in a cardboard box under a bridge, by the sound of it.”

Joe's full, sensuous mouth flattened into a thin, white line. “If this is another way of saying, yet again, that we could live very comfortably on your trust fund, Mad, I'm not buying it, okay?”

“
Okay,
and I'm not
Mad.
Makes me sound like a wild animal that should be put down.” She broke free of him, turned her back on him once more. “I must be out of my tiny little mind. Allie said so, said I should bring you home, let her meet you before I did anything impetuous. Said I should take my time, not rush into anything. Why do I never listen to her?”

She felt Joe's hand on her shoulder. “Do you
want to listen to her, Maddy? Or is it just that you don't believe in me? I love you, Maddy. I've loved you since the moment I first saw you. You know that, and you love me, too. I'd never do anything to hurt you.”

Maddy wanted to raise her own hand, place it on top of his. She wanted to lean back, lean against his hard strength. Fall back into the fantasy.

But she didn't. She stepped out from under his hand, turned to face him, tears stinging her eyes.

“No, Joe. You'd never do anything to hurt me. Not on purpose. You'd only make plans for both our lives, without telling me. This isn't going to work, Joe. I'm not a gambler, not in Las Vegas, certainly not with my life. And I'm not used to poverty. I don't even know how to boil water, let alone how to keep a house. Or a cardboard box. We'd hate each other within a month.”

She watched through tears as Joe's eyelids lowered, as the glitter of—could it be tears?—entered his own eyes. “So that's it? One small stumbling block and it's so long, Joe, been nice to know you? Five minutes away from getting married, and you're going to run away, run back to your cushy life and all that old-money security? Is that love, Maddy? Is that trust?”

The tears spilled down Maddy's cheeks now as she stood in front of the mirror, watching them drip off her chin, fall onto her wedding gown. All as she stood smack in the middle of the life she had always known, the one Joe had asked her to give up in order to figuratively jump off a bridge with him, into Lord only knew what sort of future.

She wasn't a snob, damn it all! She wasn't a rich
brat, spoiled and selfish. At least that was what she'd been telling herself for the past eighteen months, ever since leaving Joe standing outside the wedding chapel and flying home to Pennsylvania.

She was a sane, semi-levelheaded human being, one who knew that only disaster awaited a marriage entered so hastily, with a man who acted without consulting her, a man who would “risk it all on this one roll.”

Was what she had felt for Joe love? Did that love have anything to do with trust? “No, Joe,” she whispered, “it wasn't either of those things. It couldn't have been. What we had was a dream, only a dream. A dream and a passion for each other that we mistook for love. It's too late for us now, for so many, many reasons. But this time—this time, Joe—I'm going to get it right.”

“Did you say something, Miss Maddy?” Mrs. Ballantine asked as she stood behind her, fluffing out the long train.

“Yes. I was talking to myself, Mrs. Ballantine,” Maddy said, trying to smile. “Must be another part of prewedding jitters.”

“I don't know. Living with your grandmother is enough to have anyone talking to herself,” Mrs. Ballantine said. “Now, stand still while I figure out how to bustle this thing. We want everything just right, don't we?”

“Yes, Mrs. Ballantine,” Maddy agreed, quickly wiping the tears from her face. “We certainly do want everything to be just right….”

T
he fitting finely completed, Maddy gratefully allowed Mrs. Ballantine to help her out of the heavy gown and then went wandering off to take her second shower of the day. The underslips itched, and she'd actually broken out in a few hives along her waistline.

Mrs. Ballantine promised to cover the waistbands with some soft cotton, but Maddy still itched, so a cool shower sounded pretty good to her.

Hives. She never broke out in hives. It was pretty pitiful, being allergic to your own wedding gown. Not prophetic, she was sure. Just pitiful.

Her hair still in the ponytail, and only slightly damp around the edges from the shower, Maddy dressed in a short denim skirt and a pink-and-red flowered denim vest with metal snap closings she'd picked up on sale the previous week.

She loved sales, couldn't get enough of them, especially considering that she hadn't looked at a price
tag until eighteen months ago. Now paying retail was an anathema to her, buying on credit felt like something akin to mortal sin and, as she'd discovered the delights of the local malls, she'd also developed a healthy appetite for fast food and huge pretzels slathered with mustard.

She knew her family thought she had probably gone a little overboard in her zealousness for economy, her pursuit of cooking and other household skills, even her recently discovered passion for gardening.

Matt was going to get himself one very accomplished wife, the lucky dog. Not that millionaires probably cared all that much about cents-off coupons and buying in bulk.

But, small as her accomplishments must look when compared to those of her older, quite successful siblings, Maddy was happy with her life.

Well, with most of her life.

She sure wished she didn't have hives. They weren't a good sign, definitely. The first and last time she'd had hives was on the airplane, flying home from Nevada. They'd started on her face, and hadn't quit until she was all but covered in the itchy things.

Nerves, the Chandler family doctor had declared when he'd met her in the local emergency room an hour after her flight touched down. He then treated her with antihistamines and the recommendation that she look inside herself and discover what could be troubling her, as her body was merely reacting to her stress in its own particular way. That was Dr. Neally, full of holistic ideas and the patient having
the power to cure herself. The man even had a lava lamp in his waiting room.

Maddy had taken the antihistamines, and switched doctors. Her new physician, Dr. Linda Garvey, Matt's sister, told her pretty much the same thing, but then said she should sit down, examine her life and decide what she wanted from it. For some reason, what Maddy decided she wanted was to learn how to cook. And she ran with it, straight to classes at the local community college.

She hadn't had a hive since, thanks to her soon-to-be sister-in-law.

Until today, damn it. And she'd rather stick one of Mrs. Ballantine's straight pins in her eye than call the way-too-insightful Linda for help. Not when she was supposed to be the happy bride, only a week shy of her wedding to her doctor's brother.

Maddy found some antihistamine capsules in her kitchen and downed two, even knowing that they'd make her sleepy in the middle of the day. She slipped her bare feet into a pair of cherry-red sneakers gotten for twenty percent off at JCPenney's, and headed down the front stairs to see what the rest of the family was doing.

Ten minutes later she was sitting on the carpet in the second drawing room, surrounded by boxes, ribbons and tissue paper, once more playing Happy Bride. And trying to ignore the itch that seemed to be crawling up her back.

Jessica Chandler, Maddy's older sister, sat cross-legged on the Oriental carpet with her, the two of them in the center of the room surrounded by white linen covered tables displaying many of the wedding gifts as they opened today's deliveries.

At least one of the gifts was always good for a laugh.

“Ah, just what you need most, Maddy,” Jessica said, holding up the unwrapped gift. “Another silver tray. What does that make now—ten of them? You'd think
somebody
would have some imagination, wouldn't you?”

“Great-Aunt Harriet has some,” Maddy replied, warily eyeing the object in her hands. “What
is
this?”

Jessie laughed out loud. “And we have today's winner. What is it, Maddy? I don't know, wait—it's Great-Uncle Albert!” she suggested, still giggling. “I wouldn't lift the lid if I were you. Especially if you feel a sneeze coming on.”

“Funny, Jessie, very funny.” Maddy looked at the vase, or ornamental urn, or whatever the devil she held in her hands, then carefully placed it on the carpet, still unable to believe what she was seeing. Her chin began to itch, but she ignored that, too.

The “Thing” Great-Aunt Harriet had sent by messenger—Maddy already had decided to think of it as the “Thing”—stood at least two feet high, and was fashioned out of some sort of porcelain. And it had to be old as dirt, something Great-Aunt Harriet had pulled from her collection and forwarded to her great-niece instead of just sending her another silver tray, like any normal person.

The Thing had a lid, and the lid had a handle—two close-to-naked cherubs cavorting. The Thing also had side handles, both of them similarly un-clothed cherubs bent forward at the waist, and looking as if they were about to do swan dives onto the floor.

She and Joe would have laughed and laughed—
no!
She would
not
think of Joe O'Malley again.

She scratched at an annoying itch behind her knee, and went back to inspecting her latest gift.

The Thing was so ugly, so overdone with intricate scrollwork and rosy-cheeked cherubs, and even bits of faux greenery, that Maddy was sure it had to be worth a small fortune. Ugly things almost always were. Worst of all, it seemed familiar; like something she'd at least seen a variation of during her college studies.

Carefully removing the dome lid and placing it back in the box, Maddy lifted the remaining piece and inspected the bottom of the base. “
Nove,
with an asterisk under it. Good Lord, Jessie, it's a
Le Nove.
I should have known. I remember one from my classes—covered in shells and painted with mythological figures. Look, there are shells on this one, too, along the base. Well, at least now I know what to say in my thank-you note to Great-Aunt Harriet.”

“You sure do, Maddy. ‘Dear Aunt Harriet, thank you so much for the exquisite
Nove.
It will look so lovely in the basement storage area.'”

Maddy rolled her eyes, even as she scratched at her chin. “Jessie, this is a
Nove.
Straight from the late 1700s. A true, if revolting, work of art. I wouldn't put it in the
basement.
Great-Aunt Harriet meant well, and always does.” She replaced the lid, tucked the vase back into its box. Then she smiled evilly. “I'll give it to Allie.”

“Only if you want to be cut out of my will, young lady,” Almira Chandler said as she walked into the room, looked down into the tissue-filled box. “Did
I hear someone say Great-Aunt Harriet? For our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, she sent back the silver compote your grandfather and I had given her one Christmas. That's Harriet, the idiot. Some people give gifts that keep on giving, or whatever. Harriet just keeps recycling the same old stuff. I imagine it makes some sort of sense—to her.”

“But you love her, Allie,” Maddy said. “You love her because she's three years younger than you and looks ten years older. Like you've said, you just can't turn your back on a woman who makes you look so good at family parties.”

“Twenty years older than me, Maddy, not ten.” Almira laughed as she peered down into the box. “Now, what did the idiot send over now? The woman's been cleaning house and stuffing up all her relatives' houses for the last decade, saying she's going to die any day and wants her
treasures
in loving hands first. Which,” she ended, straightening, “explains that hideous Chelsea tea caddy Mrs. Ballantine keeps insisting on putting on the breakfast table. Just what I want to wake up to, certainly. A grinning idiot figure of a man with a round, bare belly and a lotus leaf for a hat. He even has
teeth,
for crying out loud. And Harriet will linger on another twenty years, until she's buried us all under her junk.”

“Very valuable junk, Allie, according to Maddy, our very own Art History major, although we probably should remember she graduated with only a
C
average,” Jessie interjected, opening yet another box, pulling out yet another silver tray. “My, Maddy, this
is
your lucky day, isn't it?”

Maddy looked at her sister, slimmer than her,
taller by four inches, older by three years. Jessie had dark honey-brown hair as opposed to Maddy's own deepest black, pale blue eyes to her vibrant green. She was a bright, talented, successful young woman with a lifelong air of dignity and composure about her that Maddy had always envied, even as she had tagged after her, worshiping her.

Jessica was so confident, so sure of herself, and always had been. So successful, working side by side with their brother, Ryan, in the family business.

Maddy wished she could be more like her sister, rather than being the “baby” of the family, the one without a job, without a career, without, it seemed, much ambition or direction at all. And not expected to have any of those attributes, either, come to think of it.

If they'd had a Chandler family pet, they'd expect it to learn more tricks than they had ever expected from Maddy. No one in the family had batted a single eye or made a single comment when she'd withdrawn from her graduate courses, come home and learned how to cook pot roast. She sometimes wondered if she'd accepted Matt's proposal because she loved him, or because he, at least, seemed to think she had
some
sort of potential.

Not that Joe O'Malley hadn't thought she'd had potential. As a lover, that is. The asking her to be his wife part had only been an afterthought, she was sure. Something he thought he should do. Especially when he was about to lower the boom of his grand get-rich scheme. Having her safely married to him before she found out probably had seemed like a good idea at the time. The rat.

And now the rat was rich. Filthy rich. He didn't
need a little wife cutting coupons and sewing on buttons. Not that she had taken those courses just to make herself better equipped to be Joe's wife, if the man were to come to his senses and figure out he simply could not live without her. Not at all.

Maddy stuck out her tongue, swiped it over her top lip, which had begun to tingle ominously.

And not that she needed grad school or cooking classes to strike out on her own. She could be on her own if she wanted to. Sure, she could. She could be working in some small museum, or in an art gallery somewhere. She could be independent. But, no. She had to leave the classroom, go running off to elope with a man whose kiss was enough to make her forget everything but the man, the kiss.

Which had gotten her—where? Almost to the altar, that's where. With another man.

Maddy shook her head, banishing these pointless thoughts, knowing she had to stop using Joe as an excuse for her own failings. She hadn't wanted a career, and she knew it now just as she had known it then. Only she hadn't known what she wanted back then, and as Chandlers all went to college, she had gone to college. And gotten straight
C
's, as Jessie had just pointed out.

She'd gotten straight
A
's in all her classes at the community college. She loved her classes. That had to mean something. Had to mean more than that she had started taking the classes because Joe might come back and need a wife who knew how to cook. She
enjoyed
being domestic. Why, she'd even begun taking parenting classes last semester. Wasn't that how she and Matt had gotten together? Because of their shared interest in having a family?

What Maddy wanted, had always wanted, she could now acknowledge, was a husband to love, a man who loved her above and beyond anything else in his world. And babies—lots of them. A home of her own. Let Jessie and Ryan run the business, heap more millions into her trust fund. She'd always be grateful to them for it. But she would be more than content to stay home and bake brownies, which she did now, from scratch, after taking a bakery class at the community college.

Cooking classes, classes on handling a family budget, gardening classes, even one on flower arranging—she'd taken them all, excelled at them all. Enjoyed them all.

Her degree in Art History meant less than nothing to her, but she truly treasured the First Place blue ribbon she had won last fall at the Great Allentown Fair for her chocolate cheesecake.

Eighteen months after admitting to Joe that she couldn't boil water, Maddy had transformed herself into an accomplished cook, an enthusiastic gardener and a woman who actually knew how to hang wallpaper.

All so she could marry Matthew Garvey and have a house nearly as huge as this one, a staff to handle any emergency and enough free time to take every class the community college offered.

If there was something wrong with this, and Maddy was sure there was, she refused to recognize that she now had what it took to be a stay-at-home wife to a struggling young businessman, but she no longer had that struggling young businessman.

She unconsciously began to scratch at a spot behind her left ear.

“Maddy?
Maddy.
Allie's talking to you,” Jessie said, giving her sister a playful shove in the ribs.

Maddy looked up at her grandmother, blinked a few times to clear her head and said rather dreamily, “Hmm?”

“Articulate as ever, darling,” Almira said, shaking her head. “I
said,
there's a moving van next door. Mrs. Ballantine was nice enough to find your grandfather's binoculars for me, and I wondered if you two wanted to go into the morning room, which has such lovely
spying
windows?”