Stand-in Groom (6 page)

“It’s not like we’re really getting married,” she pointed out. “It’s a business deal. I’ve done business with people I’ve known absolutely nothing about.”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, you haven’t had to go on a honeymoon with
them
, have you?”

She laughed. “No, thank God.”

“I’m way curious about you,” he said. “I don’t even know your favorite color.”

“You also don’t know anything about my family—and that’s why I called.”

“You called at three-forty in the morning in a near panic to tell me about your family? That’s … interesting.”

She laughed again. She had an incredibly musical laugh. Johnny closed his eyes, letting it wash over him. He wondered what she was wearing, wondered if she slept naked, the way he did. Forget about her favorite color—there was a whole hell of a lot of other things he was dying to know about this woman.

“It occurred to me that you would be arriving at the church on Sunday morning,” Chelsea said, “and my entire family would be there—except for me. You won’t see me until I’m walking down the aisle. I won’t be there to introduce you to anyone.”

Johnny forced himself to concentrate on her words. She would be walking down the aisle, coming to meet him at the altar. … “Are you going to be doing it up, you know, wearing a fancy wedding dress?”

“It’s a gown,” she said. “And yes. It’s extravagant. I don’t even want to tell you how much it cost.”

“I bet you’re going to look beautiful.”

“I bet you say that to all of your fiancées. John, about Sunday morning …”

“I’ll be there, tuxedo clean and pressed, shoes
shined, hair back in an extremely conservative ponytail.”

“But I’m not supposed to see you until after the wedding, so who’s going to introduce you to my parents?”

“I think maybe since I’m the groom, your father would probably take it upon himself to approach me and shake my hand.”

“Yes, but he would expect my fiancé to already know my brothers’ and sister’s names. But I forgot to tell you, and that’s why I called and woke you up.”

Aha. Now it all made sense. “How many brothers?”

“Two. Michael and Troy. Michael’s going to be your best man. He’s the one with glasses.”

“Michael. Glasses. Best man.” Johnny grabbed a pen from his bedside table. There was no paper around, so he jotted the words on the side of a tissue box. “And Troy. Got it.”

“Maybe you should write it down.”

“I’m already a step ahead of you, pen in motion,” he said. “Sisters?”

“One. Her name’s Sierra.”

“Like the mountains?”

“Well, that’s one memory aid. She’s eight months pregnant, and kind of reminiscent of a mountain range.”

“I’ll be sure to tell her you said that.”

“Don’t you dare!”

“Husband?”

“Absolutely. We don’t do unwed pregnancies in our family. Sierra got married the day after she turned twenty-two. Her husband’s name is Edgar Pope and you’ll recognize
him
right away too. He looks just like his name.”

“Big pointy hat, long robe, funny way of waving his hand?”

Chelsea laughed and he could hear her relaxing. She had obviously envisioned an incredible screwup on Sunday in which he was exposed as a fake after failing to know her family’s names.

“No,” she said. “Little wire glasses, receding hairline, two-thousand-dollar hand-tailored suits—although he’ll probably be wearing his tuxedo. He looks kind of like a 1930s stereotype of a millionaire—without the yacht.”

“Is he a millionaire?”

She snorted. “If he’s not, he should be. He’s the international vice-president of some Fortune 500
company, and he works about twenty-two hours a day. These days he’s always flying off on business trips to Japan and Australia and Outer Mongolia. He’s never home—it’s a wonder Sierra managed to get pregnant at all this time. My theory is that they met for a quickie in the airport ladies’ room between his flights.”

Johnny nearly choked.

“This is their third demon offspring,” Chelsea told him. “They come already equipped with two junior-model Popes. An Ashley and a Skippy.”

“Skippy, huh?”

“His birth certificate says Edgar Pope, Junior, but his real name is Monster. Have you heard of the terrible twos?”

“Yeah.”

“Monster’s going for his fourth consecutive year of the terrible twos.”

“I guess you don’t like kids, huh?”

“I don’t like what my sister has let Edgar do to her life. She’s some kind of a
trophy
wife, and she won’t even acknowledge it! She does
nothing
besides take care of Edgar and the kids.”

“Maybe she’s happy doing that.”

“Maybe she’s had a lobotomy and everyone forgot
to tell
me,
” Chelsea huffed. “Do you know that five years ago, she and Edgar were living in San Francisco? It was just after the Monster was born, and Sierra auditioned for a really fabulous semiprofessional community chorus. She was so excited about it—it was an interracial, intercultural, inter-everything group that did all kinds of music and it was a really big deal that she got in. She told me it was a chance to unite the diversity of the community through music, without homogenizing the cultural differences. She was
so
into it—she majored in both music and anthropology in college. After about three years she was elected to sit on the board of directors, which was one heck of an honor. But then two weeks later Edgar was transferred back to the Boston office. Just like that, she had to give it up.”

“But that’s part of being married,” Johnny said. “You know—compromise.”

“Exactly,” Chelsea countered hotly. “Women and men get married, and the women are the ones who have to compromise. We lose our individuality and our importance along with our identity—even our names are taken away. I’m
never
getting married.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong here, but aren’t you getting married in less than forty-eight hours?”

“Don’t remind me.”

There was real trepidation in her voice. Johnny pushed himself up, resting his weight on one elbow as he held the phone closer to his ear. “You’re scared about Sunday, aren’t you?”

“Hell, yes. Aren’t you?”

“I guess I’m a little nervous,” he told her honestly. “But I’m excited too. It’s funny—it’s kind of like I’m taking you to a Halloween party for our first date. You’re dressing up as a bride, and I’m going as a groom.”

“This isn’t a date—it’s a business deal,” she said.

She could call it a deal—he was going to call it a date.

“Have you still got your pen handy?” she asked. “Because my parents’ names are Howard and Julia.”

Dutifully he wrote the names down. “Got it.”

“Whatever happens on Sunday,” she said, and he got the feeling she was saying this as much to herself as to him, “just grit your teeth and
smile.
”

“B
REATHE
,” M
OIRA SAID
as she adjusted Chelsea’s wedding veil. “Come on, Chels, in and out. Focus only on that. Oxygen into the lungs, then exhale. Atta girl.”

“What if he doesn’t show?” Chelsea asked. “Oh,
God!
What if he
does
?”

“He’s here,” Sierra announced, coming into the little room in the back of the church. “Chelsea, you never told me Emilio Santangelo was a hunk.”

“I gotta get a peek at this guy.” Moira went to the door and opened it a crack. “Whoa!” She turned to Chelsea in disbelief.
“This
is your truck—”

Truck driver. She’d almost said, “This is your truck driver,” right in front of Chelsea’s sister, who still believed that Johnny was Emilio, the investment banker from Italy.

“Sierra, will you please go and check on the flowers?” Chelsea could hear the desperation in her voice, but there was nothing she could do about it. “And run interference with Mom? She’s the last thing I need right now—criticizing my makeup and hair. You know how she gets when she’s tense.”

“You only have about three minutes before you have to get out there,” her sister warned as she closed the door behind her.

Three minutes. “All right,” Chelsea said weakly. Three minutes. And then she’d have to walk down that aisle on her father’s arm. It was the kind of symbolism she really despised—being “given” by one man, her father, to another, her soon-to-be husband, as if she were some sort of booty or prize.

It wasn’t going to be real, she tried to tell herself. It wouldn’t be legal. Johnny Anziano
wasn’t
Emilio, and this ceremony wouldn’t bind them in the eyes of the law or God or
anyone
. They were
going to do the legally binding ceremony later this afternoon, in Las Vegas. And in Vegas no one was going to
give
her to anyone. She was going to meet Johnny Anziano as an equal, as a business partner, and together they would stand before a justice of the peace and set in motion a business deal.

“This
is the guy you manage to
scrounge
up only three days before your wedding?” Moira asked, opening the door again and peering out at Johnny again. “I think I’m going to steal your wedding gown, lock you in the closet, and marry him myself.”

“He’s doing it for the money,” Chelsea told her, unable to resist taking a peek. But Moira shut the door before she could see him. “Is his tuxedo black?”

“Black and very nicely tailored. So tell me again where you found this guy? At an evening out at Chippendale’s?”

“I’m scared to death and you’re making jokes. What if he contests the annulment? Or challenges the prenuptial agreement?”

“What if he doesn’t and everything works out hunky-dory?” Moira pointed out. “You get your money, he gets whatever percentage you’ve offered
him, your parents get to throw their party. Everyone’s happy. And, hey, you can give your ex my phone number after it’s all over.”

After it’s all over. This part of it, the wedding and the reception, would be over in just a few hours. By three o’clock, she and Johnny would be on their way to Logan Airport. By four, they’d be in the air, heading for Las Vegas.

Chelsea closed her eyes, willing herself not to think beyond three o’clock, trying not to think about getting married for real. First things first, and first she had to get past this hurdle. Standing up in front of nearly six hundred people made her knees feel weak, and standing up in front of them to pledge eternal devotion to a man she had no intention of spending a month let alone an eternity with made her mouth dry.

And then there was the possibility that something could go wrong. Out of the six hundred wedding guests, what if one of them knew and recognized Johnny Anziano?

She took a deep breath, telling herself that she couldn’t think that way. Everything was out of her hands now. All she had to do was hold on to the roller-coaster car and wait for this crazy ride to
end at three o’clock. Three o’clock was only a few hours away. She could endure damn near anything for a few hours.

Her father opened the door and Moira slipped out, giving Chelsea a smile and a thumbs-up.

Howard Spencer looked impeccable, as usual. His salt-and-pepper hair was combed straight back from his face, each strand securely in place. He smiled at her, with a definite misty quality to his eyes. “Chelsea-bean, are you ready for this?”

She nodded, feeling a pang of remorse at her deception. Her father thought she was marrying for good, until death do us part. Not until annulment do us part. Still, when he found out, he’d probably congratulate her on her shrewd ability to get her hands on the money she so desperately needed.

Her father pulled her into his arms in a clumsy embrace. They weren’t a touchy-feely family, the Spencers. They were the types who kissed the air next to someone’s cheek or briskly shook hands.

For a fraction of a second Chelsea let herself imagine what it would have been like to grow up with a father who was more like the dad on
The Cosby Show
than a walking financial predictions computer.

But that kind of thinking was a waste of time. Her father was who he was. And her childhood was long since over.

“They’re waiting for us,” he told her. “Your mother’s been seated and Moira and Sierra have just gone down the aisle.” He opened the door and held out his arm for her.

The organ stopped playing as she moved toward the back of the church, toward the edge of the red carpet that had been rolled down the ordinary wood floor of the aisle. As she stood at her father’s side in the back of the church, the organist began the traditional wedding march.

Here comes the bride. All dressed in white. For some reason, Chelsea could hear Bugs Bunny’s voice in her head, singing the childish words that had been put to the tune. It would have been funny if she hadn’t been so damn scared.

Everyone stood, turned to face the back of the church, smiling at her. Didn’t they know she could barely breathe?

She searched for and found Moira’s familiar face. Her friend and maid of honor was standing with Sierra at the altar. Her red hair had defied her attempts to tame it, and tendrils and curls escaped
her French braid. On anyone else it would have looked messy, but on Moira it looked romantic and windswept.

Moira smiled at her, then turned slightly to glance across the aisle.

That was when Chelsea saw him.

Johnny Anziano.

The butterflies in her stomach exploded, flying everywhere, several of them lodging securely in her throat.

He had been right—his tuxedo was black, and it fit like a glove.

He looked impossibly good. He looked like one of those models in magazine ads where you knew the photo had been touched up because no one could possibly look so good in real life. The black of the tuxedo accentuated his trim waist and narrow hips, yet at the same time seemed to show off the broadness of his chest and shoulders. His legs looked fantastically long, and as she watched he shifted his weight slightly and the powerful muscles in his thighs moved against the soft fabric of his pants.

In today’s performance of Chelsea Spencer’s
wedding, the part of the groom will be played by Giovanni Anziano
. This was totally insane.