Stop the Wedding! (2 page)

Jake made a sympathetic sound. “Martin was robbed on that film. After all your hard work to get the money he deserved, Clay, I’d hate to see it go down the drain. Which is why I’m going back on my word, because he specifically asked me not to tell you about the wedding.”

“Did he think I wouldn’t find out?”

“He plans to have the ceremony before you return to Atlanta. A week from tomorrow.”

Clay’s head fell forward and he groaned. “Do you think he’s going senile, Jake?”

“Unfortunately, no, I think he’s in complete control of his faculties.”

A sad statement, Clay acknowledged wryly.

A muffled voice sounded in the background. “That’s my boarding call. I hate to break bad news and run, but—”

“Go, Jake, have a good time. And thanks for letting me know.”

“Do you have a plan?”

Clay’s mind skimmed over the business he’d probably lose by returning to the States to deal with his father’s latest fiasco, and his blood boiled. “Sure. I’ll simply expose this Coakley co-ed for the gold-digger she is. And—” He banged the top of the desk with his palm. “I’ll do whatever it takes to stop the wedding.”

Chapter Two

“I LANDED, BUT MY LUGGAGE DIDN’T,” Annabelle muttered into her cell phone. One thing was certain—she could no longer postpone that shopping trip for new underwear.

Michaela offered a sympathetic groan. “Did you pack a change of clothes in your carry-on?”

“There wasn’t much extra room in my computer bag.”

“You took your laptop?” Her friend hummed in disapproval. “I thought this was supposed to be a mother-daughter bonding visit.”

“I brought some briefs with me to read, and I told my real estate agent I’d be checking e-mail—we still have to set a date for closing on my house.”

“By the way, she sent a picture and a plot survey to the office. I’m consumed with jealousy—how can you afford such a great place?”

Despite their solid friendship, Annabelle was unwilling to divulge certain aspects of her personal life. “Let’s just say I choose my friends and my investments wisely.”

“I’m flattered. Have you called your mother?”

“No.”

Her friend laughed. “You’re simply going to show up on the doorstep?”

“Just think of how happy she’ll be to see me.”

“You’re afraid they’ll elope if your mother knows you’re coming?”

“Okay, I’m busted. But if things go well, I’ll be back in a few days, hopefully with my mother in tow. I think she just needs a change of scenery for a while. On the phone last night she told me she
loved
the guy. Ha! Can you imagine?” In the stretch of silence, she detected a lecture in the making and braced herself.

“Annabelle, are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

She exhaled. “I’m sure my mother is vulnerable and on the verge of making a huge mistake.”

Michaela cleared her throat. “I don’t suppose this would be a good time to point out that Mrs. Coakley might not consider her daughter, a twenty-eight-year-old unmarried
divorce attorney
, to be an authority on romantic relationships.”

“Mike, I have more dating experience than my mother.”

“If you say so,” Mike said, her voice doubtful. “But how many proposals have you collected?”

Annabelle frowned. “You know what I think about marriage.”

“My point exactly. Which is why I’m saying that if you’re not careful with your cynicism, you might come across as patronizing.”

“I have to hang up now.”

“Okay, I can take a hint. From now on I’ll keep my opinions to myself.”

Annabelle laughed. “No you won’t.”

“You’re right. But good luck, and check in occasionally.”

Returning the receiver, Annabelle heaved a sigh, then scanned the parade of overhead signs. With its many concourses and constant intercom pages in all languages, the Atlanta Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport could be overwhelming to visitors, but the hustle and bustle sent a warm surge of familiarity to her chest. Despite the task ahead of her, she had a sentimental spot for Atlanta. In fact, she’d always imagined she’d find her way back after law school, but the job opportunity in Detroit family services had spoken to her—especially the part about the state repaying her school loans in return for a two-year stint. One year down, and one to go.

At first she’d been appalled at her exposure to the underbelly of family disputes, but the occasional moral victories had made the struggle worthwhile. And in the process of dealing with other people’s problems, she had gained enormous internal strength. She rejected Michaela’s assertion that she’d grown cynical where relationships were concerned—she was simply realistic. Statistics didn’t lie. Thankfully, she had stumbled upon a simple solution to her dating dilemma: She didn’t. And she was suspicious of those who did.

As for her mother, well…Belle was obviously suffering a lost-partner empty-nest mid-life crisis.

Annabelle turned in the direction of ground transportation, then swung her computer bag to her shoulder and started walking. To save money, she could ride the Marta train as far north as the rail had progressed since she’d last visited, then take a cab to her childhood home. She was saving the recent windfall she’d received to split between a down payment on a house and a decent used car for her mother. Otherwise, her budget remained fairly tight, and the last-minute ticket had set her back a few paces. She hoped the airline found her luggage soon, because she couldn’t afford new clothes, and she couldn’t spend the next two weeks in her travel garb of roomy denim overalls, pink T-shirt, and thick-soled sandals.

The first blast of early summer heat hit her as she climbed out of the stairwell up to the train platform. A few strands of her dark hair had escaped the haphazard clip she preferred on non-work days, and her split ends tickled her nose. She fingered the hair behind her ears, then donned her yellow-lensed sunglasses against the intense glare bouncing off the concrete. Sunny and H-O-T.

Annabelle smiled—welcome to Atlanta.

When the train ground to a halt at the station, she joined the crowd pressing forward, then dropped into a hard seat facing backward. People spread out to maintain their personal distance, the doors slid closed, and the train shimmied forward. The cross section of passengers ran the gamut, from tattooed college kids to wide-eyed tourists to stoic professionals. Annabelle loved to people-watch and weave a story about the characters based on their body language.

The petite brunette ignoring her rowdy kids was wondering what had happened to her marriage. The elderly couple sitting close had arrived for a visit with their grandchildren. And the stone-faced businessman drumming his fingers on his expensive watch wanted to be somewhere else—with his lover?

She squinted. No, his dark features were too hard-edged for him to be thinking about anything remotely romantic. His olive-colored suit and white shirt were duly crisp, but the knot of his tie sagged and his black eyes and jaw were shadowed with jet-lag. He stared slightly to his left, out the plexi-glass window, but she suspected he saw none of the blurred scenery. The unshaven man wasn’t on his way to a meeting—maybe a funeral? Her imagination took root and flowered. Yes, he’d come home to attend a funeral. A funeral for someone he wasn’t close to, but should have been.

He glanced her way and caught her staring. The intensity of his expression sent a tickle of feminine awareness up the back of her neck. Annabelle swallowed, but couldn’t bring herself to look away. Satan himself couldn’t have been more compelling. His large nose, strong jaw and heavy brows were assembled in a way that would make a photographer keep walking, but cause an artist to pause. He sat a head taller than most men, and his wide shoulders spilled his frame into the empty connected seat. He looked vaguely familiar, although she was sure they’d never met. She might have asked, but the man wore his dark features like a caution sign: Approach at Your Own Risk.

He flicked his gaze over her, giving no more deliberation to her face than to her clothing, but stopping when he reached her feet. With much effort, she resisted curling under her toes to hide them. Two days ago, in an effort to connect with a fourteen-year-old witness who’d locked herself into a bathroom stall, Annabelle had suggested an impromptu dual pedicure with blue nail polish that rolled out of the girl’s backpack. The strategy had worked, and since her conservative pumps had concealed the deed, Annabelle hadn’t yet bothered to remove the stuff.

The man’s mouth twitched down at the corners before he looked back to the window, once again preoccupied. Embarrassment bolted through her. She’d been stared down by some of the most intimidating judges and attorneys in Detroit, but she’d never felt more completely dismissed in a seconds-long look. Whatever the man did for a living, he was either a miserable failure or a phenomenal success.

Or more likely, a miserable success.

She forced her attention elsewhere through the next few stops, but she was mindful of his presence a mere six feet away, through both her peripheral vision and something that could best be described as colliding energy fields. The man’s aura clobbered everything in its path, commanding regard even when his focus was elsewhere. Unnerved and flushed, she kept her gaze glued on a movie poster scribbled with graffiti.

The man rose as the train slowed at the financial district station, then picked up a black leather duffel bag in one hand, an extra-deep briefcase in the other. From the corner of her eye, she noted that he allowed everyone else to disembark before he stepped out. But she recognized his cool politeness as a power ploy. She had studied people’s actions enough to know that the most influential, the most commanding figures always exited rooms and elevators last—a symbolic attempt to maintain their power by protecting their back, in her opinion. He strode away, head high, feet knowing, and took the first few steps two at a time, disappearing up into the stairwell.

After the doors slid closed, the air inside the train seemed to collapse in the man’s absence, but Annabelle released a sigh of relief. She’d hate to tangle with the likes of him in a courtroom.
Or in a bedroom
, her infuriatingly hyperactive mind whispered.

When the swaying ride north resumed, she pushed the image of the unsettling stranger from her mind, noting subtle and drastic changes to the landscape. Identifying progressive areas of the city was as simple as looking for mounds of orangey-red clay where the earth had been turned in preparation for homes and roads and malls. Downtown Atlanta and the metro area were an economically prosperous mix of gray and green, concrete and trees.

Remembering the man’s fleeting appraisal, Annabelle repaired her scant makeup and random hairstyle as much as possible with a mirror the size of a matchbook, and pondered how to best approach the situation ahead. Blame lay heavy on her heart for Belle’s impromptu decision to marry. If she’d spent more time with her mother after her father’s death, if she’d visited more often, if she’d encouraged her to sell their old high-maintenance house, Belle wouldn’t have met and been taken in by Martin Castleberry. And since her neglect had contributed to the situation, it was up to her to help her mother see she was on the road to certain ruin.

So should she simply sit Belle down and be brutally honest about the lunacy of marrying Martin Castleberry, or would her opposition strengthen her mother’s resolve? On the other hand, if Belle’s infatuation was simply a result of loneliness—as Annabelle suspected—perhaps she should use reverse psychology and feign exuberance to make her mother take a step back and analyze the situation more clearly…although doing so might stretch the limits of her own acting ability, not to mention her sanity.

By the time the train reached the end of the northern line, Annabelle had settled upon a strategy of reserved enthusiasm until she could better feel out her mother’s state of mind. She left the train, exited the station and flagged down a taxi at the curb. In the few seconds it took for the car to pull to a stop, she could almost feel the freckles popping out on her nose. Hundreds of lemons in college had lessened the effects of outdoor swim meets and practices, but her skin remained susceptible. Annabelle scrubbed a knuckle over her nose and sighed. Freckles did not lend themselves to the authoritative look she needed on the job. Or to feel grown up, which always seemed harder around her mother.

During the cab ride, she practiced a hi-Mom-I-was-just-in-the-neighborhood greeting, but was admittedly a bit nervous by the time the cab pulled up to the familiar white house with red shutters. Her heart pounded as she tipped the driver, then she climbed out and allowed the memories to roll over her. Voices and smells and images from the past rose up to comfort her…she was home.

The driveway sat empty, but her mother had told her she’d cleaned out the garage and started parking inside. On the way up the sidewalk, Annabelle pivoted and nodded in appreciation at the magazine-worthy curb appeal of the sprawling ranch-style home. The mulch beds on either side of the stoop featured the biggest and brightest of the perennials Belle had accumulated over the years. A gray birdbath with a fairy on the pedestal sat off to the right, providing nourishment to a gaggle of butterflies. The yard was immaculate, save for a single wad of crabgrass. Annabelle stooped to uproot the offending weed, an act that had her father smiling down in approval, she was certain.

I’ll take care of her, Daddy, just as I promised.

When she straightened, she caught sight of a three-story coral-colored stucco home through the trees and frowned. Martin Castleberry’s house, she presumed, from her mother’s description. The man probably watched her mother with a pair of binoculars before he asked her out.

Annabelle climbed the stacked-stone steps of the house she’d grown up in, noticing the same rock on the same corner of the same step was loose—just loose enough to remove and put a note behind it for her friend Lisa who’d lived in the house closest to theirs at the time. But Lisa and her family had moved to Illinois when the girls were eight years old, and Annabelle had lost count of how many times their house had changed owners, as had most of the homes in their isolated neighborhood as the developers crept closer and closer. The juxtaposition of the neighborhoods today could best be described as
Southern Living
meets
Metropolitan Home
.