Alice Sharpe - Wife On His Doorstep

He assured her it was.

“Is my daughter nuts?” the woman asked. “The man is loaded.”

John didn’t answer her. Instead he said, “You’re the bride’s mother?”

The woman nodded. “We didn’t meet last night at the rehearsal. Your event coordinator, Mrs. Colpepper, said you were busy...” Her voice trailed off as she waited for him to fill in the gap.

What he’d been busy doing was painting the kitchen at the house he was building high above the river. Mrs. Colpepper had read him the riot act for not showing up for the rehearsal, but jeez, he hated those things. If anything, they were worse than the actual ceremony. Marrying people was bad enough—practicing marrying people just seemed like cruel and unusual punishment.

Besides, it was a simple ceremony aboard a moored boat—what did they need to rehearse that for? As soon as he found a replacement for Colpepper, rehearsals were going to be the first thing to go. For now, he addressed the mother, “So, where is your daughter?”

The older woman gestured at the stairs. “Up there. She didn’t want to talk to me or any of her friends, or even her uncle Adrian. She didn’t even slow down when she saw us. I tell you, if her father, rest his soul, was here, he would have made her stop and listen to reason.” She turned to the man beside her and added, “My George was just like Robert, wasn’t he, Adrian?”

“In many ways, Lori,” a big florid man with a fleshy nose and a small mouth said. “Don’t worry, by now the girl’s probably rigid with regret.” The man stuck out a meaty hand and added, “Name’s Adrian Haskell, Megan’s uncle. I know how crazy the girl is about the Winslow chap. I’m sure we’ll get this fracas cleared up.”

“Where is poor Robert?” Megan’s mother asked.

“Down below,” John answered curtly. He was annoyed with Megan’s family’s reaction. He had to make a point of reminding himself that he didn’t care about this melodrama and if these misdirected people wanted to worry about the wrong party in this mess, then that was their business, not his.

He was almost at the top of the stairs when he heard his name yelled. He turned, knowing before he saw her that Mrs. Colpepper was about to tear into him again.

She stood at the bottom of the stairs, a plump woman swathed in lilac, prone to fussiness, enamored of protocol except when it came to her dealings with him.

“Listen here, Captain Vermont,” she said through gritted teeth. “I hold you fully responsible for this fiasco. If you had forbidden that cat from coming aboard as I asked you to, none of this would have happened. And then to save it before you attended to Mr. Winslow was absolutely unpardonable. I have half a mind to tender my resignation. Why, when I think of the scandal—”

“Keep everyone else down there until I find out what the blazes is going on, Colpepper, you got that?” he interrupted.

“I have no intention of denying Mr. Winslow access to his bride—”

“Especially Mr. Winslow.”

“But—”

He cut her off by turning his back and resuming the climb, Mrs. Colpepper’s continuing diatribe as monotonous as the thumping slap of the boat’s stern paddle.

Besides the wheelhouse, there were two cabins on the top deck, including his own. The cabin on the left opened to reveal a dark room, the event consultant’s shipside office. As he flipped on the light, he called Megan’s name. Empty.

The other cabin—his cabin—was locked. Since he hadn’t locked it, Megan must be holed up inside. He patted his pocket for the key, realizing at last that it was in his other jacket...which was behind the door with the distraught bride. This left him no alternative but to knock.

“Who is it?” she said at once as though she’d been standing on the other side of the door, waiting.

“It’s Captain Vermont,” he said sternly, not at all amused she’d chosen his private quarters in which to take sanctuary.

“Please, just go away,” she said.

“Can’t do that,” he told her.

“Why not?”

“Open the door and we’ll talk.”

“No.”

“There are over a hundred people out here wanting to see you,” he told her.

“Well, I don’t want to see them,” she replied immediately.

“Just talk to me, then,” he said.

A long pause was followed by, “Are you alone?”

He looked down the empty passageway. “For the moment.”

“Can’t you just steer the boat back to Portland and leave me be?” she pleaded.

“Maybe I can, but I’m not going to,” he informed her.

Another long pause, then the door opened. Megan made no movement to step aside so John could enter.

“May I come in?”

“What do you want?”

He tapped the brass plaque attached to the mahogany door and said, “This is my cabin.”

Biting her lip, she said, “I’m sorry. I really am.”

John looked under her arm and saw Foggy Dew stretched out in the sunshine, licking an extended leg, her bulging middle attesting to the fact that she’d managed to hold on to the kittens. “Is the cat—”

“She’s fine. She’s almost dry.”

“But you’re scratched,” he said, nodding at her right arm. He didn’t mention what she looked like—how the tears had reddened her eyes, how the designer dress was now tattered and torn, stained with blood, cat hair and river water, how the flowers in her hair had slipped down to just above her left ear. Heck, none of these things detracted from the winsome beauty that was her birthright. Again, he noticed her high cheekbones and the flawless texture of her skin, the wispy blond strands that curled around her hairline, the cupid’s bow shape of her lips, lips absolutely begging to be kissed. John felt a deep jolt. Where in the world were these kind of thoughts coming from?

She stared down at her arm as though aware for the first time that rescuing Foggy Dew had extracted a toll.

He cleared his throat. “Come across the hall and I’ll find the first-aid kit. I know Mrs. Colpepper keeps it in her office. We’ll get you fixed up.”

“It’s not necessary, it doesn’t matter.”

He tried a different angle to budge her. “I know your mother and your fiancé want to see you. You go to Mrs. Colpepper’s office and I’ll escort them—”

“I don’t ever want to see Robert Winslow again,” she stated firmly. “He’s a jerk.”

Was it really possible this was the first time she’d noticed what a creep the guy was? Remembering he was not a counselor but a captain, he mumbled, “I, uh, happen to know there’s a certain amount of...of strain associated with getting married...”

She was shaking her head and new tears were puddling in her eyes. “I thought I could talk to them. I know I’m being evasive, but I need time to think. I just can’t face them all right now—you tell them for me, okay?”

“Miss Morison—”

“Please,” she added, and with an apologetic shrug, slowly closed the door again, leaving John Vermont high and dry and out of a cabin.

He pounded a fist against his leg as he strode down the passageway, determined to find a new captain for this ship pronto. “Damn weddings,” he swore beneath his breath.

An hour later he gave up trying to restrain Megan’s fiancé, figuring that by now she’d probably had second thoughts and was ready to come out and talk...and give him back his cabin.

“Meg? Listen to me. Open the door and let me in.” Winslow’s voice was cajoling.

John stood across the passageway, leaning against a bulkhead, arms crossed, watching.

“No,” she said.

John shook his head. He was beginning to suspect that nothing short of dynamite was going to blast that woman from his cabin, certainly not this bozo’s entreaties. Despite his fervent wish she’d leave, he had to admit a certain amount of admiration for her tenacity.