Cathryn Parry - The Long Way Home

Slowly Bruce let out his breath. Desmond the clerk had returned. He was smiling now, suddenly willing to be Bruce’s buddy. People loved being able help somebody else out, when their hands were no longer tied from doing a good deed for someone who would appreciate it of them.

You could do a good deed, too.

No, another part of him said. Don’t get involved.

He closed his eyes. Alarm bells were going off all over the place, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted to be that carefree kid again, for once.

This wedding was going to be a mess for him, he could just tell.

But he opened his eyes and glanced down at the kid. He was looking at Bruce eagerly, as if Bruce was a hero or something.

How could he say no to that?

“You want me to get you a car, little man?” Bruce asked softly.

The kid—Daniel, was it?—put his hands on his hips and nodded.

“Is a minivan okay? With a car seat for your sister?”

Daniel grinned. “That sounds real good. She isn’t big enough to sit on her own yet.”

“Got it.” He looked at Desmond, who was clearly baffled. “You heard the customer. Give them the Chrysler van in space 367.” He held out his old contract. “And while you’re processing the paperwork, transfer as many of my points as you need to cover their full fee.”

Desmond squinted at the computer screen. “You’ve used all your points, Mr. Cole. Transferred the bulk of them last week, to a...Maureen Cole. A Mark Cole. And a Mike Cole.”

He’d forgotten about Maureen’s honeymoon, along with his parents’ and brothers’ trip to Disney World with his nieces and nephews at the same time.

“Yeah, well...” Bruce reached for his wallet again, skipped past the almost-broken-in-half corporate card, and reached for his personal card, stuck way in the back. “Put the base rental charge on my credit card. Use the renter’s credit card for their gas, insurance and security holds. I don’t want to be liable if they lose the car or crack it up or something.”

He was a good guy, not a stupid guy.

“Certainly, sir,” Desmond said. And as he returned to the computer to process the minivan, Bruce accepted the paperwork for his sedan. Luxury Collection, the header read. And Bruce’s heart beat a bit faster, because every road warrior had heard of the mythical stock of high-end luxury and sports cars that were reserved for the high-end customers, but also available at regular rates for platinum-level members whenever there was an out-of-stock situation. Such as this one.

Yeah, Bruce had hit the road warrior jackpot. What would he get? A Lexus? A BMW?

He felt so good he saluted the kid, who promptly saluted back. Then Bruce hightailed it out of there before the parents chewed him out for overstepping his boundaries. But really, he was only serving himself. Going about his business, the way he always did.

As he walked to the parking lot, he thought of sharing the news about the car he’d scored, but who would he call? It was the weekend. The guys he worked with, work buddies, were all at home, spread to the four corners of the country.

For a moment he felt all alone.

And then he saw the car. Gleaming white. Black-top convertible. A Mercedes.

Wait a minute—he was taking a Mercedes convertible back to Wallis Point? Was this some kind of sick joke?

Fate was really sticking it to him tonight. For a moment he wavered, thinking he might be sick, but no, he overcame the physical reaction. Trained his mind to control his body. Remembered the boiling anger he’d once felt. The unfairness of other people’s attitudes toward Maureen. Recalled how stubborn she had to be not to leave Wallis Point as soon as she’d graduated high school, like he had.

And once he’d trained his mind to remember the sweet glow of righteous anger, his body followed suit and he was calm again.

It was as if a curtain of numbness had fallen over what a few moments ago had been...something else. Because the past didn’t matter anymore. It hadn’t for fifteen years. The car accident was a long time ago, with lots of water under the bridge since then. He was done thinking or caring about what anyone thought of him.

He tossed his suitcase into the trunk. Walked around the Mercedes, glanced at the miniscule backseat, too small for anything larger than a briefcase, certainly too small for kids, never mind adults. He had to admit, the car was perfect for his rules. He should concentrate on that.

He slid inside the driver’s seat, feeling better now. Felt the cool leather slide beneath his thighs. Smelled the new-car smell of a sweet, sweet machine with only five hundred miles on the odometer.

Just him and a fast vehicle he could easily escape in. Too bad he was returning it tomorrow.

He started the engine and turned on the radio. Loud, so he couldn’t think.

* * *

NATALIE STOOD BEHIND the three other bridesmaids, and knew that her presence at Maureen Cole’s wedding was awkward and out of place. For a moment she wished she could disappear into the floor.

But feeling uncomfortable and doubting herself had never solved anything, so she stiffened her spine and renewed her grip on her bouquet. White roses interspersed with white lilacs, the bouquet was as fragrant as it was beautiful. Her dress, too, was elegant and flattering—Maureen had let them choose their own gowns as long as they were black, short-sleeved and tea length. The group photos would be stunning, with the men in black tuxes with white rose boutonnieres, the women in black gowns with their white bouquets, and the bride in a simply cut, white silk sheath with a long train and antique lace veil.

Natalie felt her spirits drooping lower. She had always hoped for a wedding like this, in the beautiful chapel on the beach in her home town, saying vows at dusk. The problem was, in Natalie’s teenaged dream wedding, she had been imagining Bruce Cole in the groom’s place. Which was insane.

And now Bruce Cole hadn’t bothered to show.

Natalie swallowed her disappointment, staring down at her hands and purposely avoiding looking at the vacant space opposite her where he should have been standing.

She wasn’t sure what was going on, but something was very wrong. More than once before the ceremony she’d seen Maureen huddled with her mother and her sisters-in-law, whispering.

One of the rose petals was coming loose from Natalie’s bouquet, and she absently tucked it back in. No one else knew it, but Natalie had built up Bruce’s arrival as a pie-in-the-sky fantasy in which he would see her, instantly be sent back to that long-ago night they had confided in one another, and only this time, with her newfound courage and the shyness she had overcome, Natalie could initiate...something...with him.

Wrong again. And the sooner she shook off her unrealistic expectations, the better she would feel.

For a while she had also fantasized that she and Maureen would become fast friends since their meeting last month in the chapel. That wasn’t happening the way she’d hoped, either. Yes, Natalie had been politely invited to the wedding shower, to the rehearsal dinner and even to this morning’s hairdressing session, but it was clear the Coles were a tight-knit clan that didn’t trust Natalie at all.

Or maybe she wasn’t hearing them well enough to know what was going on.

Natalie sighed. One thing she did know for a fact—intelligence gained from her father this morning, unfortunately—was that Maureen had closed on the old Gale place, a National Historic Register home originally built in 1810. Sold to wealthy out-of-towners, Bostonians moving north to take advantage of New Hampshire’s lack of state income tax. Which was fine. Except for the fact Maureen had taken her business to her usual out-of-town lawyer, instead of to Asa Kimball.