Patricia Johns - The Runaway Bride

Her stomach twisted again. Logically, marrying Calvin made sense. She knew that, but...

Bernadette eased open the door and peeked into the hallway. No one. The bridesmaids were with the photographer out in the church foyer—she could hear the photographer’s instructions. Her mother’s voice could be heard over his, telling Courtney, Bernadette’s maid of honor, to stop “standing there like a common tart,” whatever that meant.

Bernadette’s dress rustled when she moved, so she gathered it in her arms and crept down the hallway toward the room Calvin was using. She’d have knocked if she weren’t afraid of drawing everyone’s attention, so she turned the handle as silently as possible and peeked inside.

It took a moment to make sense of what she saw. She’d been expecting to see Calvin standing alone, fiddling with cuff links or something. Instead, it was a mess of black suit and pink tulle. There was a flash of tanned skin, a swath of blond hair... There were some grunts, a sigh, then she made out Calvin’s tanned hand moving up a white thigh. And suddenly, the whole scene came into focus.

Vivid, ugly focus.

She didn’t feel rage, just numbing shock, and then the sickening sensation that she might vomit. And she saw the truth as clear as day: this was what her married life would look like—a handsome groom satisfying his carnal desires with another woman in the next room.

Bernadette recognized the woman in her fiancé’s arms—it was Calvin’s ex-girlfriend, who was supposed to be in the distant past, or so he claimed. Would Kimberly be a fixture in their marriage, or was this going to be a revolving door? One thing would be expected: she, the dutiful wife, would have to stand there with the grace and dignity of Jackie Kennedy, taking it.

No. That was the first word to pop into her mind as the shock began to fade. No!

She paused for a moment, waiting for hysterics to set in, but they didn’t. She didn’t feel frightened or panicked. She didn’t feel uncontrollable fury. A strange, eerie calm settled over her, and she eased the door shut once more, gathered up her skirts and crept down the back stairs.

“Bunny?” Lanie was one of the junior bridesmaids and one of her second cousins. She stood by the back door, a cigarette in one hand, apparently sneaking a quick smoke before the ceremony began. Bernadette hated that stupid nickname. Her parents had set her up for a lifetime of country clubs and golf courses with that name.

“Hi, sweetie,” Bernadette crooned. “I’m just going to get something from the car.” She put her fingers to her lips in an exaggerated display of secrecy, and her young cousin giggled.

“I’ll hold the door!” Lanie whispered after her.

The car was parked close to the church, ready for their big exit, and Bernadette fished around in her little satin bag for the car key, and pulled it out. Her father might have handpicked her groom, but he wouldn’t trust Calvin with the keys to his favorite car until the vows were final.

She popped the trunk, and looked down at the two suitcases. One was hers, packed with such attention to detail over the past few days, and the other Calvin’s.

“Miss Morgan?” It was the security guard, and he looked suddenly disconcerted. “Or should I say Mrs. McMann?”

He apparently didn’t know if the wedding had happened yet.

“Bunny is fine.” She shot him a reassuring smile, then she paused. “Actually, no. I hate that name. Call me Bernie.”

“Yes, ma’am. Can I help you with anything... Bernie?”

“Yes!” She smiled brilliantly and hauled Calvin’s suitcase out of the trunk. “Be a doll and hold this for me, would you?”

The young man stepped forward and took the proffered suitcase, then she slammed the trunk shut and beelined over to the driver’s side. She let herself in, piling her voluminous skirt into her lap, then slammed the door shut and started the car.

“Ma’am?” The security guard started around the car just as she stepped on the gas. “Wait! Miss Morgan! I mean—”

She didn’t hear the rest of what he said, because she was driving at full speed toward the security checkpoint. Uniformed guards scattered like bowling pins as she sailed through and took a squealing turn onto the Manhattan street, narrowly missing a yellow cab. The driver leaned out his window and let out a string of curses that faded away as she accelerated.

She had no idea where she was going—just away. Far away! She’d think this through later. She might have the classic, dark-haired beauty, and she might come from wealth, but she was no Jackie Kennedy.

* * *

LIAM WILSON WIPED his greasy hands on a cloth and tossed it onto his workbench next to the pickup he was working on. It needed another part, and he’d have to order it in. The front garage door was rolled up, allowing a breeze to move through, but the air was still thick with heat. June had warmed up fast, and they looked like they were in for a drought after a winter of not enough snow and a spring with too little rain. That was bad news for surrounding farmers and ranchers, and it would affect everyone. If only the bad news had stopped with the weather.

Liam was trying to keep things “normal” at Runt River Auto—he still had vehicles to fix, after all—but last month normal had taken a backseat when a two-year-old boy with big brown eyes and a mop of dark curls had been delivered to his home by a police cruiser. The officers had said his name was Ike Wilson; the little guy wouldn’t answer any questions. With eyes welling with tears, the boy had simply whispered, “I want Mommy.”

Liam was Ike’s closest relative, even though that situation was about as complicated as it could get. This was his estranged wife’s child—not his. Leanne had been working on Senator Morgan’s campaign when the affair started. Liam had been blind to it all, trying to convince her that they should try adoption since an incredibly rare childhood episode of mumps had left him sterile. The vaccination hadn’t taken for him, and he’d suffered more than the painful illness—he’d also lost his ability to produce children. Leanne had desperately wanted to be pregnant and have a baby of her own. He couldn’t exactly provide that, but he’d wanted a baby just as badly as she did—he was just willing to adopt to make that happen. So when she’d told him that she was pregnant, there’d been no doubt about what that meant.

That was almost three years ago. Liam knew they should have divorced, but there hadn’t seemed to be any urgency, and she’d still been his legal wife at the time of her death in the car accident last month. He was her closest living relative, so Ike came to him—the baby his wife had with Senator Vince Morgan. According to Ohio law, he was Ike’s legal parent unless someone could prove otherwise.

Liam took a swig from a water bottle. He still had no idea how he’d sort all of this out. He obviously couldn’t keep the kid, but he didn’t want to send him off into the child welfare system, either. Liam had grown up in foster care, and he didn’t recommend the experience. So he’d done the only thing he could and called up Lucille Neiman, the kind older woman across the street, and she’d agreed to help out with childcare for a while. He’d just needed time to think. A month later, he was still stumped.

The sound of a faltering engine came rumbling up the street—a sputter, a bang. That was the sound of a customer. He stepped outside and shaded his eyes against the glare of the late afternoon sunlight. Runt River Auto sat on a corner just south of the gas station. Travelers with car trouble stopped at the station and got pointed in his direction. About half his business came down that highway.

The car came around the corner, a white antique Rolls-Royce, by the look of it. He blew out a low whistle of appreciation, then squinted to see if he was hallucinating. He could see the driver clearly through the open window—a woman in a wedding dress and a veil, her dark hair disheveled. The car crept up to the sidewalk, let out one last rattling bang, then heaved out a hiss of steam.