Charlotte Douglas - The Bride's Rescuer

“You’ve always been my best friend.” With a rueful smile, Tracey shook her head and held out the skirt of her gown. “For no one else would I wear this bilious shade of pink.” Her expression sobered. “But I think you’re making a terrible mistake. It’s not too late to call it off.”

For an instant, Celia almost agreed, but Darren was such a sweet man, she couldn’t desert him. She wouldn’t leave him standing at the altar like some pathetic character in a television sitcom.

“I’m marrying Darren,” she declared, as much to shore up her own courage as to assure Tracey.

With a resigned shake of her head, Tracey headed toward the door. “Our bouquets are in the refrigerator in the church kitchen. When I bring them back, it’s show time.”

Her friend slipped out the door, and Celia clasped her hands in her lap to cease their trembling. Was she doing the right thing? She’d had niggling doubts from the day she’d accepted Darren’s proposal, but she’d always managed to shove them aside by considering the positive aspects of marriage to him. He was handsome, wealthy, well-mannered, well-educated…she ran through his attributes like a mantra, hoping to staunch the panic welling within her.

With a start, she realized she was no longer alone in the room. A middle-aged woman with elegantly coifed graying hair stood just inside the parlor door. From the cut of her designer suit and the jewels on her fingers, Celia guessed her to be one of Darren’s guests.

Celia rose to her feet. “If you’re looking for the sanctuary—”

“I’m looking for you,” the woman said. “You are Celia Stevens, aren’t you?”

Celia nodded. “Who are you?”

“My name’s not important. Time is running out. You can’t marry that man.”

“Darren?”

The woman grimaced. “Is that what he’s calling himself these days?”

“What do you mean?”

The woman moved closer. “When he married my daughter, his name was David Weller.”

Celia felt as if she’d entered a twilight zone. The woman seemed too self-possessed, too rational to be crazy. “Darren’s never been married.”

At least that’s what he’d told her, and he’d never given her reason to doubt him. Or had he?

Celia’s thoughts whirled in confusion.

The woman nodded grimly. “Of course, that’s what he told you.” She slipped an expensive handbag from beneath her arm, opened it, and extracted a newspaper clipping. “See for yourself.”

Celia took the paper from the woman and walked toward the window. The late afternoon sunlight fell on the newsprint, a photograph of a bride and groom with the heading, “Seffner-Weller Wedding.” The groom staring back at her was Darren Walker. Or his double.

“There must be some mistake,” Celia said, feeling as if the floor had dropped out from under her.

“There is,” the woman insisted, “and you’re making it.”

Confused, Celia shook her head and sagged onto the sofa. “This can’t be Darren.”

“It is. I watched him entering the pastor’s study. It’s the same man, all right.”

“Why did your daughter divorce him?”

“She didn’t.”

Celia’s eyes widened and her stomach lurched. “You mean Darren is still married?”

Terrible pain and sudden tears filled the woman’s eyes. “He’s a widower.”

Relief flooded through her. At least Darren wasn’t a bigamist. “I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as you’ll be if you go through with this. He murdered my daughter.”

Her nausea returned, and Celia rubbed her eyes with her fists. “You must be mistaken. If he’s a murderer, he’d be in jail.”

“He’s a clever murderer, and an even better con man.”

“Look, Mrs. Seffner, I’m sorry for your loss, but—”

“Listen to me, girl. If my own daughter had listened, she’d still be alive today. Did you sign a pre-nuptial agreement?”

Celia shook her head. “It seemed pointless. Darren has more money than I—”

“My daughter’s money, left to her by her paternal grandfather. David—Darren refused to sign the agreement I insisted upon, and my poor daughter was too besotted to care. Just weeks after the wedding, she died in a boating accident on the lake near their home. David found her. Her death was suspicious, but no one’s been able to prove he did it—yet.”

“How long has it been?”

“Six months. David disappeared after the funeral. I’ve been searching for him ever since.”

Celia reeled with shock. Darren had entered her life only five months ago, just a short time after her parents’ death. She had thought his willingness to help settle her parents’ affairs had been kindness, but in looking back, she recognized his intense interest in their estate.

And her inheritance.

The newspaper clipping was testament to his untruthfulness. Why hadn’t he told her of his previous marriage? What else hadn’t he told her?

The woman stepped forward and tipped Celia’s chin until their eyes met. “I know your mother’s gone, so I’m begging you in her name, don’t go through with this wedding. Take time to investigate what I’ve told you.”

She smoothed a strand of hair from Celia’s face in a gesture that reminded her so much of her own mother, she had to fight back tears. The stranger then pivoted on her expensive high heels and left the room.

In the solitude, Celia’s doubts swelled and multiplied. Snippets of formerly harmless conversations with Darren replayed in her memory, laden now with sinister implications. He had no family, he’d told her. And he’d been vague about his work. Investments, he’d called it. Nothing exciting. Nothing she’d want to hear about. He’d traveled in his work, never really settling down, so there was no place he called home. And most of his close friends and business associates were traveling out of the country and would be unable to attend the wedding. She had swallowed his explanations and excuses whole, never dreaming they might not be the truth.

Suddenly, she felt as if she couldn’t breathe. She hurried to the parlor door and into the corridor. Running as if the devil himself were after her, bridal gown lifted to her knees and her veil trailing in the wind, she raced from the church, sprinted through the filled parking lot, and dodged traffic as she crossed the main road that bisected the beach community. Avoiding the clubhouse at the yacht club, she followed the pathway to the marina at its rear and thundered down the dock toward the farthest slip.

Her father’s sailboat, a classic 32-foot Morgan, was moored in its usual spot. With shaking hands, Celia disengaged the lines, tossed them onboard, and leaped onto the deck. Within minutes, she had the auxiliary engines started and was moving the boat into the channel.

Suddenly the voice of the harbormaster, a man she’d known since she was a child, sounded over the public address system. “Celia, return to port. There’s a storm brewing.”

She’d weathered storms in the Morgan before. Returning to port meant facing Darren, a man with possible homicidal tendencies, and over fifty curious wedding guests. Returning also meant dealing with the ominous accusations of the strange woman, Mrs. Seffner. And worst of all, returning meant admitting to herself that she’d almost married a man she didn’t love.

A storm, the harbormaster had warned. Maybe that was just what she needed. A big wind to blow all her troubles away.

As soon as Celia reached the channel, she raised the sails and headed west into the Gulf of Mexico and the gathering storm.

“Is she dead?”

The deep drawling voice invaded Celia’s consciousness, and dead ricocheted in her mind like a frightened bird in a too-small cage. She couldn’t be dead. A dead person felt nothing. Her ribs ached. Her head pounded. Her arms and legs throbbed. Her skin burned from the scorching sun, but she shivered in the cool breeze.