The Substitute Bride (The Great Wedding Giveaway Series Book 7) (6 page)

He nodded.  “Good.  But...”  He let the sentence dwindle off.  “You know what she’s going to say, don’t you?”

Marly could imagine about a hundred things her mother would be thinking, all of them painful.

Y
ou haven’t just thrown your own life away, Marly—you’ve thrown away mine, too, because I gave mine up for you.
 
How could you let me down
? 
How could you repeat my mistakes
? 

How could you
? 
How could you
? 

But she knew her mother wouldn’t actually
say
any of those things.  She was far too dignified, and far too kind.  So no, she had no idea what her mother would say.

“What?”  She kept her gaze on Drake’s face, surprised that he looked so somber.

His lighthearted mood was gone, entirely.  He gazed at her with an expression of intensity that made her skin ripple slightly, as if a breeze had passed over her.

“She’ll say you have to tell him.”

Marly frowned.  “I have to tell him what?”

“About the baby.  She’ll say he has a right to know.  It might—” He closed his eyes for a split second.  “It might change everything.”

“But wh—” 

She broke off, realizing suddenly she hadn’t told the story very well, after all.  She’d left out important details, carried away by the temptation to keep it light, to make it droll and sardonic instead of sad and pitiful.

Carried away, too, by the lovely fantasy that it was only a story she’d read somewhere, not one she would live for the rest of her life.

“Drake, Evan already knows about the baby.  That’s why we were getting married in the first place.”

––––––––

T
he next morning, Marly walked slowly through the lobby of the Graff Hotel, giving herself time to absorb the incredible transformation Troy Sheenan had wrought.

The building had always been lovely from the outside.  Its sturdy Italianate architecture was like a strong-willed Montana matron of the same era—the late eighteen hundreds.  She never drooped, never let the world guess how tired she felt inside.

But the interior had gone to pieces through the years, and it had been boarded up over forty years ago.  Marly had sometimes wondered whether the elegant Victorian ghosts who haunted its ballroom lamented their fall from grace.

If so, they must be rejoicing in Troy Sheenan’s multi-million-dollar miracle.  The lobby Marly wandered in now was so splendid, with its luxurious wood paneling, luminous marble columns and dazzling crystal chandelier.  This level of opulence didn’t seem to belong in Marietta at all.

At least, not in the Marietta Marly had left nine years ago.  She was beginning to suspect she might have returned to a very different city altogether.

“Marly?”  A smartly dressed young woman approached her, smiling.  “I’m Lacey.  Mr. Sheenan asked me to show you around.”

Marly shook the other woman’s hand.  According to her notes, Lacey was head of PR for the hotel.  She had the sleek, stylish beauty that seemed to fit Marietta’s new image.

Lacey led the way toward a bank of elevators.  “I thought you might like to see the ballroom first, and afterwards maybe the bridal suite set aside for the winners.” 

She hit a button, then waited gracefully for the elevator to hum its way down.  “I understand you’ll be covering the Giveaway from now on?”

“Well, for the time being, anyhow,” Marly corrected quickly.  Internally, she shuddered at the suggestion of writing wedding contest fluff pieces ‘from now on,’ which sounded like a life sentence as a small-town hack. 

But it obviously wasn’t professional—or polite—to say she’d be covering it
until I can find a better job
.

After the tense conversation with her mother last night, though, Marly had no doubt she’d be leaving Marietta as soon as humanly possible. 

Her mother wasn’t the melodramatic type, so there had been no histrionics, no weeping or slapping or name-calling.  But when she’d learned that Marly was carrying a baby that would be born out of wedlock, every inch of her had gone as still as a waxwork figure.  Especially her face.  She’d looked like someone embalmed, after everything on the inside had died.

Angelina hadn’t slept that night.  Marly, who hadn’t slept much, either, had heard her pacing her tiny bedroom until six a.m.  Then, fully dressed and made up, her mother had emerged to make coffee and read a half-dozen newspapers online, following her normal routine to the finest detail. 

When Marly joined her, Angelina had politely offered breakfast.  But Marly couldn’t eat.  Though she knew they’d never revisit the conversation again—Angelina’s life philosophy was to find solutions, not bemoan problems—her mother’s gut-deep disappointment hung in the air like the acrid, ruined smell after a fire. 

It turned Marly’s stomach, and she excused herself twice to be sick.

At seven on the dot, her mother went down to open the Courier.  Before she followed, Marly sent two more job applications out by email.  And she made a plan to spend as much of the day as possible out of the office.

Which was what had led her to the Graff.  Strictly speaking, she didn’t need to interview anyone at the hotel right now.  The historical giveaway had been thoroughly covered by her mother back in February, when the contest was announced.  And the Valentine’s Ball, too—which had been held here and obviously had been quite the glittering event.  Marly had read all the clips.

So, until the winning bride and groom actually spent their nuptial night in one of the Graff’s renovated suites, courtesy of the Giveaway, the Graff wasn’t particularly significant.

Instead, the spotlight had shifted to a nearby ranch.  One of the Marietta bigwigs, Samuel T. Emerson, had donated his magnificent barn as a venue for a dance at which the semi-finalists would be announced.  Marly had to cover that tomorrow night.  If she had any sense, she’d be trying to find something suitable to wear.

But she often found her best story angles by prowling around in shadowy corners where the spotlight was not shining.

And besides, the last time she’d tried on new clothes, they’d been just a shade too tight in the waist.  Her changing body wasn’t something she felt up to thinking about right now.

She went through the motions with Lacey, but no decent public relations person would voluntarily offer up any juicy tidbits to a reporter.  So when Lacey reached the end of her tour, Marly thanked her warmly and said she’d like to sit in the lobby a while and go over her notes.

“If I don’t do it now, I won’t have a chance of deciphering them later,” she said, and she wasn’t lying.  “My shorthand looks a lot like chicken scratch.”

Lacey smiled sympathetically.  Then her cell phone rang and she hurried off to answer it in private.

Marly found a comfortable chair that had a good view—with minimal swiveling or craning she could see the entrance, the elevators and the registration desk.  She opened her notes, started a new file on her iPad, and began transcribing.

She loved people-watching under any circumstances, and this was a great way to get reacquainted with Marietta.  At least with the professional and well-heeled elements of Marietta.  The Graff obviously wasn’t in everyone’s budget. 

It wouldn’t, for instance, be in hers.  Not if she remained in Marietta as a single mother, working for peanuts at the Courier.  She’d be living in her own mother’s spare room forever.

Her poor mother, facing that prospect!  Angelina Akers clearly loved her quiet, well-ordered life.  If her derailed daughter sheltered in the apartment for long, that would wreck everything.  No more lovely art studio, no more long baths, no silence to read the papers in the morning. 

No privacy, not for either of them.

Correction:  no privacy for
any
of them.  Her child, when it was born, would make three souls in that tiny apartment.

No wonder her mom was so eager for her to land a job and leave town.

Marly’s lungs tightened uncomfortably, and she dragged her mind away from images of that future.  If only she’d inherited her mother’s serenity, instead of being so emotional.  If only she’d inherited Angelina’s poise and practicality, instead of having an imagination that served up one horror scenario after another. 

She took a deep breath.  If she let herself panic, things would just get worse.  Maybe she should call Drake.  Last night, he’d had a way of helping her stay grounded—and even making her smile. 

But she didn’t touch her phone.  Her mother had drilled that lesson home to Marly’s core.  Never, ever put your happiness, or your financial security, in the hands of any man.

Besides, her mission here was to find a good approach for approaching these ridiculous Giveaway stories.  She tapped her fingers on the iPad, accidentally closing her file and opening her email. 

As long as it was open, she took a quick look.  Had any of the job possibilities written back?

They hadn’t.  She drummed her fingers on the upholstered arms of the chair instead.  What was wrong with her?  So much for that famous imagination.  She couldn’t think of a single fresh angle on any of this.

Only one semi-interesting question nibbled at her imagination.  How satisfied was Troy Sheenan with his investment in the Graff?  Any chance he was going to take a bath on this venture?  After half an hour or so watching people come and go, she wasn’t sure the registration desk was as busy as a place like this required, just to break even.

And if the Graff folded again...what did that mean for little Marietta’s rebirth?

Looking down again, hoping for the job inquiry that would punch her ticket out of here, she noticed she had one new email.  Not a job nibble, though.  This email was from the Chamber of Commerce, which was in charge of the Giveaway circus.

Yesterday, Marly had asked Jane Weiss, the Chamber’s director, to consider releasing the names of the eight semi-finalists a day early.  Marly needed the extra time to research each couple, if she had any hope of writing a decent piece for the Monday paper.

She’d given her word she’d keep the names private, but since she didn’t know Jane, and vice versa, she hadn’t held out much hope.

But this email, which came from Jane’s assistant, included several attachments.  Marly’s hopes rose.  She scanned the email quickly.  Apparently Jane had agreed.  The applications of the eight semi-finalists were attached, under the hold-for-release conditions they’d discussed earlier.

Marly made quick victory fists, clenching her fingers an inch or so over the keyboard.  This was a small success, but it gave her something to work on. 

She probably ought to return to the Courier to read them, but she was too eager to wait.  She opened the attachments quickly, one after another, looking at the names and photos on the applications, gathering first impressions.

If something unusual showed up, she’d recognize it. 

At first blush, the crop wasn’t promising.  All such pretty, young, healthy women.  Such manly GQ grooms.  Jane had told her the judging criteria were simple—the best love story, and the most compelling reason for wanting to be married here in Marietta.  But apparently being gorgeous didn’t hurt.

Some of the names were local, familiar to Marly to one degree or another. 

Brock Sheenan and Haley Diekerhoff
. 
A Sheenan.  Of course.  On the other hand, the Graff didn’t actually run the contest—it merely had offered some of the prizes.  So probably nothing hinky going on there.

Sage Carrigan and Dawson O’Dell
.

McKenna Douglas and Larry Joplin
. 
McKenna was the queen of the beauties, of course.  Everyone knew McKenna, and everyone loved her.  Marly felt a momentary pity for the other seven finalists.  McKenna would be hard to beat.

Robin Armstrong and I.B. Coole.

Marly grimaced, thinking what Mr. ‘I Be Cool’ must have endured on the playgrounds of middle school.  What had his parents been thinking?  She glanced at Robin Armstrong’s picture, and was glad to see that the pretty redhead looked happy, peppy and full of fun.  Maybe Robin would make it all up to him, and they could give their own children innocent names, immune to childhood torture. 

Griffin Hyatt and Celia Sheridan.

Here Marly’s antennae quivered just a little.  Wasn’t there a Sheridan on the Chamber of Commerce staff?  Any relation?  Surely insiders and their families weren’t allowed to enter.

But maybe contests weren’t quite that strict in a small town like Marietta.  She shook off her knee-jerk cynicism, realizing that she was halfway hoping for a scandal.  It couldn’t be helped—scandals were simply more interesting than puff pieces. 

And...she might as well be honest.  Scandal coverage was far more likely to attract a lovely new job for Marly herself.

The other three couples weren’t from Montana.  She knew the contest had received national exposure, so she was glad the judges had given at least a few outsiders a chance.

Joan Arrington and Marcus Abernathy, from Illinois.

Melissa Chen and Ralph Ho, from Maine.

Darlene Evers and Buckingham Smith, from Texas.

Marly flicked from one picture to the next, trying to see if the judges had a preferred ‘type’.  But from the applications alone it was impossible to tell what had set these eight couples apart from the other nine-hundred-and-ninety-two applications Jane Weiss had reported receiving. 

Maybe the videos would provide more fodder.  Marly had earphones with her, so she decided to give just one of the videos a quick glance. As she looked at these couples, it was inevitable, of course, that she’d compared their engagements to hers.  Weddings cost a fortune, and she had to admit it:  if she’d seen a chance to have the expenses footed by someone else, she might have been tempted.

But what would she have said in her video?  Could she have told the truth about why she and Evan were getting married?  “I like him a lot, really.  But we’re only getting married because we placed too much faith in an old condom.  Frankly, we’re making the best of a bad situation.”