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

She suspected she wouldn’t have made the shortlist with that unromantic story.  What did normal people say...people who really were in love?  Curious, she was about to open the first video attachment when a shadow fell over her computer.

Uh-oh
.  Had she lingered so long Lacey had returned to check up on her?  Instinctively, she flicked the iPad off, hoping her reflexes were fast enough.  Then she glanced over her shoulder, smiling to assure Lacey everything was fine.

“Sorry—I didn’t mean to camp out—”

But it wasn’t Lacey.  It was Drake.  He leaned against the marble pillar behind her.  He looked as gorgeous as ever, in his gold-white-brown plaid flannel shirt, his faded, muscle-hugging blue jeans, and his familiar sheepskin jacket folded over his arm. 

“Hey,” he said, smiling deeply enough that both dimples came out to help. “Your mother told me I might find you here.”

“She did?”  She tried to hide her surprise—that he’d be looking for her, and that her mother would have helped him.  Her mother had never approved of the Everetts, even before the infamous date-that-didn’t-happen. 

Like a light bulb suddenly glowing, Marly realized her mother must always have known Mr. Everett had a drinking problem.  She wouldn’t have shared that unsavory gossip with Marly.  She wouldn’t have felt the need to—she’d expected her daughter to accept her edicts without question. 

And for the most part, Marly had.  The date with Drake had been her first real act of defiance.

“I was hoping you could join me for a quick lunch,” he said.  “There’s someone I’d like you to meet, as long as you’re going to be profiling interesting characters around town.”

She narrowed her eyes.  “I am?” 

She had written her piece about Erica Applebaum sometime during her sleepless night, and she’d emailed it to her mother, but she wasn’t sure it would pass muster.  It wasn’t the classic journalistic feature profile.  Instead, it was quirky, stylistically eccentric.  Her mother would probably hate it, because it broke all the rules.

“Yeah.”  He tilted his head, curious.  “You didn’t know?  The Applebaum profile is already up at Courier-Dot-Com.  Headline says it’s part of an ongoing series.  Something-something Copper Mountain?”

Shaking her head, she flicked her iPad back on and called up the Courier’s website.  Her mother had embraced online journalism more enthusiastically than most.  “Nothing can stop the electronic tidal wave,” she’d said, years ago.  “We can either ride it, or we can drown in it.”

The page loaded quickly, one thing Angelina required of her web crew.  And, just as Drake had said, Erica Applebaum’s picture and profile were prominently displayed. 

Marly scanned the column quickly, her confusion growing.  Her mother didn’t seem to have changed a single word.

Drake had bent over Marly’s shoulder, so that he could look, too.  She could smell the fresh, outdoorsy scent of soap and pine and...and masculinity.

“Yeah, that’s it. 
We Are Copper Mountain
.”  He glanced at Marly, as if to see what she thought of the tagline.  “Kind of catchy, right?  And it doesn’t limit you much, which is clever.”

“Yes.”  She made the screen go black again, then bent over to slide the tablet into her bag.  “Very clever.”

He straightened, but still stared down at her.  “You aren’t pleased?  It’s a wonderful piece.  Frankly, I wouldn’t have believed anyone could make Erica interesting, but you pulled it off.”

“Of course I’m pleased,” she said, standing, hoisting her bag over her shoulder.  And she was.  Or she would be, if she weren’t so puzzled.  Why would her mother launch a new series when she knew Marly was planning to leave Marietta as soon as she possibly could?

“Okay, then.”  Drake waved one hand toward the Graff’s impressive front doors.  If he sensed her ambivalence, he didn’t seem inclined to probe.  “Lunch at the diner?  The food’s great since Paige Joffee took over, and besides...that’s where you’re going to meet
We Are Copper Mountain
, installment number two.”

An hour later, Drake leaned back in his booth at the Main Street Diner, popping the last wickedly delicious parmesan fry into his mouth and feeling pretty darned satisfied with himself.

Not only had Marly clearly been intrigued with Fly, who had stopped by to chat and agreed to an interview tomorrow, his day off, but she’d also eaten every single crumb of her bison burger.  He suspected that was the first bite she’d taken since their baby back ribs last night.

Her cheeks bloomed pink, finally, and he was glad to see it.  He might not have laid eyes on her for nine years, but her memory had always lived vividly in his mind.  And her memory had adorable pink cheeks.

Even better, though they’d both finished eating, and Fly was long gone, Marly hadn’t once checked the time on her cell phone, not for at least thirty minutes.

Man, he was batting a thousand.  He wondered if he should just go ahead and kiss her right now, while his luck was hot.

But if he lunged across the table and went Tarzan on her, she’d flee for sure.  To his surprise, he realized he’d rather have more time together than one stolen kiss, however hot and Tarzan it might be. 

To his surprise, and, in some ways, to his dismay.  What the heck was wrong with him?  He’d rather
talk
than make out—especially with a sexy female who had intrigued and baffled him for years? 

He chuckled into his coffee as he raised it to his lips.
That’s it, Everett.  You’re officially old now
. 
Over the hill
.

“So how did it go last night?”  He’d been waiting for the right moment to ask, and her rosy relaxation seemed promising.  “How did your mother handle the news?”

Marly didn’t look at him, but he didn’t sense any extreme withdrawal, either.  She merely seemed thoughtful.  She toyed with her straw, tapping it slowly on the rim of her iced tea glass. 

“My mother never makes a scene,” she said finally.  “But of course it nearly killed her.  This has always been the nightmare in her closet.  Her chief mission in life was to ensure I didn’t end up like this.” 

She raised her gaze briefly, and her expression was darkly wry. ”Like
her
.”

He wondered why Angelina had been so obsessed with that.  Sure, it must be hard to raise a child alone, but Angelina Akers’ life didn’t exactly seem blighted.  She and her parents had faced down whatever shame had threatened her name, and, through hard work and flawless personal integrity, she’d become one of the pillars of the Marietta community. 

People remembered, of course, that she’d run off with a handsome trucker at seventeen—a guy she’d met at the Wolf Den, though her family didn’t even know she’d ever set foot in the rough bar on the rough edge of town.  And that she'd come crawling home six months later, having discovered too late that he was married but refusing to divulge his name.  By then, no one blamed her anymore.  They simply said what a lowdown skunk that trucker was, and how they hoped he’d gotten his just desserts, somewhere along the way.

So why was Angelina afraid her own daughter couldn’t do the same?  Did she believe Marly possessed any less courage and grit?

Drake knew better.  Maybe Angelina should have sat across from her little girl in that high school newspaper office, and watched her whip her hopeless reporting staff into shape.

“I’m sorry she’s upset,” he said, keeping the rest to himself.  “I know that must have been a brutal conversation.  But you’ve jumped the biggest hurdle.  It should get easier from here.”

She nodded, and to her credit she lifted one corner of her mouth in an attempt at a smile.  “I hope so.  I’ve got applications out all over the country. One paper, out in Kansas, even scheduled a phone interview.  Kansas wouldn’t be my first choice, but I’ll probably take anything.  I just need someone,
anyone
, to nibble, so I can get out of her hair and start putting my life back together.  ”

He frowned.  She hadn’t been in town forty-eight hours, so it seemed a bit extreme to be this fixated on escape.  He thought she’d at least welcome a visit with her mother.

But who was he to criticize?  He was fairly obsessed with getting out of Marietta, himself.

Just this morning, he’d signed the papers putting Three Horses on the market.  And Rick Styles, who had been selling property in Marietta forever, didn’t let grass grow.  As Drake and Marly had walked up First Street from the Graff, he had noticed the Three Horses info was already up, displayed in the window of the real estate office.

He hadn’t pointed it out to Marly, primarily because of the stupid shooting pain that had gone through him at the sight of Three Horses up there, reduced to a cheesy bad-color photo and a few lines about easement and zoning and acreage.

He loved his ranch.  But he couldn’t spend a day there without remembering his mother trying to cry through a broken nose, making noises so terrible Drake had felt dizzy, just listening to her.  He couldn’t walk through the front door without picturing his father as he’d been in the final few months, stumbling through the house, rolling his IV with one hand, saying, “Where’s your mother?  God damn it, boy, where’s your mother?”

Yes, he loved the ranch, but sometimes love just wasn’t enough.

Guess that was how Marietta, and the Courier, felt for Marly, too.

“Someone will nibble,” he assured her.  “And soon.  Unless the whole world has gone insane.”

She flushed and ducked her head, as if the compliment embarrassed her.  Probably it sounded like he was just blowing sunshine, but he wasn’t.  He’d known she was good, nine years ago, and he’d seen it again today when he read about Erica Applebaum. 

The profile was strangely compelling.  Once you started reading it, you couldn’t stop. 

Marly had a nice way with words, but more importantly she had
heart
.  She didn’t mock Erica, though that would have been easy to do. 

She understood what was human about Erica Applebaum.  She rounded the woman out and made her real in a way that even meeting Erica face-to-face in the street couldn’t accomplish.  And she made the reader recognize that everyone had a little Erica inside.

It was a gift.  He wondered if her mother recognized it, and, if so, why she’d put Marly on that mindless Wedding Giveaway patrol.  Honestly, sometimes the people closest to you were the blindest.

He saw her fidgeting with her purse, checking her cell, and he knew his time was up.  He didn’t waste any precious seconds fighting the inevitable.  Instead, he strategized quickly.  Time to bunt, in favor of getting himself into scoring position later.

“Will you be at Emerson’s barn dance tomorrow night?”

She sighed as she arranged her knife and fork neatly on her plate.  “God, yes.  I‘m covering the announcement of the semi-finalists.  Will you be there?”

He hadn’t made up his mind until this very minute.  “Yeah, I will.”

“You’re not...I mean, you haven’t entered the Giveaway contest, have you?”

He kept his face arranged as impassively as possible.  “Of course not.  But I’m a team player, and this is supposedly great for Marietta.  National publicity, month after month, event after event.  So I’ll be there.  Think you can save me a dance?”

She seemed engrossed in fishing cash from her wallet.  He considered protesting, because of course he’d intended to pay for lunch.  It had been his invitation.  But he remembered how strict she’d been in the old days.  If she heard he’d taken a free hot dog while he covered the basketball game, she threatened to fire him.

It had made him laugh, back then.  She’d seemed so uptight, so out of step with the normal world.  But now he could almost see the beauty of it.  Uncompromised, owing no favors anywhere, she could write the truth as she saw it.

He wondered how much of this was left in the world of journalism.  Well, he wasn’t going to take away even one square inch of it.  He dug out a ten, to pay for his share, and let it pass.

But he wasn’t going to let the dance question fall through the cracks, too.

“So, what do you think?  One dance?”

“I’ll be working,” she reminded him. 

He shook his head, smiling.  That was baloney, and she knew it.  “One dance.”

“They’ll be announcing the semi-finalists, and I’ll need to—”

“Not every single minute.  You’re a journalist, not a machine.  One dance.”

“But...
why
?”  Her eyes studied him narrowly, as if she suspected something fishy.  “Look, I’m not your type.  I’m not anyone’s type right now.  I’m just a bitter pregnant woman who’s down on men and will probably be living in Kansas by the end of the month.”

Frankly, he’d been asking himself the same question, and he hadn’t come up with an answer that made any real sense.  But the fact remained that she intrigued him as much as she ever had. 
More
.

“What can I say?”  He shrugged, tucking back a smile.  “I’m eccentric.  One dance.”

She folded her hands over her wallet, surrendering with a small laugh.  “Okay.”  She nodded.  “Just one.”

Excellent
.  He slid out of the booth and waited while she did the same.  He didn’t offer to walk her back to the Courier.  He wanted to leave while he was still winning.  He wanted to pocket that grudging
yes
, tucking it away safely where she couldn’t suddenly decide to snatch it back.

One yes, to one dance.  That was all he needed. 

Then it was up to him to find the magic that would turn one dance into a whole night.

––––––––

C
learly, Marly’s mother had also decided that distance was safety, because she didn’t come back to the Courier offices all afternoon.  Around five, she sent word through Joey, the caustic but brilliant old staffer who did everything from reporting to pagination, that she wouldn’t be back until quite late.  Marly should lock up, and not hold dinner.

Joey, who’d been hired by Angelina’s father forty-five years ago and threatened every day to retire “so I can rest these weary bones, goddamn it,” hung up the phone and made a growling noise.