His Wedding. Muriel Jensen
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and the strength in the line of her mouth made one want to root for her without even knowing if she needed support.
The article revealed all the known details of her kidnap, the family’s position in the world of business, her brothers’ accomplishments, then her own history as a successful stockbroker. She was quoted as saying she hadn’t known where her interest in business and the stockmarket had come from in a family of cheerful, middle-class Americans who never had anything to invest, until she discovered she was an Abbott.
He read with interest one of her friends’ remarks about Janet’s broken engagement three years earlier to a minor-league rock star, a month before the wedding.
It went on to reveal that her adopted sister had come to Losthampton—thinking she might be the missing Abigail, but that a DNA test had proved she wasn’t. And that had brought Janet onto the scene.
He was just about to give the reporter credit for a job not too badly done, when he got to the part about himself:
“Brian Girard, the illegitimate son of Susannah Stewart Abbott, Nathan Abbott’s first wife and mother of the two oldest Abbott sons, and Corbin Girard, the Abbotts’ neighbor and longtime business rival, has been welcomed into the bosom of the family.” It continued in praise of the family’s generosity, considering that Corbin Girard was responsible for setting a fire to their home and vandalizing Brian’s business. It explained in detail that Brian had been legally disowned for defecting to the Abbott camp by giving them information that stopped them from making a business deal they would have regretted. He had no idea how they’d gotten that information, unless one of the family had told them.
Brian threw the paper into the trash and strode, coffee cup in hand, down his dock. The two dozen boats he’d worked so hard to repair and refresh bobbed at the ends of their lines, a testament to his determination to start over at something he enjoyed.
The repainted and refinished shop was stocked with the old standbys people came in for day after day, as well as a few new gourmet products, a line of sophisticated souvenirs, and shirts and hats with his logo on them—a rowboat with a grocery bag in the bow, visible proof of his spirit to survive in the face of his father’s continued hatred.
He could fight all the roadblocks in his path, he thought, looking out at the sun rising to embroider the water with light, but how could he fight the truth? No matter what he did, he would always be the son of a woman who’d thrown away her husband and her two other sons like outdated material, and of a man who’d rejected him since the day he was born and who had no concept of purpose but to make more money than the next man and prevent him from catching up by whatever means it took.
The sorry fact was that Brian couldn’t fight it. He could do his best to be honest and honorable, but that would never inspire a newspaper article. Every time his name came up, it would be as the son of his reprehensible parents.
He didn’t know what to do about it.
“You’re an idiot,” he told himself firmly, “if you allow yourself to be hurt by what you can’t change and by what you had no control over in the first place.”
Right. He got that part. But what about all the other people connected to him—like the Abbotts—who would have to hear or listen to the old scandal dragged up again as the true meat of the story whenever they did something newsworthy?
He’d been giving that a lot of thought and hoping for a solution other than the obvious: move out of their light. He was a smart man; it would come to him.
Meanwhile, the brief lull between his early-rising customers and the late-stirring sack rats would be over soon and he had things to do. As he walked along the dock, checking his little fleet, he noticed a loose knot on the line securing a square-stern canoe. He’d just gotten down to tighten it when a movement to his left made him turn. Janet was standing nearby, in a white shirt knotted at her waist and white shorts. She smelled of something floral that permeated even the smell of salt water and diesel. She was slightly disheveled, and that seemed at odds with the royal bearing of her squared shoulders.
He caught a glimpse of tanned and shapely limbs before he concentrated on making sure the line was fast.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Hi,” she replied in a purposeful tone. “Do you have a few minutes to talk?”
Finally certain the line was secure, he straightened and saw uncharacteristic confusion in her eyes, backed by a small spark of anger.
“Yes, I do.” He put his hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts, wondering what was going on. “What do you want to talk about?”
She studied him a moment, as though reluctant to bring up whatever she’d come to discuss. Then she made an impatient gesture with one hand that widened the space between the bottom of her shirt and the top of her shorts, distracting him again.
“My sister’s wedding,” she finally blurted.
Oh, no. She was an emissary from Campbell. Or China. He refocused on her face.
“You’re here to talk me into being best man,” he guessed, starting back toward the shop.
She fell into step beside him. “Yes. I know your decision is none of my business, but Campbell and China are very disappointed, and that is my concern. You have to reconsider.”
“Campbell has dozens of friends.”
“He wants you.”
Yeah. Brian liked him, too, but here was that ugly truth again that would only darken an otherwise beautiful day.
“Did you see yourself in the paper this morning?” he asked, taking her arm to steer her around a forgotten bait bucket as she watched a seagull soar overhead.
“Thank you. No. Why? What did it say?” She gently disengaged her arm and said grimly, “I doubt the readership finds me as interesting as all those overeager reporters think I am.”
Brian took issue with that. “I’m sure the locals find you very interesting. Many of them remember when you were kidnapped, and they grieved with your family. Everyone around here loves the Abbotts. And here you are, back in their lives, beautiful and smart. They consider it’s good justice that you’re home again.”
“Good justice,” she repeated. They’d reached the store and she stopped to lean an arm on the newel post. “I do know I’m very lucky. But that’s not the same as being special. I’m thrilled to be home among such wonderful people, but I hate this living-in-a-fishbowl stuff. That tabloid reporter from the Meteor even followed me here this morning! I’m sure the front page of the next issue will have a photo of the back of me on the Vespa, with the headline Heiress Runs Away.”
Brian couldn’t imagine what would be bad about a photo of the back of her—whatever the headline. His guess was that her good looks and lively personality were going to keep her in the public eye for a long time.
“So…I’m sorry, I got distracted by my dislike of press coverage,” she said. “Did you have a point to make about the article?”
“Yes.” He leaned an elbow on the opposite post. “It talked about your broken engagement a month before your wedding, and I was mentioned in the ending paragraphs. Happy news always seems to require dredging up every bad moment in the past.”
“True.” She shrugged philosophically. She wasn’t getting the point.
“Well, the press will surely give the Abbotts’ double wedding front-page coverage. All that happy news. “‘The grooms were handsome,’” he pretended to quote, “‘the brides were radiant, the mother-of-the-grooms was so happy to have her daughter back serving as her brother and adopted sister’s maid of honor,’ yada yada. If I’m best man, it’ll end with ‘Brian Girard, best man, is the son of the first Mrs. Abbott, who ran off with the chauffeur after being impregnated by the neighbor and Nathan Abbott’s arch ene—’”
“I know, I know.” She nodded to cut him off.