A Vow, a Ring, a Baby Swing. Teresa Southwick
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“Nothing.”
“You can wait if you want, I can’t stop you. But I’m doing my best to spare you, Rosie. Trust me. He’s not coming.” There was pity in his expression. It was that more than anything that made her eyes burn with unshed tears at the same time she wanted to deck him. How dare he pity her?
She blinked away the moisture. “What has Wayne ever done to give you such a low opinion of him?”
“Let’s get out of here. I’ll take you back to the hotel and buy you some lunch. We can talk—”
“I’m not leaving here until my groom shows up.”
“I just told you, that’s not going to happen.” He glanced at the watch on his wide wrist and nodded with satisfaction.
“How do you know that?”
“Because he’s a weasel.”
“That’s not true and it’s not an answer.” She shook her head as her eyes widened. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”
“I wish I didn’t have to.” He met her gaze until she looked away. “Believe it or not, I’m not enjoying myself. Let’s get out of here, go someplace private so we can talk. We’ll get something to eat, then I’ll take you back to the hotel for your things.”
That was twice in two minutes that he’d offered her food. Apparently he thought the world-famous Marchetti method of eating one’s way out of a crisis would cure what ailed her. But he was so wrong.
She pointed an accusing finger at him. “You’re trying to break us up. You want to hustle me out of here before Wayne arrives and make him think I stood him up.”
“Your imagination is working overtime.”
“That’s what you’d like me to think. I’m just going to wait. And I don’t need company. Feel free to leave anytime.”
Behind her, the chapel door opened and a man, dressed in a dark suit and carrying a book in his hand, slipped inside. He walked down the carpeted aisle and stopped in front of them. “Finally. This is the tardy bridegroom?” he asked, staring questioningly at Steve’s worn leather bomber jacket, white cotton shirt, and faded jeans.
Rosie shook her head. “He was just leaving, Your Honor. Wayne will be here any minute.”
“Steve Schafer,” Steve said, holding out his hand to the justice of the peace.
“Charles Forbes.”
After they shook hands Steve said, “There’s been a change of plans. Miss Marchetti won’t be getting married today after all. We’re sorry to have inconvenienced you, Your Honor.”
“Not so fast, buster,” Rosie said. “I’m not sure what he’s trying to pull, Judge Forbes. But if you’ll be patient for just a few more minutes, my fiancé will be here.”
“He’s very late.” The judge gave her a look, puzzled, but definitely sympathetic, too. “We can wait until my next couple arrives. But I’ve a busy schedule this afternoon. I squeezed you in today, Miss Marchetti, remember?”
She winced at the “Miss.” It should have been “Mrs.” by now. “How could I forget? Just a little longer. Please. He’ll be here. I’m sure of it.”
Steve shook his head. “There’s no point in wasting the man’s time, Rosie. Wayne’s not coming.”
“How can you know that for sure?” she asked again. She was really afraid he would answer the question this time, and her desperation increased in direct proportion to her groom’s tardiness.
Steve glanced at the judge, then down at her. “Let’s go outside—”
“No. I’m not budging one step until you tell me, right here, right now, how you can be so sure Wayne’s not coining.”
Steve’s mouth thinned and he looked down for several seconds. Then he met her gaze squarely. “I know because I gave him a lot of money and a plane ticket as far away from you as he could get without a passport. Then I drove him to the airport and waited until his plane took off. Wayne’s not coming to marry you today or any other day, Rosie.”
Steve tipped the room service waiter and shut the door to Rosie’s hotel suite. She’d been in the bathroom ever since he’d brought her here from the chapel. It had been almost an hour and if she didn’t come out soon, he’d have to break the damn door down. One corner of his mouth lifted. You could take the kid out of the gutter, but apparently you couldn’t completely leave the gutter mentality behind.
He knocked softly. “Lunch is here, squirt.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I ordered a bottle of wine.”
“It’s not even close to happy hour,” she said. The door between them did nothing to muffle her sarcasm.
He knew he should be grateful she wasn’t in the same room with him. An angry Marchetti was a formidable sight. When her shock wore off, he would be in for it. Unless he could mellow her out with a glass of wine.
“It’s the kind you like. I figured it was the least I could do.”
“You figured wrong. And how would you know what I like?”
He knew. For years he’d covertly watched Rosie at family gatherings and carefully filed away every detail he’d observed about her. Oh, yeah, he knew damn well.
After a few moments she said through the door, “Just go away and leave me alone.”
Steve turned his back, trying to shake the feeling that he’d slam-dunked a kitten. He ran a hand through his short hair. He’d done the job he’d been sent here to do. He was the hatchet man, not Dear Abby. He didn’t have to stay; the cabin was waiting. The Marchettis had offered him the use of the family vacation home in the mountains. He hadn’t gotten away in years and, after today, he was looking forward to the isolation more than ever. There was a good chance of snow since it was the middle of January. Holidays were over. Tourists would be gone. He could hardly wait. But he couldn’t walk out on Rosie just yet. Not until he got her the hell out of that bathroom and home to her mother.
He looked around the hotel suite, taking in the elegant understated decor. Matching cherrywood furniture polished to a perfect shine decorated the bedroom, parlor and dining area. The sofa, love seat, and accent chairs in shades of blue, green and mauve striped and floral patterns had been expertly coordinated by an interior designer. Expensive Stiffel brass lamps held court on all the tables. Who’d have guessed that a guy like him could even get into a place like this? The years had smoothed away the rough edges of the skinny, dirty kid he’d once been.
A kid who’d never laid eyes on his father. A kid whose mother had dumped him at a downtown L.A. bus station never to be heard from again. He’d wound up in the county home with other kids just like himself, angry and bitter. The odds said he should have gone to hell.
He heard a faucet running in the bathroom. Rosemarie Teresa Christina. Marchetti. He smiled. He’d beat the odds when a twist of fate had crossed his path with her brother Nick’s. They’d become best friends and the Marchettis had taken Steve under their wing.
He heard her moving around and his smile turned grim. He wasn’t sure which was worse: her self-imposed quarantine, or facing her when she came out. He wasn’t looking forward to the angry third-degree he knew she would give him. There was only one thing worse than that
Seeing her cry.
She hadn’t yet. As a matter of fact, she hadn’t said much, either. That zombie-like calm was so unlike her it made him nervous. As much as he dreaded the inevitable storm, it would be preferable to the silent treatment. He hated waiting for the other shoe to fall—or in this case, the flood of tears he knew was coming. He had to get her the hell home—to