The Nymph King. Gena Showalter
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course, but it was a color.
As she stood there, a new idea for her business, Anti-Cards, popped into her mind. I must admit you brought religion into my life, she thought, gazing at the bride, who also happened to be her mother. I finally believe in hell.
She sighed. The long length of her silvery-white hair dusted her shoulder, a perfect mimic of the creamy satin slip dress billowing at her mom’s ankles. Was there anyone more beautiful than Tamara soon-to-be Waddell? Anyone more surgically enhanced? Anyone else who went through men like sexual Kleenex?
This was what? Her mom’s sixth marriage?
At that moment, her mom looked over at her and frowned. “Back straight,” she mouthed. “Smile.”
As always, Shaye pretended not to notice the helpful commands. She focused her attention on the minister.
“To love, honor and cherish…” he was saying, his smooth baritone drifting through the waning sunlight. Mostly, Shaye heard blah, blah, blah before she blocked his voice altogether.
Love. How she despised the word. People used love as an excuse to do ridiculous things. He cheated on me, but I’m going to stay with him because I love him. He hit me, but I’m going to stay with him because I love him. He stole every penny from my savings, but I’m not going to press charges because I love him. How many times had her mother uttered those very words?
How many times had her mother’s boyfriends groped Shaye herself, claiming they’d only done it because they had fallen out of love with her mom and into love with her? Her, a mere child at the time. Perverts.
Shaye’s father was another prime example of such “love is all that matters” idiocy. I have to leave your mom because I’ve fallen in love with someone else. Apparently he’d fallen in love with several someone elses.
After his last wife had cheated on him and then divorced him, Shaye had sent him an “I’m so sorry” card. What she had really wanted to send was a “Finally getting what you deserve sucks big-time, doesn’t it” card. Of course, none had been available—which was the reason she’d started making her own. Anti-Card business was booming. Seemed there were a lot of people out there who wanted to tell someone to fuck off—in a roundabout way.
She worked eighty hours a week, but it was worth it. Thanks to popular cards like “I’m so miserable without you, it’s almost like you’re here” and “You can do more with a kind word and a gun than with just a kind word,” she provided jobs for twenty-three likeminded women and made more money than she’d ever dreamed possible.
Life, for the weird-looking little girl who’d never met her parents’ expectations, was finally good.
“You may now kiss the bride,” the pastor said.
Thank God. Shaye expelled a relieved rush of breath, her shoulders slumping as her tension melted away. Soon she’d be on a plane, flying home to Cincinnati and her quiet little apartment. No signs of romance to irritate her there. Not even a cat to bother her.
Amid joyous applause, the brow-lifted, cheek-implanted groom laid a sloppy wet one on Shaye’s mom. The glowing couple turned and strolled down the aisle, the lyrical thrums of a harp echoing behind them. Shaye inched closer to the water, away from the masses, escape within her grasp now that everyone was filing toward the reception tent.
She’d done her daughterly duty (again), and there was no more reason to stay. Besides, she wanted out of the chafing shell bra and itchy grass skirt ASAP.
“Where are you going, silly?” one of the other bridesmaids said, latching on to her arm with a surprisingly iron grip. “We’re supposed to take pictures and serve the guests.”
So, the torture wasn’t over yet. She groaned.
After an hour of posing for a photographer who finally gave up trying to make her smile, she found herself serving cake to a line of champagne-guzzling guests. Most of them ignored her, merely swiping up their cake and ambling away. Some tried to talk to her, but (she was guessing) found her too abrupt and quickly retreated.
When will this end? I just want to go home. But the line had stopped moving, prolonging her torment. Grrr. She glanced up. A man had claimed his dessert, but hadn’t stepped out of the way. Instead he watched her, studied her.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I’ll take a little slice of you if you’re serving it,” he replied, balancing the plate in one hand and swirling his champagne with the other. His green eyes twinkled with merriment.
He wore a white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, a loosened black bow tie, and formfitting black slacks. His sandy hair was perfectly cut, not a strand out of place. A groomsman, she recalled.
“Sir, you’re holding up the line.” She forced a hard tone and severe expression as she returned to slicing cake and scooping it onto plates. She’d learned at an early age that it was best to keep people at a distance from the very first. And if she had to make them hate her to do so, so be it, because she could not allow herself the slightest inkling of softer emotion, the very thing that led to disappointment, rejection and heartbreak. “Move. Now.”
The man didn’t walk away as she’d hoped. “I think perhaps I need to—”
“Shaye, darling,” her mother called airily. The expensive scent of her perfume wafted from her, blending with the aroma of sugar and spice as she floated to Shaye’s side. “I’m so glad you’ve met your new stepbrother, Preston.”
Stepbrother? Not another one. Showed exactly how much contact Shaye had had with her mom these past few years. She hadn’t known that groom number six had children. Actually, she hadn’t even met her newest daddy until an hour before the wedding.
Shaye glanced at Preston. “I’ve never played well with others,” she said to smooth the edge of her earlier rudeness. But that was it, nothing more.
“So I hear,” he said, chuckling.
He was even more handsome when he laughed like that. Looking away, she gathered two plates and passed them to the people behind him. “It was nice meeting you, Preston, but I really need to finish serving the guests.”
The band chose that moment to break into a soft, romantic ballad. Preston still didn’t take the hint and move away. “I never thought I’d say this, but would you like to dance with me, little sister? After you’re finished here, of course.”
She opened her mouth to say no, but no sound emerged. She wanted to say yes, Shaye realized. Even though her stepbrothers and sisters changed more frequently than her clothing and she’d most likely never see this man again, she wanted to say yes. Not because she was attracted to Preston or anything like that, but because he represented everything she’d always denied herself. And need to keep denying yourself. Safer that way.
“No,” she said. “Just…no.” Once again she turned her attention to the cake.
Her mother uttered a strained laugh. “There’s no reason to be rude, Shaye. One dance won’t kill you.”
“I said no, Mother.”
There was a heavy pause, then, “You,” her mom said, voice suddenly hard. She pointed to one of the other horrendously clad bridesmaids. “Take over the cake. Shaye, come with me.”
Strong fingers curled around Shaye’s wrist. A second later she was being dragged out of the reception tent to the edge of the beach. Here we go again… She sighed. This always happened. Whenever she and her mom were forced to share the same space, Tamara always erupted, and Shaye always left reminded of what a disappointment she was.
God, I don’t need this. Sand squished between her sandaled toes as a warm, salty breeze wrapped itself around her, swishing her grass skirt over her knees. Slivers of ethereal moonlight illuminated their path. Waves sang a gentle, soothing song.
Her