His Stolen Bride. Barbara Dunlop
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circumstances.
“You just turned pale,” said Hadley.
“I told you, I’m afraid of tripping halfway down the aisle.”
“You want me to walk you?”
“That’s not how we rehearsed it.”
Crista’s father was in prison, and she didn’t have a close male relative to escort her down the aisle. And in this day and age, it seemed ridiculous to scramble for a figurehead to “give her away” to Vern. She was walking down the aisle alone, and she was perfectly fine with that.
“I could still do it,” said Hadley.
“No, you can’t. You need to stand up front with Vern. Otherwise the numbers will be off, more bridesmaids than groomsmen. Dolores would faint dead away.”
Hadley straightened the sleeves of his tux. “You got that right.”
Crista pictured her six bridesmaids at the front of the cathedral in their one-shoulder crisscross aqua dresses. Their bouquets would be plum and white, smaller versions of the dramatic rose-and-peony creation Delores had ordered for Crista. It was going to be heavy, but Delores had said with a congregation that large, people needed to see it from a distance. They could probably see it from Mars.
“The flowers are here?” asked Crista, half hoping they hadn’t arrived so she wouldn’t have to lug the monstrosity around.
“Yes. They’re looking for you downstairs to get some pictures before you leave.”
“It’s time,” said Crista, bracing herself.
“It’s not too late,” said Hadley. “We can make a break for it through the rose garden.”
“You need to shut up.”
He grinned. “Shutting up now.”
Crista was getting married today. It might have happened fast. The ceremony might be huge. And her new family might be overwhelming. But all she had to do was put one foot in front of the other, say, “I do,” and smile in all the right places.
By tonight, she’d be Mrs. Vern Gerhard. By this time tomorrow, she’d be off on a Mediterranean honeymoon. A posh private jet would take them to a sleek private yacht for a vacation in keeping with the stature of the Gerhard family.
Hadley offered her his arm, and she took it, feeling a sudden need to hang on tight.
“I’ll see you at the church,” he said.
She could do this. She would do this. There was no downside. Any woman would be thrilled by such a complete and total change in her lifestyle.
* * *
Dressed in a crisp tuxedo, freshly shaved, his short hair neatly trimmed, Jackson stood outside Saint Luke’s Cathedral north of Chicago in the Saturday afternoon sunshine pretending he belonged. It was a picture-perfect June wedding day. The last of the well-heeled guests had just been escorted inside, and the groomsmen now stood in a cluster on the outside stairs. Vern Gerhard was nowhere to be seen, likely locked up in an anteroom with the best man waiting for Crista Corday to arrive.
Jackson had learned a lot about Crista over the past three days. He’d learned she was beautiful, creative and reputedly hardworking.
As a girl, she’d grown up in a modest neighborhood, living with her single mother, her father, Trent, having visitation rights and apparently providing some small amount of financial support. She’d attended community college, taking a diploma in fine arts. It was during that time that she’d lost her mother in a car accident.
After graduation she’d found a job in women’s clothing in a local department store. He assumed she must have worked on her jewelry designs in her off hours.
So far, she seemed exactly as she appeared, an ordinary, working-class Chicago native who’d been living a perfectly ordinary life until she’d met her fiancé. The most remarkable thing about her seemed to be her father’s conviction on fraud charges. Then again, maybe it wasn’t so remarkable. This was Chicago, and Jackson was definitely familiar with having a convicted criminal in the family.
Vern and the Gerhards had proven harder for him to gauge. Their public and social media presence was slick and heavily controlled. Their family company, Gerhard Incorporated, was privately held, having been started as a hardware store by Vern’s great-grandfather during the Depression. It now centered on commercial real estate ownership and development.
Their estimated net worth was high, but Jackson hadn’t found anything illegal or shady in their business dealings. They did seem to have incredible timing, often buying up properties at fire sale prices in the months before corporate mergers, gentrification or zoning changes boosted their value. It was enough to make Jackson curious, but the individual instances weren’t overly suspicious, and what he had so far didn’t come close to proving they were conning Crista.
Despite Trent’s suspicions, Vern Gerhard and Crista’s romance seemed to be just that, a romance.
“I say more power to him.” One of the groomsmen’s voices carried from the cathedral staircase, catching Jackson’s attention.
“I almost told her at the house,” said another groomsman. This one looked younger. He had the trademark Gerhard brown eyes, but he was taller than most, younger than Vern. His flashy hairstyle made him look like he belonged in a boy band.
“Why would you do that?” asked a third. This man was shorter, balding, and his bow tie was already askew. Jackson recognized him as a brother-in-law to Vern.
“You don’t think she deserves to know?” asked the younger one.
“Who cares? She’s hot,” said the bald one. “That body, hoo boy.”
“Such a sweet ass,” said the first groomsman, grinning.
“Nice,” Jackson muttered under his breath. The Gerhards might be rich, but they didn’t seem to have much in the way of class.
“So, why does he need Gracie?” asked the younger groomsman, glancing around the circle for support. “He should break it off already.”
“You want to stick to just one ice cream flavor?” asked the balding man.
“For the rest of your life?” asked the first groomsman.
“Some days I feel like praline pecan. Some days I feel like rocky road,” said the heavyset one with a chortle.
“And that’s why you’re sleeping with Lacey Hanniberry.”
“Lumpy Lacey.”
The other men laughed.
“Vern hit the jackpot.” The first groomsman made a rude gesture with his hips.
“On both fronts,” said the bald one. “Crista’s the lady, Gracie’s the tramp.”
“She’s going to find out,” said the younger man with the flashy hair.
“Not if you don’t tell her she won’t,” said the first man, a warning in his tone.
Jackson had half a mind to tell her himself. Vern sounded like a pig. And most of his friends didn’t seem any better.
“Gracie won’t last, anyway,” said the heavyset man.
“Vern will trade up,” said the balding one.
“Uncle Manfred’s girlfriends have been twenty-five for the past thirty years.”
“Wives age, girlfriends don’t.”
They all laughed, except for the young guy. He frowned instead. “Crista’s different.”
“No, she’s not.” The first groomsman slapped him on the back. “You’re young, naive. All your girlfriends are twenty-five.”
“I don’t cheat on them.”