To Save a King, page 12
“I’ll manage my grief and my life my way. I’m not a child.” John moved toward the open barn door, his bare feet brushing over the dirty stone. Whether it was Mum’s illness or the barrier of the phone, Dad chose this moment to boldly cross a line. “Gemma is a nice woman. Been kind to me. Makes me feel normal. Like I’m not an object of pity to the world. But that’s all.”
“You will always be my child, so you must accept my advice.” Dad’s voice broke with emotion. “All I ask is for you not to become bitter, John. Your mother chose me after Trent and giving up her daughter. She never thought she’d love anyone like Trent, but she did.”
“She wasn’t married to him. Besides, she had no choice but to give up Trent and Scottie. No freedom not to marry. She was the crown princess, bound by the marriage writ.”
“And you are the crown prince bound by the same.”
“As if I could forget. Has Mum fulfilled her promise? To change the writ?”
He turned at the sound of a thud, which was followed by a low, harsh mumbling. Gemma emerged from the stall, hopping down the stone thoroughfare, wiggling her feet into a pair of flip-flops.
“Dad, I’ll ring you later.”
“I’m late.” She breezed by John as he ended the call. “I’ll see if Daddy can help with the nine o’clock feeding. His truck route goes by here.” She stopped in the doorway, ran her hand through her wild mane, and looked back at John as if struggling to orient herself. “But you can’t stay here all day, can you? Um, I’ll, I’ll—Imani, yes, she’ll have to miss basketball camp.” Gemma motioned to where an old Ford truck sat the night before. “Rats, she’s gone. I’ll tell her to come straight home after practice. I’ve got to go. I’m so late.”
“Gemma, I can manage. Gunner is good for more than being my shadow and sleeping in the car.”
“There’s no food to be had.” She patted her pockets, still looking dazed and half awake. They’d awoken every three hours to feed the puppies, and every time the alarm sounded, John rolled over to see Gemma watching the puppies. If she slept a solid two, three hours, he’d be surprised. “I’ll give you my credit card. You can order from Ella’s or Angelo’s. Haven’s bakery delivers too. Oh, they have really great ham sandwiches. Use my shower if you want and I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’m so sorry about this.” She smiled, which he felt from his head to his toes. “You really are a prince charming.”
“And you really are late, lass. Go. I’ve got this. I volunteered to help, remember?”
She dashed into the house, and John roused Gunner from the car, where he slept reclined in the passenger seat, his arms folded across his chest.
They sketched a plan for showers, clean clothes, food, and feedings. A few minutes later Gemma dashed from the house to her BMW, a large tote over her shoulder. She wore a pair of shorts, and as she walked, her skin flexed with long, toned muscles. Her damp hair was knotted on her head.
He admired her for an extra moment—beauty demanded admiration—then looked away. Far too many times these past few days she stirred a desire in him he preferred to leave dormant.
“By the way, Prince, I was thinking in the shower—”
“Where all great ideas are born.”
“We could name the puppies after the cast of Friends. Ross, Joey, Monica, Rachel, Phoebe, and Chandler.”
“Friends it is.”
She was about to duck into her motor when the veterinarian’s oversized Cadillac bounced down the gravel.
“Well kids, I see y’all are still standing. How are they doing?” Doc handed John another batch of puppy formula, then as an afterthought, bowed. “I tried to get over yesterday but the Moore’s cow was having a hard birth.”
“To think I didn’t want them and now I can’t imagine letting even one of puppy go.” Gemma backed toward her car. “I’d love to stay, Doc, but I’ve got to run. The prince will fill you in.” She smiled and waved at John, then mouthed a “thank you,” which hit him with the strange urge to kiss her. As if to say, “Goodbye, darling, have a great day.”
What on earth?
Still, he watched her go then found doc in the stall, examining the pups, mumbling to himself, mumbling to them, at last giving John a nod of approval.
“You two know what you’re about. I’ll be back in a few days. Remember to do everything on the sheet. Call me if anything seems amiss.”
With Gunner running errands, John fixed the nine o’clock bottles, weighed the puppies, then fed them one by one. In hindsight, perhaps he shouldn’t have sent Gunner for clean clothes and breakfast before the feeding. The last one slurped his breakfast down as if he were about to starve. Poor darling.
He and Gemma had cared for the rest of the herd after the 6:00 a.m. feeding so everyone was set. Hercules, Whinny, and Silver were out grazing, the cats napping, the goats staring and occasionally headbutting, and the rabbits, well, rabbiting.
The dogs appeared in the barn every now and then. Blue and Tweedy had spotted him from the barnyard and trotted over.
“Want to meet the babies?” John led them to the “nursery” and watched as they sniffed the puppies—if he heard so much as one growl, he’d pounce—but then a wondrous thing occurred.
Tweedy eased down into the sleeping huddle while scarred ole Blue pawed a spot for himself in the hay on the other side.
Well, well, Mama and Papa had arrived. Rescues loving on rescues.
The puppies wiggled and squeaked and rooted against Tweedy’s belly, who didn’t seem to mind she had nothing to give. She nuzzled them and licked their bums in the manner God and nature instilled in her. Blue supervised the operation while sniffing the pile as if to ascertain their DNA. When he’d satisfied his curiosity and approved, he rested his chin on his crossed paws.
John washed out the bottles and lined them up for the noon feeding. Checking his watch, he gazed toward the road for a sign of Gunner. But he’d be a while, what with his own showering, gathering clothes for himself and John, stopping for a latte at Java Jane’s and breakfast takeaway from Ella’s.
He settled in the hay next to Blue. “What do you think, mate, shall we keep them?”
In the quiet, a muffled sound came from beneath the matted hay of Gemma’s bed. John perked up listening. Was that a Buck tune? A flash of light drew his attention. Stretching, he dug around Gemma’s bed until he found her buried phone. The name on the screen simply read “Matt.”
Should he answer? Was it important?
“Gemma’s phone,” he answered.
“Who’s this?” a male voice boomed in his ear.
“May I inquire of you first?”
“Her boyfriend.”
“I see. She’s not here now. Can I give her a message?”
“Look, dude with the accent, why do you have her phone? Why did you answer? Are you sleeping with her?”
John glanced at Gemma’s empty pallet. “Not at the moment. She’s gone to work.” Who was this arrogant chap? Gemma never mentioned a boyfriend. John didn’t like him. Surely she had better taste.
The man called John a name he knew to be untrue and ended the call. Then he stared at the screen before tucking the phone in his pocket. Well, Matt with no last name, you’ve raised my curiosity.
How did Gemma get away without her phone? Was she in need of it? He’d take it to her if he knew where she’d gone. He had his truck since Gunner was off in the rental car.
A squeaking drew his eyes to the puppy pile. The small chap, whom he already named Chandler, was away from his siblings, blind and lost.
“I know the feeling, little guy.” John cradled Chandler on his chest as he rooted around, sniffing his shirt, his skin.
Tweedy placed her paw on his foot as if to say Be careful, while Blue watched with steely, dog-fighting eyes.
According to Doc’s sheet, the puppies should weigh about a pound, but wee Chandler had clocked in at twelve ounces.
“Maybe a little extra for you at noon.”
He’d just returned Chandler to Tweedy and the pile when Gemma’s phone buzzed from his back pocket. This call said it came from Taylor Gillingham. Ah, Gemma’s friend. From the footrace.
“Hey, it’s me. Did I leave my phone in the barn?”
“You did.” He felt oddly delighted to hear Gemma’s voice and the casual way she addressed him. “It’s me.”
“I can’t believe I forgot. The phone has all my notes for the shoot. Is Imani there by chance? She could bring it to me.”
“She is not.”
“Shoot. I’d leave but at the moment, I’m about to string Christmas wedding lights through a set of rafters. And Taylor is frantic. Her model isn’t here. If I leave, she might lose it.”
“I’ll come round when Gunner returns. Text me the address. By the way, Chandler and I spent some time cuddling. We’ll have to take care with him though. He doesn’t weigh a pound.”
“Chandler? So you’ve assigned the names?”
“Not all. Just the Chan-Chan man.”
Her laugh kissed his morning. “Save Monica for me. She and I are kindred spirits. And sorry about the phone. I really appreciate you bringing it to me. I guess there’s no rush since the model is late but I’d like to be ready whenever she does show.”
Gemma gave him quick, verbal directions to the chapel. It wasn’t far. Just down River Road a few miles. He considered Matt’s call. Should he mention it?
“Um, Gemma, you had a call. I answered it which I shouldn’t have. So my apologies. It was from Matt. He said he was your boyfriend.”
This elicited a colorful response. “He’s such a liar. What did he say?”
“Just that he was your boyfriend and inquired if I was sleeping with you.”
“Oh, Prince, I’m so sorry. He’s an idiot.”
“Well, I had some fun with him. I was staring at our hay beds when he inquired of our relationship so I told him I wasn’t sleeping with you at the moment. Which he did not find amusing.”
Gemma, however, laughed a robust and rich laugh, which made the sun rise a little higher over John’s valleys and shadows.
It was going to be a good day. Maybe even a good week. The awkward mission for the queen aside, he was glad he’d traveled to Hearts Bend.
* * *
Gemma
The chapel was silent except for the hiss of steam coming off Taylor. It was after ten and the model had not arrived and the agency had no answers.
Gemma sat on the altar steps amid her boxes, wondering what to say if anything at all. Poor Taylor.
It’d taken everything Gemma had to string the lights from the rafters. Crawling across the beams, she felt both lightheaded and heavy. There were moments when she couldn’t breathe, and she was back in Vegas, in the dark hole, slipping and falling.
But this time she paid attention to her moves, stayed alert and aware of her surroundings.
You won’t fall. You won’t. All the while her thudding heart said, Oh yes you will.
Because she had fallen, hadn’t she? In more ways than one. Then she heard his voice, Prince’s, telling her about Chandler. She smiled, picturing the big man with thick arms and a mop of rich dark hair cradling the tiniest pup in the litter. Suddenly all was right in her world. She filled herself with a long, cool inhale and finished the job.
Now she sat, staring down the aisle where she’d scattered faux spring flower petals. No use finishing the staging if there was no bride.
“Well, Gemma, I’m sorry.” Taylor’s voice echoed in the stone and beam space with the high ceilings.
“It’s okay, not your fault.” She grabbed one of the boxes to start tearing down. “Let me know if and when you resch—”
“You’re going to have to do it.”
She looked up. “What?”
“You’re my model.” Taylor pulled out her phone and tap-tapped on the screen. “I’m not letting this opportunity go because of some lame modeling agency—I knew I shouldn’t have used them—they’ve done this to me before.”
“Me? No. Taylor, I can’t be your…your bride.”
“Why not? You’re drop-dead gorgeous and the camera loves you.”
“I’m not dressed.”
“Well no, but there are the dresses.” Taylor pointed to the rack with a smirk and dialed someone on her phone. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
“My hair is a mess. I don’t have any makeup.”
“Hey, Mia, Taylor Gillingham… Good, good, listen, I have a huge favor.”
Mia was the new hairstylist in town. When she purchased Miss Orla’s Cut & Curl last year (she retired) and changed the name to Mia’s and hired stylists from Nashville, everyone in town—from the old men who played checkers in Gardenia Park to the Friday night guitar circles to the Ladies Auxiliary to the teens eating burgers at Ella’s lunch counter—wanted to sit in a Mia’s chair.
“Mia’s on her way,” Taylor said, pointing to the dresses. “Start with whichever one you want. We’ll knock them off one at a time.”
“What about the staging?” Gemma didn’t really care about the set, she cared about not doing this. When she left show biz, she meant it. Even a local modeling project was off the grid. She’d vowed, pledged, promised to never, ever put herself out there again.
And now that Matt was calling, telling John he was her boyfriend… She couldn’t think about it. She couldn’t. Otherwise she’d pack up Imani and run away to where no one would find her.
Taylor peered inside the staging boxes. “I’ll decorate the pews. We can use the chapel’s candelabras. And you know, it’s a gorgeous day. Let’s shoot outside. Jack is always telling me, ‘Think outside the box, darling.’ He’s an ad man through and through.”
“Taylor, really I can’t—”
“I’ll pay you the model’s rate.” She wagged her finger at Gemma, winking. “You drive a hard bargain.”
“I’m not bargaining.”
“I know it’s not supermodel money but—” Taylor rattled off the fee. Gemma actually gulped.
“That’s two months’ salary at The Wedding Shop.”
“I’ll get some light readings.” Taylor started down the aisle and out the door. “Get changed.”
Two months’ salary? Bump her vow and pledge. Gemma was a model today. Really, why was she worried? None of her former friends and colleagues could give a flying fig. And Matt Biglow would take a bullet before ever picking up a bridal magazine—even if Gemma miraculously made the cover. Marriage and commitment were striking vipers to him.
But there was more, wasn’t there? Gemma in a white wedding gown… It was darn near sacrilegious.
Still, an hour later she stood on a dirt-and-leaf path under a canopy of shading oaks when a truck door slammed.
Mia had styled her hair in long waves and clipped a steel rose at her temple. Oh to actually be a steel rose. Then she made up her face, complimenting her complexion and bone structure until Gemma blushed.
“Your cheekbones are perfect.”
Hardly. And nothing on the inside came close to perfect. Not at all.
The gown she modeled was off-white with sheer sleeves and a long, flowing skirt of airy silk and organza. The back was cut in a V and flowers embroidered the chapel train. The bride who chose this dress would be beautiful.
“Gemma, raise your chin,” Taylor said. “Perfect. Now lift your arm. Give me a whimsical ‘I am stunningly beautiful’ pose.”
Gemma hooked her upper lip, making a face.
“Yeah, like that.” Taylor laughed as the shutter whirred and clicked.
Then Gemma relaxed and fell into a soft, elegant pose that defied everything she felt inside. Everything she was. If she could be free, escape the darkness that echoed through her, this, this was how she’d choose to be.
* * *
John
He stepped onto the edge of the shoot, scanning the scene for Gemma, her phone in his hand. The photographer, Taylor, circled the model, gently giving instructions.
A soft breeze kicked at the woman’s hair then picked up the hem of the skirt so it became a wing, flying.
With her chin raised and her hand poised so delicately, she looked like one of the goddesses the ancients painted and hung in galleries around the world. Beautiful and statuesque.
But he didn’t come here to admire a wedding gown model. He came to find Gemma. Not seeing her, he started for the chapel.
“Prince, hey.”
He turned to discover the beauty in the gown was Gemma. “Sorry, lass, didn’t… You never said you were the model.”
“The one Taylor booked didn’t show, so she forced me.”
“I hired you.”
“She told me the fee.” Gemma flashed a genuine, bright smile. “Then I pushed her down and raced to the dresses.”
He laughed, which felt like bubbles in his chest, stepped back and worked up a proper, friend-like compliment. “You look very lovely.”
“It’s the dress.” She strutted around, batting the air with her hand, which stirred the annoying flutter in his chest. “The bride who wears this dress is a kick-butt-and-take-names kind of woman. Like, yeah, that’s right, I’m the bride, look at me.”
“Beauty demands admiration,” he said with his heart and not his head, and the atmosphere suddenly changed.
She swung around and pinned him with an intense, level gaze. “What?”
“Um, I said…” If he said it again, he feared actual sparks might snap in the air. “The dress… It’s beautiful.”
He felt hot, more than the July heat warranted. Steady, mate, you are still in love with your gorgeous, talented, amazing wife. Nevertheless, he was also a man—and not a stupid one.
“Ah, your phone.” He handed over her device. “Sorry it took so long to get here but Gunner took a while with his errands.”
“Turns out I didn’t need it.” She unlocked her phone and checked her messages, sighing as if relieved. “He didn’t call again, did he?”
He? The boyfriend. The reality of her past as well as his doused a bit of reality over his romantic sensations. “He did not.”
She exhaled and handed back her phone. “Can you put it on the chapel steps?”
