The Runaway Bride
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Patricia Johns
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22
Chapter One
BERNADETTE “BUNNY” MORGAN could hear the murmur of voices from the Manhattan cathedral where her family and friends already waited. Ten minutes from now, she’d be walking down that aisle on her father’s arm to the traditional wedding march. She’d imagined this moment a thousand times since they’d booked the cathedral two years ago. Weddings of this caliber didn’t come together in a heartbeat. Everything from the choice of the groom to the color of the scented beads in the dressing rooms took careful planning.
Each element of this wedding was traditional. It had to be perfect, as her mother so kindly pointed out, since the media would be picking it apart. This wedding would be on all the society pages and blogs...but her mother, Kitty, had taken care of most of those details for her from the flowers adorning the church to the Rolls-Royce they would drive away in. Her father had been less inclined to hand over his antique Rolls, but what Kitty wanted, Kitty got. And Kitty demanded perfection for her daughter’s wedding.
Thankfully.
Bernadette loved that car, and she liked the idea of driving off with Calvin toward the Four Seasons Hotel, their security entourage flanking them. It would be the first glorious foray of Mr. and Mrs. Calvin McMann.
“We want them to think of the Kennedys when you drive off,” her mother had told her. “Regal. American royalty. We might not be there yet, but we can put a picture in their minds. I want them to think Jackie Kennedy. So remember, sweet, demure and classic. Always classic!”
Bernadette twisted her engagement ring on her finger—a princess-cut diamond in a cloud of smaller stones, all set in platinum. It was beautiful, eye-catching and fabric-catching, too. She tugged it free of her gauzy skirt, wincing as she noticed the tiny snag.
Calvin was just down the hall. They’d agreed to have a few moments of private contemplation before the wedding began to calm their nerves, but Bernadette was regretting that now. Her stomach flipped as she paused to look in the mirror one last time. The face that stared back at her, framed in glossy dark waves, looked ashen.
What would Calvin be doing with his “contemplation” time? Practicing his golf swing, no doubt. Calvin McMann was unflappable. Tall, chiseled, tanned—he was perfection in a suit, and whenever she felt doubts nagging, all she had to do was look at him, and she’d remember their carefully orchestrated plans for a successful life together. Calvin McMann was a senator, and the position had settled a certain comfortable confidence onto his shoulders. What she needed right now was to see her fiancé—have him give one of those trademark winks that made him so electable.
“Sweet, demure, classic,” she reminded herself aloud.
Kitty would kill her if she snuck into Calvin’s dressing room. Brides stayed put until they went down the aisle... And heaven help the bride who let her groom see the dress a second too early.
This was stupid! Who really cared if Calvin saw her dress? That was superstition, and this marriage wouldn’t be built on something so flimsy. They were a political team, a financial powerhouse. Love on these levels was 80 percent choice, and she’d made the right one in Calvin McMann...hadn’t she?
Her stomach twisted again. Logically, marrying Calvin made sense. She knew that, but...
Bernadette eased open the door and peeked into the hallway. No one. The bridesmaids were with the photographer out in the church foyer—she could hear the photographer’s instructions. Her mother’s voice could be heard over his, telling Courtney, Bernadette’s maid of honor, to stop “standing there like a common tart,” whatever that meant.
Bernadette’s dress rustled when she moved, so she gathered it in her arms and crept down the hallway toward the room Calvin was using. She’d have knocked if she weren’t afraid of drawing everyone’s attention, so she turned the handle as silently as possible and peeked inside.
It took a moment to make sense of what she saw. She’d been expecting to see Calvin standing alone, fiddling with cuff links or something. Instead, it was a mess of black suit and pink tulle. There was a flash of tanned skin, a swath of blond hair... There were some grunts, a sigh, then she made out Calvin’s tanned hand moving up a white thigh. And suddenly, the whole scene came into focus.
Vivid, ugly focus.
She didn’t feel rage, just numbing shock, and then the sickening sensation that she might vomit. And she saw the truth as clear as day: this was what her married life would look like—a handsome groom satisfying his carnal desires with another woman in the next room.
Bernadette recognized the woman in her fiancé’s arms—it was Calvin’s ex-girlfriend, who was supposed to be in the distant past, or so he claimed. Would Kimberly be a fixture in their marriage, or was this going to be a revolving door? One thing would be expected: she, the dutiful wife, would have to stand there with the grace and dignity of Jackie Kennedy, taking it.
No. That was the first word to pop into her mind as the shock began to fade. No!
She paused for a moment, waiting for hysterics to set in, but they didn’t. She didn’t feel frightened or panicked. She didn’t feel uncontrollable fury. A strange, eerie calm settled over her, and she eased the door shut once more, gathered up her skirts and crept down the back stairs.
“Bunny?” Lanie was one of the junior bridesmaids and one of her second cousins. She stood by the back door, a cigarette in one hand, apparently sneaking a quick smoke before the ceremony began. Bernadette hated that stupid nickname. Her parents had set her up for a lifetime of country clubs and golf courses with that name.
“Hi, sweetie,” Bernadette crooned. “I’m just going to get something from the car.” She put her fingers to her lips in an exaggerated display of secrecy, and her young cousin giggled.
“I’ll hold the door!” Lanie whispered after her.
The car was parked close to the church, ready for their big exit, and Bernadette fished around in her little satin bag for the car key, and pulled it out. Her father might have handpicked her groom, but he wouldn’t trust Calvin with the keys to his favorite car until the vows were final.
She popped the trunk, and looked down at the two suitcases. One was hers, packed with such attention to detail over the past few days, and the other Calvin’s.
“Miss Morgan?” It was the security guard, and he looked suddenly disconcerted. “Or should I say Mrs. McMann?”
He apparently didn’t know if the wedding had happened yet.
“Bunny is fine.” She shot him a reassuring smile, then she paused. “Actually, no. I hate that name. Call me Bernie.”
“Yes, ma’am. Can I help you with anything... Bernie?”
“Yes!” She smiled brilliantly and hauled Calvin’s suitcase out of the trunk. “Be a doll and hold this for me, would you?”
The young man stepped forward and took the proffered suitcase, then she slammed the trunk shut and beelined over to the driver’s side. She let herself in, piling her voluminous skirt into her lap, then slammed the door shut and started the car.
“Ma’am?” The security guard started around the car just as she stepped on the gas. “Wait! Miss Morgan! I mean—”
She didn’t hear the rest of what he said, because she was driving at full speed toward the security checkpoint. Uniformed guards scattered like bowling pins as she sailed through and took a squealing turn onto the Manhattan street, narrowly missing a yellow cab. The driver leaned out his window and let out a string of curses that faded away as she accelerated.
She had no idea where she was going—just away. Far away! She’d think this through later. She might have the classic, dark-haired beauty, and she might come from wealth, but she was no Jackie Kennedy.
* * *
LIAM WILSON WIPED his greasy hands on a cloth and tossed it onto his workbench next to the pickup he was working on. It needed another part, and he’d have to order it in. The front garage door was rolled up, allowing a breeze to move through, but the air was still thick with heat. June had warmed up fast, and they looked like they were in for a drought after a winter of not enough snow and a spring with too little rain. That was bad news for surrounding farmers and ranchers, and it would affect everyone. If only the bad news had stopped with the weather.
Liam was trying to keep things “normal” at Runt River Auto—he still had vehicles to fix, after all—but last month normal had taken a backseat when a two-year-old boy with big brown eyes and a mop of dark curls had been delivered to his home by a police cruiser. The officers had said his name was Ike Wilson; the little guy wouldn’t answer any questions. With eyes welling with tears, the boy had simply whispered, “I want Mommy.”
Liam was Ike’s closest relative, even though that situation was about as complicated as it could get. This was his estranged wife’s child—not his. Leanne had been working on Senator Morgan’s campaign when the affair started. Liam had been blind to it all, trying to convince her that they should try adoption since an incredibly rare childhood episode of mumps had left him sterile. The vaccination hadn’t taken for him, and he’d suffered more than the painful illness—he’d also lost his ability to produce children. Leanne had desperately wanted to be pregnant and have a baby of her own. He couldn’t exactly provide that, but he’d wanted a baby just as badly as she did—he was just willing to adopt to make that happen. So when she’d told him that she was pregnant, there’d been no doubt about what that meant.
That was almost three years ago. Liam knew they should have divorced, but there hadn’t seemed to be any urgency, and she’d still been his legal wife at the time of her death in the car accident last month. He was her closest living relative, so Ike came to him—the baby his wife had with Senator Vince Morgan. According to Ohio law, he was Ike’s legal parent unless someone could prove otherwise.
Liam took a swig from a water bottle. He still had no idea how he’d sort all of this out. He obviously couldn’t keep the kid, but he didn’t want to send him off into the child welfare system, either. Liam had grown up in foster care, and he didn’t recommend the experience. So he’d done the only thing he could and called up Lucille Neiman, the kind older woman across the street, and she’d agreed to help out with childcare for a while. He’d just needed time to think. A month later, he was still stumped.
The sound of a faltering engine came rumbling up the street—a sputter, a bang. That was the sound of a customer. He stepped outside and shaded his eyes against the glare of the late afternoon sunlight. Runt River Auto sat on a corner just south of the gas station. Travelers with car trouble stopped at the station and got pointed in his direction. About half his business came down that highway.
The car came around the corner, a white antique Rolls-Royce, by the look of it. He blew out a low whistle of appreciation, then squinted to see if he was hallucinating. He could see the driver clearly through the open window—a woman in a wedding dress and a veil, her dark hair disheveled. The car crept up to the sidewalk, let out one last rattling bang, then heaved out a hiss of steam.
Liam headed toward the car just as she pushed open the door and stepped out, jerking a voluminous skirt out after her. Her makeup was streaked from tears, and she batted a curl out of her eyes. The veil was tangled behind her, but it was securely attached to her head by some feminine mystery.
“I can’t believe I made it,” she said. “It started with a clunking noise, and stalled twice along the highway. Can you take a look?”
“Uh—” Liam swallowed. “Sure. Yeah. Sure.”
He didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t every day a disheveled bride drove up in a Rolls. He angled his head toward the office.
“Come on inside and I’ll take down your information.”
She crawled back into the car, reaching for something, nothing but that poofy skirt and pale blue shoes visible. Then she emerged again, a small satin purse in her hand, and followed him toward the low, brick building. Liam had worked at this garage since he was a teen, and he’d eventually bought it. And in all the years this place had been in business, Liam was pretty sure this was the first time it had seen a Rolls-Royce and a rumpled bride.
Liam eyed the woman curiously as she passed into the office ahead of him. Her dress had little capped sleeves, and the skirt tumbled around her in waves of rustling fabric. A few stains were visible—a streak of grease, a splotch of dirt. She headed straight for the water cooler.
“I’m so thirsty. I’m starving, too. Is there anything to eat around here?”
Liam looked around helplessly. “Sorry, not really—”
He caught her looking at him with one eyebrow arched incredulously, and he chuckled. “You mean in Runt River. Of course. Yeah. There’s a couple of diners and a hotel. Look, you mind if I ask what happened?”
“I ran out on my wedding.” She drank a paper cup of water and bent to refill it. “That was in New York, and I just kept driving.”
From New York to Ohio—that had been quite the drive. Both of her hands were bare of rings, and the dress was dusty and soiled around the hemline. She drained the second cup of water.
“Do you need to borrow a phone?” he asked.
“No, thanks. I’ve got a cell phone here.” She raised the small purse.
She didn’t offer any more information than that, and Liam watched her for a moment, trying to make sense of this. She was obviously in rough shape. She’d been crying, she was a mess and her car was toast. But that car—it was expensive, perfectly detailed and newly refinished. The motor looked original, though. She either came from money or had her own, he was willing to bet on it. Regardless, her affairs were her business. She was here to have her car fixed, and he wouldn’t take advantage of her because she had money. He did quality work for a fair price—always had and always would.
“Could I get your ID?” he asked, pulling up a form on the computer screen.
She opened the purse and pulled out her driver’s license and passed it over. He looked down at the card and froze. Bernadette Morgan...as in, the Bernadette Morgan of the American political family? Vince Morgan was the senator who’d seduced Leanne, and from what Liam knew, he was Bernadette’s cousin. The Morgan money had funded more than one illustrious political career. The wedding between Bunny Morgan and Calvin McMann had been splashed all over the news for weeks now, and Liam hadn’t been able to completely avoid it, much as he tried. The Morgans left a sour taste in his mouth, but then he had personal reasons for his resentment.
“Bunny Morgan?” he asked cautiously.
“Pleasure to meet you. But I prefer Bernie. And I’d appreciate it if you could keep all of this quiet. The reporters are already hunting for me, I’m sure.”
He wasn’t sure what to think, but while this woman was related to Vince Morgan, she hadn’t been the one to tear his marriage apart. What was he supposed to do, kick her out?
“Are you okay?” he asked at last.
“No.” Tears welled in her eyes. “Not at all.”
Okay, that was fair. He grabbed a box of tissues from under the counter and pushed them in her direction. She took one and wiped her eyes.
“What did he do?” he asked after a moment.
“Who?” she asked.
“What’s his name—the McMann fellow you were supposed to marry.” Avoiding news about the Morgans wasn’t really possible.
“Senator McMann,” she clarified, as if the title were important. She looked like she wasn’t going to say anything more, then she sighed. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now. I caught him making out with his ex-girlfriend in the room where he was supposed to be getting dressed for the ceremony.”
Ouch. If something were going to end a wedding, that would be it. Looked like Senator McMann and old Vince had their philandering in common, even if they weren’t officially family.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Me, too.” She smiled weakly. “But I made it here, and that’s something. I’m looking for my aunt. She’s supposed to live in this town. Her name is Lucille Neiman. Do you know her?”
“Your—” He swallowed. “Lucille is your aunt?”
“Yes...” She cleared her throat. “I don’t really know her myself. I just thought...maybe you could give me her phone number or address?”
Liam had known Lucille since he was a kid, and she was a fixture around Runt River.
“She’s my neighbor. I’ll swing you by when I’ve got all your information and I get the car into the garage,” Liam replied. “I’ve got to head on over there anyway.”
Bernadette Morgan had stumbled into town a month after her two-year-old relative had been left with him. Liam was a practical man, and he didn’t believe in coincidences this huge. Had Lucille called her? Maybe the Morgans would acknowledge the kid after all, and Ike would go to his biological family.
An image rose in his mind of that curly-headed boy, his eyes glistening with tears, whispering those plaintive words, “I want Mommy.” Leanne had died, leaving behind an innocent kid to whom she was the whole world. He’d had a month to get attached to Ike, and caring for him had awakened his fatherly instinct. When Ike had first arrived, Liam had considered what it would mean for the boy to go live with his biological family, and the thought had left him unsettled. Liam knew just how corrupt the Morgans were, and handing an innocent child over to people he didn’t trust—that wasn’t right.
Now, Bernadette Morgan was in town, and while she seemed to be here for totally different reasons, Liam’s suspicions were piqued. Things had just gotten a whole lot more complicated.
