At that moment, Annabelle not only wished she hadn’t broached the subject, but she also regretted having made the trip to Atlanta. Mortification washed over her and her tongue felt gluey. “You’re going to marry Melvin Castleberry so you can
sleep
with him?”
“It’s ‘Martin,’ dear, and I want to marry him because I adore him.” Her mother hesitated, then added, “And yes, I have to admit the strain of resisting one another physically is becoming somewhat unbearable.”
Annabelle rested her elbows on the table and pressed fingers to her temples. Her trained mind sifted through the options and came up with two: She could either encourage her mother to set aside her moral beliefs and have premarital sex with this playboy in the hopes she would get him out of her system, or she could stand by and watch her mother marry him for all the wrong reasons.
I-yie-yie
, what a choice.
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” her mother murmured. “I assumed you were no longer a virgin, what with college orgies and all.”
Annabelle peeked at her mother through her fingers. “Mom, what on earth are you talking about?”
“Sex, dear.”
“I know, but I’ve never—” She frowned, flustered. “This is not about
my
sex life!”
The three women at the nearest table cast curious glances in their direction. Annabelle glared back until they feigned interest in the menu, then she heaved a deep breath. Where had she left off? Oh yeah—the impossible decision. She took another sip of her juice, then began again, calmer now. “Mom, I admire your um, abstinence, but surely you realize that physical attraction is not enough reason to say ‘I do.’”
Belle nodded. “I agree that a good marriage can’t be based on sex, but it’s impossible to have a good marriage
without
good sex.”
I can’t believe we’re having this conversation, I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.
Annabelle reached into her purse and pulled out a folded newspaper page. Clearing her throat, she flattened the creases against the smooth tabletop. “Have you seen this article printed in the entertainment section of
America’s News
a few months ago?”
Belle frowned. “No.”
Annabelle pushed the paper across the table. The headline read ‘Casanova Castleberry Cashes in on Claim,’ and the article was surrounded by photos of Martin Castleberry with some of his former starlet girlfriends.
Her mother dismissed the piece with a wave. “The studio Martin made movies for finally agreed to pay him the money he earned, and the papers are making a big deal out of it. Frankly, they
should
expose those producers who tried to steal from him.”
Annabelle pressed her lips together, then said, “The only person exposed in this article is Martin Castleberry. The reporter spent ten words describing his settlement with the production company, and ten paragraphs describing his penchant for young women.”
“Martin is different now.”
“Leopards don’t change their spots, Mom.”
“He loves me,” Belle insisted.
She clasped her mother’s hand. “I don’t want to see you get hurt. Maybe Martin does love you, for now. But as soon as the novelty of your romance wears thin, he’ll be looking for…more excitement. That’s how men like Martin and Clay Castleberry operate.”
Her mother angled her head. “Clay? What does Clayton have to do with this?”
A flush tickled her neck, and she averted her eyes from her mother’s perceptive scrutiny. “Nothing. Other than it’s easy to see the man is following in his father’s wayward footsteps.”
“You’re still upset about the bathing suit?” Belle smiled. “I told you, Clay is accustomed to lots of female attention.”
“I thought you were referring to Melvin.”
“
Martin
, dear. And maybe he was a bit restless in the past, but now my Martin is a one-woman man. Clay, on the other hand, is a very eligible bachelor.”
Annabelle bristled because his name resurrected thoughts of his baited bantering. “Bachelor, yes. But ‘eligible’ implies that a person is someone others would find desirable.” She swallowed. Had she actually said ‘desirable’? “And desirable isn’t a word I would attribute to Clay…I mean, to Clayton…Castleberry.”
Her mother quirked an eyebrow, but before she could speak, Annabelle tapped her finger on the article. “Don’t change the subject. I don’t want to pick up the paper a few months from now and see you listed as a—” She consulted the article. “A ‘Castleberry cast-off.’”
Her mother seemed infuriatingly unmoved. “Really, Annabelle, I appreciate your concern, but you’re worrying for no reason.”
“Worrying for no reason?”
A man being seated at a table behind her mother jerked his head around at her raised voice. Her mother looked disapproving.
Annabelle puffed out her cheeks with an expelled breath. “I’m sorry, Mom, but I have more objectivity about this marriage than you do, and I worry because I love you.”
Belle squeezed her hand. “You need to get a hobby, dear.”
Shocked into silence, Annabelle simply stared. When she recovered, she struggled to keep her temper at bay. “What?”
“A hobby. You know—line-dancing, photography, origami—something to occupy your time.”
She poked her tongue into her cheek, then said, “Typically, my seventy-hours-a-week job keeps me pretty occupied.”
“I mean something fun. Do you have a manfriend?”
“If you mean a boyfriend—”
“Don’t waste time on the boys, love, you need a man, a worthy partner.”
“Mom, I don’t have the time or the inclination—”
“Ah, here’s our food,” Belle exclaimed. The waitress lowered their plates to the table, and Annabelle stared miserably at her Belgium waffle sprinkled with pecans. Her mother lifted a bite of fruit quiche into her mouth and closed her eyes in appreciation. When Annabelle remained frozen, her mother looked at her watch. “I hate to hurry you, dear, but I know you need to shop for a few things, and they’re expecting us at the bridal boutique at two.”
Exasperated and exhausted, Annabelle simply nodded, unreasonably disturbed by her mother’s words. A manfriend? She squashed the sudden image of Clay Castleberry’s mocking face. Her hunger, she decided, was making her light-headed. They would eat, and she would try to get through to her mother again later.
She sighed. “Pass the syrup, please.”
*****
“Dad, how much do you really know about this Coakley woman?” Clay slowed his jogging pace so his father could converse without becoming winded in the mid-morning heat, although Martin’s physical condition never failed to impress him.
Martin cocked one silver eyebrow. “What are you getting at, Clay?”
“Come on, Dad, we’ve been through this before. Don’t tell me the thought that she’s interested in getting her hands on your settlement hasn’t crossed your mind.”
“I most certainly will tell you that, because it hasn’t.”
“Well, it crossed mine.”
Martin scoffed. “Obviously. Son, you’re too young to be so cynical.”
Clay bit the inside of his cheek. “And you’re too old to be so naïve.”
His father jogged a few more steps before saying, “Belle Coakley doesn’t have a manipulative thought in her head.”
With much effort, Clay resisted the urge to comment about the absence of other thoughts in the woman’s head. Actually, she did seem nice, but so did most of them, in the beginning. Besides, he was now less concerned about Belle Coakley than her cohort. “What about the manipulative thoughts in the head of her daughter?”
His father glanced at him sideways. “Annabelle? She seems like a nice enough girl, Clay. Kind of fetching, too, don’t you think?”
Clay stumbled, then regained his footing. “Don’t tell me you’ve decided to trade in the mother for the daughter.” Chagrin slashed through him every time he thought of mistaking Annabelle for his father’s fiancée.
Martin laughed, breaking stride long enough to clap Clay on the back. “Of course not. Belle is the woman for me. I was thinking of you, son. I thought I noticed a certain spark between the two of you.”
A dry laugh escaped him, and he inadvertently lengthened his stride. “That spark was from the girl’s white-hot poker tongue. And I don’t trust her.”
“That slip of a woman? What’s to be scared about?”
Clay frowned. “I said I don’t
trust
her.”
“Same thing, if a woman’s involved. A woman you like, that is.”
He stumbled again—damned new running shoes. “Your eyesight must be going, Dad. I certainly don’t like the woman.”
“No, still twenty-twenty,” Martin said, and laughed again. “It seems I am cursed with perfect physical health.”
It’s your mental health that worries me.
“She takes after Belle,” his father continued. “Quite a looker.”
Prima donna.
“And demure.”
Stuck up.
“And she’s an attorney, so she must be intelligent.”
Or conniving.
“Dad, have you broached the subject of a prenuptial agreement?”
“For your information, Belle offered, and I turned her down.”
“Dad—”
“Clay,” his father cut in. “I want to grow old with Belle, and I don’t intend to curse our union by preparing for its end before we even take our vows.”
They reached the end of the running track and slowed. Clay pretended to concede with a conciliatory nod, but his father’s words erased the last doubt about the task before him: If Martin wouldn’t even insist on a prenuptial agreement, then he had no choice but to put a stop to the wedding.
His father put his hands on his hips to catch his breath. “Belle and I couldn’t be happier that you two kids are going to stand up with us at the ceremony.” Suddenly his eyes warmed. “Clay, I can’t tell you what it means to me that you cut your trip short to be here for the wedding.”
Protective feelings welled in his chest, followed quickly by guilt, which persisted more stubbornly than doubt. “No problem, Dad.” He funneled all his black emotion toward the Coakley women in general, and toward Annabelle Coakley in particular. Since his childhood, women had been the source of all the Castleberry family problems. Seductresses. Spendthrifts. Mischief-makers. Who needed them? He nodded toward the running path. “I think I’ll take another turn.”
“Sure thing, son, I’ll see you later. Remember—we’re due to be fitted for our tuxedoes at two.”
Clay wanted to object, but as long as the day’s plans didn’t include the presence of the Coakley women, he’d humor his father. “Two. Right.” Then he took off, digging in for a final lap, determined to outrun the troublesome thoughts of a certain leggy, mouthy brunette.
Chapter Six
ANNABELLE SHIVERED—bridal boutiques gave her the heebie jeebies. The notion of a store devoted entirely to the task of making a woman look good enough for her wedding day grated on her nerves. Especially since she’d known too many clients who’d later hocked those pricey gowns in order to have enough money to file for divorce.
Out of the corner of her eye, a sleeveless white floor-length crepe gown encased in a glass box the size of a phone booth captured her attention. She paused to examine the sleek lines and pursed her lips in begrudged admiration.
On the other hand, if she
did
by some
remote
miracle
ever
entertain even the
thought
of taking a
chance
on walking down the aisle
someday
in the
very
distant future, well, then this little frock wasn’t half bad.
“Do you like the pink one, dear?”
She whirled guiltily to inspect her mother’s choice. The color was a bit garish, but just as she had with the last twenty-seven dresses, Annabelle smiled and nodded. “It’s lovely.”
Belle’s brow wrinkled. “They’re all lovely, I’m afraid. I simply can’t decide.”
Growing weary, Annabelle sighed. “It really doesn’t matter—” She broke off at her mother’s hurt expression, then cast about for mending words. “It doesn’t matter which one you choose, because you’ll look beautiful, regardless.”
Her mother beamed, then turned when a salesclerk emerged with another armful of gowns. Annabelle fidgeted, not wanting to encourage her mother to take steps that would further cement her decision to be married.
A conversation with one of her clients came to mind, a woman who had filed for divorce within weeks of marrying. She’d explained to Annabelle that she’d discovered her fiancé was cheating on her a few days before the wedding. When Annabelle had asked her why she hadn’t simply canceled the ceremony, she’d shrugged and said, “My dress had a ten-foot train.”
To fight the suffocation assailing her, Annabelle wandered away from the lace-bedecked mannequins in the direction of the lingerie racks, squirming. She’d purchased a couple of pairs of shorts, and could borrow tops from her mother’s closet, but she still needed undies. And as luck would have it, the one bra spared the misdirection of the airline—the one she’d been wearing—had been the one with the wayward underwire. The darned thing had even set off the metal detector at the Detroit airport.
She fingered a simple, white cotton bra that would suffice, but recoiled when she turned over the price tag.
Ouch.
She’d gotten so used to squeaking by on a budget, she suspected that even if she graduated to a hefty paycheck someday, she’d always be a price-conscious shopper. Chewing on her lower lip, she moved to the clearance rack, which boasted less expensive but more
colorful
fare.
A backward glance convinced her Belle would be preoccupied for at least thirty minutes, so she launched a search mission for something remotely dignified. The first bra she selected was the correct size, but the red on black polka dots were a bit much, as was the next one, a filmy piece of yellow fabric shot with silver. A suitably boring beige number caught her eye, but the cups would have fit over her entire head. Her fingers stopped at a brown and black leopard print bra. Not bad—reasonably priced, dark, with good coverage, but a little…adventurous. Not that anyone would ever see it, unless they robbed the Sudsy Sam’s Laundromat on Wednesday night during her delicate wash cycle.