J. Kenner - Take Me

“Always,” I say. “But not at the bakery. You did your part, I’m just finalizing the cupcake choices.”

“Don’t ditch my tiny cheesecakes,” he says.

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“Is Jamie going with you?”

“Not today,” I say. My best friend and former roommate recently moved back home to Texas for the express purpose of getting her shit together. She’d come back three days ago determined to be the best maid of honor ever—which meant that I’d had to field a full hour of apology when she explained to me why she might not make it to the bakery today. “She drove up to Oxnard last night, and she’s not sure when she’ll get back today. She did a play there a few years ago, and the director’s a friend who now does commercials, and . . .” I trail off with a shrug, but I’m sure Damien understands. Jamie’s still trying to land a gig.

“And if she gets a job?” he asks.

I shrug again. I’m torn between wanting her to be cast and wanting her to take as much time as she needs to get her head back on straight. I miss Jamie, but Hollywood pretty much ate her up and spat her out, and although my best friend likes to pretend like she’s tough enough to take it, underneath the careless sex kitten veneer is the heart of a fragile woman. And it’s a heart I don’t want to see broken.

Damien kisses my forehead. “Whatever happens, she has you. That makes her one step ahead of the game already.”

I smile up at him. “Will you be back tonight?”

“Late,” he says, then trails a fingertip over my bare shoulder. “If you’re sleeping, I’ll wake you.”

“I look forward to it,” I say, then tilt my head up for a quick kiss on my lips. “You better go get dressed, Mr. Stark,” I say, then push him off toward the bedroom. He’s back remarkably fast, securing his cuffs as he walks toward me, then taking my hand as he tugs me onto the balcony with him. I follow him down the staircase and along the path toward the helipad.

We pause at the edge, and he kisses me gently one last time. “Soon, Ms. Fairchild,” he says, but what I hear is I love you.

I watch as he bends over and hurries under the spinning blades to board the helicopter, which has SI emblazoned on the side. Stark International. I grin, thinking that SU would be more appropriate—Stark Universe. Or Stark World. Damien is, after all, my whole world.

I shield my face from the wind, then watch as the bird rises, taking Damien away from me. I know he’ll be back tonight, but already I feel hollow.

I consider going inside to get dressed, but instead I follow the flagstone path that cuts through the property until it reaches the beach. I walk along the sandy shore, imagining my wedding. We’ve planned it for sunset, with a party to follow. Considering who Damien is, the guest list is relatively small. We’ve invited our mutual friends as well as a number of key employees of Stark International, Stark Applied Technology, and the rest of Damien’s subsidiaries. Also, some of the recipients of grants from Damien’s various charitable organizations.

The ceremony itself is going to be short and simple, with Damien and I having only a best man and a maid of honor, respectively. Since my father ran off ages ago, I don’t have a man to walk me down the aisle. I considered asking one of my best friends, Ollie, but even though he and Damien have negotiated a truce, I didn’t want to risk marring my wedding day with drama.

And there’s no way I’m having my mother do it. How could I stand to have her give me away when I’ve spent the last few years running from her? I have not, in fact, even invited her to the wedding. Which means I have no parent to give me away. So I’m going to walk myself down the aisle, a journey on a pathway of rose petals, with Damien Stark standing tall and elegant at the end of it.

We’ve written vows—short and sweet—and we both agree that what is important is getting to the meat of the ceremony: Do you take this man? Do you take this woman? I do, I do, dear God, I do.

The reception is a different story—that we expect to go on all night. Maybe even into the next day. After Damien and I head out on our honeymoon after the appropriate socializing and cake-eating interval, Jamie is taking charge of the Malibu house and she, with the help of Ryan Hunter and the rest of the Stark International security team, will make sure that anyone who needs a place to crash has one, and anyone who needs a lift home gets one.

Even though we’ll be off on our honeymoon for most of it, it is the details of the reception that have been occupying most of my time. I’ve arranged for tents, dance floors, lanterns, and heaters. There will be a buffet, three bars, and a chocolate fondue station provided by Damien’s best man, his childhood friend Alaine Beauchene. I’m a little flummoxed by my music conundrum, but I’m revved up and eager to solve it, and I tell myself that by the end of the day I will have arranged both the music and the photographer. I am nothing if not optimistic.

Other than that, the only major things still needing to be wrapped up are finalizing the cake—which I’ll do in a few hours—and then the final dress fitting. The dress is a Phillipe Favreau original that we purchased in Paris after hours of conversation with Phillipe himself. It is insanely expensive, but as Damien reminded me, there’s very little point in having gazillions of dollars if you don’t enjoy them. And I really did fall in love with the design.

Phillipe is custom-making it for me, and it is being shipped from his Paris studio. There were some nerve-wracking delays, but I’ve been assured that all is on schedule now, and it is set to arrive at his Rodeo Drive boutique tomorrow morning. His most trusted associate will make any final alterations tomorrow afternoon and deliver it the next morning—Friday—so that it will be locked up safe in the Malibu house, all ready to transform me into a bride on Saturday.

All in all, things are going reasonably smoothly, and I can’t help but smile. So what if I’ve had a few nightmares? For the most part, I’m kicking serious wedding butt, and I don’t intend to stop.

I breathe deep, content, then fling my feet through the surf, sending the water sparkling. Mrs. Damien Stark.

Honestly, I can’t wait.

“Ms. Fairchild!”

I look up to see Tony, one of Damien’s security guys, hurrying down the beach toward me.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Fairchild, I tried your phone but there was no answer.”

My phone, I remember, is by the bed. “What is it?” I ask, alarmed. “Is it Damien?”

“No, no, nothing like that. But there is a woman at the gate,” he says, referring to the gate that Damien had installed at the property entrance after the paparazzi got all crazy during his murder trial. “Ordinarily, I would simply send her away and insist that she make an appointment, but under the circumstances . . .”

“What circumstances?”

“Ms. Fairchild,” he says, “the lady says that she’s your mother.”

My mother.

My mother.

Holy shit, my mother?

My knees go watery and I have to force my arms to stay at my sides so I don’t reach out automatically for Tony. There’s nothing on the beach that I can use to steady myself, and right now I really need steadying, so I stand perfectly still and smile and hope Tony doesn’t yet know me well enough to pick up on the fact that I’m totally and completely freaking out.

“I wasn’t expecting my mother,” I manage to say. “She lives in Texas.”

“I knew she was from out of state, Ms. Fairchild. I checked the lady’s ID. Elizabeth Regina Fairchild, address in Dallas. I assume she’s here for the wedding.”

“Right. I just—she’s not supposed to be here until Friday,” I lie. I conjure what I hope is a bright smile, but I fear it looks like something out of a low-budget Halloween thriller. “So, right. I guess tell her to drive on up to the house. If you could buzz Gregory and ask him to settle her in the first-floor parlor, I’ll run in and get dressed,” I add.

“Of course, Ms. Fairchild.” If he has picked up on my nerves, he is either kind enough or well trained enough not to say anything.

I hurry back up the path and take the stairs to the third floor. I want to ensure that I don’t see my mother until I’m dressed and made-up and looking polished and pretty enough that maybe—maybe—she’ll wait an hour or two before she starts in on me.

Once I’m in the bedroom, the first thing I do is grab my phone off the table and dial Damien. The second thing I do is end the call before it has the chance to connect.

I sit on the edge of the bed and suck in air. My heart is pounding so hard, my chest hurts, and I am holding my phone so tightly in my right hand that it is making indentations into my palm. My left hand is curled in on itself, and I concentrate on the sensation of my fingernails digging into my palm. I imagine my nails cutting through skin, drawing blood. I focus on the pain—and then, disgusted with myself, I hurl my other arm back and toss my phone across the room. It shatters from the impact, an explosion of plastic and glass, a smorgasbord of sharp edges now glittering on the floor, tempting and teasing me.

I rise, but I am not heading toward those shards. I will not touch them, not even to sweep them away. They are too tempting, and despite the fact that I’ve grown stronger in my months with Damien, I do not trust myself. Not now. Not with Elizabeth Fairchild just two floors below, waiting like a spider to draw me in, wrap me up, and suck the life right out of me.

Shit.

My mother.

The woman who locked me in a dark, windowless room as a child so that I had no choice but to get my beauty sleep. Who controlled what I ate so meticulously that I didn’t make the acquaintance of a carb until college.

The woman whose image of feminine perfection was so expertly pounded into her daughters’ heads that my sister committed suicide when her husband left her, because she’d clearly failed at being a wife.

The woman who said that I was a fool to stay with Damien. That once you passed the ten-million-dollar mark one man is pretty much like another, and I should move on to one who came with less baggage.

The woman who said that I’d ruined the family name by posing for a nude portrait.

The woman who’d called me a whore.

I didn’t want to see her. More than that, I wasn’t sure I could see her and manage to stay centered.

I needed Damien—I wanted Damien. He was my strength, my anchor.

But he wasn’t in town and my mother was downstairs. And while I knew that one phone call would have him returning within the hour, I couldn’t bring myself to go to the kitchen, pick up the house phone, and make that call.

I could do this on my own—I had to.

And with Damien’s voice in my head, I knew that I’d survive.

At least, I hoped I would.

“Well, look at you!” My mother rises from the white sofa, then smoothes her linen skirt before coming toward me, her arms out to enfold me in a hug that is capped off by her trademark air kiss. “I was beginning to think you were going to leave me down here all alone.” She speaks lightly, but I can hear the indictment in her words—I left her unattended, and broke one of the cardinal rules from the Elizabeth Fairchild Guide to Playing Hostess.

I say nothing, just stand stiffly in her embrace. A moment passes, and I decide to make an effort. I awkwardly put my arms around her and give her a small squeeze. “Mother,” I say, and then stop. Honestly, what more is there to say?

“Married,” she says, and there is actually a wistful tone in her voice. For a moment, I wonder about her motive for coming. Is she here because she honestly wants to celebrate my marriage? I’m not quite able to wrap my head around the possibility, and yet I can’t help the tiny flame of hope that flickers inside me.

She steps back and looks me up and down. I’ve taken the time to shower and change and put on my makeup, and I know exactly what she sees as she looks at me. My blond hair is still short, though it has grown out since I took scissors to it and violently whacked off large chunks after the last time I saw her. I like this new shoulder-length style. Not only is it nice not to have the weight of all that hair, but the curls are bouncier and frame my face in a way that I like.

I’m wearing a simple linen skirt that hits just above my knees and a peach sweater over a white button-down. My feet are in my favorite pair of strappy sandals. The three-inch heels are wildly impractical for an afternoon of running wedding errands, but these are the shoes I was wearing the night I met Damien at Evelyn’s party so many months ago, and as I stood in my closet a few moments before, I was certain I’d need the extra bit of magical shoe confidence they impart if I was going to survive my mother.