I tap my desk as I wait for her response. It comes a minute later:
Why would you think that we’re not? I’ll be there. Send me the address.
I’m too relieved to take issue with the fact that her message sounds so defensive, and write:
Wouldn’t it be better if we arrived together since we’re supposed to be married?
She replies:
Supposed?
I type my message:
Married people don’t spend a week without communicating, and they try their best to be together.
A few seconds later, her reply comes in:
You’re right. We’ll do better this coming week, okay?
I reply:
Okay. I’ll be in LA. I signed the papers for the new location.
I hit send, and a few seconds later, my phone buzzes with a call. It’s Marian.
“Hi,” she says in her throaty sexy voice. “What awesome news! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Thank you, I’m pretty pleased,” I tell her.
I snapped up space as soon as it went on the market. The location is superb, and I already have customers with all the guys at the fire station and the police station further down.
“Is that the location you wanted, the former bakery?” she says.
Marian remembers everything I tell her. That memory is something I’ve noticed about her in the short time we’ve known each other. It must be a wonderful asset.
“It is,” I tell her, my voice brimming with excitement. “Next week, we’ll be busy with renovations and customizing it.”
“That means you’ll be in LA,” she says.
“Yes.”
“Will you stay at Pine Place?” she asks and then adds quickly, “we don’t have to sleep in the same room. You’ll have your space.”
I inhale deeply. She’s doing her part, and I should do mine, though I’m still smarting from the way she left Santa Monica last week.
“I’ll give you a key,” she adds softly.
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Oh, one more thing. Do you think it’s okay with your mother if I bring down two guests with me? It’s my mother and her fiancé. They’ll be in town tomorrow, and I can’t just leave them to their own devices when they’ve come to see me.”
“I’m sure it will be okay. We’ll kill two birds with one stone and introduce everyone at the same time,” I tell her.
“Thanks, Declan.” I can hear the smile in her voice. I try and picture her at her office and fail. I make a mental note to see where she works when I’m in LA the following week.
I call my mother after Marian and I finish talking and tell her about the two extra guests. She doesn’t sound pleased, but she doesn’t have much of a choice.
The lunch with Marian sorted, I turn my attention back to work, paying suppliers, going through the accounts, and other mindless tasks that I have to do as a business owner.
I leave half an hour before lunch is scheduled. It’s best to go early and give my parents a chance to make their comments about my surprise marriage.
A good idea because as soon as my mother opens the front door, she goes straight into it.
“I don’t understand you, Declan,” she says as she leads the way to the living room. “I would expect something like this from Ace, not you.”
There it was again, the reference to me as a better child than my brother Ace. That is one of the things that has brought a wedge between us. Before Ace went to Afghanistan, I would shrug off the favoritism game by telling myself that it was none of my business. But after the threat of losing my brother in the war, I changed my stance. It might not be up to me how my parents treat Ace, but I can remove myself from those games, which is what I’ve done.
My father looks up from the newspaper he’s reading when we enter the living room.
“Father,” I say by way of greeting.
“Son,” he says and begins to stand.
“Don’t get up,” I say and cross the room to shake his hand.
He had a mild stroke a year ago, and though the effects were minimal, it slowed him down somewhat. Made him quieter. These days, he lets my mother make all the major decisions and speak for both of them. His handshake is not as firm as it used to be.
“I was telling Declan how disappointed we are in him,” Mother says as she perches on the edge of the seat. “If you needed money, you should have told us. We’d have helped.”
I’ve never been one to go to my parents for money, and neither has Ace. We’ve always worked hard for our money.
“Who said I married Marian for money?” I ask.
“Why else would you rush into marriage?” she says. “The trust fund is the only reason.”
“Marian and I are in this marriage for as long as we can make it work,” I choose my words carefully.
“I don’t like it,” she says.
“Reserve your judgment until you meet her, Mother. You’ll like Marian. She’s wonderful. She’s a wedding planner, and she runs her own business.”
The reason that my mother is upset is that she’s not used to me doing things without involving her. She’s upset that she never got a chance to chip in on my choice of bride. That is my fault entirely. I used to be a momma’s boy, and since I cut the apron strings, she doesn’t know what to do.
“I’m sure she’s a wonderful girl. Your brother chose well too,” my father says, speaking for the first time.
My mother lets out an unladylike snort but says nothing. She doesn’t like Lexi, which is my first clue that she won’t like Marian. Mother excuses herself to check on the lunch preparations progress with the chef.
At a few minutes to one o’clock, I hear the sound of an approaching car. I sprint out to welcome our
