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“Belgian chocolate, lite … low carbs.”
“Could get used to the taste … you.”
“I love you, Johnny Belen.”
The priest coughed. “Is there a wedding to be had?”
“Just a minute.” Sam twisted aside and popped the red lenses from her eyes. After tossing them behind her, she turned to him and looked every inch the radiant bride. Johnny gulped, and hauled her back into his embrace.
“Did you really drop Michael off at the pound?” She muffled a giggle with her veils.
Michael was pressed flat against the back wall and inching his way to the door. A Doberman Pinscher pawed his chest and slurped his face.
“Willie’s Doggie Salon, sweetheart.” Johnny caught sight of his buddy scrambling to round up the animals, and his mouth twitched at the corners. “Start up in Goodsprings, Nevada.”
“Never heard of it—”
“Well, that’s because it’s—”
“Johnny, you trekked across the desert to find me,” she whispered, delighted.
“I did,” he murmured. “The Mojave Desert no less.”
She laughed, the sound ringing off stained glass windows like the bells of St. Mary’s. “Funny man.”
“Yeah.” He swallowed the lump in his throat before it exploded into a confession he might later regret.
“Do you want a wedding or not?” the priest asked in exasperation, but his mouth twitched a smile.
“I do,” she said.
“I do,” he said.
“I pronounce you man and wife.” The priest breathed a sigh of relief and blotted his moist brow with the back of his hand. “You may kiss the bride.”
A sliver of doubt pricked his heart, but when she threw her arms around his neck and smiled, it dissipated. Amidst shrieks and snarling dogs, the sweetest serenade he ever heard, Johnny kissed his Sam.
************
Two years later …
“Honey …” Samantha stood at the kitchen counter mixing pancake batter in a plastic bowl.
“Mmm.” Johnny wrapped his arms around her protruding belly and pushed aside the collar of her sweatshirt, nuzzling her neck.
“Someone’s at the door.” She leaned back against his chest, breath checking in her throat. “Uh … will you get it?”
“No.” He nibbled at her earlobe.
“Jo— ”
He nipped the tip of her ear. “If I must.”
Smiling, she watched him stride from the tiny kitchen. She pressed one hand to the small of her back and rubbed her swelling abdomen with the other. A sigh of contentment slipped from her mouth. The baby was due in three months.
Johnny walked back, pulling the letter from the envelope.
She plopped the spoon in the batter. “What is it?”
He remained silent, perusing the page.
“Johnny?”
“Special delivery.”
“What’s it say?”
He glanced up, not quite meeting her eyes, a wry twist on his mouth. “You don’t want to know.”
Chapter Two (#ub4f1fb91-2fb8-5b5b-b4e0-03879c22a198)
Samantha leaned over his shoulder, and the words hit her like a sledgehammer. “Not married!” She snatched the paper from his hand, her gaze riveted on the black bold-faced type. “Notlegally married.” She raised her eyes and collided with his look of consternation.
“Is this possible, Johnny?”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Dunno.”
Laughter bubbled from her, first softly, then growing louder. She swallowed the hysteria and her shoulders drooped, her face crumbling.
“Sam?”
“We-we’re not married.” She swiped her damp cheeks with the back of her hand, sure her mascara, her one luxury, and pancake batter blended on her face. “A-nd I’m six months pregnant.”
Johnny reached for her, and then let his hand drop by his side. “We can clear this up … sure it’s some kind of mistake.”
She groaned. “Mamma’ll have a royal fit.”
He scowled. “More like she’ll boogie woogie.”
“Wish you two would get alo—” She bit off the words that’d trigger an argument between them and spread her hand across her big belly.
“You okay?” He stepped closer.
“No.”
“Is it the baby?” he asked, his voice uneasy.
“Yes … no … what I mean is … yes, baby’s okay.”
A whistle of relief sounded from his mouth, but got snuffed by her next words.
“But I’m not okay with this bombshell you’ve dropped.” She lifted the spoon from the bowl. “What am I going to do?”
He slitted his gaze. “You mean we, what are we going to do, right?”
Blobs of batter dripped at her feet, adding a new dimension to the scruffy linoleum. “No.” She considered him for a long moment. “What are you going to do, Johnny?”
Her challenge, a gauntlet hurled at his feet, and he swooped it up.
“I’ll get a new license … I’ll sign this one … I’ll—”
“Signature on wedding license does not match groom’s identification,” she read. “Document false. Signature forged.” She stared at him, sure her eyes were huge and accusing. “What were you thinking?”
He straddled a chair. “I was thinking about you.”
“Huh?”
“I was mesmerized by your … er … beauty if you remember.”
She shook the spoon at him. Minute batter missiles sprinkled his face and his shirt. “Johnny Belen, I’m warning you …”
He ran a finger down his cheek and licked the drop with his tongue. “Mmm, this is good.”
“Johnny.”
“Okay, Sam.” He leaped up, a sheepish grin on his lips. “Guess I forgot … but I was sure—”
“I don’t believe it.” She plunged the spoon back in the batter. “You don’t forget a thing like that.” Swinging open the cupboard, she grabbed two plates, shoved them at him and slammed it shut.
He set the chipped dishes on the bottle-cap sized table. “You’ll recall ours was no ordinary wedding.”
Sam sighed. “Yes.” For a fleeting moment, her wedding day replayed at speed before her eyes and emotion swelled inside her. Abruptly, she crammed the memory aside and opened the refrigerator, welcoming the frosty air on her hot cheeks. “I re-re-remember.”
“It was easy to overlook—”
She took out the butter and banged the fridge door shut with her elbow.
“—a thing like that.” What could he say? It was a rhino-size blunder and he felt like a heel for it. He bashed a tuff of hair dangling on his forehead back with his fist. Thoughts of cuffing snoboy into cyberspace had distracted him, and subconsciously he must’ve scribbled Scott’s name on the wedding doc.
He shot Sam a covert glance.
She shot one back.
Until he checked the copy in their safety deposit box at the bank, he’d be in the doghouse under lock and key. “There is a funny side to this, Sam.” He tested the waters, his words half question, half statement, his lips tugging at the corners.
Silence.
“Sam?’
“Oh, you’re impossible.” She set the bowl on the counter, crumbled the letter in a ball and took aim.
“I wanted to get you away from that jerk fast and—”
The paper missile ricocheted off his chest, and she gripped the wooden spoon, stirring the batter. “One.” She paused for emphasis. “I’ve put up with your chronic unemployment—”
“Reverting to high and mighty socialite are you?” His eyes darkened. “I couldn’t just be temporarily between jobs?”
“Tempo-perma is what you mean,” she let fly, her words stinging.
“Aww, Sam, that was a low blow.”
“You’re always out of a job, Johnny.” She absent-mindedly created figure eights in the batter with the ladle.
“Nope.” He fixed his sights on his very pregnant wife, and his gut hitched. Fool, to think love could bridge the gap between them.
Love never fails.
The silent message lit his brain. He wrinkled his brow but couldn’t recall where he’d heard those profound words. Was what they shared enough to transcend social status pressure? He smirked and nearly guffawed at his naiveté, even at thirty-four. At a loss, he gulped down the self-deprecating sound, thinking it might be time to ’fess up. “I’ve bought … er … working … I’ve wanted to tell you about—”
“Heard that before, Johnny.”
Her words were like ten-pound weights crushing his shoulders.
In the heavy silence, the batter sloshed in the bowl, keeping time with the ticking cuckoo clock above the stove.
“Two.” She smacked the ladle on the batter, speckling the counter. “I’ve put up with living in this drabby matchbox for two years.”
“It won’t always be that way, Sam.” He stepped closer, encircling her shoulder, but she shrank away. “I thought it was our home … and I’ve wanted to tel—”
“Oh, it is, Johnny. It is.” Her tone softened a tad, giving him hope.
He pulled her into his arms, and she laid her head on his shoulder. “Then, what is it?” He stroked her hair, the motion soothing…arousing. “I’ve wanted to tell you about my, our good fortu—”
“Not legally wed.” She jerked away and grabbed the frying pan off the shelf and banged it on the stove.
He rubbed the back of his head and breathed a sigh of relief she’d found another target.
“What will people … I mean—”
“Mamma …” he inserted for her.
“… think.” She turned on the gas element and it flared to life.
“You made a choice on that score when you married me.” He flexed his shoulder muscles. “But if that matters so much to you, Sam, maybe you shouldn’t have said ‘I do.’” He’d just given her an out if she wanted it, and his heart faltered.
By social standards, he was an ordinary guy from the poor ’hood, and she was high society from the ritzy side of town. His roots stemmed from Irish farmers tilling land for survival. Her ancestry was linked to the English aristocracy. While he’d pounded the pavement for work during the day and studied for a business degree at night, she hung out at the café on campus, sipping designer lattes with her socialite friends.
Maybe he should’ve joined her there … maybe that’s where he’d made his mistake. Regardless, it was time he found out the truth about why she married him. He’d been putting it off until after the baby came, but the grenade in that letter was about to blast them apart. He’d have to toss in his ammo prematurely and either neutralize or detonate matters between them.
