Daughters Of The Bride

As for the “until death do us part” section of the vows, well, Courtney wasn’t the one getting married. She was willing to admit she’d never been in love, but from what she’d seen, most romantic relationships ended badly. As for the nonromantic kind of love, well, that hurt, too.

“The cosmos will be so pretty,” Joyce said. “And there’s an open bar for anyone who wants something different.”

Maggie leaned back in her chair. “I’m so excited. I always wanted an engagement party, but my mother said we couldn’t have one.” She looked at Joyce. “I was only eighteen when Phil and I got engaged, and nineteen when we got married. My mother made all the decisions. It was awful. We argued every day for a year. I wanted different dresses for the bridesmaids, a different cake. I hated the flowers she picked. So I swear, this time, I’m going to do everything the way I want. Convention be damned.”

“You have good taste, Mom. No one’s worried,” Courtney assured her. Something she’d passed on to her other two daughters. Sienna could make a paper bag look like high fashion, and Rachel made her living by doing hair and makeup. Courtney knew she was the only one missing the style gene in their family.

Her mother grinned. “You should be a little worried. I started planning my wedding when I was fourteen. I have a lot of pent-up ideas.” She eyed the pool. “Is that treated with chlorine?”

Joyce looked a little startled by the question. “Of course. Why?”

“Oh, I was just thinking swans would be nice. But they can’t swim in chlorinated water, can they?”

Courtney felt her eyes widen. “No, and swans poop a lot, Mom. Cleaning the pool after the fact would be a nightmare.”

Her mother sighed. “Too bad. Because I’ve always wanted swans.”

Joyce shot Courtney a look of concern. Courtney quickly flipped through the files on her tablet, then turned it so her mother could see the photo on the screen.

“I’ve been playing around with some ideas based on pictures I’ve seen on Pinterest. For example, a champagne fountain before the toast. Kelly, one of the waitresses here, knows how to stack the glasses and is going to help me with it. Won’t that be great?”

She figured it was the adult equivalent of shaking keys at a fussy baby, and her odds were about the same.

Maggie leaned forward and nodded slowly. “That’s lovely. Neil and I would like that very much.”

“Good.” Courtney flipped to another picture. “This will be the table runner for the head table.”

Her mother stared for a second, then her eyes widened before filling with tears. “How did you do that?” she asked softly.

“It was easy. I uploaded the pictures to the website, then arranged them. The company prints out the runner and ships it.”

The custom table runner was made up of a collage of photographs. Most of the photographs were of the sisters as they grew up. A few pictures showed Maggie with her daughters. Interspersed were pictures of Maggie and Neil on their various trips.

“Where did you get these?” her mother asked. “They’re wonderful.”

“Rachel had a lot of them on her computer. I borrowed a couple of photo albums the last time you had us over for dinner. I got the ones of you and Neil from him.”

“It’s lovely. Thank you. What a wonderful idea.”

Courtney was surprised by the praise. Pleased, of course, but surprised. This was good. They were making progress. And no swans would be forced to swim in chlorinated water.

“It sounds like we have everything under control,” Joyce said as she got to her feet. “Excellent. I need to go check on some arriving guests. They’re new and, to be honest, sounded a little shady on the phone.”

Courtney groaned. “Did you take reservations? We’ve talked about this. You need to stay off the phone.”

Joyce, while a lovely person, could be overly chatty with new guests. Most people simply wanted to know availability and price. Joyce wanted them to share their life story, and if they weren’t forthcoming with the information, they were labeled “shady.”

“It’s my hotel. I can do what I want.”

Courtney grinned. “That would be true.” She turned to Pearl and Sarge. “Be gentle with the new people. I’m sure they’re perfectly nice.”

“My dogs are excellent judges of character. Don’t try to influence them.”

“I’m trying to keep you from scaring the guests away.”

Joyce grinned. “Where else are they going to stay? The Anderson House has bees.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I know. It’s part of my charm.”

Joyce waved and walked toward the hotel. Courtney turned back to her mother and found Maggie studying her.

“What?”

“I’m glad you and Joyce get along so well and that she looks out for you.”

Courtney carefully pulled the cover over her tablet and braced herself. In some ways, Maggie was harder to deal with than Sienna. Her middle sister thought she was inept and borderline dull-normal. Her mother feared she was...broken.

“She’s a good friend and a great boss,” Courtney said lightly. “I’m lucky.”

Maggie pressed her lips together. “I know. I just wish you had a little more ambition. I worry about you. Is it that you think you can’t do better or you don’t want to?”

Breathe, Courtney told herself. Just breathe. There was no win here. She simply had to endure the conversation, then she could get back to her life.

“The fact that you’re helping out with my engagement party got me to thinking you might be interested in doing something more than being a maid.” Her mother reached into her handbag and pulled out a brochure. “I know you said you weren’t interested in being a dental assistant, but what about a massage therapist? You like people, you’re very nurturing and you’re physically strong.”

Courtney took the brochure and studied the first page. She honest to God didn’t know what to say. Joyce would point out this was her own fault. She was the one who let her family believe she was working as a maid at the hotel. Well, technically she was working as a maid, but only part-time as she continued her education. That was the part they didn’t know.

She supposed she could simply come clean—but she didn’t want to. She wanted to wait until she could slap down her diploma and watch them all stare in disbelief. That was a moment worth waiting for.

“Thanks, Mom,” she said with a smile. “I’ll think about it.”

“Really? That would be wonderful. I’d be happy to help pay for it. I think you’d do well.” Maggie hesitated. “There are so many wonderful opportunities out there. I hate to see you wasting your life.”

“I know and I appreciate it.”

Her mother nodded. “I love you, Courtney. I want the best for you.”

All the right words. All warm, affectionate sentiments. On her good days, Courtney could believe them. On her bad days, well, sometimes it was hard to let go of the past enough to forgive.

“Thanks, Mom. I love you, too.”

* * *

“A glove’s important, Mom.”

“I know it is.”

“I really need a new one.”

Rachel didn’t doubt that. Josh was basically a good kid. He didn’t whine, he didn’t ask for a lot. His passions were simple—anything sports-related and the occasional computer game. That was it. Christmas and birthday presents revolved around whatever sport most had his interest. As they had for the past three years, spring and summer meant baseball.

Los Lobos didn’t have a Little League team, but there was a county league. Josh insisted they sign him up the first hour they could, something she was happy to do. He was eleven—she figured she had all of two, maybe three years before he became a raging male hormone and then all bets were off.

“Dad said he would buy it for me but I had to check with you first.”

At least she was driving and had an excuse not to look at Josh. Because she couldn’t—not without him seeing the rage in her eyes. Damn Greg, she thought bitterly. Of course he could afford to buy his son a new glove. Greg had only himself to worry about.

Her ex-husband made a good living as a Los Lobos county firefighter. He also had excellent medical benefits—something she’d lost after the divorce. Even more annoying, his schedule was a ridiculous twenty-four hours on, twenty-four hours off for six days, followed by four days off. Which gave him plenty of time to play, and play he did. Add in the fact that he’d moved back home with his folks, so he basically had no living expenses, and the man was swimming in both cash and time.

Don’t think about it, she instructed herself. Dwelling on how good Greg had it only made her angrier. She had to remember that the man paid his child support on time. That was something. But as for the rest of it—she couldn’t help resenting how easy he had it.

Yes, she did well at the salon. She was able to support herself and her son. The child support covered the mortgage, and she paid for everything else. But it wasn’t as if there was a bunch of extra cash at the end of the month. She was doing her best to build up an emergency fund and keep current on household repairs. There wasn’t anything left over for things like baseball gloves.

When she was sure she could speak in a happy, excited tone, she said, “Go for it, Josh. You need a new glove. It’s great that your dad can afford to get it. Do you already know what you want, or do you need to do some research?”

“I know exactly what I need.” And he was off, describing the glove down to the kind of stitching.

Oh, to be that young and innocent, she thought with regret. To trust that everything was going to turn out the way it was supposed to. To believe in happily-ever-after.

She’d been that way, once. She’d had hopes and dreams—mostly of finding her handsome prince. And when she’d laid eyes on Greg, she’d known, just known, he was the one. Back then everyone had believed he was the one. Greg had been the guy every girl wanted.

And she’d been the one to get him—right up until he’d cheated on her.

She turned the corner, then pulled into Lena’s driveway. Josh was out of the car before she’d come to a full stop.

“Bye, Mom. See you later.”

He ran into the house without bothering to knock. She was still shaking her head when her friend Lena appeared on the porch. Lena turned back to kiss her husband, then hurried to the car. She got inside and waved the bag she held.

“Great cheese and dark chocolate. Am I good to you or what?”

They hugged.

“You’re the best,” Rachel told her. “Thanks for coming over tonight. I could use some girl time.”

“Me, too. Tell me the wine is red.”

“It’s red and there are two bottles.”

“Perfect.”

She and Lena had been friends since elementary school. They were physical opposites—Lena was petite and curvy, with brown hair and dark eyes. Rachel was taller and blonde.

They’d played together, dreamed together, and when they’d grown up, they’d been each other’s maids of honor. They’d married young and then had sons within a few months of each other. But things were different now. Lena and Toby were still happily together.

“What?” her friend asked. “You’re looking fierce.”

“Nothing. I’m fine. Just the usual crap.”

“Greg?”

Rachel sighed. “Yes. Josh needs a new glove and his dad is going to buy it for him.”

Her friend didn’t say anything.

Rachel turned onto her street. “I know what you’re thinking. I should be grateful he’s an involved father. That the extra money he has could be spent on women and drinking, but he spends it on his kid.”

“You’re doing all the talking.”

Rachel pulled into her driveway. “I just wish...”

“That a really big rock would fall on him?”

She smiled. “Maybe not that, but something close.”

Because it was Greg’s fault their marriage had failed. He’d chosen to have a one-night stand with a tourist. She’d known the second she’d seen him—had guessed what he’d done. He hadn’t tried to deny it, and that had been that. Her marriage had ended.

When they got back to Rachel’s, they poured wine. Rachel eyed the beautiful wedge of Brie and knew there had to be maybe five thousand calories in that chunk of soft goodness, and she honestly couldn’t care. Had she put on weight lately? Probably, but so what? Her clothes still fit, at least the loose ones did. She worked hard and deserved to reward herself. It wasn’t as if she had anyone to look good for.

She sipped her wine and knew that the right response was that she needed to look good for herself. That she was worth it and all those other stupid platitudes. That if she wanted to feel better, she had to take better care of herself. All of which didn’t get the laundry washed or the bathrooms cleaned.

“You need to get over him.”

Lena’s comment was so at odds with what Rachel had been thinking that it took her a second to figure out what her friend was saying.

“Greg? I am. We’ve been divorced nearly two years.”

“You might be legally divorced, but emotionally you’re still enmeshed.”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “Did you have too much waiting time in a doctor’s office? Did you read some women’s magazine? Enmeshed? No one actually uses that word.”

“You just did.”

Rachel made a strangled noise in her throat. “I don’t want to think about him,” she admitted. “I want to move on with my life.”

“Find a man? Fall in love?”

“Sure.”

A lie, she thought, but one her friend would want to hear. Fall in love? She couldn’t imagine going out with someone who wasn’t Greg. He’d been her first date, her first time, her first everything. The world still divided itself neatly into Greg and not Greg. How was she supposed to get over that?

“You’re so lying,” Lena said cheerfully. “But I appreciate that you’re making the effort to humor me.”

“I want to move on,” Rachel admitted. “I just don’t know how. Maybe if I could get away from him. But with us having Josh together, there’s no escape.”

“You could move.”

The suggestion was spoken in a soft voice, as if Lena knew what Rachel would think. Rachel did her best to remain calm when on the inside she wanted to start shrieking.

Move? Move! No way. She couldn’t. She loved her house. She needed her house and all it represented. It was proof that she was okay. She would take a second job to pay for the house, if she had to.

None of which made sense. She understood that. She also knew she was reacting to a traumatic event in her childhood—the death of her father and the fact that her family had been forced out of their house a few months later.

Rachel remembered hating everything about living at the Los Lobos Hotel. Looking back, she knew she should be grateful that they’d been taken in, that they hadn’t had to live in a shelter. But she couldn’t get over the shock and pain the day she’d come home from school to find her mother sobbing that they’d lost everything and it was her father’s fault. She’d been so scared. Daddy was dead—how could he continue to be in trouble?

When she’d been older, she’d realized their father hadn’t been a bad man—just financially careless. There hadn’t been any life insurance, no savings.

When she and Greg had married, she’d been focused on buying a house. They’d been young and it had been a financial struggle, especially with a baby, but they’d made it. This was her home—she was never leaving.

But the price of that was living with the ghosts of her lost marriage. Greg’s memory still lingered in every room.

“Maybe I could get someone to do a spiritual cleansing of the house. With sage. And salt. Do you need salt?”

Lena briefly closed her eyes. “I love you like my best friend.”

“I am your best friend.”

“I know, so please understand why I’m saying this. The problem isn’t the house, Rachel. It’s you. And there isn’t enough sage or salt in the world to get you over Greg. You’re going to have to decide once and for all to emotionally move on. Until you do, you’re trapped. Forever.”

The truth, however lovingly delivered, could still hurt like a son of a bitch.

Rachel blinked a couple of times, then reached for the wine. “We’re so going to need another bottle.”

4

“YOU LIKE THIS, BABY? I picked the leather to match your beautiful curly hair.”

Quinn Yates waited for his companion to say something, but Pearl only stared at the car as if expecting him to open the passenger door. Which he did. The large standard poodle jumped gracefully inside, then returned her attention to him as if ready for a compliment.

“You look good,” he told her. “Where do you want to go? For a burger?”

“She prefers ice cream.”

He turned to see his grandmother walking down the stairs by the side of the hotel. She was dressed as always in her beloved St. John tailored knits and Chanel flats. She wore her white hair in that poufy old lady bubble style he would always associate with her. He knew she would smell of L’air du Temps and vanilla. He crossed the driveway to meet her and pulled her into a hug. The tension that had been with him on the drive north faded.

“You made it,” she said, wrapping her arms around him as if she would never let go.

He’d always liked that about her. Joyce gave good hugs. When he’d been a kid, she’d been his anchor. When he’d gotten older, she’d always been there, ready to offer advice or a kick in the ass—depending on what she thought he needed. Now she was simply home.

He held on a few more seconds, pleased that she didn’t seem any frailer than she had when she’d visited him six months before. She was well into her seventies, but as vital and sharp as ever. Still, lately he’d found himself worrying.

“Ice cream, huh,” he said, glancing at the dog sitting in the passenger seat of his Bentley. “Then that’s what we’ll go get.”

Joyce stepped back. She barely came to his shoulder and had to look up to meet his gaze. “You’re not taking the dog for ice cream. I don’t know what ridiculousness you get up to in Los Angeles, but here in the real world, dogs don’t eat ice cream.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I’ve been back thirty seconds and you’re already lying to me.”

She smiled. “All right. They do, but at home. We don’t take them out. Besides, if you take Pearl, you need to take Sarge, too. He’ll get jealous otherwise.”

As if he heard his name, a small white fluffball barreled through the open doorway and down the path. Pearl jumped out of the Bentley and ran to greet her companion.

They were an odd pair. The tall, stately blonde poodle and the small, white bichon-poodle mix. Pearl was nearly four times Sarge’s size, yet he clearly ran the show. Now they circled Quinn, sniffing and yipping. He crouched down to greet them both. After letting them sniff his fingers, he offered pats and rubs.

“Your man arrived yesterday,” his grandmother told him.

“He’s my assistant, Joyce, not my man. We’re not living in a 1950 Cary Grant movie.”

“But wouldn’t it be fun if we were? I tried to check him into the hotel, but he said he was staying somewhere else.”

Quinn straightened and closed the passenger door of the Bentley. “He is. Wayne and I work best when there’s some separation between us.”

“You’re not moving back because you think I’m getting old, are you?”

She always did like to cut to the heart of the matter. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I’ve thought you were old for a long time now, and not everything is about you.”

She touched his face. “You are so full of crap.”

“That is true.” He held out his arm. She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and he led her back into the hotel.

Quinn’s mother had been Joyce’s only child. He’d spent as much of his childhood with Joyce as with his mom. By the time he’d turned fourteen, his mother had abandoned him and he’d moved into the hotel permanently.

Now as they entered the lobby, he took in the high ceilings, the crystal light fixtures and the big, curving reception desk. The furniture was comfortable, the food delicious and the bartenders generous with their pours. Add in the beachfront location in quiet Central California, and the Los Lobos Hotel had nearly everything going for it.

At seventeen, he couldn’t wait to be anywhere but here. Now some twenty years later, he was grateful to be back.

The dogs led the way into the bar. He and Joyce took seats at a corner table. The dogs settled at their feet.

He was sure having a couple of canines in an establishment that served food had to violate several state ordinances, but as far as he could tell, no one complained. If they did, they were told the dogs were excellent judges of character. That tended to quiet all but the most offensive of guests. And the ones who weren’t quieted were asked to leave.

A pretty redhead appeared at their table. “Hello, Joyce. Quinn.”

He recognized her face from his previous visits, if not her name. Fortunately, her name tag was easy to read.

“Nice to see you again, Kelly.”

She smiled. “What can I get you two?”

“I’ll have a glass of Smarty Pants chardonnay.”

Quinn laughed at his grandmother. “I can’t believe you’re still bitter about what happened.”

“I haven’t forgotten because I have an excellent memory. Besides, I love my new wines. I’m serving them as the exclusive house wine in the hotel.”

A few years back, the local winery Joyce had sourced from decided to change winemakers and therefore the style and taste of their wines. Joyce had complained, the winemaker had done his own thing and, in protest, she’d gone looking for wines she liked better. Middle Sister Wines, based in Northern California, had won both her taste buds and her business.

The chardonnay was very popular with the ladies who lunched at the hotel, with a fresh, California bouquet that had hints of citrus and pear. Another of their whites, Drama Queen pinot grigio, had been racking up awards from wine competitions around the country.

“They’ve become a tradition,” Joyce added.

He squeezed her hand. “You’re my favorite tradition. I adore everything about you.”

How could he not? She was delightful, and even if she wasn’t, she was the only family he had left.

Kelly turned her attention to him. “And for you?”

“I’ll have the same.”

White wine wasn’t his favorite, but when with Joyce...

“And a cheese plate,” his grandmother added. “Quinn is hungry.”

He wasn’t, but there was no point in arguing.

“Right away,” Kelly told them.

“I’ve reserved the groundskeeper’s bungalow,” Joyce said when Kelly had left. “You should be very comfortable there.”

He knew the cottage—it was at the south end of the property, private and large. “It’s one of your most expensive suites,” he protested. “I just need a regular room for a couple of weeks while I figure out what I’m doing.”

“No. I want you to have it. You’ll be more comfortable there.”

He knew she didn’t need the money renting it would provide, but still. “Thank you.”

“I’ve blocked it for the summer,” she added.

He raised his eyebrows. “I’m forty-one. Don’t you think it’s time I moved away from home?”

“No. You’re just back and you’ll find your own place soon enough. This way you can settle in and find what’s exactly right. Assuming you really are staying.”

“You doubt me.”

“Of course. You live in Malibu, Quinn. You have a business there. Whatever will you do in sleepy Los Lobos?”

A good question and one he was looking forward to answering.

“I can run my business from here. Once I get a recording studio set up, my artists will come to me.”

“You’re really that important?”

Her voice was teasing, her smile impish. He winked.

“I am all that and more.”

She laughed. “I hope it’s true and you do stay. And I don’t even care if you’re moving because you’re worried about me. What kind of place do you need for your studio?”

“Almost anywhere would do. We’ll be remodeling regardless. So a house or a warehouse. I’d prefer a stand-alone building with good parking.” And privacy. Where people could come and go without being seen or photographed.