Second-Best Bride. SARA WOOD
id="u54cd983f-ace1-5ea9-a21f-19a97470d460">
Table of Contents
“Say you’ll marry me now. Or I’ll have to walk out of your life forever. “
“That sounds like an ultimatum.”
“It is. I’m not going through this again,” Trader replied. “You’re in a unique position to change my life.”
The money would change his life, Claire thought sadly. “Trader——” she began, but his finger stopped her lips.
“If you doubt me, if you reject me now, I’m not hanging around for an encore… Yes, or no?”
Childhood in Portsmouth meant grubby knees, flying pigtails and happiness for SARA WOOD. Poverty drove her from typist and seaside landlady to teacher till writing finally gave her the freedom her Romany blood craved. Sara is happily married and has two handsome adult sons, Richard and Simon. She lives in the Cornish countryside. Sara’s glamorous writing life alternates with her passion for gardening, which allows her to be carefree and grubby again.
Second-Best Bride
Sara Wood
IT SHOULD have been the happiest day of her life, not the worst. Weren’t weddings supposed to make people cry with joy? Claire felt closer to howling, and joy didn’t come into it. Misery, yes. Disillusionment. Selfpity and embarrassment. Not much cause to laugh there.
She huddled deeper into the corner of the limousine, staring at the billows of ivory taffeta where her voluminous skirt had been spread carefully over the cream leather seat. And she wondered how on earth she could bring herself to speak. The words were quite simple. No long syllables to tangle a tongue. ‘I can’t marry Trader’. So why did they ball up together and stick in her throat?
A sour-tasting sickness heaved and rolled in her stomach. She closed her soft-green eyes tightly and counted slowly to ten till the nausea went away. After her hen party, she should have gone home. Disastrously for her peace of mind, she’d let Phoenix persuade her to stay on for a couple of brandies and an intimate chat.
Big mistake. Better to have remained ignorant. Her tongue slicked nervously over her dry lips, removing the final traces of peach lipstick. All night she’d dwelt on the things Phoenix had said till she’d been half tearing her hair out with despair.
She stole a look in her father’s direction. He was a picture of contentment: a handsome man, his unfamiliar face glowing with anticipation. Daunted by his delight, Claire couldn’t quite pluck up the courage to tell him the bad news.
Her heart thudded away while the smooth, ostentatious limousine purred along with its mockery of fluttering satin ribbons on the endless bonnet. They were alarmingly near to the grey stone church. And Trader. And the hundreds of guests. A hot wave swept over her.
‘We’re late,’ commented her father crossly. ‘Your fault. Good crowd, mind.’ His hand crossed her vision in a flash of gold and ruby rings, waving royally. ‘It’s their entertainment, I suppose,’ he grunted, with all the contempt of a Channel Islander for the unsophisticated people of remote Ballymare. ‘I suppose weddings and funerals add drama to their drab, small lives.’
They’d get drama, thought Claire. This would be a wedding and a funeral rolled up in one! And oh, the shame of it! She shuddered. Faint from skittering nerves, she placed her hand on her father’s arm, flinching at the ragged, good-natured cheer that arose outside when the car slowly drew up to the kerb.
Deep breath. Calm voice. Firm, decisive. ‘Don’t get out! I can’t go through with the wedding!’ she cried shakily, forcing the words through her pale, dry lips in a sudden, gabbling rush.
‘Whaaat? Sweetie——!’ Her father reached to grab her trembling hand and she withdrew it, backing away warily.
‘No!’ she said huskily. ‘I won’t budge! I won’t change my mind!’
‘The woman’s mad!’ Her father took one close look at her set face and his mouth went grim. ‘Driver! Go round the block again! Claire, what are you trying to do, give me a coronary? I’ll make you marry Trader if I have to carry you——’
‘I think the guests might notice if the bride arrives struggling and screaming over your shoulder,’ she retorted defiantly, finding his idea ridiculous. She was close to laughing hysterically—or was she nearer to tears? Whatever. Far too many emotions were thrashing around in her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she went on sympathetically. ‘I really am. But my mind’s made up.’
‘Well, unmake it. Are you nuts?’ asked her father aggressively.
‘No,’ she said forlornly. ‘Sane at last.’
‘But it’s been “Trader, Trader, Trader” ever since I arrived in Ireland five days ago! You’re nervous, that’s all. Snap out of it, sweetie!’ Seeing her set mouth, her father changed tack, holding back his temper and turning on the charm that had coaxed a lifetime of women into his arms, hissing the words through perfectly capped teeth. ‘Of course you’ll go through with it! Honeymoon in the Seychelles, palm trees, blue skies, hot sun…The expense! The marquee alone cost——’
‘I know. A fortune. You told me.’ She gave a faint, sad smile. His materialistic nature always surfaced. ‘I’m terribly sorry to do this to you!’ Her huge eyes pleaded with him in vain for comfort. ‘Dad——’
He