The Wedding Thief
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2020 by Mary Simses
Cover design by Kirin Diemont
Cover art by Todd Pearson / Getty Images
Author photograph by Capehart Photography
Cover © 2020 Hachette Book Group. Inc.
Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Back Bay Books / Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group
1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104
littlebrown.com
facebook.com/littlebrownandcompany
twitter.com/littlebrown
First Back Bay paperback edition, July 2020
Back Bay Books is an imprint of Little, Brown and Company, a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Back Bay Books name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
The Hachette Speakers Bureau provides a wide range of authors for speaking events. To find out more, go to hachettespeakersbureau.com or call (866) 376-6591.
ISBN 978-0-316-42164-5
LCCN 2019955206
E3-20200520-DA-NF=ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Also by Mary Simses
Dedication
Chapter 1: The Lie
Chapter 2: Collision Course
Chapter 3: Carl’s
Chapter 4: Mom in Her Element
Chapter 5: Just One
Chapter 6: A Good Feeling Is Hard to Ignore
Chapter 7: A Proposal
Chapter 8: Alterations
Chapter 9: Going Lame
Chapter 10: A Million Ways to Ruin a Wedding
Chapter 11: ¡Viva la Revolución!
Chapter 12: Under Pressure
Chapter 13: Doesn’t Everybody Like Grilled Cheese?
Chapter 14: Lessons from the Past
Chapter 15: Intruders
Chapter 16: The Interrogation
Chapter 17: The Handoff
Chapter 18: Identity Crisis
Chapter 19: The Exit in the Back
Chapter 20: Kind of Viral
Chapter 21: Change of Plans
Chapter 22: Advice from a Friend
Chapter 23: Dinner
Chapter 24: Father-Daughter Time
Chapter 25: Shaving Should Be Fun
Chapter 26: The Rescue
Chapter 27: The Opening
Chapter 28: The Confession
Chapter 29: With This Ring
The Rolling Pin’s Famous Orange Chocolate Chunk Cookies
Acknowledgments
Discover More
About the Author
Also by Mary Simses
The Irresistible Blueberry Bakeshop & Café
The Rules of Love & Grammar
In memory of Ann Depuy
Explore book giveaways, sneak peeks, deals, and more.
Tap here to learn more.
Chapter 1
The Lie
It was my mother’s lie that brought me back home that July day. Not some inconsequential fib, the kind she occasionally told when my sister and I were young, like saying that Grover’s was out of chocolate chocolate-chip ice cream when the truth was, she’d forgotten to put it on the shopping list. This was different. She said her health was failing fast and that she needed to be with her girls. It didn’t matter that I was thirty-eight and Mariel thirty-five. We were still her girls.
Of course I believed her. Why wouldn’t I?
It was a Monday morning and I was at my desk, working on the arrangements for the fall senior-management meeting. Two hundred fifteen people converging on Scottsdale, Arizona, to hear the company’s plans for the coming year, get face time with one another, take jeep rides into the desert, have dinners around bonfires, eat too much, drink too much, and, if all went well, leave with a good feeling about Kelly Thompson Pierce Financial.
I’d just looked up from my computer and was gazing at the traffic on Lake Shore, wondering where all the sailboats in the harbor were off to, when my cell phone rang. It was Mom. Her voice sounded weak, shaky. And strangely distant, as though she were calling from someplace much farther away than Connecticut.
“You have to…come home…right now,” she said, breathy spaces between the words. “Before it’s too late.”
“Before what’s too late?”
“I’m ill, Sara. Very, very ill. I can’t explain it…over the phone. I need to see you. Just come home.”
Every nerve ending in my body stood at attention. “I’ll get an afternoon flight from O’Hare.” I was already searching the internet, my hands trembling, my fingers clumsy and numb when I needed them to be efficient.
“Your sister’s coming” was the last thing she said, spoken as though it were a footnote.
It should have been the title.
I tried not to think about that as I booked the flight. Tried not to imagine Mariel packing. It wasn’t even seven o’clock in Los Angeles, but I was sure Mom had called her first. She always sought her out first. After eighteen months of not speaking to my sister, I didn’t want to think about the two of us being in the same place at the same time. Somehow, I’d survived last New Year’s Eve, the first anniversary of the night I’d realized there was something going on between her and Carter. The night that ended my relationship with him. And with her. But I’d always thought I’d have a choice about whether to see her again and on what terms. I was wrong.
On the plane, I stared out the window at the clouds while my brain kept grinding away, wondering what was happening to Mom. I was prepared for the worst when I pulled into the driveway in my rented Jetta, a little after six that evening, Jubilee and Anthem hanging their heads out their stall windows, the late-day sun casting a faded glow on the white clapboard house.
In the mudroom, music drifted from the ceiling speakers, the last few bars of “What I Did for Love” from A Chorus Line. A stack of newspapers sat in the recycling bin, an edition of the Hampstead Review on top, and sun hats were piled on a shelf. Mom kept those sun hats there even through the winter, displayed as hopeful harbingers of spring. A black-and-white photo of my parents at the Broadway opening of Right as Rein stared down at me, the last play my father produced before his death from a cardiac arrest almost five years ago.
In the hallway, I charged past Martha, the housekeeper, who was carrying two boxes wrapped in silver-and-white paper. She looked surprised to see me.
“How is she?” I asked, but instead of waiting for an answer, I raced toward the stairs.
“Your mother?” Martha called out. “She’s in the kitchen.”
The kitchen? I thought she’d be in bed. But I was heartened that she was up. As I got closer, I could smell food. Something cooking. Tomatoes and onions, garlic, red wine. It smelled like spaghetti sauce, although I couldn’t imagine Martha cooking spaghetti sauce for my mother—or cooking anything, for that matter. She broiled or boiled the taste out of any food, and Mom had stopped letting her near the stove.
Still, I expected to find Mom at the table, looking peaked and wilted, cloaked in a ba
throbe, a little cup of tea in front of her. But she was standing at the Viking range, her back to me, seeming as fit as ever in a pair of pale gray pants and an ivory sweater, an apron around her waist. Her light brown hair shone as though she’d had it washed and blown out no more than a few hours before. And she was singing along with Frank Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon.”
She held the lid of a large pot in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other. Empty cans of tomatoes and tomato paste were strewn across the counter. A chunk of onion and a clove of garlic rested on a chopping board. This was not a woman who was on her way out of the world.
“Mom?”
She spun around. “Oh, there you are!” She put down the lid and spoon and hugged me, squeezing me tight. She hadn’t lost any strength, and her weight appeared unchanged from when I’d been there in March. “I’m so glad you made it.” She studied me. “You look a little tired. Long flight?”
“Mom, I thought you’d be—”
“Well, you can catch up on your sleep here. And see? I’m making one of your favorite meals. I also picked up a peach pie from the Rolling Pin. I know how much you love their pies.”
I felt as though I’d just walked into a Twilight Zone episode and Rod Serling was about to appear by the refrigerator: You’re looking at Sara Harrington, product of a dysfunctional family. Her sister has betrayed her; her mother has lost her mind. Sara thinks she’s come home. But in fact, she’s just entered The Twilight Zone.
“Mom, what’s going on? You call sounding horrible and tell me to come home because you’re ill. ‘Very, very ill’ is what you said. So I tell my boss I’ll have to be out for a week, maybe longer. I scramble for a flight. I pack. I get here as fast as I can, and you’re cooking dinner? I thought you were at death’s door.” Maybe all actors were overly dramatic, especially the ones with a few Tony Awards under their belts. But this was going too far.
Mom dipped a spoon into the pot and tasted the sauce. “Needs a little salt.”
“Mother!”
“I never said I was at death’s door, sweetie.”
There was a name for the crime of killing your mother…was it matricide? I wanted to have the correct term because I felt I was getting close to committing it. “Yes, you did. You said your health was failing fast. You implied you were terminally ill.” My voice was ratcheting up a few decibels with every syllable. “You said you needed your girls here.” I glared at her until I knew she felt the burn.
She dropped the spoon into the sink. “Well, my health is failing fast. My mental health. It’s failing very fast, and that’s because I worry all the time about you and Mariel and why you two can’t make up.”
I’d been frantic for an entire day, missed an important meeting, and spent my three-hour flight next to a guy who snored and drooled the whole way. For this. “You made me come back to reconcile with Mariel? I can’t believe it.”
She took a step closer, her hand outstretched.
I backed away. “No, you can’t bring us together. And look at you, doing it under false pretenses. You made it sound like you were dying.”
Mom put her hand on her chest. “Well, I am dying…of a broken heart. Two weeks, Sara. Your sister is getting married in two weeks, and you refuse to be a part of it.”
Of course I refused to be a part of it. She was marrying my guy, for God’s sake. The man who used to look at me as though I were the most fascinating and fabulous person in the world—the only person in the world. The guy who knew how to make me smile no matter how bad my day or his day had been. The one who understood what I needed and gave it to me—a sympathetic ear, a funny story, a bit of advice, some silence and a gentle touch. The man I could count on to calmly steer the way through any stormy crisis. My rock.
How could Mom forget the big deal she’d made about Carter being my boyfriend when she’d first met him? After I introduced her to him in LA, she’d said, Oh, Sara, I adore him. He’s so easy to talk to. I feel like I’ve known him for years. No wonder he’s such a successful lawyer. And he’s clearly smitten with you. I think he’s going to be the one. You make the perfect couple.
“Mom, stop the dramatics,” I said. “You tricked me to get me home. I know very well when Mariel’s getting married. And I’m not staying.”
She grabbed my hand. “Oh, honey, come on. You girls have got to put this behind you. I’ve seen you inflict the silent treatment on each other plenty of times, but this situation’s gone on way too long. You two haven’t talked in forever.”
“Forever wouldn’t be long enough.”
“You don’t understand what it’s like to be a mother and be in the middle of your two daughters not speaking with a wedding coming up.” She pulled a box of penne pasta from the cabinet. “I love you both. I just want you to act like sisters again. Why can’t you put the past aside and get back to the way you used to be?”
Mom continued to labor under the delusion that Mariel and I had once been close. I wondered if all parents had blind spots when it came to their children. True, this was the longest we’d ever gone without speaking, but there were always old wounds just beneath the surface that never seemed to heal.
And had she seriously asked why I couldn’t put the past aside? She made it sound as if it were the kind of tiff Mariel and I had gotten into as kids, like arguing about who would sit in the front seat of the car or which restaurant Mom and Dad should take us to for dinner. My sister had stolen Carter Pryce, the only man I’d ever really loved, and in two weeks she was going to marry him. I felt as though my heart was about to shatter all over again.
I wanted to rewind the clock and do everything differently so they would never meet. Rewind it back to the day I’d met Carter, when I was still living in LA, working for Spectacular Events. I’d gone to Santa Monica to see a bank CEO who had hired us to plan a birthday party for her husband. I left her twelfth-floor office and stepped into the empty elevator, stuffing notes in my briefcase as the car descended and stopped on the seventh floor.
A man got in. Tall, tan, with a full head of blond waves, he looked as though he should have been out racing a sailboat. Except he was wearing a bespoke charcoal-gray suit and carrying a red stapler. The door closed; the elevator descended again. Then the car stopped with a loud clunk. I waited for the door to open, but nothing happened. I pushed the button for the lobby, but the button didn’t light up. Several more pushes produced no result except my heartbeat gathering speed.
“Not working?” the sailboat racer asked, pushing the button on his side.
I began to sweat. “I think we’re stuck.” I could hear the tremble in my voice.
The sailboat racer seemed to hear it too. “Don’t worry,” he said, laying a hand on my arm. “We’ll get out of here soon. It’s no big deal.”
He pressed the red emergency button on the elevator panel, and a few seconds later a woman’s voice came floating down from a speaker somewhere above us. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’m trapped in an elevator,” Sailor said. “It’s not moving, and the doors won’t open.” He glanced at me. “And I’m with a lovely lady who looks like she wouldn’t mind getting out of here as soon as possible.”
Oh God, I hoped I didn’t have sweat stains under my arms.
The woman told us she’d contact the fire department, but she couldn’t say how long it would take for them to come.
“It’s okay,” Sailor told me. “We’ll be out before you know it.” He lowered his voice to a whisper and said, “Actually, I didn’t even need to make that call. I have special skills learned from watching years of MacGyver reruns. And I can get us out of here with just the objects I have on hand.”
It took me a moment to realize he was kidding, and I laughed in spite of my damp armpits and shaky knees.
“Let’s see what I’ve got.” He held up the stapler. “One Swingline. Red.” He handed it to me and then emptied his pockets, reciting the contents as he displayed them: “One pack of Doublemint gum, one set of keys on a
key ring.”
“What’s that other thing on the key ring?” I asked. He told me it was a flashlight. That was very MacGyver-like. Maybe he wasn’t kidding.
“One black leather wallet stuffed with credit cards,” he went on. “One brown lacquer and gold Dupont fountain pen. One cell phone. And one book of matches. With these, I can create an explosive device that’ll blow the door right off this thing.”
I laughed again. He had beautiful eyes, deep blue, and I sensed there were some well-toned muscles under his suit. “I’m so relieved. How do we start?”
“You don’t think I can do it. I find that a bit insulting, Miss—uh, are you a miss?”
“Yes, I am. Harrington. Sara Harrington.”
“Carter Pryce,” he said. “I’d shake your hand, but I’m holding the key components to an explosive device. I don’t want to trigger it accidentally.”
I liked his sense of humor. “I understand.”
He wadded up a couple of pieces of gum and stuck them between the elevator doors and the jamb. “That’s the first step. We need a good seal.”
“Right. And you’re telling me you learned these skills from watching MacGyver?”
“I did.”
I didn’t want to tell him I wasn’t really a MacGyver fan. I listened to him recount the plot of an old episode, something about a Bigfoot-type creature, and I stopped thinking about the elevator walls closing in on us. All the while he added things to the wad of gum—credit cards, the ink barrel from his Dupont pen, the battery from the miniature flashlight. “Now all I have to do is set it off with this.” He held up the book of matches. “Are you ready?”
Fortunately, he didn’t have to do it, as firefighters from the Santa Monica Fire Department began calling to us from the other side of the doors. Within twenty minutes, we were out.
I remember the feeling of relief when the doors opened and I saw the foyer stretching in front of us with its creamy interior and silvery recessed lights, the receptionist busy behind her desk as if nothing were amiss. But I felt something else as well: the sense that I might have been able to stand being trapped in that elevator a little longer just to be with Carter Pryce.