Monique opened her eyes fifteen minutes before the alarm was set to go off and stretched deliciously across the huge bed in Eve’s guest bedroom.
This is it. No turning back now. I have exactly six hours to get to that church, looking slightly more presentable than I do at this moment.
She and Eve had stayed up until three in the morning, talking and laughing like fifteen year-olds at a sleepover. Neither of them had been able to get much sleep the past few weeks. The baby was pressing on Eve’s bladder, and she found herself constantly running to the bathroom, and Monique had so much pressing on her mind that insomnia had taken hold of her as surely as her frenzied need for cigarettes and coffee. Groaning as she stepped into the shower, Monique spun the jets full blast and prayed the bags under her eyes would mist away in the steam.
Still damp, she padded off to the kitchen, following the lure of Irish Creme coffee. She lit a cigarette as she went.
“You really should get rid of those things,” Eve scolded in greeting. “Don’t you want to live to celebrate your golden anniversary with Richard?”
Monique made a face and poured herself a mug of coffee.
“Besides, you promised not to smoke here. Remember, the baby?” Eve reminded her pointedly.
“Whoops. Forgot.” Monique stubbed out the cigarette and smiled apologetically. She reached into the refrigerator for a grapefruit. “By the way, you never did tell me who your escort is for the wedding.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Well?”
To Monique’s amazement, Eve looked shy as a school-girl. “You know him... sort of. Remember Andrew Leonetti?”
Monique dropped the grapefruit onto the counter, startling Ragamuffin, who had been about to curl up on a chair. “I didn’t realize... I never knew... are you seeing him?”
Eve laughed, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She’d gained forty pounds and her belly was the size of a porcelain Buddha’s, but she looked fresh and glowing in her fuzzy yellow chenille bathrobe that barely made it around her middle.
“Well, we talked a little in Hawaii. And when he heard the news of Nico’s car crash, he telephoned from Arizona. He’s nice.”
“And good-looking,” Monique remarked encouragingly.
“And good-looking,” Eve agreed calmly, stroking Ragamuffin’s perked ears as he jumped onto her lap. “Monique, don’t make a big deal of this. Andrew was in town last month for a conference on autistic children, and we met for dinner, and that’s all.”
“That’s all. That’s all? We were up until three in the morning, spilling our guts and timing Braxton-Hicks contractions, and you save this little news flash for today?”
Eve actually blushed. “Everyone’s entitled to a few secrets,” she said smugly, and set down her coffee mug. “Scrambled eggs, or sunny-side up?”
Monique protested that she couldn’t eat a thing. She watched Eve wolf down four scrambled eggs, whole wheat toast, a doughnut, and a bowl of strawberries, and wondered if she’d eat like a home when she was pregnant. Right now she couldn’t fathom ever wanting to eat again. She tried to imagine being pregnant with Richard’s baby, but all she could summon up was the absurd image of a nurse presenting her a bawling infant with a pipe clenched lightly in its tiny fist and a silver money clip dangling from its umbilical cord.
Caught between a shudder and a giggle, she told Eve. “At the rate you’re going, my godchild’s going to look like a sumo wrestler. Just promise me you won’t deliver the little butterball while I’m walking down the aisle.”
By two o’clock Eve’s apartment was a hurricane of activity. Jenna, Delia, and Eve dashed around in a blur of blue silk, while Monique’s hairdresser removed the hot rollers and fashioned her hair in an explosion of glossy curls.
Clara kept coffee flowing for the makeup artist, photographer, and his two assistants, while Linda, smashing in a tube of amethyst silk, gathered up the veil and bobby pins and with great ceremony slipped a good-luck sixpence into Monique’s pearled and beaded shoe.
At last, resplendent in her gold and white gown, Monique was whisked off with her entourage in a cavalcade of limos.
“No turning back now.” Eve chuckled gaily.
Monique’s stomach lurched. Maybe she should have eaten breakfast after all. When they passed Saks and she saw the spires of St. Patrick’s loom up into the searing blue July sky, a wave of faintness washed over her.
Get a grip, Monique. “Anyone have some crackers?” she heard herself ask in a tiny voice. Jenna rummaged through her peau de soie bag and came up with a Tic Tac. “We can always try to sneak you some unconsecrated communion wafers,” she kidded.
It was ninety-seven degrees outside, but Monique felt freezing cold as she stepped dreamlike from the limo and up the white carpet that rippled over the cement staircase and into the darkened vestibule.
They were the last to arrive. The cathedral was packed. “Richard looks fantastic,” somebody whispered. She thought it was Delia.
Eve embraced Monique. “I’m going in to find Andrew. They’ll be starting any minute.” She brushed a light kiss across Monique’s cheek, taking care not to smear either of their carefully made up faces. “Be happy,” she whispered. “You deserve it.”
Monique’s knees knocked together beneath the voluminous folds of the gown. Maybe this idea of walking myself down the aisle wasn’t such a good one—I could use an arm to lean on right now. Guess I’m not as tough as I thought.
A horrifying thought occurred to her. Maybe Pete was right. Maybe he knew her better than she knew herself.
The organ strains floated through the closed doors. “That’s our cue,” whispered Linda, before she, Jenna, and Delia disappeared into the cavernous cathedral frosted with exotic blossoms and flickering candlelight, leaving Monique alone in the vestibule.
Monique thought of her mother at that moment and knew Mireille and Dorothy would be sitting in the parlor, watching the crystal clock on the mantelpiece, imagining her every emotion. But they can’t possibly imagine the panic I’m feeling right now.
The videographer’s assistant poked his head through the door. “Two more seconds and you’re on, Comtesse.”
Two seconds. The door closed with a whisper of finality. Monique took a deep breath and pulled the door open a tiny crack. The cathedral was a fairyland of candles, flowers, and white carpet, the packed pews aglitter with elegantly attired guests.
You love this stuff, she reminded herself. You love making an entrance and being the center of attention. This is who you are.
She stepped out as a dramatic chord announced her entrance. All eyes turned to Monique, and a hushed silence blanketed the congregation.
She started down the aisle.
Faces blurred before her, only a few, now and then, coming into focus as she stepped carefully along the petal-strewn white carpet.
There were Ana and John, holding hands.
Alec Anderson, the new art director of Perfect Bride, gave her a solemn thumbs-up.
On the aisle, Antonio pantomimed applause while Phil beamed approvingly at his side.
Seated next to Mimi Cohn, Henry Theogustus grinned broadly at her. Doesn’t he look like the cat who swallowed the canary? she thought, and for a fleeting instant wondered why.
She caught Brian Michaelson’s wink and Teri’s glowing smile as they watched her glide by.
She spotted Eve and Andrew Leonetti seated near the front of the cathedral and was struck by how right they looked together.
The heady scent of crushed rose petals filled her senses. Colors and faces rushed by with dizzying confusion. She was almost at the altar.
Richard. Her breath caught in her throat as their eyes met. He looked spectacular in his black tux. Tall, suavely handsome, and commanding. A smile trembled on her lips as he stepped forward, elbow crooked, to escort her those final few steps. She took one last deep breath, and slipped her arm through his. Time journeyed on, surreal, as Linda relieved her of her bouquet, fluffed her veil, and the ceremony began.
“We are gathered here today as witnesses to the holy sacrament of matrimony. If there is anyone here present who has knowledge of any reason whatsoever to prevent the joining in holy matrimony of Monique Lisette D’Arcy and Richard Charles Ives, come forward at this time, or forever remain silent...”
Only Richard could manage to get an annulment after so many years of marriage, Monique reflected dazedly, and then Richard’s nephew, Paul, was holding out the lace-trimmed pillow cradling the wedding rings.
“Richard Charles Ives, do you take this woman, Monique Lisette D’Arcy, to be your lawfully wedded wife?” The bishop’s words echoed through the cathedral as Richard gazed piercingly into her eyes. Monique saw his lips form the words “I do,” but her mind was spinning so fast, she barely heard them.
“Monique Lisette D’Arcy, do you take this man, Richard Charles Ives, to be your lawfully wedded husband in sickness and in health...”
She didn’t hear the rest.
“No.”
The bishop paused, his pointed face startled. He peered at Monique as if he hadn’t quite heard properly. Moistening his lips, he continued more loudly. “. . . from this day forward, until death do you part?”
“No.”
Monique saw the bishop’s eyes go wide. She turned to Richard, who was regarding her with an arctically frozen smile.
“Monique... what the hell?” he bit off with an intake of breath that was no less ferocious for all its softness. The video camera captured every nuance of his outraged expression.
Monique gave her veiled head a tiny shake. “No, Richard. I’m sorry. I can’t.”
A strange calm tingled over her like a halo of rosy candlelight. She smiled her most generous smile, hoisted aside the skirts of her regal gown, and with head held high, strolled back up the aisle. She exited as only Monique could, skimming lightly up that pristine carpet, through the vestibule, and out again into the wilting heat and the waiting limo.
She yanked her gown in behind her and paid no heed to the driver’s stunned expression.
“Take the Merritt Parkway. We’re going to Connecticut.”
* * *
Monique was soaked through to her satin bra as she scrambled down the path to the carriage house, catching her gown on every damned rosebush along the way as she tried to hurry.
The gown was now as wrinkled as elephant hide anyway. And her shoes were ruined. But all she cared about was that she wouldn’t be too late.
She banged on the carriage-house door.
Pressed on the bell.
Shouted.
No answer.
A fly buzzed through her spray-scented hair and then lazily looped away through the garden. All around her, the peaceful, dreamy scent of roses, daisies, and oleander permeated the overbearing July air.
Monique bit back a sob of frustration. You can’t have gone yet. You just can’t.
She tore off toward the big house. Maybe the new owners knew where he’d gone. Music wafted from one of the upstairs windows, and her throat tightened. Pavarotti... she was certain. If it weren’t so ironic, she’d have cried.
She leaned on the doorbell with relentless determination. She hammered with the handsome brass knocker, and was at last rewarded by the muffled sound of approaching footsteps.
“Can you tell me where—”
Holding a half-eaten slice of pizza, Pete Lambert stared incredulously at her.
“Where what?”
Monique’s heart began to pound like a jackhammer. She closed her eyes and quickly reopened them.
“What are you doing here? I thought you moved.”
“What are you doing here? I thought you were getting married.”
She glared at him. “I asked you first.”
That slow, lazy, infuriating grin spread across his face. “So you did, Comtesse.” He took her arm and led her inside.
Even when it was stark naked but freshly painted, the house had been a dream, but with toast and caramel suede furniture, handmade fluffy rugs adorning the highly buffed floors, and Asian and African accents, it was incredible.
Monique, however, hadn’t come here to admire the decor. She fixed a steely gaze on Pete and challenged him again, “I thought you moved.”
“I did. Like my new digs?”
“Your new digs? In your dreams, maybe.”
He laughed out loud, tossed his pizza into the Bertino’s carton on the coffee table, and wiped his hands on a napkin while Monique wondered if she had fallen into some strange Dali dream. But Pete wasn’t surreal, and he wasn’t a dream. He was real and solid and gazing at her with a guilty gleam in his eye.
“I have a confession to make. This is my house. Has been from the start.”
“How... what...?”
“No. You’ve had your question, Comtesse. It’s my turn.” He caught her left hand and held it up. “I see you’re not wearing a wedding band. What happened?”
Monique stuck her mud-streaked ankle out from beneath the limp folds of the gown. “I’m not wearing a diamond-studded ball and chain either,” she retorted. “Just heard a fashion update that those are passé this year.”
He said nothing, but regarded her with an unwavering stare.
She sighed, muttered, “What the hell,” and plunged ahead. “I left Richard at the altar. For you. If you still... that is... unless...”
Pete seized her so roughly, she gasped. His mouth crushed hers. His arms captured her in a viselike embrace. Monique clutched him, kissing him with the long-pent-up passion she had futilely tried to deny.
“Dammit, Monique.” He came up for air. “You went right down to the wire, didn’t you?”
“Don’t remind me,” she begged, pressing kisses against the open V of his T-shirt and sliding her hands across the sinewed muscles of his back. “I was a fool. But if you don’t tell me the truth about you and this house right now, I’m going to have to beat it out of you.”
“Promises, promises. Monique, let’s sit down a minute.” He led her to the sofa, pulled her close, and kissed her lips, her earlobes, her throat. He yearned to rip her out of that wedding dress and taste every inch of her, but he forced himself to wait. It was time to explain, time for her to know the whole truth.
He clasped her hands in his and met her searching gaze directly. “All kidding aside, Monique, I really, truly, own this house. I own lots of houses, actually.” He laughed at her astonished expression. “I like to buy them and fix them up myself. Some I sell, others I live in—like the one in Palm Beach, or the old castle outside London.”
Monique gaped at him. “Who are you?”
“Pete Lambert. Actually, my birth certificate says Peter Ambrose Lambertino. My father made a fortune in the frozen-food business and left my brother, Ted, and me with enough capital apiece to buy a couple of small countries. Add in the stock options, the trust fund, and the interest that’s accumulated—well, I don’t have to worry too much about where my next meal is coming from.”
“You’re a millionaire?” she gasped, struggling to take in this startling revelation, trying to picture the rugged carpenter in sweat clothes and baseball cap as the heir to a fortune.
“Several times over,” he replied solemnly. “I think my father would have liked me to join Ted in running the family business, but I never was much of a corporate type. I’ve always preferred working with my hands. My father understood that, bless his soul. He was a pretty down-to-earth guy, started out as a baker. So now Ted runs the company solo—I just pop into board meetings on a regular basis. It beats wearing the old suit and tie every day.”
Monique jabbed her fist into his forearm. “And you never told me any of this? What the hell were you saving it for?”
“I’ve been burned, Monique—more than once. You struggled your way to the top, I was born there.” A shadow crossed his face. “It’s a strange perspective. All my life I’ve contended with women whose interest in me seemed to have more to do with what I had than who I was. It’s a weird feeling, always wondering if someone loves you, hell, even likes you, just for yourself, without all the trappings. There were moments when I almost told you, when I wanted to compete with Richard Ives on his own terms, but I didn’t want my money to be the impetus for your decision or even a factor. If it had, I’d have lost more than if you’d chosen to spend your life with Richard.”
“You idiot, you insecure, infuriating idiot, I do love you for yourself only.” Monique grabbed him by the neck of his T-shirt and tugged in time to her words. “Dammit, I walked out on Richard Ives in front of four hundred of our nearest and dearest. I left him at the altar of St. Patrick’s. I turned my back on a fortune, a job, and a honeymoon in the Greek islands, all for my needling, aggravating, stubborn, charming, and impossibly sexy dance partner. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Pete kissed the tip of her nose. “Does this mean we’re in love?”
“Is that a proposal?” Monique countered, tossing his baseball cap aside so that she could slide her fingers through the thickness of his hair. Her eyes were soft as she awaited his reply.
“Damned right it is... speaking of which...”
From his pocket, impossibly, came a small velvet box. “I’ve been carrying this around for days. It’s wearing a hole in my pocket. Thought I’d be taking it back to the jeweler’s on Monday.” He flipped the lid open and held out the box, watching her face.
Monique could only stare, bewitched. A six-carat blue diamond ring glittered in its bed of black velvet.
“I’ve never seen anything as beautiful,” she whispered.
“I have,” Pete said softly. “And I’ll take that as a yes,” he added, and kissed her again.
“By the way,” Monique murmured as he flung the headpiece to the floor and began toying with the satin rosette fastenings down her back. “What kind of food business did you say your father was in?”
“Pizza. Bertino’s pizza.”
“What?” Monique glanced wildly at the cardboard box on the table. “You’re Bertino’s pizza?”
“I told you it was an old family recipe,” he reminded her. And before she knew it, he had swept her up into his arms and was carrying her toward the staircase.
As they neared the skylit landing, Monique lifted her head from his shoulder and murmured, “I’ll have to design a brand-new dress for our wedding. Maman will help, I’m sure—something completely different... oh, I can hardly wait.” She suddenly exclaimed, “You know, I had the best time designing this dress... bringing my own ideas from paper to something real, something beautiful... why couldn’t I start my own design studio? I’m certainly not going back to Perfect Bride.” Her voice quickened with excitement. “I can see it now, a whole designer line of couture evening clothes and wedding gowns... the Comtesse line... I could work right from here, you could redo the carriage house as a studio... and we could go over every day and have lunch with Maman...”
Pete dumped her on the bed. “Do you think we could wait an hour or so to get started on the carriage house? There’s something else I’d really like to do right now.”
Monique grinned at him as she drew him down beside her on the bed. “Oh, yeah?” She began tugging at his sweat shorts, eyes agleam. “What else have you got hidden inside here for me?”
Pete had her out of the wedding dress—the dress that took three women half an hour to button her into—in five minutes flat. “God, do I love you, Monique.” He tossed the rumpled gown to the floor and covered her long, naked body with his own. “Something old, something new, I’ve always been in love with you,” he grinned, and began nibbling a path toward the hard, rosy peak of her breast.
“And I love you, Pete Lambert.” Monique smiled with intoxicating happiness and breathed in the scent of his hair. “Guaranteed.”
A Note From Jill
Hi everyone! As some of you may already know, I grew up in Chicago and received my bachelor of arts degree in English Education from the University of Illinois. I’m an animal lover, and love taking long walks on the path through our woods. I also love reading, hot tea on a winter’s day, and the company of friends. I live in Michigan with my husband of forty years, and enjoy our home overlooking the woods where the deer, rabbits, squirrels, and an occasional owl or hawk come out to play.
I’d like to take a moment to say a big thank you to all of my readers. I can’t begin to tell you how much your support, kind words, reviews, and friendship mean to me. I’m honored that you enjoy my books and always smile when I hear from you.
Thank you so much—I appreciate all of you more than I can say!
With love,
Jill
A Note from Karen
It was great fun to reread Something Borrowed, Something Blue after all these years as we readied it for its eBook debut. I cried, I laughed, I sighed, I got chills—even though I knew how it was all going to turn out. :)
Something Borrowed, Something Blue is the first novel Jill and I wrote together—one of two we penned under the name Jillian Karr. We were thrilled when CBS optioned this special book for film and the two of us opened a bottle of champagne and watched the movie on my VCR just days before it premiered as a CBS Movie of the Week starring Connie Sellecca, Twiggy, Dina Merrill and Ken Howard.
Our editor wanted us to draw Ana as a fully fleshed character and what better way than for the two of us to visit the Toronto movie set of USED PEOPLE, spending five days as extras in the film edited by my brother, John Tintori.
Lots of great memories stirred up as we launch Something Borrowed, Something Blue as an eBook for you. Here’s hoping you laugh, cry, and sigh and that you love Ana, Teri, Evie B and Monique as much as we do.
Happy Reading!
Karen