From Here to There (3 page)

 "How could I be otherwise?" Phillip asked wryly, a crooked smile on his handsome face.

 "Wal, if you don't, Emile and I'll come after you," Rafe warned, only half teasing.

 Phillip's blue eyes narrowed. "I'm going to worry about that a lot," he said coolly.

 Rafe laughed. "Just so's you don't forget it. This little gal is like a sister to us."

 "How sweet."

 Phillip turned away to greet someone else, dismissing Rafe's demands and presence in a way that Helene could see irked her cousin. Rafe turned to look at her. "You sure you want this guy?"

 Helene tried to smile and had to restrain a little squeak as Phillip, without looking, pulled her almost into the air as he slammed her against his side, obviously missing nothing of their conversation. "She wants me," he snapped, "don't you, darling." The accent on the last word turned it into anything but an endearment.

 "Of course, I do, my sweet. Wasn't that just what I was telling you?"

Phillip again reached down and kissed her, this one angry and quick. The words he whispered in her ear were for her only. "You behave," he hissed.

 "How could I do otherwise," she returned with a smile that would have frozen a lesser man in his place. "
Beloved
."

 He smiled back, the twist of his lips changing his face from a look of gentility into a look that seemed almost dangerous, reminding her again how little she knew him. "Just remember it." He turned back to an older woman who was watching them both with a smile of reminiscence on her lips.

 "Oh my, you two remind me of my Harry and I. Oh, those were the days, God rest his soul. I just hope you two will be as happy as we were and have been for fifty-two years together."

 Phillip looked at her as though he'd just been handed a death sentence. Helene managed a loving smile. "What a sweet thing to wish us," she said, staring into Phillip's eyes, her own denying the message of her lips. "I'm sure we will."

 When at last they were free of the receiving line, Phillip took her hand in his. His firm grip told her it was less for comfort than to assure she would follow him to the dance floor.

 "I believe this dance is mine," he said huskily as they stood in the middle of the floor, and the musicians began playing the love song Helene had requested to begin the dancing. She'd heard it as a girl, decided then that kind of love was the one she wanted, and that someday she would dance to it with her husband. Now, she fervently wished she'd never heard it or at the very least wished she'd never requested it.

 As Phillip drew her into his arms, she could hear the words to the song in her heart, words of everlasting caring, words that seemed like a horrible lie, an arrow piercing her heart. Would she ever know that kind of love? At this point she doubted it.

 Phillip twirled her around the room, his body tense and hard against hers. Her head came barely to his chin, and she found herself studying his chest, wondering for the first time what sort of body the silk shirt hid. She'd never considered Phillip as a man, other than her growing dread at the idea of wedding night with him, but she'd never been pressed against him in the savage way he'd embraced her this afternoon. She'd never felt the promise of his passion, never even believed he was capable of it.

 Her father tapped Phillip on the shoulder and soon she was spun away in other arms. "I'm so proud of you, sweetheart," he said as he danced her around the room.

 "I..." She couldn't tell him, wouldn’t yet admit what was about to happen; so she said, "Thank you.” Soon enough he’d know it was all a lie. She felt upset at the pain she knew this would bring to her parents and family, but she was right about not letting this wedding turn into a marriage.

 The irony was that she had ever made the decision to marry Phillip in the first place. As she danced, she considered that. She'd allowed herself to be maneuvered into something totally wrong for her, a relationship she didn't want, with a man she barely knew. What had possessed her? Where was her personal strength? She had to find the answer to that... as soon as she ended this mock marriage. She had to be certain she would never again make such a horrendous mistake that would hurt so many people.

 Emile cut in and danced her away, his arms strong around her. "Happy?" he asked, smiling down at her.

 "Why wouldn’t I be," she equivocated.

 "Then smile like you mean it." His eyes darkened with concern. "What am I going to tell Nancy when she asks if you found what she and I did?"

 Helene wouldn't tell him the truth anymore than she would her father.  Before he could ask more questions, questions she didn't have answers for, Helene asked the one thing she knew would distract him. "How is your sweet lady?"

 The reminder of his pregnant wife waiting back in Montana caused Emile's eyes to grow soft and heavy, his smile to broaden. Before he had finished telling how Nancy was, Helene saw with relief Uncle Amos coming across the floor toward them, his short, angular body cutting through the other dancers, then he was touching his son's shoulder and claiming her.

 "You make a pretty bride," he said swinging her into his arms.

 "Thank you, kind sir."

 "I know Chelle is looking down from heaven right now and happy as punch for you."

 Helene fought back the tears. "I hope so," she said.

 "What's wrong, baby?"

 She looked up into his homely but loveable face. "Just a little teary when I think about Aunt Rochelle."

 "She would have loved being here today, seeing you all growed up and beautiful."

She managed a smile.

 "She'd also have also known something is wrong. What is it?"

 Before she could answer, Phillip had reclaimed her from her uncle's arms, his hand steady against the small of her back, his face stern as he drew her against him, pulling her into the rhythm of the music and his body. He said nothing, his face stony. She felt a sorrow at what might have been, how this dance might have been for a couple who loved each other and for just a moment, she let herself melt against him, let herself be caught up in the music, the feel of a strong man's arms around her, the smell of his cologne, the texture of his suit, the hard muscle beneath it all. For just a moment, she let herself forget.

 When the song ended, her mother was taking both their hands. "You must cut the cake now, children," she said smiling brightly as she led them to the long white table where a huge cake resided.

 The cake was iced with exotic flowers, its white frosting accented with blue and lavender blossoms. "Where?" Phillip asked, clearing his throat as he looked at the mammoth cake.

 Florence handed him the knife. "Just put your hands together."

 Helene saw the flash of the photographer's camera as their hands came together and cut down through the cake. Phillip's hand beneath hers was finely manicured, long-fingered, his tanned skin smooth to her touch. The plain, golden wedding bands seemed a glaring contrast to the thoughts in her mind as they cut a piece of cake and set it onto a plate.

 "Now feed each other," Florence ordered, smiling and clasping her hands together as the photographer repositioned himself.

 Helene took a deep breath and looked up into Phillip's eyes. For the first time, she saw pain mingled with smoldering anger. Smiling almost sadly, she took a piece of the cake and reached up to put it in his mouth. She felt his lips close over her fingers, caressing them as she pulled free. His own hand reached down and slowly fed her a piece of the cake, his fingers lingering on her lips before he looked away.

 "Smile for the camera," the photographer directed, pointing the lens toward them.

 Phillip's smile was wolfish as he pulled Helene against him and stared into the lens, his thoughts hidden behind those brilliant blue eyes. Helene could only wonder how much longer they could keep up this pretense. She could feel the anger in his body, knew this day must be demanding an effort from him as great as for her. None of it was his fault and she felt sorry for what she had done to him. The pretense had to be stretching his control to nearly the breaking point, but then control had always been Phillip's specialty, and she stopped feeling sorry for him. He would be all right. They would both face down the rumors and laughter at the strange end to their short marriage. Someday they might even come together as friends and laugh about this time. Although looking up into his sternly set face, the stormy eyes, she doubted that would be any day soon.

 She and Phillip filled plates from the buffet table only because her mother insisted. They sat at a table, sipped on champagne and tried to pretend they were gazing into each other's eyes. "God," he whispered, as much to himself as to her, "I can't remember a worst day in my life... and that is going some."

 "Do you think I'm happy?" she hissed, taking another sip of champagne.

 "I hope you're not, you little bitch," he murmured, leaning toward her and smiling as he took her hand in his, his fingers stroking her palm in a way that was causing a tingling throughout her body. "I can't believe what you’ve put me through." His expression hardened. "And worse is what's yet to be."

 "You seem so upset by what people might think. Tell me, what's more disturbing," she asked, taking a grip on his hair that forced his head down where her lips could pretend to nuzzle his ear, "the blow to your heart or your ego?"

 She heard him suppress a yelp as she nipped his earlobe. "You do that again," he threatened in an undertone," and you'll find how little I really care what people think."

 "If you don't care, why are we pretending like this?" she asked, leaning back and smiling sweetly, her voice an icy counterpoint to the sweet expression on her face.

 "Because I won't let anybody make a fool out of me, and you've come too damned close for comfort," he growled back, the champagne glass raised, then drained.

 Michelle and Tiffany rushed up to grasp Helene's arms, pulling her up from her chair. "Time to throw the bouquet," they chorused in unison.

 "Ah yes," Phillip said, rising himself, "for the next--lucky bride."

 Helene glared at him, then followed her friends, who had already retrieved the bouquet and were leading her to an outside porch. She pressed the bouquet to her nose, smelling the sweet fragrance of the lilies, daisies and carnations. It wasn't a typical pattern of flowers for a bridal bouquet or so her mother had informed her, but the lilies and daisies represented the high country of Montana and the carnations were for the scent she always associated with Aunt Rochelle. Her mother had argued orchids would last longer, but it was one area where Helene had held out for her own way. Now it was time to part with the bouquet as she was parting with her dreams and hopes.

 Swallowing she looked out beyond the giggling girls and saw Phillip seemingly negligently leaning one shoulder against a wall, staring into his refilled champagne glass. She felt a surge of pain for what she'd done to him, the humiliation she'd was bringing him. Blocking such thoughts, she smiled artificially and tossed the bouquet, not looking to see who caught it, temporarily blinded by tears as she turned away.

 Uncle Amos put his arm around her shoulders. "Weddings are sentimental creations. Don't know why people want 'em. Always make everybody cry."

 She smiled up at him, grateful for his light words. "You know me," she said, dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief he offered, "Always crying at the least little thing."

 Amos smiled at her, then up at Phillip as he sauntered slowly toward them. "He's a good man," he whispered into her ear. "It's probably hard for you both right now, starting a new life, all the pressures of a big wedding, but I think you're going to be as happy together as Chelle and I were."

 Phillip looked down at Amos, then his gaze flicked to Helene. "I see you have my lady."

 "That I do. You're just lucky you're in Massachusetts, not Montana. Back there if you leave a pretty lady like this one alone, some other cowpoke would be grabbing her, making away with her."