The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield (31 page)

He glanced down at the photo album on his lap. “I’d like to think I did well in raising them but only time will tell. None of them are perfect, which is fine with me despite what they think. All I want for them is just to be happy and well.”

I don’t know if taking their choice away helps with that but who am I to lecture about parenthood? I’m not a parent and what I know of mine is nothing anyone should follow.

“This is my favorite picture of Brandon when he was little,” Martin said, slipping his fingers underneath the thin plastic that held the photo and carefully taking it out.

“I brought this home for him from my business trip,” he continued, handing me the photo. “He was eighteen months then. He looked at the toy for almost half an hour before doing anything with it. Christina, his mother, worried that he didn’t like it, but then he started to rearrange the pieces to his liking.”

It was a photo of Brandon as a toddler with his chubby cheeks, big eyes and thick dark hair, sitting on the carpeted floor in a dark blue jumpsuit and white shirt, a wooden train block set on his lap and an adorable frown on his face as he stared at the toy in full concentration.

“It’s odd that I would like it the most when he’s not even smiling in it but I thought it best captured my son,” Martin said as I continued to gaze down at the photo. “He’s always been such a serious child, even after his other siblings came. He’s always intent on figuring out the most efficient way to resolve situations into how he wants them to be that he often forgets there’s some joy to be found in life’s twists and turns. He forgets to smile or laugh or remember that he’s human and not a mechanical problem-solver.”

“He’s a very successful business man though,” I said quietly, my fingertips tracing the face of the boy in the photo. 

“He is but he’s not a happy person,” Martin replied with a soft sigh. “He works like it’s a race to a destination he probably doesn’t even really know. He would go from woman to woman like someone trading a pair of shoes for another the moment they start to pinch because he couldn’t spare the time or the effort to figure out why the type of shoes he selected wasn’t a good fit to begin with.”

Maybe I was just paranoid but something about Martin’s statement prodded on my consciousness—as if he knew. 

But that wasn’t possible. If he knew I was deceiving him, he wouldn’t be having a heart-to-heart with me like this about his son.

“I think he would tell you that I more than pinch,” I joked with a small laugh, trying to quell my paranoia away. “He can barely take a step forward without me causing him some pain.”

Martin smiled. “It won’t be painless. It won’t always be a walk in the park. But once you’ve given it a chance, you might get over the initial discomfort and adjust to each other better. You have to learn how to walk before you can run but I have a feeling that once you two hit your stride, you might just make the biggest leap of your lives.”

My jaw dropped open a little bit at Martin’s proclamation but I quickly recovered and gave him a cheeky smile. “You’re full of walking metaphors tonight, Martin.”

He chuckled, lightening up the atmosphere that had gotten a bit maudlin. “I’m full of all kinds of metaphors, Charlotte. You know that. They leave people free to make their own interpretation.”

And I've made yours into rules I live my life by—one fortune-cookie saying at a time.

I glanced down at the photo again and I couldn’t help imagining what Brandon’s children would look like—whether they would have his dark hair and my blue-green eyes or my honey blonde hair and his hazel eyes.

Whoa. Where did that come from?

“You can keep it, Charlotte,” Martin said, closing the photo album. “Maybe it will remind you of what it is about my son that I love the most and what I hope to help him find.”

The old man rose to his feet and set aside the album and I stood as well.

“You should probably go to bed,” he said, walking me to the door. “You have a big day tomorrow.”

I was still a little bit dazed by our conversation that I just clutched the photo to my heart and nodded. “Goodnight, Martin.”

“Goodnight, Charlotte,” he said, kissing me on the cheek. “Sleep well.”

I forgot about the milk. I went back upstairs to my room and found the diary I haven’t had the time to write on in the last year and a half. Either I didn’t have the time or I didn’t want to read my hardships on paper because it made them more real for me.

I tucked Brandon’s baby picture between the pages and wrote a short entry—my first one in a long time.

Tomorrow, I’m marrying Brandon Maxfield. 

Are the reasons important? For fantasy’s sake, could I tell myself it was because fairy tales come true and my handsome, gallant prince has finally come?

It doesn’t matter. 

Whatever his reasons are, I realize that mine have come down to one—the same reason any princess in any fairy tale would marry her prince.

Maybe there could be a happy ending to all of this someday.

-Charlotte

***

“You must be Brandon’s bride.”

I looked up and saw a tall, handsome man standing behind me from the view of the mirror.

Clyde paused in the middle of gathering the top half of my hair which he was going to pin together under a bejeweled comb.

“And you must be a complete stranger,” I said with a half-smile, trying to sift through my memory for a name to the face. He seemed familiar from Felicity’s profile portfolio but I couldn’t place him. 

“Char, this is Francis Pelletier,” Felicity volunteered, rising from her chair where she was going over her checklist.

She wasn’t dressed for the wedding yet because for some reason, only the bride needed several hours to prepare. I was still in my robe because the hair and make up alone took almost two hours. Noli and Armina were over at the corner where the dress and accessories were, making the final touches on them.

“Oh,” I said, surprised. 

Francis Pelletier was Brandon’s cousin—the same one his father threatened to give the CEO position to if he didn’t marry me.

I studied the man on the mirror. 

He was impeccably in a black tux. He had light brown hair, blue eyes like Martin and a broad, easy smile. He wouldn't be more than a couple years older than Brandon.

“I know I wasn’t invited and I’m sure it had nothing to do with you,” he said casually. “My cousin just doesn’t like me.”

I raised a brow, feeling instantly defensive of Brandon. For some reason, his enemy instantly became mine. “And I’m sure you know why.”

His brows shot up in surprise for a moment but he just laughed. “Probably.”

I could feel the others’ eyes on me as they listened to the conversation while continuing with their tasks and I was careful not to let anything slip. Francis was most likely unaware of Martin’s ultimatum.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “You did admit you weren’t invited.”

“I didn’t even know Brandon was getting married,” he said, pacing slowly behind me. “I was sitting in my office in London yesterday morning when I heard the news. I thought I won’t miss a family occasion as big as this.”

“Well, it wanted to miss you,” I said with a roll of my eyes. “I don’t want a fistfight at my wedding, if you don’t mind, so if you want to attend, stay out Brandon’s way. You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

His blue eyes regarded me thoughtfully. “You’re not exactly what I expected in Brandon’s bride.”

“You and the rest of the world,” I quipped. 

“There you are, Francis.”

We glanced up, much to Clyde’s chagrin because my head moved again, and saw Martin walking into the room in his dress pants and white silk shirt. “Tessa said you just arrived.”

“Uncle Martin. Good to see you,” Francis said, clapping the old man in the back as he gave him a hug. “I was just introducing myself to Brandon’s bride.”

Martin looked my way and I just smiled at him reassuringly. 

“I’d watch myself around Charlotte, if I were you,” Martin said with a smirk. “She doesn’t hesitate to introduce her foot to your intimate parts if you get on her bad side.”

I snickered and I could feel everyone’s amusement. 

Even Francis smiled wryly.

“I always do well taking your advice,” he conceded, glancing at me. “In which case, I’m going to make myself scarce now and maybe join you in your office instead of bothering the bride.”

Once the two men had left, I asked Felicity again for a refresher on Francis Pelletier’s profile.

He was currently running the operations for Maxfield Industries in Europe. He was single, wealthy on his own and generally well-liked. Nothing about him struck me as particularly annoying. It was more of my loyalty to Brandon that spurred my dismissive behavior toward him and I wondered why the two men didn’t get along.

An hour later, after the rest of the small wedding entourage arrived and everyone else had gotten ready, I got into my wedding dress with the help of at least three people.

I actually didn’t pick it out. Noli had an idea for me and I let him run with it, trusting him completely on the design.

I only saw it a couple of days ago but it wasn’t even fully finished then.

Now that I was standing in front of a full-length mirror with my hair cascading down my back in soft waves from the vintage pearl and diamond-studded comb that held it together, I could appreciate the sight fully.

I looked like a princess.

The dress was ivory-white with the silhouette of a ball gown. It was strapless with a softened sweetheart neckline. The bodice was snug around my breasts and waist, intricately clustered with white silk petals which looked like a spray of flowers that started to spread out down the full tulle skirt. 

My ears were adorned with dainty pearl and diamond studs and my neck showcased the thin chain of pink and clear diamonds Brandon had given to me on our engagement party, offering a light splash of color.

My wrists were sheathed in a pair of sheer fingerless gloves that extended just right up to my elbows, secured in place with a loop over my middle finger. Noli created them in the last minute after I got injured. The binding on my sprained wrist was reduced slightly so it wasn’t bulky and its nude color concealed itself under the shimmery fabric.

My face was fresh and dewy, a healthy, rosy flush suffusing my cheeks. My lids were dusted with a pale, rose gold shadow, brightening my eyes. My lips were plump and pinkened with a moist shade of raspberry.

“Wow,” I breathed in amazement as I did a slow turn, carefully balancing myself in the satin pumps that came with the dress.

“You look incredible,” Felicity gushed, sniffling a little just as everyone chimed in.

“Absolutely beautiful.”

“Brandon will be knocked off his feet.”

“It looks magical on you, Char.”

“Just stunning. You look—”

Clyde’s words were cut short when my cell phone blared with the chorus of Shaggy’s Mr. Boombastic which was the ringtone I recently assigned to Brandon’s number.

Everyone burst into fits of laughter and I grinned and held up a hand to hush them as I answered the call.

“Hello?”

“Did Francis come see you?” was Brandon’s immediate, grumpy greeting.

“Yup,” I answered. “He seemed harmless.”

“Don’t fall for it,” he said shortly. “His charisma is his best weapon.”

I rolled my eyes. “Maybe you should ask to share. You clearly lack in that department.”

“Be serious, Charlotte,” he said in exasperation. “I don’t know what he’s doing here but I don’t want him to stir trouble. I don’t want him talking you out of this.”

“I’m in a freaking thirty-pound wedding dress, Brandon, and I’m stiff from sitting through two and a half hours of hair and make-up,” I replied dryly. “We’re less than an hour away from the wedding. Do you think I’ll change my mind at this point?”

“Oh,” he said, sounding sheepish now. After a moment, he spoke again, this time with a hint of amusement. “Are you really dressed in your wedding gown?”

“Yes, in all fifty layers of it,” I retorted, aware that the others were listening to the entertainment. “I’m practically holding myself up with just my toes because my heels feel like they’re five feet high in the air in these towering shoes. I might a need a wheelchair tomorrow.”

“Anyone marrying Brandon will need a wheelchair after her wedding night, if you know what I mean,” Clyde snickered beside me and everyone else giggled.

My cheeks burned and I glared at them.

“Okay, I’ll see you in church then,” he said brightly before hanging up.

“What? He can’t wait?” Aimee asked with a teasing grin. She was dressed in a long, silky dress in a deep, cranberry red color which was the motif I picked out for the wedding. 

I sighed. “He’s just making sure I haven’t run away yet which is why, if everyone’s ready, we should probably get going.”

I rode in a gleaming white stretch limo with Martin. The rest were in silver one behind us. There was security set in place around the wedding location to keep trespassers and the paparazzi from sneaking in. I’d promised to give them some pictures after the wedding but I wouldn't put it past them to try to snag some of their own.

As the church came into view and I saw that the front yard was specked with guests in elegant dresses and tuxedos, my stomach twisted into nervous knots.

“It’ll all be alright, Charlotte,” Martin reassured me, taking my hand and squeezing it.

I took a deep, shaky breath and a dose of fortitude. I was so nervous I forgot the discomfort around my ribs under the tight sheath of the bodice or the slight ache in my wrist from having clenched my hands together during the ride.

I was worried about everything—that someone would rise and speak up from the crowd when the priest asked if anyone objected, or that Brandon wouldn’t be there and I’d stand by the altar alone, abandoned by my groom. I had to take several deep breaths to calm myself down enough that my hands stopped shaking.

You can do this, Charlotte. You can do this for Brandon.

The wedding felt like I was in dreamscape. 

I remembered slipping out of the car, walking up the steps and standing by the church entrance, my vision slightly obscured by the light veil. 

There was slow music playing as I started to walk down the aisle on Martin’s arm, my eyes focused on the tall man in a light gray tuxedo standing by the altar next to Jake.

Most of what I remembered of the ceremony was looking into Brandon’s smiling eyes and vaguely echoing our vows after the priest.

The dreamlike daze only broke when Brandon kissed me heartily in front of everyone at the priest’s prompting, “You may now kiss the bride.”

Everyone applauded and we reluctantly pulled away, glancing at our audience and grinning sheepishly.

We were well and truly married and I was now Mrs. Charlotte Alexandra Maxfield.

I glanced at my new husband as he started down the steps of the altar, still holding my left hand that now wore a wedding band that matched his.

“Come on,” he said with quirky smile. “It’s time to party.”

The reception dinner was held in a large, old barn just behind the chapel. It had been converted into a beautiful, rustic dinner hall and Shelly had done an amazing job in even glamorizing it further with the elegant flower arrangements, vintage chandeliers and many old-fashioned touches. I had an idea of her vision when she described the setting to me but I hadn’t prepared for how charming the whole place would look. 

We arrived there after spending half an hour doing photos inside the chapel and around the churchyard. I refused to make the guests wait longer and my feet were starting to hurt so I cut the wedding photography short. 

The guests were already seated and served drinks and canapes when we arrived. We were announced along with the small entourage before we settled in our seats by the long table at one end of the room just across the dance floor from the guests.

Before dinner was served, Martin stood to say a few words.

“My speech will be short and sweet because there aren’t enough words to express how happy I am to see two very important people to me find each other and start a life together as husband and wife,” he said, smiling in our direction.

“Congratulations to Brandon and Charlotte who despite the odds made it here today,” he continued, and I felt Brandon’s hand take mine under the table. “But remember kids, this isn’t the destination—this is the starting line and you have a long way to go. Make the most of the journey, help each other up when you stumble and fall, have fun while you’re at it, and keep in mind that wherever it leads, your destination is each other and wherever your hearts take you.”

I blinked back tears, deeply touched by Martin’s words. My chin quivered and Brandon leaned down and cupped it with his hand, his thumb brushing my skin gently.

“Hey, don’t cry,” he murmured with a smile. “It’s a happy day.”

“Your father is such a sappy romantic, I swear,” I murmured back with a choked laugh that I smothered quickly.

We focused back on Martin who had turned to the guests. “Thank you to everyone who joined us in this special day. Tonight is a celebration and we all invite you to enjoy yourselves. Thank you.”

Once Martin was seated, Jake rose to his feet, magnificent in his black tux, smiling and holding up his champagne glass. My heart squeezed when our eyes met but his smile was sincere and bright.

“This is usually when I start poking fun at the groom to make for an entertaining best man’s toast but I think Charlotte does enough of that to Brandon already that I decided to spare him tonight.”

Several people laughed and Jake winked at us. My cheeks warmed in embarrassment a little but I nodded at him to keep going.

“Instead of making the bride doubt the wisdom of her decision to marry Brandon after I’ve told enough of his past antics, I’ve decided to assure her of why she’s one of the luckiest women in the world instead.”

Brandon’s hold on my hand tightened and I glanced at him to see the serious expression on his face as he listened to his best friend.

“Brandon is a good man although a little serious, a bit workaholic, horribly unattractive—” Everyone cracked up. “—and sometimes overbearing when he’s convinced he’s only looking after your welfare. Not everyone can appreciate that about him until you become the center of his attention—and you’ll realize how incredibly lucky you are to have someone care for you that much. I say that and I’m just his best friend. You, Charlotte, are his bride, his wife.”

Oh, Jake. I don’t deserve this. Brandon and I don’t deserve this from you.

He swivelled his gaze to Brandon and gave him a smile. “Brand, you have an amazingly beautiful and wonderful woman by your side. Charlotte is that rare treasure you find where you least expect it and whose worth is immeasurable in this material world. Do your damn best to make her happy and love her as she deserves.”

Tears were now spilling down my cheeks and I brushed them away with trembling fingers.

“I don’t care if people thought you two were crazy for getting married this quickly or that you’re from two different worlds,” Jake continued. “It’s hard to miss what’s there for everyone to see—that you two are kindred souls and that wherever you go and whether you happen to meet now or later in life, you will always recognize each other.”

He finally raised his glass, his green eyes bright with emotion. “To Brandon and Charlotte and your incredible love story.”

Brandon and I raised our glasses along with everyone in a toast. 

Damn you, Jake. He was a crazy but amazing person and although I felt bad for not being able to make him happy, I was grateful for his fierce loyalty and frienship to both me and Brandon.

Dinner was immediately served and as the guests’ attention was diverted to the band of servers who emerged with trays of food, I turned to Brandon, my eyes lowered.

“I hope Jake will be okay,” I said, biting my lip. 

“He will be,” Brandon murmured to me, pressing a kiss on my forehead. “Please smile, Charlotte. I can’t stand to see you sad.”

I looked up and gave him a tremulous smile.

He smiled back and kissed me softly on the lips.

The food was incredible. The local band had started to play some of their slower music over dinner. Guests were smiling and laughing, a few children were running around the room, and the food and wine kept circulating.

As dinner came to an end, Shelly came over to cue us that she’d be announcing the bride and groom’s first dance.

I groaned softly, muttering to Brandon under my breath. “Damn. Brandon, do your best to hold me up, okay? My shoes are killing me and I’m likely to fall flat on my face.”

He grinned. “I predicted that and decided to be proactive.”

My brows scrunched up together when he suddenly knelt down and crawled under the table, slipping under the elaborate table cloth. 

I felt him sift through the heavy layers of my skirt until he grasped my feet, slowly slipping off my shoes and rubbing my poor, aching toes soothingly.

Then I felt him slip ankle socks over my bare feet.

Making sure that the attention wasn’t on us at the moment, I peered under the table and saw him slipping my red Chuck Taylors over my feet.

My heart clenched. “You brought my sneakers?”

He tilted his head up at me. “I had them waiting under the table in case you needed them.”

I couldn’t help the ridiculous grin that broke into my face. “Brandon Maxfield, I really feel like the luckiest woman in the world right now.”

He chuckled and finished putting my sneakers on before emerging from under the table where he surprisingly fit despite his height and size.

He rose to his feet just as Shelly made the announcement, straightening his suit and offering me a hand. “May I have this dance, Mrs. Maxfield?”

I placed my hand over his and beamed at him. “Lead the way, Mr. Maxfield.”

We danced—more like glided around the dance floor. 

Most of what I remembered was how much fun it was, moving with Brandon, having him lift me up by the waist gently that my feet left the floor and my sneakers probably came in full display. But I didn’t care about that. I didn't care about what people might think or say. I didn’t care that my midsection ached from the effort of our dance or from laughing with Brandon.

I’ve never felt better than I did that night.

In a moment of sheer clarity, I knew, without a doubt, that I was never going to be the same again, and I was perfectly alright with that.