Chapter 2 - THE BRIDE WHO WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO FALL IN LOVE
I had just heard my mother-in-law admit that my entire marriage was a carefully planned deception.
But what Diane Richardson said next made the betrayal even worse.
"Rachel knows exactly what she's doing, Martha. Her father lost everything because of the Whitmores. Now their precious family can finally learn what that feels like."
I lay perfectly still beneath the hotel bed.
Her father?
Rachel had told me her father died when she was twenty-two. She rarely discussed him, except to say he'd been a hardworking man who deserved a better life.
Whenever I asked about his death, she grew quiet.
I had always respected that silence.
Now I wondered how many other things I had mistaken for grief.
Diane continued talking.
"James Whitmore has spent nearly twenty years pretending that nothing happened. He's built himself a beautiful reputation. Churches, hospitals, scholarships. Everyone thinks he's a saint."
She laughed bitterly.
"Wait until his son discovers what that money was built on."
My breathing became shallow.
This wasn't simply about an inheritance.
It was about something my father had supposedly done.
Something old enough to have happened while my mother was still alive.
Diane shifted on the mattress.
"Rachel turns thirty next spring, and Ryan turns thirty-five in eight months. Once his trust begins making those larger distributions, Michael's provisions become much more valuable."
She paused.
"No, Martha. I'm not worried about Rachel backing out."
A longer silence.
Then Diane's voice changed.
"Because I've reminded her what happened to her father. And because I still have the photograph."
The photograph.
I remembered Rachel discovering an old picture in her mother's kitchen two years earlier. She had gone pale when she looked at it.
When I asked what was wrong, she quickly slipped it into her purse.
"Just something from Dad's old job," she'd said.
I had never asked again.
Above me, Diane rose from the bed.
Then I heard the suite door open.
"Mom?"
Rachel.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"What are you doing in our room?"
Diane quickly ended her call.
"Darling, I was just checking that everything was ready for your honeymoon."
"With the door closed? And Martha on the phone?"
There was a silence.
Then Rachel spoke again, more quietly.
"I told you not to discuss this here."
"I was celebrating your success."
"My wedding isn't a business deal."
Diane laughed.
"That's an interesting thing to say after everything we've arranged."
"Stop."
Rachel's voice trembled.
"I've done what you asked for five years. I went to that charity gala. I introduced myself to Ryan. I agreed to Michael handling the prenuptial agreement."
Every word struck me like a hammer.
She wasn't denying it.
She was confirming it.
"But I will not sign anything that allows you to control the lake house," Rachel continued.
Diane's tone hardened.
"You promised."
"I promised to find out what happened to Dad. That's not the same as destroying Ryan."
"Don't be naive. Ryan is James Whitmore's son."
"He's also my husband."
The room fell silent.
For the first time, I heard something in Rachel's voice that sounded genuine.
Defiance.
Diane wasn't impressed.
"You've become sentimental. Your father died with his reputation ruined, and you think a wedding ring makes everything better?"
"Ryan had nothing to do with that."
"Neither did you when James let the newspapers call your father a thief."
Rachel made a small, wounded sound.
I closed my eyes.
So that was the accusation.
My father had helped destroy Rachel's father.
And Diane had spent years planning revenge through me.
"You have until tomorrow evening," Diane said. "Then we'll discuss the house and the papers Michael prepared."
"No."
"Rachel—"
"I said no."
A sharp movement followed.
Something small struck the carpet near the bed.
"Keep your mother's wedding present, then," Diane snapped. "Perhaps Ryan will enjoy learning where it came from."
Her heels crossed the room.
The door closed.
For several seconds, Rachel didn't move.
Then I heard her sit on the edge of the mattress.
And cry.
Not loudly.
Just those awful, restrained breaths people make when they're trying to keep themselves together.
I should have crawled out immediately.
Instead, I stayed frozen.
Because the woman crying above me was still the woman who had lied to me for five years.
Finally, Rachel bent down to retrieve whatever Diane had dropped.
Her face appeared inches from mine.
Our eyes met.
She screamed.
I scrambled backward and struck my head against the bed frame.
"Ryan?"
Her voice was barely audible.
"What are you doing under there?"
I crawled out slowly.
My wedding jacket was wrinkled. My hands were shaking.
"I was going to surprise you," I said.
Rachel stared at me.
Then the color drained from her face.
"How much did you hear?"
"Enough."
She covered her mouth.
I looked at the little object she had retrieved.
It was a silver pocket watch.
Old-fashioned.
Scratched.
And attached to a faded blue ribbon.
"Whose watch is that?" I asked.
Rachel hesitated.
"My father's."
Then she turned it over.
Engraved on the back were four words.
MARGARET WHITMORE. KEEP YOUR WORD.
Margaret Whitmore.
My dead mother's name.
Rachel began crying harder.
And when I demanded to know why her father had been carrying my mother's watch, she whispered something I would remember for the rest of my life.
"Ryan, your mother knew what happened to my father."
May you like
She looked toward the closed door.
"And I think your father has been lying to both of us."
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