The Wedding Fling. Meg Maguire

have the first clue what she wanted from her life, but she damn well knew it wasn’t all this—a three-ring sham of a wedding to a man who didn’t love her, a career of other people’s making, a city where she couldn’t enjoy a moment’s anonymity.

      Her suitcase waited by the door, packed with two weeks’ worth of clothes and toiletries, passport and ticket in her purse, ready to go. The trip she’d so been looking forward to, the one she’d hoped would reconnect her and Dan… the mere notion was a hand around her throat. The tabloids had been salivating for Leigh’s fall from grace forever, and if she was doomed to reward their persistence, she’d give them a doozy—a gen-u-ine wedding day no-show.

      She switched off her phone and slipped it into her bag, with no intention of turning it back on anytime soon.

      As she wheeled her case down the hall, all was quiet, the elevator empty, the lobby peaceful. No small mercy, the press not having discovered she was staying here. She hiked her dress up to her shins and marched barefoot past Reception, through the door the stony-faced porter held, and into the cool spring air. She knew which long black Town Car was hers by the driver leaning on the hood, flipping through Variety.

      “Hector.”

      His brows rose and he stood, taking in her getup. “Good morning, Leigh. You’re early. Very early.” His familiar deep voice with its musical Haitian accent calmed her. “And you forgot your shoes. And your mother. Change of plans?”

      “Change of plans” usually meant Leigh was being harangued by a reporter and needed to end an evening earlier than expected.

      “Change of plans,” she agreed, and climbed inside when Hector opened the door. He shut it in his firm, reassuring way and she heard a thump as he stowed her suitcase.

      Once behind the wheel, he lowered the glass. He aimed the car toward the exit. “Has your mother got her own ride sorted out?”

      “Don’t worry about my mother. If she calls you, tell her I asked to go home, to the apartment. I need some time to think about things.”

      “Ah. She being a mother-of-the-bride-zilla?” Hector teased. “You need me to drive you around before we go to the estate? Dramatic entrance?” He squinted at her in the rearview mirror, possibly noticing she had no makeup on, no jewelry, that her hair was still a damp tangle and her face flushed and mottled.

      “We’re not going to the estate,” she said, feeling strangely serene. “We’re going to the airport.”

      “Oh?”

      She nodded, steeled in her decision. “I’m going on my honeymoon. Alone.”

       2

      WHEN THEY ARRIVED at LAX, Hector brought Leigh her suitcase and she wrestled herself out of her gown and into jeans and a T in the backseat, protected by the tinted windows. She dug her slip-ons from her luggage and glanced at her dress. It looked like the shed skin of some beautiful, mythical creature. She left it in the car.

      To camouflage her identity and the tears she could feel brewing, she found and donned her big aviator shades and Giants cap. She swallowed all the rage and sadness and confusion rising in her chest, and forced a smile.

      “Thanks, Hector.”

      “It’s no trouble. Just my job.”

      “My mom’s going to tear you a new one.”

      He grinned. “I know.”

      “Would you do one more thing for me?”

      He nodded, and Leigh slid off her engagement ring and handed it to him. In place of the sadness she’d anticipated, she felt her back straightening, as though fifty pounds of pure dread had fallen from her shoulders.

      “Give that to my mom or dad or to Dan, whoever you see first. And the dress. But try to avoid all of them for at least a few hours. Until I’m on a plane.”

      “Are you going to be okay?”

      She took a deep breath. “Yeah, I’ll be okay. I just need some time away. Thank goodness I’m already booked someplace where nobody’ll recognize me.”

      He nodded and slipped her solitaire into his breast pocket. On impulse, Leigh did something she never had before—she hugged her driver. He offered a quick squeeze in return, as warm as professionalism allowed.

      “You take care of yourself. I’ll dodge your mother as long as I can.”

      She yanked up the suitcase’s retractable handle. “Wish me luck that there’s an earlier flight with room for me on it.”

      He held up two sets of crossed fingers. “Enjoy your getaway.”

      With a wave, Leigh said goodbye to the last familiar face she’d see for two weeks. She said goodbye to L.A., to the girl she no longer recognized as herself, and strode through the airport’s sliding doors and into the unknown.

      THE FLIGHT SHE CAUGHT to New York was insanely overpriced, yet well worth it to feel L.A. dropping away behind her. If any of Leigh’s first-class neighbors recognized her, they were kind enough not to let on. It was the calmest six hours she’d passed in weeks, nothing but blue sky and white clouds, totally unlike the storm swirling in her head.

      She’d failed to change her second flight, a smaller carrier that had no planes leaving before the one she’d already booked, the following morning. The idea of being alone in another hotel room with only her thoughts for company scared her, so she napped fitfully through the night in the airport.

      She arrived in Bridgetown at lunchtime, though, sadly, her luggage did not. No clothes, no cell charger, no toiletries. Abandoned by her own belongings.

      With a mighty sigh, she headed for the airport’s exit. As the doors slid open, the warm, scented air of the island enveloped her, the sun caressing her travel-weary body. By the cab stand, a group of three smiling men played steel drums. Just an extra touch to realize tourists’ stereotypical expectations, but it worked. Leigh’s panic faded with the song’s cheerful notes.

      She’d be okay. There were plenty of clothes to be purchased here in Barbados, and her sleeping cell phone had enough juice to make a handful of calls.

      Speaking of calls. She dug the device from her purse and turned it on with held breath. Alerts for voice and text messages multiplied as the phone roused. Though tempted to view Dan’s and find out if he’d caught on, she ignored them all, tapping out a text for her mom. I’m safe. Won’t be in touch for a while. Don’t worry, and please don’t follow. Sorry for the stress. See you in a couple of weeks. Leigh. As soon as the message was sent, she switched off her phone for good.

      Leigh had a few hours before her final flight, and she spent it wandering the shopping district, buying a knock-off designer suitcase to fill with new clothes, then ate a lunch of fried plantains from a street vendor. It was easy to stay distracted here, amid all the colors and smells and sounds. And how lovely it felt, being any old visitor to these cheerful strangers.

      At two-thirty a taxi dropped her off outside the city, at an airport on the coast—a tiny terminal with a large antenna, no runway. The roadside billboard proclaimed it Bajan Fantasy Airlines. A long dock led out into the glittering water, where a seaplane—a Cessna on water skis—bobbed lazily in the waves. As far as she knew, this was the only way to get to Harrier Key. She’d picked the resort island for its seclusion, booking one of only four private villas.

      She walked through the terminal’s open door and into what reminded her of a bus depot. A dark-skinned woman in a salmon-pink dress stood behind a long counter, and a single passenger lounged in the waiting area, reading a newspaper. Leigh gathered her printed ticket and ID.

      The woman greeted her with the gigantic Barbadian smile Leigh had gotten very used to while shopping. “Miss Bailey?”

      Anonymity gone, Leigh fell back to earth with a thump. “Yes. That’s me.”

      “I