The Runaway Bride. Patricia Johns

put Ike down on the mattress on the floor, but Liam knew he wouldn’t stay there. It didn’t matter. He was in the right room for the night, at least.

      When Leanne had left, she’d taken with her the soft scents, the tinkle of laughter and a reason to come back at a reasonable hour. This house, so full of memories, had become a purely male abode: Liam cooked with barbecue sauce; his soaps were deodorized, not scented; and he came and went as he pleased.

      Having a woman walk down his hallway with a sleeping toddler in her arms, leaving a waft of sandalwood in her wake—it reminded him too keenly of what he’d been missing these past few years.

      He’d told Bernie that it got better, and it did, but what he didn’t say was that trusting again was next to impossible. When you missed something that big, you stopped believing that you saw what was really going on. And he was pretty sure he couldn’t survive that again. Bernie would sort out her family issues and head back to her life in New York soon enough. He just had to hold out until then.

      * * *

      THE NEXT MORNING, Bernie woke up late, having finally fallen into an exhausted coma somewhere around four. When she did wake, it was to the sound of a lawn mower outside the open window, the smell of fresh-cut grass wafting in. She lay there for a couple of minutes staring at the popcorn ceiling. The light fixture was an old-fashioned square plate of glass. She’d never seen such a thing before, and she stared at it for a long while, wondering if this was how the rest of the country lived. Could they? It seemed impossible, but here she was in a bed with a hand-made quilt on top of her and a light fixture that looked like nothing more than a bent piece of frosted glass covering a light bulb. It felt poor, and at the same time, strangely liberating. There wouldn’t be any cameras waiting for her outside, no pressure to appear happy and collected, to look perfect from every angle to avoid any tabloid speculation about why she looked tired or bloated.

      Her cell phone vibrated on the plain white bedside table. She’d finally turned it on when she got back from Liam’s place. She picked it up and looked at the caller—her dad.

      She could answer and have this conversation now, or she could put it off. She let the phone buzz twice more in her hand before she heaved a sigh and accepted the call.

      “Hi, Dad.”

      “Bunny! Thank God. We’ve been worried sick. Are you okay?”

      He sounded like dear old dad, right now, gruff and stressed. If only she were a decade younger and her father could still fix most of her problems.

      “I’m fine,” she said. “I mean, I’m heartbroken, but fine.”

      “What happened, exactly?” her father pressed. “Because Calvin is a wreck, and he says he has no idea what you’re talking about.”

      The liar. Anger started to seep into the sadness, and she pushed herself up onto her elbows.

      “I don’t really care what Calvin says,” she retorted. “I know what I saw.”

      “I believe you.” And by the tone of his voice, he did, which was comforting. “Still, we could have done this a little more gracefully.”

      “No, I couldn’t have.”

      Why did she owe any of them grace right now? She sat up and turned her gaze out the window where a middle-aged man pushed an old mower in straight lines across the grass.

      “All right, all right...” Her father muttered. “We can discuss that later. What matters right now is getting you home and deciding on the family position.”

      “How about Calvin McMann is a cheating louse?” she suggested.

      “You aren’t helping.”

      Of course not. The truth was seldom the option when it came to spinning a scandal.

      “Where are you?” her father asked. “I’ll send the security team to bring you home.”

      “I don’t need to be fetched,” Bernie retorted. “I need some space, time to think. I don’t want to come back just yet.”

      “Are you in the Bahamas?” her father pressed. “You could stay for a week or so, but we need a consistent story we can all stand behind with reporters.”

      “No, I’m not in the Bahamas. Look, Dad, I need you to promise to leave me alone for a bit. I promise not to breathe a word of anything to reporters.”

      “Where are you, for crying out loud?” he demanded.

      “I need your word.” For all of her father’s insistence on a public face, he’d honor a promise to his daughter. He always had.

      There was a moment or two of silence, then he sighed. “Fine. Now where are you?”

      “Runt River, Ohio.”

      There was silence again, this time complete as if he were holding his breath. Then he exploded. “What?”

      “I drove out here after the wedding. I didn’t really mean to—I just hit a highway and kept going. Then I remembered Aunt Lucille was out here, and I figured I could use a bit of family support.”

      “From Lucille? After all I’ve told you about her—”

      “She’s pretty harmless, Dad.”

      “She’s not harmless. She has a vendetta against me, and you’re my daughter. She is not the person to trust with something this volatile—”

      “Too late,” Bernie confessed. “I told her what happened. But I’ll be careful. I’ll keep a low profile—wear something unattractive. I’ll blend right in with the locals.”

      “This isn’t funny,” her father snapped. “Your face has been on the covers of magazines and newspapers for the past four months because of this wedding. You are not going to blend in.”

      “I don’t care!” Her anger was rising again. “Dad, if I get into a bind, you’re my first call. That’s a promise. But give me space, or I will find the nearest reporter and give him an exclusive about Calvin McMann’s cheating ways.”

      “Don’t you threaten me.”

      “I’m half joking.” She sighed. “Dad. Space. Please.”

      “Fine. But don’t believe anything your aunt tells you. She’s a master manipulator.”

      Lucille hardly seemed like the manipulative shrew her father made her out to be, but Bernie hardly knew the woman, either. Maybe it would be wise to tread carefully with her aunt.

      Except that Liam trusts her.

      She hardly knew Liam, either, and the men in her life hadn’t exactly been the most trustworthy lately. Calvin had cheated on her, and her father seemed more concerned with the family political future than he did with his only daughter’s emotional state. At this point, she was wary of everyone.

      “I’ll be careful, Dad. I promise. But I’d better hang up. I’m hungry. Tell Mom—” She sighed. Her mother would be furious. Tell her mother what, exactly? “Tell her I’m okay.”

      After their goodbyes, she ended the call and got out of bed. She needed to get dressed and face the day. One step at a time.

      There was a tap on her door.

      “Yes?”

      “Everything okay?” her aunt asked.

      “Come in.”

      The door opened, and Lucille peered at her cautiously, a folded, faded towel in her hands. “Sorry about the thin walls. Was that your father?”

      So her aunt had heard that conversation? Bernie was used to more privacy than this.

      “Yes.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Aunt Lucille, could you tell me something?”

      “Sure.” Lucille deposited the towel