Chapter 5
[Cadence]
When I finally arrive at my sister’s house, under the escort of Sebastian driving my car, Enya holds off on questioning me until Sebastian returns to the bakery.
“Are you okay?” Her concern runs deeper than just this morning’s fender bender.
She knows about Evan.
“I’m fine.” If I keep telling myself the lie long enough, I might believe it. Evan was an expert liar; not me.
My older sister watches me, as if looking for signs of meltdown. When everything fell apart months ago, I turned to her. Typically, I try to restrict my outbursts to my music manager and my therapist. For my sister, I pretend life is grand. After all, I stole her dream.
My sister once wanted to be a singer, but her songbird’s wings were clipped by our parents, and Enya’s need to be responsible.
She went to college and earned a degree in accounting, worked nine-to-five, and had a perfect boyfriend for a while.
Then her superman turned out to be a dud, nine-to-five became a grind, and Enya admitted after one too many margaritas that she always wished she’d followed her dream to be a singer.
At thirty-nine, her life has taken another turn: motherhood and marriage. The rhythm of love is the song in her heart. Somehow, I think she’s happier than me. Enya didn’t need fame, like I’d once craved it. She needed stability and love. I’ve been sensing for a while I might need the same thing.
My sister has never resented me for becoming a famous music star.
For her, I wasn’t an icon, I was just her little sister with a big dream, and she had become my biggest cheerleader.
Always encouraging. Always supportive. She never criticizes my business decisions or my reckless directions.
She doesn’t chastise me for one-night stands, and she never judged me for Evan, even though there were plenty of reasons to cast stones.
My father liked to say I was a loose cannon.
I prefer wild streak. My trajectory easily diverts, thus the reason one-night stands used to appeal to me.
No commitment necessary. Plus, I have a reputation for being unobtainable.
I liken myself to Queen Elizabeth I. A rather grandiose comparison, but the virgin queen had a reputation, although she wasn’t a virgin.
She was the poster-woman for I-don’t-need-a-man to rule my queendom.
Then I met Evan.
He wasn’t after my queendom. He only wanted me, or so I’d thought. How I’d missed the signs about him is beyond me; however, he was an actor, so pretending was in his repertoire.
“You’re here earlier than I expected,” Enya states.
What my sister doesn’t know is that I’d planned to arrive here yesterday as an overdue apology.
A few months ago, I’d planned to be her plus-one when her daughter Adara was born.
Only, my sweet little niece had other plans and arrived a month early.
Still, my calendar was marked off for that time with Enya and her new baby girl.
Two weeks off the tour. Fourteen glorious days to disappear, help my sister, and meet my new niece.
My manager and Evan had other plans for me. Everything fell apart within days of my arrival in Sterling Falls, and I returned to London with a heavy heart and guilt eating my gut.
I’d hurt Enya’s feelings, although I’d also learned about a gracious stranger named Sebastian Sylver who my sister had recently met, and I had a sneaky suspicion he’d take care of her and Adara. Who wouldn’t want to love both of them? They are amazing.
The sudden need to depart then also hurt me. I’d wanted that time to regroup with my big sister. I’d needed her.
My surprise timing this round had been a fail because I stopped at Randy’s Bar outside of town to take a call from my lawyer. Upset by the news, I ordered a drink, headed for the classic jukebox in the corner, and . . . my night was full of shots from there.
Deciding not to mention Ford, I state, “Just eager to get this party started.” I clap my hands once. “Now, what can I do to help?”
Being that Enya is the most capable person I know, and I once tried to convince her to be my manager, I have no doubt she has everything under control.
The rehearsal dinner is tonight at the Sylver homestead.
The wedding will be tomorrow afternoon in Enya’s backyard.
A casual breakfast is being held at Sebastian’s bakery on Sunday morning.
And through every moment of my sister’s wedding weekend bliss, I’ll have to face my latest blunder—Ford.
My sister slowly smiles, as both our thoughts fill with her joyous occasion. “You don’t need to do a thing. I’m just happy you are here.”
I have three days dedicated to sister-time, or so I thought until I got the text message this morning. The caller ID read unknown, but the message had to be from Evan.
Lifting up my phone, I dramatically swipe it off and announce, “I’m here.”
I plan to be present for everything.
No thoughts of Evan.
And no thoughts of the hot-under the collar, and seriously hot, Ford Sylver.
+ + +
At the dinner following the wedding rehearsal, it becomes further evident Ford Sylver has no recollection of last night.
The Sylver homestead is located outside of Sterling Falls on a parcel of land bordered by woods and overgrown meadows.
The space is picturesque with a rickety old barn that once housed horses and a beautiful white clapboard house that screamed The Waltons.
I swear I could hear the whisper of voices calling out goodnight wishes as I stood outside the house before entering.
Sebastian will be spending the night here and I’ll be sleeping at my sister’s house in keeping with the archaic tradition of the groom not seeing his bride after midnight on their wedding day, even though Sebastian and Enya already live together.
As for Ford, he wasn’t at the rehearsal as he is not part of the wedding party. Enya mentioned something about Sebastian and Ford having a rocky relationship which left me curious about the Sylver family dynamics. If Sebastian was the black sheep at one time, does that make Ford the prodigal son?
As for the wedding lineup, the unusual formation includes Sebastian’s older brothers, Stone, Clay, and Knox, plus Sebastian’s sister, Vale, and me as maid of honor for Enya.
I was already on edge when I arrived at the dinner because I’d seen my mother and father at the rehearsal.
Enya was more forgiving than me and had invited our parents to her wedding despite their recent behavior toward her.
Rightfully, she has decided to walk herself down the aisle.
She didn’t need our father giving her away.
She was a thirty-nine-year-old woman who had been responsible for herself for quite some time.
She didn’t see walking down the aisle as giving anything about herself away but gaining the man at the end of the carpet runner.
I’d been caught off-guard by my parents’ presence at the rehearsal when they were not involved in the actual wedding ceremony. Neither spared me a glance.
So, when I see Ford standing in the kitchen purposely ignoring me as well, I snap.
Walking right up to where he leans against a large kitchen island covered in alcohol bottles and a variety of glasses, I bump my shoulder into his arm and say in the sugary-est voice I can muster, “Hey you.” Like we’re familiar with one another. We did spend last night together.
“Hey. . . uh, Cadence.” His eyes shift right a second and I notice a man on the other side of the island.
The bartender I presume. For a man who understands limelight as a major league center fielder, the awkward shift of Ford’s eyes and the tension in his suit-jacket covered shoulders sets me off even further.
“Now, sugar lips, you can do better than that. How about a kiss, cowboy?” I pout my lips more than pucker them as I turn to face him.
His narrowed eyes flit left and right, as if making certain no one heard me. Or maybe no one sees him lay one on me. Not that I expect him to actually kiss me.
“I, uh—”
“Now, cowboy. Nothing to be ashamed of.” I lean in as if I’m about to share a secret with him. Or plant my lips on his. “Would be rather innocent compared to what we shared last night.” I wink.
The poor man turns a deep shade of red, and for such a tall guy who exudes confidence, the color is almost endearing compared to the cockiness he effervesced last night. I recognized a man on the verge of a mistake yesterday evening. He offered to buy me a drink afterward.
Ha. I can buy my own damn drink, told him as such, and then bought him that first shot. He looked like he needed it more than me.
“What should we drink to?” he’d asked, eyes already half-mast.
“Marital bliss,” I’d countered in a bitter tone.
Something in his eyes registered my sarcasm or maybe he sensed my envy.
He tapped my shot glass with the edge of his and downed the first wallop of tequila.
His lips puckered in a cute way before he motioned for a lime and sucked the citrusy wedge dry.
Watching him then, my thoughts ran rampant, wondering how those lips might feel against private places on my body.
Having sworn off men, I instantly shook the thought.
“Look, I’m sorry about last night.” His voice strengthens from the stammering mess he was seconds ago.
“What exactly are you apologizing for?” Watching him squirm almost makes me feel sorry for him, but the deal is, I thrive on recognition. I’m not psychotic enough to demand I not be ignored, but I hate not being acknowledged. And Ford Sylver needs to recollect we shared a moment last night.
There was something about his sad state, sitting at that dimly lit bar, and my somber mood which drew us together. Like magnets attracting. More like a warm blanket wrapping around us and tugging us tighter to one another. Without him explaining all his painful secrets, I felt them.
Strange. But true.