Slap Shot, page 5
It was months later, when he was packing up to move to Nashville, that he’d found the confession Philie had written out and placed in her prayer book. He’d been gathering some things to give to Philie’s mother when the paper fell out of the book. It took a few minutes for him to recognize it for what it was. It was an oddity, for sure. Despite the years he’d spent as an altar boy and on bended knee at St. Joseph’s, Bryant had never known anyone to write down a confession. But after reading it twice, the reality of why she’d done it hit him. It would have been a hard confession to make. It read:
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession. These are my sins:
I took God’s name in vain in anger when my husband was late coming home from hockey practice.
Because I didn’t feel like company, I lied and said I had a doctor’s appointment when the girlfriend of one of my husband’s teammates asked to come over to visit.
I gossiped with my sister about our cousin in a mean-spirited way.
I have taken Holy Communion with an unconfessed sin in my heart. Though I tried to convince myself that I had done the right thing, I know now I was deceiving myself as well as my spouse. I knowingly and deliberately conceived a child with my husband, before he was my husband. Things were changing and I was afraid of losing him, so I told him it was a safe time, when I knew I was most fertile.
Bryant had stared at the paper for a long time. It had all come back to him. That weekend, she had whispered in his ear that there was no need for a condom because she’d just had her period. He hadn’t questioned, hadn’t hesitated. It wasn’t a question of safe sex for health’s sake. They’d lost their virginity to each other and had been faithful, so why not?
Why not, indeed. The end result answered that.
He’d read the confession again. And what penance would she have been asked to perform? Two Hail Marys? Three? An Our Father? Perhaps a whole rosary? Whatever it had been, he deserved that multiplied many times.
Then he’d torn the confession into tiny pieces and flushed it down the toilet. He owed her that much.
There had been no women since Philie, unless you counted the puck bunnies who drifted through his bed—and he didn’t. Those encounters were honest and open—he was looking for sex, and they were looking for sex with a hockey player. Everybody got what they wanted and didn’t ask for anything else.
It was an empty life, but it was the one he had and he didn’t see that changing. He made it sound like a joke when he said he was emotionally unavailable—but that didn’t make it any less true. He had been emotionally unavailable to Philie. Maybe that hadn’t killed her, but it sure felt like it. He had gone into one relationship he wasn’t ready for, and he’d failed her—and his baby. He would never do that again.
Besides, he owed Philie. He couldn’t rewind and make himself love her, but he could at least refuse to give another woman what he hadn’t been able to give her. Not that it had been a problem. Hell, he couldn’t even choose a sacrifice that cost him anything.
Bryant hadn’t expected to go to sleep on the plane, but the next thing he knew, there was a hand on his shoulder shaking him awake. He sat up and removed his headphones.
“Thanks, Packi. Are we there?”
“Not yet. But you were talking in your sleep. I thought I’d better quiet you down before the whole team finds out your secret.”
Fuck.
He knew he sometimes talked in his sleep, always had according to his brother Luke and, later, Philie. But it had been a long time since he’d actually slept with anyone, so he’d forgotten. What had he said? He couldn’t even remember dreaming, but that would teach him to fall asleep with the past on his mind. “I’m sure whatever I was saying didn’t mean anything.”
“Yeah?” Packi said. “Maybe not, but I’d be careful about going to sleep in front of Emile if I were you.”
“Why?”
“Do you know more than one woman named Gabriella?”
Now he remembered the dream.
Double fuck. Literally—at least in dreamland.
Chapter Five
Gabriella’s doorbell rang, signaling that someone was downstairs at the rear entrance of Eat Cake. That would be Amy. She had finally called, though they had not discussed the wedding. She was on her way back from Georgia and thought it would be fun to watch the game together. Gabriella had offered to join her in Nashville at Emile’s condo, but Amy had said that made no sense when she would be passing by Beauford. Besides, she had never seen Gabriella’s apartment.
This made her feel better, more normal, though she still hadn’t talked to Emile. But she seldom talked to him on travel and game days, which yesterday and today had been.
“I am so happy to see you!” Amy rushed through the door toward Gabriella with her arms wide open. Gabriella hesitated but hugged her future sister-in-law. Despite the friendship they’d struck up, they had never hugged before. Gabriella’s hesitancy came from her reserved nature and had nothing to do with her feelings for Amy. She wouldn’t have pegged Amy for a hugger either, and maybe she hadn’t been before. Apparently that had changed now that she was going to be a bride.
Gabriella untangled herself and reached for Amy’s hand. “Let me see this ring. Johanna told me about it.”
Amy held out her hand and frowned. “I didn’t text you a picture of it?”
“No.” Admitting that felt a little awkward. Thankfully, Amy didn’t notice.
“I’m sorry. I meant to, but for a while I didn’t have a phone, and then everything has been so crazy!” And she laughed liked crazy was the best thing in the world. “Anyway, now you get to see it in person.”
Gabriella thought she’d been prepared, until she saw it. “Oh, my.” It wasn’t as big as a Dixie cup, but it wasn’t far off. The central diamond was the size of a nickel and that was just the beginning. It looked like a mini Niagara Falls on crack. “Do you like it?” She fought to keep her tone neutral.
Amy withdrew her hand from Gabriella’s and looked at the ring. “I do. Is it what I would have chosen? No. But I like it because I love your brother and choosing a ring like this is part of who he is.”
Amy’s words warmed Gabriella. She’d known almost from the moment she met Amy that she was right for Emile, and Emile deserved to be loved so much. She felt guilty about pouting because their relationship hadn’t progressed on her own timeframe.
“You can always set up a gypsy wagon on Broadway and use it to tell fortunes.”
They laughed together, and any awkwardness that Gabriella might have felt dissipated.
“Let’s go up.” Gabriella led Amy up the stairs to the apartment over Eat Cake. “My television isn’t as big as Emile’s, but it’s a decent size for watching hockey, and I have soup in the Crock-Pot, bread in the oven, and black forest brownies for dessert.”
“You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.”
“Cooking is therapeutic for me.”
“I hope you haven’t really been in need of therapy!”
You have no idea, Amy. But that’s over. I will be a good girl. No one will be unhappy because of me.
They entered the apartment.
Amy took a deep breath. “There is nothing better than the smell of baking bread.”
“Nothing?” Gabriella teased.
“Well . . . ” Amy blushed. No, Amy! Don’t blush. Because if you blush, that leads me to think you are thinking about sex with my brother, and I can’t be in the same room with that train of thought!
“Let me show you around,” Gabriella said quickly.
Amy looked around the little living room. Gabriella was proud of it. She’d done it in moss green and gray with splashes of apricot.
“Oh, Gabriella! This is lovely. I wouldn’t have thought about putting these colors together, but it’s so warm and happy. And the furniture.” She stepped over to the small drop front secretary desk and ran her hand over the smooth oak. “Such lovely wood.” She looked around at the other pieces in the room. “Complementary, but not too matchy, matchy. What style is the furniture?”
“All mission style.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Not really. Or I shouldn’t be. You have such style and dress so beautifully that it would naturally transfer to your décor. It’s just that . . . ” Her voice trailed off.
Gabriella felt an amused little laugh bloom inside her. It felt good. “You thought that because my brother has whole catalog pages from Pottery Barn that I would too?” After Emile had bought a seven-bedroom condo in the most upscale building in Nashville, he’d gone to Pottery Barn and literally pointed to pages in the catalog.
Amy blushed. “Well, no. Yes. I mean I shouldn’t have.”
Gabriella let the laugh out and Amy joined in. “Are you saying you might want to rethink the Pottery Barn look?”
Amy nodded. “I can put things in order.” That was an understatement. Amy had sold her professional organizing business, Apple Pie Order, to a large New York firm for six million dollars—which her former boyfriend had stolen. “But I’m not so good at putting together décor. Maybe you can help me when we get the house.”
Gabriella stopped short. “House?”
Amy nodded happily. “Yes. We want to sell the condo and buy a house—with a porch and a fence so Emile can get a dog. He’s always wanted a dog, but then you would know that.”
Gabriella, in fact, did not know that. Emile had never said a word about a dog. That insecure, left out feeling began to creep in again.
“I’m hoping for a historic house, though I’m not sure what period, but something with character. We want to stay in Sound Town, of course.”
“Makes sense.” More news, more changes. And that was fine. She just wasn’t used to hearing Emile’s news from a third party.
Amy gestured to the room. “Tell me more about this beautiful furniture. I love the simplicity and the clean lines.” She ran her hands over the bookcase front. “And the leaded glass.” She stopped abruptly. “Not that I would copy your style. I just want to hear about it.”
Excellent idea. It would be a relief to talk about something she knew about.
“As I said, it’s mission style. It originated at the end of the nineteenth century. It’s plain—made up of flat panels and vertical lines. Most of it is made of quartersawn oak. These pieces are not usually embellished very much—just a bit of leaded glass, substantial metal hardware, or simple wooden inlays like the dragonflies on the secretary or the small geometric shapes on the bookcase.”
Amy walked over to the bookcase. “Lovely.” She turned her head so that she could read the titles of the books stored there. “The Earl’s Lady. Diamond of the First Water. Deceiving the Ton. Permission to Waltz.” Amy smiled. “I like a Regency romance from time to time, too, but I mostly read mysteries. I like the surprise.”
“I am not fond of a surprise.” Like this pop-up marriage. “Not that there aren’t surprises in Regencies. But there’s structure. There are the rules of society. Everyone knows how things are supposed to be, even if the characters don’t follow the rules.”
“If you’d been a Regency debutante, you would have certainly been a diamond of the first water.”
“Unlikely that I would have been a debutante at all. More likely some kind of under-cook.”
“Maybe,” Amy said, “but one who sweeps the duke’s heir off his feet and one day becomes duchess.”
Right. Probably she’d get pregnant and the housekeeper and the old duchess would turn her out into the snow during the Christmas Eve ball, just as the duke was announcing her lover’s—the marquess—betrothal to The Lady Octavia Got Money and Breeding. Insufferable snobs would eat her jam tarts and Banbury cakes, though. And they’d better enjoy them, because they wouldn’t be getting any more. It was over for the mean old cook passing off the sweets Gabriella made as her own. That would show them all.
“Gabriella?” Amy said. “Are you all right?”
“Oh.” She hadn’t gotten pregnant by a marquess who looked like Bryant after all. “I spaced for a second.”
“Probably all the cooking you’ve done today.” Amy ran her hand over the arm of the wood and leather sofa. “It all looks new but has an old feel. Are they reproductions?” So they were off the Regency period and back to furniture.
Gabriella shrugged. “Yes and no. Except for one, my pieces are new, but they aren’t really reproductions. The designs are old, but they’ve never stopped making them.”
Amy nodded. “You said all but one piece?”
Gabriella walked over to the library table under the window. “This is a Gustav Stickley signed original.”
“I don’t really know what that means,” Amy said, “but it sounds very special.”
“It is. It was a gift from Emile.”
As she said the words, a cold, foreign feeling washed over her. Emile had indirectly bought everything in this room—and everything she owned, from her La Perla underwear and designer clothes to her paperclips and Post-it notes. Not that he shopped for her bras himself. He only shopped online and at Pottery Barn.
As far as her fashion sense, it was Emile’s fault she had such highbrow taste in clothes. The Lindells had been neither rich nor poor, but Johanna loved clothes and knew how to shop to make the most of her money. She’d dressed herself and Gabriella out of T.J. Maxx and high-end, last season sales, but no one in Buxton, North Dakota knew the difference. It was Emile who insisted they go to Paris for Gabriella’s eighteenth birthday to shop for clothes. That was something both she and Johanna would have turned down, but Emile played the “if you won’t go, she won’t” card with both of them. In Paris, they might have started out a little country come to town, but they’d caught on quickly and returned with some fine wardrobes and refined tastes. Johanna had insisted on classic styles for most of what they’d bought and they both still wore most of the pieces.
Gabriella had been the best-dressed freshman at Buxton Junior College. While she was there, Emile had not only paid her tuition, but he’d also given her a very generous monthly allowance. With her apprenticeship, she’d begun to receive a small salary and had been given this apartment to live in rent free, but he’d continued the allowance, even raising it from time to time. When she’d asked him about it, he’d said being an apprentice was like being in school and he wanted to take care of her. She’d never thought much about it, because they were one. During the short time he had attended the University of North Dakota, she’d had a part time job and an allowance from Johanna and Paul. She’d paid for their movies and burgers then—because they were one. Wasn’t that the same thing?
No. Not really. If she wanted to go skiing, she went. When she flew, she went first class. Her salary wouldn’t have begun to pay for her lifestyle. And then there were the gifts he bought her—the library table last Christmas, the BMW SUV on her birthday, Louis Vuitton bags, and state-of-the-art electronics for Easter and her Saint’s Name Day.
There was no doubt that Emile spoiled her, but that didn’t make her a brat. She did enjoy her Versace, Armani, and Vera Wang, but she had never expected what Emile gave her, never took advantage of his generous nature. They were one. They had been poor and abused together. They had been orphans together. They’d basked in the warmth of Paul and Johanna’s love together. Now they were rich together.
Except they weren’t. Emile was rich. And inasmuch as Gabriella knew she wasn’t a greedy little entitled sister, what would Amy think?
Apparently, right now she thought the Christmas present library table was pretty.
“Truly lovely.” Amy stroked the table. “So when the time comes for me to furnish our house, will you help me?”
Gabriella hesitated. Amy would be better off with a professional. “Sure.” Maybe she should tell Amy that that she didn’t really know about decorating a house. She only knew what she liked, but that might sound like she didn’t want to help. And didn’t she owe Emile? She’d never felt that she owed him before, but now she did.
She had to stop this, stop it now, had to return to normal. She’d already spent too much time in irrational self-pity land. She wasn’t going there again.
“Come and sit down, Amy. We still have some time before puck drop. Let’s have some wine.” That was a normal thing to say. She poured two glasses of Clear Valley Chardonnay—the wine that Emile represented and had shipped to her monthly.
“Sounds great.”
“To you and Emile.” Gabriella raised her glass. “And official congratulations, since I haven’t had a chance to say so until now.”
Amy looked puzzled. “Sure you did . . . ” She trailed off. “We haven’t talked, have we? I know Emile called you—but you and I?” She pointed to Gabriella and then herself. “I never called you did, I? Even though I told Emile to tell you I would.”
“You called on the way here today.” The words came out of Gabriella’s mouth before she even thought. After years of being the good girl and trying to please everyone, it was automatic.
“Not the same. I meant to send you a picture of the ring and call you to talk about the wedding plans. There were so many calls to make—but that’s no excuse. I’m a bad friend.”
“It’s all right. This is not about me. It’s about you and Emile. I didn’t think a thing of it.” Pleasers always lied.
“Really?”
Amy was truly sorry. Gabriella welcomed the relief that passed over her. “You’re here now. That’s what’s important. We have plenty of time to talk about the wedding.” And that was true. Pretty soon, she wouldn’t even remember why she’d been upset. Everything would be like it had been before. “But first, tell me what’s been going on, other than the obvious.” She gestured to her ring.
Amy took a sip of her wine. “Well, you know my family has a peach orchard and a store called The Peach Stand where we sell everything that can be made from a peach. So I made a lot of peach pies, peach bread, and peach chutney and salsa.” She smiled. “I will never be the baker you are, but I can make decent peach pie.”
