Always A Bridesmaid

Always a Bridesmaid

Kristin Hardy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Thanks go to

Jessica Felts of On Demand Limousine

Ed Scheiner of the Las Vegas Wedding Chapel

and especially to Barbara Drotos, LICSW

for helping bring this story to life

To Karen,

fifteen two, fifteen four

And to Stephen,

for always paying his departure fees promptly

Special thanks and acknowledgment are given

to Kristin Hardy for her contribution to the

LOGAN’S LEGACY REVISITED miniseries.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter One

“I’ve always loved babies.” Shelly Dolan’s voice shook. Next to her on the overstuffed sage-green sofa, her husband, Doug, reached out to put his arm around her shoulders. “I loved playing with them, holding them, making them laugh. They were just a delight. But now, every time I see a stroller, every time I see a pregnant woman, it feels like something’s breaking inside of me.” Her breath began to hitch “All I can do is cry. And Doug—”

Jillian Logan, social worker at the Children’s Connection fertility and adoption clinic, stirred in her deep, soft chair. “What about Doug?” she asked.

“His shop is right down the street from a preschool. And his car’s been on the fritz this week so I’ve been having to take him to work. And to drive by every day and see—And see—And see—” Her voice caught and she buried her face in Doug’s shoulder for a moment.

It squeezed Jillian’s heart. “It must be hard,” she said softly.

“I never guessed,” Shelly whispered. “And Doug’s always so strong, I worry that he’s holding it all in.”

“What’s it like for you, going through this?” Jillian asked Doug.

Next to his neat, dark wife, he looked burly and ill at ease. He’d come straight from work and still wore his stained welder’s clothing. And he was there, clearly, only because of Shelly.

“Hell, Doc, how do you think your husband—” he glanced at her ringless fingers “—or boyfriend or whoever would feel? How would you feel?” he challenged.

“We’re not here to talk about me, Doug.” Jillian’s voice was gentle.

Over the seven months since the Dolans had been coming to the Children’s Connection in hopes of having a child, Jillian had watched their expressions morph from irrepressible hope to disappointment to a kind of grim determination. Now a faint air of strain hung about them. But they were still together, still getting one another through.

“You want to know how I feel?” Doug asked now. “Worried. About Shelly, I mean. I don’t think we need to waste our time here talking about me.”

“You’re going through it, too. You’re both involved.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m okay.”

“You spent the entire week going on about Roy’s son,” Shelly reminded him.

“What about Roy’s son?” Jillian asked.

Doug made a noise of frustration. “My boss’s kid. The little punk knocked up his girlfriend. Sixteen. Too stupid to wear a condom, the idiot.”

“Why does it make you so angry?”

“They’re too young to have a kid. Hell, they’re kids themselves. Either they keep it and really mess up their lives or she gives it up, or she gets rid of it. Idiot. All because he couldn’t keep it in his pants. And it’s such a freaking crock,” he said with sudden savagery.

“What is?”

“He’s sixteen and he can get his girlfriend pregnant. I’m thirty-five and we want a kid so much and I damned well can’t give my wife a baby.” Doug leaned forward and put his head in his hands.

Jillian waited in the humming silence. This was the moment she’d been working toward for months, a chance to finally get Doug to open up. And yes, the session was supposed to be ending but there was no way she was going to punch the clock on this one. “It’s okay to feel angry or guilty or out of control, Doug. The feelings are real. You’re allowed.”

He was silent for another moment, then he let out a breath. “I’m fine,” he said quietly, straightening. “We’ll get through it.” He glanced at his watch. “Anyway, our time’s up, isn’t it, Doc?”

“I don’t know, is it?”

He nodded slowly, his eyes on her. “Yeah. I think so.”

Reluctantly, Jillian rose to move to her desk. “Think about what we’ve talked about here today. You’re getting close to something, Doug, and I don’t think we should just let it go. Let’s talk about it more next week.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” He shepherded Shelly hastily out of the office.

And Jillian watched them go out together.

Together. That was the key. However difficult the emotional challenges, the two of them were still a team. They walked down the hall, Doug’s arm around Shelly’s shoulders. How would it feel to have that comfort? Jillian wondered, that sense that whatever you faced, you did it as a part of a whole?

How do you think your husband or boyfriend or whoever would feel?

She wouldn’t know, because Jillian didn’t have one. She never had.

She thought of her missing stepbrother Robbie, manager of the day care center at the Children’s Connection, part of her adoptive family. The stepbrother she hadn’t seen in over a month, ever since he’d walked out on his wife, the clinic, his family, driven away by the scandalous past he couldn’t escape. Why hadn’t Robbie been able to trust that they would be there for him?

Maybe because, like Jillian, he bore scars from the childhood years spent outside the Logan nest. Childhood trauma could haunt you, Jillian knew. Like the dark times she and her twin brother, David, had suffered before Terrence and Leslie Logan had adopted them at age six.

There was a tap at the door and Jillian glanced up to see Lois Carella, the senior social worker at the clinic, peering in. “Do you have a minute to talk about the Podracki birth-parent letter?”

Jillian checked her watch. “I’m sorry, it’ll have to wait until Monday. I’m supposed to be at a wedding rehearsal in a half hour.”

“Another one? You’re in more weddings than anyone I know.”

Didn’t she know it. It was the curse of the therapist. No one knew how to give better friendship. Jillian was unparalleled at being a friend.

It was just the part about accepting friendship in return that she wasn’t so good at.

“Who is it this time?” Lois asked.

“Lisa Sanders. She’s marrying some tycoon from Texas.”

Lois laughed. “The Texas tycoon. Sounds like the title of a romance novel.”

“A bit, I suppose. Except for the part where the Gazette dragged Lisa’s name in the mud.” The Portland Gazette, the same newspaper that had dredged up Robbie’s own history with a babynapping ring, the newspaper that had driven him away.

“I seem to remember they corrected things, though, didn’t they?”

“I suppose.” A spurious lawsuit from the father of the child Lisa had borne and adopted out as an unwed, homeless teen had turned into a biased, inflammatory front-page story. Eventually, the Gazette had gotten to the truth of the matter and cleared Lisa’s name. Eventually. “Too bad they didn’t do the same with Robbie.”

“Don’t blame the Gazette. It’s the tabloids and the television shows that have been hounding him.”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s gone.” And once again, Jillian’s family was torn apart. Once again, her adoptive parents were racked over Robbie, their son kidnapped as a child, rediscovered as an adult struggling to find the right path. Jillian was a licensed clinical social worker, for God’s sake, she had years of counseling experience. And yet she hadn’t been able to help him. She couldn’t heal where it counted.

“Don’t do that to yourself,” Lois said quietly.

Jillian straightened her shoulders. “Do what?”

“You demand too much of yourself, Jillian. You always have.” Lois’s eyes softened. “He’s going to be okay, you’ll see. It’ll work out.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Of course I am,” Lois said briskly. “I always am. Now get off to your wedding. And Jillian?”

“What?”

“Don’t forget to catch the bouquet. I think it’s your turn now.”

The stained glass windows threw patches of glowing red and blue and green light over the polished wood of the pews. The very air of the church held a quiet serenity, an indefinable hush. Jillian should have felt uplifted. She should have felt joy for Lisa and Alan.

Instead, all she felt was lonely.

Which was ridiculous. Ninety-nine percent of the time—okay, at least fifty or sixty percent, she admitted—she was fine being alone. She preferred it, actually. She’d looked, but she’d never found her match. She’d grown happiest once she’d given up trying. She was one of those people who was best on her own, it was that simple. She’d had thirty-three years to get used to the idea.

So why was the thought of being single and watching one more happy couple pledge their lives to one another breaking her heart?

Not that she wasn’t happy for her friends. She was, she could say without doubt. But there was something now that struck her to her very core, something about knowing she’d never be the one walking down the aisle toward a groom who stood bright-eyed in expectation, that at the reception to come she’d have no date, no boyfriend, no husband, no one who cared for her above all. No matter. She’d smile and hold her head high. And she’d joke and dance the choreographed dances, walk with her fingertips on the arm of her usher, touching a man, something she did so seldom—aside from her brothers—that it belonged in the headlines.

And go home feeling more desperately lonely than at any other time in her life. Maybe it was Robbie being gone. Maybe it was the turmoil her family was in. Maybe it was just her.

With a sigh, Jillian glanced over to where Lisa Sanders, the bride-to-be, paced nervously.

“I wish he would just get here,” Lisa said, raking her fingers through her blond hair. “We only have the church for another ten minutes. Alan,” she appealed to her fiancé, “can’t you please call him?”

“Who?” Jillian asked.

“We’re missing an usher. Alan’s friend, Gil.”

Tall and sandy and Texan, Alan exuded calm control. “I talked with him this afternoon and he said he was going to be here.”

“Maybe something’s come up. Anyway, our dinner reservation is half an hour after we get done here, so we’ve got to stay on schedule.”

“Hey,” Jillian said softly as Lisa’s pacing route brought her near, “it’s going to be okay.” Normally, Lisa was organized to within an inch of her life. Normally, she was as cool as could be. There was something about weddings, though, that broke the nerves of the calmest person. And Lisa was only twenty-one, Jillian reminded herself.

“I know, I know, I’m worrying about nothing,” Lisa said too quickly. “It’s just all the details that are driving me crazy. I mean, I know five o’clock was a bad time for the rehearsal but it was the only one they had. We put this together so quickly. And we’ve got to get all the centerpieces over to the reception hall and I need to tie up the favors and I still have to do the holder for the place cards. And I hung my dress from my ceiling light fixture so it wouldn’t wrinkle and I just know it’s fallen down by now and it’s in a pile all over the floor and—”

“And all that matters is the ‘I do’ part,” Alan drawled, coming up from behind to slide an arm around her waist. “Forget about the centerpieces. Forget about the place cards. Hell, we can skip it all, if you want. My corporate jet could have us in Vegas in three hours. Get married tonight and come back tomorrow for the party.”

Lisa laughed and turned to kiss him. “You have no idea how tempting that sounds. But everyone’s here and the arrangements are already made. We’ll get through it. You’re sweet, though.” She kissed him again.

“And you’re beautiful,” he replied. “We make a good pair.”

Together, Jillian thought, just like Doug and Shelly. “Can’t we rehearse without Alan’s friend?” she suggested to Lisa as Alan walked away, flipping open his cell phone. “Let’s run through it with the people who are here. The Invisible Man can figure things out tomorrow.”

“I suppose. It’s just that he’s supposed to be first usher, right next to Neal.” Neal Barrett, Alan’s brother and best man.

“I’d say the Invisible Man just got demoted for tardiness,” Jillian told her. “You show up more than twenty—” she consulted her watch “—twenty-five minutes late, you take your chances.”

“I agree,” said Carrie Summers, walking up from behind. Carrie had that brisk, take-charge air that mothers seemed to acquire. Of course, it made sense. Carrie was practically like a second mother to Lisa, ever since they’d met when Carrie and her husband, Brian, were adopting Lisa’s son, Timothy. Somehow birth mother and adoptive parents had become friends, then family. And Lisa, who’d lost both parents to an auto accident when she’d been young, had a home again.

“Let’s reshuffle things,” Carrie said now. “Besides,” she added sotto voce, “if we leave everyone in the order you’ve got them, we’ll have Jillian towering over her escort.” She nodded at the short, stocky guy standing across the way. “A switch would be better, assuming Alan’s friend is tall.”

Tall enough for a five-nine woman wearing heels, to be exact. Yet another reason Jillian had never quite fit in. “Well, if he’s not here, I can’t very well be taller than him, now can I?” she asked.

“Oh, Gil’s taller than you,” Lisa said distractedly, watching her fiancé. “I think he’s even taller than Alan.”

“Then it’s settled.” Carrie briskly shooed the ushers toward the altar. “We’ll match him up with Jillian.”

“It’s a straight shot down the aisle,” Jillian said drily. “I’m pretty sure I can find my way on my own if I have to. And if not, I’ll just hitch a ride with Christina’s usher.”

“I’ll arm wrestle you for him,” Christina, Alan’s college-aged daughter offered, laughter in her blue eyes.

The usher in question, standing nearby, frowned. “If I was a chick, you’d be screaming sexism,” he complained.

“But you’re not a chick, so you should be flattered,” Christina said, giving him a saucy look from under her lashes.

“You take him, Christina,” Jillian said, getting into position at the end of the line of bridesmaids. “I’ll make it on my own.”

Just as she always had.

Gil Reynolds typed furiously, his fingers clattering swift and sure on the keyboard, and then leaned back to read what he’d written.

Snow & Taylor Construction, contractors for the billion-dollar downtown Portland streetcar line slated to begin construction this fall, may have won the project without a proper bid process, according to recent documents unearthed by the Gazette.

His favorite kind of story, blowing the lid off corruption in city government. He had his facts up front, a couple of source quotes. Just the way he liked it. Of course, it was still missing that certain something.

A comment from the guest of honor.

With a smile, Gil pushed his dark hair back off his forehead and reached out to dial the phone.

“Yeah?” a man’s voice answered brusquely.

“Nash? Gil Reynolds from the Gazette. We’re running a story on possible fraud in the contracting of the streetcar project. According to the transcripts I saw, Snow & Taylor managed to get the project without competitive bidding.”

Charlie Nash, city councillor. Better than a few, worse than most. There was a pause while Nash took it in. “Reynolds? What the hell are you doing calling me? I thought you were an editor now. You get busted back down?”

“Filling in for one of my reporters who’s on compassionate leave.”

“You don’t have a compassionate bone in your body,” the city councillor growled.

Gil’s teeth gleamed. “Now, come on, Charlie, aren’t we friends? I figured this story was a good chance for us to catch up. Snow & Taylor dumped a lot of money into your campaign, didn’t they?”

“You’re a menace.”

Gil leaned back in his chair. “Maybe you should get that put on a plaque. I could hang it on the wall next to my Pulitzer.”

“You run that story, I’ll sue.”

“I’m just running the facts. What makes you think there’ll be anything to sue about? That sounds like a guilty conscience talking. Come on, you’ll feel better if you confess to Uncle Gil.”

“In a pig’s eye. Why don’t you go after O’Donnell?”

“O’Donnell wasn’t heading the appropriations committee when the contract got let. You were, and your buddies got the job without even trying. Seems to me like the public ought to know. I wanted to be fair and give you a chance to air your side, though. You could set the record straight. Or should I just call for an audit? You got some state and federal bucks for the project, didn’t you?”

“You piranha.”

Gil grinned. “Can I quote you on that, Nash?”

“You can quote me on this.” When the line clicked, Gil chuckled. Merrily, he tapped away, listening to the hubbub of the newsroom outside his office door. In these, the waning hours before deadline, the room was gripped with a feverish purpose, everyone working as quickly as they could to get the paper together and out the door. Not the least of which was him, given that he’d been trying to fill in for two people ever since Mark’s father had had his fatal heart attack.

“I need that streetcar story.” Ron Bates, his copy editor, stood at the door impatiently. “And the Willamette pollution story and the Logan piece.”

“The streetcar story should be in your in-box.”

“What about the other two?”

“Soon,” Gil promised.

“How soon?”

“Gee, let me get my magic wand out and see. Look, I’m going to need at least fifteen minutes to go through them.”

Ron glowered. “You make me miss deadline and the press manager will be coming after me. Which means I’ll be coming after you.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re beautiful when you’re angry, Ron?”

“Kiss my ass,” his copy editor said, and turned away.

Grinning, Gil picked up the ringing phone. “Reynolds.”

“Gil, this is Alan. Alan Barrett? You know, your college buddy who’s getting married tomorrow? The guy whose rehearsal started half an hour ago? That guy?”

Gil snapped his head around to stare at the clock, which had somehow vaulted forward an hour and a half since he’d last checked it. He uttered a heartfelt curse.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“Hell, Alan, I’m sorry. One of my reporters just lost his dad and I’m filling in while he’s gone. I lost track of time. Deadlines are biting my ass today.” Gil sent off the first of the articles.

“Yeah, well, I’ve got a deadline here, too. And a fiancée who’s working on an ulcer. You thinking about gracing us with your presence any time this year?”

“I’ll be there in—” he calculated quickly “—twenty minutes. Twenty five.”

Now it was Alan’s turn to curse. “Forget about the church. We’d be leaving by the time you got here.”

“I’m really sorry, Alan.”

“I know. Look, come to the dinner, at least, so you get a chance to meet everyone. It’s at the Odeon. You know, the new McMillan’s place?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Chapter Two

One thing Jillian could say for Alan, he knew how to throw a rehearsal dinner. Forget about a discreet restaurant back room. Instead, he’d taken the upper balcony of the Odeon Tango Theater, the newest in the McMillan brothers’ chain of brewpub hotels. The old Thirties movie palace had been completely renovated, from the trompe l’oeil and molded-plaster ceiling to the gold-leafed moldings to the deep burgundy curtains that covered the stage.

The tables on the balcony were arranged to accommodate the wedding party and the various out-of-town relatives and friends of Alan’s who’d been invited. At the gleaming walnut bar against the wall, the bartender pulled pints of the McMillan’s award-winning beers. On the tables, bottles of champagne chilled in ice buckets, readily at hand for the rash of toasts that were already taking place.

That was fine with Jillian. In her current mood, it was easy to substitute sipping champagne for conversation. Not that it was necessarily a smart move, especially since drinking wasn’t normally her thing. Champagne, even with its effervescent bubbles, wouldn’t banish the loneliness. Champagne wouldn’t banish the memory of the pang she’d felt when she’d walked back up the aisle all alone, toward the laughing crowd of paired-up bridesmaids and ushers. Sure, it was just the wedding rehearsal, but in a way it was a reflection of her life. She wasn’t a part of the laughing crowd, she wasn’t a part of a pair.

She never had been.

When, she wondered with a thread of desperation, would it change?

When you make it change.

She knew the textbook explanation for why she kept people at arm’s length—raised in squalor, abandoned at four with her twin brother, David, by their mother, neglected by their stroke-ridden grandmother, raised to feel unimportant, unloved, unwanted.

Unworthy.

She knew it was irrational. And as a therapist, she knew how difficult it was to root out feelings grown from the seeds of childhood trauma, however irrational the adult knew them to be.

As a therapist, she also knew that sometimes you had to go out of your comfort zone first to make yourself change. That had been Lois’s point; Lois, who had known Jillian since the Logans had adopted her. At a certain point you needed to move on with your life. Drinking champagne wouldn’t change the fact that she was alone. Doing something different would. If being alone hurt, then she needed to open the gates that she kept locked shut against the world.

I’m afraid.

It was ridiculous, of course, she thought, watching Carrie Summers laugh with her husband, Brian, watching Lisa and Alan as they leaned in for a kiss. What was there to fear? They were glowing with happiness, with the sheer wonder of being parts of a whole.

And suddenly, desperately, Jillian wanted to know what that feeling was like.

An intelligent woman would do something about it. That was what the therapist side of her would suggest if she were in a session with herself. Make a plan and execute it. Go on a blind date. Ask someone she knew to fix her up. Hell, say hello to a guy once in a while.

Of course, if she were in a session with herself, it might be time to consider medication for multiple personality disorder, she thought. And she surprised herself with a hiccup.

A couple of places down from Jillian’s spot at the end of the table, Lisa turned, eyes wide. “Was that a hiccup I just heard?”

“It’s nothing,” Jillian told her, surprised that she had to work just a bit to make the words come out clearly.

Down on the stage, the curtains parted to reveal a stunningly beautiful brunette partnered with a man dressed in a black shirt and trousers. They stood, pressed against one another and, slowly, they began to dance.

She never touched anyone, Jillian thought. Oh, she hugged her mother and her sister, Bridget, now and again, or maybe a girlfriend. That was about it. Her world was so small: don’t touch, don’t look too hard at anyone, don’t make eye contact for too long in case it’s too much. Because without the freedom of having that one person into whose eyes she could gaze, that one person she could hold on to without worrying, all contact with other people seemed perilously complex. How much was too much? How much would inadvertently cross the line because she no longer knew where that line was?