Nesting in North Carolina, Page 3

  Three

  Becca gasped, unable to do anything for a moment but gape at her now-ruined wedding finery. She looked up at Lavinia, who seemed almost shocked, too, for a moment before she chuckled uneasily. “My, how could I have been so clumsy?”

  Becca glanced at Archer to see his reaction, but he was watching her almost interestedly, as if waiting for her reaction. A sudden surge of anger caught her by surprise in its intensity, and she opened her mouth to insist that he do something about his mother. But before she could, there was a splashing and sputtering sound next to her. Granny Jones stood there defiantly, holding an empty water glass. Lavinia’s bouffant hairdo was plastered to her head unevenly and her mouth was wide open. She looked like a beached trout, gasping for air.

  “Oh, Granny . . .”

  “The old bat did it on purpose. We all saw it.” Granny looked around for confirmation, but when she was faced with an array of shocked faces, she grinned self-consciously and sat back down.

  “Of all the—” Lavinia couldn’t come up with any words, and her mouth worked for a moment.

  Becca sighed. It looked like it was going to be up to her to apologize. Granny certainly wouldn’t, and Archer didn’t look like he was going to intervene. “Lavinia,” she began, but the woman whirled on her sharply.

  “You, you bunch of hillbillies,” she shrieked. “I don’t even know where you people come from.”

  “Tennessee,” Brodie put in helpfully, his eyes twinkling with suppressed humor. Emily nudged him sharply in the ribs, and he grunted.

  “Of course,” Lavinia said, throwing up her hands, a few more drops of wine spraying everyone within range. “And now, this grasping, greedy little backwoods redneck has sunk her claws into my precious baby, probably just for his millions. None of this would have happened if you’d just married Harper Woodham.”

  Becca stood up slowly. It was all too much. The stress, the fear, the joy she’d experienced today, and now this. Her lovely dress destroyed, and this woman had the nerve to insult her family. She looked down at Archer, giving him one last chance to redeem himself. To stand up for her. But he just watched her steadily, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed as if he was watching a particularly unexciting sport on TV. Was he wishing he’d married Harper Woodham, whoever she was?

  It was just too much.

  Becca looked down again at the dark stains on her dress, gathered her long skirts in her shaking hands, and ran from the ballroom with tears blurring her eyes.

  Archer sighed in disappointment. So much for his brave new wife. He was so hoping that Dr. Lachele had found him a strong woman who would be able to stand up to his mother. It was all he’d asked. He looked around and realized that everyone was staring at him with accusing looks and flushed. He supposed he should have stepped in and interfered, but he had been eager to see how Becca handled things.

  Wordlessly, the women stood up and hurried in the direction Becca had gone. At least Becca’s mother and friends did. Becca’s dad was glaring at him in a way that made him a little nervous. Lavinia whined because he wasn’t paying attention to her, but it was Dr. Lachele that caught his attention. “Can I speak with you for a moment, Mr. Hayes?” she asked. Her tone was frighteningly like that of his eighth-grade English teacher, Mrs. Eldridge, when she was about to light into him for flunking his research paper on koalas.

  He followed the sweet lady, her purple heels tapping sharply on the floor. When they reached the foyer, she spun around, her eyes flashing. “Okay,” he said, lifting his hands in surrender. “I should have said something. But you were supposed to be pairing me up with a strong woman!”

  “Sure was,” Lachele huffed, “and that’s exactly what I did. But nothing in my interview with you made me imagine that you’d leave your wife to face that . . . that harpy alone!”

  Archer snorted a surprised laugh. “Did you just call my mother a harpy?”

  Lachele had the grace to blush. “I’m a psychologist. I call them like I see them, and I certainly don’t hear you arguing with my assessment. Now how fair do you think it is to not back up poor Becca when she’s faced with a situation like she just went through? You didn’t make the best first impression, my boy, that I can tell you, and you owe her an apology. A huge apology. Becca is an absolute joy, and you’re lucky to have her. You get to know her, and you’ll see her strengths soon enough.”

  Dr. Lachele nodded her head significantly, and he turned around. Becca, pale but composed, was approaching him from across the foyer. Her dress was damp in patches, the red wine stains now a paler pink. Her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment, and his breath caught at how pretty she was, even disheveled. “Would you like to go home?” he asked gently.

  She looked up at him, her eyes bright for a moment at the word home. They dimmed a little when she realized he meant their home, but she nodded gamely. “What about your guests, though?”

  “Our guests will understand. At least I hope yours will. I don’t know half of mine, anyway.”

  It took a little bit of time, since Becca’s goodbyes with her family took much longer than his, but Archer held on to his patience. She was obviously very close to them, he noticed, as he watched her hug her mother and then her grandma tightly, tears in her eyes. Even her dad was wiping his eyes discreetly. He couldn’t imagine anyone in his family showing that kind of open affection, and frankly, he was a little bit jealous. Finally, she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, nodding to him. He held out an arm, ignored his mother’s wailing, and led Becca out into the brisk, sunny February afternoon, where a valet had parked his car.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Archer said, “but I had someone load your things in the trunk. He held the passenger side door of the low-slung black Mercedes open for her, and she slid in gracefully. “You didn’t have much. Will you be shipping the rest?”

  “No,” she said softly. “I didn’t have much to bring.”

  He decided then that would change, and soon. His unspoiled bride might be timid, but she certainly hadn’t come from money—his other request for Dr. Lachele—and Archer planned on enjoying spoiling her. His wife wouldn’t want for anything.

  Becca waited nervously for Archer to round the car. How long would the car ride be? Where did he even live? How was she going to ever make conversation? Why did he have to look so darned handsome in that tux of his? He was her storybook hero come to life.

  At least he would have been if he’d tackled that dragon mother of his, but she reminded herself that no one was perfect and she was in no position to cast stones. He settled into the driver’s seat, and she sneaked a glance at him. He was watching her with those sharp blue eyes thoughtfully.

  “I’m sorry about what happened in there.”

  While his mom had been creating such a scene, for a brief, crazy moment, Becca had wanted to scream at him, yell at him, grab him by his lapels, and shake some sense into his handsome head, but now, with him actually apologizing, she knew she never would have had the guts to do something like that anyway. Any anger she had left melted away, and she just nodded. Seemingly satisfied, he looked away and put the car into gear. The luxury car pulled away from the curb almost as quietly as if it weren’t running at all. She stifled a giggle. The elderly Jeep Wrangler she’d borrowed from her cousin Jim to get to her housecleaning jobs sounded like a jumbo jet in comparison.

  “So, your family is from Tennessee?” Archer asked. “What area?”

  Becca glanced at him to be sure he wasn’t mocking her country upbringing, like his mother had been, but he seemed genuinely inquisitive. “Yes, we mostly live around Wolf Creek.”

  “I’ve never heard of it. How far away is Wolf Creek?”

  “From here, just about an hour and a half. Same mountains,” she said a little wistfully, looking out the window. “Just on the other side of them.”

  “We’ll go car shopping for you tomorrow,” Archer promised. “That’s not far away, and you can visit anytime you want. Actuall
y, we won’t go car shopping tomorrow. I have a board meeting that I can’t miss. But if you know what you want, I can just have my dealership deliver it.”

  “I—I don’t need a car! I’ll be fine without one.”

  Archer gave her a grin. “You’re getting a car. Pick a make, model, and color, or I’ll do it for you. I can afford it.”

  Becca caught the wicked twinkle in his eye, but she still couldn’t believe that he’d just snap his fingers and make a car magically appear for her. “Fine,” she teased tentatively. “I’d like a 1992 Ford Taurus station wagon, as rusted out as possible, please, but with a solid motor.”

  His grin fell away, and his voice was serious when he answered. “You have to have the best. You’re a Hayes now, and people will talk otherwise.”

  Immediately, Becca felt guilty. She now had a standard to live up to? What if his mother was right? What if “hillbilly” was practically tattooed on her forehead? Would she shame Archer and make him regret ever marrying her?

  The silence in the car grew heavy, but thankfully, Archer turned down a drive paved with stone. Charming, age-softened, mossy stone walls lined it on either side, and thick old trees, bare of leaves now, speared up on both sides.

  They rounded a bend, and Becca gasped. Archer chuckled. “I get that a lot, the first time people see this place.” He pulled the car up under a wide portico that stuck off of the back of the house, huge and square with two wings, built of stone and full of large white-paned windows. “This has been in our family for over a hundred years. A European count built this house in 1840 for his countess. Wait until you see the inside.”

  “This might be a dumb question,” Becca practically whispered, “but does anyone else live here?”

  Asher shook his head. “I have a housekeeper that comes every day and cooks all of the meals, but she lives in the old converted carriage house on a different part of the property. I also have a regular maid service that comes in daily to clean. Otherwise, it’ll be just you and me.” The way he said the last words made her immediately go red. He just shot her another impish smile and got out of the car.

  A mansion. A housekeeper. A maid service. Becca felt frozen to her seat. He must be a millionaire. No wonder his mother was furious. Her son had married the help.

  Becca’s head was spinning. Archer had shown her to a powder room where she could change out of her wedding dress, and she was surrounded by fabulous French-looking antiques, fixtures that looked like real gold, and even a mural of water nymphs painted behind a giant sunken bathtub.

  Checking her reflection in a large, gilt-painted mirror, she studied the skinny woman that stared back, dressed in thick wool socks—her feet were always cold—jeans with a hole in the knee, and a hand-me-down high school sweatshirt from her oldest brother, who’d worn it when he played football . . . a whole decade ago. Becca wasn’t vain, by any means, but as she pulled her long hair into a simple ponytail, she did wish she had something nicer to wear.

  But she’d never been anything other than practical. If clothes had wear left in them, why buy new ones? She felt a little bit better when she went out into the hallway and found Archer waiting for her. He was dressed in jeans, too, and a charcoal-colored sweater that looked so soft, her fingers itched to touch it. He smiled at her and gave a little tug on her ponytail. “You could easily pass for about sixteen in that outfit of yours.”

  He took her hand, and she shivered. The warmth of his touch felt nice on her chilled fingers. Archer showed her around the house, but Becca was so tired that she only managed to register bits and pieces of her surroundings. Thick Persian rugs under her feet. More beautiful murals. Dozens of high, arched windows that looked out over beautiful European-looking gardens that would probably be incredible when they came out of winter’s dormancy. Beyond those, the sun setting over misty purple mountains. When they came to the dining room, Becca let out a surprised laugh.

  “Here’s a room I haven’t gotten a chance to restore,” Archer said wryly. The long table, seated with eight chairs, boasted gold-painted busts of women for legs. The chairs were painted gold, too, and had leopard print cushions that stood out against the formal elegance of the rest of the room. “Feel free to have a hand at it,” he offered. “You couldn’t do worse than my mom.”

  “No way,” Becca murmured. “I’d be afraid I’d mess something up.”

  He just shrugged and continued out of the room. “I’d just hire someone to fix it.”

  He took her upstairs, where her blush made a reappearance as she realized that, of course, that’s where the bedrooms were at. Archer seemed to understand, though. “This is my room,” he said briefly, opening the door to what was obviously a masculine haven, full of oversized dark wood furniture and done shades of in dark forest greens. She felt her hands begin to shake nervously at the sight of the big four-poster bed, with its silky green covers, and hoped he didn’t notice.

  “And down the hall is the room I had picked out for you,” Archer added. Becca just barely stopped herself from clapping in delight. There was another Persian rug, in bold reds that stood out brightly against the walnut floors, and the walls were a red and white trellis-patterned wallpaper.

  She half-expected the furniture to start talking, like she’d stumbled into a Disney movie. A huge armoire took up one wall, and a curved dresser stood against another, with a candelabra perched on top and a small, ornate clock next to it. Whoever had designed the room definitely had a sense of humor. The bed was smaller than Archer’s, with a curved, padded velvet and cherrywood antique headboard, and a plush down comforter in white with a pattern of tiny red roses. A small chandelier hung from the high ceiling above the bed. There was even a little fireplace on one wall and an attached bathroom with a clawfoot tub.

  “It’s gorgeous,” Becca admitted. “Fit for a princess.”

  Archer leaned forward and surprised her with a sweet, brief kiss on the lips. “You’ll fit right in, then. At least until we get to know each other better. My room has a fireplace, too,” he added teasingly. “Now, before I try to get to know you a whole lot better right this second . . . are you hungry?”

  For another kiss, maybe, she almost said but stopped herself just in time. “I could eat,” she admitted instead.

  “Let’s raid the kitchen, then, and see what Jaqueline left for us.”

  They ate cross-legged on the floor like kids in one of the sitting rooms, which held a cleverly hidden flat screen TV behind a lovely painted screen that slid to one side. It turned out that Becca and Archer both liked old movies, and Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall were onscreen, though the volume was turned low. Becca was surprised at how comfortable she was with Archer already despite their near-fight on their own wedding day not an hour after they’d first laid eyes on each other.

  “I never would have found the TV on my own,” Becca said before taking another big bite of the most delicious roast beef sandwich she could ever remember eating.

  “You’ll really have to poke around tomorrow. There’s all kinds of modern things built in to this house and some really cool old secrets, too. Keep track of how many you find while I’m at work, and I’ll quiz you when I get home.”

  “I wish you didn’t have to go to work,” she blurted out. Weren’t couples supposed to have honeymoons? Or, at least in their case, a chance to get to know each other? Becca blushed, thinking about how much she liked the room he’d given her . . . but how green was also her favorite color.

  A bitter look passed across Archer’s face, but it disappeared so quickly, Becca wasn’t sure she’d seen it at all. “I work a lot,” he said flatly. “I hope that’s not a problem. Since my dad passed, I’ve run the Hayes’s investment firm. I put in eighty-hour workweeks sometimes, to make sure everyone in my family can live on in the style they’re accustomed to.”

  That didn’t seem fair, but Becca tried to give Archer’s family the benefit of the doubt and realized that they had something in common. “I’m no stranger to work eithe
r,” Becca told him. “And I’ve put in my fair share of long workweeks. Most of my money has always gone to family, too, or my community and my church.”

  “Selfless of you,” Archer said, a glint of admiration in his eyes.

  Becca shrugged self-consciously. “You’re one to talk.” Instead of answering, he looked up at the TV and took another bite of his sandwich, obviously uncomfortable with her praise. She wondered, though, all these years he’d been taking care of his family, who had been taking care of him?

  Four

  Whether it was because she’d had such an eventful day or whether it was because of the heavenly mattress in her little red and white bed, Becca overslept for the first time in years. She jumped out of bed when she realized the sun was up and beaming through her windows and grabbed her tattered, terrycloth robe, running for the stairs. But the house was echoingly empty, and Archer’s Mercedes wasn’t underneath the portico, where he’d parked it the night before.

  Her heart sank in disappointment. She’d wanted to be up to make him a cup of coffee before he left for work. Ask him what was on his agenda. Make him laugh. He’d smiled some the day before, but Archer was way too serious. And she’d wanted to know when he’d be back and what his favorite food was, so she could make him something special for dinner. Heck, she wanted to tell him she was half in love with him already!

  Becca laughed at herself on her way back up the curving staircase. If she’d done all that, he probably would have run screaming into the woods. Nothing screamed “wifely” like pestering your brand-new husband about when he’d be home from work . . . and nothing said crazy better than a woman who barely knew you trying to convince you that she loved you after only knowing you a day.

  Becca felt uncomfortably decadent as she soaked in the clawfoot bathtub with lavender-scented bubble bath that she’d found in a cupboard. She didn’t know what else to do, though. On a normal Monday morning, she’d have been working already—typically, she could clean three houses in a day, and her days were booked solid . . . running, running, running from Monday through Friday. When she wasn’t working, she was volunteering with the church or making meals for an elderly neighbor or running errands for her Granny, who didn’t choose to go out much in the wintertime. She blamed her “rheumatiz,” as she called it.