Chapter Twenty-Eight

Sunday morning, Amy was still reeling.

After the Sound’s loss to the Senators last night, she had almost switched the television off. Her family had been due back any minute, and she hadn’t wanted to be caught watching Emile. But then the after-game interviews had started—first the Ottawa goalie and next Nicolai Glazov—but before Glaz could even open his mouth to respond to the question he’d been asked, the camera swung around and another announcer said, “Whoa, Kelton! There’s something going on over here!”

And, indeed, there was. Emile stood motionless with blood pouring down his face. “It’s Emile Giroux! And who is that he’s fighting with? A fan?”

“Not sure, Gino,” the other reporter said. “Not a Sound fan, for certain.”

But Amy could have told them. Cameron landed another blow to Emile’s face.

Then Emile wasn’t motionless anymore. His big goalie gloves went flying, and Emile dropped to the ground as quickly as he’d ever dropped to the ice, only this time Cameron was beneath him.

It didn’t last long—but long enough for Amy to say aloud, “Kick his ass, Emile! He’s got it coming!” Then there were people pulling Emile off Cameron and carrying him away, blood flying, fists flailing, mouth angrily moving, no doubt cursing in French. At least she didn’t have to worry about his injuries. Nobody that mad could be hurt very bad.

Amy completely lost track of what the announcers were saying, but that didn’t matter. They knew less than she did.

Security guards seemed to have Cameron in hand. It was probably too much to hope for that he would land in jail.

The announcers had calmed down some now, and the camera was back on a part amused, part perplexed looking Glaz.

“Any idea what that was about, Glaz?”

“No idea, Kelton.”

“Unless an arena burns to the ground before midnight, I would bet we’ve just witnessed what will be the top story in hockey tomorrow.”

Glaz laughed. “Is a better thing, then, for the Sound—better than the loss on home ice.”

Amy was scrambling eggs and frying bacon for her family when her brother came in the kitchen dressed for church with his jacket over his arm.

“I guess you aren’t going.” Terrance eyed Amy’s shorts and T-shirt as he poured a cup of coffee.

“Tomorrow’s Halloween. We’ve promised the high school three dozen pies for the carnival. I’m going to get on it.” A couple of college students would have already opened The Peach Stand to sell coffee, early morning muffins, scones, and Sunday dinner desserts. After church, business would pick up, and Mama, Mimi, and possibly Terrance and Daddy, depending on when the Falcons played, would show up. Grandpa steered clear of The Peach Stand, insisting he was a peach farmer, not a peddler.

“Can’t blame you.” Terrance leaned on the counter sipped his coffee. “Did you know your boyfriends have gone viral? Do you think it’s over you?”

Just when things couldn’t get better. Amy took up the bacon and put it on a paper towel-lined platter. “I don’t have any boyfriends. I have a former boyfriend, who robbed me blind and married someone else, and someone who might have been my boyfriend, but isn’t and never will be.” Never was a terrible word.

“Don’t you want to know what caused them to go viral?”

“I know. I saw it live.”

“I see. So you watched the game?”

“I did. I’ve been carbing Emile up for a couple of weeks now. I wanted to see if it was paying off.”

“Apparently not in the net, not last night. But they are saying he got the best of Snow.”

“So they know who Cameron is now. Are they saying anything else?” Amy stirred the eggs.

“No. Nobody seems to be talking. They’re speculating on whether Giroux will be suspended for brawling with a fan.”

“Suspended!” Amy slammed her spatula down. “That’s not fair! He didn’t start it. And Cameron’s not a fan.”

“Hey.” Terrance held up a hand. “I never liked the sanctimonious SOB.” There was noise on the stairs. “Here they come.”

Amy’s heart sped up. “Do you think they know? Since they’re not hockey fans?”

“Possibly. I know, and I’m not a hockey fan.”

She did not want to face this right now.

He held his hand out for the spatula. “Go. I’ll take credit for cooking breakfast.”

She ran out the back door, jumped in the golf cart, and sped toward The Peach Stand.

• • •

The filling was made and ready for the pans. The pastry for seventy-two crusts for thirty-six double-crust pies was mixed and chilled. Amy had just finished rolling and lining the fifteenth pie pan when Mimi came into the kitchen.

“You have company,” she said. “Up at the house.”

She’d been expecting this. There had been Fall Festival and a church service since Amy had hit town, and she hadn’t gone to either. The time was just about right for her cousin Becky and friends Lulu or Cassandra to show up. They would have talked among themselves and decided to wait a few days to see if Amy would call them first. Then they would have started calling, only to discover she wasn’t picking up her phone. Or maybe Emile had been answering. For all she knew, the four them had planned a BFF beach trip. He’d speak French and pass out wine. They’d laugh. He’d take his shirt off.

What was wrong with her? It wasn’t even beach season.

“I have pies to make,” Amy said. “Is it Lulu? Or all three of them?” Amy didn’t have to explain. Mimi knew well who she meant by “all three.”

“None of them. A woman in a rental car. Margaret, I think she said.”

Amy didn’t know any Margaret, except Margaret Teesdale, who would be more likely to be visiting Mama than her. Besides, Mimi knew her.

Mimi reached for an apron. “Go on. I’ll work on these pies. I gave her some iced tea and put her in the parlor.”

Might as well find out. Amy shed her own apron, went outside, and got in the golf cart. Surely it wouldn’t be a reporter, come to ask her about Cameron and Emile—though it was possible. Amy hadn’t heard anything new about that, even if Emile had been suspended. It was hard to know things without electronics.

She went in the back door and stopped in the kitchen to splash water on her face. She was still drying it with a paper towel when she went in the parlor door. People who came without calling first got what they got.

The young woman sitting in the middle of the couch was pretty—chestnut hair, slim, with pretty skin. She didn’t see Amy at first because she was intently studying her white-knuckled hands in her lap.

“Hello,” Amy said.

The woman’s head jerked up. She looked like a scared rabbit. Her eyes were clear amber, but there were dark circles under them. It was only when she rose and held out her hand that Amy noticed the barest suggestion of a baby bump.

“Marley Fallon.” Amy had only seen that one picture that one time. She’d never been tempted to go back and look at it again. Marley’s handshake was firm, and she looked straight into Amy’s eyes.

“Please sit.” Amy sat in the wing chair nearest the couch. When Marley sat again, she sat on the end nearest Amy. “So, not Marley Snow?”

She looked at her hands again. “Well, no. I didn’t take his name.”

“Some don’t,” Amy said.

Marley looked at her again. “Would you have? Changed your name if you’d married him? He wasn’t happy when I didn’t.”

“You can be sure of it. I let Cameron do all my thinking for me.”

Marley didn’t respond, but to be fair, there was no response that wouldn’t have been insulting.

“You’ve come a long way, especially since you couldn’t be sure I would be here.” The question was why was she here? And how much did she know?

“I was fairly confident I’d find you here. Where else but to her family does someone whose been robbed of everything go?

To Emile. She can go to Emile. He’ll take in anybody.

But at least that answered one of the questions. Marley knew—if not all, plenty.

Marley nodded. “I am so, so sorry. I wanted to tell you I never knew, never even suspected.”

“How is it that you know now?” Would Emile never leave well enough alone?

“Long story. The upshot is, our honeymoon was cut short when Emile Giroux summoned Cameron to L.A. for a meeting. Cameron assumed Giroux was going to sign him, but he demanded that Cameron send your personal possessions back.” She closed her eyes and shuddered. “I can still scarcely believe . . . Anyway, I ended up returning home—though understand, I was still in the dark. Then Cameron’s Sound client fired him. By now, Cameron’s nerves were stretched pretty tight. He didn’t want to come to Nashville, but since we were back anyway, I wanted to come and see my brother play football. So he came. Then Pickens Davenport—the Sound owner, he’s a friend of my father’s—offered us bench side seats for the Sound game. I didn’t care, but Reynolds and Dad wanted to go. So we all went. And then, after the game—”

Amy could stand it no more. She wanted this woman to get to the point—whatever that was—and leave. She had pies to make.

“There was a fight between Cameron and Emile,” Amy said.

“Yes, and all this came out.”

Amy’s gut clenched. “Publicly?”

“Oh, no. No. But I know now, as does my family.”

“And how do you know? Did Emile tell you?”

Whether he did or did not do the main thing she’d asked him not to—tell Marley and her family what Cameron did—wouldn’t make things better or worse, but she had to know.

Marley looked surprised. “No. It was Cameron. He came a little unglued and ended up confessing it all.”

“Emile didn’t say anything?”

“No, as a matter of fact, my father tried to discuss it with him, to find out if Cameron had done even more. Emile refused to discuss you or anything about the situation. And believe me when I say my father can be plenty persuasive.”

Amy nodded. That was something, she supposed. Too little, too late, but maybe Emile had learned something for the next time someone asked him to leave something alone.

“Anyway.” Marley reached into her purse. “I have this for you.” She handed Amy an envelope. “There’s a cashier’s check inside for what Cameron took from you. I think you’ll find it fair.”

Curious to know if Cameron had come completely clean about just how much he’d stolen, Amy looked at the check and gasped. “There’s almost eight million dollars here. That’s more than I had.”

Marley shook her head. “I had our accountant and attorney fly in last night, and Cameron turned the books over to them. For all Cameron’s shortcomings, he’d made some good investments. And that check also includes the cost of your car and interest from the day he left until this.”

“I can’t take this.” She held out the envelope toward Amy. “I can’t take your money—or your parents’. I did this to myself. You heard what I said when I saw the amount. I didn’t even know how much I had.”

“No,” Marley said. “Cameron did it. I won’t pretend that you shouldn’t have been smarter about it—and don’t tell me you’re not smart. Dumb people don’t sell a business for five million dollars at twenty-six years old.” She folded her hands in her lap again. “Anyway, it’s not my money. Or my family’s. This was in Cameron’s accounts. I made him turn it over.”

A little shiver of possibility went through Amy. If what Marley was claiming was true, she really was going to get her money back.

“How did you get Cameron to do that? Come to think of it, how did you get him to turn the information to over to the accountant?”

Marley’s smile was triumphant, sad, and a little mean around the edges. “I told him if he’d do this—rectify what he did to you as much as possible—we’d start over and move on, that we’d have our baby and raise him.”

Amy nodded. She wouldn’t want Cameron after learning all this, but more power to Marley. “Then I wish you luck with your marriage.”

Marley laughed. “You don’t think I’m really going forward with that, do you? If my lawyer hasn’t presented him with the divorce papers yet, it will happen before I get back to Nashville.”

“So, you lied to him.”

Marley stood up and pulled keys from her purse. “With all that’s happened, for all he did to you—and me—are you really going to judge me for that?”

“No.”

“I’d better get to the airport if I want to get back in time to see my brother fire him. He’s going to do that right after his game.”

“Wow. Fallons don’t play.”

Marley shook her head. “No. Fallons don’t play.”

Amy stood. “Thank you. I guess you’re missing your brother’s game. You don’t want to miss your plane.”

“I can’t. It’s a plane that waits for me.” At the door, Marley hesitated. “Another question. How long did you know?”

“From the day you got married. I saw the tweet.”

“Oh, yes. The tweet. Why didn’t you go public? Or at least tell me?”

“I didn’t go public, in part, because I was humiliated and I wasn’t ready for my family to know. I didn’t tell you or your family, because I thought you ought to have a chance to make something of your marriage, to have a father for your baby.”

Marley considered that for a moment. “Make a marriage with a man I didn’t know. Amy, I appreciate that you meant well, but should you have made that decision for me?”

Amy was too startled to answer—at least when Marley was still in earshot.

It was only after Marley waved as she got into her rental car that Amy whispered, “I was trying to do something nice for you.”