Stand-in Groom Read online

  She smiled as she climbed in the truck. “Police didn’t hassle you for double parking?”

  He smiled back at her as he started the engine. “Meals on Wheels trucks don’t get hassled.”

  She fastened her seat belt and began braiding her hair. “I don’t know how I can thank you for doing this.”

  It was the perfect segue. “Well,” he said. “Actually, I wasn’t kidding about that dinner. If you’re not busy tonight, I’d love to—”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t.” Chelsea Spencer shook her head, not meeting his eyes. That was a bad sign.

  He was silent then, just driving. She didn’t want to go out with him. He didn’t need a rejection stamped onto his forehead. But then she glanced at him. Eye contact. It was all the encouragement he needed.

  “Look, I’ve got all of Sunday off,” he said, turning to gaze at her as he pulled up to a red light. “And if you’re busy then, let me give you my phone number, and that way, if you’re ever not busy, you can give me a call and—”

  “I’m busy Sunday.” She met his eyes, firmly, squarely.

  Johnny was the one who had to look away as the traffic moved forward. He was about a block and a half from Chelsea’s office, and he pulled into the right lane, keeping his signal on so that the cars behind him knew he was going to stop.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly, and as he put the truck into park he looked over at her.

  She was still watching him and she did look sorry. Was it the money thing? Or maybe it was the class thing. She probably came from a family who could trace their roots back before the time of the Mayflower. Johnny’s father, however, was a first-generation American, paternity unknown.

  Or maybe it was just an unspoken rule. Girls from Brookline didn’t date guys from his part of town. But maybe someday she’d decide to break the rules.

  He reached alongside the seat for his clipboard and the pen that was attached. “Let me give you my number—”

  Chelsea was shaking her head. “I don’t think so. Because on Sunday—”

  “Take it anyway,” he said, writing his home number on a scrap of paper. “’Cause you never know, you know?”

  “… I’m getting married.”

  Johnny looked up. She was still looking at him, her blue eyes apologetic. “Married,” he repeated.

  She nodded. “On Sunday.”

  “This Sunday?”

  Another nod.

  He looked out the window. “Oh.” He put down the clipboard, glancing over at her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable …”

  “And I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” She slipped out of the truck. “Don’t forget to make that police report.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Thanks again.” She gave him one last smile and shut the door.

  “Hey, Chelsea.”

  She pulled herself up on the running board and looked in the open window.

  “This guy you’re marrying on Sunday …”

  “Emilio Santangelo,” she said.

  Emilio Santangelo. It was as Italian-American a name as Giovanni Anziano. It could have been him. He, Johnny Anziano, could have been standing at that altar come Sunday morning.

  Not that he wanted to marry Chelsea Spencer. He just wanted a date or two. Or twelve. Or thirty … And hell, if she was going to marry some guy named Santangelo, she would’ve had no problem going on a date with an Anziano. It was his tough luck, though. He was too damn late.

  “Tell Emilio congratulations for me,” Johnny told her. “Tell him he’s one hell of a lucky guy.”

  Chelsea smiled at him. “Thanks, John. For everything.”

  TWO

  “HI, CHELS. IT’S ME, ’Milio. It’s really important that you call me back. It doesn’t matter what time it is here in Rome, just call me.”

  Beep.

  “Chelsea, it’s Emilio again. There’s something wrong with your phone at home and I can’t get through. As soon as you get this message, call me. Day or night.”

  Beep.

  “Chelsea. Where are you? If you’re in the office, pick up the phone.”

  Beep.

  “Chelsea, It’s three in the morning here, and I can’t put this off any longer. I didn’t want to leave this on your answering machine, but … I can’t marry you. I can’t do it—I’m sorry. I’ve canceled my plane ticket. I’m not coming on Saturday. I met a woman, Chels. I swear to God, I didn’t mean for this to happen, but … I fell in love. I know you’re probably never going to talk to me again, but call me, all right? Just … call me.”

  Chelsea sat at her desk, pressing the replay button on her answering machine and playing the series of messages from Emilio again and again.

  Love. Her fiancé had gone and fallen in love.

  With her digital answering-machine system, his smooth, faintly Italian-accented voice sounded as if he were standing right there, with her in her office.

  He wasn’t coming on Saturday. He wasn’t going to marry her.

  Moira O’Brien stood in the doorway, silently listening as Chelsea played Emilio’s last message for a third time.

  “Breach of promise,” Chelsea said as her best friend and business partner came in to sit down across from her desk. “This was more than a marriage—this was a business proposition. He’s reneging. I can’t believe it.”

  “So sue the son-of-a-bitch.”

  “Moira, he’s my friend. I can’t sue him.”

  “You wanna bet?” Moira reached for the telephone. “My brother’s a lawyer. Let me give him a call—”

  “I’m not going to sue Emilio.” Chelsea pulled the telephone out of reach. “But the next time I see him, you better believe I’m going to make him crawl to beg forgiveness.” She put her head down on the desk with a thump. “Oh, Moira, what are we going to do?”

  “About the bank loan?”

  Chelsea lifted her head to meet her friend’s worried eyes. “No, about the five hundred and fifty-seven shrimp cocktails that will go to waste—Yes, about the bank loan. The first payment is due three weeks from Monday. If I don’t get married on Sunday, I don’t get my hands on the money from my trust fund.”

  “You’ve looked at the terms of your grandfather’s will?” Moira asked. “There’re no loopholes?”

  Chelsea opened the file drawer of her desk and pulled out a folder. She took the photocopied page that was clipped to the inside cover and passed it across the desk to her friend.

  “Chelsea Jasmine Spencer to receive the first payment of funds from a trust to the amount of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, plus all interest accrued, upon the first business day following the return from a honeymoon, preceded by her wedding.” Chelsea recited the words she knew by heart. “Additional terms regarding release of funds to be revealed at that time.”

  Moira chewed on her lower lip. “Additional terms?”

  “Knowing sweet, rich, manipulative, controlling old Grandpa, it could be anything,” Chelsea told her. “I might have to wear a clown suit to work for the next five weeks.” She took the paper back from Moira and returned the file to its place. “Of course, now I’ll never know.”

  “Your mother’s going to have a heart attack when you tell her the wedding’s off. She’s going to die.”

  “Or worse yet,” Chelsea said wickedly, “she’ll live, and spend the rest of her life reminding me how I embarrassed her by being jilted three days before my wedding day.”

  “Jilted. That implies a certain emotional attachment, doesn’t it? You don’t love Emilio and he doesn’t love you. Maybe this is for the best.”

  “Moira, if I don’t get my hands on that money … Let me see. How can I put this delicately? How about: We’re screwed!” She gestured at the room around them. “If we don’t come up with that loan payment, this whole business gets flushed.”

  “You could borrow the money from your dad. Or one of your brothers.”

  “I could also sell my soul to Satan,” Chelsea retort
ed, pushing her chair back from her desk and starting to pace.

  Moira ran her fingers through her mass of red curls, making them even wilder than ever. “I know getting your family involved in Spencer/O’Brien Software is the last thing you want to do …”

  “If I let them lend me money, they’ll be breathing down my neck,” Chelsea said. “Every single little tiny minute obscure move I make will be criticized. ‘Are you sure you want to do that, sweetie?’ ‘Why not try it this way instead, Chelsea-bean? That’s the way I did it, kitten, and it worked for me.’”

  “… but it’s better than bankruptcy, isn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “No, it’s not. Believe me, you’ve never been called ‘Chelsea-bean.’ In front of a client.” Chelsea turned to look at Moira, her eyes narrowing. “Your brother Edward’s not married, is he?”

  Moira knew exactly where this was leading. “No, but he’s living with someone.”

  “Your older brother—Ron? He’s the lawyer, right?”

  “Chelsea, as your maid of honor, I have to advise you to cancel the wedding. This isn’t like some daytime soap opera where one of the actors calls in sick.” Moira assumed a television announcer’s ultrasmooth voice. “‘Today, playing the part of Chelsea’s groom will be Moira’s brother Ron.’”

  Chelsea stopped pacing. “Do you think he’d do it?”

  “Not a chance. He’s married. I was just using him as an example of your insanity—”

  “What about your younger brother?”

  “Jimmy? He’s thirteen.”

  But Chelsea had already dismissed him. “He’s also a redhead. I need to find someone who looks Italian. My parents haven’t met Emilio, and if I can find someone who looks—” She broke off, staring out the plate-glass window onto the street below. A white truck was driving past, bouncing and clattering as its wheels hit a pothole. “Giovanni Anziano,” she whispered.

  “Who?”

  Chelsea turned to face Moira. “If you were a truck driver, probably earning just a little over minimum wage, and someone offered you, say, seventy-five thousand dollars to get married, take a free trip to the Virgin Islands, and then get the marriage annulled, would you do it?”

  “Depends who I’d have to marry. Orlando Bloom, yes. Homer Simpson, no way. Who’s Giovanni What’s-his-name?”

  “Anziano. He’s the man who got my purse away from those kids.” Chelsea picked up the phone and dialed information. “He’s the man who’s going to save my butt again—Hello? Boston, please. I’d like the number for Meals on Wheels.”

  ——

  “See you tomorrow, Mr. Gruber! Remember, medium high for five minutes in the microwave.”

  “All right, Martin,” came the elderly man’s quavering reply. “Don’t let the cat out when you open the door.”

  “I won’t.” He wouldn’t let the cat out because the cat—as well as Albert Gruber’s son Martin—had been gone for nearly forty years. “And it’s Johnny, remember? Johnny Anziano from Meals on Wheels. Catch you later, Mr. G, all right?”

  Johnny locked the door behind him. He rolled his shoulders and neck as he took the stairs down from Mr. Gruber’s fourth-floor apartment. The old man was slipping further into the past. It used to be his moments of confusion were few and far between, but lately, Mr. Gruber had been calling him “Martin” more often.

  Johnny stepped out onto the sidewalk. Today had been a particularly bad day for Mr. Gruber. There was no way the old guy was going to remember to heat up that plate of food in the microwave come dinnertime. Johnny was going to have to call him from the restaurant’s office and remind him and—

  Chelsea Spencer was leaning up against his truck.

  Johnny stopped short, doing a quick double take. Yes, that was definitely his truck. There were no other Meals on Wheels trucks parked on this street. And yes, that was definitely Chelsea Spencer. Her blond hair was pulled back into a French braid and she was wearing some kind of dark business suit with wide-legged pants and a jacket that managed to be both mannishly cut and thoroughly feminine. Or maybe it was the fact that Chelsea was wearing it that made it seem so feminine.

  She straightened up as she caught sight of him, obviously waiting for him.

  “Hi, John. Remember me?” She looked slightly self-conscious, slightly nervous. “Chelsea Spencer.”

  Johnny had to laugh. Did he remember her? It was a ludicrous question. “What are you doing here?”

  He looked around at the crumbling brownstone apartment buildings, at the littered sidewalks, at the bent and fading street sign. Yes, this was definitely one of the crummiest streets in one of the crummiest parts of town. He looked again and Chelsea Spencer was still standing next to his truck, impossibly out of place.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She nodded, another flash of something faintly shy and sweet in her blue eyes. “You’re … taller than I remembered.”

  Her eyes lingered on the front of his T-shirt, and he glanced down, suddenly panicked that he was wearing another embarrassing slogan across his chest. But no. Today he was a walking billboard for athletic shoes. JUST DO IT, the white letters on his shirt proclaimed.

  Chelsea tried to hide a smile, meeting his eyes only briefly, and he knew without a doubt that she was remembering the words he had been wearing the last time they met. I’m too sexy for my shirt. She was going to remember that until the end of time. No doubt he’d made one hell of a first impression.

  “I wanted to talk to you about something, and the Meals on Wheels office wouldn’t give out your phone number. It’s kind of urgent, so instead of leaving you a message, I talked them into telling me your route. I was starting to worry this wasn’t really your truck,” she added. “You were gone an awfully long time.”

  Johnny nodded. “Mr. Gruber’s my last delivery of the morning. Sometimes he needs a little extra attention. Today I played a couple of games of cards with him and helped him repot a plant. But if I’d known you were waiting …”

  “I didn’t mind waiting.” She shifted her weight and cleared her throat and jammed her hands into the pockets of her jacket. She was definitely nervous and Johnny was intrigued. “If you’re done for the day … Do you have to get the truck right back? Or can you take some time to talk?”

  His curiosity kicked into overdrive. “What, did they find the kids who snatched your purse? You need me to testify or something?”

  She shook her head no. “I noticed there’s a coffee shop just around the corner. Would you mind if we sat down and talked?”

  “Sure,” he said. “That’d be great.”

  Johnny forced himself to be cool. She’d asked him to have a cup of coffee. So what? It wasn’t like it was a date or anything—after all, the lady was getting married in just a few short days.

  “Have you ever been married?” she asked, glancing up at him as they walked down the cracked and uneven sidewalk.

  “No. Have you?”

  She shook her head again. “No. So you’re not separated, or waiting for a divorce to come through or something like that?”

  She was watching him closely, as if his answer were very important.

  “Nope.”

  “No steady girlfriend? No significant other?”

  Johnny stopped walking, suddenly realizing where this line of questioning was leading. “You’re going to set me up, aren’t you?” he guessed. “You have some friend who needs a date for your wedding, right?”

  Chelsea hesitated, chewing slightly on her lower lip. “Well, sort of … You see …”

  She was gazing up at him, her blue eyes so wide that she looked about twelve years old. He could drown in those eyes, Johnny realized. He could just fall right in and never come back out.

  She took a deep breath and gave him a somewhat tentative smile. “You see, I need a date for my wedding.”

  He stared at her, convinced he’d misunderstood. “You need a what?”

  “Groom,�
� she said. “I need a groom. My fiancé canceled on me and—”

  “He canceled on you?” Johnny’s voice went up a full octave in shock. “You mean, he ditched you? You?”

  She smiled very slightly. “I appreciate your disbelief, but yeah, he ditched me. Three days before the wedding.”

  “What kind of fool is he, anyway?”

  “The kind of fool who’s in love with someone else,” she said.

  “Whoa. That must’ve hurt.”

  “No, it’s not that bad, really. The marriage was just a business arrangement, anyway. I needed a husband, and Emilio wanted a green card, and …” She shrugged. “It hurt, but not in the way you mean because, well, I wasn’t in love with him.”

  Johnny couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You needed a husband badly enough to marry someone you didn’t love?”

  “I still need a husband,” she told him quietly.

  He gazed back at her. He heard her words. He understood them. He just couldn’t believe them. “What are you telling me, Chelsea?” He knew. He just had to have it spelled out. He wanted to hear it from her own lips.

  “I’m not telling, I’m asking,” she said. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “John, I’m asking you to marry me on Sunday.”

  THREE

  “THIS SUNDAY?” Johnny asked, as if that were the incomprehensibly insane part of her crazy request.

  Chelsea nodded, gazing up at him. She’d shocked him. Utterly. She could see his surprise clearly in his eyes—for once they were open wide. He was floored, and she couldn’t blame him. If a virtual stranger had approached her and asked her in all seriousness to marry him, she’d long ago have been running as fast as she could in the opposite direction.

  So far Giovanni Anziano wasn’t running.

  She glanced over her shoulder at the door to the coffee shop. “Can we go inside? I’d like to explain.”

  He was noticeably silent as he followed her into the tiny restaurant, but at least he was following her.

  There was a booth free by the window, and Chelsea slid onto one of the vinyl banquettes. Johnny sat down across from her. Some of the shock in his eyes had changed to wariness. He was willing to hear her out, but she knew he was far from giving her a yes.