A Matter of Marriage (2 page)

Coronado
Island, San Diego County

May 5, 1898

As
the sun descended in the western sky, it dappled San Diego’s harbor with a
bright glow. Alex MacLean picked up his battered leather traveling bag and
hurried away from the ferry terminal.

He
was glad to leave behind the awkward stares of his fellow passengers. He hated
feeling like an object on display. Even after three and a half years, he still
hadn’t gotten used to the looks he received—some of pity, some of revulsion,
and some of curiosity.

He
probably never would.

Alex
headed for the Hotel Grand Victoria, his destination. Inside the pocket of his
faded blue work shirt was the job advertisement he had torn from a Los Angeles newspaper.

Down
to his last few dollars, he needed this job, but he hadn’t come all this way
just for the work. Alex wanted to see the hotel. The sepia picture postcard he’d
come across up north had whet his interest. Besides, there had been nothing and
no one to keep him in Los Angeles.

He
wished there had been someone. Anyone.

Fifteen
minutes later, Alex turned into a wide carriage drive and whistled softly.
Cone-shaped towers covered with red shingles topped a white gingerbread-style
castle adorned with balconies, verandas, and decorative railings.

He
could almost imagine himself entering a storybook instead of a hotel. The
architecture was exquisite, Queen Anne style at its best. Though such whimsical
detail had never matched his aesthetic, he admired the workmanship and felt the
strangest sense of belonging, as if he was supposed to be here. He shook off
the odd feeling and wondered who had designed the structure. Undoubtedly he
would have recognized the name.

Shoes
crunching against a drive laid with broken shells, Alex continued his
appreciative perusal. He wandered past a manicured lawn, meticulously pruned
shrubbery, bright-colored flowers, fancy metal hitching posts, and a gurgling,
splashing fountain.

Near
the hotel’s front entrance, he stopped to admire the façade and its myriad
paned windows, some of them of stained glass. On a balcony above the entrance,
someone shifted terracotta flowerpots inside a box that brimmed with red
geraniums. To the far right, behind one of the windows, a little boy pressed
his palms against the glass, looked out, and grinned.

Alex
froze, his gaze fixed on the boy. Memories surged forward, pummeling him with
the image of his four-year-old son the last time Alex had seen him.

Danny
had also been standing at a window, but he had not been smiling like this boy.
Between smoke-filled breaths and deep coughs, his only child had been crying
out for help. “Daddy! Daddy!” His little hands beat at the unyielding glass on
the third floor of their home.

“Sir?”
a female voice called out. “Are you all right?”

The
voice broke into Alex’s agonizing reverie and released him. Sick at heart, his
stomach in knots, he still stared at the window. It was empty now, the boy
gone. He had disappeared as Danny had, though not forever, not like Danny.

“Sir?”

Alex
gave his head a shake and forced all thoughts of his son back into the dark
cave inside his soul.

Shading
his eyes, he could make out three women standing on the hotel’s front veranda.
One started toward him down the short staircase. When she emerged from beneath
the portico into the waning sunlight, he felt as if the earth’s rotation had
come to a halt and knocked him off balance.

She
was Aphrodite’s twin. A loosely pinned knot of ash-blond hair crowned a
flawless face set with eyes as blue and brilliant as the California sky. Alex
tried to study her dispassionately, like a sculptor examining a statue, but
this was no statue and he was no sculptor.

Running
a hand over the back of his head and dark, untrimmed hair, purposely keeping
the undamaged side of his face to her, he found enough air to whistle under his
breath. She was even more beautiful than his deceased wife, who had been a
beauty in her own right. And yet, this woman showed concern for him, acting
nothing like Elizabeth, who had expected the world to bow at her feet.

Alex’s
heart gave an odd lurch as the woman closed on him, moving with a natural
grace. He imagined long, lean legs beneath the light gray skirt that swayed
with each of her steps. A matching, lace-trimmed jacket accentuated the smooth
curve of her neck and angled in to a slender waist. Lord Almighty, he hadn’t
bargained on ever feeling this way again.

“Is
something wrong?” she asked him from ten feet away. At first, he welcomed her
approach, but then he feared her inevitable reaction to his face. She kept
coming. “You looked rather lost.”

“I’m
fine,” he managed to say, “but thanks.” With a resigned sigh, he decided he
might as well scare her off now and be done with it. When she stopped a few
steps away, he slowly turned and faced her straight on, revealing the ridged
scar that vertically sliced his right cheek in half.

Her
eyelids fluttered briefly, but to his surprise, she did not flinch or gasp or exhibit
any sign of an imminent fainting spell.

The
sense of belonging Alex had felt upon seeing the hotel suddenly returned. He
tried to dismiss the ludicrous feeling. Since losing everything, he belonged
nowhere. And that wasn’t likely to change.

When
the young woman held his gaze instead of looking away, his admiration for her
grew. He would have liked to study her longer, but a blur of airborne movement
distracted him. He glanced up to see a geranium-filled flowerpot flying
straight at the woman’s head.

Alex
dropped his bag and hurled himself at her.

Her
eyes opened wide, but she was clearly too shocked to avoid him or scream.

He
grabbed her and held tight as they hit the ground, rolling together over the
drive’s broken shells. With his body and his arms, he protected her from the
sharp edges as best he could, gritting his teeth at the piercing jabs. He
rolled her away, pressing her face to the hollow between his chin and shoulder
as the flowerpot crashed to the ground. Petals, pottery shards, stems, and dirt
pelted the drive. Their motion came to an abrupt halt when his back slammed
into a hitching post. His breath burst from his lungs.

He
let the woman go, lay back, and struggled for air.

She
scooted away from him on her backside. Fear, shock, and confusion lit her blue
eyes. Her creamy face flushed pink. She looked beautiful. And unhurt.

“What
… on earth … did you think you were doing?” she demanded. Her voice shook.

Trying
to gulp down air, he waved his hand toward the shattered pot. Someone with a
strong and accurate throwing arm had aimed that pot directly at her.

The
woman’s gaze darted between him and the debris of broken terracotta and
geranium remnants spread over the area where she had been standing. Her face
paled. “Oh. Oh, my.” She swallowed visibly. “You … protected me.”

He
nodded. As a trickle of air entered his lungs, she peered at him with a look of
honest amazement on her face, as if no one had ever watched out for her before.
How could such a woman not have a father or brother or husband to protect her?
He must be wrong.

“Thank
you,” she said. “I’m indebted to you.”

He
shook his head. While trying to draw more air, he surveyed where the flowerpot
had come from. No one stood on the balcony. A vacant spot showed where the
geranium had once sat with the other pots in the flower box.

“You’re
hurt!” She scrambled back to him on her hands and knees. “I’ll get the doctor.
He’ll know what to do.”

As
she started to get up, Alex grasped her wrist and grunted what he hoped sounded
like “No.” Someone had tried to hurt her, and he didn’t want her running off by
herself.

“Sir,
you need help. I can see you’re in pain. Going for the doctor is the least I
can do after …” She glanced up at the balcony. A tremor moved through her body,
strong enough that Alex felt it under his fingers. She looked next at the
debris scattered nearby. “And I must tell someone to check that the remaining
flowerpots are secured.”

He
didn’t release her, and he didn’t have enough air to explain that the pot did
not just fall off the balcony, as she apparently presumed. Finally, the muscles
in his torso started to relax. He inhaled a breath sweetened with the scent of
orange blossoms—her scent. She smelled so good he made the mistake of breathing
more deeply. His ribs shrieked a protest.

Alex
locked his teeth and stifled a groan of pain and frustration. He could not
afford to be injured, not when he needed a job and place to stay. But who would
hire a carpenter who couldn’t saw lumber or swing a hammer?

She
unsuccessfully tried to tug her wrist free of his grasp. Color returned to her
face. “Sir, I am grateful for what you did for me, but I must insist you
release me immediately.”

He
inhaled more carefully. “Do you promise … not to run off?”

“If
my staying here will put you at ease, then I can certainly send someone else
for the doctor.”

“I
don’t need a doctor.” He let her go, eased himself into a sitting position, and
breathed as normally as he could considering his aching ribs and the woman’s
nearness. His body well remembered the feel of her pressed against him only
moments before. Her very proximity was enough to raise his heart rate. He’d
forgotten how that felt.

“Of
course you need a doctor,” she said. “You must be looked after.”

Her
genuine concern for his well-being took him aback. It had been a long time
since anyone cared about Alexander MacLean. His late wife had given a good
impression of caring when they’d been courting, but it changed soon after their
wedding. He had discovered that beneath her beauty and sophistication lay a powerful
streak of self-indulgence. What Elizabeth wanted, Elizabeth got.

“Let
me help you,” the woman said as he tried to stand up.

“There’s
no need.” Alex wanted to show her he would be fine on his own, but getting up
proved more difficult than he expected.

She
crouched, shoved aside several locks of hair that had escaped during their
tumble, and positioned herself under his right arm. On his left side appeared a
spry old man wearing wire-rimmed spectacles and a bellboy’s navy blue uniform.
Gold braid decorated each shoulder and cuff. He grasped Alex’s left arm and,
with the woman’s assistance, gently hauled him to his feet.

“Thanks,”
he grunted, wishing he hadn’t needed their help.

“Theo,”
she said, “I’m going to take this gentleman to the doctor’s office. Will you
see that the geranium pot is cleaned up and the others are not in danger of
falling?”

At
her uncommon air of authority, Alex tilted his head. Who was she to give orders
to a bellboy?

“Yes,
Miss Fairbanks,” Theo answered, “but are you sure you don’t need a hand with
him?”

Now
steady on his feet, and having noted her name, Alex stepped out of their hold. “I’m
fine now. It’s you, Miss Fairbanks, that I’m worried about.”

“Me?”
she said. “I appreciate your concern, but our roll across the drive did not
harm me. I’m just a little dusty.” She batted at her clothing, raising a cloud
of dust. Someone laughed from the veranda, and she looked up. “Oh dear, we’ve
attracted a crowd.”

Alex
followed her gaze and cringed.

Guests
stood at the veranda railing like patrons in an opera-house box. The women wore
dresses of silk and satin, their hair done up in what Alex assumed were the
latest styles. He hadn’t kept track. The men sported fedoras or derbies, high
collars, and tailored frock suits, a far cry from his patched brown pants and
old work shirt. It was unlikely he knew any of them, or, if he did, that they
would recognize him now. Few people had seen him after Danny’s and Elizabeth’s
deaths.

“Miss
Fairbanks, we need to talk. Let’s go inside.” He hated all this attention, and
she needed to know the flowerpot had been intentionally thrown at her.

She
turned to the bellboy. “Theo, please take— I’m sorry, what is your name, sir?”

“MacLean.
Alex MacLean.”

“Please
take Mr. MacLean’s traveling bag inside the lobby. He and I will be meeting
with Dr. Dolan.” She cast Alex a look that dared him to challenge her.

He
scowled, first at her, then at the bag that had somehow ended up beside the
older man. “I can carry my own bag. And if I decide to see your physician, I’ll
find him myself.”

“Mr.
MacLean,” the bellboy said, adjusting spectacles crowned by wiry white
eyebrows, “please allow an old man to offer you a bit of advice. Just do as she
says. It’ll be easier in the long run. Miss Fairbanks is the owner and manager
of the Hotel Grand Victoria, and she has your best interests at heart.”

Alex
nearly moaned aloud. Great. Just great. He rubbed his fingertips over the
stubble on his jaw. She was the one who would decide whether to hire him or not.