The Groom Read Online Free Page B

could even answer,
Lyle already knew. Dan was wearing his “lucky” plaid pants and golf shoes.
    “Thought we could play a few
rounds at the club today.”
    “Okay, stop it, both of you.” He
couldn’t help the edge in his voice; it was just kind of there.
    “Stop what? Eat your eggs.”
    Lyle cut his eyes toward Twila.
“I don’t want eggs.”
    “Then drink your coffee.”
    Already mid-sip, Lyle shot both
intruders another defiant stare over his mug. He didn’t want them here. He didn’t
want anyone here. He definitely didn’t want to talk about . . .
    “Has she called?” Twila asked as
she moved toward the dishwasher, unloading Lyle’s meager dishes from the day
before and replacing them with her used pans.
    Lyle snatched his gaze away from
the dark colored contents of his mug. “Did who call?” He’d hoped his voice
would have enough warning in it that she would take the hint. No such luck.
    “Holly. You think she’d at least
call to apologize or—”
    Twila yelped in surprise, and Dan
leaped about a mile in the air as a white ceramic plate made contact with the
ecru wall. Scrambled eggs joined the décor, a sunburst of yellow against the
neutral tone. Bacon grease dripped down the wall in slow motion, traveling in
rivulets toward the broken bits of plate spread out over the tiles.
    “Get out, both of you,” he said
calmly.
    Dan, who looked as if he was
about ready to haul Lyle off to the nearest psych ward, traded nervous glances
with Twila, who had already lifted her broom and dustpan and was headed toward
the mess staining the walls and floor.
    “Stop!” Lyle barked. “Stop
cleaning. Stop cooking and stop asking me questions about her . Stop
asking me to go play golf and stop calling me. And for God’s sake—I don’t
think I’m asking for too much here—get the hell out and leave me alone!”
    Without waiting for either of
them to answer or make a move, Lyle turned and fled, retreating back to his
office and away from wide-eyed stares and the stench of pity. By the time he’d
lowered himself into the plush, leather chair behind his desk, he heard the
slam of the front door and knew that he was alone. Sagging against the back of
the chair with relief, Lyle booted up his computer, cringing in emotional pain
that seemed to translate itself into the physical as Holly’s face filled the
screen. The photo was a candid shot someone had snapped of them at a holiday
mixer for the surgical staff at Mount Sinai Medical Center last December. In
it, they appeared the quintessential couple; Lyle in his bow tie and tux, Holly
in a sexy but demure red cocktail dress.
    In the photo, Lyle had one arm
around Holly, pulling her back against his front. His eyes were on her, full of
adoration and pride at the beauty of the woman on his arm. Maybe he’d been
about to lean in for a kiss, he couldn’t quite remember. Holly’s attention was
focused elsewhere, her gaze just beyond the camera, her red lips parted in a
smile. As his computer finished booting, he couldn’t help leaning forward to
study the picture, his elbows propped on the desk, his chin resting on his
hands.
    Looking at the photo now, he
couldn’t help but think of the irony of his current situation. Had he really
been blind enough to think Holly actually loved him? The old saying went, that
a picture was worth a thousand words; in this case the photo on his desktop was
speaking volumes. Throughout their year-long relationship, Lyle had been
entirely devoted to her and, just like in this picture, focused completely on
her. It never dawned on him to second-guess her words of love. Now he realized
that Holly’s eyes had never been fixed on him, and her love had never been
equal to his. Like a fool, he’d believed that marriage would solidify them,
that if he showered her with all the adoration, money, gifts, and
security—everything that he thought a woman would want—she would
eventually come to feel as passionately about him as he did