"Hello, Alistair."
"You look very lovely tonight, Miss Laurel." The diminutive, balding man smiled warmly. "I'm truly sorry I wasn't able to see you walk down the aisle, but Mr. Sinclair had a very important meeting at the Numismatic Society. There was a discussion about a new Indian Princess pattern dime that was recently sold at auction."
As if her uncle didn't have enough money, he collected it, as well. He planned to leave all his money to the Numismatic Society of Greater New England. Laurel knew she could find better things to do with Sinclair's fortune than give it to a bunch of old guys who collected money, but that was his choice. She wanted to make her own choices about her inheritance, too. "Well, I'm glad he was able to make it to the reception," she said.
"He'd like to meet your new husband now."
"Where is Uncle Sinclair?" Laurel asked. "I didn't see him come in."
"He's waiting outside in the hall," Alistair said. "You know how he feels about crowds." He smiled weakly. "And women in strange hats. Plus if there are any flowers in the room, he'll demand that they be removed. You know about his fear of roses."
"I made sure to ask the florist to avoid roses," she said. "And we were just about to cut the cake, so as soon as we finish with that, I'll bring him a piece and introduce him to Edward."
"It's not chocolate cake, is it? Because you know how your uncle feels about chocolate."
Laurel winced. "I forgot about the chocolate. Sorry."
"Not to worry," Alistair said. "We'll be waiting. But only for seventeen minutes. Your uncle never waits more than seventeen minutes."
"I'll be there in five," Laurel said. She grabbed her skirt and hurried over to where Sean was waiting.
He stood with the knife clutched in his hand. "I have no idea how to cut this thing," he said, staring up at the four-tiered cake. "Should I start at the bottom or the top?" He glanced around the room. "Looks like we'll need about a hundred pieces."
"We only have to cut a piece for each other," Laurel explained with a smile. "The photographer takes a few photos and then the caterer cuts the rest of the cake. I thought you said you've been to a wedding."
"I spent most of my time at the bar," he murmured. "They don't keep the cake at the bar."
Laurel grabbed the knife. "Put your hand over mine and smile," she said. The photographer snapped three photos before Laurel sliced into the cake. She took a small piece and held it up to him. "Here, eat this. And smile." He did as he was told. "And now, you feed me a little piece."
Sean frowned as he picked up a piece of cake and held it out to her. Laurel leaned closer and opened her mouth. But the moment her lips touched the cake, Sean let it go and most of the piece fell down the front of her dress. The small crowd that had gathered around the table laughed and clapped, urging Sean to retrieve the cake. He leaned closer and peered down her bodice.
"Don't you dare," Laurel muttered, her lips just inches from his ear.
Sean quickly stepped back and Laurel turned away from the guests to get the cake herself. When she'd restored her composure, she pasted a smile on her face and slipped her arm through Sean's. "Now, my uncle Sinclair is waiting to meet you. He's eighty years old, he's a little eccentric and he's going to ask you a lot of really weird questions. He'll probably want to see your fingernails. He has this thing about clean fingernails. Try to humor him as best you can, and if you don't know what to say, just squeeze my hand and I'll answer. Remember, your name is Edward Garland Wilson, you're from West Palm Beach, Florida, and your family is in international banking. Beyond that, he doesn't know anything about you."
"Why hasn't your uncle met Edward by now?" he asked as they strolled across the dance floor.
"Sinclair is a bit of a recluse. He lives in the Rand family summer home on Deer Island in Maine. He likes collecting coins and stamps and watching birds. He'll only eat green vegetables and he has seven pairs of shoes inexactly the same style and color. Oh, and he believes that aliens are living among us. But, please, don't get him started on that."
"He sounds a little crazy," Sean said.
"He's a multimillionaire," Laurel said, licking a bit of frosting off her finger, "so he's not crazy, he's eccentric." When they reached the door to the foyer, she took a deep breath. "Let's get this over with. After Uncle Sinclair, we can leave."
"And I was just starting to have fun," he said.
"Are you sure you can handle this with my uncle? If you don't think you can, then we can put it off."
"I'm fine," Sean replied. He slipped his hand around her waist and they stepped outside. Laurel longed for him to pull her into his arms and kiss her again, the way he had on the dance floor. But instead she forced herself to think about the task at hand, the final hurdle in her plan.
They found Sinclair Rand sitting silently in a small alcove just down the hall from the reception room, ensconced in a large wing chair like a member of the royal family. As they approached, he whispered something to Alistair and Alistair nodded. Laurel grabbed Sean's hand as it rested on her waist and gave it an encouraging squeeze. She could do this. She could turn this whole mess around and make something good of it.
"Hello, Uncle Sinclair," Laurel said, hanging on to Sean's arm like a lifeline. "Uncle, this is my new husband, Edward Garland Wilson. Edward, I'd like to introduce you to Sinclair Rand, my uncle."
On cue, Sean held out his hand. Sinclair took it, carefully examined Sean's fingertips, then let his hand drop. "You married my niece," Sinclair stated.
"Yes, I did," Sean replied.
The old man watched Sean from beneath bushy white eyebrows. "What do you eat for breakfast?" he asked.
At first, Sean seemed taken aback by the question, but then he jumped right in. "Cap'n Crunch. Sometimes I like Lucky Charms or Cocoa Puffs." He cleared his throat. "You look like an oatmeal guy."
Sinclair's eyebrow shot up. "I enjoy a nice bowl of oatmeal," he said in a gruff tone. "The old-fashioned kind, not the instant. Have you ever had any surgery?"
"No," Sean replied. "I'm a pretty healthy guy. How about you?"
"You know I have money," Sinclair continued, ignoring Sean's question.
"I have money, too. Probably not as much as you have. How much do you have?"
Laurel couldn't help but smile. Usually, people were intimidated by Sinclair Rand. But Sean seemed unfazed by the questions, turning them all back on her uncle with a directness that left her uncle off balance. "Uncle, we really have to go. Our honeymoon awaits. We're going to Hawaii."
"Hawaii? Don't eat the bananas there," he warned. "Stay away from all yellow fruit and you'll be fine. We'll discuss your inheritance when you get back."
Laurel bent down and gave her uncle a kiss on the cheek. "I'll call you when I-I mean, we get back." She gave Sean's arm a tug, but he stayed glued to his spot.
"It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Rand. I hope we'll have a chance to talk again."
Sinclair waved his hand as if to dismiss them both. Laurel decided it was best to make a quick exit before Sean said anything else. When they were out of earshot, she turned to him. "Why did you tell him that? You know you're not going to see him again."
"But he's not supposed to know that. In fact, if I was really Edward, I'd be expecting to see him again, wouldn't I?"
Laurel frowned. "Right," she murmured. "That sounds logical. Good thinking. Come on, we just have to say goodbye and I have to throw my bouquet. Then we're done here."
In truth, Laurel really didn't want the evening to end. Though her shoes were pinching and she'd be glad to get out of her dress, she really wasn't sure what she was going to do after this. She was due to leave for Hawaii early the next morning.
When she got back, she'd drive up to Maine and her uncle would present her with a check for five million. She'd lay low for a few months, then find a way to explain how the marriage had been a mistake. If she laid the blame on Sean-or "Edward"-then maybe her uncle might feel more sympathetic and understand her decision.