A Blazing Little Christmas(13)
“Ditto. Just to let you know, you’d have a hell of a time doing so.”
Marc nodded. “Figured as much.” What might have passed for a flash of an actual grin flickered across his features. “That’s why I like to hang with the brother posse when you’re around.”
“At the risk of taking a backward step here, it would take more than the four of
you to get rid of me. I’m not going anywhere.”
From the corner of his eye he saw Jess stand up. He glanced over, hoping the wedding talk had reached a friendly conclusion. One look at her pale face—dotted with twin flags of red on her cheeks, clenched hands and overbright eyes—disabused him of that notion. He was out of his chair in a flash and striding toward her.
“I can’t listen to this anymore,” he heard her say to her mother and Kelley as he approached, her voice low and unsteady. “I’m sick to death of this sniping, and neither of you listen to me anyway. What difference does it make that I’m the bride? Clearly none. So you two plan the wedding. I don’t care what color the napkins are. Invite six thousand people if that’s what you want. But I am not wearing that ridiculous dress.” She jabbed a shaky finger toward a glossy magazine photo depicting a woman wearing a huge poof of a white dress. “I’ll choose what I wear and if it turns out to be my flannel pajamas, then so be it.
“Bottom line is that I refuse to argue about any of this anymore. I’m done. And since I’m no longer involved in the wedding decisions, I’m going back to my cabin. And I suggest you all go home.”
“Jessica,” said Carol, her tone sharp. “You can’t just walk away like this.”
“I can and I am.” Her voice broke on the last two words, and Eric could tell she was seconds away from losing it. He reached out to touch her, but she stepped back, shaking her head and hugging her arms around herself. “I. Am. Done. As for the wedding—I’ll just show up at the church. Or, damn it, maybe I won’t.”
Without another word she turned on her heel and stalked from the lounge.
Chapter 4
Jessica heard Eric call after her, but instead of stopping she quickened her pace, all her thoughts focused on one thing.
Escape.
She needed to put as much distance between herself and her mother and Kelley before she completely fell apart.
Snatching her parka from the coat rack, she dashed outside without pausing to don the garment. A gust of snow-laden, frigid wind pelted her and she gasped at the sudden change in temperature. At least six inches of fresh snow lined the path and the bitter-cold air seemed to snatch the oxygen from her lungs. Without breaking her stride, she struggled into her coat and mittens and tried to calm her rapid, shallow breathing—the first warning sign of the anxiety attack she felt gripping her in its talons. Just relax. Breathe deep.
Damn it, she hated feeling like this. Out of control, her heart thumping so hard and fast she could hear the staccato beats echoing in her ears. Her throat tightening, her fingers tingling from her too-fast shallow breaths, the tension constricting her muscles, the shivering that had nothing to do with the cold. She’d suffered such attacks after her father died, when the grief had relentlessly choked her, but she hadn’t experienced one in several years. Until her engagement. Sadly, since then, she’d been forcibly reminded several times of exactly how they felt. Just like this. Like walls closing in on her and a mounting sense of being overwhelmed.
She needed to lie down, close her eyes until the feeling passed. She felt like a coward running out like that, leaving Eric to deal with the fallout, but, God, she just couldn’t take it anymore. She’d tried to be diplomatic. Polite. But her mother was driving her insane. And whatever last nerve Mom wasn’t stomping on, Kelley trampled over. Sitting between them, she’d felt as if a big red bull’s-eye were painted on her. Her mother had been overbearing and rude, while Kelley’s manner was demanding and brusque. Maybe she would have been able to stomach the tension, endure the discussion—translation: argument—to its end if she hadn’t seen the wedding dress.
A half humorless laugh, half sob escaped her and she briefly squeezed her eyes shut, only to nearly stumble on the snowy path. The dress that her mother declared was perfect. Maybe—for some bride, somewhere, but absolutely not for her. That dress wasn’t just a no, it was a hell no. Naturally her mother had disagreed. And then informed her that she’d already ordered it—because it was soooo perfect.
That’s when all her pent-up anger had erupted like Vesuvius. If she hadn’t left she would have lashed out and said things she’d regret once her temper cooled. She’d learned the hard way that things said in anger could wound deeply. And they could never be unsaid.