Undertaking Love

Chapter Seventeen




Later that afternoon, Marla hoovered the aisle, aware that they’d avoided disaster only by the very thinnest skin of their teeth. It could very easily have gone differently, and ruined both the bride’s and the widow’s most important days. Gabe had obviously played it fast and loose on purpose to ram home his point. He held the cards. He could play God and rain havoc down on her head any time he chose, so if she had any sense she would shut up and put up.

The already spotless carpet bordered on baldness as she ruminated on what she should have done, what she should have said. Marla was an expert at creating the perfect put-down with the benefit of hindsight, but she wished she could wind back the clock and deliver the punch lines at the time. Her chest flamed with anger as she leaned on the vacuum cleaner and glared at the funeral parlour. Something inside her snapped, and she shoved the vacuum aside loudly enough to make Bluey open one eye and check on the situation. Maybe she couldn’t turn back time, but she could do the next best thing – she could go over there right now and deliver her thoughts in person.



Marla glanced through the window to check the funeral parlour was empty of customers and then flung the door open, heartened immeasurably by the look of undisguised horror on the receptionist’s face.

‘Gabriel. Now. And don’t try telling me he isn’t here, because I know damn well that he is.’

She stared pointedly at Melanie, who flushed a dull shade of puce and was clearly in the grip of a desperate desire to come up with an equally pithy reply. She was saved the bother by Gabe, who stalked into reception with a face like thunder.

‘I take it you’ve come to apologise.’ Icicles dripped from his every word. A tiny smug smile crept over Melanie’s lips, and Marla’s hand itched to wipe it off.

‘Excuse me?’

Was he seriously going to attempt to foist the blame for today’s fiasco onto her? Marla’s hands found their way onto her hips of their own accord as her blood cooked in her veins.

‘Not that I’m interested in an apology from you, anyway,’ Gabe muttered, almost as an afterthought.

‘Good. Because you’re not going to get one.’

Gabe snorted. ‘That figures. So why are you here?’

‘To tell you that your sordid little scheme was a low blow. To deliberately set out to ruin someone’s wedding day was … it was beyond cruel, Gabriel. Not to mention the mess you made of that funeral.’ She paused to draw breath and shook her head. ‘God knows why, but I actually thought better of you.’

She stood firm on her moral high ground and watched a sequence of expressions filter across his face like a silent movie. Did he flinch? She saw confusion, definitely, uncertainty, maybe, before he settled on cold disbelief.

‘You can stop right there, lady. Don’t storm in here and try to shove the blame onto my shoulders.’ He turned to Melanie with an incredulous shrug. ‘Can you believe you’re hearing this?’

Melanie gave a nervous little laugh as she shook her head and inched a closer to Gabe, subtly staking her claim.

‘Too right I’m blaming you, Mister,’ Marla blazed. ‘I know full well that Dora told you about the wedding today, and you never said a damn word about a funeral.’

‘Dora did no such bloody thing,’ he half-yelled, and turned towards his receptionist with that brief flicker of uncertainty again. ‘Did she?’

Melanie shook her head with wide regretful eyes.

‘No. I told her about Charlie’s funeral at least twice, Gabe, honestly. She definitely never mentioned a wedding or I’d have realised there was a problem,’ Melanie replied, her voice cracking and her finger tips dabbing at her eyes.

Gabe put his arm around Melanie’s shoulders and favoured her with a supportive smile. ‘Hey, it’s fine, Mel. No one’s blaming you.’ He shot a look of disgust at Marla. ‘Happy? Is your day complete now that you’ve managed to make another innocent person cry?’ He guided Melanie down into her chair and handed her a tissue from the customer box on the desk. ‘You’ve been baying for blood all day, you must have been gutted when there weren’t any fireworks at lunchtime.’

Marla’s fists balled up in frustration at the tiny glint of triumph she could see behind Melanie’s crocodile tears.

How had Gabe managed to cast her as Cruella de Vil? Staring at his hostile face, she realised she would gain nothing by staying any longer. He’d wiped the floor with her argument and made her feel a fool. He obviously had no interest in hearing her side of the story.

She’d lost this particular battle, but she was going to win this bloody war, or die trying. And the first and most satisfying bullet of all was going to wipe that smug look right off Melanie’s pretty face.



Gabe thumped his fist down onto the desk, torn between fury and frustration as he watched Marla stomp back to the chapel. On the one hand he wanted to believe the best of her, because the idea that she had engineered today’s events cast her in a distinctly unflattering light.

But if she hadn’t been behind it, then how the hell had things gone so wrong? Surely Dora wouldn’t have made such a disastrous mistake? She might be well into her eighties but she was as sharp as a pin.

Which left just one other person who could have influenced the day’s events.

Melanie.

He turned to look at her, with her pale mascara-streaked cheeks as she picked at the hem of her cardigan. She was on his side. Why on earth would she sabotage things? It didn’t make any sense, and the last thing he wanted to do was upset her more by expressing any doubts. He sighed and settled uneasily on the conclusion that it must have just slipped Dora’s mind.



Emily flushed the loo and sat down on the seat to get her breath back. Was it possible to actually die of morning sickness? She certainly felt like it at least five times a day. And it wasn’t just mornings either. It was morning, noon and night sickness. Was she being punished? If she wasn’t, she felt as if she should be. Tom had slipped straight into overprotective husband gear as soon as she’d told him about the baby. The kitchen cupboard brimmed with ginger biscuits, and he ran her a warm bath each evening with the lavender-scented oil he’d picked out especially to help her sleep. His thoughtfulness only added to Emily’s burden of guilt as her salty tears slid into the lavender bath water each night. Theoretically, there was a slim chance that the baby could be Tom’s, but her mind wouldn’t permit that thought in amongst the self-flagellation and recriminations. She’d slept with another man. How dare she try and comfort herself with maybes?

She deserved to suffer daily for what she’d done, and what the hell was going to happen when Dan found out that she was pregnant? It wouldn’t take a genius to work out that it might be his baby. Would he tell Tom, come over all paternal and insist on blood tests and such like? Fresh waves of horror washed over her every time she thought about it. God, it would make perfect fodder for the Jeremy Kyle show.

How could she have been so stupid? She could see it now, Jeremy sitting on his top step and pouring scorn on her pitiful excuses as the entire audience bayed for her tainted, slattern blood.

God, she could kill for a glass of wine.