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Runaway
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    Returning from Paris, the last thing I’m in the mood for is a wedding. Still, Derek Alexander is the closest thing I have to a third brother. He’s also my favorite of Stuart’s friends—and Patrick’s, I guess. Anyone who can get those two to put down their arms and stop fighting is a master in my book. Also, Mom insists I go with her so she doesn’t have to go alone. I suspect she’s hoping I’ll meet someone as always. The woman is living for more grandchildren these days.
    I’ve only been to Wilmington once, but it’s a precious little beach community. Sylvia, being the way she is, has found an exclusively plush bed and breakfast for us to stay in. It would be the perfect girls’ getaway, and I love spending time with my mother—except for the wedding part.
    “Melissa is the dearest thing,” she says as she unpacks her black and white-patterned Vera Bradley luggage. “She’s in marketing, so if you have a chance, let her know that’s what you do.”
    “I doubt she’ll want to discuss work on her wedding day.” I watch as she fiddles with the navy and red-patterned silk scarf tied neatly at her throat.
    She steps back and runs her hands down her sandy-blonde bob. For her age, Mom is still a beautiful woman. It helps that she’s Coco Chanel-elegant in all things, the result of her upbringing. She survived the same elite childhood as my brothers and I. The nice thing is she’s not cold-hearted, passive-aggressive, or a materialistic bitch like so many of my friends have for mothers. We had dear old Dad to fill that role.
    “How much time before the wedding?” I assess my long blonde hair and decide I won’t need to wash it. I would, however, like to freshen up.
    “It starts at six, so we should probably leave in a half hour.”
    “I’ll be ready.”
    I step into the large bathroom and close the door. I haven’t had any time to come down from my sudden departure from Europe. I haven’t even given myself a moment to consider what Armand is thinking. I honestly don’t care to know.
    Sinking into the warm bath, I close my eyes and allow the lavender-scented water to relax me. Armand made the fuck-up. I was always completely honest with him. It’s probably the reason he hasn’t called since I walked out, not that I really care for that to happen either. No, he knew before he even said the words how I would respond. Now here we are, and I’m not looking back.
    Promptly half an hour later, I’m dressed and applying red lipstick as Sylvia fastens a chunky strand of pearls at her neck. She’s dressed in a beige, sleeveless shift with black accents at the shoulders and hips. Classic Coco. I on the other hand, am wearing a long slip-dress with high slits above each leg. It’s white with black leather accents, and I top it with a fluffy mohair vest. Very Valentino.
    “You look fresh off the Paris catwalk,” Mom says with a smile.
    I shrug. “Not much point living in Paris if you don’t indulge in the fashions.”
    We’re out the door and headed to the beach in less than five.
    * * *
    T he wedding is a stunning showcase of our nation’s finest. I still can’t believe both my older brothers are veterans. Patrick most of all. Stuart was always fighting his natural tendency to be exactly like our father, but my favorite brother is so playful and fun. It’s still hard to imagine him carrying a rifle, much less actually using it to kill someone. Of course, I’m pretty sure his stint in the Guard was intended to satisfy our father’s chauvinistic requirements while avoiding deployment. Poor darling. Talk about backfires.
    “Looks like you came back from Europe a woman.” The familiar male voice surprises me with its cheerfulness. I turn to see my oldest brother actually smiling for the first time in my life.
    “Looks like you came back from Saudi a happy man.”
    He shakes his head. “I never went back to Saudi. That’s what made me a happy man.” I wait as he signals the