story is dedicated to a person who has become very important in my life. Thank you for your kindness, compassion, and seemingly endless support. I am eternally grateful.
Less than two hours ago, Daisy Lennox had stood in front of her bedroom windows and breathed in the fragrant scents emanating from her mother’s flower garden. The softest of breezes whispered against her cheek with the promise that Steamboat Springs, Colorado, would be blessed with a beautiful spring day. A perfect day, in fact, for a wedding.
For her wedding.
She’d closed her eyes and savored the anticipation, as the excitement strummed through her body. By nightfall, she would be Mrs. Reid Foster. It seemed…incredible that this day had finally arrived, that her dreams were so close to becoming reality.
Falling in love with Reid had happened naturally. Effortlessly. He’d been a part of her existence for almost as far back as she could remember, even if it had taken an absurd amount of time for him to view her as anything other than his best friend’s little sister.
Once he had, though, neither of them questioned their connection. And when he’d proposed last year, on the evening of her graduation from the University of Colorado, she’d accepted without hesitation. She couldn’t imagine her life without him.
With Reid, she felt whole. Reid’s love chased off the persistent sensation of not belonging, of not fitting in, of being the odd person out, that she’d battled since childhood.
So, yes. When Daisy had awakened to sunny skies and a warm, fragrant breeze, with hope and delight bubbling in her veins, she had zero reason to believe that anything would—or could—interfere with her pure, soul-deep certainty of the future.
Unfortunately, fate had other ideas.
A broken, emotional confession from Daisy’s mother had shifted everything she’d ever known to be true into a new reality. This—the story her mother told—was the fodder for bad television, and not the life of a woman who was about to be married.
None of this could be real. Yet…somehow, it was.
Emptiness, engulfing and complete, overtook her prior joy. Her breaths came in jagged gasps and her body shook as she attempted to process the unimaginable.
“I know this is a shock,” her mother, Clara Lennox, said. She wrapped her arm over Daisy’s shoulder and drew her close. “Are you okay?”
Okay? No, she was most definitely not okay. She pulled free from her mother’s grasp, and as if on their own accord, her fingers reached for the wedding gown she’d laid out on her bed that morning. She crumpled the silky fabric in her fist and tried to bring Reid’s face, his voice, his very presence, to mind. Tried to sink herself in his love for her, in hers for him.
“That was a silly thing to ask. Of course you’re not okay,” Clara said. “How could you be? But…do you think, once this settles some, you’ll—”
“Settles? I can’t imagine any of this settling in the near future.” Or ever.
“I understand. I’m sorry for this, sorry for…all of it.”
Lifting her chin, Daisy looked at her mother. Her pale blue eyes were puffy from crying. Her fiery red hair—so like Daisy’s own—had been nervously tucked behind her ears while she’d slowly, word by word, shredded the strands of Daisy’s identity.
On the morning of her wedding.
“Why today? Why not yesterday or six months ago or when I was ten?” Daisy pushed out the questions, still unable to fully comprehend the magnitude of her mother’s confession. “Why would you wait until what is supposed to be the happiest day of my life to tell me that…that—” she swallowed the sobs choking her throat “—I’m not the person I thought I was?”
“You are exactly the same person you have always been.” Sighing, Clara ran her hands over her face. “But I shouldn’t have waited for so long. I should have—”
“No, Mother. You shouldn’t have waited until my wedding day to tell me that I’m the product of an affair!” Selfish. Wrong to feel this way, perhaps, but this confession and the timing of it came off as selfish to Daisy. What did this do for her now, other than cause inexplicable amounts of pain and confusion? Not one damn thing. “How could you do this to me?”
“I waited too long,” her mother repeated. “I didn’t mean to, darling. I just couldn’t ever seem to find the right words or the right time or…I kept hoping your father would—”
“Which father?” Daisy’s anger rolled in, coating the rest of her spinning emotions. “The man who raised me or the man I didn’t even know existed until now?”
Clara reeled back, as if Daisy’s words held the physical force of a slap. “Charles Lennox. The man who raised you. The man who accepted you when I admitted my…mistake to him.”
“He has never accepted me,” Daisy whispered. “And now, I know why.”
“You’re wrong. He loves you.”
“Then why isn’t he sitting here with us?”
“Because your father…that is, we decided this should come from me.”
Not a surprise. If there was one aspect of her father’s personality that Daisy understood, it was his reluctance to become embroiled in emotional scenes. Even so, she wished her father had chosen to be here, to offer his support, to give his assurances that he loved her, that he considered her his daughter through and through, and that he always had.
More than a want. She needed to hear this.
In that moment, though, with the glorious May sun dappling across her bedroom floor, Daisy didn’t fool herself into believing she’d ever hear those assurances from Charles Lennox. If he hadn’t been able to do so before, he certainly wouldn’t today.
She’d always ached to have the close relationship with her father that her older brother, Parker, did. Over the years, she’d convinced herself that her father simply had more in common with his son than he did with his daughter, and that their relationship, while often distant and cool, had absolutely nothing to do with her. Some men, as her mother consistently said, related better with their male offspring. Some men just weren’t able to develop a close connection with their daughters. And this belief, as much as it hurt, had also offered relief.
But this new information, the obvious absence of her father, along with the history of their relationship, painted an altered picture. One that stung in deep and intrinsic ways. She was not Charles Lennox’s daughter; she was the product of an affair. What could she possibly mean to him, other than providing the visible proof that his wife had cheated?
In heartbreaking clarity, this understanding answered every question she’d ever had. It explained the distance, the awkward hugs and the lack of pride or enthusiasm whenever Daisy accomplished something. More than anything else, though, this knowledge brought an undeniable logic to her father’s unwillingness to…love her the way he loved Parker.
Hell, she wasn’t sure she
