to her and by the hope of a happy-ever-after kind of life, Cecilia had acquiesced to the marriage—with one stipulation. The agreement.
Their marriage was supposed to last as long as they both lived, so they’d devised an agreement that would help them stay true to their vows. Or so they’d thought…. Before the ceremony, they’d written the prenuptial contract themselves and had it notarized. She’d forgotten all about it until she’d made an appointment with Allan Harris and he’d asked if she’d signed any agreement prior to the wedding. It certainly wasn’t the standard sort of document; nevertheless Allan felt they needed to have the court rescind it.
Her marriage shouldn’t have ended like this, but after their baby died, everything had gone wrong. Whatever love had existed between them had been eroded by their loss. Babies weren’t supposed to die—even babies born premature. Any sense of rightness, of justice, had disappeared from Cecilia’s world. The marriage that was meant to sustain her had become yet another source of guilt and grief. Experience had taught her she was alone, and her legal status might as well reflect that.
She couldn’t think about it anymore and purposely turned her thoughts elsewhere.
Attorneys milled about the crowded area, conferring with their clients, and she looked around, expecting to find Ian, bracing herself for the inevitable confrontation. She hadn’t seen or talked to him in more than four months, although their attorneys were in regular contact. She wondered if all these other people were here for equally sad reasons. They must be. Why else did anyone go to court? Broken vows, fractured agreements…
“We have Judge Lockhart,” Allan said, breaking into her observations.
“Is that good?”
“She’s fair.”
That was all Cecilia asked. “This is just a formality, right?”
“Right.” Allan gave her a comforting smile.
She checked at her watch. The docket was scheduled to be announced at nine and it was five minutes before. Ian still wasn’t here.
“What if Ian doesn’t show up?” she asked.
“Then we’ll ask for a continuance.”
“Oh.” Not another delay, she silently pleaded.
“He’ll be here,” Allan said reassuringly. “Brad told me Ian’s just as keen to get this over with as you are.”
The knot in her stomach tightened. This was the easy part, she told herself, dismissing her nervousness. She’d already been through the hard part—the pain and grief, the disappointment of a marriage that hadn’t worked. The hearing was merely a formality; Allan had said so. Once the prenuptial agreement was rescinded, the no-contest divorce was as good as done and this nightmare would be behind her.
Then Ian appeared.
Cecilia felt his presence before she actually saw him. Felt his gaze as he came up the stairwell and into the foyer. She turned and their eyes briefly met before they each, hurriedly, looked away.
Almost simultaneous with his arrival, the courtroom doors opened. Everyone stood and began to file inside with an eagerness that defied explanation. Allan walked beside Cecilia through the mahogany doors. Ian and his attorney entered after them and sat on the opposite side of the courtroom.
The bailiff immediately started reading off names as though taking attendance. With each name or set of names, a response was made and a number assigned. It happened so quickly that Cecilia almost missed hearing her own.
“Randall.”
Both Allan Harris and Brad Dumas called out.
Cecilia didn’t hear the number they were given. When Allan sat down beside her, he wrote thirty on a yellow legal pad.
“Thirty?” she whispered, astonished to realize that twenty-nine other cases would have to be heard before hers.
He nodded. “Don’t worry, it’ll go fast. We’ll probably be out of here before eleven. Depends on what else is being decided.”
“Do I have to stay here?”
“Not in the courtroom. You can wait outside if you prefer.”
She did. The room felt claustrophobic, unbearably so. She stood and hurried into the nearly empty hall, practically stumbling out of the courtroom in her rush to escape.
Two steps into the foyer, she stopped—barely avoiding a collision with Ian.
They both froze, staring at each other. Cecilia didn’t know what to say; Ian apparently had the same problem. He looked good dressed in his Navy blues, reminding her of the first time they’d met. He was tall and fit and possessed the most mesmerizing blue eyes she’d ever seen. Cecilia thought that if Allison Marie had lived, she would have had her daddy’s eyes.
“It’s almost over,” Ian said, his voice low and devoid of emotion.
“Yes,” she returned. After a moment’s silence, she added, “I didn’t follow you out here.” She wanted him to know that.
“I figured as much.”
“It felt like the walls were closing in on me.”
He didn’t comment and sank onto one of the wooden benches that lined the hallway outside the courtrooms. He slouched forward, elbows braced against his knees. She sat at the other end of the bench, perched uncomfortably on the very edge. Other people left the crowded courtroom and either disappeared or found a secluded corner to confer with their lawyers. Their whispered voices echoed off the granite walls.
“I know you don’t believe me, but I’m sorry it’s come to this,” Ian said.
“I am, too.” Then, in case he assumed she might be seeking a reconciliation, she told him, “But it’s necessary.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more.” He sat upright, his back ramrod-straight as he folded his arms across his chest. He didn’t look at her again.
This was awkward—both of them sitting here like this. But if he could pretend she wasn’t there, she could do the same thing. Surreptitiously, she slid farther back on the bench. This was going to be a long wait.
“Well, hello there,” Charlotte Jefferson said as she peeked inside the small private room at Cedar Cove Convalescent Center. “I understand you’re a new arrival.”
The elderly, white-haired gentleman slumped in his wheelchair, staring at her with clouded brown eyes. Despite the ravages of illness and age—he was in his nineties, she’d learned—she could see he’d once been a handsome man. The classic bone structure was unmistakable.
“You don’t need to worry about answering,” she told him. “I know you’re a stroke patient. I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Charlotte Jefferson. I stopped by to see if there’s anything I can do for you.”
He raised his gaze to hers and slowly, as though with great effort, shook his head.
“You don’t have to tell me your name. I read it outside the door. You’re
