"Please kill me," he whispered.
Verity had the decency to snort at his terrible excuse for a joke before she made a sharp shushing noise and quickly jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow.
"I'm serious, Ver," he continued, leaning closer to his cousin's side. "There's a dull knife right there, next to your plate. I'm sure you could saw through a major artery in a matter of minutes. I won't even try to stop you."
"Don't tempt me, Ross," she hissed. "Although if you keep talking during the toasts, the mother of the bride might be the more likely perpetrator."
Ross gazed a few seats down along the length of the table, only to find Mrs. Chynoweth staring right back at him, her eyes narrowed in unvarnished distaste. Beth's mother had never liked him, not even when he was dating her daughter, and now that she saw him as a little more than a walking bad memory, an interloper and possible impediment to her daughter's pursuit of a successful husband, he was even less tolerable to her. At least he had escaped having her as a mother-in-law, he thought. Thank God for small mercies.
His attention snapped back to the croak of his uncle's voice, coming from the far end of the table.
"…couldn't be happier to have her in our lives. As you all know, Francis's mother was taken from us far too soon. But I know she would be overjoyed to see that he's found such a partner for himself, a beautiful, sweet, and loving woman, one he will cherish for the rest of his life…"
Ross couldn't help himself: he glanced over at the happy couple, seated at his uncle's right side as he stood, continuing to talk, wine glass in hand. They were beaming up at him, the picture perfect image of a man and woman about to be married, and Ross watched as Beth curled her fingers around Francis's shoulder and left them to rest there in a way that conveyed both affection and possession. Her nails were newly manicured, with pale pink polish, if only overshadowed by the glittering diamond engagement ring that encircled her third finger. She leaned towards Francis and whispered in his ear, a soft smile playing on her lips, and Ross was ashamed at how much it still hurt to look at her. He didn't want to think about the times she smiled at him like that, her eyes lit up with laughter, how it had felt to touch the pale porcelain of her skin and run his fingers through her caramel-colored hair.
"…so let us all raise our glasses to the lovely Beth… or, as of tomorrow, Mrs. Elizabeth Poldark!"
Seeing everyone else pick up their glasses, Ross reluctantly followed suit. "To Beth," he mouthed, while the rest of the table uttered the toast in joyful unison.
It was only the rehearsal dinner, and already he wanted nothing more than to be put out of his misery.
The rehearsal itself had been bad enough, having to play the role of the reliable groomsman as they went through each part of the ceremony. Thankfully, he had been paired with Verity to accompany down the aisle, but after that he was on his own, forced to stand and watch as Beth slowly made her way towards the assembled line of bridesmaids and groomsmen, finally taking her place next to Francis. Ross still couldn't believe they had asked him to be part of this, considering everything that had happened, and while Francis's request could be attributed to his cousin's utter obliviousness, a piece of him suspected that Beth's insistence on his involvement stemmed from somewhere slightly more vindictive. They were rubbing his face in it, and whether done out of ignorance or intention, it cut deeply all the same.
He could have said no, of course, and a part of him wondered why he hadn't. It would have looked petty, he supposed, and a refusal wouldn't have gone over well with Francis or Uncle Charles, and besides, now that his father was gone, he didn't have much in the way of family left. But as Ross watched while Beth and Francis briefly kissed at the end of the rehearsal, a prelude to the act that would follow the next day in front of all their invited guests and well-wishers, he had wondered if he hadn't agreed in some part to punish himself.
His offenses were not so terrible, he knew, more of omission than anything else. Still, it didn't make the combined weight of them any less heavy.
He could see now that he had taken Beth for granted when they were together, never fully considering what she might have wanted or her thoughts and ideas on questions relating to their future together. She had been an ornament in his life – a very beautiful one – and for three years she had played the role of supportive girlfriend to perfection. Even when he had taken a temporary consulting job overseas, a decision he had come to without asking her opinion on the matter, she hadn't put up much of a fight, agreeing to a long-distance relationship for the time he would be in London.
The email, sent nearly eighteen months after he had left, informing him that she didn't want to do this any longer, that she was leaving him and moving out of their apartment, shouldn't really have come as that much of a shock to him. But it did anyway.
Maybe he should have immediately flown home and tried to make things right. Maybe he should have realized what a negligent asshole he had been and told her how he felt, or made some grand romantic gesture in an attempt to win her back. But he had done nothing, made no gesture – in his heart, he probably knew she deserved better than him – and rather than returning, he threw himself into work and, when that wasn't enough to help him forget his problems, cheap bottles of whiskey from the off-license around the corner.
It was only through intermittent conversations with Verity that he had come to learn that in the following months Beth had been seeing more and more of his cousin Francis. Apparently, it had grown more serious, with dinners at high-end restaurants downtown, afternoons out on Francis's sailing yacht, and appearances throughout the late summer and fall at various family gatherings. If anyone had wondered why she had moved from one Poldark into the arms of another, they had said nothing. Maybe everyone else wanted to forget he had been with Beth as much as she seemed to.
He had returned home right after New Year's, just in time to hear of their engagement.
The days that had followed had not been particularly pleasant; it was clear that a part of him still loved Beth, and would probably always love Beth, even if he wasn't inlove with her. Maybe, if things had been different, he would have married her. But all that was gone, and he had only himself to blame.
And then, a little more than two weeks after he had returned, Ross got the news that his father had died. It had been quick, they said, a heart attack in his sleep, the housekeeper finding him the next morning still tucked into bed. Ross hadn't known what to feel – their relationship had never been particularly close – and at the beginning he had mostly found himself walking around in a state of hollow numbness. There had been all sorts of arrangements to make, of course, but when the time finally came to sort through the house, the sprawling red-brick mansion on the North Shore where he had grown up, he was surprised at how difficult it had been. Even now, months later, he hadn't finished, but had simply left it to sit, the house unoccupied and its remaining contents gathering dust. Eventually, he would have to sell it – what could he possibly need a house like that for? – but he hadn't been able to bring himself to do it yet. There had also been the question of his inheritance, some dizzying combination of investment accounts and high yield bonds and, of course, the sizable life insurance policy, but like the house, he didn't really want to think about it that much.
Since she had left him, he hadn't really wanted to think about very much at all.
The toasts were still going on, he realized, and, much to his dismay, the floor had been turned over to Beth's mother. Hoping no one was paying much attention to him, he took a long drink from his wine glass.
"…me just say, on behalf of Jonathan and myself, how overjoyed we are to be gaining Francis as a son-in-law. All a parent ever wants for their child is for them to be happy, for them to love and be loved. For a little while, we were worried about Beth, worried that she was giving her love to those who were not worthy of it, or of her…"
She paused, and Ross stared intently at a tiny stain on the tablecloth, his jaw set on edge, not wanting to meet her gaze – or anyone else's, for that matter.
"But then," Mrs. Chynoweth continued, "she found Francis, who we know will love her and care for her in all the ways she deserves. He makes her profoundly happy – I've never seen her so happy – and I have no doubt he will do so for as long as they both shall live." Raising her glass, a self-satisfied smile on her lips, she added, "To the future Mr. and Mrs. Poldark!"
Again, the entire table lifted their glasses and echoed the toast, and again, Ross wondered what the hell he was doing here, when every single part of him wanted to be somewhere else, anywhereelse, where he wouldn't have to be continually reminded of everything he had done wrong and everything he had lost. He knew that it was too late to back out now, but he also had little confidence that he would be able to withstand another night of this, not without relying on fairly prodigious amounts of alcohol.
With the toasts concluded, the table slowly drifted back into quiet conversation. During the lull, the waitstaff began to clear away dinner plates and bring out coffee and dessert, and just as a plate was set in front of him, Verity turned once more in Ross's direction.
"You're bringing someone, right?" she asked as she began digging into her tiramisu. "A date?"
"Why would I want to inflict all this on anyone else?" he sighed. "I just figured I'd keep you company and we could sit at some table and try to amuse ourselves as best as we can. I'm also planning on spending most of the evening drinking myself into a state of oblivion."
"Well, as much fun as that sounds, I won't be available to join in. Andrew's coming. It's my brother's wedding and despite the travesty of a bridesmaid's dress I'm being forced to wear, I'm determined to enjoy myself."
"By inviting somebody your father and brother both actively despise?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.
Everyone knew how Francis and Uncle Charles felt about Andrew Blamey, one of Verity's old law school professors, who she had started dating last year, much to the scandal of the family. Not only was he fifteen years her senior, there had been rumors that he had sexually harassed a member of the junior faculty at another university, although Verity had assured Ross that it was all just malicious gossip. He did seem to make Verity happy, though, and for that Ross was willing to overlook much of what was said about him. His uncle and cousin, however, were of a very different mind when it came to Verity's relationship.
"Precisely," she replied with a triumphant grin. But as she continued to look at him, he saw her face fall slightly, and she let out a short sigh. "Honestly, Ross, you can't spend the whole evening being miserable. You should bring someone, show everyone that you're over Francis and Beth and all of this bullshit… Someone reallypretty."
"Why would it matter if she's pretty?" he scoffed. "You think I have something to prove to Beth or anyone else?"
"No, but I think you could use the distraction."
Ross let out a rough exhale in protest and rubbed his hand against his forehead. Bringing a date to the wedding was a terrible idea. Based on how tonight had gone, he had little doubt that he would be horrible company during the wedding itself, and while he was a lot of things, he wasn't so much of a jerk as to invite someone out, only to make them sit around and watch him wallow in his own misery. And a pretty girl? Verity was out of her mind if she thought he could make one simply appear out of nowhere. And what girl would possibly take him up on such a last minute invitation?
And then he remembered her, the waitress from the diner. Demelza.
He remembered the cloud of her red curls, held back ineffectually in a ponytail as coiled strands of hair escaped along her brow and down the back of her neck. And her eyes had been so startling, the most brilliant sea-green color he could recall ever having seen.
He remembered her accent, the soft twang that must have come from somewhere in Appalachia – Kentucky or West Virginia, maybe – somewhere with screen doors and swimming holes, where people sat on porches and slowly watched the sun go down.
And she wasn't just pretty. She was the kind of beautiful girl who had no idea she was beautiful, which only seemed to make her more so.
God, talk about a distraction.
He had wandered into her diner randomly, just to get out of the rain for a while, and even so, she had been sweet, listening to his problems as if they possibly meant something to her. She had also been surprisingly helpful, if the gift-wrapped pair of Waterford candlesticks currently sitting in the trunk of his car were anything to go by.
For a moment, he imagined what it might be like to bring her with him to Francis and Beth's wedding, what she might look like in a slinky dress and high heels, her hair cascading artfully over her shoulders and around the long line of her neck. He wondered if she knew how to dance, if she would laugh softly as he put his hand on the small of her back and tried to dip her while the band played out the last notes of a song.
But he couldn't be seriously considering this, could he? Aside from her name – and the color of her eyes, apparently – he knew nothing about her, nothing beyond what they had shared in a brief conversation. And she was a waitress, in a diner, who he had met yesterday. It made no sense, and why would he possibly think she would have any interest in coming with him to the wedding in the first place? She had smiled at him, of course, but she probably did that for everyone who walked in the door. And then he remembered the flash of pleasure on her cheeks as she had brought him that piece of pie, the sympathetic ear she offered as she sat across from him in the booth, the way her shy, curious gaze had caught his and transformed itself into something far more combustible.
Ross looked at his watch; it was half-past nine. He wasn't sure when the place closed for the night – or if she'd even be there – but if he hurried, he could make it there in about twenty minutes.
"Hey, Ver, I have to run, okay?" he said, rising from his chair. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Where are you going?" she asked in confusion.
Ross grinned, perhaps for the first time all evening. "I'm taking your advice."
He offered a polite but hasty farewell to his uncle and to Francis and Beth, and was nearly to the door, when suddenly a figure stepped in front of him, blocking his path. He looked up to see that it was Francis's best man, George something-or-other.
"Didn't get a chance to formally introduce myself earlier, during the rehearsal," he said, extending his hand. "George Warleggan."
Ross grasped the other man's hand in his own and shook it. His grip was surprisingly strong.
"Ross Poldark."
George nodded slightly, offering Ross a thin-lipped little smile. His gaze, though, was flat, betraying nothing, not even a reflection of the light above their heads.
"So, Francis was telling me that you might be in need of some financial advising…"
"I'm sorry?" Ross sputtered. He had no idea why Francis would be talking to anyone about his personal issues.
"Well, he said you had come into a bit of money lately…"
"My father died," Ross replied brusquely, his brow furrowing. If the guy was going to be this direct, Ross had no problem doing the same.
"I'm sorry to hear that," George replied, although the clipped efficiency of his tone seemed to convey less-than-heartfelt condolences. "At some point, though, you might want to think about possible investment opportunities. There are lot of exciting things happening in the market these days. Don't want to miss out."
"And that's what you do?" Ross asked, unable to keep a hint of derision from his voice. "Watch for exciting things?"
"My firm has a lot of different interests. For our clients, though, we always want to make sure that their money works for them, not the other way around." He paused, as if waiting for Ross to respond. That was probably what happened next in these sort of exchanges, Ross realized, but he was in a hurry, and beyond that, in no mood to continue the conversation.
"Here, why don't I give you my card?" George said, as he reached into his jacket pocket and handed Ross a crisp white business card. The Warleggan Group, it read. George Warleggan, COO. There was an address below – a newly-developed building downtown – followed by a phone number. "That's my direct line. Call me next week, we'll set up a time to talk."
"Thanks," Ross said, as slipped the card into his pocket and walked away. He had no intention of calling next week or setting up a time to talk or having much to do at all with George Warleggan beyond the ceremony tomorrow. Undoubtedly, there had to be something appealing about the man for Francis to want him to play so large a role in his wedding, but for the life of him, Ross had no idea what it might be.
Quickly making his way outside, he located his car where he had left it in the lot, and for the next twenty minutes tried his best not to speed too much or race through any lights. Most of all, he tried not to think about the possibility that the diner might be closed already or that she might not even be working there that night. As he parked across the street, though, he could see that the lights were still on, even if there appeared to be few people inside.
He pushed open the door and walked in, hoping to see her standing behind the counter just as he had the day before. Instead, he was greeted by a young woman with dark eyes and wavy reddish-brown hair, a tiny slip of thing who couldn't have been more than five feet tall.
"Sorry, sir, we're just about to close…" she offered.
But Ross wasn't really listening. Instead, he rapidly cast his gaze around the room, looking for that familiar head of red curls. And near the corner, standing by a table as she stacked ketchup bottles and salt and pepper shakers onto a tray, he found her.
She looked surprised to see him – not that he could blame her – but as he walked over, he watched her stand up a little straighter, smoothing out the short white apron that was tied around her waist. Her hair was pulled back again, and she had on jeans and striped yellow shirt, the long sleeves pushed up almost to her elbows.
"Demelza… hi," he said, wishing he had something better to say now that he was finally face-to-face with her.
"Hi," she repeated, and then she bit against her full bottom lip. He stared, for a moment finding it difficult to recall his own name, much less the words that might make up a response.
"So, um… do you have a minute?" He glanced back behind him, seeing no one else but the girl behind the counter, who was staring at the two of them with nearly open-mouthed fascination.
"Sure… we're just closin' up. I was just..." She looked down for a moment at the table, at the collection of items on the tray. "It's nothin'. It'll wait. What'd you want to talk about?" There was the barest hint of a smile on her lips, her eyebrows raised in curiosity.
He grinned nervously, a tiny breath of a laugh escaping from his lips. Coming here, standing in front of her like this, it seemed so strange and awkward, but at the same time he somehow felt completely at ease, the same way he had during their conversation the day before.
"You remember how I told you about that wedding I have to go to, the one tomorrow…?"
"Yeah," she said, nodding a little.
"Well…" He paused, glancing down at the ground before he gazed back up at her again. "I guess I was wondering… if you didn't have other plans, whether you might be willing to come with me."
Her eyes narrowed in confusion. "You want me to come with you, to the wedding tomorrow… as your date?" she asked. There was a hesitancy to her voice, and he guessed that she was probably trying to think a way to say no to him without appearing impolite.
"Yeah, I'm sorry," he stammered. "It's totally last minute… I probably shouldn't have asked…"
"Okay," she said quickly, cutting off the flow of his words.
"You'll come?" he asked, surprised at her response, and then at the sense of warm relief he felt expanding through his chest. Until this moment, he hadn't realized how much he had wanted her to say yes.
She nodded again, this time more a little more vigorously, those sea-green eyes shining in the light as her cheeks began to round with the curl of a smile.
"Great. So, uh…" He pulled the first thing from his pocket – a business card – and with a pen from his jacket wrote his cell phone number on the back. "Here's my number. Text me with your address and I'll come pick you up around five. They're having it at a hotel downtown, so there'll be dinner and dancing, with a band…" Ross realized he was beginning to ramble, so he shut his mouth and handed her the card.
"Okay," she said, as she gave it a glance and slipped it into the pocket of her apron.
"Alright, then," he said, letting out a rough exhale. "It's… it's a date. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," she repeated.
And then she smiled widely at him, everything in her face alight with unalloyed happiness. He had no idea what he had done to merit such a reaction, but he couldn't help but smile back, their eyes drawn so easily towards each other that it was only with great reluctance that he was able to eventually turn around and walk out the door.
It's a date, he repeated to himself as he strolled back to his car. A strange sensation of lightness began to course through him, and Ross realized with a shock that it was excitement. Stranger still was the discovery that he was now actually looking forward to an event that less than an hour ago he would have given just about anything to avoid. As he settled into the driver's seat, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and dropped it into the center console. Out of curiosity, he turned it on, looking to see if there were any new notifications. Nothing yet, he noted, but it was still early. And then all he could do was shake his head and laugh at his own foolishness.