The Final Falcon Says I Do

Mrs Falcon was in her fifties, trim, well-dressed, but with an air of quiet reserve that made her stand out in this exotic atmosphere. She hurried up the steps, as though the spotlight made her uneasy.

Just inside the church Darius, Marcel and their wives were waiting for her. They embraced her warmly, and Darius said, ‘This must be a happy day for you, Janine. Freya has finally escaped the terrible fate of being married to one of us.’

His stepmother regarded him with wry affection.

‘You know very well that I’m fond of you all,’ she said, ‘and if Freya had really wanted to marry one of you I’d have had no problem. It was the just the way Amos— Well, you know...’

They nodded, understanding her reluctance to be candid about Amos’s determination to get his own way. It had come close to bullying, but a loyal wife couldn’t say so.

‘How did you persuade him to give her away?’ Harriet, Darius’ wife, murmured. ‘I should think it was the last thing he wanted to do.’

‘It was,’ Janine said wryly. ‘I told him if he wouldn’t do it, I would. When he realised I meant it he gave in. Exposing a family disagreement in public—well...’

‘It would have made people laugh at him,’ Harriet said. ‘And he couldn’t have that. You know, marrying you was the best thing that ever happened to Amos. You’re the only person who can make him stop his nonsense.’

‘Shh!’ Janine put a finger to her lips. ‘Never tell him I told you.’

‘It’s a promise.’

A cheer from outside put them all on alert.

‘Travis,’ Harriet said at once. ‘When you hear them cheering you know it’s Travis. I’ll bet he’s blowing kisses to them, putting his arms around girls in the crowd.’

‘Not if Charlene’s with him,’ Janine observed. ‘He’s almost paranoid about considering her feelings.’

‘And the joke is that it doesn’t bother her,’ Darius observed. ‘He can do as he likes because Charlene knows she’s got him just where she wants him.’

‘Sounds the perfect arrangement to me,’ said his wife.

‘And you should know,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘You snap your fingers and I jump to attention, don’t I?’

The look they shared seemed to sum up the air of joyful contentment that permeated the whole family these days. One by one the sons had found wives who were perfect for them.

Darius had turned his back on the society women who would gladly have been his to marry Harriet, a girl from the island he owned. Marcel had rediscovered love with Cassie, a woman he’d once known and lost. Travis had sought Charlene’s protection against an intrusive press, only to find that his need of her went further and deeper than he could have dreamed. And Leonid’s love for Perdita had survived quarrels and misunderstandings because their union had been fated from the moment they met.

Only one son was left: Jackson, who had introduced Freya to Dan Connor, the man she would marry today.

‘Does anyone know anything about the groom?’ Harriet asked.

‘He owns a big television production company,’ Travis explained. ‘His documentaries made Jackson a star.’

‘It’s nearly time for things to start happening,’ Janine said.

‘Yes,’ Travis agreed. ‘We ought to take our places. I thought Dan and Jackson would have been here by now. I wonder what’s keeping them.’

* * *

‘Aren’t you ready yet?’ Jackson called through the half-open door of the bedroom. ‘The car’s downstairs.’

‘I’m here,’ Dan said, appearing. ‘Just a few last-minute things to get right.’

The mirror threw back a reflection of two men in their thirties, both tall and handsome, both dressed for a wedding.

Jackson was the better looking, with a quick, teasing smile that could transform him. Observers sometimes said that of all Amos Falcon’s sons he most resembled him. His lean face and firm features came from the same mould as his father. Amos’s white hair had once been light brown, as Jackson’s still was, and their eyes were an identical deep blue.

The differences between them were subtle. A lifetime of demanding his own way and usually getting it had given Amos’s face a harsh, set look, as though it rested on stone. The same features in Jackson were gentler, as perhaps his father’s had been many years ago. Only the future would determine how much closer the resemblance would one day grow.

‘Do I look all right?’ Dan demanded, studying himself in the mirror.

‘You look fine to me,’ Jackson said, grinning. ‘The perfect picture of a deliriously happy groom.’

Dan threw him a withering look. ‘Just shut it, will you? There’s no such thing as a deliriously happy groom. We’re all shaking with nerves at the plunge we’re about to take.’

‘Come to think of it, you’re right,’ Jackson mused. ‘My brothers were all on edge at their weddings—at least until they got their brides safely riveted. Then they relaxed.’

But even as he said it he knew there was something more behind Dan’s tension. Dan was in his prime, wealthy, and with a streak of confidence that seemed to infuse his whole life. It had helped him build up Connor Productions, known for its colourful documentaries. It had also carried him through many affairs of the heart, which he’d survived by being wary of commitment.

But when Jackson had introduced him to Freya that wariness had begun to desert him, until suddenly, without warning, he’d made a determined and forceful proposal. Jackson knew that because he’d been sitting two tables away in the same restaurant, and had clearly heard Dan say, ‘That’s it! My mind’s made up. You’ve simply got to marry me.’

Freya had given the rich chuckle that was one of her attractions, and teased, ‘Oh, I’ve got to, have I?’

‘Definitely. It’s all settled. You’re going to be Mrs Connor.’

He’d slipped a hand behind her head, drawing her close for a kiss, untroubled by the crowd of other diners who’d laughed and applauded. The next day he’d bought her a diamond ring, and celebrations had commenced.

Jackson was glad for both of them. Freya had been his stepsister for six years. Their relationship might be called ‘jumpy’. Sometimes they were cordial, and sometimes she challenged him.

‘Who are you to give me orders?’ she’d demanded once.

‘I wasn’t—’

‘Yes, you were. You don’t even know you’re doing it. You’re just like your father.’

‘That’s a terrible thing to say!’

‘Why? I thought you admired him.’

‘Some of the time,’ he’d replied wryly. ‘I don’t like his way of giving orders without even realising he’s doing it. But that doesn’t mean I’m like him, and don’t you dare say I am.’

‘Oh, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah!’

And their sparring had ended in laughter, as it so often did.