The Sometime Bride

or even somebody, unwittingly discourage your dream. Since the time she’d entered college and worked her way through, Carrie had pursued everything that was important to her. Nobody had ever told her that she couldn’t. And her Grandma Russell, bless her, had always said that all she had to do was try.
    Having been employed by a large New York investment firm right out of grad school, Carrie had been lucky in business. It wasn’t long before she was making good money, and, because she honestly didn’t have a lot of places to spend it, the money had amassed quickly. Before long, people were coming to her for favors, or opportunities for helping people just seemed to land at her feet. There was her favorite hot-dog vendor with his dream of opening up his own deli, her coworker whose aunt’s independent bookstore was on the brink of foreclosure and badly needed refinancing, her apartment manager who was quite sure, if he had the funds, he could turn his dilapidated building into some of the finest condominiums on New York’s Upper East side.
    All of those dreams had become realities thanks to Carrie’s personal investment in each of these ventures. The results had given her more than satisfaction; they had given her purpose. Within a year, she’d become incorporated and established her own independent investment firm. Two years later, she made the cover of Forbes . But in spite of the increasingly lucrative opportunities that poured her way, Carrie stayed true to her initial calling of helping the small businessman. Though she’d never been precisely poor, her background had been modest. And she’d seen from her own experience that a “rags to riches” existence was possible. All so many people needed was just a chance to get them started. And if the man she loved needed that same kind of chance, she would move heaven and earth to make it happen.
    Carrie scooped the morning paper off her front porch and sat down to browse the financial section over coffee. She had figured Mike for some sort of real-estate venture. High-end sales, perhaps combined with property management of some of Grand Cayman’s larger estates.
    Carrie laid down her paper, a surprising thought taking hold. What if Mike hadn’t planned to work in real estate at all in the Caymans?
    But what else was there? Certainly not early retirement for a man as clever and energetic as Mike. He still seemed way too ambitious, not to mention physically…
    Physical! But of course, Carrie thought with a grin. Her “swim god” wanted to go to the Caymans to capitalize on his native expertise. And Carrie wasn’t talking about lovemaking… Though she was certainly hoping there’d be plenty of that.

    The moment Mike stepped from the car, it hit him with a one-two punch. This was it, he thought, looking around. This was home.
    The white Cape Cod was nestled in a quiet grove just west of the city. It was zoned for the best school system, one of his client’s priorities, and had enough bedrooms—four—to accommodate a houseful of children.
    Mike stood on the front circular drive looking up at the dormer windows protruding from the second story. Those would give plenty of light, and most likely have window seats, to the children’s rooms.
    When Mike stepped inside and walked through the foyer and directly to the back of the house, he was not disappointed. The high stone hearth made the open family room connecting to the kitchen look cozy. Mike’s trained eye swept over the kitchen appliances, which all looked to be less than five years old. A good sign for a house that had been built in the 1940s. It was an indication the owners had routinely kept it up and not just bandaged things at the last minute for the sale.
    At the back of the kitchen area sat a large bay window looking out onto immaculately tended gardens. One hosting several rows of summer vegetables, another sporting colorful flowers surrounding a sparkling pond.
    Mike’s heartbeat picked up a notch as he circled back through the formal living area and dining rooms, both of which needed painting but boasted gorgeous ceiling and chair-rail moldings.
    Though it was his job, Mike felt surprisingly like Goldilocks as he took the stairs two at a time and hurried upstairs into the bedrooms. He went to the front of the house first, where he found, as he’d suspected, a couple of cheerfully decorated children’s rooms complete with sun-dappled dormer windows.
    The master bedroom was good-sized