Mixed-Up Matrimony. Diana Mars

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      One

      Notre Dame’s famed Golden Dome loomed straight ahead, gleaming under the rays of an autumn sun.

      Bronson Kensington looked at it with mounting frustration. Ever since he’d received the call from Brandy Cavanaugh, his cousin and head tennis coach at Deerbrook High, fury at his only child had mounted.

      How dare he? How could Christopher have done this to him? Even dared consider it?

      As Bronson drove around the Courtney Tennis Center—the impressive Irish outdoor facility—he bitterly reflected that he would have loved having the opportunity to attend a school with the tradition, name-recognition and academic excellence that this South Bend university boasted.

      Unlike his wealthy cousin, Bronson had been forced to settle for two years at a community college, after which he’d been able to transfer to Central Illinois College. He’d learned the hard way that top jobs were acquired through connections.

      For his son, his pride and joy, Bronson wished the world. He wanted Christopher’s college years to be worry free, a golden time in his life he could look back on fondly.

      As Bronson searched for a racy red Toyota Celica, he rocked his lower jaw from side to side. It was sore and stiff from his nervous grinding of teeth ever since he’d gotten the phone call from Brandy earlier in the day....

      “Bronson, sorry to bother you at work—” she’d begun.

      “What is it, Brandy?” Bronson had asked, alarmed. Although he and his cousin were close, their busy schedules meant they seldom had time to see each other, and Brandy would not call unless it was something urgent. “Christopher! Is he hurt? Was he in an accident? Did he—?”

      “Hold on, hold on, Bronson,” Brandy Cavanaugh said in a soothing tone.

      “What, then? My parents?” Bronson had been feeling uneasy lately, but he’d attributed the vague, free-floating anxiety to the inevitable worry that accompanied rearing a teen.

      “No, you were right the first time. It’s Christopher—”

      “Did he get into a fight? If so, I’m going to tan his hide so hard he’ll think he spent a week in the tropics—”

      “If you’d just let me get a word in...” Brandy gently admonished.

      Bronson took a deep breath. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll calm down.”

      Hearing Brandy’s hesitation at the other end, Bronson felt his heart race and his palms sweat.

      “You know I’ve had some of the boys work with the girls, to prepare them for the conference meets, and state.”

      Visions of Christopher overpowering some fragile junior girl crowded his vision, turning it red. With his serve, his son could really hurt someone.

      As if reading his mind, Brandy said, “And no, he didn’t mouth off, or nail someone on the court. I only let him hit with my top varsity player, Sabrina. And she can hold her own.”

      Bronson had heard Christopher’s wild ravings about the number one girl player at the beginning of the school year, when Christopher had confided in his father his hopes of being accepted into Notre Dame. That had been before the deluge for orders at the factory, when Bronson had been forced to put in twelve-hour days and seven-day weeks at work just to keep up with the demand. He’d been trying to come home earlier the past couple of weeks, but lately his son never seemed to be home.

      Impatient to get to the bottom of this, Bronson looked at his watch. A client was due any moment.

      “Okay, so he’s not hurt, and he didn’t harm anyone. So what’s the big deal?”

      “Did Christopher mention a girl named Hayward? Sabrina Hayward?”

      “Yeah. He enthused about her when school started, but he hasn’t said anything lately.”

      The silence at the other end of the line grew ominous.

      Clenching his teeth, Bronson asked with deceptive mildness, “What does this Sabrina Hayward have to do with Christopher?”