Marriage Mistake

by R. S. Lively

  "That has to be hard for him," I say.

  Mrs. Burke nods.

  "So, you can see why I reached out to you from the coat closet."

  And, we're back.

  I shake my head.

  "No," I say. "I still don't know why you called me from the coat closet."

  "I want to surprise him," she finally explains. "I know it would mean the world to Anthony if we were able to get as many of his classmates together as possible, and throw them the prom they were never able to have. It would be part reunion, part retirement party."

  "That all sounds amazing," I say, "but why did you get in touch with me?"

  "Because I know about your company," she says. "I know you're in the business of fulfilling bucket lists, and this is his, he just doesn't know it yet."

  "I understand," I say, "but my brother Dean is the one you should be talking to. He's the creative one. You don't really need either one of us, though. Why don't you just call a party planner?"

  "I called you because you stayed close to home, Grant. You didn't leave like the others did. The rest of the boys say they love their hometown, but you are the only one still here. There’s still a part of you that hasn't let go of Magnolia Falls. I can see it. This isn't just a party – it’s so much more than that. And I think you understand the significance."

  "Let me think about it. My schedule is incredibly busy right now," I say, still processing what she told me. "I'll let you know when I've made a decision."

  Mrs. Burke nods.

  "I hope to hear from you soon, Grant," she says.

  “You will. See you later, Mrs. Burke.”

  I get up and walk out of the office. Spiky Green Hair isn't sitting in his chair anymore, and I wonder if he was liberated or escaped.

  Mrs. Burke doesn’t walk me out. I know she’s probably disappointed I didn't immediately agree to her proposition, but I can’t blindly jump into a project like this right now. I have so much going on already, and even though I’m usually tasked with developing the strategy for our most complicated requests, I don't have the creativity or vision Dean has. He would be able to exactly replicate what their prom would have been like. Rather than directly leaving the building, I take some time to wander around the school a little bit. This obviously isn’t the original school building, and in the back of my mind, I feel like I've heard that a fire destroyed most of the original school. I have such good memories of high school, and of the building itself. I can't imagine what it would feel like to lose this place or the possibility of being able to visit it.

  I leave the school, but instead of walking back to my house, I turn sharply and head toward the oldest part of the village. The building in the center of the main street looks like a very large old house from the outside, but the rooms inside are tightly packed with shelves and shelves of books. The house was donated generations ago by Jacqueline Danforth, a woman so appalled that Magnolia Falls had no permanent library outside of the schools that she converted her own home into one. Jacqueline also established a literacy guild, responsible for curating the collection, protecting the books, and taking care of it into perpetuity.

  They've done a fantastic job, and as I walk up the flight of steps to the veranda dotted with people rocking in porch swings, curled up in gliders, and lost in their books, it's obvious how much of an impact Jacqueline has had. I walk into the library and inhale deeply, savoring the smell of old books and ink. The rooms are decorated with different themes that fit the original use of the room, and are stacked with books that correlate with the theme. The formal front parlor offers books on etiquette and self-help guides, while the old kitchen has cookbooks and nutrition; the study holds volumes of murder mysteries on one side and studies of psychology on the other. The basement is dedicated to home improvement and gardening, and two of the bedrooms upstairs are dedicated to children's books.

  I follow the long corridor to a narrow staircase that leads up into the attic. If I was going to go along with our local legend that Jacqueline Danforth's ghost wanders around the house, I don't think she'd be downstairs cruising with Julia Child or brushing up on her teatime conversation skills. I think she'd be up here, in the space devoted to research. The corners of the expansive room still have a few of the things stored here when the house changed from private ownership to the trust. A steamer trunk, an old dressmaker's form, and a vanity table with its bench, remind anyone who comes up here of the lives that came and went in this house. It makes it completely appropriate that this was the room chosen to house the reference books, microfilm, and historical records, since it once held the belongings of the family that ended with the death of the childless Mrs. Danforth.

  One wall of the attic holds shelves filled with rows of newspaper clippings and town newsletters bound into volumes and organized by year. My eyes scan over the volumes as I do a quick calculation in my head. When I think I've narrowed it down to the correct year, I pull out the two books that cover the span and lug them over to one of the two heavy wooden tables in the middle of the unfinished plank floor. Tiny green lamps are the perfect library detail, and the one I flip on floods the first volume with light, helping me read the faded print on the pages in front of me. I flip through a few pages, and finally find what I’m looking for. Newspaper clippings and photographs show the devastation of the fire at the high school when Mr. Bernheimer was a senior. Teenagers in stark black and white stare in horror at the school, reduced to mere rubble, remnants of books and furniture strewn across the grass around it.

  Hours slip by as I read about the impact the fire had on Magnolia Falls, and the students here. The more I read, the more I understand what Mrs. Burke meant about understanding the significance. This is more than just recreating a prom. It was such a tumultuous time. The world was in turmoil, and everyone was desperate for some semblancy of normal. But it was all taken from them. Everything changed so fast that nothing would ever be the same. These were people thrown into a harsh reality and forced to face the growing pains of the world around them when all they should have been worrying about was growing up themselves.

  I leave the library, clutching a thick stack of pages scanned from the books, and turn back to the school. Mrs. Burke's eyes widen slightly when I walk back into the office. She gestures at me to go to her office before following me in, and closing the door behind her.

  "Have you had a chance to think about it?" she asks.

  "I have," I reply.

  "And?"

  "I've decided to take on the project," I say. She smiles, her shoulders relaxing in relief, and I hold up a hand to calm her down before she gets too excited. "I need you to know that I don't do anything partially. If I do something, I do it right, and that takes time and effort. This project is going to take quite a bit of time to plan and execute."

  "That's fine," Mrs. Burke says. "I wanted the event to be around the same time as the school's regular prom. That way he'll never suspect. That gives you several months to prepare."

  I nod.

  "I have the next few days off, and I’m willing to spend them here on the island, making plans. I'll have to go back to my house on the mainland tonight and pick up a few more things if I'm going to be here longer, but I'll be back tomorrow morning. I also want you to understand that I’m very dedicated to my work, and as the head of the company, I’m responsible for making sure it operates smoothly and keeping our clients happy. I can be here for a few days now, but then I'll have to go back. I'll work on this as time allows. My brothers and I are planning to come back for Homecoming. That will be a good opportunity to do more research and planning and look into a few vendors."

  "That all sounds amazing. I totally understand. Thank you so much, Grant. You have no idea how much this means to me."

  She opens her arms and gathers me into a hug that smells like roses and cinnamon buns, and a little bit like a musty coat closet. I can tell how happy she is, and I find myself determined to do whatever I can to give Mr. Bernheimer the closure and celeb
ration he deserves.

  So much for escaping work by coming home.

  Chapter Four

  Emma

  The next day…

  I wake up ready for the day. At least, I tell myself I'm ready for the day. I'm prepared to get back into Magnolia Falls, and face it all. Foregoing the continental breakfast Phyllis so graciously offered last night in favor of the promise of biscuits and gravy when I get home, I pack the few things I brought inside, sweep my freshly washed hair into a ponytail, and add a few swipes of mascara for courage. The sky looks like it woke up feeling a little pissy this morning, but at least it isn't raining as I trudge down the stairs and climb into my car. I'm thankful that one modern innovation this motel seems to have latched onto is automatic check-out. Phyllis already has my credit card information, so I don't need to go down into the lobby to settle the bill. I can just be on my way.

  "Alright, new start. Here I come," I mutter as I stick the keys in the ignition and turn.

  The car makes a loud grinding sound, gurgles a few times, and falls silent. Trying not to let this panic me, I try again. It makes the same grinding sound, but at least this time, it comes to life. The music from last night blasts out, scaring the crap out me, and I turn the dial as fast as I can. Relieved, I pull out of the parking lot and continue on the same course I had been last night. I've gone a few miles when the engine starts growling. It's a sound I haven't heard before, and I have no idea what it means. Within a few seconds, the growl becomes more of a whine, with a few pops and thuds added in. I still don't know what it means, so I do what any logical person would do in the situation. I turn up the radio so I can't hear it.

  Singing along as loudly as I can without feeling like I've completely lost control of my faculties, I continue toward the dock. I've just seen the first sign indicating I'm nearly there when my car gives an ominous shimmy. Normally if a shimmy was involved while I was listening to classic disco, it wouldn't be cause for alarm. When it is a motor vehicle that has decided to do the Hustle, that's the time to be concerned. I try not to let the concern really sink in. Maybe I can will the car to the ferry dock. If I just ignore the sound and don’t acknowledge something might be wrong, maybe the problem will work itself out.

  Yeah, because that worked out so spectacularly well for my life so far.

  Almost as though it heard my intentions for vehicle neglect, my car lets out a series of louder, angrier rumbles. It sounds like it's choking as it starts lurching. I know I don't have much time left for forward movement, so I start rocking in my seat, hoping to push the car along with a combination of momentum and pelvic thrusts. Feeling as though I'm somewhere between riding a bucking bronco, and trying to tame a pissed-off Transformer, I finally make it almost to the edge of the road, where my car promptly breaks down.

  And so do I.

  A sudden deluge of hot tears pouring down my cheeks, I let out a decidedly undignified scream and pound on the steering wheel while stomping my feet against the floorboards. It's a full-blown hissy fit, but I don't care. I'm furious, and I feel like what little hope and dignity might be left in me has just fizzled out. I'm angry at the world for feeling like it's falling apart around me. I'm angry at the way my marriage played out. I'm angry at Wyatt for the way he treated me, and for being the arrogant, cliched jackass who leaves his wife for the younger, smaller, dumber version. More than anything though I'm angry at myself. I never should have gotten myself into this position to start with. I should have seen who he really was, and even if I didn't, I should have been able to stand up to him long before I did. I shouldn't have let being so afraid of ending up struggling like when I was younger manipulate me into continuing to believe him and trust him when I knew better for myself. I'm ashamed of myself for feeling that way. I'm mad at myself for letting it go so far that when the bottom finally did fall out, as it was inevitably going to do, I was left flailing around, unable to get my footing, and still too stubborn to admit it.

  Now, I don't have a choice but to admit it. I have officially hit the wall, and my options have been all but eliminated for me. There's a future ahead of me somewhere that doesn't involve being worried, and angry, and feeling like a smooshed bug. I know there is. I just have to find it. That starts with calling for help. At least I know how to do that. I reach into my bag, and pull out my phone, instantly feeling my heart drop.

  But apparently, I don't know how to charge my damn phone.

  Now I can't call for help. It's not like it would do me any good to poke around under the hood, because I wouldn't be able to recognize what was wrong even if there were large sections of the engine missing. I am just screwed all to hell.

  Suddenly, the sky overhead opens up, and a downpour showers down on my car. In seconds it's falling so hard I can't even see through the windshield. Perfect. Fucking perfect. I might not be able to see anything, but it doesn't stop me from revving my hissy fit right back up again, and turning my fury toward the sky.

  "Screw you, then!" I scream. "Screw you for not believing in me, either!"

  The words are no sooner out of my mouth then I hear someone knock on the window. I scream and jump, startled by the sudden sound. Looking over at the window, I see that another car has pulled up beside me, and an arm is sticking out of the rolled-down driver's side window. The hand that knocked on my passenger window withdraws, but the window stays down a few inches. The rain is falling too hard for me to clearly see who is in the other car, but by the blurry shape, I am fairly certain it's a man.

  He calls something out to me, but the sound of the rain muffles his voice.

  "What?" I shout back.

  Because, obviously, the rain will not muffle my voice.

  Sigh.

  He calls something out again, and I still can't fully understand it, but I think I hear the word 'help' in there. I start to roll down the window, and his voice comes through more clearly.

  "Are you ok? Do you need some help?"

  I understand exactly what he's saying, but I don't care about a single word because now I can see the mouth they are coming out of, and it's literally the last one in Magnolia Falls I ever wanted to see again. Even if I can still remember how it tastes, and the way it feels on my skin. Or maybe it’s because of those things.

  Standing on the other side of the window is Grant Laurence.

  I promptly roll my window back up, cross my arms over my stomach, and stare ahead of me at the sheets of rain sliding down the windshield. I don’t care how immature I look in this moment. I am not talking to him. I will wait for another few hours and Noah this hunk of junk to Magnolia Falls if I have to. Grant knocks on my window again, waits a few seconds, and then knocks harder.

  "Emma?"

  I heard that clearly. I never wanted to him say my name again, and hearing it through the sound of rain when I'm stranded doesn't make it any better. He knocks again, but I refuse to even look in his direction. It's juvenile and not at all constructive, but at least it's making me feel slightly better. I'm not entirely sure why, but I'll go with it. I hear a slight screeching sound as his car pulls away over the wet gravel at the side of the road, and I feel like I won. Ahead of me, though, I see the hazy shape of a black car pull up in front of mine, and hear a door slam. Before I can even fully process what's happening, my passenger side door opens, and Grant hops in.

  "What are you doing?" I demand.

  I reach beside me and hit the door lock. My mother had always taught me to lock the doors as soon as I got into the car, even before I started it, and this time I forgot. I'm sure that piece of advice had something more to do with avoiding carjacking or creepy guys wanting to add to their skin suit collection, rather than blocking out the man who broke my heart ten years ago. But the lesson stands.

  "I don't think that helps once a person is actually inside the car," Grant says.

  "I didn't say you could get into my car," I say.

  "You also didn't say I couldn't," he says.

  "Now I am. Get out."

&n
bsp; "Are you having car trouble?"

  "No.”

  "No?"

  "I just decided to pull off so I could watch the rain. It's really lovely this time of year."

  A crash of thunder and a bolt of bright white lightning ripping through the sky like flimsy fabric makes me jump, and Grant gives me a knowing look.

  "You hate storms," he points out.

  "And how would you know that?" I snap.

  Except, I know exactly how he knows that. He remembers the winter evening I was at his house with his brother Dean, and a sudden storm blew in off the bay. It was completely unexpected, and became intense quickly. I know he remembers me sitting in the living room clutching a flashlight, trying to fight back tears when the electricity went out. He hadn't said anything to me that night. He hadn't tried to comfort me, or reassure me that everything was going to be fine. But he had brought me a mug of apple cider heated over the fire one of the servants built. That was the first time I'd seen that particular man, and it struck me how much he seemed to really care about the family. As he built the fire, it felt like he was doing it because he really wanted to help them, to take care of them, rather than just because it was his job. That said something to me about the family, and made my heart pound even harder when I was near Grant.

  "Look, I know you're not just sitting out here taking in the glorious views. What's wrong with your car?"

  His voice is sharp and tense, heavier than the last time I heard it. So much of the carefree lightness is gone, and I hear years of living as a grown man rather than a college student weighing it down. Somehow, it only makes me angrier with him. I've carried the pain and embarrassment he caused me for all these years. I had managed to bury it down deep where I didn't have to deal with it every day, and there were times when I feel like I had convinced myself I had all but forgotten about Grant Laurence. Now that he's sitting in my car, only inches away from me, and I can smell the spicy richness of his cologne, and see the heat in his dark eyes, it all rushes back. The jagged crack through my heart aches, and the humiliation that repeated through my head countless times surges into my thoughts.