I sat in my truck for a few minutes, dreading the appointment with my legal team and giving myself time to make sense of what happened at the vet. I was being a good Samaritan, dropping off the stray dog that looked hurt. I expected it to take sixty seconds as in, here, I found this dog. Bill me for the treatment, thanks bye. Instead I’d loitered for more than ten minutes, sitting in a plastic chair with the dog on my lap so Allie could get to know him and make him comfortable. Because Allie, petite and curvy in her pink scrubs, blond ponytail high as any cheerleader’s, had pressed her thigh against mine, had leaned over the dog so I could breathe in her lemony scent. I had practically snorted the fragrance of her hair, sharp and sunny that sent my nerve endings firing like crazy. I could’ve grabbed her and kissed her. If I hadn’t been raised with manners I would have, because the temptation was insane.
A weekend with her, forty-eight hours, that was what I wanted. Maybe even a long weekend. She had confidence and grace and compassion—none of the awkward, insecure attitude of so many women in their twenties. I wanted her. Every inch of her skin, her mouth on mine, and those hands, capable and gentle, the nails cut short for her job—I couldn’t ignore the shiver of anticipation than ran through me as I thought of her hands all over me. She’d given me her full name, I could find her with very little effort, ask her out, make her mine. Just for a weekend. But the fevered feeling, the racing pulse and the way my palms itched to hold her—I hadn’t felt anything like it in a very long time, if I’d ever felt that way at all.
Sure I’d been attracted to women, and I’d satisfied their every desire. I’d even called them back, taken them to dinner. But this one encounter with the woman seemed to possess me. I made myself push it aside, this primal mating instinct that had seized me, that consumed me with the directive of this one, this woman, now.
The law office was large and tasteful, silent and too air-conditioned. One of the partners waited in the lobby to escort me to a conference room. I took the bottle of water he offered and took a long drink. From the too-cheerful greetings, I suspected no progress had been made. I took my seat at the polished table wishing I were outside riding the fences instead.
After the pleasantries were exchanged, vacations and grandchildren asked after, my health and the success of the ranch discussed, we got to the topic at hand. The objective we’d pursued for six months and tens of thousands of dollars in billable hours. Finding some legal precedent or loophole by which to break my grandfather’s will.
“As you know, Antonio was a determined individual,” one of the partners began.
“Yes, as am I. And, I trust, your team is equally dedicated,” I said, a friendly warning in my voice.
“Despite our dedication and the combined hundred years of legal experience at this firm, it seems that the terms of the will are iron-clad.”
“Nothing is iron-clad. This is America. I’m not without wealth and influence. This should be a simple matter.”
“Are you suggesting that we alter the will itself?” one attorney said, sounding shocked.
“I’m no legal scholar myself but surely there’s a world of opportunity in changing a single phrase, some minor alteration that would make the terms more flexible.”
“I regret that we can’t help you in that regard, Mr. Santiago,” the first attorney said, “We are not in a position to falsify documents for the convenience of our clients.”
“First of all, since it was your firm that drew up this ridiculous will to begin with, I consider it your duty to destroy it by whatever means necessary. Secondly, it isn’t your place to call my integrity into question. It is your place to do what you’re being paid handsomely to do. Repair the problem you caused when you agreed to create a document with such antiquated requirements. The ethics and reputation of your entire team are at stake. Do not imagine that I will give up. I will not lose Santeria. I will not lose Santi Leather.”
“Then it would seem you must marry in the United States, reside with your spouse full-time and remain married legally for three years.”
“Whom at this table may I thank for those for those very specific terms?”
“I believe Rosa and Samuel were responsible for the final draft,” the first attorney said, indicating two of the junior partners. I gave them the full force of my displeasure in a single look. Both quailed, looking down at papers in a file as if to appear busy.
“Then perhaps their continued employment might be contingent upon fulfilling my request,” I said, “My grandfather was your biggest client for over fifty years. This firm would not exist without the business of my family. And yet you helped the old man to undercut me before his death. If I were not sentimental about our long association, I would have made Reynolds & Tate a distant memory by now. If you recall, I own this very building.”
“We apologize most sincerely for the inconvenience your grandfather’s wishes have caused you, and we regret the part we have in that result. But we merely did the job he paid us to do -- write his will to his specifications. Surely you’ll want us to do the same for you when the time comes, to ensure your wishes are carried out.”
“Hardly. I want my wishes carried out now. If this team can’t accomplish it, I will find someone who can. But know this. I won’t look kindly on your failure.”
I left the meeting. Pablo had left me a message to see how it went.
“It was crap,” I told him as soon as he answered, “I talked to them like a villain in a movie just to try to get them scrambling to fix this. I’m completely screwed. Papí will have his way from the grave or we’re all out on our ass.”
“Wouldn’t it be asses?” he said.
“Now is not the time, Pablo. Save the grammar policing for a time when I’m not being forced into marriage by a dead man.”
“I’ll say this for him, he found a way to ruin your sense of humor with this will.”
“It’s not just my sense of humor. He’s attacked our livelihood, all of us. Everyone who works for me, here and in Italy, we’re all subject to his whims even now. I should’ve gotten a power of attorney as soon as he started having heart problems,” I muttered.
“You would never have done that to him. He was your idol. Plus he wouldn’t have stood for it. He was a proud old buzzard. And he still had his wits about him.”
“That’s probably the most accurate description of him I’ve ever heard. It doesn’t make me feel better about the inevitable though. They’ve had six months to tear this will apart syllable by syllable, and they failed. I’m stuck with the terms. Either I get married and it’s all mine, or the properties pass out of the family for good, sold off and the profits divided four ways—myself, a couple of second cousins, and the church.”
“If the old buzzard thought he could buy his way into heaven if he couldn’t get you married off—” Pablo said.
“Either way, I lose. I keep Papí’s legacy by selling myself into marriage, or I give up Santeria. This is bullshit.”
“Yes, just like it was six months ago when we first had this conversation. On the bright side, at least you’re talking to me about it. You didn’t mention it for months.”
“I held out hope,” I said bitterly, “I thought it might go my way.”
“There was never going to be a loophole. He loved you , but he’d never give you a way out. He was always positive that he knew what was best no matter whose toes he stepped on.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I might as well get on with it. I’m going out tonight, and I’m going to find a woman.”
“You haven’t really gone out with anybody for long since Teresa. That was, what, two years ago or so? The redhead that cheated on you?”
“Yes. I remember her, thanks for bringing it up. I learned my lesson there. Don’t be naïve. Loyalty is a rare commodity. Fortunately, all I need is a woman who’ll trade three years for some money. I don’t want her heart. I just need a willing roommate.”
“I have no doubt you’ll find a dozen of them who want you but how
will you narrow it down to the one you’ll marry for three years?” he said.
“That part will be easy. It doesn’t matter who I marry. It’s not for a relationship. It’s for the ranch, the company. So as long as she doesn’t annoy the shit out of me, what does it even matter who it is?”
“That’s jaded even for you, caballero,” he chuckled.
“It’s true. I don’t have a checklist. She just has to be an unmarried woman who’s willing to cooperate, sign the license, and live on the ranch.”
“You should lead with that line. It’s romantic. Women will go crazy for it,” Pablo deadpanned.
“You’re no help,” I said.
So there I was, hours later, at the corner of my favorite bar, a bottle of my favorite beer in hand. I watched the women come in, fluttering by in groups, chattering and flirting. I didn’t feel the slightest flicker of interest. A redhead leaned on the bar beside me, her skirt riding up dangerously as she gave her order.
“Can I buy you another beer?” she asked me.
“Sure. If you’ll sit and talk with me while I drink it,” I said.
“I’m not in to talking,” she said, looking me up and down blatantly, “But if you’d like to have something other than a conversation, my name’s Christy.”
“Thanks anyway, Christy,” I said.
What happened to all those women that guys complain are trying to trap them into marriage? All I needed was one. One who wasn’t completely obnoxious and willing to stick around. Maybe have a few laughs, talk about current events or even the goddamn weather. I wasn’t asking for much.
I got off my stool and approached a pretty brunette who was frowning at her phone by the door.
“Hi, I’m Raul,” I said.
She looked at me and then looked back at her phone.
“Could I buy you a drink? While you wait for whoever stood you up?” I offered, since announcing my name wasn’t exactly working to entice her.
“No,” she said.
“Fine. Have a nice evening,” I said and walked away.
I moved on to a cluster of three girls standing at the jukebox. They cued up Old Town Road. Again. I tried not to sigh.
“Anyone want to dance?” I asked.
They looked away from the song selections, then back at each other. The blond peeled off from the pack, “I will,” she said, handing her margarita to the girl beside her.
She draped her arms around my neck and showed off her total lack of rhythm. But I wasn’t auditioning partners for a dance contest, so I smiled at her, “What’s your name?” I said.
“Becky. Becca. Call me Becca,” she said.
“Okay, Becca,” I said, “What do you do for fun?”
“Let’s see—I love alligators. I visited a gator farm in Florida for my birthday. You can touch them and feed them, and then you can even buy a baby alligator head to take home. I have it in my car. Want to see it?”
“Oh, uh, no thank you. I have to—go. Nice meeting you,” I said.
I went straight for the exit after that one. That’s just what I needed. A three-year wife with a reptile fetish. I hopped in my truck and took off for the bigger honkytonk at the city limits. They had a live band on Thursdays so they might have a better crowd. It was unbelievable that I was searching country bars for a woman to marry. But I wasn’t about to rely on a dating app for a first impression of my future wife.
Bartleby’s, the wooden building at the outskirts of town identifiable only by the neon beer signs in the small, high windows, boasted a huge crowd, dozens of pickups and souped-up Dodge Chargers wedged into the gravel parking lot. I could hear the clang of the band, the squeal of the low-rent sound system. I shut my eyes and imagined the rooftop bar near my family’s house in Sorrento. Cascades of bright flowers tumbling over wrought iron railings, the bright sea in the distance still as glass beneath the moon. Softer music, a guitarist in the street below. But I didn’t need an Italian holiday. I needed a local wife, one who would spend the next thousand days living on Santeria.
I saw Jim and Katie at the bar, probably their first night out since the baby was born. I asked how things were going and was treated to about three dozen pictures on their phones. The baby was small and toothless, revealed on video clips to be incredibly loud for a little thing. I smiled, bought them a round of drinks and left them to enjoy it. I stood in back of the crowded room with my beer and watched the dancing. A bunch of local guys were massacring the latest Luke Bryan tunes on a makeshift stage.
If I played guitar that badly, I sure as hell wouldn’t do it onstage. But to each his own, I thought and took a long drink. I approached a woman who seemed more interested in her drink than the band. I introduced myself and smiled.
“I’m Cheryl,” she said, “what brings you here?”
“I was looking to meet some new people. So what do you think of this band?”
“They suck, but I’m dating the drummer. Otherwise I’d be watching Stranger Things in my pajamas. God, I wish I was,” she sighed.
“Okay then,” I said.
“No, you’re really hot. Wanna dance?” she said, seizing my arm.
“I did, but you’re seeing someone. Have a good evening,” I said.
I had to shake my arm a little to get her to let go of me. She didn’t seem like a great prospect for marriage since her idea of being supportive of her admittedly untalented boyfriend at his performance included dancing with me. The next woman I noticed was a petite blond who was waving her arms and doing a slightly offbeat dance. She was having fun, and she reminded me of someone. A resemblance tickled at my brain as her ponytail swung. When I reached her and asked if she’d like to dance, she put her hands on my shoulders like it was a middle school formal and started to sway along.
“Hi,” she said, “Do you like the band?”
“Not really, but I liked that you were having fun. I’d be glad to buy you a drink if you have a few minutes,” I said, “I’m Raul.”
“Great. I like Cuervo shots!” she said enthusiastically.
I took her hand and led her to the bar. I wedged in between people and bought a couple of drinks. When I saw a table open up, we dashed for it. She laughed. She had a great laugh, and I started to feel hopeful. If she was friendly and fun, if a few dates showed compatibility and she seemed trustworthy, she could be the answer, I thought. I wasn’t a man to hesitate, and I was bound and determined to identify and win over the future Mrs. Santiago as soon as I could.
“So, what’s your name?” I asked her.
“Cassie,” she said, and extended her hand for me to shake.
“Do you come here a lot?” I asked.
“Not really. I only came tonight because I’m dating with the drummer,” she said.
“Wait, the drummer?” I asked, puzzled.
I stood, looking over the crowd to see him. He was an ordinary looking dark-haired guy played the drums. Nothing about him screamed future celebrity or great marriage prospect. Yet somehow, he was dating two of the most attractive women in the crowd at the bar. I wondered if the two women knew about each other.
“Yeah. Tyler’s really talented,” she said, smiling back in the direction of the stage, “but tell me about you.”
“I run a ranch. It’s about twenty minutes outside town. About you and the drummer—have you been together long?”
“Three or four months. We don’t spend a lot of time together, but I think it’s getting serious.”
“So you’re serious about Tyler? Then there’s someone I want you to meet,” I said.
Then I wove through the crowd and introduced her to Cheryl. I was sure they’d have a lot to discuss, and that Tyler the drummer was about to have a really bad week. Moving on, I sat for a few minutes with a group of girls out for a bachelorette party. The bride to be was grinding on a guy she went to high school with while I kept her friends company. One had a boyfriend, one was married already, and the last one wasn’t interested.
“I’m more looking to fin
d someone in the city, expand my horizons. I’m sick of this town,” she said, “It’s nothing personal.”
“I understand,” I said.
She was pretty, but her plans disqualified her. I appreciated her honesty. It would’ve been a waste of time to get involved with someone like her who just wanted out of the area. I’d have to add that to my mental list of questions—do you intend to stay around here for a while? It quickly climbed the ranks above Are you a Mavericks fan? and What kind of barbecue is better—sauced or dry rub?
Three dances with a blond named Melissa had me convinced that she was a definite possibility. She wasn’t dating the drummer, for one thing. She was a nurse in a doctor’s office, divorced, two cats but no kids, and loved boating. The only problem I saw was that she preferred sushi to barbecue, but a man had to know how to compromise. If she could help me secure my grandfather’s estate, I could eat some raw fish for a few years.
We shared some nachos and talked about work. I asked her if she’d like to go to dinner on the weekend. Melissa shook her head, blond hair swishing softly.
“Thank, but I’m looking for something more serious. Guys like you—I’ve been here before. Gorgeous, charming—great sex for a couple weeks and then they disappear. I’ve been ghosted enough for one year. So I’ll pass.”
“No, I have no intention of doing that to you. I’m actually interested in something serious myself; something long-term,” I said. “If you’d be willing to have dinner with me, we might find we have a lot in common.”
“Seriously? You expect me to buy that, considering the last three guys I dated said the same thing before never calling me again? Thanks, but no, thanks. You can go now. Leave the nachos.”
She stuffed a cheesy chip in her mouth and waved me off. I shook my head. I didn’t want to stick around and argue with her when her mind was made up, considering she was pretty bitter about it. So I moved back to the bar, glad that there was a crowd of out of towners so I had more opportunities to find someone else.
I felt my phone vibrate and took it out of my pocket. It was a local number I didn’t recognize. I answered it.
Faking It Page 2