Here, Have a Husband

by Heather Gean

  “You were, honey, remember?” she said curtly. “Those nice men with cameras took tons of photos of you dancing on the bar half-nude in Atlantic City. Thanks to a large settlement between the tabloids and your father, you only made one cover.”

  Walker’s cheeks didn’t redden nor did remorse show in her voice. “Yeah, but that doesn’t count.” She was as spoiled and rich as they came. Soon she’d probably have her own ridiculous, reality TV show. “The paparazzi will love you two after next month. You’ll be the new tabloid couple!” While she said this as if it was the most honorable award anyone could aspire to, my stomach twisted into a knot at the thought of it.

  “Oh, Walker!” Mrs. Schroeder said. “Let’s hope that they’re smarter than that.” Her stare was directed at me. She more accurately meant that she hoped I was smarter than that.

  “I’m not sure the paparazzi will have any opportunities to catch me in the next few months unless they’re in the office. We’ve been working on closing the deal with the Swedish company. There are also problems with that new line of refrigerators coming out. We’re still on deadline for Christmas,” Ashley said.

  “I guess that will leave just us girls to planning the wedding!” Mrs. Schroeder exclaimed. Pure excitement glowed in her gray eyes. “I was thinking New Year’s Eve! It’s after the recommended six-month engagement period and also just after the Christmas holidays, but it will be a few weeks before next year’s line gets going so you can have a long honeymoon.”

  My stomach churned, and I stared down into my glass.

  “Sounds great!” Ashley volunteered. “What do you think, babe?”

  I thought I needed to escape for a while: from photo shoots, from paparazzi, from magazines, from the wealthy elite, and from anyone who insisted upon referring to me as babe. I didn’t have time to respond before Mrs. Schroeder broke in.

  “I should get in touch with Monica about a planner. Maybe for tomorrow? We could have lunch and play a little tennis?” I felt trapped. It wasn’t like I could say no.

  “Sounds fabulous,” I said.

  The waitress whirled up at about that moment and placed steaming plates of foreign food on the table in front of us. I picked up my fork but wondered how I’d manage to get it all down since my stomach had abandoned its original functions to become a contortionist.

  “Enjoy your lunch,” she chirped.

  ~*~

  The only positive thing that had come out of the extremely tortuous photo shoot was that I got to keep all of the clothes. I was hanging all of my newly acquired sundresses in the closet of my room in the Schroder house when I realized what was lying in the floor where I planned to put my new shoes. The faded, soft fabric was miraculously warm, or perhaps I imagined it. I drew the shirt close to my face, taking in the faint scent that was Van; it was a mixture of old spice, cigarette smoke, and paint, only somehow amazingly intoxicating. I breathed in the smell again before guiltily folding the shirt and tucking it into the dresser drawer I kept a few pairs of jeans in. I wasn’t sure when I’d seen Van again, but I figured I would return it to him before I left at the end of the week.

  I rifled through my purse until I found my phone and mentally went through the long list of calls I needed to make: Liz to brag about the new clothes, Sasha to check on Ringo, and Wes to give me updates on the exhibit. Before I could dial the first number, the thing rang in my hand. I answered it to hear my dad on the other end.

  “Hey, Rainy.” He had his business voice on.

  “Hey, Daddy!” I was so pleased to be hearing from one of the family.

  “How’s New York?”

  I sighed softly enough that he couldn’t hear it through the phone. “It’s good.”

  He never missed a beat. When he was in a hurry I could easily get away with short answers, and I was thankful for it at that moment. “That’s good. Good.” I waited for the real reason he’d called. That business-like tone in his voice was unusual for any casual topic between the two of us. “I used some of my connections to do a little snooping on your fiancé.” The inflection on that word made me uneasy.

  “Okay?” This didn’t surprise me. My dad had done background checks on every guy I’d ever gone out with. It gave him peace of mind or the ammunition he needed to justify his dislike for someone.

  “The boy has a drinking record. A few DUIs, a couple of times he’s been arrested in bar fights. The last one was more than a few months ago so maybe he’s cleaned up since then. But, ya know, I’m sure he’s a fine fellow. He’s a Schroeder, after all!” My father’s laughter attempted to persuade me that I still had nothing to worry about, to convince me that this engagement was still a step in the right direction.

  “Yeah, I’m sure he is.” I knew he didn’t want to hear anything other than things are great, thanks for calling. I didn’t want to worry him about his public appearance or his daughter. I also didn’t want to disappoint him by hating Ashley.

  “Well, honey, I’ve got to meet with some people for lunch. Talk to you later?” Just like that my connection with my world was gone.

  The gears in my brain were spinning so quickly I was surprised a few bolts hadn’t shaken loose. It wasn’t like some bit of gossip or something posted online or in a tabloid, it was government record. The first incident called to memory was the moment at lunch when I’d sensed the discomfort in Ashley’s voice when declining a drink. Slowly, I thought back to one of the comparisons Van had made about Ashley and me: he’s always talkative and outspoken when he drinks. All of the evidence mounted and created a big obstacle for me to overcome. Or maybe I was just looking for reasons.

  It was sad that in a single call from my dad I found out more about Ashley than I felt that I had in any of the time I’d spent with him. I needed to know more, and if Ashley wasn’t going to supply any information himself, I figured a little sleuthing was required. I was no Sherlock Holmes, besides the fact that I wasn’t on opium, but I had faith that I’d have no trouble decoding Ashley’s past. I only needed to devise a plan.

  Though my first instinct was to play bloodhound and sniff out the incriminating evidence on Ashley, I had trouble acting on it. In hopes of maintaining some degree of control, I gave myself the opportunity to organize my thoughts before I jumped into pointing fingers. After all, it was a little early in the game to decide that it was Mr. Schroeder in the study with a bottle of bourbon.

  The best plan of action I could come up with was to find Ashley and give him a chance to defend himself, but that task was not as easy as I’d anticipated. Upstairs, doors lined either side of the hallway; surely one of them could give me a clue as to how to find him. I comically pretended I was a game show host as I reached the first door. “What’s behind door number one?” I peeked inside, but the room was quiet. I stared back at myself from the opposite wall, which was covered with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. A high-tech treadmill sat beside a weight bench that was so equipped it looked like it could double as a small spacecraft. A large, blue exercise ball sat in the corner. On the wall closest to me hung a flat screen television, and underneath it was a water cooler. It was the most unnecessarily fancy in-home gym I’d ever seen. I closed the door behind me.

  Door number two didn’t need to be opened to guess who was inside. Electric guitar solos blared through the crack under the door. It reeked of teenaged angst. In a clichéd sense it was funny, but I sympathized with Penelope. I couldn’t imagine growing up in the Schroeder home, and I couldn’t blame her for the vendetta against the world she carried around with her. All that aside, I still wanted to punch her.

  I neared door number three on the opposite side of the hallway, beautiful piano chords and melodies cascaded over one another and wafted under the door. I paused and listened for a while to the complexity of the piece and didn’t think to enter until I heard the song slow to an off-key stop. The cursing that followed the mistake belonged to Ashley. It was only then that I remembered I’d been looking for him. I hesitantly knocked on the door as I open
ed it, and poked my head inside to see Ashley’s back to me. He glanced over his shoulder at me and embarrassedly removed his fingers from the keys. “Oh, hey,” he said. He ran a hand over his short hair and briefly squeezed his gray eyes shut as if they ached. “Was I bothering you? The walls are supposed to be sound proof.”

  “No, you weren’t bothering me.” I paused near the door, feeling as though I’d intruded. I smiled with encouragement. “It sounded amazing.”

  Ashley half-shrugged modestly. “I’ve been playing since I was five. My mother made all of us take lessons.” He sounded as if he wasn’t thankful for that.

  “That was nice of her.”

  “I guess.” He scooted to one edge of the cushioned piano bench and patted the empty space, beckoning me to sit. I joined him, and the closeness we shared on the bench was strangely uncomfortable. “Do you play?” he asked.

  “The only thing I can play is the radio.” He laughed at my bad joke, and I smiled. “Would you play me something?”

  Ashley sat up a little straighter. “Of course. What would you like to hear?” I shrugged since very few piano pieces came to mind.

  “Use your own judgment.”

  Ashley used this opportunity to show off. He played the same sweeping, complicated kind of classical-sounding music he had been working on before I interrupted him. His jaw was set, his eyes were focused, and he seemingly made every effort to ensure his playing appeared effortless. The swirling quality of the notes dizzied me within minutes, and I forced a smile at Ashley. He took this as his cue to slow his playing to a stop and lean towards me expectantly.

  Though I had no inclination to kiss Ashley, though my eyes never gazed upon his lips in yearning, nor did my arms ever ache to be around him, I didn’t hesitate when he leaned in. His lips gingerly caressed mine, this time much more successfully than they had in the subway. I attempted to lose myself in Ashley’s kiss, but our movements weren’t complementary, and I found myself aching to pull away. When the kiss ended, he smiled and returned to his playing.

  Maybe I didn’t ardently desire Ashley, maybe I would never consider him someone I would hold a strong attraction to, but I had to appreciate the chance I was given. I couldn’t let everyone down. And Ashley was, after all, the only person I was ever allowed to share a legally binding relationship with. That had to count for something.

  Ashley kept his eyes on me as he played. “I gotta tell you, you’re not who I thought I’d end up with, but I think that’s what makes you so great.” His intended compliment left me feeling self conscious. I had somehow peeled away an emotional layer of the guarded Ashley Schroeder, but I remained dissatisfied with the inconclusive results. “I think…” His words trailed off, then, so did his playing.

  I looked up to find his face lined with hurt. His defenses seemed to be running low that evening. “You think…” I prompted.

  “You aren’t wearing your ring,” he noticed rather sharply.

  His tone made me feel panicked. “I took it off earlier to wash off my make-up. I just forgot to put it back on. I’m not in the habit of wearing jewelry, that’s all. Really.”

  Ashley returned his fingers to the keys of the piano. He laughed back into his always complacent, guarded expression. “It’s one of those engaged woman habits you’ll have to pick up,” he said with a wink. I matched his smile with one of my own, but a guilty feeling gnawed at my insides.

  The marriage licensing system had cheated me out of many things, but I was determined to create a better story than “the government thought we would be perfect together.” If I wanted to turn this into a romance, I needed to put in some serious effort. That resolution came upon me with a sigh.

  “Ashley, I don’t want you to treat me like your wife.” From the sideways stare he gave me as he played a happy tune, I could tell that what I’d said hadn’t come out right. “I still don’t feel like I know much about you. Come on—date me. We haven’t walked down the aisle yet, ya know?” The notes stretched further apart until they again stopped altogether.

  “You want me to date you?” He thought this over. “Okay.” As decisive as he tried to make that statement sound, it didn’t. “Tonight then?”

  “I think I’m free tonight,” I said, attempting to summon my playful side. “What’s the plan?”

  “Um, what do you want to do?”

  I scrunched my nose in disapproval. He was missing the point; it didn’t work that way. “Oh, come on,” I whined. “You can do better than that.”

  He looked aggravated yet his voice gave nothing away. “Well, I’ve been waiting for the perfect night to take you out in the City. Seems like that sort of night, don’t you think?” His fingers began to pound out tunes again. “Wear something fetching.”

  I grew annoyed with his habit of glossing over the emotions I saw in his face. I couldn’t say it wasn’t a bad habit of mine, but it also wasn’t something I looked for in a partner. As far as subconscious thought processes went, Ashley and I were annoyingly alike. We shared all things unintentional and undesirable.

  “Fetching? Fetching, like, hey, Rainy, run and get the newspaper for me? Or…”

  He laughed. “Something sexy. But not too sexy. I’m inviting some of my college buddies to go with us, and I would hate for one of them to realize how wonderful you are and steal you away from me.” While I’d hoped for a one-on-one date instead of a group outing, I welcomed the evening plans with a giggle. Friends could be very telling about a person. After all, I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to do with Ashley that required our being alone.

  “Right. Well, I’m going to shower before dinner. See you downstairs?”

  “And we’ll leave directly after,” he added. He pecked my cheek before I slid off of the piano bench. I left him in a cloud of flowing crescendos.

  Down the hall, safely in the sanction of the shower, I wrapped myself in sweet scents and tried to calm my nerves. I took great pains in selecting a dress to wear, matching shoes and jewelry with it, and fussing with my hair. When I caught myself in the middle of this typical-girl routine that I rarely immersed myself in, I realized my secret purpose for wanting to look so good and feel so soft and sweet-smelling for that particular evening. It was absolutely scandalous. So scandalous that I grew red-faced and embarrassed even though no one knew. The matchmaking system had done more than cheated me out of genuine attraction and compatibility. It had put me at only best friend’s reach away from it.

  Chapter 7

  The salmon that evening was being served with garlic potatoes and a hefty helping of family bonding. It was sloppy mixture of clashing personalities and was sure to cause indigestion. The process had been somewhat rushed. It started with Mr. Schroeder being late for dinner peppered with a pinch of suspicion from Mrs. Schroeder. Walker entered wearing the smallest piece of fabric allowed to be classified as a skirt, which only heated things up. Ashley tossed in some business-talk to hold things together. For a bit of spice, Penelope showed up with none other than Sebastian of Dante and the Damned on her arm. And I seemed to be the unfortunate taste tester for this concoction.

  “Penelope, why didn’t you inform us you had a guest?” Mrs. Schroeder said. She smiled at the scruffy guy wearing eyeliner as if she would a stray dog with rabies. “We may not have enough salmon, I mean.” That was untrue, considering the platter we had been served from had enough salmon on it to feed a small country.

  “That’s cool. I don’t eat salmon.”

  Her steely eyes narrowed at Sebastian. “Oh?”

  “I’m a vegan,” he said.

  “A what?” Mr. Schroeder asked gruffly. It was only the second or third time I had ever heard the man speak. His slightly German-accented voice was intimidating, even more so when it echoed in the oversized dining room.

  “A vegan, dad,” Penelope said. She forked her salad as if she was trying to kill it. “A vegetarian.”

  “What sort of man is a vegetarian?” Mr. Schroeder bellowed.

  Mrs. Schr
oeder’s eyes widened, revealing that was not acceptable criticism for an upper class family because it lacked sugar coating. I mean, where were his manners? “He means what might bring someone to make that sort of choice?”

  Mr. Schroeder lowered his wine glass. “No, Sarah, I meant exactly what I said.”

  “Well, it was terribly rude.” Her gray eyes narrowed like those of a cat just before it pounces on its prey.

  “This is my house. I can say whatever the hell I please in it.” He made a point of taking a long drink of wine, and then picked up his fork again. He motioned to Sebastian with it as he talked. “If my daughter brings an unannounced guest to dinner wearing girl’s pants and eyeliner, I have the right to say what I like about it.”

  “Dad!” Penelope shrieked. Her head snapped in his direction, sending strips of her new hot pink highlights flying about her head, as if her piercing eyes lined heavily in black and her angst-ridden grimace hadn’t been self-expression enough. If she hadn’t been sitting across from her identical and very much Schroeder-family twin, I would have sworn she was adopted.

  “Christoph!” Mrs. Schroeder’s yelling overlapped Penelope’s outburst.

  “Don’t raise your voice to me!” Mr. Schroeder growled. “I’ve had about enough of this. Our daughters are running their reputations straight into the ground, and all you can do is bitch about why I was five minutes late for dinner. I was in a business meeting making the fortune you married me for, Sarah.”

  My eyes stayed pinned on the gourmet-looking salmon. A spec of green garnish drowned in the lemon-garlic sauce that had spread out of control on my plate. I poked at it with my fork. It seemed the safest place to be.

  “Running their reputations into the ground? Perhaps they just take after you,” she yelled. Her napkin flew across the table and just missed landing in Walker’s soup. “If it wasn’t for Monica Radella and her magic tricks your precious family name wouldn’t be what it is.”