by Jones, Gwen
“Actually, Mina, time is the last thing I have. Andy’s only given me ‘til tomorrow to decide.” When she sighed I went in for the kill. “I’ve already prepared a proposal. Do you think if I sent it right over you can get me an answer today? And . . .” Oh what the hell, this whole thing was insane so why not? “A bit of an advance for mad money?”
It took a bit of convincing, but in the end she decided that anyone who had the nerve to go through with such a scheme deserved a shot. “But you better let me know how you’re doing now and then,” she had said. “I’m not financing Bluebeard.”
“So,” I said to Denny, cramming another skirt into the suitcase, “she just sent me the approval. I have five grand coming right away and another thirty when I finish.” I held up the contract. “I’m mailing it in the morning.”
“Good Lord . . .” he breathed, “she’s as crazy as you.”
“Denny, listen. What makes a man who looks like him, who’s financially secure and obviously intelligent, pick a wife like he’s buying a car? It just doesn’t make sense. There’s got to be more to him than the fancy packaging. I’m figuring it’s something big.”
“So if it’s a Pulitzer you’re after, I’m sure you don’t have to sign your life away.”
“Who says I am? You remember what he said: ninety day guarantee. If it doesn’t work out, I’d walk away with a nice severance.”
Denny stared at me like I’d truly lost it. “You’re doing it for the money?”
“I never intend to take a penny from him. I’m doing it for the story. But if I’m not part of it, no one, including this editor, will buy it. And if I happen to tarnish a certain scumbucket agent’s reputation in the process?” I tossed my hands. “Oh, well. Because I’m sure not going to let him ruin mine. As far as anyone will ever know, I dumped him because of our divine Mr. Devine.”
He seemed to accept that but only for a moment. “Just make sure your little plan doesn’t blow up in your face.”
“It’ll never get that far,” I said, tossing the journal into the suitcase. “Three months is plenty of time to get the skinny, and to make it seem like I gave the marriage a go. So save me a seat at your Thanksgiving table.”
“And what if he falls in love with you? Or worse, you fall in love with him?”
I shot him my iciest glare. “The contract says our marriage is a business agreement and that’s fine with me. After Richard, I’m never falling in love again.”
He laughed. “As if you ever have a choice.”
I sat on the suitcase, clicking it shut. “I always have before.”
“Then you’ve never been in love. Because when you are, there is no choice.”
I wasn’t about to argue; love was beside the point anyway. Especially the next day at the diner, when Andy leaned back in the booth and all the muscles in his chest strained beneath his polo. With the bright morning sun streaming through the windows, accentuating the strong bones of his face, I thought: Who could think of love when all your lust impulses are on fire?
“I suppose I do owe you a story,” Andy said.
“That you do,” I said, smoothing the folds of my halter dress, resisting the urge to add and I intend to make it my best one ever. “Who knows? It might even be pretty lucrative. We might make some money on this.”
He shook his head. “If we do, you keep it. I have all the money I need.” He pushed aside a manila envelope. “May I ask you a personal question?”
I laughed. “Like ‘Will you marry me?’ wasn’t personal enough?”
His mouth crooked. “You’re right. I suppose it’s all downhill from there.”
I tilted my head, feeling coquettish. His faint accent, wherever it came from, was doing a number on me. “I’m being facetious.” I took a sip of water. “Go ahead.”
He paused a moment. “You recently became—how shall we say—disengaged, and story aside, I was wondering how much bearing that had on your decision.”
Canny, wasn’t he? “A fair question, but the answer is, none at all.”
“Hm.” He considered that a moment. “It’s just that I know I can be . . .” he smiled subtly, “rather insistent at times.”
“That you were.” I said, recalling how he loomed over me. “But I can make up my own mind, thank you.”
“I’m sure. But I don’t want you marrying me because you feel you don’t have any recourse.”
Something Denny said about this being the best offer I’d had in a while crossed my mind, and if he were there I would’ve smacked him. “I assure you, it’s not.”
“Was it your decision to break the engagement?”
Annika’s fat little face wormed its way into my head. “No. But if I knew then what I know now, I’d be breaking more than our engagement.”
“So you’re still angry.”
Now here I could be completely honest. “Damn right I am. The man locked me out of our apartment, froze our joint account, and got my TV contract cancelled.” I slid my water toward me, surprised I had already drained it. “Plus he left me for a woman he’s probably been seeing all along. So if you ask me if I’m angry, I think I have a right to be. But if you’re insinuating I’m still in love with him, you’re dead wrong.”
A little muscle on the side of his cheek twitched. “I would never insinuate, but that last bit is good to know. I loathe competition.”
I wanted to add something witty, but when those beautiful eyes crinkled and his mouth edged into a smile, all I could do was laugh. I relaxed almost immediately. “Oh, Andy, I doubt if anyone could remotely compete with you.”
He laughed softly, inclining his head. “Thank you.”
“For the compliment or for agreeing to marry you?” He had a tiny mole just below his right ear.
“For agreeing to marry me, for having breakfast with me . . .” His gaze washed over my face, and my stomach fluttered. “For being so clever and so adventurous. But also, for finally calling me Andy.”
There went that flutter again. My God, the man was charming. “Well . . . it’s the least I can do. We are engaged.” There. I said it.
“That we are.” He signaled for the server. “Shall we have something to eat?”
Food was the furthest thing from me at the moment, but . . . “I suppose I should. Maybe something light?”
“I know just the thing.” And a few minutes later, we were breakfasting on coffee, croissants and fresh Jersey cantaloupe. “Enough?” he asked.
“Plenty,” I said, spooning into my half-melon. “Now, may I take a turn at the personal questions?”
“Certainly,” he said, tearing off a bit of croissant and smearing it with jam before popping it into his mouth. “Ask me anything.”
If he really meant that, then I hardly knew where to begin. Charmingly anachronistic or not, I had already caught on to how cagey he could be. “Even though I’ve agreed to marry you, I do need to know a bit more about you before I do. Your little fact sheet was rather spare, wasn’t it?”
He shrugged. “Why give away company secrets before you hire for the job? But since you are hired . . .” He finished the last bit of his croissant, and then tore into another. “I’m forty years old, this past May. I was born in Iron Bog and lived there until I was thirteen. Then my parents divorced and I moved to Le Havre with my mother.”
Why I hadn’t caught on sooner was beyond me. “You’re French?”
“So, you’ve finally figured me out,” he said with a wry smile. “By ancestry, on both sides, but I’ve been on the sea so long, it’s hard to call any country home.”
“And a sailor, too.”
He laughed. “I come from a long line of merchant seamen: my father, my grandfather, his father, too. Sooner or later, though, we all end up in dry dock. Like when my father died this past spring, leaving me the farm.”
“Which is why, like them, you figured it’s time to come home and settle down?”
Something unreadable flashed behind those eyes. “The farm’s been in my
father’s family for a hundred and fifty years. It was only logical that when I married, I’d come here.”
Logical. “So your mother left . . .”
“Yes.” Andy stiffened almost imperceptibly, his spoon digging into his cantaloupe. “My mother missed her family and the bustle of the ports.” Then his gaze shot to mine. “Sometimes the silence of the woods can be deafening.”
It was a warning, and I knew it. But I also knew I wouldn’t be living there the rest of my life. “I’m from the city. Silence will be a welcome diversion.”
“It’s good you feel that way. You’ll be getting a lot of it.” He waved his hand dismissively, lightening the mood. “Anyway, I, too, went to sea after university, and—”
“Where did you go? College, I mean.”
“Université Paul Cézanne Aix-Marseille,” he said in such perfectly accented Gallic, my head spun.
“Marseille’s also a port city, right?”
“On the Mediterranean. Just couldn’t get away from the sea.” His mouth crooked. “But that’s the marvelous thing about New Jersey, isn’t it? You’re never too far from it.”
“A fact appreciated in Philadelphia as well. But come on, Andy, let’s be honest.” I leaned into him, affecting my most seductive interviewing mien. “You’re a handsome guy. Why would you think you needed to pick a wife the way you did?”
He blinked; for a moment I thought I’d caught him. At what I wasn’t sure, but there had to be more than he was letting on. “Why fool around with pretense? I want to get married and have children. So I went looking for someone who felt the same way. I knew if I were up-front about my expectations, the right woman would come to me. Was I right?”
“Well, yeah . . .” My second warning. He was certainly setting the ground rules, wasn’t he? Yet big story or not, I had my own as well. “But what are your expectations? Besides the obvious, I mean. I hope they won’t always be more important than mine.”
“Since our marriage will be based on similar expectations, I would never make you do anything we didn’t absolutely agree on. But you should also know this:”—his eyes darkened— “I’m a practical man, Ms. Knott. And a realistic one, too. I’m harboring no romantic illusions about this. We’re both in it for the same thing—our own self-interests, so if you have any reservations, please let me know now.”
A bit jarring to have it brought down to that level, but there wasn’t much I could argue with. “No,” I said, just as gravely. “How about you?”
“I know what I want when I see it. But I’ve also seen how devastating a bad marriage can be. That’s why I’m not only documenting these expectations up front, but I’m also giving us a way out if we find we’re not up to them. Still, I want you to know that even if our marriage doesn’t work out, I’ll take care of you. If anyone ever tries to harm you again . . .” His hand tightened around the mug. “They’ll have to answer to me.”
He left no doubt who he was referring to. “I appreciate that, but last I looked, no one’s chasing me with a hatchet. I think I can take care of myself.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it for a moment. Which makes me wonder . . . why give up everything to retreat to the woods and marry me?”
Should I tell him I had no intention of staying married? That even though we were starting out on a trial marriage, the idea of it ever being permanent didn’t enter in the equation? That it was all for the story, that it was only for the story, and I could justify it by knowing I’d never take a penny of his money? It wasn’t lying. Omission was hardly the same thing. So naturally, I tossed the question back to him.
“I will remind you, Mr. Devine, you rather twisted my arm.”
“And I will remind you, Miss Knott, we are here only because you phoned me. If you’re marrying me just to get a story, then I think you should reconsider.”
Damn, if he couldn’t see through me. But how could he fault me for taking his offer of a trial marriage at face value? But I wouldn’t let that throw me off my game. So I countered with logic—as well as a bit of stroking to his rampant machismo. “Mr. Devine, as juicy as this story may be, I don’t know you from a hole in the ground. As a woman, I’m taking an incredible risk. But I’m choosing to believe I’m marrying an honest man who’s offering me a fresh start at one of the worst times of my life. At least that’s what I’m hoping.”
His whole demeanor changed; he almost seemed offended. “I meant every word I said. I will take care of you.”
And somehow I knew he meant it, so much more than any assurances Richard had ever given me. “Then I guess that’s all I need to know.”
He looked visibly relieved, raising his coffee. “Then congratulations to us, Julie. We’re engaged.”
Julie. When he said it, it sang like poetry. Zhu-leé. I clinked my cup to his, suddenly feeling giddy. “I suppose we are, Andy. Shall it be a very long engagement?”
“Only as long as it takes to get the license.”
“Really? Shouldn’t we get to know each other better?” No euphemism intended.
Within a breath he returned to business. “You’ll have marriage agreement protection and ninety days with compensation if it doesn’t work out. After that, I would like to think we’ll be playing it by ear. Of course, I’ve put this all down in writing.” He slid the manila envelope to me. “Does that sound fair?”
It sounded perfect. “Sure.”
“And not to seem indelicate, but during that time, we will be trying for a baby. I do want you to know up front that’s an intractable clause in the contract.”
Had anyone in the world ever said that less romantically? “I get you,” I said, feeling my neck heating. I slid the envelope into my purse. “I’ll look it over tonight.”
“If there’s anything you’d like to add or detract, let me know and I’ll review it. If you don’t mind, I’d like it if we could go get the marriage license.”
“Now?” My God, he was in a hurry. “Where?”
“In Iron Bog. I figure we can get married there. Unless you have something grander in mind.”
Funny he should mention grand; I thought of what I had cancelled just that morning: the calla lilies for me, the gardenias for our bridal party, the $1800 three-layer dobos torte wedding cake, the ceremony at the art museum, the 250-guest Four Seasons reception with full orchestra and open bar, the 1934 Studebaker convertible which would have squired us around. I had told all concerned Richard had been killed in a subway accident in the Bronx. Most said they would give me a full refund. The honeymoon to Bhutan, which Richard had been paying for, I left intact for Annika and him to default on. For the guests, I had asked Denny to send out all my pre-stamped and pre-addressed thank you cards with a Just kidding; stay home. When I told my parents, I think my mother’s tears flowed from a wellspring of joy. I hadn’t the heart to let her know what was coming up next. By that time, I was truly exhausted.
“No,” I said, “the justice of the peace will be fine.”
“Good.” He tossed off the last of his coffee. “Shall we go then?”
Since the car Richard and I had shared was most likely stashed in the long-term lot at the airport, I had borrowed Brent’s Saab to meet Andy. And although Andy offered to drive us both out to Iron Bog for the license and drop me back, I wasn’t ready to relinquish my freedom to my new fiancé just yet. So I followed his old Ford F-150 pick-up past the strip malls and office complexes until they thinned out to housing developments and finally into the Pines, where the trees eventually gave way to the crossroads of Iron Bog and Jinks’ Gas Station.
“This is my Uncle Jinks,” said Andy. “He’ll be our witness for the license.”
“How you doing,” said a grizzled older man, taking my hand. “I’m really just an old friend of his dad’s, but still, I get final approval.” He pushed back his cap and smiled with perfect teeth. “So you’re the lovely Julie Knott. Pleased to finally meet you in the flesh. You’re even prettier in person.” He winked. “Which means I approve.”
I liked him immediately. “Why, thank you, Uncle Jinks,” I said, squeezing his hand. “You say the sweetest things.”
“You couldn’t be getting a better husband, and that’s the truth,” he said earnestly. “Though my boy seems to be caught in a bit of a time warp.”
“I’ve noticed,” I said, slanting Andy a glance. “He’s positively medieval.”
Uncle Jinks laughed. “Boy, if that don’t fit. Because just like his dad, he’s—”
“Jinks,” Andy interjected, “isn’t that your phone ringing?”
“Bobby!” his ersatz uncle yelled to a young man stacking oil filters. “Get the phone! Bobby! Hey!” He scowled. “Oh, he’s had it.” He looked to Andy. “Hold on, I’ll be right back.”
I watched Jinks trot off to the garage. “What’s he talking about?”
“That kid,” Andy said. “If it isn’t his phone, it’s his iPod.”
“No, I meant about—”
“The municipal building is right across the street,” he said, turning toward it. “They’re only open until noon today. We better go. Jinks will catch up.”
I looked over my shoulder; he was already starting back. Whatever Andy’s uncle had implied, I’d have to ask him later.
Applying for a marriage license in New Jersey was a rather simple affair. All we needed was ID, our social security numbers, Uncle Jinks as witness and twenty-eight dollars. Andy signed, I signed, Jinks signed, Andy paid, and the next thing I knew I was one step closer to strapping myself to this stranger for life. At least in theory. I was cross-my-heart sure it was the craziest thing I had ever done, and I’d more than a few times come close to the asylum. I thought of the journalists who had gone deep, like John Howard Griffin in Black Like Me, Gloria Steinem in “I was a Playboy Bunny” or Barbara Ehrenreich in Nickel and Dimed. Was my story of a utility pole bride just as worthy as those first-person narratives? I glanced at Andy as he walked me to my car.
I certainly hoped so.
“Well,” he said, squinting from the sun, “that was easy.”