Wanted: Wife

by Jones, Gwen

  Why did he look so much bigger in broad daylight? “I should be going. I have lots to do.” I tapped my purse. “And read. I’ll call you if I have any questions.”

  “Just leave a message with Uncle Jinks.”

  “Because you don’t have a phone? Why is that?”

  He shrugged. “You’d be surprised what you can live without. And with.”

  And with whom. When we got to my car he opened the door; I rolled down the window after he shut it. “Well, I guess I’ll see you—”

  “Tuesday, right here. Shall we say, three o’clock?”

  Not before then? I pulled the manila envelope from my purse. “How about this?”

  “Bring it with you when you come. It’s pretty cut-and-dried, as long as you agree with it.” Then he leaned in, his fingers wrapped around the door. “Thank you, Julie. See you Tuesday.” And with a tap on the roof, he left.

  As long as you agree with it. To living in the woods. To marrying a stranger. To having his baby. My God!

  Then it hit me like a head-on collision: this tall, dark, and handsome French throwback-to-the-nineteenth century was my fiancé. With one breakfast as courtship, with no engagement ring, with his only endorsement from another stranger, I was actually going to marry him? I fell back in my seat, watching him walk away. He hadn’t even touched me, not once. I closed my eyes, remembering to breathe.

  It really was a business arrangement, wasn’t it?

  Chapter Five

  * * *

  Here Comes the Bride

  I DON’T KNOW what I had expected, but it probably wasn’t being stood up again. Truly, who would think lightning would strike the same woman twice? But there I was, standing in front of Town Hall, teetering on my Ferragamos while the sweat collected beneath my cream silk sheath, the baby’s breath no doubt drooping in my salon-perfected hair. Maybe I should have taken up Brent and Denny’s offer to drive me, but I just couldn’t face another scene. Even though the cab had cost a fortune, I felt much more comfortable with a stranger dropping my baggage to the curb. Since I was marrying one, the stranger theme fit all around.

  The point was driven home by the contract I had signed the night before. Brent had asked his attorney, Alvie Ross, to take a look Monday morning, and by that evening, he’d come back with a verdict.

  “Purely from a contractual point of view,” Alvie had said, “it’s a match made in heaven. You’d certainly come out with the sweet end of the lollipop.”

  I took another sip of sherry, hoping it’d negate the sleepless night I was anticipating. “You really think so?”

  “This guy’s clean—I can’t find anything on him.” He tapped his pipe against the page. “If you stay married, he assumes all your debts, and gives you half-ownership in his property, bonds and liquid assets. His father’s will just got out of probate, and your fiancé was left quite a substantial legacy—over $750,000, some very solid municipal bonds, and acres and acres of property he owns free and clear. He even has a little bungalow down Long Beach Island right on the beach, and with the way things have been selling down there, you can only imagine what it’s worth. He has all kinds of insurance in which you’d be the beneficiary, not that he isn’t as healthy as a horse, plus there’s that three-month out with $50,000 to cry all the way home with.” Then he frowned. “But everything’s contingent on the one thing that concerns me: within those three months you have to get pregnant, or that gives him grounds for annulment. Are you all right with that?”

  “A big question to ask yourself, darling,” Brent said, squeezing my hand.

  “I wouldn’t be marrying him if I wasn’t,” I said, especially since I was counting on it.

  “Then I suppose, if you’re so inclined . . .” Alvie said, handing me the pen, “you’re good to go.”

  Go where? I thought as I stood on the courthouse steps. I didn’t know where he lived. And the taxi driver had grabbed my $125 and taken off in a cloud of dust. I looked toward Uncle Jinks’ garage. I suppose he might know where to find my elusive fiancé, but in the twenty minutes I’d been waiting I hadn’t seen him either. As conspicuous as I’m sure I looked, I’m positive he would’ve come out had he been around.

  As I idled, I recalled a childhood notion. Before time and reality jaded me, I used to be quite the romantic, lying back on my twin bed, my adolescent mind pondering: I wonder what my future husband is doing right now? Was he hanging with friends, doing his homework, watching television, perhaps even imagining me? I used to wonder if he was dark-haired or blond, tall or muscular, liked horses and Geraldo Rivera and Talking Heads as much as I did. I wondered if one day he’d be working for the network, as I assumed I’d be, or a star reporter for the New York Times, or writing a political expose for Newsweek. Even from my most tender age, I knew I was a voice to be heard, and as narcissistic as that sounds, it truly wasn’t. It was more like there were truths to be unearthed and only I could bring them out, just as there was that one man who had to be working his way toward me.

  How moronic.

  I checked my watch: three-twenty. According to the sign on the building, the offices closed at four. Which set the timer at forty minutes and counting. I thought of the elaborate wedding I had planned with Richard, and how forty minutes hardly would’ve gotten us down the aisle. I pushed a drooping curl behind my ear, a baby’s breath fluttering to my shoe, and unstuck from my sweaty chest the wilting bodice of my sheath. What an idiot. How in hell had I been so stupid to let it happen again? I felt like I’d been had, but for what reason? It hurt, especially considering I was skating very close to scamming him. But at that moment, at the prospect of Andy leaving me hanging, the only thing that concerned me was how the hell to extricate myself from this situation. Then suddenly his old Ford truck screeched around the corner to the curb. He jumped out, trotting to me.

  “I’m—I’m so sorry,” he said breathlessly, his chest heaving. “Really I . . .”

  All at once he stopped and stared, and I had to admit, I did likewise. With his hair wind-tousled, his eyes a frantic blue, he looked so downright gorgeous in his black suit and tie, I think I could’ve forgiven him anything short of murder. Especially when I caught sight of the bouquet of yellow wildflowers clutched in his hand.

  “For—you,” he said, handing them to me.

  I wrapped my fingers around the stems and buried my nose in the blossoms, even though black-eyed Susans don’t carry a scent. “I thought you’d forgotten all about me.”

  He came closer, his gaze fixed on mine. “I could never forget about you.”

  Amazing how this man could make my insides go to mush with nothing more than a few everyday words. Yet when Andy looked at me, smelling of fresh air and sounding like music, my angst eased a bit. “Then maybe all we need to do is synchronize our watches?”

  “Maybe,” he said, so close to me I could see a tiny muscle pulsing on his cheek, “but I’m pretty sure Betsy wouldn’t care.”

  I felt dreamy, ready to—“Who’s Betsy?”

  “My heifer. She’s just about ready to calve.” He picked up my stuffed suitcases like he was lifting balloons and pulled back on the door. “So, we’d better hurry,” he said, holding it out with his foot. “Uncle Jinks is with her, but we haven’t much time.”

  Heifer? Calve? I hurried up the hallway beside Andy, rethinking the logic of this for maybe the last time. We stopped at a door that said, PAUL S. HINKLE, MAYOR. HUNTING & FISHING LICENSES MONDAY THRU THURSDAY 10-1. Andy set one bag on the floor and opened the door.

  “After you,” he said and, spreading the door wide, kicked the suitcase in.

  We stepped into a tiny, windowless anteroom, chairs lined against one wall, a counter directly across. Five feet or so behind it another door opened, and out walked who I presumed was hizzoner.

  “Andy!” boomed a ruddy, barrel-chested man. He thrust a beefy paw at Andy. “So,” he said, giving me a languid once-over, “this is your intended!”

  I tried to ignore the objectificat
ion and gifted him with my most gratuitous smile. “Good afternoon, Paul,” Andy said. “This is Julie, my fiancée.”

  He squinted at me. “Hey. Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “On a utility pole, maybe?”

  “Haw!” he laughed, snapping his suspenders. He pointed to Andy. “I like her! Last chance before I snatch her up myself!”

  Andy set down the other suitcase and shook the mayor’s hand. “Thanks, but I think I’ll keep her. And if you don’t mind, we have to hurry. Betsy’s about to calve.”

  His eyes widened and he erupted again, nudging Andy.” So it’s the cow, then? Haw! Guess we won’t need the shotgun after all! Come on!”

  It’s for the story, it’s for the story, I kept telling myself, feeling a little ill.

  The mayor led us into an office with long windows that looked out on an expanse of tall trees. Between the cab ride and the front steps I had sweated away the afternoon, but thankfully an old Kelvinator window air conditioner chugged away, chilling the room considerably. The mayor shrugged into a jacket and picked up a small leather-bound book.

  “Got a witness?” he asked.

  “Jinks was supposed to be here,” Andy said, “but he’s with Betsy.”

  The mayor thought a moment. “Hold on, I think I got it covered.” He hustled into the next room for the phone. “Lila?” I heard him say, “You want to make ten bucks?”

  Andy turned to me. “Do you have something for me?”

  I looked at him, mystified. “Like . . .?”

  “The agreement,” he crisply replied. “I need it signed before we start.”

  It was like a bucket of cold water to the face. The only bigger squish to my romantic notions would be if he’d inspected my teeth. I plucked the contract from my purse and handed it over. “And so do I,” I pointed out. “Right by the ‘X.’”

  He gave it a quick perusal. “No changes?”

  “Not at the moment, but I’m starting to think of some.”

  He arched a brow, suppressing a smile. “Too late.” He signed then handed over my copy, slipping his own into his inner pocket. “Thank you.”

  I dropped mine into my purse. Any further commentary was aborted by an elderly woman being shuttled into the room. “Lila is our town archivist,” said the mayor. “She just happened to be in today scanning documents.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said, shaking each of our hands, her eyes eagle-sharp. She looked to Andy. “Welcome back, young man. Been a few years, eh?”

  “Yes, it has, Mrs. DeForest. I hope you’ve been well.”

  Her silver brow lifted. “So you remember me, then?”

  Andy smiled. “The school librarian? I used to think you knew everything.”

  She looked to me and winked, saying sotto voce, “And I do, too.”

  My spirits lifted immediately. Now here was a woman who might come in handy.

  The mayor opened the Bible. “Ready?”

  My heart raced: it isn’t too late, you know. Yet it was, as I had never bailed on a story in my life. Didn’t matter if my hands were shaking or my mouth was dry, or if all the doubts in the world had suddenly been rolled into a boulder and dropped atop my head: I couldn’t quit just as the camera started rolling. So I took a deep breath, plucked a flower from my bouquet, and nipping the stem three-quarters up, I tucked it into Andy’s buttonhole.

  He glanced from it to me, and smiled. “We are now.”

  “Dearly beloved,” the mayor began.

  I’m sure the ceremony was no more original or eventful than the thousands of others performed that day. But having just canceled a Wedding of Epic Proportions, I knew immediately it wasn’t the Vera Wang gown or Armani tux, an art museum ceremony or a fancy car to an even fancier reception, or even the transcendent honeymoon in Bhutan that made that ceremony any more significant than this one. In fact, the wedding itself hardly had anything to do with it at all. It was the bald fact that I’d be married. I looked into Andy’s clear, blue eyes. Married! To a man I hardly knew!

  My heart stuck in my throat. Holy shamoly.

  “. . . as long as you both shall live?” the mayor asked me.

  I was long past rational thought. So I simply answered, “I will.”

  Just as Andy answered, “I will,” not a half-minute later.

  “The rings?” the mayor asked.

  I looked to my about-to-be husband. “I don’t think we—”

  “Here,” Andy said, his hand suddenly lifting mine.

  It was the strangest thing, and I thought I knew strange pretty well. But when Andy touched me for the very first time, laying my palm flat upon his and sliding on a carved platinum band, tiny diamonds here and there among the filigree, I felt a connection to something so complex I knew it would take everything in me to even scratch the surface.

  The sensation was only compounded when he said, “It was my grandmother’s.”

  I was beyond surprised, by the ring, and by the man before me. “And . . . yours?”

  His mouth crooked. “Unfortunately, my grandfather never wore one.”

  The mayor closed his Bible, beaming. “With the powers invested in me by the state of New Jersey, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Andy—kiss your bride!”

  “With pleasure,” he said, leaning in.

  With his lips slightly parted, he brushed my own in a silky pass, ending with the tiniest of nips to the corner of my mouth. It was quick and chaste yet undeniably possessive. “Mrs. Devine,” he said softly, lifting my hand to kiss it.

  I felt a little swoony, not even realizing I had closed my eyes. Mrs. Devine . . . I thought . . . Mrs. Devine. Then all at once my breath caught. Holy crap—Mrs. Devine!

  A second later I saw myself signing the license, shaking Mrs. DeForest’s and the mayor’s hands, and then being shuttled out the door. “Thanks, Paul, Mrs. DeForest,” Andy said, leaving a hundred dollar bill on the counter. He hefted my suitcases. “Have dinner on me.”

  “Wait!” Mrs. DeForest cried. She reached into her purse, pulling out a camera. “You have to remember the day!”

  Andy leaned into me and she snapped a picture, then he grabbed the suitcases and me, and we ran toward the door.

  “Goodbye!” Andy said.

  “Thanks!” the mayor called after us. “And congratulations you two!”

  “To the bride it’s always ‘good luck,’” Mrs. DeForest corrected him. “’Congratulations are for the groom. After all, it’s he who’s won her.”

  That simple statement was so pregnant with implications that my head fairly spun, but now wasn’t the time for analysis—especially with Andy tossing my suitcases in the back of his truck and stuffing me into the passenger seat. “Maybe you should call Jinks and see how he’s doing,” I said.

  “Can’t,” said Andy, climbing in. He started the truck; it exploded to life with a rattle and a chug. “No phone.”

  “Oh.” I reached into my purse, producing my BlackBerry. “You can use mine.”

  “Wouldn’t matter.” He looked over his shoulder then pulled out in a cloud of dust. “There’s no service out there.”

  “No service?” I looked at my BlackBerry, checking my texts. Two from Denny, one saying, YOU CHAINED YET? “My phone’s working.”

  Andy looked to me, smiling a bit insularly. “If you’re going to use it, use it quickly. It’s about to be useless.” Then he turned off Main to Forge Road.

  Almost instantly, clearings and houses gave way to piney woods and, within five hundred feet, macadam bumped into gravel. Not far after that, the road seemed to lose all sense of civilization as it turned into firmly-tamped sugar sand. Overhead the foliage grew denser from a clumping of tall trees, and I took in their clean scent, their soaring trunks rising out of a shallow stream of water.

  “Smells like my grandmother’s cedar chest,” I said, as we thumped over a short wooden bridge.

  “That’s because they’re cedar trees. And if her chest was ma
de in Philadelphia, the wood probably came out of a bog like this.”

  As the cedar stand thickened, the afternoon dimmed. The bog was alive with gnats and dragonflies and a thousand whirling, zipping, clicking things. The air was cooler yet fragrantly lush. Soon the road narrowed and the woods opened up, pitch pines and scrub oaks replacing the tall cedars. The sparse undergrowth became a mix of bushes and ferns, laurel clumping near the edges. Even though the Pine Barrens had always loomed on Philadelphia’s periphery, I had never taken them for much more than a green filter on the way to the Jersey Shore. Although, once I had done a story on naturalist Howard P. Boyd, author of the definitive A Field Guide to the Pine Barrens of New Jersey (tucked into my suitcase, of course), and de facto dean of Pine Barrens ecology. The night before I had crammed like I hadn’t done since my college finals. But it was one thing seeing the forest from the pages of a book or as one zips down Route 72 at 65 mph. It was quite another bouncing inside it at no more than twenty per.

  I stuck my hand out the window and let it ride the current, near enough to the trees to flutter a pine swag, when we passed four crumbling chimney stacks rising out of a clearing.

  “That used to be a tavern,” he said, pointing toward it. “My family ran it when this trail was a post road to Camden.”

  “Back when people actually wanted to get to Camden,” I said.

  “Some still do, but not from there.” He made a right onto an even narrower trail. “A friend of mine said some folks from Trenton were sniffing around last month—more than likely from the State Museum, looking for relics.”

  “This friend of yours,” I ventured, “does he live in the woods, too?” “Of course. He works for the fire service—merde!” The truck jangled as it hit a rut. “Sorry about that. Anyway, he works the tower over at Snakes Ridge. He told me we had a big one near there two years ago. Burned for a week and nearly four thousand acres. Ray’s the one who spotted it. Lightning.” He shrugged. “What’re you going to do?”

  “Put it out, I’d imagine.”

  Again, that insular smile. “That’s the general consensus.”