Wanted: Wife

by Jones, Gwen

  “Hello Ray!” I called to him, opening the screen door. Bucky shot out in a frenzy of joyful yaps for his alpha. “Don’t forget—tomorrow night at six!”

  “I’d never forget a free meal! See you then!” he called back, turning the truck around. He waved to Andy, yelling “Thanks, again!” before shooting up the back trail toward the bogs.

  “Well, hello, you cranberry cutie,” I said, spying Andy, looking slightly worn around the edges.

  “Mmmuph,” he grunted, his jeans wet up to the thighs, his t-shirt stained and sweaty, his hair a ruffled mess under his cap. He trod past me to the laundry room, where, as was his habit after work, he stripped bare, unceremoniously dropping his filthy clothes in the hamper.

  “Guess what?” I said, following him into the kitchen. “You might be happy to know I’m good to go again.”

  He stopped, eyeing me over his shoulder. “What?”

  “I said . . .” I shifted my hips, affecting my most potent come-hither look. “I said I’m good to go.”

  He sniffed, saying, “Wait five minutes—and bring the wine,” then left for our room.

  Five minutes later I sat on the bed, a glass of wine in each hand. Andy emerged from the bathroom in a burst of steam, naked and rubbing his wet head with a towel.

  “Wine?” I offered, holding up a glass.

  “Thanks,” he said, tossing the towel to the floor. He took the glass as I sipped mine demurely, downing the wine in one gulp. “Ahh . . .” he growled, placing the glass to the dresser before turning his simmering gaze to me.

  “This won’t take long,” he said. “Do you mind?”

  I considered that a moment. “Will you pay me back later?”

  Andy set my wineglass aside and, easing me back, removed my panties in one seemingly seamless movement. “With interest, ma belle, you can bank on it.” And just like that he was inside me.

  Ten minutes later we were in the kitchen, tucking into the chicken. “Absolute truth,” he said, looking relaxed and sated, “this is the best damn chicken I’ve ever had.”

  Had the lights been out I would’ve glowed in the dark. “Really? You think so?”

  He reached for my hand, smacking a kiss on it. “Probably because I can still taste you on my lips. Now pass the platter, ma petite, I’m starving.”

  Later on, over fruit and cheese, I divulged a less pressing bit of news. “Guess who I had lunch with today? Mrs. DeForest.”

  He was balancing a grape atop a piece of Beaufort. “Really? Where’d you run into her? At the market?”

  “At the library. And oh, I picked up those Patrick O’Briens you wanted. She had just come from a meeting of the Historical Society. We started chatting, and since it was lunchtime, I invited her.” I reached into my pocket and placed the photo on the table. “She had a big packet of old photos, and one of them was this.”

  He eyed it from where it sat, then slid it over without comment. After a few moments he said, “No one’s sure what really happened, you know.” He looked up. “Including me.”

  “You mean the fire.”

  “Fires. I’m sure she mentioned both.” He took a double sip of wine. “But if you had to hear it from anyone, I suppose she’s the most impartial.”

  “If I had to hear it from anyone . . .” I met his gaze directly. “It should’ve been you.”

  He sat back, thumb and forefinger bracing his chin, his eyes coolly washing me. “You’re right. I should have told you. But I thought I’d let you get to know me better before I did. Because I wanted you to know the whole story, not just the rumors, as close to the truth as I can get it. Especially about the second fire.”

  I could feel my heart pounding in my ears. “Why?”

  “Because my father believed until the day he died I set it.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  * * *

  Combustibles

  “DID YOU?” I asked.

  An old rage smoldered behind those eyes, and a bruising from tamping it down too long. “No,” he said, dropping the cheese and grape back to the plate, reaching for the wine instead. “There were a lot of things I didn’t like about my father, and even more he didn’t like about me. But I’d never do something like that, no matter what anyone said.”

  “Exactly what did they say?”

  “That if I had, it would’ve been justified.”

  “Why? Did your father beat you and your mother?”

  He poured more wine, taking a healthy swallow. “No. Though she always played the victim very well. She let everyone think he did.” He glowered at me. “What those rumormongers didn’t know was had he been violent, it only would have been reactionary.”

  When he looked away I figured it was the end of his disclosure, but it was only for a sip of wine before he continued. “My mother’s a hard woman to live with. If she wants something, she goes after it. She never learned to compromise. But then she’s always been able to scheme her way out of any situation so I suppose she’s never had to. Maybe people like that should never be married, because what’s marriage but compromise? She used my father’s passion for her as a weapon against him, and he was so crazed by it he let her ruin his life. He let it drive him over the edge.” There was a steely cast to his face now, an undercurrent of bitterness to his voice. “It didn’t make any sense to me when I was growing up, but it makes perfect sense now.”

  “You mean as far as your parents are concerned,” I said.

  “As far as anyone’s concerned. Whatever my father was or did, the only thing his passions accomplished was to make everyone around him miserable.”

  “So you think his love for her was the cause of all their problems?” I refilled my wine. “So if passion makes for bad marriages, then logically speaking, to have a model marriage, you need to keep passion out of it. Hmm . . .” I said, a bit tartly, “are you suggesting all the passion between us is a mistake?”

  The smolder returned, though wholly different. “Is that the impression you get?”

  I stood, leaning against the counter. He was getting me angry, and I needed the distance. “So passionate sex is okay, but it can’t go beyond that. You can be passionate for my body, but it can’t go any deeper, because going deeper equals going nuts.”

  “No,” he said, a bit condescendingly. “What I’m saying is when you lose yourself to another person you’re surrendering control of yourself. It’s only logical.”

  “So what’s wrong with losing control of yourself? What greater tribute can you pay to another person than to trust them completely? To trust them enough to believe they’d make the right decisions for you, that they’d take care of you, that they’d never let anything happen to you? Didn’t you say those things to me? Didn’t you even put it in writing?”

  His cheek twitched. “It’s because I put it in writing that you can trust me.”

  “But why would you have to? Isn’t that what marriage implies anyway?”

  “An implication isn’t a guarantee.”

  “But in this case, isn’t it? And if it’s not, why don’t you say what you really think? That logic and passion can’t coexist. But to be passionate about something is to defy logic and do it anyway.”

  “Logic is the basis of everything,” he said. “To think otherwise is ridiculous.”

  “Oh really? I know writers who write without ever making any money, artists who paint for years before they ever sell a painting. I know a runner who dropped sixty pounds, fought asthma and diabetes, and trained for three years through snow, ice, and heat before she was fit enough to get into the Boston Marathon. Then, a week before, she broke her leg. As soon as she was out of the cast she started training again, and a year after that, she finally ran it. Now you tell me, what’s the logic in that?”

  He was unmoved. “The logic is train hard and you’ll get into the Boston Marathon.”

  “But if she didn’t have a passion for running, she wouldn’t have accomplished it.”

  “That’s talent, not passion.”r />
  “You’re missing my point.”

  “You’re not making one.”

  My God, he was exasperating. “Then what’s yours?”

  He rose, coming toward me. “I’m not saying there’s no place for passion, but not if it rules you. Better to think things through.”

  I laughed. “Like I did? For all of five days?”

  “You can always change your mind.”

  “Oh—that’s right.” I could feel my neck heating. “We’re a work-in-progress. Thank you for reminding me. I feel so much better now.”

  That little muscle on the side of his jaw was twitching again. “That’s not what I meant. Our contract gives you security, with or without me.”

  “Is that what we’re calling it—security? Let me tell you something, six weeks ago I learned a hard lesson in what security with a man really means, and there’s no such thing, contract or not.” I left for the living room, slugging wine as I dropped to the sofa.

  “Where did that come from?” he said, following me. “What happened to you makes our contract even more important.”

  “But why was it even necessary? Why couldn’t we just date and get engaged like normal people?”

  “Please remind me how well that worked out for you.”

  “Yeah, well fifty grand’s one hell of a booty call if it doesn’t work out for you.”

  The color rose in his face. “Then why did you sign it and marry me? Just for the book?” He scanned my face; I was hard-pressed to mask it. “You’d really marry me for a stupid goddamned story?”

  I wouldn’t answer; I wouldn’t give him the ammunition. I crossed my arms, turning away. “Go to hell.”

  His eyes flared and he yanked me to my feet. “Mon Dieu—je perds mon temps avec toi!” All at once Bucky sprung to my flank and growled, surprising Andy so he jerked back. “Non! Couché!” he cried to the dog. I wrenched away, falling back to the sofa. The dog leaped into my lap.

  Andy’s gaze shot from his hands to me, as if suddenly wondering where I’d gone. “Jesus,” he uttered, looking horrified, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean . . . oh hell.” He shook his head and left for the bedroom, slamming the door.

  I buried my face in the dog’s ruff, waiting for Andy to quiet before I went to the kitchen. I grabbed a bottle of burgundy. But as soon as I opened it I knew I hadn’t the stomach for more. Instead I cleaned up, mechanically doing all the things I’d been contracted to do. Truth be told, I was surprised we hadn’t had this argument earlier. Men were all the same; it’s only their modus operandi that varied. When I finished I went back to the sofa and lay down. With the windows still opened, an early autumn chill crept over the room. It matched what I felt inside. I grabbed a pillow, hugging it.

  Sometime later, I heard the bedroom door open, the floor creaking to the foot of the sofa. From the light of the half-moon I could make out his shape but I felt it more, remembering his weight atop me, a delicious heaviness. I had gotten so used to it, its absence was painful. But the memory wasn’t enough. What he’d said hurt more than I imagined, even more so considering it was true. I shifted around, turning my face into the cushions. Bucky moved with me to settle his head on my thigh. Again the floor creaked and I could hear Andy moving toward the front door and out, his footsteps disappearing into the yard. After that I couldn’t think anymore. I covered my head, falling dreamlessly asleep.

  WHEN I WOKE up Andy was gone, at least from the general vicinity of the house. The truck was still there, so he hadn’t gone far, but before he left, apparently he’d been pretty busy. The eggs were collected, Betsy had been milked, the garden watered, the mushrooms tended, a big basket of yams dug up and on the porch, the hanging latch on the gatepost fixed, and a half-dozen other chores that needed attention were accomplished. I, on the other hand, had spent a fitful night on the sofa and rose two hours later than I usually did at the scandalously late hour of eight AM. As I dragged myself around the yard, still dressed in the skirt and t-shirt I had worn the night before, it was a wonder I’d been able to string together two coherent thoughts at all. I’d never felt so wretched.

  I wasn’t even sure what we fought about, or why I had gotten so angry. Andy had started out baring his soul, and I had turned it against him. Which was dangerously close to what his mother had done to his father, I’m sure. I dropped to the front porch, contemplating that. Was that how he was seeing it? Was our contract really nothing more than a guarantee against falling in love with me? It’s not that I wanted him to anyway. As a matter of fact, I was counting on that he wouldn’t. So why did it irk me so?

  Maybe because an opt-out clause was much easier to take when it was my own idea, and not one of his contracted options. Maybe it hurt to think I was that expendable, even though he had given me no indication I was. Maybe I was beginning to get a bit too comfortable with this whole arrangement, and the reality of a life afterward was getting a little too close. I had already passed the halfway mark; it was all downhill from there.

  I shuffled inside and went to the bathroom, washing my face and brushing my teeth, but as I wandered into the kitchen, I hadn’t the barest appetite. The dishes from the night before were still in the drainer, our empty wine bottles still on the counter. And under the table, the sandals Andy had worn to dinner after making love to me so furiously I could still smell him on my skin. I picked them up, holding them out. He was so big, so outsized, so . . . well, I wasn’t sure I knew. Which made me feel even worse. I set them by the fireplace. Because now I wanted to know everything.

  I fed Bucky, dropping kibble in a dish outside the door. As I watched him eat, his black fur as shiny as a seal’s, I thought of those first few days when he scared the hell out of me. Now he trailed after me and slept at my feet every night. I could hardly imagine what it’d be like without him. But sooner than later, I’d have to. I dropped to the porch steps, my arm slung around him.

  Where was Andy? But then, where was I? And where in hell was I going? If this was a precursor to what my life would be like later on, then I’d better get used to it. Damn reckless of me not to see what lay down the road, naïve of me to think it would be easy. And shame on me for thinking I could come out the other end the same.

  WHEREVER ANDY HAD gone, I hoped he’d be back soon as we still had Ray and Celia coming over for dinner, and I had no way to cancel. What would I say if I did? So I went about the preparations for the dinner party as if nothing had happened, making dough for Quiche Lorraine and baguettes, gathering herbs, salad greens and beans from the garden, mixing a vinaigrette dressing, and stopping at Jinks’ to pick up fresh scallops, just dug from of Barnegat Bay that morning. As I pulled into the gas station without Andy, Uncle Jinks’ radar immediately switched on.

  “Oh no,” he said, eyeing me flying solo, “Where’s Andy?”

  “He’s busy,” I said, trying to sound chipper. “So much going on now.”

  “Okay.” One bushy-gray brow shot up. “Now tell me what really happened.”

  “Nothing,” I said, reaching for my purse. “He just had some fence to fix or whatever. How much do I owe you for those scallops? Hope they’re big.”

  He swiped his hands on a rag. “As big as the whopper I’m sure you’re telling me. Be right back.” He left for inside.

  I felt awful lying, but then again, I just plain felt awful, which I was sure was how I looked, and that had to have been his first clue. My mood matched the day, which was growing steadily more oppressive, an unseasonal humidity hovering in the air like a blanket. A minute or so later Jinks returned, a plastic bag of shucked scallops dangling from his hand.

  “Andy owes me apples,” he said, passing me the bag. “Let me have them and we’ll call it even.” He craned his neck toward the truck’s bay. “Are they in the back?”

  “No,” I said, “I guess he forgot. But you can get them when you come to dinner tomorrow. Maybe I’ll even toss in a pie.”

  “No, don’t bother. I’m sure you have better things to do than make
pies. Oh—one more thing.” He reached in his back pocket, handing me a brown envelope. “Lila DeForest dropped this off for you. Said she would’ve given it to you the other day if she’d known she’d run into you.”

  I ripped into it, then swallowed hard. It was the snapshot she’d taken of Andy and me on our wedding day. “Look,” I said, showing it to him.

  “Ha!” he laughed. “You both look ready to shit your pants.”

  I stared at it. Jinks was right, yet in a way, Andy never looked more beautiful. I shoved it in my purse. “Thanks, Jinks. See you soon.” He waved me off as I pulled out.

  I turned down the road to the farm, barely out of first gear, letting the woods swallow me. Here and there the pines oaks were browning, the Scarlets going their monikered red as other deciduous trees showed bits of orange and yellow. Already the drying undergrowth was littered with acorns, and I knew in the next few weeks the forest would explode with color. I don’t think I realized until then how much I longed for it. Or as I drove the wooden bridge across a cedar marsh, how much I’d like to see it frozen over, deer tracks pocking the snow. In fact, all the things Andy had told me about—harvest moon hikes, tundra swans, gathering pinecones and holly for Christmas wreathes—I prematurely mourned, knowing his stories would always be just that.

  I pulled over when I reached the site of the old tavern, its ruins more visible as the summer vines and ferns withered away. I wondered what it would’ve been like had Andy grown up there, if he had taken me home to it instead of the farm. I wondered if the lack of the familiar would’ve weighed as heavily as it did his mother, her gentility smothered between the branches and undergrowth. With a new husband in a strange country, bursting with baby and closed in by these woods, she must have been suffocating, and maybe right then I understood, if only a little, before I drove on.

  I FOUND ANDY sitting on the front steps when I returned, unshaven and wearing the same clothes from the night before. He looked to me, droopy-eyed and miserable, as I parked the truck and came up to him.