She really didn’t remember him, or the wedding. Amazing. Turner sat up and looked at her pretty, pissed-off face across the breakfast table.
“Cowboy boots.”
“What ever!”
“Paris James, I’m surprised at you. Or should I call you Patricia Jamison?” He picked up his bacon and chewed on it, waiting to see how she’d react.
She reacted all right. She went pale, and her hand went up to her mouth in shock. Her green eyes got wider.
“What did you say?”
“You heard me. As a matter of fact, it was me who renamed you Paris. We’ll always have Paris, remember? My Humphrey Bogart imitation and your Ingrid Bergman farewell? Here, maybe this will help.” He handed her the marriage certificate he’d kept on his side of the table.
She looked down at the marriage certificate. Yep, that was her scrawled signature, obviously written under extreme champagne exposure. And his—Turner Pruitt—a clear, bold signature. Yep, there were witnesses, too. Turner Pruitt—she used to know a guy named that…long ago. But this couldn’t be him, could it? She glanced up at him, then back at the paper. She felt herself freaking out.
So what. So what if she’d signed this. This was Las Vegas. They’d been married by another Elvis impersonating preacher. There were probably a dozen of them on this end of town alone. That didn’t make it legal. Plus it was still April first, after all. This had to be a joke. He couldn’t be the same Turner Pruitt. But how would he know her real name?
“Turner?”
“Lightbulb going on? Sister Agnes’s poetry class? My senior year at St. Mary’s? Paris, how could you forget?” Turner finished his bacon and drank down the last of his coffee. She couldn’t believe he could stay so calm. She felt electrified. “Oh my gawd. I can’t believe it. My Turner Pruitt?”
“In the flesh.”
“You look so different. It can’t be you. I would have known. You…you were just a scrawny boy. Now you’re a…”
“Man?”
“It’s really you?”
“It is.”
Paris leaned back in her chair and studied Turner. She began to see the essence of the boy in the face of the man.
“Oh God, Turner, it is you. How could I not remember this? You say I did know you last night?”
“You did.”
At that moment Paris James decided that she would never take a drink again in her life. She’d obviously been out of control if she couldn’t remember anything but the sex.
She paused a long time, reeling back to high school, a place she didn’t visit in her mind often. She and Turner Pruitt at seventeen and eighteen years old. It all came back quickly. Turner’s parents had put him in the only boarding school in the Nevada area, where his elderly aunt lived. His aunt had passed away right before he’d graduated. How could she dredge up old stuff like that and not remember her own wedding?
“What are you doing in Las Vegas? I thought you were going back to the Cook Islands and rejoin your parents’ mission?”
“I did. I went back, remember? Then I decided to go to college. I’d gotten a taste of life on the mainland that year I spent here. Besides, I figured out there are lots more sinners in Las Vegas than on the Cook Islands, by far.”
“That’s for sure.” Paris laughed. “Where did you go to college?”
“Stanford University, then Denver Seminary.”
“Woo-hoo, Mr. Intellectual. You always were a brain.”
“So were you.”
“Get real, I wouldn’t have passed that class if you hadn’t helped me.”
“And you? I’ve seen your face on a dozen magazines over the years.”
“Oh, I traveled all over and just did the modeling thing. It’s not as easy as it looks, but the money has been great.”
“Last night you said you were going to retire.”
“I did? Did I tell you what I would do for a living after that?”
“No, you were too busy kissing me. But you did remember me a little more clearly last night.”
“I did?”
“Enough to say I do.” Turner pushed the breakfast things aside and reached for her hand. “Paris, I know you. The real you. I was in love with you once. I think our marriage, our coming together after all these years was not an accident. I am willing to make this work. I know you live in New York, but we can live anywhere in the country. I could dust off my credentials and go into private practice. I have a clinical psychology degree.”
“What about your ministry?” Paris’s hand felt jumpy under his.
“That’s my calling, but I can counsel as a minister without being affiliated with a particular church. As I said, I do own a little wedding chapel here in town, but I have options. I can sell it, or just manage it from anywhere. I’ve always been sort of a roving minister. I can rove wherever I like. Sometimes life changes.”
“How did you end up doing this Elvis gig? A nice missionary kid like you?” Paris asked.
“It was a fluke. I did some professional church singing in the area, then a friend of mine had cancer, and I took his place in the Graceland Chapel to help him out. I could see that I was really helping the people that came in to see me. Unfortunately, my friend died. He left the chapel in my hands, and I took over as new owner, but like I said, life changes. I can relocate and rearrange things.”
This was just plain insane. At least Paris felt better that she knew Turner. That it was really her Turner, from long ago. That relieved her of thinking she’d just up and married some stray Elvis in the middle of the night. They’d been best pals their senior year, both boarding at St. Mary’s, each for their own reasons. It seemed like a million years ago. And here Turner’s family was still in the Cook Islands. Her family—that wasn’t even worth thinking about right now.
“It was swell of your folks to let you come to the States for your senior year. I’m glad I got to provide you with that true teenage experience that you’d missed out on, having that sheltered childhood in paradise, like you did.” She smiled, remembering what hell they’d raised. “Like howling at the moon out in the desert, drunk on beer.”
“You left Charles Barnes out there brokenhearted. I went back for him later, you know.”
“He deserved it! He didn’t really love me anyhow. He loved Sheila Broach. I can’t believe you rescued him. You should have let the coyotes have him.”
“A trail of broken hearts, and me picking up the pieces.”
“Turner. We have to get this marriage thing annulled. I don’t have enough time to take care of that with you. I’m going to trust you to do the right thing.” Paris withdrew her hand from Turner’s warm touch.
“I know you’re going to find this difficult to understand, Paris, but I don’t want to annul the marriage. As a matter of fact, I think it’s fate we ended up together.”
Paris got up from the table. “Fate? That’s ridiculous. It was a bottle of champagne. What happened to the people I started out the night with?”
“Trail of broken hearts.”
“Very funny. Turner, I can’t stay here with you. I can’t be Mrs. Pruitt. I have to catch my plane back to New York and get back to work. I…I don’t want to be married.” Paris talked as she walked across the room. She looked for her suitcase and seemed very relieved to find it. She threw it on the unmade bed and unzipped it.
Turner turned in the chair to watch her. “Yes, you do. You said you were tired of it all and wanted to settle down like your friend Marla.”
“Quite the memory on you.”
“Practically photographic.”
“I was drunk.”
“I think you said what was really in your heart.”
Paris looked around for her clothing. She gingerly picked the offending wedding dress off the floor, untangling it from the bedding. Paris carefully hung it on the chair across from Turner. He could return it for her, since she had no idea where she’d rented it.
She grabbed up clothing in her arms. “S’cuse me, I have t
o do some things in the bathroom,” she said. She just needed to be out of this room, more like it.
Turner watched Paris scurry around. She was the original runaway girl. Whenever love would get a little too close, Paris would bolt.
He drank down a full glass of water and refilled it from the metal pitcher the hotel had brought with breakfast. Darn, he was thirsty. He wasn’t used to alcohol.
He might as well just sit back and watch the show, because nothing he said right now was going to make Paris stop.
It’s not like he could just pick up and leave anyhow. He’d have to find someone to take his place at the chapel, and Millie would need a new roommate. It looked like he hadn’t thought things through too clearly himself last night. That wasn’t like him. He wondered how he could have been so impulsive. Look at the mess it had caused.
He heard the shower running. A flash of the evening before tumbled out of his short-term memory. Paris in the bathtub. It was suddenly quite clear to him why he’d jumped at the chance to marry Paris. It was a chance he would quite literally never get again in his lifetime. Something must have snapped in him—and a more primitive instinct had won out.
Her wallet was on the dresser, splayed open. Such a trusting girl. He thought of getting her address so he could keep track of her no matter what happened next, but he just couldn’t bring himself to dig through her wallet.
However, her driver’s license was in plain view.
Dang, she might be a model, but the DMV can make even a beautiful woman look like a dawg. Turner laughed to himself as he looked at her DMV picture. He copied her address onto a piece of hotel stationery.
As he jotted down the numbers, he saw several pictures slipped in opposite the license. One was of a stunning blonde holding up a frilly baby girl—that must be her friend Marla she’d talked about so much last night. And one more photo. He lifted up the edge of the plastic folder a tiny bit—a very, very old picture of Paris as a child…with her mother. It was very seventies and Paris had braids in her hair, all dressed up for Easter Sunday in some kind of a psychedelic hot pink and lime green dress. Her mother had on a matching outfit. She looked so much like Paris did now. Full of life.
He heard the shower stop and stuffed the note he’d scribbled in his coat pocket. He felt suddenly guilty for prying even that much. Paris’s life was so private. Even the relentless press hadn’t unearthed the truth—which he knew so well.
Paris reappeared with a small suitcase, a fully done-up face, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, and dressed in a white knit sleeveless wrap dress that clung to her every, lovely curve. She looked just like a wife would on a honeymoon. There was no way in hell they were done with all this. He’d married her, and he had to come to some kind of squaring of that fact. Marriage was a sacred thing. He knew that was a very old-fashioned concept in this disposable society, but he was firm in his belief. He’d let her go for now, but she was going to have to deal with this very soon.
He decided to leave her with a good memory for the next few weeks.
“Well, Paris, I see you are ready to go.” Turner stepped up close to her and took her in his arms. She seemed a little stunned and dropped her round suitcase with a clunk onto the floor. “I wanted to say a proper good-bye to my one-night wife.” He tipped up her chin with his finger and gave her a toe-curling, remember-me-forever kiss. The future hung clouded and uncertain before them, so this kiss was going to have to last until the fog lifted. He made sure it was a good one.
2
All Shook Up
Paris felt her lips still tingling from that amazing kiss Turner had given her. That devil. Marrying her when she’d been in a compromised state. Of all the low tricks.
“Champagne, Miss James?”
“No possible way,” Paris snapped. The stewardess looked at her sharply. “It’s just that I’ve sworn off alcohol. Could you pour me a nice ginger ale, please?”
“Certainly. Vegas has that effect on lots of people.” The stewardess smiled and poured out a ginger ale, handing Paris the cup and the can.
“Thanks.” Paris took a sip. The stewardess pushed the cart onward toward the main cabin, leaving Paris in first class sipping ginger ale and watching the on-flight movie, Down With Love, with sound coming through headphones. It was giving her a headache.
The flight was bumpy, and her stomach was still unhappy about her recent…bender.
Vegas has that effect. What an understatement. She just hoped that Turner would carry through with the annulment. When she’d given him specific instructions on that, he’d just sort of winked at her and said, “Of course, dear, I’ll do the right thing.” Which didn’t give her the greatest sense of confidence.
Turner Pruitt. What an amazingly small world. He used to write the most wonderful poetry in Sister Agnes’s creative writing class and had even put some to music. Paris had always been amazed at his ability to be so open and confident. In some ways he’d given her the courage to run away to New York and start modeling. She even remembered being self-conscious in the early days and telling herself to be like Turner—brave and bold.
No one had known more about her than Turner, Paris remembered. She’d written two sets of poetry for that class. The set she’d turned in to Sister Agnes, and the set she’d let Turner read. Poems about her family and the heartache they’d caused her.
Paris felt the old pain surface, and wished she hadn’t sworn off alcohol.
The plane bumped again and she took off herheadphones. She adjusted her pillow and decided to try and get some sleep. Maybe she’d wake up tomorrow and find out this had all been a dream. Not a bad dream really, waking up married to Turner, having spent a wonderful, passionate night together, but a dream anyhow, because she’d just left Turner behind and was going back to her life in New York.
That would work out for the best. This way she wouldn’t break his heart, and if she remembered Turner right, he had a very big heart.
Something was itching her. She excused herself and went to the tiny little horrid airplane powder room to take down her spandex panties.
Paris let out a gasp that half of first class must have heard, because what she found rolled up in her waistband was her Nortrel patch. It must have loosened up during their bathtub adventures, or from the massage oil, and been hanging by a thread since last night. She grabbed onto the tiny sink station for support and felt herself swoon with fear. Oh my God Oh my God. She’d gone on a honeymoon with Turner Pruitt and had compromised her birth control. He had used a condom, hadn’t he? Him and his old-fashioned no premarital sex thing, he could have decided since they were married it was okay to just go natural. He was like that.
Paris decided to spend the rest of the trip praying for mercy. Turner had reawakened her spiritual side, all right, Amen and Please God; don’t punish me for my sins. She decided to try and remember how to say Hail Marys on her long string of pearls.
“Where’s the coffee, and why are you sitting in a chair like a lump? You never sit in a chair like a lump. What’s up?”
“I got married last night.”
“Well I’ll be a ring-tailed no-boobed old showgirl. Where the hell is your bride? Did you lose her in a poker game?”
Turner looked up at his roommate, Millie, standing in the doorway. True, she’d seen better days, but she had an irrepressible spirit. She looked just like the greeting card cartoon character Maxine at the moment, with her floral robe gaping over a slinky negligee, her hair in curlers, and a cigarette in her hand. Where do old showgirls go in Las Vegas, anyhow?
Turner looked at her with gratitude. They’d been together quite a few years now. She was a great cook and great support. He felt the arrangement was more in his favor.
It made him feel a little odd that Millie made a living doing phone sex, astrological charts, and telemarketing, but she made fairly decent money, so who was he to say what she could or couldn’t do? He sometimes got a good laugh over her “gentleman callers”—if they only knew what the
woman on the other end of the phone was really like.
But hey, she still had great legs. She’d survived a bout of breast cancer and was still kicking strong. He just wished he could get her to stop smoking.
Millie sucked on her cigarette and stared at Turner. “Well? Who was she?”
“A woman I went to high school with came into the chapel and we had a great reunion. I took her out dancing, and she told me she was ready to settle down and have a family and that now that she’d found me again, she wanted to get married right away.”
“Was she drunk?”
“Yes.”
“Were you?”
“Way.”
“Oops.”
“She’s a little confused today. She doesn’t quite believe it was legal—or real. She hopped a flight back to New York.”
“And you’re sitting here? Have you gone soft in the head?”
“We both just need to think things over. I believe she’ll get back to the fact that she married me for a reason. I’m just going to give her some space.”
“Space is highly overrated.” Millie came over to Turner, sat on the arm of the old overstuffed chair, and ruffled his curly black hair with her thin fingers. “Do you love her?”
“I was in love with her in high school. She’s very special.”
“She’d have to be to get a guy like you to take the plunge just like that. Did you at least have a wedding night?”
“Unbelievable. Wilder than my wildest dreams.”
“So what’s the deal, are you going to let her forget the whole thing and call it a wash?”
“I would like to talk to her again and find out if there is anything to it. I’m pretty darn conflicted. I took vows, I married someone I know, but it’s all under questionable circumstances. At least we should sit down and talk it out. I’m not happy with the outcome.”
She Woke Up Married Page 2