She Woke Up Married

by Suzanne Macpherson

  “Bored the livin’ heck outta me. What’s up with that? But The Producers was fantastic. And the Fantasticks was fantastic, too. We get the road version of most shows in Vegas. My current favorite is Mamma Mia! It’s playing at the Mandalay Bay hotel.”

  “Get out! A fellow Abba fan!”

  Turner walked out of the third-floor salon with Anton, and they headed toward the elevators singing excerpts from Mamma Mia!

  He was glad he’d made it to New York and found Paris. She’d reacted pretty badly. He’d get himself settled and have a long talk with her. Probably more like five long talks.

  Paris finished blowing her nose and hiccupped one more time. She refilled her glass from the watercooler and took a sip. These overhead fixtures were nasty. Rita should put some full-spectrum lights in this room and cheer them all up on these gloomy Manhattan days.

  She suddenly thought how ghastly and nauseating the colors were in here. She was going to have to tell Rita to repaint: magenta, teal, gray, bleah. The eighties called, and they wanted their décor back.

  But she did love this old place. The Rita Ray Agency had been like home to her for so many years. Modeling had been an adventure. She still loved it. It wasn’t being very kind to her right now, but things always picked up in the spring.

  She wet a makeup sponge and reapplied some foundation to her weirdly pale face, covering up the red blotches around her eyes. Damn it, no wonder she never cried. It ruined your face. Now what do you suppose had gotten into her to bawl like a kid? She’d probably just been too mad to do anything else.

  For some reason it dawned on her that it was way too quiet out there. She jumped up and flung open the door. A few girls were passing through, their heels clicking against the black-and-white tiled floors. Other than that, no Anton, no Turner.

  This made her stomach pitch. She really had to talk to Turner. The other thought that made her very queasy was thinking about Turner telling Anton about her childhood. He wouldn’t do that, would he? There were parts of her she kept very separated. In a locked box. Hidden in the back of the closet. That’s where they belonged. They didn’t belong in her New York life.

  Turner was so honest that he might not think about keeping her secrets. He might think everyone here knew every detail of her life. That was so far from the truth it was funny. But she wasn’t laughing now.

  And Anton had a big mouth. Pretty soon the whole town would be talking about her horrible family life. She couldn’t bear that.

  Knowing Anton, he’d invited Turner to stay with him. Well, she’d just have to change that plan. She started to bite her nail, then stopped herself—that last manicure was really too expensive to bite to pieces. Well, there was no way she could just wait around Anton’s hallway till they showed up. She’d have to go on a manhunt. She’d have to check out all of Anton’s regular haunts.

  Paris went back in the dressing room and grabbed the purple dyed faux fur coat she’d arrived in and its matching hat. The sun had gone down and it had been chilly as hell out there this whole week. She relaced her purple boots and tucked her hot pink leggings back into place, then put on her hot pink leather gloves.

  She glanced in the mirror, but the great outfit didn’t even cheer her up. Where was her old swagger? Here she was dressed to the teeth, and…nothing.

  Clothes were her best friends. She could make them draw all the attention in the room by filling them out nicely and walking in a particular way. She loved the colors and fabrics and the way designers played with her body. She’d been the muse for an Italian designer named Vittorio Saladino for a while, back in her younger days. He’d loved her look, and everything he’d made had been perfectly suited to her. In turn, she’d made magic for him on the runway. It had been a perfect marriage of their particular talents. But that was when she was twenty. Now she was thirty.

  Paris picked up her Galliano slouch bag, got out of the stuffy dressing room, and attempted a little walking action. After ten steps she gave up. Maybe some lunch would help. She had an intense craving for a cream cheese Danish from Zabar’s. Or maybe six.

  4

  A Little Less Conversation

  “I knew you’d adore him,” Anton said to Stephen Banyan, proud owner of Dolan’s Pub.

  “A classic. The body of Adonis, the voice of Pavarotti, and nice—he’s nice, yet.”

  “Sorry, he’s straight, and taken. He accidentally married Paris James.”

  “Accidentally is right.” Stephen rolled his eyes and kept twisting his dishtowel into a bar glass.

  “I gotta tell ya, she’s one lucky woman that fate dumped him in her lap.”

  “And what does that make him? A lion tamer?”

  “Saint Turner.” Anton and Stephen collapsed in laughter, slapping the counter.

  Turner stepped offstage to the sound of applause and shouts for him to do a few encores, then he walked toward the bar. Anton and the bar owner were laughing. He hoped they hadn’t found his set too corny. Those old Irish standards were pretty quirky.

  “Turner Pruitt, you’ve got them weeping in their Guinness. You’re hired. If I were Irish I’d be cryin’ too. ‘The Fields of Athenry’ is a killer.”

  “At least they cheered up on ‘Whiskey in the Jar.’ I noticed your accent—Australia?” Turner asked.

  “New Zealand, mate. I never say mate, it just makes everyone feel like I’m more authentic.”

  “I hear that. I’ve been doing an Elvis gig for the last few years and said, ‘Thank you very much’ at every wedding I performed. The veil better be pretty thick or the customers might come down to reality, and we wouldn’t want that.”

  “Well, mate, you’re a smash on the mike. Would you come in every once in a while during your visit and give us a tune?”

  “Sure. I’d love to. I used to tend bar back in college, so I’m comfortable around a good pub. It didn’t go down too well with the seminary, but I enjoyed it.”

  “I’d say being a preacher and being a bartender are fairly similar jobs. Here, I made this for you. Welcome to Manhattan.” Stephen passed Turner a very odd looking drink.

  “What’s this?” Turner asked.

  “Red Snapper. Like your wife. Now go sing us a tune. Something about a redhead.” Stephen winked at Turner.

  “That’s my Mrs. all right. Redhead through and through.” Turner took a small sip, winked back, and headed for the small stage again. He bent over the piano player and had a brief discussion, borrowed her other songbook, then got himself behind the microphone. He sang his own version of the “Rose of Tralee.”

  Though lovely and fair as the rose of the summer

  It was not her beauty alone that won me

  Oh no! ’Twas the truth in her eye ever beaming

  That made me love Paris, the Rose of New York.

  “My God, that man is a die-hard romantic if I ever saw one.” Stephen leaned on his elbows against the bar, listening.

  “If Paris can get over herself long enough to see that, she’ll be the luckiest woman in Manhattan,” Anton said as he sipped his drink.

  “Thanks for bringing him to me. You just don’t find blokes like that every day.”

  “Blokes, what is that, the New Zealand Irish barkeep’s version?”

  “Right-o, mate. Oh my gawd, here comes the redhead herself. Duck.”

  Paris was standing in the door, framed in light, listening to the last refrain of Turner’s song. She was damn stunning in that purple faux fur, Anton thought to himself. She came over to him, trying to act calm, but in his opinion she still looked a little blotchy around the eyes. “I figured you’d take him to Dolan’s.”

  “You’ve got cream cheese right here—this corner.” Anton pointed to his own mouth.

  Paris picked up a bar napkin and dabbed at the corner of her mouth. “Stephen, darling, how are you? How’s business?” She feigned pleasantness.

  “Lovely, fine, booming. Can I get you a drink?” Stephen gave her a fakey, twangy, nasal comeback. Anton watched the
m face off and come to a silent agreement that they’d behave. After all, it wasn’t Stephen’s fault that Anton had dragged Turner there, and Paris was smart enough to figure that out.

  “I’ve sworn off the stuff. Just have Nadine fry me up a single and get me extra vinegar. Oh, and a cup of chowder. No, a bowl, and a ginger ale. Did you actually give him a job?”

  “He’s just going to drop in and sing a number here and there. He’s got a hell of a voice. But I’d give him a permanent job if he was staying in town longer,” Stephen said. He looked like he regretted saying that as Paris glared him into a charbroiled smoking bit of New Zealand barkeep. “Or not.” He turned to stack glasses, out of eye contact.

  “I need to have a talk with him. Can you direct him to that dark little table over there when he’s done?”

  “You bet,” Stephen said over his shoulder.

  “I’ll join you for a bit.” Anton followed Her Majesty at a safe distance.

  “I’m not speaking to you.”

  “What is my crime?”

  “Fraternizing with the enemy.”

  “I couldn’t help myself. He’s so piacevole, so nice to be around. So genuine.” Anton lapsed into his family’s creative Italian and gestured toward Turner, who was now done singing and was headed her way, no prompting necessary from Stephen.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Paris muttered.

  “Give the man a chance, Paris. He came all the way to New York to prove to you he’s serious about this marriage thing. I told you, Venus was in your seventh house. It’s an excellent aspect.”

  “This marriage is not legal. It’s not real, and he’s not real. It will all fade away and we can get back to work.”

  “This from the woman who has had a serious drop in bookings? Darling, the universe is giving you a big sign. It’s ten feet tall and glowing red. Can’t you see it?”

  “Shut up, you are so…so…”

  “Honest?”

  By now Turner was standing in front of her table. “I’m glad you stopped in, Paris. We should talk.”

  “Anton, get lost.”

  “Yes, dear. Turner, I”ll have your steak sent over.”

  “Thanks. Thanks for everything, Anton.”

  Turner couldn’t take his eyes off Paris. She was shielding herself quite nicely with a thick layer of fur. It was darn cold out there tonight. And unfortunately, darn cold in here, as well—when he got near Paris. Turner said a silent prayer for Paris’s soul. She needed healing, he could see that much more clearly here than he had in Las Vegas.

  “Turner, I’m glad you’re here.”

  “So am I. Your friends are great. Shall we…?”

  Paris interrupted him. “See, there is no we. I can take care of myself. I don’t need you, I don’t need anyone. I can’t be anyone’s wife, Turner. I just can’t.” Her voice was matter-of-fact and harsh. Paris peeled off her gloves and shoved them inside her purse.

  Turner just sat back in his chair and stared at her. It was very unnerving. She was glad when Nadine the cook showed up at the table with Turner’s steak and placed it in front of him. Nadine wiped her hands on her white apron and thrust one of them in Turner’s direction. “I just wanted to meet the man with that voice. I’m Nadine, the cook.”

  “How do you do, Nadine the cook, I’m Turner the part-time musical entertainment.” He shook her hand, then nodded toward his steak. “Very nice work, Nadine, it looks delicious.”

  She blushed and looked embarrassed. “Tanks.”

  “Single? Chowder? Anything?” Paris glared at Nadine.

  “Keep yer pants on. I’ll have Mary run them out. I can only carry so much.” Nadine glared back, turned tail, and left.

  Turner poured ketchup on his steak, baked potato, and carrots.

  “Good Lord,” Paris said, disgusted.

  Mary showed up with Paris’s food. She was Nadine’s niece, with the same mousey brown hair and buggy eyes. She smacked the plate down so hard that the food jumped and a fry landed on Paris’s coat.

  “Crap.” Paris picked it off her fur quickly and threw it on the table.

  “Sorry.” Mary threw a napkin down with some silverware and handed an extra one to Paris, then stared at Turner with what looked like unabashed adoration.

  “Thanks.” Turner smiled at her, then picked up his fork.

  “Shall we eat?” Turner paused, waiting for Paris. So polite, Paris thought. Mary curtseyed to him and ran off. Curtseyed, yet.

  Paris waved. “Go…eat. You’re starving.”

  “Long flight. Peanuts.” Turner had a mouth full of steak now.

  Paris picked at her deep-fried cod and poured vinegar on it. She’d thought she was hungry, but now she felt sort of—not. She took one bite. It was good, but she was feeling nervous about what she wanted to ask Turner.

  “Can you answer a few questions while you eat?”

  “Sure.”

  “So, forgive me for being so blunt here, but I have to ask you about our so-called wedding night. I remember a few things…tubs, bubble bath, lots of fun.”

  “Thank you. You did seem happy and kept coming back for more.”

  “Oh, great. So my question is, did we have any kind of intelligent adult discussion about birth control?”

  “You showed me your patch and swore you’d had the appropriate tests and were disease free and had been on a long dry spell—at least a year. You made quite a point of it, and I told you I was also disease free.”

  Paris let the breath she’d been holding out. Her patch had been on in the beginning anyway. Thank God. “Well, at least I was still acting responsibly, despite my irresponsible actions.” That didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but she ignored it. She picked up a fry, stared at it, put it back down, then decided on the chowder. Pepper, lots of pepper. She was shaking pepper in her chowder when Turner made a comment.

  “Of course you were quite adamant about starting a family right away.” He didn’t stop eating for that, or anything.

  “I what?” Paris stopped peppering and set the shaker down hard on the table.

  “You said it was a miracle that God had sent you to me after all these years. That you were done working, you wanted to get married and have a family.”

  “Tell me you didn’t listen to any of that.”

  “I did reserve some sense there. You kept your patch on, and I felt that would give you some time to get settled before we actually started a family.”

  “Tell me you used a condom.”

  “I tried. You wouldn’t let me. You kept peeling them off. I swear, you were very insistent about that. I finally gave up and figured I’d married you, I was in for better or worse, and I would be honored to have children with you, Paris.”

  Paris’s insides turned into an iced latte. All bitter and too sweet and too cold at the same time. She stood up so fast the chair behind her fell over. She ran for the bathroom.

  Anton came over, picked Paris’s chair off the floor, and sat down in it. “My, my. If I ate fried food I’d finish this for her.”

  “Nadine is a terrific cook. This steak is great.”

  “What became of our purple princess?”

  “I believe she’s unraveling in the ladies’ room.”

  “Again? My goodness. So, now, what’s the basic plan, Turner?” Anton swirled the swizzle stick in his drink.

  “Let’s see.” Turner put down his fork. “I can bunk with you for a week while I look for a more permanent place to stay. I have to admit it, Anton, I have huge doubts and other night terrors plaguing my mind at the moment. I need to study the situation and find the honorable path. That’s all I’ve got so far.”

  “No kidding? Wow, are you up for a long-term project?”

  “As long as it takes. I’ve got to make some decisions. I’ve come to New York to settle things with Paris. Part of that might be sticking around long enough to work things out properly. She’s never had anyone do that. She just needs someone extremely patient so she can ride out her feelings and ge
t to the other side. Under that prickly exterior is a very vibrant, loving woman. She just doesn’t remember that.”

  “That’s true with her men, without a doubt. She’s never let anyone stick around. What was her family like? She never talks about them.”

  “She’s very private that way,” Turner said. He changed the subject. “I have a very strong feeling that Paris is going to need some help from a man like me very soon. I feel that this is the right thing to do. When I feel that way, nothing is going to make me give up.”

  “That’s quite odd you should say that, because I actually have the same feeling about her myself. I think Paris’s time has come. She’s needed to make a shift in her career goals for a while now, but she’s refused to face that.”

  “Perhaps I can help her with some of those things.” Turner picked up his fork again and dug into Nadine’s great baked potato. “I felt quite clearly when I looked down from my pulpit at the Graceland Chapel in Vegas and saw Paris standing there that she had been sent to me. I wouldn’t be much of a spiritual person if I didn’t see that project through.”

  “So basically, like Elwood and Jake, you’re on a mission from God to help Paris through this time in her life?”

  “Blues Brothers, aye?” Turner chuckled. “That’s one way to look at it. We’re certainly not being aware if we don’t see the people coming and going out of our lives and what they have to offer us as far as learning goes. It’s no accident who we meet and who we help. On the other hand, maybe Paris was sent to me to change my life.”

  “You and I are going to get along so well, philosophy boy.” Anton reached over and gave Turner’s arm a pat. “What is your birthday, by the way?”

  “I’m a Christmas Eve baby. December twenty-fourth. I just turned thirty-one last December.”

  “Capricorn. Paris is an Aries, you know. That’s what makes her hair so amazing. Aries people have gorgeous heads of hair.”

  “She is that, isn’t she? But it’s not so much her looks for me. ‘Twas the truth in her eye ever beaming. That made me love Paris, the Rose of New York.’” Turner repeated the line from the song he’d sung.