She heard Marla’s mellow voice on the phone.
“Marla, it’s Paris.”
“Paris! I’ve been thinking about you all week. We haven’t talked for months. Did you go to the April showing of Helmut Lang’s fall line? I’m dying a slow calico housedress death down here. I need you to send me some goodies. Maybe a nice fringed boot or a new handbag?” Marla jumped right in with their usual girl talk.
In the background Paris could hear Marla’s toddler making noise.
“Hush yourself, child! She wants raisins. She’ll do anything for raisins. Guess what? I’m pregnant again,” Marla announced.
Paris was truly stunned. She’d called Marla to whine about her situation and have a little pity party. Instead her friend had really thrown her for a loop.
“Paris? Is everything okay?” Marla’s voice suddenly sounded a million miles away on the phone receiver.
“Yes, yes, everything is fine. I’m just shocked with your news! That’s wonderful. When is the baby due?”
“October. We didn’t want to announce it too soon, just in case anything happened. But I’m firmly pregnant now, and guess what? It’s a boy!”
“Oh, a boy. Wow. Are you morning sick?” Paris asked.
“Not too bad this time. After the first two months passed I really felt better. Remember how miserable I was the first time? I could only eat dry toast and ginger ale for three months, I swear.”
Paris wasn’t sure whether to take hope in the fact that her nausea might lift in a few months or to feel ratty because this was the first time for her and it was miserable for sure. She felt a wave of emotion come up. Damn hormones. Her first time. Her last time. She just wished it hadn’t happened at all.
“You sound weird,” Marla said.
“I’m…I got married,” Paris blurted out.
“What?”
Paris could hear Marla’s shock through thousands of miles of fiber-optic wires. “I got married in Vegas to an old high school friend.” There, that sounded better.
“Why didn’t you call me? I would have thrown you a wedding!”
“It was sort of spur of the moment. On my birthday.”
“Ah, yes, well happy thirty, you crazy redhead! You sure did it up royal. What’s his name? Did you get my birthday present? I’m so mad at you for not calling me sooner.” As usual, Marla was jumping all over the place.
“I did get your present. She’s a peach. I love that hat.” Paris looked toward the sofa at her bear collection, which had been restacked by Turner. The biggest, most beautiful bear had come from Marla, and it had cheered Paris up quite a bit on her return from Vegas.
“It reminded me of you in that Southern belle shoot we did in Savannah. Remember? Our dumb hoop skirts kept flying up in the wind.”
“You’re right, she does look like us.”
“His name?”
“Oh. Turner Pruitt.”
Marla laughed. “Mrs. Turner Pruitt. Is he gorgeous?”
“Totally.”
“Well, you and Turner just get your booties on a plane and come down here. I have to check him out. Where are you going to live, anyway?”
Paris just couldn’t tell Marla the whole story. Marla was her best friend, but Marla’s life was so right—so in order. Her own life was like a car wreck, and she just couldn’t bear to hear the disapproval that Marla couldn’t help but express if Paris told her the truth. Most of all the truth about giving the baby away.
“That’s sort of up in the air at the moment. We’re in New York right now.”
“Honeymoon in Vegas?” Marla giggled. “Did you get married by Elvis?”
“Worse than that, he is Elvis.”
“Wow. This I have to see.”
Paris was thinking of ways to get off the phone. She just had to sort a few things out, and her discomfort was growing with each question.
“Listen, I’m off to work. Congratulations on the new bun in the oven, and I’ll call you really soon and let you know where we decide to live,” Paris said. She could hear the pause from Marla’s end.
“Well, okay, but call me really soon. I want to hear all the details next time.”
“I will. I promise. Kiss everyone for me.” Paris rushed, then she hung up the phone before Marla could add anything else.
Well that had been a disaster. Now Marla was going to wonder about her and try and reach her. Marla loved a good mystery.
Paris slumped down against her pillows. She’d just have to go hole up on her own somewhere. She put a pillow across her face and blocked out all the light and sound. She didn’t want to hear anyone tell her what she should or shouldn’t do. Not Marla, not Anton, not Rita even. That left basically no one for her to talk things over with. Except Turner.
7
Hard-Headed Woman
Turner rolled a large keg of beer from the back cooler and slid it into place. Stephen was having him do much more than sing. The minute Turner had set foot in the bar, Stephen had begged him to help so he could get to his paperwork. Turner was glad for it. Stephen had given him a detailed list of tasks.
The more mindless the task, the better, at the moment. He was having a difficult time concentrating. He felt so off-balance after learning Paris was pregnant. So much to sort out in his head. He pulled up newly washed glasses and began to set them in their slots.
Dolan’s Pub was busy with a group of kids from the art college down the street. Turner had examined a few IDs of the younger-looking ones, but they had all been legit, or else very good fakes. Their drink of the hour seemed to be light beer anyway, and they all lived a few blocks away in dorms.
They made him think back to his high school days—his and Paris’s.
He and Paris had always been on the fringes of acceptability. He, for his unusual upbringing, Paris because of her tragic family background. It seemed to him that she’d felt like an outcast most of the time. Yet at seventeen she had reached out to him in the middle of her pain. They had been best friends. Of course he had been deeply in love with her back then, as only an adolescent boy can be, but she’d never known it.
Her humiliation over her family was something they had talked about on dark, starlit desert nights, laying on the roof of the school in their secret hiding place.
He remembered longing for her then but never breaking the bond of their friendship to reach out and touch her—except to hold her when she cried, or tickle her chin till she stopped crying.
Turner remembered going to visit Paris’s mother with her because Paris had been afraid to go alone. Father Gibbs had found a heart that day and granted permission for Turner to go along when he’d seen how nervous Paris had been. Turner remembered that Sister Claudia had also been chosen to accompany them.
It had been one of the hardest things Turner had ever done. The hospital had been frightening. There’d been screams in the distance, even though they’d been ushered into a small parlor, away from the other patients. Paris had held his hand so tightly.
Her mother had been brought in, but she’d been severely drugged up, and could hardly talk. Paris had let go of Turner’s hand, walked over, said hello, and kissed her mother on the cheek. Her mother had not recognized Paris, and she’d slapped her in the face.
Sister Claudia had come to the rescue, stepping between Paris and her mother. She had said a prayer over the woman and crossed herself. Lucy Jamison had started crying hysterically. Paris had buried her face in Turner’s shoulder. The nurse had then stepped in and escorted Mrs. Jamison out of the room.
That was the last time Paris ever saw her mother. When high school ended, Paris had run to New York without looking back. Turner had returned to the Cook Islands before going to college, and they’d never crossed paths, or letters, or phone calls again until she’d shown up in Las Vegas on her thirtieth birthday.
Turner understood that Paris had had to leave that part of her life completely in order to forget. He’d known that if she’d kept in touch with him, she’d be keeping in tou
ch with that painful time. He had missed her so much in those first months.
Over the years he’d seen her on the cover of every fashion magazine on the newsstands. He’d told his friends that he knew her, but he’d never told them anything else about her.
Turner was aware that he’d always been known as a guy who could be counted on to comfort someone in a bad situation. He guessed that was still his role in life, and that must be why he had been reunited with Paris. His job with her wasn’t done yet.
And his own life was obviously about to take a drastic turn of direction.
Mary Finelli brought him a drink order and smiled a sympathetic smile.
“I know a man with woman trouble when I see one,” Mary said.
“You’re a wise woman, Mary Finelli.”
“Never you mind, Turner Pruitt, there are plenty of ladies in the sea,” she replied.
“I think I’m lost at sea today, Mary. I better have a nice cup of your coffee and stay on shore.”
Mary winked at him. “That’ll do it.”
He filled the order quietly and smiled back. He was lost in his thoughts. He better focus on present time.
But then present time held its own complications. He was just going to take one day at a time. Maybe he’d even have to do moment by moment with Paris.
Turner knocked on the door and said, “Paris, it’s me, Turner,” before he set the key in the lock and turned it. It was quite late, and he didn’t want to frighten her.
Paris was not asleep. It looked like she’d been very busy since he’d left.
Whatever order he had created previously was now chaos. Her dishes and food littered the kitchen, her clothes were strewn over the bedside chair again; it almost looked like she’d been gutting her closet, because the piles had multiplied into mountains.
Well, the woman had a great deal on her mind. He wasn’t going to bother about domestic details at a time like this.
“I’m packing.”
He shut the door and spun the dead bolt.
“I take it you’ve come up with a plan?” he asked.
“I’m going to Switzerland. It’s a neutral country.” Paris flung another sequined something on one of the piles while she spoke.
Turner took off his jacket and hung it on Paris’s empty coatrack. “What’s the rush?”
“The sooner I get out of here the better. People won’t be counting months if I leave while I’m not obviously pregnant.”
“Have you spoken to your agency yet?”
“I called Rita today.”
“You told her you were going to Switzerland?”
“I told her I was taking a year off. Our marriage has really come in handy, Turner, I have to say that.”
“Can I fix you anything? I’m going to have a cup of tea.”
“People who try and make me hot tea always have something bad to say.” Paris stopped sorting clothes and stared at him. “You aren’t actually going to try and talk me out of leaving, are you?”
He went to the kitchen and set down the small bag of tea and fresh fruit he’d bought at the market down the block.
“No,” Turner replied, picking up leftovers and dishes as he walked through the kitchen. He disposed of the trash and stacked the dishes in the sink. The kettle on the stove was bone dry, so he filled it with cold water. Tea always tasted better when he started with cold water, then got a good boil going.
“Come over here and join me, Paris. I’d like to talk about a few ideas.”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“I don’t think you have a choice.” Turner kept his voice calm, but this time, he was determined to have his say.
“I can take care of my own problems.” Paris’s voice was getting very edgy and loud.
“Paris, your problems are my problems. You are my wife, and that is my child you are carrying,” Turner said firmly.
She took one step in his direction. “Our marriage was an accident, and I don’t even think it’s legal. I know it’s not legally binding when you are too drunk to know what you are doing.”
“Been consulting attorneys?” Turner got out two cups. The Garfield cup for her. He took Bugs Bunny. He’d never seen Bugs Bunny lose an argument.
“I saw it on Oprah.”
“Ah. Come and sit down, please.”
Paris crossed her arms over her chest, but she came over to the table and sat herself down. She looked very beautiful in her black velvet, with her red hair flaming, and her angry green eyes drilling holes in him. For a minute Turner wanted to take her in his arms and make the world go away just for her. Okay, for him too.
The kettle started to scream. Turner set tea bags in the cups and poured boiling water over them.
“I bought you green tea with ginger today. It tastes best if you let it steep for three minutes. It might help your nausea.”
“Just spit it out, Turner. Cut the tea talk, and spit it out.”
These bags were’t going to get their three minutes. He took them out, set them on the plate he’d layed out, and looked straight at Paris. Eye contact.
“I want to see you through this all the way, Paris. I don’t want you to fly to Switzerland. I want to experience this time. That is my child you are carrying, too. I respect your feelings, but I have different feelings.” He leaned forward.
“I am willing to keep the child, with or without you. If you truly feel you can’t be a mother to this baby, that is what you feel. I, however, am completely willing to be a father. I embrace being a father. I am excited about being a father! I was just as excited about being a husband to you, Paris. And whether you believe it or not, I am legally…and spiritually…your husband.” His voice was strong with his conviction.
Paris looked stunned. She didn’t have a snappy comeback. She stood perfectly still, as if she’d been hit with an unexpected spotlight on an unexpected stage.
Then Turner did what he’d wanted to do for days. He strode over to Paris and broke down the barriers she’d put up. He took her in his arms.
She didn’t melt, but she didn’t push him away. He tipped up her chin with his hand and kissed her pretty, stunned lips. It was a good kiss. The kind of kiss you get before anyone starts thinking about it. He kissed her deeper and ran his hand into her beautiful red hair. She let out a minute sound of pleasure.
Then she must have started thinking. Then she pushed him away.
“I don’t care if some paper says you are my husband. I’m not your wife.”
He stood in front of her. She wasn’t going to run away this time. “Yes, you are. And you aren’t going to Switzerland. You’re going to come with me to Las Vegas, and I’m going to see you through this pregnancy, and then I’m going to welcome my child into my life. You are free to leave or stay at that point. If at any point you actually decide to be my wife, let me know, won’t you?”
“Oh the great, patient Turner finally cracks.” She put her hands on her hips.
“I don’t care if I have to handcuff us together to get you on a plane. You are coming back with me.”
Paris looked amused. He was slightly amused himself. As if he’d ever actually do that. Although he might.
“I don’t think that will be necessary.” Paris gave him an odd smile. “To tell you the truth, it’s not a bad idea. I will come back to Las Vegas with you. After all, I’m using this marriage as an excuse, why not take it all the way? And you are right. Why should I go through all this alone? You got me pregnant, and if you want this baby, who am I to say you can’t have it? Maybe we can talk more about that, because it would be better from my viewpoint if a settled couple adopted it, but I’m willing to hear you out.”
Turner was completely shocked at her reaction, but he sure wasn’t going to question it. “Now you’re making some sense,” Turner said. He turned back into the kitchen, picked up the cups, and brought them to the table. “Come and drink this tea. We’ll plan this out and get your place packed up and settled.”
Paris, much
to Turner’s surprise, had turned the tables on him. She came and sat next to him pretty as you please. He wasn’t fooled a bit, though; she had ulterior motives. He could see her brain working on twists and turns and devious Paris pathways.
When would she ever just surrender to some kind of peace? He thought perhaps this wasn’t the time to go into that. He had months ahead to work with her. To soften that hard heart of hers. To charm her out of her coiled-up, ready-to-strike mind-set.
Turner really did feel like a snake charmer. He was never sure when Paris might strike hard and send venom right into his bones and do him in forever. Charming Paris was not a job for the weak-minded. Turner took a deep breath, brought his spirit some much-needed clarity, and sat at the table. He took a long sip of green tea with ginger. It had a bite to it. Just like his Paris.
8
Devil In Disguise
Paris was on a flight to Las Vegas with her new husband, Turner Pruitt, the Elvis-impersonating minister. Anton had said the words to Marla on the phone, but he still couldn’t believe it. Something was afoot in Parisville. Anton’s mind spun through their last weeks together like a search engine, looking for links and clues. He was Googling through Paris’s words and actions, looking for something.
“I can hardly believe our Paris letting some guy be nice to her on a long-term basis.” Marla finally filled up the gap in the conversation.
“I don’t know what it is yet, but there is definitely something not right here.” Anton flopped on his down comforter and let it poof around him. He was still in his pajamas, and it felt great. Besides, he needed to get grounded.
“You don’t think the guy is a phony, do you? You don’t think she’s in trouble?” Marla asked.
“No, I met him. He’s like…Mr. Wonderful. He’s patient, he actually loves her, you can see it on his totally gorgeous face. And you should hear the guy sing. And responsible? Oy. He did fill-in for Stephen at Dolan’s Pub like you wouldn’t believe. He sang Irish and poured beer like a champ, and the regulars loved him. His bar was a regular confessional. He even got Moss McGuity to stop drinking and go back to his wife in a mere four weeks. And his aura was bright as a saint, I swear.” Anton fluffed up his pillows and got comfortable for a big, fat gab with his Marla pal. Damn the long-distance bills, full speed ahead.
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