by Sally Mason
Come on, girl.
Open it.
It won’t bite.
At last Darcy lifts the envelope and carefully tears it open.
She draws out a sheet of fine notepaper, covered in handwriting that is very neat and old-fashioned.
As Darcy starts to read, the hum of coffee shop recedes and she hears sitars and tabla drums, but most of all she hears the beautiful voice of Forrest Forbes telling her that he knows what she did that day with the ring and the so-called winnings.
Telling her how grateful he is to her, and how wonderful India is.
It is an enchanting letter, full of humor and graciousness.
The kind of letter that a woman dreams of receiving, and she reads the last line many times, until she spots Eric’s Jeep reversing into a parking bay.
Darcy folds the letter, slides it back into its envelope and hides it in her purse.
When Eric arrives they talk of the sale of her house, a new show he is pitching to the networks and the California weather (what there is to discuss.)
After an hour of chat Darcy goes home and pours herself the single glass of wine she allows herself every evening and makes a green salad.
She eats watching something silly and unmemorable on TV.
After she showers and slips on her PJs, she sits in bed and scans Forrest’s letter again.
If anything, it is even more beguiling on the second read.
And the last line coils up from the page as her, as sinuous as a dancing snake.
Darcy, it says, there is a night train from Mumbai to Jaipur. It passes though the red sands of the Rajasthan desert. Every morning for the next month I will be on the platform when the train arrives. Forrest.
Darcy folds the letter.
Ridiculous.
A ridiculous invitation from a ridiculous man.
But when Darcy falls asleep, the folded letter is under her pillow.
85
Darcy is woken by sunlight streaming through the bedroom window.
She takes a while to open her eyes, letting consciousness creep up on her.
When her eyes finally flicker open and she lifts a hand to take the hair from her face—a hand covered in an exotic filigree of henna—she sees the ring on her finger, the diamonds and sapphires firing back the light in perfect little starbursts.
Darcy stretches and smiles, her body naked beneath the silk sheet, her skin, even at this early hour, already covered in a deliciously sensual sheen of sweat.
She’s alone in the huge four-poster and extends a hand to move the layers of diaphanous cloth that enfold the bed, casting rainbow colors across her bare skin.
The bed is in a huge room with a ceiling fan and a floor of intricate black and white mosaic.
A window with an ornate wooden frame presents her with a view of a minaret.
Just as she once dreamed.
As she slides from the bed, the breeze from the fan cool on her skin, she is tempted to pinch herself, to make sure she’s not still asleep, for the last month has had all the properties of a dream.
Her impetuous decision to fly to Mumbai and catch that night train through the desert.
Finding Forrest, true to his word, waiting for her on the platform.
Living with Forrest and Lakshmi in this crumbling palace.
Deciding to invest some of the proceeds of the sale of her house (after making a generous bequest to the Children’s Shelter) in restoring the palace, and finding that she has a previously unknown talent for décor—for creating an environment of fantasy and opulence for well-heeled tourists.
And, most dream-like of all, falling in love with Forrest in this world of spices and dust and chaos and poverty and breathtaking beauty.
Standing at the window, looking out beyond the palace toward the sprawl of low buildings, she thinks of her wedding yesterday, riding with Forrest in a howdah on the back of Kipling—he was real!—after being swathed by Lakshmi and her friends in layers of cloth, wearing a garland of flowers that her husband removed once they were alone in their bed.
Vows were exchanged in the garden of the palace, the ancient maharajah officiating, and Forrest slipped his mother’s ring onto Darcy’s finger as a crowd of locals looked on.
Well, nearly all were locals: she has a vivid memory of Eric Royce in a turban, dancing wildly late into the night.
The festivities had included traditional dancers, snake charmers, fire eaters, jugglers, and even a fortune telling parrot.
Lakshmi tried to shoo away the parrot’s handler, but it seemed to be customary for the bird have its say, so it had perched on Darcy’s shoulder and rattled away in Rajasthani.
When Darcy insisted, Lakshmi—sworn off lying for life—reluctantly translated the prophecy into English.
“He says you will have many children. I’m sorry, Darcy.”
But Darcy, laughing, knew the molting old bird was right.
She’s no Mother Teresa, but she knows there are hordes of kids out there who need help.
And she’s here, isn’t she?
The door opens and Darcy turns as Forrest enters.
He’s dressed in a white toweling robe, not jodhpurs, and carries two glasses of fruit juice, not a riding crop.
But, as Darcy crosses to him and he takes her into his arms, she hears sitars and flutes and tablas, and the morning sun does look just like a cocktail olive speared on the nearby minaret, and she knows that, yes, dreams do come true.
THE END
Copyright
© 2013 by Sally Mason
All rights reserved
Rent A Husband is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without the express written permission of the author or publisher except where permitted by law.