Listed: Volume I

by Adams, Noelle

  “You don’t look fine. You look like you might be sick.”

  “Thanks a lot,” she muttered sarcastically. “And I tried so hard to be beautiful for you today."

  Then she took a deep breath, likely forcing herself to be reasonable. “I’m not sick, Paul. I don’t have a fever. And I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t treat me like an invalid. I wanted to marry you partly because I thought you would treat me like a regular person and not like I was sick all the time. I want to enjoy these last months—not be coddled and trapped in a hospital.”

  Paul forced down a swell of frustration at her stubbornness and of resentment that she evidently thought he was so heartless that he wouldn't care whether she was sick or not. “I have no intention of keeping you in a hospital, and I’ll do everything I can to make sure you enjoy these three months. But part of my responsibility is to take care of you.”

  When she opened her mouth to object, he pressed on, shaping his words to address the objection he was sure she would have given, “I do need to take care of you, Emily, if only to ensure that you’re able to testify against my father.”

  His last comment seemed to silence her arguments, and she stared up at the digital numbers which showed both elevators were still on the lower floors of the building. He didn’t think she was really seeing the numbers, however—she just didn’t want to look at him.

  “Emily?” he prompted, wishing his voice wasn’t quite so thick.

  She cut her eyes back to him. She twisted her hands together, and he realized suddenly they were trembling.

  He felt a sharp stab of concern. Emily looked small and pale and upset. He took an instinctive step closer to her.

  “I don’t have a fever,” she insisted. “I would know if I did.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I check for myself.”

  Her jaw was set stubbornly, but she gritted out, “Fine.”

  He stepped in front of her and reached out again to place his palm on her forehead. He was vaguely surprised and very relieved when she didn’t feel unusually hot. He slid his hand down to her cheek and then back up to her head, studying her face closely.

  “See,” she said, “I told you. I’m fine.”

  “I'm no expert, but you don’t feel like you have a fever. That’s good.” He was just lowering his hand when the receptionist he’d spoken to earlier walked by. He caught a glimpse of the woman’s face, and she was smiling in an amused, maternal way—as if she’d just caught two young lovers in a tender moment.

  Paul stiffened, feeling more awkward than he should have over such a little thing.

  He was used to being good with women. He instinctively knew how to make women laugh, make them melt, make them open to his advances—but none of his normal routines could ever be used on Emily. He’d felt off-kilter ever since she’d come to him with this crazy scheme, and it seemed to get worse by the day.

  He’d known her casually from around the neighborhood most of her life, and he’d always felt comfortable with her. She was an intelligent, clever girl who didn’t unduly tax his emotional resources. Even when he’d felt deep sympathy for her when she was diagnosed with this virus, she hadn’t made him feel rattled this way.

  It was probably a sign that this marriage was a mistake, but he’d gone too far to renege on their agreement now.

  The elevator finally arrived on their floor, and they both got in. As they waited for the doors to close, Emily said, “I’m sorry I was snippy. I know you were just trying to help.”

  Paul relaxed a little, verifying from her expression that she was sincere. “I’ll try not to coddle you too much,” he told her, half-smiling at his use of her word. “As long as you’ll let me take reasonable steps to make sure you’re taken care of, as part of my role in this marriage.”

  Emily nodded, looking away from him as if something he’d said had made her feel self-conscious.

  “And speaking of that,” he added, deciding he might as well get this next thing over with too. He reached into his pocket.

  She gazed up at him with eyes that looked bigger and bluer because her face was so pale. He was distracted at the thought that she might be sick even though she didn’t have a fever.

  “What is it, Paul?” she asked, a faint impatience reflected in her expression.

  He fiddled with a little velvet pouch until the ring came out. “I thought you might want an engagement ring, since we’re now legally allowed to be engaged.”

  Emily wordlessly stared down at the ring he extended.

  He’d found the ring for her yesterday, since he assumed she would want the entire wedding experience, of which an important feature for women was the ring.

  He’d gone to the jeweler he normally used for women’s gifts, thinking he’d just get her a basic diamond solitaire. But the manager had been thrilled at his unexpected engagement and had asked question after question about what Emily was like and what she might want, so he’d eventually had to come to a real conclusion about the kind of ring that would suit her.

  He’d finally landed on the ring he was now presenting to her. The band was a delicate twining of gold and platinum, intricately filigreed and nestling an emerald with small diamonds on either side.

  He thought the ring was stunning and had more character than the generic diamond solitaires on platinum bands everyone seemed to favor now. It had felt like Emily to him.

  But he started to feel rather self-conscious when she just stood frozen in the elevator and stared at it.

  He cleared his throat.

  “I didn’t know,” she breathed, her eyes never leaving the ring, “I mean, I didn’t think you’d get me a ring.”

  “Well, why not?” Ridiculously, he felt almost offended.

  “I don’t know. I just have three months to wear it.”

  “Then you better start now.” When she still didn’t take it, he added, “I thought maybe you’d like something different, but I can get you a more traditional diamond if—”

  “No!” she burst out, “This is beautiful. But it’s too much.”

  “It’s not too much.” Since he felt like an idiot holding out the ring she refused to accept, he moved it back to the same hand as the velvet pouch.

  The elevator stopped on a floor, but the doors opened and closed without anyone coming on.

  “It must have been really expensive,” she said, when it was clear no one else was getting on the elevator with them. Her eyes strayed back down to the ring. “Although I guess you can sell it back, after I…”

  Paul almost choked on his indignation. “I’m not going to sell it back. It’s yours. I bought it for you. Do you want the damned ring or not?”

  Her eyes lifted to meet his at last. “Yes. Thank you.”

  Since she still made no move to take the ring and they would reach the ground floor soon, he picked up her left hand. Her hand seemed very small in his, and it was cooler than he had expected. Resolved to do his duty no matter how foolish he felt, he slipped the engagement ring on her finger.

  “There,” he said, dropping his hand and stuffing the velvet pouch back in his pocket.

  “It fits,” Emily murmured. She was still extending her hand and staring down at the ring.

  “I checked your ring size before I bought it.”

  “Thank you,” Emily said, raising her eyes to his again. Her cheeks had flushed pink. “Thank you so much.”

  She’d always been an impossible mingling of contradictions—somehow coming across as tough and vulnerable at once—and more so now than ever.

  “It’s fine,” he mumbled, staring at the elevator doors which were just about to open at last. He'd never been on an elevator ride that had lasted so long. “It’s no big deal.”

  But Emily seemed to think it was a big deal. As they left the building and walked to the waiting car, Emily kept gazing down at her ring. Her left hand was fisted, and she held it in her right palm, as if she were cradling her ring.

  Paul experienced a painful pang i
n his chest—one that wouldn’t go away, even after they’d gotten to their next stop—as he processed that Emily had been told she had three months to live, but she was still able to be so sincerely grateful because someone had given her a ring.

  Sometimes, the universe could be bitterly unjust.

  And not just to him.

  They made it through the rest of the afternoon and evening without incident, finishing all of the final details on their task list before they headed to the airport for their flight.

  In a moment of quiet, just before their plane took off, Paul couldn’t help but think that, not long ago, his biggest concern had been taking the comprehensive exams for his MBA while nursing the world’s worst hangover.

  Then his mother had died and everything had changed.

  His father was sitting in prison right now, waiting for a criminal trial to finally bring him to justice. Paul had just given an engagement ring to a girl who was dying from a brutal virus that had no cure. They were about to take off on a red-eye flight to Europe. Tomorrow, he had to plan an entire wedding, hopefully one that would somewhat satisfy a girl's lifelong daydreams, so she could cross at least one thing off her bucket list. And tomorrow evening, at sunset, Paul would get married.

  At some point in the last few months, his life had taken a decidedly odd turn.

  ***

  Paul had just gotten out of the shower when his phone rang, so for a frustrating twenty-minute phone conversation he’d been wearing nothing but a towel slung around his hips.

  “Listen,” he finally interrupted, “I don’t have time for all this now. And I just can’t believe a jury is going to doubt Emily’s testimony, just because she married me. All you have to do is ask her to explain herself on the stand. I guarantee that, once they hear about her aunt, her health condition, and the reasons she married me, they’re going to be on her side and believe what she says.”

  “You’re probably right,” Bill Hathaway replied. He was the assistant U.S. attorney responsible for his father’s case. “I just thought I’d better bring it to your attention.”

  Paul rubbed a hand through his damp hair and tried to think through options and consequences. “We’re getting married in just over an hour. You need to tell me right now if you think my marrying her will genuinely jeopardize the case.”

  He felt a little sick as considered the possibility of canceling the wedding—imagining how Emily would feel—but he had to stay reasonable. Priorities had to remain priorities, and the greater good was always more important than sentiment.

  His father being sent to prison was the greater good. For everyone.

  There was a pause on the other end of the line, before the other man said, “No. It won’t. And you’re right about the jury sympathizing with her even more. We should be fine.”

  “Good. Then the rest of this conversation can wait. I have to get married now. We’ll be back in town on Friday to take care of the rest of it.”

  When Hathaway had hung up, Paul put his phone down and tried to shake all thoughts of the trial and his father out of his mind. They were like a weight about to descend on him, one he was holding back with the force of his will. He was more distracted than he’d been earlier, though, as he started to get dressed in the black suit he was wearing for the ceremony.

  He wasn’t wearing a tuxedo, since the wedding was in a garden and Emily wasn’t wearing a very formal dress.

  They’d arrived in Paris early that morning, and he’d used an old friend of his mother’s to arrange for them to get into the Louvre before regular hours, so Emily could see the Mona Lisa—one of the lower items on her list—while they were in France. Then they’d flown into Aix and been driven to the historic, luxury inn he’d picked out as the venue for the wedding ceremony.

  For the last several hours, ever since they’d arrived, he’d been wrapped up in plans for the wedding. The inn had provided a wedding planner, but there were still a zillion details to handle in a very short amount of time, and Emily had to go pick out a dress and then visit the day spa to get her hair done, a manicure, and whatever else women needed to feel pretty on their wedding day.

  Although he was eager to get back to Philadelphia so he could get started on his new job, he’d told Emily they could wait until the following day to get married, so they wouldn’t be quite so rushed today.

  But she hadn’t wanted to wait.

  Paul had managed to get mostly dressed when his phone rang again. Smothering an impatient sound, he greeted the wedding planner.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she said apologetically, “But there’s been a question about the music choices, and I think you need to weigh in.”

  “We covered this. They can play anything they want, as long as it’s pleasant, classical, and not associated with those standard wedding pieces.”

  “I understand that, sir. But I was just listening to one of the pieces they were practicing, and I think you’d better…”

  “Fine. I’ll be right down.”

  Since he was going to see the wedding planner anyway, he grabbed the slim, velvet necklace box that had been sitting on the table in his room and took it with him out to the walled garden, where the ceremony was going to take place.

  Emily had originally suggested that they just get married by a judge at the courthouse. That certainly would have been easier for all involved, and Paul would have preferred it, but he wasn’t convinced that was what she really wanted. If this wedding was supposed to fulfill one of her life’s dreams, then a quick, no-nonsense union at the courthouse would be a letdown.

  So he’d suggested a church wedding in the neighborhood, but she said she’d feel awkward with all her friends and acquaintances present when it wasn’t a real marriage and they all knew she would die shortly. Then he suggested a couple of picturesque chapels and gardens in Philadelphia. It was only then that he discovered what she was really concerned about.

  Part of her dreams of a wedding was being surrounded by people she loved, and she wouldn’t have anyone—not one person—that she loved at this wedding. She didn’t want to walk down the aisle of a chapel when no one was sitting in the pews.

  That was when he’d suggested a destination wedding, where the scenery and the exotic locale might offset the lack of family and friends. Plus, the trip would make her feel more like she was getting a honeymoon. She’d initially objected, since she felt bad about his spending so much time and money on something unnecessary, but he didn’t consider those to be valid objections.

  He’d asked her where she wanted to go, and she’d said he could choose. He’d chosen Provence because his mother used to take him here on vacation.

  Emily had appeared enthusiastic about all of his suggestions, so he assumed he’d made a decent choice. It was a lot of pressure to plan the fantasy wedding of a woman who would die in three months, but, if Paul was going to do it, then he was going to do it right.

  He stopped short when he entered the garden, startled by how beautiful it was. The garden itself was lovely—surrounded by a two-hundred-year-old stone wall and filled with big shade trees, two ornate fountains, and trellises covered with grapevines and climbing roses. Near the largest fountain, they’d set up an arbor, spilling over with greenery, orchids, and pink and white roses.

  They’d scattered the path Emily would walk with rose petals.

  He went a roundabout way to reach the wedding planner, so he wouldn’t walk all over the rose petals. She smiled, looking a little hassled, when he approached.

  “This looks great,” he said.

  “I think so too,” she replied in heavily accented English. “It’s like a fairy tale. If I didn’t have a hundred guests at my wedding, I might have married here too.” She gestured toward a far corner, where Paul saw a string quartet had set up with their stands and instruments. “Can you listen?”

  At the woman's direction, the quartet began to play, and Paul listened in silence. It was a polished arrangement that was obviously intended for weddings.
While most of it was comprised of a piece from Handel, the arranger had added a few clever interludes that teased with a bar or two of music that sounded like Wagner’s "Bridal Chorus."

  After a few minutes, the wedding planner said, “It’s lovely, no?”

  “Yes, it is, but I don't think we can use it."

  He could see from the woman’s face that she was dying to know why they had to avoid music that sounded in any way like the most traditional wedding music. She was too professional to ask, though, and Paul didn’t volunteer the information.

  Emily wasn’t going to walk down the aisle with her father, and she wasn’t going to recess on the arm of a man she loved. So Paul’s challenge was to create a wedding that would satisfy her daydreams without bringing aching attention to everything she didn’t have.

  This was the best he could do.

  “I need to finish getting ready,” he said, glancing at his wrist instinctively although he hadn’t put on his watch. “Can you take care of this? I’m sure they have more in their repertoire. Bach or Vivaldi or something else. “

  “Of course, Mr. Marino.”

  “Oh, and when you go up to check on Emily, can you give her this?” Paul handed the woman the velvet box he’d brought out with him.

  “Yes, yes,” she said, smiling down at the necklace box rather fatuously. “I’ll make sure she gets it.”

  Paul left before he could get annoyed by the woman’s expression. He wasn’t some love-struck groom who couldn’t resist giving his bride another present, and it made him slightly uncomfortable that the wedding planner obviously thought he was.

  The necklace in the box was an antique diamond and emerald pendant that matched the engagement ring, hung on a platinum chain, and the seller had been offering them as a set. Paul had just wanted the ring, but—according to the jewelry store manager—the seller refused. So he’d ended up buying both of them by necessity. Since he’d had to buy it, there was no reason Emily shouldn’t have it.

  He walked through the grounds until he’d reached the private cottage where he and Emily were staying. It was really more of a two-bedroom luxury suite than a cottage, but a cottage was what the inn called it.