I’m thrilled to find something so quickly! Surely, this is a sign that I’m meant to be single! We agree to meet in an hour’s time, so I quickly jump in the shower, dry my hair and tear through the closet for something that could be considered businesslike to wear. This is easier said than done, as my wardrobe is more suitable for a debutante than a career woman. Nevertheless, I do find something that isn’t pink, doesn’t have ruffles and actually does have sleeves. I put it on, grab a modest looking handbag and whip out the door before Mom has a chance to interrogate me.
I’m early for my interview, so I order a cup of coffee and reread the email on my phone. I thought about the job all the way there and how I could sell myself. To my horror, I realize I’ve overlooked one very important thing.
There at the bottom of the ad it reads, “Must be married.” What? Could they even do that nowadays? Why on earth would you have to be married to seek donations of art? Well, so much for this. Now, I’ll have to go home and admit to Mom and Dad that I’ve screwed up my very first job interview because I can’t read. How humiliating is this?
I debate whether to make a run for it or to stay and try to sweet talk my way into the job anyway. After all, I was almost married, in a manner speaking. My heart is pounding, and I look around the room for a woman who might be Margaret waiting for me. I don’t see anyone who would fit her description, but I do see something else. In the corner is a group of men at a table. I can tell by their body language that it’s a semi-business meeting since none of them are wearing suits, and they politely wait for one another to speak and then make gestures to underscore their own opinions. Body language is something I’m pretty good at. I’ve always been resourceful, and this is sure the time to prove it. I jump up from the table and head towards them.
“Excuse me,” I say to a good-looking guy who happens to be sitting at the end of the table nearest me. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m in trouble and wondered if you might be willing to help me?”
He looks up at me, and because he is very tall, and I’m on the short side, it’s a short distance. “What seems to be the problem?”
I extend my finger in a ‘follow me” gesture, and although he hesitates a moment, he stands up and follows me. I lead him into the hallway outside the restrooms and turn to face him.
“I’m so sorry, but my name is MacKenzie, and I’m supposed to be meeting a woman here for a job interview. I got here early and reread the ad and just realized that it requires that I be married.”
His face freezes, but his eyeballs look wildly from side to side as though he is trying to figure out what all that has to do with him. Obviously, I haven’t explained it well enough. “So, here’s what I need. I need you to be my husband.”
“Your husband?”
“Well, not really my husband, but my pretend husband.”
“Your pretend husband?”
“Yes, that’s right. It will only take a few minutes.”
“And what happens when she finds out that I’m not your husband?”
“I’ll worry about that later. For right now, it’s important to me that I get this job. You see, it will be my first, and my parents will never let me hear the end of it if I don’t get it.”
“I see.”
“Sir?”
A man is approaching behind the guy I’m talking to and evidently wants his attention.
“Mort, it’s okay. Go back to the table and fill in for me. I have a damsel in distress.”
The second man looks surprised, but turns on his heels and promptly does as he’s told. “You mean, you’ll help me?”
“Why not?”
“Oh, I could just kiss you. So, what’s your name?”
“Michael.”
I can see a woman meeting her description looking around. “Oh, my God, it must be her.” I hold up my finger. “I’m going to ask you to wait here for no more than thirty seconds. I’ll go and introduce myself and sit down, and then you can join us. I’ll tell her that you are in the bathroom.”
“Just one question.”
“What’s that? I really have to go.” I’m looking over his shoulder and can see Margaret getting frustrated in her search. Another ten seconds, and she may think I’m a no-show.
“What’s your name again?”
“It’s MacKenzie.”
“Your first name?”
“Yes.” I can’t stick around to listen to any more questions, I don’t have time. I approach the woman who is headed for the door. “Margaret?”
“Yes? Are you MacKenzie?”
“Yes, I am. I’m sorry, I was in the ladies room.”
“That’s no problem. Why don’t we sit down?”
I sit down at the table she indicates and scoot my chair forward. I see the man named Michael take a tentative step from the hallway and think I’d better explain quickly. “My husband, Michael, will join us in a moment. He was in the men’s room.”
Margaret looks at me oddly, and I realize that both of us going to the restroom at the same time could have been misinterpreted. “We both wanted to be fresh prior to meeting you.” What an idiotic thing to say. This is not going well. “I brought my resume with me,” I say, sliding the single sheet of paper across the table to her. At that moment, Michael arrives. He’s standing next to the table, waiting to be introduced. I lift my napkin, and behind it, gesture to him to sit down. It would be only logical that he would take a seat next to his wife. “Margaret, may I introduce my husband …” Oh, my God. I have forgotten his first name. My mind has gone totally blank!
Thank God, he is less nervous than I am because he quickly improvises. “Hello, Margaret, I’m Michael.”
She nods in approval, and I don’t blame her. He really is very good looking. “How do you do, Michael.”
He sits down next to me and appropriately, as well as thankfully, keeps his mouth shut. It’s my turn to improvise.
“Margaret, it’s such a coincidence, but it just so happens that Michael had a business meeting here at the very same café. As you can see, there’s a table of gentlemen over there, and he really needs to rejoin them. Would you mind?”
She looks a bit flustered, and I have to admit that the lie is thin. “No, I guess not. You understand, of course, that it’s important that we meet the spouse of all our candidates. We are, very broad-minded; however, in this line of work, appearances do count for a great deal.”
“I understand,” I nod. “Michael, thank you, darling. I’ll see you at home later.” I lean over and give him a quick kiss on the cheek. I feel his cheek muscle twitch beneath my lips and think it’s rather cute. To his credit, he takes it without blinking those gorgeous brown eyes.
Michael stands up immediately and nods toward Margaret. “It’s been my pleasure,” he tells her, turns, and heads back toward his table. The man who had come in search for him is watching us, his eyes confused and almost suspicious.
“Well, now. Let’s get down to discussions, shall we?”
“Out of curiosity, Margaret, I’m wondering why you required this position to be filled by a married woman? I wasn’t even sure that it is legal to require that?”
She has the grace to look a little disconcerted. “Well, actually, you are right. But, I can tell by looking at you that you are comfortable with, shall we say, a certain social level, and so you will understand that there are proprieties which must be observed in our endeavor. A young, attractive woman such as yourself would be meeting with a great many successful and wealthy individuals. You would also be attending fundraising functions. Being married, especially to an appropriate husband, will prevent you from being targeted for, shall we say, irresponsible approaches. We can’t have even the least whisper of scandal attached to our museum. While it may be small at present, naturally your job would be to help us grow, and that will take substantial funding. Our reputation is all we have now.”
I nod. She’s right. I totally understand what she’s trying to say, and I agree. That isn’t to say tha
t nothing shady ever went on in Mom and Dad’s set, but if it did, it is never an open discussion. Old money has no interested in hobnobbing with new money. New money can’t get a shot at hobnobbing with old money unless they are equally sterile in their behavior. I know, it’s a weird situation, but there you have it. Margaret is speaking, and I tune into her voice and answer her every question appropriately. I can tell as the interview goes on that she is happy, and I think I might have actually snagged this one.
I feel a presence at my shoulder and turn sideways to see Michael, his strong hand extended toward Margaret. “Darling,” he says to me, “I’ll see you at home later. And Margaret, might I say it is a true pleasure to meet you.” She takes his hand to shake it and then looks to his other hand which he has placed on my shoulder as he leans over the table. Her glance then goes to my hand and with a shock, I know instantly what she is looking for. Wedding rings. I have to think quickly.
“You may have noticed,” I laugh nervously, “that we aren’t wearing our wedding rings. They’re at the … cleaners.”
I might have gotten away with my lie had Michael not said “jewelers” at the exact same beat that I said “cleaners.” Margaret looks confused, and the three of us have a laugh. “She always does that,” he explains. “She loves her ring so much that she sends it out once a week to the jewelers to be cleaned. So, in her mind, it’s the cleaners,” he fills in, and Margaret nods, looking appeased. Me, on the other hand, I’m ready to puke.
“See you later, dear,” I say, and he nods and leaves. My heart is hammering. It isn’t that I’m afraid of getting caught as much as it is the fact that for a few short minutes, I had been “married” to a very handsome, age-appropriate male. He made me feel a little gushy in my lower tummy, and then I become sad, remembering my failed wedding. Margaret is speaking again. I tune her in.
“… talk to you soon. It is a pleasure to have met you and your husband. I feel as though our interview has gone well.” She is holding out her hand, and I stand to shake it as well.
“Thank you for your time,” I say, ending the interview, and although I sit back down, my heart is hammering as Margaret leaves the café.
I think I have a pretty good shot at the job, but I must admit, I’d much rather have a good shot at Michael. I can hardly believe my eyes when the man who approached us when we were in the hallway reenters the café doors and heads toward the recently abandoned table. He picks up a sheaf of papers from one of the seats. Apparently, they’d been left behind.
“Excuse me,” I say in his direction.
“Yes?” he answers, coming closer to me.
“The gentleman I was speaking with earlier, the one you asked to talk to. I owe him my thanks, but I don’t have his name. I wonder if you might tell me where I can find him?”
The other man looks flustered and doubtful, his glance at the door indicating that he’s in a hurry to leave. In an exasperated motion, he pulls a business card from his inner pocket and hands it to me. “You’ll find him at that address, he works for the foundation.”
“Thank you.” I nod, accepting the card.
His name is Michael Daughtry. There is an address, but no title and no telephone. How curious. You’re damned right I am.
Chapter 6
Michael
“What happened?” I ask Mort.
“It would appear, sir, that you are very knowledgeable when it comes to the female gender.”
“She asked you about me, didn’t she?”
“She did, indeed, sir.”
I can tell from Mort’s expression that he isn’t entirely pleased with the charade. “Okay, out with it. What’s bugging you?”
Mort clears his throat, and I can tell he’s searching for the right diplomatic words. “I recall, sir, that you asked me not to interfere in your personal romantic life, and I was only too happy to comply. I must say, sir, that while I’m obviously at your bidding, I may have chosen a young lady who did not begin the relationship with deceit.”
I laugh aloud at this. “So, I gather that you are selectively critical, would that be true?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, let’s take the young ladies you met at the club the other night. Perhaps it is not obvious to you, and I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but you probably aren’t exactly their romantic type. I’m afraid they wanted something more than your comfortable body in their bed, Mort.” He looked uncomfortable at the thought. “Regardless, you are correct when you say that I asked you to butt out of my personal affairs. And perhaps I shouldn’t have asked you to go back in there for me. There just isn’t really any way around it, I’m sorry.”
Mort doesn’t respond, and I consider the topic closed. The ball is now in MacKenzie’s court.
I have to agree with Mort that it is ironic that I should stumble across someone who seems my type, if there is such a thing, in a little café. That sort of thing generally happens in a club or at your friend’s wedding. I really wasn’t much of a gambler, but I’m willing to put money on it that she has enough class to look me up to thank me for my participation. That would be the opening I need to ask her out. I can tell by the way she spoke and how she dressed that she comes from money. I’m not necessarily opposed to money, although I certainly don’t need it myself. There are certain things about the wealthy that I despise—for example, their sense of entitlement. I find humility to be one of the most important qualities anyone can have. Add to that the qualities of generosity, compassion, intelligence, and last but not least, a nose for business. Maybe that’s what strikes me about her. She found herself in what seemed to be an unsolvable situation but was resourceful enough to find a solution, and in under two minutes. That is impressive.
I finished out my day, and that night I watch the moon rise from my patio, a snifter of brandy in hand. Mort, as usual, is ensconced in the home theater with John Wayne and others. I don’t have any idea why he has this fascination with the American West, but I hear it’s not uncommon. I try to picture Mort on a horse with guns and holster, and it makes me chuckle. My thoughts return to MacKenzie, and I wonder again how long it will be before she seeks me out. I know it is coming.
Chapter 7
MacKenzie
My cell phone begins buzzing at 9:01 a.m., and I grab for it, knocking a glass of water to the floor. The caller ID tells me it’s Margaret. I sit up and quickly try to clear my throat so it doesn’t sound like I’m sleeping at nine in the morning, although anyone in their right mind should be.
“Hello? This is MacKenzie Duncan.” I try to sound formal and professional.
“Mrs. Duncan,” she begins, and it takes me a second to realize why she had addressed me as Mrs. Duncan. Naturally, she thinks Michael is my husband and that his name is the same as my last name. But she is still speaking.
“A few members of the board and I would like to meet with you today for a quick cup of coffee to go over a few details. Would you happen to be available?”
I sit up straighter. These people make up their minds fast! “Yes, I believe I’m available. What time?”
“We thought 2 o’clock might be convenient. That way, we would miss the lunch crowd, and it may be quieter there.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll be happy to meet you there at 2 o’clock. Thank you for calling.”
I almost miss that she hasn’t stopped talking yet. I put the phone back up to my ear and hear her last words. “Your husband with you …”
“I beg your pardon? You cut out for a moment. What is that last thing you said?”
She repeats herself. “I was saying that we look forward to seeing you and your husband.”
Oh, shit! How am I going to pull this one off? I’ll have to figure something out.
“Of course, I’ll see to it.”
“See you then,” she says at last, disconnecting the call.
Now what am I going to do? I suppose I could call her back and tell her that Michael’s been suddenly sent out of town on busine
ss and that I would have to make it alone. But she might already be suspicious with the ring thing and decide not to hire me after all. My next choice is to come clean and tell her I’m not married at all because like it or not, there would be occasions when I needed to have my “husband” with me, and of course, Michael couldn’t be expected to do that every time. Or, could he? The idea intrigues me. Maybe I could hire him? No, he didn’t look as though he needed the money. Maybe I could ask him out as like a date, and the fun part would be the charade? No, he looked to be kind of a serious type. Well, hell, now what am I going to do?
I roll out of the bed and into the shower. When I come out of the bathroom, I’m startled to see Mom in my room, sitting on the foot of my bed waiting for me.
“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“Mac, certainly you know by now that I know everything that’s going on, or at least everything that’s worth knowing.”
“What are you talking about?” How could she find out about Michael? I didn’t even know his last name, and I don’t recall anyone asking me mine—at least no one except Margaret. Michael had already been gone by that time.
“I understand you’ve applied for a job as a fundraiser for a small local museum?”
I feel a flush of relief at the realization she isn’t talking about what I’m afraid she is going to talk about. My mother is no one’s fool. I know eventually, she will figure it out. But in the meantime, I need all the wiggle room I can manage, and having her on my back isn’t going to help things. “Yes, it is one of the jobs I applied for yesterday. They called, well, emailed me, immediately and asked for an interview. I really didn’t have a chance to discuss it with you, and I didn’t have the details. I was going to surprise you, assuming I get the job.”
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