Nearlyweds

by Beth Kendrick

  I beamed. “I’m just trying to do the right thing.”

  “Give it up!” He jabbed his index finger toward me. “The only reason you got that dog is to make a stand against my vasectomy. You don’t want a mangy stray messing up this house any more than I do. What are you going to do when he starts peeing all over the rug? Chewing up the furniture?”

  As I surveyed the spotless travertine floors, white leather sofa, and pristine Berber carpet I’d so carefully picked out, I realized he had a point. I didn’t want to sacrifice my brand-new house to make a point about my biological clock. A five-minute argument was going to cost us eight to ten years of muddy pawprints and drooled-on Italian leather. Plus bloat, whatever the hell that was.

  My expression must have reflected my second thoughts, because he nodded and said, “See? You know I’m right.”

  “Well, I can’t just take him back to the shelter,” I said. “Casey said that big, black, male dogs almost never get adopted.”

  “I will not going to have some overgrown mutt marking his territory all over my house.”

  “He’s neutered,” I protested. “Besides, he seems pretty mellow.”

  We both took a moment to stare at the dog, who had reared up on his hind legs and was resting his head on the counter, his long pink tongue slurping toward the marshmallows.

  “You shouldn’t have gotten a pet without consulting me first,” Mark said.

  My jaw hit the floor. “Excuse me? You’re the one who put me on a waiting list for the maltipoo! I don’t remember being consulted about that.”

  “That’s different—I was trying to make you happy, not one-up you with some childish power play. Besides, maltipoos are a much more practical choice, given our family situation. Taylor hates big dogs. She says they can’t be trusted.”

  I slammed the cocoa tin down on the counter. “So what? Taylor doesn’t live here.”

  “Well…” He started choosing his words very carefully. “If we keep this dog, the girls won’t want to come over very often.”

  My smile was even tighter than his. “In case you haven’t noticed, the girls hate my guts. They’re not coming over anyway.”

  “They’re coming for Thanksgiving next week.” He stared up at the ceiling. “And they don’t hate you.”

  “What’s that?” I cupped a hand to my ear. “I can’t hear you.”

  “They don’t hate you,” he muttered.

  “Ha.”

  “Okay, it’s possible they resent you a little bit. But they’ll get over it, sweetheart. These things take time.”

  “Everyone told me not to marry a guy twice my age,” I said to the dog, who was trying to look innocent while mainlining marshmallows on the sly. “Everybody said the nanny shouldn’t marry her employer’s golf buddy. It would never work, they said. But would I listen? Nooo.”

  “What are you talking about?” The tension ebbed out of his shoulders as he uncrossed his arms and stepped forward to embrace me. “Nobody said that. And we are going to work. You and me—we’re a team.”

  I let him pull me up against his chest but didn’t say anything.

  “I love you, Stell. We’re going to have our share of fights—maybe more than our share—but I will always love you.”

  “Only because I’m young and pretty,” I goaded.

  “No.” He buried his face in my hair. “Because you’re everything I ever wanted and I can’t live without you. Do you get that? It’s not about how you look. It’s about who you are.”

  That’s what all my boyfriends had said since Alan Gilardi gave me my first French kiss in sixth grade. And most of them had been lying.

  But Mark wasn’t like all those other guys. He was strong and steady and solid as a rock. He’d always put me first, always given me what I needed.

  Until now.

  “I love you, too,” I whispered. “But I still want to have a baby.”

  “I know.” He squeezed me tighter.

  “So?”

  “So we’ll talk about it. After Thanksgiving.”

  I whirled around. “We will?”

  He smiled. “When do I ever say no to you?”

  I flung my arms around his neck. “I love you.”

  “Good.” He glanced over at the dog, who was watching us, his tail thumping steadily against the floor. “Now will you please do something with that dog? He’s giving me the creeps.”

  “He’s a good boy,” I defended. “And if I take him back to the shelter, they’ll put him to sleep. You should have seen Casey when I said I was thinking about returning him. She looked at me like I was an axe murderer.”

  “Who cares what Casey Nestor thinks?” He mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “white trash,” but that couldn’t be right—Mark never used language like that.

  “We’re keeping the dog, Mark. We have to.”

  “We’re not.”

  “We are.”

  “What about Taylor’s phobia?”

  “What about euthanasia?” I countered.

  Mark gave me a look. “You don’t even like him.”

  “I do so!” I insisted a little too loudly.

  “No, you don’t. You haven’t even given him a name.”

  “I’m waiting to come up with the right one!”

  “Casey Nestor. What a piece of work.” He snorted in disgust. “That girl should spend more time worrying about her own marriage and less interfering in ours—”

  “Oh, yeah.” I suddenly remembered what I’d asked him when I’d first walked in the door. “That reminds me. Have we gotten any important letters lately? Like from the county clerk?”

  “No,” he said quickly, but his eyes gave him away. He looked guilty somehow, caught.

  “Are you sure?” I forced a laugh. “Because Casey’s friend got married the same weekend we did, and she just got a letter saying that Pastor Rick died before he signed her marriage certificate.”

  His face. It was the wedding night vasectomy confession all over again.

  “Oh my God,” I whispered. “You knew. You got that letter and you hid it from me.”

  He held up both hands. “Hey, nobody’s hiding anything. I just wanted to wait to tell you until you’d calmed down about—”

  “Your first big fat lie?” My voice came out sharp and icy. The dog lowered his head and whined.

  “See?” he blustered, trying to stay on the offensive. “This is why I didn’t tell you! Because I knew you’d react like this!”

  “It’s always my fault, isn’t it?” I shot back as the dog slunk toward the foyer. “You lie, you hide things, and I’m supposed to feel bad? Jesus, Mark, what else aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing!”

  “A crack habit? A mistress or five?”

  “Stella, you know I would never—”

  “I don’t know anything about you!” The teakettle whistled on the stove. “All these things I took for granted…I was so stupid! How can I believe a word you say?”

  “Because I love you.” His voice was barely audible over the kettle. “I made a mistake, yes, I admit that. I shouldn’t have assumed you’d remember our conversation in Bermuda. But you can trust me, Stella. Our marriage is built on love and honesty and—”

  “Our marriage.” I snatched the kettle off the stove and started to laugh—I couldn’t help it. “Let me tell you something about our marriage, buddy—as far as the State of Massachusetts is concerned, our marriage doesn’t even exist!”

  “What is that supposed to mean? Are you threatening me?”

  “I’m just stating a fact. Hang on to that letter as long as you want. I know the truth—you’re not really my husband. Not in any sense of the word. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go give our new dog a bath. He’ll be sleeping on your side of the bed tonight. Enjoy the couch.”

  9

  CASEY

  Hey, hon.” Nick barely looked up from the televised basketball game as I came through the front door of our cozy ap
artment. “How was work?”

  “Busy.” I shucked off my bulky parka and stooped down to greet the cats, Maisy and Tate. While they jostled each other trying to get my attention, I tried to get Nick’s. “Did a ton of business before noon. People are finally starting to try the premium foods, and I managed to move about half of the Kongs I ordered last week. If we keep going like this, I might be able to hire an assistant soon…”

  But he wasn’t even pretending to listen. His eyes were glued to the TV as he raised his can of Foster’s to his lips.

  “Honey,” I said gently. “Remember when we talked about using glasses instead of drinking straight out of the can?”

  “Uh-huh.” He grabbed the remote and upped the TV volume.

  I sighed and raised my voice to compete with the sports announcer’s. “And remember how we talked about using coasters?”

  “Sorry.” He swiped at the wet rings on the coffee table with his sweat sock–encased foot.

  I opened my mouth again, then realized that I had started to sound exactly like Bree on Desperate Housewives. While I hung up my coat, I tried to ignore the clutter and potato chip crumbs surrounding my husband and silently repeated sage snippets of advice from all those relationship books I’d read before the wedding. What was that question I was supposed to ask myself when I was tempted to nag my spouse? Do you want to be right, or do you want to be happy?

  I wanted to be happy. Definitely. Happy all the way.

  Except was it so much to ask to have a clean carpet, too? How hard would it be for him to use a bowl or a napkin, or—

  “I fixed the shower,” Nick announced, turning his attention back to me as a commercial flashed onto the screen.

  “You did?” My irritation melted into relief, then guilt. See? He helped out around the house. Besides, he put in long hours at his father’s law office all day. The man was exhausted. Why was I always so quick to find fault?

  “Yep. Ran to the hardware store after work.”

  “Thank you.” I unwound my wool scarf and draped it over the coat hanger. “You’re my hero. I need a hot shower like nobody’s business.”

  “No problem.” He made a vague kissy noise, then put his beer can back down on the coffee table.

  Without a coaster.

  “What?” he demanded when he saw the expression on my face.

  “Nothing, nothing.” I rubbed my upper arms. “Just warming up. Hey, could you do me a favor and start dinner while I shower? What do we have in the fridge?”

  “Not much.” He buried his hand in the bag of chips. “We’re pretty much down to yogurt and broccoli.”

  “You didn’t get a chance to go to the grocery store?” I had planned to go on my lunch break, but he’d taken the shopping list with him this morning, insisting that he would do it.

  “I went to the hardware store.” He sounded offended. “I can’t do everything.”

  “I know, but…” Do you want to be right, or do you want to be happy? “Okay, no problem, we’ll order pizza.”

  “Whatever.” Another handful of chips. “I’m not that hungry.”

  I filled the cats’ dishes on my way to the bathroom, where I got undressed, pulled my hair up into a ponytail, and reached for the faucet.

  “Um, Nick?”

  “Yeah?”

  “About the faucet? Where’s the knob to turn on the hot water?”

  “It broke off,” he yelled.

  I opened the bathroom door and poked my head into the hall. “Yeah, I’m aware of that. But you said you fixed it.”

  “I did. That’s what the wrench is for.”

  I glanced over my shoulder to see a massive red wrench lying on the corner of the bathtub.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No.” He finally roused himself from the couch and came into the bathroom to show off his handiwork. “All you do is clamp this part down on the metal nub here”—he adjusted the wrench claws around the scrawny silver bar that used to anchor the faucet knob—“and turn.” He twisted the wrench with both hands, unleashing a torrent of warm water. “See? And if you want it hotter, you just bring it back and twist again!” He stepped back, beaming with pride.

  I did my best to smile back. “Wow. That’s very…resourceful.”

  “Yep. The landlord offered to call a plumber, but I told him not to bother.”

  “So, uh, that’s it? There’s no plumber coming?”

  “You don’t need a plumber when you’ve got a man around the house.” He swaggered back to the couch in his beer-stained hockey jersey.

  I want to be happy, I want to be happy. “Well, thanks, honey.” I climbed into the tub and made a mental note to phone the landlord in the morning.

  As the hot water streamed over my tired, aching muscles, I pressed my palms against my lower back and stretched. Nick’s repair job might not have been the most conventional solution, but the shower worked; that was the important thing.

  This is what marriage was all about: letting the small stuff slide. All the books said so. I needed to overlook the petty crap like moisture rings on my—scratch that, our—coffee table and focus on the big picture. I needed to stop imposing my insanely high expectations on other people. Maybe I could even stop imposing them on myself. Nick and I could have a good marriage. Not like my parents. Not like my sister. We’d be the ones who beat the odds. The guy who wouldn’t look twice at me in high school would still be with me on our fiftieth anniversary.

  “Hey, did you ask your dad about brunch this weekend?” I asked when I ambled back into the family room with a makeshift towel turban on my head.

  He shook his head. “Forgot.”

  “You work with him all day. How could you forget?”

  “It’s a law office, Case. He doesn’t want to waste billable hours making brunch plans.”

  “Okay, then I’ll just call your mom tomorrow.”

  He jerked his gaze away from the basketball game. “Do not call my mom.”

  “Why not? Last week, she said she wanted us to come over for brunch, and I don’t want her to think I don’t like them.”

  Big eye roll. “They know you like them. Trust me. Everyone knows you like them. We don’t have to spend every single weekend eating French toast with them to prove it.”

  “Well, excuse me for trying to be a good daughter-in-law. You should count your blessings—what if your mom and I were fighting all the time like Erin and David’s mother?”

  “Then I’d get to sleep in on Sundays.”

  “Nick!”

  “What?” He muted the television and slouched down into the sofa cushions. “It’s not enough that you married me? You have to marry my parents, too?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “You have my last name, okay? You got me. I spend the whole week listening to my dad gripe about how I dropped out of law school; I should get weekends off.” His blond hair flopped over his forehead as he withdrew further into the depths of the couch.

  “I know you and your dad are having a hard time right now, but—”

  “Yeah, we are. Nothing’s ever good enough for him, and I don’t need that from you, too.”

  I want to be happy, I want to be happy. “I understand. But family is important, Nick.”

  “Really? Then why don’t we have brunch with your family on Sunday?”

  I just looked at him.

  “You’re always talking about family time. Why can’t we ever spend any time with yours?”

  “You know how my family is,” I said tightly. “Don’t drag them into this.”

  “Fine. But you’re the one who had to get married. You said that’s what you wanted, but nothing’s ever enough.”

  “What are you saying? I bludgeoned you into marriage?”

  He shrugged. “You’re the one who proposed.”

  “I did not!”

  “You bought the ring.”

  “That is not fair! You asked me what kind of diamond I liked.”

  “Yeah, and
the second I did, you dragged me to the mall, picked out a ring, and paid for it yourself.”

  “You said you were low on cash,” I gritted out. “Should I have let you run up your credit card bill?”

  “You should have waited until I asked you properly.” He couldn’t meet my eyes. “The old-fashioned way.”

  “Really.” The ends of my wet hair were creeping out of my turban and soaking through my robe. “And when would you have gotten around to proposing the old-fashioned way?”

  He shrugged.

  “When?” I pressed.

  “I would’ve.”

  “Right. If I hadn’t bought this ring, we’d still be in relationship limbo!”

  “Well, you got me, okay? You got what you wanted.”

  “Lucky me.” I marched into the bedroom, pulled on clean jeans and a sweater, and crammed my feet back into my hiking boots.

  “Where are you going?” he asked as I pulled on my parka. “What about pizza?”

  “Get your own damn pizza,” I snapped. “The old-fashioned way.”

  I stomped down the stairs toward my truck. On the way I checked the mailbox. Sandwiched between the phone bill and my new issue of the Whole Dog Journal, I found an envelope bearing the seal of the State of Massachusetts. I glanced at the typed address, then up at the windows of our apartment, where the television’s flickering glow outlined the silhouette of the man whom yes, truth be told, I had sort of proposed to.

  I folded the envelope and crammed it deep into my coat pocket.

  Right now didn’t feel like the best time to reopen negotiations.

  10

  ERIN

  Fat, wet flakes of snow sifted down from the darkening clouds as I locked the office door behind me and headed for the parking lot. David and I had spent a long day apart after last night’s standoff—I’d checked into a hotel in Pittsfield, where I’d been so furious that I’d actually sent off an email to Jonathan, one of my friends from residency, asking him to test the waters and find out if there might still be a job for me in Boston.

  God help me if any of this ever got back to Renée. How are you two going to give me grandchildren if you aren’t spending any time together? Your job is too stressful, Erin, I keep telling you. What’s the point of being a doctor these days, anyway? It’s all red tape and HMOs. Hurry up and start a family before it’s too late. Let David wear the pants for a change.