Genevieve frowned as a question formed in her head.
“Dexter, how’d you get back in the apartment?”
He scratched his head sheepishly. “Um...I meant to tell you. I kind of, uh, borrowed your keys.”
She simply stared at him.
“I might as well tell you. I had a set made for myself.” At her raised eyebrows, he added, “I promise you I won’t use the door to the apartment without your permission. It’s the downstairs door I’ll need to be able to unlock. How will it look to the doormen and the neighbors if I’m always ringing the doorbell? I’m supposed to live here, Jenny.”
Genevieve nodded. She understood it had to be done, but she no more liked the idea of Dexter having a key to her condo that she did having his underwear and socks mixed in with hers. Both suggested an intimacy that didn’t exist, unwelcome reminders of his kisses and her own ardent response.
“They’ll also want to know how we met. That story you concocted for Livvy and Cesca won’t work for the INS.”
She nodded, putting her thoughts aside. “It raises too many questions about where you live. We can’t allow Stan and Brenda to get dragged into this.” It was a cinch one of them would mention Barry.
They decided on a story involving the pub where they’d eaten to discuss Cesca’s party.
Dexter slapped his thighs. “I guess I’ve rested long enough. I need to get to work.”
Genevieve made her way over to the boxes and looked inside. He’d brought toiletries, textbooks...even CDs. She browsed at the assortment, figuring she’d need to know his musical tastes. He had some contemporary stuff, John Legend, Alicia Keys. Lots of old school, Queen Latifah, Maze. Then she followed him to her office. When she hobbled inside she gasped. He hadn’t been in there for five minutes and already had it looking like a windstorm hit it. She watched incredulously as he dropped other evidence of his residence around the apartment.
In the bedroom she squinted at the stack of small round containers he placed by what they determined would be her side of the bed, thinking she was seeing things. “Come on, Dexter. Birth control pills?”
“It’s realistic, don’t you think?” After all, we just got married. I still have a semester of school to finish. We can’t start a family right away.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know, Dexter. You’re starting to sound like Dustin Hoffman in Tootsie. Maybe a little too into the charade.”
“I’m not pretending to be a woman, I’m pretending to be a married man. And when you think about what’s at stake, you’d better be glad I’m this into it. By the way, when was your last period?”
“What?”
“Jenny, we’re married. If you can’t think of me as your husband, just think of me as your doctor.”
“I can’t think of you as either,” she said honestly.
“You’d better start.”
She kept up her incredulous stare, but he didn’t yield. Instead he said, “I’ve done some research on this. The INS is going to pay you a friendly visit, and providing that goes well, they’re going to invite you and I both down to their offices so you can file for temporary residence status. That’s all you can get now, because you haven’t been married for two years, but at least you’ll be legal. And then they’ll sit us down and ask us some very tricky questions to determine how well we really know each other. If any suspicions remain after that, they do a fraud interview.”
“That can’t be what they call it.”
“Yes, it is. They make no secret of the fact that they believe your marriage is a sham. Their aim is to get one of the parties to confess by interviewing husband and wife separately, practically forcing a confession out of them.”
A fear similar to the one she experienced when being questioned by Officer Gulliver gripped her.
“Jenny, if we blow this, it’s all been for naught. You’ll be deported, and I can kiss my career goodbye.”
“But how can we possibly—”
“It won’t be that hard. We already know quite a bit about each other. And we did a great job at Cesca’s party. Everyone accepted us as a couple. To help us prepare, I got some sample questions the agents might ask.”
“How’d you get those?”
“From the library. I made copies there. Obviously, it wouldn’t have been a good idea for me to check out the book, but there’s no record about what I looked at while I was there. Why don’t you take a look at them while I put my clothes away?”
Genevieve closed her eyes, and her face wrinkled in frustration. It seemed so hopeless. These people wanted to know the most intimate details of their lives. Who paid the bills? Who cleaned the house? Who did the cooking? What side of the bed did they sleep on? What time did they wake up? Even, as Dexter had asked, the time of her menstrual cycle. About the only thing they didn’t ask for was their favorite sexual positions. How could she and Dexter learn that much about each other in such a short time?
The answer to that one was easy.
They had to.
They spent a lazy Sunday together, and Genevieve rather enjoyed the way Dexter fussed over her, helping her down the two steps into the living room, getting her comfortably settled on the living room sofa, her sprained ankle resting atop the giant hassock that served as a coffee table. He cooked her a scrumptious breakfast of eggs, potatoes, peppers, mushrooms, smoked sausage and cheese.
When Cesca called to say hello, Dexter grabbed the kitchen extension before Genevieve could reach the phone on the end table. She listened as he told Cesca about her mishap. Not surprisingly, a concerned Cesca and Livvy came to see her that afternoon, bringing along bagel sandwiches and her favorite cream cheese. They had fun playing a word game Cesca had brought along, and as Genevieve listened to the sometimes quite humorous answers her friends provided, she realized that Cesca and Livvy had easily accepted Dexter as her husband without question or suspicion. As far as they were concerned, she had met Dexter, fallen in love, and married him. She’d probably been overzealous in her desire for caution. It really hadn’t been necessary for her to have any misgivings about him mixing with her friends.
She stole a glance at Dexter, who sat next to her on the couch, as he gestured thumbs-down with both hands and used his larynx to emulate a buzzer, voting to disqualify a questionable answer Livvy came up with. Cesca rushed to second the disqualification, and laughing, Dexter lowered his hands and affectionately patted Genevieve’s thigh. Their eyes met, and they smiled at each other. Spending time together had been a good thing, she thought. It had helped ready them for the INS, and strengthened their bond. Their false bond.
Dexter’s attentions quickly moved on to providing a set of answers for the next letter given in the allotted time, but Genevieve only halfheartedly participated. Instead her mind focused on an interesting contrast that suddenly occurred to her regarding her feelings about the two men in her life, the one who had nearly become her fraudulent husband and the one who actually had. She knew with absolute certainty that her feelings for Barry would never be more than platonic, and that any flame between them would burn at a low ebb. With Dexter the flames threatened to get out of control and scorch everything in sight. The attraction was there and steadily at work, but could she ever have any feelings for him beyond lust?
The answer came to her with startling honesty. Not only could she fall for Dexter, she suspected she was doing it right now.
So much for keeping their relationship impersonal.
After the girls left Genevieve and Dexter relaxed on the couch, the TV tuned to a crime drama on the old movie station and the Sunday papers nearby. Dexter made a pork loin for dinner, and she was surprised at what a good cook he was and said so.
“I used to spend a lot of time in the kitchen with my grandmother,” he replied. “That’s where I’d do my homework after school, at least for the first year or two after my sister and I went to live with them. I still remember how safe I used to feel in that one room. Grandma was always making something that sm
elled great.”
“I admire your grandparents. It couldn’t have been easy, taking over the raising of two teenagers in your later years,” she mused. “Is your sister older or younger than you?”
“The same age. We’re twins.”
“Twins. Wow!”
“They ran on my mother’s side of the family.”
“Maybe one day you’ll have twins.”
He looked at her curiously. “Do you want children, Jenny?”
“Sure. One day when—” she broke off when she realized she’d been thinking, which was, when this is all over and I can get on with my life. “Um, you know, when I get married for real,” she substituted. “You?”
“Sure. I used to say I was going to pay off my loans first, but now I realize that if I wait for all that I’ll be, like, fifty.”
They laughed, and Genevieve felt very lucky to have such wonderful people in her life, friends like Cesca, Livvy...and, most of all, Dexter.
And she couldn’t help wondering what, if anything, would have happened between her and Dexter if their respective circumstances hadn’t led them into a completely unromantic marriage of convenience.
Genevieve arose early on Monday and had a breakfast of a toasted English muffin filled with a round sausage patty and slice of melted cheese ready by the time a surprised Dexter emerged from the office. For herself she’d toasted a bagel and spread it with her cream cheese.
“What’s this?” he asked.
Suddenly she felt shy. “Breakfast. With all the cooking you did yesterday, the least I could do was send you off to class with something in your stomach.”
“Smells great. Thanks a lot. I’ll just wrap it and carry it with me, if that’s okay.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t prevent the disappointment she felt from creeping into the one syllable.
“Something wrong?”
“Well, no. It’s just that...I kind of hoped you might be able to stay and have breakfast with me.” She felt she needed to explain. “I’ve kept to myself for so long. It’s nice to be able to pursue human relationships.”
“I understand how you feel, Jenny, but don’t you think that’s a little too husband/wifey? I know we ate together yesterday, but it was Sunday. Now it’s time to get back to the real world. If we start acting too much like a married couple we might forget ourselves.” He stepped so close to her that she could feel his warm breath and said softly, “Especially if you react the way you normally do when you eat that cream cheese. You wouldn’t want me to forget myself, Miss Riddle, would you?”
Without waiting for a reply he moved away and wrapped the breakfast sandwich in wax paper, leaving her feeling like a fool standing there on her crutches. Dexter’s words had hurt as much as a slap to her cheek, reminder her how she’d changed her mind on him once. But she couldn’t blame him. He was only following the guidelines she herself had laid out, and reminding her that she wouldn’t get another chance to decide against letting nature take its course.
But having a meal together didn’t present the same potential complications as sex. There’d be no regrets afterward, just the satisfaction of an appetite of a different type altogether.
“I’m afraid I won’t be back until late,” he said apologetically as he prepared to leave. “Between classes and work...well, I guess all the excitement Saturday made me forget how packed my daily schedule is. I probably won’t be much help to you after all.”
“I’ll be all right,” she said quickly. “I’ve had two days to adjust to the crutches, and you were a tremendous help. You go on.”
Genevieve stood riveted to the same spot in the kitchen, her body rigid, until she heard the door close. Her shoulders promptly slumped. The rules surrounding this fake marriage thing were making her crazy. She had to remember where the line was drawn...and not to cross it.
All she knew was that she enjoyed Dexter’s company, and that she hated to see him leave.
Genevieve called her clients and explained to them why she was unable to come to their offices, and to her relief they were understanding. She knew that in spite of her experience of working in Paris—which had impressed her clients sufficiently enough to give her a chance in the first place—that she could easily be replaced. She scanned sketches and other designs that she’d promised to submit for inspection and e-mailed them, then turned her attention to a new project, but she found it difficult to concentrate. She kept turning to look at the couch upon which Dexter had slept last night. He’d thoughtfully restored the backrest portion of the sofa to the upright position and folded his linens neatly, placing them at the far right portion of the cushion, topped by his pillow.
Finally she just got up and maneuvered to the couch and sank down upon it, resting her head on his pillow. Her eyes closed as she breathed in his lingering scent, so clean and male, with a hint of whatever he used on his hair. She remembered how he carried her upstairs Saturday, of the urgency in his footsteps, which she’d known were rooted in his hurry to set her down so she could rest comfortably, not of a desire to make love to her. He’d gently laid her on the bed, covered her up and then slipped out of the room.
Now, as she recalled the moment, she entertained a different ending, one that entailed her pulling him down on the bed on top of her. Her breath came out in short spurts as she cupped her right breast. Ever since her mishap on Seventy-Second Street she found herself thinking about Dexter on a constant basis.
What on earth was wrong with her?
Genevieve settled into a routine over the next few days that consisted largely of being alone. Dexter was busy with school and work. Livvy was preparing to go up to Connecticut to spend some time with her parents before heading back to port, and Cesca planned to go along for the weekend portion, hoping to score an introduction to Brian Price, the unmarried son of the family the Oliveiras worked for. Brian was in his early thirties and considered one of the most eligible bachelors in all of New England.
As for Barry, he’d been distraught when she canceled their dinner and explained why, even more so when she told him he couldn’t come to see her.
He’d been so furious that day she’d told him of her marriage, to the point where Genevieve thought he might terminate their friendship once he cooled down.
He had called the day after their disastrous restaurant meeting and apologized for walking out. He told her he understood the fear she lived with during her every waking hour that often crept into her dreams. Genevieve had been relieved to hear that he understood. Barry had represented the only link between her and the rest of the world at a particularly stressful time of her life. She wasn’t sure if she would have made it if it hadn’t been for his companionship and support. While it was true that she didn’t want to be his wife, she would always value his friendship.
“This isn’t right, Genevieve,” he said. “You shouldn’t be alone right now. It’s difficult to maneuver your apartment on crutches. It’s probably murder just trying to get down those two steps to your living room.”
“I’m managing, Barry.” It was true that the condo’s sunken living room was challenging to get in and out of, and as a result she spent most of her time in her bedroom and office. “But you can’t come over. When the INS catches up with me again, they’ll probably question the doorman. It can’t be reported that I’ve had a male visitor other than my husband.” The ease with which she said the word that not long ago had stuck in her throat shocked her. Was she subconsciously psyching herself up for the INS questions, or had she really begun to think of Dexter as her husband?
The silence on the other end of the phone told her Barry was thinking. “Is he living there with you, Genevieve?” he asked, his voice devoid of emotion.
She refused to lie; she’d been dishonest too many times since this whole episode started. “He’s been staying here this week, yes. Sleeping in the office,” she clarified. “He also felt I shouldn’t be alone. I’ll go back to the ER for follow-up Friday evening, and I’m sure they’ll take the wra
p off and tell me I can bear weight naturally. Then he’ll return home.”
“I don’t like this, Genevieve. I don’t like it at all. You can’t see me, but yet you and him are getting so chummy.”
She tried to sound cheerful. “Once we pass the INS screening, our social lives won’t be under such scrutiny, and you and I can resume our friendship.” Then she paused, knowing she had to say what was on her mind. “Uh, you do understand that’s all we’ll ever have between us, don’t you?”
“Yeah, yeah. But I’d just like to make sure you’re really all right.”
“That means a lot to me, Barry, but I’m sorry, right now I can’t risk any behavior that looks suspicious.”
“Z.L. won’t give you away. He’d do just about anything for you, Gen.”
In spite of her fondness for Barry, she felt her teeth clench. She did loathe it when he took that patronizing tone, like she was two years old and he was trying to coax her into eating her beets. Unfailingly he always called her ‘Gen’ when doing that. “In the first place, Barry, Z.L. works evenings, not days. In the second place, you know it isn’t right to put him in the position of lying for me.”
His sigh was heavy. “No, I suppose not.”
Genevieve’s pleasant but rather isolated existence came to an abrupt end on Wednesday morning. She had finally stopped having foolish daydreams about Dexter and had gotten to work designing a brochure for a client when the concierge rang her apartment and informed her that someone wished to see her. “I’ll put him on.”
She grew rigid at the unfamiliar voice. “Miss L’Esperance? This is Conrad Chmielewski from the Immigration and Naturalization Service. I’d like a word with you, if that’s all right.”
Her throat immediately went dry, but she forced herself to sound natural. “Yes, of course. Please come up.” She rang the bell to let him in, then raced as quickly as her crutches would allow to her purse, where she removed her wedding band out of its home in the zippered change compartment of her wallet and slid it on her finger.
Save the Best for Last Page 20