The Black Chapel

by Marilyn Cruise

  I beam at him, not quite understanding the words coming out of his mouth. “Tomorrow?” Me? Date? With sexy billionaire?

  “I’m sorry it’s such short notice, and I completely understand if you can’t make it, but I’d really like it if you could come.” His dimples are so sexy and distracting.

  Monday nights are laundry night at my house, so, “Yes, I’d love to come,” I say.

  “Excellent!’ He hands me a business card and a gold pen. “Will you write your name and cell phone number on the back so I can call you?”

  I write my information down and hand it back to him with the pen.

  He reads it. “Excellent. Is this your cell phone?”

  “Yes,” I say.”

  “Do you text?”

  “Yes, of course,” I say.

  Michael slips the card into his suit pocket. “May I pick you up around six o’clock then?”

  “Sounds great,” I say.

  “I’ll take you to dinner first, if that’s all right with you?”

  “Sure. Oh, what should I wear?” I ask, not having been to a ballet since I was like five years old when my mom took me to see The Nutcracker.

  “Formal attire for the gala,” Michael says.

  “Ok,” I say. Crap! I don’t have any other dresses than this one.

  “All right. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then.” Michael smiles at me again and then walks back to the group he was having a conversation with.

  I sigh.

  Anne glides up next to me. “You have a date with billionaire Manning?”

  I smile cautiously.

  “Do you think he recognizes you from the Black Chapel?” Anne asks.

  “No,” I say, but I can’t help but wonder.

  3

  Since my wardrobe is completely lacking of any formal dresses, Anne and I go shopping at the mall the next day. It takes me a while, but finally I locate a really nice emerald dress, with a long, deep v-neckline and a bejeweled empire waist. The A-line skirt reaches to just above my knees and the fabric is silky. I think it looks great on the hanger, and hope it will look great on me, too.

  Trying it on, I let Anne have the final say. “What do you think? Too formal? Does it make me look fat?” I turn around, looking at myself from all angles in the mirror.

  “No, not at all,” Anne says. “It fits perfectly. And it’s sexy, too. I’m sure he’ll love it.”

  Then I receive a text message from Michael.

  Hi, this is Michael Manning from church yesterday. Please text me your address so I can pick you up. Is 6 o’clock still okay? Michael

  My heart starts racing from one measly text message. Geez…I roll my eyes at myself. Why am I doing this? I thought I didn’t want to have anything to do with any man, and here I go again. I also promised myself that I’d never date a guy who I met while working at The Black Chapel, didn’t I? But then again, we didn’t technically meet at The Black Chapel, and he doesn’t even know I work there. And it’s so hard to say no, because the beginning of a romance is just so heavenly. I’ll take it slow, I promise myself.

  Hi Michael, Here’s my address: 555 Huntington Lane, Portland Oregon. And yes, 6 o’clock still works great. Looking forward to it.

  Scarlett.

  Back at home, getting ready, I almost think I’m too excited. Being too excited is not a good thing, I remind myself. I need to take it slow. I mean, he could be a creep, or a total jerk, and usually those types don’t reveal their true colors right away. But Michael doesn’t seem like a creep or a jerk, and seems very down to earth for a billionaire.

  Michael rings the doorbell exactly at 6:00 p.m. I grab my purse and jacket and open the door. He’s so handsome and my insides come undone the second I see him. I give him a brief hug. Slow. Slow. Slow, I remind myself.

  He takes my arm, like a perfect gentleman, and leads me to the white limousine waiting outside my house. I’m overwhelmed. This might be moving too quickly. But then I reel in my judgmental thoughts. Maybe this is the way he always travels?

  Michael opens the door to the limo. “You look gorgeous,” he says.

  He probably says that to all his dates, I think, but I respond with a polite thank you. “And you look amazing, too.” I melt immediately, and my knees feel weak all of a sudden. Just breathe, I remind myself. Even that has become challenging at the moment.

  He’s wearing a black tux, white shirt and he smells so freaking divine. I don’t feel overdressed at all, and I’m glad I invested in this ridiculously expensive, for me at least, 150 dollar dress.

  Inside the black leather-interior limo, he offers me a flute of champagne. I accept it and drink it down. Pace yourself, I tell myself. But I can’t, I’m so nervous and I need to relax—fast.

  “Stephen is our driver tonight. I hope you don’t mind how formal everything is. I usually travel this way to the ballet,” Michael says.

  “No, not at all. Thank you for asking me to join you,” I say. “So do you go to ballets often?”

  He leans back in his seat across from me, his gorgeous dark blue eyes thoughtful. “Usually when I’m required to be there for a fundraiser,” he says. “You?”

  “I haven’t been since my mom took me to The Nutcracker when I was much younger,” I say.

  “Yeah, I’m a much bigger fan of musicals than ballets. And I have a weakness for Broadway. There’s just something magical about that place,” he says and then he takes a long sip of his champagne. “Have you been to Broadway, Scarlett?”

  Just the way he says my name makes me want to move over to his side and kiss him. “Me? No. But I was in a school musical once. The Sound of Music.”

  He laughs.

  “Was that funny?” I ask.

  “No. It’s just I was also in that musical once when I was in high school.”

  “That is funny,” I say and smile. “But Broadway definitely sounds like a lot of fun.”

  “Maybe I’ll take you some time?” Michael says casually.

  He is not helping me stick to my take-it-slow strategy. I smile, but say nothing. Of course I’d love to go with him.

  On the way to the Portland Grill, we continue to talk about random things like the weather and sports. And thankfully, by the time we get there, I feel a lot more relaxed.

  Guiding me out of the limousine, he takes my arm and escorts me inside the lobby. His arm feels so firm, and I have to restrain myself from squeezing it. We head over to the golden elevator and step inside. He presses the button to the thirtieth floor and my stomach feels funny riding upwards so fast.

  “Have you been here before?” Michael asks, looking down on me. He’s about six inches taller than me, even with my three-inch heels on.

  “No,” I say, trying not to fidget. “But I hear it’s a wonderful restaurant.” His nearness is exciting. He keeps glancing over at me. I pretend like I don’t notice.

  We’re up at the thirtieth floor in a flash. The concierge, a cheerful thirty-something man dressed in a black suit and golden tie, greets us.

  “Good evening. Is our table ready?” Michael asks.

  “Of course. This way, Mr. Manning, Miss,” the concierge says. He leads us back to a private room with a view of the Cascading Mountains and introduces us to our waiter.

  We sit down at a small rectangular table covered in a white tablecloth and with black cloth napkins. The ambiance in the restaurant is warm and welcoming. I look over at Michael, and again, I have to catch my breath. I can’t believe I’m sitting across from such a handsome gentleman. My last date was at Chuck’s Pub, where I ended up having to pay the bill because my date walked out on me, saying he’d rather be weeding his imaginary garden than having a dreadfully mind-numbing conversation with me.

  “Can I get you started on some drinks?” the waiter asks.

  “I’ll have the usual,” Michael says.

  “I’ll have whatever he’s having,” I say, thinking, how lame, but I’d rather not have to worry about what I’m going to order right now. Ne
rvous to not let silence take over, I spit out the first thing that comes to mind. “So tell me about you line of work.”

  “I’m in Real Estate,” Michael says, sipping his water.

  He’s all too modest, if what Anne told me was true. “What kind of Real Estate?” I dig. Not that I’d know what he’s talking about if he got overly detailed.

  “I own hotels, mostly, and some other private properties.” His lips turn upward, and I melt.

  “And business is going well? I’ve heard of the recent decline in the housing market,” I say.

  “Yes. Can’t complain,” he says. “I was one of the lucky ones who didn’t fold. I know many have lost their businesses and jobs because of the downturn.”

  The waiter comes back with our drinks. We both take a sip of our champagne.

  “Ready to order?” the waiter asks. Neither of us has looked at the menu yet.

  “I’ll have the filet mignon with scalloped potatoes and green beans,” Michael says. “Medium rare.”

  “Me too,” I say, feeling like a copy-cat, but still too nervous to care.

  “Medium rare, also, Miss?” the waiter asks.

  “Yes, please,” I say. The waiter collects our menus and disappears.

  “I have to admit something to you.” Suddenly Michael’s tone has changed.

  Is he nervous? Oh, no! He knows I work at the Black Chapel. There’s no way I can weasel my way out of this one. How embarrassing. I swallow hard, and brace myself for his confession. “What?”

  “I’m looking for a suitable wife.” He smiles.

  I feel a pang in the center of my gut. Did he just say he’s looking for a suitable wife? What do I say to that? “Oh?” is all I manage, and then I have to take a gulp of my champagne.

  “You see, my mother is dying of cancer,” Michael says.

  “Yes,” I say, remembering he told me that in church yesterday, but what does that have to do with anything?

  “And she has threatened to give away my whole inheritance to her favorite charity unless I am married by—” He looks at me as if nervous to tell me.

  “Yes,” I say, with my heart in my mouth.

  “The doctors have given her two to four weeks to live, and she wants to be at the wedding.” His eyebrows furrow.

  I nod my head, trying to give him the impression that I understand, which I don’t in the least, because I’m confused as hell. I feel my eyes involuntarily growing to twice their size. “I’m sorry to hear about your unfortunate circumstances.” Was that the right thing to say?

  “Yes. But I wanted to—” Michael clears his throat, but then pauses.

  “Yes,” I say innocently. The poor man needs a trusted confidant. But why me? He doesn’t even know me. I must seem like a good friend-type, I reason, slightly deflated.

  “See if...” Michael clears his throat again and then pauses so long that I think he won’t finish his sentence. “I wanted to see if you might consider an arranged marriage with me?”

  My mouth drops open and I have to digest his words. Did I just hear him right? He wants to arrange a marriage with me? Then my negative side emerges with full force. Does he think I’m that gullible? Do I look gullible? I frown.

  “I’m sorry, you look upset. I truly didn’t want to upset you. I just thought that you might agree to marry me if—” Michael says.

  I stand up, trying to make sense of my whirlwind of feelings. Am I offended? I am, right? Wait, why should I be offended when a handsome, sexy billionaire asks me to marry him? “I don’t know what to say, or think.” I say, shocked. “Why me?”

  “Because you’re beautiful and smart and have a degree, and I think my mother would believe it if I fell for you so quickly,” Michael says.

  Wow, he’s honest. Now I’m definitely offended. Wait, did he say I was beautiful? “Are you telling me that you want to marry me because you mother would believe the lie?”

  “Yes, I suppose I am,” he says, now looking slightly confused.

  “This is— the strangest date I’ve ever been on. And trust me, that’s saying a lot,” I say.

  Michael looks worried. “I’m sorry. I should never have asked. It was too sudden.”

  “Yep, that about sums it up,” I say.

  “You’re not dating anyone, are you?” he asks, as if he just realizes he should have asked that question before he proposed.

  “No, but what does that have to do with anything anyway?” I’m fuming. He only asked me on a date because he wanted to ask me to pretend marry him so that he could fool his poor dying mother!

  “Please sit down,” he says. “Please, I beg you.” He looks very sincere.

  Michael takes my hand and I feel that spark again, which makes me even more upset. He only wants to marry me so that he can get his hands on his mother’s money. But that’s not at all what I wanted. I wanted to get to know this man so much more, but not like this. This is crazy! Absolutely insane! “How many other girls have you asked to marry you?”

  Suddenly he looks depressed. “One.” Michael looks down onto the table.

  “So I’m just the second choice?” I say, still standing.

  “My ex-fiancé just broke up with me a week ago.” He’s nearly whispering now.

  He gets this disheartened, and utterly lost look on his face, and suddenly I feel sorry for him. She must have been his real fiancé. I sit, but not gladly.

  “I really don’t know what to say, Michael. I thought you were just going to take me on a date to get to know me better, and here you are proposing to me,” I say angrily.

  “I do want to get to know you,” he says. “And of course there would be so much in it for you, too. I’m surprised you haven’t even asked. I would split my inheritance fifty-fifty with you, fair and square. The divorce or annulment would be clean, and we’d both come out of it much wealthier.”

  My ears perk up. Fifty-fifty? I could get chemotherapy treatments for my dad. I could maybe even pay off my student loans. And just maybe even pay off part of my parents’ mortgage and stay in their house. Save the home my father built. But wasn’t this just too insane of a proposal to consider? “Fifty percent of how much?” I ask. How could I not ask?

  Michael leans closer and I lean in, too, feeling his breath in my ear. “Three billion dollars,” he whispers.

  Suddenly I’m hyperventilating, and the proposal doesn’t seem as outlandish as it did a second ago. “But—” I always wanted to marry for love.

  “Are you considering it?” Michael says with a small inkling of hope in his voice.

  I look at him, and my heart skips a truckload of beats. He is so handsome, and there is just something about him that makes me forget that there’s a life beyond these walls. I lick my lips. “I—uh—”

  “Please say you’ll consider it.” He leans forward, his beautiful blue eyes hopeful. And then he takes my hand.

  I feel the charge again. Oh, I’m in deep shit. I can’t even think straight when he’s holding my hand like that. This was the craziest day in my life so far. “What I don’t understand is that don’t you have any other friends that are girls that you could ask?”

  “No, my mother would never believe it.” Michael rolls his eyes, shaking his head.

  “What about employees?” I press.

  “My mother started the company and knows all the female employees there. We have a very strict policy in place that we don’t date people we work with. She’d never go for it, especially since I was the one who made that rule,” Michael says.

  “A dating service?”

  “Too slutty,” he says, shaking his head.

  “Craigslist?” I reach.

  He gives me a you-gotta-be-kidding-me look. “Just think of it strictly as a business transaction,” he says, seeming slightly excited that I’m even entertaining the idea.

  “How very personal, not to mention romantic,” I say sarcastically. I pull my hand away.

  He chuckles lightly. “Well, we wouldn’t be marrying for love. It
would only be for the money.” He cocks his head to one side, looking at me like it’s a given.

  I roll my eyes at him. “I can’t believe I’m even talking to you about this.” But I can’t stop entertaining the idea, because it would solve all my mountains of financial problems. And it could even possibly save my dad’s life. “What about the honeymoon?”

  “We’d have to go. My mother would know if there was something out of line.” Michael smiles, like he’s thinking he has me.

  “Kissing?” I ask.

  “We have to kiss, especially in front of my mother.” He smiles again, and I try to avoid thinking about kissing his oh, so kissable lips.

  “Fucking?” I whisper. Then I smile innocently, my eyes intently on him. I want to know that answer. It’s been a while for me, and for Michael, I’d almost even consider doing that.

  “We don’t have to go there. And I’d prefer if we didn’t,” he says dryly.

  “Sorry, I had to ask,” I say, not quite sure if I’m happy or disappointed by his answer.

  He nods, his cheeks slightly flushed.

  I must be as outrageous as he is for entertaining this idea. Not that I‘m going to say yes, I tell myself strictly, but I can’t deny that I’m extremely interested. I cross my arms in front of my chest and slump in my chair. Then I feel my eyes narrow at him. “What about the divorce?”

  He sips his champagne and then says, “After my mother passes, we’d get a divorce, or an annulment. All the details will be spelled out in our contract. Everything will be completely transparent, and some points may be negotiable.”

  I’m angry with myself that I am contemplating yet another bad option for my life. First, I got in heavy with credit card debt, then after accumulating hundreds of thousands of dollars in student loans at Harvard, I decide to work at a strip club. God must be thoroughly disappointed in me. Hell, I’m thoroughly disappointed in me! But I have to remember; there is a lot of good in this deal, too. And maybe this would be the one good decision that sets all the other bad ones straight.

  The waiter comes back with our food and my stomach growls. I never understood the girls who didn’t eat.