Just Be Her

by Kaydence Snow

  I stood there, stunned, for way longer than what was acceptable or comfortable. Caroline just watched me with a kind look on her face and waited patiently.

  I couldn’t help liking this woman. She knew very well this was a marriage of convenience, yet here she was, doing her darnedest to make me feel like a real part of the family.

  Oren cleared his throat and said in a low voice, “Mother, considering the circumstances of the marri—”

  I cut him off with a firm touch to his forearm. “I would be honored to wear it, Caroline. It’s beautiful, and I don’t think I’ll do it justice, but I’d be delighted to keep your family tradition going.”

  She gave me a bright smile, patted me on the hand, and nodded once, as if it was decided.

  When I looked up at Oren, he was watching me with a perplexing look on his face. It wasn’t the anger and derision, the barely contained disgust, I’d endured from him for the past twenty-four hours, but it wasn’t anything I could place my finger on either.

  He didn’t say anything as we made our way outside, but as we passed through the front doors, he placed his hand at my lower back. I’d never admit how fucking happy that simple touch made me.

  It wasn’t until we were strolling up the picturesque street on the way to lunch that I wondered if Alex would be OK with the decision I’d made for her. After all, it would be her wearing the necklace on the day. Their wedding day.

  The restaurant was nearby, so I didn’t have much time to examine the hollow feeling that had appeared in the pit of my stomach.

  We were seated in the shade in the alfresco area. With crisp white tablecloths and lush verdant plants all over the place, it felt expensive. I kept expecting someone to strut up and ask if anyone was interested in a game of croquet.

  Oren and his father chatted about the new store as we were handed menus. Great. Another menu where I barely understood half the words. I recognized one—tart—and decided it was the safest option before setting the menu down and reaching for a glass of water.

  People walked past on the street, dressed much better than I ever was. Except today, of course. Today I was dressed like Alex, pretending to be Alex, falling for Alex’s fiancé.

  Fuck! I was falling for Oren Winthrop. I chugged my water, my mouth suddenly parched.

  “Cousin Alexandria!”

  A loud man’s voice startled me and made me splutter my drink. I coughed, dabbing at my chin with my napkin and using the distraction to buy myself some time. Caroline patted me on the back gently.

  The man standing on the other side of the restaurant’s low fence smiled brightly right at me. He looked in his late forties or early fifties, had a receding hairline, and was wearing a linen suit with a light pink shirt. He was tall—almost as tall as Oren—and on the skinny side.

  “Cousin Preston,” I finally said, smiling politely. I only recognized him from the videos and photos of him speaking to the press after Alex’s father died. Alex had never mentioned him during our cram session the night before we swapped. Were they close? Was I supposed to get up and give him a hug? Did he even know about the arrangement—the one that was making my stomach feel both hollow and in knots at the same time?

  “Your mother mentioned you were in New Orleans. What a pleasant surprise!” He beamed at me, but his almost too wide eyes kept darting about the table.

  “Yes.” I coughed again, not that I really needed to. “I’m here visiting with my . . . Oren’s . . . my fiancé’s . . .” I was really fucking this up.

  Caroline saved me, taking over like the class act she was. “Alexandria is spending some time with us to finalize the wedding arrangements. I’m Oren’s mother, and this is my husband, Oren senior.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am, sir.”

  There was a beat of awkward silence. “Would you like to join us for lunch?” Caroline asked, and I clenched my teeth.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose.” Preston pressed a hand to his chest.

  “It’s not an imposition.” Oren smiled politely. “I’d love to meet a member of Alex’s family.”

  “If you insist,” Preston agreed.

  He didn’t waste a single second before flashing a wide smile and making his way toward the front door. He would need to go through the restaurant to come to the alfresco area.

  I had a minute, tops, before he was here. There was no time to message Alex for information. What the fuck was I supposed to do?

  “Sweetheart, are you OK?” Caroline placed a gentle hand on my arm, her eyes full of concern.

  I must’ve looked downright panicked. It was certainly how I felt—my chest tightening, my breath coming in pants. I cast my wide eyes about the table.

  Mr. Winthrop was perusing the menu, looking as if he hardly heard anything being said, let alone gave a shit about it. Oren was looking at me, his brow furrowed.

  “I don’t know . . .” Fuck! I couldn’t exactly tell them I didn’t know him. He was supposed to be my cousin. “He doesn’t know,” I blurted instead. If I could convince them to keep the lunch brief and not talk about the wedding, I might just be OK. “About our arrangement. Only my mother knows. I can’t . . . can we just . . .”

  Oren’s hand landed on my knee under the table.

  I turned to face him, and suddenly there was only his hazel eyes, only the heat of his hand, only his soft, low voice saying: “It’s OK, Alex. I’ve got you.”

  My breathing slowed. The tension in my shoulders eased.

  When Cousin Preston walked up to the table, the smile pulling at my lips was actually genuine, but it was all for Oren.

  Preston shook hands with everyone, complimenting Caroline. Mr. Winthrop put on the charm, engaging in the conversation now that there was someone to put on a show for.

  “So what brings you to New Orleans, Preston?” he asked as the waiters brought out our starters.

  “I have a friendly business acquaintance who lives here. I’m looking to invest in a new venture of his. Entrepreneurship runs in the family. How is Zamorano Wines tracking this quarter, Alexandria? I can’t seem to get onto George for an update.”

  “Fine.” I smiled brightly. “It’s going great. George is here with me, so he’s been busy.”

  Oren leaned back, the picture of calm, and rested his arm on the back of my chair. “I’ve kept Alex busy with the wedding coming up.”

  “Alex?” Preston’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You’ve been insisting on ‘Alexandria’ since you were old enough to say it without fumbling the vowels.”

  I laughed, hoping it sounded as carefree as Oren looked and not as panicked as I felt. “I am marrying the man. He can call me whatever he wants.”

  Oh, how I wished names didn’t matter, that it wouldn’t be a big deal I wasn’t Alex, or even Alexandria.

  Oren planted a gentle kiss on my cheek, really selling the happy engaged couple routine. I couldn’t help it—I melted into it and sighed. He paused just before pulling away, and our eyes met. For a split second, we shared a moment of absolute honesty. I let him see how strong my feelings were, even if they were confusing. He let me see how vulnerable he felt in this situation.

  Thankfully, the rest of the table just saw a tender moment.

  “Ah, young love.” Preston beamed at us. Was I imagining the hint of mocking in his smile, overly sensitive to being caught out in another lie?

  Oren’s mother was smiling warmly at us, her chubby hands clasped over her chest. His father watched us too, his expression neutral, but his eyes considered me with a new kind of curiosity.

  “So where are you staying, Preston?” Mr. Winthrop asked, diverting the attention from us.

  “At the Lafayette. I only booked for a week, and I actually need to stay longer to finish off my business here, but they’re booked solid.” He sighed dramatically. “I was just on my way to get some lunch before making calls to other hotels in the area, but I fear I may not be able to find anything suitable at such short notice.”

 
“Oh, well, then you must stay with us!” Caroline piped up, her perfect southern manners kicking in before she realized what she was doing.

  I gritted my teeth. Oren’s arm at the back of my chair stiffened. We both managed to keep the trepidation off our faces, but we didn’t reinforce the invitation.

  Not that it took much to convince him. He said he couldn’t impose; she insisted it would be their pleasure, and they had more than enough room—he was family after all. And it was settled.

  Fuck my life. It was hard enough pretending I was a rich, well-educated, properly behaved chick to a bunch of other rich people. How in the devil’s asshole was I supposed to convince someone who had known Alex since birth?

  We finished our meals, Mr. Winthrop arranged to have a car pick Cousin Preston up the following day, and it was done.

  He walked off down the street, and we waited for our drivers to pull up.

  As soon as Preston was around the corner, Mr. Winthrop turned to his wife with a scowl. “What were you thinking, Caroline? Jesus Christ, woman.”

  “I know.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “I kicked myself as soon as the words were out of my mouth. Oh, Alexandria, darling, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s OK. You didn’t do it on purpose.” I squeezed her shoulder as anxiety squeezed my lungs that little bit tighter. I just couldn’t be mad at her.

  Oren’s strong fingers wrapped around mine, and he tugged. “It’s going to be OK.” He smiled at me, only me. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t suspect a thing. You’re safe.”

  I held on to his hand until the cars pulled up. Despite myself, I believed him.

  …

  T: Why do women try to tear each other down instead of propping each other up, do you think?

  A: I don’t know. We’re socially conditioned to see each other as competition?

  T: Hmm. Maybe. Still, Oren’s work buddy is a fucking bitch. She was all over him right in front of me!

  A: I mean, it’s pretty tacky, but who cares. Not like it’s a real marriage.

  T: Oh, hey! Also! Your cousin Preston showed up out of nowhere, and now he’s staying with the Winthrops, so that’s fun! :D

  A: WHAT?!

  A: You didn’t think to lead with that?

  T: It’s done. But I could use some intel.

  A: Can you talk? I can call now.

  T: Gmme 5.

  Fourteen

  Alex

  The Cottonmouth Inn was closed on Mondays, and I was going to use the time to see as much of New Orleans as I possibly could before we had to switch back. Which may happen sooner rather than later if Preston becomes a problem.

  I couldn’t believe he’d just shown up out of the blue like that. He was so persistent in trying to get a foothold in the family business it was like I’d been swatting at a fly since my father died. At the beginning, it was helpful to have him manage the press and help with the staff while Mom and I grieved. But when he started to make decisions that overstepped, I had to take over. It caused a rift between the two sides of the family, and we didn’t speak for months, but by the time Christmas came around, we’d all been able to laugh about it over bottles of Verdejo from our personal collection at the vineyard.

  Preston was a chronic entrepreneur. I knew his interest and persistence was just enthusiasm for business, but I’d taken it more personally than I maybe should’ve, weighed down by the pressure to step into my father’s shoes and prove myself.

  All those anxieties had flooded back when I got the text from Toni, but we’d had a good talk about it, and as I made my way down the stairs, I decided to put it out of my mind.

  It was usually rather difficult for me to put anything out of my mind. I was more the “overthink it until it turns into a panic attack” kind of gal. But something about living Toni’s life made it easier. If Preston became a problem, we’d switch back early. Until then, I’d rock the red shorts and one of Toni’s less offensive T-shirts and have another carefree day.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I paused. The door to the bar was open, and the soft sound of acoustic guitar drifted through the crack.

  I glanced at the external door. I’d planned on joining the cheesiest ghost tour I could find and using my tips to play tourist, but the melancholy notes being coaxed from the guitar strings called to me too. I was almost certain it was Ren’s dexterous fingers plucking the soulful music from the instrument, but I’d never seen him here during the day.

  My curiosity got the better of me, and I pushed the door open.

  Most of the chairs and stools were upside down on the tables, and all the lights were off, the only illumination coming through the grimy colored-glass windows. In the middle of the bar, Andre, Ren, and Loretta sat around one of the little worn tables, a full bottle of whiskey and a single glass sitting in the middle.

  I frowned, suddenly unsure.

  The music cut off abruptly, and my attention swung from the bottle to Ren. He was sitting with the guitar in his lap, one tattooed arm slung carelessly over the instrument, his eyes fixed firmly on me.

  “This is a private party.” His voice lacked the venom he usually directed at me, but his eyes held plenty of challenge. It made me bristle, even as my thighs clenched, but I pushed the inappropriate feelings aside.

  At the sound of Ren’s voice, Loretta looked up and gave me a weak, if surprised, smile. Then Andre tore his eyes from the bottle on the table. It was his gaze that rooted me to the spot, as if my feet were fused with the decades-old timber floor.

  He watched me for a long moment, his expression giving nothing away, before he finally spoke. “She can stay.”

  His strong, clear words reverberated through those timber boards and into my chest, and they were final. I was staying.

  Ren flashed him a confused look, then turned back to me.

  I had no idea what the hell I’d walked in on, but Andre’s intensity was as compelling as my desire to defy Ren. I walked forward, grabbed a chair from the next table, and sat across from him, completing their weird little circle.

  Ren sighed, shook his head, and started playing again. It wasn’t a song or even a specific piece of music—it was more like he was just jamming, letting his fingers dance across the strings and seeing what came out.

  It would’ve been mesmerizing if I hadn’t been so curious about why Andre was staring at the bottle on the table as if it held the answers to all the world’s problems.

  I glanced at Loretta. She was reclined in her chair, her bony arms crossed loosely as she stared into space.

  I wasn’t used to not knowing things. I sat down at tables much bigger and much nicer than this one holding all the cards. In any other situation, I would’ve already demanded to know what was going on about three times. But now that I was part of this weird little sit-in, it just didn’t seem right to speak.

  I felt like we were all waiting on something, and I didn’t want to rush it.

  I leaned back and lost myself in Ren’s music. The notes carried me away, driving out all other thoughts.

  It wasn’t until Andre shifted in his seat that I realized I’d closed my eyes. I opened them to find Ren’s stare on my face, his fingers continuing to pluck at the strings. Our eyes locked for a second, and then we both turned to Andre.

  Andre propped one elbow on the table and reached for the bottle with his other hand. The cap was already off, resting on the table beside the glass. He poured a standard drink into the tumbler before setting the bottle down with precision.

  Ren stopped playing, his lithe body draped over the guitar.

  Loretta cleared her throat, and for once, it didn’t turn into a coughing fit. She leaned both arms on the table and watched Andre.

  We all watched Andre.

  He sighed, his big chest expanding with a breath that looked heavy with pain I wasn’t privy to. Then he grasped the tumbler and lifted it before his face.

  “Happy birthday, Dad,” he murmured to the amber liquid before knocking it back.

&nb
sp; It was the first time I’d seen him drink alcohol.

  I swallowed around the lump in my throat. I simultaneously wanted to know the story behind this odd ritual and hoped I wouldn’t get to hear it. I wasn’t sure I could handle the pain.

  Andre dropped the glass back down to the table and screwed the lid back onto the bottle, his hand lingering on the neck.

  Ren started playing again.

  Loretta reached across the table and gripped Andre’s hand, his big fingers swallowing her bony ones. She patted their clasped hands. “You’re doing just fine, sugar.”

  “Thank you for being here, Loretta.”

  She nodded and got to her feet, patting him on the shoulder on her way out.

  Andre stood too. He placed the bottle back in its spot behind the bar and deposited the dirty glass in the sink.

  With the weird little bubble of silence broken, I finally felt like I could speak. “I’m so sorry for intruding.”

  “I told you to stay.” Andre gripped my shoulder before returning to his seat. “You’re not intruding.”

  I still felt uneasy about it. I was just about to apologize again and make my excuses, but Andre started talking before I could make a move.

  “It’s my father’s birthday today.” He watched the top of the table intently as he spoke. Ren kept his focus on his guitar. “He died twelve years ago.”

  “I’m so sorry. I lost my father too.”

  “My momma died when I was ten years old. My daddy was so heartbroken he just about forgot he had a son, someone else who loved and needed him. He lost himself in the grief and tried to drown it in whiskey. If it wasn’t for Mama’s friend Delphine, I don’t know if I would’ve had food to eat every day. I definitely wouldn’t have finished high school.”