The Marriage Arrangement

by Patricia Ryan

  “What’s your pleasure?” Clay asked. “They’ve got anything you could possibly want, and then some.”

  She inspected the case with such intense concentration that he had to smile, before asking for a croissant.

  “A plain old croissant? They’ve got almond ones, and these incredible chocolate—”

  “Plain is fine. And a cup of decaf.”

  Izzy watched Clay at the counter, flirting in his perfect French with the shop’s elderly proprietress, whom he called Simone. A bright blush colored her doughy face and her eyes glittered, making her look decades younger.

  He really can’t turn off the charm, Izzy thought with amused resignation. He doesn’t know how.

  Simone set the tray bearing Clay’s order on the counter, but then waved away his money. Gesturing for him to stay put, she called someone out from the back in heavily accented English. “Madeleine! He is here, the one I told you about.”

  Clay turned, caught Izzy’s eye, and glanced at the heavens.

  The older woman was soon joined by a much younger one, a tall, slender strawberry-blonde dusting flour off her hands.

  Willowy, thought Izzy with disgust. Why are they all so fucking willowy?

  “This is my great-niece, Madeleine,” the proprietress said.

  “Clay Granger.” Clay shook the girl’s hand.

  “Maddy is here on holiday from the Culinary Institute,” Simone explained. “She made her first crème brulee at the age of five.”

  “Is that so?” Izzy noted a subtle change in Clay’s demeanor as studied courtesy moved in to replace the boyish charm. So he could turn it off when he chose. Interesting...

  “Oui,” Simone replied. “Her mother knew that men like wives who can feed them well, so she began teaching her at a very early age.” She patted her niece’s back. “It will be a lucky man who captures my Madeleine.”

  As Clay began to lift the tray, Simone closed a wrinkled hand over his arm; he flinched. “I told Maddy that perhaps you would be willing to show her around North Moon Bay some evening. She knows so few people her own age here.”

  Her own age? If that girl had seen her twentieth birthday, it couldn’t have been that long ago. Now it was Madeleine’s turn to blush as she regarded Clay with an expectant countenance that mimicked her aunt’s.

  “Ah. That, uh, that sounds great, but I’m afraid my new bride might not appreciate it.”

  Two hopeful smiles faded. “Your bride?” Simone said.

  Clay turned and pointed to Izzy.

  This is where you earn your keep, kiddo. She grinned broadly and waved. Clay rolled his eyes at the bald overacting, and turned back to the pair of frowning women.

  “Madeleine!” Simone snapped. “Get back to the ovens. The pâte feuilletée will burn.”

  The girl fled to the back. Clay excused himself to Simone and rejoined Izzy at the table.

  “That was awesome,” he whispered as he set her croissant and coffee in front of her. “I should have gotten married years ago.”

  He paused with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth, his expression darkening momentarily before he straightened up and took a sip. Izzy knew what he was thinking: he did get married years ago. To Judith. It just hadn’t worked out quite the way he’d planned.

  Izzy grappled for a change of subject, but before she could come up with one, they were approached by a slender, twenty-something brunette holding the hand of a toddler in lavender overalls, both of them wearing unzipped parkas. “Clay! Is this her? The woman who finally reeled in the old diehard bachelor?”

  Clay brightened when he saw her. “Marie. Hi. Izzy, I’d like you to meet Marie Tilton. And, yes, this is my lovely bride, Isabella Fabri—He broke off, darting a look toward Izzy. “I guess it’s Granger now. Isabella Granger.”

  “Call me Izzy.” The women shook hands. Izzy hadn’t intended to take Clay’s name, but it did sound kind of... neat. Isabella Granger.

  “So excellent to meet you, Izzy,” Marie said with an engaging smile. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t make the wedding. My old furnace finally gave up the ghost yesterday morning, so I spent the rest of the day getting it replaced.”

  “Marie lives across the bay in Hale’s Point,” Clay said.

  “Mimi! Mimi!” cried the little girl, gazing imploring at her mother as she reached up with her plump little arms. “Up! Up!”

  “And my commanding officer here is Hazel,” chuckled Marie, scooping the child up and propping her on a hip in one obviously well-practiced, almost graceful move. That’ll be me in a couple of years, Izzy thought with satisfaction. “One of my bosses,” Marie added. “The other one is your husband, but it’s Hazel who really calls the shots.”

  “You work for Clay?” Izzy asked.

  “I edit The Rush’s online edition,” Marie said as Hazel snatched her mother’s tortoiseshell headband off and began waving it jerkily in the air.

  “Marie’s being modest,” Clay said. “Her new title, as of a couple of months ago, is Associate Publisher and Web Director. She’s a true dynamo, oversees everything having to do with our online magazine—editorial, graphics, marketing and advertising, web analytics, our e-newsletter—and she does it mostly from home, now that Hazel’s in charge. At this point, she’s pretty much my de facto second in command.”

  “Speaking of the magazine...” Marie began as she shoved the hair out of her eyes.

  Clay shook his head. “No business today, Marie. I’m on my honeymoon.” He reached across the table to take Izzy’s hand; her knees became gelatinous.

  Marie shrugged and smiled as the child tried to jam the headband back on her head. “Fine. I assumed you’d want to know if Jack called, but hey, it’s up to you.” She nodded toward Izzy. “Nice meeting you, and congratulations.”

  “Thanks,” Izzy said.

  Marie turned to go. Clay whipped out an arm and grabbed her by her sweater. She slowly pivoted back around, wearing a cocky grin.

  “When did Jack call?” Clay demanded.

  “Friday afternoon, after you’d left,” Marie said, dodging the tip of the headband, which the little girl kept aiming for her eyes. “I would have called you at home, but you were getting ready for the wedding, and I didn’t want to bother you.”

  Izzy was just about to offer to take the child when Clay stood up and held his arms out. “Come here, Hazel. Mimi needs a break.”

  Marie sighed in relief and handed over her daughter. Clay lifted her high in the air and then settled her down on his broad shoulders. The child squealed happily and kicked her sneakered feet against his chest.

  “So, what did Jack have to say?” Clay asked.

  Marie pried the headband out of Hazel’s hand, finger-combed her hair, and replaced it. “He’s upping the offer for The Rush.”

  Clay winced as Hazel seized fistfuls of his hair and yanked. “By how much?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Not really.” He patted Hazel’s leg. “You mind if I give her a piece of my corn muffin to keep her hands busy?”

  “You’d be better off giving her some of my croissant,” offered Izzy, who had little appetite anyway.

  “No, she loves corn muffins.” Clay broke off a big chunk and handed it up to the child. He’d obviously spent some time in her company. That he’d paid enough attention to her to recall her likes and dislikes surprised Izzy. Inveterate bachelors generally showed more interest in their friends’ pets than their children.

  Clay lightly gripped the little girl’s feet to keep her from pounding him. “I take it you told Jack there’s no deal,” he said firmly. Hazel, meanwhile, took a giant bite out of the corn muffin, which crumbled onto his head—just as Izzy had suspected it would do.

  “He offered a lot of money this time, Clay.”

  “He’s been offering a lot of money all along,” Clay retorted.

  “He said it’s his final offer.”

  “We knew he’d say that. It doesn’t matter. I’m not selling the magazine. Did you tell
him that?” His tone and expression had become strictly no-nonsense, a businesslike side of him that Izzy had never seen. Of course, the effect was compromised to a large extent by the clods of com muffin raining down into his hair.

  Marie held her hands up. “Hey, you’re the boss-man. I told him what you said to tell him—no deal.”

  “Good.” Clay seemed completely unaware of the little drama being enacted over his head. Hazel had discovered what was happening to Clay’s hair, and evidently found the effect to her liking. She divided the remaining muffin into two fistfuls, which she methodically crushed into bits, sprinkling them down evenly over the surface of his hair. Her expression was so gravely intent that Izzy laughed out loud.

  Clay frowned at her. “What?”

  “Do you realize—”

  “How serious you seem?” Marie finished for her, with a wink. The two women exchanged a quick, conspiratorial look as Hazel dropped the last particles of muffin and admired the results with a look of pride. Izzy lifted her coffee cup to her mouth to hide her smile.

  “Izzy’s probably never seen you quite this way before,” Marie told him.

  “No.” Izzy chuckled as she took in hunky, cosmopolitan Clay Granger, his hair barely visible beneath a blanket of yellowish crumbs. “I can’t say as I have.”

  “Where are my manners?” Clay said. “Have a seat, Marie. Join us.”

  “Thanks, but we’re actually on our way out. Come here, pumpkin,” she said, lifting Hazel off Clay’s shoulders and setting her on the floor. “Time to say goodbye. Can you wave goodbye?”

  “Noooo! Do’wanna leave. No! Mimi, no!” the child shrieked, writhing and flailing as Marie hefted her up and carried her to the door.

  “Great meeting you, Izzy,” Marie said, as calmly as if it were a sack of groceries in her arms, and not a convulsively struggling child. “I like her, Clay. You showed good taste for once. See ya!”

  Clay leaned across the table toward Izzy and whispered, “You sure you want children?”

  “It’ll only be one child. Singular. A disgustingly spoiled only child. And, yes, I’m absolutely positive.”

  “What makes you so sure it’ll be an only child? You could have more.”

  She tore off a piece of croissant. “Last I heard, you still need a man to get pregnant, and I’m going cold turkey on them.”

  Clay looked skeptical. “You say that now.”

  “Trust me, if my sister’s convent took pregnant nuns, I’d sign up tomorrow.”

  He shook his head—corn muffin bits fell onto his shoulders, but he didn’t notice—and drank his coffee down in one tilt of the cup. Izzy ate the piece of croissant she’d broken off, and offered the rest to Clay, trying not to stare at his hair. “Take this,” she said. “I’m not hungry.”

  He pushed the plate back. “The baby is.”

  She grudgingly took another bite, washed it down with some coffee, and said, “So, what’s this about selling The Rush?”

  “The Rush is not for sale. End of story.”

  “Someone seems to want it pretty badly.”

  He nodded and raked a hand through his hair. “Jack—” He came away with a handful of corn muffin crumbs. “What the f—”

  “Hazel did it,” Izzy said with a grin. “It’s a look.”

  He lowered his head over the table and ran his hands over his hair. Specks of corn muffin rained down, but his hair was still covered with the stuff. “I take it you and Marie found this absolutely hilarious.”

  “Pretty much.”

  The look he shot her was mostly amused. “Is it all out?”

  Izzy laughed. “Not by a long shot. Here.” She scraped her chair over next to his. “Put your head down. Like that. Right.”

  She fingered through his hair, picking out the bigger chunks and brushing off as many of the smaller crumbs as she could. He sat perfectly still while she worked.

  Clay’s hair felt surprisingly silky between her fingers. As she sifted through it, she noted that only the top layer was gilded with highlights. Underneath, it was a rather unremarkable brown; she’d never noticed that. When her fingertips brushed his scalp, it felt hot to the touch.

  His eyes closed, but she didn’t think he was as relaxed as he looked. He seemed to be breathing just a little too quickly.

  “I don’t think I’m going to be able to get it all out,” she said. “You’ll have to wash your hair again.”

  “That’s all right.” His voice was unaccountably husky. “I could use another shower.”

  Before Izzy could make sense of that, he said, “Mercer.”

  “Huh?”

  “Jack Mercer, head honcho over at Mercer-Hest Publications. That’s who wants to buy The Rush.”

  Izzy let out a low whistle as she continued to extract muffin bits from his hair. “Mercer-Hest. They must own about a zillion magazines.”

  “All with state of the art apps and web editions. And now, they apparently want to make it a zillion and one. Jack keeps adding zeroes to the offer, but he’s wasting his time. The magazine’s not for sale.”

  “So you said.”

  “Well, it’s not.”

  “I believe you.” She smoothed his hair down, then took her hands away with a sense of reluctance and pushed her chair back. “That’s as much as I can get out. It’s a real disaster.”

  “It was worth it.” He straightened and rubbed the back of his neck.

  “It was worth this mess just to get a few moments’ peace from Hazel?”

  His eyes connected with hers, and she saw that awareness that she’d noticed before, but more... frank, less hidden. “That’s not what I meant,” he said. “I meant it was kind of nice, feeling your hands in my hair.”

  It was a simple statement, delivered in a slightly embarrassed way, without the showmanship that marked his garden-variety flirting. Izzy couldn’t think of a response, but he didn’t seem to be waiting for one. He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “The Rush is my baby. I created it from nothing. They couldn’t pay me enough money to give it up.”

  She weighed her words. “Are you sure you shouldn’t at least consider it?”

  “Why? I don’t need the money. I publish The Rush ’cause I enjoy it. It doesn’t even make that much money, after salaries and overhead. I have no doubt Jack would find ways to squeeze some serious profit out of it, though, and that’s what it’s all about for him. He doesn’t care about it as a publication, a way to keep people up to speed on what’s happening in extreme sports, but that’s all I really do care about.”

  “Maybe you care a little too much,” she said. “I mean, all those loony stunts—”

  “Events,” he corrected.

  “Loony events,” she said with a smirk.

  He wadded up a napkin and threw it at her.

  She batted it away. “Harry said you only do all that stuff because your fans expect it. They want to get their vicarious thrills from seeing you push the envelope on Instagram and YouTube. But it’s just thrill-seeking. It’s crazy. You could hurt yourself very badly one of these days. You could even die.” She didn’t add “like Judith.” From his grim expression, she could tell she didn’t have to. He stared out the front window, his jaw clenched.

  “Clay,” she said, “a person who cares about his loved ones doesn’t risk his life so casually.”

  “Loved ones—like family?”

  “Well, yeah...”

  Clay’s mouth quirked in a humorless smile. “Then I don’t have much in the way of loved ones to worry about, do I?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WHO’S THIS?” Teddy asked as she peered at the photograph on the mantel.

  “His first wife.” Izzy checked her watch. It was 8:02 p.m., and Clay still wasn’t home from work. During the week and a half they’d been married, he’d always gotten home by 6:30. Teddy had had to throw away the pasta she’d boiled, and the salad had gone limp from sitting around dressed.

  “What the hell is his first wi
fe’s picture doing on your mantel?”

  “It’s his mantel.”

  “It’s yours now, too, Isabella, and the dead wife has no business up there.”

  “Aunt Teddy, for God’s—”

  “He’s married to you now. I’m gonna tell him to get rid of that thing.”

  “You will not.”

  “Why not?”

  “He... he loved her.”

  “And now he loves you, right? Out with the old, in with the new.”

  “You’re all heart, Aunt Teddy.”

  Izzy excused herself to go take a shower. It turned into a long one, while she speculated on all the reasons Clay might be late. The weather had turned nasty; maybe there were traffic delays between here and the city. Or maybe he’d been in an accident. Expressways could be bad news during snowstorms, especially at night.

  Or maybe he was with another...

  It’s none of your business.

  She got out of the shower, dried off, smoothed on some olive oil, then went into the bedroom and began searching through her dresser for a nightgown.

  Yeah, but maybe...

  None of your business what he does and with whom.

  She didn’t care. Not a bit.

  A quick knock came at the door. Izzy turned and caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror—naked and on her knees pawing through the lowest drawer. “Uh, who is—”

  “It’s Teddy.”

  “Oh. Come on in.” She resumed her search.

  “The prodigal son returns!” Teddy flung the door open, ushering Clay in ahead of her. He looked down, saw her, and froze.

  Izzy sucked in a breath and sprang to her feet. She had something in her hand, she realized as she watched Clay’s eyes widen on her, something she’d been pushing aside in the drawer. Shaking it out, she held it in front of her to cover her nakedness.

  “Sorry.” Clay backed up a step, and collided abruptly with the edge of the open door. He stumbled, and Izzy was struck by the absurdity of it: the most graceful and athletic man she knew, walking into things because he’d seen her naked.