by Emily Childs
“Tell me, how’s your mama? We certainly miss her up at the house.”
“She’s well, ma’am. Doing real well now that she’s had some therapy.”
“You got everything you need to care for her?”
I nod and Bernadette grins, a little viciously.
“Forgive my boldness, but what I mean is,” she goes on, “do you have the funds to see to her care when she comes home?”
I swallow past a knot in my throat. Truth be told, since my mom’s stroke I’ve wondered how to care for her after she’s released from the nursing facility. The auto shop provides well enough. For me. But after getting the list of equipment needed to adapt my house while she stays with me, it’s overwhelming. My twin, August, is out in Baton Rouge. Of Course, he’s promised to help where he can. But since my niece was born, and August’s hours were cut, I’m pretty sure I make the bigger salary.
But there’s no way I’m admitting funds are tight to a woman like Bernadette Cutler.
“We’ll be fine, ma’am,” I say. “I get overtime at the shop, and of course the extra weekend work up here helps out.”
She seems pleased at the credit given, although it’s really Lon, Olive’s daddy, who arranges my schedule and makes sure I keep my place on the landscaping crew.
“Wonderful news,” she says.
A mosquito lands on her arm and I will swear until the day I die, all Bernadette did was glare at the pest and the bug skedaddled before taking a drink.
Bernadette sighs and fiddles with the strand of rose pearls around her neck. “Such a devastating day for Olive. Thomas was such a great match.”
“With all due respect, any man who’d step out on your daughter doesn’t deserve to kiss the ground she walks on.”
“What a descriptive way to put it.” She grins. “You’ve always been a friend to Olive, but I wonder what you think of her now?”
This must be a trick question. I swallow and tug my tattered gloves back on my hands. What do I think of Olive? She’s flitty and does throw hissy fits. The woman gets ready for the day slower than molasses in snow. She’s a southern princess. But . . . she’s funny. Especially when she curses. Olive is blind to the status of her world—to her credit. She’d speak with the governor the same as she talks to me. She’s been in my life as long as I’ve had memories. We were better friends up until last year. When Tom started in on the complaining. I figured it was easier to give them some space. We did take that quick trip to Minnesota together, but her daddy arranged all that. Still, it was a weekend I won’t forget.
I lived on the Cutler property as a kid and I have endless memories of chasing fireflies with August and Olive at dusk, pretending trolls and fairies lived in this very oak tree. I taught Olive how to swim in the ocean, and even when I moved out of the house we still met at The Battery for ice cream at her favorite place.
Until Tom.
Until Dalia.
Cautiously, I glance at Bernadette. “She’s a friend. Olive’s a friend to everyone.”
She takes another sip from her glass. “Good to hear. This unfortunate event has left me and Mr. Cutler in quite a predicament. You see, non-refundable deposits have already been made on several engagement parties. Not to mention the bridal shower of the season, I assure you.”
I try not to roll my eyes as I pluck the shears out of the grass. The closer truth is appearances need to be kept and a broken engagement is disgraceful, at least to the Cutler’s people. The notion is right up there with a messy divorce, or illegitimate children with the staff. I can understand on that point better than most.
“I do offer my apologies to you and Mr. Cutler, but I should be getting back to work.”
“I have a curious thought that keeps building in my head,” she says quickly. Is Bernadette smiling? I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her truly smile. “I wonder if you’d be willing to help Olive. You’d be compensated, of course. Maybe it would be enough to help secure the proper care for Millie.”
Now, she has my attention. Anything to help Mama gets my attention.
“What could I do to help Olive?”
“These events leading up to the wedding aren’t even for guests coming from Honeyville. They’re from all across the East Coast. Business acquaintances and such.”
“I’m not sure I understand, ma’am.”
“Calling off an engagement before meeting the more distinguished guest list will be traumatizing for Olive.”
I don’t think traumatizing is the right word. Maybe traumatizing for Bernadette, but not Olive.
Bernadette takes a step closer. “I’d like to offer you the chance to escort Olive through the more important events, then we will announce the split.”
My tongue sticks to the top of my mouth, my lungs burn from holding my breath. A furrow builds between my brows when I meet her eyes. “Escort Ollie? To her engagement parties?”
“Correct.”
“But she’s not engaged, Ms. Cutler.” At least she better not be.
Bernadette creeps to my side, her smile slyer than a fox in the hedge. “No one needs to know that yet, Mr. Whitfield.”
Whoa. I got a Mister. “How will they not know?”
“If you’re there with Olive, no one will be the wiser.”
“Be there in what way?”
There is no possible way that Bernadette is suggesting what it sounds like. No way, because Bernadette Cutler is a woman who thrives in old Southern culture, a class system. I don’t even make the level beneath the Cutler family. Try more like five prongs down.
The Whitfields work for the Cutlers. That’s it.
“Play the part of Olive’s fiancé at the events,” Bernadette says. “It’s simple really. You’ll hardly be asked to say anything.”
I practically choke on my own tongue. “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but uh, won’t people know who I am? Won’t they know Tom?”
Bernadette grins. “I doubt the people at these parties will know you, Rafe. We can brush Tom’s name off as a misprint by a careless printer confused by another Abernathy announcement, or something. Wedding invitations are slated to go out next week, and the Abernathys will be determined to keep their foolish son’s misdeeds out of the public eye as well. They won’t interfere.”
I must not seem convinced since Bernadette tilts her head and chuckles.
“Rafe, folks will believe what’s before their eyes more than a piece of paper. Now, correct me if I am wrong, but August still lives in Baton Rouge, true?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Perfect. You’ll be Rafe from Baton Rouge.”
“I’m a mechanic, Mrs. Cutler.” And I’m proud of it—unless Bernadette is looking down her nose at me.
“No, Rafe,” she smiles with conviction. “You’re a self-made man, and own a string of high-end car shops in New Orleans and Baton Rouge. See how easy we can sell it? No one will search your name, I assure you. What do you say? Five events, Mr. Whitfield. Fifteen hundred each.”
My grip tightens on my shears. I cough and feel like a fool. “You’re offering me over seven thousand dollars to be Olive’s fiancé?”
“Think of it as a temporary fiancé, Rafe. Yes, I am. Of course, you understand your reputation will be dubbed as an unfaithful liar in the end. For Olive’s sake, of course. Infidelity riles even the tightest of feathers in our circles. Get her through the bridal shower in two months and that’s the end of it. You can’t tell me the extra money wouldn’t help.”
I can’t because the extra certainly will help my mom.
Bernadette chuckles and smacks my arm. Surprising, since I’m covered in sweat. “Goodness, son,” she says with a laugh. “It’s not like I’m asking you to really marry her.”
“I don’t think Olive will agree.”
“Well now, I’m not sure she has a choice.”
I swallow with effort. What can go wrong? Olive is pretty, spunky, and we’re friends. Yet, when I lose my mind and agree, I have a sinking feeling this isn’t going
to end the way Bernadette has planned.
Olive
15 years ago
“Wait up, Rafe, Auggie!”
“You said you could run like a boy! You’re running just like a girl.” Rafe laughs, his words whistling through the space that once belonged to his front teeth.
“Come on, Lollipop,” Rafe’s twin, August, shouts from the lead.
I skid to a stop; my pigtails slap my cheeks. I gape at the old tool shed. “I can’t go in there.”
“Whatcha mean you ain’t going in there?” Rafe demands.
“I didn’t say I ain’t, I said I can’t. It’s full of . . . bugs, and Daddy told me never to go out of the yard without asking.”
August teases me about being a pansy before he slips into the rundown shed, leaving Rafe alone with me, their tagalong. He shoves my shoulder like I’m one of the boys. “You telling me you’re turning into a princess now, Ollie? After you gone and begged me to take you to our fort?”
“I’m not a princess,” I snap and stomp my jelly sandal in the thick crabgrass.
“Are to,” he snorts. “Princess Ollie.”
“You hush up, Rafe Whitfield.”
“Ah, come on now,” Rafe mutters wiping his dirty hands on his jeans, complete with holes in the knees. “Being a princess ain’t so bad. You can be a tough princess, you know.”
“I’m not a princess, and I’m not a baby, Rafe.”
“I know. I was at your birthday, dummy.”
He takes a step closer. Rafe is short and lanky, but he still has a way of making me feel safer. Even when we catch fireflies at night, I’m not afraid if Rafe and Auggie are around.
“Listen, Aug and I have been making sure this old thing is safe,” he says. “I’m good at building things, Ollie. It’s what I’m going to do when I grow up, you know.”
“What’s that?”
“Build things. Huge skyscrapers. Bridges, stuff like that. I’m gonna design ‘em, build ‘em. Everything.”
“Sounds neat,” I whisper. “Maybe I should do that.”
“Ah, come on. Girls ain’t good at that stuff, especially girls like you. Takes lots of math and things. You just do what you do best, Ollie.”
Hands on hips, I glare at Rafe. “I can do whatever you can do, Rafe. I’ll tell your mama you’re picking on me again.”
“I ain’t picking on you, you big baby,” he says, tugging my elbow toward the shed once August flicks on the old kerosene lantern. “I think you should keep being a princess.”
“Oh yeah, and why is that?”
Rafe turns and grins at me. His thin arm steadies me as I slip through the uneven entrance. “Maybe because if you keep being nice, Ollie, I’ll build you a castle someday.
Chapter 3
Rafe
As a four-year-old, the Big House seemed more like a castle than a home. While the Cutler’s house is large, it isn’t quite a castle, but it does shelter southern royalty. The Cutlers are influential people. Most of them are alright, but some, I’d rather they start walking and keep going.
Standing in one of the guest rooms on the second floor, I blow out a nervous breath and secure the black tie beneath a pressed, white collar. I should’ve known Mrs. Cutler would have a closet dedicated to fine suits. Bernadette insisted I didn’t have time to run home and clean up.
Early guests are already arriving.
She shoved me into the guest house to shower, and now has me primping in the upper bedroom, preparing for my new role. This is insane, I think when I unravel the tie for the fifth time. My hands are shaking too much.
No doubt, Olive isn’t going to be keen on this. Honestly, I’m not sure who I’m more afraid of—Bernadette or Ollie when her temper flares.
“Well, don’t you clean up nice.”
I glimpse over my shoulder, a frown tugging at my mouth. Beaumont Cutler locks his glare on me. He’s one of those Cutlers that can keep on walking.
Rolling my eyes, I turn back to the mirror and face my enemy, the necktie.
Beau holds an unlit cigar between his fingers, and I’m sure he thinks he’s a reincarnation of an old pre-war plantation owner. Get this, the man even has a monocle he wears on special occasions. All he needs is a handlebar mustache that curls on the ends.
And he’s not leaving. Better say something and get his over with. “I’ve been known to clean up in a suit, Beau.”
“Listen, Whitfield,” Beau mutters, voice low. “I don’t know what Aunt Bernie is thinking, but seems Uncle Lon approves of this charade.” Beau tugs on my arm, and I tense on instinct. “I’m here to let you know if you touch my cousin, or try anything, even Uncle Lon won’t be able to save you. Understand?”
Beau taps the cigar on the top of my shoulder.
“Step back,” I warn.
“Or what?”
“You know exactly what,” I say with a smug huff in my voice. One of my more glorious days was when Beau and his private school pals tried to shove August into a ditch. “How long did it take for your nose to heal back in high school?”
Beau glares and uses the cigar as a pointer. “Watch yourself, Whitfield. You don’t belong up here.”
“Seems I do,” I counter, finally getting the tie right. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a fiancée to escort.”
I shove past Beau, making certain our shoulders brush on my way out.
Outside, I keep my cool, aloof expression. Inside, I’m a hurricane of unknowns. Olive’s reaction being the number one uncertainty. I can stand at her side as the sultry fiancé and avoid too much mindless chatter with elitists, but there is a sinking feeling in the pit of my gut that this plot will insult Olive. She’s a princess, but she’s a scrappy one.
I button the suit coat, remarkably it feels tailored to my body. I’m hoping Olive will lean more toward the want side of this arrangement, since it’ll help us both. But when I make it to her bedroom door, my hopes are dashed.
Olive’s frustrated voice echoes into the hallway. She knows how to bite, and I’m getting a muffled earful.
The bedroom door clicks and Bernadette steps out of Olive’s bedroom. She catches sight of me, and that terrifyingly fierce grin returns. “Very prompt. Your entrance is about to be announced. Now, get on out here, Olive Jane.”
The swift tap, tap of Olive’s heels announces her arrival, but I still startle a little when her honey-pot eyes lock on me like a deranged missile. She pushes her finger into the center of my chest. “What the devil are you thinking, Rafe Whitfield! I’m not some business arrangement.”
“Olive, you stop this tantrum right now,” Bernadette snaps. “Wash that flush off your face, girl, and get on downstairs.”
“I’m coming, Mama, but not until after I have a word with my fiancé,” she bites and pulls on my arm. “You’ll excuse the impropriety, but we need to speak in private.”
I’m not sure if I’m impressed Olive stood up to her mother, or if she’s walking on thin ice and we’re both going to fall in.
Doesn’t matter now. The door slams behind us.
The bedroom isn’t overly huge, but my kitchen could fit inside. The walls still have pink frills from Olive’s childhood. Things like the ruffled canopy over the four poster bed, teddy bears on the window seat, and porcelain dolls with parasols on a wooden shelf over an old-fashioned roll-top desk.
Leaning against the wall, I try to grin at Olive, but she’s sort of scary right now and wheels on me. Her creamy cheeks are pink and flustered, and her hands rest on her hips, like she always does when she’s about to blow out her top.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I say, trying to laugh. “I’m helping you out, Ollie.”
Probably the wrong thing to say, especially when her eyes flash like lightning and I’m keen to protect between my legs.
“Helping me out? Is that what you’re doing?” Olive grins devilishly. “So, that’s what I am now? Some pathetic, tossed-aside woman that can’t get a man unless she pays him?”
I sigh
and dare take a few steps closer. Olive doesn’t back down, and for a moment we’re standing mere inches apart, challenging each other. The corner of my mouth twitches, the way it always does when I’m about to tease her. “Would you quit being a baby? You know you’re not the sort of woman who needs to pay a man. Come on, Ol . . .” Olive is real, despite her status in the community, I don’t need to hide our differences. “You know this can help out my mom. I didn’t agree because you’re pathetic. You’re anything but.”
Olive’s lips press tight and slowly her hands drift from her hips to folded over her chest. She is athletically built, unlike her mother who is thin as a toothpick. I’ve caught myself admiring her figure more than once. Of course, I’ll never tell her that.
After a tense moment of Olive’s brain processing a mile a minute, she frees a drawn-out sigh. “Alright, Rafe. But this is for Millie. I don’t need saving, understand?”
I glance down at her finger still pressed to my heart, and slowly wrap my fingers around her palm. The brush of our skin sends my pulse pounding in my skull. Not unexpected. She’s been doing this to me for some time now. Olive doesn’t pull her hand away, and doesn’t flinch when I slip our fingers together. We are engaged, after all.
“Trust me, Ollie, no one would mistake you for needing saving.”
“Good,” she huffs. “Because with those people down there—trust me—you’ll be the one needing to be rescued, Mr. Whitfield.”
Chapter 4
Olive
I’ve no idea what in the blazes my mother is thinking. Hiring Rafe to be a pretend lover? It’s embarrassing at best and wholly degrading at worst. There’s an entire shopping list of things that can go wrong.
It’s a good thing Rafe is holding my hand because I’m flushed, hot, my skin is too tight, and I might stumble if I think too much on everything.
For goodness sake, someone might recognize Rafe as the boy who grew up on the property and sometimes prunes the hedges. I’m fine with it, but my mother is up to something because she certainly wouldn’t be fine with it.