Mating Rituals of the North American WASP (7 page)

“Ha! I do now.” Brock pumped his fist in the air victoriously.

Peggy crossed her arms over her chest. “But I was going to make chicken piccata.”
Beautiful. Now you’re a whiny housewife
.
In every way but the “wife” part.
How was it a stranger could marry her after a few hours when her own boyfriend couldn’t make up his mind after nearly a decade?
Against her better judgment, she muttered, “I don’t understand why we can’t just get engaged.”

“Hey.” Brock play-punched her on the shoulder. “Hang in there.” He added a pair of swim trunks to his duffel. “You know I
don’t want to end up having a midlife crisis and trading you in for a newer model.”

“Then don’t. You’re not your father.” How many times had she heard this excuse?

“Plus,” Brock said, “there’s the money thing.”

This was new. Brock wasn’t one to lie awake at night mentally counting pennies. “Money thing?”

“Weddings are expensive, Pegs. And you know I want the best for us. Why do you think I’m working like a dog?”

It was the first time Brock had mentioned an actual, concrete wedding.

She wanted to be sure she’d heard him correctly. “You’re working this hard to pay for our wedding?” she repeated, trying to
contain her hope and excitement.

“Sure.” Brock hoisted the duffel onto his shoulder and started toward the apartment door. “I’ll be in California till Thursday,
and then to Denver for the Broncs game. See you in a week.”

And that’s when she knew what she was going to do.

Peggy threw her arms around Brock’s neck and kissed him.

“What was that for?” Brock staggered backward, clearly as surprised as she was at her enthusiastic good-bye.

She hugged him as hard as she could. “You don’t have to worry. Go on your trip. I’ll take care of everything. And wear sunscreen!”
she added, unable to resist, as he disappeared into the elevator.

“I still don’t get why you couldn’t come to SoNo tonight. I hate this house. Your great-aunt looks at me like I’m some dead
thing the cat brought in.”

“Abby’s in the hospital.” Luke preferred the privacy of Nicole’s place in South Norwalk as well. On the rare occasions she
did visit the Sedgwick House, he tended, ungentlemanly as it was, to usher her quickly up to his bedroom. Tonight’s conversation
would take place in a more decorous location. Luke could have done without the painted Sedgwick ancestors judging him from
the den walls, but the den still beat the library, which was presided over by a life-size portrait of Silas Ebenezer Sedgwick
that never failed to look disapproving. “Nicki, I need to talk to you.”

That got Nicole’s attention. There was very little serious discussion in their relationship, exactly how they both liked it.

“If you truly want to get back together, there’s something you should know.”

Luke chose his words carefully as he told Nicki of his mistake in Las Vegas. He didn’t have the energy for an argument, and
Nicole was mythic when she was angry. Years ago, early in their relationship, Luke would get distracted by the way her green
eyes seemed to darken into black and her fiery hair flashed around her face like a modern-day Medusa. He’d quickly learned
to keep her away from any object she might hurl at his head.

Instead of raging at him, she stood, stretched, jutting her hipbones forward, and rearranged herself on her chair: legs extended,
back slightly arched. “So you’re getting it annulled for sure?”

That Nicki’s pose was utterly calculated made it no less mesmerizing. A rush of heat came into Luke’s groin. “It’s as good
as over already.”

The phone—fifty years old if it was a day—rang. “The hospital,” Luke said apologetically, and reached over to answer it.

“It’s Peggy,” said the voice on the end of the line. “Peggy Adams. I called information for your number.”

Nicki yawned and got back up. “What’s there to eat?” She headed out, Luke assumed, to the kitchen.

“This isn’t a good time,” he told Peggy. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Actually,” she said, “I have a way you and I can help each other.”

Fall Color, October

P
eggy’s acupuncturist, Jonah, thought she was in denial. Peggy knew because he had asked, in a studiously detached way, “Is
it possible you might be in denial?”

“If anything, I’m taking charge of my own destiny.” Peggy grimaced as Jonah slid a needle into her wrist. The needles were
the width of hairs; she could hardly feel them, but the idea of them bothered her. Nor was she sure how much the acupuncture
was helping. She felt calmer and more grounded this week, having made her deal with Luke, than she had after three months
of Jonah’s needles and herbs.

Jon-Keith, Peggy’s colorist, went bug-eyed when she told him. “You’re doing this behind Brock’s back?” He had a bandanna tied
around his head, and diamond earrings, and he resembled a pirate who’d wandered into midtown. “Won’t he notice you’ve moved
to Connecticut? And while you’re gone, who’ll mind the store?”

Peggy spoke to his reflection in the salon mirror. “Here’s what’s so brilliant. I won’t be moving to Connecticut. Luke’s great-aunt
wanted me to, but I told her I couldn’t give up the shop completely, at least not right way. So we compromised. I’ll live
in the city during the week as usual. Then on weekends, when Brock is working anyway, I’ll go to New Nineveh and pretend to
be happily married to Luke. Brock won’t have any idea. In one year I’ll be able to shore up my business, with plenty of money
left over for a big wedding. Then Bex won’t have to worry about money, and Brock won’t have to worry about proposing.” She’d
say the money was an inheritance from a long-lost relative. It was the only shaky part of the plan. Given her family’s utter
lack of wealth, she couldn’t imagine anybody believing that some fourth cousin twice removed had left her a truckload of cash.
But Brock wasn’t one to get bogged down in details. With luck, he’d be too thrilled to ask questions.

“Oh, okay.” Jon-Keith began to section off Peggy’s hair with plastic clips. “So you’ll spend a year screwing this Luke What-You-Said-His-Name-Is,
and then marry Brock. Dare you wear white?”

“It isn’t like that.” The arrangement she’d worked out with Luke was all business. With Luke’s great-aunt restricted from
stair climbing except to get to her own second-floor bedchamber, Peggy would have a private room on the third floor, entirely
separate from Luke’s, and Miss Abigail would be none the wiser. There would be no sleeping together. That was a given. Peggy
knew Luke Sedgwick had no more interest in her than she had in him. Once he’d finally agreed to her terms, he’d done so emotionlessly.

“Even if we wanted to, we couldn’t,” Peggy explained to Jon-Keith. “Otherwise we can’t get an annulment when it’s all over.”

Nor was Bex as enthusiastic over Peggy’s save-the-store scheme as Peggy would have liked.

“You’re insane,” Bex’s disembodied voice barked out from the intercom at the entrance to her and Josh’s building. “I mean,
you’re insane generally, but scared-of-everything insane, not throw-all-caution-to-the-wind insane.” Peggy shifted the six-pack
of beer she was carrying and waited for Bex to wrap up the lecture. “Nobody does this,” Bex continued. “
I
wouldn’t do this, and I’d do a lot more than you would.” The interior doors buzzed open, and Peggy scaled the five flights
of stairs and found Bex, furiously gnawing a half-eaten slice of pizza, and Josh, holding a sheaf of legal documents, standing
together out in the building corridor at the open doorway to Josh’s apartment.

Peggy handed the beer to Josh. “Your fee.” She looked at Bex. “So much for the organic food, then?”

“I can’t help it. The Pill makes me starving all the time. I’m not even pregnant and I’m turning into a whale.” Bex sank her
teeth into her pizza and continued with her mouth full, “You should be anxious. You don’t even know the man! Why aren’t you
anxious? Josh, tell her she should be anxious.”

“No way.” Bex’s husband bent to retrieve a piece of pepperoni on the floor. “I’m Switzerland over here.”

“Let’s go inside.” Peggy stepped between her friends to enter the apartment. Wasn’t Bex always pushing her to break out of
her comfort zone? Peggy felt no anxiety whatsoever about what was happening. No anxiety—like a normal person. She felt insulated,
as if enjoying a madcap play in which the spunky heroine, Peggy Adams, was preparing to drive up to Connecticut tomorrow to
start her brand-new double life. Or a stirring drama at the end of which brave Peggy would save her business, help her beloved
best friend, and end up married to the real man she loved. The only hard part would be making sure Miss Abigail thought she
and Luke were truly mad for each other, like real newlyweds, making a go of their marriage instead of just biding time to
win their prize. That would be no small feat.

“The terms of the deal look fine.” Josh hugged Peggy and gave her the papers. “I also had a guy I know in Connecticut look
it over, and he says it’s pretty straightforward stuff. Turns out this lawyer, Andy, has a cousin who went to Yale with your
new weekend hubby. Says Sedgwick’s an okay guy.”

Bex plopped down on Josh’s scratchy plaid couch. “I’m working weekends so you can go live with an okay guy.”

“An okay guy who’s sitting on a gold mine,” Josh said. “Andy checked into the value of the house. Based on its last tax assessment,
it’s worth about three million.”

“Three million dollars!” Bex bounced on the sofa.

Peggy wasn’t surprised. She had done her own due diligence. She’d researched Sedgwick genealogy on the Internet. The family
dated back to
Mayflower
times. Silas Ebenezer, the patriarch, was a Revolutionary War hero who’d made his fortune importing goods from Europe. And
then there was the Silas Sedgwick House. The New Nineveh Historical Society called it “a Litchfield County architectural landmark,”
“a Colonial Revival gem.” It had three stories, two rambling additions, and twenty-one rooms. Black-and-white photos on the
society’s Web site showed a spectacular mansion set behind towering trees with a formal garden. Peggy had hardly been able
to believe her luck, even when she’d learned she’d be staying there with not just Luke, but his great-aunt, too—one big happy
family.

“I know it sounds insane, Bex, but everything is falling into place.” Peggy sat squeamishly on the coffee table, checking
first to make sure it wasn’t sticky. You never knew in Josh’s apartment. “It’ll be good for the store. It will be good for
me and Brock. And it’ll be good for you. I’ve been letting you take care of me for far too long. It’s time I made a contribution.
Besides, it’s only until next September.”

Bex had a fleck of tomato sauce on her cheek. “What if the old lady lives another twenty years? You’ll never get to marry
Brock. Not a huge tragedy in my opinion, but still, you’re stuck in a sexless marriage to a random person you don’t care about.
Have you thought of that?”

“She can always back out, sweetie,” Josh said. “The will just says if they’re still married in twelve months, they’ll get
the house. There’s nothing forcing them to stay together for life.”

On Saturday, Peggy turned her rental car, a Pontiac this time, onto Church Street, toward the traffic light that swung on
a cable over the center of town—the intersection of Church and Main. As she waited at the light, she leaned over the steering
wheel to get a better look at New Nineveh. She couldn’t get over how postcard pretty it was, with its picturesque churches
and shops arranged around a central lawn. The single incongruity was a group of picketers on the grass. “Save Our Town!” their
signs read. “Stop Destroying History!” It was surprising to find strife in this serene setting. She’d have to find out what
they were protesting.

She peered up Main Street, trying to locate the Silas Sedgwick House, but the homes were set back behind yellow-and magenta-leafed
trees. When the light changed, she turned left onto Main and counted houses in from the corner on the right: One. Two. And
then, three.

Her arms broke out in goose bumps.

It was a breathtaking, magnificent white-clapboard structure. Two pairs of first-and second-story windows with black-painted
shutters were set on either side of a grand front door flanked with four columns. Above the door, on the second story, a dramatic
central window arched toward the third floor, where a smaller crescent window curved up toward a graceful, sloping roof. The
roof was crowned with a flat widow’s walk surrounded by an ornate balustrade.

Four sturdy chimneys rose, one from each corner. On the front of the house was a neat white plaque with black-painted lettering:

The historical society photographs hadn’t done it justice.

Awed, Peggy turned into the shallow semicircular gravel driveway between Main Street and the house so abruptly that the Pontiac’s
tires squealed. She stepped out of the car, locked the door, and stood in the fall air.

Balanced high on a ladder in the front yard, a frail figure was sawing branches from an oranging maple.

Peggy’s breath caught in her chest. A low picket fence separated the front yard from the sidewalk, and she hurried through
its gate and across the lawn, afraid of startling Miss Abigail off her unsteady perch. Why wasn’t Luke pruning the trees?
Really, why wasn’t a gardener doing it? A house this size would have a gardener.

At the tree, bits of wood rained onto the lawn. Peggy stepped between fallen branches, dodging another that was plummeting
to the ground. “Should you be up there? Isn’t this considered strenuous—”

“Look out below!” Miss Abigail called. Another slender branch dropped near Peggy’s feet. Miss Abigail regarded it with a cold
eye and nodded. “That should do for today.” She started down the ladder, disregarding the hand Peggy held out to her, passing
Peggy the saw instead. “If Luke asks, our neighbor Mr. Fiorentino chopped off those branches, and I was not on that ladder.”

For the first time since she’d called Luke two weeks and a day ago, Peggy felt an unwelcome pang of apprehension:
What have I gotten myself into?
She made the decision to ignore it and carried the saw carefully as Miss Abigail hauled the severed branches to a small stand
Peggy hadn’t noticed at the edge of the front yard. A wooden box with the words
Honor System
on it sat on the counter next to half a dozen metal buckets. Miss Abigail panted a bit as she arranged the branches in the
buckets, one eye on a woman who was coming up the sidewalk. “The Sedgwick maple is the oldest tree in town.” She stopped as
the woman arrived, then continued, “Silas had it planted when the house was built.”