Authors: Kristan Higgins
Honor squinted, trying to filter through the bundle of
facts.
“So you should marry him. Nothing wrong with an arranged
marriage.”
“As in, you and Pops worked out so well?” She opened the drawer
on the cart and took out a replacement bulb.
The old lady chuffed. “Please. You want to be married, or you
want to be happy?”
“Both?”
Goggy snorted. “You young people. So spoiled. Anyway, there’s
nothing wrong with this boy. He’s very nice and extremely good-looking.”
Honor screwed in the new lightbulb. “Have you ever met
him?”
“No. But he is.”
“Seen a picture?”
“No. Charming, too.”
“So you’ve talked to him on the phone?”
“No.”
“Facebook? Email?”
“No, Honor. You know I don’t believe in computers.”
“Hi there, Honor,” called Mr. Christian from the back of the
auditorium. “Heard you were in a girl fight the other day.”
“Thanks for bringing it up,” Honor said. “Anyway, Goggy, it
sounds like you really don’t know this person at all.”
“What’s to know? He’s British.”
“That may or may not help his case. If he sounds like Prince
Charles, there’s no way in hell I’ll marry him. Does he have those big
teeth?”
“Don’t be so superficial, honey! He’s a professor,” Goggy
added. “Electrical engineering or math or something.”
An image of Honor’s own math teacher in college, a damp man
with onion breath, came to mind.
“So he needs a green card,” Goggy said, “you’re single, and you
two should get married.”
“Okay, first of all, sure, I’d love to get married if I met
someone great and fell in love, but if that doesn’t happen, I’m fine on my own.”
Oh, the lies. “Secondly, I don’t want to get married just to check it off a
list. And thirdly, I’m pretty sure marrying for a green card is illegal.” She
paused. “Why doesn’t he just go back to England?”
“There was a tragedy.” Another triumphant look from Goggy.
“What kind?”
“I don’t know. Does it matter, Honor? You’re thirty-five.
That’s when the eggs start spoiling. That’s when I started menopause.” Oh, snap.
“Besides, if I can stay married to your grandfather for sixty-five years and not
have murdered him yet, why can’t you do the same with this boy?”
“How old is this person? You keep calling him a boy.”
“I don’t know. Anyone under sixty is a boy to me.”
“So he’s a math teacher and distantly related to an old friend
of yours, and that’s all you’ve got on him?”
Goggy waved to Mrs. Lunqvist. “Young people,” she called.
“They’re so fussy!” Mrs. Lunqvist, who used to terrorize the kids in Bible study
with tales of fiery devastation of Biblical cities, nodded in agreement. “So
you’ll meet him?”
What have you got to lose?
the eggs
asked, looking up from their quilting.
Didn’t you hear what
she said about menopause?
Honor sighed. “Sure,” she said.
“I just thought it’d be nice,” Goggy said. “I have a soft spot
for his family, that’s all. You’d be surprised at how many times I think of
Peter and what my life would be like if he hadn’t died in World War II.
Protecting freedom and saving the world. So when I heard his grandnephew was in
town, all by himself, lonely, depressed, British—”
Such
a prize. “You can stop now,
Goggy, I just said I’ll meet the guy.”
“You did?”
“Yes.”
Goggy smiled triumphantly.
“Don’t go planning any weddings,” Honor warned. “I’m just doing
it to be polite.” An image of a balding man with large, horselike teeth and a
love of sharing math theorems popped into her head. “What’s his name?”
“Tom Barlow.” A completely ordinary name. Not like Brogan Cain,
for example. “I told him you’d meet him tonight at O’Rourke’s.”
“What?”
“And put on lipstick, for heaven’s sake. You’re such a pretty
girl. And be nice! It wouldn’t kill you to smile. Oh, there’s Henrietta
Blanchette. I heard she got food poisoning from that slop they serve here. I’ll
go say hi.”
Honor’s mood was soft after the movie. First, the wine had been
fantastic, this lovely Tempranillo with hints of strawberries, cherry jam and
leather. Then the Rushing Creek residents, who loved Watch and Wine and always
had something nice to say (once they’d gotten their kicks out of mentioning her
catfight, that was). But in general, whatever barriers seemed to exist between
Honor and her peers evaporated with old people, who called her
honey
and
dear
and told
her about their kidney stones and varicose veins. Also, one couldn’t rule out
the movie itself. Keanu Reeves, amen, sister. The kiss in that movie—
the
kiss, the babymaker—had she ever been kissed like
that?
Er, no.
Nope, no man had ever been desperate to kiss her. No man had
ever kissed her like he’d die if he didn’t. No sirree. Didn’t happen. Didn’t
seem like it was
going
to happen, either, not when a
middle-aged British math teacher was her only prospect.
That could change. She’d update her dating website profiles.
Ask Faith to help her out with things like push-up bras and flirting. Maybe some
of the men she did business with were single, and maybe they’d notice her. It
could happen.
It’s just that no one was like Brogan.
Nope, nope. No more thoughts like that. So over him. Almost.
Well, getting there. Okay, not at all, really.
As she walked through Rushing Creek, she heard a familiar
laugh.
Right. Dana cut hair every other Thursday at Rushing Creek’s
salon. Honor had recommended her for the gig, actually.
The sound made Honor stop in her tracks, her stomach suddenly
flooded with a cold rush of emotion. Anger, embarrassment, jealousy,
loneliness...
Yeah. Loneliness.
Don’t let her see you.
Dana looked up and saw. “Honor!” she called. “Do you have a
second?”
Fungus
. Feeling her face flush,
Honor nodded. She went into the salon, which, though small, was a lot nicer than
House of Hair.
“Mrs. Jenkins, I just need to take out your hearing aid, okay?”
Dana asked, slipping it out. “There,” she said to Honor. “Now we can talk. The
old bat’s deaf as dirt.”
An unexpected yearning swooped through Honor’s chest. For five
years, since Dana moved to Manningsport, they’d been friends, the type of friend
Honor hadn’t had since college. Hanging out, calling for no reason,
commiserating over work, family, men. They’d had a lot of good times together. A
lot of laughs.
Honor didn’t say anything. Then again, she didn’t leave,
either.
“That’s some haircut,” Dana said. “Not bad. Where’d you get it
done? Parisian’s?”
Still, Honor didn’t answer. They were
not
going to talk about hairstyles (but yes, it was Parisian’s).
“Look, you gave it your best shot, Honor. Okay?” Dana went on.
“He didn’t love you. You’re the one who said you were done with him, and he and
I just ran into each other one night at O’Rourke’s, and one thing led to
another. It was a complete shock to us both.”
“I’m actually surprised you had waited as long as you did,
Dana.”
Bitter Betty, table for one.
But it
had only been six weeks since she’d been...betrayed. No other word would do.
“Honor, I’m sorry, I really am. I know you wanted Brogan to
love you, but it’s not my fault he didn’t.”
“Could you lower your voice, please?” Honor said, her face
burning.
“Oh, please. She hasn’t heard anything since Clinton was
president.” Dana cut her a glance, her face softening. “How many times have you
and I talked about just this exact thing? The guy you least expect to fall for
and then boom, you’ve fallen. And he happened to fall for me, too. We were just
chatting at the bar.” She gave Honor a small, smug smile. “And all of a sudden,
there was this charge in the air.”
Dana was gloating. Brogan and she knew each other, of course.
Sometimes, the three of them had gone out together. If there’d been any charge
in the air, Honor hadn’t noticed.
Dana was quiet for a minute. “I know you had a crush on him
since the dawn of time.”
“It was more than a crush, Dana. Don’t minimize my feelings to
make yourself feel less guilty.”
“I
don’t
feel guilty,” she said,
turning back to Mrs. Jenkins, her scissors flying in a sinister hiss. She got
paid sixty-five dollars a haircut, Honor knew. Sixty-five bucks for taking a
millimeter off someone’s hair. “Look, I know you were surprised. But I still
think you owe me an apology.”
The noise that came out of Honor’s mouth was somewhere between
a sputter, a choke and a laugh. “An apology?”
“Just a little trim around the ears,” Mrs. Jenkins said. “Not
too short, dear.”
“Got it, Mrs. Jenkins,” Dana barked. “Not too short.” Her voice
lowered, and she looked at Honor. “Yeah, an apology. I don’t appreciate having
wine thrown in my face, not to mention being shoved in a restaurant in front of
the guy I love.”
Honor’s mouth opened and closed a few times. “You have got to
be kidding me.”
“Listen. I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you, but does that
mean that both Brogan and I are supposed to ignore what we feel for each other?”
Her words might’ve had more impact if her tone hadn’t been as sharp as her
scissors. The horrible, beautiful engagement ring flashed as her hands moved
over Mrs. Jenkins’s head. “Seriously, we didn’t plan it. It just happened.”
Oh, that infuriating phrase! Nothing
just
happened. Vaginas didn’t just happen to fall on penises.
Unspoken words bubbled up like lava.
Do I look that stupid?
You were supposed to be my friend. You made me a martini that night. I cried
on your couch! We watched
Shark Week!
And a few
weeks later, you were sleeping with the guy who broke my heart. For crying
out loud, you told me in a bar. Two against one, in a bar.
Yes, she could say those things, and denigrate her pride even
further. Remind Dana just how pathetic she’d been...and give Dana more chance to
gloat. Because wasn’t that what she was doing?
“I guess we have different ideas of what it means to be
friends,” she said tightly.
“Yeah. Friends don’t throw wine in their friends’ faces.”
“Fine. I was very surprised, and I reacted badly. But I seem to
remember you reacting just as badly in return.”
“Someone throws wine into my face, yeah, I do react badly.” She
gave Honor a little smile. “So. Are we good?”
In the mirror, Honor saw her own mouth fall open. She closed
it. “I don’t know that we’re ever going to be good, Dana.”
“Why? Water under the bridge, right? It was dramatic, you feel
embarrassed, so do I, a little.” She shrugged, still smiling. “Let’s get past
it. I mean, what else are we gonna do? Hate each other forever? Okay. I have to
put this hearing aid back in or the old bag will start to suspect something.”
Unexpectedly, she gave Honor a quick hug. “I’m glad we talked. I mean, yeah,
things’ll be weird for a while, but we’re still best friends, right? And hell’s
bells, girl, I have a wedding to plan!”
“Oh, I love weddings,” Mrs. Jenkins said, adjusting her hearing
aid.
“Come by the salon, and I’ll shape up your bangs,” Dana said.
“See you soon!”
And, because she didn’t know what else to say, and really,
really wanted to get out of there, Honor left.
CHAPTER FOUR
H
AVING
TWO
GLASSES
of whiskey probably wasn’t the most brilliant idea before a fix-up, Tom thought. But he wasn’t driving. And also, though he hated to point out the obvious, even to himself, it was too late. One could not undrink whiskey, unless one vomited, which Tom was not going to do.
“Off to meet the future Mrs. Barlow,” he told his reflection. “Excited, mate?”
This did not have a good feeling to it. First of all, the whole criminal aspect of the night cast a bit of a pall, didn’t it? And secondly, his great-aunt was fixing him up. He still had a tiny shred of pride left after Melissa, but this would probably kill it. But for whatever reason, when Candace had called, clucking in excitement, he’d said he’d love to meet her pen pal’s granddaughter.
He walked the three blocks to the town green. There was another thing. If he did manage to stay in this godforsaken town, he’d have to stay in this godforsaken town, and bloody hell! The weather! Made England look like paradise, and that was saying a lot.
But Charlie was here. Not that the boy wanted Tom around. Yesterday, Tom had gone the tried and true route and attempted to bribe his way into Charlie’s affection with an iPhone. When Tom tried to show him a few of the new features, the boy went limp with disgust, rolled his eyes and then stared straight ahead, arms crossed, silently counting the seconds till Tom left.
So marrying just to stay here...it felt a bit like buying a house on Isle of the Damned. Not that he’d actually do it. But for some reason, here he was, trudging through the slush to meet some middle-aged woman Aunt Candy had said could keep her mouth shut. Someone who was desperate enough to consider marrying a stranger. Someone whose “clock is ticking.” Fantastic. He could only imagine what she looked like. Dame Judi Dench came to mind. Talented, sure. Did he want to bang Dame Judi Dench? No, he did not.
Then again, he hadn’t done so well on his own, had he? Melissa, though quite the looker, hadn’t turned out to be such a prize.
The warmth of the pub was welcome. At least the little town had this, a little tavern at which to drown one’s sorrows.
“Hello, Colleen,” he said, because yeah, befriending the bartender was never a bad idea.
“Hallo, Tom,” she said in a fair imitation of his accent. “Bass ale tonight?”
“I’ll have a whiskey, love,” he said.
“Not your first, I’m guessing.”
“You’re astute
and
beautiful. A bit terrifying.”
“You driving?”
“No, miss.” He smiled. She cocked an eyebrow and poured him his drink.
“I’m meeting Honor Holland,” he said. “Do you know her?”
“I know everyone,” Colleen answered. “I’ll send her over when she gets here.”
Tom made his way to a booth at the back of the bar where they could talk about illegal matters privately. There was a uniformed policeman there, but he was occupied with a pretty redhead, so the fact that Tom was perhaps a bit drunk already might go unnoticed. And let’s not forget. He was also planning to commit a crime.
He took a sip of whiskey and tried to relax. Yesterday after Candace called, he’d looked up green card fraud on dear old Google. Not encouraging. Jail time. Whopping fines. Deportation with no possibility of ever living in the States again.
He could go back to England. Visit Charlie once or twice a year. And then—Tom could see it already—the visits would become less frequent. He’d get weary of trying to carve out a friendship with some kid who bloody well hated him. Charlie would turn to drugs and terrible music—or even worse music, as the case might be. Tom would marry some nice English girl who’d resent the time and money it took to cross the Pond, and the memory of that small, lovely boy who’d once flown kites with him would fade into obscurity.
Fuck-all.
“Are you Tom?”
He looked up and there was Catfight Woman Number One standing right in front of him. “Hello! It’s you!”
“Um, have we met?”
“Not officially,” he said. “Though I have fond memories of you.”
He could do worse, he noted. She was...all right. She was sort of pretty. Also, she was here, which was nice of her. Unfortunately, he seemed a bit knackered. This would be a case of subliminally shooting himself in the foot, he might say, if he were an aficionado of Dr. Freud. Yep. Pissed. His vocabulary and accent tended to mushroom exponentially when under the influence.
She frowned. “I’m Honor Holland.”
Something moved in her handbag, and Tom jumped. “Shit, darling, I hate to tell you this, but there seems to be a rat in your bag.”
“Very funny. It’s my dog.”
“Is it? If you say so. Well, Honor Holland. Lovely to meet you.”
“You, too.” Her expression contradicted that statement, but she sat down. The rat peeked out of the bag and bared its teeth. Ah. It
was
a dog, he was almost positive.
“So.” She folded her hands—pretty hands, very tidy with clear polish on her short nails—and looked at him. “I gather you’re the Brit who was in the bar the night of my little...meltdown.”
“Darling, that wasn’t little,” he said warmly. “It was bloody magnificent.”
“Can we skip over that?”
“Absolutely! Though if you’d like to reminisce, I’m all ears. Your hair’s quite different, isn’t it? Looks better. That sister-wife thing was a bit off-putting. Also, there’s less for people to grab if you get into another fight. Very practical of you. So. Shall we get married?”
His charm seemed to be lost on her. “Okay, I’m leaving. I don’t think we need to waste any more time here, do you?”
“Oh, come now, darling. Give us a chance, won’t you? I’m a bit nervous.” He smiled. When he smiled in class, most of the females (and a couple of the lads as well) got a bit swoony.
She blushed. Brilliant. She covered by looking into her purse, where the little rat dog was still baring its teeth at him. Tom tried smiling at the dog. Didn’t have quite the same effect as it had on the wee beastie’s owner.
The server appeared. “Hi, Monica,” Honor said. “Got anything special tonight?”
“We’ve got two bottles of the McGregor Black Russian Red.”
“I’ll have a glass of that, then.”
So Miss Holland wasn’t leaving yet. “And I’ll have another of these,” Tom said, holding up his empty glass.
“No, he won’t,” Honor said.
“Taking care of me already, love?” he asked.
“You got it,” the serving wench said, giving Tom the eye. He winked at her, and off she went.
“Are you drunk?” Honor asked.
“Please,” he said. “I’m British. The proper word is
pissed
.”
“Great,” she muttered.
“So, Miss Holland. Thanks for coming to meet me.”
She didn’t answer. Just looked at him, expressionless.
She wasn’t bad. Nothing wrong with her. Blondish hair. Brown eyes. Normal build, though he wished the shirt was a bit more revealing so he could take a look. Those pearls weren’t doing much for her sex appeal.
Take them off, and yeah, he could imagine her in bed. Quite vividly, in fact. On second thought, leave the pearls on and take off everything else.
Oh, shit. He rubbed the back of his neck. The server brought Honor her wine and Tom’s whiskey.
His date didn’t touch her glass.
“Right,” he said. “Why don’t I summarize what I know about you, and you can fill in the gaps—how’s that?”
“Fine,” she said.
“As I understand it, you were in love with a bloke who was clearly using you for sex and is now marrying your best mate.”
She closed her eyes.
“Don’t forget, darling, I had a front-row seat that night. So now you’ve realized your knight in shining armor is, in fact, a faithless whore of a man—”
“You know what? It wasn’t like that. So shut up.”
Tom leaned back in his seat and squinted at her. “Funny, that. How women always rush to defend the men who’ve scraped them off their shoes. Interesting.” Now was the time he should stop talking. “Anyway, you backed the wrong pony and now you’re a bit desperate. Want to get married, prove you’re over the wanker, pop out a couple kids while there’s still time.”
She sputtered. His mouth kept doing its thing. “That’s all fine. As for me, I need a green card. Not sure about kids just yet, but I say let’s get married and figure that out later. You’re female, you’re not old, you’re not ugly. Sold.”
God. He was such a bunghole.
She stared him down. Had to give her credit for that. “I’ll let you get the check,” she said.
The relief he felt was mixed with regret. “Cheerio, then. Lovely to meet you.”
“Wish I could say the same,” she said, sliding out of the booth.
“Don’t forget the vermin,” he said, nodding to her bag. She grabbed it and left without looking back.
“Well done, mate,” he said to himself, a familiar feeling of disgust in his stomach. He pressed his fingers against his forehead for a second, resisting the urge to follow Miss Holland and apologize for being such a prick.
It was just that using someone was easier in theory than in reality. Even for Charlie’s sake.
Besides, he’d been with a woman who was in love with someone else. Been there, done that, had those scars.
And realizing she was the woman who’d been so...passionate that night...he rather liked that wine-tossing, hair-pulling woman. Someone like her deserved better than a marriage of convenience, whatever her reasons for coming here tonight.