Authors: Gwen Jones
“I will remind you, Mr. Devine, you rather twisted my arm.”
“And I will remind
you
, Miss Knott, we are here only because you phoned me. If you’re marrying me just to get a story, then I think you should reconsider.”
Damn, if he couldn’t see through me. But how could he fault me for taking his offer of a trial marriage at face value? But I wouldn’t let that throw me off my game. So I countered with logic—as well as a bit of stroking to his rampant machismo. “Mr. Devine, as juicy as this story may be, I don’t know you from a hole in the ground. As a woman, I’m taking an incredible risk. But I’m choosing to believe I’m marrying an honest man who’s offering me a fresh start at one of the worst times of my life. At least that’s what I’m hoping.”
His whole demeanor changed; he almost seemed offended. “I meant every word I said. I will take care of you.”
And somehow I knew he meant it, so much more than any assurances Richard had ever given me. “Then I guess that’s all I need to know.”
He looked visibly relieved, raising his coffee. “Then congratulations to us, Julie. We’re engaged.”
Julie
. When he said it, it sang like poetry.
Zhu-leé.
I clinked my cup to his, suddenly feeling giddy. “I suppose we are, Andy. Shall it be a very long engagement?”
“Only as long as it takes to get the license.”
“Really? Shouldn’t we get to know each other better?”
No euphemism intended.
Within a breath he returned to business. “You’ll have marriage agreement protection and ninety days with compensation if it doesn’t work out. After that, I would like to think we’ll be playing it by ear. Of course, I’ve put this all down in writing.” He slid the manila envelope to me. “Does that sound fair?”
It sounded perfect. “Sure.”
“And not to seem indelicate, but during that time, we will be trying for a baby. I do want you to know up front that’s an intractable clause in the contract.”
Had anyone in the world ever said that less romantically? “I get you,” I said, feeling my neck heating. I slid the envelope into my purse. “I’ll look it over tonight.”
“If there’s anything you’d like to add or detract, let me know and I’ll review it. If you don’t mind, I’d like it if we could go get the marriage license.”
“Now?” My God, he was in a hurry. “Where?”
“In Iron Bog. I figure we can get married there. Unless you have something grander in mind.”
Funny he should mention
grand
; I thought of what I had cancelled just that morning: the calla lilies for me, the gardenias for our bridal party, the $1800 three-layer
dobos torte
wedding cake, the ceremony at the art museum, the 250-guest Four Seasons reception with full orchestra and open bar, the 1934 Studebaker convertible which would have squired us around. I had told all concerned Richard had been killed in a subway accident in the Bronx. Most said they would give me a full refund. The honeymoon to Bhutan, which Richard had been paying for, I left intact for Annika and him to default on. For the guests, I had asked Denny to send out all my pre-stamped and pre-addressed thank you cards with a
Just kidding; stay home
. When I told my parents, I think my mother’s tears flowed from a wellspring of joy. I hadn’t the heart to let her know what was coming up next. By that time, I was truly exhausted.
“No,” I said, “the justice of the peace will be fine.”
“Good.” He tossed off the last of his coffee. “Shall we go then?”
Since the car Richard and I had shared was most likely stashed in the long-term lot at the airport, I had borrowed Brent’s Saab to meet Andy. And although Andy offered to drive us both out to Iron Bog for the license and drop me back, I wasn’t ready to relinquish my freedom to my new fiancé just yet. So I followed his old Ford F-150 pick-up past the strip malls and office complexes until they thinned out to housing developments and finally into the Pines, where the trees eventually gave way to the crossroads of Iron Bog and Jinks’ Gas Station.
“This is my Uncle Jinks,” said Andy. “He’ll be our witness for the license.”
“How you doing,” said a grizzled older man, taking my hand. “I’m really just an old friend of his dad’s, but still, I get final approval.” He pushed back his cap and smiled with perfect teeth. “So you’re the lovely Julie Knott. Pleased to finally meet you in the flesh. You’re even prettier in person.” He winked. “Which means I approve.”
I liked him immediately. “Why, thank you, Uncle Jinks,” I said, squeezing his hand. “You say the sweetest things.”
“You couldn’t be getting a better husband, and that’s the truth,” he said earnestly. “Though my boy seems to be caught in a bit of a time warp.”
“I’ve noticed,” I said, slanting Andy a glance. “He’s positively medieval.”
Uncle Jinks laughed. “Boy, if that don’t fit. Because just like his dad, he’s—”
“Jinks,” Andy interjected, “isn’t that your phone ringing?”
“Bobby!” his ersatz uncle yelled to a young man stacking oil filters. “Get the phone! Bobby! Hey!” He scowled. “Oh, he’s had it.” He looked to Andy. “Hold on, I’ll be right back.”
I watched Jinks trot off to the garage. “What’s he talking about?”
“That kid,” Andy said. “If it isn’t his phone, it’s his iPod.”
“No, I meant about—”
“The municipal building is right across the street,” he said, turning toward it. “They’re only open until noon today. We better go. Jinks will catch up.”
I looked over my shoulder; he was already starting back. Whatever Andy’s uncle had implied, I’d have to ask him later.
Applying for a marriage license in New Jersey was a rather simple affair. All we needed was ID, our social security numbers, Uncle Jinks as witness and twenty-eight dollars. Andy signed, I signed, Jinks signed, Andy paid, and the next thing I knew I was one step closer to strapping myself to this stranger for life. At least in theory. I was cross-my-heart sure it was the craziest thing I had ever done, and I’d more than a few times come close to the asylum. I thought of the journalists who had gone deep, like John Howard Griffin in
Black Like Me
, Gloria Steinem in “I was a Playboy Bunny” or Barbara Ehrenreich in
Nickel and Dimed
. Was my story of a utility pole bride just as worthy as those first-person narratives? I glanced at Andy as he walked me to my car.
I certainly hoped so.
“Well,” he said, squinting from the sun, “that was easy.”
Why did he look so much bigger in broad daylight? “I should be going. I have lots to do.” I tapped my purse. “And read. I’ll call you if I have any questions.”
“Just leave a message with Uncle Jinks.”
“Because you don’t have a phone? Why is that?”
He shrugged. “You’d be surprised what you can live without. And with.”
And with whom
. When we got to my car he opened the door; I rolled down the window after he shut it. “Well, I guess I’ll see you—”
“Tuesday, right here. Shall we say, three o’clock?”
Not before then?
I pulled the manila envelope from my purse. “How about this?”
“Bring it with you when you come. It’s pretty cut-and-dried, as long as you agree with it.” Then he leaned in, his fingers wrapped around the door. “Thank you, Julie. See you Tuesday.” And with a tap on the roof, he left.
As long as you agree with it
. To living in the woods. To marrying a stranger. To having his baby.
My God!
Then it hit me like a head-on collision: this tall, dark, and handsome French throwback-to-the-nineteenth century was my
fiancé
. With one breakfast as courtship, with no engagement ring, with his only endorsement from another stranger, I was actually going to marry him? I fell back in my seat, watching him walk away. He hadn’t even touched me, not once. I closed my eyes, remembering to breathe.
It really was a business arrangement, wasn’t it?
Here Comes the Bride
I
DON’T KNOW
what I had expected, but it probably wasn’t being stood up again. Truly, who would think lightning would strike the same woman twice? But there I was, standing in front of Town Hall, teetering on my Ferragamos while the sweat collected beneath my cream silk sheath, the baby’s breath no doubt drooping in my salon-perfected hair. Maybe I should have taken up Brent and Denny’s offer to drive me, but I just couldn’t face another scene. Even though the cab had cost a fortune, I felt much more comfortable with a stranger dropping my baggage to the curb. Since I was marrying one, the stranger theme fit all around.
The point was driven home by the contract I had signed the night before. Brent had asked his attorney, Alvie Ross, to take a look Monday morning, and by that evening, he’d come back with a verdict.
“Purely from a contractual point of view,” Alvie had said, “it’s a match made in heaven. You’d certainly come out with the sweet end of the lollipop.”
I took another sip of sherry, hoping it’d negate the sleepless night I was anticipating. “You really think so?”
“This guy’s clean—I can’t find
anything
on him.” He tapped his pipe against the page. “If you stay married, he assumes all your debts, and gives you half-ownership in his property, bonds and liquid assets. His father’s will just got out of probate, and your fiancé was left quite a substantial legacy—over $750,000, some very solid municipal bonds, and acres and acres of property he owns free and clear. He even has a little bungalow down Long Beach Island right on the beach, and with the way things have been selling down there, you can only imagine what it’s worth. He has all kinds of insurance in which you’d be the beneficiary, not that he isn’t as healthy as a horse, plus there’s that three-month out with $50,000 to cry all the way home with.” Then he frowned. “But everything’s contingent on the one thing that concerns me: within those three months you have to get pregnant, or that gives
him
grounds for annulment. Are you all right with that?”
“A big question to ask yourself, darling,” Brent said, squeezing my hand.
“I wouldn’t be marrying him if I wasn’t,” I said, especially since I was counting on it.
“Then I suppose, if you’re so inclined . . .” Alvie said, handing me the pen, “you’re good to go.”
Go where?
I thought as I stood on the courthouse steps. I didn’t know where he lived. And the taxi driver had grabbed my $125 and taken off in a cloud of dust. I looked toward Uncle Jinks’ garage. I suppose he might know where to find my elusive fiancé, but in the twenty minutes I’d been waiting I hadn’t seen him either. As conspicuous as I’m sure I looked, I’m positive he would’ve come out had he been around.
As I idled, I recalled a childhood notion. Before time and reality jaded me, I used to be quite the romantic, lying back on my twin bed, my adolescent mind pondering:
I wonder what my future husband is doing right now?
Was he hanging with friends, doing his homework, watching television, perhaps even imagining me? I used to wonder if he was dark-haired or blond, tall or muscular, liked horses and Geraldo Rivera and Talking Heads as much as I did. I wondered if one day he’d be working for the network, as I assumed I’d be, or a star reporter for the
New York Times
, or writing a political expose for
Newsweek
. Even from my most tender age, I knew I was a voice to be heard, and as narcissistic as that sounds, it truly wasn’t. It was more like there were truths to be unearthed and only I could bring them out, just as there was that one man who had to be working his way toward me.
How moronic.
I checked my watch: three-twenty. According to the sign on the building, the offices closed at four. Which set the timer at forty minutes and counting. I thought of the elaborate wedding I had planned with Richard, and how forty minutes hardly would’ve gotten us down the aisle. I pushed a drooping curl behind my ear, a baby’s breath fluttering to my shoe, and unstuck from my sweaty chest the wilting bodice of my sheath.
What an idiot
. How in hell had I been so stupid to let it happen again? I felt like I’d been had, but for what reason? It hurt, especially considering I was skating very close to scamming him. But at that moment, at the prospect of Andy leaving me hanging, the only thing that concerned me was how the hell to extricate myself from this situation. Then suddenly his old Ford truck screeched around the corner to the curb. He jumped out, trotting to me.
“I’m—I’m so sorry,” he said breathlessly, his chest heaving. “Really I . . .”
All at once he stopped and stared, and I had to admit, I did likewise. With his hair wind-tousled, his eyes a frantic blue, he looked so downright gorgeous in his black suit and tie, I think I could’ve forgiven him anything short of murder. Especially when I caught sight of the bouquet of yellow wildflowers clutched in his hand.
“For—you,” he said, handing them to me.
I wrapped my fingers around the stems and buried my nose in the blossoms, even though black-eyed Susans don’t carry a scent. “I thought you’d forgotten all about me.”
He came closer, his gaze fixed on mine. “I could never forget about you.”
Amazing how this man could make my insides go to mush with nothing more than a few everyday words. Yet when Andy looked at me, smelling of fresh air and sounding like music, my angst eased a bit. “Then maybe all we need to do is synchronize our watches?”
“Maybe,” he said, so close to me I could see a tiny muscle pulsing on his cheek, “but I’m pretty sure Betsy wouldn’t care.”
I felt dreamy, ready to—“Who’s Betsy?”
“My heifer. She’s just about ready to calve.” He picked up my stuffed suitcases like he was lifting balloons and pulled back on the door. “So, we’d better hurry,” he said, holding it out with his foot. “Uncle Jinks is with her, but we haven’t much time.”
Heifer? Calve?
I hurried up the hallway beside Andy, rethinking the logic of this for maybe the last time. We stopped at a door that said, PAUL S. HINKLE, MAYOR. HUNTING & FISHING LICENSES MONDAY THRU THURSDAY 10-1. Andy set one bag on the floor and opened the door.