Two
“It’s like Taming of the Shrew!” Harper leaned forward, her brown eyes over-bright and glistening with a distinct sparkle that I didn’t particularly like.
“In what world is Ashleigh’s situation like Taming of the Shrew? Is she Katherine or Bianca in this scenario, because I don’t recall any of Shakespeare’s characters pretending to be married when they were, in fact, a divorcee.” Carol shifted in the floral wingback chair. More a throne for her, really. The one she sat in to preside over the discussions during book club. Only, this week’s discussion had been sidetracked by my current dilemma.
Harper huffed. “Well, it’s not exactly like Taming of the Shrew, but similar enough. Think about it. Ashleigh is Katherine and her sister Claire is Bianca. Claire can’t get married until Ashleigh does...or at least pretends to be. Just like Bianca and Katherine.” She smiled like some of my students do when they think they know the right answer on a test.
A decidedly masculine chuckle/cough combination sounded from somewhere in the back of Carol’s house.
Who was that?I sat up a little straighter. For the whole year I’d been attending book club, Carol, Harper, and I were the only ones who’d ever been present.
I take that back. Harper had brought an author friend a couple of times, but that was so long ago I don’t even remember her name. I do remember, however, that she had a delicate voice and tittered like a bell when she laughed
My brows rose. “Who is that?” I whispered. Sure. Now I kept my voice down, after having practically yelled parts of my conversation with Claire as I rehashed it for my friends. If the owner of said mystery laugh had been there the whole time, he’d be privy to my entire humiliation.
Carol shrugged. “Landon came over this morning to help me out with a problem I’ve been having with my computer.”
I sank farther into my corner of her very uncomfortable antique fainting couch. The thing had been fun that one time we’d been reading North and South and had taken turns pressing the back of our hand to our forehead to perfect our Victorian swoon over Mr. Thornton. Now I wished Carol owned something a little more overstuffed that I could hide in.
Carol rolled her eyes before pinning me with a look. A very motherly, pointed look.
I squirmed. I’d never met Carol’s son before, but I didn’t think I was making a much better first impression on him than Elizabeth Bennet did on Darcy. Side note: Did you know Pride and Prejudice was originally titled First Impressions? Apropos, don’t you think?
“What are you going to do, Ashleigh? Are you going to tell your sister to stop the charade before it even begins?” Carol asked.
Harper leaned so far forward I thought she’d fall off the couch. She had her fingers crossed, and I could swear she was mouthing please don’t, please don’t.
A pain stabbed the back of my eye. The get together with the Abrams began in three days. That meant that in eight days, my headache would finally dissolve and I wouldn’t want to beg someone to chop off my head any longer. If only Henry VIII were available to pose as my new spouse.
Carol put down the bowl of pretzels she’d been munching on and reached over to grip my hand. Her eyes softened. “Look, sweetie. It’s never a good idea to start a relationship with a lie.”
How well I know that.
“Besides, what does Claire think? That every time the two families get together you can magically convince the same guy to play your fake husband? What if the man really does get married? Or what if you start dating someone else?” She shook her head. “I don’t think your sister and her boyfriend have really thought this thing through.”
If only that were the case. I nibbled on my bottom lip. Carol was like a second mother to me—sheesh, I’d been around her more in the last year than I had the last dozen or so with my own mother—and I didn’t want to see her gaze cloud with disappointment. “It’s not like the two families will be getting together often, since they live in Texas. A lot of in-laws never see the other family except at the wedding. And if it ever came up, Claire already has a list of excuses why my husband couldn’t show up in the future.”
Carol squeezed my hand harder before dropping it altogether. “Don’t you find it ironic that she wants you to lie as a means to convince this guy she, and her family by extension, are worthy of marrying into his family? To a pastor no less!” She threw her hands up in the air. “Your sister, in her desire to impress, is asking you to completely ignore commandment number nine and perpetuate a bold-faced lie to a man of the Bible.”
Warmth seeped into my face. I’d tried to reason with Claire, but for some reason it was like she had blinders on when it came to this. After about forty minutes of pointing out all the flaws in her logic, she got so distressed she started hyperventilating over the phone. That’s when I finally capitulated and signed my own death warrant. And by that, I mean I agreed to her hair-brained plan.
Carol stared at me, eyes wide, waiting for an answer. What could I say? She wasn’t wrong. Claire, in all of her lovey-dovey hormones, had gone off the deep end and dragged me down with her.
I averted my gaze from Carol’s probing.
“Does that mean you’re doing it? You’re going to convince some guy to pretend to be your husband?” I’d never heard Harper so excited. Not even when someone had recognized her at a coffee shop from her head shot on the back cover of her books. I had to admit, that glint made shivers run down my spine. How could someone who normally had such a naivety and innocence about her suddenly seem so diabolical?
I ran my palms down my thighs. “I know Seattle isn’t L.A. or New York, but there has to be some actor who wouldn’t mind a paying gig for a few days.”
That laugh/cough sounded again from the back of the house, louder and less successful at hiding its owner’s mirth this time. I scowled at the wall, wishing I had Superman’s ability of x-ray vision so I could see my heckler…and also the hero’s power of heat vision. Drywall would be no match for my death glare. I’d burn his britches.
Harper clapped her hands before hauling her massive messenger bag onto her lap. She rifled around, then pulled out a notepad and a pen. “Would you do me a favor?” she asked.
No. Oh no. What other favors did people want from me? A kidney? My lungs?
“Would you take notes for me? Please? I could really use the things you think and feel and experience in my stories.” Her face brightened even more. “I could even write an entire novel about it!”
I took the notebook out of her hand and tossed it back in her bag. “You’re crazy.”
