7. Rochelle
7
ROCHELLE
“ O kay, you two, I have to chase you out now. Frederick and I need to talk.”
I’d much rather chase him away than them, but I need to clear my mind as quickly as possible. Frederick pulls away from them and turns his gaze on me.
“Let them stay. We can step out. No need to disturb them when they’re all settled in.” He stands up, and I follow suit.
“Can I bring you guys anything?” I ask.
“Something sweet.”
“Yeah, like a cupcake.”
I tell the kids to lock up if they have to leave, and we step out. We’re quiet heading out of the complex, just in case the kids are listening.
“So, you finally came around,” he says as we walk on the relatively empty sidewalk on the semi-dark evening.
I grit my teeth together. “That was messed up, Frederick.”
“What was messed up?”
“How dare you use kids like that?”
My voice sounds so much calmer than I actually feel.
“Come on. You saw them. They were having the time of their life. They loved being little lawyers.”
“They were coerced, to use a legal term. You can’t fight your own battles? You have to use little children? I thought you were entitled before…”
His mouth turns into a little ‘o.’
My teeth are still gritted. “Don't you ever rope in any children like that ever again. Sigourney and Walken are like my own kids. You had no right. This is between you and me, not them.”
He runs a hand across his mouth, from his upper lip down to the chin, considering. His nonchalance makes me angrier.
“They aren’t pawns. Do you hear me? They are not the ace up your sleeve in your rich-boy game. You need to apologize.”
“I apologize. I’m sorry, Rochelle.”
“Not to me. To them.”
“Of course. And I will. But I want to apologize to you first, Rochelle. I shouldn’t have involved them in a conversation between you and me. I can do it tonight, if you’d like, or wait for another day.”
“Good. That's a start. But it’s not enough. They need more than that. They need to know that they matter.”
He looks at me carefully, taking in my words. “Yeah. I want to make it up to them. Do you have something in mind?”
“Clothes. Food. School supplies. Books. Games. Anything they want and need, you’re going to get.”
I might be overplaying my hand, but I’m ready to argue back about why they deserve it.
“Done. Anything they want, it’s theirs. You want a check or Venmo? Just tell me how much. Or if you want, I can go in person. You call the shots.”
I exhale and start to walk again. He follows suit. That was surprisingly easy.
“I'm not done.” My mouth feels more relaxed.
“I'm all ears.”
“You won't just be paying for my lawyer.”
He keeps walking, but his head jerks toward me. “I won't be?”
“Nope. I want a college fund for the kids and some savings for me.”
A loud group of teenagers passes us. They sound excited about wherever they're going. I wish for a second that my life was that carefree.
We wait for the noise of their voices to subside, like a plane overhead. When the noise passes, I turn to him, still waiting for an answer.
“Great call. I like a woman with brains. Which you already have. But I’ll be glad for you to use them to the fullest. Make this arrangement something you’re happy to be part of.”
If he likes women with brains, is he saying he likes me? I feel a pull of excitement in my stomach at that thought, then dismiss it.
We cross the street to the avenue. I have no destination in mind, simply a strong desire to walk and figure out this new life I’ve suddenly agreed to.
I put a hand on his arm, and he stops in his tracks. “What is it?” he asks.
“I need you to know that there’s no ‘if’ about getting my grandfather’s piano back. It’s priceless. He taught me to play the piano, and he was my hero.”
I realize my hands are still on his arm. I pull them back, not wanting him to think I’m flirting. Part of me thinks I’d like to be. But I don’t know if I can completely trust him, especially after his stunt this evening.
“We’ll get it back. I promise.”
But, yes, he’s sexy as hell.
I hate how his smile churns my insides. He’s too smooth, and if history is any indication, he’s exactly the kind of guy who can steal and break my heart with just a look.
We stop in front of a bakery, and I peer in through the bright window, surveying the treats for ones Sigourney and Walken might like.
“Let me get this,” he says. “To apologize. And a coffee for you, if you want.”
“This won’t get you off the hook with the other stuff.”
“Obviously. You’re worth a lot more than pastries, Rochelle Reynolds.”
He knows exactly what to say. Maybe his fancy education taught him that, too.
He smiles at me, then opens the door and waves me in. This whole fake marriage might be easier if he weren’t so disarmingly handsome.
I keep my eyes on the pastries, not him, pointing to cookies, eclairs, croissants, baklava, cupcakes, donuts, muffins, and napoleons. The last thing I need right now is to get lost in how attractive he is.
It comes to a total of $67.50, and he doesn’t blink. I act like it’s nothing, too, but inside I’m hyperventilating.
“Thanks, Frederick,” I say, grabbing one of the bags. “The kids will be so happy.”
“And how about you?”
“I thought we already established it’ll take more than pastries to do that.”
“Oh, true. So, what sort of things make you happy?”
“How long you got?” We both laugh. “I’m happy when things are clear. So, my question is, how long would you want us to be married?”
“As long as it takes to convince my family to back off, I guess.”
I shake my head. “That’s not an answer. What if they’re never convinced?”
“Okay. So, what timeline do you think?”
“A year. And only that long if you haven’t gotten what you want by then.”
“Sure. After a year, I can always just get divorced and marry someone else.” He winks, and my heart drops. It would be fake, and even then the idea is unsettling.
Pull it together, Rochelle. This is no time to form a crush.
“That brings me to another thing, Frederick. I know it’s fake, but I don’t need any rumors of infidelity. So, if you get a girlfriend, we’re done.”
“For sure. I’m way too busy with my clerkship to even think about it. Plus, what about my fake wife? She deserves better than a philanderer.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder, and it feels comforting.
We reach the crosswalk and hop over to the other side, walking in silence until my apartment tower is in sight.
He stops me under a streetlight. Even the harsh light can’t hide his handsome features. “You know, Rochelle, I’m a self-made man in a lot of ways. That’s the biggest reason I want to do this. My family doesn't appreciate my achievements. I want to put things in my own terms and show them I’m going to make my own life decisions. I want the dynamic to change. And I’m really grateful for your help.”
“We’ll see how it goes. I’m willing to give you a year, and I hope it works out well for you. And if it doesn’t, we’ll reevaluate. And we can walk away.”
“Let’s hope it all works out then.”
We get to my complex, not quite sure how to say goodbye. I take the other bags from him, touching his hand for a moment.
“I can see myself in. Good night, fiance,” I tease. I promise to pass the treats on to the kids and leave him outside. A feeling hits me when I turn my back to him, like some unnatural crime has been committed. Like he belongs with me, and the lack of footsteps at my side spells something unusual and wrong.
Pushing that awkwardness aside, I turn my focus back to the kids. They’re still in my apartment and probably thirsty for glasses of milk.
“Thank you, Rochelle!”
“You’re welcome. But a ‘thank you’ with your mouth full is not a thank you at all. Swallow first.”
I slip away to find my phone and sink onto the couch, determined to conduct a background check of one Mr. Frederick Adams. A few false leads and multiple searches later, I find what I’m looking for. Starting with his family’s fortune, which dates back to the whaling industry.
“Looks like everything seems to check out,” I say.
“Are you talking to yourself?” Sigourney’s standing behind the couch, her face a big question mark, with her brother next to her. I stifle a giggle at the goatee of crumbs on both their faces.
“Something like that,” I say.
“We’re gonna go. I just heard Mom in the hall,” Walken says.
“Don’t forget your homework and your key,” I say. I cross my fingers that the rest of their evening will be uneventful.
They get their stuff and leave.
Then I’m alone again and return to my sleuthing. I’m happy to see that his family is who he says. The actual estimate of their wealth is vague, but they own a lot of property globally. And not little shacks, either.
“Castles in Europe, game lodges in Kenya, ranches in New Zealand. My God,” I say with a low whistle.
The snippets about him personally are even fewer and farther between. But nothing contradicts his story. The thing is, you never know which lawyers make their living by lying, so my guard is still up.
“Okay, Frederick. You're telling the truth so far. But can you keep it up long enough to hold up your end of the bargain?”