Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Margo drops to her knees, muttering, “No, no, no.”
I crouch down. In the dim light, all I can see is little more than the outline of the storm drain that’s directly under her rental car’s door.
“Do you think I can fit my hand through one of the holes?” she asks.
I blink a few times. “I cannot fathom why you’d entertain that.”
“Beau, I didn’t buy the extra insurance. As it is, this rental maxed out my credit card. If I don’t get the keys, never mind the car being impounded, I’ll be impounded—sent to jail. They’ll probably put me to work in the license plate factory. Wouldn’t that be ironic?”
“I don’t think that’s how rental car companies operate.”
Crouched, she claws at the metal drain, trying to get it open.
“That won’t work.”
“Wow. Thanks for the assistance.”
Nearly on her belly as if she’s a giant magnet and will somehow draw the set of keys to her, Margo all but pounds her fists on the pavement. Gripping her elbow, I draw her to her feet. Liquid brims in her eyes and strands of hair fall into her face.
“There’s a fix.”
“Yes. You’re right. We’ll find out where this sewer line goes and catch the keys on the other end. I’m sure there’s a sporting goods store that will have a butterfly net. Perfect. Trudging into the bowels of the city and doing the tango with sewer rats wasn’t on my dance card tonight, but it must be done. The night is still young.” She lifts her arm just short of shouting Excelsior!
I shake my head. “That’s not what I was thinking. Can I see your phone?”
She opens her purse. I quickly shift us away from the sewer grate and onto solid ground. She taps in her password and gives me the device. I do a quick search for an emergency locksmith and make a call. Twenty minutes later, he’s assessing the situation.
Margo paces, fretting. I imagine she’s cold, her feet ache, and my proposal is the last thing on her mind, but I can’t stop thinking about it. With my mother calling me at all hours and barking her demands, it seems like a solution. A desperate one, but it could work. As Margo said, the night is still young.
“Good thing you’ve got an older model with a key. I can cut it right here,” the locksmith says.
I reply. “Thank you, sir.”
We fill out some paperwork and prove this isn’t a stolen vehicle. Stan, the locksmith, is very accommodating, but I also noticed the Knights sticker on the back of his van, so I think he’s playing it cool and doing me a solid. Even though it isn’t customary to tip a person in this trade, I’ll make sure it’s worth his time with some extra cash and game tickets.
“Beau, you don’t understand,” Margo says.
I make note that she’s already calling me Beau. It’s endearing and I wonder about a nickname for her. Something cute. Something sweet.
“I don’t have a way to pay for this.” She roots through her purse, presumably for her wallet.
“Consider it a late Christmas present.”
“Then I’ll be in your debt.”
“That’s not how gifts work.”
After the locksmith puts the car key in her hand and we thank him, Margo shuffles over to the car door, then freezes.
Hands in my pockets, I feel slightly responsible because what I’d said moments before she dropped the keys probably startled her.
Perhaps she’s considering using the passenger side just in case. She turns slowly toward me. Or she recalls what I’d said just before the keys slipped through her fingers.
“Have you considered my proposal?” I ask.
“Do you understand what that means?”
“Marriage of convenience? Yes, it would be a mutually beneficial agreement between two consenting adults.”
She lifts her gaze, standing steadier now as if no longer shaken or running on adrenaline after the events of the last hour.
“What do you say?”
Pressing her palm to her forehead, she shakes her head slowly. “This is no different from my mother’s insistence that I marry rich.”
“We can discuss payment.”
“No, I won’t accept any money. It would just be so they’d stop pressuring me.”
I understand all too well. “Fair enough.”
“You really mean it?”
I step closer. “I do.”
“I do?” she repeats as if declaring our vows.
Laughter builds inside at the comedy of all this.
Margo says, “I think I need more cake for this conversation.”
“You mean frosting? There’s an all-night diner by the highway entrance.”
Shoulders dropping, she says, “You mean the All Ears Diner & Fuel Station? That’s not where I expected my future husband would propose to me, but I guess a girl like me can’t be picky.”
Most people agree that self-deprecation isn’t attractive, but Margo is with her quick-to-blush cheeks, big brown eyes, and skin so soft it makes me melt. Yet she has a poor opinion of herself and I think I know why. The two bullies in her life try to make her feel small. Ironic because they’re the ones who’re small-minded and look like a pair of stick figures. But Margo is a whole person, substantial. I don’t risk piercing a lung if I hug her.
Like someone tossing sand on the rink, the grit of their disrespect chafes me. I want to change that. If nothing comes from this fake engagement apart from me showing her that she’s good and beautiful and worthy, then I’ll be satisfied.
To save the additional miles she’ll have to pay for if she follows me in the rental car, we travel in my truck to the diner.
She inhales as she buckles in. “New truck?”
“I bought it last year.”
“And you managed to keep it smelling fresh?” She runs her hand over the dash. “My first and only car was a Buick Skylark that belonged to my aunt Mona. No matter what I did, it always had a wet popcorn odor. My mother says when I get married, the first thing I should ask my husband for is a Maserati. I’d settle for a Bug. Basically, anything that runs. Not that I need a vehicle in Manhattan.”
“You shouldn’t settle, Margo.”
She snorts. “Okay, so do you want to tell me your idea?”
I bite the corner of my lip, considering this. “No, let’s get you some frosting first.”
Unfortunately, The All Ears Diner doesn’t have cake, however, they do offer six different kinds of pie. While Margo uses the ladies’ room, I order a slice of each flavor because I’m not sure which she’ll like. I also order a tea and a coffee, planning on having whichever she doesn’t want.
When she returns to the sparkly silver Formica table, her eyes widen. “There’s enough pie here to feed a hockey team.”
“Hardly. Anyway, it’s not on Nat’s nutrition plan.”
“That explains why you look the way you do,” she murmurs, cheeks rosy.
“I wasn’t sure whether you liked pie and if you do, what kind.”
“So you ordered all the kinds?”
I shrug.
“You’re not one of those people who thinks small, huh?”
She sits down and our knees brush. It feels strangely intimate even though we were already dancing and skating earlier, bodies pressed together, arms and hands entangled.
I’m not sure what possessed me to bring her to the arena, to skate together other than it’s what helps me destress and it seems like she had some unwinding to do after the run-in with her family.
Margo picks up a fork. “My mother is the only person I’ve ever met who claims not to like pie. Even my sister sneaks a slice at Thanksgiving. Then she’ll whine about the damage it causes to her hips.”
Sliding the coffee and tea toward her so she can choose, I ask, “What’s wrong with hips?”
She opts for the tea.
Meeting Margo’s gaze, I add, “I like hips.”
She’d lifted the heavy ceramic mug to her lips for a sip. Only the corners of her smile peek out from behind it. Her cheeks pink up even more and she looks away.
Taking the coffee for myself, I sit back and say, “The proposal. We actually get married.”
Her eyes slide from side to side. “That’s it? Doesn’t love and all that other stuff come first?”
“As I said, it would be a marriage of convenience.”
“This situation has been escalated. Is there a manager or someone I could talk to?” She helps herself to a bite of the custard cream pie.
“It would be a mutually beneficial agreement.”
“Don’t sugarcoat it or romance me or anything.” She smooths another bite of pie filling onto her fork.
“Your family is pressuring you to get married. Mine is?—”
“Yours is what?”
“There were requests and stipulations. When I meet them, I?—”
“Oh, you get a big inheritance. I’ve seen the movies. Read the books. I know how this works. I could use the money, well, whatever you’re going to pay me. But I don’t want it. Doesn’t feel honest.”
“Seems like a morally gray position to take.”
She straightens. “But you want to get married because of requests and expectations.”
“Stipulations,” I correct.
“I’m going to need some more information. License, registration, birthplace, please.”
The laughter inside builds a little bigger, but I’m not entirely sure she’s joking.
I take out my wallet.
“I was kidding. But, um, I should go. Don’t want to dine and dash, but I literally don’t have cash. If I run my credit card, it’ll be denied. I tried at the gas station earlier. I’ll just have to get the rental back to the airport on fumes.”
“I’ll take care of the tab.”
“That’s very nice of you, considering you ordered all this pie.” She looks me over as if trying to determine whether I’ll eat the rest of it in a late-night pie-eating contest. I’m on a strict nutritional program with the team trainer and dietician, so it’s mostly meat, eggs, and dairy for me. If Nat finds out about the cake earlier, he’ll punish me with protein powder.
Margo adds, “Thank you. Nothing like pie to help make an odd and awkward situation more comfortable.” She starts to get to her feet.
“So will you do it?” I ask.
“Eat the pie?”
“Marry me.”
She drops back to sitting. “You could try smiling more.”
“So I’ve been told.” When I peek at her, the corner of my mouth curls.
“This is crazy. Probably illegal.” Her hands flap.
“What’s worse, breaking the law or lying to your family?”
“You’re built like a tank. You could just storm the castle. Plow right through the enemy no matter what stipulations they have. Mine steamroll me, Beau.”
“You shouldn’t let them.”
“Again—” She gestures to herself as if she’s merely a plastic toy up against a formidable battalion.
My gaze travels from her hands to her shoulders, along her neck, partially covered in silky waves of red hair, and to the apples of her cheeks before landing on those big brown eyes. I’m drinking this coffee black since cereal milk isn’t available but am considering switching to cream in order to achieve the perfect shade of brown.
At last, I say, “It’s not true. Just perception.”
“You’ve met them.”
“I’ve also met you. If you’re wondering, I’m rooting for Team Margo.”
“The underdog team,” she mutters.
“They have the most heart, making the win that much better.”
Her eyes snap to mine as if she had never before considered the prospect of winning. “Hmm. You did win the game against the Kings.”
“We achieved it as a team.”
“So you’re saying if one has the right people in their corner ...”
“Something like that.”
“What about your family? Are they the right people?” she asks.
“In this context, no.”
“Are there other contexts?”
“Let’s just say our families aren’t all that different.”
“Is that why you suddenly went along with pretending to be my fiancé?”
I tip my head from side to side. “Partly.”
“Where does your family live?”
“Concordia.”
Like most people, she squints as if visualizing a mental map but can’t locate the red pin. “Hmm. Never heard of it.”
“It’s a small nation north of England. So will you do it?”
“Ask me again, but with a little more emotion please.”
I don’t do emotion. All forms of emoting were sucked out of me, left on the stage, at a young age.
Clearing my throat, I do my best to indulge her. Taking a piece of napkin, I twist it into a loop and pinch it between my fingers. “Margo, will you marry me?”
A pretty smile blooms on her face and her eyes sparkle. “Yes, I will.”
I slide the bit of napkin around her finger. She holds out her hand and admires it.
“If Celeste could see me now. I’ve really moved up in the world.” Then she goes still and looks surreptitiously around. “With my luck, my sister will appear, having recorded this whole thing, and reveal the truth. Then Gerard will post it online for the world to see.”
“It’s just us and we’re officially engaged.”
“Should we fill out some paperwork? Create a contract? Have some kind of agreement?”
“Let’s enjoy the rest of this pie and we can discuss it tomorrow.”
Margo and I share the custard cream slice.
I have the server box up the other five pieces. There were a few people who didn’t look like they had a warm place to sleep hanging around the convenience store a couple of blocks over. Once back on the road, I stop there and deliver them the pie. Margo seems mildly surprised but doesn’t comment. When I drop her off at the rental car, we exchange phone numbers. I warn her that I seldom answer.
“I’ve noticed that you’re not the most talkative guy.”
With a shrug, I grunt. “Sometimes actions speak louder than words.”
However, I’ve probably talked more to her than I have all women collectively over the last six months.
I make sure she’s buckled in and the vehicle is running before I start to walk back to my truck. Margo’s fresh air floral scent clings to me and I anticipate it following me home. I imagine us both going there. Not tonight, but sometime in the future. Getting married for real. The thought lands like a puck in the net and won’t leave. I glance over my shoulder to make sure she’s okay.
She rolls down the window and calls my name. The window is stuck, and she boosts herself in the seat and shouts, “Do you really have your grandmother’s engagement ring?”
I wave because I’ll have to see about that.
The next morning, when I’m leaving church, Margo calls. I don’t typically take my phone with me and am wondering how it ended up in my pocket.
Yeah, yeah. I put it there. Maybe I was hoping to see her again before she leaves for New York. It makes sense. We have to finalize the details of our arrangement and all that.
“Can you meet me for Maxine and Marlon’s bon voyage brunch?” she asks.
“What’s in it for me?”
“I figured if you approve, we can plan one after our big—” she stutters, likely tripping over the reality of following through with the marriage of convenience, and all that it entails.
“So you’ll marry me?” I ask, uncertain of the arrangement. Was it all a dream?
“I still have the ring.” Then she adds, “I’m kidding. Mostly, but brunches are hot right now in the wedding planning world. But really, could you come down here? It’s at the same hotel as the wedding. Sunshine Room. Second floor.”
I hedge because I originally only told my mother that I’d attend the ceremony and reception.
“They have sausages,” she singsongs.
How’d she know that would convince me? I’m also curious what a woman like Margo would wear to an event like that, how she’d style her hair, and whether there’d be a lipstick stain on her coffee—or tea—mug.
Twenty minutes later, chatter and the clinking of tableware greet me when I find the Sunshine Room. I instantly get the answers to my questions: Margo has on fitted black pants that hit at the ankle, black high heels, and a rose-colored blouse that showcases her figure perfectly. Her hair is in a loose braid over one shoulder and she wears pink lipstick that doesn’t leave a stain.
A giddy feeling rushes through me. It’s different from the buzz before a game but in the same family. Before I fell asleep last night, I recounted every moment that passed before I agreed to be her fake fiancé and the absolute relief in her expression afterward. Then the proximity of us dancing, her fresh air floral scent, her hands cupped in mine, gliding on the ice, and proposing at the diner.
When we meet, coffee fills her morning mug. She puts one in my hand, black.
I nod in thanks.
“Be advised that most everyone is in some state of post-wedding overindulgence.”
I take that to mean they’re hungover.
“However, that only seems to fuel my mother and sister in particular. They’re over there, strategizing how to take us down.”
“I thought their whole objective was to marry you off. Isn’t being engaged the whole point?”
“They don’t buy it.”
“Not entirely surprising, all things considered.” I check to see if she’s wearing the napkin engagement ring because that would be a tipoff. Her hand is bare and I have a sudden urge to do something about that and will make some long-distance calls to obtain my grandmother’s ring.
I ask, “They’re not entirely wrong, but why not?”
Margo turns to me, speaking in a hushed tone. “Because you’re you.”
It’s winter and the room is pleasantly climate-controlled, but at her proximity, it’s like I’m suddenly in full goal tender gear having done a dozen laps around the ice.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
She subtly runs her hand from my head to my abdominal area.
“And this is a problem?”
Her shoulders sag. “Despite being so stoic, I imagine you’ve seen yourself in the mirror. At least in the locker room.”
Whatever she’s trying to say doesn’t compute.
Margo covers her eyes with her palm and then peeks through her fingers. It’s adorable.
I can’t ask her to explain because we’ve been spotted.