Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
From across the room, my mother strides toward Beau and me.
I want to raise a sword in the air like a knight in the movies, and shout, Arm the battlements! But I don’t because that would be weird. Celeste, my mother’s shadow, already thinks I’m the oddball in the family with my interest in creating a career and marrying for love.
Thankfully, my great-aunt Margaret intercepts them. I silently thank her and Uncle Harlan for their unintended help. Next time she wants to tell me the story about meeting Elvis or he wants to try to convince me about underwater worlds, I’ll refrain from rolling my eyes.
Celeste keeps glancing our way though, making me fear I’m going to sweat through this silk shirt.
I whisper, “We could make a run for it.”
“No, we’ll stand our ground,” Beau says decisively, leading the charge into battle.
Well then.
Wearing a smile, but not moving my lips, I brief him, “They’re going to ask you about your family and your financial portfolio. Shy away from personal details. Just make up a story about how you’re a prince or something fancy.”
Beau, stiff-backed, doesn’t reply.
The best word I can use to describe his expression is mild . He doesn’t look stone-faced nor is he intimidated by the approaching troops.
The best way I can describe him as a whole is handsome . I’ve now seen him in a hockey uniform and a wedding uniform. I like his Sunday attire quite a bit, as it turns out. He’s wearing trousers and a button down flannel with the top button loose. The boots on his feet are clean but not polished.
I glance up, wondering how I got so lucky to score such a handsome fake fiancé. I squint a little, trying to visualize him without the beard. Strong, cut jaw. Full lips. Cheeks that would rise the perfect amount if he smiled. However, last night at the All Ears Diner & Fuel Station after he proposed, his eyes crinkled at the corners indicating he was smiling inside.
Beard or not, Beau is very attractive.
He has nice teeth and I imagine a winning smile ... when he smiles. Seems like he holds it back and reserves it for special occasions only. Lucky for him, those are my specialty.
I ask, “Concordia sounds like a royal kingdom. Are you sure you’re not a prince?”
Lips pressed together, he shakes his head.
Mom and Celeste are tracking ten seconds away.
“It’s fine if you are. But?—”
Eight seconds.
Beau winces slightly. “No, I’m not a prince.”
Six seconds.
Does he want to be a prince? Maybe he’s a fan of the artist formerly known as Prince.
“For the record, I’m not looking for Prince Charming. But if you are royalty?—”
He gives his head a decisive shake. “No, Margo.”
Four seconds.
“Sorry. I only ask because it’d be useful to know what I’m marrying into.”
“What kind of guy are you hoping for?” he asks eyebrow pinned.
Two seconds.
Freckles. Beard. An upper lip that is ever so slightly bigger than the lower one. Large stature. Defined muscles. It’s too late to answer. Even if I did, I couldn’t very well say, You . Could I?
My mother stops in front of us and props her hand on her cocked hip. Celeste crosses her arms in front of her chest.
“I see you brought your plus one to our family brunch.”
“My fiancé,” I say, throat thick with the lie.
“Maxine checked the guest list. Beau came solo. So did you,” Celeste says, staring me down as if to say this interrogation is only just beginning.
“We received the invitations before we got together. Didn’t want to disrupt our respective cousins’ plans or bother her wedding planner with a seating change,” I add pointedly.
Celeste scoffs. “Technically, your engagement is illegal in several states since you’re now related.”
“I don’t think our cousin marrying his cousin counts. There’s no blood tie.” My voice sounds smaller than I’d like.
My mother taps in. “It’s so nice of you to join us this morning. Beaumont, was it? Strange, Margo never mentioned anything about you.”
“We’re new,” I say.
“But engaged?” My mother’s tone is like a stone dropping into a lake. No, make that a boulder.
“It happened fast. When you find the one, you just know,” I reply.
“We’ve discussed the conditions of your engagement, young lady. The agreement is to let me assess potential suitors.”
I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or cringe.
“He doesn’t say much does he,” Celeste mutters.
Now would be a good time for Beau to chime in. To come to my aid and defense. Instead, he just straightens slightly. It’s like each time they suss out the truth, he somehow gets taller. I pray, that like Pinocchio, this doesn’t give us away.
“I would like to know the terms of this engagement,” my mother says authoritatively.
“Terms? Um, we’re getting married and plan to live happily ever after?”
Celeste cackles. “As if. This guy is a professional athlete. He’s used to a certain kind of woman and—” My sister looks me up and down. “I don’t buy it.”
Already having straightened, now Beau stiffens.
She adds, “But even if it is real, it won’t last.”
The little muscle in Beau’s temple ticks.
My mother sizes me up as if waiting for me to crack.
Feeling like one of those inflatable bobble toys that gets knocked down and then springs upright again, I grip Beau’s arm so the next punch doesn’t take me out.
“Have you told him about Boyd?” Celeste asks.
In case of emergency break glass . I want off this ride. Out of this building. Now.
“Or Jonathan. Let’s just say Margo doesn’t have the best track record,” Celeste adds, dredging up the painful (and humiliating) past that has no bearing on the present, fake relationship or not.
“Those are exes, in case that’s not obvious,” I say faintly, not sure where our fabrication begins, where it ends, or whether it matters.
They’re trying so hard to bring us low. On the upside, Beau is tall, at least six-two or four. I need a measuring tape. It would be a herculean effort to topple him even if they teamed up.
“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” Beau says.
My mother rolls her fingers on her hip one at a time as if she’s counting down to my implosion. “Looking into his career and history as a public figure will be easy enough, but tell us where you see yourself in five years, Beaumont.”
His glare is awkwardly long before he answers. “Happily married to Margo.”
“Margo wants children. Lots of little grubby, sticky-fingered kids,” Celeste says like a warning. Like this is just the thing to scare him off.
“I always said she had good birthing hips.” My mother looks me up and down with what feels like disgust.
Beau drags his arm across my shoulders as if realizing I need help to remain afloat here. Without hesitating, he says, “I want a family too.”
“But she’s focused on her career. Thinks she’s better than us. As if she’ll see success with that little event planning company.” Celeste rolls her eyes.
Unwavering, he says, “I believe in her and Margo A Go-Go.”
If only I had my mother’s poker face skills. That Beau knows the name of my company surprises me. Did he look me up online? I’ve been trying to optimize the search engine results for my website, but it’s a competitive market.
“You plan to let her work?” Celeste asks.
He answers, “That’s her choice. She’s good at what she does. Has a big heart. Makes people happy.”
I am? I do? I want to run away to high ground and escape the tsunami that threatens to pull me under, but those words buoy me now.
Then Beau lands a haymaker they did not see coming. “It would serve you well to give Margo some credit. Show some kindness. Try to build her up instead of tear her down.”
My sister snorts as if he’s being ridiculous.
My mother tsks as if she denies being anything but caring.
A long, stagnant silence fills the space between us.
“Well, if the interrogation is over, we were just off to get some sausage,” I say, chipper.
“Oh, good. We’ll join you. We haven’t had breakfast yet either,” my mother says measuredly as if the line of questions has only just begun.
“You never have breakfast,” I say.
She squints at me. “You could stand to?—”
I shrink, not wanting to hear what she’s going to say about my diet.
Beau glances at me and then glares at my mother as if daring her to finish the sentence.
I sort of turn us toward the buffet line. He’s built heavy like military artillery and it would require a small army to move him. Hesitating, I imagine him deciding whether to finish what he started and level the two of them with a few simple words or retreat.
I’m all for drawing the battle lines but don’t want to ruin Maxine and Marlon’s send-off.
Suffice it to say, my sister and my mother resemble birds with brittle little bones. No slight to people of small stature but the reason is that they hardly eat. It’s a choice they make and they’re always quick to point out that I’m the opposite, which I anticipate, in three, two, one.
Wanting to avoid the insult, I move us swiftly away.
My mother chirps, “Margo, if you plan on fitting into a decent wedding dress, I suggest you avoid the sausage.”
Yep, and the eggs Florentine, Benedict, and basically anything with sauce or gravy or calories.
Without breaking stride—the sausage does smell good—Beau leans over and pinches my cheek. Not the one on my face. The other one. I bounce but stop myself from yelping with surprise. I glance up to be sure it wasn’t Uncle Harlan.
Beau isn’t smiling. His expression is as impassive as ever. But loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, he says, “I like the way you look in those pants.”
I expect to stumble, but instead have confidence in my stride for once.
Standing side by side in line, I whisper, “Thank you for helping me out.”
“No one talks to my fiancé like that.” Only, Beau isn’t using his inside voice. Nope. He’s half a head taller than everyone in the room and may as well be in the arena, raising his voice for the folks in the cheap seats to hear.
I take a crescent roll without a trace of guilt.
I wish I could say the sound of wedding bells follows me back to Manhattan, but I couldn’t change my flight. Plus, no longer in Cobbiton, my family’s pressure is off, mostly. Also, Beau has hockey things—I was going to study the sport during the flight but internet access cost an additional ten dollars I don’t have.
Unfortunately, I don’t hear from my fake fiancé for a couple of weeks—okay, it’s nine days but feels like a fortnight—I fill Juniper in on the details while I sip water and eat a roll from the complimentary breadbasket at a restaurant that airs live hockey games.
Her eyes widen at each turn in the tale and she says a few choice words.
“Exactly. Not that I’d ever have the nerve to tell my mother that it’s all fake.”
It’s then I realize that she’s watching the game on the television over my shoulder.
She flinches. “Oh no. That didn’t look good.”
I crane my head to see skaters in red and white huddling around something as the referees blow their whistles.
The subtitles on the bottom of the screen flash with the words number one . The Knights’ goalie. Then I read Beau Hammer.
I leap to my feet. “That’s my fiancé!”
The restaurant goes suddenly quiet, snapping Juniper out of her hockey stupor as a fight among the men on ice skates who are holding long sticks continues on the screen.
Juniper’s sharp eyes demand an explanation. I give her an abbreviated recap of the events at the wedding that resulted in my possible fake engagement.
“You went from Tate to a gorgeous goalie. Well done.”
I shake my head. “It’s not like that.” At least I don’t think so.
As events unfold on the television, my blood pressure rises. “Is he okay? What’s going on? Isn’t this dangerous?”
“It’s all part of the show,” she says as the diners resume their meals. This is New York, after all.
“So hockey is fake? Like pro wrestling?” Like our engagement.
“No, it’s very real. Lots of hockey players get their teeth knocked out.”
In reality, I don’t know how old Beau is, but does he have dentures? It’s not a deal breaker and I know this isn’t what I should be thinking about right now. But I ought to be aware of his dental history if we’re going to be fake engaged.
Juniper says, “Hockey isn’t staged, I just meant it’s par for the course.”
“That’s a golf term.” I point my finger in the air, proud of myself.
She rolls her eyes.
“Why doesn’t someone stop it?”
“It’s a survival of the fittest situation.”
“So they’ll fight to the death? How barbaric. Why didn’t I know this before I signed on to marry a hockey player?”
Juniper laughs and nudges me back into my seat. She proceeds to tell me more about the sport to which I only partly listen because I have an eye on the television, waiting, praying, and hoping that I won’t see my fake fiancé being carried out in a body bag.
When the Knights win again, I trust that was only made possible with the help of their goalie so I assume he survived.
That night, I pace the seven unobstructed steps in my apartment, chewing on my thumb’s cuticle, and debating whether to text Beau.
Finally, I gum up the courage.
Me: Hi! It’s me. Um. Margo. Haven’t heard from you in a while. I know you’re busy though. I watched the game tonight. Way to go on the win! I saw there was a bit of a tussle. I hope you’re okay.
I wait, anticipating the little blinking dots to reveal that he’s replying, but they don’t come. I scour the internet for a police report or news article because I imagine a dead hockey player would make the headlines. But I don’t find one and finally fall asleep.
The next day, Beau replies and my heart launches itself into my throat.
Beau: I’m good.
Me: Me too.
That’s an abject lie. I’m stressed to the max. I bounced my rent check, can’t afford my weekly scone, and spotted Tate on my subway line the other day. Needless to say, I changed carriages.
Me: I mean that in the how are you doing kind of way. Obviously, I wasn’t in a scrum at a hockey game. But I’ve been watching your games.
Beau: Coach has me on lock.
Me: What does that mean?
He doesn’t answer.
A few days later, while watching the Knights play the Denver Blizzard, I ask Juniper about his reply. She explains that hockey is a demanding sport.
“They’re doing exceptionally well and likely the goalie is—” She pumps her fist in the air. “That is how it’s done. Yes!”
I wish I could muster up Juniper’s level of enthusiasm. Not going to lie, I’m a little disappointed. I should be relieved. Safely back in New York, I’m beyond my mother and sister’s reach, I rather liked the idea of being fake engaged though, and now it’s like an afterthought ... or a forgotten thought. Whatever happened to the marriage of convenience?
Feeling a little attention-starved from my best friend and my fake fiancé’s mutual obsession with hockey, I say, “Um, the goalie is likely guarding things, er, tending the net thingy so the puck, what everyone seems to want to get their sticks on, doesn’t slip inside.”
“The goal,” she corrects.
“Not going to lie, from a logical standpoint, it doesn’t make a lot of sense to me, but neither did Beau pinching my butt.” I leave that there and count how many seconds it takes Juniper to come out of her hockey trance and reply.
Two point five seconds later, she nearly does a spit take. “He what?”
“I guess I left that part of the story out.”
It was the highlight of my year so far.
She wants details, so I dish while helping myself to free popcorn.
After the game, I send Beau a text but don’t hear back. I wouldn’t mind communicating with him about our fake engagement and marriage of convenience. Maybe Celeste is right. I’m easy to forget.
The next few weeks pass in much the same way with only a few words from Beau here and there while I torture myself by watching the Knights games with Juniper and eating complimentary baskets of food at various restaurants that host hockey on their big screen TVs. At least I’m getting my gluten and corn chip fix.
It’s February, love month, and I’m in a meeting with the couple I call the Leprechauns—her last name is Leprechi and his last name is Chaun. It only makes sense. We continue to plan their St. Patrick’s Day wedding. It’s just my luck for my first wedding to be a weird one. Not that celebrating the patron saint of Ireland is weird. It’s just oddly specific for a wedding.
I feel my phone vibrate in my purse. Thinking that it might be Beau, I get distracted.
“We want to go with the tartan tablecloths,” the bride-to-be repeats.
The groom-to-be shakes his head. “You mean you do. Those aren’t my family’s colors.”
“You’re only a quarter Irish,” she replies.
“Everyone is Irish on St. Patty’s Day,” he answers.
I swipe through the linen selection once more because I thought we’d already settled this two weeks ago. “The cost of the tartan table coverings is twice as much as the green satin swatch draped over creamy white. However, I think we can find a way to incorporate some tartan that would be more subtle and less likely to offend family members if they’re concerned,” I say diplomatically.
They both grimace while nodding at the same time.
“On another note, have you ever been to the Honey & Lavender Bakery on Madison?”
The groom-to-be asks, “Is that next to the boxing gym?”
“Sure is. They make the best scones. Might I suggest we add their mini scones to the menu? Their cranberry and white chocolate are the best.” And I could really go for one right now.
We continue to discuss the details, including the birch and greenery canopies over the wedding party table along with the garland of flowers for the top of the structure that’ll match the centerpieces.
I’m desperate to check my phone, but they’re filling me in on their honeymoon plans. Ordinarily, I’d be all ears—I’ve always wanted to visit Ireland—but did Beau finally text me back?
Nope. It’s my mother, asking for the fifth time—yes, I’m counting because there’s a threshold that, when met, will result in her siccing the rest of the family on me—about my wedding date.
For the rest of the day, every time my phone dings or rings, I jump, thinking it’s Beau, but my text threads cycle through Mom, Celeste, the Margo is Still Single family chat, and the Leprechauns. They send a lot of inspiration boards from Pinterest even though we’ve finalized most everything.
Prior to New Year’s, I made a list of all of the gyms in Manhattan that offer a free trial membership. I’ve tried seven so far, getting in three free workouts a week, and am on the dread mill at the fifth when a ding interrupts my workout playlist.
It’s Juniper, confirming our plans for the game tonight. I’ve also generated a list of places that offer complimentary food since my budget is thinner than Wren Cabot’s waist.
Her comments about my size sting even though I’ve come to expect them. I’m in good shape and Beau even said he likes the way I look in my favorite pair of black dress pants. But I still struggle with feeling insecure. To my family and the few boyfriends I’ve had, I’m acceptable. Just fine. I get a lot of that’ll dos . But no I dos .
It seems even the fake one is slipping through my fingers. In high school, I ran cross country because the team needed more competitors. I found myself enjoying it. Eventually, all my thoughts would go silent, replaced by the sound of my breathing. However, I don’t quite get the same effect on a machine even with the trail scene on the screen at eye level.
After all these years, I can’t help but feel that I’m running away from something.
I shower and check my phone before I leave the gym to find a text from my landlord, letting me know that my check bounced for the third time ... and that I’m being evicted.
The Leprechauns gave me a deposit and I’m expecting half of the final payment a couple of weeks from now. Despite my clown show efforts to juggle my finances, the insufficient funds notice in my banking app just won’t disappear.
That’s how the day starts.
If you’re wondering how it ends: disastrously, devastatingly, depressingly.
When I get home, I find the pink eviction notice on my door. I could challenge it in court, but with what? Flakes of gold confetti from the St. Patrick’s Day wedding? I’m out of money. My big city dreams are over.
Lest you think I’m being dramatic, there’s more.
The Leprechauns send me a regret. Not the kind that goes with an RSVP card for people who can’t attend the wedding. No, they regret to inform me they broke up over the tartan. There I thought St. Patrick’s Day was supposed to bring good luck.
Juniper lets me stay on her couch, but hopelessness starts to set in. Nonetheless, I’m looking for a rental and trying to drum up more business for Margo A Go-Go.
But nothing sticks. No callbacks, prospects, or leads.
You know that saying, “If you can make it in New York, you can make it anywhere?”
Ambition and hope are not enough. I’ve failed, which means I’m going back to Cobbiton and my parents’ couch. Maybe there are some coins between the cushions. I’ll figure out a way to get by until I’m back on my feet.
But the worst part will be facing my mother and Celeste’s smug faces now that I’ve proved they were right. I tried and failed at doing things my way: running successful business and marrying for love.
And still no word from my fake fiancé.