Chapter 2
The gallery wasn't crowded. I stood in front of Monet's Water Lilies, totally spaced out.
The painting was huge. I'd seen it in textbooks back in school and always assumed it was some modest little painting. It turned out the real thing was massive. Monet really had range. The old guy must've been bursting with energy.
"Do you like this one?" His voice suddenly came from behind me.
I nodded and made something up on the spot. "Yeah, the colors feel calming."
He stepped up beside me, half a pace away, and didn't say anything else. A faint scent of pine drifted from him.
The next day, a same-day courier knocked on my door. It was a beautifully framed reproduction of Water Lilies. There was a card tucked inside. The handwriting was sharp and precise: [Thought you might like to see it every day. —Charles]
I stared at it. Was he serious? Where was I supposed to hang something this big? My apartment walls weren't that generous. What was I supposed to do, use it as a blanket? And yet, wasn't this client a little too attentive? Maybe he really was a decent guy. Maybe this one-year substitute marriage wouldn't be so bad after all.
*****
The engagement party was a full-blown spectacle.
I looped my arm through his and smiled until my face felt frozen. He kept hold of my hand the entire night, introducing me over and over again. "My fiancée, Vivian."
I was exhausted, starving, and half tempted to make a run for it. Why had no one mentioned that getting married was this much work?
Thankfully, nothing went wrong. Vivian hadn't spent much time in the country, so there weren't many people who knew her well. My "husband" didn't suspect a thing either.
After it was all over, we went back to his apartment. I kicked off my heels and flopped onto the couch.
Charles handed me a glass of iced lemon tea, then just naturally crouched down and held my ankle. "Does it hurt?" he asked.
"It's fine," I muttered. "Just that I can't feel my feet anymore."
He chuckled under his breath and started pressing into the sore spots with just the right amount of pressure.
He even gave foot rubs. This deal just kept getting better.
*****
Getting the marriage license was quick.
We walked out with it, our names printed side by side: [Charles Grant and Vivian Stone.] It looked like a prop from a movie set.
Whatever. The one getting married wasn't really me. Evelyn Linwood was still technically single.
We moved into his penthouse, all cool tones and sweeping views, so spotless it looked like a showroom.
Charles' life was scarily regimented. He ran at six, hit the sack at eleven, only drank black coffee with no sugar, and always used that same brass bookmark.
But he could cook, especially pasta.
One night I woke up starving and crept into the kitchen. There was always a note stuck to the fridge, written in his sharp, precise handwriting: [Seafood pasta's in the fridge. Heat for three and a half minutes. —Charles]
Inside the microwave sat a neatly plated dish.
I leaned against the fridge and polished it off, then pulled out my phone and texted him: [Props to you, my amazing husband, but I'm a tomato sauce girl at heart. Can I get spaghetti Bolognese tomorrow? Thanks.]
*****
He was busy with work, but no matter what, he kept two evenings a week free for me.
Sometimes we watched movies. Sometimes we'd read our own books in the same room, and somehow my feet would end up on his lap—he'd just start rubbing my calves like it was the most normal thing in the world.
It felt easy.
On weekend mornings, we'd go downstairs for a walk. He held my hand and matched my slow pace.
The older ladies out doing their morning exercises would beam at us. "Charles, you are taking your wife out again? You two are adorable."
He'd just smiled and tightened his grip just a little.
I'd secretly slip my hand out. It was the middle of summer. Who holds hands in that kind of heat? I was melting.
Once, I stepped straight into a puddle and soaked my socks. He just turned around and crouched down. "Hop on."
I climbed onto his back. He carried me steadily, unhurried. My arms looped around his neck, and I caught the clean scent of soap on his collar.
Sunlight filtered through the trees, scattering gold across the pavement. For a moment, I thought this wasn't so bad. Resting my chin on his shoulder, I tugged lightly at his hair. "Charles."
"Yeah?" he answered.
"I think I might be starting to like you," I said leisurely.
*****
When Richard called, I was staring at two pink lines on a pregnancy test.
I'd used a pregnancy test, not a flu kit. Which meant I was pregnant. You've got to be kidding me. Honestly, I would've preferred catching the flu.
As if that wasn't enough, the moment I picked up the phone, Richard lowered his voice and said, "Ms. Linwood, Vivian's back."
I instinctively glanced at the time. It hadn't been a year yet. But she was back.
"Alright," I said.
After I hung up, I looked down at the test again and let out a dry laugh. Of course. Perfect timing.
*****
Charles had flown to Europe on business. He was due back in three days.
It was perfect timing.
It took me ten minutes to pack everything that belonged to "Evelyn" into a suitcase, and one suitcase was enough.
I slipped the wedding band off my ring finger. The platinum felt cool and weightless in my palm. I stared at it for a few seconds, then set it on his nightstand. Next to it lay his usual brass feather bookmark.
I picked it up, hesitated, then placed it gently over the ring. Guess this counted as a quiet goodbye.
Dragging my suitcase to the door, I turned back for one last look. Sunlight poured into the cool-toned living room. It was bright and spacious, and there was not a single sign I'd ever been there.
The door clicked shut behind me.
As the elevator descended, I rested a hand on my still-flat stomach. There was an unexpected life inside me now. But the woman the baby's father married was Vivian Stone.