Good at Being Alive(15)
“I’m pretty sure it’s worse luck to marry a woman who’s counting the days until she can file for divorce.”
Her eyes crinkle. “That’s a good point, but let’s not take on any more bad luck than necessary.” She gives me a bright, forced smile as she turns to walk down the street, dragging a suitcase behind her. “See you in four days, I guess.”
I watch her walk away, too small and delicate to be wandering the city streets alone at dusk. And too broken. Perhaps just as broken as she was last December, and a little too good at hiding it.
Rick would want me to do something. He’d want me to call Jessie’s sisters or find her a therapist or help her sort through their stuff.
But what he’d want most of all is the one thing I’m not doing—he’d want me to leave his daughter alone.
* * *
? ? ?
Four days later, I’m ushered into a brownstone in Greenwich Village by a maid and silently pointed toward the French doors. I step out into a courtyard that is completely abloom somehow though it’s still March and barely above freezing. It reminds me, for better or worse, of the place where I once proposed to someone else, back when I was another person entirely.
Oddly, that makes me feel better about what we’re doing today. You can never really know anyone and you can never really trust anyone, so if you’ve got to marry at all, doing it with no illusions about love is the only way to go.
Lars and Paula are here already, supervising Katrina as she lays our props on a table: birdseed, a bouquet. Rings.
“It never even occurred to me that we’d need rings,” I say quietly.
“They’re real but not great quality,” says Lars. “You can buy her something nicer later on.”
I laugh miserably. “Yes, that sounds like something I’d do.”
I tug at my tie, glance at my watch, straighten my jacket, pull my cuffs down.
“I’d ask if you were getting cold feet,” Lars says, “but they’ve been cold all along. What’s going on over there?”
“Aside from the fact that I’m about to marry a virtual stranger who doesn’t like me much?”
He laughs. “Yes, other than that.”
I run a hand inside my collar. “Her father would hate everything about this, and he was a really good guy, which might surprise you, considering Rebecca.”
He cocks his head. “Why would that surprise me? Bex is the entire reason this show exists. No offense—your straight-man routine helps and you’re well-known enough to legitimize the endeavor, but she’s the one who’s impossible to look away from. She just has…charisma.”
“Isn’t that what they said about Charles Manson?”
He shakes his head. “People like Bex are good at surviving, and that’s where I put my faith: in someone who’s going to survive no matter what gets thrown at them. I know she’s not who you’d have chosen, but you could do a lot worse than her. At least she’ll keep things lively.”
“If she shows up,” I reply grimly, glancing at my watch again. “She’s five minutes late.”
He claps a hand on my shoulder. “And here I’ll offer you some unsolicited marriage advice from a man who’s never been married himself: interesting women don’t perform on anyone’s timetable but their own. Accept that part up front and your fake marriage will go a lot more smoothly.”
I refuse to concede the point. Maybe he’s right—she is good at surviving, and I suppose she will keep things lively, even if it’s mostly in a way I dread, but that doesn’t mean I need to act as if her classic Bex behavior is okay. I’m not her father. If she inconveniences me, she’ll hear about it. If she misses our flight to Iceland next week, she can fucking swim there if necessary, but no one’s buying her a new ticket.
The burst of noise from inside the house indicates Rebecca’s arrival. She emerges through the French doors and I freeze in place.
There’s never been a time when I didn’t find her beautiful. When she’s weeping, when she’s traveled all day and spilled coffee down her front.
But today she makes my mouth go dry, my head go blank.
Her dress is a long-sleeved sheath, covered in a layer of lace…very Audrey Hepburn circa 1950, accenting her delicate frame. Her dark hair is pulled back into a glossy chignon, her skin glows, and her wide mouth is a pop of deep rose. She looks tiny and elegant and precisely like the sort of woman my friends back home might believe I’d marry on sight.
Because anyone would marry her on sight.
Her lips purse. “I assume you have something to say.”
I clear my throat. “I’m just wondering how many minutes we have before your fairy godmother returns to undo the magic spell.”
“About fifteen,” she says, “because this dress itches like a motherfucker.”
Ah, there’s the charming little lady I remember. I knew she was in there somewhere. “I’m ready if you are.”
Paula hands a bouquet to my betrothed and an index card to me. “I’ll let the two of you look over the vows for a minute just so you know what you’re in for.”
I take the card and begin to read aloud. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the union of Theodore Roger Porter—”