Rent A Husband (26 page)

“She told you to stick to that story, didn’t she?”

“There is no
story
, Forrest. There is only the truth.”

“You’re lying, Lakshmi.”

“I am not!”

His friend’s indignation hadn’t fooled him.

Lakshmi was lying, okay.

If Darcy Pringle had been nowhere near Forrest’s Hollywood hole-in-the-wall that day, then how had a tube of her trademark lip stick (Dolce & Gabbana Mandorla) landed halfway under the bed for him to find when he dragged together his few pitiful belongings the morning he and Lakshmi fled LA?

The tube of lipstick that’s in his pants pocket right now as he crosses the road—the seething traffic somehow leaving him unscathed—his fingers stroking the metal tube like it’s a good luck charm.

No, Darcy had been there that day.

She’d come looking for him.

She had not lost herself in the arms of her oafish ex-husband.

This Forrest Forbes has to believe.

And, as he walks into the grounds of the palace and joins the old mahout, Bhogilal, who washes down Kipling—the elephant grown now, only a few years younger than Forrest—and feeds the animal a juicy red apple, Forrest has to believe that Darcy will respond to his letter.

And respond to his invitation to come to India.

To come to Rajasthan.

To come to him.

83

Carlotta McCourt, habit keeping her at her post at the bedroom window, feels curiously deflated as she surveys her enemy’s house.

There has been precious little to gossip about these last months.

Darcy has lived quietly, by all accounts spending her days doing volunteer work at that children’s shelter in
Bascomb
(how saccharine and sanctimonious) and meeting her fruity little friend for coffee in the afternoon at the Book & Bean.

There is no way Carlotta will
ever
bring herself to call the dive Brontë’s.

It’s bad enough that she has to watch that stuck-up little bookworm parade around like she’s Emma Thompson, sneering at the customers.

In protest, Carlotta and her tribe of gossipers tried migrating to a new coffee shop in the strip mall, but it was gloomy and dim and went out of business within a month.

Billy’s place, by contrast, is booming.

Hideous new name or not.

Go figure . . .

Carlotta perks up a little as she watches Darcy walk down her pathway, past the
FOR SALE
sign, and check her post box.

She lifts out a letter, and from her body language Carlotta can see that the letter surprises Darcy.

Darcy seems about to open it when a car pulls up and Kathy King, the realtor, climbs out.

The two women chat and smile and then Kathy crosses to the sign and attaches a
SOLD
sticker.

So, the end of an era.

Darcy, still carrying that unopened letter, gets into her SUV and drives toward town.

A sound disturbs Carlotta and she turns to see Walt—
how come he’s not on the golf course this time of day?
—yanking clothes from his closet and dumping them in a heap on the bed.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asks.

“I’m moving out.”

“What?”

He looks at her without expression.

“I’m moving out.”

Carlotta strides across to him.

“Walter McCourt, you stop what you’re doing right this instant, you hear?”

Unperturbed Walt continues unpacking his clothes.

She sees he has acquired a large Samsonite suitcase.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ve got myself a condo at that new golf estate. A nice little two-bedroom on the 18
^th
fairway.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Remember that Glenhaven development of Porter’s that went belly-up when he filed for chapter eleven last month?”

She nods.

The town had been abuzz with tales of high-flying Porter having lost everything.

Even his pregnant wife had fled back to her parents in Montana or Minnesota or whatever hick flyover state she hailed from.

“Well, me and some of the boys got together and bought the estate on auction. Got it for a real good price too.” Walt is beaming as he starts to shove his clothes into the suitcase. “And I got me the pick of the condos.”

“Who is she?”

He stares at her.

“Huh?”

“Who is the little floozy?”

He laughs and shakes his head.

“Believe me, Lottie, there’s no floozy. There’s only peace and quiet and days of golf and nights of sport on TV. Hog heaven.”

Carlotta feels a little dizzy and has to sit down on the bed.

“You can’t just walk out on me.”

“C’mon, Lottie, this is no way to live. You hate my guts, admit it. You’ve always hated me for being fat, ugly Walt McCourt, not pretty, slick Porter Pringle.” He dumps pairs of shoes into the suitcase. “Look where that pretty face got him . . .”

Walt looks up at her and he finds a smile.

“It’s for the best. The twins will be at UCLA in a couple of months. The timing couldn’t be better.”

“What about me?”

“You can keep the house, of course. And I’ll be more than generous in the settlement.”

“Settlement? You’re
divorcing
me?”

“I think that would be best. Let’s put this whole sorry mess behind us.”

He zips up the suitcase and wheels it toward the door.

“You take care now, Lottie. I’m on my cell if you need me.”

He leaves her sitting on the bed in a state of shock.

How will she live without having her loathing of Walt McCourt to sustain her?

Carlotta sees her life stretching into an infinite emptiness.

A future in which she’ll fight—and lose—the battle to stay young.

And she knows that for all the Botox sessions and the painful ordeals under the knife of her cosmetic surgeon, age, gravity—and less than stellar genes—will win out and she’ll become one of those sad, wrinkled
trolls
that wander the streets and the malls unseen and unloved.

And then another unpleasant realization strikes her.

Gossip-starved Santa Sofia will have a juicy morsel to chew on now.

The whole town will be giggling about how Carlotta McCourt hasn’t even been dumped for a big-breasted bimbo . . .

She’s been dumped for a little white ball and ESPN.

84

Darcy walks into Brontë’s and exchanges waves with the love birds behind the counter.

William and Brontë were married in a small ceremony a few weeks ago, the reception held at the community hall near the beach.

Darcy organized the décor and the catering, and persuaded the guitarist from the band that had played at the Spring Ball to come up from LA and serenade the couple on a lute.

Even the gossips of Santa Sofia—with the notable exception of Carlotta McCourt—had agreed that it was an event of surpassing sweetness.

Darcy, with a glass of Perrier in front of her, still has a few minutes before the ever punctual Eric Royce arrives, so she lifts the letter from her purse.

It is in a plain white envelope.

There is no return address, but the Indian postmark is the giveaway.

Looking down at the letter lying on the table, Darcy realizes she’s holding her breath.

Come on, girl.

Open it.

It won’t bite.

At last Darcy lifts the envelope and carefully tears it open.

She draws out a sheet of fine notepaper, covered in handwriting that is very neat and  old-fashioned.

As Darcy starts to read, the hum of coffee shop recedes and she hears sitars and
tabla
drums, but most of all she hears the beautiful voice of Forrest Forbes telling her that he knows what she did that day with the ring and the so-called winnings.

Telling her how grateful he is to her, and how wonderful India is.

It is an enchanting letter, full of humor and graciousness.

The kind of letter that a woman dreams of receiving, and she reads the last line many times, until she spots Eric’s Jeep reversing into a parking bay.

Darcy folds the letter, slides it back into its envelope and hides it in her purse.

When Eric arrives they talk of the sale of her house, a new show he is pitching to the networks and the California weather (what there is to discuss.)

After an hour of chat Darcy goes home and pours herself the single glass of wine she allows herself every evening and makes a green salad.

She eats watching something silly and unmemorable on TV.

After she showers and slips on her PJs, she sits in bed and scans Forrest’s letter again.

If anything, it is even more beguiling on the second read.

And the last line coils up from the page as her, as sinuous as a dancing snake.

Darcy
, it says,
there is a night train from Mumbai to Jaipur. It passes though the red sands of the Rajasthan desert. Every morning for the next month I will be on the platform when the train arrives. Forrest.

Darcy folds the letter.

Ridiculous.

A ridiculous invitation from a ridiculous man.

But when Darcy falls asleep, the folded letter is under her pillow.

85

Darcy is woken by sunlight streaming through the bedroom window.

She takes a while to open her eyes, letting consciousness creep up on her.

When her eyes finally flicker open and she lifts a hand to take the hair from her face—a hand covered in an exotic filigree of henna—she sees the ring on her finger, the diamonds and sapphires firing back the light in perfect little starbursts.

Darcy stretches and smiles, her body naked beneath the silk sheet, her skin, even at this early hour, already covered in a deliciously sensual sheen of sweat.

She’s alone in the huge four-poster and extends a hand to move the layers of diaphanous cloth that enfold the bed, casting rainbow colors across her bare skin.

The bed is in a huge room with a ceiling fan and a floor of intricate black and white mosaic.

A window with an ornate wooden frame presents her with a view of a minaret.

Just as she once dreamed.

As she slides from the bed, the breeze from the fan cool on her skin, she is tempted to pinch herself, to make sure she’s not still asleep, for the last month has had all the properties of a dream.

Her impetuous decision to fly to Mumbai and catch that night train through the desert.

Finding Forrest, true to his word, waiting for her on the platform.

Living with Forrest and Lakshmi in this crumbling palace.

Deciding to invest some of the proceeds of the sale of her house (after making a generous bequest to the Children’s Shelter) in restoring the palace, and finding that she has a previously unknown talent for décor—for creating an environment of fantasy and opulence for well-heeled tourists.

And, most dream-like of all, falling in love with Forrest in this world of spices and dust and chaos and poverty and breathtaking beauty.

Standing at the window, looking out beyond the palace toward the sprawl of low buildings, she thinks of her wedding yesterday, riding with Forrest in a
howdah
on the back of Kipling—
he was real!
—after being swathed by Lakshmi and her friends in layers of cloth, wearing a garland of flowers that her husband removed once they were alone in their bed.

Vows were exchanged in the garden of the palace, the ancient maharajah officiating, and Forrest slipped his mother’s ring onto Darcy’s finger as a crowd of locals looked on.

Well, nearly all were locals: she has a vivid memory of Eric Royce in a turban, dancing wildly late into the night.

The festivities had included traditional dancers, snake charmers, fire eaters, jugglers, and even a fortune telling parrot.

Lakshmi tried to shoo away the parrot’s handler, but it seemed to be customary for the bird have its say, so it had perched on Darcy’s shoulder and rattled away in Rajasthani.

When Darcy insisted, Lakshmi—sworn off lying for life—reluctantly translated the prophecy into English.

“He says you will have many children. I’m sorry, Darcy.”

But Darcy, laughing, knew the molting old bird was right.

She’s no Mother Teresa, but she knows there are hordes of kids out there who need help.

And she’s here, isn’t she?

The door opens and Darcy turns as Forrest enters.

He’s dressed in a white toweling robe, not jodhpurs, and carries two glasses of fruit juice, not a riding crop.

But, as Darcy crosses to him and he takes her into his arms, she hears sitars and flutes and
tablas
, and the morning sun does look just like a cocktail olive speared on the nearby minaret, and she knows that, yes, dreams do come true.

THE END

Copyright

 © 2013 by Sally Mason

All rights reserved

Rent A Husband
 is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without the express written permission of the author or publisher except where permitted by law.