Listed: Volume I (6 page)

Sometimes,
the universe could be bitterly unjust.

And
not just to him.

They
made it through the rest of the afternoon and evening without incident,
finishing all of the final details on their task list before they headed to the
airport for their flight.

In
a moment of quiet, just before their plane took off, Paul couldn’t help but
think that, not long ago, his biggest concern had been taking the comprehensive
exams for his MBA while nursing the world’s worst hangover.

Then
his mother had died and everything had changed.

His
father was sitting in prison right now, waiting for a criminal trial to finally
bring him to justice. Paul had just given an engagement ring to a girl who was
dying from a brutal virus that had no cure. They were about to take off on a
red-eye flight to Europe. Tomorrow, he had to plan an entire wedding, hopefully
one that would somewhat satisfy a girl's lifelong daydreams, so she could cross
at least one thing off her bucket list. And tomorrow evening, at sunset, Paul
would get married.

At
some point in the last few months, his life had taken a decidedly odd turn.

***

Paul had just gotten
out of the shower when his phone rang, so for a frustrating twenty-minute phone
conversation he’d been wearing nothing but a towel slung around his hips.

“Listen,”
he finally interrupted, “I don’t have time for all this now.  And I just can’t
believe a jury is going to doubt Emily’s testimony, just because she married
me. All you have to do is ask her to explain herself on the stand. I guarantee
that, once they hear about her aunt, her health condition, and the reasons she
married me, they’re going to be on her side and believe what she says.”

“You’re
probably right,” Bill Hathaway replied. He was the assistant U.S. attorney
responsible for his father’s case. “I just thought I’d better bring it to your
attention.”

Paul
rubbed a hand through his damp hair and tried to think through options and
consequences. “We’re getting married in just over an hour. You need to tell me
right now if you think my marrying her will genuinely jeopardize the case.”

He
felt a little sick as considered the possibility of canceling the
wedding—imagining how Emily would feel—but he had to stay reasonable. Priorities
had to remain priorities, and the greater good was always more important than
sentiment.

His
father being sent to prison was the greater good. For everyone.

There
was a pause on the other end of the line, before the other man said, “No. It
won’t. And you’re right about the jury sympathizing with her even more. We
should be fine.”

“Good.
Then the rest of this conversation can wait. I have to get married now. We’ll
be back in town on Friday to take care of the rest of it.”

When
Hathaway had hung up, Paul put his phone down and tried to shake all thoughts
of the trial and his father out of his mind. They were like a weight about to
descend on him, one he was holding back with the force of his will. He was more
distracted than he’d been earlier, though, as he started to get dressed in the
black suit he was wearing for the ceremony.

He
wasn’t wearing a tuxedo, since the wedding was in a garden and Emily wasn’t
wearing a very formal dress.

They’d
arrived in Paris early that morning, and he’d used an old friend of his
mother’s to arrange for them to get into the Louvre before regular hours, so
Emily could see the Mona Lisa—one of the lower items on her list—while they
were in France. Then they’d flown into Aix and been driven to the historic,
luxury inn he’d picked out as the venue for the wedding ceremony.

For
the last several hours, ever since they’d arrived, he’d been wrapped up in plans
for the wedding. The inn had provided a wedding planner, but there were still a
zillion details to handle in a very short amount of time, and Emily had to go
pick out a dress and then visit the day spa to get her hair done, a manicure,
and whatever else women needed to feel pretty on their wedding day.

Although
he was eager to get back to Philadelphia so he could get started on his new job,
he’d told Emily they could wait until the following day to get married, so they
wouldn’t be quite so rushed today.

But
she hadn’t wanted to wait.

Paul
had managed to get mostly dressed when his phone rang again. Smothering an
impatient sound, he greeted the wedding planner.

“I’m
sorry, sir,” she said apologetically, “But there’s been a question about the
music choices, and I think you need to weigh in.”

“We
covered this. They can play anything they want, as long as it’s pleasant,
classical, and not associated with those standard wedding pieces.”

“I
understand that, sir. But I was just listening to one of the pieces they were
practicing, and I think you’d better…”

“Fine.
I’ll be right down.”

Since
he was going to see the wedding planner anyway, he grabbed the slim, velvet
necklace box that had been sitting on the table in his room and took it with
him out to the walled garden, where the ceremony was going to take place.

Emily
had originally suggested that they just get married by a judge at the
courthouse. That certainly would have been easier for all involved, and Paul
would have preferred it, but he wasn’t convinced that was what she really
wanted. If this wedding was supposed to fulfill one of her life’s dreams, then
a quick, no-nonsense union at the courthouse would be a letdown.

So
he’d suggested a church wedding in the neighborhood, but she said she’d feel
awkward with all her friends and acquaintances present when it wasn’t a real
marriage and they all knew she would die shortly. Then he suggested a couple of
picturesque chapels and gardens in Philadelphia. It was only then that he
discovered what she was really concerned about.

Part
of her dreams of a wedding was being surrounded by people she loved, and she
wouldn’t have anyone—not one person—that she loved at this wedding. She didn’t
want to walk down the aisle of a chapel when no one was sitting in the pews.

That
was when he’d suggested a destination wedding, where the scenery and the exotic
locale might offset the lack of family and friends. Plus, the trip would make
her feel more like she was getting a honeymoon. She’d initially objected, since
she felt bad about his spending so much time and money on something unnecessary,
but he didn’t consider those to be valid objections.

He’d
asked her where she wanted to go, and she’d said he could choose. He’d chosen
Provence because his mother used to take him here on vacation.

Emily
had appeared enthusiastic about all of his suggestions, so he assumed he’d made
a decent choice. It was a lot of pressure to plan the fantasy wedding of a
woman who would die in three months, but, if Paul was going to do it, then he
was going to do it right.

He
stopped short when he entered the garden, startled by how beautiful it was. The
garden itself was lovely—surrounded by a two-hundred-year-old stone wall and
filled with big shade trees, two ornate fountains, and trellises covered with
grapevines and climbing roses. Near the largest fountain, they’d set up an
arbor, spilling over with greenery, orchids, and pink and white roses.

They’d
scattered the path Emily would walk with rose petals.

He
went a roundabout way to reach the wedding planner, so he wouldn’t walk all
over the rose petals. She smiled, looking a little hassled, when he approached.

“This
looks great,” he said.

“I
think so too,” she replied in heavily accented English. “It’s like a fairy
tale. If I didn’t have a hundred guests at my wedding, I might have married
here too.” She gestured toward a far corner, where Paul saw a string quartet
had set up with their stands and instruments. “Can you listen?”

At
the woman's direction, the quartet began to play, and Paul listened in silence.
It was a polished arrangement that was obviously intended for weddings. While
most of it was comprised of a piece from Handel, the arranger had added a few
clever interludes that teased with a bar or two of music that sounded like
Wagner’s "Bridal Chorus."

After
a few minutes, the wedding planner said, “It’s lovely, no?”

“Yes,
it is, but I don't think we can use it."

He
could see from the woman’s face that she was dying to know why they had to
avoid music that sounded in any way like the most traditional wedding music. She
was too professional to ask, though, and Paul didn’t volunteer the information.

Emily
wasn’t going to walk down the aisle with her father, and she wasn’t going to
recess on the arm of a man she loved. So Paul’s challenge was to create a
wedding that would satisfy her daydreams without bringing aching attention to
everything she didn’t have.

This
was the best he could do.

“I
need to finish getting ready,” he said, glancing at his wrist instinctively
although he hadn’t put on his watch. “Can you take care of this? I’m sure they
have more in their repertoire. Bach or Vivaldi or something else. “

“Of
course, Mr. Marino.”

“Oh,
and when you go up to check on Emily, can you give her this?” Paul handed the
woman the velvet box he’d brought out with him.

“Yes,
yes,” she said, smiling down at the necklace box rather fatuously. “I’ll make
sure she gets it.”

Paul
left before he could get annoyed by the woman’s expression. He wasn’t some
love-struck groom who couldn’t resist giving his bride another present, and it
made him slightly uncomfortable that the wedding planner obviously thought he
was.

The
necklace in the box was an antique diamond and emerald pendant that matched the
engagement ring, hung on a platinum chain, and the seller had been offering
them as a set. Paul had just wanted the ring, but—according to the jewelry
store manager—the seller refused. So he’d ended up buying both of them by
necessity. Since he’d had to buy it, there was no reason Emily shouldn’t have
it.

He
walked through the grounds until he’d reached the private cottage where he and
Emily were staying. It was really more of a two-bedroom luxury suite than a
cottage, but a cottage was what the inn called it.

When
he walked into his bedroom, he noticed a small black box on his table, tied
with a silver bow. It hadn't been there before. Frowning, he picked it up and
opened it.

Inside
was a folded piece of paper, on which was handwritten, “
It’s fine if you
don’t like them—you really don’t have to wear them. But they reminded me of
you. I wanted to give you something, since it’s tradition and you’re doing so
much for me. Emily
.”

Intrigued
by this unexpected gesture, Paul put down the note and looked inside the box to
find a set of Damascene cufflinks. They looked vintage and were probably
Spanish. Certainly not very expensive—maybe a few hundred dollars. The black
background and gold metalwork portrayed a tiny image of a horse and rider.

He
looked at the cufflinks. Then back at the note. Then he picked up the cufflinks
and peered at them more closely. Both the horse and rider looked strong,
graceful, almost noble. He couldn’t imagine why they would have reminded Emily
of him.

But
he liked them, and he liked that Emily had thought to give them to him. So he
took off the cufflinks he was wearing and replaced them with the Damascene
ones.  Then he put on his tie and jacket, and he was ready to go outside to get
married.

*
* *

As he waited in the
garden near the arbor with the minister and manager of the inn, Paul decided
he’d made a pretty good choice with the setting. The sun was lowering in the
sky, and the sunlight in Provence at this time of day was always warm and
glowing—like no other place he’d ever been.

The
fragrance of lavender and herbs from the hills around them, with a back note of
sea air, mingled with the stronger fragrance of the roses and lilacs in the
garden. The string quartet was playing Vivaldi’s “Winter,” the tune wafting
with the breeze over to where he stood.

It
wasn’t a traditional wedding. There were no guests. No attendants. But the
setting had a romantic, daydream quality that he hoped Emily would appreciate.

For
less than five hours of real wedding planning, he thought he’d done a pretty
decent job.

He
was ready to go, and he guessed Emily was too, but both the wedding planner and
the inn’s manager insisted that they wait until exactly seven-thirty in the
evening to get started, which was still ten minutes away.

So
he waited in silence for his bride to walk down the aisle.

He
wondered how he would feel if this wedding was real—if this lush setting, warm
sunset, and haunting music was initiating a life with a woman he loved. A woman
who really loved him.

Women
had always wanted him for money, for prestige, for sex, for a certain
lifestyle, but they didn’t actually fall in love with him.

At
least, no one ever had yet.