Nearlyweds (5 page)

Stella’s voice quavered behind us. “Me.”

I
still can’t believe this.” David reread the letter informing us that our newly minted marriage was a fraud, then glanced over at me with excitement. “Do you realize what this means?”

“I should’ve put all that money toward my med school loans instead of buying the froufrou wedding dress?” I tipped back my kitchen chair and grabbed a spoon out of the drawer next to the dishwasher.

“It means we have a chance to do it all over again!” My new husband (well,
almost
husband, according to the State of Massachusetts) looked thrilled about this prospect. He was definitely more optimistic and spontaneous than I (a good thing, considering that I was such a perfectionist control freak that my father joked they had to invent a new personality profile
for me—type A plus), but the wedding hoopla had been as stressful for him as it had been for me. Maybe more so—after all, Renée was
his
mother.

“Honey.” I stirred my yogurt. “How could you want to do all that again? Do you not remember the migraines we got over the great fondant-versus-buttercream controversy?”

“No, no, I mean let’s do it right this time. The way we wanted to do it. We can go to Hawaii, just the two of us, and get hitched in our bathing suits on the beach. No hysterical bridesmaids, no stuffy country club, and best of all, no Mom.”

“But we just took our honeymoon in September!” I protested. “I can’t take another week off.”

“Sure you can. What’s Dr. Lowell going to do? Fire you?”

“He might, actually.”

“Are you kidding? He loves having your Harvard Med diploma up on his office wall. Makes him feel smart by association. If he fires you, he won’t be able to go around namedropping his new partner’s Ivy League pedigree. I say we pack our bags and go. Two honeymoons in four months—let the good times roll.”

I closed my eyes and conjured up a vision of pristine white beaches, golden sunlight, and lush green foliage. David and I, holding hands, repeating our vows as the surf crashed over the—

Back to reality, Dr. Maye.
“I’d love to, David, but we can’t. I
have so many new patients, and flu season started early this year—”

He dropped to one knee in the middle of the scuffed linoleum floor. “Erin, will you marry me?”

“Already did.” I wriggled the fingers of my left hand at him.

He threw out his arms as if about to burst into song. “Okay, then, will you marry me again?”

The man didn’t have a pragmatic bone in his body.

No wonder I loved him so much.

He clapped one hand to his heart. “I’m not getting up till you say yes. Every time you try to make coffee or open the fridge, here I’ll be, right underfoot, getting gigantic bruises on my knees. So you might as well save us both the suspense and contusions and say yes now.”

I sat down on the floor next to him and kissed him. “Yes.”

“Yes?” He looked as elated as he had the first time I’d accepted his proposal. “You’ll run away with me and commit all manner of lewd, lascivious acts on the beach?”

“I will. But you better bring enough cash to make bail when we get arrested for public indecency.”

“Done.”

I kissed him again. “I’ll talk to Dr. Lowell tomorrow; if he’ll give me the time off, we’ll go.”

He pressed my hand between both of his. “This is gonna be great. We’ll get some time to ourselves before Mom moves in.”

I froze midkiss. “Before what, now?”

His smile faltered. “Before my mom moves in.”

I snatched my hand away. “I know I didn’t hear you correctly. Because if you just said what I thought you just said, then I…then we…”

“It’s just for a few weeks, nothing major. She’s remodeling her house and—”

“Since when?”

“She got depressed after the wedding—”

“Our
wedding? Why?”

“—and called a contractor and they’re ripping out her kitchen and all the bathrooms. Pretty soon she’ll have no hot water and no place to cook.”

“Then she can stay at a hotel,” I said flatly.

“Erin!”

“No, David. No. I have been more than accommodating when it comes to your mother’s…”

He narrowed his eyes. “My mother’s what?”

I made myself count to five. “Your mother’s whims. I agreed to have the wedding at
her
country club, with
her
pastor, right before I gave up a great job and moved to
her
town. I am a reasonable woman. But this is beyond the beyond.”

His tone changed from accusatory to cajoling. “You’re right. I know. She gets a little carried away sometimes, but she’s my mother and she’s all alone…”

There it was: the widow card. Renée’s ace in the hole,
brought out every time anyone didn’t fall over themselves to cater to her every need.

“Listen. Honey.” I paused, trying to find the most diplomatic way to word this. “I know she’s your mother and I know she’s come to rely on you since your father passed away. But we’re newlyweds. We need our space.”

“Agreed, but—”

I threw up a hand. “She cannot move in with us. Full stop.”

“Okay, well maybe ‘move in’ was the wrong way to put it. She’ll just be visiting for a few weeks while—”

“While they gut her entire house? Do you honestly think that’s going to be a nice, neat, monthlong project? It’s going to take months, David. Possibly years. What about all her bridge friends? Can’t she stay with one of them?”

“She wants to be with family,” he said plaintively. “She doesn’t want to impose on her friends.”

“Then she better get used to cold showers and takeout, ’cause she’s not moving in with us.”

He looked at me like I’d grown fangs and talons. “Erin!”

“What? David, try to see my side of this. Did I say anything when she cried at the rehearsal dinner because she was, quote, losing her only child forever?”

“No.”

“Did I say anything when she interrupted our first dance to ask when we were going to start trying to conceive?”

“No.”

“Did I say anything when she tried to kill me last Thanksgiving?”

His face turned crimson. “Would you get over that already? It was an accident!”

“An accident? I must have told her fifty times that I was allergic to peanuts. I tell everyone I meet. It’s practically tattooed on my forehead!”

“She’s getting older,” he countered. “She forgets things sometimes.”

“Yeah, whenever it’s convenient for her.”

He shot up into a standing position. “What exactly are you saying?”

“I’m saying she’s not moving in with us! Not now, not ever.”

He set his jaw. “Just because you have the MD after your name doesn’t mean you get to make all the decisions.”

This took me completely off guard. “Wait. What?”

“Every time we argue, you pull rank, and I’m sick of it.”

“I never said anything about—”

“Yes, okay, we all know you’re the exalted physician who married the lowly pharmacologist! But that doesn’t mean you get to call all the shots!”

“My being a physician has nothing to do with any of this.”

“Then why do you always get the final say?”

I exhaled sharply. “David, there are certain issues where a spouse deserves veto power.”

“And let me guess—
you
get to decide what those issues are.”

Something inside me snapped. “That’s right, David. I do. I gave up my apartment in Boston and all my friends and moved all the way out here so your poor, bereft mother wouldn’t have to be alone. I gave up a great job opportunity at a prestigious teaching hospital to hand out cough syrup and antibiotics.”

His eyes had lost all trace of loving enthusiasm. “She’s my mom and she helped pay for this house. What am I supposed to do?”

“I told you accepting that money from her was a mistake. I told you! Well, I’m only going to say this once: If she moves in, I move out.”

He stared at me but didn’t say anything.

“David?” I prompted.

Still no response.

I grabbed my purse off the kitchen table and headed for the garage.

“Erin, don’t.”

I whirled around, frightened by the rage breaking over me. “I mean it. It’s me or Renée. Who’s it going to be?”

He studied the linoleum. “It’s not that simple.”

I reached for the doorknob.

“Please don’t.”

I turned the dead bolt and pushed the door open.

When he looked up, his eyes were bleak and betrayed. “You promised to marry me all over again.”

“Yeah, well, maybe once was enough.”

S
weetie, did we get any important mail recently?” I banged the front door shut behind me, which seemed to spook the dog, so I leaned down and rubbed his ears to reassure him.

Mark rushed into the foyer, looking both annoyed and relieved. “Are you ready to stop behaving like—” He broke off when he saw the dog. “What is that?”

I tilted my head, trying to look nonchalant. “A dog.”

He folded his arms over his green raglan sweater. “I see. And whose dog is it, exactly?”

“He’s ours.” I tugged on the leash. The dog lumbered forward. “I bailed him out of the county shelter.”

“You’re kidding, right? Whose dog is it, really?”

I brushed past him into the kitchen. “Look at him, Mark.
Smell
him. Do you really think anyone we know would let their dog run around all matted and filthy like this?”

He glanced at the dog, who had planted himself next to the marble-topped island and was scratching away at his neck with his back foot. “Stop yanking my chain and tell me what the hell’s going on.”

“I’m not yanking your chain, darling.” I started humming as I rummaged through the cherry cabinets for hot chocolate mix and a mug. “This is our new dog. Isn’t he a cutie? I’m going to make cocoa—want some?”

“Stella. What have you done?”

I filled the kettle with water and placed it on the burner. “I took him over to that little pet supply shop on Fifth Street, and the owner helped me pick out food and dishes and toys and that sporty new collar. Her name’s Casey—Casey Keating, I think. Do you know her?”

His face went ashen. “That crazy animal-rights girl who’s always passing out leaflets on the evils of animal testing in front of the hospital?”

“I don’t know. I guess. Anyway, she knew who you were. And of course she’d heard all about me. I’m the Paris Hilton of the Berkshires, thanks to Taylor and Marissa.” I found the bag of mini-marshmallows and crammed a few into my mouth. “All the dog stuff’s in the trunk, so when you get a chance, could you bring it in? Oh, and could you put the convertible top back up, too? I had to take it down to fit him in the passenger seat. I thought we were going to die of frostbite on the ride home. What do you think we should name him?”

“You’re serious. You actually adopted this filthy monstrosity of a dog?”

I batted my eyelashes at him. “Don’t talk that way about our
baby,
sweetheart.”

His lips crimped together. “Don’t start with that again.”

“I’m not.” I nibbled a few more marshmallows as I sprinkled cocoa powder into the mug. “You wanted to get a dog, so we got a dog. I’m just trying to be agreeable.”

“You’re not being agreeable; you’re being passive-aggressive. I already told you, we’re getting a maltipoo.”

“From a breeder with a waiting list? Why should we spend a ton of money buying a designer dog when there are so many homeless animals dying in shelters every day?”

“Oh God.” He shook his head. “The lunatic leaflet girl’s gotten her hooks into you.”

I beamed. “I’m just trying to do the right thing.”

“Give it up!” He jabbed his index finger toward me. “The only reason you got that dog is to make a stand against my vasectomy. You don’t want a mangy stray messing up this house any more than I do. What are you going to do when he starts peeing all over the rug? Chewing up the furniture?”

As I surveyed the spotless travertine floors, white leather sofa, and pristine Berber carpet I’d so carefully picked out, I realized he had a point. I didn’t want to sacrifice my brand-new house to make a point about my biological clock. A five-minute argument was going to cost us eight to ten years of
muddy pawprints and drooled-on Italian leather. Plus bloat, whatever the hell that was.

My expression must have reflected my second thoughts, because he nodded and said, “See? You know I’m right.”

“Well, I can’t just take him back to the shelter,” I said. “Casey said that big, black, male dogs almost never get adopted.”

“I will not going to have some overgrown mutt marking his territory all over my house.”

“He’s neutered,” I protested. “Besides, he seems pretty mellow.”

We both took a moment to stare at the dog, who had reared up on his hind legs and was resting his head on the counter, his long pink tongue slurping toward the marshmallows.

“You shouldn’t have gotten a pet without consulting me first,” Mark said.

My jaw hit the floor. “Excuse me? You’re the one who put me on a waiting list for the maltipoo! I don’t remember being consulted about that.”

“That’s different—I was trying to make you happy, not one-up you with some childish power play. Besides, maltipoos are a much more practical choice, given our family situation. Taylor hates big dogs. She says they can’t be trusted.”

I slammed the cocoa tin down on the counter. “So what? Taylor doesn’t live here.”

“Well…” He started choosing his words very carefully. “If we keep this dog, the girls won’t want to come over very often.”

My smile was even tighter than his. “In case you haven’t noticed,
the girls
hate my guts. They’re not coming over anyway.”

“They’re coming for Thanksgiving next week.” He stared up at the ceiling. “And they don’t hate you.”

“What’s that?” I cupped a hand to my ear. “I can’t hear you.”

“They don’t hate you,” he muttered.

“Ha.”

“Okay, it’s possible they resent you a little bit. But they’ll get over it, sweetheart. These things take time.”

“Everyone told me not to marry a guy twice my age,” I said to the dog, who was trying to look innocent while mainlining marshmallows on the sly. “Everybody said the nanny shouldn’t marry her employer’s golf buddy. It would never work, they said. But would I listen? Nooo.”

“What are you talking about?” The tension ebbed out of his shoulders as he uncrossed his arms and stepped forward to embrace me. “Nobody said that. And we
are
going to work. You and me—we’re a team.”

I let him pull me up against his chest but didn’t say anything.

“I love you, Stell. We’re going to have our share of fights—maybe more than our share—but I will always love you.”

“Only because I’m young and pretty,” I goaded.

“No.” He buried his face in my hair. “Because you’re everything I ever wanted and I can’t live without you. Do you get that? It’s not about how you look. It’s about who you are.”

That’s what all my boyfriends had said since Alan Gilardi gave me my first French kiss in sixth grade. And most of them had been lying.

But Mark wasn’t like all those other guys. He was strong and steady and solid as a rock. He’d always put me first, always given me what I needed.

Until now.

“I love you, too,” I whispered. “But I still want to have a baby.”

“I know.” He squeezed me tighter.

“So?”

“So we’ll talk about it. After Thanksgiving.”

I whirled around. “We will?”

He smiled. “When do I ever say no to you?”

I flung my arms around his neck. “I love you.”

“Good.” He glanced over at the dog, who was watching us, his tail thumping steadily against the floor. “Now will you please do something with that dog? He’s giving me the creeps.”

“He’s a good boy,” I defended. “And if I take him back to the shelter, they’ll put him to sleep. You should have seen Casey when I said I was thinking about returning him. She looked at me like I was an axe murderer.”

“Who cares what Casey Nestor thinks?” He mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “white trash,” but that couldn’t be right—Mark never used language like that.

“We’re keeping the dog, Mark. We have to.”

“We’re not.”

“We are.”

“What about Taylor’s phobia?”

“What about euthanasia?” I countered.

Mark gave me a look. “You don’t even like him.”

“I do so!” I insisted a little too loudly.

“No, you don’t. You haven’t even given him a name.”

“I’m waiting to come up with the right one!”

“Casey Nestor. What a piece of work.” He snorted in disgust. “That girl should spend more time worrying about her own marriage and less interfering in ours—”

“Oh, yeah.” I suddenly remembered what I’d asked him when I’d first walked in the door. “That reminds me. Have we gotten any important letters lately? Like from the county clerk?”

“No,” he said quickly, but his eyes gave him away. He looked guilty somehow,
caught.

“Are you sure?” I forced a laugh. “Because Casey’s friend got married the same weekend we did, and she just got a letter saying that Pastor Rick died before he signed her marriage certificate.”

His face. It was the wedding night vasectomy confession all over again.

“Oh my God,” I whispered. “You knew. You got that letter and you hid it from me.”

He held up both hands. “Hey, nobody’s hiding anything. I just wanted to wait to tell you until you’d calmed down about—”

“Your first big fat lie?” My voice came out sharp and icy. The dog lowered his head and whined.

“See?” he blustered, trying to stay on the offensive. “This is why I didn’t tell you! Because I knew you’d react like this!”

“It’s always my fault, isn’t it?” I shot back as the dog slunk toward the foyer. “You lie, you hide things, and
I’m
supposed to feel bad? Jesus, Mark, what else aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing!”

“A crack habit? A mistress or five?”

“Stella, you know I would never—”

“I don’t know anything about you!” The teakettle whistled on the stove. “All these things I took for granted…I was so stupid! How can I believe a word you say?”

“Because I love you.” His voice was barely audible over the kettle. “I made a mistake, yes, I admit that. I shouldn’t have assumed you’d remember our conversation in Bermuda. But you can trust me, Stella. Our marriage is built on love and honesty and—”

“Our marriage.” I snatched the kettle off the stove and started to laugh—I couldn’t help it. “Let me tell you something about our marriage, buddy—as far as the State of Massachusetts is concerned, our marriage doesn’t even exist!”

“What is that supposed to mean? Are you threatening me?”

“I’m just stating a fact. Hang on to that letter as long as you want. I know the truth—you’re not really my husband. Not in any sense of the word. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go give our new dog a bath. He’ll be sleeping on your side of the bed tonight. Enjoy the couch.”