To Have and to Hate

by R.S. Grey

  I make it two steps down the hall before he speaks.

  “You can just bring it in here.”

  Eight

  With hands that are shaking more than I’d like them to, I carry Walt’s tray back to his office.

  Stop. STOP, I tell them, trying to rein in the unruly appendages.

  He’ll see and then know he has some kind of control over my composure. I’d hate to give him the satisfaction.

  As I step past the threshold, I find Walt still sitting behind his desk, unbothered by my reentrance. In fact, he doesn’t glance up even as I come to a stop and wait for his instructions.

  He just keeps typing on his keyboard.

  My hands finally stop shaking as annoyance beats out residual nerves.

  “You did want breakfast, right? I didn’t just imagine you saying so?”

  “You can put it down there,” he says, still not looking up.

  The GALL. Honestly.

  I clear my throat in lieu of speaking my mind, then I drop the silver tray—slightly less delicately than I might have before—right on top of the work on his desk. A tiny bit of his latte sloshes over the side of the mug onto the tray.

  “I’d like to have a word with you,” I say, standing my ground and lifting my chin with confidence.

  His brow quirks as he reaches for his smoothie. After a long sip, he replies, “A word?”

  “Yes. I think you owe me a conversation, at the very least.”

  He picks up his plate of eggs without giving me an indication as to whether or not I’m allowed to continue. I watch him eat for a moment, disturbed that I feel the need to glance at his bare chest and arms. When he lifts his fork to his mouth, the muscles on his arms gain my full attention.

  By the time I regain the wherewithal to look away, he’s caught me.

  I clench my teeth in anger.

  “I can try to catch you at a better moment,” I say, looking up at the ceiling.

  “I work on Saturdays. This is as good a time as any if you want to speak uninterrupted. I’ll be on the phone the rest of the morning.”

  Well fine. I’m capable of keeping my tongue from lolling out of the side of my mouth. He’s not that good-looking!

  “I have a few items I’d like to discuss,” I say, trying to keep my tone all business so he doesn’t get the wrong idea about why I’m pestering him.

  “Go ahead then.”

  His cell phone vibrates on his desk with an incoming call, and he makes a point to send it to voicemail. I take that as a good sign.

  “I wanted to say I appreciate you opening your home to me, and while at first I thought I’d only be staying a few days, I was wondering if you would be okay with me extending my time here.”

  I give him the opportunity to ask for my reasons, but he doesn’t, so I give them anyway.

  “I’m an artist, as you might have guessed by now, and you have a painting—”

  “A Banquet Still Life,” he supplies.

  “Yes,” I say, suddenly filled with enthusiasm at the chance to discuss it with him. I lean forward. “I saw it on Christie’s website earlier this year. How did you acquire it?”

  He catches the emphasis I placed on “you” and his eyes narrow.

  “I purchased it,” he says simply.

  I immediately backtrack, aware that I might have treaded on his ego. “Right. Well…it’s caught my attention, for obvious reasons, and I plan on doing a collection based off of the painting, which means, ideally, I’d have access to it on a regular basis.”

  “I’ve already said you’re welcome to stay here,” he says, as if annoyed with me for droning on.

  “And while I appreciate that, I think it’s important that I not take advantage of the situation. You’ll find a check there on the tray”—I point to where it’s folded in the corner—“that should cover a few weeks’ worth of rent as well as a portion of the rug I damaged.”

  He uses one hand to pick up the check and unfold it. Then he drops it with disinterest on his desk before returning to his breakfast.

  “Is that all?”

  Boy is he a tough nut to crack.

  Maybe before, I would have been too shy to bring up the next topic, but it seems like I can’t fall any further from his good graces, so I might as well trudge on.

  “No, there’s one more thing. I read through the last few pages of the legal documents your lawyer sent over, and most everything is fine—”

  “Good.”

  “But, there weren’t any details in regards to how I should act as your wife.”

  I watch him swallow his bite then carefully drop his fork onto the silver tray. His brown eyes catch mine, and it’s like a jolt of adrenaline.

  “I’m just not sure what you expect from me,” I continue.

  “In what respect?”

  I chew on my bottom lip for a moment, trying to come up with a delicate way to say what I’m about to say.

  “I know this marriage is just business, like you said before.” He opens his mouth, and I hurry to cut him off before he can speak and effectively stab me in the heart with some cruelly indifferent response. “I’m not under some delusion that you have feelings for me or anything.” I feel my cheeks flaming red and I hurry on, nearly tripping over my words in my rush to get them all out quickly. “It’s just that when I arrived here at your building, Rebecca and Terrell called me Mrs. Jennings, and well, I didn’t tell them that was my name, so I thought maybe you had? I’d sort of assumed we wouldn’t be telling anyone about our relationship, and I don’t want you thinking I spilled the beans.”

  “I had Mason inform them that you would be moving in. He must have taken the liberty of telling them your identity. Now that the cat’s out of the bag, I do think it’s for the best. I’ve been thinking on it for the last few days, and having a wife serves quite a few purposes for me.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, for one, I have a reputation around New York for being a little…” He glances down and clears his throat. “Icy.” His brown eyes catch mine again, his moment of vulnerability already gone. “I think a wife would soften that image.”

  I smile despite myself, happy to find that Walt does have real human emotions buried under his robot exterior. He doesn’t like the reputation he has. He doesn’t like being called icy. Interesting.

  “On top of that, I’ve never been someone who’s particularly interested in marriage, and that’s caused a few misunderstandings in past relationships. At least now, there can be no confusion going forward since I’ll legally be off the market.”

  “So then you plan on dating still?”

  I sound as if the notion shocks me.

  His brows furrow. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  Yes, Elizabeth—why wouldn’t he?!

  I force out a laugh and shake my head. “No, it’s just…I wasn’t sure. Now that I think about it, of course you’d continue dating. I wasn’t insinuating that you wouldn’t. Only…I…” I’m fumbling here, grasping at straws as he watches carefully. “I just assumed you didn’t have time with how much you work.”

  He chuckles under his breath. “I have no issue finding the time, I assure you.”

  Whoa.

  Hello butterflies in my stomach. Settle down, please. He was talking about finding the time to romance other women, not me. Why would he find time for me?!

  “So then it’s fine if I date as well?”

  On the surface, it’s an appropriate question, but deep down, I’m only asking to prove that I, too, have romance in my life. Lots of it. Tons.

  “Of course, though I expect you to practice discretion. Our relationship will be public now that you’ve agreed, and as I mentioned, I have a reputation. This city is smaller than you think, and word travels fast.”

  “Understood.”

  He turns back to his computer. “I’ll have Mason place a wedding announcement in The Times next week.”

  I want to ask a million more questions—about the wedding announcement, a
bout his expectations for me, about the arrangement we’ve struck for me to continue living in his apartment—but I sense I’ve been dismissed, so I start to head for the door of his office.

  “Elizabeth,” he says, catching me on the way out.

  I turn back to look at him over my shoulder.

  “Thank you for breakfast.”

  I smile before heading back out into the hallway, pleasantly surprised by how our conversation went. Though I wouldn’t say Walt was overly warm, he at least answered my questions, and now I feel like I’m not tiptoeing through a minefield going forward. Well…not as much.

  After I finish cleaning up the kitchen, I head back to the library, more than a little excited to spend my day there. I round the corner and step into the room, surprised, yet again, to find that Walt has rearranged it overnight.

  I’m dumbfounded. What he’s done is no small change. It would have taken a crew of people to pull this off. Both the couches and coffee table are now completely gone. The heavy drapes that were hanging over the windows before have been removed as well so that natural light floods into the room. My small table and chair are still there, but the plastic floor covering has now morphed into one five times the size so I have a lot more room to work.

  Most notable, however, is the new easel, and not just any easel. I recognize the Abiquiu Deluxe immediately because it’s been on my wish list for oh, I don’t know…a decade. A few of my professors at RISD kept them in their studios, and I’d drool over them every chance I could get. Rather than straining my back by hunching over a table, the easel will allow me to secure my canvases at the exact heights I need. In addition to that, by loosening the knobs on the back, I can adjust the painting to the degree of tilt I need at any given moment. By keeping my canvases upright, the dust from my pastels will fall and collect on the easel’s tray table instead of smudging across my drawings.

  It’s the Range Rover of art easels, and I could cry, honestly.

  I don’t even think before I dart back out into the hall and rush one room over to Walt’s office. The door is still open. He’s on the phone, already busy, but I don’t care. I press my hands together and mouth, “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” while hopping up and down with glee.

  He nods—and I swear there’s a shadow of a smile there too—before I disappear back into the library.

  All day, I work, and I can hear Walt talking and typing faintly on the other side of the wall. Though I can’t make out his words clearly, I like the reminder that he’s here in the apartment with me. I hadn’t realized how lonely I’ve been the last few days—hell, years, really.

  I didn’t have a huge crop of friends at RISD. Early on, someone found out where and how I grew up, and the knowledge alienated me from the rest of my classmates. They assumed I was a stuck-up snob born with a silver spoon in my mouth, and there was no point in trying to clarify that while I did grow up in that world, I didn’t quite belong in it. They all assumed their spots at the prestigious art school were earned, while mine was gifted. It meant my art never stood on its own, that I was continually having to prove myself, work harder, keep to myself.

  I was largely fine with being left alone to focus on my art. It meant that in the five and a half years I was there completing my combined bachelor’s and master’s program, I made a lot of progress in terms of cultivating a unique technique and signature style. I found an identity in my layered pastel canvases, and now that I’ve graduated—a semester earlier than most of my peers—I can start to hone that style and see if I can gain a foothold in the overly saturated New York City art world.

  Walt and I don’t cross paths again that weekend, which is strange given our proximity to one another. I eat an early lunch in the kitchen, on edge, waiting to see if he’ll make an appearance, but he never leaves his office. Later that night, as I’m in my bathroom, washing my face, I hear the elevator arrive and then depart. I don’t hear him return until late Sunday morning, when I’m in the den watching TV.

  I strain my ears, trying to determine if he’s heading in my direction or not, but after ten minutes, I feel foolish and try to refocus my attention on The Crown.

  An hour later, the apartment door opens and he leaves again, making it clear that more often than not, he and I will operate like two ships passing in the night. I’m starting to wonder why he lives in such a large apartment since he rarely uses most of it. He’d probably be fine with an efficiency as long as it had room for his desk and his suits.

  This idea becomes more apparent over the following week. Nothing changes. In fact, it gets worse. I only know he’s been in the apartment because one day, he leaves a note for me in the kitchen, asking me to have Rebecca take a few of his suits to be laundered. I don’t bother. He’s included the name of the high-end dry cleaners on the note so I take the clothes myself, happy to have an activity to do outside of the apartment.

  The bell tings on the door, announcing my arrival, and a petite woman flashes a preprogrammed smile before her eyes widen in shock.

  I glance behind me, wondering what or who she’s seen.

  “Mrs. Jennings!” she says, drawing my attention again as she rushes around the counter to take the suits from me.

  I furrow my brow, trying to determine if I recognize her or not.

  “Um…hi. Have we met?” I ask, tilting my head as I continue to rack my brain.

  She laughs and shakes her head as she moves quickly back behind the counter, passing off the suits to an assistant. “No, no. I saw you and Mr. Jennings in the paper!”

  I must give her a blank look, still not quite connecting the dots, because she reaches for a pair of light pink reading glasses and positions them on the bridge of her nose before she shuffles papers around on the counter, rearranging things until she finds what she’s looking for.

  “Front page.”

  She passes me her Sunday edition of The New York Times and grins, tapping her finger over our photo.

  Sure enough, there I am, blown up and splashed across the front page of The Times.

  Two Great American Dynasties United in Secret Matrimony is the bold headline across the top of the page. Beneath that, there’s a photo of Walt and me standing by one another in the courtroom. In the black and white image, I’m glancing down at my hands, wringing them out, in fact. Walt is looking down at me, only his profile in view. To me, we look like exactly what we are: strangers, marrying for business. But the woman at the cleaners leans over and taps the paper.

  “Look how sweet that is, him looking down at you like that.”

  Like what? I want to ask.

  His expression is as inscrutable as always. Tight jaw, sharp cheekbones, furrowed brow. I couldn’t for the life of me guess his thoughts, but she insists we make a striking couple.

  “Look at you there,” she says, tapping my face on the newspaper. “Absolutely gorgeous. I’m not surprised he proposed.”

  I stare down at the picture of myself in the cheetah print dress and Doc Martens. My hair hangs over one shoulder, brushing my cheek. My face is still flushed from the cold winter wind. I try to look at the two of us objectively, to determine if we really do make a handsome couple, but I can’t. All I see is a girl completely out of her depth.

  At the time, I wasn’t aware that the picture was being taken. Mason must have done it at some point during the ceremony, likely under Walt’s orders so that it could be used in a wedding announcement like this. I’m glad he took it. Even if ours is a sham marriage, I’m happy to have a picture of myself on my wedding day.

  There’re other photos in the article too: a professional headshot of Walt beside a smiling photo of me. I recognize it from my family’s Christmas card shoot from last year.

  Unable to resist, I skim the start of the article.

  Walter Jennings II and Elizabeth Brighton were married in a civil union on February 18th. Though the two have been friends for years due to their close family ties, they reunited just before Mrs. Jennings graduated from Rhode Isla
nd School of Design and moved to New York City.

  I wonder who fed them that information. Mason, no doubt. I suppose it sounds better than The couple was forced to wed due to strategic trust fund management and disbursement. Ah, romance.

  “Is this your first time seeing it?” the woman asks.

  I nod sheepishly. I hadn’t even realized it was put out in the paper yesterday.

  “Then here, take mine.”

  “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

  She smiles and tells me she’ll have Walt’s suit ready to be picked up by tomorrow afternoon. I accept the receipt she passes over to me, slightly appalled at the expense and extremely grateful that Walt has an account with the dry cleaner.

  I’m about to turn and walk out, newspaper in hand, when she frowns.

  “No ring?”

  I don’t immediately know what she’s referring to. I glance down at the receipt as if she could be referring to that.

  “What?”

  “No wedding ring?” she clarifies.

  “Oh.” I laugh awkwardly before throwing out the first fib that comes to mind. “It’s getting resized.”

  She rolls her eyes playfully in understanding. “Why don’t they ever just ask us the size? I guess they don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

  I laugh along with her, hold up the receipt in thanks, and then slip out the door.

  I start to head for home, careful to keep the wind from wrinkling the newspaper. I wonder if Walt’s seen it, then I laugh at myself. Of course he’s seen it. I bet he even approved a rough draft of the article before it went to print.

  I’m about to turn a corner and head back to the apartment when an antique shop catches my attention up ahead. Without a second thought, I head inside and walk straight to the attendant behind the counter.

  “Could you point me in the direction of your antique rings?”

  Nine

  “What’s that?”

  I look up from the cutting board to find Walt standing on the other side of the kitchen island, staring at my left hand.