Here, Have a Husband

by Heather Gean

  “Monica?” She paused and gave me her signature fish stare. “Where is everyone else? Ashley… his family?” The old-fashioned bedside clock ticked loudly.

  “Oh!” She inserted some gremlin laughter. “They’ll be here for dinner at six. You’ve still got quite a bit of time to get ready for that. You’ll meet everyone then.” Without any further lingering, Monica disappeared. I was nauseated at the speculation of who everyone actually entailed.

  I hopped up onto the end of the gigantic bed. I wasn’t sure if beds came in sizes larger than king, but this one made me think they did. An equally large armoire sat across from it. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined one wall, looking out over what was possibly the largest backyard I’d ever seen. Surely that wasn’t classified as a backyard, a park maybe. In my new surroundings I felt so small in a multitude of ways.

  My father had worked as a Representative for years, and a lawyer before that, so my family was well off, but the Schroeders could easily make us like lower class citizens. As far as extravagant spending, my parents did little of it. They still lived in a rural community and owned a plantation-style house next door to my grandparents’ farm. They’d paid off all their bills and occasionally took lavish vacations. However, they didn’t own a limousine or have hired help around the house. I was clearly out of my league.

  My cell phone made its way out of my back pocket and up to my ear. I dialed a familiar number and prayed someone would pick up. When I heard an answer, I nearly burst into tears. My face sunk into my free hand, and my curls created a curtain around my hanging head. “Momma,” I sobbed, “I want to come home.”

  ~*~

  Having fabulous breakdowns was one of my best talents. I added that to my growing mental list of things that the government’s dating website rip-off had failed to find out about me. The breakdown I had upon arrival would’ve made Meryl Streep proud. Within an hour I’d cried away all of my anxieties and most of my make-up. The only thing I needed more than my mommy and a professional psychiatrist was a quick touch-up of my face. As I struggled to a sitting position on the ocean of a mattress I’d collapsed onto, I remembered what my mother had told me. Rainy, you went up there to show those people what an amazing girl you are, and you’re not coming home until you do. While my mother wasn’t always the most articulate, she was the fastest cure for a crisis. And she was right.

  I ran my hands through my hair and inhaled deeply. I had everything under control. I leveled my stare at myself in the mirror. “I have everything under--”

  The door to my room swung open wide, smacking loudly against the fancy armchair behind it. A flash of long blonde hair and a mass of black curls hurled into the room. Within a matter of seconds the couple crashed into the frame of the bed I sat on, shaking me emotionally as much as they did physically. The blonde girl’s dramatic gray eyes widened as she saw me sitting on the bed. Her male counterpart’s back was pressed against the ornate bedpost. His hands still frantically worked to slide underneath her skin-tight shirt. As my mouth fell agape, hers only twisted into a surprised smile. She grabbed the boy, who I assumed to be no older than eighteen, by the front of his shirt. His lips landed passionately on her neck. I was accidentally witnessing the opening ceremonies of most babies and internet sex tapes. “Oops,” she half-whispered. The young Romeo finally glanced over his shoulder at me. He mirrored the laughing smile of his partner, and the two of them stumbled out of the room as quickly as they’d crashed inside. What the hell was that? I felt as if a tornado had just swept through my room.

  I lifted my hands to my head again, this time actually managing to inhale and exhale without interruption. I smiled to myself and took another deep breath. I had absolutely nothing under control. With that realization, I ventured out into the hallway in search of my luggage. I was determined to piece myself back together, starting with my suitcases and hopefully getting around to my face before dinner.

  The hallway was empty. I looked both ways before I fully stepped into it, the same way I would before walking into the street. Sure, I didn’t expect a car to plow into me, but I didn’t want another run-in with that wildly passionate couple. No sign of them could be seen or heard. A grandfather clock echoed the seconds down the long hallway.

  “Hello?” The ticking was my only reply.

  I stepped to the railing and peered down into the huge foyer. “Hello?” I called again. The doorman stepped into sight, peering up at me curiously like an old dog. “Um… hi. I was wondering if any of my luggage had been brought in?” The old man stood perfectly still, but his eyes darted about in thought. “It’s purple.”

  “No, ma’am. No luggage arrived with you.” He didn’t react to my look of distress.

  I thought harder and realized the last time I’d seen it had been as Van was loading it into his hearse. I may have avoided a ride in Van’s creepy car, but my luggage hadn’t. Some luck I was having.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked. I glanced down at him again. The man stood with his head cocked to the side as he gazed up at me much like my dog Ringo Starr would do when I ran out of doggie treats. It was not the strangest thing I’d encountered in the Schroeder mansion but was definitely a notable oddity.

  “Do you know how I could get in touch with Van?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t. Mr. Sherman is rather elusive.” I assumed we were talking about the same person. Though I hadn’t gotten his last name, I doubted there were so many guys named Van to confuse with one another. “You could ask Penelope. She may be able to help you.”

  “Thank you so much. Where is she?”

  The doorman motioned to his left and then retreated back to his right toward the front door. I skipped down the stairs, heading in that direction. The open doorway he’d indicated led me through a sitting room so extravagant I doubted anyone ever actually sat in it. I treaded carefully as one would through a shop full of ‘you break it, you buy it’ signs. The next set of doors I approached was glass. I cautiously opened one just enough to allow myself to slip through. A terraced patio extended out from where I stood to a glittering swimming pool. Expensive patio furniture adorned the pool’s edges. Botanical flowers bloomed around me in dazzling shades of white and pink. Another life-sized statue like the one from the foyer lazed gracefully underneath the blossoms of a short fruit tree. This one was female and clothed in sculpted layers of draping material. It felt more like an exotic island than a lukewarm day in New York.

  Draped over the edge of a lounge chair was a thin arm. A bright beach towel hanging over the back of the chair flapped in the breeze. I assumed that this was my target. “Penelope?”

  The lifeless arm retreated and was replaced by a head poking around the back of the chair. The wind swept long layers of blonde across the face of the girl. Gray eyes squinted at me. My heart skipped a few beats. I recognized that face as one of the people who had crashed into my room earlier and regretted my decision to seek her out.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hi, I’m Rainy Clarke. The doorman said you could help me with something.” My words tumbled over one another. Penelope obviously didn’t feel the same discomfort in our second meeting of the day. Her expression remained unchanged.

  “Oh, yeah. You’re the girl who the DML thinks is made for my brother.” She eyed me up and down. “What do you need?” Penelope returned to her reclining position in the lounge chair. I remained a few feet behind her. There was no sign of her brunette Romeo.

  “Van Sherman’s phone number. Do you know him?” This response drew her head back around the edge of the chair. Those gray eyes probed my face once more.

  “Right…” she said. “It’s on the emergency numbers list beside the phone in the downstairs study.” With that she sank back into the chair. While our encounter in the bedroom had felt like a natural disaster, this one felt more like a sudden chill.

  I felt like the doorman and Penelope were playing ping pong with me as I headed back inside. Hopefully I could get some For Du
mmies style directions through the maze of a house to the downstairs study. I assumed her response indicated that the house included more than one study, which seemed like a waste considering most of the houses I was familiar with didn’t have a single study. I spotted the doorman, but before I could question him for directions, he was opening the door to greet another visitor.

  Van strutted through the entryway. The coincidences in this house were beginning to put me on edge. “Hey, I’ve been looking for you,” I said with a little too much relief.

  “Looking for me?”

  “I mean looking for that. My suitcase.” I pointed to the bright purple piece of luggage trailing behind him. He smiled apologetically and passed it off to me.

  “Sorry about that. Things at the airport got so exciting that I forgot all about it.” This time it was I who smiled apologetically. “Anyway, I’ve gotta run. Things to do. See you at the party tonight?”

  “Sure,” I said, honestly with no idea what he meant. “Thanks.” Van nodded at me once before letting himself back out the front door. The doorman/watchdog eyed me suspiciously before sneaking away to an adjoining room. What was up with this family and eye signals?

  I dragged my luggage up the towering staircase, fully prepared for a bellhop to pop out and snatch it from me. I dropped it on the bed and attempted to make a mental to-do list. Unpacking was first, but I still had to piece myself back together and be ready for dinner or a party in two hours. It was scheduled for six o’clock sharp, and it promised to be anything but dull.

  Chapter 3

  My idea of a family dinner was a close few gathered around a table, probably located in the kitchen opposed to an actual dining room, eating mashed potatoes and a traditionally American form of meat, like steak. The Schroeder family had an entirely different approach to this great American pastime. Let me clarify. It involved chefs, servers, a dining room that seated one-hundred, and semi-formalwear.

  After one of the maids tipped me off, I put on a little black dress and the matching bout of anxiety. This lifestyle was wearing on me already. I needed my reliable beauty consultant Liz right about then. Without her I had taken over the bathroom across the hallway from my room as my beautification headquarters and hoped for the best. That bathroom was more expensively decorated than a single room in my apartment back home. Even the places where these people shat were immaculate.

  As I brushed mascara onto my lashes, I wondered if I would fall into that group of people that would end up alone forever by DML standards. I was terrified that Ashley and I wouldn’t hit it off. Maybe an illegal marriage wouldn’t be so bad. I’d have everything but legal documentation, a new last name, spousal benefits, my parents’ support, and a compatibility guarantee, but how bad would that be? I knew without thinking it through much more that it might be unbearably bad, but it kept me from so anxiously awaiting my first meeting with Ashley.

  A knock on the door echoed through the bathroom as I tousled my hair in dissatisfaction again. “Come in,” I called nervously. For the third time that day my gaze fell upon gray eyes and blonde hair, but this time they belonged to a guy. There was no mistaking that face. I’d seen it at least fifty times thanks to Google, but it was much more handsome in person: less glam and more accessible.

  “Hey, Rainy. I’m Ashley Schroeder.” He joined me in front of the mirror and adjusted his tie, looking at my reflection. He smelled like my grandfather, and by that I mean that he smelled faintly of bourbon, only with an unusual twist I assumed to be expensive cologne.

  “It’s great to finally meet you.” My surprised smile stared back at me. Just when I’d prepared to be called Lorraine for the remainder of my visit, he actually called me Rainy.

  “I don’t want tonight to freak you out,” he said. “I heard about the airport, and I am incredibly sorry.” An apologetic chuckle inserted itself into his pause. “Van is my best man. I can trust him with my life, maybe the rings, but apparently not with my impending fiancée.” His tone was conversational and personal as if he’d known me forever but rehearsed enough that it failed to successfully put me at ease. I was drawn into the reflection of his smile. “Anyway, my mother invited in some of that embarrassing extended family that you only pull out at holidays and weddings just to keep things interesting. It’s really no big deal. There’ll be great food and an open bar, if that helps any.” He paused again to readjust his tie. “And I’ll be there,” he added with a wink.

  “I’m sure it will be lovely.” Lovely? I only used words like that when I was so nervous that I recruited foreign vocabularly. I swept my curls behind my shoulder and decided to abandon any last minute touch-ups, self-conscious of doing make-up in front of Ashley. I turned my back to the mirror and leaned against the marble countertop. Ashley finally looked at me instead of my reflection. His smile was bright white like those in toothpaste commercials.

  “After a few martinis I believe it will be quite lovely. Do you like martinis?” As far as bar drinks went I happened to like martinis. On any off night back home I would be satisfied with tequila probably straight from the bottle, however, the kind of behavior that ensued when I hung out with my good friend José was not exactly Schroeder dinner party behavior. I replied with nothing more than a small smile.

  “I love martinis.”

  “You nervous?”

  I smiled again. “Is it that obvious?”

  “They’ll love you,” he said, as if he could read my mind. “I mean look at you, you’re beautiful. You aren’t a Keaton so that’s a plus.” Keaton was another popular household appliance company and probably a hated rival. We both laughed. “Just relax.”

  I sighed a few pounds of tension off of my chest. “Let’s do this.”

  He opened the bathroom door and motioned for me to exit. “After you,” he said with another wink.

  I stepped into the hallway and was met with a wave of dinner party conversation and music from a string quartet. I slowed almost to a stop, finding Ashley at my side with his hand on the small of my back. “It’s fine, really,” he assured me. “To the bar?”

  I took a deep breath and offered a smile. “To the bar,” I agreed. Ashley laced his fingers through mine and led me down the hallway. I held onto his hand for dear life, finding it to be as warm as his smile.

  As we moved through the crowd, his words seemed as deliberate as the actions he made. In that sense he reminded me of my dad when I’d watched him carousing with bigwigs at political campaigns or events. I wondered if it was a front Ashley used for his job, a defense mechanism I’d called the Superman syndrome ever since I’d been a little girl who watched her dad transform daily from an all-business lawyer to the man watching TV in his faded T-shirt and undershorts, or if he was always that controlled. Very few of the dinner guests took notice of us, too involved in what seemed to be serious gossip or business banter, but it reassuring to know I was blending in instead of sticking out. Within minutes I was armed with the promised martini, which hopefully would fuel me through the remainder of that evening. It wasn’t until I was taking my first sip of the drink that I recognized the curly haired bartender who’d concocted it for me. He was unmistakably the star-crossed lover who’d stormed into my room earlier that day with Penelope.

  Curiosity may have killed the cat, but thankfully I was more of a dog person. “Do you know the bartender?” I asked Ashley when we were a few steps away from the bar. He, who had declined a drink until dinner, took a second look at the guy.

  “Yeah, that’s Taylor. He serves all of our parties. He’s a friendly guy.” I nodded, thinking the behavior I’d seen of him thus far had been very friendly. Before I had much time to indulge in this distraction, a middle-aged woman floated towards us in sweeping layers of golden silk.

  “Ashley!” she cooed. She possessed the gray eyes and light hair that seemed to be so common around the Schroeder household, making her undoubtedly Ashley’s mother.

  “Hi, mom.” He caught in her a very formal half-hug before introduci
ng the two of us. “Mom, this is Rainy Clarke. Rainy, this is my mother.”

  “Oh, Ash, she’s gorgeous,” she said to him, then to me, “You can call me Sara.” Though her smile was red carpet worthy, her eyes gave away a more accurate account of her opinion of me. They examined every polished inch of my appearance, lingering on my hair and the tiny diamond stud in my left nostril more than anything else. I suddenly became very self-conscious underneath my smile. “Rainy, I welcome you into our home. I hope you’ll excuse me. I’ve got a few more guests to see before dinner.” Following that responsible hostess speech, the middle-aged Barbie swept back into the crowd.

  “See? There’s nothing to it,” Ashley said to me. “You’re a shoe-in.” My nerves settled though I couldn’t decide if it was from Ashley’s attempt at reassurance or from the martini that had seemed to disappear within minutes.

  The instant I reloaded with the second drink in less than thirty minutes, Ashley’s demeanor switched from casual to business in a record millisecond. “I need to have a chat with those gentlemen near the musicians. It’s just a little business talk before dinner,” he explained. He quickly wheeled me to the nearest group of old women and introduced me then took his leave. I watched as he disappeared into the crowd without a second thought. I felt as if I’d been thrown to the lions.

  “So we hear you’re from Tennessee,” an extremely tall lady with a hooked neck like a vulture said.

  “Born and raised,” I offered. Her counterpart, who was so overweight that her wrinkles flattened as they stretched across her plump face, smiled at this.

  “As if with that accent she could be from anywhere else,” the round woman said. She and the vulture chuckled at this.

  “It’s like Gone with the Wind,” vulture-lady said.

  “Without Clark Gable,” pilsbury-dough-woman chimed in.

  “And digitally re-mastered,” the third added. Though I didn’t like being talked about as if I wasn’t standing right in front of them, I smiled at the last comment made. The lady leaning against the jewel-encrusted cane was dressed from head to toe in bright purple with white feathers sprouting from the elaborate hat atop her head. Her sense of humor was dry, almost as if she realized how ridiculous her giddy counterparts were even though she was the one decked out in a feathered hat.