He searches through his laptop bag then strides back and presses his wallet and passport into my hands. “All my papers are in here. It’s gonna be fine. I’m sure the Clerk’s Office in Clark County, Nevada, of all places, has plenty of experience in issuing marriage licenses under all sorts of unusual circumstances. A naturalized citizen isn’t going to throw anyone there for a loop.”
I take a breath. He’s right.
“You’re right.”
“I know.” He winks and walks off.
I take another breath and eye the pool area again. Three minutes later, I’m set up at a wrought-iron table, shaded from the sun by a large canvas umbrella, tapping away on my keyboard with a view of the placid pool. The application, or pre-application, as the website refers to it, is simple enough. I zip through Victor’s section, copying the required information from his passport and social security card. Oddly enough, I stumble over my own information.
The form asks if I’m planning to change my name.
Am I?
Thyme Magnolia Field. Thyme Magnolia Callais. Thyme Magnolia Field-Callais. Thyme Field Callais.
It occurs to me that this is my chance. I could type ‘Elizabeth Jones’ into this form and never hear another crack about my name as long as I live. But, I’m Thyme. I’ll always be Thyme. The last name, though, is trickier.
I almost pull my phone out to consult Rosemary, but I stop myself. I’m about to be a married woman. I need to make decisions for myself. I trap my lower lip between my teeth and ponder. I notice that my heart is chugging along like a train, which seems a bit dramatic for filling out a county government form. But, in the immortal words of my dad, it is what it is.
Finally, I type ‘Thyme Magnolia Field-Callais.’
I lean back and study the words. Too long. And, let’s be real, Thyme is plenty unusual as far as names go, without gilding the magnolia, as it were. Plus the hyphen creates a set of issues all its own.
I backspace. ‘Thyme Field Callais.’ I narrow my eyes at the screen, then nod. That feels right.
With a sense of enormous relief, I move on.
What’s this? Now the form wants to know the ‘couple’s mailing address’? My heart ratchets up from thudding to about-to-explode-drumbeat.
We’ve literally never discussed this. This can’t be a decision I make alone. Victor and I need to talk.
But I also need to submit this pre-application before the close of business. I pick up my phone and tell the voice assistant to flip a coin. Heads, we’ll use Victor’s address on the form; tails, mine.
“Heads,” the disembodied female voice informs me.
Victor’s address is it. I key it into the field, scan the form for errors or omissions, then press submit.
After a moment’s celebration, I stand, stretch, and close my eyes, turning my face up to the sky to be warmed by the sun.
I check the time and pack up my laptop, then head into the pool house, bouncing lightly on my toes. With the online marriage application finished, it looks like I’ll have time to go for a swim after all.
Everything’s falling into place for a quiet wedding to the man who fills my heart. In two short days, I’ll be Thyme Field Callais. I giggle to myself as I dig my swimsuit out of my bag.
I feel vibrant, fully alive.
Chapter 5
Thyme
“I’m very clearly not dead.” I grip the edge of the counter to ground myself to reality as I grind out the words from between my clenched teeth.
The Clark County Clerk of Courts is not impressed. He eyeballs me over his wire-rimmed glasses. “I don’t know what to tell you, ma’am. Your name …” He pauses to squint at the printout in his hands. “… Thigh-me Magnolia Field and your social are direct matches with a listing on the Death Index. You died just over three weeks ago,” he helpfully informs me.
“Except I’m alive,” I say. I really try to tamp down my snark because I need this man’s help. But come on.
“Which can only mean you aren’t Thyme Magnolia Field.” He tries to hide the snicker in his voice at my name, but it’s there.
I decide to appeal to that ridicule. “Right. Because if I were taking on a fake identity, I’d definitely choose a name like this. Obviously I’m really me.”
He’s not having it. He’s already looking over my shoulder, ready to gesture the next couple forward.
Victor breaks in. “Wait. This Death Index, where did you get it?”
The clerk flips his eyes toward the ceiling but turns and answers the question. “It’s the Social Security Death Index. The SSDI is compiled from the Social Security Administration’s Master Death File. If your name is in that database, somebody reported you as deceased to the Social Security Administration.”
“Does this federal government database ever contain errors?” Victor presses, placing an ever-so-slight emphasis on the words federal government database as if to suggest to the clerk that they both know bureaucracies screw up from time to time.
The man snorts and pushes his glasses up to the crown of his head. He looks from side to side, then leans over the counter. “Pal, I really hope your lady friend didn’t end up in the MDF by mistake. Because from what I’ve heard, clearing that up is a Kafkaesque nightmare that’ll leave you and her wishing she were dead.”
With that, he pushes the denial of our marriage pre-application across the counter to us and beckons to the pair of lovebirds behind us.
I scoop up the papers in a daze, and Victor pilots me through the narrow corridor out into the lobby. I slump against the wall and stare down at the printout in disbelief. It’s wild to read the words in black and white, but there they are: ‘Thyme Magnolia Field, deceased, Snow City, Arizona.’
My date and place of birth are correct, and so is my social security number. But I’ve never heard of—let alone visited—Snow City, Arizona. And I definitely didn’t die there three weeks ago.
I give my head a vigorous shake in an effort to clear my mind. “I can’t believe this.”
He crooks a finger under my chin and tips my head back. “We’ll get it cleared up. You’re obviously alive.”
“We might not get it straightened out before tomorrow,” I warn him.
He shrugs. “My desire to marry you doesn’t have an expiration date, Thyme.”
I grin at him and resolve not to obsess about the administrative mix-up. Despite what the clerk says, I’m confident we will get it sorted. It just may take a while.
“Come on,” I say. “My sisters should be here by now. If anything will take my mind off being dead, it’s hanging out with Rosemary and Sage.”
I take a turn behind the wheel while Victor navigates. The poor guy did all the driving the past two days—through New Mexico, Arizona, and all the way to Clark County, Nevada.
“Arizona,” I say aloud as a question pops into my mind.
“You want to play the alphabet game? Sure. A my name is Arturo and I’m going to Arizona with an automobile full of anteaters.”
“What?” I glance away from the road to throw him a puzzled look.
“You must know the alphabet game. Did you ever play it with your sisters on car rides when you were a kid?”
I think back. “No, we mainly came up with spells and chattered in this gibberish fairy language that we made up.”
“Oh-kay.”
It’s basically impossible to explain my childhood, so I don’t even try. “Back to Arizona.”
“Sure.”
“Did we drive near or through Snow City yesterday?”
The retirement community where the Mortensons live is due west of Phoenix, so we drove from there to Las Vegas last night, stopping for dinner at a roadside diner about two hours into our trip. I don’t remember seeing signs for Snow City anywhere on our route through Arizona, but seeing as how I supposedly died there, I’m curious about this desert town with snow in its name.
He makes a pinching motion over his cell phone screen and scrutinizes a map. I return my at
tention to the road.
After a moment he says, “Hmm, no. We took Route 10 to Interstate 93 and came into town from the south. It’s supposed to be the more scenic route. But if we’d taken Route 60 to 93, we would have driven right by Snow City on our way into town.”
“Really?”
“Really. It looks like it’s maybe … a hundred miles from Snow City to The Strip.”
“Huh,” I say, not sure why I felt the need to place a town that’s nothing to me.
He closes out the map app. “Do you want to stop by the hotel and freshen up or go straight to your sisters’ rental?”
I check the time on the dashboard clock. “No, let’s head out to Cerro Vista. I’m sure we’ll probably all have dinner on The Strip, so we can pop into the room then.”
I want to get it over with—the part where I tell my sisters that there’s probably not going to be a wedding tomorrow because the government thinks I’m a dead woman. A high, hysterical laugh, almost a cackle, bubbles up from deep in my throat. I swallow it as best I can, but I can feel Victor eyeing me.
Chapter 6
Sage
I’m checking out the pool in the backyard of the rental with Rosemary and Dave’s dog when I hear the sound of a car engine. The vehicle pulls into the driveway on the other side of the tall privacy fence, and the driver kills the engine.
Thyme and Victor have arrived.
“Come on, Mona Lisa.” I pat the side of my thigh.
She lopes across the yard toward me, then heels beside me. I push open the sliding glass door and we run through the open, airy first floor of the house, headed for the front door.
“Thyme’s here,” I call up the spiral staircase as I rush by.
Rosemary is constitutionally incapable of living out of a suitcase, so she’s probably up there refolding all her socks and arranging them just so in a dresser drawer.
Dave calls back something indistinct that lets me know they heard me.
I rush out onto the front stoop with Rosemary’s dog by my side. Victor smiles and raises his hand in a greeting while Thyme slides out from behind the wheel of the car. We both start running and meet in an artfully arranged rock garden.
I squeak out a hello while she squeezes me tight. As I hug her back, the dog barks. One short bark to let Thyme know she’s there. My sister releases me and squats on her heels to pet Mona Lisa.
Victor approaches with a large duffle bag slung over one shoulder and Thyme’s messenger bag and his laptop bag over the other.
“Hi, Sage.”
“Victor, I’m so happy for you two!” I fling my arms open to invite a brotherly hug.
As we embrace, his eyes meet Thyme’s, and a fraught look passes between them.
Fraught probably sounds like a strange way to describe a glimpse shared by lovers who are about to become newlyweds, but I swear it’s the right word. The exchange is loaded with emotion, but none of it’s good. Instead of love and affection, I sense anxiety and tension.
I pull back and examine the two of them. “What’s wrong?”
Another sidelong glance bounces from Thyme to Victor.
“Nothing,” she says airily. Too airily. She waves a hand toward the driveway. “Did Rosemary really drive out here in her catering truck?”
It’s an obvious gambit, designed to distract me from … whatever’s causing the friction between them. But I go along with it.
“She says it’s more comfortable for the dog than riding in her car. And, besides, there’s a mobile kitchen pantry in the back in case she has trouble sourcing any of the ingredients for your cake.”
I smile, but Thyme doesn’t. Her lips are drawn and her forehead is furrowed.
“What cake?”
My eyes flit from her face to Victor’s and then back to hers before I answer.
“She understands you don’t want any sort of reception tomorrow, but she’s hoping you’ll let her make you a cake. It would mean a lot to her Thyme. She made her own cake, and mine. She wants to complete the circle and give you the cake of your heart.” I pause and frown. “Those are her words, not mine. ‘Cake of your heart.’ I feel like it should be ‘cake of your gut,’ but I guess that lacks a certain flair, huh?”
I snicker at my own joke, but they’re both straight-faced and silent.
“Oh, come on. It’s bad manners to leave me hanging like this. At least fake a polite chuckle. Jeez.”
Still nothing.
“What’s wrong?” I repeat.
Victor sighs. “Let’s take this stuff inside. We’ll tell all four of you about it.”
I can’t read Thyme’s expression, which is unusual for me. She’s my baby sister, after all. I’ve had a lifetime of practice interpreting her emotions. Maybe she’s rethinking the whole ‘no reception’ idea.
“Sure,” I chirp. “Dave mentioned something about mixing up a pitcher of margaritas, if you’re interested.”
“Sounds great,” Thyme says flatly as I lead her and Victor into the house.
“Wow, nice place,” Victor says, taking in the open floor plan, the wide windows that showcase the mountain view, and the clean, white lines.
“It is, isn’t it?” Rosemary calls from the vast marble kitchen island, where she’s chopping vegetables. Dave’s beside her, at work on the promised drinks.
She wipes her hands on her cute striped apron and hurries into the entryway to envelope first Thyme, then Victor, in a hug.
Dave waves hello from the kitchen, which makes me realize I haven’t seen Roman in a while.
As if on cue, he comes walking into the kitchen from the attached garage with an armload of wood.
“Hey, you’re here,” he exclaims, nodding his head in greeting to my sister and her fiancé. “Check it out—there’s a big pile of wood in the garage. I thought I’d get the fire pit all set up so we can have a fire tonight.”
“Sounds great,” Dave tells him, abandoning his bartender duties to slide open the door to the backyard for Roman.
Roman loves fire. Not in an arsonist kind of way. In a bonfires on the beach, flames in the fireplace, candles scattered around the house kind of way. Even money says he returns to Hilton Head Island with plans to erect a fire pit or outdoor fireplace somewhere on Chip and Muffy’s property, where we’re still living in the guest cottage.
Thinking about our living arrangement reminds me.
“Hey, where are you two going to live after you get married?” I say to Thyme. “Are you keeping your place or Victor’s?”
I’ve never seen Victor’s apartment, but I hope it’s bigger than Thyme’s cramped one-bedroom. Although, to be fair, calling it a one-bedroom is a bit of an exaggeration. Her ‘bedroom’ is roughly the size of a utility closet.
Another tense look passes between Victor and Thyme.
Rosemary notices. “Uh-oh. Can’t decide?”
“No. It’s not that—” Thyme begins.
In that moment, Roman returns from the backyard and Dave announces that it’s margarita time. I grit my teeth and trail the others out into the loggia, which is glassed in on three sides and looks out over the pool. Despite the midday heat, the space is airy and comfortable, thanks, no doubt, to the set of large paddle fans lazily circling on the ceiling above.
We settle into seats. The outdoor furniture is all teak wood and tasteful cushions, like something out of a movie or a catalogue for a store even Muffy and Chip couldn’t afford. I hope I don’t spill my drink on the fabric.
Mona Lisa is evidently less intimidated than I am. She waits for Rosemary to sit back, then springs up onto her lap, knocking her tail against Rosemary’s glass in her enthusiasm.
Dave finishes passing out the margaritas and raises his glass. “To Thyme and Victor, may tomorrow be the start of a long and happy life together, full of love and laughter.”
Rosemary clinks her glass against his, and we all toast Thyme and Victor.
Thyme smiles weakly and sips her drink. Then she clears her throat.
&nbs
p; “So, yeah, about tomorrow. The clerk’s office denied our wedding license application.”
“What?” I sputter and narrowly avoid doing a spit take. Roman thumps me on the back.
“Because of Victor’s citizenship?” Dave guesses.
“Nope,” Victor says. “Because of Thyme’s … uh, death.”
“Pardon?” Rosemary blinks at him.
“Yeah, so, somehow the Social Security Administration got the idea that I’m deceased.” Thyme fakes a laugh, but her heart’s not in it.
I squint at her, trying to make sense of what she’s saying.
“So, they have you mixed up with someone else. Shouldn’t that be an easy mistake to correct?” Roman asks.
“Apparently, it’s not. The guy at the clerk’s office told us that getting off the Death Index is some extra-special layer of bureaucratic hell.”
Dave nods, knowingly. “The Social Security Administration’s death files make up the authoritative database of deaths in the U.S. Once your name is added to the master file, you’re officially dead for all intents and purposes.”
He’s a homicide detective, so I imagine he’s had more experience with death files than the rest of us have.
“All intents and purposes, including getting married,” Thyme says mournfully. She drains her margarita glass and gestures for Dave to refill it from the pitcher.
I open my mouth to caution her, but Roman catches my eye and gives me a wordless warning. I guess he’s right—who am I to tell a dead woman how much she should drink?
“Um, so … did the clerk give you any details about your … death?” I ask instead.
“Let’s see. It happened twenty-two days ago in a town called Snow City, Arizona.” She shrugs.
“Cause of death?” Rosemary asks.
Thyme shakes her head no. Victor cracks, “Administrative incompetence would be my guess.”
Everyone roars with laughter, except Thyme. I can tell by her wobbly bottom lip that she’s trying not to cry. I put down my glass to go comfort her, but Victor beats me to it.
Wanted Wed or Alive: Thyme's Wedding Page 3
