I shake my head.
“Holy cow.”
He takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his auburn hair.
“I know, I’m just as stunned too. But Jenny, this gives us freedom. We know in our hearts that Margaret’s gone. Maybe not dead, but that she’s gone from our lives and will never come back. Not only that, but she’s left us with her blessing too. She wants us to be together, and wishes us happiness in every aspect of our lives. In some ways, I really appreciate that. Closure is often very valuable, and she risked her own life and career to give it to us.”
I nod.
“You’re right,” I say softly. “She was a good friend, and now we know she was a good friend until the very end. Thank you, Margaret,” I say in a soft voice.
Stone takes my hands in his, the look in his eyes fierce.
“This has been a crazy turn of events, but I love you more than ever,” he says in a low rasp. “You are the woman for me. A ghost just reappeared from the dead, but it was a good ghost, not a bad one, and she gave us the green light to go ahead. So I want to ask you one more time, Jenny Rafferty: will you marry me? Will you be mine forever, until death do us part?”
I take his achingly handsome face between my palms with tears in my eyes.
“Yes, Stone. I will be your wife. You’re right, we’ve been through a lot together but these challenges have only strengthened our love. I love you, Stone Harrison, and I will love you forever.”
With that, our lips press together in passion and adoration. My mind whirls even as I lose myself in the heady gusts of our love because the incredible has come true. My best friend came back from the dead, but only to reveal herself as a KGB spy, and to give us closure and her benediction. Who would have guessed these things about shy, plain-spoken Margaret? But the world is full of surprises, and with this man at my side, I know the mountains of Maine await with joy and hope for our family going forwards.
Epilogue
Stone
Our wedding day is gorgeous, sunny and bright, with birds tweeting and the sun shining. Although it may be a little macabre, we’ve decided to hold our wedding at the site of Margaret’s memorial. There’s no tomb here. There’s merely a small marker in the grass, with the name Margaret Lockhart Harrison emblazoned on the granite, with her year of birth and year of death.
Other folks, including our family, think we’re crazy.
“Why would you do this?” my mother asked with displeasure on her face. “Your first wife is dead. Why would you ask your second wife to get married at her gravesite?”
“It’s not Margaret’s gravesite,” I explain patiently. “It’s just the site that we chose for her commemoration, and if anything, I think this shows how Jenny and I are honoring Margaret’s memory. You know she was a good friend to Jenny for many years, and she was a loyal spouse to me as well.”
My mom merely shook her head, disbelief strong in her eyes.
“Yes, but it’s weird, Stone. Everyone’s going to think you and Jenny are absolutely kooky because the truth is that you guys are kooky.”
I merely change the conversation with a smile, and my mom gives up. We’re having the ceremony at the memorial site come rain or shine, and that’s it.
After all, we can’t tell anyone the true reasoning behind our decision. We can’t tell anyone that my first wife actually isn’t dead, and is likely living out the rest of her life in Russia. Nor can we reveal that she came to us in secret one day, and told us the truth in order to give us closure and peace. My first wife was generous, and in order to honor that generosity, Jenny and I want to pay our respects.
The music begins and I turn to see my beautiful bride gliding down the grassy walkway towards me. She’s absolutely ravishing in her long, white gown, although with her big belly, her gown comes up off the front a bit, swaying against the grass. She shoots me a delighted smile, and my heart thumps hard. This woman was made for me, and as the sun glints off her blonde hair, I know what we’re doing is right.
She sways up the aisle, and finally, Jenny is deposited in front of me by her doddering old dad, who gives her one last kiss before taking a seat in the first row. Then my beautiful bride turns to me, her expression radiant, and my heart melts all over again. How did I get so lucky?
I grip her hand as the pastor begins the ceremony, and my head rings with the solemnity of our vows.
“I, Stone Harrison …
“Do take you, Jenny Rafferty …
“As my dearly beloved wife …
“For all time, until death do us part.”
Those words have never had more meaning because “death” to us is a very complicated subject. Yes, my first wife was declared legally dead, and everyone at this ceremony assumes that she’s passed away as well. But for my radiant bride and me, we know better. We know that Margaret has gone on to her second life in her home country, and that death is nothing but a substitute for the truth in our lives. Margaret risked life and limb to reveal her existence to us, and we are eternally grateful.
We say our vows with tears in our eyes, but as I raise the veil to kiss my blushing bride, she stops me.
“Stone, I have one request,” she whispers.
“What?” I ask, beneath my breath. “Everyone’s watching and waiting, honey.”
She smiles again.
“I know, but it’s important. Our baby is going to be born any day now, and well, I was wondering if you would be okay with naming her Margaret or Maggie?”
I tilt my head back and laugh then because people will think we’re really crazy then. Not only are we having our wedding at Margaret’s spiritual resting place, but we’re naming out firstborn after her. People will think we’ve lost our minds, but I love it. What better way to demonstrate our respect, and to move on with love, than to name our precious baby girl after my first wife?
“Yes,” I agree wholeheartedly. “Let’s do it.”
With that, I lean forward to seize my bride’s lips with my own in a fiery kiss. After all, the world has its secrets, but Jenny and I share something deep and sincere. We know the truth of our relationship, and we will carry it with us forever, knowing that the gift from my first wife was meant for us, and us only.
* * *
The End
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Sneak Peek: My Neighbor’s Husband
My gorgeous neighbor is a married man, but I when I catch him with his pants down around his ankles, everything changes.
* * *
I walk Buster down the path, and my dog yips and yaps at every single squirrel.
“Down Buster!” I command futilely. “Down, down!”
Of course, he doesn’t answer. My friendly golden retriever turns his head to smile at me and then wags his tail so hard that I swear he’s going to knock me over as it bangs against my calves.
“Buster, noooo!” I cry out as he lunges for another gray squirrel. This squirrel is smart though. He scampers to a tree, and then stops and literally taunts my dog while sniffing at an acorn. The squirrel’s little ears twitch and his nose seems to wrinkle while those black beady eyes stare at my dog. Of course, Buster goes wild. He barks, jumps and yips while straining at his leash. But the squirrel is just out of his ambit and I won’t let my dog get any closer.
You see, Buster is smart but he’s not that smart. I thought golden retrievers were supposed to be the geniuses of the dog world, but when I picked up Buster from the kennel, I could already tell that this puppy was no Einstein. He tried to eat my shoelaces, and when those proved difficult, he moved on to the rug in my car and then the silver canteen that I use to hold water. Yes, my canteen. It’s made of aluminum and as hard as nuts, but Buster the puppy took a try at gnawing it and now the can
teen has his teeth marks permanently etched into the surface.
But I love my dog because my life is honestly pretty boring. I’m Margot Morgan, age twenty-five, and I work a boring job at Pretty Pink Nail Salon. Yes, I’m a nail tech and I know what you’re thinking. Why did I spend four years and countless thousands of dollars on college if all I’m doing now is polishing rich ladies’ nails?
The answer is because Pretty Pink Nail Salon is more than just your average salon. Pretty Pink specializes in nail art, including gels, tie-dye effects, glitter, sparkles, and my favorite, diamante rhinestones. It sounds crazy, but my favorite design ever was a Disney-themed Nemo pattern that I did for a fashionable socialite in her twenties. She thought it was crazy when I suggested the aquatic theme, but after her nails were done, she Instagrammed them instantly and got tons of likes.
As a result, I consider myself an artist of sorts. Maybe not a high-end artist like Picasso or Georgia O’Keefe, but still an artist in my own way. I like crafting beautiful nails, and it feels nice when one of my customers walks out of the salon refreshed, relaxed, and feeling confident in herself.
Even more, I like the money I make. Pretty Pink customers pay top dollar for my work, and I get lots of cash tips. Plus, my designs last three weeks tops, so clients have to come in on a periodic basis to get their nails re-done. After five years at this, I have a steady stream of regulars who walk through the door requesting my services.
But yeah, that still leaves the problem of my student loans. Even with my generous salary, I’m still struggling under the weight of tens of thousands of dollars. It’s a long story. Unfortunately, at eighteen, I wasn’t smart enough to go to my local state school with its crazy cheap prices. Instead, I enrolled at Wesleyan Kenyon, a small private school nearby that charges an arm and a leg for tuition. Like most students, I figured that my student loans would become a problem for “future me.” Well, guess what? Now Future Margot is here and it’s tough. I’m able to make a partial payment every month, but my understanding is that I’m only paying down the interest on the loan. I haven’t made a dent in the principal at all. Plus, after five years of writing monthly checks, it seems like my burden has only grown, if you can believe it. When I graduated, I owed thirty thousand to the student loan gods, but now it seems I owe forty thousand. How is that even possible?
I shake my head, completely confounded. It seems crazy that I’m working at a nail salon making good money, and still unable to afford an adult lifestyle. By that, I mean a car that doesn’t break down every other month, the option of buying fresh groceries and not just canned food, and the ability to afford movies at the theater once in a while instead of binging on Netflix because it’s cheap.
Even more, I’ve been doing something that I’m a little bit ashamed of. Sometimes when I’m really hungry, I go onto one of the dating websites and check my profile. I’m not active on these sites, but I keep a photo and a bio up just in case Mr. Right is out there. I scan through my Inbox as my stomach growls and sometimes, I pick a man to have dinner with. Isn’t that so awful? Honestly though, hunger can make you do anything and sometimes, I just need a square meal. On certain nights, a frozen burrito isn’t enough anymore, and I need someone else to pay for the calories I’m lacking. It’s a terrible use of these dating websites, but again, hunger will make you do anything.
Needless to say, my real dating life is non-existent. I work six days at the salon, and the seventh, I’m home binge-watching TV and subsisting on frozen bean and cheese burritos. Plus, my seventh day at home usually isn’t a Saturday or a Sunday. Usually, it’s Tuesdays because weekends at Pretty Pink are busy times, and I get some of my best tips then. Who’s home on a Tuesday to hang out? No one, and as a result, I haven’t been out on a date in months.
So here I am on a Tuesday, taking my dog for a walk. It’s a gorgeous, sunny day and the warm breeze wafts on my bare shoulders. I’m wearing a tank top but then curse myself. I forgot to apply sunscreen before coming out, and by the time I get back, I’ll probably be as pink as a baby’s butt with the beginnings of a burn. Oh well. At least I’ll have gotten some exercise, which I don’t do enough of as is.
We’re ambling along the concrete sidewalk past manicured lawns and the neat, square houses that populate my neighborhood when suddenly, a noise startles me. I look around. Where did it come from? The source isn’t obvious and everything looks the same as usual. I don’t live in a rich area, so the homes are modest. They’re mostly one-story affairs, with bright white shutters, box hedges, and a front porch decorated with potted plants. I don’t know my neighbors well, but we do our best to make the neighborhood presentable.
But then there’s that sound again. I stop to listen and realize that we’re coming upon a cheery yellow house with begonias out front and a smart silver BMW parked in the driveway. Ah, it’s the Joneses. Mr. and Mrs. Jones are a childless couple in their thirties who just moved in last month. I haven’t gotten a chance to talk with them yet, but they seem pretty normal. Amelia Jones is a slim blonde who’s a professor at a nearby community college, and Dane Jones works in real estate. I don’t know what he does exactly, but I heard he’s in business for himself.
Even more, Dane Jones is hot. I’ve seen him from afar while watering my lawn, and he’s absolutely gorgeous. That one time I saw him, he was out doing some yardwork with his shirt off, and I couldn’t help but stare at those huge, rippling bronzed muscles, as well as his six pack abs and wide shoulders. He has thick black hair that was soaked with sweat on the day that I saw him, and his jeans fit him snugly, emphasizing that huge package beneath.
Oh my god, I shouldn’t be thinking like this. He’s a married man, for crying out loud! How can I be envisioning his package when his wife is the only one with dibs on that? Yet, it must have been the fact that I haven’t been out on a real date in a long time because I couldn’t help but stare at Dane Jones’s jeans. His rod was so long and huge that it literally reached down his pant leg and almost touched his knee. I gasped, squinting in the bright sunlight. Was this guy for real? Was it even physically possible?
Good thing he didn’t notice me because the handsome man kept mowing his lawn, raising a ruckus with that giant mower. Grass clippings flew everywhere, and that bronzed body continued to pour sweat. God, I’d love to lick him all over, before unbuttoning his jeans and revealing his huge monster. Then I’d like to lick that as well, even if he’s definitely off-limits.
But ever since seeing him mow the lawn that day, I haven’t seen much of the Joneses since. I’ll see Mrs. Jones pull up in her silver BMW and then get out to go into the house, or I’ll see Mr. Jones’s big truck parked out front. Sometimes I’ll observe both husband and wife come out of the house to go grocery shopping, or occasionally they’ll have evening cocktails on their porch. But otherwise, I have no idea what they’re up to. Maybe I’ll talk to them at our upcoming neighborhood block party and learn more. I hope I don’t come off as too interested when I do because that would be embarrassing.
As I walk past the yellow house, I see that the silver BMW is in the driveway. Interesting. So Mrs. Jones isn’t at the university today, although I suppose that’s completely possible. Professors don’t teach every day, so she probably doesn’t have to be on campus unless she has a class to teach or a meeting of some sort.
But then, the noise comes again and this time it’s more clear. It’s more of an unnnnh, followed by some swift pants and then a slapping sound. What the hell? What’s going on?
Like Nancy Drew, I decide to investigate. Slowly, I pull Buster over to a tree and tie his leash around the trunk. He looks at me with a big smile, his tongue out and his tail wagging.
“Shhh. Be good okay?” I say, putting my finger over my lips.
My dog practically understands. He bobs his head and wags some more, even while drool falls from the corner of his mouth. Good. Hopefully, Buster won’t give me away.
Leaving my dog, I decide to skulk around the yellow house to the back. S
ince it’s broad daylight, I try to act like I know what I’m doing, as if I’m a friend of the Joneses. With a toss of my hair and a carefree saunter, I make my way to the paved stones that lead to their backyard gate, and then pull down on the string so that the wooden door opens. Perfect. No problems so far.
Inside is a narrow cement walkway with garbage cans to the left. Eeew, gross. But then the noise comes again, another long unnnnnh, and I scurry forwards, as quietly as possible.
Their garden is beautiful. It’s small but there’s an emerald square of manicured lawn in the center with a fountain of a little boy playing a flute, with one leg up while dancing a jig. It’s also a little weird because he’s pissing at the same time, and the stream of water coming out from his undersized-tool splashes into the fountain basin merrily. How strange. I didn’t know that people played the flute while they relieved their bladders, but maybe this is just the sculptor’s artistry expressing itself.
I skulk around the back of the house, making sure to stay low in case anyone’s watching. The noise comes again, and I tiptoe to the back as it gets louder and louder. What is going on? Where is it coming from?
Ducking, I creep around to the back where their master bedroom must be. Then slowly, I raise my head above the edge of a window sill and peer into the bedroom. The sight I see takes my breath away because it’s Mr. and Mrs. Jones going at it like crazed people. He’s not just banging her … he’s banging her.
She’s currently doing a headstand on the floor with her back braced against the side of the bed. But instead of having her legs straight and together, pointed to the ceiling, they’re split wide so that I can see her gaping twat. Her blonde hair is covering her face, but I can hear the moans emanating from her throat. Oh wow, she’s getting pounded and she clearly loves it.
My Best Friend's Husband Page 7
