His Wife for a While

by Donna Fasano

  "To join this man and this woman…"

  Radiant morning sunbeams streamed through the office window, predicting a bright future for this marriage. But how could that be, Chelsea wondered, when this union was not based on love? A deep, all-encompassing melancholy enveloped her, despite the fact that she knew she should be feeling happy, relieved even, to finally be so close to achieving her dream.

  "The contract of marriage is a most solemn one…"

  Casting a side-long glance at Ben, she marveled at how his blood-red tie stood out so vividly against the pristine whiteness of his shirt. His handsome face, tanned a healthy golden shade from spending his days outdoors, seemed devoid of emotion.

  "Not to be entered into lightly…"

  She turned her head and locked her gaze onto the plain wooden lectern separating Ben and her from the circuit-court clerk. She knew the apprehension and confusion churning through her was caused by a mixture of fatigue and second thoughts. Sleep had eluded her last night as she'd been bombarded by doubts.

  "But thoughtfully and seriously…"

  Had she been crazy to offer this deal to Ben? She was going to live with the man. Why, she was going to be intimate with him. Before last night, she'd refused to dwell for too long on the physical aspects involved between a man and woman that were necessary to procreate; the physical aspects, which she and Ben would perform. Alone. Together. Probably in his bed. Probably completely naked. In the dark. With a lot of touching.

  Heat flushed her whole body and sweat prickled her underarms.

  Well, how else would it happen?

  "With a deep realization of its obligations…"

  The dark wood paneling on the walls of the office absorbed the strong morning sunlight and warmed the air to a stifling degree. Chelsea felt claustrophobic and had to fight the urge to tug at the collar of her new cream-colored dress. She craved some fresh air and longed to be back in the wide-open spaces of the orchard.

  "Anyone can show just cause why they should not be lawfully joined…"

  The request seeped into her subconscious. Because we don't love each other, came her silent response. But then, she had known going into this marriage that Ben would never, could never, love her the way a husband should love a wife. But that wasn't his fault. However, the words tumbled through her head: How was she going to bring herself to sleep with a man who didn't love her?

  "Let him speak now or forever hold his peace."

  Before continuing with the ceremony, the clerk shot Chelsea a reassuring smile and Chelsea tried hard to return it, but her cheek muscles, seemingly numb, refused to obey her command.

  "Ben Danvers, will you take Chelsea Carson for your lawful wife?"

  "I will."

  Chelsea came alive at the sound of Ben's rich, steady voice. Her breath caught in her throat, and although she was certain the moment warranted it, she couldn't bring herself to look at him.

  "Chelsea Carson, will you take Ben Danvers for your lawful husband?"

  Her spine was so stiff, she felt as though it might shatter into a million pieces. You will do this, she silently demanded. If you want to conceive a child, then you will marry Ben. And after you become his wife, you will sleep with him. You will.

  "Your response should be, 'I will,'" the clerk gently coached her.

  Although it took every ounce of strength she had, Chelsea forced herself to look into Ben's eyes. "I will," she said, marveling at how even her voice sounded.

  Ben's jaw clenched as he observed Chelsea's cool, composed demeanor. Nerves slammed in his gut like a jackhammer. Did she feel no emotion? Was she so coldhearted that she could pledge herself without batting an eye to a man for whom she felt nothing? How was it that this woman he was taking as his wife could be so dispassionate?

  "Please join hands," the clerk instructed.

  Ben felt the silken pads of Chelsea's fingertips slide across his calloused palm.

  "To have and to hold," he repeated after the clerk, his voice rough with the anxiety churning inside him, "from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part."

  He looked into Chelsea's eyes and remembered his aunt's description of "big, brown doe eyes" that would "melt any man's heart." He wondered if there was anything that could melt Chelsea's.

  "To have and to hold…"

  As he stood there, quietly listening to her repeat the marriage vow, Ben became aware of the subtle trembling of her fingers and a sense of confusion settled in his brow.

  "From this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health… until death do us part."

  She actually whispered the last phrase and there was something in her tone that he couldn't quite read. Ben's frown deepened, but he hadn't time to think about the revelation fluttering at the edges of his brain before the clerk was signaling him to slide the thin gold band on the third finger of Chelsea's left hand.

  "With this ring, I thee wed," he said.

  Chelsea slipped a matching gold band over his work-roughened knuckle. He'd told her that buying a ring for him wasn't necessary, but she'd been adamant about it, acting as if it were an iron shackle rather than a simple piece of jewelry.

  "With this ring, I thee wed." She repeated the words without raising her gaze from the shiny ring on his hand.

  The two of them turned to face the clerk and were once again instructed to join hands.

  "I now pronounce you husband and wife."

  Looking down at his wife's face, Ben felt nearly crushed with a sudden need to thank her, to somehow show this woman just how indebted he felt that she would give him so much.

  "Thanks, Chelsea," he murmured. Realizing that words were inadequate, he slowly leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers.

  Chelsea jerked back a fraction, and her soft gasp brought cool air rushing across his still moist lips.

  Averting her gaze, she replied, "You're welcome."

  Her curt, icy tone was like a douse of cold water on the tender emotions he'd gotten too caught up in. He could have sworn just a moment earlier Chelsea had actually been feeling… had been feeling... What? he asked himself.

  Curling his index finger under her chin, he tilted up her face so he could look into her eyes. The cool brown orbs stared at him with no trace of softness. All he saw was stoic composure.

  He shook the clerk's hand, smiled and graciously accepted the congratulations of several employees of the court. He couldn't help noticing how his new wife didn't bother trying to hide the frown that knitted her brow. He shook his head. This day was turning out to be a seesaw of emotions.

  "Come on," he finally told Chelsea. "Let's get out of here."

  They went up the stairs and out into the parking lot in complete silence. Ben opened the passenger-side door for her and she got into his pickup. As he circled the truck, he watched her snap her seatbelt and then fold her arms across her chest.

  He sighed heavily as he jabbed the key into the ignition. But before he started the engine, he turned to her.

  "I really do want to thank you," he said.

  He paused, wanting to say more, but in the end he didn't. Why waste words she obviously didn't want to hear?

  The silence droned on until it turned awkward as hell. Just when he was sure she intended not to respond, she uncrossed her arms and looked him dead square in the eye.

  "And I'll really thank you," she said, "when you fulfill your end of the deal."

  He looked at her for several seconds, noticing that her fingertips were trembling as she fidgeted with the ring he'd placed on her finger. He nodded curtly, started the truck and headed for home.

  ~ ~ ~

  Chelsea placed her hairbrush and comb on the dresser of the small bedroom that, for a while at least, she'd call her own. After the civil ceremony this morning, she had assured Ben she didn't need help moving her few things into his home. Although he seemed reluctant, she finally persuaded him to go a
head with his work, and she told him they could meet at his house that evening for dinner.

  So she had spent the previous hour or so hanging blouses and skirts in the closet, folding jeans, socks and underclothes and tucking them away in drawers.

  Glancing first at her wristwatch and then out the window at the dusky sky, she decided Ben would be coming home soon and it was time to start supper. She wasn't much of a cook. She'd only had time to learn one or two recipes from Mama Higgins before…

  Immediately, she squashed the memory. This wasn't a time for sadness. Happiness was the order of the day, and she would feel joy if it killed her.

  But the giddy nerves in the pit of her stomach refused to stop their frenzied dancing. And the anxious questions wouldn't quit pestering her mind. How was she going to approach Ben about fulfilling his end of the deal? Would she even have to? Or would he "perform" without any prompting from her?

  A hysterical giggle nearly escaped her.

  Then she frowned. What if he didn't want to do "it" tonight? Or tomorrow night? What if...?

  "Now, you're being downright silly," she said to her reflection in the mirror. Of course he'd want to do it.

  From everything she'd ever read about men, they loved to do it. They lived to do it. Why, the television talk shows depicted men as extremely lustful. They had sex on their minds most of the time. In fact, from what she'd read in Cosmo, men thought about bumping uglies with women at least once every seven seconds. She was certain she wouldn't have any problem with Ben when it came to having sex.

  But did she really have enough nerve to... to actually...? She couldn't even bring herself to think about what it was she and Ben were going to do. But she'd find the will to do it, nonetheless. Oh, yes she would.

  Leaning closer to the glass, Chelsea whispered, "A twenty-eight-year-old virgin. He'll never believe it. Not in a million-billion years."

  Well, he'd simply have to believe it, she thought, pushing herself away from the dresser and walking down the hallway and into the kitchen. He'd have proof in the end, when they finally... bumped uglies. Chelsea grinned despite her anxiety. She brushed her hand across her forehead. This wasn't something she was looking forward to. But it was necessary.

  Oh. Come. On. The voice in her head taunted her. Really? Not looking forward to it?

  Okay, so maybe she was a little curious. Hell, what twenty-eight-year-old virgin wouldn't be?

  Opening the refrigerator, she pulled out an onion, the grated cheese and the sweet Italian sausage she'd bought earlier, and put her energies into making a casserole.

  Thirty minutes later the pasta and meat were cooked, and the casserole was in the oven. Chelsea had turned her attention to setting the table when she heard the front door open.

  "Hi, honey, I'm home!" Ben called.

  Chelsea's hand froze, the dinner knife a scant inch from its proper place beside the plate.

  He was still chuckling when he walked into the kitchen. Taking one look at her unsmiling face, his shoulders sagged. "It was a joke, Chelsea. Just a joke."

  She nodded, but couldn't bring herself to smile. Of course it was a joke. No one would ever call her a pet name such as "honey" and mean it.

  "Dinner will be ready soon," she said.

  "I don't expect you to cook my meals."

  "Well…" she shrugged "…I have to eat, too, you know. The dish I made may not be much, but you're welcome to share it."

  "I wasn't implying that I didn't want to share the food…" He let the sentence trail and stared at her. Then he sighed. "I'll just go take a quick shower." He disappeared down the hall.

  When he was gone, Chelsea sighed. Could things get any more awkward?

  She discovered they could when they sat at the table to eat. The silence that settled down with them was excruciating. Chelsea lifted the lid off the casserole dish and the fragrant aroma of sausage and tomato sauce wafted through the kitchen.

  Ben inhaled deeply. "I'm starved," he announced.

  Without replying, she spooned him a large helping of the baked pasta and sliced a piece of warm, crusty bread.

  "Did you bake this?" he asked, indicating the loaf of bread.

  "No. Bought it in town at the bakery. I just heated it through."

  She served herself and sat down to eat. But her curiosity made it difficult to keep her eyes on her plate. She wanted to look at him, wanted to watch his mannerisms as he ate. Was he enjoying the food she'd prepared? Did he…

  "So…"

  Chelsea jumped at the sound of his voice.

  "How was your day?"

  "Fine," she answered.

  He slathered butter on his bread. Then took a bite and chewed it slowly.

  After a moment, he asked, "So, what did you do this afternoon?"

  She shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing much."

  He looked at her for several long seconds, seconds during which her nerves had ample time to become frayed as she wondered what he was thinking.

  Finally, he set down his fork and rested his elbows on the table.

  She could stand his scrutiny no longer. "What?" she asked.

  "I'm trying to make some friendly conversation here."

  "Oh." Chelsea reached for her glass of iced tea and took a drink. "My day was fine." Picking up her fork, she speared a slice of spicy sausage and lifted it toward her mouth.

  "Well?" he asked.

  Her hand froze, the fork hovering directly in front of her face.

  "Aren't you going to ask me about my day?"

  She hadn't thought to return the question.

  "Chelsea, people who live together and spend time together talk to one another." He wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "Okay, so it may be pointless and useless conversation, but it's conversation nevertheless."

  Taking the meat between her teeth, she chewed thoughtfully. After a moment she gazed at him. "Okay, I'll play," she said after she swallowed. "So how was your day?"

  Ben grinned. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" He reached for a second slice of bread and tore a small piece from it and dipped it into the tomato sauce. "My day was good. I saw Tim Richmond in town this morning."

  "Who?"

  "The little, fat guy. From the auction house. The one who put that damned sign post up out front."

  She nodded in understanding and grinned. "Yes. The sign that stayed erect for all of five minutes. I remember. Did you two have words?"

  "Actually, we didn't." He looked pleased with himself. "All I did was lift up my left hand and spread my fingers so he could see real clear." Ben chuckled. "He thought I was making a rude gesture, and when he saw I wasn't, he seemed a little confused. So I pointed to my ring. His eyes wouldn't have bulged bigger even if I'da jabbed him in the nose. He was shocked." Ben's shoulders were shaking with his laughter. "Best punch I never threw."

  His mood was infectious and she found herself grinning right along with him.

  He popped the bread into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. "I got a lot done today. There are enough trees on the orchard to keep me busy pruning eleven months out of the year, and that's no exaggeration. But you know that already, don't you?"

  Chelsea nodded in response.

  "I finished up the Barn Grove today. I'll have the crew move on to Old Lew's Place tomorrow." He stopped a moment to take a drink of iced tea. "I'll go out there with the men for a while, then I'll come back to the office to catch up on some paperwork."

  Again, she nodded, but silence quickly fell between them again.

  Ben slid his elbow off the table's edge and picked up his fork. The quiet must have gotten to him because he said, "You can jump right in on this little chat any time you like."

  Keeping to herself most of the time, Chelsea wasn't well practiced in the art of friendly conversation. She did see a few other volunteers at the nature center now and then, but talk there usually centered around the animals or work that needed doing. She went to church every Sunday, but there she said nothing more than "hello" and "goodby
e" and "see you next week." She cleared her throat.

  "Is it hard?" she asked, her voice tentative.

  "What? The pruning?" Ben shook his head. "Nah. Since Granddad and I planted all the dwarf trees, pruning is fairly easy. Just takes a few quick snips." One corner of his mouth curled. "It's just that there's so many darn trees to snip."

  Chelsea nodded and suddenly felt pressured to come up with another question.

  "Um... how did the different groves get to be named?" She swallowed nervously, wondering if the questions sounded as dumb to him as it did to her. She rushed to explain, so he wouldn't think she was a total moron. "I mean, I know the Barn Grove is named for the big red barn out in the middle of the orchard. But what about the grove you call Old Lew's Place? Or Devon's Place? Or...or Accident Acre?"

  He leaned back in his chair. "Most of the groves are named after the people we bought the land from," he told her. "Granddad bought Old Lew's Place from Old Lew years and years ago. Old Lew was nearly a hundred years old at the time and didn't want to sell, but he became too ill to farm, so he sold his land to Granddad. Granddad bought Devon's Place from Richard Devon while I was still in college." Then he chuckled. "Now, Accident Acre is another story. Granddad bought that small parcel of ground before I was born. As I heard it, three men were hurt on the same day when they were clearing off the scrub brush. Grandad had to call the doctor to come, back when doctors made house calls, right after breakfast, again right after lunch, and a third time just before quitting time. So Granddad referred to the grove as Accident Acre."

  "Oh," she said.

  The panic that crawled in her stomach as she searched for something, anything, to say must have showed on her face because Ben sighed as he slid out his chair, stood and picked up his plate. On his way to the sink, he asked, "You're really not used to this, are you?"

  "Not used to what?" she said, even though she knew very well what he was referring to.

  "Talking. You know. Back and forth. Verbal banter. Chit chat." He turned to face her.

  She dipped her head low, not wanting him to witness her embarrassment. She saw her hands in her lap, her fingers clenching the napkin tightly. "No, I'm not," she quietly admitted. "But I'll try harder."