Merried

by Jamie Farrell

  “What would your sister-in-law say if she heard you say that?”

  “Probably that I should use my charms on a different woman. But is it working?”

  “No.”

  “Liar.”

  She absolutely was.

  Max nudged her toward Trixie, who was angled across two spaces right outside the door. “C’mon. Let’s get you in the car before the owl gets you. Too bad Spike can’t take care of him.” He looked down again, his brow furrowed, and Phoebe Moon blew a loud, blaring panic alarm in Merry’s head.

  Had he just connected Phoebe Moon’s accidental pet iguana, Spike, to Merry’s imaginary dragon? “Yes, well, I had to give Spike up when I left Chicago last year,” she said. “My new apartment had a no-dragons clause. Even dragons with firebox-ectomies.”

  He opened Trixie’s door for her, and because she liked Max, and because she’d miss him, and because she could almost be all of herself with him, she didn’t argue, but instead settled into Trixie’s seat. No Brut on the wind tonight. No sign of the owl.

  Just the lingering tension of knowing that they were so wrong for one another even Merry’s mom was interested in who else might buy Max at a bachelor auction.

  I’d buy him, Phoebe Moon said.

  Hush, or I’ll write Phoebe Moon and the Time Reverser and take all your hormones away, Merry snapped back.

  Max crossed around the car, climbed in, and cranked the engine. “Where’d you go when you left last year?”

  Ah, her disappearance. An oddly safe topic. “St. Louis with Mom for a little bit, and then this little town called Toluca. It’s about halfway between here and Springfield. Around a thousand people. And The Cheese House, which is what sealed the deal. They serve great pizza and ice cream too.”

  He grinned at her. “You have the cheese plate at Cupid Creek today?”

  “Um, duh.”

  “Try all thirty-four cheeses?”

  “Alas, even my cheese tooth couldn’t accomplish all thirty-four.” Mom had sampled all thirteen wines in Cupid Creek’s tasting room, and Merry had sampled eight cheeses in the winery’s bistro. Mom had stayed just this side of tipsy, and Merry had had to pop the button on her pants.

  “Want to go back?” Max asked.

  “Max Gregory, are you going to ply me with cheese and wine and try to get back in my pants?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do we have to talk?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. I’m in.”

  He smiled at her again, a soft smile, an understanding smile, possibly an I like you even if you want to pretend not to like me smile, and something more than the Brie she intended to sample again tonight went warm and gooey in her center.

  “Do you like Pepper?” she asked.

  “On steak. Sometimes in soup.”

  “Pepper Blue. From Bliss Bridal. The Pepper who’s going to bid on you on Saturday.”

  “Thought we weren’t talking.”

  “We don’t have to. That doesn’t mean we won’t. Obligation versus desire.”

  He was grinning again, and she had to squelch an overwhelming urge to lean over and kiss him.

  He was a big, strong, sexy linebacker, and he was absolutely adorable when he grinned.

  “You don’t have a clue what you want, do you?” he said.

  “Do you want to get laid again tonight or not?”

  He grinned bigger. “I would never deny a lady in need.”

  “That Stilton better be fantastic,” Merry grumbled.

  “It is. But I’m better.”

  There was a rapidly increasing chance that she might sic devious Uncle Sandy on Zack Diggory. Except then Phoebe Moon would have to save him. Although Janice’s email this morning had indicated Zack Diggory was a huge hit with fans. Phoebe Moon and the Best Friend Rescue? No. Not enough ring. She’d have to think on it a while longer.

  Max navigated through Bliss, then opened Trixie up and let her fly down the rural back roads to Cupid Creek Winery. Multicolored Christmas lights twinkled from the slanted roof over the central entry of the building, which housed the gift shop, tasting bar, and bistro. Inside, matching Christmas trees on either side of the massive double maple doors were hung with Victorian Santa ornaments, white lights, and gilded bows.

  The bistro’s hostess greeted Max by name, then quickly showed them to a private two-person table at a red velvet-draped window with a view of the wedding cake monument in the distance.

  Merry didn’t bother with the menu. “You know everyone here.”

  “Small town.”

  “Not that small.” There was a civic center on the other side of town. They had their own minor league baseball team. She’d heard their annual Knot Festival could draw as many as thirty thousand tourists—brides, grooms, and weirdos who simply dug all the wedding stuff. And while The Aisle was quaint and adorable and had a total small-town feel, the town itself was larger than the blocks around The Aisle suggested.

  “Small enough,” Max said. “Your mom ready for her wedding?”

  “Oh, sure. She’s done this so many times, she could get married in her sleep.”

  “You like her fiancé?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Really?”

  “Of all the men she’s married, I’ve only disliked two.” Blunt honesty wasn’t one of Merry’s more practiced skills, but she was falling into the easy old rhythm of trusting Max. Not enough to tell him everything, but more than she’d been willing to trust someone new in years. “I hated my first stepfather. He wasn’t my daddy. And he never would be. I probably didn’t give him a fair shot, but I was fourteen, I had to change schools again because we moved when Mom married him, and he wasn’t my daddy.”

  “And the other one?”

  “Mr. Frocklestein.” She shuddered. “Stepfather number four. He was seventy-one. Former high school principal who’d won fourteen million in the lottery. He smelled like boiled cabbage and had a handshake like limp spaghetti. Turned out, he and Mom had a business marriage. When he died, three cousins appeared out of nowhere and contested his will. Mom invited them over for dinner one night with Mr. Frocklestein’s lawyer, and I never heard another word about them. She donated eighty percent of his estate to charity, and then she married the lawyer six months later.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Oh, this was only a few years ago. She was getting over that divorce when we—when we met last year.”

  They paused to order—a steak and the house pinot noir for Max, a plate of apricot Stilton, a seven-year farmhouse cheddar, triple-cream Brie, and fresh mozzarella along with a glass of Syrah and a salad for Merry. When Max handed the waitress his menu, he leaned on his forearms and peered at her as though he had all night to unlock her secrets. “Have a favorite?”

  “Cheese?”

  “Stepfather.”

  Well. That was a new thought. “None were my daddy.”

  “They’re still in your life. If Dan had six ex-wives, I’d have a favorite.”

  “I imagine you would.”

  “Might even be Rachel. She makes a killer chocolate mousse.”

  Nope, that wasn’t jealousy surging like a green-eyed dragon through Merry’s veins.

  Or maybe it was. Rachel was stunning, could carry a conversation, and, Merry suspected, was organized enough to manage three husbands, fourteen children, and an orphanage in Phoebe Moon’s world. In short, the perfect woman.

  But Merry had France coming.

  She eyed Max’s unashamed smile, the warmth in his expression, the corded muscles of his forearms, and sighed.

  France would be lovely.

  And she had no business indulging in fantasies about Max going with her. His life was here. With his family. With Rachel’s mousse.

  “Yo-yo,” she ground out.

  “Pardon?”

  “Yo-yo. He’s my favorite of my mother’s ex-husbands.”

  “Circus performer? Punk rapper? Did he live with his mother?”

 
“He lived with his aunt Topanga in a treehouse and made a fortune modeling for romance book covers.”

  Max not-so-discreetly flexed his muscles. “I could do that.”

  And then millions of women would ogle his washboard abs, he’d have tribal tattoos Photoshopped onto his waxed chest, and Merry would take up licking book covers.

  Where was her wine?

  “Actually, Yo-yo was a victim of the dot-com bust. He helped write some key software that saved a company I’m not allowed to publicly mention from breaking when Y2K happened, then was let go a couple years later. His brother’s a financial advisor and had insisted Yo-yo diversify when he was raking in millions, so now Yo-yo pretty much plays RPGs and goes to cons all the time. I guess one of his screen names is semi-famous.”

  “RPGs?”

  “Role-playing games.”

  Max’s eyes went dark. “I could do that too. Do you have a ninja costume?”

  She nudged his shin with her foot. “Knock it off.”

  “Just making sure you know what you’re worth and that your standards in men are set high before you leave the country.”

  After the waitress delivered their wine and a complimentary bread basket, Max lifted his glass. “To adventures,” he said softly.

  Merry clinked.

  Not because she wasn’t looking forward to her own adventure. Not because she didn’t love giving Phoebe Moon adventures.

  But because right now, she wished she could live the adventure of Bliss for just a little longer.

  Chapter 16

  “Ah, Phoebe Moon, we meet again,” devious Uncle Sandy said. “No hug for your dear uncle?”

  Phoebe Moon stood as tall as her short bones would allow. “I’m not here to hug you, Uncle Sandy. I’m here to stop you.”

  —Phoebe Moon and the Sneeze Snatcher

  * * *

  By dessert, Max was simultaneously wondering at his chances of getting Merry in his bed tonight and how popular muscle cars were in…what country had she said she was going to?

  Maybe he’d visit her someday. Wherever it was had to have something to check out other than Merry.

  Not that Merry by herself wasn’t a decent reason to go. “Hey, you’ve read those Phoebe Moon books, right?”

  Her spoon hung suspended in midair, a peak of hardened caramelized sugar sticking out of the crème brûlée. “Yes.” Her voice was higher, and the rosy circles the wine had given her cheeks spread wider.

  “That where Spike came from?”

  She slipped the spoon into her mouth, wary eyes searching his face, and Max Jr. sat up.

  “Don’t meet girls who fend off bad pickup lines with imaginary dragons every day,” Max said.

  She swallowed, her delicate throat working, and Max Jr. pulsed again.

  Max dug into his chocolate lava cake.

  “Well, how did you name Scout?” she said.

  “Shelter named her.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “Oh.”

  “But I’ve read To Kill A Mockingbird enough to like the name.”

  “You haven’t told Trixie you’re reading kids’ books now, have you?”

  “She loves Harry Potter. I used to read it to her at bedtime. But I’m holding out on starting Percy Jackson until her carburetor behaves better.”

  “Do the other cars know?” Merry whispered. “That’s kinda…nerdy.”

  This was what he’d missed about her. The teasing. Her quick wit. The way her voice was like silk against sandpaper when she whispered.

  “You think any other car’s stupid enough to mock Trixie?” he said.

  “Maybe they’re jealous.”

  “Did you get picked on when you were little?”

  And there went the blank Merry mask. She set her spoon in her half-eaten dessert and stretched back in her chair. “That was delicious, but I am stuffed with a capital S.”

  Of course she’d been teased as a kid. She’d moved a lot. Always the new kid, compounded by being the new kid with a criminal father. He gestured to her dessert. “Want it to go?”

  “I have to fit into a bridesmaid dress on Friday.”

  Max wiggled his brows at her. “I wouldn’t mind if you—”

  An alarm suddenly shattered the peaceful conversations in the room, slicing through the muted sounds of other patrons.

  Merry leapt out of her chair and it tipped over. Her face went an ashen gray, eyes wide and panicked. She fumbled for her front pocket.

  Everyone else had simply paused and were darting curious looks about the room.

  Smoke wafted from the door to the kitchen. Two waitstaff stumbled out, both pointing everyone outside, while the manager flew toward the trouble.

  Max stood and reached for Merry. “Hey—”

  “We have to pay!” she shrieked.

  Her phone tumbled to the ground, then her driver’s license. Max scooped both up, then snatched her hand. “We have to leave.”

  “But—”

  “Fire, Merry. March.” He grabbed her coat with his other hand and tugged her toward the door.

  She walked stiffly, as if her joints had been screwed straight, lips parted, chest heaving. They followed their fellow diners out into the parking lot and gathered in a cluster between the cars and the frozen man-made pond at the entrance to the winery’s grounds.

  “Do we need to stick around?” one guy asked.

  “We didn’t get our check yet,” another one said.

  Red lights flashed in the night, sirens growing closer.

  The alarm still blared inside.

  Merry twisted and turned, peering into the darkness as though she were looking for someone, making Max wonder if her father routinely started kitchen fires as distractions when he was on a job.

  She held a death grip on Max’s hand.

  “Hey. Here. Put your coat on.”

  “This wasn’t Daddy,” she whispered. “He’s not here. Not his style. He wouldn’t have—”

  “Merry, it was a kitchen fire.” He pulled her close and kissed her crown, letting his nose linger in her flowery scent.

  She trembled.

  “Hey, it’s okay.”

  Had this happened often when she was growing up? Had she been there when security alarms had gone off?

  “My phone,” she said suddenly. “I don’t have—”

  “Right here.”

  She snatched it faster than Scout lunging for a piece of chicken. Then she felt in her front pockets again, pulling out two twenties, but nothing else. “My—”

  Max held her driver’s license between his first two fingers.

  Her body sagged. “Thank you.”

  The winery’s staff trickled out of the building. Some were friends, some familiar by name or face only. The bistro’s manager trotted over to them. “Sorry, folks,” he called. “Had a little kitchen fire. It’s contained, but I expect you won’t be able to finish your meals. Dinner’s on the house, so you can—”

  The approaching sirens drowned out whatever else he was saying. A fire truck barreled up the curved drive leading to the building, followed by a police cruiser, an ambulance, and two more fire trucks.

  She trembled harder against him, then pushed herself upright and pinched her lips and clenched her fists, as though she were willing herself to calm down.

  And to do it on her own.

  The manager held up a finger for the crowd, then crossed to talk to the firemen. The sirens flipped off, and Max could suddenly hear Merry’s ragged breathing. “Can we go?” she said.

  “If I say no, are you going to go ninja on me?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Not good.

  “Fire trucks are blocking the road,” Max said.

  She shuddered again. He touched her shoulder, but she jerked away. “I’m fine.”

  Other people were taking refuge from the wind in their cars, so Max led Merry to Trixie. He prompted her into the backseat and slid in after her. Red lights pulsed through Trixie’s interior. Suited-up firemen j
ogged through the night and into the winery. But here in Trixie’s backseat, they were alone.

  Max Jr. wasn’t the only part of him happy when she curled into his body and let him wrap an arm around her. That flower scent tickled his nose, but something more tickled behind his breastbone.

  “Been through this before?” he asked.

  Wasn’t hard to assume she and authority figures weren’t buddy-buddy. He could make a semi-confident leap that alarms reminded her of some not-great times too.

  But her ashen complexion, the shudders, the quick breaths—this was like when his neighbors’ yard got flamingoed last winter. When she’d seemed on the verge of a panic attack.

  “Won’t tell a soul, Merry,” Max murmured into her hair. “It was a long time ago.”

  He guessed.

  He hoped.

  “I’m just using your hot body for warmth,” she said.

  He sighed, and she pulled away to stare out the window, her breath a foggy circle on the glass.

  “I was robbed,” she said quietly.

  His hands curled into fists.

  “A long time ago,” she confirmed. “It was my first apartment after I moved out of Mom’s house, in a place I thought I was safe. I went to the grocery store, and when I came home, the door was open, and everything was trashed. My favorite books were ripped apart, like they were looking for cash shoved between the pages. And my upstairs neighbor’s fire alarm was going off the whole time. I didn’t have much jewelry—why tempt my father, right?—but what I had was gone. It seemed inevitable though, you know? Karma or something.”

  “You don’t have to pay for your father’s sins.”

  “Don’t I? Never mind. I just—alarms get to me. They make me remember. Daddy doesn’t use weapons. He works alone, in the dark. No one gets hurt.” She visibly shivered. “But that was the first time I understood what it was like to feel violated. Even when I quit school so I wouldn’t have to face the guy who dumped me before prom, I didn’t feel like I’d lost anything. Like I’d had anything taken from me. And that’s what my daddy did. Does. He takes things. He might not physically hurt people, and he always uses his scores for good, but he leaves scars all the same.”