An Arranged Marriage

by Peggy Moreland

  She didn’t say anything, just stared at him, but he could almost hear the wheels churning.

  He slung an arm around her shoulders and hugged her against his side. “You can do it. I know you can.”

  “I could, couldn’t I,” she said slowly.

  “It’s just a matter of setting your mind to the task.”

  She rose, chewing thoughtfully at her thumbnail. “I’ll need to make a list of possible donors. I can start with the country-club roster. Flynt can get me a copy.”

  “Now you’re talking,” he said.

  “We’ll need land for the building. Daddy should have something he’d be willing to donate.”

  “If he doesn’t, he’d know who would.”

  “Yeah,” she said, her eyes growing bright with excitement. “And whatever Daddy gives, you know the Wainrights will match. They won’t want the Carsons showing them up. We’ll need a name,” she said, and frowned.

  “I’m sure you’ll come up with a good one.”

  She charged for the house. “I need paper and pen.”

  Clay hopped up to follow. “I’ll get it for you.”

  “We may need to add another couple of phone lines,” she called over her shoulder.

  He paused at the door, frowning at her back. “What for?”

  She turned and caught his hand, tugging him inside with her. “For the telethon, silly. That’s how all the stars raise money for their favorite charities.”

  Ten

  Clay wasn’t sure, but he was afraid he’d created a monster. His entire house had been converted into an office for Fiona’s campaign to raise money for the child-care center. She’d yet to settle on a name for the organization, but that hadn’t stopped her from getting started. She’d approached the project like a scientist, carefully gathering data and fighting her way through miles of red tape. The proof of her efforts was stacked in neatly labeled piles all over his house. He had managed to persuade her to hold off on the additional phone lines for a while. But he was already questioning his interference. Every time he tried to call home now, he got a busy signal.

  Meanwhile Fiona was coming into her own. He never found her stretched out on the sofa any longer, her eyes bleary from watching television all day. And not once since she’d started her campaign had she complained of boredom. She rose early, went to bed late. In the hours between she was either on the phone or visiting child-care facilities around the state.

  She was a woman with a mission.

  And Clay was a man who suddenly found himself missing his wife—a wife who was supposed to be nothing more to him than a job.

  When had his feelings for her changed? he wondered. From the beginning he’d considered Fiona spoiled, selfish, her behavior juvenile, erratic, destructive. But somewhere along the way, his opinion of her had changed…or she’d changed. She was happier, less volatile, thought less about herself and her own needs. He couldn’t really say that she was calmer than before, because she had attacked this child-care center idea with a fierceness that had her charging around as if the facility had to be built overnight.

  He supposed he understood what possessed her. The photo of that little girl was hard to forget. In Fiona’s mind, he was sure, she felt she had to do something before another child was harmed, another life lost. Clay had felt that way himself the first time he’d stood over a victim of a crime. Still did, if he was honest with himself. It was the memory of that horror, that waste, that kept him on the job long after the five-o’clock whistle blew. It was what fed his determination to sweep all the riffraff and thugs from town. It was what made him want to make Mission Creek a safe town to live in again. More like the town in which he’d grown up.

  Clay chose a stool at the bar in the Men’s Grill and slid onto it, knowing that the mirror behind the bar offered him the best—and most discreet—view of the activity in the room. He ordered a club sandwich and a beer, but not because he was hungry. His purpose in ordering the food was only a cover. Sean Collins, the FBI leader, had contacted him earlier in the day and asked him to drop by the grill and serve as their eyes and ears. He’d also asked Clay to do what he could to protect Daisy, if the plan they’d outlined didn’t go down as they’d hoped.

  At four o’clock in the afternoon, the Men’s Grill wasn’t all that busy. A couple of golfers sat at the other end of the bar, analyzing, over a couple of beers, the swings and putts they’d made during their game. The clack of balls coming from the Billiard Room let Clay know that there were a few customers in there, as well. But it was the four men huddled in a booth in a far corner of the room that held his interest. Frank Del Brio and three of his gang, he thought with a shake of his head. It never ceased to amaze him that they would choose such a public place for their meetings.

  As he sipped his beer, Clay kept one eye on the booth where the gang sat and another on Daisy, who was working her way toward the booth, pretending to clean tables and refill salt and pepper shakers for the evening’s rush of dinner guests. He gave her a quick once-over, but was unable to detect any sign of the recorder Collins had told him they’d wired her with. He prayed, for her sake, that the mob guys weren’t able to detect it, either.

  The bartender placed a plate in front of Clay, and Clay mumbled his thanks, then spread the linen napkin across his lap. He picked up the sandwich and took a bite, but kept his gaze on the mirror. As he watched, he saw Daisy approach the booth to refill the men’s cups of coffee. Though he couldn’t see Daisy’s face, he had a clear view of Frank’s, and the hate that filled Frank’s eyes as he looked at her made Clay’s skin crawl.

  Daisy left the table and returned to her duties, stripping off the linen cloth on the table next to the booth. With a calmness that amazed Clay, she spread a clean one over the top, then began to set out silver and glasses. But always with her left shoulder turned toward Frank’s booth. Clay bit back a smile. Obviously the recorder had been concealed underneath the left side of her shirt, probably in her bra.

  He polished off the sandwich and was considering ordering something for dessert, to give him an excuse to hang around a little longer, when he saw Daisy head for the back hallway and the rest rooms located there. When she returned, she picked up the tray that held the large containers of salt and pepper that she’d used to refill the shakers and headed for the bar. She placed the containers in a storage cabinet beneath the sink, then picked up a cloth and began to wipe down the bar.

  When she reached Clay, she glanced his way and smiled. “Can I get you something else, Ranger Martin?”

  “I was considering having some dessert. What would you recommend?”

  “The apple pie seems to be everyone’s favorite, though, personally, I prefer the cheesecake.”

  He shoved aside his empty plate. “Cheesecake it’ll be, then.”

  She moved to the end of the bar, removed a cheesecake from a glass-fronted refrigerator and arranged a slice on a plate. When she returned, she set the plate in front of him and looked directly into his eyes. “I hope you enjoy the cheesecake. It’s topped with fresh cherries, so you might want to watch out for stray pits.”

  Puzzled by the strange warning, as well as the intensity of her gaze, Clay picked up his fork and sliced into the dessert. He’d consumed three bites when his fork struck something hard. He had to quickly school his features as he moved the utensil through the cheesecake and discovered the cassette. Realizing that Daisy must have obtained the information the FBI needed, he glanced at the mirror to make sure that Frank and his buddies weren’t looking, then slid the cassette into his napkin and onto his hand, closing his fingers around it.

  Rising, he pushed his fist into his pocket and reached for his hat. “Thanks, Daisy,” he called as he pulled on his hat. “The cheesecake was delicious.”

  “You’re welcome, Ranger Martin,” she replied with a bright smile. “Come back and see us again soon.”

  Clay sat with the agents huddled around the table, listening to the tape.

  “Stop and
back it up a little,” Collins ordered. “And see if you can get rid of some of that background noise,” he added, frowning.

  The man operating the hi-tech sound equipment punched a few buttons, twirled some knobs, and the tape began to play again. All the men leaned forward, their foreheads knotted in concentration. When the tape ended, they sank back in their chairs with a collective sigh of relief.

  “Well, she did it,” Collins said proudly. “Daisy’s provided us with the date and location for the mob’s next shipment of smuggled goods.”

  He turned to Clay then, his expression changing to one of concern. “Do you think they suspected anything?”

  Clay shook his head. “No. That woman’s got nerves of steel. She worked her way right up to their booth, and they never suspected for a minute that she was doing anything but cleaning tables. But I’ll tell you one thing,” he added. “Frank Del Brio has it in for her. If you could have seen the way he looked at her when she was refilling their coffee cups…” He shook his head, the memory alone curdling his blood. “Y’all need to do everything you can to protect her. If Frank discovers that Daisy’s really Haley Mercado, she’s as good as dead.”

  The FBI leader nodded grimly. “She won’t need to worry about Frank much longer. Once the bust is over and we have Frank and the rest of his thugs under arrest, she can drop the assumed identity and get on with her life.”

  Clay rose to leave. “I just hope she lives that long.”

  Clay brought his cell phone to his ear. “Martin,” he said.

  “What’s all this nonsense I hear about Fiona wanting land for some child-care center?”

  Clay bit back a smile at the grumpiness in Carson’s voice. “It’s not nonsense,” he replied. “She wants to build a facility for the benefit of single parents who can’t afford to pay for child care.”

  “And she wants me to give her the land?” he asked, his voice rising.

  “Yes, sir,” Clay replied, holding the phone away from his ear. “She mentioned that she was going to ask you.”

  “Well, she didn’t ask me. Flynt told me about it. And I’ll be damned if I’ll deed over to her a prime piece of land for some harebrained scheme she’ll lose interest in before the week is up.”

  “She’ll be disappointed to hear that, I’m sure,” Clay replied, trying to keep the amusement from his voice. “But she’s got a backup plan ready, in the event you turned her down.”

  “Backup plan,” Carson repeated. “What kind of backup plan?”

  “Well, I believe I remember her saying something about a piece of property the Wainwrights own near the downtown area.”

  “The Wainwrights!”

  Wincing, Clay jerked the phone to arm’s length, then slowly brought it back to his ear when he was sure that Carson was through yelling.

  “Yes, sir. She did her research, choosing sites located near the schools, then prioritized them according to their overall suitability.”

  “I know what lot of Wainwright’s she’s thinking of, and I can tell you right now that my lot is a damn sight better than his.”

  It was all Clay could do not to laugh. “Yes, sir. I believe that’s why she intended to approach you first.”

  “Well, you tell her to call me, you hear? Wainwright will stick some big-ass price tag on his piece of property, just because Fiona is a Carson and has shown some interest in it. I won’t let her be taken to the cleaners by an old cuss like Archie Wainwright. No siree, I sure won’t. Not when I’ve got a better piece of property that I’m willing to give to her free and clear.”

  “I’ll give her the message,” Clay promised, then disconnected the call. He laughed long and hard, knowing that Ford Carson had played right into his daughter’s hands, exactly as Fiona had said he would. She’d thrown out the bait to Flynt, knowing her brother would tell their father of her plans, then had waited for her father to bite.

  Now it was just a matter of her reeling him in.

  Clay stepped into the house and hooked his hat over the rack by the door. “Fiona?”

  “In here,” she called.

  Clay headed for the den. “If you’re hungry, I thought we might go out for—” He stumbled to a stop, his eyes rounding in shock. Fiona sat in the middle of the floor, surrounded by mountains of torn wrapping paper, ribbon and piles of gifts yet to be unwrapped.

  “Look,” she said, all but beaming as she held up a stainless steel toaster. “Isn’t this neat?”

  He walked slowly toward her. “What is all this stuff?”

  “Wedding gifts!” she replied, laughing gaily. “Since we didn’t send out formal announcements, no one knew our address, so they’ve been sending them to Mother and Daddy’s house, and Mother had one of the hands at the ranch deliver them here this afternoon.”

  Dread twisted in his gut. “Wedding gifts?” he repeated. “But why would people send gifts when we didn’t have a wedding?”

  “Wedding or not, we’re married,” she reminded him. “And the gifts are a way for people to offer their good wishes and to show their support. Look at this,” she said, holding up a crystal vase. “It’s from the staff at the country club. And this,” she said, setting down the vase to hold up a large sterling silver bowl, “is from the bank. Isn’t it gorgeous?”

  Yeah, it was gorgeous, all right, Clay thought, and had probably cost a small fortune.

  “And wait until you see this,” she said, digging through the mounds of paper and coming up with a leather-bound photo album. She pushed aside some scraps of paper and ribbon and patted the floor next to her.

  Though he really didn’t want to see any more, Clay sank down to sit cross-legged beside her.

  “It’s from Mother and Daddy,” she said as she opened the album over their almost touching knees.

  The photo secured behind the plastic sleeve hit Clay right square in the heart. It was an eight-by-ten glossy of him and Fiona dancing at the reception. She had one hand looped around his neck, the other resting against his chest. They both had their eyes closed, and her cheek was pressed tightly to his. He remembered the moment almost to the second. They had just begun dancing to “Unforgettable” and Fiona had lifted her head to whisper thank-you in his ear.

  “I had forgotten there was a photographer at the reception,” he said.

  “Since we didn’t have a traditional wedding, Mother wanted the reception photographed so that we would have something to commemorate the event.”

  She turned the page and emotion filled his throat as a picture of Fiona came into view. She was standing beside the fountain in the garden outside the Empire Room. She had one hand braced on the lip of the large, marble basin, and the other was caught mid-toss. A shiny copper penny hung suspended in the air inches from her fingertips.

  “That was taken before you arrived,” she explained. “It’s a tradition at the club that every new bride must make a wish and toss a penny into the fountain.”

  Without realizing he intended to voice the question, he heard himself asking, “And what was your wish?”

  “Happiness,” she replied without hesitation. She glanced over at him and smiled. “That’s what all the brides wish for.”

  Clay stared, both humbled and stunned by the simplicity of her wish. He lifted a hand and pushed her hair back from her face. “Are you happy, Fiona?”

  Her expression turned curious. “Well, of course I am. Aren’t you?”

  He was. Far more than he’d ever expected to be. Yet he felt a sudden unease at the realization. One that bordered close to guilt. Their marriage wasn’t a real marriage, he reminded himself, not in the true sense of the word. Her father had paid him to marry Fiona, then threatened Fiona with poverty to get her to go along with the deal. What kind of basis was that for a marriage? What kind of hope for the future did a marriage based on greed and fear offer to the two forced into the union?

  “Clay?” She tipped her head to peer at him, concern creasing her brow. “You are happy, aren’t you?”

  He gav
e himself a shake. “Yeah,” he said, and knew at least that much wasn’t a lie. “I’m happy.”

  A smile wreathed her face. “Good.” She set the album aside, then shifted to her knees in front of him. “And to answer your question about whether I’m hungry or not…” She looped her arms around his neck and pushed her face close to his. “Only for you.”

  Clay stared into her eyes, his throat closing up at the sincerity he found in the green depths, the passion. He loved her. The realization hit him with a swiftness, a sureness that would have knocked him over if he hadn’t already been sitting on the floor. He gripped her waist and sank back, wrapping paper crinkling beneath him as he pulled her over him.

  “I think I know how to satisfy that hunger.” He reached for the top button of her blouse. “But first we need to get rid of some of these clothes.”

  Later that night Clay lay in bed on his side, one hand pillowing his head, the other resting on his thigh, staring at Fiona and reflecting on their activities earlier that evening. They’d made love on the den floor on a bed of crumpled wrapping paper. Afterward she had put on his shirt and insisted on opening the remaining packages. He’d watched, a satin ribbon tied around his neck and a scrap of white wrapping paper embossed with silver wedding bells covering the most telling part of his anatomy. Fiona had tied the ribbon around his neck, laughing as she’d plumped the bow. The paper he’d donned himself, because he’d felt ridiculous lying there buck naked while she was covered from neck to knee by his shirt.

  She’d oohed and ahhed over every gift, her pleasure obvious. But each present she’d unveiled only sank Clay deeper and deeper into a gloom he was only beginning to understand.

  He had to end the marriage.

  He’d known from the start that their marriage was only temporary, but somewhere along the way he’d lost sight of that fact. Two months, he remembered thinking on the drive back from Mexico. Two months and he could divorce her and get on with his life.