“Seven o’clock,” he confirms and disconnects without another word.
Grandma Creed. Here we come.
15
Fletcher Creed
We arrive at my grandmother’s as the afternoon light has begun its descent into night. This is the time of day my mom used to call the magic hour, when day transforms into night. The sky pinkens then darkens, the animals and insects get ready for the change, dads or grandpas nap on gently swaying hammocks while family and friends share drinks and stories on an open porch, tinkling music playing from somewhere inside the house, and amber lamplight glowing from within through an open window.
Grandma Creed lives in an elegant home, built solidly in sandstone, three floors—four if you count the English basement. As a child I thought there were no windows when inside because they were so impossibly clean they looked invisible. The architecture is pretty amazing, with every tall window sporting an ornate lintel above it. Colorful flower boxes sit below each one, a whimsical touch in an otherwise stern facade. Surrounding the property are wrought-iron gates and behind them are professionally lit gardens with profusions of flowers, grasses, and other ornamental plants.
As we exit the sedan, I see Marley look up to take it all in, and I try to see it through her eyes. You don’t have to be born with a silver spoon in your mouth to recognize money when you see it. Every little detail—the door handles and mailbox, the light fixtures on either side of the entrance, the kickplate on the massive wood door, the doorbell, and address plaque—is an expensive example of artisanship. Grandma is meticulous when it comes to her home.
Marley looks lovely this evening in a cranberry-colored pencil dress with ivory trim, a soft ivory sweater, sandals and a string of pearls. Her golden hair is pulled back in a loose knot at the nape of her neck, and she’s wearing minimal makeup. I nodded my approval when I saw her—she knows how to dress perfectly for every occasion, a skill that will serve her well as my wife.
The glass and a half of pinot blanc she knocked back before we left helped to settle her nerves.
The buzz must be wearing off now, though, because she looks nervous. I’m nervous too because I’m about to pull an elaborate hoax on my grandmother and my whole family.
Who am I kidding, the whole world.
Grandma’s butler, Simon, answers the door. “Master Fletcher,” he greets me warmly. Then he turns to Marley and politely nods. “Miss.” He offers us a small smile as he steps aside to let us enter. “Madame will see you in the parlor. Follow me please.”
Marley’s eyes dart to mine, so I smile at her for reassurance, and we follow Simon into the parlor.
She’s looking all around as we walk. Does she see the house as stuffy and formal, I wonder, as we’re led through a richly appointed hallway, its walls draped in a heavy damask paper, the cream and blue Persian carpet runner muting every footfall. Is Marley feeling jumpy about meeting the woman who lives in this imposing house? I think she is.
I go straight up to Grandma as soon as we enter. She’s standing by the sofa and I give her a peck on the cheek, then turn toward Marley, my hand extended. She steps up to us, putting her hand in mine. Her hand is slender and beautiful and fits snugly inside of my much larger one.
“Grandma, this is Marley Jacobs, my intended. Marley, Mrs. Virginia Creed.”
Marley holds out her hand and Grandma grasps her fingers. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Marley, and I look forward to getting to know you much better.”
Marley’s eyes jump nervously to me. Why? I smile at Grandma and wonder—does she know exactly what we’re doing here? As I gaze into her light gray eyes, I easily see that sharp intelligence and almost a mischievous glint as if she’s in on the game.
“Please sit down and we’ll enjoy a drink. Would you two prefer hot tea, a cold drink, or alcohol?”
“I’ll have a club soda,” I announce and look at Marley.”
“Oh, I’ll have whatever you’re having,” she says to Grandma. While we wait for drinks I catch up on family matters with my grandmother as Marley sizes her up, no doubt. And Grandma sizes up Marley, which, after all, is the purpose of this visit.
My grandmother is near eighty but she’s got good bones so she’s aged well. Lustrous silver hair cut short in back and longer in front. Minimal makeup on her face. A pale-yellow blouse with wide-leg navy pants. She is elegance personified.
But it’s her jewelry that lassos everyone’s attention. Always. Tonight, her rings and bracelet alone—forget the earrings and lariat—are amazing and worth a fortune. Sapphires set in platinum surrounded by diamonds. Matching bracelet and drop earrings. A simple platinum lariat with a beautifully cut sapphire at the join and the end.
She’s stunning for an older woman.
After Myra serves us our drinks, my grandmother turns to Marley.
“So… tell me, Marley, how did you and my grandson meet? I don’t recall your name being mentioned before Fletcher told me you two were marrying—taking me by surprise, I might add.”
Marley gives a small laugh. “Didn’t Fletcher tell you? I’d be surprised if he didn’t.”
“Well, you know how men tend to be. Very short on details, aren’t they?”
Marley doesn’t miss a beat. Fortunately, we’d discussed this in the car on the way here. “I was attending a luncheon honoring museum volunteers, and Fletcher and I happened to be seated next to one another. A brief conversation led to us having dinner the following week and before long…well, we arrived here.”
“What is your profession, dear?”
“Currently, I’m in school studying urban planning.”
Her eyebrows arch, surprise flaring in her eyes. Why?
“What career path do you plan to pursue with that kind of degree?”
I came up with the idea so I hope Marley can plow her way through. I should have been more detailed, but Marley’s going to have to learn to think on her feet. “I’ll probably—”
I jump in, interrupting her. I can’t take the chance she’ll choke. “Marley has an interest in community, so more than likely she’ll work in economic development and collaborate with local politicians and community activists to revitalize blighted areas.”
Grandma gently slaps both hands on her thighs. “How noble an ambition. Too many young people look no further than their phones these days. What made you get involved in community, dear? And please, Fletcher, let Marley speak for herself.” She gives me a disapproving look as she takes a sip of her iced tea.
“I’ve always been concerned with local issues. Plus,” she says, brushing invisible lint off her thigh, “I enjoy meeting new people, playing different roles, and helping out others. I thought I could combine the two and have a rewarding career.”
Good answer. Even though she thinks she’s funny. An image streaks through my mind of putting her over my lap and spanking her. Oh no. Banish the thought. I absolutely cannot get a hard-on at Grandma’s house. Talk about bad manners.
“I imagine you’ll want to put off having children then—to finish school and establish your career. Is that right?”
“Yes, probably. A few years anyway. I feel that older parents make better parents anyway. Would you agree?”
“I would, in general, yes, Marley. Of course, there are exceptions on both ends. Have you eaten dinner?” She directs the question to me.
“No, Grandma, we have dinner plans. Perhaps another time?”
“Certainly. I would enjoy spending time with your young lady. In fact, Marley, why don’t you join me for dinner sometime next week so you and I can get better acquainted?”
Shit.
Marley shoots me a nervous look, probably wishing I would answer for her, but I don’t dare after Grandma’s earlier rebuke. “I would like that, Mrs. Creed. Fletcher’s family is important to me.” By the panicked expression on her face, I think she recognized that she just opened the door for questions about her own family. Not a good move.
“Are you close with your own
family, my dear?”
“I’m an only child. I have a good relationship with my parents, but they live quite a distance away.”
“Oh? Where do they live?”
“New Mexico… where I grew up.”
“What brought you to Chicago?”
“Dance lessons in the main. But I pretty much gave it up to focus on my studies.”
“I see. What kind of dance?”
“I took ballet as a girl and then switched to modern. But I love all forms of dance to be honest.”
“I’m a patron of the ballet here in Chicago. Perhaps you and I could take in a show together?”
“I’d love that,” she gushes. “Thank you.”
As soon as we finish our drinks, I rush us out of there, claiming we’d be late for our dinner reservations. Marley shakes hands with Grandma, and the latter promises to have her secretary call Marley to set up a lunch or dinner date. I smile and murmur my agreement, but I know it’s a very bad idea. If I’m not there to referee, I’m not sure Marley’s up to the task yet. She needs experience and training before she goes solo.
On the car ride home, we sit in silence as I mull over how the meeting went. Will this work or am I kidding myself? I have to fool all the people who know me best—and do it for two years. What will Marley look like to me after all that time? Will I be attached to her? I feel myself warming to her already, and I don’t like it. Did we even fool Grandma tonight? I just don’t know. Finally, a few blocks before we reach her loft, I reach over and tap her hand. “I expect you’d like to meet my siblings? Before the wedding, I mean?”
She turns her head and stares at me in the darkness of the car without answering. I arch my brows, waiting for an answer.
“I-I have no preference. Whatever you’d like to do is fine by me.”
“I thought it would look a little odd to people if my own family is just meeting you for the first time at the wedding and since there are a few people who will be attending that I need to convince this is genuine, I thought maybe we could get together for dinner with them in the days before. I’ll check with both to see what their schedules will allow. We’ll see.”
“So you have two siblings? Brother and sister?”
My eyes swivel to hers. “Right.”
“Are you close with them?”
“If I were would I have to arrange a special dinner for them to meet my intended?” I have to stop myself—she doesn’t need to know all the details. “I take that back. We are fairly close—we were—but life has a way of pulling you away from your family. Doesn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know. As I told your grandmother, I’m an only child, and my parents weren’t around much when I was growing up.”
“Mm. Well, now you’ll know about life with family and how annoying they can be... if only for a little while.”
Somehow the thought of it being only a little while makes me sad.
16
Marley Jacobs
“Well,” Cilla says, sniffing, “if you must go through with this charade, then I’m damn well taking you shopping for a wedding dress. Today,” she adds emphatically.
“Creed told me to dress casually for the wedding.”
Cilla rolls her eyes. Regardless of what my “fiancé” says, Cilla chooses to ignore it. She says simple doesn’t mean cheap or forgettable.
She keeps going on and on about the nerve of Fletcher Creed. I have to shake her to stop. “Stop now. You win. We’re going shopping. I’ll even buy you brunch afterward.”
“Bottomless mimosas, I hope?”
“Is there anything else appropriate before five p.m.?”
Cilla screws up one side of her face in an adorable frown. “Should we invite Tara?”
“Sure. I’ll tell her to meet us at whatever store we’re headed to first.”
“Fan-freaking-tastic. Let’s do it.”
As we’re walking down the block I swing my arm around Cilla’s shoulders. “Have I told you how happy I am that you’ll still be in town for the wedding? I have exactly two people to invite to this sorry shindig.”
“Oh no, you don’t. You tell the bastard that you’ve invited twenty people and I’ll bring my crew.”
“Your crew?” Laughing, I look at her to see if she’s serious. “Have you joined a gang or something lately?”
She shakes her head, her lips tightening into a straight line. “You heard me. My crew. My sister’s also in town and so is her boyfriend. One of my favorite cousins will be back from Indonesia a few days before so I’ll recruit her too. She always has some interesting peeps trailing around with her. They’ll come too. It’ll be a great party, don’t you worry ’bout a thing. You’re going to be represented, sweetpea.”
We get to the first shop long before Tara can get there. Cilla gets excited the second she crosses the threshold of the store. The girl loves to shop more than anyone I’ve ever seen. She grasps my shoulders.
“I’m going to style you for your wedding,” she announces. “You’ll be perfect.”
I give her a shifty look. “What exactly does that entail?”
“Dress, shoes, lingerie, hair, makeup. Oh, and flowers.”
“So everything, in other words?”
She winks at me.
Tara gets to us by the third store, after we’ve purchased the dress and we’re deciding on shoes.
“I can’t believe you picked a dress without me. How could you?” she pouts.
“I knew it was the one the moment I saw it. Cilla got annoyed with me too.”
Cilla nods, the patient martyr expression on her face. “Truth, Tara.”
Almost six hours later, my feet are aching, I’m ravenously hungry, and I’m pleased with what we accomplished. With Cilla and Tara’s input, I bought a dress, shoes, and the most beautiful if somewhat scandalous lingerie. Too bad I’m the only one who will get to enjoy it, and that bums me out. I honestly wouldn’t mind having a real wedding night with Fletcher. I mean, what person with any libido wouldn’t?
We pored over floral arrangements and selected a small bouquet and then went to a salon to speak to her hair guru, Rene. The three of us decided on a loose chignon with tiny silver pearls woven into it. Both Rene and Jared—the makeup artist—promised they’d come to my loft on the day of, and when Rene learned who I was marrying, he shrieked with delight.
“This is going to be major for my book.” He swept me off my feet, spun me around, and kissed both my cheeks. “I love you so much,” he gushed, “for letting me be the one to do your hair. This is going to be monumental. Mm-mm-mm. Fletcher Creed. You are one lucky g-i-r-l, and I’m going to make you look like a princess fit for that hot, hot man.”
My wedding day quickly arrives, so quickly that I never got to meet Fletcher’s brother and sister, but I’ll meet them today. My dress is a simple white shift with swag sleeves that hits about knee-length, but it’s elegant and expertly tailored to fit like a glove. The shoes are white silk sling-backs with a flirty side bow. The flowers we decided on are a mixed bunch of white and antique pink miniature roses, and my jewelry is sparse. Diamond studs, a simple platinum bracelet, and a diamond pendant on a platinum chain that Cilla loaned me.
The hair takes longer than I thought it would, but it looks gorgeous. Rene touched up my highlights and expertly wove tiny silver beads around the chignon so that they’d catch the light.
“I love it,” I say, examining my hair from every angle. It looks better than I could’ve imagined.
Rene brought a photographer with him so that he could have professional photos for his book. I felt like I was a model at a photo shoot, not a bride getting ready for a wedding. But the whole thing is so surreal I guess it doesn’t matter.
My eyes catch Jared’s in the mirror. “So how will we do my makeup?”
“Your dress is simple and so is your jewelry, so we need to make a statement with the eye makeup, I think. Otherwise, a light foundation because that’s all you need, a lightly tinted lip gloss, and that’s
about it. The eyes, though,” he says, holding my face in his hands as he stares into the mirror, “they will be dramatic.”
He gets to work. Usually the makeup is done before the hair, but in my case we did it backward because Jared had to send someone out to get him some brushes. So now he has to be extra careful not to muss my hair.
A half hour later he says excitedly, “Open your eyes.”
Wow. I thought I was good with makeup, but Jared outclasses me. He gave me smoky eyes with a silvery blue shadow accented by a darker silver gray. He did a 1960s-style thick eyeliner and used false lashes. He also slightly darkened my brows—they’re still blond but they’re the darkest shade of blond in my hair, which currently sports about five varying shades.
I do look good, but that doesn’t help my state of mind. It’s time to step into the dress, and I feel sick to my stomach.
I am so nervous, in fact, for this fake wedding that Cilla slips me a Xanax, and I wash it down with a sip of champagne. I know that’s not smart, but I need the help. Cilla and Tara keep me calm, and I’m very happy that we kept the guest list to about forty people. I couldn’t handle any more than that.
At four p.m. a black limousine arrives at my loft to drive my friends and I to the estate. When at the last minute I asked Rene and Jared to come with us, I thought Rene was going to faint with excitement.
When I join Fletcher Creed in the chapel, I see right away that when he said casual, he meant it. He’s wearing black jeans and a white linen shirt. Not even a tie or jacket. Despite what he wears, he still looks deadly gorgeous. My mouth goes dry, and my legs wobble when I first catch sight of him standing there, waiting for me at the altar. I have never… ever… seen a handsomer man. Ever. I mean, not even in magazines or on big screens. And here I am marrying him. The marriage real or not, I still get to look at him for the next two years on a daily basis. Not too shabby a deal.
“Wow,” he says as I move toward him. He leans over to me when I reach him and whispers in my ear. “You look very lovely, Marley. You’re a beautiful bride.” I feel my face warm at the compliment. I think that’s the first time he’s ever said anything nice to me.
Faker: A Fake Relationship Romance Page 10
