The Marriage Arrangement

by Patricia Ryan

  The picture showed the bottom of the enormous Monet that had hung above that settee. She recalled her shock the afternoon twenty years ago when she’d first tagged along with the others for a visit to Clay’s apartment after school. The first surprise was the apartment itself—a luxurious sixteen-room duplex overlooking Central Park. High ceilings, Oriental rugs, layered brocade draperies, that astonishing collection of Impressionist paintings... It was like something out of a movie.

  The next surprise came when she discovered he lived there all alone, except for the uniformed cook and maid who came and went every day. That huge, incredible apartment for one teenage boy. Izzy’s entire ten-person family—herself, her parents, six younger siblings, and her grandmother, now gone—had lived contentedly in a narrow, seven-room semi-attached house in South Ozone Park, Queens. What could one boy need with sixteen rooms? And where were his parents? She questioned Clay, who purported to find the subject too boring to discuss. Harry told her about the divorce and warned her not to pry. So she’d let the subject drop and never brought it up again.

  Did Clay still communicate with his parents? Maybe they were dead. Maybe that’s why they didn’t come to the wedding. She should ask Clay, that’s what she should do. But how do you ask the man you’ve just married whether his parents are dead or alive?

  She lowered her forehead to the mantel; the polished wood felt cool and smooth.

  “Are you all right, sweetie?” Izzy turned to find her mother at her elbow, her normally serene features tight with worry.

  “Sure, Mom, it’s just...”

  “Nerves?” Paola Fabrioni patted her daughter’s arm. “But the ceremony’s over. There’s nothing to be—” She broke off abruptly, and paused, frowning uncertainly. “Or is it... I mean... Isabella, is there anything you’d like to talk about? Anything... of a personal...”

  “No, Mom.”

  Her mother nodded knowingly. “Sweetheart, I understand. I really do.”

  “No, Mom. Please. Really, it’s not that.” Could her mother really believe that, at thirty-four, Izzy was going to her marriage bed untouched? Well, why shouldn’t she? Izzy had never led her to believe anything else.

  “I just want you to know that you can talk to me about anything,” Paola assured her quietly. “I’ll always be here for you.”

  Oh, boy. “Thanks, Mom.” Her mother’s image began to waver sickeningly. The coldness swept from Izzy’s head to her extremities.

  “Isabella? Honey, you’re sweating. You’re so pale. Are you all right?”

  “No.” She was going to faint. She realized this with a kind of horrible detachment. She really didn’t want to faint. The baby... she might hurt the baby when she fell.

  She pawed at the mantel, but it had moved. Her mother’s anxious face dissolved, and then it was gone in a flood of emptiness that took everything else with it.

  WHERE’S THE PASS RUSH, you fucking pansies?” Clay yelled at the TV screen glowing in the dim, smoke-clouded upstairs den.

  Harry, sitting on the floor in front of Clay, turned and shot him a bemused look that said, Pansies?

  Clay tapped his cigar—one of Aldo Fabrioni’s excellent Dunhills—into an empty beer bottle. “No offense.”

  Harry rolled his eyes and stuck his own cigar between his teeth, then yanked it out when he turned and caught sight of the game. “Get in there! Get in there, you pussies!”

  The big leather recliner squeaked as Al Fabrioni sat forward and stabbed his Dunhill at the screen. “Lookit that! This is a joke! My mother woulda made a better linebacker than those clowns.” He crossed himself absentmindedly. “Rest her soul.”

  Izzy’s aunt Teddy—the only woman who’d bothered to sneak up here for a peek at the play-offs—said, “Ma was more of a quarterback, Al. She had brains to go with all that brawn.”

  Some of the other Fabrionis laughingly concurred with this assessment. There were Fabrionis coming out of the woodwork. Izzy had more brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, and nephews—especially nieces, it seemed—than anyone he’d ever met. At least ten percent of the adult Fabrionis seemed to have taken Holy Orders; Clay had counted three priests and half a dozen nuns so far. Two of the priests were sitting next to him on the couch, puffing away on Dunhills and wagering on the game.

  Clay squinted through the smoke at the TV screen, where their guys were finally getting it together to rush the quarterback. “There they go,” he said. “This is it, Al.”

  Al grunted. “It’s about time they tried to stop him, those worthless—”

  “Aunt Teddy!” a child called from downstairs. “Aunt Teddy!”

  Teddy took a swig of her beer. “Don’t answer.”

  “Look at the son of a bitch scramble,” Al said, gripping the arms of the recliner as he leaned toward the TV.

  Footsteps raced up the stairs. “Aunt Teddy!” The child sounded frantic.

  “Yes!” Clay leapt to his feet, as did everyone else. The room erupted in cheering and applause. High-fives were exchanged. “Yes!”

  The door slammed open. “Aunt Teddy!” It was one of the multitude of little dark-haired Fabrioni nieces.

  Teddy glowered down at her. “Which one are you?”

  “Angie.”

  “Go away, Angie.”

  “Grandma sent me,” the girl breathlessly explained. “It’s Aunt Izzy. Come quick!”

  Clay’s heart kicked. He shoved his cigar into the bottle, muscled aside the bodies crowding the doorway, and pounded down the stairs three at a time.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CLAY FOLLOWED THE BUZZ of voices to the living room, where a dozen guests stood gathered around something in front of the fireplace.

  “Let me through!” The crowd parted enough for him to see Izzy, out cold on the floor. “Oh, Izz. Oh, no.” The way she was lying, curled to the side, limp and senseless, brought a deeply buried memory into sharp and painful focus.

  Judith. That was exactly how she’d looked when he’d found her—almost as if she’d curled up and gone to sleep halfway down the run. Wanting to lift her face out of the snow, he’d gently taken her head in his hands, and felt, almost instantly, the wrongness in her neck, the terrible slackness...

  Kneeling, Clay reached out gingerly to cup Izzy’s ashen face and turn it, carefully. He felt resistance, and she moaned. He closed his eyes and let out the breath he’d been holding.

  “Everybody outta here!” Teddy commanded as she elbowed through the onlookers, most of whom retreated back into the dining room. “What happened, Paola?”

  “She was just standing there,” said Izzy’s mother, crouching over her daughter, “and then she fainted.”

  Harry joined them and asked if he could do anything. “Call my doctor.” Fumbling his phone out of his coat, Clay unlocked it and thrust it at Harry. “Philip Zelin.” Harry turned to go, but Clay held up a hand. “Wait. Don’t call Zelin. Call Jim Cooper. He’s closer.” He was also an ob-gyn.

  Harry paused, puzzlement in his eyes. “That guy you had over for poker that time? But isn’t he a—”

  “Just call him,” Clay said, nailing Harry with a look.

  Harry’s eyes widened fractionally. He glanced at Izzy’s insensible form, and then at her mother, and nodded. “On it.” He sprinted up the stairs.

  “Teddy’s an R.N.,” Paola offered.

  “Was an R.N.,” Teddy corrected as she checked Izzy’s eyes and took her pulse. “Now I’m just another cranky old broad with too much time on her hands.”

  Izzy stirred and muttered something unintelligible.

  “If it’s not too risky to move her,” Clay said, “I’m gonna get her off this floor and onto a bed.”

  “Go ahead.” Teddy got to her feet. “I don’t think she’s in any real danger.”

  Clay lifted Izzy in his arms, carried her upstairs to his room, and laid her gently on the colorful African blanket draped over his big iron bed.

  Izzy’s eyes fluttered open, and then she closed them and groan
ed. “I fainted.”

  “Looks that way,” Clay said, sitting next to her on the bed.

  She spread her hand over her stomach. “Is the—”

  “I’m sure everything’s fine,” he assured her, casting a meaningful glance toward the other people in the room.

  Blinking, she looked around, taking in the big, sun-washed bedroom with its brick fireplace, leather furniture, and array of falconry paintings. “This isn’t my room,” she said blearily.

  Teddy pulled off Izzy’s ivory pumps and tossed them onto the floor. “It is now.”

  Izzy squinted at the small bronze on the night table—a red-tailed hawk with a sparrow in its talons. “Oh,” she said, her gaze flicking briefly toward Clay. “Yeah.”

  Her parents sat next to her on the other side of the bed, her mother loosening Izzy’s clothes and brushing her hair off her face, while her father patted his wife’s back and looked vaguely helpless.

  Paola Fabrioni was as exotically gorgeous as her daughter, with the same elegant, very Italian nose and cafe au lait complexion. She had eyes like Hershey’s syrup. Izzy’s were similar, but had that sharp espresso edge to them. Al looked to be older than his wife, around seventy maybe, with a silver-white crew cut and horn-rimmed glasses.

  Harry came into the room. “Cooper will be here in about half an hour.”

  “Cooper?” Izzy murmured.

  “A... doctor,” Clay said. He squeezed her hand, wondering when he had begun holding it.

  Izzy nodded slowly, her free hand straying once again to her stomach. “Right.”

  “How do you feel?” Clay asked.

  “Hungry.”

  Paola patted her daughter’s arm. “Your dad and I will go downstairs and get you something to eat.” She turned to Teddy. “If that’s okay?”

  “Something bland would be fine, I think,” her sister-in-law said.

  The older couple left. Harry fetched a glass of water from the bathroom, and Clay helped Izzy to sit up so she could sip it, piling some pillows up behind her. Teddy’s questioning revealed that Izzy hadn’t eaten since dinner the day before. “You shouldn’t go half a day without food, Isabella. It’s isn’t smart in your condition.”

  Your condition? Clay and Harry swapped a quick uh-oh look.

  “I know,” Izzy moaned. “I didn’t mean to, but—” She broke off, looking stunned. “How... how long have you known?”

  “For sure?” Teddy smirked. “About three seconds.”

  Izzy stared at her aunt for a moment, then looked at Clay as if to say, Do you believe this? He slid an arm around her shoulders as her parents reentered the room, bearing a sandwich on a plate and a glass of cola.

  “You were right, Paola,” Teddy said. “She’s pregnant.”

  Izzy gaped at the two women.

  Paola brightened. “I knew it!”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” Al grinned and stuck an unlit cigar between his teeth.

  “I’m so happy for you, sweetie,” Paola said. She held the plate toward her daughter. “I made you a turkey sandwich. I hope that’s all right. Teddy, would you hand me that bed tray?”

  Harry sank into the club chair in the corner, legs crossed, grinning like he was watching “Modern Family.”

  “You knew?” Izzy said.

  “I had a pretty good idea,” her mother answered, handing the plate to Al so she could unfold the bed tray. “Why else would you be getting married in such a hurry? You didn’t really expect us to believe that business about the press hounding you and all that.” She positioned the tray over Izzy’s lap and Al set the sandwich and drink on it.

  “Eat, kiddo,” her father said, waving the cigar toward the sandwich. “You’ll feel better. And the baby needs food.”

  “Wait a minute.” Izzy shook her head in that way she had when she just didn’t get it. “If you and Dad knew I was pregnant, why didn’t you say anything? Why’d you let me make all that stuff up?”

  Paola unfolded a paper napkin and draped it over her daughter’s lap. “You didn’t seem to want to tell us the truth, and we didn’t want to push you. I did try to get you to talk about it a little while ago, right before you fainted, but you didn’t seem ready to—”

  “That was what you wanted to talk about?”

  “Sure. What did you think?”

  “Not that.” Izzy ran a hand through her wonderfully tousled hair. “Do you have any idea how guilty I felt, lying to you guys?”

  “Why’d you bother?” Teddy asked.

  Paola nodded. “It really wasn’t necessary. Your father and I... well, we know how things are. You’re thirty-four, you’ve been living on your own for sixteen years.” She shrugged eloquently.

  Al took the cigar out of his mouth and fixed Clay with a purposeful look. “The important thing is, you did the right thing. You made an honest woman out of my Isabella. There’s plenty of guys wouldn’t’ve taken responsibility for what they done, but you did, and that’s all that matters. All I can say now is, I’m proud to have you for my son-in-law, and the father of my grandchild.”

  Al thrust out his hand and Clay took it. “Thank you, Al.”

  “Aw, hell,” Al said, and drew Clay into a hug, slapping his back for good measure. Clay returned the embrace, surprised by how great it felt. He wasn’t used to such open affection and it touched a place in him that had rarely been touched. Izzy’s parents had accepted him instantly, as a part of their family... as the father of their grandchild.

  A splinter of uneasiness punctured Clay’s contentment. He glanced at Izzy. She sneaked him a forlorn little look that tugged at his heart. He understood her guilt—he felt it, too—but the best course now was to let Al and Paola continue to think he was the baby’s father. To do otherwise would reveal this marriage for the bogus arrangement that it was, opening Izzy up to all kinds of censure and ridicule. He’d married her to solve her problems, not create new ones.

  Even as Clay rationalized this lie, he recognized that part of him wanted to perpetuate it simply so that Al and Paola would continue to treat him as family, and not as the son of a bitch who’d conspired with their daughter to put one over on them. He’d keep up the lie so they wouldn’t hate him. And they would, if the truth were revealed. In his experience, affection always came with strings. There was no such thing as unconditional acceptance; his parents had taught him that.

  Paola picked up half of the sandwich and handed it to Izzy, then turned to Clay. “So, you must have business in San Francisco pretty often, huh?”

  “Not really,” he began. “I haven’t been there since—”

  “Since last month,” Harry interjected, sitting forward and spearing Clay with a look that said, You idiot. “Didn’t you go out there for that... thing?”

  “That thing,” Clay repeated, scrambling to make up for his moronic slip. If he hadn’t been to San Francisco for a year and a half, how could he have gotten Izzy pregnant? “Right, that thing. Last month.”

  Izzy lowered her uneaten sandwich to the plate, a determined look in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said to her parents. “This has gone far enough. I can’t take it anymore. I can’t have you thinking—”

  “That we just got married because we had to,” Clay finished.

  Izzy gave him a why-are-you-doing-this look. “Clay...”

  He tightened his arm around her shoulders. “I didn’t marry Izzy just because she’s carrying my child. I married her because I love her. I would have married her anyway.”

  Al nodded approvingly, the cigar sticking sideways out of his mouth. Paola beamed and kissed him on the cheek, her eyes shining wetly.

  Izzy shot him a look that said, We’ll talk about this later.

  LATER—AFTER DR. COOPER had been and gone and most of the guests had left—Izzy ordered her parents, Aunt Teddy, and Harry downstairs so she could nap. Clay insisted on staying in the room in case she needed anything. She kicked him out long enough to change into sweats. He returned with a book, which he read in the big club ch
air after tucking her into bed.

  It had been the consultation with Dr. Cooper, which Clay had sat in on, that had prompted this vigil. Interpreting the fainting and spotting as warning signs, Cooper had cautioned Izzy to stay off her feet as much as possible. He hadn’t relegated her to bed rest—yet—but he’d laid down the law about housework, heavy lifting, long trips... Basically she wasn’t allowed to do anything that took any real energy.

  She was also, Dr. Cooper had stressed, to abstain from sexual intercourse, at least until he could fit her in for an office visit, which wouldn’t be until the middle of next week. She and Clay had exchanged an awkward glance at that, prompting Cooper to add, “I know, you just got married. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it’s got to be.” They both assured him it wouldn’t be a problem. “I’m just talking about intercourse, mind you,” the doctor had added. “You can do other things.” He’d proceeded to rattle off, with remarkable candidness, those “other things.” Basically, everything except actual intercourse. Izzy’s face grew hot as she imagined doing those things with the man she’d just married. She didn’t dare look at Clay, and was relieved when Cooper dropped the subject.

  He’d cautioned that Izzy was not to be left alone for long periods, since she was prone to dizziness and fainting. Clay had taken the advice to heart. He’d find someone to take care of Izzy and the house full-time, he said. Until then, he wasn’t going to leave her side.

  Hearing Clay turn the pages of his book and shift in his chair unnerved Izzy enough that it took her a while to fall asleep. But when she finally drifted off, she slept deeply... until his phone rang, yanking her abruptly awake.

  The ringing lasted only a couple of seconds. “Hello?” Clay said very quietly; he probably thought she was still asleep. “Mère.” He sounded surprised. “Bonjour.”