Married in Michigan

by Jasinda Wilder

  He grins, a wide, bright, amused flash of teeth. “Then you’ll be sharing with me.” He breezes back inside. “Find me if you need anything,” he says, tossing the words over his shoulder.

  And just like that, I’m alone, on a massive terrace overlooking the jeweled heart of Washington DC.

  My new home.

  I shake my head, unable to fully comprehend what that means. It doesn’t feel like home. It feels like I’m visiting someone.

  I can’t go home.

  I don’t have a home to go to.

  Shit, shit, shit—the panic starts to rise again, and I grip the railing and force it away, focus on the traffic below and the view of the Potomac. Once I have it under control again, I decide to go inside and explore a little. It’s about half the size of the penthouse suite at the hotel, but that makes it cozier and homier. I don’t know if cozy is the right word, though. It’s every bit as luxurious as the hotel, every bit as expensive as his parents’ home, but somehow seems more personal. I go back to the foyer and look at the art on the walls; he’d told me he had some original pieces here, and I’m wondering what they are.

  The art decorating the foyer hallway walls are black and white landscapes, of trees and mountains and ocean surf exploding over rocks. In the living room above the mantel over the fireplace is a glass case much like the one at deBraun’s home in Michigan; within the case is an oil painting of a young woman pouring milk into a bowl.

  “Recognize it?” I hear Paxton ask behind me.

  I snort, glancing at him. “Hardly.”

  He stands beside me, staring up at the painting with me. “That was an incredibly difficult piece to procure, and if it was widely known in art circles that I own it, there would probably be quite an outcry.” He grins, pleased. “It’s Han van Meegeren’s forgery of Vermeer’s The Milkmaid.”

  I hear the expectant pause, and just roll my eyes at him. “I hope you’re not waiting for me to faint in awed shock.”

  He groans, annoyed. “You know who Vermeer is, don’t you?”

  I shrug. “Sure. A classic painter. He did that one painting with the girl wearing the blue scarf?”

  “Girl with a Pearl Earring, yes. Among others.” He gestures at the painting. “That is a forgery of another famous Vermeer painting.”

  I frown. “Why would you be proud to own a forgery?”

  Another of those sighs that seem to indicate long-suffering patience with the hopelessly uncultured. “Because Van Meegeren’s forgeries are famous and valuable in their own right. It’s quite a story, really. Short version is, Van Meegeren was a painter and wanted to be famous, so he started copying the style of the masters, Vermeer, Frans Hals, van Baburen, and other mostly Dutch painters. He started gaining attention for how closely his paintings resembled the work of the Old Masters, and this earned him a lot of criticism. He felt misjudged and that his genius was being underestimated, so he set about forging the works of the masters, rather than merely copying their style. It took him years to figure out the process, and he eventually got an art expert to accept a forgery of a Vermeer as authentic.” He pauses, thinking. “Honestly, this could be a movie. Anyway. One thing led to another, and Hermann Göring, the famous Nazi and art collector, was sold one of van Meegeren’s paintings as an original Vermeer, which eventually led to van Meegeren’s arrest and subsequent trial by the Allies after the war, when Göring’s hidden collection was discovered. He was actually compelled during the trial to produce, in front of witnesses and reporters, a copy of Vermeer’s Jesus Among the Doctors, simply to prove that the painting owned by Göring was his work.”

  I stare, blinking. “Wow. So…this painting is one of those forgeries.”

  He nods. “Yes. He produced quite a few, and this is considered one of the best.” A sigh. “Eventually, I’ll let one of the museums somewhere put it on display, but for now, I just want to enjoy it myself.”

  “Why not an actual Vermeer?”

  He snorts. “Because there are only thirty-five authenticated original Vermeer paintings in the world, and they’re all in museums, with one being in private hands, and the other having been stolen from a museum in Boston in 1990.”

  I bite my lip to hold back a grin. “Well. Thanks for the art history lesson.”

  He sighs. “Wasted on you, was it?”

  I shrug. “No. I know something now that I didn’t before. And it’s a cool painting with a cool story.”

  “That’s why I wanted it. Yeah, an original Vermeer is worth hundreds of millions of dollars, but the story behind that one is way more interesting.” A self-conscious laugh. “Plus, they look pretty much the same.”

  “How do you go about telling an original from one of those fakes?” I ask, figuring I’m probably getting myself another lecture.

  A shrug, interestingly. “It’s a technical process I know nothing about. Chemical testing, like carbon dating, sort of? I’m not an art history major, I just like cool shit.” He indicates the painting. “I couldn’t tell you much about Vermeer or his paintings, I just know the story behind van Meegeren because I own the painting.” Another laugh. “I don’t want you to get the idea that I’m some beret-wearing art history dork.”

  I bite my lower lip. “Oh no. Can’t have that. It would ruin your rep as the coolest guy in school.”

  He eyes me. “You’re mocking me, aren’t you?”

  I widen my eyes, shake my head. “Why no, Mr. deBraun, I would never do that.”

  He walks away, laughing. “Sure you wouldn’t. I see how it is. See if I tell you any more cool stories about the cool shit I own.” He indicates another painting on the wall in the hallway leading to the bedrooms. “Figure that one out on your own.”

  With that, he vanishes into his bedroom and closes the door behind himself.

  I, of course, go to the indicated work of art and examine it. It’s small, a charcoal portrait sketch. In the lower left-hand corner is a barely legible signature which looks, to my decidedly inexpert eye, like M.M. Caravaggio. Another famous name I’ve heard here and there, but know zero about.

  I sigh, and decide there’s no way I’m asking him about it now. I’ll get another art history lesson for sure.

  Right?

  Why should I care?

  Apart from the fact that I definitely saw nothing compelling about the spark in his eye and the confidence in his voice as he speaks, nothing interesting about the way he continually surprises me. I mean, I had him pegged as an air-headed spoiled rich white boy. Smart enough, sure, because you don’t get through an Ivy League education by being stupid, and he is capable, sure, because he is an elected member of Congress. But still, Paxton deBraun is a spoiled rich white boy, and little else.

  So what if he collects interesting art with a unique story? So what if evidence points to him playing the piano? Why should I care? All I’m here for is the chance to get Mom taken care of.

  That’s all this is. It’s a long game. Not a con, just…

  I push that line of thinking aside and decide to pick my room; interesting, though, that he’s assuming I’ll want to sleep alone, in my own room.

  I did at least half assume that he’d expect me to sleep with him, to share a bed with him.

  His reassurances to the contrary are…comforting, to at least some degree.

  The two guest rooms are identical, for the most part—different art on the walls, different beds and furniture, but mostly alike. Lots of light colors, white walls and ceiling, with pops of color here and there—the overall aesthetic of the guest rooms is neither masculine nor feminine, just neutrally appealing.

  I pick one simply because I like the artwork better: another black and white landscape photograph of a beach, and an oil on canvas painting of a mermaid sitting on a pile of coins and treasure, combing long reddish hair, rocks framing the crashing sea in the background. Another piece of art by a famous painter, probably, but I’m ignorant of who or what—I just think it’s pretty, and it reminds of the ocean, something I’ve
never seen but have always wanted to visit. There’s an en suite bathroom of course; marble floor, a marble-lined shower stall with a glass door, a claw-foot soaking tub, a pedestal vanity with a waterfall faucet and a lovely, delicate, gold-gilt oval mirror.

  When I go back into my room after examining the bathroom, I find my duffel bag on the bed, which is freaky as fuck. I heard nothing, and as far as I know, Liam isn’t here.

  I find Paxton in his office, and knock on the doorframe; he’s sitting at his desk, working on a laptop, wearing glasses with a dark frame on top, which somehow makes him look distinguished and intelligent rather than nerdy.

  He looks up, nudging the glasses higher on his nose. “Yes?”

  “I think your shit is haunted, Paxton.”

  He frowns while chuckling. “Why do you say that?”

  “I picked a room, went to look around the bathroom, and while I was in there, my bag mysteriously appeared on the bed.”

  Paxton rolls his eyes, rubbing his forehead with a knuckle. “That’s Liam’s idea of a practical joke.” He tilts his head up, shouting. “LIAM!”

  A few moments later, I jump when I feel Liam brush past me. “You bellowed, Mr. deBraun?”

  “No more of the spooky shit, okay?” Paxton turns his attention back to the computer screen; we’re both clearly dismissed.

  Preceding me out into the foyer, Liam snickers, turning to grin at me with a wink. “Gotcha.”

  “If by get me, you mean freak the shit out of me, then yes.” I arch an eyebrow at him. “Do you have spy cameras or something?”

  He shrugs, endeavoring to look innocent. “Certainly not. This is Mr. deBraun’s private home.”

  “You do!”

  He holds up both hands palms out. “There are no cameras, Makayla. I swear—on my honor as a Marine Recon.”

  “Then how?”

  “A magician never reveals his secrets.” He smirks. “Suffice it to say my nickname in my squad was Spooky.” He laughs. “Or, more frequently, ‘goddammit, Liam, you spooky fucking bastard!’”

  I restrain a grin. “Well just be careful. You may be a spooky hard-ass Marine, but I was raised in Detroit. Spook me at your own risk.”

  Liam just winks. “Look at this way—I only prank those I like.”

  “What do you do to people you don’t like?” I ask.

  Liam’s face goes scary. “They disappear.” I blink, hoping he’s joking but not sure…until he cackles, face breaking into a grin. “I’m kidding, Jesus. You think I just go around killing people I don’t like?”

  I shrug broadly. “How the hell am I supposed to know?”

  “I was a Marine Recon, not an assassin.” A pause. “I know a couple, though. Nice fellas, just don’t get on their bad side.” He winks at me again.

  “Such a joker, you are,” I say with wry amusement.

  He heads for the door. “For real though, it was a joke. I’m not spying on

  you; there are no hidden cameras. Sort of a welcome to the club initiation.”

  “You coulda just said ‘welcome to the club.’”

  A shrug and a wave. “Nah. Where’s the fun in that?”

  And then I’m alone yet again; passing by his study, I see Paxton still working, the screen reflected in his glasses, a loud, fast, constant clacking of the keys punctuated by an occasional pause.

  I pace around the penthouse for a while, examining artwork, poking through the kitchen, sitting on the couch and leafing through magazines…

  I begin to realize that my biggest problem with this whole situation won’t be Paxton, but…boredom.

  14

  I ended up borrowing a book from Paxton’s office—I had expected his library to be full of dry, stuffy, Ivy League-education crusty bullshit, but instead, I’d found a dizzying variety of subjects and genres: histories and biographies, psychology and self-help, classic literature ranging from The Odyssey to Catcher in the Rye, political treatises from Ancient Greece and Rome, as well as autobiographies from modern politicians like Madeleine Albright and Bill Clinton and Barack Obama, and genre fiction of all kinds, ranging from sci-fi and fantasy to historical fiction and even a few romances. I was, honestly, amazed.

  While I perused his bookshelves, Paxton remained at his desk typing, thinking, and typing, a focused expression on his handsome face. Eventually, when I pulled out a biography on Rockefeller and stood flicking through the pages, he sat back in his chair, poking at his teeth with the arm of his glasses.

  “That’s a wonderful biography,” he said. “One of the best around on Rockefeller.”

  I gestured at the shelves. “How many of these have you read?”

  He frowned slightly. “Well…all of them.”

  I blinked—there were thousands of books here. “All of them?”

  He nodded. “That’s why they’re here: I love books, real books. I buy them, read them, put them on the shelf. Sometimes I read them more than once, but not often—only if it’s really good. But yes, I’ve read every book on this shelf at least once.” He indicated the small table next to the deep, reclining armchair under the lamp; stacked in piles on the table were at least a dozen books, hardcovers and paperbacks, fiction and nonfiction. “That’s my T-B-R pile.”

  “To be read?” I guessed.

  A nod. “Yep. I like to pick at things. I’ll read a few chapters of a novel, a few chapters of a biography, back and forth. There’s always a lot of hurry up and wait in Congress, too, and while a lot of my colleagues like to waste it pretending to look busy sending a flurry of emails, I prefer to keep a book or three in my briefcase.”

  “So when do you do your emails, in that case?”

  He indicated his laptop. “I keep working hours, and I divide it into chunks. My working hours today include emails, some topical research on the agenda of things I’m discussing with my colleagues tomorrow morning, and a few other odds and ends. But once I’m done here, I’m done. I don’t send any more emails, and I don’t read them, either. Keeps me sane, or I’d be a hamster on a wheel…like so many of my colleagues on the Hill.”

  I’d nodded, impressed. “Makes sense.” I lifted the book in my hands. “May I borrow this?”

  He’d nodded, but laughed. “Yes, Makayla.”

  I’d frowned. “Why the laugh?”

  “Because you live here. This is your home, now. Everything here is yours. Want a bottle of wine from the cellar? Take a bottle. No need to ask. Want to take a car? Take it.” He blinked, frowning. “Well, that perhaps should wait till we get you licensed, but you get the idea. It’s not borrowing, it’s using something you have the right to use as a member of this household.”

  I’d sighed, tried a smile. “That’s going to take some getting used to, but thank you.”

  Thus, I find myself sitting out on the terrace in another little nook—this one featuring surprisingly comfortable wicker furniture, a glass of iced tea sweating nearby.

  Three hours after borrowing the book, I’m still barely two chapters in, but enjoying it.

  I’m startled, then, when Paxton appears, taking a seat in the other wicker chair. He smiles at me. “Enjoying it?”

  I nod. “Yeah, it’s good.”

  He eyes my progress, a baffled look crossing his face. “Taking your time, huh?”

  I flush, shrug. “Um, no, not really. I’m just a really slow reader.”

  “Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  I wave him off. “It’s okay. I bet you could’ve finished this by now. I’m just…not much of a reader, honestly. I think this is the longest I’ve sat and read in my entire life.”

  He frowns. “Really?”

  “Yeah.” A shrug. “I’ve worked full time since I turned fourteen. School wasn’t as much of a priority as helping Mom keep a roof over our heads and food on the table. I skipped a lot of school, and I was honestly lucky to even graduate. There’s just never really been time in my life for sitting around reading. I’ve worked two and three jobs, ten to twelve and sometimes sixteen
-hour days since I graduated high school, just out of necessity.” I laugh. “Honestly, I feel guilty, just sitting here. I feel like I’m missing work, like I’m flaking out on my responsibilities. It’s hard to focus.”

  He nods. “I know this may shock you, but I actually do understand that, to a degree. I’ve never had to work just to keep clothed, housed, and fed, but idle time is a foreign concept to me. My family values one thing: achievement. Success. It’s why I got kicked out of the prep school. Why they sent me to military school. Why even now, what I’ve accomplished isn’t enough. Get elected as one of the youngest members of Congress in American history? Not enough—run for Senate. I’m driven to succeed, compelled to it, because anything less is considered failure.”

  “Not the same, but at the same time, I know I can’t imagine that kind of pressure any more than you can understand what it’s like to not always know where your next meal is coming from, or if you’ll be able to pay utilities and eat this month.”

  He frowns at me. “You’ve really had to choose?”

  I laugh. “All the time. Usually, it means you put off a utility bill another month and hope they don’t shut it off, and spend less on food so you can try to catch up.” I tilt my head at him. “So, even though you have a seat in the House, that’s not good enough for your family?”

  He nods. “Well, mostly for Mom. Dad would’ve been happiest if I’d been willing to apprentice under him and take over the reins of his company. Unfortunately for him, I’ve never been interested, which I suppose is a large part of the reason for his overall disinterest in me as his son.”

  I blink at that. “Disinterest?”

  A nod, but no hint of sadness in his voice, although I do detect a tinge of wistfulness or bitterness in the way he glances away from me. “Best word I can find for it. Once I made it clear when I was, oh, thirteen or fourteen, that I had no interest in going to work with him and starting in the mailroom and all that, he just sort of…stopped being interested in me. Stopped caring. I was provided for, I had everything I could ever want—if I asked for a half-million-dollar car for my birthday, I’d get it. Want an apartment in Princeton? I got it. Love and affection and acceptance from my father? Not so much.” A dismissive grin. “Don’t worry, I’ve been to therapy over it. No lingering Daddy issues here.”