by Sierra Rose
“Total rumor. We judge each other based on values, political views, charitable contributions and hairstyle,” she said, straight-faced, “these shoes are my armor. They declare that I belong in Lena Cates’ house because I have neutral Jimmy Choos, dammit!”
“No, you belong in Lena Cates’ house because you’re married to the rightful heir, and you are as much of a Cates as she is,” he declared, taking her hand, “And I’m going without the jacket, just for the hell of it.”
“You loose cannon,” she laughed, “Is that the most rebellious thing you’ve ever done?”
“Not hardly, but those are stories for another day, wife,” he said.
Brandon put his arm companionably around her shoulders, and she breathed in the scent of him and felt completely at sea. She liked him—liked him so much there was an ache when they weren’t together. After three days’ acquaintance. It had tragedy written all over it.
Chapter 2
If the townhome had been impressive, the mansion outside the city was regal at the very least. Stone columns and ivy and everything landscaped to look like it had been dropped out of nineteenth century Norfolk or something.
“Should I have worn my bonnet? Brought a parasol?”
“I know. You should consider yourself warned—everything including the house is pretending to be something it’s not,” he said grimly.
“Dude, your stepmother’s house is pretty. I feel like we should rent it out to the BBC for their next miniseries,” she said, “are those torches? Like, seriously, fucking torches?” she hissed.
“No, they’re gas lights,” he said of the pair of lamps flanking the door, “for that Victorian England look.”
“Or Jack the Ripper vibe,” she muttered, and he laughed.
The double doors swung open, and a uniformed butler admitted them, referring to her husband as Mr. Brandon.
“Should I call you that now? Mr. Brandon?”
“Please don’t.”
He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and led her down the length of the entryway and into a vast dining room with wood paneled walls and a table so long you could probably play basketball on it. Lena was already seated at the head of the table, a suicide blond with a smile as tight as her low-cut black dress. It definitely put the L in LBD, Marj thought, trying to keep her eyes studiously off of her new mother-in-law’s cleavage.
“Margaret, so good to finally meet you. I say finally but, truly, it has only been a handful of hours you’ve been with my stepson, no?” she said coolly, extending a perfectly French manicured hand.
“It’s Marjorie, Lena,” Brandon said tightly.
“Ah, yes. Such an old-fashioned name,” Lena said with a feral smile.
“Indeed. The name means pragmatic, thorough, strong-willed, practical, and stubborn at times,” Marj said, taking Lena’s icy limp hand in greeting.
“It also means, you have a receptive nature and may bear burdens for others.”
“Did you look it up?”
“Of course I did, dear. I know everything about you.”
Marj smiled, pretending it didn’t bother her.
Was she doing this all right? Had she greeted her the right way? She had decided it was smart to pick a euphemism, and hers was indeed. It was what she intended to say instead of ‘go fuck yourself’ for the duration of this dinner. A servant pulled her chair, and she sat at her mother-in-law’s left, across the table from her husband. If he’d been beside her, she could have whispered to him, held his hand, trailed her foot up his trouser leg suggestively. Deprived of this comfort, she took to looking around.
There was plenty to see. Deep carpets, expensive furnishings, a sideboard displaying a fortune in Baccarat crystal. Lena’s perfume made Marj’s eyes water. It was at the same time cloyingly sweet and sharp, rather like the woman herself. Marj sipped her water and waited.
“Your wedding was a surprise,” Lena began.
“When it’s right, you just know,” Brandon said decidedly.
“And when it’s desperation to foil the just execution of your father’s last will and testament, that shows as well,” she replied.
The door opened, and two men entered, solemn in designer suits.
“I’m sure you remember Simon and Randolph, Brandon. They were your father’s attorneys before he passed away,” she said by way of introduction.
“Good to see you, Randy, Simon,” Brandon stood up, shaking hands affably, “I’m so glad you could come to dinner. Gives you a chance to meet my wonderful wife, Marjorie. I took a page out of old Dad’s book and chose a bride from the office pool. Although I admit I was squeamish about seeking one twenty years younger than myself,” Brandon said.
Marjorie had to force herself to stand primly and not fist bump Brandon in triumph at his dig on Lena and his dad’s May-December (Social Climber-Sleazy Old Dude) romance. The two attorneys shook hands with her and welcomed her to the family. It seemed really weird that the dead dad’s lawyers considered themselves family. Then she had a sudden thought that maybe they were Family with a capital F like in Mob movies. Seized by that possibility, she managed to watch her mouth for a while. Thoughts of cement galoshes and being stuffed in the trunk of a Cadillac stopped her from snarking at the WQ and her band of merry men.
Supper was, frankly, disgusting. A plate of snot on the half shell was set before her, and she smiled wanly, trying not to smell it.
“Don’t you like oysters, darling? We’ll have to develop a taste for the finer things, won’t we?” Lena said with a superior laugh.
Marj just smiled.
Lena nodded to one of the…footmen or whatever they were, and he took away Marj’s plate of slime. She was given a plate of bitter greens dressed with, she was guessing, straight vinegar, but she ate it in solidarity with Brandon, who had favored her with a half smile. He talked football with Randolph, who had also attended Princeton apparently. She filed that away as information she might need—the name of his alma mater. She also made a mental note to have a snack before she came to Lena’s for dinner the next time.
Randolph droned on about rowing crew for Princeton when he was in school, presumably several decades ago. Simon seemed to be in some fashion related to Randolph—not young enough to be the elder’s son, too old to be a brother, surely—a nephew perhaps. She wondered if Simon were his husband, but neither wore a ring and they sat far apart and showed no obvious affection. Which could rightly have described her relation to her own groom, she realized with dismal self-awareness. The self-awareness that made her want to eat a crunchy taco with extra sour cream. She hadn’t eaten anything that greasy in years, fierce as she was about keeping in shape, but a combination of boredom and frustration conspired to make her dream of refried beans.
Marj gazed at her beige fingernails and picked at the cilantro chicken in front of her. She’d read an article last year about how something like thirteen percent of the population perceived cilantro as tasting like soap. She couldn’t be in the miniscule percentile that wins the lottery. Nope, she got lucky and landed in the cilantro-soap minority here. She tried to catch Brandon’s eye but he seemed wholly engrossed in whatever sport Randolph was talking about now.
Unfortunately, Lena managed to meet her gaze and Marj froze like she’d been caught in the crosshairs of a hunting rifle.
“So, tell me about yourself, Margaret,” Lena said, her voice as silky and insinuating as any cartoon villain.
“Well, Lisa…” she smiled, “I studied marketing, and I had just started at Power Regions last month before being dispatched to Las Vegas for our fateful meeting.”
“I know that already,” Lena said rather flatly.
“Yes, it seems you have quite the advantage since you’ve obviously studied me out.”
“I just wanted to make sure you were a good fit for my darling son.”
“Stepson,” Marj said.
She glanced over at Brandon with a smile. “He’s like a son to me. And I couldn’t have him hook
ing up with somebody that had a criminal past.”
“And did I check out? Because I can supply you with fingerprints.”
“Not necessary. You came out spiffy clean.”
Marj smiled. “Great.”
“Your wedding dress was amazing. Well, for last minute. It’s good you didn’t stick with white. Because white is for purity. And you did look like maybe you had too much to drink.”
Marj felt she’d scored a point by giving nothing away and proving that Lena had trolled the gossip sites for information about their wedding.
“Tell me more,” Lena said.
“What else is there to tell? I’m the luckiest girl in the world, to have such a whirlwind romance with such a wonderful, caring man. Brandon is just amazing, isn’t he?” she said in a voice so bubbly it nearly squeaked.
Marj saw Brandon raise an eyebrow at her, and she beamed back at him, all enthusiasm. She might be a bit too sullied to blush like the bride she was, but she could certainly put on a show of being fascinated by a man who, to tell the truth, was pretty damn irresistible. At least to Marj he was. Maybe not to other, blinder, stupider women, though at the moment Marj thought she herself was perhaps the dumbest person on earth. She’d gotten herself mixed up with this family (possibly Family with the capital letter F) who were, by turns, crazy and litigious. And their food sucked. And she was probably in love with a guy who’d rather talk about a thirty-year-old rowing contest than look at her.
Fuck this. I’m getting tacos.
“I’m from New England,” she said instead of voicing her thoughts, using her preferred euphemism for her hometown of Asswipe, New Jersey (not its official name, but might as well be).
“Really, which part of New England?” Lena inquired, leaning forward so that her rather tremendous cleavage threatened to strain the seams of her LBD.
“Well, Lisa, it’s only a few hours from here. So I grew up a convenient distance from the museums and theater in the city,” she said with a disingenuous smile.
Marj pointedly neglected to mention that the distance was probably only convenient for people whose families had working cars and money for luxury activities more expensive than grabbing a Mountain Dew at the convenience store. She sat there in her understated makeup, pursing her pale, glossed lips and wondering exactly why she wanted to seem like she belonged in that mansion. She was, in fact, like other girls. She wasn’t special and precious and well read and virginal. She liked clubs and tequila and sex with attractive men, and she liked bright nail polish. Hell, her one solitary MAC lipstick was a prized possession without which she felt naked—more so than she would have without underwear. So Marj pushed back her chair and stood up.
“Lena, I’m not sure why we’re here tonight, but I’m going to have to make our excuses now,” she said brazenly.
Brandon looked at her quizzically but stood without questioning her motives.
“Is there something that doesn’t suit you?” Lena asked acidly.
“I don’t feel like I belong here. It’s not your fault because, clearly you’re perfectly comfortable. But I don’t want to make small talk with you when you obviously hate me and hope I’m some fake who didn’t really marry Brandon. And I don’t want to eat vinegar kale compote or soap chicken or whatever you’re serving next. I want to go eat something real in my own shoes with my red lipstick on. I’m only here because I married Brandon and I’d do just about anything for him, except pretend to be something I’m not. I’m not a society girl. I don’t eat dinner in huge formal rooms where everyone has nine forks each. So you’ll forgive me—or not—for walking out. This was some kind of test for us, for me, and I just failed it. I’m sorry, Brandon. I just want us to go home!” she said.
Brandon rounded the table and took her hand. He nodded to the lawyers and kissed the top of Marj’s head and led her out to the car.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “It was so blatant that she hated me, and I didn’t like the food, and I didn’t like being interrogated and seen as not good enough. I told you I could do this, and then I wimped out. I’m not that good of an actress apparently.”
“You just did more for our cause than a flawless performance could have. You just told them you can’t pretend to be someone you’re not. And we left together. I’m sorry the chicken was disgusting. I should have warned you to eat first—Lena’s always ordering vile combinations of food, but she eats them herself so I assume it’s not malicious—it’s what she really eats. I didn’t realize it would be so hard on you,” he said as they slid into the car.
“I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t think I could sit there another hour, not even another five minutes. I’m hungry, and you were so far away across that giant table talking about rugby or something—”
“Rowing crew,” he supplied wryly, “so sports talk and chicken make you panic?”
“Fine, tease me all you want, just get me something to eat, okay? I’m kind of embarrassed that I let you down, but I’m not the kind of girl to sit there and let Lena talk to me like I’m gum on her Manolos.”
“What do you want to eat?”
“A taco. A big crunchy taco,” she said rather miserably.
He kissed her then, pulling her half in his lap. Brandon cupped her backside with his big hands and pushed his tongue in her mouth.
“No wife of mine has to be embarrassed for standing up for herself. I told you to wear your own shoes, be yourself. If I wanted someone quiet and compliant, don’t you think I would’ve picked someone else to marry?” he said against her mouth.
“I kind of thought I was the nearest warm body when you realized you had to get hitched before your birthday.”
“There were plenty of other women in that building, men, too. I could’ve offered any number of them a few million dollars to say those vows. I didn’t. I said them to you and right now I’m going to get you a taco,” he said, rapping on the divider window and giving Rafael instructions.
Soon she had a fish taco and some spicy brown rice in her stomach and felt much more herself. She was so relieved to be out of that mansion, out from under Lena’s metaphorical microscope. She was grateful that Brandon wasn’t mad at her for it either. After she’d polished off her taco, she hoped they’d go out, go dancing, hit a club or two and have a fun night, but Brandon kissed her and dropped her off at the townhouse so he could go back to the office.
She messaged her supervisor in marketing that she’d be back in the office tomorrow. The response was a congratulations on the surprise wedding and a question about why she intended to continue working. Marj sighed. She obviously couldn’t come out and say, oh, well, I’m only married till probate is over so I might as well keep my hand in at work. She just replied vaguely that she wanted to keep working for the time being, subject to change.
Chapter 3
She shucked off the trappings of the dinner party and got into her pajamas. Not sexy lingerie, but pajamas. Then she called Britt and told her about meeting the Wicked Queen. Marj was in her element, retelling a dramatized version of the ignominious evening, detailing her showdown with the evil stepmother.
“Her fake boob job was just right out there, hanging out the front of her dress. IT’s no wonder I couldn’t eat my snot and cilantro,” Marj cackled.
“Didn’t you get loaded at my rehearsal dinner and try to hit on my brother-in-law?” Britt asked.
“What is your point?”
“That you’re slut shaming the stepmother.”
“So what?”
“So, you’ve always gone on and on about me not being judgmental just because I was a good girl…mostly a good girl, except for Jack, I guess. And that you were an independent woman with sexual agency who had every right to—”
“Well, crap, Britt, you’re ruining my fun right now. Yes, I like hot guys and clubs and Tinder and casual sex. I’m not saving myself for the right man. I also had both my boobs covered at dinner,” she said.
“For once,” Britt teased, “I used to
accuse you of wearing tinfoil to clubs.”
“Not foil. Just a very thin silver top,” she corrected, “and I’m married now. That’s all changed.”
“Really? You’re transformed now? Where is the lucky man, anyway? Don’t tell me he’s asleep at ten o’clock.”
“He’s working. He runs, you know, a huge multinational company. I think tonight’s a Skype with the Hong Kong team,” she said, trying to seem both totally comfortable with the fact he was working late and familiar with his exact plans—neither of which was really based in reality.
“Sounds exciting. I would’ve thought the two of you would’ve been….never mind,” Britt said, “I’m going to send you the MP3 of Jack’s latest single before it drops. It’s amazing, and I’m not just saying that to get in his pants,” she giggled.
Marj felt a stab of jealousy. Britt and Jack were totally in love and happy together. They’d been through a lot and come out the other side stronger as a couple. Not, say, divorced after six months were up. She wanted her settlement. That was it. She wasn’t going to whine about how her new husband worked late. She was going to enjoy her new and improved lifestyle and be herself like Brandon had encouraged her to be and then she’d blow the hatch and cash her nice, fat check.
She listened to Britt enthuse over her exciting life on tour with Jack’s band and her general bliss for a while. Then she begged off to get some sleep for work the next day. Britt was too polite to demand to know why Marj hadn’t quit her job yet.
Marj lay awake, scrolling through her Twitter feed and checking out her friends’ Instagram posts…food, mostly, to tell the truth. Frustrated by sleeplessness, she stretched out on the floor and did some abs work. It had been nearly a week since she’d been to the gym. Tomorrow she’d have to check out the home gym Brandon had boasted of. At last, she heard his step in the hall, his knock at her door. She vaulted out of the bed and scampered, actually scampered to the door and threw it open.
He looked tired. Hot, obviously, but tired as well. She wanted to hug him, but she didn’t. They were in this deal together, like business partners…with benefits. She wasn’t really sure how to act around him yet. And as usual when she was uncertain or felt embarrassed, she brazened it out and told him so.
