Janet Evanovich - Wife for Hire

“Yes.” Weren’t they already married? They were living in the same house, sharing the same bed, exchanging smiles across the breakfast table. Marriage wasn’t a piece of paper. Marriage was a condition of the heart. It was an attitude. Wasn’t it?

Maggie knew the smile was back. When the stars had finished exploding, when her heart had slowed to a normal beat, when that peculiar lethargy of after-loving had seeped into every muscle in her body, Maggie felt the smile return to her lips. She lay very still beside Hank and wondered how her body could be in such a state of euphoric contentment when her mind was such a mess.

Hank had proposed, and she’d said yes. It all had a dreamlike quality. Marriage had seemed perfectly natural fifteen minutes ago…now she wasn’t sure.

Marriage to Hank meant marriage to Skogen, Vermont. It was an idyllic place for a vacation, but she didn’t know if she could manage a lifetime of apple trees. And she didn’t know if she could feel comfortable with the people. What if they were all like Bubba?

Hank was having second thoughts too. He was feeling guilty about having coerced Maggie into marriage when she was in a weakened condition. “About that proposal…”

“You took advantage of me.”

“Yeah. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course I mind!” Maggie propped herself up on one elbow. “Were you serious?”

“Absolutely. I love you. In fact, I’ll ask you again just to make it official. Will you marry me?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Too late,” Hank said. “You already said yes.”

“I can change my mind.”

Hank swung his leg over hers. “I suppose I’ll have to wear you down again.”

“What about the dance?”

“Wouldn’t you rather get seduced?”

“No!”

He slid his hand over her belly and kissed her bare shoulder. “Liar.”

“Everyone’s expecting us to be there. What about your new image? What about respectability? What about the cider press?”

Hank groaned. She was right. He needed the cider press.

“Okay, we’ll go to the dance. But when we get home, it’s back to seduction.”

Maggie put her hands to her head. “How bad is my hair?”

“Your hair looks great.”

She sighed and got out of bed to look in the mirror. “Oh my God.”

“You’re not going to spend another three hours in the bathroom, are you?”

Half an hour later Maggie pulled the black dress over her head. She was wearing a slip, and her hair wasn’t nearly as incredible as it had been the first time she’d arranged it, but she decided she was passable. The aftermath of passion had a tendency to lower her standards on these matters, she admitted. She followed Hank down the stairs and patiently waited while he locked the front door.

The light was fading rapidly. It would be dark before they reached the grange, Maggie thought. She climbed onto the bench seat of the battered pickup and winced at the twinge of excitement in her chest. How could she be nervous and fluttery about sitting next to a man she’d just made wild and passionate love with?

She’d always thought intimacy would breed boredom. She’d figured a romance was a lot like a fox hunt. It seemed logical that things would get a little dull after the fox was caught. Evidently she’d been wrong all these years. Now she compared romantic activities to eating peanuts. Once you got started, you were done for.

I must be strong, she told herself. She must fight this disease. She primly sat in the middle of the seat, resisting the urge to scramble next to him, when he slid behind the wheel. Her hands were clasped in her lap, her nose pointed straight ahead.

She wasn’t dumb enough to think love could conquer all. No siree bob, she was going to take her time on a decision like marriage. Just because she felt married and acted married didn’t mean she was going to sign on the dotted line. That was the one thing she’d been wrong about when she’d said yes to his proposal. That formal piece of paper called a marriage certificate really did make a difference. It was legally and mentally binding. It was scary.

“The grange is on the outskirts of town, by the railroad tracks and the grain silos,” he said. “I hope you’re not going to be disappointed. It’s mostly just a big hall on the southernmost side of the fairgrounds. It’s about the only place around to hold wedding receptions and town meetings, so it gets a lot of use.”

He drove past the grain silos and the cold storage ware house and pulled into the grange hall parking lot. It was already filled with cars and trucks so Hank parked on the grass.

“I hope you’re up to this,” he said. “I’m not much of a dancer. I’ll probably step all over your feet. And folks are going to be gawking at you.”

“I can handle it.”

“And I’m probably going to have to knock out a few teeth and flatten a few noses to keep the men away from you and that dress.”

Maggie looked down at the dress. “It’s okay now. I’m wearing a slip.”

“Honey, we’d have to cover you with full chain mail and armor to discourage men from drooling over you in that dress.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“There might be one in there somewhere. Mostly it’s a warning. Don’t expect me to act like a rational person when Slick Newman tries to cut in on a dance.”

The doors and windows of the barn had been thrown open, and the thump of the band spilled out into the darkness. People shouted over the music, and laughter rose above it all. Inside the light was dim enough for romantic dancing but bright enough to see the details on Emily Palmer’s new dress and the red highlights Laurinda Gardner had the beauty parlor put in her hair. Laurinda said the red highlights were natural, but Sandy Mae Barnes had been there when Laurinda was having her hair highlighted, and Sandy Mae had told Kathy Kutchka what she’d seen, and Kathy Kutchka had told Iris Gilfillan which was as good as telling the whole rest of the town.

Children somberly danced with the grownups, or sat sipping soda on the side lineup of wooden folding chairs that had been donated by the funeral home. Three little girls dressed up in party dresses chased a little boy across the dance floor. His face was flushed and white shirttails had escaped from his gray dress slacks.

“That’s Mark Howser’s kid, Benji,” Hank said. “He’s a real terror. He probably dropped a frog down Alice Newfarmer’s dress.”

“Do children always come to the dances?”

“Yup. If there’s a wedding or a dance, everybody in town’s invited and no one would dare stay home or they’d get talked about. There’s no one left to baby-sit the kids, so the kids come too. The Christmas party is the best. Santa Claus hands out candy canes and coloring books, and Big Irma makes her famous eggnog. The Christmas party was the highlight of my life when I was a kid.”

It was the PNA Hall transported to Skogen, Vermont, Maggie thought. There was the same dusty wood floor, the same raised stage for the band, the same cash bar in a separate room. Trestle tables and benches had been lined up on one wall, and a door led off to what she knew would be the kitchen.

It was Riverside all over again. But worse. She was even more of an oddity here, she realized. She and Hank stood in the doorway of the grange hall, and every head turned in their direction. “Good thing I wore a slip,” she whispered.

He slung an arm around her shoulders and grinned down at her. “Feeling conspicuous?”

“This must be what it feels like to stand in the middle of the road at rush hour while you’re naked.”

“It’s just that you’re new, and Skogen’s a little pressed for excitement.”

“It’s not just that I’m new,” she said. “I’m different. I’m from New Jersey. I talk like I’m from New Jersey. I walk like I’m from New Jersey. Look at me! I even have New Jersey hair!”

Hank chuckled. “I don’t think New Jersey should take credit for this hair. I think this is Maggie hair.” He bent down and kissed the top of her head. “I love your hair.”

“You think all these people know about Aunt Kitty?”

“I’d bet my life on it.”

Maggie groaned. “Guilt by association. They probably think you married a loose woman.”

Hank guided her through the crowd to the cash bar, muscling his way in front of Andy White and stomping on Farley Boyd’s instep when he tried to approach Maggie.

“They just think you’re sort of a celebrity since you’re a writer.”

Henry Gooley lurched in front of Maggie and winked. Hank lifted him three inches off the floor by his necktie. “You want something, Henry?”

“Urk.”

“Put him down!” Maggie said. “You’re choking him!”

Hank set Henry onto the floor and smoothed out his tie.

“Jest wanted to say howdy,” Henry said, backing away.

Maggie closed her eyes and counted to ten. “This is fast becoming the most embarrassing night of my life, and considering the life I’ve led that’s really saying something. You’re acting like the village goon.”

“Yeah. You bring out the beast in me.”

Elsie elbowed her way through the crowd to Maggie. “This here’s a humdinger of a party. I bet everybody for fifty miles came to this dance. I bet those guys who broke into our house are here.” She patted her big black patent leather pocketbook. “I brought Little Leroy along, just in case.”

“It isn’t loaded, is it?” Hank asked. “I’d hate to see you shoot up the grange hall.”

“Of course it’s loaded. A woman’s got to protect herself.”

Slick Newman sidled up to Maggie. “Howdy,” he said, “I’m Slick Newman and I was wondering if you’d like to dance.”

Hank gripped Maggie’s arm just above the elbow. “Elsie, you mind if I borrow your pocketbook for a minute?”

Maggie glared at him. “Don’t you dare borrow Elsie’s pocketbook.” She turned to Slick. “I’d love to dance.”