woman twice? But there I was, standing in front of Town Hall, teetering on my Ferragamos while the sweat collected beneath my cream silk sheath, the baby’s breath no doubt drooping in my salon-perfected hair. Maybe I should have taken up Brent and Denny’s offer to drive me, but I just couldn’t face another scene. Even though the cab had cost a fortune, I felt much more comfortable with a stranger dropping my baggage to the curb. Since I was marrying one, the stranger theme fit all around.
The point was driven home by the contract I had signed the night before. Brent had asked his attorney, Alvie Ross, to take a look Monday morning, and by that evening, he’d come back with a verdict.
“Purely from a contractual point of view,” Alvie had said, “it’s a match made in heaven. You’d certainly come out with the sweet end of the lollipop.”
I took another sip of sherry, hoping it’d negate the sleepless night I was anticipating. “You really think so?”
“This guy’s clean—I can’t find anything on him.” He tapped his pipe against the page. “If you stay married, he assumes all your debts, and gives you half-ownership in his property, bonds and liquid assets. His father’s will just got out of probate, and your fiancé was left quite a substantial legacy—over $750,000, some very solid municipal bonds, and acres and acres of property he owns free and clear. He even has a little bungalow down Long Beach Island right on the beach, and with the way things have been selling down there, you can only imagine what it’s worth. He has all kinds of insurance in which you’d be the beneficiary, not that he isn’t as healthy as a horse, plus there’s that three-month out with $50,000 to cry all the way home with.” Then he frowned. “But everything’s contingent on the one thing that concerns me: within those three months you have to get pregnant, or that gives him grounds for annulment. Are you all right with that?”
“A big question to ask yourself, darling,” Brent said, squeezing my hand.
“I wouldn’t be marrying him if I wasn’t,” I said, especially since I was counting on it.
“Then I suppose, if you’re so inclined . . .” Alvie said, handing me the pen, “you’re good to go.”
Go where? I thought as I stood on the courthouse steps. I didn’t know where he lived. And the taxi driver had grabbed my $125 and taken off in a cloud of dust. I looked toward Uncle Jinks’ garage. I suppose he might know where to find my elusive fiancé, but in the twenty minutes I’d been waiting I hadn’t seen him either. As conspicuous as I’m sure I looked, I’m positive he would’ve come out had he been around.
As I idled, I recalled a childhood notion. Before time and reality jaded me, I used to be quite the romantic, lying back on my twin bed, my adolescent mind pondering: I wonder what my future husband is doing right now? Was he hanging with friends, doing his homework, watching television, perhaps even imagining me? I used to wonder if he was dark-haired or blond, tall or muscular, liked horses and Geraldo Rivera and Talking Heads as much as I did. I wondered if one day he’d be working for the network, as I assumed I’d be, or a star reporter for the New York Times , or writing a political expose for Newsweek . Even from my most tender age, I knew I was a voice to be heard, and as narcissistic as that sounds, it truly wasn’t. It was more like there were truths to be unearthed and only I could bring them out, just as there was that one man who had to be working his way toward me.
How moronic.
I checked my watch: three-twenty. According to the sign on the building, the offices closed at four. Which set the timer at forty minutes and counting. I thought of the elaborate wedding I had planned with Richard, and how forty minutes hardly would’ve gotten us down the aisle. I pushed a drooping curl behind my ear, a baby’s breath fluttering to my shoe, and unstuck from my sweaty
The point was driven home by the contract I had signed the night before. Brent had asked his attorney, Alvie Ross, to take a look Monday morning, and by that evening, he’d come back with a verdict.
“Purely from a contractual point of view,” Alvie had said, “it’s a match made in heaven. You’d certainly come out with the sweet end of the lollipop.”
I took another sip of sherry, hoping it’d negate the sleepless night I was anticipating. “You really think so?”
“This guy’s clean—I can’t find anything on him.” He tapped his pipe against the page. “If you stay married, he assumes all your debts, and gives you half-ownership in his property, bonds and liquid assets. His father’s will just got out of probate, and your fiancé was left quite a substantial legacy—over $750,000, some very solid municipal bonds, and acres and acres of property he owns free and clear. He even has a little bungalow down Long Beach Island right on the beach, and with the way things have been selling down there, you can only imagine what it’s worth. He has all kinds of insurance in which you’d be the beneficiary, not that he isn’t as healthy as a horse, plus there’s that three-month out with $50,000 to cry all the way home with.” Then he frowned. “But everything’s contingent on the one thing that concerns me: within those three months you have to get pregnant, or that gives him grounds for annulment. Are you all right with that?”
“A big question to ask yourself, darling,” Brent said, squeezing my hand.
“I wouldn’t be marrying him if I wasn’t,” I said, especially since I was counting on it.
“Then I suppose, if you’re so inclined . . .” Alvie said, handing me the pen, “you’re good to go.”
Go where? I thought as I stood on the courthouse steps. I didn’t know where he lived. And the taxi driver had grabbed my $125 and taken off in a cloud of dust. I looked toward Uncle Jinks’ garage. I suppose he might know where to find my elusive fiancé, but in the twenty minutes I’d been waiting I hadn’t seen him either. As conspicuous as I’m sure I looked, I’m positive he would’ve come out had he been around.
As I idled, I recalled a childhood notion. Before time and reality jaded me, I used to be quite the romantic, lying back on my twin bed, my adolescent mind pondering: I wonder what my future husband is doing right now? Was he hanging with friends, doing his homework, watching television, perhaps even imagining me? I used to wonder if he was dark-haired or blond, tall or muscular, liked horses and Geraldo Rivera and Talking Heads as much as I did. I wondered if one day he’d be working for the network, as I assumed I’d be, or a star reporter for the New York Times , or writing a political expose for Newsweek . Even from my most tender age, I knew I was a voice to be heard, and as narcissistic as that sounds, it truly wasn’t. It was more like there were truths to be unearthed and only I could bring them out, just as there was that one man who had to be working his way toward me.
How moronic.
I checked my watch: three-twenty. According to the sign on the building, the offices closed at four. Which set the timer at forty minutes and counting. I thought of the elaborate wedding I had planned with Richard, and how forty minutes hardly would’ve gotten us down the aisle. I pushed a drooping curl behind my ear, a baby’s breath fluttering to my shoe, and unstuck from my sweaty
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