Fake Bride Wanted Page 6
“What are you going to do with the money?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.
“I’ll get medical care for my mom. There are treatments out there that our insurance doesn’t cover, and some home care options. I want her to have the very best. I’m also thinking about purchasing her condo. It would make my monthly budget much more manageable.”
“What about for you?” I ask, unsettled by her heavy tone. “You deserve to treat yourself, too.”
She smiles a little. There we go.
“We’ll see…” she says.
I stay quiet, waiting for more. But Shelby doesn’t elaborate further.
“Okay, here we go!” I say finally. I line the papers up on the desk and point to the first one. “This first sheet is all about confidentiality. Obviously, we want to keep this between you and me. My lawyer detailed what that looks like, but it’s basically common sense. No public interviews, no media involvement; we want to keep this really quiet.”
“It’ll be our little secret,” Shelby says dryly, reaching for a pen from her bag. She leans forward and places her signature on the waiting line.
“This one,” I say, gesturing to the next set of papers once she’s done, “details the payment schedule. Once we’re ‘engaged’, my lawyer will deposit two hundred thousand into your account. The rest of the money will be deposited after we officially marry. Does that work for you?”
Shelby nods. There’s still some hesitation there. Why isn’t she as excited about this as I am? It’s going to be good for both of us.
I watch her pick up the pen as if it’s heavy as a brick and drag her signature across the sheet of paper, but as soon as she’s done I feel relieved. We’re on our way! She’s going to be so happy she did this.
I spring up off of the desk, too excited to move slowly. “I’ll let the cafe know we’re ready for lunch! I hope it’s all right with you; I ordered a spread of food earlier so that it would be ready for us.”
“Thank you,” Shelby says.
I pick up the phone and get a hold of the front desk in the lobby. The attendant says that she’ll bring the food up to us. When I place the phone back onto the receiver, I notice that Shelby’s no longer in her seat. Apparently, she’s feeling as restless as I am.
She’s migrated over to the far wall of my office, which is filled with photographs. A bank of windows on her right shower sunlight over her.
From my position, blue sky and white puffy clouds are reflected in every glass-covered, framed photo. Shelby’s figure stands out against the backdrop of blue. Once again, I find myself struck breathless by her beauty. But I don’t have time to gawk for long, because when she hears me hang up the phone, she turns to face me.
“I didn’t know you were such a good skier,” she says.
I cross the room so that I’m standing at her side. I see the image she’s referring to: one of me and several college buddies ripping powder turns in Japan.
“I took it up in college. Fell in love with it. There’s nothing like the feel of surfing along pillows of powder. Do you ski?”
“No…I always wanted to learn, but…” Her voice trails off.
“Well, now maybe you’ll have time to.” I point to a photo to our left. “There’s Fleur. She hasn’t changed much, has she?”
Shelby sidesteps and leans into the picture of my cousin and me, snapped at my thirtieth birthday party. We’re on the deck of my yacht, each holding wine glasses. I’m wearing a captain’s hat, and Fleur’s in a little black party dress. Her blond hair is whipping around her face, and she’s about as close to smiling as Fleur ever gets—which basically means she isn’t frowning, and one corner of her mouth is slightly raised.
“No, she hasn’t,” Shelby answers. “She was always tall, blond, and beautiful. And she always had that look about her—like she knows something you don’t. Whose yacht is that?”
“It’s mine. She’s called Falling Star.”
One of Shelby’s eyebrows raises up. I can see she remembers that line just as well as I do.
“From our book?’” she asks.
“You always told me I was chasing falling stars. I guess I wanted to try to actually catch one.”
“Well,” Shelby says softly. “Looks like you may have.”
Just then, there’s a knock on the door of my office, and the front desk attendant walks in with a tray filled with food. She deposits it on a coffee table in a corner of my large office, right in front of the black suede couch.
Suddenly starving, I move to the couch and Shelby follows me. We each sit down, careful to leave a good amount of space between us. I wouldn’t want to crowd her. She seems more hesitant around me today, without the social lubrication of alcohol. I know I’ve already gotten her signatures, but still, I don’t want to scare her off. We’ve got a long way to go.
“I ordered a few vegetarian options,” I say, pulling the plastic top off of the tray of food. The attendant has also deposited two bottles of iced tea, plates, and napkins, and I see Shelby reaching for a tea and twisting it open. I push the tray of food over, so it’s between us, and Shelby hands me a plate.
The tray is stuffed with wraps which have been cut into little pinwheels. As I begin filing my plate, I point to the different sections. “These over here are turkey and bacon. There you’ve got veggies, and over here is ham and Swiss.”
She reaches for a turkey bacon one. “I eat meat,” she says. “But I love vegetables, too.” She picks up a vegetarian special. “These look delicious. They almost look like sushi.”
“Sushi-shaped sandwiches.”
Shelby grins. “Say that ten times fast,” she jokes.
“Sushi-shaped sandwiches, sushi-shaped sandwiches, sushi-shaped—”
“Julian!” She covers her mouth as she laughs, and I’m happy to see her lightening up.
We each dive into the meal, and I can tell she’s just as hungry as I am. After a minute or two, I ask her about her morning meetings.
“What did you think?” I ask. “Are we on the right track for the rebrand?”
We talk shop for a while, Shelby filling me in on the ideas that she and some other marketing executives have been polishing up that morning. After about fifteen minutes, Shelby glances at the clock.
“Speaking of work,” she says, “I have a meeting scheduled for two, and it’s already twenty past. When are the bank people going to be here?”
“Bank people?”
“You know, so that they can meet me—your loving girlfriend.”
“Oh! They’re not coming today. We have an interview with them next week. Monday. At—”
“Monday? Julian, I’m leaving today. I have to be at the airport by six.”
“No…we’ll fix that. You can’t leave now! We have work to do. I’ll have Max change your flight—we’ll push it back until next Thursday or Friday. That will give us time to do the meeting in The Hague on Monday, and then stage a proposal a few days later.”
“I can’t just stay in Amsterdam for another week!” Shelby says, dismayed. I can tell she’s thinking of her mother. It’s in her eyes; it’s in her tone. It’s in the way her shoulders droop. That heaviness is back.
“Shelby…you could use the time off.”
I see my words hit their mark.
“I know,” she says softly.
“I’ll take care of everything. We’ll arrange for help for your mom—she won’t be alone. And I’ll speak with our Springfield offices to clear your schedule.”
“A whole week?”
“We need to get to know each other again. I know we were friends as kids, but you didn’t even know that I love to ski. And I barely know anything about you these days—I’m just learning about how you take care of your mother…that you’re not a vegetarian, but you eat like a rabbit, anyway.”
That makes her smile.
“A whole week,” she repeats. “I haven’t had a week off since…well…my freshman year of college. What would I do with myself?”
I desperately want her to stay. How can I convince her?
I keep talking, not giving her space to protest.
“I’ll have my chef whip us up some traditional Dutch cuisine.” I can see that my offer is tempting. I almost have her convinced. I add in one more point. “Don’t you think you should know where I live, if we’re going to say that we’re in love?”
This gets her. She nods, slowly.
“Yes, I guess you’re right. I suppose…” she bites her lip, hesitates, and then nods again. “I suppose I could make it work. My mom will understand. She always says that I work too hard; she’s begged me to take some time off for years. I’ve just never been able to pull it off.”
“I’ll cover everything,” I promise again. “You won’t even have to look at a bill.”
She presses her hands into her thighs and pushes her shoulders back, so that her arms are straight.
“Okay! Okay. I’ll stay. This will be good for the afternoon, too. I was going to have to leave another meeting with Martina early so that I could get back to the hotel and pack, but now, I’ll be able to stay for the whole thing.”
“See?” I say. “This is meant to be. When is your meeting over?”
“Five,” she says.
“Good. I’ll meet you in the lobby then, and we’ll head to my place.”
She stands up. “This trip just keeps on getting stranger and stranger,” she says, as if to herself.
“In a good way, I hope?”
She crosses the room without answering me and pauses at the doorway.
She’s standing there with a hand on the door handle. A part of me doesn’t want her to leave. Where is this feeling coming from?
Maybe it’s because of the way I felt after she left school, when she moved away, all those years ago. It was one of the first times in my life that I experienced loss. There was a hole in my life, where she had once been.
It hurt.
I guess that’s a life lesson everyone learns—that the only constant is change. But in my naivety, I had thought that Shelby would always be there. Her absence shook me.
I feel this fear come up in me as she begins to open the door. It’s like I want to call out to her, “Don’t go! Not yet.”
What has gotten into me? I’ve never been a clingy guy. I’m always the one leaving. I’ve been a perpetual free-wheeling bachelor, wandering the globe in my spare time for the last ten years.
The desperate feeling—wishing for her to stay—is uncomfortable. I’m not used to it.
I push down that weird, needy feeling. Let her go. She signed the contract. You’ll see her in a few hours.
She’s walking out the door. She turns to look at me over her shoulder. Her hair is slipping out of its clip, and strands of brown lie against her rosy cheek.
“Thanks…for all of this, Julian,” she says. “I’m starting to feel really excited, now.”
“Me too. I told you—this is going to be fun.”
She smiles. And then, just like that, she’s gone.
I feel a buzzing in my veins, as if I just drank a shot of espresso. What is she doing to me? My heart is racing. I keep staring at the door.
I’m just excited about the ring, that’s all. Soon, the Meijer Ruby will be back where it belongs: owned by a Meijer. It’s thrilling. That’s what this thrilled feeling is all about, right?
I keep telling myself that, but in the back of my mind, I know there’s more to the buzzing sensation in my veins.
It’s her.
It’s Shelby.
Seeing her again, after all these years, is stirring up a bunch of old emotions. Emotions that I haven’t thought about in years.
Emotions that I’m not quite ready to face.
After tidying up the remains of our lunch, I head out of the office towards the shipping department. I focus on the task at hand: getting Max’s help with clearing Shelby’s schedule for the next week. It’s much easier to think about business than to try to dissect the swirling mess of emotions inside of me.
Chapter 7
Shelby
I’ve just gotten used to Julian’s car. It’s nicer than any car I’ve ever ridden in, and last night, when he first picked me up, I felt like I was in a movie or something. During my second ride in it, I was able to play it a little bit cooler. I didn’t stroke the soft red leather with my thumb, or gasp out loud when he accelerated out of a turn.
But now, as he pulls his sports car up the driveway, I feel my am-I-dreaming brain sensors firing up again.
You’ve got to be kidding me! I manage to refrain from pinching myself. No, Shelby, this isn’t a dream.
This beautiful beast of a car is only one of many. A dozen or more sports cars and luxury SUVs are parked in a row, their colorful metallic bodies glittering in the evening sunshine. The row of cars stretches out along a white, crushed rock driveway that curves around a statue.
The statue is of a hawk, of course, wings spread just like on the family crest, the Vermaak N.V. logo.
My eyes move past the cars, and in awe, I take in the massive mansion.
And I do mean massive.
This place is bigger than the White House.
I’m speechless.
For Julian, this is just another drive home, and he’s completely oblivious to my awe. He’s chatting away about something—questions he’s prepared so we can prep for our interview, I think—as he parks and we walk up the steps to his front door.
Excuse me—doors, I should say.
The herculean double doors open to us just as we land on the top step, and a butler—yes, a butler!—stands at attention.
Julian takes off his sports coat and hands it to the butler. I follow my old friend across the threshold, nodding a shy hello to the statue-like butler. He’s holding a small tray of beers in one hand—Vermaak, of course. He hands one to Julian, and then one to me. It’s perfectly chilled. How did he know we would be arriving home just then? What a life!
I enter into the lobby, turning in a slow circle as I try to follow Julian across the floor. Tall columns placed around the room, leading my eye up to arching, cathedral-like ceilings. The walls are decorated with impressive portraits of Meijers past, giving the lobby a museum-like feel. They gaze down from on high, sizing me up as if to ask whether I’m worthy of spending time within these walls.
I’ve known about Julian’s status as distant nobility since I first met him. Gossip traveled around our boarding school like wildfire, but as an American who’d only recently arrived in Europe, I had no real concept of what that meant. To me, nobility was a funny, old-time idea. Now, standing in his home, I see the weight of the word, all around me.
Julian’s noble heritage isn’t just an outdated word, meaningless in our modern times. He’s a member of a truly privileged social class; he’s inherited a life I could only dream of. He lives like a king. Of course he wants the Meijer Ruby in his possession. He’s the perfect heir for it.
As I think, the portraits—Julian’s ancestor’s—keep projecting their question down on me. “Are you worthy?”
I think of my own heritage. My whole life, it’s just been my mother and me. My mom’s parents are distant—other than a few holidays with them before they passed, I barely knew them. As for my dad’s side, I have no idea who they are or where they live.
I gaze up at the inquiring portraits. “I don’t know if I’m worthy,” I tell them honestly. I just don’t know.
On the far end of the lobby, there are two staircases that meet in the middle on a landing. They sweep upwards in a flowing arc, and where they meet in the middle, I see a long, elaborate wall tapestry. Among the intricate patterns, I pick out a central tree. There are names along the branches, rendered in such flourishing script that I can’t read them from here. I see ruby-red droplets dispersed among the b
ranches, hanging like cherries.
I remember Julian saying that people once thought that rubies grew like fruit on trees.
He turns and sees me staring up. “That’s my family tree,” he says.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. “I can see why it represents abundance for you. This whole place is beautiful, Julian. I feel like I’m in a palace.”
“Just wait for dinner,” Julian says, giving me a wink. “My chef has won awards all across Europe. Never mind feeling like you’re in a palace—Jean-Claude’s food will make you feel as if you died and went to heaven.”
“I’m pretty pleased to be in the land of the living, right now.”
“When you smell the food he prepares, you’ll change your mind. Come on, I’ll show you to the patio. We can do a tour later on, if you want to, but for right now, we can catch the last of the sun.”
It’s been a long day of indoor meetings, and a little bit of fresh air couldn’t hurt. “Sounds great,” I tell him.
As I follow Julian out to his patio, I realize just how wonderful fresh air can be. All around us, gardens flourish, emitting the scent of fresh flowers. Manicured green shrubbery and lush lawn seem to pulse with life in the evening sun, and everywhere I look, I see bursts of color: yellow, orange and fuchsia tulips, pink and red roses, and cascading indigo bluebells. Bird feeders, baths, fountains, and statues are dotted with birds of all shapes and sizes.
Julian pulls a chair out from a table for me, and positions it so that it’s facing the sprawling gardens. I gratefully take a seat.
“What a view!” I say.
He pulls a chair up next to me. “Better than watching the news, right?” he asks.
I smile. The sun feels warm on my face and hands, and I remove my blazer so that I can feel it on my bare arms and shoulders. Julian rolls up his sleeves and loosens his tie. I glance over at him, wondering if I’ll catch sight of that intriguing tattoo again. But I can only see one side of him, and it’s hidden.