Borrowing Trouble (20 page)

“Yes. And probably before the end of the year.”

“Oh my God, Marisa! This is amazing! You’re going to be an awesome mom!”

Wait. Oh fuck, the whole world is going to think we’re getting married because he’s knocked me up.

“Hold on. Stop,” I said, holding up my hands to get her attention. Her face froze. “I’m not pregnant. We haven’t even talked about children.”

Add that item to tonight’s agenda
.

“We are getting married and it’s probably going to be sooner rather than later. Like I said, I haven’t told my parents yet. You can’t say anything to anyone.”

“Can I see your ring? I bet it’s gorgeous.” Jane eagerly scanned my hands. I tucked them in my lap.

“Um, so this is all new.” I looked at my watch. “Like about five hours, new.”

“Did he get you a ring?”

“Yes,” I said, fishing inside my neckline and extracting the ring by the chain. “It doesn’t fit. He’s going to have it resized for my man hands.”

“You do not have man hands.”

“I felt like it when he tried to put it on my finger and it didn’t come close to fitting.”

“Here, I want to see it.”

I unfastened the necklace and passed it to her.

“Classy,” she noted, holding it up. “What is this, two, two and a half carats?”

I shrugged. “I have no idea. It was his grandmother’s.”

Jane squealed. “He gave you a family ring? And you’re getting married soon? And you’re sure you’re not preggers?”

“No, definitely not,” I said, remembering how relieved I’d been to not only have a period while Trip was in London, but also to confirm that I wasn’t accidentally pregnant. I was on birth control, but we’d absolutely been rabbits. “We just have some reasons to do it soon, okay?”

Clearly we need to come up with a story to explain the rush.

“Okay. I can take a hint. You don’t want to talk about it. When do I get to start wedding planning?”

“Um, that’s not your job.”

“Okay, I know it’s not officially my job, but since I’m your assistant and my sister got married two years ago, I can really be helpful. For example, you little Anthropologie junkie, did you know they have a wedding dress store?”

I cocked my head in interest. “No, I didn’t.”

“See, don’t even pretend that tidbit wasn’t helpful.”

“I’m not going to. But you really can’t say anything to anybody.”

She crossed her heart with her fingers and then pretended to zip up her lips and throw the key away over her shoulder. Inwardly, I groaned.

She’s not going to be able to keep this quiet.

“I’m serious. Not a word. To anyone. And I need you focused on getting ready to hand my stuff over to your replacement and the trial paralegal and not anything having to do with my personal life.”

“I get it. I get it. I’m not going to say anything to anybody.”

“Thank you.”

“Please promise me you’ll do one of those little bridal halos with the flowers around your head.”

I rolled my eyes. “Okay. Out. I’ve got work to do.” Until she left at five-thirty, Jane flooded my email inbox with pictures of bohemian bridal gowns and accessories.

As soon as one popped up, I deleted it. 

Just like Whac-A-Mole. Wait. Damn. That’s gorgeous.

I lingered over a picture of a slim cream silk gown covered with bold embroidered flowers.  I shook the vision of walking down the aisle to Trip from my head, and closed the email but couldn’t bring myself to hit delete. 

Mom would never go for it. Not traditional enough.

Mom. And Bitsy. My mom and Bitsy. Now that is going to be insane. The two of them are going to go nuts. It’s better just to focus on what I can control.

I pulled out a new legal pad and started jotting down notes for my discussion with Trip. If he was serious about getting married in six weeks, we had a lot of ground to cover tonight.

I made it home around seven, loaded down with chicken tikka masala, lamb vindaloo, rice, and naan. Trip had been responsible for the most important component of any serious conversation: beer.

“Honey, I’m home,” I called, mimicking Ricky from
I Love Lucy
, as I pushed through the backdoor from the garage. Apparently he’d beaten me home by minutes. He was still in a suit, putting two gallon-sized growlers into the fridge. “What’s on tap?”

“Some Wiseacre and a new IPA from High Cotton.”

“You know that growlers of craft beer are always preferable to a dozen roses, right?”  I kissed his cheek.

“Check the table,” he said with a tilt of his head. I followed his gesture to find a riot of showy orange parrot tulips and smiled. “But going forward, that is one thing I won’t have a hard time remembering. Floral shops are worse than grocery stores.” He took the large bag of our dinner out of my arms and placed it on the island. “Let’s go change and then eat. I missed lunch and I’m starving.”             

“We do need to talk, though.”

“Oh,” said Trip, pausing in surprise. “I really wasn’t talking about you for once. I was talking about real food. But yes, yesterday’s nooner was quite lovely and I hope we’ll repeat it sometime.”             

“Bet your sweet ass we will. Now, let’s change and eat before we get too distracted.”

Since I’d eschewed pajamas when packing for Trip’s, I slipped into my favorite lavender robe. I washed the day off my face and pulled my hair into a high messy ponytail. “You mean to tell me that I’m going to get this every night for the rest of my life? I am one lucky bastard.” He’d shed his suit and was in plaid flannel pajama bottoms and yet another Grizzlies t-shirt.

“You are one lucky bastard. And a huge Grizzlies fan?” I asked, pointing to his shirt.

“Yeah. Wanna go? This season should be epic. I’m not in town enough to get season tickets, but I can score us some good seats for a game.”

“That’d be fun, but want to sit in my seats?” I said, walking downstairs and waiting for it to dawn on him that I had a pair of season tickets to Memphis’s pro-basketball team when he did not. I generally ended up giving them away to clients, but perhaps this season I’d use more myself.

“I know this is crazy,” he said as we reached the kitchen. He pulled down dishes for us while I poured two pints of IPA. “Looks good on you.” He gestured toward my cleavage where his ring sat.

“Thanks. I do love it.” I kissed his cheek.

“Okay, so let’s dig in. I really am starving and whatever you’ve got planned for tonight, I’m going to need my strength.”

“Great. Let me get my notes.”

“You made notes?”

“We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.” We settled in with our heaping plates of fragrant Indian food at the breakfast table. “You ready to kick off?”

Trip downed half of his beer. “Bring it.”

“Okay, we’re on a six week time schedule, give or take. What’s your calendar like?”

“I thought this was going to be some sort of kinky role-play, Marisa. Not a board meeting. I’ve been in meetings all day.”

“Well, I’m all ears.”

“Okay,” Trip stood up and grabbed his own notepad out of a kitchen drawer. “I’ll answer your questions. Each answer earns me an entry. When we’re done, you can draw what I’ve won.”

“And if you have questions for me? What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

“Absolutely. I’m happy to give you anything you want.”

And so our negotiations began. We hashed out telling our parents, where we’d live, that my mother would insist on us being married in the church in Collierville I’d grown up in, that his mother would insist on a reception at the Memphis Country Club, that the Saturday between Christmas and New Year was the date, that we’d move into his house, that I’d keep my condo and we’d eventually rent it. We each had a large pile of torn paper squares in front of us.

“Okay, so we’re down to the big ones.”

“Double entries, then,” he suggested, emptying his beer glass for the third time before stealing some from my pint glass.

“No. No entries for this. Do you want children?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Me, too. But I’m almost thirty-seven. I don’t know if I can have kids.”

“Any medical reason you think that? Been pregnant before?”

“No. Not at all. I just can’t promise that I’ll be able to give you children, so if that’s part of the deal, then we need to talk.”

“Hell, Marisa, I can’t promise that I can give you children. Who knows if my swimmers actually swim.”

Swimmers? Only from my man-boy.

“I know. No promises. I just need to know you’re okay with the unknown.”

“Of course I am. That’s life.”

“I just wanted to talk about it. Any biggies for you?”

“Yes, and this may seem antiquated, but will you be Marisa Brannon?”             

Hearing him say our names together gave me chills.

This is real.

“Will you say it again?” I whispered.

“Marisa Brannon. I like it.”

“I like it, too.”

“So, I’m good here. Got anything else?”

“Yes. You can’t Bitsy me.”

“You just turned my mom’s name into a verb. What does that even mean?”

“You can’t keep me in the dark. I won’t have that. Like not telling your mom about Amelia Duquette committing a federal crime by paying people to sue Branco over lies? Because that wouldn’t have been important to her to know that her friend’s daughter did that? That the woman you thought you wanted to marry did that?” I was working up a head of steam.

“Hey,” he said, waving is hands to calm me down.

“So what’s wrong about what I said?” I shot.

“Technically nothing, but that’s not how it’s been. Typically she knows everything big that happens with the company. Hell, who do you think has been all over the forensic auditor’s report on the dollhouse division with a fine-toothed comb? Not my dad. He’s got my mom for that.”

“Your mom works for Branco?”

“It’s not like she gets a paycheck or has an office or a title, but she’s hella smart. My dad would be stupid to keep her out of the loop. They’re a team.”

“A team?”

“Yes, and we’re going to be a team, too.” He leaned over and kissed me, then clinked his nearly empty pint glass against mine. “Great team.”

“So why isn’t he telling her?”

“At first he just said we shouldn’t tell her until we were sure. Got into an argument about it. I thought she had a right to know that her friend Laura Catherine’s daughter was a total bitch, excuse me.”

“No. I agree with the total bitch assessment.” I tipped my glass to toast him and then drained it. “Keep going.”

“Well, he said he didn’t want to ruin a friendship if it wasn’t true. Looking back, I know the reason that he didn’t want to upset her is that he didn’t want to put that stress on her.”

“Is that why he wants to get this settled without any fanfare?” Trip’s eyebrows raised up in surprise. I shrugged. “He told me that at the ballet. When were you going to tell me?” I twisted my empty glass on the white lacquered breakfast table, leaving a trail of condensation on the surface.

“To be honest I’m not sure.” He scrubbed a hand across his face and through his sandy hair before letting out a puff of air and leaned back in his chair. “I guess now. We’re settling. We’re not pressing charges. Dad’s not filling Mom’s life with that kind of drama. The newspapers. The gossip. All of it. That’s it. Got nothing to do with you. It’s got nothing to do with me. It’s all about Mom.”

“Fair enough.”

And really, what can I say to that? Not much.

“We done?”

“Nope.”

“Okay,” he said, glancing at his watch. “To be fair, I’m going on twelve straight hours of meetings at his point and very little sleep and I’m not sure how much longer I’m going to be coherent.”

“Last one. I promise. Then you can get your prize.”

“Another beer?”

“Probably wouldn’t hurt, but this is my last. I can’t have more than three and function tomorrow.” He took one of the brown glass growlers from the fridge and filled our glasses.

While he was placing the nearly empty growler back in the fridge, I spat out my last agenda item. “So, we need a pre-nup.”

He closed the fridge door and a huge grin spread across his face. “Isn’t that my line? Or are you afraid I’m just marrying you for your seats at the Grizz games?”

“They are nose-bleed and I know you’re not going to want them. You know I don’t want a bit of Branco, right? That’s yours.”

“No, it will be ours.” He flopped back into his chair next to me, and took a long sip from his beer while mindlessly drawing circles on my thigh with his free hand.

“No, and I’m not fighting about that ever. If we have children, it will be theirs. Not mine. Not mine ever.”

“So you want a pre-nup so when we break up, which isn’t happening by the way, you don’t get what is yours?”

“It’s not mine. I don’t want anyone to think I’m marrying you for Branco. But you travel a ton. Your schedule is really unpredictable. That isn’t going to change. It can’t change. I’m not asking it to change, but if we have children, something’s going to have to change. We can’t both work crazy hours and be all over the place, that means I’m going to end up not working, which is going to destroy my career, but I don’t want anyone to think I’m marrying you for money.” I knew I was speaking in circles and not making sense as all of my worries fell out of my mouth, but I couldn’t help it.