The Marriage Pact (1) (5 page)

She
nodded, breathless. She realized she had known it, even though this was her
first time hearing it. She looked up at his freshly shaven face. His eyes were
bright, and face pink, apparently embarrassed with his bald display of emotion.
He kissed her perfunctorily and pushed himself to standing, winking at her.
“Don’t get up. You can thank me later if you like it.” The front door closed
and she could hear him jogging down the stairs outside.

Naturally,
it was absurd that any woman would go back to sleep after her secret boyfriend
had given her jewelry and run away. Marci wrapped herself in the bed sheet and went
to the mirror. Hanging from a thin leather strap around her neck was a roughly
shaped pewter heart surrounding a small, shiny oval turquoise. The simple and
rustic piece was beautifully understated. Much more Marci’s taste than diamonds
would’ve been. He loved her, and he had bought her jewelry. She heard herself
make a squealing noise a lot like those she’d heard in her seventh-grade locker
room.

Contrary
to Doug’s teasing prediction, Marci made it in to the office early. Even with
the luxury of a long, hot shower and a stop at Kerbey Lane for her belated
birthday pancakes—not to mention a couple of Advil—she still managed to check
in with Victoria at 8:45. The hangover was painful, and Victoria was in one of
her demanding moods, but Marci didn’t really notice. The heart around her neck
seemed a talisman against anything unpleasant.

She’d
chosen a tailored white blouse and denim miniskirt with her brown cowboy boots
because they seemed to fit best with the necklace. She had coaxed her chestnut
curls up into a heap that had miraculously left her with perfect wispy ringlets
along her jawline—a look that she could never seem to achieve, even with hours
of time and loads of hairspray. Rarely did Marci feel completely satisfied with
her appearance, but today was different. Maybe thirty wasn’t going to be so
bad.

She
made excuses to walk around the office, hoping to catch Doug’s eye and let him
see how his gift looked on her. But his door was closed all morning, presumably
for the meeting he had mentioned. She caught the sound of his voice once or
twice as she dawdled in the hallway for no good reason. Finally, she gave up on
stalking him and returned to her desk to attempt focusing on work.

Jeremy
stopped by her desk around 10:30, and she dreaded what might be coming, but his
manner showed none of the tension or concern from the previous evening.
Apparently, he had either forgotten their conversation or decided to pretend
that it never happened. Either way was fine with Marci. He complained about the
strong margaritas and asked whether she had any pain relievers. As she handed
him the bottle from her purse, his eyes came to rest on the heart necklace, but
he said nothing. He thanked her for the pills and was gone.

At
11:30, a new e-mail from Doug appeared in her inbox,
Do you like it?

She
replied quickly
.
SO
much. Thank you.

Good.

She
waited expectantly, and stalled before finally going to lunch, but did not hear
from Doug again until almost 2:00.

Then,
another new e-mail.
Did
you look at the back?

She
couldn’t see the back of the pendant without taking the necklace off, so she
undid the clasp and held it in the palm of her hand. She could see etched in
tiny letters, “You are more than I deserve. Love always, D.” A rush of feeling
swelled in her chest as she ran her fingers over the tiny letters
affectionately.

“Did
it break?” The sudden voice startled her so much she almost dropped the
necklace. Marci had not heard Candice appear in her cubicle, but now she leaned
against the gray wall, looking directly at Marci’s hand, where the inscription
seemed to burn.

“Um...sorry?”
Marci stuttered.

“Your
necklace,” Candice said, “did you break it? I have those tiny pliers at my desk
if you need them.”

“Oh,”
Marci breathed, “no, I don’t think it’s broken. It just...fell. Maybe I didn’t
have it clasped all the way.” She quickly put it back on.

“Pretty,”
Candice continued, leaning closer, and Marci wondered why she would choose
today to notice such things. “Is it a Kim Tate?”

“Thanks.
Um, I’m not sure. It was a—a gift.”

“Looks
like Kim Tate. I just love her stuff. Have you been to that shop down on SoCo
yet? The one with the purple walls? I can’t think of the name of it, but it’s
fabulous.”

“No,
but I’ve been meaning to check it out,” Marci said enthusiastically, feeling
ridiculous. She had never so much as laid eyes on the place.
Why did she
feel the need to lie about that?

“Anyway,”
Candice said, peeling herself off the wall. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m
trying to cut out early today to head to Dallas for the weekend, so if you want
me to sign your timesheet, just bring it by before 3:00 or so.”

“Oh,
okay. Thanks for the heads up.”

“Sure.”
Was it Marci’s imagination that Candice’s eyes flickered toward the computer
screen behind her?

“Okay,
then. I’ll get it to you in a minute. I’m just finishing something.”

When
Candice clicked away, Marci turned back to her computer, cheeks burning. The
e-mail was still up on the screen. Fear swept over her.
How much had Candice
seen? Would she have noticed anything?
Feeling a bit absurd, she stood and
went to where Candice had been standing against the wall and looked over at the
computer screen. She could see the e-mail window, but did not think it looked
particularly suspicious. It took some focusing to make out Doug’s name above
the standard company signature line, but the text of the question was more
easily readable.

Did
you look at the back?
 Nervously, she
thought,
it could mean anything, right?
The back of an invoice or
expense report, maybe. Surely a casual observer like Candice would not
immediately assume the e-mail and the necklace to be related. She probably did
not even read the e-mail. Who reads what’s on another person’s computer screen?
Wasn’t it natural for eyes to dart to the bright screen whenever anyone had a
conversation in a cubicle? She tried to think about her own habits when she
visited someone else’s desk.

Stop
it
. Marci
scolded herself.
You’re like a detective on the world’s worst crime show.
She closed the window and forced herself to fill out her timesheet.

When
she took her timesheet to Candice, the latter was on the phone with someone at
the payroll company, but smiled politely as she signed Marci’s sheet and handed
it back to her. She gave a brief little wave that was, if anything, friendlier
than usual. Before allowing herself to analyze it too much, Marci reminded
herself that she and Candice had been at happy hour together for a while the
night before, and that would certainly explain any increase in familiarity.

As
she sat to input invoices for the rest of the afternoon, she vowed that however
this ended, she would never have a secret life again. It was exhausting.

The
next three weeks were a roller coaster. Cathy was spending much of her time in
Beaumont with her sister, who had started chemotherapy and radiation
treatments. Doug was therefore back and forth frequently, sometimes taking half
days on Friday afternoons and Monday mornings to be there for her over the
weekends. Marci felt admiration for his dedication to his wife and her family,
tinged only slightly with moments of intense jealousy.

On
the plus side, Cathy’s absence during the week seemed to help Doug settle into
his relationship with Marci. At least twice a week they had dinner together in
her tiny apartment; about once a week he spent the night, rising before dawn to
sneak home and dress before work. It was as close as Marci had been to
domesticity in a relationship since her early 20s, when she had attempted to
move in with an artist boyfriend, whose incredible mood swings proved
completely insufferable after two short months.

Sometimes
she and Doug cooked together, squeezing in the four-foot strip of her apartment
that barely qualified as a kitchen. He taught her how to make a spicy Texas
dry-rub for pork loin and ribs; she introduced him to collard greens and
buttermilk-fried chicken.

After
that meal, which also included homemade biscuits and okra with tomatoes, he
smacked his full belly appreciatively and said, “Whew! A man could get used to
this.”

“Sugar,”
Marci teased, in her best Southern drawl, “you’d better just hush up, or I’ll
hold you to that!”

His
smile faded a little, and then he pulled her onto his lap. “My little Southern
belle,” he said, softly.

Other
nights, they did not cook, but ordered pizza and spent the evening in front of
her tiny thirteen-inch television. He kept threatening to buy her a larger one,
which she vehemently insisted would not fit in her tiny space. Rather than
concede the point, he would reimagine the room repeatedly, rearranging her
furniture in his mind to accommodate the twenty-seven-inch unit he thought was
a minimum requirement. Only when she pointed out that the purchase of a new
television on his credit card statement would have looked slightly suspicious,
particularly when it did not appear in his house, did he drop the subject
permanently.

Cathy
and his home life were touchy subjects. Other than her teasing about the
television, she let him take the lead on the rare opportunities he mentioned
his family. She also became accustomed to his occasional forays outside to talk
with his wife. He often used it as an opportunity to make a run to the grocery
or liquor store, never failing to bring back something—a dessert or a bottle of
wine—for Marci when he returned. An unspoken peace offering and apology for the
situation, she learned to accept the little gifts in that spirit as much as she
could.

Weekends,
Doug spent in Beaumont, but he tried to call when he was in the car alone or
away from Cathy for some reason. These opportunities were sporadic, and he had
little time to talk when they occurred. She kept her cell phone on her at all
times to avoid missing his call.

One
Saturday afternoon, Marci nearly broke her neck trying not to miss him. She had
been waiting eagerly all day, and finally decided that if she were going to
keep her date with Wanda to paint pottery that evening, she would have to get
in the shower. She had just worked shampoo through her thick curls when “Walk
the Line”—her ringtone just for Doug—echoed against the tile.

As
she fumbled hurriedly for the shower curtain, shampoo dripped in her eye,
stinging painfully. Unable to see, she slipped awkwardly over the side of the
tub, pulling the shower curtain with her and twisting into a sudden seated
position on the toilet. The curtain rod clanged into the tub, and water soaked
everything, including the bath mat. Marci made the split-second decision to
turn off the water before reaching for the phone, which stopped ringing as soon
as she could get to it.

Two
minutes later, she listened to the voicemail. “Hey, Marce, it’s Doug. I didn’t
think you had any plans today, but apparently you changed your mind. You’re
probably out on a date or something. Anyway, I was hoping to talk to you. This
is probably the last chance for today. Hope you’re having fun. See ya.” His
sulky tone annoyed her.
A date? Really?

 She
spent the next hour wringing out her bathmat and wiping up the floor with every
towel she could find. By the time she had carted everything to the laundry room
and back, it was time to meet Wanda. Three glasses of wine and one jet-black
coffee mug with red polka-dots later, she had recovered from the afternoon’s
frustration. By the time Doug called again the next evening, she was able to
laugh about her little mishap, and to ignore the vague sense that he did not
fully believe it was why she had not answered her phone.

#

A
few times during this period, Doug even brought work “home” to her apartment in
the evenings, marking up storyboards on the couch while Marci attempted to
hammer out something on her computer that could pass for an original work of
writing. Though she found it hard to concentrate on what she was doing, she
treasured this companionable parallel activity. It felt so normal, so domestic,
so...right.

One
night he brought home a stack of résumés he was reviewing for the two office
intern positions opening next fall. While she sipped her wine and pecked away
at the same sentence she had been editing for two weeks, he sat on the floor
and placed résumés into various piles, snorting and scoffing as he went. He
hated hiring interns, but the other three partners had long ago saddled him
with the task, because he complained more than anyone about the competence and
abilities of those selected.

“You
have to see this one,” he said when he was about halfway through the original
stack. “This idiot forgot to change my name in the body of his cover letter.
Obviously he sent this out to every open internship in town.”

Feeling
the tiniest bit of guilt, she squeezed next to him on the floor and read:

Mr.
Doug Stanton, Hiring Manager
T,D, L & S
400 Cesar Chavez
Suite 1560
Austin, TX

Dear
Mr. Stanton:

Thank
you so much for the opportunity to apply for the internship position your
company will be sponsoring in the fall. I am including my résumé so that you
can see that I am a hard worker, a great student, and very involved with
extracurricular activities at the University of Texas.

My
goal is to find a company that will help me break into advertising or marketing
through a position in copywriting or editing. Thank you again, Mr. Walters, for
your consideration. I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Houston
Lee Stevens

“I
mean, first of all,” Doug said when Marci had finished reading, “aside from
calling me Mr. Walters for some reason, which part of this says why he wants to
work at our company? I mean, take ten minutes to look at our website, for God’s
sake. And it’s all about him and what he wants. What is he offering us? And WHY
would I hire someone for copywriting or editing who didn’t even edit his own
damn cover letter, which was about as original as a Kleenex? Not that interns
get to do that stuff anyway...”

“It
is a pretty generic letter,” Marci admitted, though she remembered her
experience of job hunting during and after college and felt just a little sorry
for Houston Lee Stevens.

“Yeah,
to say the least,” he said, still gathering steam. “This is why I hate doing
this bullshit. The only thing worse than cover letters are thank-you notes.
‘Dear Mr. Stanton, Thank you for the opportunity to meet with you about Job X.
It was a pleasure meeting you and I look forward to hearing from you soon...blah,
blah, blah.’ They’re all the same.”

“I
hate writing thank-you notes,” Marci said. “My mother insists that we write
them for everything. But I never know what to say.”

“I
mean, I get that it’s hard to be creative when you only met someone for an
hour, but come on! Remember
something
about our conversation, say
something
about the job, give me something to go on...”

Marci
remembered the few job interviews she’d had in recent years, and how never once
had it even occurred to her to send a thank-you note, despite it being drilled
into her that a note was expected for every gift and invitation to someone’s
home. She felt stupid for not realizing it was something you were supposed to
do after a job interview. Is that why she never got hired? Or were her cover letters
too generic? She was making mental notes for future job searches when she
realized Doug had moved on to complaining about a note he got from his niece
after her high school graduation.

 ‘“Dear
Uncle Doug,’” he was saying in his best impression of a teenage girl, which was
pretty awful. “‘Thank you so much for the graduation gift. It was nice of you
to think of me during this special time in my life. Love, Annabelle.’ She
didn’t even mention what the gift was! It’s as if she had all these notes
pre-written and just added people’s names at the top. She’s lucky I didn’t go
over there and take the gift back, ungrateful little brat.”

“What
did you get her?” Marci asked.

He
hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said. After a long pause, he admitted, “I had my
secretary send it.”

They
laughed for a long time.

The
last week in April, Doug was over every night until at least nine, and spent
the night twice. Despite all his recent trips to Beaumont, he seemed the
tiniest bit resentful that Marci was taking Friday off and leaving early to
head home to Atlanta for Nicole’s shower.

“I
don’t like you being so far away,” he whined Thursday evening as they sat on
her tiny couch watching TV. He was running his hand in circles on her back
beneath her shirt, coaxing her. Her suitcase waited by the door for an early
morning departure to the airport.

“I
have to go,” she insisted. “It’s my sister’s bridal shower, and my mom is
co-hosting with my aunt. Don’t you think my absence would be noticed?”

“I
guess,” he pouted. His hand moved up and began working on her bra clasps. “But
what about me? I need you, too.”

“You
need me? You’re going to be in Beaumont all weekend. You won’t even know I’m
gone.”

“I’ll
know,” he said, suddenly serious.

“Shut
up,” she said, and kissed him. It was a silly conversation and he knew it. Doug
resisted at first, as though there were more he wanted to say, and then
relented. He pulled her onto his lap and held her head in both hands as they
kissed.

Later
that night as they lay curled together in her bed, he whispered, “I want to
take a trip with you.”

“Mmm-hmm,”
she murmured, sleepy.

“I
want to go to Atlanta and meet your family.”

She
remained quiet.

After
a moment, he went on, even more softly, “I want to be free to be with you.”

Her
heart pounded, but she forced herself to preserve the illusion of sleep. This
was too serious a conversation to start now. She wanted him to be able to take
back what he’d just said if he regretted it later. She lay looking at her alarm
clock, every muscle tensed, until she heard his breathing become steady and
soft. Even after that, it was a long time before she drifted into sleep.

In
a state of confusion and sleep-deprivation, Marci boarded her 6:55 flight to Atlanta
the next morning. She sat huddled in the window seat with her worn leather
satchel draped across her body, staring out the window and fiddling with the
edge of the
Newsweek
she’d picked up at the bookstand. She tried to
avoid thinking of Doug. It was too intense to experience directly, like looking
at the sun. And yet she could think of nothing else.

He
had dropped her off at the airport before going into the office for the
morning, refusing to allow her to take a shuttle. As they had navigated the
darkness in his sleek black car, he did not reiterate what he had uttered in
the middle of the night. He did, however, hold her hand the entire ride. His
mood seemed different. Nervous, maybe. Excited.

Whatever
it was seemed to be infectious, because Marci fidgeted uncontrollably in the
passenger seat as she stared out the window. “Relax,” Doug had said at one
point, kissing her hand. “You’ll make it. We’re not that late.”

Now
she fingered his necklace at her throat and fidgeted in her seat on the plane.
Her back and knees ached with sleeplessness; she wished she were at home in bed
instead of gearing up for an intense day with Nicole and her mom. Nicole,
normally the sanest member of their family, had been increasingly intense and
pushy about the wedding plans now that the event was so close. She had sent
Marci at least fifteen e-mails in the past week, confirming and reconfirming
details and re-asking questions that had been decided months ago. As annoying
as it was, Marci was relieved to know her baby sister was human after all.

A
chipper lady with a smear of bright orange-red lipstick and too much perfume
sat next to her and immediately introduced herself. Marci smiled politely and
began rummaging in her back for her headphones. The last thing she wanted was a
conversation with a real estate conventioneer or Baptist missionary. She put on
music and tuned out the safety announcements. As the plane taxied, she began to
feel sleep overcome her, and her next awareness was a brown layer of smog amid
the grey clouds, and the pilot announcing the descent into Hartsfield-Jackson
International Airport.