Marianne's Marriage Of Convenience

Another flip-flop. “What are you nervous about, Marianne?”

“About tomorrow. Getting married. I’ve never been married before.”

He released the breath he’d been holding. Bridal jitters. What made her think a man didn’t get the jitters, too?

“Marianne, I’ve never been married before, either. What exactly are you nervous about?”

“The next forty years,” she said in a subdued voice.

“Oh.” Relief made his voice sound strained. He’d thought maybe it was him she was nervous about. Or maybe their—he swallowed hard—wedding night. Oh, God, she had to be a virgin. Funny, he’d never thought about it before. He’d just assumed...

“Could you be more specific?” he ventured. “What about the next forty years makes you nervous?”

She dropped her forehead on to her palm. “The forty years part. Marriage is such a, well, a permanent thing. Do you think we will like each other for the next forty years?”

“There’s no way to know that now,” he said with a smile. “Ask me again in forty years.”

She lifted her head and tried to smile at him. Her mouth wasn’t working quite right because it looked like something halfway between a lopsided grimace and a shaky O.

“I’m also worried about my wedding dress,” she said.

“Huh? You mean whether it’ll be ready in time?”

She shook her head. “No. I mean whether you will like it.”

All at once he felt warm all over. She cares about whether I will like her wedding dress? He started to smile, and then another thought popped into his brain. Maybe that meant she was worried about how she would look in her wedding dress? Maybe she really cared about how she would look to him?

Or maybe he wasn’t the least bit important in this business. She needed him only because she needed to marry somebody, and he was the handiest somebody around.

The waitress reappeared. “Two fried chicken dinners and two coffees, right?” She plopped down both plates and the coffee cups. “Gonna have to wait on the peach pie. It’s not out of the oven yet.”

An uneasy silence fell. Marianne picked up her fork to stab a slice of fried potato, then set it back down on the table. She’d lost her appetite. An entire afternoon spent answering dressmaker Verena Forester’s questions and trying to calm the butterflies careening around her stomach was taking its toll. The last thing she needed to do was add a fried potato to the battle going on inside of her.

“Marianne? You look like a ghost just up and poked you in the chest. What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing.” She hadn’t the foggiest notion what was wrong.

His blue eyes held hers in an extra-penetrating look. “Yeah? Nothing is wrong?”

“Of course not,” she said shakily.

Of course something is wrong! In exactly twenty-four hours I am going to promise to spend the rest of my life with someone I scarcely know. Anyone with an ounce of intelligence and a lick of good sense would be frightened half to death.

He reached over and lifted the salt shaker out of her hand. “Then how come you just salted your coffee?”

She bit her lip. “Oh. Well, perhaps I am a bit unnerved. Actually—” she lowered her voice “—I am, um, well, I am getting downright scared.”

“Thank God,” he muttered. “I was beginning to think getting married didn’t matter enough to you to ruffle even one feather.”

A choked laugh burst out of her mouth. “Oh, I have a feather ruffled, all right,” she said in a shaky voice. “It isn’t every day a woman gets married.”

Lance quickly switched their coffee cups and signaled the waitress. “Could you bring me another cup of coffee?”

The woman studied the full cup of coffee at his elbow. “Something wrong with this one?”

“I...um...I accidentally added too much...sugar,” he said. “Wedding jitters, I guess.”

The waitress grinned at him and whisked the cup away.

“Thank you,” Marianne murmured.

Lance blinked. An unprompted thank you from the queen of orders that must be obeyed? He found himself staring at her, and his heart gave a little jump. Did he really know this woman at all?

“Marianne?”

“Yes, Lance?”

“I have something to ask you.”

Her face changed. “Yes? What is it?”

“Marianne, what is your middle name?”

Her eyes widened. “My middle name? It’s Jane,” she said. “I was christened Marianne Jane. Why on earth is that important?”

Jane! It was a simple name. Unaffected, straightforward and honest. “It’s not important, really. I was just curious.”

He addressed his fried chicken, but all during their supper he could think of nothing else but Marianne’s middle name. Jane. He liked it. He liked it a lot.

Then she startled him with a question of her own. “Lance, what is your middle name?”

Oh, God, he’d do anything to avoid telling her that. The waitress saved him by bringing a fresh cup of coffee and setting it down in front of him. He stared at it.

“Lance?” Marianne persisted. “I asked you a question.”

“Yeah, I heard you.”

Her hand hovered over her cup. “Well, what is it? Your middle name?”

He grimaced. “Rockefeller.”

“What?” she cried.

Every diner in the crowded restaurant stopped talking and stared at them. After a long, awkward pause, she leaned toward him. “What?” she repeated in a whisper.

“Not the rich Rockefeller,” he whispered back. “The poor one.”

“I didn’t know there was a poor one,” she murmured.