The Fake Fiancée

“Oh, I forgot to tell you the best part!” Abby bounced on the seat in her excitement, a grin splitting her face. Lisa hadn’t seen her this happy or this animated since Brad left. Thank you, Sally.

“Sally’s parents are taking us to see Juniper Jones.”

“Wow.” Concert tickets for the Turners and a group of girls would cost a load of money. Lisa bit her lip, hoping Abby understood her own birthday celebration wouldn’t include anything nearly as expensive.

“So I can go?” Abby insisted.

“I suppose so.”

Juniper Jones was the name of an all-girl band, whose songs focused more on friendship and teen angst than drugs or sex. Abby had their two most recent CDs, and their poster decorated her wall. At least the Turners, whose lax parenting methods Lisa usually abhorred, had chosen music appropriate for eight-and nine-year-olds. She struggled over letting them take her daughter to the crowded concert. Surely they could be responsible for Abby for one evening.

“That’s really cool,” Lisa said. “I didn’t know Juniper Jones was playing in Kansas City this summer. I suppose we can find a band T-shirt somewhere.”

Maybe one of those Internet bargain sites would have a shirt available. Souvenirs at the concert were costly.

Abby hunched in her seat. “They’re not.”

Sure she’d lost track of the conversation, Lisa said, “I don’t understand.”

“We’re going to see the concert in St. Louis. We get to stay overnight at a hotel. With a pool.”

Fortunately for the other drivers on Wilson Avenue, the light ahead turned red. Lisa braked with extra care then stared at Abby. She wouldn’t even let parents she trusted take Abby across the state overnight, let alone the Turners. “And you’re just now mentioning this part.”

Abby nodded, not quite meeting her eyes.

“After you made sure I said you could go.” Lisa tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry, Abby. The answer’s no.”

“Mom!”

She raised an eyebrow at her daughter, a definite warning sign should Abby care to heed it.

Abby’s chin dropped onto her chest. “That’s so unfair.”

Lisa inhaled and glanced ahead. Still red, thank heavens. She didn’t think she could negotiate traffic and this conversation without killing someone. Preferably Sally Turner’s parents. What were they thinking? She shook out fingers gone numb from her hold on the steering wheel.

The light changed, and Lisa carefully advanced.

After three blocks, Abby burst. “Why can’t I go?”

Lisa let the silence hold until she parked at the curb in front of the store. “It’s too far. You can’t stay overnight in another city at your age without me.”

“Sally’s parents will be with us. And it’ll be summer, not a school night.”

Lisa held up her hand. “Don’t start. You knew what the answer would be before you asked, which is why you wanted me to say yes before you filled in all the details. I don’t appreciate being manipulated, young lady.”

“Sorry,” Abby muttered.

Lisa blew out a deep breath.

They got out of the car, although Lisa had never felt less like seeing food in her life. Abby got quieter as the hours progressed, and by bedtime, Lisa almost wished the girl would let loose her feelings the way Bobby did. Abby’s silent melancholy tore at her heart.

AT THE CONVENTION HALL the next week, Lisa glanced around at the hothouse exhibit of roses, orchids and gardenias and felt satisfied that her sugary confections complemented the beauty of the room. Moreover, her flowers offered a delight for the tongue as well as the eye. About fifty women in sequins and chiffon led their handsomely suited men through the partitioned-off areas. Muted conversations, briefly punctuated by outbursts of greetings, blended with the classical music in the background.

Lisa darted to the main dessert table to inspect the platters again, having checked on the four satellite stations she’d set around the room. She felt the eyes of the attendees drifting over her. Eager to make a good impression in hopes of future business, she smiled at everyone and said a few words, while trying to maintain a professional, I’m-just-the-invisible-help type presence.

“I need to set out more cookies,” Ginger said as she replaced a tray of mint crème candies. “Things are going really well.” She laid out more cocktail napkins and plates then whisked her tray to the next table.

As Lisa gathered up the dirty dishes and hurried toward the convention hall’s kitchen, the hairs on her neck prickled. She was here someplace, poor Mrs. Riley, hoping to meet Joe’s “almost fiancée.” Lisa swung through the metal kitchen doors, making sure they swished closed. Shame filled her as she imagined her upcoming performance, duping that fragile old woman into believing her son’s happiness was assured. Tricking Mrs. Riley in her last days would secure Lisa a long stay in purgatory.

She dumped the dishes on the stainless steel counter and wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist. The hall’s kitchen made her salivate with envy. Cool, smooth metal expanses of countertops, an industrial-size fridge, two freezers, three ovens…

Lisa reined in her yearning. She didn’t need this much equipment, not for her simple operation. The scope of the night’s party had been huge enough. Even with Ginger’s assistance, getting everything here and setting up had depleted her enthusiasm for catering large jobs. She should have hired more servers, but she simply couldn’t afford them. Ginger had offered her help for free, but Lisa insisted on paying her.

She couldn’t bring herself to take anything more from anyone. In addition to paying back loans from half the banks in town, she had to repay Joe Riley. With her affection.

The back of her right eyeball cramped.

Deceiving Mrs. Riley into thinking she loved Joe would take an acting job worthy of an Academy Award. No wonder she felt a migraine intensifying.

Ginger backed through the large swing doors into the kitchen, her arms laden with a tray of dirty dishes. She set it on the worktable and guzzled a drink from her water bottle. “Wow, they really love your stuff. I bet you get tons of catering calls after tonight.”

“I hope so,” Lisa said. “Don’t worry, though. If I do, I’ll hire some college kids to help out.”

“It’s kind of fun. Although it is harder than trying to make a baby, which is what I have to get home to do.” She referred to her fertility cycle, a timetable for conception she and her husband called the Baby Project.

Lisa glanced at her watch. “Oh, Ginger, go on ahead. Kyle should be home from his meeting by now.”

Ginger grimaced but removed her apron. “I hate to leave you with so many dishes. I have time to set out some more petit fours.”

“Don’t be silly. You’ve been a huge help all night, and while you’re ovulating, no less.”

They laughed, and Lisa hugged her. “Now, go. Babies are way more important than those women getting more cake.”

“When you’re right, you’re right.”

“I don’t know about that, but I am the boss tonight.”

With a wave, Ginger headed out the back door.

Lisa loaded a tray with petit fours, amazed at how many she’d already served. By the look of the leftovers, the guests had bypassed most of the candies she’d slaved over, but had taken to the cookies and the petit fours, small bites of cake, which she’d iced and decorated with individual rosebuds. Decorating cookies required a lot more work, as well as the initial cutting out and baking, but maybe she ought to consider cookie bouquets for her slow periods. College parents at the Kansas City universities might go for small care packages, especially around the holidays or exam time.

“I thought I’d find you in here.”

Lisa dropped a petit four on another, smashing an iced flower. She ground her teeth then fixed a smile in place before facing Joe. Might as well start rehearsing now. She needed all the practice she could get pretending affection for someone putting her through such turmoil.

Of course he looked gorgeous, which should have helped the pretense but only made her more miserable. Why did he have to have the upper hand in everything? She felt as though she’d been working in a sweatshop all evening, while Joe looked sensational in a black suit, which made his black hair shine.

She bit back the temptation to tell him he looked handsome. Surely he heard that from women all the time, women who weren’t pretending, women whose opinions mattered. She clamped her lips together.