I couldn’t think. Why did David give me only a week to mull it over? Why not a year? What was his rush? If he thought he’d be getting the cooking, cleaning, domestic type, he’d probably be disappointed. It was one thing to imagine being a mom and wife, but another thing to actually be one. What was my example, after all? My mom ran into a snag or two in her life and took the easy way out. And Grandma. The woman could inflict pain on everyone around her but had no tolerance for it herself.
I couldn’t trust myself to do the right things or act the right way in a relationship. If I failed, perhaps I’d fall into despair. Then what would stop me from carrying out the family tradition? I couldn’t bear to do that to people I loved.
The only guarantee would be to remain single and childless the rest of my life.
I stopped at the bushel of wilted roses.
But what if I said yes to David and everything turned out all right? What if we had lots of wonderful years together? Things always worked out in my gothic romance novels. Arranged marriages, forced unions, all began with a measure of loathing. Maybe the couples weren’t on fire for each other at the beginning, but deep love and respect always grew over the years.
Besides, with David’s financial backing, I could finish the Victorian. The profit from the sale would help get our marriage off to a good start. We would even be able to afford to have kids right away.
I plucked the bouquet of roses from the paint can and laid it on the counter. I took the red ribbon and tied it around the stems. Then I hung the whole batch to dry, upside down from a nail over my kitchen window.
I knew how to make the best of things. I’d been doing it all my life. And David could definitely be the best of things.
Tomorrow I would tell him yes. Yes, I loved him. Yes, I would marry him. Yes, we would be happy together.
I finished cleaning up my paint mess, lost in a swirl of contentment.
Brad would be surprised at the announcement. Disappointed, even. I hoped the news wouldn’t come between our budding friendship. I thought of his beautiful, smiling sister, and I hoped she and I could still become friends one day.
I wondered about Tammy. How would she react? Would she be upset that David was off the market almost as soon as he’d gotten back on?
I thought about Dorothy across the street. She wouldn’t be pleased. She’d be certain I could do better than a member of the jet-set crowd, as she’d called David. She’d have been thrilled if I’d told her Brad would be my groom.
But I couldn’t worry about what everyone else thought. I was entitled to my own life, as Brad had pointed out. And my own life meant my own choices.
Tonight, I chose David, and all the happiness that choice would bring me.
I drifted asleep on my cot, dreaming of wedding decorations and dresses and invitation styles and cake patterns and bridesmaids and guests.
34
The next morning, I spent extra time on my hair. A sample bottle of perfume, found abandoned in the bottom of my duffle, got a workout. I even put on my pretty blue sweater with the silky bow.
I downed a container of yogurt, dusted the lint off my coat, and took the front sidewalk over to David’s.
The morning was cold and crisp. A light snow had fallen during the night. Fresh prints left by my tennis shoes along the sidewalk dispelled any secrecy I might have hoped for surrounding my mission. I watched for Brad’s cruiser, sure he would show up to try to baffle my plans.
But I made it to David’s back door without any interference. I paused to rehearse my lines, then lifted my hand and knocked.
I fidgeted while I waited, jumping up and down to stay warm. No answering sounds met my ears. I sighed and rolled my eyes. David’s house was such a tomb. My knocking probably hadn’t made it past the mudroom door.
I looked toward the garage. I couldn’t tell from all the tire tracks if David was home or out. The path of footprints worn from the porch to the garage and back was as unrevealing.
I knocked again. Still no answer.
Should I go home and try back later?
Nah. I was his bride-to-be, for heaven’s sake. If he could propose marriage, I guess we knew each other well enough for me to walk in and see if he was home.
I turned the handle and entered. I slipped my shoes off next to a pair of boots on the rug. A pair of women’s boots. A pair of size 7 black leather women’s boots with fur lining and a designer label.
Oh. Okay.
Hmm.
I squeezed my eyes shut, determined not to cry. Maybe now wasn’t a good time to barge in and accept David’s marriage proposal. But it was certainly a good time to meet the competition. And maybe slap David for getting my hopes up at all. Or at least bawl him out for toying with my heart, when all along he was two-timing me. That put him and Brad on equal footing. Both were detestable when it came to women and honor.
I headed around the corner and into the dining room. There were no occupants, but my eyes glommed onto the computer, perched like a blue-eyed Cyclops atop the massive armoire. The printer spewed paper piece by piece into a tidy pile.
I walked to it and turned the top page over.
Mortgage document of some kind. I’d seen a million of them. I picked up the pile and flipped through. Great interest rate. No prepayment penalty and no balloon.
Wow. I’d have loved terms like that on my place.
Sugar Cane International Bank. Never heard of it. The address showed someplace in the Virgin Islands.
I looked back at page one. The documents were assigned to Tammy Johnson of 675 Maple Street, Rawlings, Michigan. My hair stylist. The papers refinanced her home for almost two hundred thousand dollars. I had a hard time believing anything on Maple Street went for that amount.
More paper came through on the printer. I peeked at the appraisal that followed, which backed up the re-fi price. I skimmed the comparable homes used for the final determination of value. One of them was my Victorian. But the sales price shown on the appraisal was almost double the amount I’d actually paid.
Somebody was scamming somebody.
I looked at the computer screen. Squares blinked sequentially in a center rectangle. Printing . . . , said the text.
I wished I knew something about computers.
My heart sounded like cannons in my ears. I glanced over my shoulder at the empty room. Future fiancée or not, I was stepping into dangerous snooping territory. I already didn’t like what I’d found. Looking further might only cement the situation.
A manila folder lay on the desk. I angled it to read the label. IMM, it said in sloppy ballpoint pen. I flipped it open with shaking hands.
The top page was on U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services letterhead, complete with the crest of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. I scanned the contents, forgetting to breathe.
. . . Divorce Decree dated October 15 . . .
Deportation? No wonder David had only given me a week to think about marriage. Maybe I had an ulterior motive for hooking up with him. But his ulterior motive for hooking up with me bordered on usury.
The floor squeaked behind me. I let out a scream of surprise and twirled to face David and Tammy, standing in the archway to the parlor.
Tammy had been crying again. Tears of black mascara trickled down her cheeks. She wiped them away as I watched.
I waited for David to yell at me for snooping, but he only smiled and walked toward me. He gently plucked the manila folder from my hands and set it back on the desk.