Marion Ekholm - An Act of Love

Marley leaned toward her friend. “Right. Like anyone would believe me.” She hastily readjusted herself on the bar stool to catch her balance. The drink hadn’t helped Marley’s funky mood one bit. Maybe skipping supper hadn’t been such a great idea.

“I’m the first of six girls, five of whom...who...whom...” After pausing, she took a deep breath to clear her thinking. “Why do I have to be the last one?”

“Since when has marriage become one of your priorities?” Dede dusted a speck off her black dress, which was the same shade as her long hair. “I thought you liked being single.”

“I do, but everyone in my family questions it. And they keep asking me when will it be my turn.” Marley tried to focus. “Well, maybe someday I’ll meet someone—and then...then I’ll think about it.”

“It won’t happen. Not when you refuse to accept the drink that cute guy at the end of the bar is offering.” Dede smiled at him and waved a finger; Marley ignored him. He didn’t appeal to her. For that matter few men had since she’d finished college more than a decade ago.

Dede continued where she’d left off. “You won’t date anyone in your office, and you completely blew it when I tried fixing you up with the guys I work with.”

Marley propped her cheek against her hand and leaned her elbow on the bar to support her head. “Jerrod was ten years younger than me—”

“Nothing wrong with being a cougar.”

“And Lincoln looked like the original Lincoln, minus the beard.”

Marley finished her drink and motioned to the bartender.

“Want the same margarita, Red?” He reached for her glass.

Red. She hated that reference to her hair color. Did he call other customers Black, Brown or Blonde when he addressed them? Her father was always called Red. Anyone calling her that brought back memories of him. She didn’t need reminders of all the pain associated with her father’s abandonment.

“The name’s Marley, and, yes, I’d like the same.”

“You sure?” Dede attempted to shoo the bartender away. “You rarely ever finish one, let alone two.”

“I’m not driving, so it’s okay.”

The bartender hadn’t moved. He jerked his thumb toward the end of the bar. “He’d still like to buy you one.”

Marley glanced at the man, gave him a halfhearted smile, placed a bill on the bar and shook her head. The motion momentarily destroyed her vision, making her realize she’d already had enough. “No, thanks. Don’t fix another. Your margaritas are way too potent.”

“You know, you’re avoiding the real problem.” Dede stood and went through her purse in search of money.

“Which is?”

“Guilt.”

Marley furrowed her brow. “What guilt?”

“You moved away from your family, and every time they bring you back, you try to make it up to them.” Dede dropped a bill on the bar. “Like this wedding. You’ve practically paid for most of it yourself.”

Marley shrugged. “Maybe so, but this is the last wedding so...no more guilt.”

“Yeah, right. Until the next baby is born.”

Hesitantly, Marley placed her foot on the floor, got off the stool and held on to the bar for support. “See, no hands.” Marley lifted both palms, only to lose her balance and grab the back of the stool.

“At some point, you’ll have to say no.” They started for the door. “Practice. It could make your life so much simpler.”

Now that the sun had gone down and the night air felt tolerable, they walked the few short blocks to the light-rail station. Marley slung her jacket over her arm and hiked her purse’s strap onto her shoulder. Her feet ached in her open-toed heels. Getting home, then into a bath, was her only priority.

“What you need is a fiancé, not a marriage.” Dede slipped her arm through hers.

Just a fiancé. That’s all I need, Marley mused.

“A fiancé you can talk about and get rid of the moment you return to Phoenix.”

When they reached the red light and stopped, a city bus with a giant poster on it also stopped. The poster had recently popped up all over the city—an advertisement for a special business symposium to be held at the Civic Center. Here it was again, Brant Westfield smiling at them.

“You see that guy?” Marley said, pulling back and pointing at the bus.

“Yeah. Cute.”

“He’s my neighbor.”

“Really?” They both turned to face yet another announcement of “The Convention No One Should Miss,” this one posted at the bus stop. And this one with another smiling Brant Westfield.

When Brant had first introduced himself, she’d been welcoming but had kept him at arm’s length. For several reasons. First, she avoided relationships where she worked or lived because problems arose when the people became too involved or they broke up.

Second, and more important, she’d seen Brant with a parade of women. Obviously a player, he brought a lot of gorgeous females home with him. Better to avoid potential problems. Problems likely to occur with a man whose smile left her breathless.

Now that smile was plastered everywhere.

“Give me your phone.” Dede held out her hand and snapped her fingers.

“Why?”

“I’m taking a picture of you with your new fiancé. Stand over there.”

Laughing, Marley did as Dede ordered. After several unsuccessful shots, Dede handed the phone back. “I don’t know if there’s too much or too little light. Sorry it didn’t work, because he sure makes a decent fiancé.”

After reaching the Metro station, the women took seats to wait for the next light-rail that regularly made trips up and down Central Avenue. A breeze had picked up. Instead of offering relief, it felt more like a hair dryer blasting them. At least Marley wouldn’t have to deal with the Phoenix summer once she reached Pennsylvania.

“To create a make-believe fiancé, it’s better if you focus on someone specific, so you’ll be able to remember the details.”

A make-believe fiancé. Was she really going to invent a guy? Marley nodded slowly. Who? She went through all her acquaintances, including the few men she’d dated. No one stood out. Certainly no one she’d like to be engaged to.

Another poster of Brant flashed by.

Maybe...

Brant could be her fake fiancé, especially since he’d never know about it.

* * *

WHEN BRANT SAW the woman approaching his condo building, he backed under a tree out of sight. Since his picture had started appearing in all the ads for the convention campaign, everyone who recognized him accosted him. Particularly women he didn’t know. Better to be safe and not broadcast his address by walking in. His three-day beard and grubby clothes provided some disguise, but the celebrity status the poster afforded made anonymity nearly impossible.

When he could finally see her clearly under the streetlight, he recognized his neighbor—Marley. And she was obviously feeling no pain.

Beautiful she might be, but beauty was a common sight in his profession, and often the women had little more than their looks going for them. But he’d heard Marley play the guitar. He’d wanted to talk to her about possibly jamming together. Unfortunately, she shot him down before he could even suggest it.

He stayed put as water from the yard’s sprinklers hit his calves, refreshing after the day’s heat. He watched, waiting for her to go inside. Instead of entering the building, though, she took out her cell phone and paused in front of his picture on a bus stop billboard. It was an older likeness, from when his hair was shorter—

Great. His flip-flops were getting soaked. He stepped onto the sidewalk.

In the British accent he’d been practicing for his next gig, he asked, “You’re taking a picture of my picture?”