An Act of Love. Marion Ekholm
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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?”
She screamed and tossed her phone in the air.
He managed to catch it before it hit the cement. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to alarm you, love.” Reverting to his natural voice, he asked, “Why are you taking my picture’s picture?” If it was to become rich on Facebook or Twitter, it was a wasted effort, since his image was already all over the internet. He held out the cell phone and waited. Finally, he took her arm and placed the phone in her hand.
* * *
MARLEY’S HEARTBEAT CONTINUED to race. How on earth could she explain this? She might as well be truthful, since she couldn’t think of any plausible reason. “I needed your picture to show my family.”
“Why?”
“I...I needed a fiancé and decided you’d do.”
“What?” After a moment’s pause, possibly to focus on what she’d said, Brant held his sides and roared with laughter. “Lady, you’ve absolutely made my day.”
That annoying accent again. What was it, anyway? British? Australian? She knew he’d spent several months in Australia doing a movie and had returned only a few weeks ago. And she knew he was an actor. But that’s all she really knew about him—well, that and his propensity for cowboy outfits. Usually he wore boots and a cowboy hat; today, though, he looked more like a hobo. His chambray shirt no longer had any sleeves and his shorts were cutoff jeans with white threads hanging around his knees. Instead of boots he wore grungy flip-flops.
“So we’re engaged?” Brant said as he continued to gaze at her. The accent was gone but not the smile in his voice. “When’s our wedding?”
“I’m leaving tomorrow to attend my sister’s and...” She stopped and took a deep breath.
“And?”
“And I have five sisters, all younger and married or about to be. You have no idea what it’s like when everyone gangs up on you and asks when you’re getting married.”
“Oh, but I do. I’m asked the same question by my family. Okay if I tell them I’ve finally found the woman of my dreams and plan to tie the knot?” He took out his cell phone. “Here, let me take your picture so I can show them.”
“No!” Marley held her hand in front of her face.
“All these weeks you’ve barely given me the time of day, and now we’re engaged.” He grasped her hand.
Marley pulled free and pushed past him.
“We’re not having a spat now, are we, love?” he said, returning to that accent. “Our engagement is only minutes old, and you’re already breaking it off. What will your family think? That you prefer to remain a singleton?”
Marley halted. Every nerve in her body fired. Feeling queasy, she faced him. “I’m not in the mood, Brant, and one more word in that phony accent and I’ll—”
“It doesn’t sound genuine?” He raised his eyebrows and stared in disbelief.
“I haven’t the slightest idea if it is or not. I just know it’s not you, the Willie Nelson cowboy I see every day.” She walked past him and continued to their condo building.
“Oh, so you have noticed me.” Slipping back into his usual voice, he pushed the door open for her. “But Willie Nelson? I look that old? I always considered myself more of a young Tim McGraw.”
Once in the elevator, Marley removed her shoes and leaned against the metal wall. The coolness seeped into her skin, a delight after the warmth outside. She closed her eyes. When she heard Brant drop his backpack to the floor, she opened them. He had one hand on the wall above her head and was bending over, getting way too close.
“Hmm. Brown. Aren’t redheads supposed to have green eyes?”
She placed her palms against his chest and pushed him away.
He