I turn my gaze away from her and get back into my office, thinking about all the clues we’ve left that our marriage isn’t real.
The fact that we were never engaged before the wedding, were never seen together alone, never a date, not even a coffee.
The fact that we got married inVegas, of all places.
Fuck. This isn’t looking good.
At noon Willow pokes her head in the office. “Hungry?” she asks.
Thank godthere’s no trace in her demeanor of where we last left things. I made it awkward earlier, but here she is, acting all normal. Saving the day, just as she’s saving so much more just by being in my life.
“No, but I could use a break.”
“Why don’t we take the trail up the hill toward Kiara’s pastry shop?” she asks. “I’ll just run home to change my shoes.”
As we leave the store, I notice what the display windows are entirely papered in… “Are these old photographs?” She did ask about photos earlier, but I had no clue why. I just had this vision of her and me in the attic, and after that I stopped listening to what she was saying.
She nods. “Copies. Look! This is your great-great-grandfather. You should wear one of these aprons! Look at this one,” she says, pointing to a photograph with horses and carriages waiting where cars now line our sidewalk. Each one of these photos is of the store, and she has them arranged in chronological order, with the older ones to the left and the more recent ones to the right. There are even reproductions of newspapers advertisements.
“That’s awesome.” I let go of her hand to pull her into a side hug, my cheeks hurting from the big smile she’s put on my face as I peer over each photograph. I lean over to give her a friendly kiss on the head. “Thank you.” For the first time in a long time, the store and the family name don’t feel like a burden. Instead, Willow has made me proud of where I’ve come from.
Minutes later we’re on the trail that runs from the river up the hill. While Willow swapped her sandals for walking shoes, I filled two water bottles. “Welcome gift,” I joke, handing her the bottle I took from the store.
She examines it, then takes a sip. “We should brand those to the store,” she says. “But then again, the store needs a better name than justthe store. It needs a logo and colors. You should talk to Alex about this.”
“Why don’t you talk to Alex?”
She halts briefly to turn toward me, maybe to check if I’m joking. When she sees I’m not, a smile plays on her face. “Might as well make myself useful while I’m here.”
I don’t like the way she says it, or even the words themselves. But she’s right. She’s only here for a while, a few months at least—maybe we’ll make it a year, to be on the safe side. If she’ll consider it.
Point is, just because I like her presence in my life doesn’t mean I should get used to it.
“Is this something you’d like to do?” I ask.
“Are you kidding? Of course I would.”
She must miss the bakery. And making cakes. “You miss working with Kiara?” I don’t know how long she worked for her (something I should add to the spreadsheet), but I know they’re tight.
Willow shrugs. “Yes and no. I miss her company, but I didn’t like being cooped up inside, seeing the same two-three people every day. I preferred when I was at the register.”
We get to a fork in the trail, and we leave the path hugging the riverbank to climb up the hill. Willow’s breath doesn’t show any sign of fatigue. “I miss hanging out with her. But for now, working at the store fills my well. I feel like this morning I got to see half the town!” she says, giggling.
“How is your little project coming along?” When we left, the inside of the windows were, as far as I could tell, a mess of various objects.
“My little project, huh?” she says. “Probably needs one more day.”
“Wow, that’s more than a little project.” I feel shitty about what I said. I stop on the trail. What follows is going to be more than just casual conversation. “Look, I didn’t mean to brush it off like that.”
“I know,” she says, turning to me. “You coming?”
“The truth is, I got some shitty news this morning.” I look her straight in the eye. I need to talk to someone, and she’s the only one I can talk to about that.
“What’s going on?”
“Gail is contesting the authenticity of our marriage.” I give her a summary of the paperwork I received this morning, and of my conversation with our lawyer, leaving out the baby part, of course. I don’t think she was even serious about that.
“Fuck. Well, we kinda saw it coming. That’s why we’re sleeping in the same bedroom, and faking the PDA, and I’m working at the store. We got this.” She turns around, takes a few steps up the trail, then turns back toward me. “Sorry, you said you needed to talk and I did all the talking. What’s got you worried?” She walks to a flat boulder and sits on it, giving me her full attention.
