Grey says, “No. We’re not married, Mom.” He doesn’t meet his mother’s eyes or mine. His shoulders sag slightly. I’ve never seen him in any posture other than commanding. A presence that can’t be ignored, but he fades into the clouds as if wishing to disappear.
I stammer.
Mrs. Adams’s head turns from him to me several times.
With Sonny’s hand in his, Grey takes a few more steps away from the church as though trying to distance himself from thelie. “Come on, we don’t want them to eat all the pie. It’s been ages since I’ve been in Mrs. Nelson’s kitchen.”
Ingrid catches up with Grey.
I walk a few steps apart from them because, likely, they need to talk. But it’s also the heavy weight of his deceit that slows me down. Why did he lie? I don’t take Grey to be the kind of person to do something like that, especially to his mother.
“You’re not married, but you have a ring on your ring finger. Pie or not, I want an explanation.” Ingrid’s voice floats to me.
Grey clears his throat, but his voice is thick when he speaks. “There’s nothing to explain, really. Um, this ring is a football thing. You know me, married to the game.” He laughs it off. “And, uh, Everly wears her grandmother’s ring. She’s very sentimental.”
I don’t have any jewelry from either of my grandmothers—my father’s mother will probably be buried with her precious metal and on my mom’s side, she passed away when I was younger.
Still a few paces behind Grey and his mom, I hold out my hand, gazing at the wedding band. It’s thin and nondescript. There is no accompanying engagement ring. Compared to the rock Todd gave me, so I could flaunt his wealth and that he was engaged to marry the Lefevre Metal magnate’s daughter, it’s easy to overlook this gold loop around my finger.
If Grey says we’re not married, why is he wearing the ring? Until now, he’s never done so before.
In my heart, I value marriage. It’s a sacred covenant and it’s a lie to deny our status even though the circumstances didn’t originally involve love. They involved gratitude. I was so deeply grateful to the stranger who offered his health insurance, likely saving my life. Because I was acting fast to prevent further disease in the future, I pledged my life to him as a way of saying thanks. Wearing the ring is a reminder of what he did for me. Inever expected to see him again. And after Todd, I wasn’t eager to get into a relationship again.
I glance back at the church. Ahead, Grey continues to field his mother’s questions.
“So you’re not married to Everly?”
He grunts.
Oh, so he plays his mother like that, too, eh?
How could he lie to her? Especially after going to church? Then guilt about judging him punches me back. I didn’t exactly come forward with the truth either.
Grey’s deep voice rumbles. “Everly is my coach. For the remainder of my time in the Blancbourg program, she observes me and makes sure I’m minding my manners. Remember the whole moon-gate thing?”
“Me and the entire town, Greyson Harris.” However, that answer seems to placate his mom, and she doesn’t say anything else.
I feel like a shadow. I was never good enough for my father. Todd just saw me as an opportunity to get what he wanted out of his career. I failed at becoming an Olympic skater and then put my job on the line with Blancbourg by falling for Grey, for kissing him... But now I know the truth. He probably just wants me around to help with Sonny.
Forget wifey or nanny. Now I feel nifey. Knifey. Totally stabby.
However, at the memory of his lips on mine, a fluttering sensation fills my chest, then crash lands. I’m not a liar. So how can I go along with the deceit?
The Marriage of Convenience Club rules come back. Number one and two. We don’t talk about it. But he and I will later.
Ingrid’s friends from church welcome us inside. Mrs. Nelson introduces the Literary Ladies Lunch Book Club, which, over time, just became an excuse to eat pie and gab.
Esther, a short woman with round cheeks, says, “When we started reading a lot of cozy mysteries, I wanted to rename it, Pies and Spies.”
“We voted it in, not that we discuss books much these days,” Mrs. Nelson says.
Esther leans into me. “I like the abbreviation, P.S. Like PostScript.”
“I like that too. I’ll call you the P.S. Book Club.”
“Thank you,” Esther says, self-satisfied.
This reminds me of my three thankful things in the Cookie Dough Diary, but right now, I feel so thrown by Grey’s denial, it’s like I got smashed in the face with a cream pie and then tossed into the lake.
