The Manning Brides: Marriage of Inconvenience / Stand-In Wife

So this was her wedding night. In her dreams she’d created a magical fantasy of champagne and romance. See-through nighties and wild, abandoned passion. If this was a traditional marriage, she’d have all that. Instead, she’d chosen something else. Something far less.

She should be happy. Excited. In love.

She was all those things—in a manner of speaking. Then why, she asked herself, did the aching loneliness weigh so heavily on her heart?

Rich bent the thick goose-down pillow in half and bunched it beneath his head. Rolling over, he glanced at the clock radio and sighed. Nearly one. The alarm was set for five-thirty and he had yet to fall asleep.

It wasn’t every day a man got married, he reminded himself. It wasn’t every man who spent his wedding night alone, either.

Rich had dropped Jamie off at her condo, and although she’d suggested he come in for coffee, he’d refused. He didn’t even know why he’d turned her down. Coffee had sounded good.

“Be honest,” Rich said aloud. It wasn’t the coffee that had enticed him, it was Jamie. She wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d ever met. But she was lovely. It seemed impossible to him that he’d missed it all these years. Was he blind?

He’d had beautiful. Pamela was beauty-queen gorgeous—and so empty inside, so lacking in values and morals, that he had to wonder what had attracted him in the first place. She’d appealed to his vanity, no doubt.

Rich rolled onto his back, tucked his hands beneath his head and stared up at the dark ceiling. It hadn’t felt right to leave Jamie. With real disappointment, he’d turned around and walked to his parked car. He’d paused halfway down the steps, resisting the urge to rush back and tell her he’d changed his mind, he’d take that coffee, after all.

Instead he’d returned to an apartment that had never seemed emptier and a bed that had never felt so cold.

The phone on Rich’s desk rang, and he automatically reached for it. “Engineering.” He didn’t take his eyes from the drawings he was reviewing.

“Hi,” came the soft feminine reply.

Rich straightened. “Jamie? You’re back from the doctor’s already?” He checked his watch and was surprised to discover it was nearly four.

“I just got back.”

“And?” He couldn’t keep the eagerness out of his voice. They’d already had one appointment to see Dr. Fullerton. Rich had gone in with Jamie for the initial visit. They’d sat next to each other in Dr. Fullerton’s private office and held hands while the gynecologist explained the procedure in detail.

“And,” Jamie said quietly, confidently, “we’re going to try for this month.”

“This month,” Rich repeated. “In case you didn’t know, I’ve always been fond of March. March is one of my favorite months.”

“Don’t get too excited. It … it might not take, it generally doesn’t with the first try.”

“April, then. April’s a good month. Another one of my all-time favorites.”

“It could easily be three or four months,” Jamie said with a laugh.

“June, July, August. Who can argue with summer?” Rich found himself smiling, too. He was calculating what month the baby would be due if Jamie got pregnant in March.

“December,” she said, apparently interpreting his silence. “How would you feel about a December baby?”

“Jubilant. How about you?”

“It could be January or February.” She sounded hesitant, as though she was afraid to put too much stock in everything going so smoothly.

“It’ll happen when it happens.”

“That was profound!” she said. “The doctor gave me a chart. Every morning, I’m supposed to take my temperature. It’ll be slightly elevated when I ovulate. As soon as that happens, I’m to contact his office.”

“I’m going with you.”

“Rich, that really isn’t necessary. It’s very sweet of you, but—”

“I thought you knew better than to argue with me.”

“I should,” she said with mock exasperation. “We’ve been married nearly a month and I don’t think I’ve won a single argument.”

“No wonder married life agrees with me.” He kept his voice low, wanting to be sure no one in the vicinity could overhear him. Only Jason knew he was married and he wanted to keep it that way as long as possible. “Call me in the morning,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “I want to keep my own chart.”

The following morning, Rich was in the shower when his phone rang. He turned off the faucet, grabbed a towel and raced across the bedroom.

“Hello!” he yelled into the receiver.

“Ninety-eight point six.”

He pulled open the drawer on his nightstand and searched blindly for a pen. Water was raining down from his hair, dripping onto the bed. “Got it.”

“Talk to you later.”

“Great.”

Wednesday morning, Rich waited in bed until he heard from her.

“Ninety-eight point six.” She sounded discouraged.

“Hey, nothing says it has to happen right away.”

“I keep trying to visualize it.”

“What is this? Think yourself pregnant?”

She laughed. “Something like that.”

“Call me tomorrow.” He reached for his chart and made the notation.

“I will.”

Thursday showed no difference, but Friday, Rich knew from the tone of her voice that something was up, and he hoped it was her temperature.

“Ninety-eight point seven … I think. Darn, these thermometers are hard to read. But it’s definitely higher.”

Rich could envision her sitting on the edge of her bed, squinting, trying to read the tiny lines that marked the thermometer. He made a mental note to buy her a digital one.