Unholy Matrimony Read online

  “Oh my,” Phoebe said, thinking about what he said for a minute. Money did come with hard work and responsibility. She had only looked on the easy side and not really considered that riches had to come from some effort on somebody's part.

  “That's why I haven't married yet,” Abbas said in the silence. “A wife could never put up with my lifestyle. Most of my acquaintances in the business world are on their third wife by forty.”

  Phoebe cleared her throat; her heart skipped a beat in excitement. “So are you actively looking for a wife?”

  Abbas laughed out loud, and Phoebe could see him throwing back his head in the lounge chair. He cleared his throat and then whispered, “I don't know, I wasn't really looking, but then I started noticing this particular girl.

  I have my reservations about her sometimes. I think she is more trophy wife material than a real life partner with whom I can share things. For starters, she's much younger than I am; she is still not mature in her outlook on life. But when I think about it, it all boils down to me just wanting to be loved.”

  Phoebe was silent at that, what a lucky girl. It also made her aware of how shallow she had been going about trying to assess men based on their material worth. Here, this rich guy was saying that he just wanted to be loved. His voice even cracked at that, like he genuinely meant it.

  She felt embarrassed about her eager question now. Maybe, if she could see how he looked, then, she could adjust to being genuine, caring, and besotted, and upstage that girl he had in his affection. He was seriously rich and he was sharing thoughts with her. That can only mean that he had some interest in her.

  If only she could see his face. She almost groaned aloud.

  “What type of man are you looking for Phoebe Bridge?” he asked interestedly.

  Phoebe inhaled deeply before answering. After telling her about his immature girl, how would she frame her reply so that she could sound like a better option?

  “You are assuming that I am single.” she replied cheekily.

  “That was an oversight,” he said, a smile in his voice. “From what I can see of you in the half light you are very pretty so maybe it was a stupid assumption.”

  “No I am single,” Phoebe said quickly. “I want to marry a man who can support me financially,” she chose her words carefully, “and be kind to me and love me to distraction, and I want to marry someone in the Christian faith.”

  “Ah,” he said contemplatively, “so tall dark and handsome does not figure on your list?”

  “Well, these last couple of days I realized that tall dark and handsome cannot feed me when I am hungry,” Phoebe said philosophically, “or fix the leaking roof over my parent’s head, unless of course he is handy with tools.”

  He grunted. “Practicality over sentiment—very unusual in a girl of your age.”

  “Ha,” Phoebe snorted. “Most women who rush into marriage never consider the practicality over the sentiment. People can't always live on love. Though I figure it helps when you are poor to like the person you are locked in poverty with.”

  Once more he threw back his head and laughed. “Phoebe...Phoebe...Phoebe. It is refreshing to hear your view on love. You have an honest view. Most women in my acquaintance will pretend that they love you, when all they love is the lifestyle. It's good when two people in a relationship can understand, from the get go, what they are in for.”

  He tapped his hands on the side of the chair. “If I were a rich suitor and said to you, ‘Phoebe what do you desire the most right now?’ What would you ask for?”

  Phoebe giggled. “That’s easy: a car would be a nice present. Nothing too expensive though, the neighbors would talk. But definitely a car.”

  He grunted, “and if I asked you to lunch, would you come?”

  “But of course,” Phoebe laughed. “You are rich, aren't you? We could dine at the Villa Rose. I heard they have an exclusive restaurant overlooking the sea. I personally know the chef there; his name is Caleb Wright, my friend's husband. The food is to die for. You would pick me up from work in your high-end car; you would park in front of the building so that all the nosy girls in customer service could see me.”

  She sighed and continued dreamily. “You could greet me with a huge bouquet of roses—large velvety blood red petals. I have never gotten roses from a guy before.”

  She sighed. “I am getting too old for these fantasies, but they persist, unfortunately.”

  He said to her. “I don't think that would be hard for any man to do for you, Phoebe. I think it's all in the inspiration. When a man is serious about a woman, he becomes inspired to please her. Don't you agree?”

  Phoebe bit her lip, she had never inspired a man before, except for that one guy who she dated for a week and then found out that he was mentally disturbed. Whichever girl had Abbas inspired would be one lucky girl.

  “Uh oh,” he said, intruding on her thoughts. “I think I’m needed. Sonia is heading this way. Take care of yourself, Phoebe Bridge.”

  And just like that he left her alone once more and she realized that all the while they were talking the night sounds had faded away, now they came back with a bang and she heard Charles and his friends singing Toto's song, Africa.

  All of a sudden she felt like dancing and wished that he had stayed; wished that she had gotten his number; wished that she had seen his face; wished that she could make out who he was in the crowd by the pool.

  Chapter Seven

  The party ended midnight and Phoebe hadn’t spoken to Charles all night. She had found him at the back of the stage area, eating and laughing with his friends. She had deliberately avoided him when she saw him searching for her in the crowd and only chose to seek him out when she thought it was time to go home. She had not spoken to Ezekiel Hoppings either. Curiously, he always seemed to disappear when she spotted him in a group and headed toward him. Obviously, that lady Sonia Beaumont was wrong; Ezekiel was not interested in her.

  The party was a waste of time for her, she had concluded when she was dropped home and the bus had driven off. She had spoken to that one guy in the dark and after that she had lounged around, bored, until she had made up her mind to seek out Ezekiel Hoppings.

  Several men had asked her to dance, but they were big-bellied leeches with sweaty faces, she shuddered to think that they thought she would have said yes.

  She quietly let herself into the house and headed to her room—at least the party had been a good escape from the scent of the neighborhood. She took off the red velvet dress and flung it onto the bed in disgust. When she had gotten into the bus the back had developed another tear along the seam. She wouldn't wear it again—maybe her mother could use it to dust furniture.

  She took the pins out of her hair and brushed it out. Her hair needed a serious trim, it was much longer than she liked to wear it; its wavy tentacles were flirting with her hips. She brushed it out slowly, thinking about the conversation she had had with that rich Arab guy. It was a pity she hadn't gotten to see his face. He had been really fun to talk to.

  His voice had sounded as if he was handsome and she closed her eyes trying to picture him; it was such a pity he had gone off into the crowd; she hadn't seen anybody standing around in the groups that was as tall and muscular as he was.

  She was such a klutz. If she hadn't decided to tone down her usual approach to men, she would have gotten his number or something. She sat on the bed, dejectedly. As far as she was concerned her life was back to square one.

  She wanted to talk to somebody about it, but Erica was on her honeymoon and Tanya wouldn’t appreciate being woken so late in the night. She usually got up at five in the mornings to run with a group of women from church. They had never invited her to go with them and Phoebe spitefully thought of calling Tanya so that she would be groggy in the morning, but she decided against it.

  Her phone rang just when she had made up her mind to call it a night and to rehash in her mind's eye the extremely lovely place that Ezekiel called home.
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br />   “Hey,” Charles said when Phoebe answered grumpily.

  “Sorry about tonight,” Charles said before Phoebe could chastise him for calling her so late.

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” Phoebe said almost feeling guilty that she had used him as her entrance to see what a rich person's party was all about. “I had an interesting time.”

  “Well, we were thinking,” Charles cleared his throat, “not we...I was thinking, would you like to come to the beach with me tomorrow evening? My friends will be there...We usually carry food and listen to music, and watch the sunset, or swim down to Duncan's Cove…there is a lovely white sand beach there.”

  “I don't think so,” Phoebe said hesitantly. She wasn't guilty enough to go out with him.

  “Their girlfriends usually come too,” Charles said hurriedly. “All of them go to the Great Pond Church. We are good clean Christian young people—we aren't heathens, you know.” Charles was trying hard to keep the desperate wheedling out of his voice. He really liked Phoebe and the night had not gone as planned. He hadn't seen her even once through the whole evening.

  “Okay,” Phoebe said reluctantly. “I am not going on that bike, though.”

  Charles chuckled. “Darren will pick us up in the bus.”

  “You guys are like a herd,” Phoebe said snidely. “You all pack up and go out together, play music together, have fun together. It's sickening.”

  Charles laughed. “We all grew up in the same district and went to the same high school.”

  “How old are you?” Phoebe turned off her light and settled down in her bed. She wanted to talk to somebody, why not Charles?

  “Twenty-five,” Charles said eagerly. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-four,” Phoebe sighed. “It seems like just yesterday I was eighteen. My mother constantly tells me that I'm turning into a dried up old maid.”

  “Twenty-four is young! You should loosen up a bit, have some fun.”

  “I'm not a fun person,” Phoebe said morosely. “I really don't have any friends or hang out with anyone. I had friends in high school but I didn't want them to know where I live and because of that I really did not get to bond with anyone. I used to have one or two friends at church but there was a little incident with Chris Donahue and they have been treating me strangely ever since. These days I have to literally force them to include me on their committees and their ministries.

  “At least Erica used to hang with me but now she's married. Tanya, who is supposed to be my best friend at church, has her little girl group too. They even go exercising in the mornings and share Bible texts and pray for each other. Nobody cares about me.” She released a long pent up sigh.

  “That's not true,” Charles said eagerly lapping up Phoebe's confessions. She sounded genuinely sad, as if she had just gone to a funeral instead of a party. “Women are not sure if they should befriend you. Maybe they think that you will steal their men; and men are just in awe and afraid that you will rebuff them if they approach you.”

  Phoebe snorted. “Don’t try to make me feel better. I have concluded that I’m just not a girl's girl or a guy's girl either. The men who are attracted to me are poor, ugly or mentally disturbed. I would have friends if I were rich; people treat me in a certain way because I am poor.”

  Charles gasped, “Phoebe, that's not true.”

  “You don't know anything about it,” Phoebe said, tears seeping through her long eyelashes. She sniffed. “I am poor, that's why people treat me mean. If I had money you would see just how fast everybody would be willing to please me.”

  Charles was silent for a while. He wasn't sure but it sounded as if Phoebe was crying. “Phoebe, listen. I’m not rich and I have loads of friends. If people don't like the true you they are wasting your time. Money can only buy fair weather friends. As soon as you don't have any they will disappear.”

  Phoebe sniffed. “All rich women have a gaggle of friends that they air kiss and go to fabulous parties with.”

  Charles struggled not to laugh. “Phoebe you are watching too many movies. You know, when I used to work as a river guide at Mayfield Falls, we had all sorts of people visiting on their vacations; one time this rich man looked at me enviously and said he wished he had my job because I was around nature all the time and living life simply. Sometimes the simple things make all the difference,” he finished earnestly.

  Phoebe wiped her face with the sheet and contemplated what he said. She was tired of constantly being Phoebe, always fretting about her poverty and lack of means. “Okay I'll come with you and your nerdy friends tomorrow. Tell them not to stare at me and make stupid remarks.”

  “Okay,” Charles said gleefully. “It will be my pleasure to show you how to live simply.”

  *****

  Phoebe went to work bleary-eyed the next day, she was feeling curiously depressed and down. Her bout of melancholy was exacerbated when her mother had asked her, in a voice heavy with fatigue, if she wanted porridge for breakfast. It was leftover from dinner and Phoebe had shaken her head sadly and headed out of the house, weighed down with her home situation.

  “What's the matter, Miss Pretty?” Vanessa asked her while she was in the kitchen making hot cocoa.

  Phoebe shrugged. Vanessa was the office gossip and the only person who persisted in befriending her. After initial overtures, people usually left Phoebe alone, another thing she attributed to her being poor. She had grown up insular, in a one-room shack on her father's farm. Her life had been filled with pretense and she had a tendency to mistrust friendly overtures.

  Friends usually wanted her to celebrate birthdays with them, go to restaurants with them or hang out at places where she needed to have money or wear the latest clothes. She had none of those and she didn’t want anybody close enough to her to find that out.

  Her natural reaction was to shut them out, insult them, and make them feel as bad as she felt most of the time.

  Her psychoanalyzing from last night hadn't stopped, she realized.

  “You can tell me,” Vanessa said conspiratorially, “Is it Mr. King? Did he say something to you this morning?”

  “No,” Phoebe said putting a determined smile in her voice, “our supervisor is fine.”

  “Oh,” Vanessa threw up her hands in the air. “So why are you so down?”

  Phoebe felt like shocking her and she wanted the office grapevine to know that she had been rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous and Vanessa's method of spreading news was faster than anything else at the bank.

  “Well, I went to Ezekiel Hoppings' mansion last night...was invited to a party.”

  Vanessa's eyes widened in shock. “The Ezekiel Hoppings.”

  Phoebe nodded. “I got back late so I have not really gotten back my bearings yet.”

  “How did you get invited to a party at Lion's Head?” Vanessa asked in awe. “My boyfriend, Craig, works at Elevator Financials in Kingston and even his boss cannot get into the inner circle. And his boss is big.”

  Phoebe shrugged. “It's a long story, another time I will tell you.” She left the kitchen and a shocked Vanessa, and then waited to be treated like a minor celebrity throughout the day.

  She didn’t have long to wait. Persons in the office were whispering when she passed by.

  When it rolled around to lunchtime, she was looking forward to eating in the cafeteria and having the curious seek her out for conversation, but got the shock of her life when a Bentley drove up at the entrance to the bank.

  A uniformed chauffer stepped out of the driver's seat with dozens of red velvet flowers and came into the bank. He found her around the customer service area preparing to go to lunch and handed her a card and the flowers.

  “Miss Phoebe Bridge?”

  Phoebe's eyes widened. “Yes...”

  “Mr. er...Abbas would like the pleasure of your company for lunch.”

  “He would?” Phoebe asked in shock.

  The driver nodded and leaned in closer to her. “He wants to know if t
he Bentley was the right touch.”

  Phoebe giggled. “Oh, it's fine.”

  The bank was unusually quiet, even the customers in the short line to the customer service area were staring at Phoebe; occasionally glancing at the car outside.

  “Going to lunch,” Phoebe said to no one in particular, leaving her flowers on the desk and almost floated to the front door of the bank.

  Chapter Eight

  When she slid into the back seat of the Bentley, she giggled uncontrollably. “I can't believe you actually know where I work...” her voice trailed off. “Ezekiel Hoppings?”

  “In the flesh,” Ezekiel said, looking at her seriously. “We had a nice chat last night and I woke up this morning determined to make some of your dreams come true.”

  “Oh, I am shocked,” Phoebe said, looking at him.

  He seemed different; he still had those ugly scars crisscrossing his face but they made him seem manlier, somehow. She couldn’t put her fingers on exactly what it was.

  Maybe it was the heady scent of the flowers she just sniffed or the euphoria of knowing that the people in her office were going to talk about her for days on end.

  “Last night you said your name was Abbas. At least now I know why you were avoiding me when I came seeking you out in the crowd by the pool.”

  “My name is Abbas,” Ezekiel said steepling his fingers. “Ezekiel was my mother's choice; Abbas my father's. Abbas means lion as I told you before, hence the name of my place here is Lion's Head.”

  Phoebe shook her head in awe. “Well, I am truly flummoxed.”

  “I presume your lunch time is an hour?” Ezekiel asked her suavely.

  Why hadn't she noticed before that he had a smooth English accent, mixed with something else she could not pinpoint?