The
morning of her thirtieth birthday, Marci Thompson left her 480 square foot
apartment early and went to the dentist. Dr. Kim, the only dentist in Austin
who had 7:00 a.m. appointments at the last minute, sang an off-key “Happy
Birthday” while he poked and prodded in her mouth. His latex gloves tasted
bitter, and his breath smelled of onions as he leaned over her. A pathetic
start to a milestone birthday.

Her
father, four states away in Georgia, was a dentist, so both Marci and her
younger sister Nicole had always known that their birthdays were a deadline for
getting an annual checkup. Without fail, Nicole had her cleaning done and a
full report submitted to their father at least a month in advance every year.
Marci, however, was a habitual procrastinator. This meant she was invariably
scrambling to make a dental appointment the week, or
morning
, of her
birthday.

Putting
off the cleaning until the last minute also meant missing her private tradition
of hot coffee and birthday pancakes with gobs of blueberry syrup. She longed to
be at a window booth at Kerbey Lane Café, not in a sterile office with a mouth
full of instruments and Dr. Kim noting the impact her coffee consumption had on
her teeth. But this was the only thing her dad still demanded of his daughters
and they obeyed, year after year, despite living hundreds of miles away from
home.

She
escaped Dr. Kim’s office with a clean report and ran to catch the 8:13 bus.
When she unearthed her phone from the mess in her purse, there were three
messages waiting. Nicole, living in DC with her fiancé Ravi, wished Marci a
happy birthday and announced that she’d just dropped a card in the mail, with
pictures of several wedding cakes on which she wanted Marci’s prompt and honest
opinion.

In
the second message, her mother sang, too, though better than Dr. Kim. In the
background, her dad chimed in and yelled that he’d be calling later to ask
about her teeth. “Oh, Arthur!” her mother scolded. “She’s turning thirty today.
I think she can handle taking care of her own teeth!” Then, in a quiet
undertone, she murmured into the phone, “Please do get your checkup,
sweetheart. You know how your father is about it...”

The
final message was the soft drawl of her best friend Suzanne, who still lived in
Atlanta but called from a hotel room in Chicago, where she was helping put on a
large party for one of her corporate clients. “Enjoy your big three-oh,
darling! Love you much!” The message was well intended, but artificially perky.
Marci knew Suzanne was not a morning person, but tried to pretend for the sake
of her profession. And birthdays, apparently.

All
three sweet and thoughtful. All three long distance. With one exception, these
were the most personal birthday wishes she would receive all day. Marci felt
very loved and somehow alone at the same time. She was so lost in this
reflection that she almost missed the stop for her temp job.

The
lobby of the high rise that housed T, D, L & S Advertising (named for its
founders Teague, Dodgen, Lane & Stanton) was decorated in a style that
could only be described as ‘cowboy formal.’ Deeply polished mahogany walls and
exquisite marble floors were accented with cowhide rugs, leather furniture, and
wrought iron shaped into Texas’ signature five-pointed stars. Between the
elevators, a cluster of native wildflowers was gathered in a crystal vase
shaped like a boot. Only in Texas did this juxtaposition of rustic simplicity
and aristocratic excess fit together.

Marci
could not resist the temptation to stare at her distorted reflection in the
polished brass doors as she waited for them to open. Her frizzy brown curls
were their usual mess. She had put on at least ten pounds since January, and
her black polyester pencil skirt strained across her ass, which she hoped
looked broader in the reflection than in real life. Behind her, she heard the
confident clack of tiny heels as Candice from human resources strode toward the
elevator in a flowing pastel skirt and peasant blouse, with a wispy tan scarf that
did not match, but somehow worked. Marci envied women who seemed to know what
they were doing when it came to clothes.

“Hi,
Marci. How’s it going?”

“Great,
thanks.” Marci tried to sound chipper. Candice had been her first contact at T,
D, L & S when she came from the temp agency and still signed her
timesheets, so in a certain light she was technically a sort of supervisor,
though Marci rarely saw her.

“Wonderful,”
Candice said politely. “Victoria tells me you’re quite an asset over there.”

“Thanks,
I’m...” She looked for words that were both positive and truthful. “I’m glad to
be useful.” It occurred to Marci that the petite HR manager was about five
years her junior. With a perfunctory smile, Candice returned her gaze to the
shiny doors, indicating her expectation that the conversation was over. Marci
fidgeted with her knit blouse, trying to stretch it down to cover more of the
bulge around her waistline. She was struck with feeling bulky and sloppy, and
beneath genuine notice of someone whose career and life were on track at
twenty-five.

With
a heavy sigh, she entered the elevator behind Candice, catching a faint whiff
of clean-smelling perfume as she did. Marci hadn’t even owned a bottle of
perfume for at least three years. She might’ve spent longer contemplating this
further evidence of un-femininity if Candice had not reached out quickly to
keep the doors from closing.

“Hurry
up, Doug!” Candice called out playfully. Marci felt a thrill run through her.
The insecurities that had been piling up just seconds before were erased
entirely as a familiar brown loafer stepped onto the carpeted elevator floor.
He was wearing pressed khaki chinos, a blue chambray shirt with the sleeves
rolled up, and sunglasses on top of his head. He smelled amazing.

“Hey
Candice, what’s up?” he said, smiling at the HR manager, and then tossed Marci
a quick wink and said, “Good morning, Megan.” She nodded and suppressed a shy
grin, her cheeks burning. Originally a mistake, Megan had become a pet name,
their little inside joke. Sometimes people corrected him when he said it at the
office, but today Candice did not seem to notice.

“Are
you coming to the happy hour today?” Candice asked him.

“Not
sure yet,” Doug said noncommittally. With a grin directed equally at the two of
them, he added, “I’m a busy guy, you know.”

“You
should come; it’s going to be fun,” she implored. His glance at Marci must’ve
reminded Candice that they were not alone in the elevator, because she
hurriedly added, “Of course, you’re welcome to come, too. It’s 5:30 at
Maudie’s.”

She
thanked Candice, even though she’d already been invited by Jeremy in the
cubicle next to hers, and the elevator doors opened. In a flash the chambray
shirt was on its way to the corner office near the production area (“the creatives,”
they were called), while Marci and Candice disembarked toward the
administrative end of the office. A long day of filing and data entry awaited,
and she felt disappointed that she and Doug hadn’t been able to exchange
anything but glances.

At
noon, she stalled with a stack of files in the copy room to avoid an invitation
to lunch with the rest of the accounting department. She liked her coworkers,
despite the oppressive dullness of the work. Her supervisor, Victoria, was the
kind of woman who in her late-30s seemed married to her career and religious
about her daily routines. But as long as Marci did her work carefully and on
time, she was a reasonable boss and always cordial.

Two
other chatty women in the department kept a running tab on all the office
gossip, always ready to share some juicy tidbit with anyone who would listen,
but never expressing any interest in Marci herself. Finally, there was Jeremy.
Hired just a year earlier, he bent over backwards to include Marci in all
department lunches and conversations. She was never sure whether his efforts
were because he had a crush on her or just because she was the closest to him
in age and social availability. Whatever the case, it was her birthday and she
didn’t want to make small talk over salads today.

When
she heard Victoria and Jeremy’s voices drift safely toward the elevators, she
made a few more copies and then returned to her desk to wait. She had not been
able to talk to Doug privately in a couple of days, so plans for her birthday
had never really materialized. But about once every two weeks, they managed to
get away together during the lunch hour, almost always for the short drive back
to her place, and she now realized she not only hoped this would happen today,
she’d counted on it.

Marci
shuffled the files a few times, sorted her inbox unnecessarily, and
straightened the supplies in her desk. She tried to do some data entry, but
found she could not concentrate and kept having to go back and erase the
invoice numbers she had put in the system and start over. All the while, she
kept glancing over her cubicle, hoping to see Doug’s smile emerge any second.

By
12:40, she was restless and hungry. She decided to check her e-mail, and
glanced around the department to make sure she was alone. Personal e-mail was
strongly discouraged at the firm, and absolutely forbidden by the temp agency,
so she rarely risked it. Even though she had only ever checked it briefly while
on a break, she was plagued by a fear of being called to a meeting with some IT
person, who would have a stack of documentation of her errant internet using
ways.

Her
Hotmail account had thirty-two new messages. At least half were automated
e-mails from online retailers wishing her a happy birthday with 10% off and
free shipping. There were a few e-cards from friends, which she decided to open
later. A couple of notifications from writing listservs of which she was a
member, but somehow never made time to read. A forward chain e-mail from
Suzanne’s grandmother, alerting her that her UPS delivery driver might be a
member of Al Qaeda. A sale on her favorite jeans at the Plus-Size outlet store.
A happy birthday from her chiropractor.

As
she neared the bottom of the highlighted portion of her inbox, she saw the
first new message had been sent at 12:01 a.m. from Jake Stillwell, one of her
best friends from college. Nothing was in the subject line, but she saw there
was an attachment, and curiosity beat out her hesitance about the scary meeting
with the IT guy. She clicked to open it, read the two short sentences Jake had
included, and sat back while the image loaded on the screen.
No. It couldn’t
be. Had he really kept it?

The
consternation must still have been visible on her face a few moments later when
Doug’s head appeared around the side of her cubicle, because he stopped his
momentum to ask, “Everything okay?” despite his obvious hurry. Startled, she
lunged forward and clicked the windows closed, even though Doug certainly would
not care that she was checking her e-mail from the office.

“It’s
fine. I’m...fine,” she said.

“Okay,
good. Listen, babe,” he began, and Marci looked around wide-eyed to make sure
no one was around to hear the familiar term. He laughed at her panic, as usual.
“I already checked—we’re alone, kiddo. “

Kiddo
.

“I
just came by to say I can’t go to lunch today. There’s a meeting at Motorola
this afternoon—a big project we might be doing for them. I have to be there.
Frank’s been really riding my ass about bringing in new clients lately...hey,
are you sure you’re okay?” He looked genuinely concerned.

“Yes,
I’m fine,” she said, pasting on a smile. “Just a weird e-mail from home.”

“Oh.”
He seemed to be debating whether to go on, or wait for her to explain further.
Not knowing what to say, Marci remained silent.

“Anyway,
sweetheart, I’m sorry that I can’t go to lunch with you on your birthday. I
promise I will make it up to you tonight. Cathy’s, um...” He
hesitated, flustered, and then finished in a rush. Usually he avoided saying
his wife’s name to Marci. “Well, I’m free for a while tonight.”

Without
warning, he leaned down and kissed her. He had never so much as touched her
hand in the office before, and her body tingled with the danger and excitement
in response. Afterward, he kept his face close to hers. She smelled his clean
skin, and somehow resisted the temptation to put her palm flat against the
crisp white undershirt beneath the blue.

His
voice in her ear was husky. “I really
did
want to take you to lunch.”
His tone suggested eating lunch had probably
not
been on the agenda. Her
heart pounded and she looked around wildly, expecting to see someone come
around the corner at any second and find them in this pose, for which there was
no feasible professional explanation. “I’ll find you later.” She closed her
eyes, inhaling his scent. When she opened them, he was gone.

Two
seconds later, Jeremy appeared at her desk. He tossed a small styrofoam box on
her keyboard. “Where were you? We went to Guero’s.”

His
obvious disappointment that she had missed lunch was flattering, and she smiled
at him. “I got caught here, making copies.”

“Well,
here you go. Happy birthday.”

“Oh,
how did you...?”

BOOK: The Marriage Pact (1)

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