Page 25 of Wished

There’s a lot to unpack in what she just said, but the most important thing is, “When you say ‘Mr. Barone,’ do you mean Max?”

She turns back to the tray and unfolds the napkin, snapping it in the air and then refolding it. She’s grumbling something under her breath that I can’t quite make out. I catch snatches of “up all night,” “works too hard,” and “wear themselves out.”

I have a horrible suspicion. A nasty premonition. I’ve never seen this woman before, but she seems to know me.

I think last night I got blackout drunk and somehow I convinced Max to take me out for dinner and the opera.

I don’t even like opera.

Why would I do that?

Yet here I am.

And worse, I think after that, we came back here and convinced this poor lady that we were married. Maybe she’s his new housekeeper and he hired her as soon as Dorene and I were out the door. I don’t know. He works fast.

Regardless. “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding. But I’m not Mrs. Barone.”

She sniffs. Her lips are pinched and there’s disapproval in her stern eyes. “Of course, Mrs. Barone. Whatever you say. Shall I let Mr. Barone know he should cancel the holiday he booked for your anniversary?”

Anniversary?

What, our one-day anniversary?

What the heck is she talking about?

I hold up my hands. “No. That’s okay. I’m just going to ...”—I glance at the door—“go.”

I don’t wait for her response. Instead I hurry into the hall. I was right. The bedroom is in one of the wings that’s usually closed up and empty. The hallway is long, with wood floors and closed doors lining the long white plaster walls.

I would run.

I swear, I would sprinted down the hall, down the stairs, and out the door. But I don’t.

Instead I stand stock-still, completely dazed.

Because hanging on the wall is a giant oil painting. It’s one of those commissioned works people hang in their ancestral homes for generations. It’s a beautiful painting. The oil paint is glossy and rich, and an art light shines over it, illuminating every detail.

It’s a painting of me.

And Max.

I’m in a wedding dress with a long lace train. Max is in a tuxedo. My hand rests in his, and on my left ring finger is a giant diamond ring.

I hold up my left hand and find something I failed to notice before.

The giant diamond wedding ring in the painting?

I’m wearing it.

5

Okay,there’s no need to panic.

Panicking never did anyone any good.

There has to be a reasonable explanation for all this. In fact, I’m sure it’s a practical joke or some twisted prank the ultra-wealthy like to play on poor, unsuspecting?—

“Bonjour, Madame Barone.”

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