Page 18 of Mail Order Bride

“Too hot,” he says.

It turns out Norman is no liar. This is no shyster.

Norman Fells seems to be exactly who he says he is. A man of means. A successful businessman. A philanthropist. A thinker. A doer. I know right from the first call, this is a man who expects his wife to be precisely what he wants her to be, and nothing more. He’d want a hot meal on the table when he got home in the evening. Weekends are for golfing. He wants a handful of heirs. Five at minimum.

Even before I place the phone in the cradle, I begin to worry that he’ll kill me without actually killing me. He is a man who believes a wife should be subservient. That she should be seen and not heard. Unless, of course, she is telling him what he wants to hear, which he lets on—and not so subtly—is also a requirement of the job. I realize that would be my sole purpose, ormission, as he calls it, serving him. Making his life easier. In exchange for a comfortable life, he says.What more could a woman want?

He makes a promise that seems easy enough. No more frivolous changes of heart, no more fickle alterations in my image, no more constantly changing opinions as to who I want to be. I am to be his wife, his helpmate, as he describes it, and that is that. For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, married to a man I suspect will be a stern father and husband.

But there is one problem. Two—but the first I canpossiblystuff deep down—if I can manage to swallow it whole, the fact that I don’t want to be someone’s,anyone’swife. I have dreams andplansof my own. Dreams I do not want to give up in order to serve someone else.

Not unless it’s the author of those letters. And maybe not even then.

But the real problem, the one that trumps all the others, is that even if I wanted to, I have no idea how to be the kind of woman that a man like Norman Fells is looking for—how to be subservient, or how to be a wife, much less a helpmate. I don’t even know what a helpmate is.

As it turns out, I didn’t have time to figure it out.

Chapter Fifteen

Gina

As soon as I hang up the phone, I notice a dark figure in the doorway. He appears as though he’s been there all along, lurking in the shadows. I know instantly he isn't one of the neighbors. He’s too tall and broad to be anyone I know.

“Afternoon,” he says, his voice thick and deep, with an accent I can't place.

His eyes are dark. I can’t see his hair for the shadow of his hat. He takes it off, and I note the gold tie, the watch peeking from his pocket. The stranger on the porch is a man of means. Like Norman Fells, but not Norman Fells. A man of privilege, undoubtedly. There is something about him that instantly makes me weak in the knees, and it’s not his moneyed appearance.

He pulls at the broken screen door that Mona couldn’t fix and enters the house like he owns the place, which maybe he does. I watch the way he confidently extends his hand to my father. “I’m Will Davenport. I’m here to marry your daughter.”

He moves slowly like a slinking cat, silent as a shadow. His gait is graceful, his stride sure and measured. When he walks, the earth is still.

I take his hand when he offers it, and he widens his eyes, but he doesn’t look at me. He stares over my shoulder. I think he is going to say something, but then he surprises me by taking his hand out of mine, like he is swatting a fly, and he starts to cough. I lean into him, afraid he might fall over, thinking that it is some sort of attack, but it is nothing, just a cough.

“Sorry,” he says. “Nerves.” But I don’t believe him.

You see, it isn’t nerves at all. It is something else entirely. The stranger looks at me, and I feel a sudden sense of dread. It’s like I am being followed, hunted. Like I am prey.

In my mind, I hear my mother's voice. She always spoke like she was the smartest person in the room, or the only person in the room. Maybe that’s why Daddy liked her. Maybe that’s why he married her.

Not this one.

My mother’s voice fades, and a vision flashes. An image takes its place. Will Davenport, this stranger, sharing a meal with another man. He is coughing, and then he is laughing. It’s like watching a television with no sound. I can’t hear what they are saying, but I get the sense that whatever is being said is important, and that I’m not meant to know.

There is something else, something about that cough. Something that would change everything. The stranger’s eyes go wide, wider, and he coughs again, this time so violently I fear he is going to throw up on the rug. And then he freezes, and I think he might keel over, and that’s when I realize he is choking.

So I do the only thing I can do. I reach out and pound his back, trying desperately to get whatever is stuck inside of him out before he suffocates. I move closer, wrap my arms around him, and pull upward on his ribs. It’s not easy to get my arms around a man of his size, and I no longer feel weak in the knees. Whatever is lodged in his throat clears, and with it comes the understanding this is not the man I am looking for.

I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s the same as it is when I'm playing poker.I just know.I sense it in the air. A feeling. A gut check. And when I get those, I always listen.

The man finally speaks, but not before his color returns to normal. He apologizes again. “I stopped in town for a bite… think I might have got food poisoning. That, or the water around here is bad.”

He's lying again. His breath smells of beer; not like he's drunk or anything, just that water wasn't the only thing in his glass. He may be a liar, and maybe he’s not the man I’m looking for, but I cannot lie. Will Davenport is handsome. Dare I say, charming. He looks like he belongs on a movie screen, not here in this ramshackle farmhouse.

“You had lunch with a man.”

It’s not a question. He tilts his head to the side. “Yes, how did you know?”

“He’s not from here.”

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