Page 13 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
A few other rubberneckers gather close—namely Aunts Bernice and Blanche, then Jed who’s always been too nosy for his own good—instead of pulling the safety brake, I triple down and say, “Meet my mother, aunts Cindy, Mona, Bernice, Blanche, and my cousins Selby, Lana, and Jed. Oh, and Jody in the back. Hi! I see you. Meet my fiancé. He’s here all the way from Hockey Town.”
I didn’t have time to verify this information, but I’m seventy-percent sure the guest I scoped out—who is definitely here without a plus one—is a hockey player for the Knights. Either that or he’s a dead ringer, which kind of brings me down another ten percent. If that’s the case, I hope he’s okay with impersonating someone. We’ll deal with the legalities of that later.
In my periphery, he shifts his attention to them. My mother, aunts, and cousins look him up and down as if they’re all suddenly thirsty for a glass of water—goodness knows they’ve had plenty of champagne.
“It’s nice to meet you—” My mother extends her hand and gives me a side eye, whether because I didn’t use my manners and say his name or because she’s on to me, I’m not sure. Strong poker face that one.
“I’m Beaumont.” His voice is deep and rocky. Also—what’s the right word?—splendid. Beaumont has a splendid voice that’s part Arctic and part accented.
The fog of anxiety parts and a memory surfaces with clarity. When I was at the hockey game back in Manhattan, according to Juniper, he was the goaltender responsible for the win. I’mstill learning the rules, or making them up as I go, depending on which game we’re talking about.
Back to that night: When the team did their victory lap around the rink, the arena went insane for Beaumont Hammer, but he didn’t even smile. Maybe he didn’t realize that they were all cheering,Hammer, Hammer, Hammer.The sound of the crowd shouting his last name echoes in my mind.
Margo Hammer sounds doable.
Mom says, “Wren Cabot. Pleasure.”
His grip is so firm, I’m afraid he might break my mother’s bird bones when they shake hands.
“And I’m the future Mrs. Hammer.” I shake a little jazz hand action and smile.
He does not.
“Hockey Town, huh?” Selby asks, batting her eyelashes.
Aunt Cindy elbows her. “You’re a married woman.”
“Speaking of married, when’s the date?” Celeste, my sister, appears like a carrion bird descending from storm clouds.
“Well, we, um, haven’t decided. One wedding at a time. Don’t want to steal anyone’s thunder. Am I right?” I peer into the crowd, looking for Maxine because really the focus should be on her and the groom today.
“Where’s the ring?” my mother asks, unrelenting. She stares me down like the last pair of designer shoes at a trunk sale. As far as she’s concerned, the size of the rock is the most important thing.
Please let it be big.
“It’s not real if there’s not a ring,” Wren says.
“The more bling the better,” Celeste adds, admiring the rock on her finger.
Ignoring Beaumont, either because they’re intimidated or know I’ll crack under pressure, they turn on me. I look at my bare hand and then at them and turn to my fake fiancé.
Pressure makes diamonds, right?
Sending up a silent prayer, I ask for help, but I don’t expect the Good Lord to be in the habit of aiding and abetting liars.
“Unless you’re taking things slow,” my mother teases out the words.
“Unless you’re making this up,” suspicion slithers out of my sister’s mouth.
As seconds pass, my thoughts drip like a leaky faucet as I scramble for what to say.
“I don’t buy it.” My mother shakes her head slowly.
Celeste lifts her chin in agreement. “Not for a minute.”
I think it’s over. We’re through. I’m going to be the laughingstock of the family as usual. Everyone will remember Maxine and Marlon’s wedding as the time Margo tried to steal the spotlight by staging a fake engagement. Only half of that is true. I’m not interested in the spotlight, but this is fake. I know it. They know it. Soon everyone will know it.
Then my sister drops the hydrogen bomb. “The giveaway was there’s no way a guy like Beaumont,” her voice purrs when she says his name, “would go for a girl like Margo.” Only she says my name like Mar-go with a heavy emphasis on thegopart.
