Page 26 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
Crouched, she claws at the metal drain, trying to get it open.
“That won’t work.”
“Wow. Thanks for the assistance.”
Nearly on her belly as if she’s a giant magnet and will somehow draw the set of keys to her, Margo all but pounds her fists on the pavement. Gripping her elbow, I draw her to her feet. Liquid brims in her eyes and strands of hair fall into her face.
“There’s a fix.”
“Yes. You’re right. We’ll find out where this sewer line goes and catch the keys on the other end. I’m sure there’s a sporting goods store that will have a butterfly net. Perfect. Trudging into the bowels of the city and doing the tango with sewer rats wasn’t on my dance card tonight, but it must be done. The night is still young.” She lifts her arm just short of shoutingExcelsior!
I shake my head. “That’s not what I was thinking. Can I see your phone?”
She opens her purse. I quickly shift us away from the sewer grate and onto solid ground. She taps in her password and gives me the device. I do a quick search for an emergency locksmith and make a call. Twenty minutes later, he’s assessing the situation.
Margo paces, fretting. I imagine she’s cold, her feet ache, and my proposal is the last thing on her mind, but I can’t stop thinking about it. With my mother calling me at all hours and barking her demands, it seems like a solution. A desperate one, but it could work. As Margo said, the night is still young.
“Good thing you’ve got an older model with a key. I can cut it right here,” the locksmith says.
I reply. “Thank you, sir.”
We fill out some paperwork and prove this isn’t a stolen vehicle. Stan, the locksmith, is very accommodating, but I also noticed the Knights sticker on the back of his van, so I think he’s playing it cool and doing me a solid. Even though it isn’t customary to tip a person in this trade, I’ll make sure it’s worth his time with some extra cash and game tickets.
“Beau, you don’t understand,” Margo says.
I make note that she’s already calling me Beau. It’s endearing and I wonder about a nickname for her. Something cute. Something sweet.
“I don’t have a way to pay for this.” She roots through her purse, presumably for her wallet.
“Consider it a late Christmas present.”
“Then I’ll be in your debt.”
“That’s not how gifts work.”
After the locksmith puts the car key in her hand and we thank him, Margo shuffles over to the car door, then freezes.
Hands in my pockets, I feel slightly responsible because what I’d said moments before she dropped the keys probably startled her.
Perhaps she’s considering using the passenger side just in case. She turns slowly toward me. Or she recalls what I’d said just before the keys slipped through her fingers.
“Have you considered my proposal?” I ask.
“Do you understand what that means?”
“Marriage of convenience? Yes, it would be a mutually beneficial agreement between two consenting adults.”
She lifts her gaze, standing steadier now as if no longer shaken or running on adrenaline after the events of the last hour.
“What do you say?”
Pressing her palm to her forehead, she shakes her head slowly. “This is no different from my mother’s insistence that I marry rich.”
“We can discuss payment.”
“No, I won’t accept any money. It would just be so they’d stop pressuring me.”
I understand all too well. “Fair enough.”
