About two years ago

 

 

Priscilla Story was living in a state of perpetual fear.

Why?

Because muumuus only hid so much.

Just shy of three months pregnant, she had a finite amount of time until she “showed,” and the moment her father noticed, she’d be kicked out on her ass. Kicked out of Forrester, her childhood home; kicked out of her inheritance; and kicked out of their family. It didn’t matter that Priscilla was an adult; Douglas Story was not the type of parent who would condone his “flibbertigibbet” daughter raising her bastard in his house. No, no, no. She’d be out on her ear before she could even pack a suitcase.

Fuck Xavier, her older, very hot, French ex-boyfriend, to the pits of hell and back. He might have shared with her that he had a wife before she’d moved to Paris after Christmas, relocating her whole life for him. In fact, there were many opportunities when Xavier might have been truthful, all the way up to the moment she’d run into him kissing his wife, Sabine, at an open-air market on a gorgeous Saturday morning in Paris.

At the time, Priscilla was picking up the ingredients she needed to make them a special dinner that evening, excited to share with Xavier the news that she was expecting their baby. Upon meeting his wife, she’d thrown her basket of groceries in his face and raced back to her apartment in tears.

That night when he showed up, it was to tell her that he was sorry for lying but that, yes, he was married and, no, he didn’t plan to leave his wife. Apparently, they had an “open” marriage, and had Priscilla not behaved so immaturely this morning, he would have loved for the two women to meet, guessing that they would have gotten along really well. Further, he informed her, he already had three children with Sabine—two in college and one halfway through lycée—and he wasn’t interested in returning to the “diaper stage” again. He would be happy to help her finance an abortion, and once she was free of the “little nuisance,” he didn’t see why they couldn’t carry on as though nothing had changed.

Priscilla, who’d imagined herself in love with him, had stared at him, slack-jawed, before gathering her wits. Far from a prude, she didn’t judge the structure of Xavier’s marriage, but Priscilla had a jealous streak a mile wide, and she didn’t “share” her man with anyone—his wife included. Furthermore, she informed him that she was keeping the baby and had already purchased a ticket back to Philadelphia. His attempts to convince her to stay were halfhearted at best, and after securing his promise never to come looking for her, she threw him out of her apartment, broke her lease, packed up whatever mattered to her, and returned home to Blueberry Lane in Haverford, Pennsylvania.

And now here she was two days later, Baby Bean growing inside of her and Baby Bean’s asshole of a biological father decidedly not in the picture.

Since arriving back at Forrester, she’d spent the last two days locked away in her childhood bedroom, trying to figure out a plan for her future. Reality? Priscilla had no insurance, no job, and very little in terms of solvent, available funds.

Although she had a significant trust fund set up by her mother’s father, the rules stipulated that until each Story daughter had been married for a year—or her fortieth birthday, whichever came first—their father would act as conservator of their money. Priscilla’s father kept a tight rein on it, only releasing a certain annual allowance to each of his daughters every January.

Priscilla had blown through the majority of that money, breaking her lease in Philadelphia, moving to France, and paying down a year’s rent on her sweet little deux-pièces by the Seine. She had about forty thousand dollars left, but medical bills for her and the baby would easily eat that up before the year was out—then where would she live? Looking out the window of her bedroom, her eyes landed on the estate stable buildings in the distance—there were two apartments on the second level of the barn. She wondered distractedly if both were presently in use—not that it really mattered, because the second her father found out her secret, she wouldn’t be welcome anywhere on the estate…which returned the entire path of her thoughts to the beginning: fear.

One question circled around and around in her head endlessly: How can I get Daddy to release more of my trust fund?

Because without more money to pay for a place to live, insurance for her and the baby, and living expenses, she was going to be in big trouble sooner than later.

She sat down at the dressing table still decorated with her prep-school pennant and pictures of old friends and looked at her face in the mirror. With no makeup, freckles dotted her nose, and her messy honey-brown hair fell in cheerful sun-kissed waves around her shoulders. She smiled at her reflection, but her eyes…they looked sad. Frowning, she swiped some leftover-from-junior-high-school electric-blue mascara onto her lashes and plucked two aqua Navajo-feather earrings from her open jewelry box, slipping them into her ears. The holes from her other piercings—empty out of deference to her conservative father—would probably start closing soon. More change. She sighed.

A curt double knock on her bedroom door made her jerk around just as her father entered her room without permission. “It’s my house, gal. I’ll come and go as I please,” he’d informed her about a million times during her years at Forrester.

“You’ll be fourth at dinner,” he said without preamble.

“Sorry?”

“Dinner! Margaret and her fellow are coming for dinner at seven. You’ll round out the numbers.”

His pinched expression grew tighter when his gaze slipped to her wrist, where a tattoo—swirling script that read Coup de Foudre inside a heart with a lightning bolt shot through it instead of an arrow—made him cringe like he’d just tasted something sour.

“Cover up that mess.”

“Daddy—”

“I expect you to behave, gal. Could be a big night for your sister.”

“Why’s that?”

“Just…just try to look respectable for once in your life, eh?”

He pulled the door shut behind him with a slam and was gone.

Priscilla turned back to the mirror, lifting her chin and refusing to acknowledge the sudden shininess of her eyes. Her father’s scorn was nothing new to Priscilla. She’d lived her entire life in the shade of his meager love, knowing with certainty that she was his greatest disappointment.

The second youngest of five sisters, Priscilla Morrow Story had been the black sheep of her family for as long as she could remember. While her three older sisters—Alice, Margaret, and Elizabeth—and one younger sister, Jane, had more or less conformed to the expectations thrust upon them by being born into one of the oldest families on the Main Line, Priscilla had always marched to the beat of her own drum…much to her parents’ dismay.

While Alice, Margaret, Elizabeth, and Jane had worn their traditional pale-pink tutus for the end-of-year ballet recital at the Haverford Conservatory, Priscilla had adorned hers with multicolored scarves pilfered from their ballet teacher’s costume chest. Feeling more like a peacock than a prima ballerina, she’d been inspired to come up with her own last-minute choreography that had her pirouetting madly around the stage with joie de vivre, which had “ruined” the show for the rest of the children and gotten Priscilla kicked out of future classes.

While Alice, Margaret, Elizabeth, and Jane had dutifully attended tennis and golf lessons with a private instructor at Forrester each summer, Priscilla had jumped on her bicycle and sneaked off to the local arts center, where she’d used her spending money to take pottery and painting courses, coming home late in the afternoon, her tennis whites covered in clumps of dry clay and smears of colorful oil paint.

While Alice, Margaret, Elizabeth, and Jane had been presented at the Philadelphia Garden Society’s Annual Cotillion in snow-white gowns on the arms of their escorts—the very picture of chaste womanhood—Priscilla had been found smoking cigarettes and making out with her escort in the coat closet. When discovered by the cotillion chair, who informed her parents that Priscilla did not meet the standards of a garden society “rose,” she was asked to leave the premises immediately.

And while her sisters had attended respected East Coast colleges for sensible courses of study like finance, business, law, and medicine, Priscilla had opted to go to New Mexico to pursue her interest in Native American art. There she’d immersed herself in the local art scene, living on a hippie commune outside of Taos while consuming psychoactive botanicals and liberally experimenting with her sexuality far enough away from Haverford that it didn’t embarrass her family. 

Dressed in rainbow scarves, messy, artsy, open, and adventurous, Priscilla knew she was an enigma to the rest of the buttoned-up Story clan. Some of them, like Margaret and Jane, loved her free-spiritedness unconditionally, but others, like her father and older sisters Alice and Elizabeth, didn’t hide the fact that they were ashamed of her.

The thing about being Priscilla, however, was that no matter how much she longed for her family’s love and acceptance, she couldn’t seem to behave “properly.” Her spirit—her personality—always seemed to win the draw between propriety and expression. She wished she didn’t want their love and acceptance. She wished that her father’s scornful looks and Alice’s backhanded compliments about her “flower-child” wardrobe didn’t sting…but they did. They always had. Priscilla longed for warmth—for hugs and touches, for smiles that were soul deep and love that was unconditional.

Sadly, there were only two people in her family who offered her such acceptance.

Happily, one of them was on her way to Forrester tonight!

“Margaret,” she whispered, savoring her sister’s name and blinking back tears of relief.

Margaret will be here tonight.

Margaret had no idea that Priscilla was back in the states yet, but Priscilla knew her sister: she would draw her into a warm embrace, her kind brown eyes scanning Priscilla’s for news, her heart happy to be near Priscilla’s heart once again.

Maybe Priscilla could find a moment to pull her sister aside and tell her what was going on, ask for her help, her advice. She trusted Margaret implicitly and knew that if worst came to worst, Margaret would do all she could to help her.

She tilted her head to the side, looking at one of the many photos tucked into the frame around her mirror—it was a picture of Priscilla and Margaret in bathing suits with their arms around each other, mugging for the camera one hot summer afternoon by her neighbor’s pool. Priscilla’s greenish hair (a mishap with A Touch of Sun followed by immersion in chlorine) was crimped a la Britney Spears, while her sister sported a sensible brown bob. But there was deep sisterly love in the way they pulled each other close, their heads touching, their smiles wide.

Margaret will help…if she can. Except, she thought, wrinkling her brow, maybe tonight isn’t the right time to dump my problems in Margaret’s lap.

She thought about her father’s words: Margaret and her fellow are coming…Could be a big night for your sister.

While Priscilla was in France, she hadn’t been great at keeping up with her sister, but she didn’t remember Margaret ever mentioning that she was dating anyone special. Last she heard, Margaret was kinda sorta dating that blond guy from their father’s office, right? Shawn? No. That wasn’t it. Um…Shane!

Shane, she thought, picturing his neat blond hair, perfectly pressed dress shirts, and serious blue eyes. Shane, the prep-school boy wonder.

Certainly Shane wasn’t the cause of the “big night” her father alluded to, was he? No. No, definitely not. Margaret wasn’t interested in Shane. Not really. She was just biding her time with him until the right guy came along.

A small, delighted giggle escaped through Priscilla’s lips as she remembered Shane from the summer and fall she’d interned at Story Imports.

She’d worked in the cubicle outside her father’s office, helping his legal assistant, Mary Lou, with filing projects and organizing records. Every time she saw Shane coming, she’d purposely pull down her blouse until the top of her bra showed. Then she’d watch with fascination as prim and proper Shane desperately tried not to look at her cleavage. She’d deliberately try to stall him from entering her father’s office, peppering him with inane questions about his job, just to watch his face grow pink from the effort it took not to gape at her tits. And the few times his gaze did slip, his blue eyes blinked and dilated at the sight of her lace-edge or satin-smooth bra.

She giggled again.

What sweet, sweet victory.

Tugging a dozen clinking silver bracelets over her tattoo, she ran a hand through her hair and decided to leave it down. The doorbell rang as she hurried down the stairs, tugging on the already low-cut neckline of her dress with a saucy grin.

***

Shane Olson had an agenda tonight . . . and if he wanted quick career advancement, which he absolutely did, his agenda was nonnegotiable.

Happily, he also felt it was well within his grasp.

When he’d started at Story Imports four years ago, he’d intended to set the company on fire with the ideas he’d gleaned from business school. He quickly ingratiated himself to his boss, Douglas Story, and over the ensuing two years, rose quickly in the ranks from sales associate, to regional sales manager, to director of North American sales, to senior director of sales and marketing.

That said, however, the elusive and coveted upper management titles of chief of staff and vice president had not been bestowed upon him with such alacrity, no matter how much business he brought to Story Imports or how many deals he nailed. For two years now, his compensation had been increased steadily each year, but his title remained unchanged.

The problem was that should he ever leave Story Imports for a larger beverage import-export company, he needed to bring the title with him. As far as he could tell, he should have been promoted to vice president of sales last year, but yet again, at his annual review in January, a promotional title was not offered.

Frustrated, Shane had asked Douglas why.

After a long “humph,” Douglas had hefted his considerable girth from his office chair, waddled around the desk, and closed his office door. Returning to his desk, he tented his hands, looked Shane squarely in the eye, and declared, “VP and up is for family.”

“I don’t understand,” said Shane, who recalled Douglas’ eldest daughter, Alice Story, quitting her job at Story Imports last summer to start her own company because her father refused to promote her above an associate position.

“You can’t be a vice president here unless you’re family.”

“But Alice—”

“I’m not talking about the girls,” said Douglas with a disdainful sniff. “I need the right man for the job.”

And yet Douglas had no sons and no nephews he was ostensibly grooming for the position of top dog. Shane shifted in his seat, trying to figure out what he was missing but coming up blank.

Douglas huffed out an exasperated breath. “A son-in-law, for God’s sake! I need a son-in-law who can start taking over the reins!”

He blinked at his boss. The only Story daughter working at Story Imports was Margaret. He was fairly certain that Margaret was single, but perhaps he was wrong.

“Is Margaret dating someone you hope to hire?”

“Nope,” said Douglas, leaning forward in his chair, his eyes locked with Shane’s. “Margaret’s not dating anyone. She’s free as a bird . . . son.”

Aha. Though it took him a moment to catch on, Shane finally understood. Douglas was suggesting that he date Margaret with an eye toward marriage.

At first, the idea had shocked him, even repelled him. Not because there was anything wrong with Margaret—in fact, Shane had a great deal of respect for his boss’s daughter.

Margaret was bright and focused, intuitive and clever. She was good at her job and easy to work with; Shane had a very amicable business relationship with her and admired her very much. That said, he’d never been attracted to her . . . nor had he ever entertained any notion about pursuing her romantically. And asking her out merely to meet his career aspirations felt wrong on some level—felt underhanded, ungentlemanly. He was essentially just using her to get ahead.

And yet . . . as he mulled it over during the ensuing days, marriage, when looked at like a business proposition, made a certain amount of unexpected sense, not only for him, but for Margaret too.

He took a close look at the salient facts:

1.                  Douglas wouldn’t promote his daughters above an associate level. He’d made that clear with Alice, and after two years of working at Story Imports, Margaret hadn’t been promoted either.
2.                 But if Shane took over Story Imports as president, he would be in a position to promote Margaret to CEO. It was the best—possibly only—chance she would have at rising above an associate position in her family’s company.

Further, Margaret and Shane were of like mind about the future of Story Imports and had bonded for several years over their mutual frustration with her father’s refusal to position Story Imports as a global leader in beverage importation. Douglas’ accounting and distribution systems were hopelessly outdated, and he still ran his business with a 1980s-style mentality, eschewing social media for traditional ad sales and marketing.

If Shane and Margaret could take over the management of Story Imports together, there was no end to the changes and improvements they could make. It was even possible that they could vault the respectable but small company into an entirely different profit margin.

But they’d need to gain that control first.

And Douglas had been crystal clear about how to make it happen.

So Shane had asked Margaret out on a date, uncertain of whether or not she’d accept, since they’d never shown any romantic interest in one another. Unexpectedly, she did accept, and one date led to another, which then led to another, and so on. Soon he was seeing her out of the office every weekend, her escort for gallery openings and dinner parties, galas and fundraisers.

The society in which Margaret moved effortlessly was a place Shane had long yearned for acceptance, and it was heady to finally—after more than a decade of living at the periphery of Philadelphia’s highest society—feel as though he belonged.

Though he didn’t, of course. Not really.

The youngest son of five from a struggling working-class Wisconsin family, Shane had pursued a different destiny from a young age. He wasn’t content to stay in the Midwest, working on his parents’ dairy farm. He’d always wanted more.

He’d chased down a scholarship to a Virginia prep school as a teenager, then done the same to attend college—both institutions offering him a free ride and on-campus jobs for books and spending money. His eye was always on the prize: to become a successful businessman one day. It had seemed like the perfect escape from the life he was born into.

At fourteen-years-old, he’d left his childhood home in a blazer he’d purchased from the local Goodwill store, saying good-bye to wintery morning milkings and roosters crowing at dawn, to sweet girls who spread their legs too fast on hay beds in dark barns and ended up wanting a ring at graduation. He’d turned his back on 4-H competitions and Sunday morning services, on dung-caked boots and Wednesday-night bingo.

He’d sought a different life entirely, far away from home: private schools and endless studying, Brooks Brothers loafers and Friday-night scotch. He wanted a house bigger than the Storys’ Forrester and a respectable wife, admired for her volunteer work in the community or, like Margaret, with a natural business acumen and ties to a family business that would advance his own ambitions.

He wanted children who grew up playing golf and tennis, went to Ivy League colleges, and never, ever worried about having enough to eat or when the power company might cut the electric because the bill was two months overdue. He wanted financial security, respect, and power. As far as he could tell, running Story Imports and passing it on to his children would be a good way to make his dreams come true.

Asking Margaret to marry him tonight would be a shortcut to that end.

At a red light, Shane turned to look at his possible intended, who sat serene and lovely in the passenger seat beside him, hoping that he would—for once—feel a spark of something more for Margaret. But alas, after several months of casual dating, he felt nothing for her but respect and friendship.

Margaret was a fine girl—a great girl, even—and Shane had become quite fond of her. Never having had time for a girlfriend at prep school or at Hampton-Sydney, the all-male college he’d attended in Virginia, or even before he started seeing Margaret, he found that he appreciated her company very much. She was kind and articulate, bright, and interesting; she didn’t flaunt her body or confound him with too much girly behavior. The few times they’d kissed, he’d felt a tiny rush from the intimacy and contact, though under fire, he’d have to admit that kissing Margaret was…nothing special. There was barely a sizzle between them.

He straightened in his seat as the light changed, turning his attention back to the road, and reminding himself that sizzle was not a requirement for the success of this particular arrangement. In fact, Shane and Margaret would likely make more sensible decisions about the future of Story Imports if sizzle remained at a bare minimum.

Over the past few months, he and Margaret often discussed what they would do if they were in control of Story Imports. It had become an enjoyable game of sorts, as they’d taken turns wowing one another with cutting-edge ideas and creative ways to make the company more efficient and modern. That said, however, Shane had never actually laid out his plan to her that they should get married to make it happen. He assumed she’d be on board, of course. She wasn’t dating anyone but him, and why wouldn’t she want to forward her own career goals and hopes for Story Imports? Then again, Shane had never mastered the fine art of “reading” a woman. Maybe it would be best to explain everything to her first, and then they’d be in agreement when Shane “popped the question” as a formality tonight.

He flicked his eyes over to her, clearing his throat before he began speaking.

“Um, Margaret…I was hoping to talk about the future of Story Imports at some point soon.”

“Hmm?” she murmured.

Taking her murmur as assent to continue, he proceeded.

“As you know, I’m very vested in the success of the company, and I feel strongly that you and I would make a top-notch managerial team.” She glanced at him, nodded benignly, then turned back to the window. He could only assume she was still listening. “But to be a great team in the office, I believe it’s imperative that we be a great team outside of it too. Your father has made it clear to me that he wants the company to remain in the family, and therefore, I would need to be a member of the family for us to move Story Imports in a new direction.

“Margaret, I find you a very capable, very smart woman of sound judgment and excellent business acumen. You’re a woman, in fact, who would make any man a very fine partner. And if you agree, I think I could be a good candidate for the job. I know that we could make some real and lasting improvements at Story Imports.

“To be clear, Margaret, were we to marry, I am certain that your father will promote me to president upon his retirement, and I would, in turn, promote you to CEO. Really, our union need only last until those promotions have taken effect, and then, well, we could quietly divorce if you feel that’s best. Or if we’ve become accustomed to one another, we could—well, I don’t know, exactly . . . I suppose that’s a bridge to be crossed at a later date.” She didn’t say a word, and Shane cleared his throat as he rolled up to a red light. “What I offer is a business proposition, a marriage of convenience for our mutual benefit. I feel certain that you’re sensible enough to see the value in…”

As he braked, he turned to her, his words ebbing off as he found her in exactly the same position she’d been in when he’d started speaking. She was facing the window, her face relaxed, her lips softly parted, eyes glazed over. Wait a minute. Was she listening to him? Because she appeared to be deep in thought.

“Margaret?” He paused. “Er . . . Margaret?” Still nothing. “Margaret? Margaret!”

She jerked her neck to face him. “Huh?”

“I’ve said your name four times!”

Her brown eyes were wide with surprise. “Did you? Oh, I . . . I, uh . . .”

“Did you hear a word I said?” he asked.

“Yes! Of course!” she assured him with a wavering smile. “Of course I did. I’m sorry, Shane. I was . . .”

She’d appeared distracted, but as she reassured him, he reminded himself that appearances were deceiving, especially where women were concerned. What looked like distraction must have been deep concentration as Margaret listened carefully, mulling over his proposal.

“Do you agree, Margaret? About us? Our future?”

“Our future,” she said softly, her eyes searching his face like she was looking for clues to his meaning.

“The future of Story Imports,” he clarified.

“Oh!” Her shoulders relaxed, and she nodded. “The future of Story Imports. Yes, of course, Shane. We’re on the same page.”

“Excellent,” he said, smiling back at her, feeling very pleased.

That was easy. But then, agreeing to a good business deal always was.

The light turned green, and Shane stepped on the gas, feeling a sense of elation as he imagined all his careful planning falling into place.

They would proceed with a marriage of convenience for the sake of business, and who knows? Maybe deeper feelings would grow over time, he thought, an uncharacteristic bit of longing catching him by surprise. They already had respect and a certain amount of compatibility. They were solid business associates and good friends. Decent marriages had been built on less, hadn’t they? Not that he was well versed on the subject, but he was sure they had. And anyway, once they were in charge of Story Imports, he and Margaret could amicably go their separate ways if deeper feelings hadn’t materialized between them. Shane certainly wouldn’t contest a divorce if Margaret wanted one.

“There’s plenty of time to sort out the details as long as this is what you want too,” he said.

She stared at him, then nodded, with that dazed, distracted look still on her face. “Yes. Yes, fine.”

Any misgivings he’d originally had about such a proposition faded away with her easy agreement. Margaret was, as he’d known, a savvy businesswoman who surely wanted her chance to direct the course of her family’s business. Shane would give her that chance by promoting her, as long as she gave him that chance by marrying him. It was an excellent deal for both of them, really.

“I’m so glad we’re on the same page. I’m very happy, Margaret. Very happy indeed.”