CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The plane touched down at lunchtime in Boise, Idaho, the closest airport to Baker City, Oregon. I’d spent a sleepless night yesterday at my apartment. I’d begged off going with Bradley to the pub after work, telling him I had to attend to an emergency client meeting out of town that I couldn’t put off. Luckily, we worked in different departments, and he wasn’t privy to all of my client files; otherwise, he would have known I was full of crap. I was also fortunate that Ruby had zero issue with hiding things from that Bradley. She’d been almost too delighted to make my plane, hotel, and car rental reservations. The feelings of guilt were turning into an ulcer, eating through me from the inside out.
The memory of Ruby pressing her good luck troll doll into my hand made me smile weakly, easing the pain somewhat. “Take this,” she’d said after I’d sat in my chair like a zombie and tried to explain the huge error I had to go fix out in Oregon of all places. I had less than a week to get an annulment or divorce and fix the license garbage at the courthouse, or I was done. Single once again. Lifeplan in the dust. “It’ll bring you luck,” she assured me. “I had it in my pocket when I met my Michael, God rest his beautiful soul.” She tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling for a few seconds, a contented look on her face.
I didn’t ask her why she had a lumpy, plastic, butt-ugly troll doll in her pocket when she met her future husband. It was irrelevant, and I had to save all my energy for relevant facts only. I’d stared down at the thing in my hand, its ridiculous blue and purple hair sticking out in all directions, and almost shut it up in my desk when she turned around. But instead, I threw it into my purse and dragged it along with me on this fool’s errand.
I sighed heavily, looking for the signs that would direct me to the car rental agencies. This had to be a mistake; it just had to be. How could I possibly have married a man in Vegas and not remembered any of it? This stuff doesn’t happen in real life.
Only, it kind of does. It happens often enough that I’ve found myself part of a statistically valid group. I slogged through the airport as I recalled what I’d uncovered, my feet and legs moving through virtual mud or quicksand or something. I was so not motivated to deal with this shit.
After I’d gotten up off the floor of my office and convinced Ruby I didn’t need an ambulance, I’d gone into research mode. No one can conduct discovery like this girl can—no one . . . especially when I was this focused on finding a loophole. While looking up my alleged husband’s name and vital information provided on the faxed-over marriage certificate, I’d run across several newspaper articles about these twenty-four-hour wedding chapels in Las Vegas that catered to the too-drunk-to-remember crowd. One of them was the one I’d been inside. And there was no doubt about it; I had been inside. My signature on the form was real. Yes, it was sloppy. Yes, it was crooked. Yes, it was even smudged. But it was definitely mine.
The signs for Enterprise car rentals appeared above my head. My hand shook as I wiped my upper lip. Boise was hotter than I would have guessed it could be at this time of year. I continued down the hallway, lugging my overnight bag over my shoulder.
All my research had not been able to uncover one important fact: whether or not the marriage had been consummated. I wasn’t even sure if I’d remember what Gavin MacKenzie looked like. The law firm’s resources were pretty strong in the area of conducting background checks, but nothing had brought up a picture of the guy. I had his driving records—spotless—but no DMV mug shot.
I wanted to sob with anger and frustration. This whole mess flew in the face of my lifeplan. If Bradley ever found out that I’d kept this from him or that I’d even done such a stupid, irresponsible thing, our wedding would be canceled. And then I’d be one of those girls: the ones who get left at the altar. Ugh. Shoot me now. My rainmaker title would surely be gone soon thereafter. Who wants to do legal work with a girl who tries to become a bigamist on the sly? It’s sick how quickly bad news makes it around our town. No one would believe me if I tried to convince them I hadn’t known I was married. Even as a skilled litigator, I was certain that was an argument I’d never be able to make convincingly.
“Welcome to Enterprise. Can I help you?” asked the man at the counter.
“Yes. I have a reservation.” I handed him the papers Ruby had given me. They were all so neatly organized and labeled. She was back on her game in a major way, even giving me a hug and kiss when I left the office. I guess that was one small consolation in my craptastic life. She didn’t even scold me when I dropped the F-bomb no less than five times.
The rental agent typed some things into his computer, gave me some forms to sign, and then handed over some keys and a small black box. “Here you go. Enjoy your stay in the greater Boise area. Do you need a map?”
“No, I’ll just use the GPS.” I looked at the tiny device he’d given me, not feeling overly confident that it would do the job, but I was terrible with maps.
He smiled and nodded, my dismissal clear when he spun his chair around and faced the opposite direction.
I walked out into the parking lot and found the space he’d written on the rental folder. I frowned at the bright yellow and black machine that sat there waiting for me. What is that? A riding lawnmower? “This can’t be right,” I said to no one. I was the only one out there, so I don’t know who I thought I was talking to, but having a thousand conversations in my head over the last twenty-four hours was making me question my own sanity. Probably talking out loud to myself wasn’t any better, but what the hell . . . might as well change up the crazy every once in a while to keep it fresh.
I pressed the button on the key ring and the headlights flashed on once, proving this was not a mistake. “A Smart Car? Are you kidding me?” It looked like a giant, wasp-yellow roller skate. Maybe not even a giant one; maybe just a largish roller skate. Surely looking like a giant wasp flying down a country road was a bad idea for a girl with a sting allergy . . .
I debated in my head whether I should go and argue for one of the other fifty full-sized cars on the lot but then gave up on the idea five seconds later. “Screw it,” I said, annoyed as hell. “Might as well get eight hundred miles to the gallon, right?!” The tone of my voice had drifted a little over to the hysterical side, but there was nothing I could do about it. I was barely hanging on, the stress almost enough to send me to the loony bin. I just kept picturing Bradley saying, “You got married? To a complete stranger? In Las Vegas? When you were drunk? By a guy named Elvis?” It was too horrible to fully fathom. He’d dump me just for humiliating him in front of all his clients and his frat brothers and his parents. There were so many people expecting me to be the perfect fiancée.
I threw my overnight bag in the passenger seat and drove off the lot, wishing I could peel out and really express my anger in a satisfyingly loud and obnoxious way. But I quickly learned that a Smart Car doesn’t know how to peel out; it’s not equipped to do much with its lawn-mower-sized engine. It just knows how to deliver me from Point A to Point B on a very small amount of gas with almost zero elbow room. I felt like a clown buzzing around in her little circus car. The only things missing were a little face paint and some floppy shoes. At first I thought I was also missing one of those brass honky-horns that clowns carry around, but then I pressed on the steering wheel and found out differently. Yes, it’s true. The Smart Car comes equipped with a clown honky-horn.
I arrived in Baker City, Oregon, a little over two hours later and checked into my hotel room. Sitting on the bed in the tired old room, I stared at the ugly wallpaper. The folder sitting next to me on the nightstand was full of information I could use to help me find the mysterious Gavin MacKenzie. Now I just had to build up the nerve to use it. Then I could take off, ask a few questions of some strangers, track him down with their clues, and have that conversation with him. The one where I ask him if he remembers sleeping with me and then possibly marrying me too. My stomach was in knots.