Free She Woke Up Married by Suzanne Macpherson Page A

Turner replied. In a few minutes he was walking toward her with a round tray. He set it on her bedside table. Paris took a peek and saw a cup of tea, which smelled divine—peppermint maybe—a bran muffin, split, with butter melting on it, and a bowl ofoatmeal. The old-fashioned kind of oatmeal, with brown sugar and a little ring of cream on it.
    “I remembered what you liked from school.” Turner stood beside the bed. He handed her a cloth napkin. She didn’t know she owned a cloth napkin.
    “What, Sister Julia Child’s lumpy oatmeal?” Paris said from her pillows.
    Turner laughed. “I can’t believe the names we made up for those poor nuns.”
    “Remember Sister RuPaul? We swore she was a guy under that habit,” Paris said.
    “Ah yes, Sister RuPaul. Man, we were mean little brats.”
    “And Sister Timothy Leary.” Paris laughed. “She was a total space case teaching us art. I swear she was on acid.”
    “And poor Sister Don’t Do That. Nuns should never do sex ed.” Turner wiped his eyes from laughing and leaned on her bedside table.
    “It’s a mortal sin for sure.” Paris laughed till she choked. She reached for the tea and took a sip. It was very fine. “Why the heck did your non-Catholic parents send you to St. Mary’s?”
    “They had friends that recommended it, and it was close to my great-aunt. Luck of the draw.”
    Paris suddenly remembered what she needed to say to Turner. “Listen Turner, pull up a chair. There’s something we have to talk about.”
    Turner stared at her for a moment, then pulledher newly unearthed bedroom chair into position beside the bed.
    “Before you run off with Anton again I…well. People here don’t know about my early days. About my mother or father or any of that. I’ve put that part of my life behind me. Do you understand?”
    “You don’t want me to say anything to your friends about your family. I haven’t done that, Paris, I know you are a very private person. I’m not one to talk about anyone’s business.”
    Paris heaved an audible sigh. She fluffed back against her mound of pillows. “Thanks. I guess I just figured you for a little too honest for my own good.”
    “Have some faith, Paris, I’m on your side.” Turner got up and went back into Paris’s kitchen.
    He was on her side? Paris picked up her plate and silver fork, took a nibble of her bran muffin, and washed it down with tea.
    She had yet to go into the part of the story where she explained her bad behavior that night, how she’d tricked him and that she was a terrible woman for getting him to marry her just so she could seduce him. He might not be on her side after that.
    She thought about seducing him again before she explained that. He looked so seduceable. Parts of her ached with flashbacks of his considerable skills in the lovemaking department.She’d have to clean herself up to pull that off, though. A quick shower, a slinky outfit.
    She set down her plate and slid out of bed, feet hitting the cold wood floorboards. Her head spun. You’d think she’d been on another champagne weekend by the way she felt.
    Then she stood up. Then she wondered if she’d make it to the bathroom without passing out.
    She did make it. Barely. She yakked her guts out till there was nothing left to yak.
    Paris splashed cold water on her face till the color revived in her cheeks. Then she brushed her teeth vigorously and tried to keep the room from spinning. She turned on the wall heater, pulled on a robe, and tried to warm her icy body.
    She must have some serious illness. That was it. She’d been coming down with something for months, and it had finally arrived. That must be it. It had to be.
    Well, she was going straight back to bed until it went away. God Almighty, she felt terrible. And she felt even sicker knowing she was lying to herself like a bold-faced, corrupt politician. Who was she kidding? Herself? Hardly.
    After a while she quietly opened the bathroom door. Maybe Turner had left—if