Free The Marriage Pact (1) by M. J. Pullen

pay Odessa a
secret bonus to keep her from quitting, as so many of Mildred’s “girls” had
before her.
    “It
used to be girls didn’t worry about their careers, especially good Southern girls.
You served God and your family first and that’s the way it was. Nowadays you
girls are so selfish.” Here she pointed a skeletal finger directly into Marci’s
face. “You think that your happiness matters before anything else. What about
family? Don’t you care about anyone but yourself? I hope your sister intends on
staying home with the children when the time comes, not gallivanting all over
the world like—”
    “Like
me?” Theresa appeared out of nowhere, smiling. “Don’t worry, Aunt Mildred,” she
trilled, tossing an arm around Marci’s shoulders and wheeling her toward the
living room, “I can’t get these girls to visit me often enough to be a bad
influence on them. Shall I get you some tea? We’re about to do gifts.”
    Marci
heard Mildred mutter some sort of reluctant assent, but she was too grateful
for her freedom to risk looking back and making eye contact again. She quickly
made her way to the punch bowl on the other side of the room and engaged in
hasty conversation with a second cousin up from Valdosta while Theresa tended
to Aunt Mildred. A few minutes later, Marci had just realized she’d left her
cell phone in the car, and that she had not yet spoken to Doug, when Theresa
raised her punch glass for a toast and announced to emphatic applause that it
was time to open gifts.
    It
was amazing how many things the world suddenly thought you needed when you were
getting married. Marci knew for a fact that Nicole could barely put together a
grilled cheese sandwich, and yet out of countless wrapped boxes she pulled cooking
devices and serving trays that looked foreign even to Marci. A deviled egg
platter. A crème brûlée torch. Espresso maker. Panini press. Waffle iron. She
tried to picture Nicole and Ravi, who both worked at least sixty hours a week
and knew the Chinese takeout man on a first-name basis, sitting to an elegant
brunch of fresh-squeezed orange juice, cappuccino, and waffles...
    Marci,
who did know her way around the kitchen a little bit, couldn’t help but
feel a twinge of resentment knowing that most of these items would be returned
for store credit, or kept in garage storage while Nicole ate frozen waffles and
delivery pizza. Next, she opened an oversized Dutch oven roasting pan,
beautiful and expensive, and gushed, “Oh, I can’t wait to cook a Thanksgiving bird
in here!”
    Marci
snorted involuntarily, and had to fake a coughing fit when the whole room
turned to look at her. Her mother shot her a warning glare, so she took the
opportunity to step out the back door, on the pretense of being unable to stop
coughing.
    While
Nicole opened a monogrammed crystal punch bowl, Marci crept around the side of
the house and realized that her mom’s Buick was in full view of the front
window where the shower was. What excuse could she make for running out to the
car? Cough drops? Allergy pills?
    Marci,
stop. This is ridiculous. You are thirty years old and are allowed to leave a
party for five minutes to check your phone . What if you had an important business call or
something?
    Just
to be safe, however, she ducked behind some bushes and skittered in a hunch to
the far side of the car as though she were in a shoot-out, flattening herself
against the hump in the floorboard to retrieve her purse from the other side.
She settled back onto the hidden side of the floor of the car with her feet
hanging out the open door while she pulled out her phone. No missed calls—Doug
was either completely pissed or had given up on reaching her.
    Almost
3:45 . She tried
to think what time he might be leaving to head back to Austin, and decided that
if he wasn’t already in the car, he certainly would have his phone off or
hidden as usual. She dialed the number, trying to think how to explain last
night’s