Page 52 of A Storybook Wedding

Maggie picks us up at the ferry, wearing a shirt that has a graphic of an open book on it. My eyes are accosted by the text running across her abundant chest—not that I am noticing; it’s just impossible not to notice. I like my action between the covers, it reads.

“That’s a cute shirt,” CJ says.

“Thank you,” Maggie replies, needlessly smoothing her hands over her northern lady parts. She appears amused—or possibly annoyed—that we’re obviously traveling together, and as a result, she drives the van as if she’s trying out for NASCAR. The roads aren’t icy, but it’s definitely freezing out, and there’s a good chance that patches of black ice could be lurking in the shadows. Maggie evidently does not give a fuck about our safety or her own. She puts her music up loud (today, we’re listening to Sisqó’s “Thong Song”) and ignores us the whole way there.

It’s about 10:30 a.m. by the time we arrive at the retreat center. Our van is greeted by Lucy. She barely even looks at me as she hands me my welcome packet and room key. “I heard about your new development,” she says to both of us. “But I’m not handing out student packets until after lunch. Also, we only have one copy of the room key. Since all the rooms in the main house are supposed to be singles, the retreat center only gives us one copy of each key.”

“You can’t make a copy?” Nate asks.

“If you’d like to travel back to the center of town and locate a hardware store, please, be my guest. But I just got here a little while ago and have another seventy-five people to register, so no, I can’t do that.”

I glance at CJ. “I’m sorry, Lucy. I wasn’t trying to imply that you’re not busy.”

“Not a problem,” Lucy says matter-of-factly. “Cecily, your packet will be here after the faculty lunch is served.”

“Thanks,” CJ replies. “And it’s fine. We can just share the key.”

“Terrific,” Lucy says, although it’s clear that nothing in her life has ever matched that description. She walks off, and I’m glad.

“Come on,” I say to CJ. “I’ll show you where the rooms are.”

She follows me up the staircase. Each room is labeled with an index card with a name scrawled across it.

“Here we are,” I announce when I see the words Mr. and Mrs. Nate Ellis posted on a door. It’s just past Alice Devereaux’s room, same as last time. (Alphabetical order’s a real bitch sometimes.) The single key we have fits the lock, and I open the old oak door.

“Wow,” CJ mumbles.

“Is it okay?” I ask, giving the room the once-over. It’s the same room I stayed in during the summer residency. There’s a queen-size four-poster bed, a small desk, a tall chest of drawers, and an en suite bath. The walls are covered in faded dark-green wallpaper, giving the room a very old-school-bed-and-breakfast vibe. In the corner, there’s a small cast-iron gas fireplace perched on a brick slab, opposite a green velvet wingback chair.

“Wow. They treat you guys like royalty here compared to the student quarters. Have you seen those rooms?”

I shake my head.

“It’s just bad. I can’t describe it. Very prisonlike.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, welcome to your upgrade, I guess.”

She takes it in, nodding appreciatively. “What do you want to do about…?”

“What?”

“Sleeping?”

“What do you mean?”

“Pen, wake up. One bed. Two people. Living a sham life in a marriage of convenience.”

“Jeez, CJ. Lower your voice.”

“Sorry. But still. I mean, this channels the vibes of, like, every romance novel written in the past ten years.”

“You read romance novels? Really?”

“Not anymore. I used to though. Back when I still believed in happy endings.”

“Okay. Well, I just assumed we would share the bed. I’m surprised this didn’t dawn on you earlier, CJ. You’re a smart cookie. Did you think they had the faculty sleeping in bunk beds up here?”

“No, but I sort of thought your accommodations would look a lot more like mine did. How was I supposed to know the room would look all romantic like this?”

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