The copy shop at the end of Harbor Street smelled of toner, wet wool, and someone's forgotten oat milk latte. Poppy Hartwell balanced on a stool behind the register, one hand pressed to the stack of church bulletin proofs and the other stabbing at the enter key on a keyboard sticky with soda.
"Pops! The Reicherts want a thousand thank-you notes on cream stock by tomorrow."
Bex's voice cracked across the room, louder than the printer grinding through its fourth jam of the hour. She stood in the doorway of the back office, paint-splattered Carhartts, hair yanked into a knot that was losing a war against humidity.
"Also, Mrs. Calloway's banner says 'congragulations' instead of 'congratulations' and she's already crying about it."
Poppy did not look up. The account on her screen showed a balance that could be rounded to zero without much rounding. The creative director she'd freelanced for in Portland had ghosted her invoice, her gallery had ghosted her portfolio, and the viral anonymous illustration account that actually paid anything existed in a folder on her desktop labeled DO NOT OPEN IN FRONT OF CLIENTS.
"I heard you." Poppy's laugh came out before the joke did. "I'm speedrunning adulthood, Bex. Watch me."
She pulled up the cream stock template, started clicking through fonts. Her phone buzzed against the counter. A text from her mother. A voicemail from her sister. An email notification that turned out to be a chain letter from 2007 finally arriving.
"Pops."
"Hearing you. Hearing you."
"Also there's a man outside who looks like he pays people to be offended on his behalf."
Poppy's head came up. The bell above the door had not rung. The man in question stood just inside the vestibule, rain beading on the shoulders of a charcoal coat that had no business being in this coastal town in November. He was reading the handwritten OPEN sign as though it were a contract clause.
Reid Kingsley had not been inside Hartwell Printing in twenty years. The last time, he had been seventeen and trying to print a campaign poster for student council, which his mother had vetoed by phone from London. The shop had been a paper forest then. Now it was a paper forest plus a digital setup humming in the corner, plus a hand-lettered chalkboard advertising YARD SALE FLIERS.
He recognized Poppy before she recognized him. She was bent over the register, hair escaping from a clip, an oat milk stain on her sleeve that she had clearly tried to scrub out and failed. She had not changed. Same restless hands. Same laugh lines around her mouth that suggested she found the world slightly ridiculous, which she had.
He stepped forward. His shoes were wrong for the floor. The bell gave a small, apologetic jingle.
"If it isn't the Hartwell hurricane." His voice came out before he could sand it down.
Poppy looked up. Her eyes went wide, then narrowed, then went wide again. She pointed at him with the hand that had been on the keyboard, a gesture that managed to be both accusatory and delighted.
"Reid Kingsley. The prodigal architect returns to the village that bore him." She hopped off the stool. The stool wobbled. "Also, what are you doing in my copy shop? Did your family finally need fliers?"
"My grandfather left me the cabin on Driftwood Lane." He kept his hands in his pockets. The rain had followed him in. "I've been fixing it up."
"Fixing it up. Of course you are. With blueprints and tasteful lighting." She came around the counter. She was shorter than he remembered. The same, though. The exact same. "Bex, come meet the guy who beat me at the eighth-grade spelling bee and then pretended he hadn't studied."
Bex appeared in the doorway, arms folded, expression unimpressed. "The cabin on Driftwood? The one with the rotting porch and the raccoon situation?"
"The raccoons have been evicted," Reid said.
"With what? Charm?" Bex looked at Poppy. "I like him. He's got haunted rich-guy energy."
Poppy waved a hand. "Bex. Behave."
"I am behaving. I'm observing." Bex looked back at Reid. "You here for fliers or feelings?"
Reid took a breath. He had rehearsed this. He had driven past the shop three times. He had written the proposal, rewritten it, then printed it at the cabin on paper that had cost more than the cabin's property tax. He pulled a manila folder from his coat.
"I have a proposition."
The room went quiet, except for the printer, which chose that moment to unjam itself with a triumphant whir.
"Proposition is a strong word," Poppy said. "Last time a man said proposition to me, it was my uncle trying to get me to invest in essential oils."
"This is not essential oils." He set the folder on the counter. "This is a contract."
"A contract." Bex leaned in. "In a copy shop. Which is poetic, actually."
Poppy opened the folder. Inside were eight pages, single-spaced, in a typeface that looked expensive. The header read TEMPORARY ENGAGEMENT AGREEMENT. She read the first paragraph, then the second, then looked up at him.
"You want me to pretend to be your fiancée."
"Yes."
"For six weeks."
"Yes."
"In front of your grandmother."
"Yes."
Poppy turned to Bex. Bex raised both eyebrows. Poppy turned back to Reid. "Reid. Sweetheart. I have not seen you in over a decade. You flew in from wherever architects live. You walked into my family's copy shop. And your opening line is 'pretend to marry me for cash'?"
"There is more in the proposal."
"I bet there is."
He waited. She read. Her face did three things in quick succession, which was the most Poppy thing he had ever seen.
"Sixty days," she said.
"Sixty days."
"Fifty thousand dollars."
"Fifty thousand."
"Paid in installments."
"Paid in installments, with a completion bonus."
Poppy set the folder down. She picked it up again. She set it down. "Reid. I need you to explain to me, in words that a normal human would use, why on earth you need a fake fiancée for two months."
Reid glanced at Bex, who was openly eating popcorn from a bag she had produced from somewhere.
"Nana Rose," he said. "She has a birthday. A milestone. There will be a gala. The family will descend. She has made it very clear, through a series of increasingly pointed letters, that she intends to die having seen at least one grandchild settled."
"Couldn't you just, you know, settle?" Bex asked.
"With whom?"
"With anyone. There's apps. There's your mother's Rolodex. There's literally the entire female population of New York."
"Bex." Poppy's voice had a warning in it.
"I'm just saying."
Reid turned back to Poppy. "My grandmother is ninety-eight. She has been asking about my personal life with the persistence of a subpoena. My mother has been escalating. My sister has offered to set me up with every eligible woman between here and Manhattan. The gala is in six weeks. If I show up alone, my mother will spend the evening turning it into a matchmaking clinic, and my grandmother will spend the evening looking at me the way only grandmothers can."
"The disappointed look," Poppy said quietly.
"You know it."
"I know it." Her mother had deployed it on Poppy for years, usually about apartment choice or career trajectory or whether she had called her sister back. "The grandmother look is devastating."
"It is."
"And you came to me."
"Yes."
"Why me?"
Reid did not lie well. He had tried, in his twenties, and had discovered that his face did things he could not control. So he told the truth. "Because you are not going to fall in love with me."
"Oh, that's flattering."
"It is meant to be practical. We need to convince one woman, for six weeks, that we are in love. You are immune to me. You told me so at the Kingsley Fourth of July in 2009, in front of my mother, while eating potato salad."
"I was sixteen."
"You were accurate."
Poppy crossed her arms. "I have a job."
"You are behind on invoices," Bex said.
"Bex."
"What? You are. I'm being supportive."
"I have a reputation," Poppy said, and the way she said it made Reid look at her, and look again.
"Poppy."
"What?"
"What reputation?"
Poppy waved a hand. "Design reputation. Small-town. Nothing."
Bex snorted. Reid filed it away.
"The terms are generous," he said.
"The terms are bizarre." Poppy picked up the folder again. She read the third page. "You want me to learn your family history. Your siblings' names. The names of your childhood pets. The name of your first girlfriend."
"Third girlfriend."
"Reid."
"It is in the contract."
"This contract is unhinged." Poppy looked at him. "Do you have any idea how much I would have to fake? I haven't even been on a date in eighteen months. My last relationship ended because he said my laugh was 'aggressive.' I am not exactly fiancée material."
"You are exactly fiancée material. Warm. Real. The kind of person a dying woman would like to see her grandson choose." He paused. "Also, you are local. There is a version of you that grew up down the road from me. My grandmother remembers you."
"She remembers me?"
"She remembers the girl who drew a caricature of my uncle Arthur on a napkin at his retirement party. She has it framed."
Poppy's face did something. "That was a joke."
"It was a gift."
She put the folder down. She picked it up. "I need to think about it."
"Of course."
"I need to talk to Bex."
"Naturally."
"I need to call my mother, who will tell me I am insane."
"Also natural."
Poppy took a breath. Then another. Then she stuck out her hand. "Give me until Friday."
"Thursday."
"Friday. Final offer."
He took her hand. Her palm was ink-stained and warm. Her handshake was firm in the way of people who had been raised to mean it.
"Friday," he said.
"Friday," she said.
Bex clapped slowly. "This is the best thing that has happened in this shop since the fire of 2014."
"There was a fire?" Reid asked.
"There was a toaster oven," Poppy said. "And my mother. Long story."
Reid buttoned his coat. The rain had not let up. He could hear it on the glass, steady as a metronome. He had two days to wait. He had spent longer waiting for building permits.
"Thank you," he said.
"Don't thank me yet. I might say no."
"You will not say no."
"How do you know?"
"Because you are already thinking about what shoes you would wear to a Kingsley gala."
Poppy opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "Get out of my shop, Reid Kingsley."
He tipped an imaginary hat. The bell above the door gave a small, mournful jingle as he stepped out into the rain.
Bex turned to Poppy the second the door closed. "Absolutely not."
"I didn't say yes."
"You didn't say no. Your face said yes. Your face is a traitor."
"He wants me to pretend to be in love with him for six weeks. For money. To fool a dying grandmother."
"That is exactly the kind of thing you say yes to when you have lost your mind and also when you have not been on a date in eighteen months."
"Bex."
"Pops. Baby. Light of my life. I just got out of a relationship where a man used my mural supplies as bargaining chips. I am not objective. I am the opposite of objective. I am the opposite of objective's evil twin."
Poppy looked at the folder in her hand. The pages were heavy. The typeface was beautiful. The contract was insane.
"He said I was immune to him."
"He said you told him you were immune to him. At a Fourth of July party. While eating potato salad."
"Yes."
"Pops. You were sixteen."
"I was accurate."
Bex threw the popcorn at her. Poppy caught a piece in her mouth. The printer jammed again. The rain kept falling.
Outside, Reid Kingsley walked down Harbor Street toward the truck he had borrowed from his sister, which was too large for this town and definitely too large for his life. His phone buzzed. A text from his mother, which he ignored. A text from his sister, which he opened. A photo of a woman at a charity luncheon, with the caption: SHE LIKES SCULPTORS.
He typed back: I have a plan.
His sister replied, in seconds: IF YOUR PLAN INVOLVES THE COPY SHOP GIRL I WILL BUY YOU A NEW TRUCK.
He stared at the message. Then he put the phone in his pocket and drove back to the cabin, where the raccoons had not, in fact, been evicted, and where his grandmother's most recent letter sat on the kitchen table, waiting.
The envelope was not addressed to anyone. It was addressed to The Tenant of 414 Beech Street, in a font that looked expensive, and it sat in the brass mailbox outside the small apartment above the copy shop, which was not a real apartment but a converted storage space with a window that did not close all the way and a radiator that clanged like a haunted xylophone.
Poppy found it on a Tuesday. The rain had not stopped. The printer was out of cyan ink. She had forty-seven dollars in her bank account, a rejection letter from a gallery in Seattle she had been pretending did not exist, and a text from Bex that said: BABE. THE DUMPSTER OUTSIDE MARCOS HAS A LIKELY WORKING MICROWAVE. I AM NOT SAYING WE EAT OFF IT. I AM SAYING IT HAS A TURNTABLE.
She carried the envelope upstairs. The stairs complained. The radiator clanged. The envelope was heavy. She opened it with a butter knife because she could not find the scissors, which were probably in the place she had looked three times, which was the laundry basket, because her life was a series of small, avoidable tragedies.
Inside was a single sheet of paper. The letterhead read: CHEN, PRESCOTT ASSOCIATES. The font was serif. The paper felt like it had been woven by monks.
The letter said:
Dear Ms. Hartwell,
We represent the estate of a private client who has identified you as a person of interest in a personal matter of some delicacy. We are not at liberty to disclose the client's identity prior to an initial consultation. We respectfully request your presence at the address below on Thursday at 10:00 a.m. A vehicle will be provided. Please do not be late.
Sincerely,
Margaret Chen, Esq.
There was a phone number. There was an address in a part of town that Poppy associated with things she could not afford: the kind of houses with window boxes and porches that looked like they had opinions. There was no explanation. There was no return address except a P.O. box.
Poppy read it twice. She read it a third time because the rain was very loud and she had trouble concentrating. She considered the possibilities. She was being sued. She was being scammed. She was being recruited for a pyramid scheme that involved very high-quality stationery.
She called Bex.
"I got a letter," she said. "From a lawyer."
"A real lawyer?"
"It has letterhead."
"What does it say?"
"It says a private client has identified me as a person of interest in a personal matter of some delicacy."
Bex was quiet for a long time. The only sound was the rain, and the radiator, and a dog barking somewhere on the next block. Then Bex said, with great care: "Pops. Did you accidentally illustrate for a crypto bro?"
"I did not."
"Did you accidentally go viral for the wrong reason?"
"I went viral for the right reason. The reason was anonymous. The reason is still anonymous."
"Did you accidentally become the secret love child of a lighthouse keeper?"
"That is a very specific scenario."
"I have been reading a lot of gothic fiction. The point is, you should not go."
"Obviously I am going."
"You are going to the mysterious appointment with the mysterious lawyer for the mysterious client who wants you for a mysterious reason."
"Yes."
"Pops."
"Bex."
"I am going to say this with love. You have the survival instincts of a lemming in a wind tunnel."
"Which is why I am going. If I do not go, I will think about it forever. If I go, I will either get an answer or a very good story."
"What if the answer is murder?"
"Then I will solve it. I have read a lot of Agatha Christie."
"You have read one Agatha Christie."
"It was a long one."
Bex sighed. "I will come with you."
"You will not. You have the mural to finish."
"The mural can wait. The mural has waited. The mural is developing patience."
"Bex."
"Fine. But you are calling me the second you leave. If you do not call me in ninety minutes, I am calling the police, and then I am calling your mother, and then I am calling the New York Times."
"The New York Times has an app for this?"
"I will pitch it. I will call it: LOCAL WOMAN, MYSTERIOUS LETTER, SUSPENSE."
"Bex."
"Fine. Ninety minutes. And wear something that is not covered in ink."
"I am covered in cyan ink. Specifically."
"That is not a color. That is a cry for help."
Poppy hung up. She put the letter on the kitchen table, which was also her desk, which was also her drafting table, which was also the place she ate cereal over the sink. The rain kept falling. The radiator clanged. She opened her laptop, because she was a person who processed anxiety by making things, and she drew a small cartoon of a woman opening a letter that said: YOU ARE A PERSON OF INTEREST IN A PERSONAL MATTER OF SOME DELICACY. The woman in the cartoon had a thought bubble that said: AT LEAST IT IS NOT SUBPOENA.
She posted it on the anonymous account, where her followers were expecting a drawing about the printer, or the rain, or the seagull that had been staring at her window for three days. The cartoon got four thousand likes in twenty minutes. The comments said: I HAVE RECEIVED A LETTER LIKE THIS. THE LAWYER WAS A MAN IN A WIG. and: THIS IS THE BEGINNING OF A VERY GOOD MOVIE. and: PLEASE UPDATE.
She closed the laptop. She put on the dress that was not covered in ink, which was the green one with the pockets, which she had bought at a thrift store in Seattle for eight dollars, which made her feel like a protagonist, which was, she had to admit, part of the problem.
The car came on Thursday. It was black. It was a sedan. It was so clean that Poppy could see her own reflection in the hood, and her reflection looked nervous, which was accurate. The driver was a woman in a suit. The woman in the suit did not speak. The woman in the suit opened the door. The woman in the suit drove.
They went to a house on Harbor Street. It was not the biggest house on Harbor Street. It was the most tasteful. It had window boxes. It had a porch. The porch had a bench. The bench had a cushion. The cushion had a pattern that looked like it had been designed by a person who had opinions about color theory.
Poppy was let in. The foyer smelled of lemon and old wood. There was a staircase. There was a grandfather clock. The grandfather clock was ticking in a way that suggested it had somewhere to be.
Margaret Chen was in the study. She was sitting behind a desk that looked like it had been chosen for its ability to intimidate, which it was achieving. She was wearing a navy blazer. She was holding a pen. The pen was a Montblanc. Poppy knew this because Bex had a Montblanc poster, and also because the pen had the little white star on the top.
"Ms. Hartwell," Margaret Chen said. "Thank you for coming."
"Thank you for inviting me," Poppy said, which was the correct thing to say, and also a lie, because she had been summoned.
"Please sit."
Poppy sat. The chair was leather. The chair made a sound. Poppy tried not to make a sound back.
Margaret Chen did not smile. Margaret Chen did not frown. Margaret Chen's face was a closed door with very good lighting.
"I will be direct," Margaret Chen said. "My client has a proposition for you. It is unusual. It is unconventional. It is, in the view of some, insane. My client disagrees. My client believes it is romantic. I have advised my client that romantic is not a legal term. My client has ignored me. This is not unusual."
Poppy said, "Okay."
"My client," Margaret Chen continued, "is Reid Kingsley. You may know the name."
Poppy did know the name. Everyone in town knew the name. The Kingsleys were a family that had money the way the ocean had water. Reid Kingsley was the oldest. Reid Kingsley was the one who had gone away. Reid Kingsley was the one who had come back, which was, in the view of the town, either a scandal or a tragedy, depending on who you asked.
"I know the name," Poppy said.
"My client has been aware of your existence for some time. Not in a predatory way. In a noticing way. He is an architect. He notices things. He noticed your work. He has purchased, anonymously, three pieces from the gallery that rejected you. He is not stalking you. He is a patron. There is a difference. The difference is mostly legal."
"Okay," Poppy said.
"My client has made a number of poor decisions in the past year. He has retired from a firm in Boston. He has retreated to a cabin. He has, in the view of his family, given up. His mother disagrees. His sister disagrees. His grandmother disagrees, though in a more passive-aggressive way. He is the oldest son. The oldest son is supposed to do certain things. He has done some of them. He has refused others. This has caused friction. The friction is not the subject of this meeting."
"Okay," Poppy said, because she was running out of other words.
"The subject of this meeting," Margaret Chen said, "is that my client wishes to enter into a contract of marriage with you."
The radiator in Poppy's apartment was, at that moment, clanging. The rain was, at that moment, falling. The printer was, at that moment, out of cyan ink. Poppy did not know any of this. Poppy knew only that Margaret Chen had just said the word marriage in a room that smelled of lemon and old wood, and that the pen in Margaret Chen's hand was a Montblanc, and that Poppy was wearing a green dress with pockets, and that none of these things were a dream.
"I am sorry," Poppy said. "What?"
"My client wishes to enter into a contract of marriage with you," Margaret Chen repeated. "He wishes this for a number of reasons, most of which are sentimental, which I have advised him against, and one of which is practical, which I can support. He is the sole heir to a family trust. The trust has a clause. The clause requires marriage by the age of thirty-five. He is thirty-four. He has eight months. He does not wish to marry for the purpose of the clause. He wishes to marry a person. He has identified a person. The person is you."
"Me," Poppy said.
"You," Margaret Chen confirmed.
"Why?" Poppy said.
"That," Margaret Chen said, "is a question for him. My role is to outline the terms. The terms are as follows."
She opened a folder. The folder was leather. The folder had a clasp. The clasp was silver. Poppy was, despite everything, impressed by the folder.
"First," Margaret Chen said. "The marriage will be one year in duration. At the end of one year, either party may terminate the contract with sixty days' written notice. There will be no penalty for termination. There will be no penalty for falling in love, either, though I have advised my client that falling in love is not a legal term, and also that it is a bad idea."
"Okay," Poppy said.
"Second. The marriage will be public. There will be a ceremony. There will be photographs. There will be a reception. The reception will be attended by my client's family, which is large, and which has opinions. You will be expected to attend events. You will be expected to wear appropriate attire. A stipend will be provided for attire. The stipend is generous."
"Okay," Poppy said.
"Third. The marriage will be, in the eyes of the law, real. In the eyes of the participants, it will be whatever you decide it is. My client has stated, and I quote, that he would prefer it to be real, but that he is aware that this is not a legal term, and also that it is not something that can be compelled by contract. He has, in my professional view, expressed this poorly. I have advised him to express it differently. He has ignored me. This is not unusual."
"Okay," Poppy said.
"Fourth. You will receive, for the duration of the marriage, a monthly sum that will be deposited into an account in your name. The sum is, in my view, excessive. My client disagrees. The sum is intended to allow you to continue your work without the burden of financial precarity, which my client describes, and I quote, as 'a problem that prevents people from making things.' He is, as I said, an architect. He notices things."
"Okay," Poppy said.
"Fifth. You will not be required to change your name. You will not be required to change your address, though you will be welcome to use the property on Harbor Street, which is not the property you are in, but a different property, which is also not the property he lives in, which is the cabin. The cabin is not appropriate for a married couple of the kind that will be expected to attend events. The house on Harbor Street is appropriate. It has a porch. The porch has a cushion. The cushion has a pattern."
"I have seen the cushion," Poppy said.
"Finally. You will be required to attend one meeting per week with me, for the purpose of reviewing the terms and ensuring that the arrangement remains consensual. If at any point you wish to terminate, you may do so. The termination will be without penalty. This is not a trap. This is not a scheme. This is, in the view of my client, a solution. In my view, it is a solution to a problem that did not need to be solved. I have advised him accordingly. He has ignored me. This is not unusual."
Margaret Chen closed the folder. Margaret Chen placed the pen on the desk. Margaret Chen folded her hands.
"Do you have questions?" Margaret Chen said.
Poppy had questions. Poppy had many questions. Poppy had so many questions that they were forming a queue, and the queue was getting impatient.
"Yes," Poppy said. "I have a question."
"Please," Margaret Chen said.
"Why me?" Poppy said.
Margaret Chen was quiet for a moment. The grandfather clock ticked. The rain fell. Somewhere, a dog barked.
"I do not know," Margaret Chen said. "That is not my area of expertise. I am the lawyer. The lawyer does not know why. The client knows why. The client is not here. The client will be here, if you agree to a second meeting, on Saturday, at the cabin. The cabin is the property he lives in. The cabin is not appropriate for a first meeting. The first meeting is here, in a room that smells of lemon and old wood, which is, in my view, a more appropriate setting for a proposal of this nature, though I have advised my client that no setting is appropriate for a proposal of this nature, and he has ignored me. This is not unusual."
"Okay," Poppy said.
"Do you have other questions?" Margaret Chen said.
"Yes," Poppy said. "I have one more question."
"Please," Margaret Chen said.
"Does he know that I am the person behind the anonymous illustration account?" Poppy said.
Margaret Chen was quiet for a long time. The grandfather clock ticked. The rain fell. The dog barked.
"That," Margaret Chen said, "is a question for him."
"Okay," Poppy said.
"You have the folder," Margaret Chen said. "You have the terms. You have seventy-two hours to respond. I would advise you to read the terms. I would also advise you to call your mother. I would also advise you to eat something. You look like you have not eaten since Tuesday."
"It is Thursday," Poppy said.
"I am aware," Margaret Chen said. "The car will take you home. The driver will wait while you gather your things. The driver is not in a hurry. The driver is paid by the hour."
"Okay," Poppy said.
"Do you have any other questions?" Margaret Chen said.
Poppy thought. Poppy thought about the printer. Poppy thought about the radiator. Poppy thought about the gallery in Seattle. Poppy thought about the microwave in the dumpster outside Marco's. Poppy thought about the green dress with pockets, and the cushion on the porch, and the pen that was a Montblanc.
"No," Poppy said. "I do not have any other questions."
"Then we are adjourned," Margaret Chen said. "The driver will take you home. The folder is yours to keep. The terms are non-negotiable, but they are also, in my view, reasonable. I have advised my client to be reasonable. He has, in this instance, agreed. This is unusual."
Poppy stood. Poppy picked up the folder. Poppy walked to the door. Poppy turned back.
"Mrs. Chen," Poppy said.
"Ms.," Margaret Chen said. "Ms. Chen."
"Ms. Chen," Poppy said. "If I say yes, will he tell me why?"
"Yes," Margaret Chen said. "He will tell you why. He will tell you badly. He will tell you with the vocabulary of a man who has spent too much time with blueprints. He will tell you, and it will be embarrassing, and you will laugh, and he will pretend to be offended, and he will not be offended. This is not unusual."
"Okay," Poppy said.
"Go home, Ms. Hartwell," Margaret Chen said. "Eat something. Call your mother. Read the terms. Do not sign anything until you have read the terms twice. I have advised my client of this as well. He has agreed. This is very unusual."
Poppy left. The driver drove. The rain fell. The folder sat in Poppy's lap, heavy with terms, heavy with possibility, heavy with the weight of a question she had not yet asked, which was not why me, but which was: what if.
The car stopped outside 414 Beech Street. The printer was still out of cyan ink. The radiator was still clanging. The mailbox was still empty. Poppy got out. Poppy went upstairs. Poppy put the folder on the kitchen table, which was also her desk, which was also her drafting table, which was also the place she ate cereal over the sink.
She opened the folder. She read the terms. She read them twice, because Margaret Chen had told her to, and because Margaret Chen was a person who did not make suggestions lightly.
Then she picked up her phone, and she called Bex.
"Bex," she said.
"Pops," Bex said. "Tell me everything."
"He wants to marry me," Poppy said.
There was a silence. The radiator clanged. The rain fell. The printer was silent, because it was out of cyan ink.
"Marry you," Bex said.
"Marry me," Poppy said.
"The man from the copy shop."
"The man from the copy shop."
"The man who is a Kingsley."
"The man who is a Kingsley."
"The man who has a grandmother who writes letters in green ink."
"The man who has a grandmother who writes letters in green ink."
"Pops."
"Bex."
"I am going to ask you one question, and I need you to answer me honestly, and I need you to not answer until you have had a glass of water, because you sound like you are about to pass out, or ascend."
"Okay," Poppy said.
She got a glass of water. She drank it. She breathed.
"Do you want to marry him?" Bex said.
Poppy looked at the folder. She looked at the rain. She looked at the printer, which was out of cyan ink, and which had been out of cyan ink for three days, and which would probably be out of cyan ink for three more days, because she could not afford a new cartridge, and because the cartridge cost forty dollars, and because forty dollars was, at this moment, the difference between eating and not eating, which was, she had to admit, a stupid reason to get married, and also a very human reason, and also not the reason she was considering it.
"I do not know," Poppy said. "I want to know why. I want to know what happens if I say yes. I want to know what happens if I say no. I want to know if he is serious. I want to know if I am serious. I want to know if serious is the right word."
"What word is the right word?" Bex said.
"I do not know," Poppy said. "I do not know. I do not know."
"Okay," Bex said. "Here is what we are going to do. We are going to eat something that is not from the dumpster. We are going to drink something that is not from the tap. We are going to read the terms one more time. And then we are going to decide."
"Okay," Poppy said.
"And Pops?"
"Yes?"
"If you say yes, and it is a disaster, I will be there. If you say no, and it is a different disaster, I will be there. If you say maybe, and it is a whole new category of disaster, I will be there. I will be there with popcorn. I will be there with opinions. I will be there with a very strong opinion about the color of the dress."
"What color is the dress?" Poppy said.
"I do not know yet," Bex said. "I will know when I see it. I always know."
Poppy hung up. The rain kept falling. The radiator kept clanging. The folder sat on the table, heavy with terms, heavy with possibility, heavy with the weight of a question she had not yet answered.
She had seventy-two hours. She had a glass of water. She had a friend who would be there, with popcorn, with opinions, with a very strong opinion about the color of the dress.
She had, she realized, a choice. Which was, she had to admit, more than she had had yesterday.
The folder felt different in the morning.
Poppy woke to gray light and the smell of wet pavement leaking through the window frame. For a moment she did not remember. The radiator had gone quiet sometime in the night, and the silence felt large and strange, the kind of silence that happens when a house is holding its breath. She lay still and watched the ceiling until the ceiling resolved into plaster cracks she had memorized as a child, and then she remembered.
The folder. The rain. The terms.
She sat up. The wine glass on the bedside table held an inch of something red and tired. The room smelled of old roses and cold radiators and the particular staleness of a decision deferred. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and her feet found the cold floor and the cold floor found the rest of her and she was awake, fully awake, in a way that felt like a small act of violence.
She picked up the folder. She opened it. She read the first line.
In consideration of the mutual covenants herein.
She closed the folder. She opened it again.
The parties agree as follows.
She closed it again. She set it on the floor beside the bed, face down, like a child avoiding eye contact with a broccoli floret.
She went to the kitchen. She put the kettle on. She stood at the window and watched the rain fall in sheets across the harbor, turning the water the color of a bruise. A fishing boat moved slowly through the mist, its light a pale smear. She thought about her grandmother, who had taught her to draw mermaids on fogged-up windows. She thought about the gallery in Seattle, the one that had said no, the one that had said we admire your vision but we cannot accommodate your vision at this time, the one that had made her feel like a small, polite, easily overlooked thing.
She thought about a fortune large enough to be a number she could not picture.
She thought about a cat rescue charity, and she laughed, a short, surprised sound that made the kettle look at her.
The kettle boiled. She made tea. She carried the tea back to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the mattress and picked up the folder and read the first page all the way through, and the second page, and the third.
The terms were not complicated. They were, in fact, the kind of terms that had been written by someone who had been trained to make complicated things look simple. The duration was six months, with an option to extend at the mutual agreement of both parties. The compensation was itemized in a way that made Poppy's eyes widen and then narrow and then widen again. There was a stipend for wardrobe. There was a line item for travel. There was a paragraph about required public appearances, and a paragraph about prohibited public appearances, and a paragraph about what to do if a member of the press asked a question that was not on the approved list.
There was, she noticed, a paragraph about what to do if feelings developed. The paragraph was brief. The paragraph was careful. The paragraph said, in the particular way that lawyers have of saying things, that the parties acknowledged the possibility of unforeseen emotional complications and agreed to handle such complications with discretion and maturity.
She read the paragraph three times.
She set the folder down. She picked up her tea. She drank.
The tea was too hot. She burned the tip of her tongue. She did not mind.
She thought about Reid. She thought about the way he had looked at her across the table at the café, his face unreadable, his posture careful, his hands wrapped around a coffee cup he had not drunk from. She thought about the way he had said the word no, like he was testing it, like he was checking whether it would hold. She thought about the way he had said her name, once, at the end, when she was leaving, in a voice that was almost a question, and she thought about the fact that she had not answered, and she thought about the fact that she had been thinking about it ever since.
She thought about Vivien Kingsley. She thought about the phrase leaving her entire fortune to a cat rescue charity. She thought about the way the phrase had landed, not as a joke, not as a threat, but as a fact, a piece of information about the shape of a life she had not been invited to see.
She thought about Bex, who would be there, with popcorn, with opinions, with a very strong opinion about the color of the dress.
She thought about the gallery in Seattle. She thought about the word no. She thought about the fact that the word no had followed her home, and the word no had moved into the spare bedroom, and the word no had taken to leaving dirty mugs on every available surface.
She finished the tea. She set the cup on the bedside table, next to the wine glass, a small still life of a woman who did not know what to do.
She picked up her phone.
She did not call Reid. She did not call Bex. She opened the notes app and began to type.