Grace Clements stared at her sister’s radiant face.
“I’m getting married,” Debbie gushed. “Married.” She lingered over the word, as if sharing a miracle.
“Of course you’re getting married.” Grace grabbed the sleeve of Debbie’s parka and yanked her sister across the threshold before slamming the door on the howling January wind that heralded another New Jersey snowstorm. “You told me all about it at Christmas, remember? I tried to persuade you not to go ahead with it, but as usual, you ignored me.”
“No, no. You don’t understand.” Debbie shook her head so hard the jaunty wool cap perched atop her dark curls tumbled off. “I’m getting married to Doug. He proposed on New Year’s Eve.”
Grace crouched to retrieve Debbie’s hat. “What about this other guy?” she asked as she slowly straightened. Her fingers curled tight around the damp wool. She already knew what would come next, and her heart beat in heavy thuds that reverberated all the way down to her stomach.
“Well, I was hoping that you…” Debbie’s words trailed off. Her mouth pulled into a pout that hovered between speculation and embarrassment.
Grace sighed. It was always the same. Debbie got herself into trouble, and good old big sister would have to rescue her. “No,” she said with emphasis. “Count me out.”
“But, Gracie.” Debbie’s voice rose with the enthusiasm of a spoiled child who’d grown into a beautiful woman and always got her way. “Who else am I going to find at such short notice? The wedding’s supposed to be on Saturday.”
“I’m not marrying a stranger. Find somebody else.”
“Grace, think. All he wants is a wife, so that when he’s sent to Iraq for two years, he can keep his rent-controlled apartment. He pays less than a quarter of market rent, but he can’t sublet or leave the place empty. The only way he gets to hold on to the apartment is by marrying and letting his wife live there until he gets back.”
Grace drew a deep breath. Stale cooking odors wafted out from the kitchen and filled her nostrils. She glanced around the hallway. Two mountain bikes had streaked the narrow passage with mud, and a jumble of shoes and sneakers littered the floor. Out of the six people sharing the ramshackle house in Jersey City, five showed no respect for order or cleanliness.
“Just think,” Debbie carried on, attacking Grace’s hesitation. “You could live in a nice apartment, rent-free for two years. You could start saving for another deposit to buy your own place.”
“Rent-free?” Grace asked, and mentally shoved aside the legal, practical and moral problems the arrangement would create. She had no boyfriend, no job. She needed something to cling to, a hope for a brighter future. The dream of buying her own home sprang to life underneath the ashes of failure where she’d buried it six months ago.
“Yes,” Debbie said. “If he marries before he takes up the post, he’s entitled to a family allowance on top of his overseas pay. He’s agreed to pay the rent.”
“Which is more, the rent or the family allowance?” Grace asked.
Debbie fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve. “The allowance is much more. I tried to get him to share, but he’ll only go as far as paying the rent.”
“Here’s the score.” Grace jutted out her chin in a stubborn gesture that everyone in the family knew marked her last word on a subject. “Tell this guy I’ll step in and marry him, but he needs to improve the terms. I’m not going to get involved in a fake marriage and end up a divorcee without proper compensation. I want the family allowance.”
She paused for effect. “After all, that’s what the allowance is for. To support his wife while he is away.”
“I’ll tell him.” Debbie’s brow furrowed. “What if he says no?”
Grace shrugged. “He’s welcome to pick someone else. I wish him good luck in finding a woman he can trust. Someone who won’t double-cross him by claiming alimony when he gets back from Iraq and it’s time to file for a divorce.”
“I’ll tell him.” Debbie shifted uncertainly on her feet. “If he says yes, do you promise to fly out to Vegas on Friday and marry him on Saturday?”
Grace huffed. “I just said I would. When I have ever broken my word?”
“Never,” Debbie muttered.
Grace noticed Debbie’s discomfort and hardened her heart. Her little sister was flighty and unreliable, and it shouldn’t be wrong to occasionally remind her of the fact, even though Grace always ended up feeling guilty over her harsh words.
“What’s this guy’s name anyway?” she asked on a resigned sigh.
“Rory. Rory Sullivan.”
Grace nodded. Rory Sullivan. She tasted the name on her tongue, her gaze drifting over her sister’s pretty features. It might be a marriage in name only, but apprehension filled her as she wondered what Rory Sullivan would think when instead of Debbie with her feminine curves and airhead ways, he encountered a woman who at five foot eleven towered over many men. A woman who would never fill the bodice of a dress, who cut her own hair, and who remained clueless about make-up. Who until six months ago had earned her living as a statistician for an insurance company, and who regarded solving simultaneous equations as a form of entertainment.
Grace shoved her hands through her bluntly chopped tresses. Why worry she might not be Rory Sullivan’s dream woman? Their interaction would be limited to a wedding and a divorce, and twenty-four monthly payments in between.
“Are you sure this guy can be trusted?” She frowned at Debbie. “He won’t land me with a stack of unpaid bills, or expect me to look after his colony of pet hamsters, or turn up on the doorstep demanding his conjugal rights?”
Debbie smiled and nodded as she drew her gloves back on, getting ready to leave. “Don’t worry, Gracie. Doug’s known him for years. He swears Rory Sullivan is a fine, upstanding citizen.”
“All right.” Grace shifted her shoulders in an uneasy shrug. “If he meets my terms, you can give him my name and email address. He needs to pay for the plane ticket. I’m broke.”
“I already gave him your details.” Debbie pretended to be struggling with her gloves, but at least she had the decency to blush. “He has loads of frequent flyer miles. He’ll book you an e-ticket and email it to you.”
When the door slammed shut after Debbie, Grace stood still. How had it happened? Despite her determination not to get involved, once again she’d been landed with Debbie’s mess.
* * * *
The crowd at McCarran Airport jostled toward Baggage Claim. Businessmen with briefcases cut through the throng of holidaymakers. Bachelor parties, dressed in matching T-shirts with rude slogans printed on the front made their way forward in rowdy groups.
Grace slipped the printout from the pocket of her baggy jeans and struggled to unfold it with one hand, while lugging her overnight case with the other. She slowed her pace, dragging her sneakers against the floor as she fumbled for her glasses in another pocket and perched them on her nose. She’d removed her contacts on the plane because the dry air bothered her eyes.
Re: Wedding on Saturday. Little White Wedding Chapel booked for 7 p.m. Tickets to follow. American Airlines out of Newark. I’ll meet you in the arrivals area on Friday afternoon. Rory Sullivan.
Her jaw clenched. What was she doing, marrying a stranger? A man so unfamiliar to her that he had signed their only communication with his full name? She had no idea of how to even identify him, since she hadn’t had the foresight to ask for a photograph.
Past security, a commotion on the left drew her attention. A group of ruffians milled at the back of the waiting crowd, yelling and whistling. She veered to the right to avoid the trouble, but the stream of people pushed her toward the exit, past the idiots making the racket.
Shit.
Her feet froze to the floor and her stomach turned to ice.
Surrounded by a bunch of jerks wearing jeans and shorts and T-shirts in various colors, but in a universal state of disrepair, a big man swayed on his feet, so drunk that two of his buddies had to prop him up. An unbuttoned white cotton shirt spilled out of his jeans, the tails flapping wide. Over his broad chest, a cardboard sign hung suspended on a string.
Decorated with two red hearts, it spelled out
GRACE CLEMENTS. | 
