Читать книгу Maybe Married - Leigh Michaels - Страница 7

A BURST of applause, followed by a low buzz of conversation and the telltale rustling of two dozen people rising from their chairs, told Dana that the meeting was over. Just in time, too, she thought. As long as no one hung around for prolonged goodbyes, they might still manage to keep to the schedule.

Beside her, Connie glanced at her watch. “It’s past five. President Howell is cutting it a little fine, I’d say. But then he’s not the one who has to clean up the damage—and he does like to hear himself talk.”

Dana ignored both the comment and the sidelong look which accompanied it. “I’ll start picking up the debris now. As soon as the last guest clears the doorway, you can start to vacuum at this end of the room. Tell the caterers they can begin setting up the bar in fifteen minutes.” She didn’t wait for an answer before she slid open the pocket door which separated the hallway from the drawing room and went in.

Originally, there had been two parlors occupying the entire width of the big Georgian house. But years ago when the university had bought the mansion as a home for its presidents, the dividing wall had been knocked out to make a single enormous room suitable for entertaining crowds. In matching fireplaces at each end of the room, gas logs flickered cheerfully, banishing the gloom of a dreary, rainy late afternoon. Between the two sets of French doors overlooking the veranda was a table holding the ravaged remains of afternoon tea. Dana noted almost automatically that the few leftover cucumber sandwiches looked limp, the strawberries had faded and shrunk, and the petits fours appeared hard as rocks. But then, it was nearly three hours since the tea table had been arranged.

At the far end of the room, nearest the front door, a dozen women were still clustered around the university’s president. Dana heard Barclay Howell’s deep voice, though she didn’t catch what he’d said, followed by a burst of feminine laughter.

Dana stayed as far away as she could, trying to be unobtrusive as she gathered up stale coffee cups, dropped napkins, and—what was half a scone doing under the edge of the love seat, anyway? Getting this room cleared out and ready for the cocktail party which was due to start in less than an hour was going to be an especially big challenge.

She didn’t see Mrs. Janowitz until the matron was within five feet. “Dana, my dear,” the woman said, bearing down on her. “Such a lovely party. I was just telling Barclay how much nicer the events here at Baron’s Hill have been ever since you took over.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Janowitz.” Dana’s hands were full, but the matron was between her and the doorway where Connie had parked the service cart, so she took a firmer grip on both the china and her patience.

“That so-called butler they had before,” Mrs. Janowitz went on, “had no flair. No sense of style. He paid far too much attention to petty things and never looked at the big picture.”

Dana felt obligated to give the woman a warning. “Mr. Beeler will be returning as soon as he’s completely recovered from his pneumonia.”

“Oh, yes, I know.” Mrs. Janowitz’s voice was airy. “You’d hardly want to keep on doing everything yourself. And I’m sure, with his fondness for detail, he’ll be much better at carrying out instructions than in planning things all the way through.”

“I’m not sure you understand. As soon as Mr. Beeler returns, I’ll be going back to my regular job as manager of the conference center.”

“If you want to call it a conference center, when it’s really just an old classroom building.” Mrs. Janowitz smiled broadly and patted Dana’s arm. “But of course, my dear, I completely understand that’s the official line for the moment. However, for those of us who can see what’s really going on…” Her voice dropped. “We approve, Dana. I thought you’d like to know.” She strode back across the room and plunged into the still-chattering group around Barclay Howell.

Dana shook her head and dumped the plates and cups she’d gathered onto the service cart. She had no idea what Mrs. Janowitz was talking about and no time to ponder the question at the moment. If President Howell didn’t move these women out in a hurry, they were going to collide at the front door with his cocktail party guests.

As if he’d heard her, the president shepherded the remaining half dozen women into the hallway. Dana watched from the corner of her eye. She’d seen him do it countless times, but it still amazed her how easily Barclay Howell could maneuver people out the door without ever letting them realize they’d been politely sent on their way. Or at least he made it look easy. He’d no doubt had plenty of practice in the time he’d spent as a college administrator, working his way up the ladder to the president’s office.

Connie appeared with the vacuum cleaner, which had been specially chosen for its low noise level rather than its cleaning power, and started on the carpet. Dana was just starting to push the service cart into the hall where it would be out of Connie’s way when Barclay Howell came back into the room, dusting his hands together in satisfaction.

“Dana,” he called. “I’d like a moment with you, privately.”

Dana looked around the room. She still had to freshen up the flower arrangements and move them off the tea table so it could be torn down, and Connie could use help in shifting all the chairs. There was no time to spare for chitchat, but after all, Barclay Howell was the boss. “Let me get rid of this cart first.”

“I’ll be in the music room.”

She pushed the cart down the hall toward the kitchen and then returned to the front of the house. Next to the front door, across the wide entrance hall from the drawing room, was a much smaller, more intimate room. She tapped on the half-open door and went in.

Barclay Howell was selecting music from a cabinet full of compact disks. He put one in the slot and the first notes of a violin concerto murmured through the room. “You did a wonderful job today, Dana,” he said. “Every one of those women was thrilled with the meeting arrangements.”

“Thank you.” Dana frowned. “But I wonder why they were so pleased. There wasn’t anything particularly original about anything I did today.”

Barclay smiled broadly. “Dana, Dana. You must stop disparaging yourself.”

“But in this case it’s true, sir. Those women must have been to hundreds of afternoon teas, and this one wasn’t any different, really. I wonder why they made it a point to tell you that.” We approve, Mrs. Janowitz had said. Dana was beginning to get a ticklish feeling in her stomach as she wondered just exactly what Mrs. Janowitz had meant. “Unless they were just being extra polite.”

“No, it was more than that. You have a certain flair for these things. Sit down, Dana, and let’s talk.” He gestured toward a deeply-upholstered chair.

Dana was torn between wanting to stay and needing to go back to work. Pursuing this conversation right now was really going to ruin her schedule. On the other hand, this was the first chance she’d had to talk to Barclay Howell about anything more important than canapes.

Until the last six weeks, the university’s president had been little more than a name to Dana. But since she’d started working directly with him at Baron’s Hill, she’d begun to realize that he was a very attractive man—and not only because of his looks. Not that she knew him well enough to really judge, yet. But now, suddenly, he seemed to be starting to notice her on a personal level…The ticklish feeling grew stronger.

“The cocktail party,” she began. “I really need to—”

“I’m sure your assistant can manage the details for a few minutes. If there’s one small flaw in the way you handle things, Dana, it’s that you insist on doing so much yourself rather than delegating it.”

The professional half of her would have liked to point out that managing the details was what she’d been hired to do, that Connie was pitching in only because Dana needed help and not because it was Connie’s job, and that Barclay Howell was making everything more difficult at the moment.

There were no doubt more tactful ways to make that point, but unfortunately just now Dana couldn’t think of a single one. So she stayed silent.

“Ever since Beeler got sick and you took over, things here at Baron’s Hill have been going much more smoothly. We’ve done almost twice as many events in the last six weeks as we usually do, but under your direction there hasn’t been a single problem.”

I wouldn’t exactly say that, Dana thought. The problems were there—you just didn’t hear about them.

“The entertainment has been superb, the food delicious, the guests happy.”

And I’m exhausted.

“How would you like to have the job permanently?”

As he talked, Dana’s stomach had slowly settled back into place. So much for the vague feeling that Barclay Howell might have more on his mind than the next round of events at Baron’s Hill, she thought ruefully. Of course, it was just as well that he hadn’t asked her out. Attractive though he was, dating the boss was never a good idea. Too many things could go wrong.

But she couldn’t deny that there was a flicker of disappointment deep inside her. Dana would have liked to get to know him better, to find out whether he really was as attractive as he seemed. If so, he might even be the one who could…

Then what he’d said hit her with the force of a hammer blow, and she sat up straight. “You mean Mr. Beeler isn’t coming back after all? That was a particularly awful pneumonia, I know, but surely once he’s completely over it, he’ll be able to do his job again.”

“He is recovering nicely, and he’ll be back in a couple of weeks.”

“Then—Oh, I see. It would probably be a good idea for him to have an assistant, at least for a while. That way he could stop when he was tired because I could take over, and—”

Barclay was smiling. “I don’t intend for you to be his assistant, Dana, but his boss.”

“You’re demoting Mr. Beeler and putting me in his place? He isn’t going to like that. He’s been here forever, sir.”

“He’ll have the same position as always.” Barclay sat down on the arm of a chair opposite Dana. “I’m not doing this very well, am I? Let me start over. Baron’s Court will always need someone to manage all the official events that the president hosts, and Mr. Beeler fills that job very nicely.”

“Then I don’t see where I come in.”

“He’s very good with details, but Baron’s Court needs more than that. It needs someone with vision and imagination and a sense of drama. It needs something that’s been lacking ever since I took the job here. It needs…” He paused, as if he expected Dana to fill in the blank.

Dana stayed silent.

“It needs a hostess, Dana. The biggest difficulty about my position here has been trying to handle all the responsibilities alone.” He chuckled. “Not the professional ones, of course. But the social things—making nice with all the faculty spouses and the pennant-waving alumni…I’m certainly not fussing about those people, they’re all quite charming really. But having someone to help with all that…”

“A hostess,” Dana said slowly.

“Yes. You must have noticed how well we work together. We’re a terrific team. And it would be quite a good opportunity for you. Though I wouldn’t admit it publicly, of course, I don’t intend to spend my whole career at a small private university. It’s a good place for my first job in top administration, but I have my eye on something bigger. Much bigger.” He sounded almost coy. “You wouldn’t lose by throwing in your lot with me.”

The ticklish feeling in Dana’s stomach had turned into an actual pain. He couldn’t possibly be saying what it sounded like. Teaming up with him…moving on to a bigger university…being his hostess…It sounded as if the man was talking about her whole life, not just a job.

No, she told herself, she was reading meanings where none existed. He couldn’t possibly mean that.

A wicked little imp at the back of her brain made her wonder what he’d do if she threw herself at him and accepted a proposal he hadn’t made. Watching the always-cool Barclay Howell turn pale and stammer in shock might be entertaining—and it would make him speak more carefully next time, too, instead of dancing around a subject like a politician. But it would hardly be a nice thing to do.

Barclay’s smile began to look a little forced. “Dana, I’m asking you to marry me.”

He was serious? She’d actually been right? She spoke before she stopped to think. “That’s ridiculous. We’ve never even been to a movie together.”

He frowned. “What does that have to do with it?”

The frightening thing, Dana thought, was that as far as he was concerned it wasn’t a rhetorical question. Things like movies, dinners, walks in the park, getting to know each other…all were unimportant. Barclay Howell had made up his mind.

“I told you, we’re an excellent team.”

Funny, I thought proposals were supposed to cover things like love. “Sir, I think it would be best if—”

“Please, my dear. Call me Barclay. Since we’re going to be married—”

Just a few minutes ago, she’d thought it was kind of cute how easily he could manipulate people into doing what he wanted. But now that he was using the knack to try to maneuver her, Dana was feeling something close to panic. “I haven’t agreed to anything of the sort.”

For one unguarded instant he looked startled by the possibility that she would consider turning him down, and then he smiled again. “Well, not yet,” he said affably. “I suppose I was a bit abrupt.”

A bit abrupt? That was one way to put it, Dana thought, though it wouldn’t have been her first choice of words. The arrogance he was displaying was unbelievable, completely unlike the man she had thought he was.

So much for your judgment, she told herself. But then, we’ve always known you weren’t too sharp where men are concerned.

“So I won’t ask you for an answer just now. Take your time, and let me know when you’re ready, Dana.”

As if there could only be one answer. As if she was only delaying just so she didn’t look desperate by snatching at his proposal…

Now she knew what Mrs. Janowitz had been talking about, when Dana had said she’d be going back to her regular job. Of course that’s the official line, for now. But those of us who can see what’s really going on approve.

The woman had known what Barclay Howell intended—long before Dana herself had even suspected. Had he taken a poll, for heaven’s sake? Checked out his little idea with his advisers to make sure they wouldn’t object to his choice of a first lady for the university?

It was just as well he wasn’t demanding an answer right now. She’d have a hard time finding one that wouldn’t singe Barclay Howell’s aristocratic ears.

She got to her feet, feeling a little unsteady.

“Dana,” he said. “Just one more thing before you go. I haven’t had a chance to tell you how very important this cocktail party is. Quite possibly the most important one yet.”

Dana was relieved to step back onto familiar ground, even though it seemed to be wobbling under her toes. The most important cocktail party yet? Why?

You should be honored, the imp at the back of her brain suggested, that he proposed before he brought up the cocktail party.

Dana ran through the guest list in her mind. The president’s cocktail party was a regular monthly event, and tonight’s guests were the usual mix. There were a few people from the foundation which raised funds for the university, a few of their most regular donors, a few alumni who might become donors, a few professors, and a few students being honored for special achievements. Dana couldn’t think of anybody who was at all unusual. So what made this particular party any different than the one she’d arranged last month?

“I’ve invited an extra guest,” Barclay said. “I happened to hear just this morning that he was in town, and I called him up on the chance that he might be free this evening. He seemed quite pleased to be asked. So I’d like you to make a special effort to make sure he feels welcome here.”

Lingering shock made her feel like saying she’d tell the bartender to be sure the special guest got an extra paper umbrella in his drink, but she restrained herself. “I try to arrange things so everyone feels welcome.”

“No, I mean a little personal effort. Instead of vanishing into the background tonight, Dana, I’d like you to stick around.”

“Play hostess,” she said. The words tasted like sawdust.

“If you want to call it that. I’d rather think that you were trying out the role.”

“Whatever you wish, sir.”

He shook a gently chiding finger. “You must get over that habit, my dear. When we’re married…yes, I know, you haven’t given me an answer yet. But you may as well get used to the change, anyway.”

Dana took a deep breath, decided not to say what she was thinking, and started for the door.

“Don’t you want to know who the guest is?”

“It won’t make any difference in how I treat him,” Dana pointed out.

“Of course it won’t, my dear.” He started flipping through CDs again. “Still, I think you should know. He might be the biggest single donor this university ever snags—he’ll certainly have the cash to do it, when the sale of his company is final. And he owes us a debt of gratitude, too, since he got his degree here and that’s what made him the success he is today. I looked it up, so I’d be sure to have it right—he studied mechanical engineering.”

Dana’s breath caught in her throat.

Don’t be silly, she told herself. Barclay hadn’t given any time period; the man he was talking about might have graduated decades ago. If he was selling a company, he was probably near retirement age.

To say nothing of the fact that every semester there were at least a hundred graduates who’d majored in mechanical engineering, and a fair number of them must have eventually gone on to own good-size businesses. So why should her mind instantly conjure up a particular one? Especially when the one she was thinking of had said, the last time she’d talked to him, that he’d never set foot on this campus again.

Besides, there was absolutely no reason for her heart to start pounding like an out-of-balance washing machine at the very thought of him. That was over. Done with. Finished.

She managed a casual tone. “So who is this marvelous catch?”

Barclay said the name slowly, with relish, as if the syllables tasted good. “Zeke Ferris.”

And suddenly Dana’s heart wasn’t thumping madly anymore. But that was only because it had almost stopped beating altogether.

The foundation people were always the first to arrive at any university function, because they never missed an opportunity to talk someone into making a pledge. Next came the honor students, starched and stiff and on their best behavior, sitting in a row along the edge of the room. The professors always came as late as they dared—missing the president’s parties altogether would be extremely bad form, but a token appearance was all that most of them seemed to be able to stomach. The alumni and the big donors trickled in and out throughout the party, making it clear that they couldn’t be expected to limit themselves to one event per evening.

But halfway through the time set aside for the cocktail party, it appeared that Zeke Ferris wasn’t going to show up at all.

Dana circulated through the crowd, a half-full glass of sparkling water in her hand, making sure that no one was left out of the conversation. Some of the students looked as though they’d rather climb under their chairs than talk to the president.

Dana sympathized; she was feeling a bit out of place herself. Always before, she’d stayed in the shadows, orchestrating the party and keeping it running smoothly but not coming into direct contact with the guests. This, she thought irritably, would have to be the one evening that Barclay Howell changed the rules. She tried once more to smooth the creases out of her rust-colored skirt. She’d chosen the suit because it was just a shade darker than the auburn of her hair, and normally she liked wearing it. But tonight, next to the neat little cocktail dresses the other women were wearing, her suit felt sadly lacking in style. If she’d had any idea what Barclay had had in mind, she’d have brought along a change of clothes.

Beneath the president’s smile, Dana could see tension. He kept looking toward the door—expectantly at first, then hopefully, and finally with irritation.

Dana was sorry for his disappointment, as well as relieved that Zeke hadn’t shown up after all. But she was not at all surprised. Once she’d had a chance to calm down and think it over, she’d have been willing to bet her next paycheck that he wouldn’t appear.

She entertained herself, while she pretended to listen to an alumni who wanted to describe in detail the last football game of his college career, by listing the possible reasons why Zeke wasn’t there. First and most likely, Zeke had accepted the invitation and then completely forgotten the time and even the day. Or perhaps he had actually not accepted the invitation at all, but Barclay thought he had. The same way he thinks I’ve accepted his proposal, Dana thought. Or, possibly, Zeke had never intended to show up—though he wasn’t habitually rude. At least, he hadn’t been when….

But she wasn’t going to think about that.

That’s over, she reminded herself. Done with. Finished.

Just as the alumnus was reaching the climactic play of the game he was describing, gesturing wildly as he demonstrated the gymnastics required to cross the goal line, the chatter of the crowd dropped by a good ten decibels. Sensitive to the atmosphere of the party, Dana let her gaze sweep across the room, seeking out the cause of the sudden comparative silence.

Not that it required much effort. Her attention, like that of every other person in the room, was drawn as if by a magnet to a man standing in the arched doorway between the drawing room and the entrance hall. He was tall and lean, dressed in a silvery-gray business suit, and he stood perfectly at ease as he surveyed the room. His face was shadowed by the deep arch, but the light of the chandelier behind him fell warmly across his black hair, almost crowning him with its golden glow.

Like he’s wearing a halo, Dana thought grimly. I’ve never seen a better example of false advertising.

She surveyed the perfect tailoring of his suit with interest and had to admit a wisp of relief that he hadn’t shown up in blue jeans and a flannel shirt. Not that it mattered to her what he wore, she added hastily. Or how he presented himself to a crowd.

Barclay had hurried toward him, beaming, his hand extended. “Mr. Ferris,” he exclaimed. “How kind of you to honor us with your presence tonight. I hope your business meetings went well today.”

Zeke stepped forward. The halo vanished as the soft light of the drawing room fell across his face. “Call me Zeke,” Dana heard him say.

The alumnus cleared his throat, and she turned hastily back to him. “And that was the play which won the game?”

But the man wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at Zeke. “What’s so important about that young fella?” he demanded. “President’s hardly said a word to me all evening, but he falls all over him. Has he given a lot of money to the university, or something?”

“Not yet,” Dana said.

“Oh, I see. Howell’s trying to put the squeeze on him. Well, I suppose there’s never enough money.”

A man on Dana’s other side, a member of the university’s board of directors, said, “You can say that again. We need a new stadium, for one thing.”

Dana started to say that the last thing Zeke Ferris was likely to give the university was a sports stadium, but she stopped herself just in time. How could she know that, anyway? People changed—the Zeke Ferris she had known certainly hadn’t been the perfectly-tailored business suit type. “And we could use a new conference center,” she pointed out.

“Oh, well, I suppose if you’re interested in that sort of thing,” one of the men conceded.

She left the two of them discussing the university’s sports program and excused herself. But the party seemed to be taking care of itself at the moment; no one was standing alone, no one was looking forlorn, and no one seemed to be plunging into an argument. When a waiter passed, she swapped her sparkling water for a glass of champagne, and as she turned away she came face-to-face with Zeke Ferris.

She looked past him and saw that the alumnus who had told her all about the game he’d won had buttonholed Barclay as he crossed the room and was drawing him off into a corner. Even Barclay’s celebrated people skills might not get him out of that conversation in a hurry, she thought.

She’d almost forgotten how tall Zeke was. Even in her highest heels she’d always had to look up at him. Today, in the comfortable flats she habitually wore when she was in charge of a party, she seemed to look a very long way up into eyes bright as sapphires and filled with speculation.

“Dana,” he said softly. “Now this is a surprise.”

He had not said, she noted, that it was a pleasant surprise. And you can multiply that reaction times two, she thought. But she smiled and put out her hand. “Zeke.”

His grip was warm and firm, and he continued to hold her hand. “It’s been a long time.”

Not long enough.

He looked around the room and then back at her. “So what are you doing here?” he asked. “Are you faculty? Staff? Or are you finally going after that graduate degree you wanted so badly?”

“Staff,” she said coolly, and tugged her hand away. He let her fingers slip slowly out of his. She could feel her hands trembling, so she folded both of them around her cold glass to hide the telltale tremor. “I hope you’ll enjoy your visit here, Zeke. May I get you a drink?”

She watched a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. He might as well have said it, she thought, for it was quite clear what he was thinking. So that’s the way you’re going to play it.

“When you said you were staff,” Zeke murmured, “I thought you meant something administrative. It didn’t occur to me you might be just a waitress.”

Dana gritted her teeth. He’s trying to jab you into making a scene, she told herself.

Behind her, Barclay said smoothly, “I’m sure you misunderstood, Zeke.”

Dana had no trouble interpreting his tone of voice. No matter what a prospective donor said, it wasn’t to be taken as an insult—it was merely a misunderstanding.

“This is Dana Mulholland,” Barclay went on. “She’s not a waitress, she manages all the conferences and special events that the university hosts, and she’s been filling in at Baron’s Hill as well. In fact—”

Dana stepped quickly into the gap. “When we finish raising the money to build a new conference center, I’ll be in charge of it.”

“That’s not what I meant, my dear, but I know you’re right. Since it’s not quite official yet, I probably shouldn’t say anything at all. But it’s so hard to keep such happy news a secret.” Barclay’s tone was confidential, almost intimate.

Zeke’s eyes had narrowed, and only then did Dana realize that Barclay had draped an arm around her shoulders. She tried to shrug it off.

Barclay’s grip tightened. “I’ve asked Dana to marry me.”

Dana wanted to stuff her fingers in her ears on the theory that if she couldn’t hear what was going on, then it wasn’t really happening.

A member of the board of directors, standing nearby, cocked his head to one side. “Did I hear you right, Howell?” he asked. “You’re marrying Dana?”

“I wasn’t actually going to announce it just yet,” Barclay began.

He’s keeping his options open, Dana deduced. But the director didn’t pause. “Capital idea. I don’t mind telling you there was some hesitation on the part of the board when we hired you. We wondered if putting a young man, a bachelor, in that position was just asking for trouble. But marrying Dana—now that’s sensible. Like you’re taking the university to your bosom, eh? Making it your own.” He chortled at his own wit.

Dana’s face felt hot. Say something, she ordered herself. Deny it—and fast.

But that would mean contradicting Barclay in public and mortifying him in front of directors and alumni and faculty. Not that he didn’t deserve it—but if nothing else, self-preservation suggested she keep quiet for the moment and deal with the proposal later, when she could be alone with Barclay. Embarrassing the president of the university wasn’t the best way to improve her job security.

And why should she provide any more of a scene for Zeke Ferris’s entertainment, anyway? It was none of his business what she did.

“And marriage will help keep all the other women from circling around, too,” an alumnus added. “You must have been having to beat them off with a baseball bat this last year.”

Barclay’s self-deprecating smile and vague gesture of denial were so halfhearted, Dana thought, that he might as well have come straight out and said yes, the women found him so attractive that he was forced to defend himself.

The sheer arrogance of the man made Dana seethe with fury. She was drawing breath to set the record straight when she caught a glimpse of Zeke’s face. She blinked in astonishment. She hadn’t expected that he’d rush to congratulate them—but she also hadn’t expected to see pity in his eyes. Pity? How dare he pity her?

He looked at her levelly for a long moment. “Now that could present a problem,” he said finally. “Because she can’t.”

Dana’s temper snapped. Even though she had no intention of marrying Barclay Howell, the very idea of Zeke telling her she couldn’t was enough to make her spit nails. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Zeke, don’t try to lay down the law to me. There is absolutely no reason for you to have an opinion in the matter. Whether I get married or not has nothing to do with you.”

“Much as I hate to disagree with a lady—”

“You expect me to believe that piece of nonsense?”

He wasn’t looking at her, but at Barclay. “She can’t get married till her divorce is final.”

“Divorce?” Barclay said blankly.

Dana’s jaw dropped. “What? We took care of that years ago. You have absolutely no claim on me anymore, Zeke, so stop acting like a dog in the manger.”

“You’re divorced?” Barclay sounded as if he was about to faint.

“That’s the problem,” Zeke murmured. “She isn’t, actually. There was a little hangup with the paperwork, and so our divorce never quite went through. Sorry to break the news this way, darling—but you’re still married. To me.”