Slightly Married

SLIGHTLY ENGAGED

“[Tracey’s] confusion about what she wants to do with her life rings true; and when she comes to a major realization about her career, it’s a gratifying moment…. Readers who liked the previous two books will flock to this one.”

—Booklist

“Well-written with realistic characters and dialogue.”

—Romance Reviews Today

SLIGHTLY SINGLE

“An undeniably fun journey for the reader.”

—Booklist

“Bridget Jonesy…Tracey Spadolini smokes, drinks and eats too much, and frets about her romantic life.”

—Publishers Weekly

SLIGHTLY SETTLED

“Readers who followed Tracey’s struggles in Slightly Single, and those meeting her for the first time, will sympathize with this singleton’s post-breakup attempts to move on in this fun, lighthearted romp with a lovable heroine.”

—Booklist

“Tracey is insecure and has many neuroses, but this makes her realistic…And like many women, Tracey needs to figure out when to listen to her friends and when to listen to herself.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

WENDY MARKHAM

is a pseudonym for New York Times bestselling, award-winning novelist Wendy Corsi Staub, who has written more than sixty fiction and nonfiction books for adults and teenagers in various genres—among them contemporary and historical romance, suspense, mystery, television and movie tie-in and biography. She coauthored a hardcover mystery series with former New York City mayor Ed Koch and has ghostwritten books for various well-known personalities. A small-town girl at heart, she was born and raised in western New York on the shores of Lake Erie and in the heart of the notorious snow belt. By third grade, her heart was set on becoming a published author; a few years later, a school trip to Manhattan convinced her that she had to live there someday. At twenty-one, she moved alone to New York City and worked as an office temp, freelance copywriter, advertising account coordinator and book editor before selling her first novel, which went on to win a Romance Writers of America RITA® Award. She has since received numerous positive reviews and achieved bestseller status, most notably for the psychological suspense novels she writes under her own name. Her Red Dress Ink title, Slightly Single, was one of Waldenbooks’ Best Books of 2002. Very happily married with two children, Wendy writes full-time and lives in a cozy old house in suburban New York, proving that childhood dreams really can come true. Visit her at www.wendymarkham.com.

Slightly Married

Wendy Markham

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Dedicated with love to my sons Morgan and Brody,

but most of all to my husband, Mark—

in some cosmic coincidence I finished writing the last page

of this book on our fifteenth wedding anniversary.

Cent’anni.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

1

Meet Jack Candell, the man who bought a lifetime subscription to TiVo without first trying it out, yet spent six painstaking months in possession of an heirloom diamond engagement ring and no clue how—or when—or, I suspect, if—he should propose to me.

But all that excruciating will-he-or-won’t-he suspense is behind us now. Jack has finally committed to a lifetime subscription to Tracey Spadolini, live-in girlfriend of two-plus years.

What can be more romantic than getting engaged on Valentine’s Day?

I’ll tell you: getting engaged on Valentine’s Day on the heels of your best friend’s gay wedding while wearing a red-and-black brocade bridesmaid’s gown, your scalp coated with sleet and the Aussie spritzed remnants of an elegant updo, as your fiancé kneels in the slushy gutter on West Broadway.

Maybe you had to be there.

Well, I was, and believe me, hearing Jack’s long-awaited, heartfelt proposal—and saying yes—was the most romantic, exhilarating event of my life.

The afterglow has lingered all the way uptown on the subway and throughout the short walk home from the Ninety-sixth Street station to our building. At this point, I’m bursting with joy, anxious to share the news and show off the ring. Too bad Jimmy, our favorite doorman, is off duty most Saturdays.

In his place tonight is Gecko, a dour old chatterbox who, if you say anything more than a polite hello in passing, will hold you captive in the lobby for hours with his ongoing monologue about his gout and diverticulitis, what he can and can’t eat these days, and graphic detail about the effect on his various bodily functions if he disobeys the gastroenterologist’s orders.

I wisely keep my hand in my pocket and afterglow to myself as we pass him.

But the glow resumes as Jack puts his arm around me on the journey up to our floor, even though we’re sharing the elevator with a trio of yapping terriers and Quint, the effete neighborhood dog walker, clad in what looks suspiciously like lederhosen.

You know how some things in life can never quite live up to the anticipation? Like Christmas, losing your virginity and biting into your first Hostess Twinkie after a week on Atkins?

Well, for once, I’m not even slightly disappointed. I’m pleased to report that so far, being engaged is every bit as exhilarating as I thought it would be.

I walk on air toward the door to apartment 9K with a marquis-cut diamond newly twinkling on the fourth finger of my left hand and my future husband—husband, people!—by my side.

My mental string orchestra is launching into yet another lilting version of “Isn’t It Romantic” when my beloved glances down, grimaces and informs me, “My feet are soaked. They’re going to stink to high heaven when I take off these shoes.”

Yeah, well, better stinky than cold, I think, undaunted, and my private orchestra plays a little louder to drown out any other unromantic proclamations Jack might be inclined to spout.

At least he hasn’t informed me that he has to piss like a racehorse, which is a frequent mood-dampening line of his.

Jack retrieves his keys from the pocket of his overcoat as we cover the last few steps to our apartment. I do my best to focus on the afterglow lest my thoughts wander to his potentially stinky feet or my own throbbing ones crammed into fugly bridesmaid’s shoes.

You’re getting married! You’re finally engaged!

Amazing. Does life get any better than this?

I imagine that from here on in, everything is going to be different. Food will taste more delicious, sex will be more fulfilling, plans of any sort will be more meaningful.

Watching my fiancé—I so can’t wait to use that word out loud—literally unlock the door to our one-bedroom apartment, I can’t help but feel as though he’s figuratively opening it to our future together.

As we cross the threshold, I prepare to see our place in a whole new light.

Not that there is much actual light, this being a sleet-drenched February dusk.

Everywhere I look are signs that we raced out of here at the last minute this morning. My pajamas are in a heap on the floor in the doorway of the bedroom. The jelly and butter are still out on a crumb-littered countertop. On the small dinette table amid piles of sorted and unsorted mail and newspapers sit two untouched mugs of tea with the bags still in them.

Tea…for two…two…for tea, plays the jaunty orchestra in my head.

“Home sweet home,” Jack announces with a contented sigh, tossing his keys on the table and throwing his sopping trench coat over the nearest chair.

“Uh-huh, we’ve got to move,” I can’t help but blurt in response.

This isn’t an impulsive inspiration. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while now.

Nor is this the first time I’ve shared the thought with Jack.

His gaze is promptly steeped with panic, same as it always is when I bring up trading our little love nest for something a little less—well, nesty.

Not that I have anything against nesting. Hell, I’m all for it. But I’d prefer a two-bedroom nest, at the very least. I’d love a heating system that isn’t prone to clanging or wafting the aroma of other people’s ethnic cooking. A view would be nice, too. Doesn’t have to be of Central Park or the river, even—just something other than the ugly, claustrophobically close building next door.

Jack runs an agitated hand through his hair, which is normally the color of melted milk chocolate, but right now is more like dark baking chocolate because it’s soaked with sleet. When we met, he wore it longer and it was kind of wavy. These days, it’s really short and a little spiky on top, kind of retro-little-kid.

“Listen,” I say reassuringly, “we don’t have to move right away—”

“That’s good, because one major life change per year is my quota.”

Okay, this year’s life change is obviously going to be marriage.

I can’t help but wonder, though, what was last year’s major life change? TiVo?

“But Jack,” I proceed gingerly, unwilling to let it go yet determined to tread carefully in the wake of today’s momentous occasion, “look at this place.”

He does, quickly, before his brown eyes settle again—somewhat warily—on me. “What about this place? It’s great.”

“It’s tiny.”

“I thought you said it was ‘cozy.’”

I did, but that was back when I was trying to convince him that we were better off going for a one-bedroom in an Upper East Side doorman building than a more spacious Junior Four so far out in Queens that we’d have to take a bus to the subway.

“It is cozy,” I agree, “but we’ve outgrown it.”

Kind of like I’ve outgrown these dyed-to-match pointy red satin bridesmaid’s pumps, which I kick into a corner of the living room. They collide with a heaping plastic basket of laundry that’s been there for at least forty-eight hours. I wonder whether it’s dirty, or clean and waiting to be folded, and note that I’m in no rush to find out.

“Yeah, well, this place is rent controlled.” That’s Jack, of course. Under the assumption that I may need to brush up on my New York real estate glossary, he adds, “Meaning, we can afford it.”

“I know—” duh “—but I just got that raise with my promotion.”

Yes, you read that right. As of a few weeks ago, I, Tracey Spadolini, former waitress and aspiring copywriter, am now account executive at Blaire Barnett Advertising.

I know, I have a hard time believing it myself. But I have the business cards and frequent stress headache to prove it.

“You haven’t seen a penny of it yet, though,” Jack points out re: my big raise.

“It should kick into my next paycheck. Or the one after that,” say I, the eternal optimist. “And anyway, Carol said it would be retroactive.”

Jack, who has been employed at Blaire Barnett since before I ever even started temping there, looks dubious.

It occurs to me that maybe he just doesn’t want to face the fact that as an account exec for McMurray-White, a major packaged-goods client, I’ll be making more than he does as a media supervisor. I read somewhere that some men are intimidated by their wives out-earning them. But not Jack. He doesn’t have a chauvinistic bone in his body, I assure myself.

Wife! I’m going to be Jack’s wife!

“Come on, we’re getting married,” I remind him gently. “Don’t you think it’s time to get a real apartment? Maybe even buy a place?”

Jack doesn’t answer for a moment.

That’s because he’s pretty much hyperventilating.

When he can speak, he chokes out, “Do you know what Manhattan real estate costs?”

“Who said anything about Manhattan? We can always look in the suburbs…or not,” I add hastily, lest he hurtle himself out the nearest window.

“Come on, Trace, you were the one who convinced me that we had to live in Manhattan in the first place. I would have been more than happy to stay in Brooklyn—”

“You wanted to look in Queens.”

“Or Queens,” he says amenably. “But you had your heart set on the Upper East Side. Remember?”

“I do remember. But that was a long time ago, you know? I’ve changed my mind since then.”

“About Queens?”

“Queens. Living there? No.” I suppress a shudder.

It’s not that I’m opposed to the outer boroughs in general. I’m the first one to hop on the subway to Yankee Stadium or the Staten Island Ferry for a weekend outing at my friend Brenda’s.

Maybe not the first one. But I’m generally open to visiting the boroughs, with good reason, advance notice and nothing better to do.

I’m just not open to moving to a borough at this stage of the game. I mean, if I’m going to live in the city, it’s going to be Manhattan. And if I’m priced out of the city…

“I can see us in the suburbs, can’t you?” I ask Jack, who grimaces. “Like Westchester or Long Island, Jersey, maybe…”

For a second he just looks at me. Then his famous dimples reappear in his lower cheeks at long last as he laughs. Hard.

Maybe a little too hard.

Okay, maniacally.

When he stops, he says, “We’ve been engaged less than a half hour, and you’ve already got us buying a house in the suburbs, Trace.”

“Or a condo.” Two bedrooms, two baths and a permanent parking spot for the car we’re going to get the second we move. Nothing fancy. Maybe a little sporty, but not red. Sleek and black might be nice….

“House, condo, whatever.” Jack shakes his head. “Why are you suddenly worrying about moving?”

“Because not only are we running out of room here, but things keep breaking down on a daily basis.”

“That’s an exaggeration.”

“Not really.”

“Name one thing that broke down today.”

You, I think, when you decided to pop the question at last.

Bwa-hahahahahahaha…that’s one quip meant for my personal amusement only. No need to remind Jack that he dragged his feet all the way to the fateful waterlogged gutter where he finally proposed.

“The toaster.”

Jack blinks. “The toaster?”

“It refused to pop after I shoved it down this morning. I scorched three pieces of bread.”

“But the toaster isn’t part of the apartment. That’s ours. Let’s just buy a new one. It’ll be cheaper than a colonial in Scarsdale by, like, one point four mil and change.”

I crack a smile, but also point out, “The toaster wouldn’t be on the blink if there weren’t something wrong with the wiring in the kitchen outlet.”

“Who are you, Bob Vila? How do you know that?”

“I just know. Come on, Jack. There’s a lot of stuff that needs to be fixed around this place, and every time something crashes, we have to wait for other people to do something about it. Wouldn’t you rather have a place of our own?”

He tilts his head. “You mean, would I rather be the one calling the electrician and paying him than the one calling the guy who calls the electrician and pays him? Or, better yet, would I rather be the one who gets a bad shock trying to figure out if an electrician is necessary in the first place?”

“You don’t have to be so negative. You’ve never gotten a shock in your life.”

“I’ve gotten plenty, since I meant you.”

His tone is light and I can’t help but grin. “You mean the little lightning bolts of passion, right?”

“Definitely.” He grins and kisses my forehead affectionately. “Whoa. Sparks.”

I make a face at him.

“Come on, Trace. Do we have to discuss this right now? Don’t you think you should try and live in the moment a little? You know…bask in the glow?”

“I’m glowing,” I protest. “Sparking, too. Remember?”

“Maybe on the outside. Inside, you’re fast-forwarding, scheming real-estate strategies…”

“Scheming makes it sound like I’m doing something wrong.”

“Planning, then. Is planning better?”

“Much. And I can’t help it. I’m excited.”

“So am I. Let’s just enjoy it for a while. This is the only time in our lives we’re going to get engaged. So tonight, let’s bask, dammit.” The Candell dimples deepen charmingly.

“I’m basking. I’m definitely basking,” I say with a laugh, feeling a little sheepish. “Basking, glowing, sparking…”

“Good.” Jack gives me a squeeze, kisses my forehead again and opens the fridge.

What I don’t dare admit aloud is that in my heart, I’ve been engaged to him for months—ever since his mother, Wilma, told me he had the heirloom ring in his possession.

We…will raise…a fa-mily…a boy…for you…a girl…for me…

See, I like to be proactive. Not only have I got our entire future mapped out, but I already picked a wedding date. Which reminds me…

“While we’re basking,” I say to Jack, “what do you think of the third Saturday in October?”

“For what?”

He didn’t really say that, I tell myself, watching him grab an Amstel Light, then head to the living room to fish the remote from beneath the toppled stack of magazines on the coffee table.

What he really said was, I would love to marry you on the third Saturday in October, darling.

And he isn’t really turning on the television and flipping the channel to ESPN.

No, in reality, he’s heading for the shower to wash his stinky feet for the romantic candlelight dinner we’re going to have tonight to celebrate our engagement.

Except, he’s not.

“Jack—” I am incredulous, watching him bend over to unlace his dress shoes, one eye on the television “—are you watching TV?”

His gaze flicks in my direction.

“Yes?” he says tentatively. “Why?”

“It’s just—” I break off and try to think of a way to phrase it. A delicate way. Or at least a way that doesn’t involve any four-letter words.

I settle on, “I thought we were basking.”

“We are. I just wanted to check a couple of scores.”

“But…” The mind boggles. “We just got engaged, remember? For the only time in our lives. Don’t you think we should…celebrate? And maybe…talk about the wedding?”

“You mean, plan it?” he asks, wearing the same expression he might have if I asked him to knock over the Bank of New York branch on the corner to prove his love for me.

“Not the whole thing right this second, but we definitely need to set a date.”

“Okay, the third Saturday in October. That sounds good.” He pries his shoe off his foot, then peels off his black dress sock and sniffs it.

Watching him, I have to remind myself that I am head over heels in love with him. So what if he behaves, on occasion, like a caged primate at the Bronx Zoo?

You find him endearing, faults and all. You really do.

You have to, because the moment his little quirks cease to be endearing, it all goes to hell in a handcart.

“I told you my feet were going to stink,” he tells me before tossing the sock in the general vicinity of the laundry in the corner, which I hope to God is dirty.

I smile to show that I have absolutely no problem with stinky feet. No problem at all.

I’m in love, dammit.

“About the wedding…” I say as he bends over his other shoe.

“Yeah?” The other shoe comes off and he’s sniffing that sock now.

Okay, I’m sorry, but he just crossed the line from endearing to freakish.

“Jack…cut it out.”

“What?”

“Please stop smelling your sock.”

“I’m just seeing if it stinks.”

“The other one did. What are the odds that this one doesn’t?”

He makes a face and it sails through the air after its partner. “Zero.”

Mental Note: you are in love with this man. Quirks others might find unappealing—disgusting, even—are charming to you. Going to hell in a handcart is not an option.

I allow myself a moment to get back into a romantic frame of mind before saying again, “If we do go with the third Saturday in October—”

“I thought we just agreed on it.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“The number-one place we’d want to have it at is booked all the other Saturdays in October, actually, and by now it’s probably booked that day, too. There aren’t that many other decent places to choose from, so…”

Oops.

I said too much, starting with the word booked.

But instead of asking the obvious—how can you possibly know that, if we’ve been engaged less than an hour and we’ve spent every moment of that time together?—Jack asks, “What number-one place is that?”

“Shorewood Country Club. In Brookside,” I add at his blank look.

“We want to have our wedding in Brookside?”

“My hometown,” I clarify, realizing there must be a crack enclave in the South Bronx also called Brookside. No wonder he’s mixed up and wearing that are-you-out-of-your-mind? expression.

“We never said that,” Jack informs me as he sneaks another glance at the television, where an ESPN reporter is animatedly recapping some game.

“I know we didn’t say that. We never said anything because we never talked about it before,” I point out.

I neglect to add, That’s because you once said something along the lines of “getting married is for assholes.”

Pardon his French.

“I just assumed we’d get married in Brookside,” I say instead.

“Why?”

Realizing a crash course in Nuptials 101 is in order, I patiently explain, “Because weddings are usually held in the bride’s hometown. Kate and Billy’s was in Mobile, remember?”

To Jack’s credit, he doesn’t point out that there’s a tremendous difference between a charming Gulf Coast city and a tiny blue-collar town south of Buffalo on Lake Erie.

To his discredit, he says instead, “Well, since we happen to live in New York, where there are millions of decent places to have a wedding, why wouldn’t we just get married here?”

I’ll admit this gives me pause.

Because, when you come right down to it…he has a point.

Why not just get married here?

Back when I was certain I would eventually marry my ex-boyfriend, Will McCraw—which, unbeknownst to me, Will McCraw never once considered—I assumed the wedding would be right here in New York.

That’s because Will didn’t like Brookside. He didn’t like my family, either, I suspect, although he never said it. What he did say, frequently, and in their presence, was that he didn’t like Brookside. Pretty much in those words.

Just one of the many reasons I suspect that all those novenas my mother sent my way for years were probably her pious Catholic answer to voodoo. If there’s any truth to the power of prayer, my messy breakup with Will can be attributed to Connie Spadolini’s direct pipeline to God. Imagine what she could accomplish if she converted all that maternal energy to global causes.

“Well?”

Oh, yeah. Jack is still wondering why we shouldn’t just get married here in New York. “Cost, for one thing,” I say. “Do you know how much we’d pay for a sit-down dinner for three hundred in Manhattan?”