Page 43 of Accidentally Marrying the Prisoner
Kyra twists her upper half back and forth while folding her hands like a shy schoolgirl with a crush. “Last week. Preston—the bald guy who married the two of you?—performed the ceremony. It was magical. Oh, and I moved in with Garth. Isn’t that exciting? And now I can sell the house?—”
Mirabeth screeches to everyone’s shocked wariness, and she speeds out the front door without a word. I scarcely make it across the street in time to sprint alongside the Beetle, wrench open the passenger side door, and jump inside before she really guns the engine.
“Where are we going?” I ask nervously.
“Home!”
When Mirabeth saidhome, I assumed, of course, that she meant to stay there. Instead, she threw her empty luggage at me, demanded that I pack the essentials, somehow wrangled Merlin into a cat carrier with only a few bloody scratches down her arms, then stomped back to her car.
Keeping silent, I hold the cat carrier on my lap so Merlin doesn’t go careening around the car with every sharp turn made at warp speed, then brace a hand on the dashboard when Mirabeth comes to a screeching halt in her mom’s driveway, the tires skidding with a squeal.
“Princess…” I say cautiously, trying to catch up to her across the lawn—unfortunately, not in time to prevent her from picking up one of the ten plastic planters of peonies sitting on the porch, then hurling it through the window to the left of the front door with a warrior’s cry. I curse under my breath, hurrying to set the cat carrier down gently so I can wrap an arm around Mirabeth’s waist before she can climb through the broken window. “Let me,” I tell her while her chest heaves, doing my best not to cut myself so deeply on the jagged glass that it requires a trip to urgent care. I collide with a sturdy, oval table in the kitchen nook, feel my way in the dark, and unlock the front door from the inside.
Mirabeth strides inside with Merlin’s carrier that she sets on the coffee table to the right, unzipping the canvas bag to let Merlin out, and then she blows past me into the attached garage. The banging of metal tools being thrown around is loud enough to draw the entire neighborhood’s attention to our crime ofbreaking and entering, if they hadn’t already been aware.
I sigh, preparing myself to take the fall for someone else’s crime once again, should the cops show up, and I lean against the door jamb, already sweating in the stifling hot garage. Watching Mirabeth sort through a pile of old lumber and tree trunk cuttings along the back wall, I ask, “What are you doing?”
She jerks upright, hefting a few long boards over her shoulder, holding a hammer and a rusted tin coffee can of nails. Nudging me out of the way with determination, crossing to the front of the house, she says, “If Mom thinks she can sell my childhood home right out from under me, she can think again!” She drops the wood pile on the nook’s travertine tiles and braces a board across the broken window, hammering both ends into the wall, rattling the decorative plates from Kyra’s travels displayed on hanging shelves.
After a few more of my questions are met with grunts or shrieks, the drive of the hammer drowning out my voice, I give up trying to reason with her or talk her through her feelings. I set about helping her board up the front and back doors so she doesn’t overexert herself, then tack a quilt that had been folded atop the gingham couch over the broken window to keep the heat out until we can replace the glass.
Once done, Mirabeth turns, fire blazing in her eyes, sweat breaking out over her clammy skin. “I’m going to throw up.”
Thinking fast, I rip the sad pink peonies out of the planter and lift the pot in time to catch her dinner and dessert.
“Uh…feeling better?” I ask, avoiding looking into the pot.
“No.” She yanks the planter back toward her to finish emptying her stomach, then slumps down to lie across the cool tile, fanning her face.
“How about now?”
“A little.”
I discard the planter in the large trash bin in the garage, wet a tea towel to place it on Mirabeth’s forehead, then lie down beside her, pulling her into my chest.
“How can she do this to me?” she asks with a sniffle, tucking her head beneath my chin. “She’s gone too far this time.”
“I don’t know, princess.” I kiss the top of her head, combing the tangles out of her loose hair with my fingers.
“The marriage and baby are one thing, but to sell the house? It’s not right.”
I snort, and she rolls away, giving me the stink eye. “It’s not funny.”
I pull her back toward me. “I know, you’re right, it’s not.” Except I can’t stop my body from shaking with suppressed laughter.
“Why are you laughing at me?” She pinches and twists my left nipple through my shirt hard enough for me to jerk backward.
“Because, princess…out of everything she’s done, it’s the house you’re most upset about?”
“Yes,” she cries. “Last year, she said she wanted to move to Montana to find a hot rancher with lots of land so she could retire early, and she promised I could buy the house when she leaves. It’s why I hadn’t bothered looking for a bigger apartment yet. But guess what? She’s a big fat lying liar, and…and…” Mirabeth covers her mouth with a yawn wide enough to crack her jaw.
Since the cops haven’t shown up yet, I figure it’s safe enough to say they won’t be coming, and I roll up onto my knees to lift my worn-out, exhausted wife off the floor. Carrying her to the hallway past the airy living room, I ask, “Which bedroom is yours?”
“Second on the left,” she says through another yawn, burying her face in the crook of my neck.
Cradling her in one arm, I push open the bedroom door and stop short. “Princess, look.” I set her down when she gasps.
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