Wooing Cadie McCaffrey

by Bethany Turner

  He smiled sadly. “Just think of what might have happened if we’d actually talked.”

  “You sound like Darby. And Kevin. And my mother, actually—”

  “Your mother?” He sneered, presumably at the assertion that he was in any way like my mother.

  “She was the one who finally got through to me, if you can believe that. Yesterday. She made me realize I needed to talk to you, and forgive you. And that I needed to forgive myself.”

  He stared at me intently for a moment before repeating, “Your mother?”

  “And she made me realize that it really was so wrong of me to pile all of my spiritual baggage on top of what you were dealing with. I had no right to try and tell you how you needed to handle your relationship with God. I’m sorry, Will.”

  He shook his head and laughed gently. “Seriously. Your mother?”

  I laughed with him, but our laughter faded as I inched closer to him. “I love that you did all of those romance movie things for me. Now that I get it, I love it. But when I was running down Sixth Avenue, racing to get here, I wasn’t thinking about acting out some romantic scene. I was thinking about you. I was thinking about your laugh. The way your eyes crinkle up and kind of disappear. Of how secure I always felt when you were holding my hand. And I was thinking about how you used to walk over to The Bench, just to see if I needed anything from the break room. You could have called. It would have been so much easier. But you wanted to see me. I always knew that.”

  “Cadie—”

  I blinked away the tears and put my hands up to stop him from interrupting me. There were still so many things I hadn’t said, and if I didn’t say them right then, I wasn’t sure I would ever get the chance.

  “That night last year, when you gave me the ring box and I reacted like a crazy lady . . . I thought that was the beginning of the end. We were different after that. You pulled away from me, and I thought you didn’t see us going anywhere. That you didn’t love me—at least not like I loved you. But I wanted to marry you a year ago, and I’ve wanted to marry you every single day since. And when I told my mom you didn’t make me happy . . . well, I wasn’t happy. Not right then. I was so caught up in the guilt and regret, and that was on top of the million ways my brain had run away with itself for a year. I mean, if you weren’t interested in marrying me, what were we even supposed to be building toward?”

  A smile appeared on his face as he said, “I was always looking toward forever.”

  “I know that now, and I’m sorry, Will. I really am. For so many things. But in spite of it all, I realize now that I’m still looking toward forever. In fact, I can’t even imagine a version of forever that doesn’t have you in it. And I know that you said you’re done, but I don’t think I’ll ever be done. So I’m ready to fight for you, if that’s what it takes.”

  “I’m never going to stop fighting for you,” he whispered as he closed the gap between us.

  Before I even had a chance to store up my breath, the palm of his hand was on my jaw, and his fingers were grasping the back of my neck to pull my lips to his. All thoughts of the frigid Eastern wind were forgotten as that same hand got tangled in my hair and his other arm wrapped around my shoulders, pulling me so close that tourists passing by wouldn’t have been able to tell where I ended and he began.

  I rested my hands on his chest—no longer noticing the cold wind but in desperate need of the warmth of his arms around me. I wanted to feel the stubble on his face and run my fingers through that floppy head of hair that I had loved from the very first moment I saw him, but he was holding me so tightly, and my hands weren’t willing to disrupt his embrace in order to make their way to his hair.

  We paused to breathe and I slid my arms around his neck and held his face the way I’d wanted to for so long. My fingers weaved into his wind-blown hair and tugged the back of his head, pulling his lips toward mine once more. There would be time for breathing later.

  “I love you,” I whispered when our lips finally parted. “The biggest lie I ever told was telling you I didn’t. And if I ever claim you’re not romantic, please remind me of the time we were 1,200 feet in the air in December and I needed to fan myself.” I saw a smile overtake his eyes and felt it overtake his mouth. “I mean, seriously, Will,” I said, my breath still coming back to me.

  He pulled away, which was the last thing I wanted, and laughed. “But I’m also just a boy, standing in front of a girl—”

  I threw my head back in joyous laughter. “You don’t have to ask me to love you, Whitaker. It’s done.”

  “Actually . . .” He kissed my hand and lowered onto one knee. “I was going to say ‘asking her to marry him.’” The hand that wasn’t linked with mine was holding a beautiful emerald cut diamond ring. “Sorry there’s not a box,” he said with a wink.

  My breath caught in my throat. “But, how did you . . . why do you . . .”

  “Sorry, but Kevin’s on my team. I claimed him pretty early. And he understands, in a way you still don’t seem to, that not even Willie Mays and Hank Aaron could provide me with the motivation that you could. Besides, McCaffrey, even I’m not stupid enough to fall for that ridiculous plan you hatched.” His smile grew wider and he kissed my hand once more. “But I just like that you try.”

  I leaned down to kiss him. Tears flooded my cheeks, but still I said nothing.

  “You’re killing me here. And frankly, I’m not sure how long my knee can stay on this cold concrete.” He smiled and asked, “Will you marry me or not?”

  I sniffed. “Have you asked my father’s permission?”

  I began laughing as he jumped up to face me. “Oh, you think that’s funny, do you?”

  “Too soon?”

  He captured my mouth once again, and I threw my arms around his neck before pulling away from his kiss, just long enough to whisper, “My answer is yes.” I smiled against his lips and added, “I really thought you’d never ask.”

  As we continued kissing on the top (but not the very top) of the Empire State Building, I had two very important realizations.

  1) My previous ideas of “romance” weren’t going to make me truly happy or fulfilled.

  2) Spending forever with Will Whitaker, I was going to be swept off my feet on a regular basis, whether I needed to be or not.

  Epilogue

  AFTER THE FIRST FOUR YEARS OF FOREVER

  Okay, this may sound strange,” Will said as he turned his body in the passenger seat to face her. “But this, right now, this whole thing, is probably the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”

  Cadie threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, really? What in the world could I possibly find strange about that?”

  As dependent as she had always been on Manhattan’s public transportation, he’d never expected to see her behind the wheel. Much less behind the wheel of a beat-up 1975 Chevy truck. Driving down an Iowa dirt road. Wearing overalls, no less.

  In response to the click she heard, she looked down at his hand, and then back up at him in mock horror. “What are you doing? You get that seat belt back on, mister.”

  “Oh, come on,” he whispered as he scooted closer to her. “You can’t tell me that’s not what these old leather bench seats are made for.” He leaned his head over, nuzzled his face in her hair, and kissed her neck.

  “You’re not setting a very good example,” she said with a giggle.

  He looked behind him and then resumed kissing her, undeterred. “The car’s about a mile back. And her seat is rear-facing!”

  “Okay. Fine. But when she’s sixteen and learning to drive, and your little girl looks up at you—her hero—and says, ‘You always wear your seat belt, right, Daddy?’. . .”

  Will sighed. “You play dirty.” He scooted back over to his side and rebuckled.

  She reached over and placed her hand on his leg. “But I do agree these seats are pretty nice.”

  “Maybe we can properly explore their benefits once the vehicle has come to a full and c
omplete stop.”

  “As lovely as that sounds, I’m barely fitting behind the steering wheel here. Any additional activities or, you know, movement at all will probably require some wide open spaces for the next month or so.”

  Every single day he fell more in love with her, and every single day she became more and more beautiful. But he knew she wasn’t feeling that way.

  Will reached over and placed his hand on her stomach. “Has he been moving a lot today?”

  “Since we got in the truck he hasn’t stopped. Maybe he’s a country boy.” Her eyes flew open and she glanced over at him. “Maybe we should move to Iowa!” She winked and then turned her attention back to the gravel road in front of her.

  “This from the woman who told me the day we moved to Connecticut it felt like admitting defeat.”

  “And I meant that!” She laughed as she turned left down a side road that seemed to be leading to more vast Iowa nothingness. “But I admit. I like having a bedroom door.”

  “Yes . . . that’s been a very nice feature of suburban life.” Just like that, his seat belt was off again, and he was scooting as close to her as he could get.

  “Not this again,” she said, playfully slapping his hands away.

  He laughed and grabbed her free hand and held it. “I’m sorry you have to do all the driving. I had no idea my license had expired.”

  Cadie shrugged. “It’s kind of fun, actually. I’ll happily haul camera equipment all around the Iowa countryside in this potentially labor-inducing heap of disco-era metal any day, in exchange for a little time alone with you.”

  He kissed her on the cheek. “That part is nice. I am sorry I have to work on our anniversary, though.”

  “Are you kidding? For Darby’s first piece as a segment producer? What choice was there? I’m just glad you guys are letting Gracie and me tag along.”

  Will scooted back to his side so he could see her better. “This is Darby we’re talking about. You and Grace are the talent, and she’s letting me tag along.”

  She shook her head and laughed. “I think that false humility stuff stopped working for you about two Emmys ago, Will.”

  He chuckled and took a quick peek behind them to make sure their daughter was still visible. They may have been about a mile apart, but he had no trouble spotting them across the flat farmland.

  “I’m happy to be on camera and interview this guy for her, if that will help get her piece some attention, but honestly I hope it doesn’t take too long. Since I’m not really getting paid for this, maybe she’ll at least babysit tonight and we can go out on the town.”

  “Definitely. Although I’m not sure I brought anything fancy enough to wear to the place I really want to go. You know, that Dirty Ernie’s we passed about twelve miles back? With the billiards and the propane station?” She glanced at him and winked.

  “You, Cadie Whitaker, are a snob,” he laughed.

  Suddenly, the truck began slowing down and he looked around to see if they had arrived. If they had arrived, it sure didn’t look like it. There was nothing but green for days. At least, that’s all he could see out of the window on Cadie’s side of the truck. It didn’t occur to him to look away from her until she pointed past him, and then he finally turned. That direction told a very different story.

  A familiar white farmhouse stood out amongst all the green, but not as much as the baseball diamond did. No. It can’t be. But once he saw the cornfield, there could be no question.

  He jumped out of the truck before she put it into park. “Are you kidding me?” he shouted as he took it all in. “This is the Field of Dreams house! Cadie, come look at this!”

  Her joyous laughter filled the air, and he realized he’d run off and left his very pregnant wife to fend for herself getting out of a massive truck. He ran back to help her, but she’d already stepped out.

  “What are you doing? Don’t wait for me. Go,” she insisted. “Darby’s pulling in. I’ll wait for her and Grace, and we’ll be right there.”

  He looked down toward the field and then back at Cadie. “Who are all those other people?”

  Kevin and Ellis came up from behind Will. “We couldn’t get Shoeless Joe, since he’s been dead since the 1950s and all,” Ellis said, “but I think Cadie and Swoosh pulled together a pretty good team. Barry Bonds, Johnny Bench, Sandy Koufax, A-Rod, Derek Jeter . . . oh, and Hank Aaron’s here.”

  Will scoffed in disbelief. “I’ve heard that one before.”

  Cadie smiled at him. “Go see for yourself.”

  Once again, he looked toward the baseball diamond, where under the lights some of the greatest ball players of all time were warming up on the set of one of his favorite movies of all time. But, as always, nothing could steal his attention away from her for very long.

  “This was you?” he asked, the emotion overtaking his voice. He wrapped his arms around her and whispered in her ear, “How in the world did you pull this off?”

  Throwing her arms around his neck, she replied, “Well, you are working. That part’s true. It’s an ASN special. And Darby’s producing. The rest? Well, let’s just say there are a few people in this business who think you’re an okay guy.”

  Their embrace was interrupted by two-year-old Grace running to them and grabbing on to their legs. Will bent down and scooped her into his arms and kissed her on the cheek, before leaning in and kissing his wife on the lips.

  “Do you have any idea how madly in love with you I am?”

  She cupped his face in her hands and pressed her body as close to him as she possibly could, their two children between them. “I have a pretty good idea. Now, go. Seriously. Life is passing you by.”

  “Dance with me,” he said, and he began swaying his family to music only he could hear.

  “What? You’re crazy.” She laughed and rested her forehead against Grace’s. “Daddy’s silly, isn’t he?”

  Will continued swaying, and Cadie followed his lead as he called out, much to her delight, “The Field of Dreams house and the state of Iowa wish to extend a very special welcome to Will and Cadie Whitaker of Stamford, Connecticut, who met as young ladder-climbers at American Sports Network, eight years ago, and tonight are celebrating their fourth wedding anniversary—along with their two children, one football legend, one basketball legend, and half the living members of the Baseball Hall of Fame.”

  “Ahem . . . what about me?” Darby called out.

  “And Darby,” Will amended. “And a film crew, apparently? And who’s that guy? Are you the owner of the house?” The man nodded that he was, and Will added, “And the owner of the house!”

  He set Grace down, and she took off running toward the field. “That’s my girl,” he laughed as Ellis took off following after her. Cadie squealed at his attempts to dip her, but her laughter subsided as he took her in his arms once again, unobstructed by a toddler, and silenced her with a kiss that put every single romance movie to shame.

  If you’re willing to admit it, you probably know me as Raine de Bourgh. Yes, that Raine de Bourgh. Did you blush at the mere mention of my pen name? Yeah. So did I.

  Three and a half years ago, I certainly had no intention of ever becoming Raine de Bourgh. I was simply Sarah Hollenbeck. Or maybe I was still Sarah McDermott? No. Sarah Hollenbeck. Sarah McDermott was the product of an empty, loveless marriage, and I was doing all I possibly could to prove—at least to myself—that I wasn’t the shell my marriage had reduced me to. But did I even remember Sarah Hollenbeck? The girl I was before I met the guy? Could I become her once again?

  The answer had to be yes, so that Monday evening in June, three and a half years ago, I hoisted my Kate Spade messenger bag a bit higher on my shoulder, straightened my Stella McCartney blazer, wiggled my toes in my Christian Louboutin pumps, and took a deep breath. As I reached for the doorknob of the high school library, I noticed a slight tremble in my hand. I didn’t understand what was causing the reaction. I’d been faithfully entering that library each week for two months
, and it was, after all, just a book club.

  Until a couple of months prior, my life had consisted of the duties of a trophy wife, proudly—though often resentfully—supporting my husband on his rise to the top of a Fortune 500 real estate conglomerate. His Fortune 500 real estate conglomerate. But suddenly, from the moment Patrick sent me a text message that said “Bringing Dan for dinner. He’s gluten-free” followed by a thumbs-up emoji, my life as I knew it was over. Well, I suppose that wasn’t the moment. The moment came later that evening when I caught Patrick making out with Dan’s wife, Bree, in the room I had dreamt would someday be a nursery.

  The dissolution of my marriage left me with a lot of free time. There were no gluten-free dinners to plan, no charity events to attend, no bigwigs to schmooze. We had been together since high school, and while the last few years certainly hadn’t been fulfilling or happy, I didn’t recognize my life without Patrick by my side. I didn’t recognize myself without Patrick by my side. All of our friends were actually Patrick’s friends, it turned out. I couldn’t blame them, really. They were social-ladder-climbers, and I was most definitely a woman whose social status was experiencing a free fall.

  Every job search came up empty. Apparently no one in the tough Chicago job market was interested in hiring someone who hadn’t worked since college, where she’d earned a degree she’d never once put to use. I’d had one career and one career only, and I’d been forced into early retirement—and I never was able to figure out how to list my job experience as “Mrs. Patrick McDermott” on my résumé.

  I was a social pariah desperately in need of something to do, but for a depressed, newly divorced woman with more money and time than talent or skills, finding the right hobby is a surprisingly tricky thing.

  Traveling meant traveling alone, and that wasn’t something I knew how to do.

  Quilting took too much patience.

  Community theatre took too much confidence.