“That’s what folks did in those days, Dean. And it wasn’t like they didn’t love each other, don’t get me wrong. Johnny adored your mother, and I truly believe she felt the same way about him. But—” She stopped.
“But?”
“Did you know your father couldn’t read, Dean?”
“Not until later, but yeah, I knew. Mama told me he was dyslexic.”
“Then you can understand what it must’ve been like, a man who can’t read, falling in love with a woman who read everything she could get her hands on, who wanted to be a writer, for heaven’s sake. And there they were, married at nineteen, with a baby on the way, and him only able to scrape by with his furniture-making. I don’t suppose it mattered to either of them at first, what with being so much in love, and then you came and they were both just tickled pink with you. I don’t think it ever even occurred to Marion she was making a sacrifice, giving up that scholarship and her career for love. She was young. They both were. And they figured, long as they had each other, nothing else mattered.
“But Johnny confided in me once, I guess about the time they were expecting Lance, how he’d catch Marion watching the TV news with a wistful look in her eyes sometimes, or that she’d be readin’ the newspaper and suddenly start to crying for no reason he could figure. It was about that time she took up with all that craft stuff she got into, stopped reading the newspaper altogether. And Johnny said, he figured it was on account of him she’d given up her dreams, see. That he should’ve been man enough to let her go do what she needed to do, rather than trapping her the way he did—”
Anger boiled up inside him. “Mama never felt that way! I never once got the feeling she resented the choice she made.”
“No, of course not, honey. She was devoted to you and Lance. And Johnny. But he loved her enough to hear what she wasn’t telling him. And the guilt over his part in keeping her from doing what she wanted nearly ate him alive.”
“And you were afraid the same thing’d happen to Sarah and me.”
The silence throbbed between them. “Yes. I was.”
Dean leaned forward with a soft groan, then said quietly, “Except Sarah and I weren’t my parents, Aunt Ethel. I would never have let her make that kind of sacrifice for me, baby or no baby.” He allowed a rueful smile. “And she never would have let me stand in the way of her goals.”
“I know that,” his aunt replied. “Now. But at the time…” She sighed. “I grew up in a time when women didn’t have the opportunities they have today, you know? It like to broke my heart when I saw Marion give up her dreams. Then when you and Sarah got so serious, so young, and her so promising, academically…I couldn’t stand the idea of history repeating itself.”
“It wouldn’t have,” Dean said wearily, “if anyone had given us half a chance to prove otherwise.”
He heard his aunt sigh. “Well, we’re giving you that chance now. We all created this problem. Now it’s time we all fix it.”
He just needs time, her mother said. He’ll come around, just be patient.
Yeah, right.
Vivian said the same things about Katey, more than once in the week after the wedding. The child had not magically adjusted to the idea of Sarah being her mother and Vivian her grandmother. She spoke little, ate less and spent most of her time with the puppies. To everyone’s shock, Ethel—who ranked shrinks right up there with devil worshippers—suggested maybe they take Katey to see a child psychologist to help her deal with all this.
But Sarah knew what the real problem was. Something no counselor, however well-meaning and experienced and pricey, was going to fix: Katey had no sooner met her real father than she’d lost him. Her heart ached for her daughter, far more than it did for herself.
Then, late Friday afternoon, Wilma Thomas called Sarah at the clinic.
“Hey, Wilma. The calf okay?”
“The calf? Oh, yes, he’s just fine,” the widow said with a chuckle. “Listen, that’s not why I’m calling. I was wondering if you could stop by and give Franklin a message for me on your way home.”
Sarah frowned. “Stop by where?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, honey. I just assumed you knew. He’s over at the old Parrish house, and there’s no phone yet. Dean hired him before he went away.”
She was becoming more baffled by the second. “Hired him to do what?”
“Oh, paintin’ and strippin’ cabinets, stuff like that. Fixin’ it up.”
“Oh. To sell, I guess.”
“Sell? Uh-uh. Didn’t you know?”
“Know…what?”
“He’s setting up that factory in Opelika, so he’s going to live in his old house. Funny…I just figured you knew.” She paused, then repeated, now sounding perplexed herself, “I just figured…”
“No,” she said. “I didn’t know. But I’ll be happy to give Franklin the message. What is it?”
She jotted Wilma’s instructions on a Post-it on her desk, then tucked it into her jeans, all the while wondering what to think. After all, since Dean hadn’t said boo, it was pretty clear—wasn’t it?—he wasn’t in any split for her to find out he was moving back. For Katey’s sake, she hoped Dean was coming home for good. For her sake, however, she wasn’t sure she particularly liked the idea. Unless…
Forget it, she told herself. Unlike her mother, she didn’t believe in fairy tales and magic and happily-ever-afters anymore.
A couple of last-minute walk-ins prevented her leaving the clinic until after six. She figured Franklin would be long gone, but, since she’d promised to try to get him the message, she went on up to the Parrish house anyway.
Nope. Too late. No truck parked out front, and as she walked up the porch steps, pushing open the unlocked door, she heard nothing resembling construction noises.
“Franklin?” she called, not expecting an answer. She should leave. Franklin wasn’t there, so there was no reason for her to be, either.
But she didn’t.
She hadn’t been near the house since the night Katey was conceived, when she and Dean had given in to each other underneath that stand of pines beside the pond, their bed a thick blanket of pine needles. She knew that Katey had “discovered” the old house some time ago and was particularly enchanted with the pond. Maybe, one day, after several tons of emotional dust had settled, Sarah would tell her. Maybe.
Franklin had been busy, she thought, her eyes scanning the airy living room. Sarah remembered the old house as being on the bleak side near the end of Dean’s time there, when his mother had been so ill. In fact, Sarah hadn’t liked going to the house much. Too sad, too dark.
No more. All the walls were painted a soft, buttery color; the floors had been refinished and now glowed like topaz. Hesitantly, she pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen and saw that the horrid mustard color was gone, too, replaced with the same ivory as in the rest of the house. The old cabinets had been refinished, the glass panes clear and sparkling like faceted stones. A brand-new side-by-side refrigerator was already in place, as well as a new gas stove.
She waggled her hands as if she’d touched something hot, then quickly walked out of the kitchen, intending to leave.
Something made her turn as she passed the stairs. She paused, listening. There it was, a definite scrape, like a ladder being moved.
“Franklin?” she called, beginning to climb the stairs. “You here?”
She got to the top of the stairs and listened again. There it was—another scrape. From one of the bedrooms.
“Franklin, it’s Sarah. Your mother wanted me to give you a message—”
She pushed open the paneled door, then dropped her jaw. It was the most beautiful little girl’s room she’d ever seen. The walls were papered in a tiny print of pink roses and hearts entwined with blue ribbons, with a border of larger roses circling the top; rose-patterned chintz curtains were swagged on either side of the two windows. A maple four-poster twin bed with a matching spread, canopied in lace, sat in the middle of the room ato
p a thick Chinese rug in the same pastels as the rest of the room. There was a dresser, a highboy, and a desk as well.
And in one corner, a child-size rocker just like Jennifer’s and Dean’s.
“Think she’ll like it?”
Sarah screamed and jumped like a spooked cat.
Laughing, Dean caught her in his arms and hugged her to him. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said, maneuvering her around and kissing the top of her head. “I meant to surprise you. Not set you back five years.”
Refusing to let hope cheat her—again—she tried to wrestle herself out of his arms, but he wouldn’t let go. “What the hell are you doing?”
He grabbed her again, his breath hot on her lips. “Kissing you, if you’ll quit wiggling for a second.”
Oh, what the heck. She quit wiggling. His mouth was warm and soft and urgent, and she didn’t even think about whether or not she should respond. She didn’t have a choice. While his muscular arms entwined around her like a python, she wound her fingers through his hair, over his shoulders, down his hard, muscled back, and she opened her mouth, giving, taking, wanting.
They were both panting when they came up for air.
“That…that was very nice,” she managed to say, letting herself float in those bottomless green eyes.
“There’s more,” Dean said, sending her eyebrows skyward.
“As in…?”
Her heart jittering underneath her ribs, she let him guide her to the master bedroom. He pushed open the door, his smile sufficiently wicked to require licensing in several states.
This room was much more simple. Another four-poster, this time a double, covered with a lovely old quilt that was clearly an heirloom. Lace curtains. A large chest of drawers. Couple of lamps.
A collection of foil packets on the nightstand.
And hope settled right in to stay for good. “When did you…?”
“Drove a moving van down this morning. Franklin and Wilma and Ethel and your mother helped me get everything in place.”
She whipped around to him. “Franklin and Wilma? My mother? Ethel?” Her eyebrows felt as though they were going to fly off her head. “I was set up?”
“You were set up.” Another smile.
Sarah raised her fingers to Dean’s face, sighed when he grasped her hand and kissed the palm. She thought she might faint from happiness.
“And…what does this mean, exactly?” she finally said through a throat that didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Exactly?”
“Point for point,” she said, calmly noting he was unbuttoning her shirt.
“Point one—” he nuzzled the space between her breasts as he unbuttoned a second button, then a third “—I’m home to stay.”
She moaned, swallowed, wondering if you could get burned from someone’s kisses. “And?”
“Point two—” He pulled her shirttail out of her jeans, worked it off her shoulders, began nibbling her neck. “If I put myself in your position, I can understand why you didn’t tell me about Katey.”
She took his face in her hands and riveted her eyes to his. “Really?”
His expression turned her knees to chocolate sauce. “Really.”
Tears pricked her eyes. “Anything else?”
“Oh, baby,” he said, unzipping her pants, working them down her legs. “I’m just getting started.”
She stepped out of the pants and kicked them to one side, then tugged at the hem of his T-shirt and peeled it over his head. “I believe,” she murmured, kissing his chest, feeling him unhook her bra. “You were on point three?”
“Point three…” He snagged her jaw in his palm and met her eyes again. “I love you more than I can possibly explain with words.”
The rest of their clothes tumbled to the floor. Then he picked her up and carried her to the bed, laying her on top of the soft, cool quilt. A warm breeze stirred the curtains, giving her goose bumps; she felt her nipples snap to. Dean noticed, tenderly kissed each one in turn. She smiled, stroking his cheek, glowing with expectation. “Is there a point four?”
He laughed, tracing a warm, lazy finger over her shoulder, down her arm, deliberately avoiding her breasts. “What makes you think there’s a point four?”
She drew her mouth down. “There isn’t?”
Chuckling, he kissed her again; she lifted his hand to her breast, no longer hesitant about letting him know exactly what she wanted. His mouth traveled from hers, down her neck, his lips teasing her nipple just long enough for her to wonder how she thought she could live without him. How she thought she could live without magic and fairy tales and happily-ever-afters.
Then he stopped. And grinned. And placed a small velvet box right on her navel.
She glanced down. “Point four?”
“Yep.”
Sarah opened the box, which contained—
“Three rings?”
Dean removed the small, perfect diamond solitaire from its slot and slipped it on her finger. “This is for now.” She arched up, grabbed another easily stolen kiss. “Unfortunately, the other two will have to wait. It takes three days for the blood tests, I believe.”
Her laugh echoed in the uncarpeted room. “You want to get married in three days?”
That smile. That smile she had loved since she was three years old. “I want to get married now. We’ve wasted far too much time as it is, I think. Besides, I don’t want my daughter to be without her daddy any longer than necessary—”
“Oh, my God! Katey!” Sarah tried to sit up. “We have to tell her—”
Gently, Dean pushed her back onto the bed. “I’ve already seen Katey, honey. We had a long talk, during which she told me a thing or two.”
Sarah rasped her knuckles down his cheek. “I just bet she did.”
But he smiled. “It’s okay. I still have all my appendages, and we agreed to help each other work this out. But right now…is our time.” He skimmed her jaw with a fingertip, then gave her a long, sweet kiss that sent liquid fire trickling through her veins. Dean—the Dean she fell in love with when she was a little girl—laughed and gathered her into his arms. “I believe there’s this Guinness record we need to be working on…?”
Epilogue
Somebody’s laryngitic rooster ground out a sorry excuse for a crow, forcing open Dean’s eyelids. He slipped down farther underneath the old quilt, feeling Sarah shift on the other side of the bed. Yawning, he let his thoughts shake themselves and settle like a feather pillow as his eyes gradually became accustomed to the slate light in the room. It was cold. And quiet, except for that dad-blasted rooster.
And the baby’s snuffling two feet away.
Dean leaned over the side of the bed, peering through the predawn dimness into the cradle. But Eliott Dean Parrish was still sound asleep, his tiny thumb firmly planted in his perfect mouth. It was everything Dean could do not to pull him into bed with them, to cuddle his infant son and drink in his baby sweetness. Instead, he reached out and unnecessarily rearranged his blankets.
“You just leave him be,” Sarah murmured, snuggling close, her breath soft on his bare back. “He wakes up, you nurse him.”
With a chuckle, Dean rolled over, pulling his warm, naked wife into his arms. He tucked her head under his chin and gently cupped her breast, glossy smooth and firm with his son’s milk, a drop of which smeared on his finger when he touched the already erect nipple. “Can’t,” he whispered into her hair, still smelling of wood smoke from a romantic encounter in front of the fire last night. “You’re the only one in the room with these.”
“Mmm…” He heard a snicker underneath his chin. “Last night was fun.”
He’d had to be in Atlanta for a week this time; they hadn’t made love last night as much as they’d fused. He hugged her to him, combing his fingers through her silky shoulder-length hair—their compromise, Sarah called it: long enough for him to play with, short enough for her to easily manage. “Yeah,” he said, now skimming his hand over her bare bottom,
feeling himself instantly respond to the prospect of a repeat performance. “Got plans for today?”
“It’s Saturday, remember?” she said, stretching luxuriously against him, heightening his arousal. “I’m all yours. And Katey’s and Eli’s, of course.”
He looked into her eyes, still dewy with sleep. “You really don’t miss the farm work?”
“I told you,” Sarah said, snaking her long fingers through the hair on his chest. “Regular clinic hours will do just fine as long as I’m nursing. There’ll be plenty of time after I’m done having your babies to resume my intimate acquaintance with the cows in the neighborhood.”
“Babies?” he said with one eyebrow raised.
“Hey, Eli’s about to outgrow the cradle. It deserves to be put to more than one use, don’t you think? Besides, I’m sure you wouldn’t dream of letting Lance get to number three before you did.”
Dean laughed. “You know me too well, lady.”
“I always have.”
He didn’t miss the tinge of melancholy in her voice. It came less and less often now, but occasionally, it still surfaced. For him, too. Just the tiniest regret for the lost years they could have been together, pricking at their happiness like the very end of a splinter you thought was completely gone.
He hugged her tightly, waiting for it to pass.
“I told Mama and Ethel you’d look at their plans for the remodel.”
Dean laughed softly. “Where’d that come from?”
Sarah kissed his chest. “I have no idea. Just popped into my head.”
“Mmm.” He chuckled. “Leave it to those two to decide that a simple bed-and-breakfast wouldn’t be enough. Why on earth do they want to run a full-fledged inn?”
“Because they don’t have us to look after anymore,” she said simply. And, again, a little sadly. He tucked his fingers under her chin and caught her gaze. “Hormones,” she said before he could question her. “I swear. In ten minutes I’ll be fine.”
He shifted so she could feel his readiness. “If I have anything to say about it, it won’t even take ten minutes.”
She burst into laughter, the shadow dispersed as quickly as it had come. With a demonic grin, she began to caress him with one finger. “You think we have time?”
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