by Carol Devine
She heard him return, still whistling. The most absurd apprehension nailed her to the chair. What if he wasn’t wearing anything? Considering some of the stunts he’d pulled with her, she wouldn’t put it past him.
“Are you a news junkie?” he asked from behind her.
“I like to keep up with what’s going on,” she admitted.
“Me, too.” He asked a background question about the lead story. She sneaked a glance at him when she answered and relief flooded her. He hadn’t changed clothes at all. The only thing missing was his jacket. Cuff links, too. He’d rolled up his sleeves. Once she noted the corded muscles of his forearms, she quickly refastened her gaze on the TV.
“What time would you like to eat?” he asked.
“Eat?”
“Food, sustenance, the bread of life. The hotel has a five-star restaurant that comes highly recommended.”
She deliberated. Nonexistent though her appetite was, the idea of being surrounded by a room full of other people appealed to her. There was safety in numbers. She certainly wasn’t going to tear off his clothes if people were watching. She wasn’t that far gone.
Yet.
Jumping to her feet, she said in her briskest manner, “Give me half an hour.”
“Certainly.”
Thus committed, she slipped into the bedroom to get ready. An expansive bouquet of long-stemmed white roses lay on the king-size bed. Not daring to ask, she hoped the flowers were supplied by the hotel. This was the bridal suite, after all.
She saw he had unpacked. His tuxedo jacket hung in the closet, along with a more casual herringbone tweed. Next to it hung a pressed shirt and khaki slacks. Cordovan loafers were neatly lined up on the closet floor. Seeing his clothes brought it all home to her.
And thereto I pledge thee my troth.
Forcing the memory of those words from her mind, Meg made short work of emptying her overnight bag and opened the other side of the closet. She gasped, and her armful of clothes tumbled to the floor. More roses, tiny and scarlet this time, lay scattered on the top shelf. The question of who had placed them so strategically was answered. Jack. What remained was the question of why.
He wasn’t above manipulating her with a romantic gesture or two. She knew that.
Congratulating herself on the soundness of the insight, Meg put away her clothes and bustled into the bathroom. Laid across the shiny marble sink was a single long-stemmed yellow rose. A card was attached. For my wife, Meg, the distinctive handwriting read.
She stared for an endless moment, then picked up the rose and touched the fragrance to her nose, the feel of petals to her lips, moist and sweet.
Of all the memories they shared, this one remained best remembered, of roses traced upon her skin, of tasting the crush of petals on him. Perhaps he had experienced the same thing with some other woman in some other time. His smile had been lazy at first. But in the end, face-to-face and body-to-body, with nothing between them but the most sensitive of skin, the depths of his eyes had splintered, and she fancied she saw love there.
Youth fancied many things, she discovered. But an unborn child brought such fantasies immediately down to earth. When she learned she was pregnant, her first thought was to call Jack immediately. But if the truth hadn’t been obvious before, it was by then. The father of her child just wasn’t father material. Despite his many promises and the intensity of their passion, he hadn’t bothered to follow up with so much as a phone call.
Now a slim band of gold weighed heavy on her hand. She had always believed in promises. That is, until Jack came along.
For better or worse . . .
She might not believe his promises, but she had always kept her own. She might not have the feelings of a new bride, but that didn’t make Jack any less her husband. She had given him her word from this day forward . . .
Meg stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, seeing the nervous blanching of her skin. However noble her intentions, she was not a saint. She couldn’t pretend to love a man even if she was married to him. Her experience with Allen proved it. Either the feeling was there to begin with, as with Amanda and Bram, or the feeling didn’t exist at all.
Shaking herself from her reverie, Meg hid her cosmetic bag in one of the bathroom drawers. Jack, on the other hand, had a little more faith about revealing his personal items. Stored in a corner by the sink was his leather shaving kit. She battled a most human urge to peek inside it.
And all my worldly goods with thee I share.
She returned her cosmetic bag to the counter, then switched it from one side of the sink to the other, seeing her foolishness and feeling it, too, but the agony of indecision didn’t end. And it had nothing to do with worldly goods.
With my body, I thee honor . . .
The truth was, she didn’t know what the future held. Allen’s sudden death had taught her that. Maybe if she gave in tonight to the intense attraction she felt for Jack, they might uncover feelings enough to make a future. To not try to fulfill her promises, to not give the marriage her all... now and forever, amen.
Jack claimed he wanted to earn her trust. Problem was, he already had it. She wasn’t afraid to trust him. She was afraid to trust herself.
Seven
Determined to act upon her wedding vows, Meg carried the single rose with her into the living area of the suite. Jack lounged on the couch in front of the television, the picture of relaxed formality in his tux, a copy of the Wall Street Journal on his lap.
“Thank you,” she said, lifting the rose.
“You’re welcome.” He switched off the television and folded the newspaper. “I wanted to do something special.”
“You did.” Gathering her courage to take the initiative, Meg perched on the chair opposite him. “What would you think about ordering room service? I think I’ve had enough of people tonight.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” With a smile, he passed her the leather-bound menu. “Room service it is.”
Meg pored over it, supremely self-conscious. But it wasn’t as though she had invited him to jump into bed with her. They had to dine, and now that she had time to think about it, to do so in front of a room full of gawking strangers held little appeal. Especially if she wanted to engage her new husband in meaningful and intimate conversation.
To set the right mood for the meal, she chose Chateaubriand for two, which appeared to please him. He made the required phone call, leaving Meg to wait in the chair, wondering what to do next. Her palms were already damp. She smoothed them over the upholstery, telling herself not to be nervous, that she had only committed herself to sharing a private meal with him. The first order of business was to simply relax.
When he returned, they talked of Katie, of how well she was adjusting despite the overwhelming press coverage that came with the announcement of their nuptials. Luckily, very little of the coverage had focused on her. Instead, as Meg had predicted, the media fixated on speculating about how she and Jack could possibly have fallen in love so quickly, especially when she was supposedly grieving the recent loss of her husband.
Their prepared statements satisfied some of the less ferocious of the media while serving, also, to put to rest any doubts expressed by their families. Any openly expressed doubts, at least.
Further rescue came from an unexpected quarter. A well-known gossip columnist for one of the newspapers suggested that what really motivated Jack Tarkenton’s abrupt decision to wed was his deep psychological need to get over the trauma of his childhood. The tragic figure of a recent widow like Meg couldn’t help but reawaken memories of his own mother going through the same thing. Suggesting that he had an Oedipal complex, the columnist opined that since Jack and Meg were related by marriage that made her the perfect candidate. She was vulnerable to his pursuit because of her grief and need to provide for her youngster.
Even though she and Jack had shared a laugh over that one, Meg remembered wondering if there might be a kernel of truth m such musings. But she’
d made sure she did a good job of ignoring it all, and had concentrated instead on making the holiday season a special one for Katie. Between the excitement of Christmas and the secret planning of the wedding, the time had been hectic for all of them. Now that it was behind them, Meg and Jack were able to relax and make friendly small talk.
A small army of waiters, discreetly uniformed in black vests and tuxedo pants, wheeled in three trolley carts, setting an elegant table for two in red linens. Centered in the forest of china and, crystal was a silver domed platter. Dispatching the group with the stroke of a pen, Jack waited until they left, then pulled out a chair, insisting on seating Meg himself.
“Wine, Madame?” he asked, displaying the bottle over his arm.
Meg did a double-take over the distinctive French label. Chateau Gruand-Larose Saint-Julien. Even the year was correct. “You remembered,” she exclaimed, glancing up at him in total surprise.
He gave her an indulgent smile and splashed her glass with the ruby bordeaux. “Why wouldn’t I remember? It was the night we first met.”
“Jack,” she reminded him, “we met more than five years ago.”
“I remember everything about that night,” he claimed, taking his seat and filling his own glass.
“Really?” A teasing dimple dented her cheek. “I find that difficult to believe.”
“Test me then.”
She picked up her glass and sipped thoughtfully, ebony lashes demure against her high-boned cheeks. “Do you remember where we met?”
“At the rehearsal dinner for Amanda and Bram’s wedding—The Four Fountains Restaurant, to be precise.”
“Even I didn’t remember the name of the restaurant.”
“I told you. I remember everything.”
“What was I wearing?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Black panties.”
She sputtered and threw her napkin at him.
Jack lofted it back with a smile. “You wore a silk sheathe, very Parisian. The color was royal blue. You told me you bought it from a shop on rue Cambon. That’s when we gave up all pretense and decided to speak in the language of love.”
“Was that what it was?” she asked lightly. “Love?”
He chuckled, unwilling to risk the mood with too frank an answer. “The French certainly think they speak the language of love. It’s their major claim to fame.”
“I know some curators at Versailles or the Louvre who might take issue with that Tell me, do you travel much to France?”
“Enough to keep fluent. You?”
“Last year I went for the first time since school, for the designer shows.” She traced the rim of her wineglass, suddenly pensive. “I miss France. Especially Paris.”
“Of course. Paris. Why didn’t I think of it before? It’s the perfect place for a honeymoon. We’ll catch the Concorde tomorrow.”
“To Paris?” she asked, obviously startled.
He lifted his wineglass, toasting her. “Your wish, my dear wife, is my command.”
“But, we can’t go to Paris.”
“Why not, Meg? You love Paris.”
“What about Katie? We’re supposed to pick her up tomorrow.”
Meg had a point. “We’ll take her with us,” he said.
“Jack, she’s four years old. What will she do there?”
“We’ll hire a nanny. She’ll have a great time.”
“On our so-called honeymoon? I’m sure the media will have nothing good to say about that.”
“Fine,” he clipped. “We won’t go to Paris.” He stabbed at his meat, put off by his own annoyance. He shouldn’t care if they went or not.
“Perhaps we can go next year, when Katie’s older. For our first wedding anniversary.”
Somewhat mollified, he covered her hand. “I’ll hold you to that.”
To his amazement, she held his gaze for a long moment, the curl of her fingers pliant beneath his. “I know you will.”
He raised her hand to his lips and sealed the promise with a kiss. Withdrawing her hand with a smile, she resumed eating, and sipped her wine with graceful poise. But he sensed how much remained hidden behind her outward show of composure. To encourage her to relax even more, he refilled their wineglasses and plied her with questions about Katie, about the times he missed since the day she’d been born.
Answering patiently, Meg handled her silverware in deft European style, the knife in her right hand and eating from the fork in her left, relishing the meal and the wine in the same way he was. He had always admired her stylish yet winsome manner, making her appear both sophisticated and approachable at the same time. From the moment they met, he had been taken with her. By storm.
He asked her about her work. The fashion industry attracted all sorts of characters, and Meg described them in vivid yet respectful terms, especially the sometimes eccentric weavers who were working with her to preserve the old ways of making the wools, silks and satins that replicated the most historically celebrated fabrics on earth.
The musicality of her voice didn’t distract him, however, from the allure of her body, showcased to perfection by her wedding gown.
Halfway through their second bottle of wine, one of his wryer comments made her laugh. Shaking with mirth, she collapsed back in her chair, giggling behind her napkin.
Tempted to join her, he held himself back, thinking he had to be very careful in building her trust and handling the sense of camaraderie developing between them. One wrong move, and he’d be banished to the couch, sentenced to sleeping alone not only tonight but many more to come. There were certain steps he had to take in order to entice her into bed. That knowledge gained him a considerable amount of control, and he raised his wineglass in another toast. “To new beginnings.”
She clinked her glass against his. “To ours.”
He watched her while she savored the wine, feeling the growing furnace in his belly. He ended up draining his glass just to keep focused. “Magnifique.”
He had the distinct pleasure of seeing a delicate shade of rose blossom on her cheeks. “You’re spoiling me.”
“Really?” He pushed away from the table. “Come here, Meg.”
She rose and halted before him. Amazed she’d obeyed without question, he linked fingers with hers, encouraging her tentative smile.
Lord, he was tempted to pull her down into his lap. But he wasn’t about to let the rapport he’d worked so hard to establish between them slip away. “Are you ready for dessert?”
“Aren’t you?”
“I thought you wanted to wait.” Ready to pounce, he counted his heartbeat instead, annoyed by its speed. He didn’t want her to guess what her nearness did to him.
“I don’t know,” she mused and wound a lock of his hair around her finger. “Isn’t it a woman’s prerogative to change her mind?”
It was. And there was no clearer signal than her smile and the urgency it brought him. But the ease in which she had given in nagged at him. Meg wasn’t one to change her mind, not without a good reason. “What are you saying?” he asked cautiously.
“Come now, Jack. Isn’t it obvious? I want to do what all newlyweds do on their wedding night.”
She knelt at his feet, the picture of bridal devotion. Yet her hands fisted tight, the knuckles stark and white when she placed them on his thighs, as if she was offering herself to him like some sacrificial lamb.
Maybe she was. And he shouldn’t be surprised. If he’d learned one thing about Meg in the years since they met, it was the extent of her virtue. Unfortunately, his sense of virtue didn’t extend nearly as far.
He stroked her face like a blind man might, seeking the structure beneath, the strength of form softened by silk, only alive. She closed her eyes, and he smoothed the line of her brows with his thumbs, soothing her worries. He didn’t want to take advantage of her. But her fists remained tensed and stoic on his thighs.
He wove fingers through her hair, letting it curl around his palms and fall back into place. She bowed her
head, affording him full access. Instead of gratifying him, the sight of her bent in submission made him swallow hard. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t right for either of them.
He tugged her to her feet, making her stand to face him. Her gaze questioned him, unsure of what he wanted. Long practice made him want to sweep her off her feet and kiss her into full and unbridled certainty. He put a finger under her chin instead, tilting up her face.
“Meg, how long has it been since you’ve been held?”
“Held? What do you mean?”
“Like this.” He hooked both of her arms around his neck. Careful where he placed his hands, he brought her to him, holding her loosely around the waist. “Everybody needs to be held, Meg. Even you.”
She raised her head suspiciously, which confirmed his suspicion that she wasn’t quite as sure of herself as he needed her to be. “What do you mean?”
“Try,” he suggested.
Distrust stiffened her. Ready to retreat at the slightest provocation, she barely skimmed him with her length.
He chuckled to reassure her. “Don’t worry, Meg. This isn’t that kind of hug.”
“It isn’t?”
“No. We need a little more time; I think, before we end up in bed together.”
“We do?”
“Don’t you think so?”
“I suppose,” she said doubtfully. Doubt he had previously gone out of his way to plant.
Tightening his hold, he placed his hands safely at the small of her back. She waited, standing still before she finally inched forward, exerting the barest hint of pressure against the ruffles of his shirt.
The simple drape of her dress swept the long line of her spine and warmed his palms, luring him to picture what lay underneath. He concentrated on keeping his own hands steady and relatively flat, and realized how intricate the art of comfort and silence really was.
She moved to rest her head on his shoulder and held her breath as though listening. Maybe she was.
He thought of many things in that moment, thought of the corners of the room, the furniture, anything to make himself into a statue.