Here With Me

by Beverly Long

  He’d slid through time, like sand through a crack. Now he waited to be swept up by the wind, like wayward sand, and carried home, left to settle back into a world he knew.

  His problem was that he’d never been especially good at waiting. He was a man of action and he didn’t need any damn wind telling him what was the right thing to do. “You said yesterday that you were looking for a husband.”

  She cocked her head to the left. “What?”

  “You said that you told your grandmother that you had a husband and she’s expecting you to bring him home. That’s what you said, right?”

  She chewed on the corner of her bottom lip. “That’s what I said.”

  “I’ve been a husband. It wouldn’t be like starting from scratch.”

  Keeping her head tilted, she patted the side of her head with the palm of her hand. Then she made a production of leaning her head to the other side and repeating the motion before sitting up very straight. "I must have water in my ears still.”

  Now that he’d decided, he wouldn’t be put off. “You need a husband. I’ve got a little time on my hands. We’d be helping each other out.”

  Her cheeks showed bright spots of color. “Oh, good grief. You don’t know what you’d be getting yourself into. You’ve got to have better things to do.”

  What was there to do when a person was a round peg in a square hole? “My offer stands,” he said.

  “I’d be asking too much. Look, this isn’t a weekend trip home. I don’t know how long I’m staying.”

  That made two of them. He just needed to stay prepared, to be ready when the footprints back appeared. “If I need to leave, if something comes up suddenly,” he said, “you can always give them an excuse. By then, they’ll believe I’m the real thing.”

  She stood up, her movements less graceful than before. She started walking, making small circles around him. “This is nutty,” she muttered, waving her delicate hands. “It’ll never work.” Another circle. “It’s too much for me to expect.” Another circle.

  Christ, he was getting dizzy. But he couldn’t stop watching her. The wind blew across the ocean, making her hair fly and pushing her loose shirt tight up against her frame, and he saw the slight evidence of her child.

  She stopped walking. “What’s in it for you?” she asked.

  A sense of purpose, perhaps. He’d had that when he was sheriff and had the responsibility of taking care of a whole town. Had certainly had it when he’d been chasing after Hannah’s killers. He’d been spurred on by the need for vengeance. But now, a hundred plus years later, he had no town that needed him. And the one remaining man of the three who had hurt his Hannah, was certainly long dead. He had no reason for continuing on other than to help Melody Song.

  But she had every reason for questioning his offer. After all, by what she’d shared, there had already been one man who’d charmed her into his bed, only later to desert her. This was a woman who would be on guard, who would question a man’s motives.

  “My pockets are empty and I’ve got no job and no place to live,” he said.

  She nodded. “I would definitely pay you,” she said.

  He’d never cared all that much about money. “We’ll work something out,” he said. He looked down at his clothes. “I guess I’m not really dressed to go calling on family.”

  “That’s easy to fix,” she assured him. She played with the hem of her blouse. Then she did some more circles in the sand. Finally, she lifted her eyes to the blue sky and he saw her lips move in what he figured was silent prayer. As long as she wasn’t asking God for another big wave to wash him away, it probably couldn’t hurt.

  It took her another minute before she looked at him. “Well, what do you say?” he asked.

  She gave him a wobbly sort of smile, stuck out her hand, and said, “I think we just got married.”

  ***

  On the way to her car, Melody examined her new husband. His shirt and pants, which had been wet and clinging to his body last night, had dried stiff. His dark brown hair, which was well over the edge of his shirt collar, was matted down in a combination of salt and sand. He wore cowboy boots with a one-inch heel and it looked like the worn leather hadn’t yet dried all the way.

  Last night, she’d missed the fact that he had lovely moss-green eyes with dark lashes so thick that if he’d been a girl, she’d have discreetly leaned over and asked for a recommendation on mascara.

  It had been too dark to see that his skin was tanned with a few lines around his eyes or that when he smiled, his teeth were nice and straight with the exception of the slightest overlap of his lower two front teeth. Had he been the kind of boy who didn’t have time for a retainer?

  What she had noticed was that he had a nice voice and a wonderful sort of gentlemanly manner about him. That was hard to miss.

  She wondered if he was homeless. It seemed rather obvious that he only had the clothes on his back. She’d realized she was taking a chance when she’d offered him a ride. But she couldn’t leave him stranded when he’d risked his life to save hers.

  They were just a few feet from the steps that would take them up the steep cliff when he stopped to pick up what looked to be a ten-by-ten square wood box. It had a latch and a long leather strap that he looped over his shoulder. “What is that?” she asked.

  “My camera.”

  She’d seen old cameras in similar boxes at flea markets. “Oh, an antique one?”

  He looked rather startled, like perhaps he hadn’t expected her to ask that. “Yes, it is.” He motioned for her to go first on the steps. She took them slowly, but even so, when she got to the top she was breathing hard, keenly aware of every one of the eight pounds she’d already gained.

  “Maybe we should rest a minute,” he said.

  She smiled at him. “I know this will surprise you, but I used to live on the tenth floor of this huge apartment building. I did the stairs every day.”

  “Tenth floor,” he repeated, like he could hardly believe her. She didn’t blame him. Not when she was practically panting like a dog on a hot summer day.

  “Fortunately for me,” she said, pointing to her five-year-old green Grand Prix, which was the only car in the small lot due to the time of the day, “we’re driving the rest of the way.”

  He stared at her car and his eyes showed a myriad of emotions she couldn’t identify. She felt bad for him. Maybe he’d had to give up his own car when he’d fallen on hard times. Or God forbid, maybe he’d had to sleep in a car after he’d lost his home. She kept walking, wanting to give him a moment. When she reached the car, she looked over her shoulder. He was still standing in the same spot.

  Not sure what else to do or say, she opened the door and got in on the driver’s side. That seemed to spur him into action. He walked quickly to the other side, opened the door, and when he sort of sank, half-dropped into the seat, he almost hit his head on the roof.

  “Careful,” she warned.

  When he leaned forward and placed the camera between his feet, she thought she saw his hand tremble. “I’m a very good driver,” she assured him. “Just forget what I said earlier about cutting across multiple lanes of traffic.” She fastened her seatbelt and he did the same, although he fumbled around with the catch.

  When she pulled out of the lot, he sat up in his seat and gripped the handle on the upholstered door. “There’s a Target just up the street,” she said, trying hard not to be offended. She was a good driver. “We can get some clothes there.”

  He kept staring out the front window. Ten minutes later she pulled into a crowded strip mall lot and found a space. When she turned to look at him, she was surprised to see how pale he looked. “Oh no,” she said. “You’re not the carsick type, are you?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He sat bone-straight in his seat.

  Oh this was going to be such a fun drive. As weird as her stomach had become, if he threw up, it would be a matter of seconds before she joined him in sympat
hy.

  How the heck had one little lie turned into this? Okay, it wasn’t one lie and none of them were that little.

  She’d always gone home for Christmas. But she hadn’t this past year. On the twentieth of December, when her period, which always, always, came every twenty-eight days, was six days late, she’d taken a home pregnancy test. She’d promptly gone to the store and bought two more and repeated the test on the twenty-first and twenty-second of December. All three of them had said the same thing. She was pregnant. On the twenty-third of December, still reeling from the shock, she’d called her grandmother and told her that she had to work at the restaurant over the holidays and wouldn’t be able to come home this year. That had been the first lie.

  On the fifth of January, her grandmother had called for her weekly chat. A day earlier, Melody had seen her doctor and he’d confirmed that in late August or early September, her child would be born. She’d left the doctor’s office and called Alexander, the man she’d met a month after Miguel had died.

  When she’d told him about the pregnancy, he’d gotten very quiet, not at all like the fun and carefree man who had swept her off her feet when she was still reeling from grief. After a minute, he’d blurted out that he already had a sixteen-year-old and a nine-year-old. Oh yeah, and a wife, too. That had come up some time later in the conversation. That’s when she’d felt really stupid. Of course, he’d been fun and carefree with her. His worries were back home in Ohio.

  So when her grandmother called less than twelve hours later, hurt and fear and pure craziness had spilled out of her mouth. She’d told her grandmother that an old boyfriend had surfaced a few months earlier and that one thing had led to another and they’d eloped on New Year’s Eve. Lie number two.

  Her grandmother had been surprised but gracious, offering her congratulations first and then second, demanding to know when she could meet the new husband. Melody had promised soon, hung up the phone, and cried for an hour.

  In mid March, she’d played the we’re pregnant card. In a rare moment of truth, she’d told her grandmother that she was already almost fifteen weeks along. Her grandmother had quickly done the math and realized that Melody had already been a month pregnant on New Year’s Eve, when she’d eloped. Her grandmother had taken the news in stride and Melody had understood. It wasn’t important when she’d gotten pregnant. What was important was that she was married now. The baby would have legitimacy—something that her grandmother had never had.

  Her grandmother had begged her to come home but she’d come up with one excuse after another. More lies. Her plan had been to have the baby, and then, quietly, without much fuss, claim irreconcilable differences and get a quick divorce. It wasn’t perfect but it could have worked.

  But she hadn’t ever dreamed that her grandmother was sick. There’d been no mention of it. When Tilly had told her, the word cancer had seemed to vibrate in her ear, to go on forever. When Tilly had said that grandmother wanted Melody and her husband to come home now, Melody had agreed without question. It was only hours later, when she’d finally stopped crying and started thinking, that she’d realized what a truly horrible predicament she was in.

  Then she’d met George, and now she was taking her new husband home to meet the family. They were going to be late, however, if he wouldn’t get out of the car. He had relaxed his death grip but he continued to just sit and stare out the front window at all the cars going past.

  “I told my aunt I’d be there for lunch,” she reminded him. She started to reach for the door and stopped suddenly when she felt the movement of new life. She’d first felt the delicate flutter around twenty weeks and every day in the two weeks since, the movements had become stronger, making it more real.

  She pressed her hand to her stomach and like always, joy blossomed, pushing despair aside. However it had happened, whatever had been the consequences, what mattered was now. She was having a baby.

  But first she needed to take her new husband home. “Let’s go, George.” He didn’t answer but he did get out. Once inside the store, he wandered up and down the aisles, like a little kid, touching things, looking at price tags. When they got to the men’s section, she turned to him. “What size of pants do you wear?”

  He shrugged and she had no choice, really none, but to take a really good look at his body. His belly was flat, his hips trim, and his legs long. “I’m sort of out of my element here,” she said, “but I’m guessing about a 34-inch waist and a 36-inch length. How’s that sound?”

  “Fine,” he said, but made no move to pick anything out. She looked at his ugly flannel shirt. “Large in shirts, right?”

  “I imagine,” he answered.

  She waited another minute before she simply picked out a pair of tan pants, some jeans, a couple shirts, and shoved them all into his arms. “Okay?” she asked.

  He nodded. As they walked up to the checkout, she’d added a package of briefs and some tee shirts, never making eye contact. At the last minute, she detoured to the sundry items and picked up a handful of the basic things he’d need.

  It cost her a hundred and forty-two dollars and when she handed over her credit card, George’s mouth literally dropped open. When the clerk handed her the sack, she pulled him to the side and pointed to the restrooms at the front of the store. “Why don’t you change here,” she suggested.

  Fifteen minutes later, she realized he cleaned up real well. When he walked out of the men’s room, she barely recognized him. He’d put on the jeans and tucked the long-sleeved white shirt into them. He’d shaved and maybe even washed his hair. It was wet and pushed away from his face.

  She’d been right about the sizes although the jeans looked just a little loose at the waist.

  Easy for a lover to slip her hand inside.

  Damn. Where had that thought come from? She sat down so hard on the red plastic bench lining the wall that she felt the vibration all the way up her spine. He crouched in front of her and reached for her hand. “Is it the child?” he asked, his voice thick with concern.

  How could she tell him that she’d just had a thought that no woman who was pregnant with another man’s baby should be having about a man that she’d met just a day before? “I’m fine,” she said. “I get tired when I stand too long,” she lied.

  He helped her up and kept his hand under her elbow as they walked out of the store. When they got to the car, he opened her door, waited until she got in, then carefully shut it.

  She thought it was so sweet that she didn’t even get mad when he got in, fastened his seatbelt, and grabbed the door handle again, like he was hanging on for dear life.

  He didn’t let go for three hundred miles. He held on and stared out the front window and every so often sucked in a breath of air like he was gasping for oxygen.

  He’d spoken once. They’d been on the road for several hours when he turned to her and asked, “Should you eat something? It’s been more than three hours.”

  She looked at her watch and realized he was, give or take fifteen minutes, right on the mark. That freaked her out since she’d noticed he didn’t even wear a watch. It freaked her out even more that he’d remembered what she’d said the day before. Like he really cared.

  She reached her hand behind her seat and fished a box of crackers out of a bag. “Want some?” she asked, holding up the box.

  He shook his head. “You go ahead.”

  She dumped ten or so onto her lap and then tossed the box over her shoulder. “I guess we should get our stories straight,” she said.

  “Probably be a good idea.”

  “We got married on New Year’s Eve. A small ceremony at City Hall. You’d recently returned to the Los Angeles area and we’d rekindled an old college relationship.”

  “I see.” He paused. “We’d courted for some time in the past?”

  Courted? “Yes, I guess we did.”

  He was quiet for the next few miles. “Were you and your child’s father together for a long time?”

>   “I met Alexander shortly after Miguel had died. With Sarah gone, too, I was lonely and sad and when I was with him, I could forget that.” She glanced over and he was studying her with interest, and perhaps a little sympathy. It was the latter that she couldn’t stand. It was the kind of look she’d gotten too often after her parents had died. She hadn’t deserved the sympathy then, she didn’t deserve it now. Alexander had fooled her and she’d been careless. “It wasn’t love. We both knew that,” she lied.

  The tip of his nose got pink and she wondered if she’d shocked him. Good. Shock was way better than sympathy. But if that shocked him, her family and its very strange dynamics would push him over the edge. She gripped the wheel with a growing sense of dread. This was never going to work.

  It was just that he’d been so darn convincing on the beach. He’d looked at her with those intense green eyes and she’d started to think that maybe he was the answer to her prayers. What had possessed her to do something so crazy?

  She drove north for another ten minutes before flipping on her turn signal. She slowed the car down, made a right hand turn, leaving the main road. “We’re almost there,” she said, “another fifteen minutes at the most. Grandmother’s house is up in those hills.”

  He nodded, his attention on the grapevines, supported by their trellis system, that flanked both sides of the paved road. The man just did not talk much. “You know,” she rambled on, “over the river and through the woods to Grandmother’s house we go.”

  He didn’t even blink.

  “Except there’s no river and no woods. Just grapes,” she added, like an idiot. She put her foot on the brake and stopped the car. “George, let’s just admit it. This is never going to work.”