I Only Want To Be With You

by Lisa Norato

  Marcella was so excited she could hardly contain herself. Her mind worked furiously, but it wasn’t a magazine article she envisioned. She never dreamed she’d be able to get back to William this soon. It was almost too good to be true.

  “Catherine, why have me send anyone else? This story is perfect for me. I’d love to cover it myself. Plus, I’m already familiar with the area.”

  Catherine’s smile grew. “I admire your dedication, Marcella. And I agree, you could do wonders with this story. I’d gladly assign it to you, but as Senior Editor you have more pressing responsibilities here. I’m afraid that means no traveling for a while. You’re going to have your hands full pulling together our Christmas issue. Decorating and Entertainment will dominate the pages. This is your chance to prove yourself to Beth Anne, once and for all. Give us a spectacular holiday entertaining section, and Beth Anne won’t be able to raise a single objection to making your title permanent. Now, open your organizer, go pour yourself a cup of coffee, and let’s schedule some meetings. Oh, and there’s a press launch I’d like you to attend.”

  Marcella obediently unzipped her organizer. As she turned to next week’s calendar, she couldn’t help but ask herself, what had she gained from this meeting? Well, for one thing, she’d gained the responsibility of a Senior Editor without any of the glory. And if she hadn’t gotten “promoted,” she’d now be free to accept Catherine’s fruitcake assignment and fly back to England for a reunion with William.

  But what was she thinking? She should be excited. This was cause for celebration. She was one step closer to her dream job. Senior Editor. Exactly what she’d always wanted, and today she’d climbed another rung up the ladder.

  And slipped into a nonexistent social life.

  How would William take the news? she wondered. Maybe it’d be wise not to mention this whole fruitcake scenario. She’d only been back in Manhattan a week, and already romance didn’t seem to be in their stars. This was just the sort of complication that made balancing a career and a relationship near impossible.

  *

  Later that same day, Marcella gathered with a group of kitchen associates, assistants and interns in the magazine’s test kitchen to sample a batch of sticky toffee buns, warm from the oven, the recipe of which was to accompany an article on hosting an old-fashioned Southern tea. As usual, she expected every detail to shine.

  M’Liss, as the test kitchen’s director preferred to be called over her simple birth name of Melissa, served.

  They look yummy, Marcella thought, thrilled with their presentation. She began envisioning the table setting she’d use to style the photo shoot. Something outdoors perhaps. Lots of white lace. Flowers.

  She pulled out a tissue and wiped off her lip gloss so it wouldn’t interfere with the flavor before biting into the soft, gooey bun, chewing slowly, tasting, tasting… .

  Mmm, yes. Rich, buttery, not too sweet. She listened to the buzz. Everyone agreed. They were scrumptious.

  Ryan Patterson from Marketing double-dipped his roll in the baking pan, scraping up the last of the caramel sauce. “Awesome,” he agreed.

  Marcella reserved comment. Part of her job was to spot opportunities for improvement, and it would take more than kudos from Ryan Patterson to satisfy her discerning palate.

  He hadn’t even been invited. She’d bumped into Ryan in the hallway, and as she opened the door to enter the kitchen, he caught a whiff of the fresh-baked toffee buns and followed her inside. “I had to work through lunch,” he’d said. “Think you can hook me up?”

  Marcella couldn’t quite wrap her taste buds around the problem, but she sensed something lacking. She sampled another bite, then suddenly she knew. “I think they could use a teensy bit of mace,” she suggested.

  Everyone stopped in mid-chew to gape.

  “I disagree.”

  This came from M’Liss in her denim chef’s coat and zebra-print skull cap. “I feel the recipe is perfect, as is.”

  Marcella didn’t need a magnifying glass to see that M’Liss thought she was being obsessive. Whatever. Marcella just hoped she wasn’t going to get attitude over this. She didn’t enjoy challenging the test kitchen’s expertise. Their job involved more than testing recipes. They prepared some of the most excellent meals in the City for guests and special functions, served on china with crystal place settings in Gracious Living’s private dining room.

  They knew their stuff, but any lack of perfection when the article went to print would ultimately reflect on the Food and Entertainment Department. And as Senior Editor, Marcella now had her career on the line. She wasn’t about to bite her tongue only to have some reader write in later and complain. No way would she allow even the minutest detail to slide if it meant jeopardizing her new status over something as minor as toffee sticky buns.

  The more she thought about it, the firmer her resolve grew. “No, I’m sorry, M’Liss. I can’t print this recipe when I’m not satisfied. Try them again with a quarter teaspoon of mace.”

  “Smart thinking, Tart,” Ryan said. “Hey, would somebody mind buzzing me when the next batch is ready?”

  M’Liss opened her mouth, but any snappy retort she had ready was intercepted by the opening of the door and the sound of a disturbance from without.

  “Wait, please … hey! You really shouldn’t be bringing a dog into the kitchen. It’s not sanitary.”

  There was desperation in the voice, which Marcella recognized as Lauren’s from Reception. Everyone turned as Sallie breezed into the kitchen, shaking her head and muttering unappreciatively, “Since when did this establishment turn canine non grata?”

  The door sealed shut behind her with a slam and no sign of Lauren, a conscientious Arizona native and relatively new employee, whom Marcella imagined still out in the hallway, fretting.

  Flipping back her long honey-brown hair, Sallie resumed a pleasant expression and continued past the stainless steel refrigerators towards the group. “Hi guys, I was told I could find Marcella Tartag—”

  “Over here, Sal.” Marcella stepped out from behind Ryan to wave her over. “Come join us.”

  “What is Lauren’s problem?” Ryan whispered to Marcella as his gaze combed Sallie’s silk shantung A-line skirt with matching turquoise camisole and the glimpse of bare midriff that shown between. “She’s no dog.”

  Choking back impatience, Marcella gestured to the fashion tote hanging by Sallie’s side, a swirled vintage design of pink, brown, avocado, and red with silver hardware. The head of a tiny black poodle poked out an opening in the front, sniffing the air with increasing interest.

  Ryan’s eyes widened. “Is it real?”

  “No, it’s a bobble head. Everyone, I believe you all know Sallie. All except for Ryan. Sallie, this is Ryan Patterson. Ryan, meet Sallie Madigan. Oh, and that’s Henri.”

  Henri sized up the group with intelligent, black obsidian eyes, his nose a shiny black gumdrop. He was immaculately groomed, with a smooth muzzle, long curly ears, and a topknot slightly larger than a cotton puff. He wore a Louis Vuitton collar from which dangled an eighteen-carat, engraved i.d. tag that read, “Scratch my butt.”

  Manhattan was a mecca of modern dog culture. The teacup craze especially had developed into something of a phenomenon, of strong women and their obsession with itsy-bitsy, needy bundles of fur, that unlike their boyfriends, they could lavish with love and attention twenty-four/seven and never fear rejection. And the most amazing part: Dogs were always up, always appreciative, and seemed completely incapable of showing indifference to someone they loved. A girl’s fantasy.

  And just one more relationship out of my reach, Marcella regretted as she forgot for a moment that Henri wasn’t human. She watched the kitchen staff cluster around, talking baby talk, begging to hold him, and suffered a pang of envy before snapping back to sanity.

  Sallie looked to the last traces of caramel sauce inside the empty bake pan. “Looks like I got here too late. What’d I miss?”

  “You didn’t miss an
ything,” Ryan told her. “They needed a touch of mace anyway.”

  M’Liss turned on him, eyes narrowed. “Why are you still here?”

  Marcella offered Sallie what remained of her roll. “Toffee sticky buns. Here, you’re welcome to the rest of mine.”

  “Gee, a half-eaten roll,” she said. “Thanks.”

  But as Marcella anticipated, the warm toffee smell was irresistible. Sallie snatched up the bun.

  “I have something for you, too,” Sallie said. She removed a small portfolio from the side pocket of Henri’s carrier and handed it to Marcella.

  “What’s this?”

  “Photos.”

  Marcella realized what they were immediately, and while Sallie shared her sticky bun with Henri, Marcella tucked the package beneath her arm and moved to the sink to wash her hands.

  The kitchen staff got back to work, mixing up another batch of buns. Ryan gave Sallie one final ogle and excused himself to return to his office.

  As Marcella dried her hands, she debated whether she should save the package for later when she could enjoy them in private. But already the suspense was driving her crazy, and she opened the portfolio, anxious for a peek.

  Out slid a neat stack of eight-by-ten glossies, and there, right on top, the most perfect candid shot of William standing by his motorcycle with mussed hair, unsuspectingly tucking in his shirt when he thought no one was around.

  Marcella recalled the moment with a smile, the first time she’d ever lain eyes on him. She switched to a second photo, this one of William shrugging into his frock coat. Then, William tying his cravat. William donning a pair of white gloves, the quintessential English gentleman in full morning dress.

  Next was a close-up in which Sallie had captured William’s earnest expression as he set his top hat to just the right angle. Over a week had passed since then. She traced his lips with a fingertip and longing swelled up inside until she felt the pain of missing William prick her behind the eyes.

  “Who’s the hot guy?”

  Marcella returned from her sentimental journey with a start.

  Bree, another test kitchen associate, stood gawking over her shoulder. “Nice costume. Is he an actor or something?”

  Others had begun to drift over, curious to see what the fuss was about, and before Marcella realized her intentions, Bree plucked another photograph from the back of the pile, holding it up for all to see.

  “Look everyone, here he is cast in the role of a priest.”

  When had Sallie shot that? Marcella turned for a look at it herself, when M’Liss snatched away the remaining photos.

  As images of William were shared around the room, Marcella felt a private part of her heart being violated.

  M’Liss’s curiosity turned into a sly smile the longer she browsed the photos. “Those eyes could melt your heart, but I seriously doubt he’s an actor, Bree,” she said. “Not unless Marcella has been moonlighting as his leading lady.”

  She raised a brow inquiringly. “You’re in nearly every photo together, Marcella. So who is he? Does your hottie have a name?”

  “Yeah,” Marcella snapped. She was about to declare, He’s not my hottie! when she caught herself. God forbid she give anyone the impression William was available.

  “Yes, he has a name,” she repeated, not sure why she was feeling so defensive. “He’s the Honorable William John Anthony Grafton Stafford, third son of Lord Wiltshire, the Eighteenth Viscount of Wiltshire.”

  She had it memorized from her notes. “And you’re absolutely right, M’Liss. He’s not an actor. He’s a vicar.”

  Eyes widened with intrigue and a collective “aah” filled the room. Marcella quickly plucked her photos from the sticky fingers of the kitchen staff and returned them to the portfolio. “Actually, these are pictures of Lynne’s wedding.”

  “Really? I didn’t notice Lynne in any of the photographs,” M’Liss said dryly.

  Marcella could think of no comment to prevent William’s launch into the latest round of office gossip. It was already too late for damage control.

  Averting her gaze, she made to leave. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to take these to my office. Coming, Sal?”

  On her way out, Marcella felt M’Liss’s stare burn her back. She knew what M’Liss and the others were thinking. Lynne, as Gracious Living’s Senior Decorating and Entertainment Editor, had become involved with an English vicar. Here was Marcella, acting in the capacity of Lynne’s replacement, her first morning on the job, and she’d literally stepped into the woman’s persona, both professionally and socially, with a vicar of her own.

  I am not Lynne Graham, Marcella chanted silently as she slipped from the kitchen. She had nothing in common with Lynne. Okay, so it was no secret she aspired to Lynne’s title, but she was completely secure in her own identity. She was certainly not out to clone the woman’s life. Pleeaze.

  And just because she hadn’t revealed them to the kitchen staff, didn’t mean her feelings for William weren’t genuine and unique and totally sincere. Although, to any outside observer, this would appear a bizarre case of déjà vu, wouldn’t it?

  “Mind telling me what that was about?” Sallie demanded as they walked the corridors. “And why’re you suddenly so quiet? You’re starting to freak me out.”

  Marcella waited until they were inside her office with the door closed before sharing the news of her promotion and its trial terms.

  Sallie shone with excitement. “That’s wonderful. Congratulations.” She jumped from her seat to give Marcella a hug.

  “I’m really happy for you,” she said, then pulled back, obviously sensing Marcella was not sharing her enthusiasm.

  “This is good. Right?” Sallie searched her face. “But you’re not excited. What am I missing?”

  “I am excited; I am. I’m just not feeling the level of excitement I’d anticipated, that’s all. And with good reason. This promotion is not official. I’m Acting Senior Editor. Acting. Believe me, there’s plenty of anxiety to deal with in that respect, although I’ve been assured the job will be mine. And I was hoping I’d be able to arrange my schedule so I could visit William.”

  “Ah,” Sallie said, nodding understanding. Without further comment, she lifted Henri from his carrier and set him loose on the floor.

  Marcella meanwhile pulled out the photographs and began arranging them in a display across the top of her desk. “The way my future looks now, even if William lived right here in Manhattan, I still wouldn’t have much time for him. I’ve worked my entire career for this opportunity — I’d be crazy not to give this shot at Senior Editor everything I’ve got. Oh, speaking of shots, these photos are really fantastic, Sal.”

  When Marcella first returned to Manhattan, she had wondered whether the City and her work would consume her, causing her time in the Cotswolds to somehow fade. Instead, she felt restless and out of place. William and his life had made an indelible impression on her.

  She didn’t know how many seconds had passed before she realized she was lost in a photo of William toasting the bride and groom.

  Sallie sat on the opposite side of the desk, saying nothing.

  Marcella caught herself and apologized to her friend, then said, “Say, you never told me what you and Emma dished about over tea at the Savoy. Did Emma have anything interesting to say?”

  Sallie nodded impassively. “She told me a little about herself and William.”

  “And!?”

  “And FYI. Emma, it seems, comes from a strict, religious family. Very active in the church. She told me her childhood is filled with memories of practicing the church organ. So, one Sunday William shows up. The most beautiful boy she’s ever seen. He’s slouched in the pew, lots of attitude. Clearly, he didn’t want to be there, which, of course, made him all the more intriguing to Emma. Her stares didn’t go unnoticed, because after service when everyone else was headed out the door, William pushed his way through the congregation to the front of the church. They talked, started dating,
and were pretty into each other. Emma said she thought she was losing her virginity to a bad boy, but he turned out to be an angel. As much as she cared for him, she didn’t think she’d be happy as a vicar’s wife. She said if you’re half the domestic diva I claimed you were, you’d be lucky to spend your life with him.”

  Marcella absorbed this info in a state of numbness, not sure what she was feeling, or what she could do about her feelings even if she were to acknowledge them. “Why haven’t you told me any of this before?”

  “You never asked. Besides, what would have been the point. Like you said, you don’t have time for him anyway, right?”

  “Then why bring me these photos?”

  Sallie rolled her eyes. “Shall I take them back? Maybe the girls in the kitchen would like to pin them on the recipe board.”

  Sallie was half off her seat, reaching for them, when Marcella splayed her arms across her desk and replied with an emphatic, “No!”

  She took them home with her that night, only to toss them on the kitchen counter where they remained throughout the next week, because she was afraid if she opened Sallie’s portfolio, she’d never be able to quit daydreaming.

  Chapter 13

  Several weeks later, at ten in the evening, about the time most New Yorkers were headed out to enjoy the City’s night scene, Marcella returned to her apartment after a long day with nothing in her stomach but a sushi roll and three white chocolate martinis.

  She switched on a light and kicked off her cotton-candy pink, pointy flats at the door. Dropping her organizer on the foyer table, she pressed a preset key on her cell and waited for the number to connect as she padded to the sofa.