by Carla Ryan
When you called Marigold this morning to ask her out to dinner again, she told you she has a private gig tonight, so no luck there. You did lock her in for Saturday though, giving her an address and asking her to meet you there at noon.
"But don't look it up," you told her. "It's a surprise."
She agreed not to, but when she parks her beat-up Prius next to you and gets out, looking around without any hint of surprise, you know she cheated.
"This is your reaction to the most romantic second date ever?" you tease, hopping off your trunk to join her by her car. Her eyes brighten at the sight of you, and the warmth in your chest stretches and swells, coming alive. The fact that only a few days ago she refused to look at you feels like a bad dream.
"I may have peeked," she says with a smirk. Her hair's down again, a tumble of spirals and waves bouncing just past her shoulders. What you wouldn't give to get lost in those curls.
She seems to be thinking something similar, desire brewing in her eyes with every step you take towards her. You get as close as you dare, hardly inches away, every nerve in your body tingling with the need for her touch. Her glossy lips shimmer in the sunlight, and you can't help smiling at the memory of the other night, when she blew your world open with a kiss.
"What?" she asks, more breath than voice.
You could kiss her. She wants it as much as you do. Every instinct is urging you forward, ordering you to close the agonizing distance and give in to the hunger.
But your instincts are what got you into this mess in the first place.
Gently, you cup her lovely face with one hand. Fire sparks in your fingers and dances up your arm, and when Marigold inhales sharply you know she feels it too. Her eyelids droop and her mouth opens slightly, but when your lips find her, they press against her soft, freckled cheek.
"Oh." It's almost a moan, a soft, surprised exhale that makes your spine tingle. You feel her jaw move against yours as she says it, stirring your craving to new heights.
Maybe a little space isn't such a bad idea after all...
As you pull back, you catch the hazy, wild look in Marigold's eyes before she can collect herself. She brings a hand towards her cheek, but then her eyes clear and she stops at her jawline, pretending to scratch an itch.
"It's nice to see you," you say, finally answering her question, although she seems to have forgotten asking it.
"You too," she says with a faint, breathy giggle that she quickly tamps down.
"So what do you think?" You gesture towards the acres of beautiful flower gardens behind you, teeming with dainty butterflies and fat bumblebees.
"A butterfly garden is definitely prime second date material," she says.
"And that's not all." You open your trunk and take out a small cooler. "I may or may not have packed us a picnic lunch."
"Impressive," she says approvingly.
Oh yeah! What's got two thumbs and is a romantic genius? This gal!
She starts to open the lid, but you hold it out of reach.
"You've done enough peeking for one day," you say. "Can't a girl keep at least one surprise up her sleeve?"
"I suppose," she says with a smile.
"Now let's go see how many butterflies we can get to land on us."
The park is perfect, a rainbow of petals and wings under pristine blue skies. Marigold tries to find her namesake, and you pretend to help her, but even among all this beauty it's hard to look at anything other than her. She closes her eyes, bending down to smell a pale purple iris, and you try to pinpoint exactly what it is about this woman that drives you so crazy. It's not simply that she said no -- she set you off balance the first instant you saw her. Sure she's gorgeous, but to be honest, looks have never been that important to you. They don't hurt, obviously, but everyone's a ten when the lights go out. So why her?
"This smells like soda," she says, laughing. She breathes the flower in again. "That is so weird. You have to smell this."
Whatever it is, you're hooked, and the sooner you can get this inexplicable madness out of your system, the better.
The two of you roam the gardens a lot longer than you expected. Marigold moves slowly, using the park brochure to identify as many butterflies and flowers as she can, and taking tons of pictures to show her students. By the time you finally lay out the picnic in the shade of the apple orchard, your stomach is growling.
"Here you are, nice and cool," you say, handing her a travel bottle filled with ice water, "and here's your lunch."
She takes the cloth napkin and sandwich, studying the food with a quizzical smile. "Is this peanut butter and jelly?"
"Oh no," you say. "This is organic, homemade peanut butter from the Morawetz family in Vermont. They grow their own peanuts and only make a few batches every year, but it is the creamiest and most amazing peanut butter on the planet. The raspberry jelly is grown and made in Connecticut by a lady who used to work for me. I literally paid her double to stay home for a week so she could make more of this for me."
"So... peanut butter and jelly."
"More like heaven on wheat bread."
She laughs, a light, airy sound as delicate as the butterflies you've been chasing all afternoon.
You made her laugh! You are seriously knocking it out of the park today.
"You brought these with you?" she asks. "All the way from Boston?"
"I don't go anywhere without my favorite peanut butter. I'm always on the lookout for new brands, but so far nothing can top this. And Blanche's jelly complements it perfectly."
She pries the slices of bread apart and peers in at the gloopy goodness, then looks back at you with a thoughtful half-smile, like she's trying to figure out the best way to tell you something. Suddenly it occurs to you that you might have made a huge mistake.
"You're not allergic are you?" you ask in panic. "I can't believe I didn't think to ask."
"No." She studies you a second longer, then smiles up at the lazy white clouds. "This is really nice. Thanks."
Whatever she was thinking, that's clearly not it, but you let it go, watching as she takes her first bite. She doesn't react with quite the level of earth-shattering euphoria that the sandwich deserves, but she's appreciative enough to pass, and when she licks a trail of jelly that's leaking out along the crust, all thoughts of sandwiches are lost among visions of other ways she could put that tongue to good use.
Eventually you float back down to the land of here and now and ask about her gig last night. The conversation is as relaxed and easy as your trek through the gardens, winding through her reasons for teaching science instead of music, your reasons for starting Spare, and more than a few of her crazy gig stories.
"Should I be calling you Mary, by the way?" you ask, licking the peanut butter off your fingers. "Everyone else seems to."
"Everyone else does. I don't mind it, but I like Marigold better. Even Willa's Girl Scout troop called me Miss Mary when I helped her with their music badge."
Willa? A Girl Scout troop leader? "I know I only met her once," you say, "but I cannot picture Willa around kids."
Marigold takes the last bite of her sandwich. "She's great with kids. She always knows how to make them laugh -- like you."
Is there any sunlight left out there? Because right now it feels like all of it is shining only on you.
"Her twin nieces are in the troop," Marigold says, as you continue to bask in the glow of her compliment, "and all the kids love her. A few years ago she was going to adopt, but then the relationship fell through and she was too depressed to do it by herself."
Uh-oh. This is getting dangerously close to yesterday's talk with Ophelia. You're about to change the subject when your brain makes a very interesting connection.
Hmm...
"Is Willa single?" you ask.
Marigold's face instantly clouds over. "Why?"
"It's not for me," you say quickly, "it's for my neighbor, Gus's aunt, Ophelia."
"Oh," she says, the storm clearing.
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You offer her one of the chocolate chip cookies you got from a bakery near your rental, and she accepts with a thankful smile. "I've never met his aunt," she says. "What's she like?"
"She's nice, but in need of some TLC. Do you think Willa can handle Gus?"
Marigold starts tapping the fingers of her free hand on her knee, playing music only she can hear as she considers the question. "I don't see why not. One of her nieces is on the spectrum too, so she's used to that kind of behavior."
You give her Ophelia's number, which Ophelia insisted on giving you a couple days ago "just in case." After you put your phone away, you notice Marigold giving you a curious look.
"What?" You cover your mouth. "Do I have something in my teeth?"
"No," she says, taking a smiling bite of her cookie. "It's a nice thing to do, setting them up."
"I keep telling you, I'm a nice person."
"We'll see," she teases.
You each indulge in one more cookie, then clean up and head back to your car. "Thanks again for meeting me here," she says, holding the blanket out to you. "I had a really nice time."
"Me too." As you take it from her, your hand grazes against hers. You both go still, the unexpected contact triggering a shock of heat all the way to your toes.
You promised yourself you would take it slow and leave it up to her to make the first move. If it was up to you, you'd be licking peanut butter off of her naked body by now, so she has to be the one to set the pace. But the wait is excruciating. When is she going to make a move?
As if she can hear your question, her gaze slides down to your lips. Everything inside of you, every neuron and red blood cell, comes to a grinding halt. Even a van pulling into the dusty lot seems to fall into slow motion as Marigold reaches up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Her hand lingers, resting in your hair.
The shriek of a young child shatters the stillness, coming from the van that's just parked across the aisle. Family members begin to disembark, practically shouting about bathrooms and who's going to carry what; Jabir can probably hear them from Boston.
Marigold lets out a breath of laughter. "I guess I'll get going."
"When --"
Your tongue freezes at the sight of the last person to emerge from the van, a tall woman with dark hair, who even from this distance projects an air of authority.
Raj.
You turn your back to her and shut your trunk. "I should get going too," you say to Marigold, quietly.
"Did you want to make plans? I don't have anything going on tomorrow night. Maybe we could do a movie and dinner?"
The fact that she's asking you out barely registers as you try to find the perfect balance between walking slowly enough to avoid attracting Raj's attention, and getting the hell out of here. Raj is barely twenty feet away by the rear of the van, helping two short-tempered parents spread sunblock on a trio of uncooperative children.
"Is something wrong?" Marigold asks, turning around to see what you're so focused on.
"No, don't -- How'd you get this dent, anyway?" You point at the dent in her bumper, trying to stop her from looking at Raj, but it's too late. Raj feels Marigold's gaze, and probably heard your voice too, and looks straight at you. She tilts her head to one side, unbelieving at first, then puts the sunblock in the van and comes over with a puzzled smile.
"I didn't know you were in town," she says.
"Surprise!" you say weakly, cheeks burning.
"When did you arrive?"
Crap. There's no good way to answer this. If you say you came Tuesday, Raj will know you weren't doing what you were supposed to be doing. But if you say you just arrived, Marigold will know you're lying, and that definitely won't go over well.
"Tuesday morning," you say, looking at your feet. "I realized I needed a vacation and decided to come out here."
Marigold shifts on her feet, attracting Raj's hard gaze.
Oh. Right.
"Rajkumari Bonaly, this is Marigold..."
You scrape and scrounge for her last name but your mind is a complete blank. Marigold's polite smile falters as she realizes what's happened.
What's got two thumbs and just ruined her second date?
This gal.
Chapter Fourteen
Marigold holds out her hand to Raj. "Marigold Je--"
"Jemison!" you say at the same time. "I'm so sorry. I don't know why --"
"It's fine," she says, in a way that tells you it most certainly is not fine.
Raj, glancing back and forth between the two of you, finally settles her piercing stare on you. "Why didn't you call me?"
"I didn't want to bug you on such short notice."
She nods, the slow I-don't-believe-you kind of nod. "Do you fly back tomorrow?"
Fly back?
There's something else you forgot. You were having such a good time with Marigold that you completely forgot to tell her that you're staying in town.
"Actually," you say, talking to both of them, "Jabir and I decided to adjust the growth strategy and establish a presence here before expanding on the East Coast, and I'm going to build up the West Coast operations, so I'll be staying out here for the time being. We're telling everyone at the board meeting," you add quickly to Raj.
Her keen gaze quickly takes Marigold in again, then locks back onto you. "I look forward to hearing your rationale at the meeting." It's a harmless enough statement, but it's obvious she's not pleased with the sudden change.
"It was nice meeting you," she says to Marigold, before rejoining her family as they head into the garden.
"I am so, so sorry," you say to Marigold.
"Why were you trying to hide from that woman?" she asks.
"Hide? I wasn't --"
"Are you seeing someone else? Are you dating her?"
"Raj? She's almost thirty years older than me!" You swallow your laughter at the pain in Marigold's eyes. "Raj was the first person to invest in Spare, and she's been my mentor ever since. I've known her for years and I have never, ever thought of her as anything but a friend. Well, maybe a kind of mother figure, I guess, but definitely not as a girlfriend."
"Then why were you hiding?"
"I wasn't --"
She spins on her heels and starts walking to the driver's side of her car.
"Okay, maybe I was hiding," you confess, chasing after her, "but it was because I didn't want Raj to feel bad that I didn't meet up with her already. And she told me earlier this week that I needed to focus on Spare's needs, so I knew she'd be miffed that I took a week off unexpectedly."
"I've been cheated on twice," Marigold says, unlocking her car. "I'm not going to be that idiot again."
You insert yourself between her and the car, forcing her to look at you. "I'm not seeing anyone else, I swear."
"When you told me the truth about how you don't like jazz, I thought, 'Wow. She might actually be an honest person.' What you just did..." Her lips press together and she shakes her head. "It was like deja vu. You couldn't even remember my name?"
No. No no no no! Things can't fall apart now, not after all this!
"It's not like that," you say. "I was freaked out about seeing Raj and my mind went blank. I was an idiot, but that doesn't mean I'm not being honest with you."
She doesn't move, probing deep into you with those bewitching eyes. "Did you change your business plan just to be near me?"
Yes.
But the truth would freak her out. Hell, it freaks you out.
"I'm not ready to go back home yet," you admit, "but it's not entirely because of you. The other night when you mentioned working with the school, I thought that was a great idea so I pitched it to my partner and he agreed. I'm staying out here because it will be good for my company, and, coincidentally, good for us."
If there is an us.
Her frown sits squarely on her lips and in her eyes, refusing to soften. She's not convinced.
"I have to go," she says, and slipping past you, she gets into her
car and drives away.
* * *
The next day you fly back home and spend the week getting ready for the move. You're going to be returning to Boston at least every couple weeks, so you decide not to rent your place out. It won't be cheap paying for two houses, but the mere thought of some stranger using your dishes and sleeping in your bed stresses you out.
Wade called while you were still out west and apologized about a hundred times for his girlfriend's indiscretion -- apparently they nearly broke up over it. You told him at the time that it turned out not to be so bad and all was forgiven, but when you see him in person, he still looks a little scared of you. So when you ask him to move out to San Fran to continue to act as your PA, he tears up and gives you a huge hug, immediately accepting the offer.
Marigold has yet to call. You only called her once, letting her know you made it to Boston in one piece and apologizing again to her voicemail. You could fill a novel with all the texts you've almost sent her since then, but you told yourself you would leave it up to her to follow through, and that's what you're going to do.
Even so, when you return to your -- now long-term -- rental Friday night, you can't help sending her a short note. It's not easy though. Your texts to women aren't generally meant to be casual as much as enticing. And by enticing, you mean explicit.
Hey. Hope you had a good week. Just wanted to let you know I'm back in town. TTYS...?
No, too generic. That sounds like something her grandmother would write. And the ellipses and question mark are definitely a no-go. How about...
Happy Friday! Your favorite nice, honest, and sexy gal pal is back in town. You playing anywhere I can go tonight?
Yikes. Sexy gal pal? That might as well be from a mail order bride catalog. Why is this so fracking hard?!?