I DO, BUT HERE'S THE CATCH

by Pamela Burford

  She tugged the deep V neckline of her gown up a little. She jerked it back down again. And waited.

  Less than a minute later the doorknob turned. Charli's heart gave her a one-two punch as she greeted her husband with a shy smile.

  Grant stopped dead in his tracks, staring at his wife, his fingers frozen in the act of loosening his necktie. "Charli. What are you doing here?"

  Her smile withered. The one-two punch in her chest turned into a giant fist, squeezing.

  He started to speak, and stopped, clearly disconcerted. He pulled his necktie free and tossed it and his dark blue suit coat over a chair back. His gaze swept over her, as if seeking the answer to his question, though he'd already figured it out; she could see it in his eyes.

  "Charli…" His expression was baffled, dismayed. He took one step toward her, then stopped. "We talked about this," he said quietly.

  Charli clutched handfuls of chiffon in her lap. Her voice was so small, she barely heard herself. "What do you mean?"

  "This was all settled. The kind of marriage this will be."

  "The kind of—" Charli swallowed around a hard lump. "You mean you don't want to…?" She looked at the bed she sat on.

  He stalked a few steps away, scrubbing at his nape. "I know I went over all this." His gaze turned inward, as if he was replaying the conversation in his mind.

  "I don't… When?" She tried to yank her neckline up, drawing Grant's eyes. He looked away quickly.

  "Last week," he said, "when I proposed."

  "You didn't say we wouldn't…"

  "Yes I did. And you said it was what you wanted, too. A companionable marriage."

  Companionable. She remembered him using that word, and others. Such as expedient and…

  "Practical," she said dully. "That's what you meant."

  Would a more sophisticated woman, the kind of worldly woman Grant was accustomed to, have understood that he was talking about a platonic marriage?

  Charli hugged her chiffon-draped knees to her chest. "Why?" she whispered, damming up the tears through sheer force of will.

  He sighed. "If you'd seen what I've seen working on divorce cases, you wouldn't ask that. The tearful recriminations. Vicious custody battles. Spouses who once vowed their undying love doing everything possible to destroy each other. I've seen plenty of my own friends go through that hell, too."

  Charli struggled to follow his reasoning. "But what does that have to do with…?"

  "Most marriages are based on roller-coaster emotions, starting with the raging desire that brought the couple together in the first place. No two people can sustain that kind of passion over the long haul, or the starry-eyed love they started out with. When the inevitable disillusionment sets in, people tend to turn all that fire and fury against the very person they swore they'd love till death did them part."

  Something about this didn't add up. Yes, marriages failed. Spouses turned against each other. It happened all too often. Yet even in the face of grim divorce statistics, plenty of people—including divorce lawyers—still fell in love every day, still offered up their hearts unreservedly. It was human nature to hope, to dream, to commit oneself to a mate, to foresee a future of promise and fulfillment, not disillusionment and pain.

  There had to be something else behind Grant's bleak vision of marriage, something he wasn't telling her. It struck Charli then just how little she knew about the man she'd promised to honor and cherish for the rest of her life.

  "But you wanted to … you know." She hugged herself tighter. "Last week."

  He gave her a wry half smile. "Men are simple creatures, Charli. Opportunistic even. We don't need much in the way of inducement when it comes to sex."

  A scalding wave of shame suffused Charli. To Grant she had indeed been nothing more than a convenient body—and not a particularly enticing one at that. Not much in the way of inducement, according to her new husband.

  Grant continued, "I could tell you didn't welcome my advances. I took that to be a sign that this kind of arrangement would suit you. You needn't be concerned that I'll make those kinds of demands on you. That's why I gave you the guest room."

  Not as a changing room for her wedding night, she now realized, but as a permanent separate bedroom. He thought she was uninterested in sex. There was a nasty word men applied to such women: frigid. That was how her husband thought of her. Frigid. A cold, sexless creature.

  How was she supposed to respond? Was she supposed to tell him the truth? That his "unwanted advances" had inflamed her? That she'd lain in bed fantasizing about her wedding night, about him, until she'd had to touch herself to relieve the desperate yearning?

  Never could Charli bring herself to admit such things, and it wouldn't have mattered if she had. He wanted her frigid. He wanted some kind of neat, dry marriage without the complications of passion.

  She thought about his decision to forgo a wedding band. "All that about your social life. You meant other women."

  His gaze slid away. "As I said, I'll do nothing to cause you embarrassment. I'll be … circumspect in my activities."

  He was going to see other women. Have sex with other women. Charli's stomach clenched, and for a few moments she feared she might get sick.

  "What about children?" she asked when she could speak.

  He looked at her. "Is that why this bothers you? Charli, I…" His expression softened. "I thought we understood each other. I assumed you realized there would be no children. I take responsibility for the miscommunication. It was, well, an awkward thing to have to discuss, and I see now that I botched it. I should've been more direct."

  He sat on the edge of the bed, but didn't touch her. She stared at her knees.

  "I'm sorry for the mix-up," he said. "Did you have your heart set on having children?"

  How could she tell him that she'd never had her heart set on having children because she'd never thought she'd get married? She'd never dared to assume she'd become a mother, but she'd hoped, dreamed, and during this past euphoric week she'd even chosen names: Michelle, Peter, Gabriella, Christian, perhaps even a Grant Junior.

  She didn't look at him. She knew if she did, she'd have no hope of holding back the tears.

  The mattress dipped slightly and she sensed him moving, perhaps reaching for her. If so, he drew back without touching her.

  "It'll work." His voice was gruff. "You'll see. Two people can be a family, Charli. You've got your teaching career, and you'll be kept busy running this house, entertaining—just like you did for your folks. Of course, managing a household like this will be different from what you're accustomed to, but no less challenging. When would you even have time for kids?"

  His words were meant to console her, she knew. Who needed kids when there was a household to run? Who needed a loving physical relationship with her husband when there were parties to plan?

  Just like you did for your folks.

  "I don't mean to imply you'll be doing all the work yourself, of course," Grant hastily added. "I have people come in to clean, and you can hire anyone else you want. You'll have help when we entertain, too—after all, I'll want my wife by my side chatting up the senior partners, not sweating away in the kitchen."

  Charli raised her face to his at last. "Why?"

  "I told you—"

  "You told me why you want our marriage to be platonic. But why get married at all? You have the kind of life that suits you—you're set in your ways. You said so yourself."

  "I told you you're the right woman for me, and I meant that."

  "The right woman how?" He didn't love her, and she now knew that wouldn't change. Love was part of that whole messy emotional roller coaster her husband wanted no part of. "You said that everything that's important, you already know about me. What do you know about me that made you want to marry me?"

  "Well, partly it's your temperament." He seemed to choose his words with care. "You're good-natured, Charli. Modest. Accommodating. Undemanding."

  She heard the p
art left unsaid. Submissive. Obedient.

  "And you know how much I admire your domestic and organizational skills," he added.

  Last week when Grant had told her she was the right woman for him, she'd been so pathetically naive she'd thought he meant he wanted to wake up next to her, raise babies with her, share himself with her in every way.

  For thirty years she'd known she wasn't the type of woman men thought of that way. What had made her think anything had changed?

  "Still," she said, "you've been a bachelor all these years. Why get married now?" She could practically hear his canny lawyer's brain working overtime. "Be honest, Grant I have a right to know."

  His expression softened in resignation, and in that instant she knew she didn't want to hear whatever he was about to say.

  "It was … the right time. Charli, I—"

  "The right time how?" She lifted her chin. "It's all right. I just want to know."

  His jaw tightened. "Careerwise," he said quietly. "It's the right time in terms of my career. I told you I'm trying to make partner."

  "And it helps to have a wife?"

  "It's a requirement. At least in my firm. When Frank Van Cleave brought me on board, it was with the assumption that I'd make partner fairly quickly. That was five years ago—it wasn't supposed to take this long. But the firm is ultraconservative and—well, the bottom line is, an unmarried associate doesn't have a prayer of making that leap."

  "And that's important to you," she said. "Becoming a partner."

  "It's everything."

  "Why?"

  He said nothing for a moment, and Charli sensed he regretted his spontaneous answer, regretted revealing even that much about himself.

  "It's late." He stood. "I think we've hashed out enough for one night."

  Charli knew when she was being dismissed. Modest, undemanding women like her always did. She slid off the bed, bade her husband good-night and went to her room.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  «^»

  "Gotta hand it to you," Sam said. "Once you make up your mind about something, you don't let grass grow under your feet."

  Grant stood with Sam on the Kauffmans' spacious back deck, sipping his usual: Maker's Mark bourbon with a splash of water. It was unseasonably warm for early May, the late afternoon sky an unbroken azure. He followed Sam's gaze to Charli, his bride of one week, chatting with Linda by the elaborate wooden play set located halfway down the Kauffmans' half-acre backyard. Sam and Linda's two young sons cavorted on the swings and slide while their infant daughter dozed nearby in her net-sided playpen.

  Grant viewed this visit as his wife's first "test"—of her poise, comportment and conversational skills—though he hadn't put it to her that way, of course. Nevertheless, she knew, he was sure. He saw it in the guarded glances she sent his way, in the telltale pauses before she spoke, as if she were weighing every word coming out of her mouth. As much as Grant wanted her to make a positive first impression, he wished she could relax and enjoy herself at the same time.

  Perhaps someday she would, when being "on" every time they socialized with his colleagues had become second nature for her.

  He also wished she'd smile. The polite smiles she bestowed on their hosts were her first since their wedding night—at least the first he'd seen.

  For the dozenth time, Grant wished he'd been a lot more blunt when he'd discussed their upcoming marriage. He'd planned to be blunt. He'd planned to spell it out in no uncertain terms. What he hadn't counted on was how difficult it would be to do so face-to-face. Somehow, after he'd put the ring on her finger—and she'd come around after her dead faint!—he hadn't had the stomach for an unvarnished recitation of the grim details

  He'd been proposing, for God's sake, and she'd been overcome with giddy excitement, and so when the moment of truth had come, he'd opted for tact, assuming—perhaps hoping—she'd comprehend the gist of his message: that theirs would be a sexless marriage.

  The result of all this well-meaning tact was that his bride had been bewildered and embarrassed on their wedding night—and he'd been left shaken as hell. God knew he never meant to hurt her.

  Nevertheless, he was determined to follow through with his original plan. Too much was at stake for him to start second-guessing himself now. What he'd told Charli last week was true: this marriage would work. He was a take-charge guy, accustomed to calling the shots in all aspects of his life and work. He wished things had gotten off to a smoother start, but he was confident the rough patch was behind them.

  He only wished she'd smile.

  "Come on," Sam said, leading the way down the deck steps and across the lawn to the women. "If we leave them alone too long, who knows what kind of insurrectionist ideas Linda will plant in your wife's mind. The honeymoon'll be over before it's begun, buddy."

  "Did I hear the word honeymoon?" Linda addressed herself to Grant as the men joined them. "As in the honeymoon your new bride did not get?"

  Grinning, he put up his hands as if to ward off her wrath. "Did Charli show you her consolation prize for having to wait three months for her wedding trip?"

  Charli toyed with the emerald-and-diamond bangle bracelet on her wrist. "It was too extravagant. I don't mind waiting."

  Linda clucked Charli to silence and gave her a sisterly pat on the back. "He's a newlywed, and still besotted. Let him give you jewelry. The well usually runs dry around the time the first major appliance goes."

  "What did I tell you, Grant?" Sam said with a laugh. "My wife's a bad influence. Colin!" he called to his five-year-old son, who was roughhousing with his three-year-old brother at the top of the slide. "Cut that out. Someone's going to get hurt."

  A mewling cry drew their attention to the playpen and little Alice, just awakened from her nap. Sam picked up the baby, who was wearing one of those stretchy one-piece outfits—pink with white ducks marching across the front.

  "Does she need a fresh diaper?" Linda asked. When her husband shrugged, she added, "This is your third child, Sam. I know you know how to check."

  "I'm no good at that sort of thing." Sam's guileless look didn't fool anyone. "It takes a woman's special touch."

  "Yeah, right. Train Grant early," Linda advised Charli, as she gave Alice's thickly padded bottom a cursory feel. "Make sure he's changed a couple of diapers before you even leave the hospital. She's dry."

  "Oh." Sam glanced from Charli to Grant. "Are more congratulations in order?"

  "What?" Grant said. "You mean…? No. She's not—we're not, uh, expecting." He glanced at Charli; if she was disturbed by the direction the conversation had taken, she gave no clue. Not that that stubborn pride of hers would let her. Still, finding out on her wedding night that she'd never become a mother must have been quite a blow.

  "Well, we were just wondering," Sam said. "The rushed wedding and all…"

  Linda rolled her eyes. "Way to go, slick."

  He turned on his wife. "Well, we were wondering!"

  While Grant mentally fumbled for a way out of this conversational sinkhole, Charli spoke up.

  "You aren't the first to ask," she said, kindly. "It's only natural, under the circumstances. Do you mind if I hold her?" As she lifted Alice into her arms, she said, "Is that a tooth coming through? Didn't you say she was only four months old?"

  "Four and a half months." Sam grabbed a cloth diaper from the playpen and draped Charli's shoulder. "You'll need this for the drool."

  "Colin didn't get his first tooth till he was six months old," Linda interjected, "and Jesse was even later. And oh, did they carry on! Teething doesn't seem to bother Alice much, she just drools up a storm from it."

  "She may be as uncomfortable as the boys were," Charli suggested, "but she just doesn't make a big fuss."

  "That's my girl." Sam beamed. "One tough broad."

  "Have you tried giving her a cold carrot to teeth on?"

  Grant was in awe. Within about twenty seconds Charli had smoothly alleviated her hosts' embarrassment a
nd distracted them with a topic of absorbing interest to them.

  She'd just racked up a few points on his social-skills tally sheet.

  There it was. The smile he'd hoped to see. He'd wanted to put it there himself, but at the moment she only had eyes for Alice. Charli addressed the baby in soft, friendly tones, employing animated facial expressions, which Alice attempted to mimic.

  "You're a natural," Sam told her.

  "I've had lots of practice with my nieces and nephews."

  Charli's radiant smile completely transformed her, reminding Grant of how she'd been those weeks before the wedding, how their relationship had been, natural and affectionate. They'd get that back, he told himself—once she'd settled in to married life and her role as his wife, once she'd fully come to terms with the unforeseen reality of a childless union. It was just a matter of time.

  Sam asked, "How's the Walston divorce coming along?"

  "Oh, no shop talk!" Linda complained.

  "It took some doing," Grant said, "but we found the assets Walston was hiding. A pile of cash he'd squirreled away, offshore investments, real estate he'd transferred to other people's names. All done within the year before he left his wife. The judge was not amused."

  Sam smirked. "So much for pleading reversal of fortune."

  "He thought he'd covered his tracks, but my investigator, Romano, knows all the tricks. If Walston had gotten away with it, his wife would've lost the house, everything."

  Charli said, "A private investigator. That must've been expensive. The wife—your client—could she afford him?"

  "No way," he said. "She's a full-time mother, hasn't had a job since before she married the bastard eleven years ago. And he made sure she had nothing in her name, nothing to show for her economic contribution to their marriage—raising his children, making his life comfortable, everything she did that allowed him to devote himself to his work and make all that money he claimed didn't exist."

  "The husband will be made to pay for the investigation," Sam explained, "as well as her legal fees."