That Special Smile/Whittenburg

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  “Sylvie?” Juliette said tentatively. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.” It was an automatic response, empty of conscious thought. “But I’d better get this … ” She waved her hand in meaningless gesture. “… finished. If I don’t pack now, I’ll be late getting to Fayetteville and I’ll miss the flight to Little Rock. I’ll have to spend the night, there, I suppose, but....” The sentence faded into silence.

  How could she bear to leave? But now there was no question of staying. Max would never forgive her. If she sent him roses and a written apology every day for the rest of the year, he wouldn’t forget the awful things she’d said today. If she were in his place, Sylvie knew she wouldn’t forget. Or forgive.

  Sometimes an apology wasn’t worth the breath required to say it.

  Still, she owed him one. She owed him at least that.

  “Juliette?” Sylvie straightened and pushed away from the mahogany dresser. “Would you mind packing the rest of these sweaters? I have something I have to do.”

  “Max?” Julie smiled encouragement and moved promptly to do as Sylvie had asked. “Good idea. Then I’ll help you unpack.”

  A nice thought, but hardly in the realm of probability, Sylvie decided as she made her way to the door.

  But there her courage failed her and she grabbed her cellphone and punched in his number. She owed him an apology, but she couldn’t – could not – deliver it face to face. She was not that brave.

  When he answered, she sank onto the sofa in an agony of emotions.

  “Hello?” His voice was clear and crisp, but Sylvie thought she detected a note of sadness in it.

  “It’s Sylvie.”

  “Yes.” Cool. Polite.

  “I wanted you to know I’m ... leaving. This afternoon.”

  “Good-bye.”

  She drew a deep, steadying breath. “Max, I’m sorry. I was wrong. About you, about everything.”

  “Yes, well, live and learn. I was wrong about you too.” His pause sounded ominous. “I wish you much success, Sylvie Anne. Good luck.”

  She was trembling like a leaf in autumn. “Max ... I….”

  “Goodbye, Sylvie.”

  Goodbye.

  Limp wristed, she let her phone slide out of her grasp. Ironic, she thought, that this was the first time she had allowed herself to expect more from a relationship than goodbye. But Max had left little doubt he meant this to be their one and only farewell.

  Goodbye. Such a plaintive word at times, and so final. So achingly, miserably final.

  A tear slid from the corner of her eye. She lifted her glasses and brushed it away so Juliette wouldn’t see. With a sigh Sylvie let the tortoiseshell frames slip back into place and stared at the carousel horse that occupied one corner of the room. She rose and stepped forward to run her hand along McKeever’s polished surface. When another tear followed the path of the first, she rubbed his painted nose and wished she had brought those damned contact lenses.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sylvie discovered it was disconcerting to return to a place she had thought was home only to find that it no longer felt familiar. It was a little like returning from a trip to the corner market and finding that the lock on the door had been changed. The key to her Boston apartment still worked, of course, as did the key to her office. But both places felt different.

  Even friends and co-workers seemed to have new interests, new activities, of which she was not a part. Although she plunged immediately into investigative work, she couldn’t seem to rekindle the enthusiasm she’d once had for the job. From morning to night, Sylvie felt as if she were out of sync with the rest of the world.

  For the first week back she blamed her mood. Everything was her fault; she hadn’t known how to express her emotions; she had been overly cautious about letting herself care too much. She’d thought she knew how to bring Max around, to make him see that she wanted to share in every facet of his life. It had all culminated in a misinterpretation of Max’s character and a colossal mistake. For five entire days she moped and was as blue as a ballad sung at midnight.

  The second week her self-confidence began a steady recuperation, and she blamed Max for everything. It was his fault; he hadn’t done such a great job of expressing his emotions, either; he’d hidden his feelings behind a teasing smile; he hadn’t tried very hard to understand her character, and he certainly could have told her about his artistic success. There was no excuse for him blaming her and saying she hadn’t cared enough to ask, when he hadn’t cared enough to tell her.

  When the need to lay the blame at someone else’s door had passed, Sylvie accepted responsibility for her part in the misunderstanding.

  And it had been a misunderstanding. Not as complicated as Max had indicated, but not as simple as she had thought either. Still, she had apologized, or tried to do so, and until he was willing to accept it, what else could she do?

  She didn’t let her thoughts linger too long on what would happen if he never reached that point.

  Juliette phoned frequently with news of Benton and the wedding, Benton and the weather, Benton and the house they wanted to buy in Fayetteville, Benton and his wonderful idea about something.

  Occasionally, she tossed out Max’s name to be sure Sylvie was listening, but the conversation always began and ended with an affirmation that Sylvie would be at the wedding and nothing could keep her away. Juliette seemed satisfied with the promise and didn’t inquire too heavily into Sylvie’s emotional state.

  Which was a good thing, considering that Sylvie didn’t know from moment to moment what state her emotions were in.

  It wasn’t her nature to wait for something to happen, though. Not knowing what to do was no excuse for doing nothing, so she made a few decisions and a lot of plans.

  * * * *

  Blinking furiously, Sylvie leaned closer to the lighted mirror. Her reflection blinked back, red, teary eyes and all. Well, so much for the idea of wearing her contact lenses to the wedding. She didn’t know why she’d decided to try them on. They’d never felt quite right, even after several adjustments in the prescription. She preferred the sense of style and security she got from wearing her glasses, anyway.

  But for some reason she’d been restless on this Friday evening, the day before she was scheduled to return to Eureka Springs for the wedding. The tinted lenses played up the green of her eyes, but the effect was diminished somewhat by the irritation.

  She put a finger to her eyelid in preparation for removing the right lens, but paused when the doorbell rang.

  With a glance at her watch she flipped off the mirror lights and made her way to the living room of her apartment. She brushed the wetness from her eyes one more time and blinked the doorknob into focus. How did people ever get used to these damned things?

  It was an optical illusion, she thought. A mistake. Max couldn’t be standing there, outside her door, looking undeniably wonderful, endearingly casual. The contact lenses were tricking her into thinking he was here. But in seconds she ran through a checklist to establish the illusion: tall, broad shouldered, blue jeans, flannel shirt and suede leather coat, brown hair, still a bit long, blue eyes, still harboring an indigo mischief, dark brows, and a special smile. But ... wait.

  Something was different.

  “You grew a beard.” She gripped the door to stay the impulse to touch this new addition to his face. It had a soft, crinkly look, and to her surprise she liked it. A lot. “I didn’t know you could do that in three weeks.”

  His smile slowly deepened. “You’d be surprised at the things I can do in three weeks.”

  “I hope I’m going to be surprised at the things you’re going to do in the next three minutes.”

  His throaty chuckle rippled through her in pure sensual delight as his arms opened to invite her into his embrace. With pounding heart she accepted and lifted her lips in welcome.

  When his mouth settled sweetly on hers, Sylvie closed her eyes and enjoyed the crisp, wiry touch of his beard ag
ainst her skin, his seductive masculine scent, the tension coiling tightly low in her stomach, and the sense of contentment she’d never known outside his arms.

  When they finally moved from the doorway into the privacy of the apartment and Max had removed his coat, he cupped her chin in his hands. After another long, satisfying, and breathless kiss they settled onto the sofa cushions, as close together as she could discreetly manage to get. When he drew back to study her face, she tried hard to control her need to blink.

  “You’ve been crying,” he accused cautiously, as if he expected an argument. “Is there a special reason?”

  “I’m practicing self-discipline.”

  He frowned. “Oh, I see,” he said, although he didn’t see at all.

  “Yes, so can I, but not well. I’m wearing contacts and everything’s a bit blurry.” She ran her palm along one flannel sleeve, unwilling to stop touching him. “Especially your reason for being here.”

  “Oh, that. Well, I’m still a bit confused on the main reason myself.” He lifted a hand to stroke her hair. “Officially, I’m here to make sure you arrive in time for the wedding. Juliette thought you needed an escort.”

  “And how hard did she have to twist your arm, to get you to come fetch me?”

  “Hardly at all. Which brings us to the unofficial reason. I came to apologize. I was wrong to lose my temper the way I did.”

  “I came to the same conclusion,” she agreed. “About the same time I admitted to myself that I was wrong to interfere in your life the way I did.”

  “You’ve interfered in one way or another since the day you interrupted my shower.”

  She tilted back her head to regard him thoughtfully. “Did I ever tell you how impressed I was by your towel?”

  “Never.”

  Her lips curved with gentle emotion. “Did I tell you I’m sorry for not understanding about your career? I never meant to insult your integrity, Max, but I thought I saw a way to prove how much I cared for you. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize there was a much simpler way. You can’t say I didn’t warn you. Relationships are not my area of expertise.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. You seem to be handling ours pretty well.”

  She shook her head. “That’s why I’ve spent three miserable weeks away from you, no doubt. If I learn to handle this any better, this relationship is in big trouble.”

  “I love you, Sylvie.” He brushed her lips with his, as if sealing a promise. “It’s been a long time since I’ve said that to anyone, and it didn’t mean the same thing to me then as it does now. Her name was Melynda and she didn’t love me enough to accept the life I chose. I wanted to work with my hands, to make something that pleased me, but she couldn’t understand why I would resign a promising management position to move to a resort town and open a small toy store. I suppose when I read the Kelco letter, I was transferring some of that long-ago rejection to your motives. I wanted you to accept me and love me for what I did, not how successful the world thought I was.”

  She blinked back a sudden teary-eyed sensation that seemed unrelated to the contact lenses. “I’m inordinately proud of you, Max. I just wanted everyone else to know what a wonderful talent you have. My mistake was in not realizing everyone else did know.”

  “Well, not everyone, but enough to make me fairly successful, even by your definition.”

  “You should have told me you marketed your toys and dolls on a limited edition basis.” She shook her head to ward off his protest. “I know I should have thought of that possibility on my own, but your attitude was so casual about things that it didn’t occur to me you took the business angle so seriously.”

  His mouth curled in a roguish smile, enhanced by the short, dark growth of beard. “I’ve had quite a time convincing you I could take any angle seriously. Especially yours.”

  “But you’ve enjoyed every minute.” She tried for a demure look. “And I never knew what I was missing in life until I met you. Why, I would have given ten-to-one odds against falling in love with a man who didn’t own a pinstriped suit.” She paused to raise her brows in question. “You don’t own one, do you?”

  “No, but if it’s important to you….”

  “It hasn’t been important since I discovered the high qualities of terry cloth.”

  “How do you feel about a red tuxedo?”

  “Not good. How do you feel?”

  “We’ll find out next Friday at the wedding.”

  “Oh, no! Juliette told me the attendants would be dressed in red, but I didn’t think she meant the guys!”

  “She meant,” he said dryly. “I didn’t ask where or how she was able to locate candy-apple-red tuxedoes, complete with tails. I figured it was better not to know.”

  “Good thinking.” Sylvie smiled with wry amusement. “We’ll make quite a pair, won’t we?”

  “I certainly think so.”

  An anticipatory tingle raced clear to her toes at the loving expression in his eyes. “I love you, Max. Really. I was always afraid of letting myself care too much. It seemed like every time I started to fall in love, the relationship ended. Maybe, unconsciously, I was protecting myself, but I finally came to the conclusion I was destined to fail at love.”

  He pulled her closer, holding her, offering her the shelter of his love. “And now?”

  “Now? Well, I have to admit I didn’t intend to fall in love with you, but it happened anyway. And when we had the fight, I assumed it was the same old pattern.” She pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth in reassurance. “It didn’t take too long in this empty apartment, though, before I decided I didn’t have to let it happen again. I was planning to have a talk with you after the wedding. I’ve already made arrangements to sell my half of the company to Phillip, and I’m buying out Juliette’s investment in Hannah Lee House.”

  “It sounds pretty settled. What were you planning to talk to me about?”

  “A problem I have. You see, the house next door to yours has been leased for the summer, and I thought you might consider renting me a room at your place.”

  “Hmm. It’d have to be my room, and you could only have half of the closet.”

  “Which half?”

  “I’m versatile. And you can sleep on either side of the bed. Your choice.”

  “But what about my clothes?”

  “You won’t need any.” His breath was warm as he began a nuzzling caress of her neck.

  A slow, sweet shiver cascaded her senses and made her voice husky and uneven. “This is sounding less and less like a business agreement and more and more like a proposition, Max.”

  “When it sounds like a marriage proposal, you can stop me.”

  “M-marriage? As in happily ever after?”

  “None other,” he said, the words muffled by his continuing caress. “Any comment?”

  “Yes.”

  He stopped then, and raised his head to meet her eyes. The moment slipped past, and then another.

  “Well?” he prompted.

  “That’s my comment. Yes.”

  “As in, I love you and will marry you and be the mother of your children and – ”

  “Whoa.” She placed her hand over his mouth. “Children?”

  He kissed her palm. “Children, Sylvie. Remember the dollhouse and the toy train? Think of it as a business arrangement. We’ll have our own toy test market. A girl, a boy, and a couple of extras for good measure.”

  She tapped his lips with a gentle finger. “The number of children we have is a negotiable point, but you shouldn’t push your luck.”

  “How do you feel about a wedding?”

  “I’m partial to a quiet, private, pre-Valentine’s Day ceremony. Tomorrow.”

  “What? No elaborate plans? No best man in a red tuxedo? No honor attendant in a red, heart-shaped hat?”

  “A heart-shaped hat? Oh, no, Juliette didn’t ... did she?”

  He nodded solemnly. “She did. It has a feather too. A nice long curly one.”

  “I
don’t think I can stand it.”

  “Of course you can. By then we’ll be married and you’ll be so love-struck, you won’t care what you’re wearing.”

  “I hope I won’t care what you’re wearing either.”

  “Trust me. You won’t care.”

  With a sigh she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down to the sofa. “This calls for a celebration. Mr. McConnell, would you care to ... ?”

  “Yes, Sylvie Anne. I would.”

  Copyright © 1985 by Karen Whittenburg

  Originally published by Dell (0440186676)

  Electronically published in 2013 by Belgrave House

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

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  This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.