by Jill Barnett
It seemed to him as if he had waited forever for her. He glanced at the clock again. He could wait a little longer. They had a whole lifetime. Patience. Just a little more patience.
One of the things those years of boxing had taught Conn was how to be calm and wait for the right moment. He'd learned the lesson well, which was why he never lost. Conn Donoughue was a patient man.
* * *
Eleanor brushed her teeth so long she used up half a can of Pepsident tooth powder. She mindlessly brushed her hair a hundred times. Twice. She put almond nut cream on her face and hands, braided her hair three times in three different kinds of braids and then took each one out. And brushed her hair again. She spent another ten minutes dabbing on French perfume and a little talcum under her arms.
Now she stood there, feeling lost and confused and nervous. She went over to her bag and dug around inside it for a moment. She pulled out a brown bottle of Dr. Hammond's Nerve and Brain Pills. She took four, then sat there for another twenty minutes waiting for them to go to work. Ten minutes after that she decided Dr. Hammond was a shyster.
She paced the small linoleum floor. Was she supposed to just waltz out there naked? She pressed her eye to the crack in the door. She was actually getting pretty good at this.
The lamps were on. She made a face. She just couldn't walk out there wearing nothing but skin. Forty year-old skin.
She looked down at her body. Her breasts pointed downward.
When did that happen? Moving in front of the cheval mirror, she squared her shoulders. Perhaps that helped a little. She turned sideways. She had a small waist, but her hips were too rounded and her stomach had a small pouch. She sucked in a breath. That just made her ribs stick out farther than her breasts.
She poked her finger into a thigh and watched her nail sink, before she turned and glanced over a shoulder in the mirror, then closed her eyes and groaned. She would have to spend her entire married life walking backwards. She propped her foot on the edge of the claw-foot tub. Her feet were fine. Of course compared to the iron claw feet on the bathtub a chicken foot would look passable.
She did have nice ankles. But she knew that. She raised one arm up in the air. Turned this way and that. How strange. She'd grown more skin. It also looked as if she had inherited her grandmother's arms. She straightened and moved her face close to the mirror. Her breath fogged it up so she inched back a bit. She parted her hair in a few places. She couldn't see any gray hair, so she supposed that was a good thing.
Her hair was long, really long and full. It covered her behind. She smiled, then tried to spread it out so it also covered her arms and her breasts. It wasn't that thick. No one's hair was that thick.
Finally she stepped back, stood directly in front of the mirror, hoping the whole would be better than the parts. She tried to picture how she would look to Conn.
Conn, who had a hard-muscled torso and powerful legs. A rippled stomach.
Conn. A man without an ounce of flab anywhere on him.
Conn, who was thirty-two.
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God . . . She buried her face in her hands.
What had she done?
* * *
What the hell was she doing?
Conn stared at the water closet door. He knew she was in there. He'd heard the water run. And run. And run. He'd pressed his ear to the door after an hour and a half and heard her muttering something that sounded like a religious chant: Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.
He didn't know that much about Methodists. He was Irish Catholic, though he hadn't been in a Catholic church in years. After giving it some thought, he figured what she was doing was penance, like Our Fathers and Hail Marys. Perhaps she was too embarrassed to do it in front of him. He sat back on the bed, happy that he was Catholic. Even if he hadn't been to confession in over ten randy years, his penance wouldn't take this long. He stared at the door, then muttered, "Hell, the devil's penance wouldn't take this long."
The door cracked slightly.
Thank you, God. He shot to his feet.
"Conn?" She was whispering.
He frowned. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
Nothing? he thought. She'd been in there since ten. It was after midnight. His patience had disappeared forty-five minutes ago.
"Would you mind turning down the lamp. I'm well . . . uh . . ."
"Sure! Yeah! Okay!" He leapt across the bed and snapped down the gas key. The lamplight turned dim and golden. He had to admit it was more romantic and kind of nice. Made him feel like slowing down a little.
He turned back, his mind on what was to come, in more ways than one.
She was still hiding behind the door.
"How's the light?"
She poked her head out. Just her head.
Her hair was down. Long and straight and thick. The kind of hair he could bury his fists in while he was loving her all night long.
"Don't you think it's still a little too bright?"
He looked from her to the light, then back to her. "You want it off."
She nodded.
He turned the light off. Anything to get her out of that room and into the bed. He sat back against the headboard. She shuffled across the room. He felt the mattress dip from her weight. He resisted the urge to rub his hands together.
He lay there waiting.
She sat there not moving.
He sat up and gently cupped her shoulders with his hands, which felt twice as big as usual. He slowly pulled her back down on the bed. She was so stiff, she felt like she had been starched.
He leaned over and gently kissed her. He took his time, moving real slow. He didn't deepen the kiss, just tasted her lips over and over. Her hands slid around his neck. He pulled her into his lap.
Her robe was so thick he couldn't feel her body. He deepened the kiss and moved his hand lower, untying the belt to the robe and slipping it off. He slid his hand to her breast.
What the hell was she wearing? He rubbed his broad palms over the cloth.
Flannel pajamas. She was wearing flannel pajamas on their wedding night. He took a deep breath and said, "Sit up, sweetheart."
She popped up so fast, she almost knocked him in the chin with her head. He kissed her some more, deeply with his tongue and lips. He kissed her neck and ears and brow, and then returned to her mouth. He could die in that sweet mouth.
She wasn't so stiff, so he took a chance and rolled over with her so she was lying on top of him. When she finally moaned against his mouth, he slid his hands slowly up her back, rolling the pajama top up with it.
He had it off of her so quickly, he almost shouted with triumph. He put his hands on her back again, seeking her warm soft skin.
She had on long woolen underwear. He sat up and ran a hand through his hair. She was watching him as if she were a cornered animal waiting for him to pounce. "You're nervous."
"How could you tell?"
"Sweetheart?"
"Hmm?"
"Please tell me what are you wearing?"
"Clothes."
"Layers of clothes, right?"
"Uh-huh."
"How many layers?"
"Just a few more."
"If I promise to go slowly and be gentle will you take off the long underwear?"
She unbuttoned it, and he felt her squirming out of it.
"Anything else?" he asked calmly.
"A cotton shirt. Should I take it off, too?"
"Yes."
"Okay, I'm done."
"Anything else?"
"A corset cover."
"Is that the thing with all the tiny buttons?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Will you take it off, too?"
She did.
"Anything else?"
"An undershirt."
"And?"
"A shift."
"And?"
"A camisole."
He watched her for a long time. Then kissed her. He raised his head. "Nellie, I can't love you with all thos
e clothes on. Don't be frightened. It's a beautiful way of loving. I promise."
She stood then, and he heard clothes falling to the floor. He wondered what else she had been wearing.
Then she was in his arms and kissing him, holding him. His wife.
She was so beautiful. He told her over and over. He touched her whole body, and loved her with his hands and mouth and his body. She was everything he'd ever fought for and the one thing he would never lose. Her name was a prayer on his lips, his name a whisper of love from her.
And when he was deep inside her, loving her tenderly and gently, it was good,—so very, very good. He cried when he felt her passion explode, because he was so in awe that she loved him and was his.
They loved all night and most of the morning. It was late Christmas afternoon before they got up. She tried to hide her body in the bright daylight. He chased her, pulling off her clothes until she stood naked before him.
She had trouble looking at him. "My body is old," she mumbled, looking embarrassed and ashamed.
"Not to me. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen."
"But I'm not perfect. I'm not young."
He walked over to her and placed his knuckle on her chin and tilted her face up. Her eyes met his. "No, but your body's got something else that's better than perfection, my beautiful wife."
"What?"
"It's got character."
And she burst out laughing.
Epilogue
New York City, Christmas Eve, 1905
* * *
Giant Gymnasium still sat in the belly of New York, except now there were two entrances—one for the gentlemen and one for the ladies. There was also a separate smoking room. This Christmas, like the last seven, there were holly wreaths on the doors, one with red ribbons and one with green, and garland was draped on the fire escapes.
In the rear alley where carriages used to park there was now a brand spanking new Pierce Arrow sedan that still had pine needles scattered in the back from this year's Christmas tree. Inside, the lobby was still huge, but there was a homey wood stove with a basket of pine cones next to it, and Christmas music played on a Victrola with the RCA dog painted on the horn.
The message board was no longer there, because a large black telephone switchboard sat in its place. Behind the lobby was a small office, where Mrs. Nell Donoughue took care of the gymnasium books.
Up the stairs, the family home was now both the third and fourth floors, with an inside staircase that connected the floors. High above the fourth floor, the ceiling was still glass and two telescopes sat on their bases in the center of the main room.
Conn Donoughue stomped up the stairs, his huge arms filled with brightly wrapped packages. He shook the light snow from his shoulders and walked through the front door, stepping around cat toys and a scattering of children's mittens.
He set the packages down by the crooked tree and turned around just as his five-year-old son hollered, "Catch me, Daddy!"
Adam Donoughue leapt off the tall oak cabinet, bounced on his mother's new brocade sofa, and flew toward his father with his arms spread like an eagle.
He smacked into his father's chest with a thud. But his father would catch him; he always did.
Conn carried his son into the kitchen, where there were small hand prints of fudge on the table, the icebox, the walls, and his wife's face, and where nine cats with Christmas bows tied around their scrawny necks played under the work table.
Three-year-old Julia sat in her mother's lap, her small hands cupping Nell's cheek while she gave her a kiss. "Happy Chrith-muth, Mama."
"What's this? No happy Chrith—muth for your father?" Conn gave her a mock frown.
Julie looked up with a very serious face that looked exactly like her mother's. She planted her fudgy hands on her waist and frowned at him, scolding, "Not Chrith—muth, Daddy! It'th called Chrith-muthl"
He leaned down and planted a loud smooch on her small face, then bent toward his wife. "I believe it's not only Christmas, now, is it?" He kissed Nell and tasted chocolate and love and everything that was important in his life. "Happy Anniversary, Nellibelle."
"Ah, mush!" Adam screwed up his face. "Yuk! I'll never kiss a girl!"
Conn looked at him. "I'll remind you of that someday, son."
And later that night, when the children had been tucked into their beds in their rooms on the fourth floor, Conn stood one floor below, in the their bedroom and pulled his wife into his arms. "Happy Christmas, Nellibelle."
Then he started to kiss her.
Above him, someone whispered, "Ah, mush!" Then a small giggle that sounded like his Julibelle sounded from the ceiling. He snapped his head up and saw one small eyeball, just like his son's, peering down at them from a small hole he'd never seen before. There was some whispering, and second later, he saw his daughter's eye staring down at him.
"Go to bed! Now!"
Two pairs of feet scampered over the floor above. - He looked back down at Nellibelle. "Just how long has that hole been there?"
"Oh, let's see . . . Not too long," she said.
"How long?"
"About eight years."
Then she slid her arms around his neck and laughed, that joyous, wonderful laugh. And once again, Conn Donoughue saw the Christmas gift he'd always loved the best. He looked into his wife's smiling face and saw how truly beautiful a woman could be.
About the Author
JILL BARNETT enchants readers with her signature blend of love and laughter. Publishers Weekly gave her book, Dreaming, a starred review, calling it "hilarious… Her characters are joyously fresh and her style is a delight to read—a ray of summer sun." The Detroit Free Press named Bewitching one of the Best Books of the Year, cheering, "Barnett has a wicked way with a one-liner and she makes the romance sizzle." Her other books have all won critical acclaim and have since gone on to appear on such bestseller lists as the New York Times, USA Today, Publishers’ Weekly, the Washington Post, Barnes and Noble and Waldenbooks, who presented Jill with a National Waldenbooks Award. She has over 7 million books in print and her work has been published in 21 languages. Jill lives with her family in the Pacific Northwest.
To hear the latest about Jill Barnett’s books please visit these sites
MY LUCKY PENNY by Jill Barnett
Coming 2017
* * *
Book Three
My Lucky Penny
* * *
When famous architect, Edward Lowell suddenly becomes guardian of his orphaned 4 year old niece, the life he has known is turned upside down. His niece is grieving but when she spots a doll in a store window, he sees the first signs of happiness in her eyes. But the doll is sold before Edward can buy it and he sets out to find the dollmaker with the hope she can help him find a way to heal his young niece.
Chapter One
* * *
Late 19th Century New York City
* * *
Edward Abbott Lowell was named man of the year by the four hundred esteemed members of New York City's most exclusive gentlemen's club. As he walked around the grand ballroom of the Union Club, shaking hands after his acceptance speech, Edward was struck by the strangest feeling that something was off. Not with the club or its members, but something else, as if the air around him was vibrating when there was no elevated train nearby.
He rubbed a hand over his neck then noticed the waiter who had quietly appeared with his bourbon. He took advantage of a break in conversation, taking a long draw off his drink and turning away from the busy mayor chatting with his cronies. The man must have taken a bath in Macassar oil. He smelled like a cross between a lift engine and Aunt Martha's Christmas buns.
Edward needed air.
A few minutes later, he closed the door behind him and effectively shut out the din of loud voices, the distant sound of a tinny piano, and the raucous male laughter inside. Before he turned away, he looked at the crowded room through the sleek glass of the terrace doors; it was full of exp
ensively tailored coats and custom-fitted vests, pockets slung with many a gold pocket watch and diamond fob, a veritable sea of mustaches, clipped beards, and hair slicked back so all those top hats lined on shelves in the lobby coat room would sit atop the owner's head at the right jaunty angle.
The Union Club honor...hard to believe. He shook his head and moved to the stone balustrade that rimmed the third floor terrace and overlooked Fifth Avenue.
How many of the city's new business deals would be struck or sealed in that room tonight?
Like most of the city's big business, his largest and last project--and the one that had earned him man-of-year distinction--the Grant Building, had been negotiated and confirmed with a solid handshake in this very gentlemen's club a few years ago. And it had only taken him over a decade of hard work, and the sheer luck of being picked out of Boston Tech to go to Chicago as a protégé to the great architect William LaBaron Jenney, proof that even a blind monkey could find a peanut once in a while.
And now he had a lot of peanuts...more than his father had lost in the big crash, more than his wealthy grandfather had earned in his entire lifetime, and his great grandfather before that, and Ed was twenty-nine.
But tonight, before he'd stepped out to that podium, he'd felt as if he were that young kid again, nerves raw, feeling as if he didn't fit into his feet, and taking him back to that first day of college, a mere two days after his sixteenth birthday, when--green buck that he was--he had tentatively walked into that Back Bay building--one that embodied the sheer possibilities of everything he had ever wanted. That was what tonight was all about to him--the culmination of all those fantastical possibilities.
He heard the doors open and turned to see Harold Green closing the door with his foot while balancing cocktail glass in each hand. "Look who the cat dragged in," Ed said. "And here I was just thinking about green."