Long Time Coming

by Rochelle Alers

  Instead of the passing the football, Abram tucked it under his arm and took off running. His wife was right—he was fast; however, his size proved a disadvantage. Reacting quickly, Tessa took off after him. She focused on the broad back wearing a Brown University T-shirt as she forced herself to run faster. Half a dozen more steps and she’d catch up with him.

  Tessa heard the pounding footsteps behind her at the same time she felt the hot breath on the nape of her neck. One moment she was on her feet, then seconds later she was lifted high in the air. She couldn’t stop the scream exploding from the back of her throat as she fell, landing on a hard body before the ground came up at her.

  Gritting her teeth against the impact, Tessa peered up at Micah grinning at her in a supremely masculine cockiness that fired her temper. He pressed his chest to hers. His heat and scent swept through her like a sirocco, making her feel things she didn’t want to feel.

  “Let me up,” she whispered. He was much too close, and his potent virility threatened to overwhelm and embarrass her in front of his family.

  Lowering his head, Micah pressed his mouth to the side of her neck. “You smell delicious,” he crooned seconds before rolling off her body and pulling her to her feet.

  “Flirt on your own time, Micah,” Edgar shouted. “The clock’s running and I have a turkey to check on.”

  All gazes were fixed on Micah holding Tessa’s hands. It wasn’t the physical contact that had them mesmerized but the longing expression softening his features. He released her, turned and rejoined his team.

  “Is there something wrong, Micah?” Rosalind asked quietly as she moved closer to her eldest child.

  He forced a smile. “No. Come on, let’s win this game.”

  Micah’s attempt to concentrate on the game was short-lived. The next play resulted in a turnover, Tessa pouncing on the football like a cat. He watched, stunned, as she danced in triumph, her lithe body moving sensuously in tempo to the blaring hip-hop music.

  What was it about Tessa that had him reacting like a deer caught in the headlights and a randy adolescent boy? He couldn’t stop the smile parting his lips. She’d just demonstrated that she could loosen up, that she’d literally and figuratively let down her hair: the curls pinned on the nape of her neck had escaped the neat chignon and lifted slightly with the warm breeze.

  * * *

  Tessa sat in the formal dining room with the Sanborns, passing serving dishes around a table with enough room for sixteen. The chairs that would’ve been occupied by Bridget and Seth were vacant, and another chair had been replaced with a high chair for Kimika.

  She’d found herself energized instead of exhausted from the strenuous football game. The competition ended in a tie as time ran out. Everyone had retreated to the house to shower and change while the younger Sanborns had gathered in the family room to view Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest.

  The gourmet kitchen was filled with activity, with Edgar basting a large, fresh turkey, and Melinda chopping the ingredients for potato salad and couscous. Ruby poured out a creamy mixture of filling for several sweet-potato pies. Tessa helped Rosalind snap the ends off fresh green beans before she retreated to the dining room to set the table.

  She welcomed the hustle and bustle of preparing Sunday dinner because it served to distract her from the man whose nearness made her senses spin, whose very presence wrapped her in an invisible warmth she hadn’t felt in a very long time.

  Tessa took a second helping of green beans cooked with fork-tender pieces of smoked neck bones and a delicious black-eyed-pea salad tossed with arugula and piquant vinaigrette. She met Micah’s gaze across the table; he lifted his wineglass in a mock salute. Raising her glass filled with a fruity Zinfandel, she peered at him over the rim, smiled, then took a sip, her gaze fusing with his.

  She was aware of the open invitation, the blatant realization that she was more than curious about Micah Sanborn, that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d truly enjoyed herself with a man. Her lids lowered slowly, demurely, hiding her innermost feelings.

  Micah was stunned, the awakening emotion of staring at Tessa Whitfield across the table in his parents’ house leaving him reeling from sensations he’d never known.

  He’d met a lot of women, yet none had managed to ensnare him in a web of desire and longing like Tessa. He didn’t know her, and he wanted to know her not as the brother of her client but as a man would a woman.

  She’d showered after the football game and changed back into her clothes but hadn’t styled her hair in the severe style she’d affected earlier that morning. Damp curls framed her face, making her look softer, more approachable. He winked at Tessa, then turned to Isaac when he tapped his shoulder to get his attention.

  * * *

  Rosalind watched the surreptitious and sensual visual interchange between Micah and the young woman sitting to her right. Picking up a damask napkin, she touched it to the corners of her mouth, hiding a smug grin behind the square of cloth. She’d seen her eldest son with other women, but this was the first time she recognized tenderness in his gaze rather than boredom and indifference.

  She wanted to tell Tessa that she’d enthralled her son but held her tongue. Both were adults, and she suspected they—Micah in particular—would resent her interference.

  Rosalind loved all of her children, but Micah was special—what she’d thought of as her golden child. Adopting Micah had changed her life; he’d made her a mother for the first time, while she’d learned to be patient, tolerant. And, more importantly, he’d taught her how to love selflessly.

  * * *

  Dinner ended more than two hours later, everyone pushing back from the table and complaining they’d eaten too much. Marisol, Isaac and Jacob were recruited to clear the table, Melinda and Ruby put away leftovers, while William, Abram and Micah stacked dishes in dual dishwashers.

  Tessa sat with Rosalind, discussing the seating arrangements for the reception dinner. The formal dining room in the Franklin Lakes home had pocket doors that opened out to the expansive living room and adjoining area that doubled as a small ballroom, an area where the younger Sanborns had entertained their friends as teenagers.

  “Most of the parents in this community thought Edgar and I were insane to have their children over for birthday parties and sleepovers, but I preferred knowing where my children were—and they were close enough for me to monitor their behavior rather than staying on my knees praying they’d make it home in one piece.”

  Tessa nodded, recalling her parents’ angst when their children got their driver’s licenses and asked to use the car. Driving had permitted them more mobility but less freedom when the elder Whitfields imposed curfews. And, if broken, subsequent sanctions were unspeakable.

  “You’ve done very well, Rosalind. Your sons are perfect gentlemen.”

  Rosalind lifted her eyebrows. “Are you referring to Micah?”

  Tessa nodded. “Yes. You’ve raised him well.”

  A smile of enchantment touched Rosalind’s lips. “Micah’s my pride and joy. I may not have carried him within my body, but he is my son in every sense of the word. The first time I saw him I felt something here.” She rested a hand over her heart. “And that something was an instantaneous love that’s never wavered or waned. I know you don’t want to hear the ramblings of a self-absorbed, narcissistic old woman—”

  “You’re not old,” Tessa interrupted.

  Rosalind snorted delicately. “I’m a sixty-six-year-old mother of four adult children, grandmother of four, I’m collecting social security and have a Medicare card—and you claim I’m not old. I’m not ancient or relegated to relic status, but I’m secure enough to admit that I am a senior citizen.”

  Tessa and Rosalind talked about everything but Bridget’s wedding because both knew they couldn’t plan any further without Bridget’s input. When Micah returned to the dining room to inform Tessa that he was ready to drive back to New York, she bid everyone goodbye, feeling as if s
he were leaving friends instead of the family of her client.

  * * *

  Tessa stood in the foyer of her home with Micah. The soft light coming from the lamp on a table turned him into a statue of gold. She smiled up at him staring down at her.

  “What time should I be ready Saturday?”

  “Are you opposed to leaving at sunrise?”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “No. Why?”

  “I like watching the sun come up and eating breakfast on the road.”

  “How far upstate is your place?”

  “It’s about three hundred and fifty miles from here. If it’s not going to be a problem for you, I’ll pick you up around six.”

  Tessa offered him her right hand. “I’ll see you Saturday morning at six. And thank you for a wonderful afternoon.”

  Ignoring her hand, Micah leaned over and kissed her cheek. “No, Tessa, thank you for being a good sport.”

  She wagged a finger at him. “You know I owe you one for tricking me into playing football.”

  He straightened, smiling. “Did you have fun?”

  She returned his smile. “Yes, I did.”

  “Good. Perhaps we can do it again. But, of course, after Bridget’s no longer your client,” he added quickly.

  Tessa stared up at Micah through her lashes. “I’m willing to do it again even if Bridget is still my client.” A grin deepened the slashes in Micah’s lean, stubbly jaw, making him so devastatingly virile that she was forced to hold her breath for several seconds.

  “Let me know when you’re available and I’ll make it happen,” Micah said softly. “Thank you again, and I’ll see you Saturday morning.”

  “Saturday morning,” she repeated as Micah turned, opened the door and walked out of Signature Bridals.

  Tessa stood there staring at the door before she slid the dead bolt in place and activated the security system. She checked her voice mail for messages, then climbed the staircase to the third floor. When she touched a wall switch, bright light flooded the room where she designed wedding gowns. Opening the doors to a built-in wardrobe that took up an entire wall, she selected several in Bridget Sanborn’s size.

  And as she hung the garments that resembled frothy concoctions on a rack she wondered which one would she choose if she were planning her own wedding?

  As soon as the thought came to mind she banished it. She’d coordinated hundreds of weddings and not once had she ever imagined herself a bride.

  Why now? she asked, praying that it wasn’t because of Micah. Tessa shook her head. She couldn’t afford to get involved with him, could not afford to mix business with pleasure. It’d happened once before and she’d sworn an oath it would not happen again.

  Something told her that Micah Sanborn was not Bryce Hill, but could she afford to take the risk?

  Yes, the silent voice inside her head whispered.

  “Yes!” she said aloud. And she’d continue to tell herself yes until she actually believed it.

  CHAPTER 7

  Streaks of orange feathered the darkening sky as dusk descended on Westchester County, the waning light throwing the swaying skeletal branches of trees in stark relief. The fall foliage had peaked, and an overnight thunderstorm with wind gusting in excess of fifty miles an hour had stripped many leaves from the trees; they littered the roadway and the lawns like colorful confetti.

  Tessa maneuvered into the driveway leading to Simone’s modest farmhouse-style home and cut off the engine to her late-model SUV. A knowing smile parted her lips as she got out of the vehicle. Her sister’s mantra—Let there be light—was evident from the warm golden glow ablaze from every window in the two-story structure.

  Her sister had been diagnosed with seasonal affective disorder, and the Whitfields were forced to endure Simone’s mercurial moods from late fall through mid spring; however, with the onset of daylight saving time and the return of warmer weather Simone once again became the free-spirited woman with the infectious smile and bubbly personality.

  Mounting the three steps that led to an expansive wraparound porch, Tessa rang the doorbell. Less than a minute later she came face-to-face with her cousin. Faith was a Whitfield, but she hadn’t inherited the distinctive genes that gave them reddish curly hair and glowing catlike eyes. Tall, naturally slender and claiming dark gold-brown coloring, the renown pâtissier was usually mistaken for a model. Her close-cropped black hair, large, slanting dark eyes and even, delicate features always turned heads—especially those of the opposite sex—whenever she entered a room.

  She hugged Faith. “Welcome home, gypsy.”

  Faith kissed Tessa’s cheek. “It’s good to be home.”

  “How long are you staying?”

  “I don’t have anything on the West Coast until the end of the month,” Faith said, pulling her cousin gently into the house and closing the door.

  Tessa took off her three-quarter coat, hanging it on a wooden coat tree. “What’s happening then?” Tessa asked as she followed Faith through the living room, down a hallway and into the kitchen, where Simone had just taken a clear bowl filled with salad greens from a stainless-steel refrigerator/freezer.

  “Tristan Symons is giving his wife a surprise thirtieth birthday party and he wants me to bake a cake with replicas of her favorite shoes and handbags.”

  Tessa smiled. A collective groan from single women all over the country went up when the Major League Baseball heartthrob superstar announced that he’d secretly married a girl from his Oakland neighborhood.

  “Is he as gorgeous in person as he is on camera?”

  Faith moaned softly. “I know he thought I was crazy when I couldn’t stop staring at him. He’s luscious, Tessa.”

  “Who’s luscious?” Simone asked.

  “Tris Symons,” Faith and Tessa chorused.

  Simone fluttered her lashes. “Please, baby, please. I’m not into athletes, but I’d make an exception with Mr. Symons. Tessa, I’m glad you’re here because I need you to make a pesto dressing.”

  Rolling her eyes and resting her hands on her hips at the same time, Tessa gave her sister a blank stare. “Why is it whenever we eat at your house Faith and I end up cooking?”

  Simone Whitfield’s hazel eyes widened, giving her the appearance of a startled child. At five-three and one hundred twelve pounds with a mop of red-tinged curls framing her oval face and falling halfway down her back, the thirty-three-year-old floral decorator complained incessantly because she was still carded whenever she ordered anything alcoholic.

  “You and Faith don’t have to eat at my place.”

  “And where we would eat every other Monday?” Faith asked as she placed metal skewers with cubes of marinated chicken, olives and lemon, seasoned with ground cumin, turmeric and cinnamon, on a heated grill. The tantalizing aromas of the Moroccan dish filled the kitchen.

  “Why, at your place or Tessa’s,” Simone said as placed the salad bowl on the table in the kitchen’s dining area set with fine bone china, silver and crystal. A delicate bouquet of white Akito roses, Mexican orange blossoms and Weber parrot tulips, all grown in the greenhouse on her White Plains property, served as the table’s centerpiece.

  Faith shook her head. “Just because you set a pretty table that doesn’t preclude you from cooking. We all agreed last year that we’d meet twice a month and whoever hosts cooks. I’m suffering from jet lag, tired as hell, and here I am cooking, Simone Whitfield, cooking at your house.”

  Tessa washed her hands, then gathered the ingredients for the salad dressing as she half listened to her sister and her first cousin verbally spar with each other. Nothing had changed from their childhood. Tessa got along better with her first cousin than she did her sister, and Faith and Simone were like oil and water—they couldn’t find anything on which to agree.

  “Ladies, in case you’ve forgotten,” Tessa said, hoping to act as mediator when the argument between Faith and Simone became more heated, “we have to discuss a formal wedding.”

  Faith removed
a pot of couscous from the heat and covered it with a matching lid. “When’s the wedding?”

  “New Year’s Eve.”

  Faith blinked once. “A formal wedding this New Year’s Eve?”

  Tessa nodded. “Yes.”

  Simone sucked her teeth. “I hope you’re charging them through the nose for the short notice.”

  “The problem isn’t money but time,” Tessa said as she chopped leaves of fresh basil and garlic cloves. “The Sanborns are prepared to pay whatever we charge for their daughter to become a Signature bride.”

  Simone moved closer to her sister, watching as Tessa put the ingredients for the pesto salad dressing into a food processor, slowly adding virgin olive to the mixture that took on a bright green color. The advantage to having a greenhouse on the property was ready access to fresh fruits, vegetables, herbs and flowers year-round.

  Tessa and Faith complained about coming to her house and having to cook, but Simone wasn’t ashamed to admit that they were better cooks. Her culinary skills were adequate, but Faith’s were unequal, and Tessa, although not a trained chef, ran a close second.

  “What are we working with, Tessa?” Faith asked.

  “It’s going to be an interfaith wedding that will take place at the bride’s home. The guest list is projected at eighty—”

  “Eighty,” Faith said, interrupting Tessa. “How large is the house?”

  A mysterious smile played at the corners of Tessa’s mouth. “Try eighteen thousand square feet.”

  “Damn!” Simone drawled.

  “How many rooms do they have?” Faith asked Tessa.

  “Six bedrooms, six full baths, two half baths, two kitchens, five fireplaces, formal living and dining rooms, ballroom, full theater, pool and pool house set on six and a half acres.”

  “I guess money wouldn’t be a problem with a house that large,” Simone said in a quiet voice. “Has the bride decided on a color scheme?”