Golden Vows

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  GOLDEN VOWS

  Karen Toller Whittenburg

  Chapter One

  Even in the clutter of noise around her, Amanda heard him laugh. That rich, throaty, baritone laugh that still made her heart catch and teased her lips into a smile. She looked up from arranging the trays of hors d’oeuvres, her gaze skimming over the faces of her guests to find him.

  Dane Maxwell stood by the fireplace, as he always did at these parties. It was his favorite spot in the entire house, and he insisted it was her duty as hostess to circulate while he kept the party alive in the corner.

  He seemed to be doing a good job of that tonight, she thought. The group around him was obviously entranced with what he was saying. He lifted his hand to emphasize a point and Amanda focused her attention on the lithe movement.

  She’d always been fascinated by his hands. Large, graceful hands that symbolized so much of the man. Hands that could sketch the intricate details of an idea and create a skyscraper; then, with the same consummate skill, those hands could trace the contours of her body and create pleasure.

  She followed his movements as he absently rubbed the back of his neck. He needed a haircut. The thick, wheat-gold hair at his nape touched the collar of his black evening jacket with sharp contrast.

  In many ways, she thought, Dane was her contrast. Her features were delicately feminine, sketched with a subtle reserve and inherent privacy that contrasted with the ready warmth of her smile. The rugged lines of his face held a refinement usually lacking in such masculine features, a certain hint of gentle strength that contrasted with the latent power of his body, a body that contrasted with hers in the most intimate of ways. The texture of his skin was like rough velvet against her own satin softness and it was as if her curves had been designed to conform to his shape.

  His hair was the color of sunlight, hers was dark as midnight. His eyes were a rich, earthy brown while hers were as blue as a sapphire sky. He stayed tan all year because of the hours he spent in the sun, but her complexion remained creamy no matter how much time she spent outdoors.

  He was determination; she was acquiescence.

  Her gaze lowered to his wide shoulders and she admired the smooth fit of the evening clothes and his virile physique that complemented them. He was careful about keeping in shape. Although he never said much about it, it was obvious in his enjoyment of vigorous activities, in the way he lobbed a tennis ball across the court or swam the length of the pool. It was obvious in the way he hoisted the sails of the sloop and then sat back to breathe deeply of the salt-scented air.

  Amanda had often thought Dane was a throwback to the ancestors whose name he bore, had even teased him about the Viking warrior stance he affected at times. But she’d always loved that particular trait, envied his ability to square his shoulders and face life with intrepid challenge.

  If only she could possess a measure of his courage.

  Letting the useless thought crumble, she watched him conclude his story. The group around him broke into laughter and again, she heard the husky tones of his amusement. He glanced in her direction and she was suddenly trapped by his eyes, held motionless as the laughter died on his lips and his smile faded into the restless curve of his mouth.

  Amanda looked down at the display of food on the table before her, but all she could see was the dark indifference of his eyes.

  Indifference.

  It was time she faced facts and stopped crediting him with feelings he didn’t have. The lack of emotion in his expression didn’t stem from acceptance of what had happened. He simply didn’t care.

  “Another successful May Day celebration, Amanda.”

  As if she’d been rearranging the food trays, Amanda made a last adjustment, and then turned to her guest and good friend with a smile. “Thanks, Meg. I couldn’t have managed without your help.”

  “Oh, come on. You don’t have to be the gracious hostess with me. I’m painfully aware of the help I haven’t been this year.” Meg laughed easily. “But my own guilty relief that I don’t have to clean up when the party is over eases the pain somewhat. At least, all of our friends know better than to accept an invitation to our house.”

  With a disbelieving shake of her head, Amanda ran a quizzical gaze over Meg’s slender, picture-perfect appearance. It was hard to believe that a woman who could manage five boisterous sons and a husband who always seemed to be searching for his glasses could panic at the thought of giving a party.

  “You don’t fool me,” Amanda said, absently brushing at the short tendrils of hair at her temple. “I’ve enjoyed some memorable evenings at your home.”

  “Of course they’re memorable, Amanda. Just like old I Love Lucy reruns.” Meg’s amused tone of voice belied her serious expression. “For example, I’m sure you remember the party I gave when you and Dane returned from your honeymoon. I mixed the date with little Jerry’s birthday party and the caterer delivered one hundred and fifty ice-cream clowns instead of the finger sandwiches I thought I’d ordered. You have to admit that was a party no one will forget.”

  Amanda couldn’t help laughing, and her eyes sought Dane’s in an impulsive wish to share the memory. But he wasn’t looking at her. And even if he had been, she thought he probably no longer remembered.

  With a practiced smile that concealed her thoughts, she turned her attention back to Meg. “It was a wonderful party. And besides, just think of all the stories you’ll be able to tell your grandchildren someday.”

  “God forbid! I absolutely refuse to be a grandmother! It’s bad enough being a mother –” She stopped abruptly and Amanda saw the sudden apology that shadowed her friend’s eyes. “Oh, Amanda, I didn’t mean that. You know I would never want to –”

  “You don’t have to explain,” Amanda interrupted, deliberately misunderstanding in order to keep the conversation from an uncomfortable subject. “I know you wouldn’t change one single thing about your wild life, even if you could.”

  “No. No, of course, I wouldn’t.” A frown of indecision creased the lovely lines of Meg’s face. “Amanda, I hope you know....” She paused, obviously searching for the right words. “I’ve told you this before, but I really am so very sorry about the baby. You’ve done so well these past six months that I almost forget sometimes how hard it must be for you.”

  Amanda put her hand over Meg’s arm in a not-too-subtle hint, knowing she couldn’t endure another expression of sympathy, not even from her dearest friend. “If you don’t mind, Meg, would you go over and keep Tom Coleman company? It looks like his wife has left him to fend for himself again while she flirts with my husband. Good thing Dane isn’t susceptible to redheads, isn’t it?”

  “Dane has never been susceptible to any woman except you,” Meg commented, her voice resuming its former light tone as she looked toward Dane’s corner of the room, then back to Amanda. “You’re really very lucky, you know.”

  Amanda nodded her agreement and watched her friend cross the room. As she smoothed the satin sheen of her dark blue evening dress, her gaze drifted slowly, inevitably, back to her husband.

  Lucky.

  Meg had meant the words to convey comfort, but they settled in her heart with ominous weight.

  Lucky Mandy, Dane used to tease her. Lucky at cards, lucky at love. How many times had he told her she’d been lucky to marry him in a weak moment when his resistance was low?

  But his eyes had always betrayed the lie to his teasing, telling her that he’d been the lucky one.

  The sun always shines for you, Amanda, he’d said in more serious moments. Share it with me.

  Someone jostled against her and the memory of his words slipped behind a polite exchange of small talk, only to resurface as soon as the guest left her side. She stared thoug
htfully at Dane, watching him with a familiar ache of emptiness as she recalled their sunshine days.

  She had believed in luck back then, believed that the dreams they shared were destined for reality.

  With a bittersweet smile she remembered how lucky she’d felt the first time he’d asked her for a date. As a full-time college student and part-time intern in interior design at the architectural firm where he worked, she had admired him from afar. Young, ambitious, and so very handsome, Dane exhibited a charming resistance to all feminine lures and had thus become the fairy-tale fantasy of most of the women in the building. He was a mysterious, elusive man who obviously loved women, but who played the game of romance with consummate skill and humor, keeping his thoughts and feelings to himself.

  His quiet self-sufficiency had been a challenge Amanda accepted with youthful confidence. The first overtures of friendship had been hers, but gradually she grew to depend on him, on his understanding, his tenderness, and the easy curve of his smile. She had lost her heart to that smile, and when he proposed she’d felt incredibly, wondrously lucky.

  But luck was now a memory.

  Dane no longer smiled, and the sun didn’t shine for her anymore.

  As if conscious of her regard, he shifted and, even if it was unintentional, effectively turned his back to her.

  With a sigh, Amanda checked the watery contents of the ice bucket, lifted it in her arms, and started toward the kitchen, pausing now and then to speak with the people she passed.

  Alone for the first time during the evening, she leaned against the kitchen’s center island and relaxed her composure. She eased the arch of one slim brow with her fingertip, grateful that for a few minutes at least, she didn’t have to pretend. It was becoming too much of a habit to hide her thoughts and feelings behind that mask. Too easy to assume the role of the perfectly happy hostess, loving wife, or caring friend. And she was none of those things anymore. She must stop the emotionless masquerade soon, before she lost the ability to distinguish reality from the image she projected.

  Lucky Amanda.

  She would have liked to tell her friends that she wasn’t lucky at all. It was a lie, a lie that concealed the empty core of her failure, a lie that allowed her to pretend nothing had changed, that Dane still loved her.

  But she couldn’t lie to herself. Her marriage had been over for some time now. All that remained was for her to admit it. Dane was waiting for her to make the first move. She sensed it in the careful way he watched her and in the way he chose every word he said to her. So why was she waiting?

  Pressing her palms hard against the marble countertop, Amanda let her gaze wander over the room. Shiny copper pans hung in a gleaming row along the wall. A red-brick fireplace curved out from the corner, its black, swing-out kettle a reminiscence of kitchens from long ago. The fireplace had been Dane’s idea, his contribution to the otherwise modern kitchen, which was supposed to have been her sole responsibility to design.

  “You’ll love it, Amanda,” he’d promised her as he’d ruthlessly sketched his idea onto the house plans, rearranging her own careful drawings to make room. “Just think of all the marshmallows you can burn to a crisp ... right in the comfort of our kitchen.”

  She had been unimpressed until the room took shape and she had seen how the fireplace added a unique and homey touch. On the day they’d moved into the house, Dane had presented her with a moving day gift – an extra-long metal skewer with a wooden handle, carved with the words

  MANDY’S MOLTEN MARSHMALLOWS.

  Closing her eyes, she could almost hear the sounds of her long forgotten laughter blending with his. An echo of the sheer joy she’d felt just in loving him.

  Pivoting abruptly, she carried the ice bucket to the refrigerator and methodically began to refill it with ice. This kind of longing would get her nowhere. Dane, who had once been friend, companion, and lover, had become a stranger, a constant reminder of all she’d had ... and lost.

  She knew only that it had happened, not how or when.

  For weeks after the baby died she’d lived in a void, everything existing on a superficial level. She had survived each day simply because nothing could penetrate her outer composure. But now the memories were pushing against her wall of defense from the inside, creating a pressure that would crush her if she didn’t yield.

  And yielding meant she must face facts and make decisions. Decisions like moving from this house with all its reminders of once-upon-a-time. Decisions like leaving Dane.

  Her hand trembled at the thought, but Amanda forced it to stop. She had accepted the death of her child and she would learn to accept the death of her marriage. It wasn’t fair to continue a relationship that offered so little to both of them. She wanted more than a man who stayed with her out of a sense of responsibility. She deserved better and, in all honesty, so did Dane. Circumstances had irrevocably changed her from the carefree, innocent young woman with whom he had once fallen in love. Even if she thought there might be a chance to regain his love, she couldn’t be that person again.

  It was over. For better or for worse.

  “Is everything all right?”

  Amanda turned to face her husband.

  He stood just inside the doorway, and she had the sudden impression that he’d been there for some time.

  How odd, she thought. Once she would have known the instant he’d entered the room, no matter how many people were around, and now they were completely alone, only a few feet apart, and she hadn’t even realized he was so near.

  The seconds passed in cool silence as she looked at him. As if painting a portrait, her gaze stroked every familiar line in his face, even the tiny scar beside his left eyebrow. One day soon she wouldn’t be able to look up and see him standing in the doorway, but her memory would hold his image and save it for a time when it was no longer painful to recall.

  “Everything is fine,” she answered, knowing it was both the truth and a lie.

  Dane nodded and his lips formed that polite, plastic smile that she hated. “I should have known better than to ask. You always have everything under control, don’t you, Amanda?”

  For the first time in months she didn’t force herself to match his artificial expression. The indifference in his voice hurt and she was tired of pretending to herself that it didn’t. “Is there a problem?” she asked. “I just came in here to get some ice.”

  “The Hendersons are leaving now. I thought you’d want to say good night.”

  “Of course.” She replaced the lid of the ice bucket and handed it to Dane. “Would you mind?”

  He took the container from her hands and followed her from the room. For a split-second as she walked through the doorway she wondered how he would react if she turned and flung herself into his arms, begged him to love her again. She frowned at the ridiculous idea, knowing that more than likely he would drop the ice bucket in astonishment and then, in that awful, polite voice, he’d ask if she wanted him to get more ice.

  “Oh, there you are, Amanda,” Terri Henderson called from the entryway. “We have to leave, but I wanted to tell you what a lovely evening we’ve had. May Day Revels. Such a good idea for a party. Thanks so much for inviting us. See you soon.” The brunette walked to the front door, but her husband lingered to touch Amanda’s hand.

  “You’re a charming hostess, Amanda,” he said. “I hope you and that lucky husband of yours throw a May Day party every spring for years to come.” With a wink he squeezed her hand and then followed his wife from the house.

  Spring.

  The one word stayed in her mind as Amanda returned to her guests.

  Spring.

  The season of beginnings. A year ago she’d carried the beginning of a new life inside her, a precious secret shared only with her husband. Why hadn’t she realized then that beginnings also meant endings? Why had she ignored the warning signs and convinced herself that Dane was as happy as she?

  “Great party, Amanda.” Another guest touched her arm, ga
ve a brief kiss to her cheek, before leaving.

  She hoped she made the proper response, but the thoughts persisted and made her only vaguely conscious of saying good night to the departing guests.

  Spring.

  This year she carried the challenge to make a new beginning with her life. And next year? Maybe next year, if she were lucky, someone would invite her to a May Day party. Next year the beginnings and the endings would be over. Everything would be all right again.

  Closing the front door for the last time, she sagged against its solid oak strength for a minute before pushing upright and walking into the living room.

  Dane had taken off his jacket and loosened his tie, but he still stood beside the rock fireplace. He glanced up when she entered the room and then resumed his pensive study of the hearth. Amanda made a visual survey of the party’s aftereffects, the crumpled napkins, the empty wineglasses scattered around the room, the table almost bereft of food. An aura of gaiety still lingered in the air like a concerto’s final chord, faint and fading.

  Without conscious intent, Amanda began to restore order. For her, the ritual of cleaning was as much a part of the party as the preparations. It helped her relax and unwind. Tonight, though, it seemed mechanical, just something to occupy her hands while she waited.

  “Thank you, Amanda. I think everyone had a good time. I know I did.”

  It was what he always said after a party but, somehow, hearing him say the expected words helped ease her tension.

  “I noticed what a good time you had,” she said, her voice searching for the light, teasing tone that had once come so naturally. “You seemed to keep the guests in your corner entertained.”

  Dane watched her as she moved quietly about the room, his expression unrevealing. “I don’t know why we bother to pay a cleaning woman. You never leave anything for her to do.”

  He always said that, too, at the end of a party.

  “I’m only straightening things up.” She repeated her standard answer and expected it to echo in the cavern of emptiness between them. Dear God! When had they grown so far apart that they couldn’t think of anything original to say to each other?