Golden Vows

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  “There isn’t room.” She finished the protest even as he made room in the narrow space. With his feet on the rung below her, his thighs cushioned the curve of her hips. His arms slipped around her on either side and he pushed the shelves into the correct position.

  For a suspended moment Amanda was breathless at the warm sensations coursing through her. It had been such a long time since he’d been this close, since her body had conformed so perfectly to his. She felt the familiar responses stir inside her and wished, for that single moment, that she could relax against him and lose herself in his strength.

  His lips were only inches from her temple and his voice was a delicious ruffling of her ebony curls. “See? There’s plenty of room, Amanda. Besides, we’ve been in closer quarters than this, haven’t we?”

  It was a needless reminder. She fairly ached with the memory. But this was the wrong place, the wrong time for remembering. “Hold that still,” she said roughly, and concentrated her energies on the closet shelf.

  “Are you sure you can see to do this?” he asked. “Do you want me to—”

  “Just hold it and keep your thumb out of the way.”

  “If you hit my thumb, we’re both in big trouble. Are you positive you can see what you’re doing?”

  The hammer struck the nail squarely, but the motion propelled her back against his muscular chest. His arms tightened around her to restore balance, yet her senses reeled with his nearness and she felt totally off balance. Had she forgotten how gentle his touch could be? How scintillating his maleness felt next to her?

  For a fleeting moment Amanda let her body reminisce. The embers of forgotten fires smoldered within her and her lips parted on a low sigh of memory. She knew the instant he became aware of her stillness and she felt the tension ripple through him as she lingered in his arms for a second too long.

  “Maybe I should let you do this, Dane.” She ended the careful embrace and waited for him to step from the ladder before she followed. Free of the intimate darkness in the closet, she drew her composure safely into place. “Do you want me to help?” she asked as an afterthought when he took the hammer from her hand and remounted the steps.

  “No. I can manage.”

  His voice sounded natural with no hint of strain, but Amanda knew there would be little, if any further conversation between them. The lighthearted mood had been shattered by that second of awareness, by the knowledge that what they had once shared could not be recaptured and yet could never truly be lost to them either.

  It was time for good-bye, but Amanda made coffee and Dane obligingly drank a cup. When he placed the mug in the sink and turned to her with a resolute arch of his brow, she nodded and walked with him to the door. Dane stopped to check the security lock one last time before he stepped outside.

  Thrusting her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, Amanda followed him onto the front porch. Sunlight still rimmed the surrounding trees, but the scent of evening was already in the air. It would be cool here at night, she thought absently. She would need a blanket to keep warm.

  Her gaze followed the sun’s rays to Dane. He stood with his hand resting on the wooden support, the breeze from the bay teasing a strand of his tawny hair. The image burrowed deep inside her, despite her wish not to remember. She felt vulnerable and hoped for a quick, painless good-bye.

  As he turned toward her she turned away. “Since you’re moved out, and in, I guess I’ll be on my way.” His voice seemed to cross a great distance before it finally reached her.

  “Yes.” She couldn’t look at him. She wanted to, but she couldn’t. She should say something, but she couldn’t think what it should be. “Thank you,” she managed at last.

  “You’re welcome ... Amanda.” He said her name in such a husky whisper that she had no alternative but to face him. Their eyes met and held to exchange a silent reluctance at this last parting.

  Her lips quivered with indecision and finally found a smile. “Do we shake hands now?”

  He exhaled a breath, too deep to be natural, too soft for a sigh. “No. Not this time.”

  Her heart stopped beating as he moved to cup her fingers in his palm. Slowly his thumb began to stroke the back of her hand and raw emotion built in her throat He was going to kiss her one more time. A farewell kiss. Dear heaven, how would she get through it?

  Irrelevantly, her thoughts wandered. Obscure scenes drifted to the surface of her mind—Romeo and Juliet sharing dawn’s final kiss, Scarlett O’Hara watching Rhett Butler walk into the gray Atlanta mist, Bogart and Bergman in the fading scene of Casablanca. And now, Dane drawing her slowly, inexorably, into his arms for this ... their last good-bye.

  Staring helplessly into his umber eyes, she remembered the first time he’d kissed her. The sweet sense of anticipation that had preceded the first taste of his lips. She had known then, as she knew now, that he would take more than a kiss.

  Then he had taken her heart. Now he would take the threads of the past and tie them in a tidy knot for her.

  As he lowered his head she closed her eyes and prayed that she could hold on to her self-control.

  Dane paused just a breath from her lips. He was uncertain now as he had never been before. Why had he decided to kiss her? It would only prolong this already bittersweet good-bye. Did he hope for a response? A sign? A hint that she wanted him to stay? It wouldn’t happen. She was tense in his arms and although he could see her lips trembling, he knew it was not the betrayal of emotion that he wanted to see.

  He caressed the outline of her mouth with his gaze, wishing he could do so with a fingertip. The first time he’d kissed her he had touched her lips hesitantly, wondrously aware of her fragile beauty. Was it possible that she had grown more lovely since then or did he see her now with an experienced eye, attuned to the beauty within?

  Slowly he defied the space that separated their lips, even as his heart defied the distance she had placed between them. You’re mine, Amanda, he told her silently. This is just a new beginning for us. I can’t, I won’t say good-bye.

  The warmth of his touch kindled inside her, but Amanda refused to fan the flame. She didn’t want this kiss and yet her arms moved to hold him close, even though she knew their closeness was only an illusion, existing physically but in no other way.

  Her lips responded to his as they always had. She had no control over them, just as she seemed to have little control over the wild throbbing of her pulse and the trembling of her legs. And she had no defense against his tenderness.

  The necessity of their parting lost meaning for her as the kiss deepened and then softened with lingering sweetness. It was almost over and Amanda didn’t know how she could let him go. She felt a sharp stab of regret and the anguish of a thousand reasons searching for a single rhyme.

  Then Dane was pulling away, his eyes liquid dark. He brought his palm up to warm her cheek for the brief span of a heartbeat. “Something to remember me by,” he whispered.

  Pressing her lips tightly together, Amanda lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders, and turned to enter the house. She heard his departing footsteps, listened to the sounds of his leaving. Then she closed the door.

  Without actually intending to, she began unpacking and putting things away. She paid no heed to the salty teardrops that trickled one after another down her cheek.

  Something to remember me by.

  As if she could ever forget.

  Chapter Four

  Gray blended into cream, softened to gold, and fused with palest pink in a gentle harmony. It was a subtle room. A room for quiet music, a good book, or deep thoughts. There wasn’t a piece of furniture or a picture on the wall that didn’t reflect the awakening shades of dawn. From floor to ceiling and back again the colors flowed in one smooth statement of taste.

  Amanda stood in the doorway and remembered how the room had looked on the day she’d moved in. It had been worn and tired, giving no invitation to rest or relax within its perimeters. It hadn’t suited her then. But no
w that the redecorating was complete, she wasn’t sure it suited her any better.

  It was lovely, gleaming, inviting, and she had thoroughly enjoyed choosing fabric, accessories, and new furniture. The entire house had been a challenge that she had welcomed and tackled with fervor. From a new coat of paint on the back deck to the no-wax shine on the kitchen floor to the crisp Priscilla curtains on the bedroom window, the shabby house had been redone.

  Martha dubbed the renovation a “blooming miracle.” Expensive, but a miracle just the same. It would have been nicer, of course, if a touch of Kelly green had been splashed here and there. But Martha was quick to add that she wasn’t a decorator and that she didn’t have to live with the shrinking-violet colors. Accepting the comments in the constructively critical manner in which they were meant, Amanda had merely smiled at Martha’s many suggestions.

  In truth, Amanda had surprised herself a little in redecorating the house. Ordinarily she preferred at least a few vivid sparks of color in a room. She hadn’t consciously omitted a touch of brightness this time; it just hadn’t happened.

  Funny, she thought now as she slipped off her shoes and walked into the living room. The quiet whisper of her nylons against the carpet sifted richly through the air. Her fingers glided over the polished cotton material of the sofa and draperies. She inhaled the fragrance of fresh paint and new things. Everything pleased her and yet it didn’t seem quite right; it didn’t feel like home.

  Reluctantly, she let her thoughts drift home. They hadn’t far to go. The house she and Dane had planned and built came to mind each time she entered this room. Perhaps it was because the contrast between that house and this one was so patently obvious. As obvious as the contrast within herself, Amanda decided. Then she had been a vibrant, alive splash of color; now she was a blend of the subdued tones surrounding her.

  And it was a softening that she thought she’d like once she became accustomed to it. There was so much to discover about this new Amanda that had evolved slowly from the old. She was awakening to a different awareness of life, just as this old room had taken on the gentle promise of a new morning.

  Amanda sat on the edge of the sofa and stretched lazily. Tomorrow she was going to awaken to the demands of a new job. She could still hardly believe that she’d finally resigned her position as design consultant at an exclusive Baltimore department store. It was a job that had lost its appeal over the past few years and had given her an outlet during the confusing months after the baby’s death. It had taken only a week after she’d moved into this house for her to resign, clean out her desk, and leave the store without a backward glance or a trace of regret.

  She was ready for a change in her life so she hadn’t missed it. It was simply another example of something that had once been important and now no longer mattered. She was finding a lot of those somethings in her everyday routine. And, oddly, she was discovering it was the little, unimportant things that she missed.

  Things like sharing a comfortable silence over a cup of coffee or knowing, in the drowsy moments just before sleep, that there was a familiar someone nearby. It had been a long time since she’d shared those things. Since long before she’d moved here. So why did she miss them now?

  Sighing, she pushed to her feet. She missed them now because they were beyond her reach. The stiff white papers in her desk drawer were a potent reminder that, barring complications, she would be officially single in a matter of months. Her signature on those papers was all that was required before the petition for divorce could be filed.

  Amanda Stuart Maxwell versus Dane Cameron Maxwell.

  Closing her eyes, she rubbed her forehead, but the words still blazed starkly eloquent in her mind. Amanda versus Dane. How concise. How simplistic. How piercingly ironic. She wondered how Dane would feel when he received his copy of the papers, and then blocked the thoughts from her consciousness.

  She would be late for dinner at Martha’s if she didn’t get moving. It was the first dinner invitation she’d accepted and she didn’t want to risk a good-natured scolding when she did arrive. With a quick, reassuring scan of her green button-front skirt and white blouse, she left the house to walk the half-mile or so that separated her from Martha’s.

  Summer bloomed, hot and humid, along the path and Amanda filled her lungs with the stuffy heat. By the time she reached the carved, double doors of the house and lifted the ornate knocker, the heat had entered her cheeks and spiraled damply into the limp curls at her nape.

  “Come in, come in.” Martha motioned Amanda into the air-conditioned hall and surveyed her with disapproval. “You look like you could be second cousin to a heat stroke. Go on in the front room and make yourself comfortable. I’ll get you something to drink.”

  “Hello, Martha.” Amanda pointedly addressed the sturdy back bustling away in the direction of the kitchen, but Martha paid no heed. With a wry lift of her brow, Amanda did as she was bid and relaxed in the comforting coolness.

  “Whatever possessed you to walk in the first place?” Martha entered the room at the same brisk pace and presented Amanda with a modified version of a mint julep.

  Accepting the sun-brewed tea laced with cider and a sprig of mint, Amanda smiled a thank-you. She accepted the fussing in the same spirit, knowing that if she had chosen to drive, Martha would have scolded her for not getting enough exercise. Martha was a mother hen in search of a chick, and at the moment Amanda happened to be the chick closest at hand.

  “Feel better?” Martha asked as she eased herself onto the edge of the Boston rocker.

  “I feel fine,” Amanda stated firmly. “I felt fine when I arrived on your doorstep. It’s only a short walk, Martha, and it’s only a little humid outside. You worry too much.”

  Her wrinkled cheeks creased with a smile. “I worry about you cooped up in that house with wallpaper samples and fabric scraps. You need to get out, Amanda. Meet people. Find out what’s going on in the world.”

  Amanda swirled the glass in her hand until ice cubes clinked musically. She could feel a lecture hiding behind that bland smile; Martha was ever on the alert for her opportunity. “I do get out, Martha. I’m here. And I spent the entire day in Annapolis—meeting people. In fact I have a job beginning first thing in the morning.”

  “A job? You mean you’re going to work?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Amanda said with a teasing laugh. “No more goofing off for me and no more free interior decorating for you. Tomorrow I join the eight-to-five rank and file. Well, actually, it will be nine to three. I’ll be working for Susanna Williamson at her child-care center. Imagine me with a group of rowdy preschoolers! Lucky I took some college hours in early childhood education, wasn’t it?” Amanda stopped to sip at her drink, hoping Martha wouldn’t notice the breathy uncertainty in her voice, but knowing she couldn’t help but notice.

  “Children?” The word came cautiously, accompanied by a watchful green gaze. “Is that the sort of work you want to do, Amanda?”

  Straightforward, Amanda thought. No “Do you think that’s wise?” or “Can you handle it?” or “How can you be around children every day and not be constantly remembering and regretting?” None of the questions she had asked herself again and again.

  Just a concerned look and a straightforward question. That was Martha’s way and Amanda knew she wouldn’t get by with a yes or no answer.

  “I think it is,” Amanda said. “At first I wasn’t sure, but after I visited the center and looked around, I decided to give it a try.” She paused to glance away from the perceptive gaze. “I love children, Martha, and I can’t spend my entire life avoiding them just because I might feel uncomfortable at times.”

  She didn’t attempt any further explanation. How could she explain? How could she tell anyone else the curious pleasure she had felt when she walked into the center today? No one else would understand her motives; her longing to love and enjoy the delights of children without risking her still tender emotions. Perhaps it was selfish, but surely no o
ne could be hurt if she shared a moment of childish wonder or stole an innocent smile....

  “What?” Amanda snapped to attention at the mention of the name.

  Martha assumed a knowing frown. “I said what is Dane going to think?”

  The odd tightening of her throat returned unexpectedly and Amanda swallowed hard to dislodge it. “I doubt that he’ll be interested enough to think anything.”

  “Would you be interested if you heard that he’d sold out and was going to work for another architect?”

  “What?” Amanda sat straighter in surprise. “Dane sold the firm? I don’t believe it!”

  Folding her arms, Martha smiled and began to rock. “I didn’t say he sold the firm. I just asked if you’d be interested to know it if he did.”

  Amanda sighed her impatience and tried not to admit it was also a sigh of relief. “You never give up, do you?”

  “You didn’t answer me, Amanda.”

  Lifting her palms in defeat, she capitulated. “All right, Martha. Yes, I’d be interested. But, then, so would dozens of other people.”

  “You know what I meant.”

  In a fluid rhythm of composure, Amanda set her tea glass on the table, crossed one knee over the other, and clasped her hands in her lap. “Let’s drop the subject.”

  “Let’s not.” Martha leaned forward, her eyes bright with eagerness to countermand the blasé tone of her voice. “You need to talk about Dane sometime. You can’t go on jumping every time his name is mentioned.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You do.”

  Agitated, Amanda stood and then wasn’t certain of what action to initiate next. It bothered her to know that Martha was right and it bothered her even more to realize that she was interested, insatiably so, in gleaning tidbits of information about Dane. On a breath of surrender Amanda sat back down. “How is he, Martha?”

  “Working too hard,” came the crisp, almost accusing answer. “He calls most nights from the office. I suppose he’s spending a lot of time there.”