Not Quite Married

by Christine Rimmer

  “Afraid she’ll get it wrong.”

  “I know.”

  “So you have to wait, man. You just have to hold steady. And wait.”

  Dalton knocked back more whiskey-laced coffee. “I need things settled.”

  “Well, right now you’re not going to get what you need.”

  Dalton shook his head. “I don’t like it.”

  “Got that.”

  “I’m a banker. I’m an Ames. An Ames is a pillar of the community. An Ames does not have a living-together arrangement with the mother of his child. When an Ames has children, he has the good sense and integrity to take that all-important walk down the aisle.”

  “I hear you. But you have to hold steady.”

  “There’s something very...slipshod about what’s happening here. I don’t like it one damn bit.”

  “Hold steady.”

  Dalton set his mug down harder than necessary. “Hold steady. Is that all you’ve got?”

  “Sorry to break it to you, man. But right now, for you, that’s all there is.”

  * * *

  When he left Ryan’s place, Dalton went to Prime Fitness. He changed into workout clothes and went at it for two solid hours. Then he grabbed a shower and returned to Clara’s house.

  She came hurrying through the dining room to meet him in the front hall. “Dalton.” She hesitated, a worried frown drawn between her smooth eyebrows. “Are you okay?”

  Hold steady. “I’ll live.”

  She let out a little cry and ran to him. He opened his arms and took her in. “Dalton...” And she kissed him.

  He kissed her back. Hard and deep. “Kiera?”

  “Asleep.”

  “Good.” He bent enough to get her under the knees and hoisted her high against his chest.

  “Dalton, what in the—?”

  “When’s Mrs. Scruggs coming?”

  “After lunch sometime.”

  “Good.”

  “Dalton, what are you do—?”

  He shut her up with a kiss and he carried her, still kissing her, into the great room. “Baby monitor?”

  She pointed at the kitchen counter.

  He carried her over there. “Grab it.”

  She did. He kissed her some more as he carried her back through the dining room and up the stairs to the spare bedroom, where he took off all her clothes and then all his clothes and made love to her until Kiera needed her again.

  The sex helped, more than the talk with Ryan and the two hours at the gym. He figured as long as he could have her in his arms every night and make love to her often, he could do it.

  He could hold steady. He could wait her out. He could be there for her the way she needed him to, the way Kiera needed him—until Clara finally saw the light, got over whatever was holding her back and said yes, she would marry him. That yes, she would finally be his wife.

  In the days that followed, he gave himself a lot of pep talks. He reminded himself that he was part of her life now. A big part. He was in her house and in her bed and she wanted him to stay there. He reminded himself of how much he liked it there. In her bed, of course. But also her house. Clara’s house was more like a real home than the giant Georgian mausoleum where he’d grown up, more like a home than any of the big, expensive houses he’d owned—because Clara and Kiera were in it.

  Two weeks after he proposed at the breakfast table and she turned him down, he tried again to explain to her that to him, being married to her was a necessity, that it was how he’d been raised and what he believed. That he and she and Kiera were a family and they deserved all the rights and benefits of being a family. And the only way to get those rights and benefits was to stand up before a judge or a preacher, to say, “I do” and to sign a marriage license that would be filed at the courthouse, a legally binding document. They needed that kind of commitment. They needed to be bound together in every way, for all the world to see.

  Clara didn’t disagree with him. She listened patiently to his excellent, thoroughly reasoned arguments.

  And then she said that she loved him and she needed more time.

  He went straight to the gym and worked out until he couldn’t lift his arms and the muscles in his legs twitched and quivered. Then he returned to the house and went upstairs to his makeshift office and didn’t come down until eight that night.

  They made up in bed. A very sweet reunion. He buried himself in her softness and she cried out that she loved him as she came.

  Hold steady, he reminded himself for the umpteenth time.

  More days passed. Clara established a regular routine for working at the café. She managed to put in six or seven hours daily, starting around ten. Every few hours she would duck out of the restaurant, come home and feed Kiera, then head back to work. Dalton watched Kiera while she was gone. He was even able to do his work while she slept. On the days he went to the local branch of the bank or to Denver, Mrs. Scruggs filled in.

  It was all working out fine.

  Or that was what he tried to tell himself.

  But inside, he was going more than a little crazy. Because he wanted to make things right and they wouldn’t be right until Clara had his ring on her finger, until she finally said yes.

  * * *

  Clara knew Dalton was suffering.

  She saw how hard he tried, how it got to him, not being able to do the right thing as he saw it.

  And she loved him. Loved him so much.

  She really did wonder at herself, at her own stubbornness, her deep-rooted fear that she would somehow mess it all up if she said yes. Strangely, that fear helped her to better understand why he’d called it off with her when they left the island. He’d been afraid, too, then, afraid and trying to protect himself.

  At the time, the pain of his rejection had kept her from considering what might be driving him. If only she’d known then what she knew now, she could have forgiven him so much more quickly. She could have sought him out earlier, gotten past her silly assumptions about him and Astrid sooner.

  If she’d gone to him sooner, she never would have put poor Rye through their almost-wedding. That whole sad little disaster wouldn’t even have happened. Because Dalton would have stepped right up and stuck by her.

  And that would have given them more time together. Time for her to learn to trust her own instincts, to put her faith in her love.

  Instead now she was the one with the fear. And he was the one ready to move forward.

  For a while, she self-righteously told herself that it was his fault, that he didn’t really love her the way she wanted and needed to be loved. That if he really loved her, he would be able to say so, with feeling.

  But as the weeks went by, she began to see that reasoning as the total garbage it was. With everything he did, Dalton proved that he loved her. Just to see him with Kiera in his arms was enough to convince any woman with a heart that the man would make an excellent husband.

  She knew that she needed to get over this weird impasse within her, to shove her fear aside, to stand tall and say yes.

  But she didn’t. Her fear held her captive, suspended, unable to act.

  And a full month after that morning he proposed at the breakfast table, she had yet to agree to be his wife.

  Dalton stayed with her, in her house and her bed. He took care of their baby. He didn’t make threats or stage any scenes. He made love to her often with a passion and intensity that left her limp and satisfied.

  But he did withdraw from her in subtle ways. His dry sense of humor was less evident. He worked a little later in the evenings. He spent more time at the branch of his bank there in town. And he went to Denver more often.

  She knew he was only doing his best, only trying to cope with his frustration at her continued refusal to take the next step. She did understand, even sympathize. And she didn’t blame him.

  But his careful, polite withdrawal did nothing to help her decide to say yes.

  She needed to get it all out with someone she trusted
. She needed reassuring hugs and good advice. She needed a pep talk, something to break the impasse in her mind and heart. Unfortunately, Rory and her fiancé, Walker, were off in Montedoro for the birthday gala of Rory’s mother, the sovereign princess.

  Ordinarily, with Rory unavailable, Clara would have gone to Ryan. But that seemed wrong somehow. Wrong, to go seeking romantic advice about one man from the man she’d dumped at the altar six months before. Plus, there had been the animosity between the two men. True, the bad blood seemed to be pretty much over.

  But going to Ryan for advice about Dalton still didn’t feel right.

  So she told herself she would wait until Rory came home in the first week of July. And then the two of them could have a nice long talk over a jumbo tub of Ben & Jerry’s.

  She told herself that it would be fine in the end. That she shouldn’t worry. It would all work out.

  But still, it seemed to her that Dalton was more cut off from her every day.

  * * *

  The last day of June they had a ridiculous argument over paper products.

  Apparently because of a clerical error, several boxes of paper napkins, biodegradable flatware and carryout containers were delivered to the house instead of the café. Clara, holding a fussing Kiera in her arms, let the delivery guy pile the bulky boxes on the front porch, signed for them and let him go.

  Two minutes later, Dalton came in from his morning workout. He called her from the front hall. She emerged from the master bedroom, carrying the still-fussing Kiera in her arms.

  He wanted to know what was going on with all the boxes on the front porch.

  She explained about the mistake.

  He armed moisture from his sweaty forehead and asked, way too calmly, “So you simply let him leave them here?”

  Kiera was still crying. Clara rocked her, patting her little back. “I’ll put them in the SUV and drive them to work.” The restaurant was just around the corner. As a rule, on clear days like this one, she walked. But she had her own parking space at the café, right by the back door. Unloading would be easy and quick.

  He gave her a burning look that really had nothing to do with the boxes and everything to do with his ongoing frustration that she wouldn’t give him a yes. “You’ll put them in the SUV?”

  Kiera wailed. Clara kissed her temple and rubbed her back some more. “It’s no biggie, honestly. They’re pretty light. If you’ll take Kiera now, I’ll just—”

  “I’m covered in sweat.”

  “Dalton, she’s not going to care.”

  His scowl deepened. “The real issue here is that you can’t do everything for yourself and you’ll never admit that and let me help you. I’m not letting you carry all those boxes to the garage.”

  The baby cried harder. Leave it, she told herself. Just let it be. But he had no right to go all caveman on her ass. “Don’t start in with what you’ll let me do. You know I hate that.” Kiera let out a long, angry wail.

  Dalton glared at Clara, deep blue eyes full of anger and accusation. For a second, she thought he might grab her and shake her. But in the end, he only turned without another word and went back out the front door. She peeked out the sidelight to the right of the door and saw him stack three boxes, hoist them high and start down the steps.

  That had her wanting to shake someone. She seriously considered marching out after him with their wailing baby in her arms, following him down the steps and yelling at him that he should stop right now, damn it, she would do it herself.

  Somehow she held herself back from going through that door. Instead she took Kiera to the bedroom, checked her diaper and nursed her.

  Sitting in the rocker, with her blessedly silent baby at her breast, she thought the whole exchange in the front hall seemed beyond ludicrous. Dalton had behaved badly.

  And she hadn’t been able to make herself let it go. What he’d said about how she wouldn’t let him help her had made her want to scream.

  She had let him help her. He’d been helping her for months now. Why couldn’t he see that? Why couldn’t he...?

  Well, okay. She knew why. It always circled back to the main point of contention: what he needed to do and what she wasn’t ready for.

  She heard Dalton come back in through the door to the garage. He went upstairs and didn’t come down.

  Kiera seemed a little more settled after nursing. Clara put her in the bassinette, grabbed a quick shower and got dressed for work. She hustled to the kitchen to get something to eat.

  And Kiera started fussing again.

  Dalton did not come down to help.

  Clara ended up eating at the counter, a crying Kiera in her arms. Then she carried her around, trying to soothe her.

  Time dragged by. No sign of Dalton. He knew very well that she liked to leave for the café by ten. And it wasn’t like him to ignore Kiera’s crying. He was always so considerate, always there when she needed him to take the baby.

  Not so considerate today, however.

  Then again, she could have gone upstairs after him. She could have reminded him that she needed to get going.

  But she didn’t go upstairs. She was still smarting from the harsh words they’d shared in the front hall—and damned if she’d ask him for anything.

  When he finally appeared, at a little before eleven, he said gruffly, “Sorry. I had a few calls that couldn’t wait.”

  If he had calls to make, he surely could have told her so. She longed to accuse him of...what? Failure to communicate? Making her late in order to get under her skin?

  Uh-uh. Not going there. She drew in a slow, calming breath and took the high road. “No problem.” She passed him the fussing baby. “Gotta go.”

  And she got out of there before she weakened and said something they would both regret.

  * * *

  The street around the café and the parking lot in back were already packed with cars when she pulled into her reserved space by the rear door. It was going to be a busy day. She went around the back of the vehicle and grabbed a giant box of take-out containers.

  Awkwardly, bracing the unwieldy box on the rear bumper, she reached up to shut the hatch—and caught sight of four guys lurking near Renée’s lovingly restored cobalt-blue ’65 Mustang convertible. They were all cute, clean-cut and of high school age. One of them leaned against Renée’s car, arms crossed over his chest, gaze scanning the cars around them. Another was bent over the interior on the driver’s side. The third guy snickered.

  And she distinctly heard the fourth one say, “Do it, Derek. Before someone sees us.”

  Clara shut the hatch. Hard. Four heads whipped around and four sets of startled eyes focused on her. She called to them, “Was there something you boys needed help with?”

  The one who’d been leaning on the Mustang just had to play tough guy. He gave her a narrow-eyed glare and instructed, “Mind your own business, bitch.”

  Clara dropped the box and reached in her bag for her phone. She rooted around in there and didn’t find it—at which point she recalled that she’d left it on the kitchen counter.

  Terrific.

  But then her fingers closed on a rectangular shape—her blusher compact. It would have to do.

  She whipped it out, pretended to punch in 911, put it to her ear and said loud and clear, “Yes. I would like to report a car theft...”

  The boys were already backing away. The mouthy one called her another crude name—and then, in unison, they whirled and took off. A moment later, they vanished around the corner of the building.

  Clara dropped the compact back into her bag, left the box where it fell and followed them, but at a safe distance, and only far enough that she could see the path they’d taken between the café and the building next to it.

  They were still running. They’d crossed Oldfield Avenue and were racing toward the library, which just happened to be next door to the town hall and the Justice Creek Police Department.

  Clara almost grinned. Those boys must be fro
m out of town. If they were locals, they wouldn’t have fled in the general direction of law enforcement.

  From out of town or not, though, they were flirting with big trouble. She hoped that maybe she’d scared a little sense into them. She stood there, watching them, until they disappeared from sight beyond the library. Then, with a shrug, she returned to her SUV by way of Renée’s Mustang, which seemed undamaged. Grabbing up the fallen box, she entered the café through the back door.

  The place was a madhouse, another one of those days like the one almost three months ago now, the day of the evening when Dalton first appeared at her door with a big ring in his pocket and a marriage proposal on his lips.

  Dear Lord. Only three months? It seemed like forever since then. Like a lifetime.

  She stood in the café’s kitchen, her thoughts spinning back to that night, as her cooks and prep staff hurried to keep up with the orders and her waitstaff flew by the service window, grabbing up full plates and rushing off to serve them.

  Barefoot in a tent of a T-shirt, she’d answered the door and found him standing there. Her heart had soared at the sight of him. Even then, when her mind was dead set against him, her heart had known...

  Her anger with him over their silly argument that morning vanished. Who did she think she was kidding? She’d never gotten over him. He was the one for her—as her father had been for her poor, long-suffering mother.

  Dalton was the one for her. But he wasn’t like her two-timing father, not in any way. She knew that he wasn’t. He loved her as much as she loved him. He wasn’t going to cheat on her.

  So why did she keep holding out against him, against his need to be her husband, to claim her and their daughter as his family in the most complete and binding way?

  The pot washer, Ivan, swung by her with a rack of steaming glasses in his hands. “’Scuse me, Clara...”

  She shook herself. She could beat herself up later for not being brave enough to say yes to the man she loved. Right now it was time to go to work. She tossed the box into the storage room, stashed her purse in her office and waded right in.

  Wherever the staff needed an extra hand, Clara stepped in to smooth the way. She expedited orders, greeted customers, helped to bus and set up tables. And she did grab Renée briefly, to warn her about the four boys in the parking lot. Renée ran out to check on the Mustang. When she came back, she reported that the car was untouched. No fledgling car thieves in sight.