Finding Mr. Romantic

by Betty Jo Schuler

  "I can't imagine.” Nick squeezed Susan's shoulder. “But we all do things other people don't understand. I hear he loved you very much."

  "And I loved him.” Susan bowed her head. “But he shouldn't have hurt Cee."

  "And my mother shouldn't have hurt my dad, but anger is like a pebble in your shoe that left too long forms a bruise, on your foot or on your soul. I'm still angry with her, but like you, at some point I have to let go of that anger and treasure the good memories."

  Susan stared at him wonderingly, and he felt the heat crawl along his neck. Maybe he should title his next book Nick's Platitudes.

  * * * *

  "C.J.” NICK SMILED into the phone. He'd been at his dad's for a week and, even though he'd never liked apartment living, hadn't minded. Pop had skilled office help so Nick was able to spend most of his time at the building sites, which was where he'd rather be. He'd gained a deeper tan and felt robust and more alive than he had in a while.

  Sharing the nutritious breakfasts and dinners he cooked for his father might have contributed to his feeling of healthy well being, or maybe it was from moving his body more. Sitting at a computer could make a man soft. “How's it going, sweetheart?"

  "Okay except I miss you.” He heard the longing in her voice. He'd talked to her every night but hadn't made the short drive from Ridgefield to Montclair. What with working, taking care of his father, and writing into the wee hours, he didn't have time. C.J. said she was busy, too. Susan was back, she told him, sounding pleased, and they were planning her wedding. She didn't sound happy about that but seemed resigned. “How's your father doing?"

  "He's gaining strength and eager to get back to work. He's starting half days next week. If all goes well, he'll be back to full time in a couple more weeks. He's promised to stick with eight hours. We'll see if he's as good as his word."

  "Three more weeks,” she murmured. “So, how are you doing, Nick?"

  "We have a supervisor on vacation. I'm taking his place on the job, and you ought to see the house we're putting up. I'd like to have that baby for myself."

  "You sound happy for a man working a job he's tried to avoid. What about your writing?"

  "I'm working every night, just not as late as before."

  "Susan,” C.J. said, and Nick broke out in a sweat, not hearing the rest. Every time she mentioned Susan, he got nervous. If Susan told C.J. about the mop lady in the closet, she'd dismiss it as a “joke” she knew about. If Suz had read the novel on his hard drive and said he was writing a romance, he'd have to do some fancy explaining.

  He didn't like lying to the woman he loved, and he'd done it long enough. If Susan hadn't already told her about his romance, he would. And he'd better do it fast, before she did. He hadn't told C.J. in the beginning because it didn't seem like a masculine thing to do. But he didn't need to worry about masculinity after “you know.” Thinking about that made him horny, but remembering the confession he needed to make took care of that.

  Tuning back in to the “Susan remarks” C.J. was making, Nick caught the word “wedding” and murmured a sound of approval, hoping that was the correct response.

  "You agree?” She sounded anguished, and he quickly backpedaled.

  "Not if you don't. I was thinking more ... about us. I need to see you, sweetheart. I cook dinner for Dad, but if you wouldn't mind lunch at the construction site, we could sneak away from the crew and eat together."

  "If we sneak away, you can forget lunch."

  He loved Cee's laughter, but didn't join in.

  "Is something wrong, Nick? Your long pauses make me uncomfortable."

  When he finished his book, he'd move into Dell's cabin. Blue water, grassy hills, and a clear view of the sky. A roomy cabin that smelled like cedar and pine, and a window to write his books by. Freedom, personified. Everything he'd wanted. His dream come true. Nothing was wrong. But nothing seemed right.

  "I miss you,” he said earnestly. And that was a bad sign.

  * * * *

  CEE PARKED HER MG and stepped out onto a large lot at the crest of a hill. In a subdivision with rolling green lawns and deep emerald woods for a backdrop, the site was perfect for the majestic cedar home going up. Nick stood on the front deck of the house, giving instructions to his crew. His sun-bleached hair fluttered in the breeze beneath his hard hat. A stretch of hard-muscled leg showed between high-topped work shoes and faded, frayed cutoffs. An orange shirt with black lettering hung from the waistband of his shorts, partially obscuring his buns. Cee smiled. He belonged on that deck, building that house. Macho man.

  A worker saw her and pointed. Nick turned to raise the fingers of one hand to indicate “five minutes.” She found a spot under a shade tree to wait.

  His men wore orange shirts, and the black letters she glimpsed on Nick's shirt clearly said DENNIS. The trucks parked nearby were similarly colored and inscribed.

  Nick was so handsome he took her breath away. He was good for her, and he'd been good for Susan. After he caught her hiding in his apartment, she apologized to Cee and said she was wrong about Nick.

  Suz had spoken to Mark on the phone that morning but hadn't mentioned wedding plans after hanging up. Cee suspected she was dragging her feet, and if she wanted to call the marriage off, hoped she'd do it in time to enroll in college.

  Nick put two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly, making a motion to break. The men scattered with some of them gathering under a huge maple where they had parked their lunch pails while the others took off down the hill toward the burger joint where she'd stopped.

  As Nick approached, her stomach knotted. Judging by his grin, she might have thought he was glad to see her, but his gait was slow and measured. He'd said he needed to see her, and that wasn't the same as needing her. Was it? He stood before her, feet wide apart, and his jaw tensed. Unnerved, she dropped the bag with the food. They both swooped down to pick it up and banged heads. “Sorry."

  They said the word together, and both of them reached again. Their hands touched on the bag, and bodies bent at the waists, they grinned. When she was with Nick, everything looked brighter. She backed away and let him get it. Thankfully, she hadn't dropped the colas.

  Nick led her to a clearing on the far side of the lot where he'd parked a company truck in the shade. After dropping the tailgate, he padded it with the Indian blanket he'd taken on their safari. “I've never been on a tailgate picnic before,” Cee said.

  "Stick with me, baby, and I'll expose you to the finer things of life.” Nick handed her one of the three double cheeseburgers in the bag and cocked a brow.

  "I've picked up lots of questionable habits from you. I also bought the largest size fries and expect you to share.” Their knees touched and sparked a reaction she'd missed in the week without him. She saw in his eyes he'd felt it, too.

  For the next few moments, they sat quietly, enjoying their midday lunch. The sun shone hot, but a gentle breeze stirred the trees. The rustic home was a one-and-a-half story with a deck running across the front at ground floor level and steps on the sides leading to a second story deck on the back. “It's beauti—"

  "Do you like—” They spoke at the same time. They smiled at one another.

  "C.J."

  "Nick..."

  It wasn't funny any more. “If you have something to say, you go first,” she said.

  "It can wait. Go ahead."

  "You said you needed to see me."

  "And I'm enjoying every second of it. How are things at home?"

  He'd closed their conversation saying he missed her. Maybe that was all there'd been to the remark. She smiled. “Susan, you mean? Okay, but I'm concerned over something that may sound foolish. Susan's writing a novel."

  "Wha—” He choked, and Cee beat him on the back. His face turned red and sweat popped out on his forehead.

  "Are you okay?"

  "Are you sure she's writing a book?"

  "I was in her room looking for one of her umpteen wedding lists and saw
a stack of paper in the box the wedding invitations came in. She was gone, and I was curious. I'd only read a few pages when I heard the front door close and put it back. We don't have a computer so she must have used yours, but I don't see how she wrote ninety pages while you were gone."

  "Ninety?"

  She toyed with a fry. “I suppose lots of young, love-struck girls write romances."

  "Romance?"

  "Yes.” Why did he keep parroting everything she said? “Her writing is excellent. The characters, Isadora and John, seem so real I feel I know them. But it seems like an odd time for Suz to write a book."

  Nick closed his hand over hers. “You haven't mentioned this to her, have you?"

  Cee shook her head.

  "Good, because even if you weren't snooping, she'd think you invaded her privacy and it might strain things between the two of you again. And there's nothing wrong with writing a ro-mance.” Nick strangled on the word and Cee pounded him on the back again.

  "Take a drink of your cola,” she said, tapping his cup, but he went on talking.

  "However, a bride-to-be should be living one. A romance, I mean. Can't you draw her back into her wedding plans?"

  "I don't care if she writes a book; I just don't understand it. And why draw her back into her plans when I don't want her to marry Mark?"

  "Maybe you should let her decide what she wants."

  Cee was too stunned to speak. Nick thought she was butting into Susan's life. He'd never said anything about it before.

  He hunched his shoulders and looked at the distant sky. “Marriage is a personal decision,” he said.

  Now what was that supposed to mean? Nick studied her face for a moment, and then looked at the sky again. He was acting weirdly, and it scared her.

  He took her hand. “See that dark cloud? We have work we have to finish today. I'd better get the crew started before it rains."

  The cloud Nick was frowning at barely looked dark. “I thought you had something you wanted to say."

  He gathered up their sandwich papers and put them in the bag. “Nothing that can't wait for a sunny day. I kind of forget what it was anyway. Go on, now.” He lifted her off the tailgate and kissed her on the forehead. “I don't want you to get caught driving home in a storm."

  * * * *

  NICK SHUT THE door to the apartment where he'd grown up and carried his bags out to the parking lot and the Explorer. Sliding behind the wheel, he headed out of town, reflecting on the man he was leaving behind rather than the woman he would soon see.

  Dad had been sending him out to the building sites while he stayed in the office, saying the August sun was too hot for him. An arrangement Nick liked, he'd thought it was a ploy to get him to stay on permanently until Pop went to a site and returned pale and soaked with sweat. Since then, he'd worried. As much as his father liked keeping tab on things, would he trust someone other than his son to report back to him?

  As Nick left Ridgefield behind, headed for Montclair, he let his thoughts shift to C.J. They hadn't talked on the phone since the day she visited the construction site and everything went to hell in a forklift. First, he'd ticked her off, suggesting she let Susan run her own life. She didn't appreciate his advice, although he still thought he had a point. Kids were rebellious by nature. Say black and they'll say white. Up, they'll insist on down. He knew from experience because he'd been that way. When Dad said construction was a solid business, he decided solid wasn't for him.

  Let a young person think for his or her self, and they were likely to make the right choice. Suz hadn't told C.J. about his romance manuscript, a sign she was capable of mature decisions, and maybe beginning to like him as well.

  He was an adult, and he'd made the same wrong choice again. He'd been set to confess to C.J. he was writing a romance when she told him Susan was, throwing him off guard. Then she added that comment about lovesick girls writing love stories, and he'd been embarrassed. And when C.J. said she felt she knew Isadora and John, he decided the confession had to wait.

  After she'd said Nick was Charlie, his P.I., he reread a Charlie book and damned if he didn't see where she was coming from. Some of his personality came across in his private investigator. What if she thought he was John? The only similarity Nick could see was that, like his hero, he'd begun thinking about marriage. His writing was having a strange effect. If his mysteries affected him the way his love story did, he'd be in jail by now, for high crime. And he was no more suited to murder than marriage.

  He'd told C.J. he didn't want commitment, and when the realization he wanted a wife and maybe even kids hit him, he'd panicked and invented a storm to match the one brewing inside him.

  A dog lumbered into the road, and Nick slowed down so it could cross. He'd reached the city limits of Montclair, and it was still early morning. The sun hovered low in the sky, making the heat tolerable. He drove through the suburbs, windows down, listening to the hum of life in a small town. The swish of bicycle wheels. The soft slap of walking shoes. Loud talk coming from old men on the courthouse lawn. There was something appealing about small town life.

  But he loved Lake Neuman and would like to build there.

  Nick ran a hand across his brow and wiped it on his pants. He loved C.J., but what if he found out, too late, he was like his mother? What if he got married and couldn't commit? What if he grew restless and wanted his freedom to wander again? He didn't believe in living together without the bonds of marriage, but the “bonds” scared him.

  His speed dropped lower and lower until the Explorer was almost idling when he reached her street. He parked and saw her car in the garage. What would she say when he turned up after a week's silence? Was the carriage house still his?

  He climbed the steps to make sure she hadn't changed the lock before carrying up his luggage. When his key still worked, he returned to the Explorer for his clothes, and Susan stepped out from the shadow of the building, startling him. “Can we talk, Nick?"

  "Sure.” He leaned against the side of the Explorer.

  "Not here. I don't want Cee to know."

  Susan started up the stairs. Grabbing his bag, he followed her inside and into his living room. Hands clasped behind her, she turned to him. “I have a confession to make. I got bored staying here alone, so I played with your computer and discovered you were writing a romance. I printed it off to read and took it home when I went.” She grinned. “It's good, by the way. I could hardly believe you wrote it."

  "Thanks, I think.” Coming from his worst critic, he doubted he could get higher praise.

  "The problem is, Cee found it and thinks I'm the author. I feigned anger that she snooped until I could talk to you. She doesn't know you're writing a romance, does she?"

  Nick's pulse pounded in his ears. “I was afraid she'd think it was wimpy."

  "Wimpy might be better than dishonest. What's she going to say when she learns the truth?"

  Susan seemed to have grown up suddenly. “Why did you protect me?"

  "She likes you, maybe loves you, and I wanted to give you a chance.” Susan played with her ponytail, splaying the ends over her fingers. “John made Isadora happy the same as you do Cee."

  "What are you saying?"

  Susan looked at him strangely. “That you might be good for her, I guess."

  * * * *

  NICK WAS WALKING out on her, just as she feared. Cee, restless as a willow in high wind, stalked out to the garden. He'd finally come home, and he hadn't come over yet. He hadn't called in a week, and he'd rushed her off the last time she saw him. He was tired of her. She was a fling. Susan was right. He had been going to break up with her that day but chickened out, and now, he would.

  Cee sat on the bench and inhaled the sweet scent of roses, trying to calm herself.

  She glanced toward Susan's bedroom window. She'd crept over to see Nick when he drove up, presumably to apologize, but hadn't shown her face since she came back home. Maybe he'd read her the riot act for staying in his apartment and
eating his food. Suz said he arranged his containers by height. Pretzels, toaster pastries, donuts, tins of tuna. Was that any better than alphabetically?

  "An amusing thought?"

  Cee jumped at the sound of Nick's voice. He sat down beside her, and the day's eighty-degree heat soared to the one hundred mark.

  "You were smiling."

  She drank in the sight of him. His dark skin. His light hair. The deep blue of his irises against the clear white of his eyes. He was a study in contrasts. He rested his hand on her knee. Her legs were hot from the sun, and his hand was cool. The last time he came home, he pulled her into his arms for a heated kiss. Today, he appeared uneasy. Her smile faded.

  "I guess you're wondering what I'm doing here and why I haven't called."

  She wondered but wasn't sure she wanted to hear.

  "I don't think Dad needs me at the house any more, but I'll work for him another week and stay here if that's okay."

  Her heart sank. “And then?"

  "That's up to you, I guess."

  She shot him a suspicious look.

  "Cee.” He took his hand away to clasp it with his other one. “I wrote the pages you found in Susan's room. I'm not working on a mystery. I'm writing a romance."

  Cee's throat felt like it was closing. “A romance?” she croaked. Nothing wrong with that, one part of her mind said. Another part responded, Or is there? Something tickled her memory that made her uneasy. What was it?

  "I should have told you in the beginning. Or at least when you discovered the mop lady.” Crimson-faced, he told her about a pink-paged romance guide and making a mop into an Isadora facsimile. He gave it a face out of a magazine that looked like her, and when she wanted a haircut, he gave her the hairstyle.

  Her head spun. “You gave me a haircut like a mop?"

  "The mop didn't have a haircut. The cut came out of a hairstyle magazine. I just taped the picture of the face with the haircut to the mop."