On Love's Own Terms

by Fran Baker

  “Sorry,” she gasped, “I just got engaged to the liniment bottle.”

  He reached between them, grabbed the offending bottle and flung it onto the sofa behind him. “How did it get down there?”

  “I don’t know,” she grumbled, rubbing her wounded hip, “but I certainly hope it doesn’t kiss and tell.”

  Luke laughed as he flipped her onto her back and pinned her to the floor with his weight. For a breathless instant he simply stared at her, his expression fiercely possessive, then he slipped his hands beneath her shirt and slowly inched them upward. Bonnie wound her arms around his neck and drew his head down, dizzy with anticipation. Their mouths met at the same moment his fingertips circled her nipples, and the exquisite sensation roused her whole body.

  “Sure beats an alarm clock,” he murmured.

  “Doesn’t it, though?” she purred.

  “Let’s take a shower,” he suggested when her breasts ripened under the caress of his callused palms. He grinned. “On second thought, let’s stay right here.” His hands slid lower, and her hips arched reflexively as he reached the waistband of her shorts.

  Someone, Dave from the sound of it, clomped down the stairs. Luke rolled off her with a frustrated growl and pushed himself into a sitting position. Bonnie scurried to her feet and prayed that the wild-rose bloom in her face would fade before it betrayed her.

  “Little brother,” Luke hailed through clenched jaws, “you are blessed with an incredibly poor sense of timing.”

  “So is Darlene,” Dave groused as he flopped into the overstuffed recliner he’d apparently claimed for his own. “She’s testy as a sore tooth this morning.” He plowed a hand through his disheveled hair and frowned.

  “What’s the matter?” Bonnie asked worriedly.

  “Last night after you two went to sleep, I sat in the yard with some of the guys and had a couple of beers, unwinding and cracking jokes. When I came inside, Darlene accused me of being drunk—which I wasn’t—then marched upstairs in a huff, threatening to call the whole thing off.” He shook his head, as if he still couldn’t believe that he’d heard correctly.

  “Maybe she was just tired,” Luke advised. “After all, you’ve both been working awfully hard this week.”

  “Well, that’s what I figured, so I went to bed in a forgiving frame of mind,” Dave continued. “This morning, though, we came out of our bedrooms at the same time, and she just glared at me like I was the devil incarnate.” He scratched his chin, his expression perplexed. “I smiled and told her, in a teasing sort of way, that I sincerely hoped she wasn’t planning on packing that flannel nightgown for our honeymoon. You’d have thought I slapped her or something! She burst out crying and slammed the bedroom door in my face.”

  “Bridal nerves,” Bonnie diagnosed astutely.

  “I don’t care what you call it, the woman is mean,” Dave muttered.

  “She’s nervous,” Bonnie corrected. “I’ve seen some version of this in almost every wedding I’ve worked. Once, a prospective couple and I were sitting in the bar where they had met, discussing the reception menu. When he mentioned that he liked almonds, she poured a whole bottle of almond-flavored liqueur on his head, set a match to it and submitted his hair to a flambé.”

  Luke grimaced comically and Dave crossed his arms over his head in a frantically protective gesture.

  “I doused him with my club soda and decided that was probably the end of that,” she added. “But believe it or not, they got married two weeks later, right on schedule. The groom wore a toupee and the bride promised to love, honor and quit playing with matches.”

  “Do me a favor and don’t tell Darlene that story,” Dave pleaded. “I’m not about to wear a wig on my wedding day.”

  “I’ll have a talk with her,” Bonnie offered. “In the meantime, you run errands and make yourself scarce today. Give her some breathing room before she takes the big step.”

  “We’ll head into Atlanta, get our shoes shined and have lunch at the Engineers’ Club,” Luke said. “On the way back, we’ll stop and pick up the flower arrangements.”

  “No beers,” Bonnie cautioned. “And be home in time to shell the walnuts for the fudge frosting.” She turned in the direction of the kitchen. “Now, who wants coffee?”

  Luke and Dave showered, drank their coffee and left in the Corvette. After bathing and changing her clothes, Bonnie ironed the hand-embroidered tablecloth and counted out plates and silverware in preparation for the reception. Darlene was still sulking upstairs when the real estate agent who was handling the sale of their childhood home rang the doorbell.

  “Darlene said I could show the house this morning if we’d be quick about it,” the middle-aged realtor explained.

  While he gave the young couple with him the grand tour, Bonnie mixed up the dough for her potato rolls and set it to rise. Although the guest list was small, only fifteen people including the minister, she considered this reception more important than any society function or professional event she’d ever catered. It was more than a matter of family pride that everything be perfect tomorrow. Remembering her own unplanned-for wedding day, she was determined that Darlene would treasure hers as one of the happiest days of her life.

  The real estate agent escorted his clients out the front door after promising that they’d be in touch later with a counteroffer to the asking price of the house. Bonnie poured the marinade off the briskets and smothered the meat with sliced Bermuda onions as Darlene had requested. That done, she covered the baking dishes with foil and placed them in a low-temperature oven.

  She had just started upstairs with the intention of having her heart-to-heart talk with her sister when the doorbell rang again.

  “Mrs. Painter,” Bonnie greeted, feeling guilty because she’d forgotten the widow was coming to call, “how nice to see you.”

  “Can’t stay long.” Her wrinkled face wreathed in smiles, the spry little woman picked up a woven willow basket she’d set on the porch and stepped inside. “I just couldn’t let the week go by, though, without paying my respects.”

  Bonnie knew the visit would last at least an hour, but remembered well that the widow had always found time for her. “Will you have a cup of coffee?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Mrs. Painter led the way into the kitchen.

  “What’s in the basket?” Bonnie asked after they were seated at the table with the mugs of steaming coffee that she’d poured each of them.

  “The final payment on my new roof.” Lifting the lid, she took out a sealed Mason jar. “Luke wouldn’t take my money when he finished the job last fall, but he said he would let me keep him in canned goods for a while. This month he gets leather breeches beans, chow chow and some pear honey for his sweet tooth.”

  “It sounds to me like he’s getting the best end of that deal.” Bonnie was well acquainted with Mrs. Painter’s canning talent. Hardly a week of her youth had passed that the widow hadn’t rounded out the family meals with a special treat from her unusual garden—unusual because it was planted by the signs of the zodiac.

  “It was a fair enough swap,” Mrs. Painter replied. “As in any successful relationship, we each gave a little of ourselves in the bargain.”

  Bonnie just smiled and sipped her coffee. She had wondered how long it would take this dear, unabashed meddler to tip her hand.

  Mrs. Painter set the jar back in the basket, then peered through her trifocals at Bonnie’s ringless hands, which wrapped around her coffee mug. Although too polite to pry outright, her bright blue gaze glittered hopefully. “You know, I bottled some red grape wine seven years ago this summer, and it’s just been aging in the rack ever since.”

  A silence fell between them again, and Bonnie nibbled her lower lip. Whenever one of her “kids” married, Mrs. Painter put up a bottle of wine which she then presented to the couple on the occasion of their first child’s birth. To Bonnie’s knowledge, she and Luke were the only twosome who’d never collected. She stood and deliberately cha
nged the subject. “I’d better punch down the dough for my rolls.”

  Mrs. Painter didn’t pursue the matter. She sipped her coffee and shared her version of the local news, spicing it up with her unique brand of humor.

  “Darlene tells me you have artificial knees now,” Bonnie mentioned when she managed to get a word in edgewise.

  “I sure do.” The widow raised her skirt, proudly exposing her scars, and chuckled. “I won’t be doing any fan dances, but thanks to medical science getting ahead of God on my behalf, I’m still able to tend my garden and help my kids when they need me.”

  “Sueanne told me that you’d be staying with her children when the twins are born.” Bonnie covered the dough and put the bowl in the refrigerator where it would remain until morning, when she would shape it into rolls and then let them rise again before baking. “She also said that her mother and Tom’s mother both offered to come, but Jon and Vicki wouldn’t hear of anybody but you taking care of them.”

  “I’m just grateful the good Lord saw fit to let me enjoy another generation.” Mrs. Painter shuffled to her feet, preparing to leave. “It’s been nice visiting with you, darling. Give Luke my regards when you give him the basket.”

  “Will do,” Bonnie promised, walking her to the door.

  On the porch, Mrs. Painter finally returned to the real purpose of her visit. “Young wine and first love, if sampled too soon, can leave a bitter aftertaste.”

  “How well I know,” Bonnie agreed ruefully.

  The elderly woman descended the steps at a careful pace before having the last word, as had always been her way. “I saved your bottle, Bonnie, believing that the wait would enhance the flavor.”

  Bonnie was so touched that she couldn’t form a reply.

  “Tell Darlene and Dave that their wine went into the rack this morning.” Mrs. Painter walked toward the road, the spring in her step belying both her eighty years and the surgery that she’d recently endured. When she reached the heat-hazed asphalt, the spritely dowager turned and called, “It’s a rosé—light and bubbly, just like them.”

  Bonnie nodded and waved, wondering for the first time exactly what recipe Mrs. Painter had bottled when she and Luke had eloped seven years ago. A deep, brooding burgundy? A ripe red port? She chuckled. The widow had acquired a rather notorious reputation in these parts for adjusting the sugar content of her homemade wines. Whatever she’d put away, it probably had enough kick by now to knock the shoes off a draft horse.

  No sooner had Bonnie shut the door than the telephone rang. It was the minister, confirming that he would stop by the house around seven-thirty that evening for a quick rehearsal of tomorrow’s ceremony. She agreed in a slightly harried voice, then once again started upstairs.

  Darlene was gone. After searching the second story, Bonnie realized that her sister had most likely slipped away unnoticed during Mrs. Painter’s visit. Filled with foreboding, she re-entered Darlene’s bedroom.

  On the floor in front of the wardrobe sat an open suitcase, empty except for the neatly folded flannel nightgown that Dave had mentioned this morning. She smiled as she imagined Darlene defiantly packing the soft cotton garment, torn between releasing the familiar past and embracing the uncertain future.

  Caught in the throes of a similar conflict, Bonnie understood perfectly. She left everything untouched. Returning a few minutes later she placed her wedding present to Darlene, an apricot silk nightgown, in the suitcase. The new laid beside the old, and the choice belonged to Darlene.

  Luke and Dave were laughing and joking when they came home several hours later. After she put the wedding corsages they brought into the basement refrigerator, Bonnie poured three glasses of iced tea and told them as calmly as possible about Darlene’s disappearance.

  “I’m certain there’s no cause yet for alarm,” she concluded, sounding much more confident than she felt. “She’s probably wandered off somewhere to think and has simply lost track of the time.”

  Dave sat crestfallen, confusion clouding his hazel eyes.

  “If she’s developed cold feet, why doesn’t she just say so instead of—”

  “Let’s assume at this point that she’s only suffering a slight chill,” Luke injected sensibly. He took Bonnie’s hand, and her fears receded as she absorbed his strength. “Now, do you know of any place she might have gone?” he asked Dave. “A special spot, maybe, where the two of you have been before?”

  Thinking of their own loving circle, Bonnie felt her pulse accelerate. As if he’d read her mind, Luke increased the pressure of his grip. They waited quietly, hands joined, for his brother to begin supplying clues to her sister’s possible whereabouts.

  “West of the waterfall, there’s a little cove where we usually have picnic suppers and such,” he murmured. Dave flashed a brilliant smile then and slapped his palm on the tabletop. “I’m sure she’s there—that’s where I proposed to her. Why don’t I walk over and see for myself?”

  “Frankly, I think this is a woman-to-woman situation.” Luke glanced at Bonnie, seeking confirmation.

  She nodded and stood. “I said I’d talk to her, and I will.”

  At the back door, Dave caught her arm and stopped her. “Tell Darlene that regardless of what she’s decided…” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “I love her.”

  Luke walked over and clapped his younger brother on the shoulder. “Dave and I will be elbow deep in walnut shells by the time you two are finished talking.”

  Bonnie left as they were rolling up their sleeves and hiked westward across the meadow. The waterfall sprayed her with a lightly refreshing mist but she didn’t pause to enjoy it. When she found Darlene in the hickory-shaded cove, her knees nearly buckled with relief. Sitting down beside her in the thick grass, she scolded softly, “I don’t know whether to hug you or slug you.”

  “One of each would probably do us both a world of good right about now,” Darlene replied in a stuffy-nosed tone. While her fingers plucked nervously at the blades of grass, she closed her puffy-lidded eyes. “Did Dave tell you that this is where he proposed to me?”

  “Yes,” Bonnie admitted, gently caressing the back of her sister’s fine-boned hand.

  Darlene tensed and gave a small, uncomfortable laugh. “What else did he tell you?”

  “That he loves you,” she answered truthfully.

  Her sister promptly burst into tears. “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered between sobs, “I know that I’ve been terribly unfair to all of you, behaving like a spoiled brat, but...” She broke off, her face bathed in tears.

  Bonnie wrapped her arms tenderly around Darlene and let her cry. Moisture beaded on her own lashes but she blinked it away, determined to remain strong in her sister’s hour of need.

  “I’m frightened,” Darlene whispered hoarsely. “What if it doesn’t work out and we wind up divorced in a few years?”

  “You can’t predict that sort of thing,” Bonnie replied honestly. “All you can do is try your best to prevent it.”

  Darlene sighed forlornly. “I wish there were a magic formula written down somewhere that I could read along with all those marriage manuals that the minister gave us.”

  “Doesn’t everybody?” Bonnie released her sister and smoothed the tangled brown hair off her troubled brow. “From my own experience, I know that a wedding license isn’t issued with a gilt-edged guarantee. Mine was just a piece of paper, easily shredded in anger. Yours might prove equally flimsy. Then again, it might wear like pig iron. As trite as it sounds, only time will tell.”

  “I always believed that mama and daddy had a happy marriage.” Darlene pulled her knees up under her chin, showing a girlish vulnerability. “I wonder what they did right?”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say they communicated—both talking and listening. And they were friends as well as lovers.” Bonnie smiled poignantly. “They never knew it, but one night I sat out on the porch swing watching them play Scrabble on the living room floor. Mama spelled out a word—a
dirty one, judging from the look on daddy’s face, and—”

  “Mama did that?” Darlene squeaked. When Bonnie nodded, her eyes sparkled curiously. “What happened next?”

  “Daddy jumped to his feet.” Bonnie snapped her fingers. “Then he literally raced mama upstairs to the bedroom. I felt the vibration of the door slamming shut from the porch.”

  “Well, what did she spell?” Darlene demanded with a giggle.

  “Beats me.” Bonnie shrugged. “I crept in later, but they had kicked the board and scattered most of the tiles as they left the room. The only letters left that even remotely resembled a word spelled ‘snork.”’

  They looked at each other and burst into laughter, collapsing backwards into heaps of uncontrolled hilarity.

  “Snork!” Darlene hooted, holding her sides as if they hurt.

  “I spent a solid week with my nose buried in every dictionary I could find.” Bonnie punctuated the confession with a hiccup.

  “And did it really have a definition?” Darlene gasped.

  “It’s a snoring sound.” Bonnie chuckled. “For years, whenever I heard a woman complaining because her husband snored, I immediately pictured our straight-laced mother hiking up her skirts and tearing up those stairs, hell-bent for the bedroom.”

  When their mirth eventually subsided, they lay still in the grass for a long, peaceful moment. A breeze so soft it might have been a lover’s sigh rustled the leaves overhead, while the waterfall babbled merrily as an innocent child.

  “I’m a virgin,” Darlene admitted bluntly. “Isn’t that crazy?”

  “Crazy?” Bonnie repeated. She sat up, frankly astonished, and shook her head. “No, it’s wonderful. It’s—it’s incredible.”

  “Not according to my girl friends,” Darlene responded tartly.

  “Are you sorry that you waited?” Bonnie ventured.

  “No.” Darlene grinned mischievously. “The only thing I’m sorry about is that I told my girl friends.”

  “I feel rather silly asking you this,” Bonnie began uncertainly, “but do you have any—well, any questions?”