The Wonder of You

by Susan May Warren

  “I wanted to explain.”

  “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.” She clutched her bag in her lap. “Frankly I feel silly for making such a fuss about it.”

  He sat back, flummoxed.

  She didn’t look at him as she spoke, not slowing. “But don’t you think this is quite a bit of work for a fling? I mean yes, we had fun but—”

  “A fling?” He schooled his voice just in time. The waiter approached with the lemonade, but Roark gestured him away. “Amelia, I do not consider what we had a fling.”

  She lifted a shoulder, looked out the window, and he saw her swallow.

  Steady, boy. This was not the conversation he’d planned. “Darling. Never once did I believe that you were a dalliance. Every moment we spent together was . . . breathtaking. I never meant for you to think otherwise.”

  She sighed again, and he took the moment to dive in. “That woman you saw me with—her name is Cicely. She is just a friend—”

  “It doesn’t matter, Roark. I don’t care how many female friends you have. I was childish and stupid to be angry over something that is so easily explained.”

  Oh. But her mouth tightened into a smile that seemed forced at best. “You did me a favor. Did us a favor. See, we never would have worked, not really.”

  He sat back, stunned. Took a breath. “I don’t—”

  “You and I are vastly different people.”

  They were? He wanted to argue then, a match lighting inside. Never had he felt so in tune, so right.

  “Listen, I went to Prague to find adventure. And I found it.” She smiled, something genuine this time, her eyes softening. “You gave it to me.”

  He did?

  “We had a grand time, didn’t we?”

  He didn’t quite know—“We did. I thought we did.”

  She gave a small laugh. “You remember when we went on that hunt for apple strudel?”

  “You saw it on a television show here in the States and demanded we find it.”

  “We took three trains, a bus, and walked a mile through a park.”

  “And when we got there, the store was closed.” His sudden hope felt too feeble to smile.

  “You bought me a Nutella waffle that night from a street vendor,” she said. “We ate them at the park right by the Church of Virgin Mary of the Snows.”

  “The Franciscan Garden.”

  “You told me about this place in Paris where you could get crepes the size of American pizzas.”

  “You remember?”

  “Because you took me there when we went to Paris.” Her eyes were shining now, free of the shadows that had hovered when she arrived.

  He wanted to signal for the waiter, but he feared losing the moment.

  “You kept me safe. Showed me Europe. And for that, I’ll forever be grateful.”

  That’s when her voice changed. He felt the words coming and couldn’t stop himself from reaching out for her. But she kept her hands in her lap.

  “But that was a different world, Roark. Your world. This one is mine. And . . . I think we need to recognize what we had for what it was.”

  He couldn’t utter the word.

  “A fling.”

  His jaw tightened, his chest webbing. “It wasn’t—”

  “Let’s be honest. Yes, we kissed, but it was New Year’s Eve. Who doesn’t kiss on New Year’s Eve?”

  “I meant that kiss,” he said.

  “Me too.”

  He frowned.

  “Then. But now . . . I’m looking for something else.”

  He didn’t expect that, and the swiftness of the pain rose up to choke him. “Someone else,” he said quietly.

  She looked away. Shrugged. The simple action could drive a knife through his heart.

  He suddenly wanted to throw down his trump card, see if—

  No. Because he couldn’t be that desperate guy who used his wealth to lure the girl he longed for.

  Mostly because he had a terrible feeling that it wouldn’t matter. He hoped it wouldn’t matter. But in the end, he couldn’t take that chance.

  “I can’t believe you’re working at the Java Cup,” she said.

  “A guy has to make a living,” he said and wished he could give her a better, more truthful answer. “At least I get free coffee.”

  “You don’t even like coffee,” she said, shaking her head.

  “I do now.”

  Silence; then she stood. “I don’t think dinner is a good idea. I’m so sorry you came all this way . . .” She looked away, wiped her cheek. And poor sap that he was, he hung on to that, because this moment was not supposed to end this way.

  Movement out the window caught his eye. An animal frolicking on the dock. Amelia saw it too and stilled.

  A beat passed.

  Then she asked, “Was that an otter?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  She glanced at him. “I want a picture. You don’t have to wait for me.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  Of course he’d wait.

  She headed out the door, unwinding her bag from her shoulder. Of course she carried her camera with her. And of course Roark followed and held her bag for her, just like he had across Europe. One last time.

  She snapped a succession of fast shots, then changed to a golden light setting and caught the twilight.

  And as the sun set, it took with it his heart. Oh, he needed words—any words—to stop the terrible, unexpected rush to the end.

  She finally finished. “Thank you,” she said. They stood on the dock, the sun low, the sky bleeding out, the shadows long, the breeze playing with her hair. How he wanted to pull her into his arms the way he’d been dreaming of for months.

  He’d made a promise to Claire, but—“Amelia, is there anything I can do to prove that we had something more?” He stepped closer and couldn’t help himself when he took her hand.

  She let him, holding on, and it might have even been cruel, offering more hope than he had a right to.

  “It’s not you, Roark. I know we had our fight, but I blame myself. I was a silly schoolgirl who found a dashing European and fell too hard for him. I’ve come to my senses. I know what I want.”

  “Amelia, it wasn’t like that. I fell just as hard—”

  “Ames—what are you doing?” The voice, low and dark, came trundling across the deck toward them, accompanied by feet, and then the way-too-large form of Seth Turnquist. He wore a baseball cap backward, a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his beefy forearms, and a pair of work boots, looking fresh in from the hunt as if he’d just killed a moose.

  Not now, mate.

  “Seth!”

  Amelia dropped her hand from Roark’s. With everything inside him, he stopped himself from grabbing it back.

  “What’s going on here?” Seth stopped in front of them—her—his eyes dark. “I call you constantly since Saturday night and you ignore me and go out with—who are you?”

  “Roark—”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Seth stared at him. “007. I thought you were asked to leave.”

  “Seth, we’re just having dinner.”

  “Dinner. As in the dinner we were supposed to have?”

  “I don’t remember you asking me out for dinner. A drive, yes. Probably a make-out session in the back of your truck, but dinner? Nope. Not a hint of that.”

  Roark didn’t need to hear that. He took a breath, despite his desire to take Seth apart, even with his large-and-I-think-I’m-in-charge size. “I’m going to have to ask you to excuse us—”

  But Amelia wasn’t finished. “Real men take women out on dates. They wine and dine them. They treat them to music and picnics and art and history. Real men don’t consider, ‘Hey, babe, let’s hook up’ a proposal for marriage. And real men certainly don’t barge in and start yelling at someone they supposedly care about in public!”

  “So, what? You’re dating this joker?”

  Everything Roark ever wanted hung o
n her next words.

  “I might be.”

  She might be? The sky broke open with sunshine and hallelujahs.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. 007 here couldn’t last one week in this town, let alone be man enough for you.”

  “Really? Well, 007 has climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro. And sailed the English Channel. And run with the bulls.”

  Well, no, he hadn’t done that, but far be it for him to contradict her. So he nodded.

  And saw a hint of spark in her eye. “Trust me, he’s man enough for me.”

  Booyah, as his American mates would say. And then some. But his ego refused to let him smile at her words.

  “He doesn’t belong here,” Seth growled.

  “No, you don’t belong here, Seth. Not in the middle of my date.” She pushed past Seth. “Roark, are you coming?”

  Um. “Yes. Sweetie.”

  Amelia didn’t even raise an eyebrow, but Seth narrowed his eyes.

  Roark followed her back into the restaurant, where she sat down at their table. Picked up a menu.

  He slid into the seat opposite her, his heart racing in his chest. “Uh, I ordered bruschetta.”

  “Delicious.” She buried her face in the menu.

  He stared at the otters. Then at Seth, who stood confounded on the deck. Roark might end up fighting him yet.

  “I think I’ll have the walleye.” She closed the menu. “And could I recommend it for you? It’s a local specialty.”

  He hazarded a smile. “By all means. I love the local specialties.”

  She leaned back, folded her arms.

  “Too much with the ‘sweetie’?”

  She considered him, and he felt a little like he had at the coffee shop, a specimen still under consideration. He glanced at Seth, who thundered away.

  Finally Amelia said, “Okay, here’s the deal. We start over. From the beginning. I want honesty every step of the way, no games. If you lie to me, even once, we’re over. Can you live with that?”

  Even once. Well, a lie by omission wasn’t truly a lie, correct?

  I’ve come to my senses now. I know what I want.

  He intended to make that answer him. “I can live with those terms.”

  She gestured to the waiter, who brought their drinks.

  Roark raised his glass.

  “Welcome to Deep Haven,” Amelia said.

  Every nook and cranny of the lodge smelled deliciously like cinnamon and butter, baked together in the perfection of caramelized rolls.

  Max had spent the weekend pulling out all the stops, rolling up his sleeves and diving into the project of producing a gourmet treat for the weekend lodgers of Evergreen Resort. He tested out three different recipes, finally tweaking one—with Grace’s help—to create a signature recipe. Then he’d created the rolls and let them freeze in dough form; he’d bake them on Saturday morning.

  Tomorrow he’d move on to the breakfast muffins Ingrid planned on offering for sale.

  Right now, tonight, he wanted a little appreciation, a little attention for his efforts. From his wife.

  Which, still, no one knew. Especially since he and Grace hadn’t yet found the opportunity to purchase their rings, with the whirlwind elopement. He’d wanted rings from the island, but she wanted something more profound, wanted to design them. Something theirs alone.

  That was his Grace—raising the significant, the beautiful, out of the ordinary.

  He’d disappeared into the bathroom—the only part of the house that gave anyone any privacy—and now he texted her. I need help. In the bathroom upstairs.

  He smiled as he dropped the cell phone back into his pocket. If anything would bring Grace running, it was a cry for—

  “Max?”

  See?

  “That was quick.” He opened the door and found her standing there, wearing an apron and rubber gloves, dripping onto the wood floor.

  “What? Are you okay?”

  He hooked her around the waist and pulled her into the bathroom. Shut the door with his foot. “No.”

  “What is it? Are you dizzy? Do you feel sluggish?”

  His keen idea died at the panic in her eyes. He should have guessed that she’d go there. To his illness. Maybe he didn’t realize how much she lived with its shadow lingering in her mind.

  “No. I’m fine,” he said, leaning back against the door to the tiny room and drawing her against him. “Sorry. I just missed you.”

  She lifted her sopping gloves up to keep from dripping on him. “Max! I was doing dishes.”

  “Dishes can wait.” He lowered his lips to her neck, wrapping his arms around her. “Oh, you taste good.”

  “Max!” She put her hands on his shoulders, leaving damp handprints on his dark shirt. “Really?”

  “I miss you, babe.” He found her eyes, offered a smile, let her see something of the passion he’d been trying to hide all day.

  She blushed and smiled back. “Oh, for pete’s sake. You can hardly miss me—you’ve been baking with me all day.”

  “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” He wound his hand behind her head and drew her lips to his. Sweetly exploring, nudging. She must have missed him too, even a little, because her arms went around his neck and she pressed herself into his embrace, willing for him to deepen the kiss. The exploring turned to desire, something that would quickly lead to more, and the fire inside that he’d banked all day began to flame.

  Grace looked up then, aware of him as she was, and shook her head. “I’m not having a tryst in the bathroom, Max.” She untangled herself, and he slumped against the door. “It’s bad enough that I snuck downstairs the last two nights. I felt positively naughty. Right here in my own house.”

  “You’re my wife!” Max said, catching her gloved hand. “Please, please can’t we tell them? What are you waiting for?”

  Downstairs he could hear voices—probably Casper, back from work, possibly with his fiancée, Raina. Or maybe the social worker, finally arriving to remove Yulia into state custody.

  “I just . . . With all the commotion the last couple of days, I wanted to wait for a calm moment. Poor Yulia. The whole thing is so sad. The adoption coordinator, Martha, just called and said that the college-age daughter doesn’t want custody, and since Yulia is freshly adopted from Ukraine, they might have to send her back.”

  Max took a strand of her beautiful blonde hair, looped it behind her ear. “I’m sorry for her.”

  “She needs a family. And for right now, we’re it, I guess. Martha asked us to keep her until they sort it out.”

  “That’s tough. Good thing your parents are okay with that.”

  “Listen.” She let him draw her close again. “I’m so overjoyed to be married to you. But it’s been crazy here. I know this wasn’t the plan. It’s just that my mother loves weddings, and I know she’ll be hurt.”

  “Then why did you suggest—?”

  She kissed him. And there was something glorious and freeing and whole about having his wife dive into his embrace, Max scrambling to follow. She clenched his shirt in her rubbery hands, pressed him against the door. He finally took her by the shoulders and leaned her back, his breath unsteady, his heart in his throat. “If you really don’t want to change your memories of this bathroom forever . . .”

  Grace winked at him. “Just letting you know that I’m all in. Even if the thought of telling my parents has me momentarily stymied. We’ll tell them.”

  “When?”

  “Uh . . . tonight. Right now.”

  “Really?”

  “C’mon, number 62, let’s pop the news.” She kissed him again quickly and moved away before he could spark another flame. When she opened the bathroom door, he made to follow, but she put a hand on his chest. “Wait three minutes. Just because, well, I don’t want anyone to . . .”

  “Think we were rearranging furniture?”

  She frowned, then laughed. “Seriously?”

  “It’s what my uncle calls it.”

  Grac
e shook her head, and Max let her go, closing the bathroom door, leaning against it, catching his breath.

  They’d break the news, and then would come the sit-down with John. The eyeball-to-eyeball words about making sure Grace was taken care of. And questions about long-term care. And life insurance. And . . . things a groom shouldn’t have to worry about, but that he’d already figured out long ago.

  Yes, this would be okay. Grace knew what she was doing, and despite the dark thread still twining through him, Grace was light and hope and he’d be everything he could to her, all the way to the end.

  Max took a long breath, then opened the door. Walked down the hallway to the stairs. Spotted Casper sitting at one of the high-top stools, rocking the baby. Not his baby, although he planned on marrying Raina, her mother. Which indeed made the child his, at least in love if not biologically.

  Raina stood at the microwave, heating a bottle, her dark hair braided down her back. Grace had snapped off her gloves, was now drying the stack of pots she’d used.

  John and Darek were probably outside, working on the last touches to the playground Darek was creating for guests. As for Ingrid and Yulia, he guessed it might be bedtime.

  He jogged down the stairs.

  “Hey, Max,” Casper said. He still wore his work clothes—khakis, a dress shirt imprinted with the Wild Harbor Trading Post logo on the pocket. Out of all the Christiansen brothers, Max liked Casper the best. Owen . . . Well, yeah, he’d played hockey with him, but bad blood might always linger between them because of the accident. And Darek, the big brother of the clan, had a way of intimidating everyone else with a look. Not that he meant it; just the way he carried the legacy of the family resort on his shoulders put everyone off a little.

  But his seven-year-old son, Tiger, could cajole a smile out of a curmudgeon, and now the kid ran up to Max. “Uncle Max! Where were you?”

  Max scooped him up and threw him over his shoulder, fireman style. “I was just about to take the trash out. Anyone know where I can put this trash?”

  Tiger kicked, laughing, beating on his back until he put him down.

  Casper chuckled. “You’re going to make a fun dad someday, Max.”