by Anne Calhoun
He reached across the table and covered her hand with his own. “We can get coffee to warm you up, or we can go back to the inn, go to bed, and warm you up that way.”
“The inn,” she said without hesitation. What would happen at the inn, on a wedding night, was very familiar territory.
He signaled for their server. “The check, please, and two slices of that chocolate cake to go. There’s a coffeemaker in the room,” he explained. “We’ll have dessert afterward.”
Rain and wind lashed at the car, the windshield wipers barely making headway against the driving rain. Daniel drove slowly, carefully, Tilda guiding him with the GPS and the landmarks.
“The storm’s getting worse,” she remarked.
An umbrella was useless in the wind. He parked at the back of the lot and together they dashed along the brick path to the cottage, then tumbled inside. She worked her fingers through her rain-spattered hair, slicked droplets down her arms, then flicked the damp from her fingertips. She stood for a moment, her eyes closed, letting the storm’s energy surge at her skin.
Then Daniel backed her into the wall and kissed her, swallowing her delighted gasp. Her hands fisted in his suit jacket lapels, pulling him close only to shove him back and work the jacket off. He jerked off his tie while she unfastened his shirt buttons and tugged that material down, leaving him to wrestle with the cuffs while she yanked his undershirt free from his trousers and dropped to her knees.
“Tilda, yes,” he muttered as she opened his belt and fly, and then he was in her mouth. He gave up on the cuffs and braced one forearm against the wall, needing the support with his suddenly weak knees. With his other hand he smoothed her tousled hair, then worked his fingers into the damp strands. She whimpered, maybe because he pulled, maybe because the air between them suddenly heated to the flash point. When she looked up, her lips stretched around his thick shaft, he was looking down. A low groan left his mouth, and a hint of salt seeped onto her tongue. She wrapped fingers and thumb around the base of his shaft and started to move her hand and mouth in unison.
He pulled out with a wet pop. “Come on,” he said, and urged her to her feet. They stumbled to the bed. He finally managed to undo his cuffs on the way, and yanked loose the tie of her wrap dress.
“Yes,” she gasped, twisting onto her back and scrambling for the center of the bed. She lifted her hips so he could pull down her panties, leaving her in her bra and nothing else. “Now, Daniel. Yes. Now.” Speed was her friend, anything to stop her thinking about what they’d done, the commitment she’d made, the sheer drop of terror that line of thought inspired.
He nudged inside her, the slick stretch so erotic and carnal she squirmed under him until he pinned her with chest and hands. Her legs drew up with each thrust, her body tightening under his until her head arched back and her heels dug into the small of his back.
“Oh!” she cried, and arched off the bed, burying her face in his collarbone. He cupped the back of her head with his hand, holding her as close as he could, thrusting through the wrenching contractions of her orgasm.
Once, twice, again, and he came, eyes closing as he shoved that extra bit deeper inside her, burying himself to the hilt. It was better, more powerful, more erotic, to have him bare inside her, a risk she’d allowed with no other man, and suddenly craved with Daniel.
He bent his head so his forehead rested on hers. His muscles loosened and his breathing evened out. As if sex set things aright, she relaxed. This was no different than what they had before. This she understood. This she knew.
This she could do.
– TEN –
Christmas
The half-empty train slowed to a crawl as it closed in on Huntington Station. Beside him, Tilda capped her fountain pen and tucked her ongoing letter to Nan back in her bag. “What do you write to her?” Daniel asked as the train jerked to a stop at the station.
“Everything,” she said. “I keep the letter with me and update it as I go about my day, especially when I’m seeing something new or interesting, something that takes my fancy. She’s traveled so little, you see.”
“That’s nice,” he said. Thoughtful, caring, kind, a little like the mental list Tilda kept of people who needed someone special in their lives. Sunlight reflected off mounded snow, giving the platform and parking lot a pristine, festive air. Tilda pulled on her gloves. Out of the corner of his eye Daniel watched as the thin platinum band disappeared into black leather lined with cashmere. “You haven’t told your family?” she asked.
“No,” Daniel said. He stood in the aisle and reached up to grab their bags from the overhead rack. “I wanted to tell them in person. With you.”
Because everything was different. He wanted to tell his parents he’d eloped four days earlier, on the winter solstice, with the woman they’d never met by his side.
“Who’s picking us up?” she asked. Serene. Unruffled. Maybe years of boarding school taught her how to handle anything, including holidays with people she’d never met.
“Angie. Come on,” he said, and held out his hand.
Tilda tightened her scarf around her neck then took Daniel’s outstretched hand. She wore slacks, boots, and a slim-fitting green wool turtleneck with a thick collar; with her dark hair, pale skin, and gray eyes, the whole combination reminded him of an evergreen tree. He wore jeans, a gray V-neck over an Oxford, and a blazer, and for a moment he had the unreal sense of being in a commercial, the man bringing home his elegant new bride to spend the holidays with his family. He carried the canvas bag he’d owned since college, while Tilda’s change of clothes, toiletries, and laptop were in a battered Louis Vuitton weekend bag. A third bag held presents for the family.
They cleared the turnstiles, pushed through the doors to the kiss-and-ride circle, and crossed the parking lot to a monster SUV. Angie was waiting beside it, the engine running. Her blond hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and her jeans, red cable-knit sweater, and flats matched Tilda’s sense of clean style, which cheered Daniel for some inexplicable reason, as if a similar sense in fashion would bond them like sisters. Through the tinted glass of the third row of seats, Daniel’s niece and nephew waved frantically; the only thing keeping them in the car was having to work their way out of the Tahoe’s way back. Angie’s husband Jason gave Daniel a wry salute. Daniel doubted he could hear a thing over the high-pitched childrens’ voices in the car.
“We’re on our way, Mom. Yes, I’ve got the pies. Yes . . . yes, Mom. He’s here. Yes, she’s with him. I have to go.” She reached out to Daniel with the arm holding the phone and hugged him tightly. “Merry Christmas! Hi!” she said.
Daniel hugged her, then stepped a little to the side and put his arm around Tilda’s shoulders to draw her forward. “Angie, this is Tilda Davies.”
“So nice to meet you,” Angie said with a smile. “Are you a hugger? I’m a hugger. Don’t mind the imps. They’ve been up since five, and they’re high on candy from their stockings. It’s one day a year, I mean, I normally wouldn’t let them eat chocolate at seven in the morning, but they said they were trying to keep Max, he’s our goldendoodle, from eating it, and it’s Christmas, you know?”
Tilda leaned in for a swift hug. “Hello. Happy Christmas,” she said.
Jason picked up their bags and tossed them in the back of the Tahoe. “Be careful of the pies!” Angie called.
“The pies are fine,” Jason said. “Let’s go, before your mother calls the police.”
She scanned their bags as she clicked open the locks on the SUV. “You’re staying the night?” she asked. “That should be fine. Mom was going to keep the kids, but she can throw sleeping bags on the floor in the basement. She’ll be thrilled. She wishes Daniel got a job with a local police department.”
This last remark was aimed at Tilda, who smiled.
“How about we get in the car now,” Jason said.
�
�If Mom had her way, neither of us would have moved out,” Daniel said as he opened the door for Tilda. “They’d just keep adding on to the house until it looked like something out of a fairy tale, and she could see her grandkids every single day.”
“She sees them almost every day of the week as it is,” Angie said as she swung up into the passenger’s seat.
“Merry Christmas, Jessie, Kiernan,” he said, using Little K’s full name for Tilda’s benefit.
“Who’s that?”
“This is your uncle Daniel’s friend,” Angie said from the front seat.
Tilda shot Daniel an amused look, but wisely didn’t try to interrupt the chatter from the backseat.
“Uncle Daniel! Uncle Daniel! I got a Thomas play set.” Little K held up a zipped clear plastic tote containing towers, tracks, and an orange plastic turret. Two train cars he could identify as Thomas and Percy.
“Looks pretty cool, Little K,” Daniel said. His eardrums were vibrating already. It was a wonder Jason wasn’t stone deaf. “What did you get, Jessie?”
“New soccer cleats,” Jessie said, then stuck her sucker back in her mouth. At nine, Jessie was acting fourteen, maybe older. “And a regulation goal so I can practice in the back yard.” Back went the sucker.
“Did Santa bring you anything, Uncle Daniel?” Little K asked.
“No, kiddo,” Daniel said. “Santa doesn’t bring presents to grown-ups. Only good kids.”
“Were you bad?”
Tilda stifled a smile. “No,” he said. “I’m just grown up.”
“Oh.”
The train station gave way to a four-lane road lined with big-box stores and the occasional strip mall. The fresh snow left streets and yards and bushes carpeted in white but wasn’t enough to snarl holiday travel. Daniel had worked enough winter storms and holidays to give thanks for seniority and a desk job.
Tilda looked around with interest as they wound their way into his parents’ neighborhood. Halfway down the street they pulled into the driveway of a white two-story house with black shutters on a street lined with mature trees. His father had the driveway shoveled, but with the cars parked two deep, they had to park on the street. Daniel climbed out, helped Tilda out, then stood back so the kids could explode out of the Tahoe and up the sidewalk to his mother.
The front door stood open, showing a staircase and a quick flash of dining room as his mother gathered the kids into a big hug. “Go on inside,” she said. “Santa left you a couple of presents on the fireplace. Leave everything else for after dinner!” she called.
Jason handed Daniel their bags and a fourth shopping bag stacked with presents. Angie collected the pies and yet another bag stacked with plastic containers. “Fruit salad, green bean casserole, and rolls,” she said over her shoulder to Tilda as they made their way up the sidewalk. “Mom says she wants to do all the cooking, but she really shouldn’t. Daniel ordered the floral arrangements for the table and they’re gorgeous, holly and evergreen . . .”
“Come inside, come inside,” his mother fussed. There was a big moment of confusion in the too-small foyer while his mother and aunt and a couple of cousins took bags and dispersed them. All the while Daniel tried to keep Tilda close by. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he couldn’t get a word in edgewise with his mother chattering away at Angie about food and dinner plans. She came over, arms extended, and Daniel dutifully lowered his head for a cheek-smacking kiss. His father held out his hand and Daniel shook it. They both turned to Tilda.
“I’m Judy,” she said. “Daniel’s mother.”
“I’m Tilda.” She took off her glove and shook his mother’s hand.
“My wife,” Daniel added.
All movement in the foyer stopped. The abrupt silence spread along the hallway lined with forty years of family pictures into the living room, where the rest of his extended family was gathered, eggnog and hot chocolate in hand. Behind him, Jason turned a laugh into a throat-clearing cough.
“What?” Angie said. Her eyes flicked down to Tilda’s left hand, then to Daniel’s. “You’re married?”
Her shocked tone carried into the kitchen at the back of the house. Heads peered around the doorway. “What’s going on?”
“Daniel’s married,” Angie said in a tone of utter disbelief.
“Married? To who? To her?”
“My goodness, I don’t know what to say,” his mother said. “What . . . ? When . . . ? I mean, congratulations, and welcome, Tilda. Welcome to our family. Let’s get you introduced to . . . everyone.”
“Thank you,” Tilda said, and let herself be drawn down the hallway, toward the kitchen.
Jason clapped a hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “Congratulations. Want some eggnog?”
“Skip the eggnog,” Daniel said over his shoulder.
“Whiskey it is,” Jason said.
—
Angie cornered him in the kitchen. “You got married and you didn’t tell anyone? Did Todd know? Or Dusty? Dad?”
Todd and Dusty were his two best friends from college. “No one knew.”
“You eloped? Did you go to Vegas or something?”
Daniel watched Tilda chat with his aunt in the living room that ran the length of the back of the house, into a sunny porch furnished with overstuffed chairs. Wooden toys suitable for small children were strewn under the tree and on the hearth; the older cousins were making an attempt to keep shredded wrapping paper from taking over the floor. His mother’s ancient Persian cat had retreated to the top of the entertainment center and hissed at anyone who stood too close. The room overlooked an enormous lot rolling back to a tree line. A second set of sliding glass doors opened to a multilevel deck that ended in pavers leading to a sand box and swing set currently frosted with snow. The noise level had passed full volume, and was rapidly approaching rafter rattling. He wondered how Tilda was holding up.
“We got married last week by a district court judge in Manhattan.” Solstice to solstice, one half of a complete cycle of the earth around the sun. He liked the symmetry.
“Why?”
“Because that’s what we wanted to do,” Daniel said.
“You’ll have another reception later in the spring,” his mother said.
Something tapped his shoulder. He turned to see Jason holding out a tumbler half full of whiskey. “Probably not, Mom,” he said. “Tilda’s in the middle of a really big deal and I’m doing something I can’t talk about but involves seventy-hour work weeks.”
His mother pulled the meat thermometer out of the turkey, set it down on the stove, and pulled off her oven mitts. “Angie, come help me downstairs,” she said as she opened the door to the basement, then started down the stairs.
“Daniel, you idiot,” she hissed, then smacked him. “Mom’s going to be upset because she won’t have anything to give Tilda for Christmas. Or as wedding presents. None of us do.”
“We don’t want presents,” Daniel said. “We don’t need anything.”
“It’s what people do, Danny. It’s a big deal to us. You know this,” she said, staring at him. “You bring presents, celebrate. It’s what you do.”
He shifted his weight, and sipped the whiskey. Angie had no difficulty holding his feet to the fire, and this was very much out of character for the way they did things in his family. But this was what Tilda wanted. He tried not to think about how he’d been eager to elope because he was afraid that she would change her mind. But while it was perfectly in character for Tilda to elope, it was very out of character for him. He came from a loving, close-knit family, one that helped each other through the difficult times as steadfastly as they celebrated joys and successes. Eloping may have been a misstep on his part, because it would be easy for his family to interpret that as Tilda taking him away from them, when that wasn’t the case at all. It was sheer, primitive possessiveness on his part. She said yes, and he
wasn’t about to let her get away. “It’s done, Angie. We wanted it this way.”
“You did or she did?”
“We did.” Emphatic. No room for discussion.
“Okay, okay,” Angie said. “We’ll get to know her, and I’m sure we’ll love her as much as you do.”
“Angie!” his mother called from the basement.
“Coming, Mom.” Angie gave him a little shove. “Go make sure your wife isn’t pinned in the corner with Uncle Kiernan. He’s lost his hearing aids again.”
—
He tracked Tilda down in the study not with Uncle K but with his cousin Marie, who held a family reunion photograph in which the various family branches wore color-coordinated T-shirts. There were so many Logans, Murphys, and O’Hanrahans the photographer needed a cherry picker to get everyone in the shot. Tilda was nodding and smiling. “Let me borrow her for a moment,” he said to Marie.
He offered her a coffee with Baileys in it. “Holding up okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said. She sipped the coffee, gave him an appreciative smile over the rim of the cup, and sipped again. “Your wife?”
To his surprise, he colored a little. It was possessive, a statement of ownership, tightening the connection begun months earlier in Louise’s rooftop garden. His wife. Daniel Logan’s wife. He’d introduced her in the simplest possible fashion, conveying everything about who they were in two single-syllable words. But she was looking at him like she’d never thought of it that way before.
“You are my wife,” he said.
“Are you sure it was best to hit them with it like that?” she asked quietly.
“Better than sitting around with rings on, wondering when they were going to notice,” Daniel replied.
“I didn’t think there would be this many people,” Tilda said. “You said a family Christmas.”
“This is a family Christmas,” he said. “What’s Christmas like in your family?”