Suddenly Married

by Loree Lough

  As she silently debated the question of marrying Noah, she’d blamed her roller-coaster emotions on exhaustion, worry about Bobby, the shame and hurt and anger caused by what her father had done. And then the rational side of her brain would take over again. You can’t marry a man who doesn’t love you. And besides, he hasn’t brought it up since the snowstorm, anyway.

  May as well give it to him straight, she decided. It’s the only way you can be sure this topic will never darken your doorstep again. She thought about where they were sitting, about where they’d been last time he brought up the idea of marriage. The subject will never darken his doorstep again.…“I’m an only child, y’know.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “My mom and dad were only children, too.”

  She could tell by the furrows in his brow that he had no idea where she was going with this line of thought. “I can empathize with that last Mohican, since I’m the only Mackenzie left—at least, the only one of my Mackenzies left—so this whole business of preserving my father’s reputation seems pointless. I mean, what sense does it make for you to replace the stolen money? It isn’t as if I have to protect his mother or mine or—”

  “What about the children you’ll have someday? Don’t you intend to tell them about their grandfather? If I put the two hundred thousand back, they’ll never have to know. No one will have to know.”

  “I’ll know,” she replied dully. “Besides, I’m nearly thirty years old. What’re—”

  “You’re going to have children. Plenty of them. God doesn’t fill a woman to overflowing with natural-born nurturing tendencies unless He plans for her…plans to give her a passel of kids to spend all that love on.”

  “I used to believe that would happen.” Another shrug. “But I was young and naive then. I believed a lot of impossible things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, girl stuff mostly.”

  “Girl stuff?”

  “In five or six years, you’re going to know more about that than you ever dreamed possible!” She laughed. “Angie is going to turn into a teenager, and—”

  Noah’s groaning chuckle silenced her…temporarily.

  “She’s going to start talking about a handsome prince who’ll come along and whisk her off to a pretty little cottage in the woods,” she said wistfully, hands clasped beneath her chin, “where they’ll raise a whole slew of little princes and Angies.”

  “You don’t believe it anymore?”

  “No.”

  “You sound awfully adamant.”

  “I lived my whole life believing my father was a prince.” She gave a bitter little laugh. “And you know the old joke—‘turns out he was just a frog.’”

  “That’s not really fair, is it?”

  She thought about that for a minute, then shook her head. “Yeah, well,” she said, “princes don’t steal, now do they.” It was more a statement than a question, and Dara hoped he’d see it that way, let the subject drop, once and for all.

  “So, you’re saying that just because your father made one mistake, you’ve given up all hope that the right man will come along, sweep you off your feet, give you that cottage and those kids.”

  One mistake? For all she knew, he had a whole secret life of crime going on behind her back. “That’s what I’m saying.”

  Things weren’t going the way she’d planned. Not even close. She’d intended to come out here, let him know that no one held him responsible for Bobby’s accident. And what had happened, instead? He was comforting her!

  Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Noah was trying to console her, but his questions had, in effect, only served to make her more miserable than ever, because thinking about the futility of her fantasy was one thing, but putting it into words was something else entirely.

  “Then there’s nothing to keep you from marrying me, is there?”

  She replayed the question in her mind.

  “You said that night—when I first introduced the idea—that you’d couldn’t marry a man you didn’t love.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, since you don’t believe the man exists whom you could love, why not marry me?” He paused. “You’d have half the dream, at least.”

  “The cottage in the woods, you mean,” she said, nodding toward the house.

  “If you were my wife, everything I have would be ours,” he corrected. “We could have a grand life.”

  “Yeah,” she muttered, “two hundred grand.”

  “This isn’t about the money, Dara.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No. It isn’t.” Clearing his throat, he continued. “Remember what I said about you that night when you got snowed in here?”

  Dara hid her face in her hands. “I’m blushing just thinking about it.”

  “Well, I meant every word. I mean it all a hundred times more now. I choose my friends carefully,” he repeated, “very carefully. And after what you’ve done for us these past few days, there isn’t a doubt in my mind—there’s no better friend in the world. And,” he said, forefinger pressing into her jeans-clad knee, “there’s nobody better for Angie and Bobby.” He cleared his throat. “Especially Bobby.”

  You must really be losing it, Dara old girl, she thought, because this idea of his is starting to sound tempting. Very tempting.

  “He needs a mom, now more than ever. The poor kid has always been scared of the dark.” Almost as an afterthought, he said, “Did you know he slept with a night-light before…before…”

  She grabbed his wrist, squeezed it tight. “It wasn’t your fault, Noah! It was a freak accident. Period. So stop blaming yourself.”

  “It’s more than the accident, and I think you know it.”

  Sidling closer, she linked her fingers with his.

  “It’s about everything…about the way I let Francine rule the roost, about the way I never questioned her disciplinary tactics. Don’t get me wrong—she was a good woman, a good mother. I know how much she loved those kids, but—”

  “She loved you, too. I’ve seen the proof dozens of times, in every picture in your family room.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  Could have fooled me, Dara told him silently. “Can I ask you a question, Noah?”

  “You can ask. But I don’t seem to have very many answers these days.”

  He was referring to the accident, losing his wife, a hundred other things that seemed indefinable, unexplainable. “Why are you always so hard on yourself?”

  “Hard on myself! If I was hard on myself, a lot of the things that have happened…well, they wouldn’t have happened.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I always figured it was my duty to become a part of the rat race…to pay the bills, y’know? And it was Francine’s job to take care of…of practically everything else. ‘Man must work from sun to sun,’” he quoted, “‘but woman’s work…’”

  Noah blew a stream of air through his teeth. “I was ‘Mr. Important Working Man.’ Didn’t have time to drive the kids to birthday parties and piano lessons.” He grunted. “I always had time for golf outings and fishing trips. Had plenty of time to make use of my Orioles season tickets.”

  Another grunt. “God set it all in action thousands of years ago. He intended for man to be the head of the house. And what did I do? Handed the job off to Francine. That’s what.”

  A silent moment ticked by. “Wasn’t fair. Wasn’t right.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t right,” Dara agreed, “but from everything I’ve heard about Francine, it sounds to me as if she enjoyed being in charge.”

  “She was pretty good at it,” he admitted, a smile of fond remembrance collapsing into a shudder of embarrassment.

  “And you were pretty good at supporting your family. Just look at this beautiful house. And what about the home you had in Pennsylvania? I’ve seen photographs…it was a virtual mansion!”

  She rambled on. “The kids told me about the fun family vacation
s and all those luxurious, romantic places you took Francine, just the two of you. The way I hear it, she knows London as well as any Brit! And you bought her nearly every piece of expensive jewelry, every fur, every fancy car, she ever asked for, too. You couldn’t be in two places at one time, Noah. How were you supposed to provide everything she said she wanted without working long and hard?”

  He chuckled softly. “Listen to you, defending me as though you’re my mom or something. Do you see what I mean? You’re a natural-born mother.” Then, suddenly serious, Noah shook his head. “But making excuses for my bad behavior doesn’t change anything.”

  “What bad behavior? You were a model husband. You’re the perfect father.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, if I’m so perfect, how come my kids are so busy trying to be perfect that they’ve forgotten how to be kids? They get so little practice acting their age that when they do cut loose a little, they don’t know how to behave. That’s why Bobby never told me when he fell—”

  She gave his arm a gentle shake. “Stop it. I won’t listen to another word of this nonsense. You did the best you could under the circumstances. No one, not even God, could expect more of you than that.”

  “I expect more. A whole lot more.”

  Without warning, he turned, gripped her upper arms. “Say you’ll marry me, Dara. I know I can be the father those kids deserve…with you at my side.”

  “You’re the father they deserve right now.”

  Moonlight, reflected in his pale eyes, glittered like hard diamonds. He didn’t believe her, she knew, as evidenced by his furrowed brow and taut lips.

  Noah had told her all about his days at St. Vincent’s. “I didn’t deserve a family,” he’d said, “so when Angie and Bobby came along, I just assumed they were God’s gifts to Francine.” His wife, he’d said, had earned them, because unlike him, she’d never committed a wrong in her life.

  She made you believe you were good enough for her only when you were doling out gifts and trips and attention in hearty doses. And she turned your kids into walking, talking robots. How right was that? Dara thought, but said nothing.

  Pain shimmered in his eyes, and Dara bit her lower lip, praying for God to show her a way to relieve his agony.

  And then it. came to her.

  She could marry him, and just as he’d suggested, be his helpmate. Then, day by day, she could show him proof that he was—and always had been—a wonderful, loving father, a wonderful loving man.

  And why not? Her Prince Charming wasn’t coming. Not now. Not ever. Because, as she’d told Noah, no such man existed. So why not marry him, do something honorable and worthwhile with the rest of her life? Because he’d been right: she had been good for Bobby and Angie, and she could be good for Noah, too. The Lord knows they’ve been good for you, she admitted; she’d never felt more wanted, more needed, in her life.

  “All right, Noah,” she murmured. “I’ll marry you.”

  He looked at her for a moment, as if unable to believe she’d said yes. When he pulled her to him, she felt him tremble. “Do you mean it?” he whispered into her ear.

  Her arms went around him as if she’d been born to it, and the truth spilled from her lips. “I’ve never meant anything more.”

  Noah held her at arm’s length, studied her face. “You won’t be sorry,” he said, smiling wider than she’d ever seen on his handsome face. “I’ll take good care of you. I promise.”

  Tears sparkled in his eyes. Caused by joy? she wondered. Or regret at having been forced by circumstance to replace his beloved Francine with the daughter of a common thief? It didn’t matter. “I know you’ll take care of me, Noah. I’ll take good care of you, too.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “As if I didn’t know that already. Why, you’ve already spoiled me rotten in just this past week.”

  “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, Mr. Lucas,” she said. “I’m going to take such good care of you and Angie and Bobby you’ll wonder how you ever did without me!”

  After a moment, he said, “I’m wondering that already.”

  Something had happened as she’d looked into his shining, damp eyes, something that made her realize there was more, much more involved here than agreeing to this marriage of convenience.

  She wanted to do all those things for Noah, in part because he deserved them, in part because she’d suddenly begun to hope that by doing them, she might be able to earn his love.

  He hadn’t ridden into her life on a great white mount, and maybe his armor did have a few dings in it, but he was her prince nonetheless.

  Chapter Eight

  Unceremoniously dropping the big dress box onto her bed, Dara kicked off her shoes and stepped into her slippers. According to the digital alarm, it was ninethirty. Feels more like midnight, she groused, heading for the kitchen.

  She filled the teapot, and as she waited for the water to boil, Dara sorted through the day’s mail. She set aside the bills—one from the power company, another from the telephone carrier—and without so much as a glance at the assorted catalogs and sales brochures set them aside.

  She tore open a few envelopes, had a cursory look inside. The public access television station wanted a donation. A candidate running for the House of Delegates wanted her vote. Two charities wanted her help in distributing pamphlets. A telemarketer wanted her assistance in performing a survey.

  The plants wanted water, the furniture a good dusting and the carpets a thorough vacuuming. Even the teapot wanted something from her, and she turned off the burner to still its insistent whistle.

  She’d been spending every day at the Lucases’, making sure Dr. Tilley’s orders for Bobby’s care were followed to the letter. Under her conscientious, loving attention, he healed, and by the end of that first week, he was back at school, headacheless and carefree. Sensing he’d progress more quickly if she didn’t hover over him, Dara took it upon herself to organize the linen closet, straighten the pantry shelves, rearrange the furniture in the family room so that no matter where a person sat, the fire in the woodstove and the television set could be viewed without inducing a stiff neck. Between her twice-hourly checks on the boy, she’d polished the hardwood floors. Shampooed the carpets and upholstery. Waxed the kitchen cupboards. Washed the curtains.

  On the way to their house in the morning, she stopped at a twenty-four-hour market for groceries. On the way back to her place, she’d dropped off Noah’s suits and sport coats at the dry cleaner’s.

  She did all this because any day now, his address would be hers, too, a fact that compelled Dara to turn the big, newly built Victorian into a home for the four of them.

  Two days and counting, she thought, spooning sugar into her mug. Two days until you’ll be Mrs. Noah Lucas.…

  She tossed a tea bag on top of the sugar, drowned both with hot water and stirred, oblivious to the clink of metal against ceramic. The cinnamony scent of the tea wafted into her nostrils. Spicy apple had always been her mother’s favorite flavor.…

  Smiling, she dropped the soggy tea bag into the trash can, remembering it was one of her mother’s many habits, the worst of which—according to Jake—was her tendency to leave cold, wet tea bags on the countertop. It was the main point of contention between her parents. Actually, it was the only point of contention she could recall between them, though she supposed there were some issues they worked out in private.

  She knew this much: whatever bound them together, heart to heart, that was what she wanted in her own marriage. Is that possible, she wondered, when you’re not marrying for love? And this is a marriage of convenience. Isn’t it?

  Sighing, Dara remembered that those tea bags were the first things her father had talked about the morning after her funeral. “Lord,” he’d said, his voice soft and wistful, brown eyes misting with unshed tears, “what I wouldn’t give to have another cold, wet tea bag to complain about.…”

  “I miss her, too,” Dara had said, hugging him.

  Dara sipped her tea. Se
ems like only yesterday; could it really have been two years ago?

  Glancing at the picture on the mantel of her parents on one of their many trips to London, tears filled her eyes. I miss you, too, Daddy, she thought. Oh, how I miss you.…

  Dara carried her mug into the bedroom, placed it on the nightstand and stared at the shiny pink box on her bed. Inside it, wrapped in red tissue paper, lay the outfit she’d wear to her wedding. It was nothing fancy, just a simple two-piece suit, more than adequate to exchange vows in the pastor’s office.

  The pastor’s office, she thought, grimacing.

  She thought she’d accepted the fact that none of her dreams were going to come true. No Prince Charming. No church filled with friends and relatives and flowers lining the altar steps. There’d be no white runner to lead her to the altar. Worst of all, she had no father to walk her down the aisle, no mother to turn in that first pew, teary-eyed and smiling, as Dara took her place beside her husband-to-be.

  The stark mental picture reminded her of the last conversation she’d had with her mother.

  During Anne’s last weeks—because she hadn’t been strong enough to do much else—Dara stopped by every evening on her way home from work, carrying a collection of slick fashion magazines in her arms. She’d lie beside her mother on the big rented hospital bed in her parents’ room. Heads and shoulders touching, giggling and rolling their eyes, they leafed through page after page of the latest fads.

  They played Scissors, Paper, Rock to determine who’d keep the perfume samples—a practice that soon had Anne’s nightstand drawer filled to overflowing. Critiquing hairdos and makeup and commenting on the ultrathin models was a fun, stress-free activity that always seemed to brighten her mother’s wan features.