Giving her hand a light squeeze, he stood and went back to the closet. Chelsea wondered if he’d been afraid to wait for her answer, but she was just as glad he hadn’t waited. She didn’t know what to say. She wanted to be with him. So much of what he said made sense. But there was still the hurt, the fear of further hurt. And, damn it, she felt so weak … .
Stretching back on the bed, she threw an arm over her eyes. She heard him pull her overnight bag from the back of the closet, felt its light weight settle on the end of the bed, heard him open one drawer then another, removing clothes, putting them in the bag.
“Do you want to change before we leave?” he asked softly.
Letting her arm fall back, she stared at him for a minute. But in lying quiescently while he’d packed for her, she’d given him her decision. “I suppose I should,” she murmured at last.
He lifted the bag and headed for the living room. “I’ll be waiting here. Come on out when you’re ready.”
Peeling off her sweaty skirt and blouse, she took a quick shower and put on a fresh sundress. Sam had a smile for her when she joined him, but it was a sweet, nonsexual smile that was without threat of any sort. So she let him guide her out of her apartment and into his car, where she promptly put her head back and closed her eyes.
“You really are beat, aren’t you?” he asked as he started the car and headed toward Boston.
“Mmmm.”
“Haven’t been sleeping?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Because of the heat?”
“Mmmm.” She knew that he knew it wasn’t the whole truth, but she wasn’t up to elaborating or, for that matter, baring her heart.
“Is it too cool in here for you?”
“Oh, no.”
He chuckled but she was glad he didn’t say anything. Her earlier comment on air-conditioning had been snide, as had been the one about his suit.
Again he seemed to read her mind. “It’s not really ‘stuffy’ … is it?”
“No.” In fact, it looked pretty good on him. She didn’t have to open her eyes to remind herself of that fact.
Sam left her to rest while he drove. When he pulled into a parking space alongside a row of waterfront condominiums, he gently touched her arm. “We’re here, Chelsea.”
She opened her eyes then and looked around. She was too logy to take in much more than a three-story building, long and either newly built or recently gentrified. It was attractive, but she’d known it would be.
“Which is yours?” she asked softly.
“Come. I’ll show you.”
He slid out of the car, slinging the strap of her bag on his shoulder, then came around to help her out. Chelsea wasn’t one to await chivalry, but her legs felt weak and she appreciated the supportive hand.
He led her to the door closest to his car, unlocked it and gestured her inside. She found herself in a large living room, done in blues and browns, contemporary in style and far simpler than anything she’d imagined.
If Sam noted her surprise, he refrained from commenting on it. “There’s a kitchen and dining area off the living room,” he said, but he was already guiding her upstairs and toward the largest of the two rooms there. “This is my bedroom. There’s another one next door, but I think you’ll be more comfortable here.” Setting her bag down on a modular-type chair, he crossed to the platform bed and began tugging back its quilt. “I want you to lie down and rest now. Sleep if you can; if not, just close your eyes. I’m going down to see about getting something solid in for dinner. I’ll be back up to check on you in a little while … . Okay?”
Chelsea felt that she’d run out of gas and was gliding on fumes. She managed to nod, to watch him leave the room, to take in enough of her surroundings to know that Samuel Prescott London had good taste in an understated kind of way. Then she climbed between the fresh cool sheets of his king-sized bed, put her head on his pillow and promptly fell asleep.
“CHELSEA? Wake up, sweetheart … . Chelsea?”
Chelsea returned to consciousness slowly, first taking in the voice, then the hand gently shaking her shoulder, then the cool dry air in the room, then the bed. She raised her head and looked around, wondering how long she’d slept. The room was naturally bright, though direct sunlight no longer poured through the windows. And there was Sam—Sam?—smiling by her side. He reached to brush her hair back from her face, and she noticed that he was still wearing a suit, but it was different, a lighter blue tweed, and a solid beige tie hung down the center of his fresh white shirt.
She frowned. “What time is it?”
“Eight forty-five.”
“But … so bright?”
His smile widened. “It’s morning … How do you feel?”
“Morning?”
“Uh-huh. I’d have let you sleep longer but I’ve got to get to work. I didn’t want you to wake up and think I’d abandoned you.”
“Morning?”
“I’ve left cereal and bananas and croissants in the kitchen. Help yourself to anything else. How about if I come back at one and we can go somewhere for lunch?”
“Lunch?” She struggled to sit up. “God, Sam, I can’t believe I slept this long!”
He adjusted the pillows at her back. “You needed it. You look better already … Chels?” His smile faded, though his expression remained exquisitely soft. “I know that you probably feel you’ve got to rush home and work, but I really want you to stay. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll drive you to your place later and you can pick up any papers you need. You can use the phone here just as well as your own. But what you can really use is another day of rest. You’ve done a job on yourself this time around.”
She chanced a meek smile. “You’re forever picking up the pieces, aren’t you?”
“Maybe this time it was my fault. Not that I mind picking up the pieces, but I’d much rather see you strong and together … . Promise me you’ll wait here till I get back?”
She snuggled more comfortably against the pillow. “I don’t think I’m up to going much of anywhere just yet. I may fall back to sleep as soon as you’ve gone.”
“Get something to eat first, huh?” Without waiting for her answer, he kissed her lightly on her forehead and left.
By the time Chelsea heard the downstairs door close, she’d realized several things. The first was that she felt happier than she’d felt in ages; she knew there were still many things she and Sam had to settle, but her heart was light and she was actually looking forward to the day.
The second was that she was wearing her nightgown. God bless Sam. He’d undressed her and tucked her back into bed when, very obviously, she’d had no intention of waking.
The third was that she was hungry. Ravenously so.
Tossing back the sheet, she stood quickly, then sank back to bed when a flash of dizziness reminded her of the ordeal she’d been through in the past two weeks. More slowly this time she pushed herself up and went downstairs to find that Sam had set a place for her at the island counter—woven placemat, linen napkin, silverwear, glasswear and all. A tall box of Wheaties stood beside it, and beside that a ripe banana. And there was a note.
“I’d have put everything in the dish but the banana gets yucky if you don’t eat it soon after it’s peeled. There’s cream in the fridge, and butter and jam. The croissants are in the bag on top. If you want them warmed, put them in the microwave for fifteen seconds each. If you feel like eggs or cottage cheese, help yourself. I’ll see you later. Love, Sam.”
“DID YOU EAT?” was his first question when he walked in the door at one.
Chelsea grinned. “Slightly. I had the cereal and bananas, both croissants, two scrambled eggs and a slice of cheese.” She rubbed her hands together. “Now. Where are we going for lunch?”
Sam laughed and gave her a hug. “I think I’ve let loose a food freak, but I love it, I love it.” He held her back. “And you look three hundred percent better. You’ve even got color in your cheeks, and don’t tell me it
’s blusher because I know the real thing when I see it.”
Her color deepened. She liked it when he looked at her. She felt attractive and appreciated. “Thank you for hanging my dress up. I put it in the bathroom while I showered to get rid of the last of the wrinkles.”
“My pleasure.” He curved her arm through his elbow. “And as for lunch, we’ve got reservations at Jasper’s. Ever been there?”
“Nope.”
“I think you’ll like it.”
She did, though it went without saying that Sam’s company was the highlight of the meal. He didn’t jump into a heavy discussion of their relationship, seeming to realize as she did that they needed a brief healing time before tackling it. Rather he kept the conversation lighter, asking her about the work she’d done since she’d returned, telling her about his own.
In a way it was as meaningful a discussion, in terms of their relationship, as the other would have been, for they’d never before discussed their “real” lives, and Chelsea, for one, was fascinated to listen and gratified to share.
Sam explained the organizational structure of his firm and outlined the major projects it was presently involved in. He told her of the specific options open to him for cutting back, their pluses and minuses, and he genuinely welcomed her input.
In turn, she found him to be deeply interested in her work. He asked intelligent questions, expressed due concern over one particularly sensitive case or another, demonstrated a kind of insight that suggested new directions, new leads.
By the time they left the restaurant, Chelsea felt invigorated, so much so that she was slightly appalled when, after Sam had returned her to his condo with a promise to be back at six, she fell asleep for another two hours.
“I can’t believe I did that,” she exclaimed as he drove her to Cambridge that evening.
“You were tired.”
“That’s the understatement of the year.”
He arched a brow as he turned onto the Anderson Bridge. “I’d have put it more strongly. I really did a job on you, didn’t I?”
She cast him a hesitant look. “Yes.”
They both knew they’d be talking that night, that they had to talk that night, but the sun was still up and there was more immediate work to do. When they reached Chelsea’s apartment, she packed a large suitcase of clothes and a smaller one of papers and notes. At her own initiative she’d already called Icabod’s to say that she wouldn’t be in. Fortunately, her boss adored her and didn’t say ‘boo’.
Back at Sam’s place, she unpacked her things while Sam ran across to a seafood restaurant to bring in dinner. He’d told her to take one of the third-floor rooms as an office, and she had no argument. It was a small room, cozy and bright, with a full wall of windows and a balcony overlooking the harbor.
“I probably won’t get anything done here,” she teased when Sam joined her to see how her unpacking was coming. “I’ll sit and watch the harbor all day, or the marketplace, or the airport.”
“You’ll work,” he retorted knowingly. Then he led her downstairs, poured them each a glass of wine and proceeded to ply her with thick lobster stew and corn on the cob and salad and rolls until she was begging for mercy. So they retired to the living room, where they sat quietly until, at last, Sam took her hand in his.
“I have to know one thing, Chelsea. One thing more important than any other.” His gaze was intense, with need and vulnerability vying for prominence. “Do you love me? After all I said and did, do you still love me?”
There was no way she could be anything but truthful, either to herself or to him. “I do.”
He closed his eyes for a brief instant, and she could see his body relax. He’d changed into jeans and a sport shirt before dinner, and he looked so much more like the Sam she’d known in Mexico that a wave of tenderness flowed through her.
Eyes open again, he was studying her hand, rubbing his thumbs over her knuckles, gently back and forth. “That’s got to be our basis then. We love each other. So now we’ve got to look at the other things in our lives and see if they’ll mesh.” He lifted his eyes to hers. “What are you doing about school?”
“I’ve been accepted at BU, but I’m putting it off until I can save enough money to pay for it.”
“Mother said you’d returned what she’d given you.”
So he’d spoken with her since he’d been back. Chelsea had wondered about that. She was glad he had, glad that he’d learned about the money from Mrs. London. Chelsea hadn’t wanted to tell him herself.
“You didn’t have to do that, Chels. You deserved that money—that and the second half. You got me back.”
“No, you got you back. And I didn’t want the money. Not after what you said.”
“Then you returned it for my sake?”
“No. For my sake. If we hadn’t become emotionally involved, I might have felt differently. But after having fallen in love with you, I did feel cheap keeping that money.”
“I’m sure my mother told you what a noble gesture it was.” Sarcasm was heavy in his voice, leaving no doubt as to his suspicions.
The last thing Chelsea wanted was to add to the friction between mother and son. “Nobility had nothing to do with it,” she stated quietly. “It was a matter of self-respect. I want everything to be clean, honestly earned. My getting that degree has come to mean more to me than I ever imagined it would. When I first decided to go for it, my motivation was purely to be able to counsel, to help people. Then, when I felt stronger about it, I realized that having a Ph.D. under my belt was the solid proof I needed that I’d come up in the world.”
“You don’t need to‘come up.’ You’re already there!”
Chelsea was quick to counter him. “You can say that because you were born on top. I can be more realistic. My parents, wonderful as they are, were both uneducated, and I firmly believe that because of that they never came near to fulfilling the potential their intelligence would have allowed.”
“But you’ve got a college degree—”
“And who was it who said that you reach one goal, only to find another on the horizon?”
He shrugged and looked suitably guilty. “Touché.”
“So that’s the other reason why getting this degree means so much to me.”
“I can put you through school—”
“No—”
“But I’d love doing it! Hell, Chels, I’ve got the money. If I can’t spend it on things that matter to me, what should I do with it?”
“Invest it, give it to charity—just not mine.”
“Is that it? You feel I’d be giving it to you just to be noble? You’re wrong, Chelsea. I’d be doing it because I love you and because I know that going to school will make you happy, and because if that happens I’m the one to benefit from it as well. See, there are selfish motives involved too.”
“But it’s my life, my education. I have a certain pride.”
“Y’know, if we were married, what’s mine would be yours. You could take the money from our joint checking account—”
“We’re not married.”
“I want to be. Will you marry me, Chelsea?”
“No. Not … yet.”
“You’re not sure our love will last?”
“It’ll last, at least mine will. But one of the things I realized in the past two weeks is that it takes more than love to make a binding relationship.” Beatrice London’s words haunted her, had haunted her since they’d been uttered that morning in her office. “You and I come from totally different stock. We met and fell in love in Mexico, in an atmosphere that was a far cry from the one we’d be living in here. Our tastes might turn out to be different. You might hate my friends; I might hate yours. You might bury yourself in your work again; I might do the same. And despite our good intentions, we might find that our relationship takes second place. That would cause friction and distance, and then what would we have?”
“That wouldn’t happen!”
“Can you be su
re?”
“Life doesn’t come with guarantees, Chelsea.”
“But I want them! Well, one part of me does, at least. Where my heart’s concerned, it is either all or nothing. I want all your love, all your warmth, all your caring—or I’d just as soon settle for nothing, which was what I’d acclimated myself to doing before you showed up at my door yesterday.”
Sam was silent for a time. He turned her hand in his and studied her palm, as though the lines there might give him a clue as to what the future held. At last he looked up.
“I can tell you that I love you with all my heart, and that I’ll spend a lifetime giving you every bit of myself that I’m able to—but you still won’t be sure. What if we give ourselves time. What if we stay together, get to know each other, consciously look at all those things you see as potential barriers. I won’t rush you into marriage. I won’t even rush you into sex, though God knows I want that because it’s another way I can tell you how much I love you. But I’ll be patient … . What do you say?”
He was offering a stepping stone to heaven. She knew she might stumble and fall off, and that thought terrified her because the more she saw of heaven the more she wanted to be there. But she did want to be there, and that made the attempt worthwhile.
She took a deep breath, then slowly smiled. “I say that you make an awful lot of sense.” She lifted his hands to her mouth and kissed first one, then the other. “I do love you, Sam. And I want it to work.”
“It will, love. I know it will.”
As THE DAYS PASSED, Chelsea increasingly believed he might be right. She was happy, even happier than she’d been in Mexico. Though she’d resigned—again—from her job at Icabod’s, she kept at her missing-persons search. She worked out of Sam’s condo using the extra telephone line he had specially installed for her—he’d said that he wanted to know he could get through to her at any time of day. She found no fault with his thinking because she was delighted when he called and would have otherwise been loath to keep the line tied up.
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