Romance Redefined

by SJD Peterson

  “Still rehearsing? Or is this the real thing?” came a voice from beyond the footlights. Hugh.

  I twisted from Jason’s arms with a gasp as Hugh strode to the bottom of the steps leading up to the stage. He stopped there. Even though I was looking down at him, he seemed the one in command at the moment: hands in the pockets of his elegant trousers, the sleeves of his shirt rolled halfway up his forearms—effortlessly in command, that was the impression he gave. His face certainly betrayed no emotion beyond amused interest. If the line of his jaw looked a little tense and if that was storminess I detected in his dark eyes, well, maybe I was just imagining them.

  I curled my hands into fists. I almost would have preferred Hugh to come barging onto the stage, claiming his husband from all usurpers. What would it take to really shatter his control?

  I wasn’t sure of my own control. My pulse had quickened the moment I’d heard Hugh’s voice. It took everything I had just to gaze coolly back at him. “How long have you been here?”

  “Long enough,” Hugh remarked. “And it seems to me you’re playing two fields, Ben. It could get a little wearing for you.”

  “I’m not playing at anything,” I said sharply. “And I was just about to inform Jason of our… episode in Las Vegas.”

  “So that’s what they call it nowadays. Times have changed since our first go-round.”

  “Las Vegas,” said Jason. “What’s this about Las Vegas?” He glanced from me to Hugh, then back to me. Now his expression was belligerent.

  I took a deep breath. “Jason, the fact is…” I took another deep breath. “Hugh and I got married a couple of days ago.” There. At last, it was out.

  Jason’s face registered shock and anger in quick succession. “Married? What the…?” He shook his head. “No. This has to be some kind of joke.”

  Seeing his anger was almost a relief. “Believe me,” I said, “this isn’t something I expected to do. It just… happened.”

  “That’s right,” Hugh said. “It happened. So now you can leave, Collins.”

  Jason stared at me for a long moment as if still hoping it was a joke. I didn’t know what to say to him. Maybe there was simply nothing more to be said. At last Jason turned. He stomped down the steps, brushed past Hugh without looking at him, stormed up the aisle of the theater, and then disappeared from view.

  I suddenly felt drained. I sat down on the floor inside the chalked square. It was only one week away from opening night, and even the sets weren’t ready. A sense of unreality engulfed me. What was I thinking? At the moment, the least of my problems was whether or not an imaginary character ever got to say his piece.

  Hugh climbed onto the stage. Hands still resting casually in his pockets, he walked from one edge of the proscenium arch to the other. He paused to examine the ropes and sandbags heaped together in a jumble. He also examined the tattered canvas drop left over from some long-ago production, and he raised his eyes to inspect the beams and pulleys hanging high above. He seemed to be taking a leisurely tour, and meanwhile my life was in chaos.

  At last, Hugh sat down beside me. He looked me over as if I were just one more theater prop. “I suppose it’s a good thing I came in when I did,” he said. “For being a married man, things were getting a little cozy up here, weren’t they?”

  I knew Hugh was trying to goad me. Worst of all, he was succeeding. I drew up my knees and wrapped my arms around them. “Don’t be crass, Hugh. I’ve hurt Jason rather badly.”

  “So, tell me, Benny. Why didn’t you marry him, instead of me?”

  I had other questions on my mind, such as why I couldn’t think straight whenever Hugh was near me like this. Hugh leaned back on one hand, his manner still casual. Unfortunately, there was nothing casual about my reaction to my new husband. I gazed at the strong lines of his features and felt a heat that had nothing to do with the glare of the theater lights.

  I made an effort to concentrate on the subject of Jason. “The truth is, if I had any sense… well, I would have chosen him over you.”

  Hugh nodded thoughtfully. “Let’s see…. You like him because he never shuts up. I seem to remember you saying something to that effect.”

  “Those weren’t exactly the words I used.” I tightened my arms around my knees. “Believe it or not, Hugh, I enjoyed being with a man who actually knew how to open up to me. A man who wasn’t afraid to talk about his emotions or his thoughts. I need that in my life. It’s something you can’t seem to give to me.”

  We stared at each other. And this time, at least, I knew there was no mistaking the storminess in Hugh’s eyes. Leaning toward me, Hugh captured my mouth with his. It was an impertinent kiss, seeking and demanding a response. I wanted to resist. Dammit, why couldn’t I resist?

  But already my lips were pliant, accepting. I held my hand against Hugh’s cheek, needing to touch him any way I could.

  It seemed Hugh knew just what to do after that. He knew how to tantalize me by brushing his lips against the corner of my mouth, then deepening it all over again. A sensual game of retreat, advance, retreat again, until he compelled me to make my own urgent claims. Now I was the seeker, the one who demanded a response. Hugh complied willingly, but still he tantalized and enticed. Still he commanded my senses.

  When at last we broke apart, I was breathing raggedly, the stage lights seeming to burn into me. Hugh’s eyes were so dark they were almost black.

  “Benny,” he said huskily, his own breathing uneven. “Benny….”

  I was trembling. And I could no longer deny the truth. No one else could make him feel this way. Not Jason, not anyone.

  Because I loved Hugh.

  I loved him completely, hopelessly. I’d tried to build a new life without him, but it hadn’t worked. I could never escape my love for Hugh.

  And so I’d married him again, this time for real, or rather, legally. The first time sure felt real enough, even if it hadn’t been recognized by the state. And truth be told, it hadn’t happened because of the champagne. It hadn’t been just a wild impulse. I had known, deep down, that I had no other choice but to belong to Hugh.

  The knowledge brought with it a terrible pain, because Hugh Bayard, my husband, could never truly love me in return.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  MY SNEAKERS made no sound on the polished oak floor. For a second or two, I felt like a burglar who’d broken into this luxurious apartment. Yet, I held the key to it firmly in my hand. I had a right to be here.

  I did a circuit of the spacious living room one more time. The hand-painted wallpaper was patterned in a graceful Chinese design of flowering branches. All the moldings were carved in an elaborate Baroque style, and the creamy marble pillars flanking the doorways were exquisitely veined. Because there was no furniture, the room was revealed in all its stately beauty.

  I went to the window and gazed out over Central Park, where the treetops clustered in a vivid cushion of green. This was the Upper West Side, where everything about life was cushioned. This was where Hugh now expected me to live.

  I perched on the window seat and turned the key over and over in my hand. Hugh amazed me. Not long ago, he had actually agreed with me when he said he thought Mother and Charles needed to start their marriage on neutral territory. But now, on his own, Hugh had chosen this apartment in Manhattan, deciding that he and I would live here. When we weren’t spending time at his house in Charleston of course.

  I curled my fingers around the key. It was happening all over again. It had been less than a week since that ill-fated trip to Las Vegas, but already Hugh had begun to take charge of my life and bend it to fit his own. This luxurious apartment was only one indication.

  With an effort, I forced myself to relax. I set the key down, then leaned my forehead against the cool glass of the window. Unbidden, the events of last night came back to me.

  Hugh had shown up without notice at my shabby little apartment. At first, I’d been happy to see him. I had shared my simple dinner with him—canned v
egetable soup, bagels I’d bought at the bakery, a pint of cherry-cheesecake frozen yogurt. In a way, sharing that meal so unexpectedly had been romantic. And then… well, then we’d made love. I had given myself up to the magic of Hugh’s embrace. The magic hadn’t faded until afterward, when we’d lain spent together in my bed and once again Hugh had seemed to gaze right past me.

  I pushed myself off the window seat. I could no longer bear to sit still. I paced through the rest of the elegant apartment. The master bedroom was quite grand with its Palladian windows and its balcony overlooking the park. This, of course, was where Hugh expected me to sleep with him. Hugh had no doubt chosen a king-size bed, where we wouldn’t even have to touch after making love.

  I folded my arms against my body as if that would somehow contain the ache of need and longing. Try as I might, I couldn’t forget how it had been to wake up in my own small bed early this morning, only to find that Hugh was already gone. He’d left something on my bureau, a folded slip of paper with a terse message about the new home he’d acquired. Inside had been the key to this apartment. Why not just leave money the way he had the first time in New York? Payment for services rendered.

  I couldn’t stay here any longer. Beautiful as this apartment was, I detested it. It was too grand, too spacious, too elegant. I hurried toward the door.

  I made the mistake of glancing into one more room. This one was clearly a nursery. A quaint border of fairy-tale figures had been painted along the walls—a pensive princess, a plump dragon, a knight on horseback.

  Did Hugh expect this room to become our nursery? But I already knew the answer to that. He wanted children. He wanted someone who could carry on the Bayard tradition, the Bayard name. No doubt he still believed that I would be open to adopting or hiring a surrogate right away.

  “No,” I whispered, my throat tight. I turned away from the room and its impossibly naive fairy tales. “No, Hugh.”

  He wasn’t here to listen. But when had he ever listened?

  This time I walked straight to the front door of the apartment. I didn’t even stop to pick up the key, left on the window seat. I just got out as quickly as he could.

  “I’M IN Paris! Benson, dear, can you believe it?”

  “Paris,” I echoed groggily, squinting at the clock by my bed. It was four o’clock in the morning New York time. I sank back against the pillow and cradled the phone against my ear. “Mother, I hate to ask this, but what on earth are you doing in Paris? You’re supposed to be honeymooning in California.”

  “Well, that’s just the thing. There we were, walking along the beach in Carmel when Charles asked me what I thought was the most romantic city in the world. Naturally, I said Paris, and the next thing I knew, Charles whirled me off to France. Isn’t that incredible?”

  “Actually, it is.”

  “Charles won’t stop being romantic, Benson. It’s the most amazing thing. He’s taken the ball and run with it. I never know quite where I’m going to end up.” Mary Grace sounded a little frazzled.

  “Mother, are you all right?” I asked. I finally had my eyes completely open. Mary Grace’s phone call had woken me from the first good night’s sleep I’d had in a while.

  “Of course, I’m all right. I’m in Paris, aren’t I? With Charles. What more could I want?” Mary Grace did seem on edge.

  “Be sure to get some rest,” I said, stifling a yawn. “There’s only so much romance you can take at one time.”

  For a moment, the line went quiet, filled with nothing but transatlantic static. Then Mary Grace spoke again, her voice muffled, as if she was cupping the receiver to avoid being overheard. “Well, that’s just it. All these grand gestures can be a wee bit exhausting. Poor Charles, he has a dreadful case of jet lag. He’s not accustomed to all this travel. Before, his idea of a trip was to go down to the garden center to check out the latest shipment of cucumber seed.”

  I smiled. “Still, you’re in Paris, the most romantic city in the world.”

  “In other words,” Mary Grace said tartly, “I shouldn’t complain when I get what I ask for.”

  My sheet was tangled around my legs. I tried futilely to straighten it. “The problem with us is that we want perfection. Romance in just the right dose, not too much, not too little.”

  “Speaking of which, dear, how are you and Hugh getting along?”

  I tensed. “I don’t see what Hugh has to do with anything.”

  “Stop hedging, Benson. I saw how well the two of you were getting along at the wedding. Why not admit it?” It really seemed to perk Mary Grace up, talking about someone else’s romance. But she didn’t know the half of it. She didn’t know what had happened after she and Charles left on their honeymoon.

  I sat up in bed, rubbing my head. What was the use of trying to hide the truth? She would learn about it sooner or later—might as well be now.

  “Mother… I suppose there’s something I should tell you. While we were in Las Vegas, Hugh and I… well… we happened to, umm… visit the wedding chapel ourselves. On the spur of the moment, so to speak.” I winced just at having to say the words out loud. Now there was more static on the line.

  “Benson,” Mary Grace said, sounding doubtful, “are you telling me what I think you’re telling me?”

  I grimaced. “I’m certainly not going to spell it out for you any further.”

  “Married? Oh my goodness! Put Hugh on.” Mary Grace sounded shocked. I had expected exaltation.

  I hesitated, staring at the empty pillow next to me. “Mother, most of us on this side of the ocean are still asleep. At least, we’d like to be asleep. Besides,” I added in an acid tone, “Hugh isn’t here.”

  “I thought something was amiss. Where on earth is he?”

  I wished I’d never started this. I should have known better. Even from Paris, Mary Grace knew how to cause a stir.

  “He’s probably at home, Mother. His own home. In Charleston. And if he has any sense, he’s asleep.”

  “At home? His home? What kind of marriage is this?” Mary Grace demanded. “Why, it’s not right, Benson. Not right at all.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said more bleakly than I’d intended.

  “Dear me,” Mary Grace muttered. “It really isn’t right. Something has to be done. Something, indeed. Goodbye, Benson.”

  “Mother, wait—”

  But Mary Grace had already hung up. The telephone line buzzed uselessly.

  I dropped my cell on the bedside table. I was wide-awake now. I slipped out of bed and padded into the living room, almost tripping over the bike.

  “Ouch.” I switched on the light and sat down on the couch to examine my stubbed toe. I’d finally disposed of all the dead flowers, but the bicycle remained, taking up most of the space in the room.

  I gazed at them for a long time. The one with the wire basket was a pretty shade of pale green. The other, somewhat larger, was slate black. It looked powerful and dynamic next to its more delicate companion.

  Suddenly a wave of hopelessness washed over me. I pressed my hands against my eyes and slumped back against the couch.

  My mother had asked the right question, the only question that mattered.

  Just what sort of marriage was this?

  I DRAGGED myself into the restaurant. I hadn’t been able to go back to sleep after the call from Mother. I felt tired and depressed, the day seeming to stretch out gloomily before me: eight hours of work, then another rehearsal where Jason, in all his wounded dignity, would do his best to make me feel even guiltier. I would rather return to my apartment, crawl back into bed, and stay there for days. Unfortunately, the pre-lunch rush would be starting all too soon, and instead of doing what I wanted, I plastered on my mask of happy.

  Melanie came striding into the work area. She gave me a quick nod, pulled on an apron, and began assembling the ingredients for side salads. There was something different about her today. She had a resolute expression on her face, but that wasn’t all. The ponytail was back. No more c
arefully styled hair—just that no-nonsense, matter-of-fact ponytail.

  “Want to talk about it?” I asked.

  Melanie tore lettuce over a large mixing bowl. “There’s not really anything to talk about.”

  “I think there is,” I said quickly.

  Melanie dropped the lettuce as if she’d suddenly lost her energy. She looked unhappy but very calm. Maybe too calm. “I broke it off,” she said. “I ended it with Toby. I got caught up in the lust and the fantasy and… I took a step back, looked at it logically, and realized I didn’t love him. So I ended it.”

  “I’m sorry you’re hurting.”

  Melanie’s face tightened for a moment. “I never was one to believe in fairy tales. I’ll be fine.”

  Mel claimed she didn’t believe in true love and happily ever after. I didn’t believe her. I could see the pain the breakup caused her. She’d had her first taste of love and heartbreak. However, I also knew she’d be fine. She was one tough cookie.

  “You’re doing what’s right for you,” I said at last. “

  Mel closed her eyes for a few seconds, then opened them again and gave me a sad smile. “Now I just need to convince my heart I did the right thing.”

  “I know how that is.” I had learned too well how hard it was to convince your heart to listen to logic. An impossible task.

  “Hugh?” Melanie asked gently.

  I nodded. “Hugh.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  I attempted a light tone but wasn’t successful. “Not much to talk about. I love him. It hurts.”

  “What a pair we are.” This time, Mel’s smile was genuine. “Think we could make a bigger mess of our lives if we tried?”

  “Not likely. But there’s at least one good thing in all this.”

  Melanie cocked her head. “What’s that?”

  “Your ponytail’s back. I like it a lot.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO