Isabel Sharpe

by Surprise Me. . . (lit)

  They lay together out on the lawn behind the music shed, eating and listening, talking and listening some more. She was more beautiful and more peaceful than he’d ever seen her. He had no idea how he kept from making love to her right there on the blanket. Maybe the threat of jail had something to do with it, but he was tempted nonetheless.

  He wanted to stand up and shout to the world that she was his, that he’d won her, like knights of old battling dragons, armies and wicked witches to claim their true loves.

  Okay, he was ridiculous. But that’s how it felt. He swore he was taller, the air was cleaner, the colors around him more vivid.

  They talked and talked, kissed, held hands, kissed some more. And now they were pulling up in front of his apartment, where surprise champagne and strawberry shortcake waited, along with a gift he’d bought her misguidedly weeks ago and was now ready to give her.

  “Edgar, what a wonderful evening. Thank you.”

  “It’s not over yet.” He tried not to sound too excited.

  “Mmm, no?” She got out and waggled her eyebrows over the top of the car at him. If he lived to be a thousand, he would never stop thinking she was the sexiest woman in the world.

  “No.” He grinned at her, hauled the picnic things out of the car and took her hand. Home. What wouldn’t he give for a guarantee they’d have one together someday?

  At his apartment, he unlocked the door, shoved it open and gestured her inside. Stoner had waited for Edgar to ring his cell when they were about ten minutes away, then he’d lit candles and put the food out as Edgar asked him to, and snuck out of the apartment to spend the night with his new love, Kaitlin. The rest Edgar had prepared before he left to pick Melanie up.

  “Edgar.” She stood with her hands clasped, eyes shining in the candelight. “This is amazing. How did you manage it?”

  “I’m magic, didn’t you know? Hogwarts class of ’95.”

  A white bowl of red strawberries stood next to the silver tray of shortcake biscuits. A bowl of whipped cream with a silver ladle sat next to that. A jet-black ice bucket holding a frosty bottle of champagne and two crystal flutes completed the dessert feast.

  “You spoil me.” She was so pleased she sounded breathless. And he’d done so little.

  “You deserve spoiling, Melanie. You haven’t been enough. Certainly not by the men you dated, and your grandparents sounded pretty strict.”

  “They were. Loving, but yes.” Tears glistened in her eyes. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  He enveloped her and rocked her gently, still unable to believe he could now hold her like this, and have it mean something to both of them. “Hungry for dessert?”

  “Hungry for you.”

  “How about both?” He led her to the table. “We can feed each other in bed and make a complete mess.”

  “I like the sound of that.” She laughed and stretched, reaching her arms up into the air, making him want to toss her over his shoulder and ravish her, cavemanlike in the bedroom. “I can’t believe how contented I feel. And relaxed. What a great day this has been.”

  “We’ll make sure it doesn’t end soon.”

  He served them strawberry shortcake and champagne; they took it into his bedroom, stripped to their underwear and shirts and sat side by side under the sheets, sipping bubbly and spooning shortcake into each other’s mouths between strawberry-and-cream kisses. Edgar was sure he’d never been this content, either.

  Until she spilled a strawberry on her chest and took the shirt off, rubbed it clean in the bathroom and came back without one on.

  Then he was no longer content. In fact, he had a very specific idea of what was missing. And once she got a look at the sheet over his lap she figured it out quickly, too.

  “One thing first.” He put his champagne flute on the bedside table and reached over the edge for the package he’d been saving. “What’s this?”

  “I think you’ll recognize it.”

  She frowned. “I didn’t get you anything.”

  “Why would you? This is spoiling. Get used to it.”

  “Yes, sir.” She giggled and started tearing off the paper, her curious expression relaxing into pleasure when the necklace came into view. “Oh, Edgar.”

  “You remember?”

  She held up the beautiful piece she’d picked out purportedly for Edgar’s “girlfriend.” He’d so desperately wanted her to have it, and his fantasy had been strong enough to think someday he’d have a moment like this when he could give it to her for real. The deception seemed so childish and embarrassing now.

  Melanie had changed him.

  “Of course I remember. It’s so beautiful!” She pushed aside her hair; he leaned over to help her put it on, remembering how much he’d wanted to kiss her exposed neck in Sledge’s apartment the first time he put it on her, how much he still did….

  “How does it look?”

  He just stared, shaking his head. “Like it was made for you. You’re beautiful.”

  “Stop.” She made a face that didn’t hide her pleasure. “Stop, I’m serious, you’re going to give me a huge head.”

  “No, you’re giving me a huge—”

  “Stop that, perv boy.” She whacked him gently on the shoulder. “I was thinking about the day I picked this out.”

  “Yeah?” He rubbed his shoulder, pretending serious pain.

  “I think that was the first day I got a clue how you felt about me.”

  He groaned. “I was so lame. For all I knew at the time I could have been doomed to keep the necklace for the rest of my life. To sleep with it under my pillow, drooling, until I was a hundred years old. ‘Mel-uh-neee.’”

  She cracked up at his old-man whine. “See, you didn’t have to.”

  “No.” He sobered some, telling her with his eyes what was in his heart. “I didn’t have to.”

  “It’s perfect.” She leaned forward; the necklace dangled over her breasts, which were calling to his hands and mouth.

  “Mmm, perfect.” He kissed her over and over, then eased her down onto the mattress, helped her off with her underpants and bra, and then let her help him off with his boxers. Being with her felt so natural and so right. It had from the beginning. This was forever for him. Forever.

  And when he slid inside her, gently tonight, reverently, he knew he’d never feel this way about anyone else.

  “I love you, Melanie.”

  She clung to him, arched to his rhythm, her movements as languorous and unhurried as his. There was no need to hurry. They had all night. All tomorrow. All the next day and the next.

  “I love you, too, Edgar. I always have. I’m sorry it took me so long to realize. I fought who I was for so long, I was so into this idea of being a wild woman like my mother, and I was just scared. I’m not afraid anymore. Because of you.”

  His heart stopped. His body stopped, too, but only for a moment. Then joy rushed through him so fiercely he could barely keep from howling it to the moon like a wolf.

  She deserved a response, but he was too overwhelmed to trust speech, so he made love to her every way that showed her what he couldn’t say; she kept pace, shifting to accommodate him, always matching his hunger and his mood.

  He held back so they came at the same time, staring into each other’s eyes, and he knew with a solid, deep certainty that this was what he’d dreamed of for two years, and that there was no reason to wait any longer.

  “Melanie.” He gathered her to him. The hugeness of the moment made his voice solemn and a little shaky. “Mmm, yes?”

  “You said you’re not afraid anymore.”

  “No.” She kissed his shoulder, fitted herself to him. “Not at all.”

  “I want to ask you something.”

  “Sure.” She put her hand to his chest, totally relaxed, stroked him, collarbone to belly, shoulder to shoulder. “I’m your open book now. Ask whatever you want.”

  “Okay.” He took a deep breath, feeling like a bungee jumper standing on th
e edge of a bridge. “Melanie. Will you marry me?”

  16

  ALL THE WAY TO JIM’S place on Brady Street Tricia repeated her resolution. I am not in love. Jim is a friend.

  Okay, a close friend.

  She’d given the matter a lot of thought since talking it over at Ted’s with her girls. She’d meditated once or twice, but her inner voice had nothing to say, which had been incredibly frustrating, but also a relief, because if it told her to be with Jim, she’d have an entire life’s philosophy to rethink. Again.

  There was so much to be thankful for right now. Sobriety, independence, a good relationship with her family—both her daughters and her parents. Her painting gave her a lot of joy, and someday she hoped it would make her money, too. In the meantime, she’d landed a job in a salon on Blue Mound Road, so she could be financially independent while she was here.

  It was most important to stay powerful and whole. As she’d realized on the cliff at Devil’s Lake, if she got in deep with Jim, she’d be dependent again on a man for her happiness. She so desperately wanted to make her own happiness first, and then find a man to share it.

  Not yet, though. Not so soon after reclaiming her sanity and her strength. She needed to grow solid on her own two feet.

  She parked in front of Jim’s studio and walked determinedly up to the door, rang and held herself straight, tall, chin lifted, wishing her mental recitation of the be-strong philosophy didn’t feel like such upstream effort.

  The door opened.

  Tricia managed a friendly smile, but her heart started pounding. Damn it.

  “Hi.” The word was simple, but he managed to make it clear that in this case “hi” meant God, I am so glad to see you.

  Steady, Tricia.

  “Hi, Jim. How’s it going?” Her voice was too cheerful. She sounded like a TV-commercial mom extolling the virtues of some laundry detergent.

  “Fine.” He smiled and his eyes crinkled deliciously in the corners. “You look stunning.”

  “Oh.” She had taken great pains with her appearance to look as if she hadn’t taken great pains with her appearance. She was wearing a knee-length blue knit skirt and a white top with thin black, red and blue horizontal stripes. Something she might wear to go shopping, read in her backyard, something casual. Nothing meaningful and carrying possibly tremendous significance for the rest of her life. Nothing like that. “Thanks. It’s comfortable.”

  “That’s good.” He ushered her inside and up the stairs to his apartment, looking at her in that quirked-eyebrow way that said he hadn’t figured her mood out yet, but had no doubt he would.

  “Jim, your place is fabulous.” Tricia stopped convincing herself she wasn’t in love with him long enough to realize she was in love with his apartment. He collected African and Indian art; the place was a riot of color and atmosphere, ebony busts and elephant tapestries, masks and drums and statues of Buddha. “Did you collect these here or on travels?”

  “All here so far. It’s a hobby of mine. Maybe an obsession. Someday I’m going to travel. When I retire. Meanwhile, business keeps me pretty busy.”

  “I can imagine.” Tricia fingered a fierce-looking feathered mask, feeling strangely hollow and wistful. She envied his plans, his stability, his smart choices. She’d be working for the rest of her life to make up for all those years without saving. So stupid. So shortsighted.

  No regrets.

  “I thought we could have a drink here before dinner. I’d love to show you my studio.”

  “I’d love to see it.”

  “Virgin mojito? Also known as a mint lime spritzer?”

  She turned from the mask. “Did you, Jim Francis Bronson, just offer me a spritzer?”

  “It’s true.” He shook his head sadly. “We all give up our youthful principles sooner or later. It’s a good drink. Refreshing. You can pretend there’s rum in it.”

  “I’m sure it’s delicious. I just had to tease you.”

  His eyes took on an intensity that made her want to step back and run toward him at the same time. “You can tease me anytime you want, Tee.”

  “Well. Thank you,” she said oh-so-primly. Jim winked, then went toward his kitchen to make the drinks. Unable to resist, she trailed after him.

  “How are the girls?” He took a pitcher out of the refrigerator. She noticed it was packed with real food, not like the refrigerator he’d had in the apartment with Tom, which held…beer.

  “Great. Both in love. Melanie is down at Ravinia tonight with Edgar, and Alana is having dinner with Sawyer at Sanford Restaurant.”

  “Beautiful music, Milwaukee’s best food. They’ve got men with good taste.” He poured two glasses, then got out a small bottle of seltzer. “How are things going with you and Alana? Still good?”

  Tricia went to examine a bronze statue of a four-armed dancing Shiva on his counter, a representation of good triumphing over evil. “After that breakthrough at Ted’s, yes. We’re up to her calling me Mom five times.”

  “Now that’s progress.” He handed her a glass, smiling warmly—her joys made him happy—then lifted his in a toast. “Here’s to you getting your family back, Tee.”

  “Thank you.” She had to glance away when she drank. The intimacy between them was so powerful just looking into his eyes made her want to touch him. Everywhere.

  “Come downstairs. We’ll prowl around together.”

  “Deal.” She followed him, glad for a change of scene. Being with Jim in his home, loving that home…it all felt too domestic. And too natural.

  His studio was neatly kept, attractive, with potted plants by the storefront window; she lingered over the colorful portraits and landscapes on the walls, all done with great skill. He was very talented.

  “This way. I want to show you something.”

  She followed again, thinking how often he’d said he wanted to show her something in the short time she’d known him again. Thinking how Melanie talked about Edgar, how Alana talked about Sawyer, showing them new things, showing them new selves.

  She could be in some serious trouble here.

  He led her into a backroom office and handed her a folder. “What’s this?”

  “A present. Open it.”

  She frowned at him, then opened it and found herself staring at herself, perched on a cliff at Devil’s Lake. “Jim.”

  The picture was beautiful. Maybe Photoshop was responsible, but she didn’t think she’d looked that good in years. Or maybe ever, since she’d been so hard on her body most of her adult life.

  “What do you think?”

  “I look so…” She frowned, trying to put into words what he’d captured. A side of her she thought she no longer had. Or maybe her new self. Peaceful, grounded, untarnished. Looking off to the left of the photographer as if she saw great things ahead and was confident they’d come to her.

  “You look the way you are. I don’t think you truly see yourself.”

  He was standing too close. Much too close. She took a step back and he followed. “There is so much more to you than you allow yourself to believe. Those drawings? They’re great. Beatrice went nuts over them. I talked to her again yesterday. She said you had a unique style that would jump out at the reader, that your faces were so full of life she could read any and every emotion into them.”

  Tricia took a sip of her drink, clutching the glass too hard. “That was very sweet.”

  “She wasn’t being nice. She was expressing a professional opinion.”

  Much, much too close. She could catch his scent. Everything in her wanted to turn and wrap her arms around him. It had been too long. She was lonely. It could happen with any man, this need for physical contact. She had always needed more than most people, and it had been a while.

  Nope. She wasn’t buying it, either.

  “I wanted to show you yourself as I see you, as you are. Because I don’t think you see that woman very often.”

  “Jim…” She could barely breathe. He was giving her everything
she needed right now. Pride in her accomplishments, pride in herself. He was making her feel whole.

  How could this be wrong?

  She wanted to break away, go back home, where she’d be safe in her room, and meditate, ask for answers, figure out what to do.

  But she was here, living her life instead of thinking about it, and she had to cope right now.

  “Thank you for the picture, Jim. It’s…it will always mean more to me than you can ever know.”

  “I’m glad.” He stared at the photo with her while the silence grew charged between them. “What were you thinking about when I took the picture? Your face changed so dramatically.”

  “You.” She answered automatically, then put the picture back in the folder. “I was thinking about you, Jim, and how much you’ve brought to my life in such a short time. I don’t think I can ever—”

  He stopped her sentence with a long, sweet kiss that shot her to the moon.

  Somehow she managed to break away. “I can’t do this.”

  “You say that. But everything you do tells me you feel very differently deep down.”

  “I need time to establish some independence and—”

  His kiss that time was harder, more passionate, the type of kiss Tricia felt between her legs. “You think I’m going to ruin your independence?”

  “It’s not you, it’s me. I become so dependent when I’m involved with someone. I’ve been so peaceful on my own, I’ve felt so strong. Around you I don’t—” another kiss, longer that time “—feel peaceful.”

  “I don’t feel peaceful around you, either, Tee.” He picked her up, set her on the desk, stepped between her legs. “But I also think you’re pushing me away based on some therapy theory, not on what’s real. Being with the right person isn’t damaging. Look at Melanie. Look at Alana.”

  “I don’t…” She closed her eyes. She’d made so much sense to herself and now he was tearing it all apart. Melanie went from man to man, and was now with Edgar, partly because Tricia had helped push her there. Why hadn’t she told Melanie she should be single, whole on her own, powerful alone? Why did different rules apply to her?