The Dream Comes True

by Barbara Delinsky

  “But why?”

  “Because I like you.”

  “But I’ll only cause you grief.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “What does that mean?” she cried.

  John didn’t answer for a while, but sat quietly, eyes downcast, brows drawn together, and Nina didn’t prod. She was feeling tired again. Turning her head into the cushion, she closed her eyes.

  His voice came gently. “I like you, Nina. Yes, you’re right, you did remind me of Jenna, but only at the start and only with regard to work. In other ways, you’re different. She was tall, blond and green eyed, you’re blue eyed, dark and petite. She dressed to fit in, you dress to stand out. She smiled on cue, you smile whenever you want to. You’re your own person far more than she ever was.”

  Nina had opened those blue eyes and was looking at him, feeling a longing that was only in part physical. “But I love my work.”

  He nodded. “Yes, you do.”

  “And you hate that.”

  Again he nodded.

  “So why are you bothering with me?”

  “Because,” he said with a somber look and a surprising lack of hesitancy, “I like you enough to care. I’m not sure I felt that way about Jenna. I may have loved her once, but I didn’t like her. When she was barging headlong toward self-destruction, I did nothing to stop her.”

  “You were busy with J.J.”

  “True, but I could have tried more if I’d cared. Then again, Jenna was a hard woman. She wouldn’t have listened. Once she set her mind to something, she wouldn’t budge.” His eyes softened a fraction. “You’re not as hard. As determined as you are, you still listen.”

  She gave a small self-conscious laugh. “I haven’t exactly had much choice lately.”

  “Even before you got sick, you listened. You didn’t want to work with me, but you agreed to do it. You made time for it even though you said you couldn’t. Besides that, you’re more sensitive than Jenna ever was. You feel badly when I have to get a sitter for J.J. in order to see you. You worry that you’re going to do something wrong when it comes to him. Look at you,” he said with the hitch of his chin, “you’ve been touching him in some small way, just like a seasoned mother, ever since we got back, and I don’t think you even realize it.”

  Startled, Nina shot a glance at J.J., who was curled up in the curve of her body. Her hand was on his arm, the backs of her fingers brushing ever so lightly over the baby-smooth skin.

  When she returned her gaze to John, he was looking satisfied. Pushing out of his chair, he bent over her, putting his mouth by her ear. “Not bad, for someone who doesn’t know what to do with kids.” On his way to straightening, he scooped J.J. up. “Lunchtime, my man,” he said.

  J.J., who had neither heard him nor seen his lips, made a loud sound in protest and started to squirm. John immediately set him on his feet and hunkered down before him. “Time for lunch,” he mouthed clearly. He tapped his wrist with a finger, then mimed bringing food to his mouth.

  J.J. looked questioningly back at Nina.

  “She’ll come, too,” John assured him with a nod, gave him a pat on the bottom and stood. To Nina, he said, “Want to?”

  “Sure. What are we having?”

  John caught J.J.’s eye. “What do you want to eat?” he asked slowly, signing along with the words.

  J.J. made the sign for spaghetti.

  John shook his head. “We had that for supper last night.”

  J.J. made a stirring motion with one hand, then tapped the back of his fist with two fingers.

  Again John shook his head. “Mashed potatoes alone aren’t enough.”

  J.J. drew large twin arches in the air.

  John chuckled. “Not McDonald’s. How about a surprise?” He formed two fingers of both hands into curved Vs, put the fingertips together, then drew them apart with a look of surprise.

  J.J. said something that wasn’t any kind of word Nina had ever heard but sounded agreeable nonetheless, particularly when he clapped.

  “Okay,” John finger-spelled, then repeated the gesture for Nina. “I would have spelled out ‘bologna,’ except that it’s too hard a word for him to read. Is bologna okay for you?”

  “It’s my favorite,” she said with a smile, feeling warm and amenable and all kinds of other nice things. The rapport between John and his son was delightful. Being part of their group, undeserved though it was and brief though it would be, was an honor.

  * * *

  After lunch she napped, then John surprised her by suggesting that, while J.J. was with his sitters and he was at work, she sit out in the backyard. “Great minds think alike,” she said. “I told Lee I wanted to sit there, but I didn’t think you’d let me.”

  “You look too pale. You need some color.” The corner of his mouth turned wry. “We wouldn’t want people to think you’ve been sick, now, would we?”

  “Certainly not,” Nina said, but no sooner was she settled in a chaise lounge, in the dappled sun that danced through the oak boughs, when she thought of what he’d said. He’d been facetious, of course. But, in fact, the rest of the world was waiting. She did have to get back to work.

  She’d have to discuss that with John, she knew, but she wasn’t looking forward to it. He would tell her she wasn’t well yet, and she would feel obligated to say she was getting there fast, and it would go back and forth, as arguments went. In the end, he would wear her down, simply because she wasn’t feeling up to par. So, valid or not, he’d have made his point.

  Telling herself that she had time to spare, she didn’t say a word for the rest of that day. Rather, she lay in and out of the sun for several hours, dozing at some points, watching J.J. play at others. For a time, curious to see what he was doing and how, she sat on the edge of his sandbox and helped him make sand castles. She had as much fun with the sand as she did with J.J. and didn’t feel either bothered or frightened to be left alone with him when his sitters went back inside for cold drinks. He was a gentle little boy with the calm temperament of his father. With simple hand motions and facial expressions, she found she could communicate with him just fine.

  For dinner, John grilled swordfish steaks, and though J.J. wasn’t wild about his, Nina ate every bite. J.J. was wild about dessert, though, a chocolate cake that John had bought at the bakery that morning, and while Nina was watching him eat, John got up to do the dishes. When she offered to help, he refused.

  “I didn’t insist that you come here, just to put you to work.”

  “I’m not helpless,” she protested.

  “But you’ve been sick.”

  She wanted to point out that anyone who was well enough to sunbathe and build sand castles could probably handle a few pots and pans, but she didn’t. Anyone who could handle a few pots and pans could probably do the cooking as well, which meant that she really should be heading home. But she wasn’t ready for that just yet. John kept telling her that she was weak, that she needed more rest, that she had to take it slow if she wanted to regain all her strength. She chose to believe him.

  * * *

  The believing was all well and good on Saturday. John was in the bookstore all day. J.J. was in and out with sitters. Nina slept a bit, read a bit, boiled up chicken breasts and made chicken salad sandwiches for lunch as a surprise for John.

  He was furious. “I don’t want you working.”

  “But I’m feeling stronger, and I’m bored. Honestly, John, what I did was no effort. I’m standing better and walking better. Besides, I have all afternoon to rest.”

  The look he gave her said that she’d better do just that, but she noticed with satisfaction that he ate every last bite of his sandwich before he returned to the store. Buoyed by that, she did rest awhile. When she woke up, she finished the book he had given to her to read, then went back into the kitchen and cooked up a batch of chocolate chip cookies.

  J.J. Sawyer might have had vision and hearing problems, but nothing was wrong with his sense of smell. The cookies were s
till in the oven when he followed his nose there. He was positively ebullient when she let him peek through the glass.

  John’s sense of smell was nearly as keen. At the first lull in business, he too materialized in the kitchen, where, hands on his hips, he surveyed the scene. Two fifteen-year-old girls, J.J. and Nina were sitting at the table having an orgy of cookies and milk.

  “Better hurry,” Nina warned. “They won’t last long.”

  “Should I ask who made them?”

  “No.”

  Eagerly standing up on his chair, J.J. held out a half-eaten cookie to his father. “Are they good?” John asked in sign.

  Nodding vigorously, J.J. continued to hold out the cookie until John reached for it, and, with a mischievous grin, he promptly stuffed it in his mouth.

  “You devil,” his father said, and reached for a cookie of his own. He made a show of taking a bite and thinking about the taste, before downing the rest of the cookie in one large bite.

  “You’re as bad as he is,” Nina said as she rose from the table. Taking J.J.’s eyeglasses from his nose, she washed a chocolate streak from one lens, rinsed and dried both, then carefully slipped them back on. She bent over to study her handiwork. “Better?” Her eyes shot to John’s. “How do I sign that?”

  He showed her. She repeated the two-part gesture to J.J., who returned it. Eminently pleased with herself and the situation, she took up a napkin, filled it with cookies and handed it to John. “For work,” she said.

  In a typically John way, he looked at the cookies, looked at her, then slowly took the small bundle. “Thanks,” was all he said before he returned to the store.

  * * *

  Nina thought a lot about that “thanks” during the rest of the day. Even more, she thought about the look that had gone with it, because it hadn’t held gratitude so much as puzzlement, even frustration, if she guessed right. But what could she tell him? She liked to bake so she’d baked cookies, which was no more than she might have done if she had been home and snowed in on a winter weekend with no hope of getting to work.

  Maybe he was thinking that she wanted to impress him.

  Maybe he was thinking that she wanted to impress J.J.

  Maybe he was thinking that she was well enough to leave.

  She was. She really was. Come Saturday night, when she stayed awake through the entire movie he rented, she knew it. Come Sunday morning, when she put on the bathing suit he’d picked up at her apartment and spent the day—albeit restfully—at the beach with J.J. and him, she knew it. Come Sunday evening, lolling around on the sofa, trying to read but thinking instead about the irresistible lure of John’s body, she knew it.

  John knew it, too, because shortly after she said good-night and stole off to her room, he appeared at her door. Little more than a shadow in the night, he crossed to the bed and sat down. No longer a shadow then, he took her in his arms.

  Senses that had been gradually reviving over the course of the past few days came fully awake. With a soft moan, Nina slid her arms around his neck. He was so wonderful to hold, so solid, so gentle, virile in everything from his shape to his scent. She felt so alive, restored, whole in mystifying ways.

  “I missed this,” he murmured. “All the time you’ve been here, I’ve wanted to hold you. It was toughest at the beach today. You looked so pretty.”

  She swallowed against a swell of emotion.

  “You want to leave.”

  “I don’t, but I can’t stay. I’m getting better. Every day.”

  For the first time, he didn’t refute her argument. Instead, he said, “It’s a rat race out there. You don’t belong in it.”

  “I do. It’s where I’ve always been.”

  “Only because you had no other choice. But you do now. I want you to stay here, Nina. I want you to stay here with me.”

  Her heart contracted. “Oh, John.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I can’t. I can’t just give up everything I’ve spent a lifetime working for.”

  Pulling back, he took her face in his hands. “I’m not asking you to give everything up, just to add some things. You’ve been happy here. I know you have. You made up your mind that you couldn’t work, and you were happy here.”

  “But now I can work. Maybe not full-time yet, but certainly half-time.”

  “So go to work from here.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Unable to resist, she touched his mouth. “Because I’d feel guilty. I’ve always been independent. I come and go as I please. I can’t be doing that from your home. Especially now.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Her fingers moved aside. Inching up, she touched her lips to his, simply because she needed to feel him that way. When she drew back, she knew that what she was about to say was the frightening truth. “Now I’d be tempted, so tempted to play with you. I’d be tempted to lie around reading all night, or spend the afternoon making sand castles, or bake us all into obesity. It’s been nice here, so nice, but I have to leave. If I don’t, I won’t get where I want to be, and if I don’t get where I want to be, I might come to resent you, and I’d never want to do that, John.”

  Amber eyes alive in the dark, he moved his gaze around her face. He followed the eye motion with that of a hand. His voice was low and sandy. “It isn’t right that it should be one or the other. You’ll be hurt, Nina. I don’t want that.”

  “No hurt,” she said, but the accompanying shake of her head was cut short when his hand slipped lower to her neck, then lower still to the budding swell of her breast. She bit down on her lip to stifle a moan.

  “You like that?” he whispered. His large hand circled her, moving inward in slow, concentric rings.

  “Oh, yes,” she whispered back. “You have a way with my body.”

  “At least I have that.”

  “You have more—” she began, but the words died when he touched one taut nipple. Another moan came from her throat, this one slipping free into the air.

  “Do I hurt you?”

  “Only by making me want more.”

  “Your stomach—”

  “No, no.” Covering his hand, she pressed it close. “You set me on fire.”

  The night hid his expression, but the catch of his breath told of what she’d missed. Gently he lowered her to the bed. His mouth followed, capturing hers in a kiss that opened gently, as did her body. Taking advantage of that opening, his hands loved her breasts through the silk of her thin nightie. She felt herself swell to his touch, felt the ache of wanting in her nipples, then lower. Arching upward, she tried to bring him down, but he held himself steadily over her while his hands continued their sweet torture.

  The doctor had told her, before leaving the hospital, that her body would tell her when sex was okay. At the time, she’d felt numb and sore. Passion had seemed a distant phenomenon, not the least bit appealing to her bruised and mending self.

  Five days of rest and tender care at John’s hand had made a world of difference. Though she could feel the intermittent tugging in stomach muscles that contracted with desire, the sensation blended in with her need.

  “I want you,” she whispered, and slid her hands down his thighs. She was making the upward journey to his groin when he caught her hands and pinned them by her shoulders.

  Holding both wrists, he seduced her mouth with a series of deep soul kisses. Then he worked his way down and applied that devastatingly capable mouth to her breasts. From one hard tip to the other he moved, using his tongue, his teeth, his fingers. The wetter her nightie grew, the hotter she grew inside.

  When he slipped his hand under the shirt and touched her between her legs, she cried out.

  “Hurting?” he asked in concern.

  “With need.” She grabbed his wrist to stop him. “Make love to me, John.” She arched toward his hips but was only able to make the briefest, glancing contact with his erection when he pinned her down.

  “
It’s too soon.”

  “No. No. I want you inside.”

  “Too soon,” he repeated, and levered himself up enough to return his hand to her cleft. “This way,” he whispered, taking her mouth in an enveloping kiss at the same time that his fingers found their way to her darkest heat.

  She was lost then. The best she could do was to flex frantic fingers on his back while he built the fire inside her to an explosive level. He stroked her inside and out, up and down, back and forth, until her shallow breathing caught and she was shot to the pinnacle of orgasmic release.

  Her return to reality was a slow one. By the time she could finally open her eyes, she was being cradled against John’s supine body. The pervasive weakness she felt told her that, much as she wanted to make love to him back, she wouldn’t be doing it that night.

  Her “Oh, John” was a soulful sound.

  Silently he stroked her hair.

  Gradually the trembling of her body eased, leaving a great fatigue in its place. “I want … I want…” The words were slurred, the thoughts behind them muddled.

  It wasn’t until dawn Monday, when she woke up wanting John and finding herself alone in bed, that those thoughts jelled.

  9

  By the time she heard waking sounds in the rest of the house, Nina had dressed, gathered her belongings and packed her small bag. As soon as those other sounds moved into the kitchen, she headed there, too.

  John was at the stove frying eggs. At the sight of him, she felt an ache start inside. It had nothing to do with her recent surgery and everything to do with her growing feeling for the man she had to leave.

  She hadn’t been standing at the door for more than a few seconds when he looked her way, not the least bit startled. She guessed that he’d been expecting her.

  Returning his attention to the eggs, he scooped one onto a plate, added a piece of toast and set the breakfast in front of J.J., who was on his knees on a chair at the table.

  Looking at the little boy, Nina felt another ache. She had growing feeling for him, too, and that was even more surprising than the other. She had liked John for a while now; in the past ten days, her feelings had only intensified. J.J., on the other hand, had been a stranger up until the Thursday before. Stranger? Alien being was more apt. He was a child and he had problems. She had never lived with a child before, let alone one with problems. It hadn’t been anywhere near as bad as she’d thought it would be.