Never Too Late For Love

by Marie Ferrarella

  It was like coming home, she realized with an unexpected tug at her heart. Her memory shuffled through the picture postcards in her mind, recalling happy days, days she’d spent with Melanie when both of them were growing up.

  "I haven’t been here in years," she confided. Pleasure filled her voice as she looked around. It seemed almost magical in the moonlight. Or was that because he was here beside her? "I always loved coming here."

  Margo leaned forward, trying to make things out in the artificial glow of streetlights. The scenic arrangement of living quarters and hotels approximated a Mediterranean coastline, allowing her to visually enjoy the best of both worlds.

  He glanced at her as he searched for the street he wanted. They were all so tiny, it was easy to miss in the semidarkness.

  She was positively glowing. He’d made the right decision. "Yes, I know."

  His words pulled her back. "How?"

  Still looking for the turnoff, he didn’t see the wary look entering her eyes. "Melanie told me."

  Margo didn’t understand. "Why would Melanie do that?"

  "It just came up in the conversation," he said vaguely.

  He didn’t bother adding that the conversation had centered on finding the right setting in which he would propose to her. Bruce knew just how important proper settings were to Margo, and he figured he needed all the help he could get

  .

  He saw she wasn’t quite satisfied. "Favorite spots in California, things like that. Melanie said that you and she used to come here all the time when she was a little girl."

  Placated, Margo relaxed again and nodded. "We’d come early, while it was still overcast. That way we had the beach to ourselves for a while. Elaine never cared for the sand, so it was just Melanie and me--and a vat of suntan lotion made three." She treasured that time. She always would. "We stayed all day," she added when he looked at her. "That necessitates a lot of suntan lotion unless we wanted to look like lobsters." She glanced down at her fair skin. It seemed even paler in the moonlight. "Are we going to a restaurant here?" She wondered if they had all changed by now.

  "In a manner of speaking." It was a restaurant that had agreed to cater the meal for him. A French restaurant that he knew without being told Margo would love.

  Love being the active word here, he mused.

  He was being deliberately difficult. "Picnic on the beach?" she guessed again.

  There it was, Bruce thought, spotting the restaurant. Right where it was supposed to be, at the next light. He glanced at her as he slowed down for the turn. "You really hate not knowing things, don’t you?"

  She pretended to eke the answer out between gritted teeth. "With a passion."

  He laughed, making the right turn. "Your ordeal is almost over."

  Bruce turned down a street that looked out directly onto the beach below. Again, it was like the merging of two different worlds. The area between the beach and the pavement was a hilly terrain covered with hearty grass, vegetation where entire generations of squirrels lived, and an ancient, gnarled tree. The latter had long ago laid down a section of its bark, allowing it to creep along the grass as it grew. Now it resembled a giant, stretched out on the grass, propping up his shaggy head as he rested.

  For Margo the feeling of charged excitement, of homecoming grew. The years melted away. It was as if she’d never left.

  "I remember this." Margo sat forward, on the edge of her seat. "There used to be a gazebo farther down." She pointed in the general direction. "Just before the path leading down to the beach."

  "There still is." He kept his voice mild, slightly distracted, afraid she’d pick up on his intentions before he had a chance to surprise her with them. Parking at a meter that was halfway to the gazebo and his goal, Bruce got out and fed quarters into it as Margo exited the car on her side.

  Rounding the trunk, she thought she could make out the edge of the gazebo’s wooden roof. She stood on her toes to get a better view, but there were several trees in the way.

  "You’re right, it’s still there."

  She tugged on his arm, wanting to verify the gazebo’s existence as quickly as possible. She felt like a child, returning to a beloved playground.

  It was just as she remembered it, except that there was a newer roof on it. And someone had thought to put up a guardrail to keep people from leaning over too far. There was approximately a three-hundred-foot drop from the edge of the gazebo down to the beach below.

  It took her a moment to see the table.

  When she did, she stared at it, moving closer. There was a table in the middle of the gazebo. Covered with a lacy white tablecloth, with two tall, gray-blue candles in the center, it was set for two. A thick, velvet rope served as a boundary line, keeping her from gaining entry.

  "Oh." Disappointment coupled with wistfulness floated through her sigh. "I guess someone’s having a private party here."

  "Yes." Bruce removed the rope that the maitre d’ had placed there only ten minutes before. "We are."

  "You did this?" Her eyes widened. How impossibly romantic, she thought. Margo tried not to let it undo her too much, but she was already too late.

  The man was just getting better and better. She was really going to miss him.

  Bruce glanced over his shoulder toward the restaurant that stood adjacent to the gazebo and saw the maitre d’ through the window. The man was watching them. Making eye contact, he smiled and nodded at Bruce, apparently satisfied that he had followed instructions to the letter.

  Taking Margo’s arm, Bruce ushered her into her seat. "Strictly speaking, Philippe did it, but I made the arrangements."

  She looked at him as he sat down. "Philippe?"

  "The maitre d’ from the restaurant." He nodded toward the building. But Philippe was no longer at the window, having apparently gone on to tend to his other duties.

  "Well, both of you certainly know how to set a table and get to a woman’s heart." Margo removed the cover from her dish and found lobster Newburg waiting to delight her palate.

  She raised her eyes to his as a disquietude nudged at her. He was going to an awful lot of trouble to make this a memorable evening. "Melanie again?"

  Streamers of pale moonlight sneaking in over his shoulder bathed Margo’s skin, made her look almost ethereal. Bruce set his own cover on the side table Philippe had provided. "She’s very helpful, your daughter."

  "And very secretive." Just the slightest frown formed on her brow, then vanished again. "I worked with her all day, and she didn’t say a word about this." You would have thought Melanie would have at least hinted something was going on instead of acting surprised when Bruce called.

  Good girl, he thought. He knew he could count on Melanie. "l asked her not to."

  So much for loyalty, Margo thought. "At the risk of sounding monotonous, why?"

  He reached across the table, covering her hand with his. It was all the contact he allowed himself right now. "Because then it would spoil the surprise."

  "l see." She bit back the urge to ask what surprise, knowing she was beginning to sound like Johnny One-Note. But Margo sincerely hoped that he was only referring to the dinner itself and not something more.

  Something that would ruin everything.

  Bruce saw the tiny furrow form between her brows. It wasn’t quite the reaction he had hoped for, he thought. But maybe he was reading too much into it.

  Taking the bottle of wine that Philippe had left chilling for them. Bruce filled her glass, then his own. His eyes on hers, he lifted the glass in a toast. "To the future."

  They’d had this toast before. she thought. It was her toast. Then it had merely been a nebulous phrase, now it referred to a future that would see them going off in different directions. She didn’t know if she was all that crazy about the future right now, even though she knew, at bottom, that what was going to happen was necessary. What was going on now in the present, this magical interlude, couldn’t be expected to continue.

  The worst thing
in the world would be if she let herself believe that it could. Because if she believed, she’d be at risk of being beaten down again. There was no way she was going to take that kind of risk. She’d risk anything else but that. She couldn’t live through it again and survive.

  Margo substituted a more pleasing toast. "Let’s drink to the moment instead."

  "All right." He touched the rim of his glass to hers. A tiny "clink" resulted. "To the moment."

  As she took a sip of wine, letting it slowly slide down her throat, Bruce felt his gut tighten. Maybe the toast was prophetic. Maybe he should seize the moment, not waiting until after dinner.

  He wasn’t sure he could, anyway.

  Setting his glass down, he reached into his pocket for the ring that was housed there. The ring he’d been carrying around all day like a talisman.

  Fear leaped into her eyes as she saw him reaching into his jacket. An instinct for self-preservation had her quickly grabbing his wrist. ‘

  "What are you doing?"

  He had no idea why she looked so frightened. He dropped his hand from his pocket. This needed a preamble, anyway. Not that he had one.

  Bruce felt his way around. This wasn’t as easy as he’d thought, but then, putting yourself on the line never was. "I’m afraid l don’t have a gift for making flowery speeches like Giovanni."

  There was no comparison between the two men. "You have attributes of your own," she said with a smile, trying to calm down. "And what you say is sincere, which means a lot to a woman, trust me. Giovanni, well, he’s like a very sexy prerecorded message. Well rehearsed, but with no substance."

  He liked that description. "I’m glad you feel that way, because then you won’t mind if l stumble and trip over my own tongue." His smile was rueful as he looked at her. "l’ve been doing that a lot since you came along."

  Bruce took a deep breath, bracing himself. It occurred to him that he felt less intimidated by the prospect of facing a root canal than what he was about to say. but then, there was a great deal more riding on this.

  "I don’t know any other way to say this, but to say it." He took her hand in his. "l never thought I’d love anyone else besides Ellen, but l was wrong. I love you. Margo."

  She could feel her heart swelling, pulling toward him even as panic engulfed her. She hadn’t wanted it to come to this, to declarations of feelings. Because what she was feeling most acutely was afraid. She was afraid, violently afraid, of loving him.

  Of what loving him would mean to her.

  She pulled back her hand, looking away. Looking everywhere but at his face. "I--I don’t really know what to say."

  Hurt scratched at him with tiny, sharp claws but he ignored it. This wasn’t the time to lick wounds.

  "Usually something like, ‘I love you, too,’ works well right about here." He looked into her eyes, searching for a sign that she reciprocated his feelings. He thought she had, but now he wasn’t sure. "Florence would be a wonderful place for a honeymoon."

  Margo pressed her lips together. Nerves jangled, threatening to unravel. "I’m sure a lot of people think so." Avoiding his eyes, she picked up her glass. Her hand was trembling so hard. she spilled a little of the wine on the tablecloth. Tiny amber pools mingled with the lace, staining it. She clutched at the diversion. "Damn, now you’ll probably have to pay Philippe extra."

  "The hell with the tablecloth." He took the glass from her hand. Her skin felt like ice. Why? It wasn’t cold out. What was wrong? "Margo, in case I’m making such a mess of it that you’re missing the point, I’m asking you to marry me."

  She felt cornered, trapped, with nowhere to run. But there had to be. There’d always been somewhere to run before.

  "I know what you’re doing, Bruce, and I don’t want you to do it, because then I’ll have to say no and hurt you, and I don’t want to hurt you." She blinked, feeling tears gathering. Damn him, anyway. "I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just--oh, why did you have to do this?"

  Margo felt as if she were being torn in two. If life had been different, if she still believed in those happy Hollywood endings that her aunt and her daughter believed in, she would have said yes. Shouted yes.

  But she didn’t believe, because she knew better. Knew firsthand that men didn’t stick around. that they disappointed you.

  Feeling lost, desperate for a way out. Margo bolted from the table.

  "Margo, wait." he called after her as she ran down the path to the beach. "Where are you going?"

  She didn’t answer. Because she didn’t know. All she knew was that she had to get away from him. Before she made a fatal mistake, and said yes, the way something was desperately pleading with her to.

  She ran blindly, unable to see because of the tears in her eyes, the tears that were flowing down her cheeks. Sand filled her shoes, pulling at them, slowing her down.

  Stunned, Bruce called after her again, but she just kept running. For a moment he thought of letting her go. If she didn’t want him, he wasn’t going to push, wasn’t going to demand a reason why she was throwing happiness. both his and hers, away. He wasn’t going to--

  The hell he wasn’t.

  He took off after her.

  A marriage proposal wasn’t supposed to bring tears of anguish to someone’s eyes, Bruce knew. There was something else going on here, something he didn’t understand, but he damn well intended to.

  He caught up to her halfway down the beach. He grabbed her by the arm and swung her around to face him. "You move damn quick for a woman in high heels," he commented. trying hard to control the anger that fought for control of him. Being angry wasn’t going to solve anything.

  She gulped in air, trying to steady her racing pulse. "Practice."

  He didn’t smile. "Why, how many proposals have you run from?"

  Margo took a deep breath. but she couldn’t stop the trembling inside. "Yours is the first."

  He shook his head, that wouldn’t wash anymore. "I can’t believe that no one’s ever asked you to marry him before."

  "Believe it." A rueful smile played on her lips. "I never stuck around long enough for it to go that far. I was usually gone as soon as the first sign cropped up that anything serious was going to happen."

  Why? What was she so afraid of? "You didn’t this time."

  No, she didn’t. She’d hung around, physically and emotionally hungry for more, just a little more. That had been her mistake. Greed. And now she was paying the price. The price of changing a beautiful memory into a sad one. Why couldn’t he just leave well enough alone?

  She shrugged, looking away. "I’m getting slower in my old age."

  He brushed his hand along her cheek. Margo struggled not to lean into it.

  Bruce saw the muted desire in her eyes. "You’re not old, Margo. But I want to be there with you when you are."

  She wasn’t going to listen, wasn’t going to let herself fall for a dream. "No, you don’t. Those are just words. Nothing but words."

  He was beginning to understand. "Yes, they are, but they’re my words, Margo. My words and my honor. When have I lied to you?"

  There was a lump growing in her throat. A lump that threatened to choke her. "I don’t know."

  "I haven’t," he snapped, then caught himself. When she began to turn away, he placed his hands on her shoulders, holding her in place, forcing her to look at him. "Damn it, Margo, don’t you think I don’t know what’s going on in your head?"

  She raised her chin. Her voice was shaky. "If you did, you wouldn’t have proposed."

  "I said I know what’s going on in your head," he said gently. "I also know what’s going on in your heart." A defensive expression came over her face. but it faded as she looked up at him. "The same thing that’s going on in mine. I love you, Margo, and I don’t want you leaving my life. Ever."

  She wasn’t going to believe him, she wasn’t. She couldn’t. She knew what would happen if she did. "That’s what you say now, but--"

  "Ever," he repeated more forcefully. "There is
no 'but,' Margo. With all due respect to Thomas Jefferson, all men are not created equal. I’m not your father and I’m not Melanie’s father, or any other man who was stupid enough and insensitive enough to disappoint you in some way. I have no intention of disappearing out of your life." He held her fast, having nothing to work with but what was in his heart. He had to get through to her. "It’s taken me a long time to open my heart again, but I have, and now you’re in it. I’m not about to let you out." He dropped his hands to his side. It was the look in his eyes holding her in place now. "I’m here to stay, and you’d better get used to it."