by Tara Cowan
“Yeah, okay,” he said.
They checked out the situation: a clawfoot bathtub with a spray-thingy in the bathroom. It looked clean, but she wasn’t sitting in it. The spray-thingy would have to do. And it would take about an hour. There were long windows, where the lights from the street below illuminated the rain drops sliding down. They both stood around a little aimlessly, obviously not wanting to sit on the bed. She’d never been more relieved than when he said, “Why don’t we go get dinner?”
“Good idea,” she said. She was halfway to the bathroom when she stopped. “Oh, wait. I bet it’s fancy. We’re not dressed for it.”
“It’ll just have to be. Everyone down there will be like this. And we’ll be paying, so it won’t matter to them too much.”
She hesitated. “Alright. Let me freshen up a little.”
She closed the door behind her, looking at her hair. The good thing about springy curls was that the rain couldn’t make them much springier. She brushed her fingers over them to smooth them a little and took her compact from her purse, touching up her makeup just a little. She glanced down in her purse, seeing her bottle of perfume. She was never sure why she sprayed it.
“Ready?” she said, coming out.
“Yeah.” He followed her out the door.
The dining room was indeed white tablecloth, servers in black. But there were a lot of bedraggled people in jeans, so she wasn’t too worried about it. They got a table and were brought a splendid menu. She ordered a lemonade and fettucine. He ordered wine and salmon. Long drive he didn’t want to make, accosted by parents, hijacked into an overnighter by a downpour—he deserved the wine. And it seemed to help his disposition a lot. He never lashed out or said anything when he was moody, she noticed. But the silence was usually pretty ominous.
Now, he leaned back in his chair a little, hand around the stem of his glass, studying her. “Is it lonely?” he asked.
She lifted her brows, pushing her breadstick around in the sauce. “What I do?”
He nodded, eyes on her face.
“Why, does it seem lonely to you?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Going to cities where you know no one, with a crew you’re on professional terms with…”
“I’ve been on my own for a long time. You get used to it.” She took a drink. “You get kind of used to doing things your way.” She bit her lip, wondering if that was insensitive, if he was still in the stage of wondering how to fill the void, how to bear the loneliness, the loss.
“Yeah.” He surveyed her a moment more. “You don’t have a significant other?”
She shook her head. “I don’t date much.”
His brows drew together. “Really? Why?”
Shrugging, she took a small bite of bread and chewed it, covering for time. It was a good question, really. “I don’t know. All the guys who are interested in me aren’t really husband material. And all the guys I’ve liked would be friends, you know. I would wait to see whether it would work into something, and then they’d come tell me about a date they had Friday night. That was a fun phase.” She rolled her eyes.
He studied her. “You shouldn’t have let them treat you that way.”
“They never knew I even liked them. We were friends, you know?”
“They always know,” he said grimly. “They were using you. All the perks of a relationship with none of the downsides.”
She blinked, thinking about it. Of course, it had happened several times in college, and since then, she’d been on a couple of dates, but she hadn’t really thought about it in a while. She guessed he might be right. “That’s probably true,” she said after their salads had been brought. “But it’s ancient history now.” She had had a serious relationship a long time ago, but it wasn’t meant to be, and she never thought of him anymore. Meanwhile, she was, it seemed, doomed to spinsterhood while Annie had a local firefighter fiancé. And the funny thing was, it never bothered her. She never even thought about her singleness. Sure, she was lonely now and then, but who wasn’t?
She took a bite of the salad. It was good, but it needed more cheese and tomatoes. She looked up at him, scrutinizing. “So do you ever date?”
He looked up. Deer in the headlights. Well, what was good for the goose was good for the gander.
“Uh, no,” he said, sitting up and becoming deeply interested in his salad.
“Why not?”
A slight pause. “At first, it was for myself. Now it’s for Jude.”
She nodded once. She could understand that. “He wouldn’t want someone to replace his mom.”
He chewed for a moment. “Well… It’s not that so much as… He was pretty messed up after… I think it was a combination of PTSD and depression. He saw a child psychologist for a year, and he’s so much better. But he needs my full attention.”
“Poor little guy,” she said softly. “He was injured, too, wasn’t he,” she said. It was more a statement than a question.
The rain continued, the fireplace snapped, and the lights were low. The food had been brought, and it was delicious. It created an intimate atmosphere. She never would’ve asked, and he never would’ve responded otherwise. His fingers curled in on the table, and his hand maybe clenched.
“Yeah,” Adrian answered. His thoughts swept him up.
He remembered the phone call, the almost overwhelming sick feeling.
“What happened?” she asked softly. Not in a nosy way, but in a compassionate one.
He shook his head, sniffing. It was a stalling mechanism, and he knew that, and hated himself for pointing it out to himself. He sat back in the chair. “Lauren was…difficult sometimes. She’d be perfectly human in public and then at home… I don’t know if it was bad behavior, or—I suspected Bipolar, but she would never get checked.” He felt her watching him closely. He shook his head, eyes narrowed on nothing in particular in the distance. “It began to be all I could do to stand it—the fights, the cold shoulders, the mind games… I thought about a divorce, but… If I could’ve gotten full custody—but even still, I couldn’t stand the thought of her taking care of him just one day. And it didn’t feel right. To divorce the mother of my child. We’d…had good times, too. And she’d come around just enough that I thought maybe it was just a phase. Maybe she was unhappy for some reason.”
She nodded, eyes gentle and sad. He studied her for a moment. “So I hired Jane. I told Lauren it was to help her out. She was fine with that,” he said almost bitterly. “She always complained about how I didn’t know how much she did for Jude.” He fingered his napkin. “That day… We’d had a huge argument. I don’t know if it sent her over the edge, or what possessed her to drive at that speed in the rain.” He had driven at an unreasonable speed himself to get to Savannah, where Jude had been life-flighted. Harris, who had forged a power of attorney so that he could consent to everything for Jude, had gotten there long before he did. He had met him at the doors of the hospital while Jude was in surgery and wrapped him in a smothering embrace while Adrian trembled like he’d caught a severe fever. He didn’t know how long they had stood there, Harris crying, too, and whispering over and over, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Adrian.” All he had wanted was news of his son. It wasn’t comforting. He had gone into shock on the helicopter and had possibly flat-lined for a moment once they’d gotten him to the hospital. Adrian had always been grateful to Harris for living those moments for him, instead of him. He wasn’t sure he could’ve stood it.
His parents had arrived and had sat on either side of him all night, each of them clasping one of his hands. And then he’d had to go make the phone call to her family… But when they’d let him go back to see Jude, sleeping on the hospital bed, his face unharmed and as sweet as ever, his world had righted.
“I think she was leaving me,” he said. “To go to her parents in Savannah.” His jaw clenched, and even he knew his voice sou
nded cold. “But in the end, I don’t really care because she almost killed my son.”
As Adeline went up the stairs, she mulled over all he had said, and hadn’t. She could see him over there reliving it, but his words to her had been few. But whew! Just when you thought you had someone figured out. She had apologized for bringing it up, suddenly remembering that his brother had told her he never talked about it. She didn’t think Jude was the only one who had been traumatized by it. But she had to hand it to him: he seemed to be in remarkably good mental health. He didn’t even smother Jude, which she would if he was her baby. He must practice what he preached.
The conversation had turned, though not to lighter topics. Okay, almost anything was lighter than that. But the mood seemed to be set, and they had gone into several surprisingly deep things, though she didn’t think she knew him much better at all. It was remarkable how she knew so many facts about his life and almost nothing about him at all.
He stuck the key in the door and then stood back for her to enter first. She crossed the threshold, seeing a good fairy had lit the fireplace. Not good, fairy. Not good at all. She swallowed.
He locked up behind them, and she said, “I…think I’m going to take a shower.”
“Good luck,” he said, somewhat wryly.
She smiled and went into the bathroom, bringing her purse with her as if that could make up for a lack of an overnight bag. It would be super-fun to go right back into the exact same clothes. But at least she wouldn’t have that travel-worn feeling that made her feel like she’d been to Woodstock. If she was going to feel that way, it better be actual Woodstock.
Lightyears later, she emerged, feeling like she’d touched everything in the bathroom, and said, “Your turn. At least there’s plenty of hot water and I didn’t get struck by lightning.” Thunder rumbled in the distance.
He was sitting on the bed with his phone in his hand, but he looked up. His eyes roved her face in what felt like an extremely intimate way. She felt it all the way to her toes. She would’ve thought the wet hair and the lack of makeup was shocking him, but he didn’t look that way. He didn’t look that way at all. She bit her lip.
He stood finally. “Great.” He cleared his throat, finally going into the bathroom.
She sat on the bed, closing her eyes. What was wrong with her. It wasn’t like her to be such an idiot. She saw his phone lying there and assumed he’d called to ask Jane if Jude could stay with her. He must be pretty decent: creeps didn’t leave their phones lying around or hand them over to their moms.
It was good that he was decent, since there would be about a centimeter between them in this bed.
When he finally emerged, she wasn’t prepared. Not for Ralph Lauren model with wet hair, or for the white T-shirt which must’ve been beneath his button down all day. What was wrong with her? And why didn’t she think Jason Mraz was sexy anymore? She stood. She needed to get off the bed.
But that was a mistake, too. He was still standing, his eyes following her. How she ended up right in front of him, she never was sure. She thought she had been going to her purse to get her phone.
They were incredibly close. He was looking down at her, eyes dipping from her lips back up to her eyes. There was a steamy, serious look in his. In her mind, she knew the rain was still pelting the windows. But her mind wasn’t working very well. She couldn’t hear anything. Couldn’t see anything but him.
He kissed her. Just a slight brush of the lips, but oh so much more. She slipped her eyes closed, tasting the wine on his lips, feeling the warmth of his body. Her hand touched his chest. Her mind was lost, intoxicated. It was as though she were in someone else’s body.
He kissed her again, this time putting a hand on her back and pulling her gently, easily, against him. She had forgotten what it was like. His lips were heaven, tantalizing. He obviously knew what he was doing. The kiss deepened, and she, tipping up on her toes to get closer, to kiss more deeply, wondered if she were in a silly romance novel where the man kissed and touched you just as you wanted, just as a man should, the way that could bring you to your knees. And it was him, this mysterious stranger, this man who kept everything bottled up until you wondered if he had any passion. But you always knew it was there, shimmering beneath the surface, and like a treasure hunter, you wanted to find it before anyone else did.
And it wasn’t long until romance gave way to unfettered passion. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she needed to slow it down. But doing so would’ve caused physical pain. Breaking away completely would’ve killed her.
And when they somehow ended up on the bed, and she felt her shirt slipping over her head, and realized her fingers were on his, she didn’t even break the kiss.
Massachusetts, March 1860
Chapter Twenty
Providence Church was a clean white chapel, though not a small one. It seemed that most of the county attended it, servant and master alike. Miss Sarah Haley insisted that her new sister-in-law ride with her and her sisters in their carriage, and so they were taken first. She was permitted to sit next to John Thomas during the service, however, on one of the pews of dark mahogany, crafted with clean lines and a door so old it creaked when opened.
Things were rather strained between them, and had been since yesterday, and she could no more read her husband’s thoughts than understand why the woman in front of her had chosen to wear such a garish plaid.
There was a pretty girl with dimples and a smart bonnet sitting across the aisle near the front. She kept looking back at them and smiling. There was a great deal of interest, it seemed, in the Southern belle.
Apparently talking was not encouraged, even before the service began. Vincent, sitting on the other side of John Thomas, began bouncing his feet in boredom not long into the reading. A hand on his knee from John Thomas was all it took to still him, however. When one of the many times for them to rise came, John Thomas whispered to her during the noise, while he was helping her to her feet, “That is Patience.” He inclined his head in the direction of the pretty girl.
Patience was married to the Reverend Whitcomb’s eldest son, and she sat with his family in the honored pew. Shannon’s own father-in-law was a deacon, which apparently meant far more to the congregation than the fact that he was a businessman of sharp acumen. She had been surprised to hear him called Deacon John several different times walking in.
The Haleys were apparently held in high regard, as they should be, since they likely funded most of what the church undertook. John Thomas and Adams seemed to be the darlings of the community, likely the conversation of every romantical busybody.
As was Shannon, who was different from any woman there. Her clothes had come under the hand of an extremely talented seamstress. Not a hair was out of place in her deceptively simple twist. But it was more than that. She was the only person in attendance with a stately yet exquisitely feminine manner. With a flavor of beauty which had not quite ever come in their midst, with an air of fragility and a magnetic pull.
She was a creature the likes of which they had never seen, and all one of her admirers could think to say once the service had ended was, “She has an oddly sloping nose!”
It had been whispered to the girl’s friend, but Shannon’s hearing was sharp. She did not deign to look over her shoulder, and she could tell John Thomas hadn’t heard. Well, she had heard far worse in Charleston, she thought, with a cat-like curl to her lip.
Patience walked her way, and soon she was standing before her, smiling in a glowing way. She spoke softly, but sweetly. “Finally, I am able to meet you! How jealous I have been of all of them! Dear brother, introduce me!”
“Yes—Shannon, my sister, Patience—Mrs. Whitcomb, I should say,” he added with a slight smile, taking her hand and pressing it. “Are you well, Patience?”
She kissed his cheek. “I am well now you have returned. Only think how lonely with you and Jonat
han away.” She turned her attention to Shannon. “Jonathan is my husband, and in his final term at Harvard. He had finished school, you see, but needed only a very little more to become a minister.”
Shannon smiled. “I am sure you must miss him. Is he able to visit you?”
“Not much, with the snows this winter. Oh, Sister, you are cold! What are we thinking, John Thomas? She isn’t accustomed.”
“I am quite well,” Shannon said, laughing.
Hand on the small of her back, John Thomas said, “I’ll take her home. Visit us, Patience—the roads shouldn’t be too bad in another week or two.”
“Yes, and you come to us. The Whitcombs would be delighted to have you. Goodbye, Shannon!”
John Thomas led her to a carriage and told the driver to take them home. Mrs. Haley was still talking with the other ladies, most of whom were her social inferiors, and Mr. Haley seemed to be in a meeting. The children were talking with their friends. None of them had looked remotely chilled.
The young couple returned to an empty house, more or less, since they had returned long before the household of family and servants had any intention of leaving the meeting place. He unlocked the door and took her fur tippet once they were across the threshold. He looked her over, noting that she looked tired. She had risen religiously with the rest of the household the full week through, no matter how late their nights.
“I’ll help with your coat,” he said, glancing at her face.
She had walked in, her skirts rustling gently, and she stopped near the center of the foyer. “I ought to go up and take off my hat, in any event,” she said softly, looking at him, for a brief moment, the piercing blue of her eyes meeting his vulnerably before she looked away.
He stepped forward, chest tightening. “Phoebe will still be at church,” he said gently. “All of them are.”