A Bride After All (7 page)

“The day got busier. After that, I grabbed a couple of hotdogs with my cousin’s fiancé because I was ordered to talk him into wearing a tux even if he says he’ll look like an overstuffed penguin in one—which he might. I mean, the man has a point, and a twenty-inch neck. Big boy, Skip is, you’ll see him at the wedding. Not fat, just big, over six-six and built like an offensive tackle, which he was in college. And then I stopped in at my cousin’s to report mission accomplished.”

“She was pleased?”

“Yeah, she was. For someone who had to be talked into wearing a gown herself only a week ago, she’s suddenly all gung-ho for the rest of the trappings. So now, since I’m best man, you get to see me looking like a penguin, too. Or also.”

“I imagine you look very good in a tuxedo. I’m looking forward to it.”

“I’m not. I haven’t worn one since college, for some cotillion I got roped into attending my freshman year.”

“And your wedding,” Claire said.

“No, there was no wedding. We just went down to the courthouse and did it there.” He sort of smiled, sniffed.

“What? What are you thinking about?”

“I was just thinking that the judge was dressed better than either one of us. I think we were both trying to tell each other it was just a piece of paper, a necessary legality, and really didn’t mean anything. Which, as it turned out, it didn’t.”

“What’s the line in that old song? Regrets, I have a few…?”

“Frank Sinatra,
My Way
. But, you know, Claire, I really don’t. I’ve got my son, and he’s worth everything to me. At twenty-two, I wouldn’t say I was what’s called a wild child, but I still wasn’t thinking about actions and consequences, as I should have been. Sean’s arrival made me wake up, grow up. Having a child to care for changes your entire life.”

They’d stopped at a red light, and he turned to look at her again. “No, if somebody handed me one of those Reset buttons and I could go back, do things differently, I wouldn’t change anything. It’s what we experience, live through—survive—that makes us who we are, and I’m pretty content with who I am now. Plus, I can’t picture my life without Sean in it.”

And then he grinned at her, looking slightly sheepish. “And that’s it for this episode of Profound Theater, I promise. I don’t know why I tell you things I’ve never really said to anyone else, or maybe even thought about before, but I’ll try to be better, I promise.”

“Please don’t stop on my account,” Claire told him, touching his hand as it lay on the steering wheel before she could think better of the physical gesture. “I’m…I’m flattered that you’d trust me with such personal information.”

When they got to the restaurant and had been seated, their orders taken and their wine poured, Claire finally said what she’d been rehearsing inside her head for the past ten minutes.

“You’ve been so open and honest with me, Nick. I feel as if I’d like to return the favor.”

He immediately shook his head as he reached across the small square table and took her hand. “No, Claire, you don’t have to do that. In fact, I don’t want you to do that.”

“But—”

“Let me finish. I don’t want you to do that
tonight
. For some reason tonight seemed to be my time, but that doesn’t mean it has to be your time.”

She squeezed his hand, at the same time relaxing the last tense muscles in her body. “Thank you.”

After that, their conversation ranged across a half dozen subjects. They agreed on most of the topics, only parting ways when it came to the proper preparation of filet mignon. Claire liked hers medium-
well, but Nick preferred his rare, very rare. Cool-in-the-center rare.

“Next time, Dracula, why don’t you just tell them to march a cow through here and you can take a bite out of it,” she teased him with that old joke, looking with some distaste at the now congealing juices on his otherwise empty plate. Even his vegetables were all gone, which was more than she could say for her own plate.

“You’re just saying that because you can’t stand the sight of blood.”

“I’m a PA, Nick. I’d have chosen another profession if I couldn’t stand the sight of blood. And that’s not blood on your plate. It’s juice. Sort of. I hope.”

“You know, until a few years ago, I’d never heard of a physician assistant. What made you choose to become one?”

She sat back so that one server could remove their dishes and another hand them the dessert menu. A quick look at the choices had her regretting that she felt much too full for anything more than a cup of coffee.

“We could split one,” Nick offered, at that moment looking more like his son than he probably knew, so that she agreed, inwardly wondering if she could eat another bite. But she could pretend, leaving more for him.

“I’m full, too, but I don’t think I’ve ever turned down dessert. Especially one that promises to have that much chocolate in it. Now, back to why you became a PA.”

Pushing back the thought that, in some countries, chocolate was considered an aphrodisiac, Claire launched into her explanation.

“Derek, my brother, went to med school, and I thought about doing the same, but decided on nursing instead. Halfway through, it occurred to me that I didn’t want nursing, either, but something sort of in between. It’s a rapidly growing field, and I couldn’t be happier. Did you always plan to be a journalist?”

Nick nodded, his mouth full of chocolate cake. His face took on an expression of delight before he swallowed, smiled and said, “The man doesn’t lie, that’s definitely chocolate. Go on, try a bite.”

“I’d hate to deprive you,” she told him, but then dipped her fork into the confection sitting between them. “Oh,” she said moments later, guiding her fork back to the plate for another taste. “That’s indecent.”

“Bordering on X-rated, yes. We each should have ordered one.”

“Never! We’ll always just have to share.”

The moment the words were out of her mouth she wanted to kick herself. But Nick only smiled, and agreed with her.

She might be digging into a slice of chocolate cake, but suddenly she felt as if she were digging a hole straight into potential trouble. She was liking this man much too much, and definitely much too fast.

“To answer your question,” Nick said, thankfully dropping the subject of future shared desserts, “do you remember Watergate?”

“The Washington, D.C., hotel, or the scandal?”

“Actually, the movie about the scandal. And the book. All the books about the marvels of investigative journalism. My dad’s a political junkie and pointed me toward the first book while I was still in high school. I took it from there. I was going to be just like Woodward and Bernstein.”

Claire nodded. “The journalists. I remember hearing the names somewhere. But that was a long time ago.”

“Maybe too long ago, I agree. A lot of things have changed since then, most especially newspaper journalism. You’re looking at one of a dying breed, Claire. Which is why I’m now also writing a twice-weekly online column for a site a few of us have going. We get more readers there in one day than the entire weekly circulation of the
Chronicle
, with the advantage of being global, not local. If print newspaper circulation keeps going down, soon people will have to find other ways to line their birdcages and wrap up yesterday’s fish bones.”

“I feel so responsible,” Claire told him. “I’m one of those people who gets most of my news from TV and the Internet. I still have the
Chronicle
delivered every morning, but that’s more out of habit than anything else. Often I don’t get past the front-page headlines.”

He’d paid their bill and they were walking out of the restaurant, which led them straight onto the casino floor. “I forgive you. Progress happens, that’s all. You either go with it or get left behind. For instance, look over there.”

She looked where he was pointing, and her jaw dropped. “What on earth is that?”

She saw two rows of what looked to be kiosks, each one containing a huge video screen and fronted by a semi-circle sort of bar with attached and, at the moment, empty chairs. On the screen was the image of a woman standing in front of a green-topped table. She seemed to be looking around the large casino floor, appearing wistful and slightly bored. Not to mention beautiful and artificially enhanced.

“That, Claire, is the twenty-first century version of a blackjack table. She smiles as she takes your money, talks to you, and you don’t even have to tip her when you get up to leave. It’s when I think about the newspaper business, and things like that virtual dealer doing the job real people used to do, that I realize maybe I’m a bit of a Luddite.”

“Really? If you feel yourself being overcome by some urge to go over there and smash the machines, let me know.”

“You’ll restrain me?” Nick asked her, grinning.

“Nope. I’ll head for the door and pretend I never saw you before in my life. I’m no fool.”

He laughed and slipped his arm around her waist, which felt nice. “Come on, let’s get out of here. Unless you want to gamble? We probably missed the last show anyway. I didn’t realize we’d talked so much over dinner.”

Claire looked at the rows and rows of slot machines and the crowds of people eager to try their
luck. “Just getting up every day is enough of a gamble for me, I think. Maybe we could go somewhere else?”

He turned her toward the valet parking desk, bending close so that he could almost whisper his next words into her ear. “We could always go back to my house, Ms. Ayers, and I could show you my etchings.”

“Now
that’s
gambling,” she told him as her heart performed a flip that would probably score at least a seven-point-three at the Olympic games.

“Life’s a gamble, Claire,” he told her, suddenly serious. “I guess it all comes down to whether or not we’re willing to take a risk. If I’m going too fast for you, just let me know.”

She bit her bottom lip as she lowered her gaze to the tiled floor for a moment, drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “No,” she said, looking up at him, refusing to blink. “I don’t think you are.”

“I
keep telling myself we’re both adults.”

Nick and Claire were standing face-to-face in his bedroom, moonlight streaming in through the nearly floor-to-ceiling small-paned windows that faced the rear of the house. They were holding hands, and looking at each other in the soft, intimate darkness.

“And how’s that working out for you?” she asked him, knowing she sounded slightly breathless.

His smile pretty much wiped away the rest of her nervousness. “I guess you could say, so far, so good.”

They’d shared their first kiss as they waited for the valet to bring his car. It was a short kiss, as they were fairly public. But it wasn’t just perfunctory.
She’d tasted him in that kiss, and his lips had been warm, encouraging rather than insistent.

She’d liked that.

He held her hand when he could during the drive, occasionally raising it to his mouth. Keeping contact. Holding the mood. Melting her in ways she only vaguely remembered, or perhaps had never experienced before Nick touched her.

The night was so quiet, the world hushed, the mood expectant.

Nick leaned in, caught her mouth with his own. Once. Twice. A third time. Until she followed him as he retreated, took the initiative.

“You taste good,” he told her. “Like chocolate.”

She tipped her head, began nuzzling at the side of his neck. It was like coming home. She felt warm, safe, and yet delighted to be there. “Considering how you enjoyed the cake, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He let go of her hands to slide his arms around her waist, and she raised hers to encircle his shoulders. “If there was music, we could be dancing.”

“I thought we were.”

His laugh was low, easy. “True. How about we sit this next one out?” Taking her hand, he led her over to the bed, turned her so that her back was to it. “I want you so much.”

He was so honest, not that he could hide the intensity of his expression, or the physical evidence of his arousal as he pressed lightly against her. She
returned the pressure with her hips, probably the oldest signal in the world, offering herself to him.

They were still dancing, but the melody had changed. There were no more bantering, no more teasing lyrics. Now it was the evocative throb of the saxophone that ran through her veins; provocative, blatantly sexual.

She made the first move, stripping off her jacket, lifting the silk shell up and over her head, her hair resettling itself around her shoulders.

Nick didn’t reach for her bare midriff, move to cup her breasts.

No. He slid his hands into her hair, threading his fingers into the thick waves as he pulled her closer, slanted his mouth against hers. Now his kiss was deeper, more intimate, mimicking the physical union that was as anticipated as it was inevitable.

Three years. Three years
. Toward the end, she and Steven hadn’t had much left between them except the sex, and she’d been celibate since then by both choice and inclination.

Now she wanted. She felt the need. And, to be here with Nick, she had to believe her reawakened sexual appetite wasn’t the only reason.

She knew it wasn’t. She wasn’t that shallow, and Nick was so much more than an opportunity for release. She craved his touch, yes. But
his
touch, his alone. If she believed that physical desire was enough she’d not have learned anything at all in the last three years, not about life, and not about herself.

Nick had discarded his sport coat in the living
room, and now, somehow, his tie was hanging around Claire’s neck as he stripped off his dress shirt. And he’d done it all without ever really leaving her, their mouths clinging for endless moments, his touch never really gone from her as he’d found the front catch on her bra, sighed into her mouth as her breasts were released and then cupped by his large hands.

Claire reached for his belt, her hands steady. There was no reason to fumble, no nervousness or hesitation. They needed to be closer, she and Nick, and she took the next logical step.

As did he.

And all without undo haste. All accomplished amid sweet kisses and increasingly intimate caresses. They each explored new territory, learning the landscape of one another until they were both naked in the moonlight.

“I never knew anyone could be so beautiful,” Nick whispered as he picked her up, laid her down on crisp white sheets that were cool against her skin. “Or that I could want someone so much.”

She held up her arms, beckoning him to join her on the bed. “You don’t have to say that, Nick. I’m here with you because I want to be here with you.”

He lay down beside her, pulling her into his arms. “And I’m smart enough not to ask you why that is. I’m just going to be glad you are.”

Nick awoke and turned his head to look at the bedside clock. It was after three. They’d been asleep only two hours, so what had wakened him?

But as he turned his head once more, to look at the woman who slept in the crook of his arm, he closed his eyes against the full moon and the light that shone straight through the windows and into his face. He always closed the drapes when the moon was full, having quickly learned that moonlight can at times be as intrusive as sunlight.

Except that tonight he blessed the light, for it fell on Claire, too. On her magnificent caramel hair as it tumbled around her face. On one slim white shoulder, the sweet dip and curve of her waist and hip.

She looked so serene in sleep. A woman. In her mind, in her heart, in her decisions.
I’m here with you because I want to be here with you.

Her words had been humbling. He’d been humbled. And his passion for her, his desire, his need for her, had doubled, and then redoubled again.

There’d been no further reason for speech. They needed to feel, both of them. Those words may have been unspoken, but they both knew what the other needed. He knew his own reasons, but not hers. But that didn’t matter. She’d tell him when she felt able, and he’d wait until then.

He began smoothing back her hair from her cheek, not in order to wake her, but because he couldn’t resist touching her. Her hair was so thick, warm, almost alive. He hoped she’d wear it down more often. The professional Claire was beautiful, yes. But the Claire now sleeping in his arms was so much more than beautiful. She was also vulnerable, and trusting, and, at least for the moment, his.

She opened her eyes, her lids still heavy with sleep, and then looked up at him. Smiled a sleepy smile. “Hi.”

“Hi, yourself,” he said, gazing down at her, feeling himself once more drowning in her soft brown eyes.

Occhi molli di un Madonna.
The soft eyes of a Madonna.

“Is your arm asleep?” she asked him, pushing herself up and away from him, dragging the sheet along with her to cover her breasts as she sat looking at him. “You should have pushed me off.”

“What, and give up the view?”

“Very funny.” Claire let the sheet drop as she finger-combed her hair away from her face, utterly uncaring of her nakedness. Again, he felt a surge of feeling that came immediately after a thought he’d had before: she trusted him. He hadn’t known such a thing would matter so much to him, but it did.

“I probably look like Medusa, except for the snakes, I mean. This is more like a rat’s nest. I really should get it cut. It would be much more practical.”

“I refuse to kneel at your feet, sobbing ‘please don’t, please don’t.’ But feel free to imagine the scene,” Nick told her, lazily trailing his fingertips up and down her long, smooth thigh. “Are you hungry? Thirsty? Horny?”

She blinked at him, and then laughed, a sound he could happily listen to for the rest of his life, he realized. “How about all of the above?”

“Ah, I like that answer.” He got out of bed, pulled on his dress slacks sans belt, and tossed his dress shirt to her. “If madame would care to join me in the kitchen?”

“Madame would, thank you.”

He waited until she’d buttoned the shirt, which had never looked half so good on him, and then waited until she was walking, barefoot, down the hall, taking a moment to enjoy the view once more before he followed her.

She lowered bread into the four-slice toaster as he poured orange juice into two glasses and pulled butter and grape jelly from the refrigerator. They moved around the kitchen as if they’d been working together for years, not bothering to turn on the overhead lights, as the under-the-counter lights, along with the moonlight shining through the bay window behind the table, were enough.

Nick thought his kitchen had never looked better, because Claire was in it.

He stood behind her as she buttered the toast, sliding his hands beneath the long tails of his shirt that reached halfway down her thighs, not stopping until he could spread his hands against her flat stomach and midriff. “Ticklish?” he asked as he lightly licked at the side of her neck.

“Don’t you just wish,” she said, and then shivered. “Is this your way of telling me you aren’t hungry?”

“I thought I was telling you just the opposite,” he whispered. And then, to prove his point, he began
nibbling at her earlobe. “Umm, I wonder if you’d taste even better with jelly.”

She turned in his arms, nearly shoving a slice of toast in his face. “Nibble this—and control yourself. Because I really am hungry.”

“And I’m pitiful. Sorry,” he said, taking the toast as he pulled out a chair at the table for her. “Here. Sit, eat.”

“In a minute. I want to get something from my purse.”

He watched her pad out of the kitchen, heading once more toward the bedroom. He would have been more curious if he didn’t enjoy watching those long legs so much.

She was back quickly, and took the chair he’d offered. “Now we’ll eat. And talk.”

He sat down and looked at her in surprise. “Talk? All right. What do you want to talk about?”

“Our china pattern,” she said, her brown eyes twinkling. She laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, you should have seen yourself, Nick. Anyone would think I’d just announced that I’m actually an alien.”

“From some other country…or solar system?”

“Don’t worry, earthling, I come in peace,” she said, and then took another bite of toast, the tip of her tongue snaking out quickly to snare a bit of jelly that clung to her bottom lip.

Which was the sexiest move he’d ever seen, and he’s seen his share of them.

“Just don’t make jokes like that in front of Marylou, or my Aunt Beatrice, okay, or they’ll be renting a hall.”

She put down the toast she’d been eating so eagerly, and looked him fully in the eye. “I already had that. The hall, I mean. The bridal registry, the shower, the white gown and the bridesmaids, the church wedding and the reception complete with rubber chicken and tasteless wedding cake.”

“And the groom,” Nick added quietly. “What happened?”

He asked this already sensing that her answer wasn’t going to be that she’d stashed him somewhere and she was still married.

“We divorced. About three years ago, which is a lot longer than we were married. I should have told you sooner.”

“No, not really. I don’t think either of us asked for a resume. But I’m glad you’re telling me.”

“Yes, I guess I am, too. The marriage was a mistake, right from the beginning. We both…we each thought we were marrying someone else.”

“Excuse me?”

She smiled, and there was that soft sadness in her eyes again, a regret she’d learned to live with, he supposed. “I thought Steven understood and supported my career, and he thought I’d forget my career and make him not just the center of my world, but my entire world. Never believe loving someone will make him or her change, or make it possible for you to change the person. Because it doesn’t work.”

Nick had a quick mental flash of Sandy dressed in her stage clothes and on her way out the door,
arguing with him that he could take Sean to the pediatrician himself if he thought the kid was sick, that it didn’t take two parents to sit bored to tears in a waiting room full of snotty, screaming kids.

Marriage hadn’t changed Sandy. Parenthood hadn’t changed her.

But both had changed him.

“I guess it depends upon the person,” he said quietly.

“Yes, I guess it does. That’s called growth. I like to tell myself that I tried as hard as I could, but I’ll never know that, will I? Six months isn’t much of an effort.”

“So you went your separate ways. Was the divorce amicable?” He tried to tell himself that it was only the journalist in him, asking logical, follow-up questions. But that would be a lie.

Claire picked up their empty plates and carried them over to the sink. “No,” she said, her back to him. “Not really.”

He took the juice glasses to the sink, and stopped Claire as she was about to rinse everything and put it in the dishwasher. He took her hand in his. “Come on, let’s sit down again. The dishes can wait. Around here, they’re used to it.”

She smiled at his small joke, and allowed him to lead her back to the table. He sat down and pulled her into his lap.

“I’m sorry,” Claire said, blinking. “I just need to always remember that it takes two to make a marriage, and two to make a divorce. If I don’t ac
knowledge my own mistakes, then I would be destined to make the same mistakes again.”

Nick had an arm around her, to keep her steady on his lap. He took hold of one of her hands as they lay in her lap, hoping to reassure her as well as to stop her from wringing them, something he doubted she realized she was doing.

“I agree there, Claire. We may fall in love with the dream, but we wake with the reality. You know what happened with Sandy and me. I think we were already about done with the dream when she realized she was pregnant.”

“I can’t even say that. We were about three weeks from the wedding when Steven’s teasing about when I was going to quit my job finally penetrated my brain for what it really was—his insecurity, even jealousy. But, as I said, I thought he’d be all right with it. And, yes, there were my parents, and the rented hall, and the wedding cake already ordered, and the presents coming in…”

“You thought it was too late to call it off.”