Speak Now (12 page)

You know, I’ll always love Lily. I don’t think I need to tell you that. There is a part of my heart that has her irrevocably etched upon it, but she’s left the rest for you. I keep wondering if you can share a heart with someone else. Will knowing that her memories are always with me bother you? I can see how they could.

I’ve spent most of my children’s lives working hard to instill a love and understanding of who their mother is in them. Bryson remembers so much more than I ever imagined he would. He talks about things that I didn’t remember and thought he created in his own imagination and then later find that someone else knew or remembers. Date night. The last one was when he was two. He said Trevor, but I think he actually remembers—but how?

I am leaving on Monday. I’ve tried to talk myself out of going a dozen times an hour, but I can’t do it. I have a job, responsibilities to the company and my children. They have friends, school, and a life in Atlanta. Will you call and talk to me? Will you send me emails and letters? Will we ever have a chance or is this distance going to destroy something that is becoming much more cherished than anything I’ve ever dreamed of.

Cara, I loved my wife. I still love my wife. But, if current feelings are to be trusted, I’m becoming more attached and attracted to you than I’ve ever been to anyone. It is terrifying and wonderful. It is a gift and yet, thanks to the distance, feels like a curse.

I stare at these pages, and I am so tempted to toss them in the garbage. Will you read them as the desperate longings of a grieving and foolish man? Will I kill any chance of whatever it is we hope to accomplish by this amazing week we’ve had? Will you call me and tell me you’ve made a huge mistake and you never want to see me again?

Is it arrogant to admit that I can’t see you doing it? Is it proof of my infernal optimism (that Lily sometimes despised) that I have no doubt as to your mutual feelings? I haven’t doubted since that first afternoon, and yet I feel like I should. It seems unnatural to be so certain—so full of myself. But I am. I can see in your eyes, the way you reach for me, the way you flirt with me. We have something unique and, forgive the pathetic sappiness of the word, precious. I can’t risk losing it, and I can’t commit to keeping it. What will we do?

How can I ensure that you ARE Cara mia?

Jonafan

She dropped the pages in her lap, stunned. For a man who avoided vocal conversation, he sure could unburden his heart when he wanted to.

The doorbell was the last thing Cara expected the following morning. She wrapped her robe around her tighter, cinched the sash, and glanced in the fridge to make sure she had syrup in the house. Her nearest neighbor had a habit of running out mid waffle making. However, her neighbor wasn’t at the door. She opened it, prepared to force the impatience from her face with a smile, to find Jonathan standing there.

“What—”

Smiling, he held up a bakery box and a grocery sack. “I come bearing coffee, fruit, and muffins. I
was up, the kids were off with Mom, so I thought; why not come now and take you to work?”

“Oh!” She didn’t know what to say. Feeling very disheveled with her hair wet and unbrushed, wearing a ratty old bathrobe, and bare toes, Cara welcomed him into the house, absently tugging her hair as she did.

He fixed them plates and carried them to the couch where she sat with her Bible open to the passage du jour. “Where are you today?” One glance and he grinned. “Still in Solomon, eh? That’s my favorite chapter.”

“Oh, be quiet. No one should be so chipper this early in the morning.” Her acceptance of his proffered coffee
, though less than gracious, was more than comical. Cara curled up in the corner of her couch, clutching the cup as though her lifeline to reality. With a roll of her eyes that she knew many found charming on the rare times they saw it, she sighed. “I do not look adorable. My hair’s a drippy mess, I’m covered by the rattiest thing I own—”

“Which you love—”

“Which I love,” she agreed, continuing without a pause. “I have no idea what I’m wearing to work today, and you on the other hand…” The eyes rolled again, bringing another satisfied smile to Jonathan’s face. “Look too good for your, no
my,
own good.”

“Thank you.”

Jonathan passed a toothpick and pointed at the plate. “Eat.”

“You’re so eloquent when you want to be. From one word, I can deduce that you’re afraid I’ll try to subsist on Slim-Fast today, so you’re going to ensure I eat more. That’s really impressive.”

The smirk on Jonathan’s face couldn’t be interpreted as anything less than utter satisfaction. Frustrated, she stabbed honeydew melon, a red grape, and strawberry with her toothpick and ate them in one bite. Her attempt at mockery failed as the flavors tantalized her taste buds. A soft sigh of pleasure escaped as she stabbed the watermelon left on her plate.

“Good?”

“You know you are.” She winked at his laughter. There was something very comfortable about a quiet breakfast with Jonathan. “Do you know what I realized last night? I mean, I think I knew it but had never put it into words—even in thought.”

“What?”

“You’re not like most people who don’t talk. I mean, I’ve met people who took time to formulate their thoughts, spoke little but had a lot to say when they did. I’ve met people who didn’t like to talk and didn’t like to listen to others talk either, and of course I’ve met people whose mouths run like ticker tape during a bull market—kind of like me this morning. However, I’ve never met anyone who was all of those and more. You just let people know, by your demeanor, what you want. I know if you’re feeling like talking, if you want to listen, or, if it’s one of those times that you really just need to
be
with someone but aren’t up to hearing, much less listening.”

“And you’re one of the very few people who know the difference between hearing and listening. You also,” he added with a hint of wonder in his voice, “know how to read people better than most. It isn’t that I do better at communicating my preferences—it’s that you are especially in tune to them.”

“But, then why don’t I notice when other people do or don’t want me to talk? It’s not me, it’s you.”

After his ears turned bright red, he sipped a bit of coffee, and took a bite of his own muffin; Jonathan glanced at her once more. “If it’s me, it’s because you are somehow in tune with me, not because I do a better job of projecting my preferences.”

“For example,” she continued, trying to prove her point, “right now, you don’t want to talk, but you do have something to say so you’re saying it. You’d rather not listen to me prattle on about my observations, and you don’t want to correct or agree with me. You just want a quiet breakfast enjoying my company, which,” she added with a smile, “I find highly flattering.”

“Why couldn’t I have met you about thirty years ago?”

“Because I wasn’t born yet and if I remember ages correctly, you weren’t either.”

“You’re wrong,” he protested. “I was old enough to have another sibling thirty years ago.”

She glanced at him curiously. “I thought you were twenty-nine.”

“Almost thirty-one. Mom always mixes Russ and my birth years.”

“No wonder, I thought you were older but she said you were younger.” Another bite of muffin disappeared while she worked to formulate her thoughts perfectly. “As much as I would love to have known you that long, I couldn’t have stood to see you marry Lily, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way, so I think…” she insisted, smiling, “I’m quite happy things have worked out the way they are.”

“Why wouldn’t you change it?” He thought he knew the answer, but Jonathan wanted to hear it anyway.

“Because then there’d be no intuitive Bryson or precocious Riley. I love those kids already.” She shook her head at the question he didn’t ask. “Don’t ask me that. I can’t handle sharing that part of me yet.”

“So, can I ask if you read a letter last night?”

“I did.”

“Is it shredded?”

“It is tied in a blue ribbon and kept in my treasures drawer,” she said with deliberate dreamy affectation.

She stood, taking a final swig of coffee, and hurried into the kitchen. She’d never get ready fast enough with Jonathan sitting on her couch waiting. Usually she spent her mornings reading the Word, praying, and then leisurely fixing her hair and applying her cosmetics while she considered what she felt like wearing. Today she wanted to rush and finish so she could have the extra half hour with Jonathan.

“You look agitated.”

“I don’t know what I’m wearing, I still have to get ready, and I’d rather sit here and carry on one of our silent conversations rather than go up those stairs right now.”

“How difficult is it to grab something—oh, wait,” Jonathan grinned like the Cheshire cat. “You’re a woman. Go fiddle with your hair and do whatever it is you do to show it off to best advantage. I’ll go dig through that closet of yours and find something to keep you from getting fired for indecent exposure.”

He started to follow her to the back bedroom, but she turned and pushed him back with her hand on his chest. “Nuh uh. Upstairs. That room is my ‘dress up’ closet. Upstairs holds my casual and work clothes. Just make sure it’s not too hot.”

“Which kind?”

“The one that’ll make me turn red
before
you whistle,” she retorted, pointing at the stairs once more.

“Too late,” he muttered in a stage whisper. “I’d whistle at that robe if I wasn’t afraid of the repercussions.”

“As well you should be,” she countered. “Re-
con
cussions too.”

Smiling at her sharp repartee, Jonathan climbed the stairs two at a time, trying to remember what women in finance at his company generally wore. He wasn’t prepared for the sight of her closet. Winter clothes hung covered in plastic to protect from dust, but a wide variety of outfits hung on hangers and lay folded on shelves while on the other side, jeans, t-shirts, casual skirts, and sundresses made a much more colorful and eclectic looking mixture. For the first time in his life, he understood having a closet full of clothes and nothing to wear. If all women stared at their options uncertain what to pair together, it was no wonder they came up empty handed.

A buttery chiffon skirt that looked like the foxglove flowers in his mother’s “English cottage” flower garden caught his attention. Immediately, he grabbed it. She’d knock ‘em dead. He nearly laughed aloud. Who was he kidding? She’d knock
him
dead. Before he could change his mind, he grabbed a blouse and a short-sleeved blazer, and hurried downstairs. What was he thinking, volunteering to shuffle through her closets like this? Was he out of his mind? That question he could answer. He’d lost it somewhere between a dance at the wedding and a walk in the park. He knew that if he found it, he’d find his heart there with it.

“Okay, here you go. I’m hanging them on the door knob and off to clean up our mess.”

A few minutes later, as Jonathan put a hard-boiled egg, a few cubes of cheese, and a few grapes in a small plastic container, Cara hurried from the bathroom, dug through the shoe closet for a moment, and hopped into the kitchen on one foot as she slipped the other into her shoe. “What—what are you doing?”

“Snack. You had a lot of carbohydrates. I thought you could use some protein.”

“You would think of that.” Cara shook her head as she leaned against the counter to steady herself while sliding her foot into the other shoe. “I always think I’ll bring something but I don’t. Better skip the egg. I’ll make a mess peeling it.”

“Already peeled and ready to go. There’s a zip lock baggie with ice in it to keep everything cool.” He checked his watch. “Time to get you to the office before they take away your lunch break for tardiness.”

As the car pulled onto the loop, Jonathan gave Cara a sideways glance. “So…you going to tell me what you really did with that letter?”

“You want to know; you go home and find it. Dare you to find it before you have to leave to pick me up.”

Several miles passed before he exited the freeway and crawled through the business district with the rest of Rockland’s workforce. During those minutes, they each challenged the other, sometimes accepting, others rejecting. He pulled up to the curb in front of the double doors and laid his hand on her arm as she reached for the handle.

“But—”

He jumped from the car. Half the office walked through the doors in the twenty seconds it took him to open her door, offer his hand, and then stand there; gazing into her eyes before he gave her the slow smile he knew sent her heart racing. Leaning close, he whispered into her ear. “One o’clock. I’ll be waiting.”

“You do know
everyone will assume you’re kissing me.” Her words were meant to rebuke, but her smile, the gleam in her eyes, and the light pressure of her palm against his chest did anything but reproach.

“As I would be if I thought I could get away with it.”

“Who says you wouldn’t?”

Jonathan’s eyes bored into hers. “I say. I know my li
mits, and I think we both know I had to bar that door day one and for good reason.”

“Can’t blame a girl for trying.”