Speak Now (6 page)

He parked behind her at her house, leaving his car running, and walked her to her door. They stood under her porch light for several minutes, each minute ticking by at warp speed until finally, Jonathan sighed. His hand reached for hers, and for the briefest of moments, squeezed it gently. Her smile said more than her simple, “Goodnight.”

Once in his car, he waited to see lights come on in the kitchen and then sighed as he drove away. “Goodnight, Cara—mia.”

Arms crossed, one foot resting on the bumper, and a look of lazy indifference on his face, Jonathan appeared to be bored as she crossed the parking lot early Tuesday afternoon. Cara didn’t hurry; Jonathan didn’t move. At last, she stood before him with a conspiratorial smile on her face.

“You should know that there is an office full of men and women up there, all dying to know who you are and just what you’re doing here—again.”

“Hmm.” A glance at the building showed one section of glass that had several shadows behind it. “Third floor near the end of the first quarter of the building?”

Cara smiled. “That’d be them.”

“I see.” He thought for a moment. “Well, we have several options. I could just open the door for you as I’d planned. The safe route.”

“You could,” she agreed, her expression deadpan.

“I could make a very public display of kissing you here in the parking lot.”

“Mmm hmm.” Cara’s tone indicated she pondered each suggestion thoroughly.

“Or,” Jonathan continued with a slight smile on one corner of his mouth, “I could pull out this rose,” he reached behind himself and retrieved the most perfect crimson rose he could find, “and pray it gives lots of fodder for the office gossip mill.”

“Leave out the prayer, and I’ll take door number three. Your being here is more than enough fodder.”

For a split second, she laid her hand on his cheek, and then turned to wait his opening her door. Once on their way, Jonathan forced himself to ask
the question he dreaded. “Is it uncomfortable for you if I come here?”

“No, Jonathan. That’s not what I meant. I was just pointing out that they’ll use lesser things to feed the mill. No reason to gorge them.”

He pulled into a small park. “Picnic?”

With wide eyes, she turned to him. “How did you find this? I’ve driven so close to it so many times, but I never knew it existed.”

“Google.”

“Aah, yes,” she remarked. “Meg Ryan will be thrilled to know that no longer is
The Godfather
the I Ching. We now have Google.”

Jonathan’s voice betrayed his amusement. “Hanks will be devastated.”

The park appeared to be empty—strange for such a pleasant afternoon. Cara noticed and remarked that it was too early for children to be out of school and too late after lunch for younger children to be up from naps. While she relaxed on a park bench, Jonathan filled her plate with fruit, crackers, cheese, and a sandwich.

“You look tired.”

“I didn’t sleep well.” She didn’t want to admit it; if he got the impression he was keeping her up too late, he’d cut back their time together.

“Up too late?”

There it was—that flicker of understanding. Without him having to say a word, she now realized he wanted her to talk. She took a bite of her sandwich and made a note to ask what was in it. “Actually, no. I often don’t go to bed until early morning hours. I just didn’t sleep well.”

Between bites, she told him of everything that had flown through her mind the previous night. From wondering if he felt obligated to spend money for her entertainment, to the possible affair going on in her office, to the dread she felt as the week whizzed by her, Cara shared it all. “I know it’s ‘only Tuesday,’ but we just danced at the wedding minutes ago.”

“Well put.” Jonathan pulled a plastic container from the basket and peeled the lid back. “Brownie?”

~*~*~*~

Her eyes widened. “Is that the famous Jonathan Lyman brownie? Julia told me about those things.” She grabbed the container and rifled through the basket for a fork. “You should know I’ve been considering offering to make you dinner if you bring the dessert.”

“I get a bite of that, you know.”

“If I save you one.”

Calm eyes met hers. Cara took a bite, chewed slowly, savoring each moment, and then took another bite. He said nothing, but the longer he watched, the slower she ate, until the last bite sat alone in the dish, mocking her.
Cara’s eyes darted back and forth between the tempting morsel of chocolatey goodness and the intense expression on his face. Was it worth risking the sparkling cider covering her favorite skirt and blouse? She bounced the fork against the edge of the container, thinking. Sticky sodden mess versus legal and sinless decadence. It was a difficult choice—for about thirty seconds.

Just as she raised the fork to her lips, her conscience overrode her personal desire for just one more bite. With a huge sigh of regret, she forced herself to make a U-turn and sent the fork in his direction. He took the fork from her and motioned for her to open her mouth. “I had some when I took them out of the oven. I was just teasing.”

“Mmm. I’m glad you did.”

They sat on the bench, walked along the jogging paths, and finally strolled regretfully back to the car. “You know, I was serious about that dinner thing. I’m no gourmet, but I can make a great plate of fettuccini.”

“Done. How about Thursday?”

Trying not to sound
too
eager, she asked, “Will you bring the children?”

“I’ll bring them.”

Several blocks passed as she processed what bringing his children could mean. Was it a simple, “you offered and I accepted?” Or could it be that he trusted her with them—that he felt the seriousness of their burgeoning relationship as much as she did? She suspected the latter.

As he opened her door outside her office building, Jonathan glanced at his watch. “Meet you at your house at six?”

“I might not be ready yet, but—”

“What’s wrong with what you’re wearing?”

Cara laughed, shaking her head as she said, “Oh my, you don’t know me very well yet. If I get a chance to dress up, I take it. This is Tom Sawyer! I’m dressing up!” She hoisted her purse over her shoulder. “The door will be unlocked. Come on in.”

~*~*~*~

Cara stood at her closet pulling out one dress before tossing it aside and grabbing another. Pink she rejected as too prissy, pale blue as too babyish, and electric blue as too risqué. Black was out. She’d worn it already, and now her favorite purple dress suddenly seemed matronly.

The porcelain clock ticked—each second mocking her with its obnoxious, audible reminder that Jonathan would arrive any minute. Suddenly, she regretted the loss of her wonderful—if ugly—digital clock, with its glowing—
never mind. You don’t need to think of that now. Focus.

Her front door opened and Jonathan’s voice called hesitantly down the hallway. “Cara?”

“Back here, being an annoyingly stereotypical female with a closet of clothes and nothing to wear.” His face appeared in the doorway. She smiled and murmured, “Hi.”

Jonathan chuckled at the pile of discarded clothing on the bed, chair, cedar chest, and even a few that she’d given an eviction notice to littered the floor. “Ready?”

“Well, white terry is the in thing for evening wear this year you know.” Self-consciously, Cara pulled her robe a little closer to her and shrugged.

“What’s wrong with this one?” Jonathan held up the powder blue dress.

“Too babyish.” The pink dress was next. “Too girly.”

“I like girly. This?” He held up the purple.

“Ew. My mother wouldn’t be caught dead in it.”

“I don’t want to see you in it dead. I was hoping for alive.”

He pulled out gold, white, lavender, chocolate, fuchsia, and finally, tucked between two leftover bridesmaid’s dresses, a red Chinese silk with a mandarin collar and black frog closures. He shook the hanger and handed it to her. “This. No arguments.”

“I forgot about that one. I haven’t seen it in months!”

He glanced at the closet, an unspoken question in his eyes. Cara pointed at the floor. “I chucked at least six outfits tonight!” She took another glance at the purple one and tossed it in the growing heap. “Make that seven.”

Before he could comment, she grabbed the dress and disappeared down the hall and into the bathroom. Minutes later, she reemerged with her hairs
tyle and lipstick color changed and opened the hall closet. Where most women kept vacuums and their artificial Christmas trees, Cara had enough shoeboxes for her own personal store. Jonathan followed her to the living room where she perched on the arm of her overstuffed sofa and slipped on black high-heeled flip-flop styled shoes. He laughed at the picture she made bowing respectfully with hands clasped together. Her partial up-do was held in place by two short chopsticks. Black of course.

“Clothing is your hobby?”

“No, actually, I like shopping, antiquing, which is not the same as regular shopping, of course, and scrapbooking, but clothes really aren’t my ‘thing,’ despite evidence to the contrary.”

“Then…”

“Mom. She loves to design and create clothes for me. I never buy anything but jeans and underwear…” she blushed. “But you didn’t need to know that. Anyway, I make up for it with shoes. I do like cute shoes.”

“How about dinner? Do you like dinner? Because we have just over an hour before the curtain rises.”

She started to grab his arm and dropped her hand to her side. With a sheepish, apologetic expression she said, “Well, what are we waiting for, then?”

~*~*~*~

The car rolled to a gentle stop in the parking space nearest Cara’s townhome. She shifted awkwardly in her seat. “Coffee?”

“I can’t come in, Cara.”

She glanced at his face, illuminated by a nearby streetlight. “No, you’re right. You can’t.”

His hand gripped the gearshift as though to steady him. He knew he should
step out of the car and walk her to the door. Instead, he flicked the key on and rolled down their windows. The tension that had slowly built dissipated immediately.

A new tension grew as Cara turned and rearranged herself in order to see him better. “I didn’t want you to go either.”

“It’d be more comfortable inside, but—”

“But you’re right. Don’t worry about it. I can go grab some water bottles if—”

Jonathan’s arm reached toward her. Cara’s eyes widened before she erupted in hysterical giggles as he slipped it behind her seat and withdrew water from a pocket. “A father never leaves home without water.”

“You’re good at fatherhood. I’ve watched you.” Her assessment of his parenting skills and obvious love for his children hung between them. Finally, she added, “You get weary though, don’t you?”

He nodded. The words he would have spoken had he been inclined to talk seemed to emanate from him. It was a strange feeling to be so comfortable being himself. He almost felt like talking just because he didn’t feel pressured to.

“You never get a break, do you?”

“Birthday parties.” The way he said the words sounded more like a caress than a simple answer.

“Birthday parties?”

“When the kids get invited to parties, all the moms suggest that I drop the kids off and pick them up just before bedtime. It gives me a few hours of quiet.”

“Why,” Cara began laughing, “do I get the feeling that you also provide dinner.”

“Guilty.”

“You are so transparent… and I love it.” Cara leaned her head against the back of the seat and watched the light creating odd shadows on Jonathan’s face. “I’m glad you get a break, though.”

“I shouldn’t want one.” The guilt in his voice cut through the air.

“That’s ridiculous. Everyone needs a break from their job. If you still had Lily, you’d take turns running errands alone, she’d go out with her friends once in a while, you’d go play racquet ball or something now and then. It’s what people do. Even a nap could happen because you don’t have to worry about what they’re doing while you’re asleep.”

Her words soothed more than she could imagine. Jonathan had harbored unnecessary guilt over his absolute joy of an afternoon off now and then. “Thanks.”

“Will you do me a favor?” she urged.

“What?”

Cara, ignoring their unspoken agreement to avoid physical contact, laid her hand on his arm and waited for him to meet her gaze. “Find a good sitter and make a standing arrangement. Every other Saturday for two to three hours—either in the morning to wear them out for their own naptime, or in the afternoon while they nap. You go out, stay in if she takes them somewhere—whatever. Just set up some refueling time. I think working hard forty to fifty hours a week—”

“Sixty sometimes,” he corrected without thinking.

“And then being a full-time dad while you’re off is going to burn you out.” Her hand dropped to the console between them.
“If it hasn’t already.”

Unnerved by the
extreme lack of touching, Jonathan wondered if perhaps it created an even bigger emotional charge than if he would just hold her hand. That thought disappeared with the instant realization that the idea was a recipe for disaster. Did she feel it? Did she understand? Should he say something—assure her that it wasn’t
her
, even though it was? The moment he thought it, Jonathan knew she understood. He knew she felt it too.