Yesterday's Love (16 page)

Victoria had sighed. “Get three if you want them.”

By the time she'd relented, he'd already paid for them. The man was completely stubborn.

It wasn't until later that night that they discovered the garden had been filled with poison ivy. For some unknown reason only Tate got a reaction to it. His arms were covered with a bright pink rash that he kept scratching until Victoria threatened to bandage his hands with adhesive tape.

“Tate, don't you think maybe we ought to do something in Cincinnati this weekend?” Victoria had suggested the previous night. “Maybe we could go to a movie.”

“What would you do if you weren't with me?”

She'd shrugged. “I don't know. I never know exactly what I'm going to do until I'm practically in the middle of it.”

“Well, if the weather's nice what would you probably do?”

“Go fishing, I suppose.”

Tate had regarded her with a pained expression. “Fishing?”

“Sure.”

“But what do you do while you're waiting for the fish to bite?”

“You don't
do
anything. It's so peaceful just to sit on the edge of the river and dangle your feet in the cold water and feel the sun touch your face. The sun feels almost as good as you do,” she'd murmured, curving herself into his eagerly receptive body.

That had brought an abrupt halt to the discussion for the moment, but this morning she'd awakened to the sight of Tate standing by the bed with a sheepish expression on his face, a fishing pole in his hands and a hook caught in the seat of his jeans.

“Don't say it,” he'd muttered, as she barely stifled a grin. “Just get it out.”

After that she'd finally convinced him that they should drive to Cincinnati for a concert. It had taken them an hour to decide between a world famous violinist and an outrageous punk rock star with spiked pink hair and more mascara on his eyes than Victoria had ever worn in her life.

“But we both love classical music,” Tate had argued. “Why would you even suggest we go to see this other jerk?”

“Have you ever seen a punk rock group?”

“No.”

“Well, neither have I. It's time we did.”

“Give me one good reason.”

“It's an experience.”

Tate couldn't find a single argument that could stand up to that kind of logic. “I'll call for tickets.”

They never got to the concert, for which Tate would always be eternally grateful. They were on their way, in fact they were only a few miles away, when Victoria spotted a carnival.

“Oh, Tate we have to stop.”

“We do?”

“Carnivals are such fun.”

“No, they're not. They're grubby and cheap and disgusting.”

“Tate, please.”

“Oh, to hell with it.” He couldn't resist it when she turned those blue eyes of hers on him with such a wide-eyed look of innocent entreaty. He vaguely understood now how men had been moved to conquer entire civilizations by the mere lift of some beguiling woman's brow. He was as helpless to refuse Victoria's wishes as a moth was to elude a flame. She was beaming at him now with that dazzling smile that warmed his heart and turned his determinedly rational head to absolute mush.

He parked the car, and they strolled hand in hand through the dusty lot onto the fairway. Raucous, tinny music filled the air with a cheerful noise. A Ferris wheel, decorated with bright lights, spun through the early evening sky, its stark reds and greens and blues streaking through the muted mauves of twilight. The distinctive scents of sticky, sweet cotton candy, fresh popcorn, garlicky sausage, hot dogs and pizza blended together to create a mouth watering effect. Barkers were trying to lure the crowd to try its luck pitching pennies, throwing hoops around milk bottles or shooting a moving target of tiny wooden ducks. Tate thought the whole thing had an air of awful unreality about it, but Victoria's expression was alive and excited, her eyes sparkling.

She drew him first to the cotton candy booth.

“You're not really planning to eat that stuff?” Tate asked, horrified by the puff of blue that was twirling around a paper cone.

“We're going to eat it,” Victoria replied firmly, as he reluctantly paid for the candy. She pulled off a chunk and tried to feed it to him.

“That's nothing—” his protest began, as she poked some of the sticky blue mess in.

“—but sugar,” he concluded, deciding it wasn't too awful. But it certainly had no nutritional content. “What a waste of calories.”

“We didn't come here to diet. We came here to have a good time.”

“And eating blue stuff is a good time?”

“Yes.”

“If you say so,” he said doubtfully. “What are we doing next for fun?”

“The Ferris wheel.”

Tate's eyes surveyed the spinning wheel skeptically. “I don't think so. Those things aren't safe.”

“Of course they are. How often have you read about one breaking?”

“Once would be enough, if you happened to be on it.”

“Tate, it won't collapse.”

“Do you have an in with the mechanic?”

“Buy the tickets.”

“You want me to contribute to my own death? That's suicide.”

“It's going to be murder, if you don't try to get into the spirit of this.”

They were only stuck on top for forty-five minutes. Tate swore he would get even with Victoria, if it took him a lifetime.

“That's promising,” she said, giving him a broad grin.

“It is? I didn't mean it to be.”

“You're planning to spend a lifetime with me. Isn't that what you said?”

“Yes, but yours may end the minute we get back on the ground.”

“Oh,” she said softly, studying him quizzically. “Aren't you having a good time really?”

Actually, Tate supposed it wasn't the worst time he'd ever had in his life. Having the mumps at twenty-five had been pretty terrible, and having some idiot driver smash into the back of his new car twenty minutes after he drove it off the lot hadn't been too terrific. But this was definitely right up there among the top ten. He wasn't sure he ought to say that to Victoria, though. She was already upset enough about the bee and the poison ivy and the fish hook.

“I'm sure I'll have a great time once we're back down on the ground,” he said with forced cheer.

“Right. We'll try the baseball toss, and you can win one of those huge teddy bears for me. I've always wanted someone to do that,” she said wistfully.

At that moment Tate would have been willing to spend his next six lifetimes throwing baseballs until her entire house overflowed with those awful, ugly bears, if that was what she wanted.

His first three tosses were right on the mark, and Victoria's face was alight with laughter when the fat panda with the bright green bow around its neck was handed to her.

“Does he need a friend?” Tate asked.

“Of course,” Victoria said solemnly. “Everyone needs a friend.”

This time on the third toss, Tate wrenched his back and grimaced with pain.

“Tate, what is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Tate, it is too something. You're holding your breath.”

“Only so I won't scream.”

“You hurt your back,” Victoria guessed.

“It's nothing,” he insisted. “I'm sorry about the bear.”

“Don't worry about it. This one will be just fine. Lancelot will keep him company.”

Tate suspected Lancelot would tear him to shreds, but he didn't want to put a damper on Victoria's enthusiasm.

“Is there anything else you wanted to do?”

“Let's see the fortune-teller.”

“You're kidding!” Tate was incredulous. “You don't actually believe in that stuff?”

“Of course not, but it's fun.”

“Just like the Ferris wheel.”

“Don't be mean.”

“Sorry.”

They sat down in front of a woman with a yellow bandanna on her dark curls, golden hoops in her ears and red lipstick in a shade just this side of scandalous. She had dark, Gypsy eyes that told seductive tales and a contradictory, impish smile that teased like a child with a feather. Even Tate wanted to trust her. She spread the cards on the table, studied them intently, then hastily gathered them up. Her fingers moved so quickly that Tate wasn't even aware that her actions were peculiar until he heard Victoria's sharp intake of breath.

“What's wrong?” she asked hesitantly.

“Nothing,” the woman said, though her tone was far from reassuring. “I made a mistake with the cards. I wish to try again.”

“You saw something in the cards, didn't you?” Victoria insisted. “Tell me.”

Tate reached over and took Victoria's hand. “Sweetheart, you said yourself it's only a game. Don't worry about it.”

“It's not a game. She saw something, and I want to know what.”

“I saw a tall, dark-haired, handsome man in your life.”

“Brilliant,” Tate muttered. The woman and Victoria glared at him.

“It was all wrong. It will never work out,” she said, as Victoria's eyes filled with tears.

“I knew it,” she murmured, looking at Tate. “I just knew it.”

Tate wanted to throttle the woman. “Are you out of your mind? Can't you see you're upsetting her?”

“I only say what I see in the cards.”

“Tate, I've always known it wouldn't work. We've been pretending, trying to turn a dream into reality.”

Tate stared at her incredulously. “Victoria, this is the most ridiculous conversation I have ever had in my life. Are you trying to tell me that you're willing to let some crazy fortune-teller dictate what happens to us?”

“Sir, I am not crazy!”

“Oh, be quiet,” Tate snapped. “You've done enough damage.”

“I want to go home,” Victoria said quietly.

“Victoria, please.”

“I want to go home.”

“Of all the simpleminded, ridiculous—”

“Now I'm simpleminded and ridiculous?”

Tate's head was reeling. “I don't believe this.”

“Neither do I. I thought you were starting to love me a little bit, but you were just treating me like some circus freak show, weren't you?”

“What? Where the hell did that come from?”

“You've always thought I was just some dingy kook. Admit it.”

“I thought you were unique, unusual, charming and wonderful. I do love you.”

“You think that now, but when the novelty's worn off, you'll go right back to some prissy little career woman who buys her clothes in New York or Paris or someplace, instead of a secondhand store.”

“Victoria, I don't give a damn where you buy your clothes.”

“That's not the point.”

“What is the point? I haven't been able to figure it out since we sat down at this stupid booth.”

“We're all wrong for each other. Look at the last few weeks. You've tried. You really have tried, but you haven't had fun. Good heavens, you've been practically killed by a bee.”

“Oh, for heaven's sakes,” he said, rolling his eyes in disgust. “I was not practically killed.”

“Whatever. And you got poison ivy. And you got a fish hook stuck in your rear. And you hurt your back tonight. If you keep trying to be more like me, you'll end up dead.”

Tate sighed. He had a feeling there was no point in arguing with Victoria when she was in this state of mind. Maybe by the time they drove home, she'd be seeing things more rationally.

Or maybe by then, he'd at least figure out what the devil she was talking about.

V
ictoria had heard the crazy, irrational words pouring out of her mouth and wanted to stop them, but she couldn't bring herself to be silent any longer. Deep down, she really believed what she had said: she and Tate were absolutely wrong for each other. The idea was hardly a new one. It had nagged at her from the very beginning, and their ill-fated attempt to make the relationship work had given her proof. The phony fortune-teller finally made her admit aloud to Tate and forced them both to face what they should have known from the start.

The last few weeks had been their impossible dream. In many ways she had been happier than she'd ever been in her life. She'd never laughed harder or shared more tender moments. Certainly she had never experienced any greater heights of passion. Tate had tried so hard to please her and ultimately, that was the problem. He had needed to try. If theirs were a match that was meant to be, shouldn't all of this have come naturally? Shouldn't their minds have been as perfectly attuned as their bodies obviously were?

When they finally pulled to a stop in her driveway, after the long, silent drive home from the carnival, she glanced over at Tate and found him staring straight ahead. A stormy expression was on his face, and his hands clutched the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity. She noted idly that he hadn't turned off the engine. It seemed as if he could hardly wait for her to get out of the car before going on.

“Tate,” she said softly.

“What?”

“I'm sorry.”

“Sure.”

“I am, but you know I'm right. You're trying to change. I'm trying to change. In the middle of all this changing, we're going to lose ourselves.”

He scowled at her. “I have never asked you to change and, frankly, I haven't seen any signs that you've tried. You're still living with your head in the clouds, expecting everything to be romantic and wonderful without any effort. Sorry, honey, but that's not how it works in real life. People have to work at relationships. If you don't wake up and accept that, you're going to lead a very lonely life. That perfect fairy-tale hero on the white charger is never going to show up.”

“I'm not waiting for some guy on a white charger,” she huffed indignantly, though she wondered if he might not be right. Jeannie had accused her of the same thing often enough. But even if it were true, was it so terribly wrong to want someone who could capture her imagination and make it fly, who would soar with her through each day and fill it with color and light and laughter?