by Nan Ryan
Over hot tea and shortbread cookies in Lucy’s cozy parlor, the quiet bachelor postmaster from Cooperstown lost some of his reticence in an eagerness to make amends. Listening courteously, Lucy was genuinely surprised to learn of the telegram he had sent. A telegram she never received.
He was so sober, so serious, she believed him when he said he had sent the telegram the moment he knew he couldn’t meet her in Atlantic City. He swore on all that was sacred that the wire explaining how his sister had suddenly fallen ill should have arrived in Colonias that Saturday morning in August well before her departure time.
Lucy studied his face as he spoke. He was not a handsome man, but he was nice looking in a staid, rather stuffy way. His dark hair, which was deep, deep brown as opposed to black, was parted down the middle and neatly clipped and combed. His brown eyes were honest and kind. His nose was straight, but a trifle to thin and too long. His complexion was pale, but clear and his hands with their clean, square cut nails were nice hands, gentle looking hands.
His mouth was by far his best feature. It so was full and pleasingly wide; it appeared out of place in his long, thin face. His lips looked as if they’d be very smooth and warm.
Lucy wondered idly what might have happened if his sister hadn’t fallen ill. If he had arrived in Atlantic City right on schedule and the two of them—she carrying her ivory gardenia and he wearing a matching one in his lapel—had met at nine that Sunday evening in the lobby of the Atlantic Grand.
Just as planned.
Had that happened, she would never have met Blackie LaDuke. And if she had never met Blackie—if she had no idea that such an unforgettable man existed—she might have been content with Theodore D. Mooney.
When finally Theodore concluded with his soft-spoken explanations and heartfelt apologies, Lucy set her teacup on the low table beside the pink ribboned, unopened box.
“As I said, I never received the telegram, Theodore. And that’s too bad really. Things might have been very different if…if…” Her words trailed away. She paused a moment, then told him, “I’m afraid it’s too late now.”
“Lucy, don’t say that,” Theodore, looking stricken, gently pleaded. “It isn’t too late at all. You see, I’ve come here to make it up to you and…”
“You don’t understand,” Lucy interrupted. “You don’t really know me, Theodore. There are…”
“Yes, I do,” he broke in, desperate to press his case, “we’ve corresponded for three years; we know each other well from…”
“I’m not the same Lucy who wrote to you,” Lucy frankly admitted. “I can’t explain, but things are very different now. I’m very different now. I’m…I’m not even someone you’d like to know better.”
“But you are,” he said, unconvinced. “Listen to me, Lucy, your letters revealed a great deal about you. I feel as if we’ve known one another for years. Whatever it is that is different, whatever may have happened…whatever way you may have changed, it doesn’t matter. Not to me. I don’t care. You’re the woman whose letters have made my life worth living.”
“Oh, Theodore.” She felt terrible. “You simply don’t understand.”
“Then tell me so I will understand. You can tell me anything and it will change nothing. I’ll feel the same way about you. Or, if you don’t wish to tell me, that’s fine too. I’ll never ask you, never pry. Never. Won’t you at least extend the same opportunity you offered when we were to meet in Atlantic City? That’s all I’m asking you for, Lucy. Just for the two weeks I missed. We missed.”
Before she could reply, he told her clumsily, yet sincerely that he still had his two weeks vacation time coming and he wanted to spend it in Colonias. With her. He would check into the hotel and come to call on her as often as she would allow. They could make it their long planned holiday together right here in Colonias.
“Won’t you say yes, Lucy,” he concluded, so nervous he was perspiring; tiny beads of moisture dotted his hairline. “Won’t you give me that one chance?”
For a long minute, Lucy didn’t reply. Touched by the speech she knew had been so hard for him to make, Lucy’s soft heart again went out to him.
“You’re free to stay in Colonias, if you choose, Theodore. I can’t promise I’ll spend much time with you,” she said, but her words lacked a ring of conviction.
She felt herself engulfed in a wave of pity for this lonely, sensitive man who had come all the way from Cooperstown to see her. There was a time, not so long ago, when she would have been flattered by Theodore D. Mooney’s attention. Now she felt that he was pathetic. She almost wanted to weep for him. Or was it for herself? Or maybe for them both.
Lucy suddenly realized that Theodore had risen to his feet. She stood up to face him as he said, “My hour is up so I’ll be going now.”
“Your hour?” she gave him a puzzled look as they crossed the parlor.
“Your prior engagement,” he reminded her. “When I first got here you said you had an engagement within the hour.”
“I’ve decided to cancel it,” Lucy said, surprising herself almost as much as Theodore. They had reached the front door. She smiled up at him. “Why don’t you come back around noon. I’ll fix us some lunch.”
Theodore Mooney lit up like a Christmas tree. “I’ll be here.”
“So will I.”
Lucy closed the door behind him, sighed, and returned to the parlor to clear away the tea service. Her eyes fell on the box Theodore had brought. She picked it up. She slipped the small card from underneath the pink ribbon and read it.
I attempted to find the real thing and failed.
This is supposed to carry the exact same scent.
Theodore
Lucy frowned, puzzled, and laid the card on the table. She untied the pink ribbon, took the lid from the box, and pushed aside the pink tissue paper. Packed neatly in a row were three bars of fancily carved bath soap. Lucy lifted the box and inhaled. The faint scent of gardenias made her suddenly sad. Tears welled up in her eyes and dropped to the starched shirtwaist of her dress.
Theodore D. Mooney checked into the Colonias Hotel for a two-week stay. He was back at Lucy’s front door at straight up twelve noon. He returned again that evening to take her out for a fine dinner at the hotel dining room. And he came back again Sunday morning to escort her to church services.
Theodore was clearly intent on wooing her, and by the time the weekend was over, Lucy didn’t like herself for what she was beginning to consider as a way out of her terrible trouble. Theodore Mooney, while not handsome and charming like Blackie, was a kind, soft-spoken, respectable man.
Lucy had learned a great deal about being a woman from Blackie. If she set her mind to it, she might be able to persuade Theodore to marry her. If she hurried, if she managed to make him fall in love during the two weeks he was in Colonias, neither he nor the world need ever know that she was pregnant with another man’s child.
Despising herself for her intended duplicity, Lucy spent every free hour with the bashful, pleased Theodore. It was she who took the initiative, she who speeded things along when the backward bachelor seemed perfectly content with nothing more passionate than hand holding and an occasional embrace.
Fighting her irritation that she practically had to draw him a map of where her mouth was, Lucy managed, one Wednesday evening as they sat together on her sofa, to turn her head just at the right moment so that their lips collided.
The kiss lasted only a few seconds.
Theodore immediately fell to apologizing. “Lucy, forgive me. I never meant to be so…so forward and loose with you. If I’ve offended you, I’m dreadfully sorry.”
“You haven’t offended me, Theodore.” Lucy raised a hand to his face, touched his jaw with her fingertips. “I wanted you to kiss me.”
“You did?” His brown eyes widened and his Adam’s apple moved up and down.
She nodded, smiled. “Mmmm. And you know what else?”
“What?”
“I want you to kiss
me again.” Her lashes fluttered and lowered as her gaze dropped to his mouth.
“Oh, my dear,” he said excitedly, his hands trembling as he reached out and clasped her shoulders.
Theodore drew her to him and kissed her. And Lucy wanted to weep. His lips—although they were the wrong lips—were well shaped, full and smooth and warm. His appealing male mouth was almost as sensual looking as Blackie’s.
But there all similarity ended. Her heart didn’t pound from Theodore’s kiss. Her toes didn’t curl. Her bones didn’t melt.
It made no difference, Lucy firmly told herself. You don’t judge a man by his kiss.
Or you shouldn’t.
“Lucy, Lucy,” Theodore whispered, so shaken he was obviously far more affected by the caress than she was. His trembling arms went around her and he drew her closer. His smooth cheek pressed to hers, he buried his face in her fragrant, chestnut hair and asked, his voice rough with emotion, “May I…kiss you…again?”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
If Lucy’s beloved Blackie LaDuke was everything Theodore D. Mooney was not, the same could be said of Theodore. He was everything Blackie wasn’t.
The charming Blackie was a self-proclaimed ne’er-do-well, who had—and always would—lived his life recklessly, with a shameful disregard for security or honor. Theodore, on the other hand, was a dependable, hard-working man who had—all his life—unfailingly adhered to the dictates of decency and decorum.
To Blackie everything was a nonsensical joke, something to poke fun at and laugh about. He looked at life with an amused indifference; a mischievous twinkle in his beautiful, black eyes and a charming smile, which showed his white teeth in the almost Latin darkness of his handsome olive face.
Theodore had a woefully underdeveloped sense of humor; he never saw the ridiculous in anything; never teased anyone and couldn’t abide being teased himself. He was a serious minded man who had spent his youth, as well as his adult years, accepting responsibility, behaving modestly, offending no one. He was a bit of a stuffy purist, but underneath his prudishness lay a character nice enough and strong.
Blackie was the embodiment of an exciting, romantic figure who could sweep a woman off her feet. And had. Theodore was the epitome of the timid, cautious suitor who could never make a woman lose her head.
Blackie was the reckless rogue who made a good lover.
Theodore was the thoughtful gentleman who would make a good husband.
Lucy had had the thrilling, irresponsible lover.
She needed a stalwart, trustworthy husband.
While loving him was out of the question, Lucy did admire and respect Theodore Mooney. In her growing guilt, she promised herself she would be a good wife to him, would spend the rest of her days making up for her unforgivable deception.
The budding romance between the bashful bachelor from Cooperstown and their own spinster postmistress was the talk of Colonias. Lucy introduced her quiet companion to the curious townsfolk and the gentry was quick to accept the mannerly, soft spoken Theodore Mooney.
Over back fences and across dinner tables, their liaison was discussed and those who knew Miss Lucy best thought her Mr. Mooney a perfect match for her. Kitty Widner let no moss grow under her feet. She gave a get-acquainted party for the welcome out-of-town visitor, and invitations to the gathering were coveted and R.S.V.P’d immediately.
Theodore Mooney was unquestionably beguiled and didn’t care who knew it. He spent every moment with Lucy that she would allow, even whiling away the cool, autumn afternoons with her at the post office. If he’d had his way, he would have been there all morning as well, but Lucy forbade it.
She pointed out that—as he well knew—mornings at a post office were so busy and hectic she’d have no time to visit with him. Longing to be near her, he reminded her that he was, after all, a postmaster. He could sort the mail and put it up. Lucy stubbornly declined his offer of help and Theodore reluctantly bowed to her wishes.
The real reason Lucy kept him away was that she still suffered from bouts of morning sickness.
Mornings were the only part of the day that the two were not together. They were seen out in the evenings, dining in Colonias’ only fine restaurant and strolling down Main Street holding hands. They would wind up at Lucy’s white frame house and it was there, in Lucy’s warm, cozy parlor that the timid Theodore was most content.
While darkness deepened outside and the temperature dropped rapidly, they read poetry together by firelight and discussed the works of their favorite authors and artists. Lucy would play the square cherry wood piano in the corner for the appreciative Theodore.
Literature and music were passions they shared and Lucy quickly learned that when she played Chopin or a bit of Beethoven or some hauntingly beautiful piece, it stirred something in Theodore’s gentle heart. Touched some inner emotion, leaving him vulnerable and more receptive to her feminine charms.
He would sit on the sofa and watch her with dreamy, brown eyes as if the sight of her seated there and the sweet sounds she coaxed from the aging piano were a soothing balm which relaxed him totally, yet at same time filled him with an inexplicable yearning.
And it was then, when he was in a warm, pliant state of mind, that Lucy would stop playing and come to him. Shocking him, pleasing him, she would sit down on his lap, put her arms around his neck, and lower her lips to his.
Theodore’s less-than-heartstopping kisses began to improve after a few such nights on the sofa with Lucy. Recalling with vivid clarity Blackie’s dazzling, breath-snatching kisses, she tried to kiss Theodore the way Blackie had kissed her.
Her hands in his dark brown hair, she provocatively brushed her mouth back and forth over his, tempting him, toying with him until she drew the proper response.
Quickly warming to the titillating exercise, instinctively protesting the lovely torture of her mouth as it refused to linger on his, Theodore’s lips began to heat and cling, forcing hers to stay where they belonged—pressed squarely against his own. His hand curled around the back of her neck, he exerted a gentle pressure, drawing her face down to his, even as his lifted to meet hers.
And Lucy experienced a surge of triumph.
She put out the tip of her tongue and ran it slowly along the seam in his lips. Theodore shuddered against her and his lips parted. Lucy’s tongue didn’t penetrate. Not yet. First she scattered little plucking kisses along his top lip and to the corners of his mouth. With sharp, white teeth she nipped harmlessly, playfully at his full bottom lip. She drove him half crazy before she finally put her tongue into his mouth. He groaned with building pleasure. Lucy continued to kiss him and stroke his hair and press her breasts against his chest. To sensually torment him until his pale face was flushed and his heart was pounding and he was eagerly, anxiously—if inexpertly—kissing her.
As Theodore’s two-week visit moved rapidly toward its final days, the same scene was played out nightly on Lucy’s sofa until the smitten Theodore did what Lucy wanted him to do.
He proposed.
Tie askew, hair ruffled, brown eyes glazed with passion, the enchanted Theodore slid dazedly off the sofa onto his knees, took her hand in both of his, and said anxiously, “Lucy, I know it’s much too soon for me to be asking you this, but…would you consider…marrying me?”
“I would,” she said without hesitation. “I will.”
He could learn, Lucy told herself, be taught how to make love, just as she had been taught. Everything else about Theodore was fine, good. He would be an excellent husband. And father. He was kind, patient, dependable, and trustworthy.
And she couldn’t do such a despicable thing to such a good man.
She had to tell him the truth.
The next evening they went straight to Lucy’s house after an early dinner at the hotel. No sooner were they off with their coats then Theodore was anxiously urging Lucy into the parlor. He dropped down onto the sofa and patted his knee, ready to start the kissing.
He looked so happ
y, so delighted and eager, that Lucy was overcome with a deep, kindly pity for him that was akin to love. Suddenly she hated Blackie for giving her a glimpse into another world, a world so exciting and far removed from the one in which she and Theodore Mooney belonged.
Filled with self-loathing, she sat down beside Theodore. He immediately turned and reached for her, but she stopped him, throwing up her hands, and saying, “No, Theodore. Please don’t.”
His brown eyes clouded quickly and he frowned. “My dear, have I done something wrong?”
She smiled sickly. “No, I have.”
She took his hand in hers, looked directly into his questioning eyes, and said, “I’m not the kind of woman you think I am.”
He squeezed her hand reassuringly and said, “Lucy, if you’re worried that our lovemaking has given me the wrong impression, let me put your mind at ease. I don’t think any less of…”
“Dear, dear Theodore,” Lucy sadly interrupted, “that isn’t it at all.”
“Then what is it? Tell me, dearest, please. Don’t you remember what I told you the first day I came here? You can tell me anything and it won’t change the way I feel about you.”
“If only that were true,” she said, half hoping that it was, yet knowing better.
“It is, Lucy. Now tell me what’s bothering you, let’s talk it out and put it behind us.”
Lucy nodded, drew a deep breath. “It all started with a misunderstanding. As you recall I was supposed to meet you in the lobby of the Atlantic Grand on the Sunday night we arrived at the resort.”
“Yes.” Theodore shook his head. “Yes, I remember.”
“Well, I…I didn’t know about the telegram, didn’t know you weren’t coming. So I waited in the lobby looking for a tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed man with a gardenia in his lapel. Finally I saw one and naturally I thought he was you.”
“Naturally,” he echoed her.
She paused, rubbed her hand over her eyes, and sighed. “The gentleman in question had been drinking, so when I called him by your name, he didn’t bother correcting me.”
