“And our lips are sealed. Right, Steph?”
“Right.”
“I wish I could frame them.” Noelle sighed. “But that takes money.”
Therese waved her hand. “Have Rick make them. He’s good with wood.”
Noelle pictured the daybed he’d fashioned just for her. Of course he could make frames. He might even enjoy it. “Then he’d know what I’m doing.”
“Just tell him you need frames. He’ll think you’re working.” Again Therese showed her wisdom.
Noelle felt a warmth spread inside her. “This will be the first Christmas I’ve celebrated since I was six.”
Both mouths dropped open. “No Christmas?”
Noelle shook her head. “Not since my mother died. She loved Christmas. I think it was too hard for Daddy without her.”
Therese looked like Rick when he wanted to say something but didn’t. Stephanie was not so constrained. “Do you remember her?”
“Not as much as I’d like.” There were images, but the face was fuzzy, unclear. And the last ones were frightening. Noelle remembered looking at her mother but not recognizing her. She’d been changed, shrunken, as though her skin used to fit but couldn’t anymore.
Rick tapped and opened the door. “Noelle?”
She turned. His cheeks were reddened with cold. He must have just come from outside.
“Telling secrets?” He glanced at his sisters.
“Absolutely,” Therese replied.
“Then I’m taking Noelle.” He strode in and helped her up.
“There was something I wanted to talk to you about, anyway.” Noelle winked at Therese and Stephanie. She followed Rick into the hall. “Can you make me some frames?”
“Picture frames?”
She nodded.
“Are you going to paint?”
She hoped her smile didn’t give her away. “Yes.”
He shrugged. “I’ll see what wood Dad has.”
“Thank you.”
“But tonight.” He took her hand. “I thought we’d go out.”
Noelle hid her surprise. Rick was asking for a date?
He took a box from the table in the hall and held it out. “I didn’t think you brought anything dressy, and the restaurant is … nice.”
Her heart beat fast. What had he done? Didn’t he understand how gifts, expectations … She stared at the box. She wouldn’t take it, wouldn’t open it. No, she had nothing to wear to a nice restaurant, had brought only jeans and sweaters and one woolen skirt. But she didn’t care.
He opened the lid of the box, and she saw a winter-white angora dress. Synthetic seed pearls lined the scoop neck and the gathered shoulders. Folded in the box, she couldn’t tell its cut, but it was lovely, as lovely as anything she’d owned with a designer’s name. But she could not take it.
She looked from the dress to Rick, saw the realization dawn in his eyes. He closed the lid. “I didn’t think. I was out shopping and saw it and …” He shoved the box back onto the table. “I’m sorry.”
She hadn’t expected that. She thought he would wheedle and coax or simply insist. She glanced at the box. Her face pinched and her voice sounded tight. “It’s beautiful.”
“You don’t have to wear it.”
She reached for the box. Slowly she lifted the lid and slipped the dress out. It was as soft as it looked, straight cut tea length. The sleeves tapered from the gathered shoulders. She held it to her throat and closed her eyes. She had to choose.
Rick wasn’t Michael. His gift didn’t bind her. He wouldn’t force her to wear it. She opened her eyes. “I’ll try it on.”
Walking down the hall in the new dress, Noelle caught sight of Rick standing in the living room in a charcoal three-piece suit. She stopped still and stared. That couldn’t be Rick. Not the Rick who landed in the dirt and shoveled out fires and built his own ranch log by log. Oh, she knew the clothes didn’t make the man, but … he was great in a suit.
He turned, and his eyes went down the dress that sheathed her in simple elegance. “It fits.”
She smiled. He was still Rick, still putting so much into so few words. He held out his elbow. “Ready?”
Was she? Until now she could pretend he was nothing but a friend, someone willing to help, to listen and understand. But she knew his nature now, thanks to bits and pieces from his sisters and what she’d seen for herself. He didn’t date idly. He was offering her something more than he’d offered before.
Her fingers trembled as she took his arm. “I’ll have to call you Richard, tonight.” Richard the Lionhearted.
His mouth quirked. “Watch it.” He led her out front where Therese’s compact idled.
She glanced up. “Why not the truck?”
“I’m having the heater repaired. Unless you want to go to dinner in a quilt.” He let her into the car. The truck’s heater had been acting up on the drive out, but Rick looked ungainly in the car. And instead of woodsmoke and horses, he smelled amazingly of cologne.
As they drove, Noelle tried to reconcile this new Rick. She had defined him differently. “Why haven’t you dressed up before?”
“Didn’t have a reason to.”
“Well, you were made for a suit.”
He glanced sidelong. “It’d be real sensible when I’m getting thrown from a horse.”
Ah, there he was. Practical, no-nonsense Rick Spencer. He parked outside the restaurant at the edge of town.
She looked at the white stucco walls and arched windows, the pillared garden that lined the walk to the heavy girded door, the red tiled roof. Italian or Mediterranean. She wouldn’t have thought such a small town would possess a formal restaurant. It was probably no more than three stars, but something kept her from going in.
Would it recall other occasions, other nights, dining in style while the noose tightened around her neck? The evenings with Morgan had not, but she hadn’t remembered it all then. Rick must have sensed her hesitance. He reached for her hand. “There’s a McDonald’s down the road.”
She laughed. He understood without her saying anything. Was that a good thing? “I think this will do.”
They were seated at a small side table, and she leaned forward to sniff the single red rose in the vase. The firelight flickered on the white stucco walls of the Mediterranean alcoves, and the candle in the amber globe softly scented the air.
She looked across the table at Rick. She wouldn’t have pictured him here. His face still had the strong, straight lines, but it was no longer hard. Maybe he had gentled, or maybe she’d seen only the surface before. Maybe he, like Morgan, had kept his real self from her. Did they all wear masks? She felt hers slipping.
He returned her gaze without flinching, then took her hands in his. “You’re beautiful, Noelle.”
Her heart skipped. She had heard those words all her life, but coming now from Rick it was different. He didn’t use them cheaply. He was saying what he thought, not trying to impress or score. His hands on hers were strong and sure.
She remembered his first firm grip when he’d introduced himself, his hand in the hospital, when she couldn’t bear to let go. And again when she told him everything. Now she felt his hands crushing her shell, yet she clung to the fragments. She had to.
He released her when the waiter came. She ordered club soda, and Rick asked for coffee. By now, Morgan would have been well into his first Manhattan. And she’d be fending him off. Glib, suave, outrageous Morgan. But it wasn’t Morgan across from her now, and she wasn’t sure what to make of that.
She picked up the menu and studied the entrees. “I loved veal until I learned how they treat the poor things.”
“Ignorance is bliss.” Rick’s eyes were on his menu.
He didn’t fool her. His remark sounded callous, but she knew he’d never hurt or condone the mistreatment of any animal. Why did he hide his sensitivity? Was that his weak spot? At least in his opinion?
The waiter returned and Noelle ordered. “Scallops in lemon angel hair
.”
The waiter noted it. “Salad?”
“Endive with balsamic vinaigrette.”
“Soup?”
“Minestrone.”
Rick ordered steak skillet fried with mushrooms and Kalamata olives. He hadn’t ordered for her, hadn’t even suggested anything. But when the waiter left, he said, “Fishy marshmallows, hmm?”
“What?”
“Scallops.”
She smiled. “Only if they’re not fresh.”
“This is the finest restaurant in town, but we’re not exactly on the coast.”
She frowned. He was right about scallops. If they weren’t done right, they’d be awful. And no, they weren’t on the coast. But when their bowls of spicy minestrone arrived, she breathed the piquant steam with pleasure. She could tell a true minestrone from the steam alone. That boded well for the scallops. She lifted her spoon, but Rick caught her fingers and bowed his head.
“‘Praise the Lord, O my soul; all my inmost being, praise his holy name.’ Thank you for your providence. Amen.”
She glanced around as he blessed their food. Even in public he wouldn’t forego it. “You’re the only person I’ve seen pray.”
“In this room or ever?”
She had meant in the room, but if he wanted to include the rest of her life, he could lump that in too. “Why do you do it?”
“Everything I have is God’s gift. I’d be nothing without His grace. It’s only right to say thanks.”
“Everything you have you’ve built with your own hands. You raise the horses—”
“He created them.” He took a spoonful of soup.
“That’s so archaic.”
He dipped his spoon again. “How do you know?” His eyes came up, serious and challenging. “How do you know that my beliefs are wrong, outdated, stupid?”
She’d never said that, but it could have sounded that way.
“Have you studied Christianity?” He rested his spoon in the bowl.
She clasped her napkin in her lap. “It’s all through history. The Inquisition, the Salem witch trials…”
“How about Christ? Studied Him?” Rick’s voice stayed low, but his eyes deepened.
“No.” She met his gaze with her own. She was not about to search out the power she’d glimpsed on his worn pages. “The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us….”
“Are you afraid you’ll learn something you’ll have to believe?”
“I don’t have to believe anything. And I’m not afraid.” But it had terrified her to sense something bigger, more powerful than anything human. It was ludicrous. Some trick of the mind, a Jungian bogeyman from a collective unconscious … The image flashed into her mind. A red-robed figure with sword and wings, giant swooping wings and light blazing through its face … Someone grabbing her from behind, someone so big she was swept off her feet and carried, a hand clamped over her mouth. Her lungs seized as though the hand even now stifled her breath.
Rick’s face changed. He reached across and took her hand. “I’m sorry.” He apologized more than anyone she’d ever known. But she couldn’t answer.
“Noelle?”
She fought the panic. Why now? He closed her hand in both of his, and it was like a rope she clung to. She couldn’t be carried away while he held on. The shakes started. She wanted to run, but if she let go she’d be lost. Her head pounded. Was she losing her mind?
“Please forgive me.” Rick’s voice was so gentle it hurt.
“It’s not you.” Bright, colorful light and someone grabbing from behind…
“What, then?” He couldn’t understand. How could he?
She shook her head. “I don’t know.” Tears stung her eyes. “I feel like I should remember, that there’s something there, but … it can’t be real. It’s not part of the other—I’m almost sure. It’s deeper, more vague. Maybe it’s a dream, maybe…”
The waiter came with their salads, but Rick didn’t let go. Their server sensed enough to leave the plates and go without asking if they were finished with the soup they’d hardly touched. The terror passed and the image faded.
Noelle’s breath eased. She looked at her hand in Rick’s and, sighing, pressed his fingers. “It’s gone.” She slipped her hand out and pushed aside the minestrone that had been so promising.
He nudged it back. “Try it.”
She looked up into his face. She’d lost her appetite, but he wanted her to try. She dipped her spoon and tasted it. The flavor was rich and spicy, though it had cooled to lukewarm. Her mouth responded and her stomach. She was hungry after all. They ate their soup in silence. Then she reached for her salad.
Rick glanced up. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Want to talk about it?” He wasn’t pushing, just offering.
She took a bite. “This salad is good. They used an aged vinegar.”
He reached for his own, but she could see food wasn’t first in his mind.
She handed him the glass ramekin of crumbled bleu cheese. “It’s better with a little of that.”
He took it. “I don’t like bleu cheese.”
“It’s an acquired taste. That’s what Daddy always said. I guess I acquired it.”
“Noelle…”
“Have you been here before?” She speared a fringed leaf.
“Twice.”
“With a date?” She took the bite.
He drew a slow breath. “I took my mother for Mother’s Day, and Therese for her birthday.”
“Haven’t you ever dated?” She wanted him to say yes, to ease the pressure that was building inside.
“Not like this.”
What did he mean? She speared another bite compulsively.
He said, “I don’t think it’s fair to set up emotional attachments unless there’s a possibility of permanence.”
Her fork squeaked on the plate like fingernails on a chalkboard. Permanence.
He said, “I haven’t dated because I haven’t met someone I thought I could spend my life with.”
She stared at her plate, glistening with speckled oil and fragments of endive. She waited, but no trembling began.
Rick watched Noelle squirm. He finished his salad and pushed his plate aside. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“I’m not.”
He half smiled. “I don’t have Morgan’s flexibility with the truth.”
“I don’t want you to.”
The waiter brought their entrées, and Rick eyed Noelle’s scallops dubiously. He’d take his steak any day.
The waiter smoothed the cloth across his arm. “Anything else I can bring you?”
They shook their heads and thanked him. Rick cut into his steak, then glanced up as Noelle tried a scallop.
She chewed it slowly, then smiled. “They must fly them in fresh.”
He should not have bought the dress. In it—across from him with that smile—she made his heart rush. He was falling in love. There were no other words for it.
“Would you like one?” She held up a creamy scallop.
He took his bite of steak. “No thanks.”
“Chicken?”
“Chicken I would do, but round, squashy fish?” He shook his head.
“This is a night of firsts.” Her eyes actually teased.
He laid down his fork. It was a first to be there with her, to have said the things he said. To have meant them. He passed her his side plate, and she laid the scallop in its center, then passed it back. He nudged the scallop with his fork.
“It’s dead.” She almost giggled.
He speared it and brought it to his mouth. The aroma stopped him, but he made a second pass and got it in. He chewed, swallowed, and took a drink of lemon water from his stemware.
“Well?”
He looked into her green eyes. “Edible. Just.”
She smiled down at her plate. “It’s an acquired taste.”
“Ever tried Rocky Mountain oysters?”
She r
aised her brows. “How can you have oysters from the mountains?”
“They’re not exactly seafood.”
She twisted a noodle around her fork. “I don’t want to know.”
“It’s an acquired taste.”
She laughed. Their eyes met and held. He remembered the day they’d been caught in the rain. He should have known then. Maybe he did.
Now he wondered how he’d had her under his roof and not marveled at her slender fingers. He watched her dab her mouth with the linen napkin and noted her soft, pink lips. Long curving lashes veiled her eyes when she glanced down, but when he caught the full thrust of their focus, they were mesmerizing.
She daintily savored each bite as he made quick work of his steak and fettuccine. She was as graceful as a swan, fragile as a snowflake, and sitting across from her Rick felt such a powerful need to protect that it crushed out all other senses. Whatever had frightened her before seemed to have passed, but he’d felt her trembling, had seen the panic. He would do anything to keep her safe.
“May I present our dessert tray?” The waiter hovered once again beside the table.
Rick raised his brows, but Noelle shook her head. He said, “Just the check, thanks.”
He rested his fingertips on the small of her back as they walked out. The dress was soft, but he could feel the bones of her spine through it. Too thin still. But he couldn’t afford Antonio’s every night. Mom’s cooking would have to do.
He parked Therese’s car beside his mother’s Taurus station wagon. The thin covering of snow crunched beneath his loafers as he walked around for Noelle. Loafers. How far would he go? He helped her out of the car and walked her to the door, then stopped her.
She sparkled in the porch light like the fairy princess she was. “Thank you for a wonderful evening.”
He leaned his palm on the wall beside the doorjamb and thought about kissing her. “First date should be special.” He hadn’t waited all these years to do it poorly.
A strand of hair slipped across her shoulder and she caught it back with her fingers. “It was special.”
His heart raced. “I’d really like to kiss you good-night.” If she shied at all he’d back off.
She said, “Well, then I’d have an answer for Tara.”
“What?”
A Rush of Wings Page 28
