The Wedding Tree

by Robin Wells

  “No. You won’t have room for your dinner,” Zoey said authoritatively.

  The girls had happily dug in Miss Addie’s backyard the rest of the day, then Hope had suggested we invite them to join us for dinner.

  “Saturday is one of the few days you and the girls get to be together,” she’d said.

  “But I want to spend time with you.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “I meant alone.”

  “I don’t want the girls to think I’m taking you away from them.”

  “This isn’t at all what I’d planned,” I grumbled.

  She’d grinned. “Maybe you need to work on becoming more flexible.”

  Flexible. Huh. I’d been plenty flexible all day, trying not to peer down Hope’s shirt or stare at her shapely tush as she bent over to dig. I felt like a perv, lusting after her in full view of two kids, a dog, and an elderly lady.

  The fact was, I’d expected things to move in a new direction tonight—a direction involving lots of skin-on-skin contact, although the logistics were vague. In the back of my mind, I thought that if things got hot and heavy, we might head to the Hampton Inn in Covington for a few hours. Instead, here we were, chastely separated by two sharp-eyed chaperones.

  “You have very nice manners, girls,” Hope said. “I’m impressed with the way you’re sitting up straight and remembering to keep your arms off the table.”

  I was impressed, too—at the way Hope had managed to find what was probably the first moment all evening that both girls had their arms off the table. I liked the way she caught them behaving well and encouraged it.

  Both small spines immediately straightened. “My mother always said good manners were important,” Zoey announced.

  My heart gave a little wrench. Zoey hadn’t been old enough to remember anything Christine had said—had she? She’d probably gotten that information from Peggy or Jillian.

  “You’d make a nice mommy,” Sophie told Hope.

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” Hope said with a smile.

  “So why aren’t you one?” Zoey asked.

  “Well, for starters, I’m not married.”

  “But you were. Aunt Jillian said you were married, and then you got divorced.” She said the word in almost a whisper, as if it were naughty.

  Hope took a sip of water. “Yes. Yes, I was.”

  “Divorce is bad,” Zoey said.

  “Well—it’s nothing anyone ever wants to happen,” Hope said, before I could even frame a response. “And it’s certainly sad.”

  “What’s divorce?” Sophie asked.

  “It’s when people break their wedding promise,” Zoey told her.

  “It’s more complicated than that,” I said irritably.

  “Jillian said people divorce when they quit loving each other,” Zoey said.

  Sophie’s blue eyes grew round and wet. “Can daddies divorce their children?”

  My heart felt tight and hard as a basketball. “No. Never.”

  “But if grown-ups divorce . . .”

  “Honey.” I scooted back my chair and pulled Sophie onto my lap. “I could never, ever stop loving you or Zoey.”

  “So why aren’t you a mommy?” Sophie said to Hope. “You were married, and married people are supposed to have kids.”

  “Not all married people are fortunate enough to have kids,” I said.

  “They do unless they don’t want them,” Zoey said. “Aunt Jillian said.”

  Thanks a lot, Jillian. I forced myself to unclench my teeth and made a mental note to tell Jillian that my kids could do without her version of birth control information.

  “Sometimes it just doesn’t happen,” Hope said.

  “Did you want to be a mommy?” Zoey asked.

  “I would love to have children,” she said.

  “Maybe you could be our mommy,” Sophie said.

  My mouth went dry. Hope’s eyes met mine.

  “Don’t be a nimwit,” Zoey said. “Daddy wouldn’t marry someone who divorces husbands, ’cause then she might divorce him.”

  “Zoey, don’t call your sister names,” I said, grabbing onto the part of the conversation I could form a coherent thought around.

  The waiter appeared at our table just then, juggling plates of salad. Sophie launched into a tale about snails eating the lettuce in her grandmother’s garden, and the conversation, thank God, veered onto more manageable topics.

  • • •

  But Hope seemed subdued the rest of the evening, and after we’d left the restaurant, gone home, and tucked the girls into bed, we walked downstairs in silence.

  “I’m not sure this evening was the best idea,” she said on the landing.

  “Because of what Zoey said? Don’t put any stock in that.”

  “It’s not that. I’m worried we’re confusing them. They don’t understand casual dating.”

  I didn’t understand it, either. “The person who’s confusing them is Jillian. She’s been overly informative on topics she has no business discussing.”

  “We don’t know the context of that conversation.”

  “True. But I can imagine.”

  We’d reached the living room. We both stood at the back of the sofa.

  “What did you mean by ‘casual dating’?” I asked.

  “Short-term. Nonphysical.”

  “Does it have to be both?” I stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat of her skin. “I don’t want to be nonphysical.”

  Her breath caught. Our gazes locked, and her face tipped up. I leaned down and kissed her. Her arms wound around me as the kiss sweetened and deepened.

  Oh, dear God—she tasted like honey and salt, delicious and intoxicating. Her breasts were warm and soft against my chest. I sifted her hair through my fingers and held her head, and she gave a little moan against my mouth.

  “I need to go,” she whispered at length.

  “Not just yet.” I kissed her neck, then reclaimed her mouth.

  Many long, languid, torturously sweet moments later, she pulled away. “Matt, we’re playing with fire. The girls could come downstairs at any moment.”

  She was right, but I felt drugged with lust.

  “We need to get up early and begin the search again tomorrow.” She moved out of my reach, toward the door.

  “What if we strike out again?” I asked. “I have to return the metal detector on Monday.”

  “I asked Gran that, and she said her mother told her we would.”

  “Her mother?”

  Hope sheepishly lifted her shoulders. “Apparently they still have conversations.”

  “What if her mother’s wrong?”

  Hope smiled. “Gran said if we do our best, she’ll be satisfied.”

  “And you?” I asked, drawing a finger along her cheek. “Will you be satisfied?”

  The way her eyes darkened sent a shot of heat right to my groin. “That’s an unfair question.”

  “I was hoping it would be.” I stepped closer. “What would satisfy you, Hope?”

  She drew a shaky breath. Her eyes held an answer that made my blood race. She put a hand on my chest—then gently pushed me away. “You could let me leave.”

  “No satisfaction in that at all.”

  “Yes, there is.” She put her hand on the doorknob. “You’ll have the satisfaction of knowing you’re a wonderful father.”

  “Not the kind of satisfaction I had in mind.”

  She smiled. “It’s true, though.”

  “You think?” I regretted the question the moment I asked it. What kind of loser blatantly fished for a compliment that way? But it was the most important role of my life, and her opinion mattered.

  “Absolutely. You’re a wonderful dad. They’re two very lucky little girls.” Her hand d
rifted to my jaw, warm and soft. I took it, turned it, and kissed her palm.

  And with that, she slipped out of my arms and out the door.

  40

  hope

  Those kisses burned on my lips, even after I’d showered and put on my pajamas and applied ChapStick. They burned as I crawled into bed, and as I lay first on my right side, then on my left, then on my back, staring at the ceiling.

  It occurred to me that kissing Matt was like getting bitten by a mosquito carrying dengue fever or West Nile virus—it had left me hot and weak and slightly out of my mind.

  Unlike a mosquito bite, though, kissing Matt was pleasurable—intensely pleasurable, pleasurable almost beyond description, the kind of pleasurable that barreled into the future, creating thoughts of other things that would feel just as good or even better. His hands roaming over my body, for instance, or his mouth . . .

  I rolled over, tossing the sheet off me, letting the breeze from the overhead fan cool my skin. It wasn’t as simple as whether or not Matt and I got involved with each other. There were two little girls to think about—two little girls longing for a mother. And while I adored those girls, I knew nothing about children or mothering.

  Which was a non-issue, I reminded myself, because I was going back to Chicago. I wasn’t one of those people who could leave their hearts out of lovemaking, so there was no point in getting anything started.

  Besides, even if I weren’t going back to Chicago—which I was; the job was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and I’d be an idiot to pass it up—what were the chances we’d actually end up together? The odds of marrying any one person you dated were slim—very slim. I’d seen enough friends date guy after guy after guy, sometimes for months or even years, only to watch them eventually break up. And those were two free, unencumbered couples, not people recovering from a divorce or—even worse—the death of a spouse.

  And Matt wasn’t recovering from the death of just any spouse. From everything I’d ever heard, Christine was the equivalent of Superwoman. How could anyone ever live up to the legacy of a woman who was, by all accounts, brilliant, beautiful, tasteful, athletic, the perfect hostess, and a model mom? Who would even want to try to fill those stilettos?

  No, a future with Matt wasn’t something I could even consider. He hadn’t given any indication it was something he was interested in anyway; he’d talked about a temporary relationship. A fling, basically. And I wasn’t a fling kind of girl.

  But maybe I should be, just this once. Maybe Kirsten was right. Maybe a little hot stuff was just what I needed—and just what Matt needed, as well. The memory of that kiss made me hot and flushed all over again.

  Even if I decided to go for it—which I probably wouldn’t, because deep down, I’m a big chicken—where and when would we make love? Not at his house. Not at Gran’s, certainly. And no matter how desperate I was, I didn’t want to resort to motel rooms in the next town.

  No. It was a bad idea, for many, many reasons.

  But it was such a danged appealing bad idea that I couldn’t get it out of my head.

  • • •

  I dozed off around midnight. Something abruptly awakened me—I thought it was a voice, then decided I must have been dreaming. The alarm clock on the nightstand said ten minutes after three a.m. Thunder rumbled in the distance. I rolled over, figuring that I’d confused thunder for a voice, then worried that I might have heard Gran.

  I’d better check, I decided. I crept downstairs without turning on any lights and followed the sound of snoring down the hall. By the glow of a nightlight, I saw Gran sound asleep in her bed—the night nurse snoring on the cot beside her.

  Thunder cracked again. I started back toward the stairs, then froze. Another sound—one that sounded like the clink of metal on metal—clanked in the backyard. I veered toward the dark kitchen and headed to the window. Oh, dear—lights were moving around in the back of the garden!

  My heart galloped. My hand shook as I reached for the phone. My first thought was to call the police, but then lightning lit the sky—sheet lightning, the kind that doesn’t streak, but just illuminates the clouds like an overhead flashbulb—and in that instance, I saw the distinct outline of three men, digging.

  A stream of cold ran straight to my core. It didn’t make sense, but I was sure this was somehow related to Matt’s and my efforts to find the suitcase. If I called the police, I’d have to explain it all to them, and Gran’s secret could come spilling out, and . . .

  Without thinking further, my fingers punched in the speed-dial number for Matt.

  He answered on the first ring, his voice thick with sleep.

  “Some men are digging in the backyard,” I whispered.

  I heard the rustle of fabric, and imagined him climbing out of bed and going to his own window. He muttered a low oath. “How many?”

  “I think I saw three. I started to call the police,” I whispered, “but . . .”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  “I’ll meet you outside.”

  “No. Stay indoors.” The words were an order. “They might be armed.”

  I ran back upstairs, pulled off my pj’s, and scrambled into a T-shirt and shorts, not bothering with undergarments. No way was I going to cower indoors if Matt was going out there. I headed back downstairs and, on impulse, grabbed a poker from the fireplace tool set in the parlor. I watched the hedge—Sophie’s secret gate—and when another flash of lightning lit the sky, I saw Matt emerge from the shrubbery.

  I stepped out the kitchen door, closing it quietly behind me. Clutching the poker, I ran to the large oak and hid behind it, watching Matt advance on the men.

  “We’re gonna get electrocuted out here,” I heard one of them say.

  “Nah. That storm’s still a long ways off,” said another.

  “Freeze or I’ll shoot!” yelled Matt.

  All of a sudden, a bright light illuminated the men. Only they weren’t men at all; they were teenagers, probably fifteen or sixteen years old. I realized that Matt was holding some kind of large spotlight, the kind you might find at a roadside construction site.

  They all threw their hands up in the air and squinted toward him.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Matt demanded.

  “N-nothing,” said one of them.

  “You can tell me, or you can tell your parents down at the police station.” Matt’s voice was hard. “Your choice.”

  “We—we heard there was treasure,” said a tall, gangly boy with buzz-cut hair.

  “Where the hell did you hear that?” Matt demanded.

  “Mike’s girlfriend works at the snow cone stand, and . . .”

  “Don’t use names!” blurted a shorter boy with dark, Johnny Depp–style hair—apparently named Mike.

  “Sorry. Anyway, she overheard two little kids talkin’ about how they were helping their neighbor lady find some treasure in her backyard, and we, uh, thought we’d help out.”

  “That’s what you’re doing, huh? Helping out?” Sarcasm dripped from Matt’s words.

  “Well, yeah. We weren’t gonna keep it or nothin’.”

  “Right. Just helping the elderly from the goodness of your heart.”

  “Please,” pleaded the third boy, who had blond hair and big, scared eyes. “Don’t turn us in.”

  “Yeah,” said the smaller one. “I’m up for a scholarship, and this would ruin everything.”

  “Let them go, Matt.” I stepped forward.

  Matt’s head whipped toward me, then back at the boys. It was too dark to see his expression. “For all we know, they’re out every night, robbing old people blind, taking things they think they’ll never miss.”

  Matt’s light illuminated the blond boy’s chagrined expression. “We wouldn’t do that. We’d never do that. Please. We didn’t mean any harm. We just wanted to find
the treasure.”

  “Yeah,” Mike mumbled. “Nothin’ exciting ever happens in this town.”

  Matt paused as if he was thinking it over.

  “Gran would want them to have a second chance,” I prompted.

  Matt sighed. “This appears to be your lucky day, boys. Get on out of here—and keep your mouths shut. I won’t be so lenient if I find another group of kids digging here tomorrow.”

  The boys scrambled for the fence.

  “Wait! Don’t forget your shovels!” I called.

  “She means your parents’ shovels,” Matt said.

  Only one boy—the one who said he needed a scholarship—came back. “We’re really sorry. Thank you.”

  Grabbing the shovels, he tossed them over the fence and scrambled after them. His shorts ripped on a ragged board.

  The sound of pounding footsteps receded into the distance. “Thanks,” I said to Matt.

  “No problem.” He strode toward me, his light pointed at the ground. “Why didn’t you stay in the house like I asked?”

  “I thought I could help.”

  “With that?”

  I followed his gaze to the poker in my hand. I grinned sheepishly. “It was all I could think of. I didn’t know you’d be armed.”

  “I’m not.”

  “But you said stop or you’d shoot—and you had your hand on something in your pocket.”

  He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket along with a baby monitor. “I couldn’t just go off and leave the girls unattended.”

  Adrenaline was coursing through my veins. It was short step from fear to outrage. “You let those boys think you had a gun?”

  He lifted his shoulders. “I didn’t know who I was dealing with when I said that.”

  “Exactly.” The danger he could have been in made me furious. “So if they’d been armed, they might have shot you.”

  “All the more reason you should have stayed in the house.”

  “That is not the point!”

  “So what is?”

  “That you took a huge risk, and you won’t even acknowledge it was dangerous and stupid.”

  “Hey, I’m not the one running around with a fireplace poker.”