by Donna Ball
“Dominic, what …”
He stopped and turned her forty-five degrees, and then removed his hand from her eyes. Lindsay blinked and looked around, unsure at first about what she was seeing.
On the east side of the folly, just where the creek bank curved into a small noisy waterfall, an area of about twenty square feet had been mowed flat and staked off with contractor’s tape. The path down which they had just walked from the barn widened and circled around almost like a driveway. Lindsay looked up at him, puzzled.
“I have a contract on my house,” he told her. “We close in thirty days.”
She squealed out loud with delight and hugged him hard. “Dominic, that’s wonderful! I’m so excited for you! Oh my goodness.” She stepped back on a breath, her hands clasped together against her lips, her eyes shining with wonder and no small amount of trepidation. “This is really happening. We’re really getting married.”
“I certainly hope so,” he confessed, eyes twinkling, “otherwise I’m going to be homeless.”
She laughed and threw her arms around his neck again. “I’ll start helping you pack tomorrow. The girls can help too. Oh my.” She sank back again, arms still looped around his neck, only this time she looked uneasy. “There’s an awful lot to do.”
“Not as much as you think. The couple is buying it furnished. All I need to pack are my clothes and tools. But that’s not why I brought you here.”
He turned her again to face the taped-off square of ground and explained, “I thought we could use the profit from the sale to build our own place. Here.”
She blinked and stared at him.
“The structure is sound,” he went on, “and there’s plenty of room for a small kitchen. We’ll enclose the west side of the porch for your studio. You said the light is best there, anyway. And this …” he strode around the taped area gesturing, “is the master suite, with a small screen porch overlooking the creek and big windows on either side. The spring is plenty deep enough for a gravity fed water system, and it’s only a hundred feet or so to run utilities from the main power pole at the street. This is good flat bottom land, fine for gardening, and if we thin out a few of those saplings to let the sun in, your roses with thrive here. Look …” He extended his hand to her. “I’ve already started your garden.”
Wordlessly, she followed him around the side of the building, to where a trellis had been built adjacent to the eastern column of the little porch. In the center of a freshly mulched circle of earth was a new rose cutting.
“A rose,” she said, kneeling to look at it.
“Not just any rose,” he corrected, smiling as he watched her. “Your rose. The Lindsay rose.”
For their first Valentine’s Day together, Dominic had given her a rose bush that he had cultivated specifically and named for her because, he said, the color of its bloom reminded him of the color of her hair. If she were perfectly honest with herself, Lindsay would have to admit that it was at that moment that she had known somewhere deep inside that he was the man she wanted to marry. They had planted the original bush in the formal rose garden beside the house, but he must have kept a cutting and rooted it for an occasion just such as this.
“I ran an irrigation hose from the stream,” he explained, “to keep it watered for the next couple of weeks. But it gets plenty of sun here, and by the time we’re settled in here next spring, it should be blooming like crazy. And every time it does, it will remind you of our union, and the life we’re making together.”
Lindsay stood and walked to him, took his face between her hands, and kissed him hard on the mouth, and then, melting into his embrace, more tenderly. “You,” she said softly, “sure know how to brighten my day. In fact, you brighten my whole life. Thank you for the rose.”
He smiled into her eyes. “You’re more than welcome, my love. We’ll put up a picket fence to keep the deer out, and paint it white. This place will be a little paradise in the glen.”
“But Dominic …” She hardly knew where to start, or what to say. She looked around, and all she saw was love. She looked at him, and she knew she was exactly where she wanted to be. So all she said was, “I’ve never transplanted a rose this late in the season before. Not in this zone, anyway. Shouldn’t we have waited until spring?”
“Not at all. Roses do best when exposed to a little stress. It makes them stronger. “He smiled and tweaked her nose. “Just like people.”
She turned and leaned back against him, looking at the folly and the beginning of the little garden he had started, relaxing in the circle of his arms. “Wouldn’t it be something to bring the old gardens back the way they used to be? We could plant the whole place with Lindsay roses.”
“We could do that,” he agreed thoughtfully. “But it would be more practical to clear the land for vines.”
She cast an amused glanced toward him. “Well, that’s a relief. I was afraid you might be getting too sentimental.”
His eyes twinkled. “You see? I told you I would disappoint you one day. And now it’s out of the way. But if it makes you feel any better, I’ll make a point of saving room for your rose garden.”
“I appreciate that.”
Lindsay couldn’t help smiling as she turned back to look at the folly with its gingerbread trim and fairy-tale columns, the imaginary white picket fence upon which roses would climb and nod their heads in the breeze. The bright gurgling stream, the cottage kitchen with herbs in the window boxes, the screen porch where they would sit in the swing and have morning coffee. The winter evenings when they would sit beside the cherub-etched fireplace and watch snow fall silently in the woods. The life that would unfold in quiet contentment before them here, in this enchanted place.
And it broke her heart to turn back to him and say, “Dominic, it all sounds beautiful, and I love you so much for thinking of it, and it’s not that I wouldn’t love living here, but … we already have a place to live.”
He smiled. “I know, love, and the ladies are very generous to want to share the big house. But every married couple should have a home of their own, and this is ours. If we start building now and the weather holds, we should be in by Christmas,” he added.
Lindsay’s eyes clouded with uncertainty. “Not have Christmas at Ladybug Farm?”
He laughed softly. “Sweetheart, this is Ladybug Farm. You’re a hundred steps away from the front door. Of course we’ll have Christmas there. Easter too, and most Sundays, and wine on the porch every evening. Nothing will change.”
“Everything will change,” she whispered. And it was as though, once she said it, the very hills and valleys and woods and streams, every blade of grass and spark of sun and random breeze took the words into themselves and echoed them back to her: everything will change.
She gave herself a little shake, as though if she refused to listen to the words they would cease to be true. She turned back to Dominic, pleading for his understanding. “It’s just that … oh, I wasn’t supposed to tell you, it was supposed to be a surprise, but … Cici and Bridget have gone to so much trouble fixing up a place for you, for us, remodeling the entire second floor, practically … it was their wedding gift to us. They wanted us to have a room of our own. In the house. They made a whole suite, tore down walls, repainted … They wanted you to feel welcome.”
“Ah,” he said, and nodded slowly. “So that’s what all the construction noise was about. I should have known Cici was up to something.”
“It’s just that …” She looked at him helplessly. “How can I hurt their feelings? They’ve worked so hard.”
He said nothing for a moment. Then he smiled and kissed her nose. “Well then. I’ll try to act surprised.”
She searched his eyes. “You’re not disappointed? Because if this is what you really want …”
“Sweet girl,” he said simply, “all I want is for you to be happy. That’s all this was about. Making you happy.”
He squeezed her waist and kissed her hair, and they walked back to the
house. Lindsay tried hard not to admit that she had never felt less happy in her life.
~*~
Kevin’s pillow smelled like jasmine. He smiled even before he opened his eyes, letting the moment linger. He turned over in bed and found his glasses. Lori was sitting in a patch of buttery sunlight on the faded upholstered bench of the window embrasure that overlooked the courtyard below, sipping cappuccino from a paper cup and turning the pages of an Italian newspaper. She was wearing a loose white tank top and a long printed skirt, and her hair, spilling wild and curly over her shoulders, reminded him of bright new pennies tumbled in a stream. He wanted to tell her that she looked like a Botticelli painting. He wanted to tell her that he would conquer the world for her and ask nothing, not even a smile, in return. He wanted to tell her that he loved her beyond all reason or possible understanding. Instead, he propped himself up with a pillow behind his head and said, “Whatcha doing?”
She turned a page of the paper. “Looking for a job. I figure if you’re going to be able to continue to support me in the style to which I’ve become accustomed, at least one of us needs to be working.”
Kevin’s hotel, while a far cry from the hovel in which Lori had been living, was not exactly the Ritz Carlton. But the air-conditioning worked most of the time and there was daily maid service, and it was on a quiet street less than a block from the shopping district. There was a coffee shop downstairs and some excellent restaurants within walking distance. For the past two weeks they had lived like tourists, dining out for every meal, sharing a bottle of wine in the courtyard in the evening, taking the train to nearby attractions, walking the vineyards, touring the wineries. Kevin wanted to show her everything, give her everything, make her eyes light up at every possible moment. Of course he knew they couldn’t keep that up forever, but forever was not something either of them talked much about.
But he thought about it. A lot.
He said, “Since when did you learn to read Italian?”
“I didn’t.” She got up and came over to him, two cups of cappuccino and the newspaper in hand. “That’s why you should probably be the one with the job.”
He took the newspaper from her and set it aside. “As it happens,” he said, “I know a place where there’s an opening for a barista.”
He took the coffees from her and put them on the nightstand. He pulled her into his arms and lost himself in her dancing eyes and the smell of jasmine. She tasted like cappuccino and every dream he had ever had, and when finally, reluctantly, they parted, he could tell she kept her expression stern with an effort.
“I’m serious,” she said.
“So am I.” He pushed her hair away from her face with a single tender stroke and added softly, surprising himself, “Oddly enough.”
She looked a question at him, but before he could answer it, or even think of an answer, she lowered her lashes, which were pale and coppery without makeup, and turned in his arms. She rested her head against his shoulder and gazed at the ceiling. “There’s something you should know about me, Kevin,” she said.
“Do you mean the part about you having terrible luck with men?”
She cast a quick sideways look at him. “Yeah. That part.” Her fingers, like the delicate treble notes of a haunting melody, slid down his arm and entwined with his own. He actually heard music in his head when she did that. She said, “You need to know this. I loved them all, I really did. Jeff, he was a fantasy. A daddy fantasy, if I were to be completely honest. And Sergio …well, he was the mystery, wasn’t he? And there’s always something so irresistible about a mystery. Mark … I think he was what my mother wanted for me. Safe, practical, steady.”
She was aware of his attention, which was piercing and true, a physical thing. She said, choosing her words carefully, “But I think every girl has a picture in her head of her ideal man, her Prince Charming. Any guy who comes into her life has to meet those minimum Prince Charming requirements or it’s a no-go, a complete non starter.” She glanced at him quickly, a little shyly. “My Prince Charming wore Clark Kent glasses and quoted Daniel Webster and was a total ass about getting the details right. He’d drive an ordinary girl crazy in two minutes. But somehow, in the back of my mind, that’s the standard I was holding everyone else up to and … that’s why, in the end, everything fell apart.”
He was silent for a long time, just holding her. Then he nodded somberly. “Well, I guess there’s something you should know about me, too.”
“You mean the part about you being a criminal?”
“A not-very-good criminal,” he reminded her.
She smiled. “Right.”
He said softly, “Guys have a picture in the back of their minds too, you know. And all this time … I think it was you.”
Her smile slowly faded and she sighed, her fingertips stroking the back of his arm, her eyes upon the ceiling. “Did you ever think you’d have to travel halfway around the world just to find what was in your backyard all the time?”
He kissed her hair. “Never,” he replied, “in a million years.”
Now she turned to him, her eyes dark and serious. “Everyone falls in love in Italy, Kevin.”
“Oh, thank God.” He stroked her eyebrow, the curve of her cheek, and let his fingertip brush the fluttery silk of one coppery eyelash. His throat was so full he could hardly speak, and his voice was husky. “Because I am quite desperately, hopelessly, madly in love with you.”
The breath of her sigh whispered across his lips. “That’s good. Because I’m pretty crazy about you, too.”
He kissed her nose, her ear, the curve of her neck. She whispered, “Oh, Kevin, what are we going to do?”
He settled back against the pillow, drawing her again into the curve of his shoulder. “Baby, you ask me that every day.” His tone was gently indulgent. “Do you want me to make something up?”
She turned her eyes up to him, fingers curled upon his bare chest. “Yes, please.”
He was thoughtful for a moment, and as he thought, his face grew sad. “Okay,” he said. “Summer will end. It always does, even in Italy. The winter winds will come, blowing the roofs off houses and freezing the water in the fountains. You’ll hate it here. You’ll go back to California, get your master’s degree in winemaking, go on to run a famous winery in the States. Marry some lucky investment banker, have three kids and a nanny. I’ll hop a freighter to the South Seas, grow a long beard, end up living in a shack on the beach giving legal advice to the natives in exchange for rum. And regret every day of my life that I let you get away.”
Her fist tightened on his chest and her brow puckered. “I don’t like that one. Make up something else.”
“Okay.” He threaded his fingers through hers and opened her hand across his heart. “Summer will end. The winds will come, blowing the roofs off houses and freezing the water in the fountains. Our favorite restaurants will close, the tourists will go home. You’ll have to start making your own coffee. You’ll hate it here. You’ll start talking about what the weather is like in Southern California and it’ll make me crazy. We’ll have a fight. You’ll call your dad. He’ll send you a ticket home. I tell you to go, you faithless little wench, and you’ll storm off to the airport, dragging that great big rolling suitcase of yours behind you. You’ll be approaching the boarding gate when you hear someone call your name, and you turn around and see me, pushing past security, running toward you …”
Her fingers tightened on his. “Oh, please don’t tell me you get mowed down by a security guard with an AK-47.”
He chuckled. “No, they’re in a good mood that day. You start running toward me, and I sweep you up and twirl you around, right there in the middle of the Rome airport, and I ask you to come live with me in a shack on a beach in the South Pacific.”
She turned and propped herself up on her elbows, looking down at him. “And I say yes,” she whispered.
“And we have three kids …” he murmured, as her face came closer to his.
�
��But no nanny.” She kissed him, long and sweet. And then she murmured softly against his lips, “Ah, Kevin. What is going to happen to us?”
He took her face in his hands, his fingers tangling in her hair. He looked into her eyes and all he wanted in the world was to make those eyes smile, to wipe away all her worries, to promise her everything was going to be all right and to spend the rest of his life keeping that promise. But all he had to offer her was the truth.
“Sweetheart,” he said simply, “I don’t know.”
She sighed, and wrapped her arms around him, and they both discovered, after a time, that it didn’t really matter much at all.
~*~
Chapter Seven
There Should Have Been Belly Dancers
Never in the history of engagement parties, everyone would agree later, had there been a more memorable one than the engagement party Paul and Derrick hosted for Lindsay Wright and Dominic DuPoncier at the Hummingbird House B&B on the evening of October 8. The drive was lined from the street to the parking lot with colorful Japanese lanterns, and the parking lot, which had been extended to include a good portion of the west side of the property, was overflowing. Valet parking was of course provided, because when Paul and Derrick gave a party, it was done right.
“On the other hand,” Paul confessed to Lindsay with a faintly worried frown on his face as he air-kissed her at the door, “we might have left a tad too many of the details up to Harmony. She has a tendency to drive a theme into the ground. I completely put my foot down about the belly dancers, though,” he assured her. “And the fire walkers.”
“Now that,” remarked Dominic with every appearance of seriousness, “is a shame.”
The slightly atonal strains of Moroccan music drifted through the house from the back garden, where a band dressed in the traditional caftan and fez was set up under a striped canopy with exotic looking instruments and colorful drums. “I hope they know something by the Stones,” Dominic murmured to Lindsay, which made her laugh.
