by Becky Wade
“I’m abruptly departing. And I think that’s the first time in my life I’ve ever used the word abruptly.”
Her blankets dropped from her as she rose. “Feel free to stay. I have enough tea leaves to last for several more pots.”
“I didn’t mean to keep you long. Even this long.”
“Why is it that people you want to stay always insist on leaving early and people you’re ready to usher out always linger and linger?”
She’d been honest with him just now. Her honesty felt like an invitation to be equally honest with her. A heavy pause stretched between them.
“I want to go out with you, Nora,” he said bluntly.
Her lips parted.
“I want us to be together,” he added, just so there’d be no misunderstanding. He didn’t want her thinking he was asking her out on another paid research assignment. “I felt like you had a right to know these things so you could make an informed decision about me. And the Englishman.”
“Oh.”
She didn’t rush to tell him she didn’t like Duncan, which made his gut knot. “Take your time. Think on it. If you’d rather we be friends, I’ll understand. No hard feelings.” Even as he said the noble thing, some very hard feelings—so hard their edges were as sharp as swords—dug into him. “When you’ve decided, call me or text me or drop by my house.”
“Drop by? Really?”
“Of course. Anytime.”
She peered at him, a beautiful redheaded statue in pink pants who’d been shocked into silence.
“Thanks for the tea and the toast,” he said.
“You’re welcome.”
“Good night.”
He was halfway through the back doors when she said, “John?”
He glanced at her.
“Indubitable.”
He dipped his chin and left.
———
Nora’s hands came up to cover the lower half of her face. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t believe that John had just said what he’d said to her.
“If you’d rather we be friends, I’ll understand. . . .”
No, John. She almost dissolved into hysterical laughter. I wouldn’t rather we be friends. He was certifiably impossible not to want. She’d wanted him—to like her, kiss her, be her boyfriend—since the first moment she’d seen him. Of course she had! She was a spinster librarian. The difficult thing to comprehend was that he’d want to be more than friends with her.
But . . . it seemed he did.
“Great Scott,” she whispered.
Since the day she’d received his text at Sweet Art, her longings had been trying to coax her brain into thinking that Britt’s theory might be right. That John had texted her because he was interested. But she’d been terrified, frankly, to give those longings a toehold. Only now did she dare believe it. The realization that he liked her cascaded through her like champagne.
He’d told her he’d come tonight to provide her with information so that she could make an informed decision. He’d encouraged her to take her time, and then, before she’d collected herself enough to form the words that might have convinced him to stay, he’d gone.
He’d behaved like a man who’d had months to consider his condition, knew how difficult the subject was, and fully expected her to think through everything carefully before deciding whether or not to invest her heart in him.
The fact that he’d taken pains to tell her all this before so much as going on a single date spoke volumes about his character. He was nothing like the shady guys who hid everything about themselves until their girlfriends fell in love with them. Then divulged that they had a criminal record, a stalker ex-wife, loads of debt, a drinking problem, and cooties.
Nora folded the throw blankets and returned them to the wicker basket inside. She carried the tray to her sink and went to work straightening her kitchen.
She respected John’s thoughtful, deliberate approach. The genetic eye condition he’d just described was an incredibly serious thing. She could imagine how the news that he had Malattia Leventinese must have jarred him because she’d once been jarred, too—by Harrison. The shocks she and John had received in their lives had meant, for both of them, that their futures wouldn’t look the way they’d hoped or expected.
John’s future literally would not look the way he’d expected.
So many, many blessings in Nora’s life had flowed to her through her ability to see. The view of the canal from her house filled her with pleasure. Reading was her greatest joy. Watching Northamptonshire. Looking at the beloved buildings in her historical village, each one with a history and charm of its own, ranked right up there. So did staring at John.
She relied on her vision in order to accomplish almost every aspect of her work. Her vision gave her independence and autonomy.
The coming decrease in his independence and autonomy was probably at the core of what John was working through at the moment. He wasn’t a regular guy. He was a man so physically superior that he’d been part of one of the most elite fighting forces on the planet. His aura of proficiency had been one of the first things she’d noticed about him.
The idea of this particular man having to accept this particular fate caused pain to scrape against her like the tines of a fork. No doubt, he was grappling with who he’d be once diminished eyesight took away some of the things he’d built his identity on.
She slotted dishes into the dishwasher.
John had a flaw. She marveled over the fact that his imperfection didn’t diminish him in her eyes. If anything, she felt more connected to him than she had before because, tonight, he’d finally let her in. He’d been real with her, and now she understood his truth that much better.
No matter how fabulously perfect John had appeared, or how much she’d enjoyed putting him on a pedestal, she’d understood from the start that he could not possibly be perfect.
He was close. She smiled to herself. He was very close. Only make-believe men like Adolphus Brook were perfect.
Just like every other human being, John had faults. He was a man facing a struggle, a struggle she could perhaps help him with—and God knew how much she loved to be helpful.
So, no. His weakness did not dissuade her. She was crazy about so many of his qualities, too many to count, that had nothing to do with his ability to fell dragons. In some deep, intrinsic way, she and John were at heart level a matched pair. His deficiencies and proficiencies and her deficiencies and proficiencies had been constructed to click together like two Legos.
She wanted to date him. Badly, she wanted it.
However, she’d had very little time to comprehend what the reality of blindness would entail. She’d respond to his thoughtfulness and deliberation with thoughtfulness and deliberation of her own.
She left a night-light on in her kitchen, like always. After double checking to make sure that all the doors were locked, she got water flowing into her bathtub. She added a squirt of bubble bath and lowered in. No need of a book tonight, thanks. Her mind was overfull as it was.
She was a researcher. Before she saw John next, she’d do a copious amount of research into Malattia Leventinese. She’d find out what life was like for those with impaired vision and what their loved ones could do to support them. She’d also find out more about John’s reproductive options.
John had been powerless to opt in or opt out of his fate, which likely explained why he’d gone to great pains to give her a way to opt out and why he wanted to opt out on behalf of his future children.
However, when he’d informed her of his refusal to father children, it had seemed to Nora that she was hearing his grief talking. In time, he might change his mind.
Or he very well might not.
Ever since her engagement went kaput, she’d assigned herself to the role of doting, single aunt to her future nieces and nephews. Just the prospect of becoming John’s girlfriend was blowing her mind at present. Imagining herself and John as a married couple who wanted to have chi
ldren together felt utterly fantastical. If that pie-in-the-sky thing ever were to happen, and he didn’t want to have biological children—then yes, she could see how she would mourn that. If married to him, then she’d want their babies to be his and her babies. Sure.
On the other hand, if they loved each other enough to get married, then she knew herself well enough to know that she’d be willing to make sacrifices for him. That’s what love did. That’s what love was.
On the whole, a hazy, potential future that included parenthood was just too remote to be of much consequence to her now. In the here and now, she was deciding yes or no to a boyfriend. The ability to sire children was not a quality she deemed important in a boyfriend.
Again, though. This was all very new. She’d think on it. She’d pray on it.
Skin pink and dry, she went to her dresser and slid out her pajama drawer. Her pajamas with the Adolphus quote waited on top.
To be as forthright toward Duncan as John had just been toward her, she really did need to speak with Duncan first thing tomorrow and make sure they were both in agreement as to the status of their relationship. At times over the past few days, she’d suspected that Duncan liked her as more than a superfan.
She bypassed her Adolphus pajamas and selected the pair that had arrived in the mail last week. The drawstring bottoms were pink gingham. The matching cotton T-shirt was emblazoned with the words U.S. NAVY SEALS. The only easy day was yesterday.
Phone conversation between Allie and her best friend, Lizzie:
Allie: I was just going through my hallway closet and guess what I found? Full scuba diving gear! Mask, fins, regulator, tank!
Lizzie: Why is this worthy of such an excited tone of voice?
Allie: I’ve been racking my brain for a reason to see John again that would allow me to appear as if I don’t care about our breakup and have gone on to be fabulous without him. Men can never resist that in a woman, can they? Fabulousness without them?
Lizzie: Nope. They never can resist that.
Allie: This news is worthy of an excited tone of voice because this scuba gear belongs to John. A few months ago we went scuba diving, and he told me to hang on to the equipment until we went scuba diving together again. I stashed the stuff in a bag in the closet and forgot about it. But now I’m honor-bound to visit him so that I can return his gear. Aren’t I?
Lizzie: Yes. I approve. You have my official endorsement.
Email from Grandma to Willow, Nora, and Britt:
Girls, I’ve been suffering from constipation ever since that very expensive party you threw for me the other night. I think this is the fault of that extremely rich cake. Have any of you been experiencing similar difficulties? If so, I insist you use milk of magnesia. Under no circumstances should you resort to an enema.
Sincerely, Grandma
Email from Britt to Willow and Nora:
Constipation!!! From a cake? I’m highly offended on behalf of my top-notch cake. I’m thinking about purchasing an enema just to spite Grandma.
Email from Willow to Nora and Britt:
If I had to guess I’d say that the disgruntlement Grandma’s been swallowing is the source of her constipation. I’ve been eating leftover slices of your top-notch cake daily without complication.
Email from Nora to Willow and Britt:
I’m unable to work up any annoyance toward Grandma at the moment because John came by to ask me out an hour and a half ago. My psyche is too busy being overjoyed.
Email from Britt to Nora and Willow:
Nora, you’re a hunk magnet! I suggest you take the Navy SEAL straight to the nearest wedding chapel.
Email from Willow to Nora and Britt:
I concur with Britt about the wedding chapel. Just be sure to think it through before you decide to live dangerously and let Britt bake your wedding cake.
p.s. What are you going to do about the cute British guy?
CHAPTER
Eighteen
Duncan scooted his chair closer to Nora’s. “I’ve loved spending time with you these last few days.”
“Likewise.”
“We’ve always had a great rapport online. You’re stellar in cyberspace.” The word stellar sounded charmingly crisp and hard-edged spoken in his British accent.
“You’re stellar in cyberspace, too. Only it doesn’t come out as cute when I say it. Stellar,” she said, employing her best imitation British accent.
Instead of making him breakfast this morning, she’d collected Duncan at Bradfordwood and driven him to The Griddle, her favorite breakfast restaurant in Merryweather. Lots of old brick, a fireplace, and plenty of dark wood surrounded them. She’d very much like to enjoy the cozy ambience and the plate of food their waitress had just set before her. Huge biscuits sat beside an over-easy egg, hash browns, and bacon. Eating breakfast out was somewhat akin to eating chocolate at the beach . . . a luxury. Steam twirled upward from the food, begging her to dig in.
Except Duncan was staring at her with an intensity that required her full attention. Mirth still lingered at his lips. “Here’s the thing . . .” His voice took on a husky, conspirational timbre.
Uh-oh. Dread zinged through Nora.
“Even though you’re stellar in cyberspace,” he said, “I had no way of knowing how endearing you’d be in person. Until this trip.”
“Thank you!”
“You’re endearing, and you’re a beauty,” he stated.
Nora took a sip of coffee. Whenever she ordered coffee instead of tea, it was very much a desperate times/desperate measures type of situation. She’d lain in bed, an expression of dreamy amazement on her face, her thoughts twisting like a corkscrew, for hours last night after John’s visit. Thus, she was functioning on four hours of sleep. She knew she’d need caffeine and lots of it in order to survive this breakfast and the unceasing talking that awaited her between here and the airport, where they were headed next.
Duncan placed a hand on the table and turned it palm up, then slanted his handsome head and gave her the smile he employed for photographs.
Reluctance pricked her. Was it too late for her to text Duncan, claim an illness, and cancel this breakfast?
This is what adult women do, Nora. They deal with uncomfortable situations in mature ways. She placed her hand in his, while simultaneously wondering if holding his hand was the mature thing to do. Holding Duncan’s hand wasn’t terribly disloyal to John, was it? It felt like it might be, yet she hadn’t gone out (yet) on a single date with John. Plus, Duncan might be wanting to hold her hand because he harbored the same kind of affection toward her that he harbored toward his grandmother.
“Do you remember messaging me not so long ago to say that if Adolphus noticed Lucy’s existence, she would be his?” he asked.
“Mmm?”
“Heart and soul.”
“I said that?”
“Always and forever.”
She feigned surprised pleasure. “Are Adolphus and Lucy finally getting together on the show?” Her deliberate misunderstanding was an extremely wimpy way to buy time.
“You know I can’t divulge upcoming plot twists. My lips are sealed about Adolphus and Lucy.”
How about you allow me to unseal mine so I can dig into these biscuits? The floury, fresh-out-of-the-oven smell of them was making her stomach weep. Slightly desperate for a coffee refill, she tried to catch the waitress’s eye.
“The point I’m trying to make is that I’ve noticed your existence, Miss Lawrence.”
Nora forced her attention to him. There’d been a time when she’d danced around her house each and every time he’d called her Miss Lawrence. Now it annoyed the tar out of her. Miss Lawrence was an intelligent woman who was wasting her life pining for a fantasy.
Duncan gave her an expression akin to that of a parent leading their kids into the living room on Christmas morning to see Santa’s haul. Self-satisfied. Benevolent. Expectant.
Then he leaned his face toward hers. Not quickly. Slowly.
Did . . . did he mean to kiss her? Before he could, she reared back.
He stopped his progress. Confusion tweaked his forehead.
“I’m sorry.” Her hand was still ensconced within his. She slipped it free, then tucked her hair behind her ears. “I may not have handled that well.”
“Aw” he said as if she were a child who’d done something adorable. “Of course you’re nervous.”
He thought she was rattled by the supreme magnitude of his interest in her. She understood his deduction. It was quite preposterous to think that she, Nora Bradford, would reject famous actor Duncan Bartholomew.
His affection for her complimented her. His talent impressed her. But she didn’t want to kiss him. If Adolphus Brook or John Lawson pulled her into, say, a quiet alcove and set her against a wall and pressed their hands to the plaster on both sides of her head and met her eyes and leaned in, she’d yearn to be kissed by them. She’d tunnel her hands into their hair and pull them to her. She’d combust with desire.
Duncan was a friendly, insecure, and enormously gifted man. Whenever he went into a funk over things that didn’t go his way, he relied on her for encouragement. Whenever he required extra effort from his fandom, he depended on her as his best soldier. She was a woman who loved to be needed. But in the end, she didn’t want to be needed by a boyfriend in those specific ways.
Duncan looked young to her, sitting there in front of his plate of pancakes. His cheeks were smooth. His build youthful. He was two years younger than she was, she remembered. And an only child.
More age would benefit him. More weathering. More of the kind of life experiences that would force him to realize that he might not be the center of everyone’s universe.
She liked Duncan a great deal. But, no. She did not want to kiss him.
“Let’s try that again, shall we?” he murmured and once again began leaning into her personal space.
“No,” she said calmly.
He halted.
“I didn’t scoot back just now because I was nervous, Duncan. I did it because I view you as a friend.”
