“Both, I think. Goodnight, Jonathan.”
“Night, Cara.” He turned to swipe the key card to his door and murmured under his breath, “—mia?”
One last glance as she walked down the hallway to the elevators made up his mind. He dashed after her. “Cara…”
She turned abruptly, causing him to slam into her and knocking her into the elevator door. “Well, that’s one way to bowl me over.”
“I am so sorry! Are you okay?” Concern filled Jonathan’s face and his hands reached for her head, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch her.
“I didn’t hit that hard. It sounded worse than it is.”
Taking a breath, he started backing toward his door again, unwilling to be out of earshot of his children. “Lunch—do you get a break?”
“Yes—at one.” At his inquisitive look, she added, “I take a delayed lunch so that the office manager can eat with the others.”
“Can I pick you up?”
“I doubt it, I’m no lightweight, but you can try that tomorrow. Go around behind the building and come in from the south entrance. Less traffic and closer to several restaurants.”
Choosing to ignore Cara’s dig at the curves he found attractive, Jonathan nodded then raced for his door. His card key slid in and released the lock. He turned the knob and waited with her, forty feet or more away, until the elevator arrived, opened, and then closed, taking her out of sight. Inside his room, he slipped the key into his pocket and sighed. “Jonathan Lyman, this is much too soon and incredibly irresponsible.”
His voice reached his heart, but his heart laughed and cried, “I don’t care.”
Chapter Three
Sun glinted against the steel and glass insurance building as Cara strode from the side door. Each step toward the parking lot ignited doubts about her hair, her clothing—even her jewelry. As she walked across the asphalt, her beige silk pants and ivory top suddenly felt too simple, as if she’d gone for the repressed librarian effect.
Cara shook off her insecurities and smiled as Jonathan stepped from the car and hurried to meet her. The appreciation in his eyes preceded his “Wow!” by mere seconds.
“Eloquent as ever, Jonathan.”
He held the car door open for her. Just before he closed it, he leaned in and murmured, “Mmm hmm.”
She laughed as he jogged around the back of the car and slid behind the wheel. As he backed out of the parking spot, a loop on her purse caught her attention. She flipped the strap back and forth, a frown forming. “I think the leather is cracking,” she murmured to herself.
“What?”
Still absorbed in the frustration of a favorite purse wearing out before she’d had it long enough to break it in, Cara repeated herself without glancing his way. “The loop for the strap on my purse is cracking. I just don’t understand it.”
“Leather shouldn’t crack—not good leather.” He reached over and rubbed the leather between his thumb and forefinger. “Old?”
“Less than three months.”
“I’d take it back. That looks like good leather—not cheap.” He pulled into an empty parking space on a side street.
Cara glanced around her. “Whoa… The Fiddleleaf Café? I’ve wanted to come here for ages, but they’re always packed.”
He led her to the hostess desk of the café and gave his name. As the hostess led them to their table, Jonathan said, “Perhaps you just need to call…”
Warmth tinged her cheeks, but Cara chose to ignore the slight embarrassment. “Show off.”
“A man has to try…”
A server brought a bowl of fruit and small plates as he stopped to take their drink order. Cara speared several pieces of fruit and dropped them on her plate before perusing the menu. “Have you eaten here?”
“No, but my mother likes it. She recommends the turkey wrap. She says that they actually use Turkish spices in it—cumin, sumac, and mint I believe. It comes with a…” He found the item on the menu before continuing. “—there. Red lentil soup and the salad has no lettuce—it’s more like a salsa.”
“Sounds delicious. I had thought about the Californian, but wow. It’s hard to decide now.” She peered over the menu. “What are you ordering?”
“The Turkey. I want to be able to tell Mom that I liked it—or didn’t.” He leaned forward. “Get your Californian and take a bite of my dishes. Win-win.”
As they waited for their food, Cara glanced around the restaurant, taking a moment to watch the other diners. Servers rushed to and fro, bringing plates, removing plates, refilling water glasses, offering more fruit, and leaving tickets at tables before greeting new guests. In the corner, a strange scene played out. Cara nodded in the direction of the table. “Look over there.”
Jonathan followed her gaze. “What?”
“They’ve been like that since we got here. He’s working on that laptop, going through all those papers. She’s just chatting at him from time to time while she eats her fruit.” Understanding dawned. “Oh, look at that. Oh, that’s too cute.”
“What?”
“Look at him. He’s done. He hasn’t taken a bite since we got here.”
“So he’s a fast eater.”
She shook her head. “No, she came in just after us. He stayed for her to eat. He hasn’t said a word to her. I don’t even think he greeted her when she sat down.”
“Maybe they’re mad at each other—or he’s mad at her.”
Cara watched him for a moment and then shook her head once more. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t un—wait, he’s leaving. Look.”
The man closed his laptop and slid it into a briefcase. The papers dropped into a file and disappeared into the case as well. He grabbed a jacket—a deep but bright blue—and stood, pulling it on. With his collarless shirt, the effect was decidedly European in Cara’s estimation. Her breath caught as he smiled at his lunch companion. His hand reached for the check. Hers covered it just before he could slide it off the table. His hand hovered as if daring her. She pulled hers back and speared another piece of cantaloupe.
A sigh escaped as Cara watched him turn, without a word, and leave. “I wish I knew what just happened.”
“Maybe he’s…” Jonathan fumbled for the right word. “What do you call people who can’t speak these days? I imagine ‘mute’ is socially incorrect now.”
“Speech impaired? I don’t know.” She pointed at him as he paid the check. “Looks to me like he can talk.” She strained to listen but couldn’t hear a word. “Did you notice his blazer and that shirt? There’s something almost European about him. Maybe he doesn’t speak English.”
Their food arrived before Jonathan could reply, something that, Cara suspected, didn’t bother him in the least. As they ate, they said little. Cara watched closely, trying to discern whether their lack of conversation had more to do with the delicious food or because their non-verbal communication proved sufficient for both of them. Never had she met anyone so eloquent without words and so comfortable without conversation.
Eventually, Jonathan set his plate aside and leaned back in his chair, his hands folded in his lap. “You are a chameleon.”
“In what way?” Cara speared another watermelon cube and cocked her head, trying to decide if such an assessment was good or bad.
“You adapt to your environment. Saturday you were elegant and festive, yesterday you were casual and carefree, and today you’re professional and a bit sophisticated.”
“So,” she amended, “my clothing is chameleon-like.”
“Your personality too, but you know that.”
Something in the way his hands shifted made her look deeply into his eyes, searching for something. She found it. “Stop it.”
“What?”
“Trying to carry on a conversation when you’d rather just ‘be.’”
Caught in actions she suspected he hadn’t truly planned, Jonathan met her eyes, guilt masking his face. “I am sorry.”
“Me too. If you won�
��t be you—the real you—I won’t waste my time trying to get to know you.” She looked at him more closely and smiled. “That’s not really it, is it? It was a way to try to get me going, wasn’t it? You want me to talk. What do you want to know?”
“Start with boyfriends, job, and your goals. I intend to listen and be fascinated.”
Cara speared the last bite of her salad. “Start with boyfriends? How many do you think I have?”
“My preference is for zero, but—”
“Ding, ding, ding! The man is a winner. Hand him his prize.” She chewed the salad and thought about how to answer the question. Then she saw his eyes and laughed. “You’re bad. I wasn’t offering myself as an option.”
“One must try.” He signaled for a refill on her drink before he said, “So tell me about your previous boyfriends.”
“Well, my last boyfriend was three years ago. He dumped me after I got back to my seat at graduation.” At his raised eyebrows she added, “We were seated in alphabetical order. Laas then Laban.”
“In your seat?”
She tossed a cherry tomato onto his plate. “You eat it. I can’t stand the way they explode in your mouth. I think bugs must be like that. Ew.” Once he accepted the tomato, she continued. “Yep. He got back to his seat, leaned over and said, ‘It’s been a great three years. Have a good life,’ and I never heard from him again.”
“You expected a proposal.”
“We’d talked about it,” she admitted. “I didn’t expect anything then, but sometime over the summer, yeah.”
Something in his expression kept her talking. “No, there’s been no one since. There’s a mission church in Rockland that we do things with once a month, and there’s a guy there—Matt,” Cara paused, feeling foolish for talking about other men with one she found so appealing. “I’ve always thought he was a great guy, but he seemed immune to women. Not true, though, because he got married not long ago to a girl from Wyoming or someplace like that.”
“Matt? Hmmm… Matt. What does Matt do?”
“Welding, I think. Some kind of metal work.”
As the expression on Jonathan’s face spoke for him, Cara shook her head. “Why not? He’s a good man, worked hard to get certified and get a good job; he loves the Lord. What else really matters?”
“Let’s walk.” He paid the bill and they strolled away from the restaurant. Occasionally his hand would take her elbow and steady her against the jostling of the crowds on the sidewalk or rest at the small of her back as he guided her around a corner, but otherwise, they walked apart.
“I am not out of his league. I think that’s a terrible thing to say.”
“I wasn’t really thinking that—”
She paused on a bench near the City Hall fountain and sat down in the shade of the trees. “But you were. I find Matt attractive because of who he is, not because of his lack of position in Rockland society.” A snicker erupted. “That sounds so old-fashioned.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
Her eyes met his. “Not everyone can be one of the Lymans.”
His smile sent a ripple of emotions through her—ones she had not prepared to experience, much less evaluate so soon. She read a new question in his eyes.
She gave him a slow smile. “You know the answer to that. It’s not nice to even ask.”
Jonathan leaned near and whispered low, “I just want to hear you say it.”
Cara’s eyes met his and held their gaze for some time. She finally sighed and forced herself to answer him. “Okay. Yes. I find you and your personality attractive, too. Why do you think I’m here risking my job by being,” she turned to read the enormous clock on the old building. “A minimum of five minutes late from lunch?”
He stood, offering his hand, but she took it and led him to another bench—one in the sun. “I don’t want to go back yet.”
His surprise amused her. Basking in the afternoon sun, Cara leaned back on her hands as they rested on the bench, her strawberry hair spilling down her back in silky waves, crossed her ankles, and closed her eyes. She felt his eyes on her and kept silent, allowing him his observation until curiosity overcame her. She opened her eyes and smiled at him. “Will I do?”
A blush stole up Jonathan’s neck. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be, I have a feeling you’ve come to a flattering conclusion. I’m the antithesis of the woman you loved, so I find that remarkably complimentary.”
“How did you know?”
Her green eyes sent him a sidelong glance. “Jonathan, if you weren’t satisfied with what you saw, you wouldn’t have kept looking.”
Eyes closed again, she continued to bask in the sun. After a moment or two, she said softly, “Go ahead. It doesn’t bother me.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Jonathan swung one leg over the bench, straddling it, crossed his arms, and continued his study of the picture she presented. After another minute passed, Cara sighed, answering his unasked question. “Yes and I pay too much to keep it that way. It’s my vanity and my vice.” She paused and then smiled. “Go ahead. We’re about as public as you can get. There’s no need to worry about ‘losing our character’ as the old books would say.”
His deep chuckle sent a new slow smile to her lips, followed by a sigh as he slipped his fingers through her hair. “It’s a vanity you deserve.”
“I take it you approve.”
Clearing his throat, Jonathan returned her smile as she opened her eyes. “Let’s just say I think it’s best if I keep my hands to myself.”
She stood abruptly and glanced at the clock again. “I do need to go.”
They walked the several blocks back to his car. With each step, she mulled his comment over in her mind. What would a hands-off relationship be like? Then again, what kind of relationship could they hope to forge in just a week? As he opened her door, Cara caught his eye, glancing first at his hand. “I know you’re right, but I wish you weren’t.”
At the Mayflower Building, Jonathan pulled into a parking place and turned off the car. Without looking at her, he sighed. “I go home at the end of the week.”
“Brilliant commentary on the obvious.”
His hands gripped the steering wheel harder, turning his knuckles white. “It’s crazy, premature, and irresponsible, but—”
“I know. I want more time too.”
She watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard and whispered, “What will we do?”
~*~*~*~
Cara’s words reverberated through his mind as he watched her disappear into the mountain of steel and glass. We’ll take it one day—or date really—at a time. What else can we do?
She was right, of course, but that didn’t make the uncertainty any easier to swallow. The building faded from view and memory filled his vision with the sight of her seated on that bench, the sun beaming down on her. How had she been so comfortable with him observing—staring really? Her words whispered to him again. Don’t be. I have a feeling you’ve come to a flattering conclusion. I’m the antithesis of the woman you loved. I find that remarkably complimentary.
Truer words—he hadn’t heard truer words in years. Cara couldn’t be more different than his Lily. Barely five foot two, she personified the short, curvy body type. His eyes closed and he remembered the sprinkling of freckles across her nose. To his surprise; they delighted him. Her creamy skin wore them like an accessory rather than the blemish he imagined she thought them to be. Her blouse and slacks fit her perfectly, showing her curves to their best advantage. How had she managed to do that without seeming to draw attention to them?
That hair. He swallowed that lump that rose in his throat. You can’t let yourself touch her hair again. It’s just not…safe.
~*~*~*~
At six, his car waited just outside the doors. She hurried as fast as a woman can on three-inch heels, and slid into her seat before he could exit the vehicle. “I need to go home and change.”
The drive to her townho
me grew strained. For the first time since he’d met her, Jonathan felt awkward and uncomfortable with Cara. Without words, she directed him onto the loop, off the Westbury exit, and down city streets to the south side of town. At her garage, he pulled into her parking space and turned off the key.
“This won’t do.”
She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Then stop kicking yourself for being human.”
His mind protested. His body language screamed that she didn’t know what she was saying but knew she was right. Her voice permeated his thoughts. “You know I’m right. Now come open this door so I can change.”
Jonathan hurried to her side of the car, opened the door, and offered his hand. Her eyes issued a challenge, but he didn’t withdraw it. Slowly, she placed her hand in his and stepped from the vehicle. Mere inches separated them, her eyes making contact with his shirt buttons. The slightest leaning into him and—
He stepped back and swung the door shut behind her, locking it. Cara beckoned for him to follow and started toward a nearby gate. “Come on in. What do I wear, by the way?”
As he stepped into her house, Jonathan found her flaw. He’d wondered when she’d demonstrate something that proved her lack of utter perfection. Her décor proved it. A shabby chic paradise, she had decorated the rooms with distressed white painted furniture, plastered with hand painted roses. Pink depression era glassware filled her door-less cupboards, and no flat surface held more than four square inches of bare space. In his mind, it was a clutter nightmare.
“Let me guess, you’re fond of Early American?”
He shook his head. “Mission.”
“That was my second guess. Meanwhile, what do I wear?”
He shrugged and tried to answer, but the overwhelming décor blocked his mental dictionary from providing the appropriate words. With a smile, she grabbed his sleeve, and pulled him down a short hallway. “Here, pick something appropriate. I’ll go put up my hair.”
After one look at his expression, she smiled. “Okay, so maybe I won’t. I’ll brush it though. Find me something.”
Speak Now Page 3
