Speak Now

by Chautona Havig

  Her closet, in a room of more collections, burst with clothing. After a few wrong outfits, he pulled a simple black sheath from the closet and smiled. She’d be dangerous in it, but it couldn’t be more perfect. As he handed it to her, she smiled broadly.

  “Oh my.” Cara pulled his tie to lower his head to her level. “You have excellent taste.”

  “Are you saying that because you like the dress or because you know how much I’m going to like you in it?”

  “Ooh… when he compliments, look out!”

  She emerged minutes later. As he swallowed hard, his eyes gave her all the assurance she needed that she looked stunning. Her stocking feet padded down the hallway, and she reemerged with two shoes. One was a simple little slip on backless shoe with a low stiletto type heel; the other, four-inch strappy heels that he knew, instinctively, had been purchased to wear with the dress.

  She grinned. “Yes, both are comfortable. I pay a small fortune for my shoes.”

  “I’d say your clothes, too. They fit like they were designed for you.”

  “They were. My mother sews almost everything I own.” She smiled as she slipped on the heels. “Yes, she is good. She manages to make things that don’t accentuate every curve I have.” His eyes spoke volumes, insisting that the dress she wore accentuated each curve perfectly. “Oh, you’re bad, Mr. Jonathan. You are very bad. Let’s eat.”

  Cara and Jonathan enjoyed what Jonathan suspected both would eventually agree was the best meal of their lives. Though they spoke few words, the air around them grew charged with unspoken conversation. She admired his attire with a few lingering glances—and he returned the favor. Still speaking little, they managed to communicate their appreciation for their meals, occasionally sharing a bite.

  Too soon, the meal ended. After refusing dessert, Jonathan led her down the steps of the restaurant, his hand occasionally grazing the small of her back as he directed her. “You’re killing me here.”

  Jonathan’s eyes twinkled, sending another wave of weakness to her knees. The valet brought his car around to the portico and opened the door for Cara while Jonathan jogged to his side. As Jonathan slipped into his seat, Cara laughed. “He’s just doing his job.”

  “Hmph.”

  She leaned close to his ear and whispered, “He didn’t touch me. Exhale.”

  They rode through the streets of Rockland, Cara realizing quickly that they weren’t going back to her office to get her car. “I need to ask a question, and I need an answer regardless of whether you feel like talking.”

  After a sidelong glance, Jonathan’s quiet voice filled the vehicle as he answered her question before she could ask. “No. Not usually. I’ve never been the jealous type, but it’s difficult when I know it’s not wise—”

  “I know. I didn’t think so, but I had to ask. Your reaction....”

  “Want to guess where we’re going?”

  She grinned. “You want me to talk. I can talk.”

  “I like hearing your voice.”

  “Well,” she suggested, pulling out her phone to check the time, “I’d say a concert, but it’s a little late for that.”

  “No, but I have tickets for the Tom Sawyer musical tomorrow.”

  Her eyes brightened. “I’ve wanted to go to that for ages, but I couldn’t afford the tickets!” A new thought crossed her mind. “Are you choosing things like this because you think you need to find activities for us where talking isn’t an option?”

  “You’d think so,” he said chuckling. “I just asked Trev to see what Julia knew you might enjoy, and she said the musical.”

  At the light, he watched her eyes grow wide as Cara pondered the meaning behind what he’d said. For any man to call a nephew on his honeymoon to ask for dating tips implied something serious, but for Jonathan Lyman to do it…

  “Oh, Jon—”

  He exhaled slowly, relieved. She understood. With one phone call, Jonathan had put his heart on the line. By sharing the call with her, he’d let her know it.

  “You have about four minutes to guess where we’re going, so…”

  “I’m too lost in amazement to guess. You’ll just have to surprise me.”

  He parked around the corner, opened her car door, and waited to see her reaction as they walked the rest of the way to the opening night of an art exhibit at the Wellington Gallery. “Oh! Is this that guy who uses minerals to paint his stuff?”

  “That’s the one. Jake Marsden.”

  Inside, a man glanced up from a group of patrons and nodded at Jonathan. He excused himself and strode across the gallery, barely pausing when people tried to stop him. “Jonathan! I’m so glad you made it. This must be Cara?”

  Cara, giving Jonathan a covert smile, extended her hand. “I’m very happy to meet you. I didn’t realize that Jonathan knew the Jake Marsden.”

  “Oh, I’m not Jake—”

  “Your picture just behind you says ‘Jake Marsden, Artist.’ And look, a picture—of you.”

  Laughing, Jake shrugged. “I tried.”

  “At times like these, my mother usually says, ‘Yes, you are very trying,’ but I doubt Jonathan wanted me to have a ‘very trying evening, so…”

  “She’s a keeper, Jon. Don’t let this one get away.” Without another word, Jake made a quick sweep around the room, speaking to each person who detained him, before returning to a group near the center of the room. Seeing her already engrossed in the artwork before her, Jonathan offered to bring her a drink and hors d’ oeuvres while she perused the exhibit.

  Cara wandered through the room, pausing before this or that painting until she found a picture of a baby snuggled against her mother, the mother’s hair shielding most of both of them. Emotion slammed into Jonathan, knocking the wind from him as he watched her gaze at the painting. Did she see the look of absolute trust and absorption in the baby’s eyes? Did it captivate her as it did him? He set the glass and plate down on a table near the corner and fled to the bathroom to rein in his emotions.

  Minutes later, he returned to her side and found her still absorbed in the painting. “You like it?”

  “It’s incredible. If I could afford it—”

  “You can’t. The owner wouldn’t sell it for anything.”

  Cara tore her eyes from the portrait and looked at him curiously. “You bought it.” It sounded more like an accusation than a statement.

  “Jake gave it to me. I have the original.”

  For several more minutes, she stared at the painting until she caught her breath. “It’s Bryson?”

  “Riley.”

  “Oh.” She glanced at him, at the painting, and back at him again. “I guess you never did tell me what happened. I just assumed—”

  “She never recovered from Riley’s birth. We just thought it took a lot out of her and it would take time. By the time we got her help, it was too late.”

  “What—” Cara choked back the question a moment too late.

  Jonathan sighed. “Cancer. Started as stomach, but after the birth it spread—everywhere. They couldn’t get it all with surgery; she wasn’t strong enough for chemo. One week she was weak and asking for vitamins to help her get back on her feet, and the next week she was on morphine to control the pain of her last days.”

  Cara tossed aside their silent “hands-off” agreement and slid her arms around his waist, burying her head in his chest. “I am so sorry,” she whispered into his shirt.

  For a moment, he stood, unmoving, but a killer glance from Jake snapped him out of his internal turmoil. “Thanks…” Jonathan whispered, his voice raspy and choked with suppressed emotion on many levels. He smoothed her hair absently and wondered what had prompted him to discuss something so emotionally charged in such a public place.

  Seconds ticked by—minutes. Then, embarrassed at her loss of self-control, Cara stepped away from him, wiping at her eyes. “I need a restroom. I’m probably a mess and—” She glanced ruefully at his shirt. “You need to button your jacket so your tie c
an hide the stains I just left on your shirt.”

  Jonathan found her back in front of the picture several minutes later. “Does Jake sell prints of his work?”

  “No. He has a few made for showings like this, but he doesn’t sell them.”

  She sighed. “I’d give anything I own for that. I love it.”

  He stored her words in his heart, feeling for the first time in his life as if he understood Mary the mother of Jesus. She wanted the picture of his wife and daughter. What kind of woman had he found; and how, he argued with himself, was he ever going to get on the train for Atlanta again?

  ~*~*~*~

  Long after the gallery closed, Jonathan drove her back to the parking lot at the Mayflower Building. They stood, leaning against her car and talked nearly wordlessly for an hour. He learned that she had a temper, while she discovered a protective side that extended beyond people he knew.

  “I have to go. Work in the morning.”

  “I’ll follow you home.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not necessary. Go get some rest.”

  “I’m ready when you are.”

  With a shrug, Cara handed him her keys and waited for him to open her car door. Once inside, she started the car, turned on the lights, and put it in reverse. Then she waited. Once he realized she would wait for him, Jonathan returned to his vehicle and backed out of the parking space.

  He parked behind her at her house, leaving his car running, and walked her to her door. They stood under her porch light for several minutes, each minute ticking by at warp speed until finally, Jonathan sighed. His hand reached for hers, and for the briefest of moments, squeezed it gently. Her smile said more than her simple, “Goodnight.”

  Once in his car, he waited to see lights come on in the kitchen and then sighed as he drove away. “Goodnight, Cara—mia.”

  Chapter Four

  Arms crossed, one foot resting on the bumper, and a look of lazy indifference on his face, Jonathan appeared to be bored as she crossed the parking lot early Tuesday afternoon. Cara didn’t hurry; Jonathan didn’t move. At last, she stood before him with a conspiratorial smile on her face.

  “You should know that there is an office full of men and women up there, all dying to know who you are and just what you’re doing here—again.”

  “Hmm.” A glance at the building showed one section of glass that had several shadows behind it. “Third floor near the end of the first quarter of the building?”

  Cara smiled. “That’d be them.”

  “I see.” He thought for a moment. “Well, we have several options. I could just open the door for you as I’d planned. The safe route.”

  “You could,” she agreed, her expression deadpan.

  “I could make a very public display of kissing you here in the parking lot.”

  “Mmm hmm.” Cara’s tone indicated she pondered each suggestion thoroughly.

  “Or,” Jonathan continued with a slight smile on one corner of his mouth, “I could pull out this rose,” he reached behind himself and retrieved the most perfect crimson rose he could find, “and pray it gives lots of fodder for the office gossip mill.”

  “Leave out the prayer, and I’ll take door number three. Your being here is more than enough fodder.”

  For a split second, she laid her hand on his cheek, and then turned to wait his opening her door. Once on their way, Jonathan forced himself to ask the question he dreaded. “Is it uncomfortable for you if I come here?”

  “No, Jonathan. That’s not what I meant. I was just pointing out that they’ll use lesser things to feed the mill. No reason to gorge them.”

  He pulled into a small park. “Picnic?”

  With wide eyes, she turned to him. “How did you find this? I’ve driven so close to it so many times, but I never knew it existed.”

  “Google.”

  “Aah, yes,” she remarked. “Meg Ryan will be thrilled to know that no longer is The Godfather the I Ching. We now have Google.”

  Jonathan’s voice betrayed his amusement. “Hanks will be devastated.”

  The park appeared to be empty—strange for such a pleasant afternoon. Cara noticed and remarked that it was too early for children to be out of school and too late after lunch for younger children to be up from naps. While she relaxed on a park bench, Jonathan filled her plate with fruit, crackers, cheese, and a sandwich.

  “You look tired.”

  “I didn’t sleep well.” She didn’t want to admit it; if he got the impression he was keeping her up too late, he’d cut back their time together.

  “Up too late?”

  There it was—that flicker of understanding. Without him having to say a word, she now realized he wanted her to talk. She took a bite of her sandwich and made a note to ask what was in it. “Actually, no. I often don’t go to bed until early morning hours. I just didn’t sleep well.”

  Between bites, she told him of everything that had flown through her mind the previous night. From wondering if he felt obligated to spend money for her entertainment, to the possible affair going on in her office, to the dread she felt as the week whizzed by her, Cara shared it all. “I know it’s ‘only Tuesday,’ but we just danced at the wedding minutes ago.”

  “Well put.” Jonathan pulled a plastic container from the basket and peeled the lid back. “Brownie?”

  ~*~*~*~

  Her eyes widened. “Is that the famous Jonathan Lyman brownie? Julia told me about those things.” She grabbed the container and rifled through the basket for a fork. “You should know I’ve been considering offering to make you dinner if you bring the dessert.”

  “I get a bite of that, you know.”

  “If I save you one.”

  Calm eyes met hers. Cara took a bite, chewed slowly, savoring each moment, and then took another bite. He said nothing, but the longer he watched, the slower she ate, until the last bite sat alone in the dish, mocking her. Cara’s eyes darted back and forth between the tempting morsel of chocolatey goodness and the intense expression on his face. Was it worth risking the sparkling cider covering her favorite skirt and blouse? She bounced the fork against the edge of the container, thinking. Sticky sodden mess versus legal and sinless decadence. It was a difficult choice—for about thirty seconds.

  Just as she raised the fork to her lips, her conscience overrode her personal desire for just one more bite. With a huge sigh of regret, she forced herself to make a U-turn and sent the fork in his direction. He took the fork from her and motioned for her to open her mouth. “I had some when I took them out of the oven. I was just teasing.”

  “Mmm. I’m glad you did.”

  They sat on the bench, walked along the jogging paths, and finally strolled regretfully back to the car. “You know, I was serious about that dinner thing. I’m no gourmet, but I can make a great plate of fettuccini.”

  “Done. How about Thursday?”

  Trying not to sound too eager, she asked, “Will you bring the children?”

  “I’ll bring them.”

  Several blocks passed as she processed what bringing his children could mean. Was it a simple, “you offered and I accepted?” Or could it be that he trusted her with them—that he felt the seriousness of their burgeoning relationship as much as she did? She suspected the latter.

  As he opened her door outside her office building, Jonathan glanced at his watch. “Meet you at your house at six?”

  “I might not be ready yet, but—”

  “What’s wrong with what you’re wearing?”

  Cara laughed, shaking her head as she said, “Oh my, you don’t know me very well yet. If I get a chance to dress up, I take it. This is Tom Sawyer! I’m dressing up!” She hoisted her purse over her shoulder. “The door will be unlocked. Come on in.”

  ~*~*~*~

  Cara stood at her closet pulling out one dress before tossing it aside and grabbing another. Pink she rejected as too prissy, pale blue as too babyish, and electric blue as too risqué. Black was out. She’d worn it alr
eady, and now her favorite purple dress suddenly seemed matronly.

  The porcelain clock ticked—each second mocking her with its obnoxious, audible reminder that Jonathan would arrive any minute. Suddenly, she regretted the loss of her wonderful—if ugly—digital clock, with its glowing— never mind. You don’t need to think of that now. Focus.

  Her front door opened and Jonathan’s voice called hesitantly down the hallway. “Cara?”

  “Back here, being an annoyingly stereotypical female with a closet of clothes and nothing to wear.” His face appeared in the doorway. She smiled and murmured, “Hi.”

  Jonathan chuckled at the pile of discarded clothing on the bed, chair, cedar chest, and even a few that she’d given an eviction notice to littered the floor. “Ready?”

  “Well, white terry is the in thing for evening wear this year you know.” Self-consciously, Cara pulled her robe a little closer to her and shrugged.

  “What’s wrong with this one?” Jonathan held up the powder blue dress.

  “Too babyish.” The pink dress was next. “Too girly.”

  “I like girly. This?” He held up the purple.

  “Ew. My mother wouldn’t be caught dead in it.”

  “I don’t want to see you in it dead. I was hoping for alive.”

  He pulled out gold, white, lavender, chocolate, fuchsia, and finally, tucked between two leftover bridesmaid’s dresses, a red Chinese silk with a mandarin collar and black frog closures. He shook the hanger and handed it to her. “This. No arguments.”

  “I forgot about that one. I haven’t seen it in months!”

  He glanced at the closet, an unspoken question in his eyes. Cara pointed at the floor. “I chucked at least six outfits tonight!” She took another glance at the purple one and tossed it in the growing heap. “Make that seven.”

  Before he could comment, she grabbed the dress and disappeared down the hall and into the bathroom. Minutes later, she reemerged with her hairstyle and lipstick color changed and opened the hall closet. Where most women kept vacuums and their artificial Christmas trees, Cara had enough shoeboxes for her own personal store. Jonathan followed her to the living room where she perched on the arm of her overstuffed sofa and slipped on black high-heeled flip-flop styled shoes. He laughed at the picture she made bowing respectfully with hands clasped together. Her partial up-do was held in place by two short chopsticks. Black of course.