Speak Now

by Chautona Havig

  Jonathan slowly turned the boat around to retrieve the hat. Staying in the shade of the trees, he pedaled very slowly, allowing the undulations of the lake to rock her as she slept. The relief he felt at having no expectations on him for the moment nearly overwhelmed him.

  He wanted nothing more than an hour to pedal, watch Cara sleep, and pray. He’d spent the week pouring out his questions to the Lord. Was he ready for a relationship at this point in his life? Was it right to marry a woman with no prior parenting experience and immediately saddle her with his children? Would she be willing to relocate? Were they being foolish?

  However, now he poured out the innermost part of his heart to Jesus, acknowledging to himself for the first time his deepest hopes and desires. Lord, I need her. You made it so that man was not designed to be alone, and if I’ve learned anything in the past three—or almost—years it is how much I hate loneliness. He sighed and Cara stirred at the sound. How can I love someone I know so little, so deeply? How is that even possible? Almost from the first moment we spoke, I knew I’d have to be guarded with her. She intrigues me, Lord. His hands sought to touch her face, but he jerked them back again. I keep doing that. I keep reaching for her as though I have the right. I ache for that right. I want to bring her home and beg You, “She followed me home, Lord, can I keep her?”

  One of his rare moments of weeping began, despite his attempts to control it. It began softly—like a gentle, cleansing, summer sprinkle, but soon his tears fell faster, heavier. Stifled sobs shook him violently as he struggled to keep his grief and confusion from waking the first and last person with whom he wanted to share this horrible moment. Every second that ticked past seemed more and more unbearable.

  As though dropped from heaven to save him, Jonathan noticed the mini dock that jutted between two very close trees. When the breeze blew from the south, it would be completely hidden by the fluttering willow branches but now as it shifted southeast, he saw it and paddled swiftly toward it. He looped the anchor rope over a post and practically leapt from the little paddleboat, leaving it rocking in the water near the dock.

  With one last glance at Cara to be sure of her safety, he hurried across the dock, between the trees, to a small picnic area. The island appeared to be empty. He hadn’t expected to find anyone there with nothing anchored at the little dock, but relief washed over him nonetheless. He sank to the ground at the base of a willow tree, finally allowing full vent to his grief.

  ~*~*~*~

  The deepest most mournful sound Cara had ever heard tugged, pulled, and finally dragged her from her soporific stupor. She blinked, as a child might when awakened suddenly by a strange noise, and glanced around her. What had woken her? Where was she? Where was Jonathan?

  At that thought, Cara knew. He had tied her to the little dock on the island at Lake Danube, Jonathan was on land, and if the sounds she heard were as they seemed, he wrestled with grief. She started to go to him but hesitated. What if he needed to be alone? What if her being there became too embarrassing or too invasive of his personal… well, whatever the word was, what if she did it?

  An anguished cry removed all dubiety. He needed someone, and since she was the only other person anywhere nearby, he’d have to settle for her. “Lord, don’t let him push me away. I really can’t stand the thought of losing him.” The words mocked her. She didn’t have him, she knew it, and here she prayed not to lose what she didn’t have. Madness.

  Through the trees, she followed the sounds of his mourning until she reached the spot where he sat curled into a child-like ball, his fists digging into his eyes as though he could stop the tears by sheer force. And, as she would a child, Cara sat next to him, grabbed his hands away from his face, wrapped her arms around him, and urged him to cry it out. “Just let go, Jonathan. Just let it go.”

  The irony of the situation didn’t escape her. For a week, they’d barely touched. Brief moments of fingers brushing against a face or a hand had been infrequent at most. He’d held her when she wept for his wife early in the week, but nearly every minute of their time had been chosen both for mutual enjoyment and to make physical contact unnecessary and whenever possible, difficult. The electrical chemistry between them had become almost visible and needed no encouragement.

  But now she sat, holding him as she’d dreamt of doing for the past six or seven days, touching his hair, his face—holding him, and yet with none of the emotions she’d expected to enjoy the next time they were close. Rather, she murmured comforting words, patted his back like she would her mother or a child, and marveled at the paradox that her life seemed to have become.

  “I’m sorry, Cara mia.” The endearment easily rolled off his tongue now. “I’m sorry.”

  “Shh. Just cry it out. It’s only reasonable that you would.”

  “It’s not you—” he rasped between bouts of weeping. “I was lookin—”

  “Shh. Just cry it out. You can tell me later if you want.” Cara suspected the sternness in her tone would have amused him had he been able to analyze it.

  For what seemed like hours, though not long at all, he allowed his full emotions to give way until he sat up, wiping at his eyes, sniffling like a child and giving Cara a weak smile. “I…”

  She let go of him and held up her hand. “Jonathan, listen to me. I don’t want to pretend that I understand what you’ve been through. We both know I don’t have a clue. However,” she added quickly as Jonathan started to interrupt, “I do know that any woman who expects a man who has watched his wife die of cancer to be ‘over’ it ever, is crazy.” She reached for his face. With one hand on each cheek, she stared deeply into his eyes for several seconds before she said, “Just please don’t shut me out.”

  He said nothing. Awkwardness grew with each passing second until Cara thought she’d ruined any chance at ever hearing from him again. Just as she dropped her hands and reconciled herself to it, knowing she had to be herself even if it wasn’t who he wanted in a woman, he whistled low. “Do you ever get tired of changing to fit the situation or mood? Don’t you ever want someone to ‘give’ for you?”

  “I am always me, Jonathan. You know that, right? I don’t pretend to be anyone but myself. What you see is what you get.”

  “But what do you get?” He seemed unable to comprehend a life where one’s happiness was keenest while making others around you comfortable.

  “I just got the best week of my life—bar none.” She winked. “And if I remember correctly, last night I chose what I wanted over what you planned. Don’t make me into some kind of selfless saint. I don’t fit that picture.”

  “Could have fooled me,” he muttered beneath his breath.

  “Just wait until I want something badly and the only way I can have it is to make you have to give up something you want and see how accommodating I am. I don’t always give. Sometimes I take.”

  “I just—” he struggled with something inside—something she couldn’t say or do for him. “I want to give and I don’t know how.”

  She gave him a weak smile. “Well, since about forty-five seconds ago I thought you were going to walk out of my life indefinitely, I’d say you just gave me everything I could want right now.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The train depot bustled with passengers boarding and disembarking trains. Cara, though a frequent visitor to Rockland’s travel hub, had never been to the depot corner and walked uncertainly toward the information counter in search of the proper platform. “I’m looking for the 12:05 to Atlanta.”

  “Platform nine and three-quarters,” the woman teased.

  Cara, oblivious to popular children’s fiction, started to turn away and then spun on her heels. “What did you say?”

  “Platform nine, Miss.”

  “Thank you.”

  ~*~*~*~

  Jonathan settled their bags in their suite and hurried down the train steps again, slipping past travelers trying to board the train and apologizing as he got in their way or jostled them. “Mom, hav
e you seen Cara?”

  “She said she’d be here and she will.” Mary Lyman watched, amused, as her son scanned the crowd looking for a petite strawberry blond with a few extra freckles after the previous day in the sun. As she thought about it, Mary realized that he’d have even less privacy in his last minutes with Cara if she stayed, so she glanced at her watch, made an impatient sound, and sighed. “I can’t take this anymore. If I stay here any longer I’m going to cry and embarrass all of us.”

  The children, confused at their grandmother’s words, flatly denied being embarrassed by her, but Jonathan recognized his mother’s trademarked excuse. When all else failed, she’d claim embarrassment of some kind and disappear conveniently. “Mom, you don’t have to—”

  “You didn’t spend all week with her so I could make the last bit awkward. Let me go home. I’ll be out in a few weeks anyway.” Without another word, she hugged and kissed Jonathan and her grandchildren and hurried away with exiting passengers from platform eight.

  “I am sorry! I couldn’t find this place anywhere! They make it so convoluted to get in here,” Cara said breathlessly. “Wasn’t that your mother—”

  “She opted for privacy over embarrassment. I do think she’d be disappointed at our lack of,” he choked, laughing, “firm attachment.”

  “Oh, I wanted to see her. Would she feel weird if I invited her out to lunch or dinner some night?”

  Before Jonathan could answer, Cara knelt before his children, her eyes shining and excitement on her features. “Are you excited about the train?”

  “It’s just a train. We always ride it when we come to Grandma’s house.” Bryson sounded bored.

  “Did you know,” Cara began earnestly, “that I’ve never been on a train in my life?”

  “Never?” Riley’s eyes grew wide.

  “Never, ever. You two have no idea how lucky you are to get to ride a train so often.”

  Jonathan touched her shoulder and murmured, “Can you stay here with them? I’ll be right back.”

  While Cara asked questions about what they’d do, what they’d eat, and how long the journey would take, Jonathan hurried inside to speak with the conductor. He strode across the platform minutes later and found Cara teaching Bryson hand games. As usual, he had to wait for her to finish her interaction with his child before she acknowledged him at all.

  “Did you get your business settled?”

  “What business?” For a moment, Jonathan was confused.

  “Well, you had to go talk to someone, I just assumed…”

  “Oh, I got permission to give you a tour of the train. We have to see the conductor and show your ID first, but after that, I can give you a short tour. You have to be off by five to noon though.”

  “Wow. Not like traveling by plane, is it?”

  “Another reason I prefer it, yes.”

  The children showed her the dining car, the “quiet” car, which Riley pronounced, in an obvious parrot of someone’s opinion, “a waste of good space,” and finally their suite. Appalled at a suite approximately the size of two of her bathrooms, Cara found much to praise. She sat in seats, folded down tables, pretended to deal cards, looked for overhead berths, and asked ridiculously simple questions designed to keep the children entertained.

  Jonathan watched the entire scene with a lump in his throat. With each passing minute, it seemed to grow larger, until he thought he’d choke. A glance at his watch signaled time for Cara to leave, and he couldn’t walk her back to the platform. He cleared his throat, and the change in her demeanor told him she understood.

  “Well now, I have to get off this train so you can all go home!”

  “Oh, can’t you stay and go home with us?” Riley’s eyes grew wide and began to fill with tears.

  “Oh, Riley, I’d love to do that…” Cara let her eyes drift to Jonathan’s as she swallowed hard. “But, see, my boss needs me to do some work today and you know how that is. I’ll see you as soon as I can though, and I’ll call you if it’s okay with Daddy?”

  “We’ll do that,” Jonathan agreed miserably.

  “Bryson, are you going to take care of your sister for me? I’ll feel better going if I know you’re keeping a good eye out for her.”

  “Me and Gramby will take good care of her when Daddy’s not home. I promise.”

  With a quick hug, an even quicker kiss on each child’s cheek, and a wave goodbye, Cara stepped from the little room. Jonathan’s frame filled the door the moment she exited the suite. His eyes told her he wanted to walk her to the platform.

  “I know, but you can’t. It’s okay.”

  The conductor stood less than ten feet away from them. “Cara mia—” he began, trying to give her some kind of indication of the strain on his heart.

  “Miss, you’ll have to leave now.”

  “Thank you for letting me tour. It was very nice of you.” She allowed herself to be led to the nearest door but paused and looked back before she stepped through.

  Jonathan stood in the center of the corridor that ran the length of their sleeper car. The misery on his face would have broken her heart had it not already been in pieces. He tried to speak, but now that he had so much to say, no words would come. Cara understood and gave a weak smile, a limp wave, and stepped from the car and it seemed, out of his life.

  As the train pulled away from the station, Jonathan punched a text message into his phone and hit the send button. MISS YOU CARA MIA.

  Cara felt the phone vibrate and, frustrated, dug through her purse looking for it. However, a small box in the trademarked robin’s egg blue of Tiffany & Co. arrested her search for the buzzing phone. She sank to a bench, unaware of her surroundings any longer, and pulled the white satin ribbon bow from the box. Savoring every second, she carefully lifted the lid of the pasteboard box and found a key with a diamond encrusted heart at the top, hanging from a chain. A hand-written note, hung suspended from the center of the heart, read, You now hold the key to my heart.

  Swiftly, she covered the key, stuffed the box and ribbon into her purse, and pulled out her cellphone. A quick glance at his message brought a bigger smile to her face, and a glance at her watch told her that she didn’t have time to go home and talk with her mother. The blue box in her purse mocked her. She couldn’t afford not to take the time to go home either.

  ~*~*~*~

  “Well?” Cara watched as her mother examined the key for the fifth time, reread the note, and still said nothing.

  “I see why you’re overwhelmed.”

  “If I know Jonathan, this was very expensive.”

  Without another word, Diane took the key and the box and stepped into the office. The sound of her mother’s fingers clacking away on the keyboard told Cara what she’d surmised. Diane had gone online to the store’s website. A low whistle preceded her mother as Diane returned to the living room.

  “Well, you’re right about that. It was expensive.”

  “I have to give it back then—it’s too much.”

  “Did you read this tag?” Diane rolled her eyes at Cara’s look of incredulity. “What an asinine question, yes. Still, I have to ask because of what that means. Did. You. Read. The. Tag?”

  “A dozen times before I handed it to you.”

  “Are you telling me you’re willing to say, ‘Sorry, Jonathan, I don’t want the key to your heart?’”

  “Of course not! You know how I feel, Mom; it’s not like I could hide that from you if I wanted to.”

  “Well,” Diane said, sliding the key across the coffee table. “Jonathan is the kind of man who will take rejection of his gift, well, one with a tag like that attached, as a rejection of him. Accept it graciously and if your relationship goes nowhere or worse, south indefinitely, then return it.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice a little. “But as long as you want his heart, I think you have to keep the key to it, even if it’s just an expensive symbol.”

  Cara started to argue, “But, Mom—”

  “The last ti
me I asked, you said things were too electrical to kiss him or—”

  “Mother!”

  “Well, I’m just asking if it’s still that way.”

  Reluctantly, Cara nodded. “It’s just not smart. If you could see—”

  “Oh, I saw.” With a look that had taught Cara to silence herself years ago, Diane continued. “This is the only way he can try to demonstrate his affection. Give the guy a break. He’s about to explode as it is.”

  She blushed. “Do you think so?”

  “Your father asked me if I’d be crushed if you guys eloped. When I said I’d be disappointed but not crushed, he said, ‘So can I encourage it before they both go insane?’”

  ~*~*~*~

  A single red rose stood in a silver vase on her desk. Tina stuck her head in the door and announced, “It arrived an hour ago.”

  The card stuck to the florist’s fork read simply, “email.” She flipped open her laptop, typed the password, waited impatiently for the screen to announce she’d connected to the network, and then punched her trusty email icon. Amid several dozen offers for everything from dating services that promised to provide her with a soul mate, to office memos, one innocuous looking email from “Jonathan Lyman—CCD Delta Advertising” nearly hid among the others clamoring for her attention.

  To: Cara Laas

  From: Jonathan Lyman

  Subject: What’s for lunch?

  Cara mia,

  I’ve typed the opening to this email a dozen times. First, I informed you that I am gone—on my way to Atlanta. Bet you couldn’t have guessed that to save your life. Then, I gave you exciting information about how my children were looking for crayons, toothbrushes, and other similarly fascinating objects.

  Now, I told you that I am not a better written communicator than I am a spoken one and I know you believed me even though it was right after the last time I spilled thoughts onto paper. I can tell that this is going to be a very long email, furthering your doubt in my veracity, but I assure you, I am not a natural speaker or writer. Sometimes, I just want to talk, and if I can’t talk, I’ll write instead, but I don’t overflow with words on paper just because the paper is there.