Speak Now

by Chautona Havig

  “The kids’ll probably want to drag you in the pool, but ratty is good enough for us.”

  That answered that question. They had a pool. His arms looked awfully muscular for someone who spent most of his life in an office or on an airplane. Before she could ask, he chuckled. “Déjà vu. I have a rowing machine in my office for late nights. I use gyms at hotels. Working out helps me think when I’m stuck.”

  Even though they were closed, she felt that she could see the gray eyes that so often spoke to her. The eyelashes were simply unfair; men should not be allowed to have eyelashes like that. A faint shadow darkened his jaw line. Cara had never been a fan of the scruffy shadow look, but watching him now tempted her to change her mind. Why didn’t women’s legs look that good when they needed a new shave? She wanted to run her hand along his jaw and see just how prickly a man’s face was when the shadow appeared.

  “Go ahead. You let me.”

  “How did—”

  His chuckle stopped her. “You’ve trained me well, Cara mia.”

  Tentatively, she brushed the backs of her fingers lightly over his jaw. “Like fine sandpaper…”

  “In an hour, it’ll be medium, and by the time we get back on the plane, coarse.”

  She wanted to take another stroke but didn’t. With a deep sigh, she continued her observance and kept her hands wrapped around her purse handle as though desperate for the support. Bryson’s hair was a bit coarse and wiry. Looking at Jonathan’s, she knew where he got it. This time, before Jonathan could utter his next invitation, she shook her head.

  “Huh-uh. I know my limitations. Shut up and let me enjoy myself without any further temptations!”

  In a voice that sounded almost exactly like Bryson, Jonathan crowed, “Oooh, Cara said a bad word….”

  “What—”

  “The ‘S-word.’ It’s almost as bad as the ‘real’ one in our house.”

  “I’ll remember that.” Before she could say any more, the PA system called for first-class passengers to board.

  “Go ahead. I need to make a quick call. I’ll be right there.”

  “I’ll get started putting on my makeup then.”

  ~*~*~*~

  “So I came here from LA, and, like, it’s totally awesome. There’s this, like, cool vibe around here.”

  Cara rolled her eyes at Jonathan as she bent down to adjust her shoe. “You don’t miss the ocean?”

  “No way, man, I mean the waves were good, but there’s nothing like Chicago pizza and the White Sox—oh, and the Bulls. Love the Bulls. And we’ve, like, got the Blackhawks—great times. I’m going to Northeastern in the fall. Senior. Transferred from UCLA.” He paused just long enough for Cara to think they’d heard the end of his monologue and then asked, “So, like, what are you guys doing in Waukegan?”

  “Fishing for lake trout.”

  “Cool.” Silence hovered for a moment and then came the expected, “Huh?”

  Jonathan, who hadn’t spoken a word since they’d hailed the most talkative cabbie in the greater Chicago area, nearly exploded trying to contain his laughter. He coughed and then coughed harder as Cara offered him a sip of her bottle of water as though his coughing was par for the course. She explained, with the most sorrowful and scolding tones he thought anyone could manufacture, that his smoking caused him serious lung problems, but he refused to quit.

  “I don’t know what to do with him.”

  “Oh, man, you’ve got to stop. My uncle got the patch. It made him kind of hyper, but he lost a lot of weight instead of gaining it. Not that you need to lose any,” the driver hastened to add. “I just mean that some people put on pounds and Uncle Rob didn’t.”

  “Well, maybe I should try that patch then.” Cara couldn’t resist teasing Jonathan just a little.

  “Nah, if you want to get rid of a few pounds, my mom swears by that new, like, powdered stuff you stir in your water—can’t remember the name, but you could ask a pharmacist. She says it’s the only thing that works like it claims. I bet you’d slim right down—”

  “Over my rotting corpse you will,” Jonathan growled under his breath.

  “He speaks!”

  Cara nodded. “Yeah, he gets a little testy if you mention weight loss. I think he had an anorexic girlfriend in high school or something.”

  The driver tried again. “So you said you were fishing in Waukegan? Can you fish there? I—”

  “That was a joke. Anne of Green Gables. Read it.”

  “So,” the driver asked without missing a beat, “what are you really doing then?”

  “I don’t know,” Cara said pointedly. “It’s like if he tells me he’ll have to kill me or something.”

  “But then he’d have to kill you once you got there, so that doesn’t make sense. My cousin was with the CIA. He used to say that all the time, but no one believed him. I think he meant it sometimes, though. I mean, that’s what I’d do. I’d, like, say it all the time so no one took me seriously even when I was serious. It’d be cool. So, like, where’re you from?”

  “Atlanta.” Jonathan’s voice interrupted before Cara could speak.

  “How long are you going to be in town?”

  “Going back tonight.” Cara rushed to answer before Jonathan could. This shifted him out of his fury and sent him coughing again. “See what I mean? He’s going to end up with emphysema before he’s forty.”

  “You, like, really should stop smoking, man. And wow. That’s quite a trip. There and back in a day. Some kind of business trip, huh?”

  “No, he’s just taking me on a date.” Cara nearly snorted at the awestruck look on the man’s face.

  “Whoa. Aren’t you a little under dressed for a date? I mean, like, she looks like a million bucks, but—”

  “Oh, he called ahead to have clothes waiting at some store—where was that, Jonathan?”

  “Sterns. On Genesee.”

  “Kind of like Pretty Woman, eh? I mean—well, like, you’re not a prostitute or anything but—” he flushed. “Well, are you?”

  “She is not,” Jonathan clipped. “Tell me, what are you studying at Northeastern?”

  “Art, well, and a minor in anthropology. I thought it’d be, like, a good way to round me out a little. My dad thinks it’s just fluff work and why take the classes, but I was like, ‘Dude, I’ve got a passion for it, and I need to express myself. I, like, need to know like how to speak to others with something other than words.’”

  “You’re telling me,” Jonathan muttered under his breath.

  Before the driver could continue, sending Jonathan into further fits of irritation, Cara latched onto the subject of art. “So what’s your favorite medium?”

  “Man, I love sculpture and pen and ink. I like to work without color. Let the shapes and the spirit of the thing speak to your soul without confusing it with a bunch of colors fighting for dominance, y’know? I mean, dude! Some art out there is just, like, a bunch of different hues and shades shouting, trying to be the loudest voice, and no one can hear what the piece as a whole is trying to say.” He shrugged. “I know, everyone prefers their own style and method—I mean, why would you choose one you didn’t like. I just really get into the monochromatic. Well, and black and white.”

  “But,” Jonathan argued, much to Cara’s surprise, “in black and white, you have two very distinct voices fighting for dominance. In colored paintings and sculptures, there are dozens of colors that all want to be seen and absorbed, and because of it, their voices all blend together— and, if well done, they blend very harmoniously—like a lovely a cappella piece sung in a good choir. But, with black and white, you have two very strong voices that, unless the artist is also a genius, will fight discordantly and indefinitely.”

  The debate raged. Cara sat back, listening in amused fascination. She knew Jonathan didn’t care to talk at that moment, and yet he conversed easily and intelligently about a subject that always confused her. The passion people had for their opinions regarding art was something sh
e’d tried to understand but had never succeeded. Cara had a simpler approach. She either liked it or she didn’t, and she didn’t care if anyone else liked it or not.

  When they asked her opinion, she shrugged. “I get what he’s saying as far as things fighting for dominance. When I’m making a scrapbook page, I often want to use a certain element or paper, but if I do, the whole picture is lost. However, if I’m not careful, I end up with a very boring page that looks like I just slapped any old picture on any old paper.”

  The men’s eyes met in the rearview mirror and both smiled. “That’s not exactly the same thing. I mean, scrapbooking is nice and everything, but you really can’t compare it with art. It’s really more of a craft.”

  Cara shrugged. “I don’t care what you call it, the principle applies. I think he’s just defined what I don’t like about some art, but in doing so, he is limiting himself too severely in order to try to avoid that pitfall, and in doing that, he’s doing exactly what you said—he’s potentially creating a bigger one.”

  “Hey, she gets it. That’s, like, a cool way of putting it. My instructors have been trying to get me to break out into new media, but I just didn’t want that problem. Maybe I’ll give watercolors a chance.”

  “Do you have a website or someplace we can see your work?”

  ~*~*~*~

  “Do you have a website or someplace we can see your work?”

  With that question, Jonathan smiled. This was the Cara who always amazed him. She’d been just as frustrated with their driver’s never-ending stream of dialogue as he was, and yet, when given the chance to show genuine interest in a fellow human being, she pounced on it. As she wrote down the address of the young man’s blog, Jonathan pulled his wallet from his pocket. The fare was atrocious, but he didn’t care. Five minutes into the ride, he’d been sure he’d leave a minimal tip. Now, he pulled out a generous one and passed it over the seat.

  “Are you going to stay in town for a minute and see about another fare, or are you going straight back?”

  “I’ll be radioing in to make sure we don’t have anything.”

  “If you’re still nearby in twenty minutes, we’ll get you to take us to the restaurant.” Jonathan raced around the car to open Cara’s door.

  “It’s worth it to wait then. If they don’t have a fare already, I’ll be there.” The driver smiled at Cara. “He’s the real thing. Hold on to him.”

  Cara’s smile made his heart skip a beat as her eyes met his over the top of the door and she said, “I intend to.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Jonathan stepped from the dressing room wearing his new clothes and carrying his others in a shopping bag. While the assistant rang up his purchases, Cara stepped forward with a slight smile on her face. Gently, she traced the line of his jaw with one finger and smiled. “Yep. Medium grade.”

  “Are you calling me mediocre now?”

  A woman waiting to purchase a tie gave him a thorough once over and shook her head. “If you don’t want him, I’ll take him. There’s nothing mediocre about him!”

  “There sure isn’t.” Cara shoved him toward the door, laughing at the look of horror that Jonathan hadn’t managed to conceal.

  The cab had disappeared. In minutes, Jonathan had another one on the way, and while they waited, they discussed their unusual cab ride. “At first I thought he was the worst caddie I’ve ever had the misfortune—”

  “Cabbie.”

  Jonathan shook his head. “I thought he was a cad, ergo, caddie.”

  “That’s mean. He was just an eager kid trying to impress us.”

  “He was a socially inept artist.”

  “Then I suppose you don’t want to check out his blog with me.” She laughed at the consternation on Jonathan’s face. “That’s what I thought. You started off on the wrong foot, but once you got talking—”

  “Once we cured my horrible smoking habit, you mean.”

  Her laughter brought back warm memories of the first time he’d heard it. As it echoed around them, he murmured, “I love your laughter.”

  “My mother says it’s too loud. I remember her quoting one of the Little House books often when I was little. ‘Modulate your tone, Cara. Modulate your tone.’” His silent answer made her laugh again. “Well, I’m glad you can tolerate it. She’s given up turning me into the perfect lady.”

  As the new cab pulled up to the curb, Jonathan jumped to open the door. Before she could sit, he stopped her. “It depends on how you define ‘a perfect lady,’ because I’d say she did.”

  All through dinner, she tried to trip him up, but he managed to avoid giving away their destination. However, as they rode up Genesee Street, signs for Celtic Woman appeared on the marquee at the Genesee Theater ahead. “You didn’t.”

  “Happy Birthday.”

  Excited, she threw her arms around him as she stepped from the car. “I can’t believe you did this—you hate them!”

  A woman nearby frowned, causing Jonathan to laugh. “But you love them and that’s enough for me.”

  The air between them changed. From their time waiting for tickets, to finding their seats, and then through the romance of the Celtic music, their attraction seemed to act as two magnets of similar poles pushing them further and further apart. The whispers Cara leaned close to share slowly dissipated, and those around them couldn’t help but notice how they sat stiffer, straighter, and slowly farther apart, until they seemed to hug opposite arms of their seats.

  As everyone around them stood to leave, Jonathan and Cara sat staring at the empty stage. People filed out around them, but neither of them moved. With a deep, steadying breath, Jonathan shook himself slightly and stood. “I’ll call a cab.”

  “What time is our flight?”

  “Not until two. There’s one going out in an hour, but I thought we’d want coffee. I doubt we could make it anyway. They’ll want us in—”

  She stood and hurried out of the seats. To those around them, it seemed as though she ran from him, but Jonathan understood. He followed her outside and found her leaning against the corner of the building trying to catch her breath. “I know. If I had thought—”

  “Don’t. It’s almost the best birthday present I’ve ever had.”

  “Almost?” Curiosity, mixed with a twinge of disappointment, forced the question from him. He wanted to give her the best.

  “When I was six. I got ballet classes, complete with leotard, shoes, and tutu. I was in heaven.” She choked on the last word.

  “Oh, Cara—”

  “I don’t want to go back,” she whispered almost desperately. “I know it’s terrible and oh so wrong—”

  “I know. I don’t either.”

  A new thought occurred to her. She wrangled her own heart, her conscience, and even her spirit, but despite it all, Cara heard herself speaking the words that she knew might change her life forever. “I was up at five. I’m going to be so tired tomorrow, and I was so looking forward to having fun tomorrow night…”

  “If we stayed, you know—”

  She nodded. Even still, they stood several feet apart, leaving the distinct impression that they were not having the kind of intimate conversation that held their hearts. “I know.” Her eyes looked up into his as she confessed, “I want—”

  He beckoned her with his fingers, still unwilling to risk even the lightest touch. They walked. Down the street and back to the Ristorante where they’d eaten dinner, they stopped and ordered the coffee Jonathan had mentioned while he called the cab. Cara excused herself to the restroom and stood in front of the mirror, watching the inner turmoil reflected in her eyes. She still had time to stop it. She knew she should, but just as certainly, she knew she wouldn’t. Instead, she brushed out her hair, refreshed her makeup, and took a deep breath. “Lord, forgive me, I love him.”

  She found Jonathan searching Google on his Blackberry. He hardly looked at her when he asked, “Would you like to stay here or go into the city?”

  �
�Here. I—”

  “Agreed.”

  He’d ordered the cab for half an hour later, so while they waited, they sipped coffee, avoided each other’s eyes, and used every ounce of strength to avoid even the smallest touch. Cara feared what would happen if they didn’t show at least that much self-restraint. As it was, she had no doubt that they’d never make it back to Rockland, even if they did try to fly back on schedule. It was as though the pole on one of their magnets slowly shifted to the opposite side.

  After asking where to take them, the cab driver didn’t speak, didn’t interact at all—just remained annoyingly and unhelpfully silent. Jonathan sat hugging one side of the car, while Cara squeezed against the opposite door and nearly bolted from the car once it stopped in front of a chain hotel. The woman at the desk gave Cara an odd look, and when Jonathan turned to answer his phone, asked, “Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “You look a little…” she fumbled for an innocuous word. “Stressed. If you need help…”

  Realization dawned, flushing Cara’s face with embarrassment. “Oh, no! Everything is okay with us, really. It’s hard to explain, but I’ve just had one of the best nights of my life. It’s truly alright.”

  Card keys in hand, and no luggage except for Cara’s large purse and Jonathan’s shopping bag, they walked stiffly to the elevator, both hearts pounding with the anticipation and awareness of their decision. All their caution, discretion, and slightly arrogant assurances that they wouldn’t have this problem—not touching would solve everything—flooded back to mock them. Twice, Cara almost said something, but a glance at Jonathan’s hand so close to hers stopped her. She’d probably regret her actions later, but she had every intention of living in the moment now and enjoying every second of it.

  The elevator doors opened on their floor. Absently, Jonathan’s hand rested for just a second on the small of her back, as though to lead her into the corridor. He snatched it back as though electrocuted. They followed the arrows to their door and paused in front of it while Jonathan fumbled with the card key. Their eyes met as he slipped it into the slot and jerked the handle down.