ONE EAGER BRIDE TO GO

by Pamela Burford

  Sunny finally quit the game, to the grumbling disappointment of her new pals, and flopped onto her back on the quilt. The Lab trotted along behind her, displaying an interest in the contents of the picnic hamper. A sharp whistle from his master sent him tearing off across the field.

  "Whew! That was fun." Sunny fanned herself with her hat. She smacked Kirk playfully. "You should've joined us. What's the matter, Professor? Too dignified to work up a sweat with underclassmen?"

  She was breathing hard, her cheeks flushed. The sun glinted like fire in the auburn waves spread out on the quilt, and turned her violet eyes to glowing amethysts. Kirk leaned on an elbow over her. The prospect of working up a sweat held an undeniable appeal at the moment, but underclassmen were not part of the equation.

  The jolt of sexual desire stunned him. For months his libido had lain dormant, suppressed along with all other human feelings under the crushing weight of his loss. It felt more like apathy than true depression, as if everything in his life had gone flat. Whether the cause was his grief over losing Linda or his overwhelming feelings of inadequacy as a single parent, or some combination of the two, he couldn't say.

  Yet here was this woman from his past, his first love, making him feel like a horny eighteen-year-old.

  "Hey, I know!" she said. "You could have turned it into a physics lesson for those kids—the aerodynamics of the Frisbee! What're they doing on campus in July, anyway? Do they have summer school or something?"

  "Some courses are offered during the summer, but the students could also be working on campus, or just hanging out." Kirk reached over Sunny to snatch the last bit of piecrust she'd left on her plate. As he did so, his forearm brushed her breasts, warm and resilient under the cotton sundress. His skin seemed to tighten all over for one long, breathless moment as he avoided her eyes.

  He polished off the rich piecrust, watching the Frisbee players—while Sunny watched him. He sensed her amethyst gaze like a caress. Finally she spoke.

  "I'd like to meet Ian."

  Kirk looked at her, at the open, guileless expression that held nothing back. He let out a long breath.

  "I don't think that's a good idea."

  She stared at him unblinking for an instant, before her gaze skittered away.

  "What I mean is…" Kirk sighed. "He's at a … a vulnerable point right now. Moving from California, bonding with his grandparents. I don't want to, well, throw too many new people at him at once."

  "You don't want him bonding with the wrong person."

  "Sunny…"

  "It's all right." She sat up and smoothed her dress. "If I had a child, I'd be protective of him, too." She cast a smile his way, but it looked forced.

  Kirk's fingers clenched. "The truth is, I don't know what's right for him. I'm doing my best, but there's no blueprint for this, for how to cope with…" He raised his hand and let it fall. "Maybe this was all a mistake, this move back home. Maybe I should've stayed put, stayed on at Stanford for another year at least, waited for the dust to settle before uprooting him."

  "You trusted your gut. There's nothing wrong with that, Kirk."

  "They say you shouldn't make important decisions right on the heels of … something like this. You're supposed to wait until you can think with a clear head. But I just had this overwhelming urge to bolt—that's the only way I can describe it. Linda was gone and nothing was going to change that, and for me to stay out there, where we'd built a life, in the house we'd found together, fixed up together…" He shook his head again. "I couldn't bear the thought of it. I just had to get away, as fast as possible."

  "It isn't as if you didn't have your reasons," Sunny said. "Didn't you tell me you wanted Ian to be near his relatives, to have the love and support of his extended family? Made sense to me. It still does. Kirk…" She lifted her hand. He felt her cool fingers on the back of his neck, over the edge of his charcoal-gray T-shirt. "It's normal to doubt yourself after what you've been through. But you don't have to let it eat you up."

  When he didn't answer, she said, "I know. Who am I to talk, right? What do I know about losing a spouse?"

  "That's not it. I know you mean well, but, Sunny … I'm not the same idealistic guy you knew way back when. You need to know that."

  Her smile was bittersweet. "Well, I hope this doesn't come as too much of a shock, but I'm not the same dewy-eyed girl, either. I haven't experienced the kind of tragedy you have, but believe me, I've gone through my own changes."

  There was an edge to her voice Kirk hadn't heard before. He tilted his head and studied her. "What happened?"

  She dropped her hand. Her expression hardened. "I grew up. Stopped believing in fairy tales."

  "What kind of fairy tales might those be?"

  She started to speak, and stopped herself. "It's not important."

  "To whom? Come on, let's have it."

  She shrugged. "You know, just the usual schoolgirl fantasies. The kind of unrealistic dreams most women outgrow in time to make something of their lives."

  He hesitated. "Are we talking about the knight-in-shining-armor type of fantasies? Mr. Right?"

  She averted her gaze. After an awkward silence she said, "You wanted to know why I never continued my education, why I stayed with my stupid dead-end job for so long."

  "I never said it was a—"

  She gave him a quelling look. "I know what you said. And you were right. I've wasted my life waiting for that knight in shining armor."

  Gently he said, "Don't you think you're overstating it a bit?"

  "Am I? I saw the look in your eyes when you found out I was still waiting tables at Wafflemania."

  "I guess the thing I don't get is … someone can go to college, fulfill their potential, have a rewarding career and all that—and still find their soul mate. I did."

  "It's different for men. You must know that. I want children, Kirk, a houseful of them, and there's no way I'll let them be raised by baby-sitters. Settling down with a good man and raising a family—it's all I've ever wanted. You know the kind of big, loving household I grew up in. To me, that's the cornerstone of a happy life. That is fulfilling my potential. Everything else, career and all that, it's all secondary. I guess I just didn't see the point in going to college, wasting all that time and money…"

  "When marriage and full-time motherhood were in your future."

  "Needless to say—" Sunny gave a casual head toss that didn't fool Kirk for a second "—my grand plans of happily-ever-after never got past the daydream phase. The blushing groom failed to materialize. Nowadays if you can even track down a stable, employed, heterosexual man who doesn't run screaming at the mention of marriage, he's not likely to look twice at a thirtyish waitress who spends her evenings soaking her feet and scrubbing egg stains out of a Pepto Bismol-colored polyester uniform. Trust me on this one."

  Kirk didn't say what he was thinking, which was that the kind of man who fueled Sunny's happily-ever-after fantasies was probably looking for a woman with interests and aspirations of her own, a woman whose personal fulfillment wasn't limited to him and their marriage. It sounded like she'd already discovered that the hard way.

  She finished repacking the picnic basket in silence. Finally she closed the top and sat staring at it for long moments. At last she looked up at him, her expression solemn. "What happened to us, Kirk?"

  He frowned. "What, you mean … back in high school?"

  She nodded.

  He shrugged. "I went to California. To Stanford." When she said nothing, he added, "I did suggest you apply to some schools out there, as I recall."

  Sunny was a good student, but they'd both known she had little hope of getting into elite Stanford University. But there were plenty of other good colleges out there that she could have gone to.

  "Yeah," she said listlessly. "You did. And I told you I wasn't ready for college."

  He drew in a slow breath. "I know you wanted to just move out there with me."

  She'd never said it in so many words,
back then. She'd waited for him to ask her to join him in California.

  To get married as soon as possible.

  Only, he never did. The subject had throbbed between them, unspoken, for months.

  "You figured I'd just be in the way," she said tightly. "There was a whole new life waiting for you out there, all those college girls…"

  "That's not true. You meant more to me than…" Helplessly Kirk shook his head. "Don't you see, we couldn't have done it that way. I was still just a kid, dependent on my folks for tuition, living expenses, everything. How could I take on the responsibility for someone else?"

  "I would've worked!" she cried. "What, you think I intended to sponge off you and your parents?"

  "No, of course not—that's not your way. It just would've been so unrealistic. I thought you'd have figured that out by now."

  "What can I say? I'm dense."

  "Sunny…"

  "What was so unrealistic? You going to school, me working, until we could afford a place of our own. Other people have done it."

  Kirk rubbed his forehead. "I was facing this grueling course of study. I needed all my concentration. That was my priority. You make it sound so easy, but I would've felt responsible for you if you'd followed me out there."

  Sunny's spine straightened. "Is that how you saw it, Kirk? Me 'following' you to California? You make me sound like some kind of—of stray mutt that you couldn't shake."

  "That's not fair. You're the one who made the decision to stay here and wait tables. I asked you to apply to schools out there. We could've been together—"

  "I told you why college wasn't right for me."

  "If you'd believed in us, you would've done it. You'd have seen that it was the only way for us to—"

  "If I'd believed in us?" Sunny's eyes glittered with righteous indignation. "You left me, Kirk! You could've gone to Columbia, right here in New York—maybe an hour and a half away by train and subway. Even if you'd gone to Harvard or MIT, we're talking three or four hours max on Amtrak. Same with Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. They're all wonderful schools. But no, you had to go to California."

  "Stanford and Caltech happened to be my top choices. It had nothing to do with you."

  "Yeah, I already figured that out."

  "No, I mean…" Kirk rubbed his forehead. The hell with it. She knew what he meant. "Dammit, Sunny, why bring this up now? Why now, after twelve years? It's not like we can go back in time, undo the choices we made."

  Her chin wobbled. She averted her eyes, and Kirk realized with shock that she was close to tears. He sat paralyzed for several moments, before gently turning her and pulling her into his arms.

  "Sunny…" He cradled her against his chest, tucked her head under his chin. The feel of her, all warmth and feminine softness, kindled memories long banked. Her silky hair teased the skin of his throat. He dipped his head and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, breathing deeply of her subtle scent, part citrus, part musk, one hundred percent Sunny. Pressed so closely to her, he felt every shaky breath as she struggled to govern her emotions.

  He murmured, "The fact is, we both have to answer for what happened twelve years ago. If I could go back and undo my choices…" Without warning, Linda's face sprang to mind. He pictured her the way she'd looked on their wedding day, glowing with a radiant happiness that he'd shared. And then a year and a half later, her lovely face flushed and contorted as she'd clenched his hand with bone-cracking force, laboring to bring their child into the world. His own helpless anxiety had turned to awe-struck jubilation as he'd glimpsed his newborn son's pink, wrinkled face, heard his shrill, toothless howl of indignation. That precious little face, the eyes and mouth so like his mother's.

  Sunny raised her glistening eyes to his. "Don't be silly. Of course you wouldn't undo your choices," she said with a tender, all-knowing smile, and for the first time in six months, Kirk felt his heart swell in a flood of drenching warmth. He closed his eyes against the stinging purity of it.

  To care again—about anything in life, about anyone except his son. He wasn't sure he was up to it.

  He felt Sunny's smooth fingers on his cheek, felt her turn in his arms to face him. He opened his eyes to see her staring up at him with such candid affection it was as if the clock had indeed been turned back, as if their soul-deep connection had never been interrupted. As if he harbored no secrets from this woman.

  In that enchanted instant, Kirk wished it were true. Sunny didn't know everything about him, and if she did…

  No. It was too soon. He couldn't risk it. Not when this woman had it within her power to lift the pall he'd been living under for half a year, to pull him back into the light, to make him care again, to make him feel again.

  A frightening prospect, but for the first time since those two cops had rung his doorbell last New Year's Day, Kirk allowed himself to wonder how it would feel to be whole again. He sent out mental feelers, probing his rawest wounds. The pain was still there, but so was a glimmering thread of hope.

  "It's true what I said the other day. I've thought about you." Kirk cupped her face in his hands. "A lot."

  Sunny wore a wry smile. "I've thought about you, too. More than a lot. I've never felt the same way about … about anyone else." She looked embarrassed. "I wasn't going to tell you that."

  The warmth in Kirk's chest burned hotter as he lowered his head and touched his lips to Sunny's. She started, just a bit, at the feather-soft contact. Her eyes closed and he inhaled her whispery sigh.

  It wasn't enough. God help him, at that moment he knew he could never get enough of this extraordinary woman. He tucked her more firmly into his embrace, tilting her head, deepening the kiss. It was as if it were all new to him, as if he'd never before held a woman, touched a woman, his senses heightened to the utmost extreme.

  Sunny slid her arms around him, and a groan rumbled up Kirk's throat. Suddenly he was back in his boyhood room that weekend his folks had taken his sister Anne to Harvard, and Sunny was there with him, and they were going to do it, at last, after endless months of dating and yearning and sweaty back seat groping. They'd undressed each other with awkward eagerness, twisting the sheets into a hopeless tangle at the foot of his bed.

  U2's poignant song "With or Without You" had pulsed from his stereo's speakers as he'd joined his virgin body with hers, overwhelmed by the irrefutable rightness of it, by the startling slippery heat that both eased his entry and spurred him on. She'd gasped and clung and lifted to him as he'd breached her narrow opening, her expression awestruck.

  And here she was in his arms once more, on a sun-warmed quilt under a dazzling summer sky, and some part of him knew it was right again, so right.

  They parted, breathless. Kirk looked down into Sunny's flushed face, her eyes drowsy with desire, her lips moist and swollen.

  "We can be at my place in ten minutes," he whispered hoarsely, and pressed hard, fast kisses to her temple, her cheekbone, her mouth. "Come on." He leaped up from the quilt and grabbed the picnic basket.

  Sunny didn't move. "What about Ian?"

  "My folks have him till three." He tugged a corner of the quilt, urging her to rise, to no avail. "What?"

  "It's … it's too soon."

  "Too soon? Sunny, it's not like we're a couple of kids anymore. It's not like we've never made love."

  "Shh!" She glanced toward the Frisbee players, though they were too far away to hear.

  Squatting in front of her, Kirk said quietly, "It doesn't feel too soon to me, Sunny. It feels like … like this is what I've been waiting for. Like you're what I've been waiting for."

  She sighed, clearly torn. He stroked her face cajolingly, brushed his thumb over her lips. She pressed her hand over his and turned her head to kiss his palm. She didn't look at him as she said, "I don't know if you're really that ready, Kirk."

  He was about to laughingly refute her statement—he'd never been more ready!—but in the next heartbeat her meaning sank in, and the words died on his tongue. He was ready
to sleep with her, she was saying, but not ready to introduce her to his son. Knowing that any attempt to rationalize the unintentional insult would only compound it, he simply rose and offered his hand. She blinked up at him for a moment, with the sun in her eyes, before al-lowing him to help her up.

  They were halfway to the physics building before he spoke. "Like I said, I'm still trying to figure all this out. Including what's best for Ian." With a self-deprecating smirk he added, "How patient are you?"

  Sunny slipped her arm through his. "How does three months sound?"

  "Three months?" His brow wrinkled. "How did you come up with three months?"

  With a secret little smile she said, "Maybe someday you'll find out."

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  «^»

  "With blueberry syrup." Five-year-old David MacLeod handed his vinyl-bound menu to Sunny.

  "I know. And grapefruit juice." Sunny jotted the notation on her order pad.

  "How'd you know?" Davey demanded.

  His father laughed. "I think Sunny knows your preferences by now, Son."

  The MacLeods had been regulars at Wafflemania since shortly after little Davey's birth. They showed up every Sunday after church. A creature of habit, the tyke never deviated from his standard brunch order of a Belgian waffle and sausage links drowned in gallons of blueberry syrup, with a grapefruit-juice chaser.

  Emily MacLeod tucked a paper napkin into the collar of her son's white oxford-cloth shirt. When he objected she patiently explained, "When you're big enough to eat your breakfast without getting syrup all over yourself, you won't need a bib."

  "I'm big enough!" Davey tore the napkin off. "I don't want a dumb baby bib!"

  "Another stained shirt," Emily sighed. With a defeated little smile she added, "If only it weren't blueberry syrup."

  "May I?" Jim MacLeod casually commandeered the discarded napkin and tucked it into his own collar.

  Davey gaped at his dad. "You don't wear a bib!"

  Jim spared his son a glance. "Sometimes I do. Remember those lobsters we ate at Aunt Irene's?"