I DO, BUT HERE'S THE CATCH

by Pamela Burford

  "Sometimes—" Grant raised his glass in a toast "—there is justice. Kinda nice when it works out that way, huh?"

  Charli was looking at him a little oddly, as if something about his career—about him—didn't jibe with her preconceived notions.

  Alice started fussing, reaching for her mother.

  "She's hungry," Linda said, as she took her. "I'd better go nurse her." She crossed the lawn and disappeared into the house.

  "Still like your Infiniti?" Sam asked.

  "I like it so much I'm getting another one, for Charli."

  "I told you." Charli cast a nervous glance at Sam before murmuring, "I don't need another car. My Camry is only three years old."

  "You're turning down a brand-new Infiniti?" Laughing, Sam slid his arm around Charli. "This girl must really love you, Grant."

  Charli's response was a weak smile, obviously forced. She didn't meet Grant's eyes.

  From the play set came a sharp yip of pain. They looked over to see three-year-old Jesse sprawled in the bare dirt under one of the swings. Colin backing up guiltily. Before Sam could reach them, Jesse sprang to his feet and rushed his big brother in a tangle of kicking feet and flailing fists. Sam separated the two and picked up the smaller one. Tears of outrage streaming down his flushed little face, Jesse was screaming at his brother, something about him being a big stupid dope and a doo-doo head.

  Colin shrugged, all innocence. "He fell."

  "He pushed too hard!"

  Jesse wore red shorts and a red-and-white striped shirt. Charli gently brushed the dirt off his knees, scored with mild abrasions. "You just need to get these cleaned up."

  Sam said, "Let's go inside, big guy, and I'll put some peroxide on them."

  "No!" Jesse cried. "Roxide hurts!"

  Sam gave Grant and Charli a long-suffering look. "One of us usually has to hold him down."

  Charli said, "Oh, I'll bet Jesse's big enough to put the peroxide on himself."

  Father and son blinked at her. Sam got that why-didn't-I-think-of-that look and said, "How about it, Jesse? Are you big enough to clean your own booboos?"

  Jesse pondered this. "Colin doesn't clean his own boo-boos. Colin cries."

  "I do not!" Colin yelled. "You're the big crybaby!"

  Sam asked, "Do you want to show Colin how you can clean your own boo-boos?"

  Jesse nodded vigorously. "I'll do it!"

  "Just give me a few minutes," Sam called over his shoulder as he steered his boys toward the house.

  "Take your time," Grant said. When they were alone, he turned to Charli. "What made you think of that? Letting him wield the peroxide?"

  "Sometimes the worst thing is not so much the pain, but the feeling of powerlessness. If you do it yourself, it still hurts, but at least you're in control and not at someone else's mercy."

  Her words brought to mind their first date, when Charli had tried so hard to cut the evening short, once she'd realized he wanted to ditch her.

  At least you're in control and not at someone else's mercy.

  He placed his palm on her back and ushered her across the lawn to the teak bench swing suspended by chains from the limb of a venerable old oak tree. They sat at opposite ends of the pale wooden bench, leaving about two feet of space between them.

  Grant placed his drink on the grass and settled into the corner, half facing his wife. He started lazily rocking the swing. Charli looked fresh and springlike today in a short-sleeved, mint-colored linen dress.

  His first husbandly act had been to present her with a handful of credit cards to the best department stores, with instructions to have Raven and her other friends help her select some new clothes and accessories. He didn't care what she wore to work, but she needed a fashionable wardrobe for her off-hours, when he'd be presenting her to his friends and associates. As a wise man once said, you only have one chance to make a good first impression.

  Charli's dress buttoned down the front and had vertical tucks sewn around the midsection, causing the material to conform more closely to her body than the droopy, unflattering sacks she usually wore. He'd caught her giving the material a discreet tug a couple of times, no doubt because she was unaccustomed to wearing anything that hinted at her womanly shape.

  Light percolated through the canopy of leaves in a lacework pattern that cascaded up and down her body as the swing slowly swayed. Watching her, Grant was reminded of the evening he'd proposed to Charli, when he'd tried to seduce her. He'd wanted her then. Holding her on his lap, kissing her, fondling her through her clothes—it hadn't been enough. Nor had he intended it to be. He'd had little doubt they'd end up in bed.

  Until her lack of response had finally registered in his lust-fogged mind. She'd accepted his kisses and caresses without complaint, but with little enthusiasm, as docile and accommodating in this as in everything else.

  But her docility had its limits, and he hadn't been surprised when she'd refused to sleep with him. Obviously Charli had a low sex drive—which, he'd realized in retrospect, was a good thing, considering the nature of their marriage.

  Grant couldn't help but wonder whether his wife's aversion to physical intimacy was due to a naturally low libido or disagreeable experiences in her past. At age thirty, even a wallflower like Charli had to have some sort of past, sexually speaking. Perhaps the fellow who'd taken her virginity had been clumsy or selfish. If her first encounters had left her unsatisfied, that might explain her dislike for sex.

  Which is a good thing, he reminded himself, yet again.

  Speculating on his bride's past soured Grant's mood, although he didn't imagine there'd been too many men. His annoyance was based on instinct, he reasoned, a typical male territorial response. She was his wife, after all. He had bound her to him by law if nothing else.

  Of course, if he'd been her first, Grant thought with a secret smile, she'd probably have a totally different attitude about sex. He'd have initiated her patiently, lovingly. He'd have devoted himself to her pleasure, touching and tasting and tormenting every inch of her until she was sobbing with desire, until her world had shrunk to the relentless, knife-edged craving and the promise of relief only he could provide.

  She'd have clawed at him and wrapped herself around him and welcomed him into her untried body with eager cries of fulfillment.

  Grant felt himself stir. Damn. He shifted on the bench swing, forcing his thoughts away from the graphic image of his shy, staid wife flushed and panting, lifting herself to him as he plunged into her slick heat.

  Against his will, he'd found himself thinking about her that way, looking at her that way, too often during the past week. It wasn't that he found her desirable—he'd known from the start she wasn't his type. His X-rated thoughts were obviously a perverse response to the fact that she was sexually indifferent to him and, by his own choice, off-limits. If she were eager and available, he'd probably be able to go an hour or two without wondering how she looked naked and sweating.

  If only he hadn't seen her in that semi-sheer negligee on their wedding night. The low-cut bodice had cupped her full, round breasts like a lover's hands. Her dusky nipples had been clearly visible, thrusting against the lacy fabric. Her color had been high, and there'd been something besides her usual shyness in the smile she'd given him as he'd entered his bedroom, something that could almost be called excitement.

  At the time he'd been too stunned and dismayed to assess all these telling details. But since then, he'd occasionally caught her casting lingering glances his way, causing him to speculate that perhaps his prudish little bride wasn't as prudish as he'd assumed.

  And why did that prospect excite him, when it would only wreak havoc with his carefully laid plans?

  She wasn't giving him any damn lingering looks! They were a product of his sex-starved imagination, nothing more. He had to get laid, and soon. After all, he wasn't the one with the diminished sex drive. He'd continue to see other women, but discreetly; he had no desire to embarrass Charli, or jeopardize his standin
g with the firm, by engaging in a public affair.

  Charli crossed her legs, drawing Grant's gaze to the small patch of thigh that slid within view. The hem of her dress fell to within a few inches of her ankles, but the lowest button was just above her knees. Her movement caused the bottom of the dress to part. She yanked on the material to cover herself.

  Grant leaned over and flicked it open again. "This dress is made to show some leg, Charli."

  She stared at him a moment, then uncrossed her legs and pulled the sides of the dress closed. Grant detected a morsel of defiance as she said, "I thought modesty was one of my virtues."

  He recalled saying something like that on their wedding night. "Well, being so damn uptight isn't."

  She didn't look at him. So much for putting a smile on her face.

  He stopped rocking the swing. "I didn't mean to snap. I'm just trying to help you … adjust."

  After a thick silence she said, "I seem to need a lot of adjustment."

  "What do you mean? Because I wanted you to have a nice new wardrobe? Most wives would kill for—"

  "It's not like you were asking." She clamped her mouth shut, obviously regretting her impulsive words.

  "Charli." Grant tried to look her in the eye, but she stared into the distance, hands planted in her lap. Quietly he said, "Don't ever be afraid to tell me what's on your mind." No response. "Charli. Look at me." She didn't. Grant edged closer and put his arm around her shoulders. He felt her tense.

  "Our marriage is a partnership of equals," he said, lightly stroking her upper arm with his fingertips. "I want to know what's bothering you. If I've somehow stepped over the line, tell me."

  She started to speak, but seemed unable to find the words. Finally she sighed in frustration. "I know I need to learn things. I guess I just didn't realize how much."

  "Is it a little overwhelming? Going a little too fast for you?"

  Charli raised her face to his. She looked so vulnerable, something clutched inside his chest. "I guess so," she said in a small voice. "I can't seem to do anything right."

  "That's not true. Some things are just new to you, that's all. Like supervising Anna and Doreen."

  "I'm not used to having other people clean my home."

  "I know that. That's why I showed you how to instruct them, so things get done the way you want."

  The way you want, you mean. He saw it in her eyes, but she didn't say it.

  "I told you before," he said. "I'm set in my ways. I make no apologies for that."

  "But if I decide I want things done a little differently around the house, like if I want to move some furniture or. I don't know, put up a picture or something, is that all right with you?"

  Grant forced himself to say, "Of course." After a moment he added, "Just check with me first, okay?"

  She nodded, and something told him she wouldn't be suggesting any changes.

  He said, "It probably seems like I've been offering a lot of advice, in a lot of different areas, and I get the feeling it's not all welcome, but like I said, I'm just trying to make the adjustment easier for you."

  "Maybe with some things, though, we can leave well enough alone."

  "Like what?"

  "Like my car. It's in mint condition. And I like it, Grant. It drives well and it's comfortable and I even love the color. It's the best car I've ever owned."

  "But you can have a better car! A luxury car! Sam must've thought you were nuts, turning down a brand-new Infiniti."

  "I'm sorry if I embarrassed you in front of your friend."

  "You didn't, Charli. That's not what this is about."

  "Is it the image? You don't want people—important people—seeing your wife driving a three-year-old midpriced sedan?"

  What was he supposed to say when she put it like that? "Fine," he said. "Do what you want. I won't pretend to understand your reasoning, but it's up to you what you drive."

  He watched that simple truth register in her mind. "I'll stick with my Camry, then."

  "Fine."

  A ponderous silence descended, interrupted only by the sounds of a bird warbling overhead and a lawn mower somewhere in the distance. Charli twisted the emerald bangle bracelet on her wrist. Finally she said, "Grant, do you think I married you for your money?"

  "What brought that on?"

  "Do you?"

  He sighed. Why did they have to talk about this? Why did she have to make it sound so crass? "Charli, there's nothing wrong with you wanting to better your situation. Do you imagine I think less of you because of that?"

  "I wasn't destitute before I married you," she said stiffly. "My family isn't poor. They're hardworking, middle-class people."

  "I never said they—" He broke off with a curse. "Of course you weren't destitute. But don't try to tell me you never had to pinch pennies, or make sacrifices. You're ashamed to admit my income and my standard of living influenced your decision to marry me, but you shouldn't be. You said it yourself—we're not a couple of twenty-year-olds with stars in our eyes. We're both mature, realistic people."

  Her voice was strained. "You can't think of any other reason I'd have married you?"

  Grant's arm was still around her shoulders, but now his fingers tightened into a fist. Every muscle in his body tensed. He stared at a squirrel scampering along the top of the wooden fence and said, "I think we're compatible, certainly. Otherwise I wouldn't have proposed this arrangement."

  It wasn't what she wanted to hear, he knew. Don't do this, he silently pleaded. Don't try to make this marriage into something it's not. That can only lead to disaster.

  He felt her turn, sensed her gaze on his profile. He expected her to pursue the issue, but instead she asked, "Did you grow up with the same comfortable lifestyle you have now?"

  Frowning, he faced her. "Where did that come from?"

  She shrugged, but her eyes never left his. They looked liquid and bottomless in the stippled light, the color of dark, rich coffee, with streaks of amaretto near the pupils. "You said you grew up in Pennsylvania, in a small town. I was just wondering—"

  "I don't talk about that part of my life."

  She hesitated, searching his eyes. "You said you're estranged from your folks."

  "I told you, Charli, it's not up for discussion."

  She blinked at his harsh tone, and drew back.

  He practically growled in frustration. "Look, it's not like I'm keeping any deep, dark secrets from you. There's nothing interesting or exciting in how I grew up, nothing worth talking about."

  She appeared ready to argue with him. Thankfully, she seemed to think better of it, and held her tongue. From the deck Linda called. "If I can tear you two lovebirds away from that swing, the chicken marsala's getting cold."

  Breathing a silent sigh of relief, Grant rose and offered Charli his hand.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  «^»

  "Let the newlyweds sit next to each other!" Mama screeched.

  Charli's brother Eddie quickly vacated his chair, and Charli let herself be jostled into it. Another of her brothers, Paul, standing on the fringes of the crowd near the makeshift bar—where else?—called out, "No way. Who knows what those two'll get up to under the table? There are minors present!"

  This was met with rude guffaws from the twenty or so adults present, and most of the youngsters, as well. Charli studiously avoided looking at her husband, seated next to her at her nephew John's dining table in the home he shared with his wife and twin daughters in Sunnyside, Queens. The room was crammed with people pressing in on them from all sides and spilling into the kitchen and living room.

  The twins turned one year old today, and the extended family had gathered this Wednesday evening after work to watch them blow out the candle on their birthday cake. John and his wife, Moira Sullivan-Rossi, had named their daughters Swanhilda and Valkyrie, from Norse mythology, despite the fact that there wasn't a drop of Norse blood on either side of the family tree.

  The babies wer
e fraternal rather than identical, as different in looks and temperament as any two siblings could be. Val was already a willful little handful, with green eyes and red hair like her mother. Mellow-tempered Swan, with her dark curls and thick-lashed, amber eyes, outweighed her petite sister by a good five pounds.

  The babies sat at one end of the table, side by side in matching high chairs. No sooner had they extinguished the candle—with a little help from their cousins—than Val thrust her tiny hands into the frosting, smearing the writing and the pink and yellow icing flowers. Swan calmly planted her two sucking fingers in her mouth, taking in the ensuing mayhem with her usual thoughtful regard. Val wasn't giving up the candle without a fight.

  Grant leaned closer to Charli. She felt his palm on her back, his warm breath on the side of her face. Amid the uproar he whispered into her ear, "I'll give the redhead a scholarship to law school. We could use her at the firm."

  "Hey, Grant, no talking dirty in front of Nonni!" Donna's husband, Artie, hollered. Grandma Rossi, in her place of honor at the other end of the table, shot back something in Italian that had the older relatives hooting with glee.

  "They've been married a week and a half," Charli's other sister, Angie, announced. "They're allowed to neck in public."

  "Good thing we got them outta their house," Robby said. "I hear the sheets were about to catch fire."

  "Shut your mouth!" Mama whacked her youngest son on the back of the head, which only made him laugh harder. "You don't talk like that at your nieces' birthday."

  Papa said, "The boy's just having a little fun, Betty. Leave him alone."

  "Just having a little fun!" Mama hollered. "He can have a little fun without the gutter talk!"

  Grant risked another intimate murmur. "Looks like we've created quite a stir."

  Charli's face burned. "I'm sorry. I should've warned you. They were like this when all my brothers and sisters got married."

  "Ah, a family tradition. How utterly heartwarming. Honestly, Charli, I can't believe you're apologizing." He rubbed her back in a circle. "They're just having a little fun."