Yes, I Do

by Gwynne Forster

  A shiver jetted up her spine. If only she knew what to expect of him. “Yes. Then I want you to take some notes on Roberts versus Roberts.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Minutes later, his voice soothed her ears like a liquid prelude from a master flutist. “Ginger, this is personal, so if your secretary is on the line, ask her to—”

  “No one’s on but me. What is it?”

  “Look. We sat alone on that tour bus looking at rain as thick as ocean water pouring all around us, and with lightning streaking around in it like naked dancers frolicking through time. We sat there dazed by it, and it made you shiver, pulled at your insides until you turned to me with your lips parted and ready for my mouth. Now, you act as though it never happened. What about Victoria Falls in that little boat in the middle of the Zambezi River, when we stood at the stern with our arms around each other and watched a sunset that made you cry? You held me then, Ginger. And I mean you held me so close to you that everything you felt—your longing, your desire for me, and your fear of it—seeped down into me, trashing my will to avoid getting involved with you.”

  She couldn’t find words to respond, though he waited.

  Then he let out a long breath. “Woman, what is it with you? I am the same man you wanted to make love with that night in Harare. You were honest, then. Talk to me.”

  She clutched the phone until her knuckles stretched the skin on her right hand. He didn’t have to remind her of what she would never forget. She searched for a safe, impersonal answer, couldn’t find one, and settled for the truth.

  “You want to know what’s going on with me, Jason? Well, I’ll tell you. I’m scared, Jason, and I have been from the moment we met. I kissed you less than six hours after I first saw you, and I still marvel that I had the sense and strength to leave you that night, because it wasn’t my conscious self that did it. The woman who walked away from you was the woman I am the other three hundred and fifty-one days in the year taking over. Do you think I ever did anything like that before? You bet I’m uneasy around a man who gets between me and my common sense just by showing up and smiling.”

  “Ginger. Ginger. Honey, did it occur to you that we might be each other’s salvation? Destiny? If you’ve never responded to a man as you did to me, shouldn’t you go for it, see what it holds for you? Do you think I’m in the habit of taking strange women to bed? No way! After two days of the happenings between us, you were no longer a stranger, but someone I needed. And, mind you, I didn’t say want.”

  Goose pimples popped out on her arms and her pulse jumped into a wild gallop. How could he say he needed her? In four years of marriage, Harold hadn’t used the word. “These are strong statements, Jason. Be careful what you say.”

  “I always choose my words carefully, Ginger. We have a second chance now, and you know who I am. The case is closed, and I want to see you. Can I bring this champagne or not?”

  The thought of being alone with him again burned her brain with anticipation. Unwanted. Yet, uncontrollable. She didn’t want a repeat of her life with Harold, and if this man was wrong for her and she let him into her life, she’d pay a heavy price. She remembered her feeling of desperation when it seemed certain that she’d never see him again.

  “Jason. I’ll have to think about whether we should continue what we started—”

  She’d bet those gray eyes shot fire as he said, “Sorry. I’m not giving you that luxury. You promised.”

  She wanted desperately to be with him, but she didn’t think she could handle him. Her experience was limited to her ex-husband, and he hadn’t needed handling. After having spent time with Jason, she suspected that the chemistry between Harold and her had been as weak as steam in a tunnel of trapped air. Well, if she spent the remainder of her life protecting herself, she might as well shrivel up right then.

  “I promised we’d have champagne,” she said in a voice that bore an unfamiliar weakness. “So come over about six-thirty, and we can drink it sitting at the riverbank.”

  “Watching the sunset again? Sure you want to hazard that?”

  “Watching the boats. Six-thirty.”

  Jason waited for the city bus at the corner of 110th Street and Fifth Avenue, in front of the building in which he lived. He loved Harlem, but preferred to live close to it rather than in it. Every few minutes he glanced at his left wrist. Time seemed to be playing a game with him, crawling along with all the deliberate speed of a snail. He put his watch to his ear and satisfied himself that it hadn’t stopped. He walked to the corner, turned, and walked to the other end of the short block, didn’t see a bus, and walked back to the bus stop. He’d gladly hail a taxi, but if he stood there until Christmas he probably wouldn’t see one. He didn’t want to admit that the prospect of seeing Ginger in her home, of being alone with her again, had his blood flying through his veins. The bus arrived, and he took it as far as Seventy-ninth Street, got off, and hailed a cab. Fifteen minutes later, his right index finger pressed her doorbell.

  The door opened, he looked at Ginger and lost his breath. With her hair down below her shoulders, her softened, guileless appearance pulled at the man in him, and he had to check his spiralling desire. “Hello, Ginger.”

  “Hi. Uh…come on in while I get the glasses and some snacks.”

  He eyed her closely. A bag of raw nerves or his name wasn’t Jason Calhoun. “I can wait out here, if you’d rather.”

  Her eyes widened and then blinked rapidly. “Oh. It’s okay. Come on in.”

  He figured he’d scored some points by offering to wait in the hall. At least, he hoped so. He handed her a dozen calla lilies, and joy suffused him when she made no attempt to hide her pleasure in receiving them.

  “Calla lilies have been my absolute favorite for years. Thank you. They’re so beautiful.”

  “My pleasure. Beautiful lilies for a beautiful lady.”

  He followed her into the living room, anxious for any clues to her personality. Curtainless windows and track lights beside them told him nothing. He took in the burnt orange chairs and antique, gold-colored sofa that sat on a soft, beige-patterned Tabriz Persian carpet. Tall, live plants stood near the windows, and a James H. Johnson reproduction dominated one beige-colored wall. Her good taste didn’t surprise him. He’d expected it. His gaze swept over her books. History, biography, politics. A rack beside the piano held—a piano. He stepped closer to see what she played. Handel’s Largo, Duke Ellington’s sacred music, and Bix Beiderbeckes’s haunting “In a Mist,” a jazz classic from the nineteen twenties. He shook his head. Where was she in that mélange of interests? He shrugged off the question. With such catholic tastes, at least she wouldn’t be narrow-minded.

  Her footsteps announced her arrival. “I see you play the piano.”

  She glanced toward the door. “Yes, but I don’t often have time these days.”

  Maybe if she played, he’d find her through her music. “Play something for me.”

  “I, uh… She looked at the bag he’d rested on the coffee table. “What about the champagne?”

  He picked up the bag, stepped closer, and handed it to her. “Put it in the refrigerator. I want to hear you play.”

  He could see that he made her ill at ease, and he didn’t like it. Might as well get it out in the open. “Ginger, relax and get used to me.”

  Her smooth dark skin took on a reddish cast from a rush of blood to her cheeks. He’d give a lot to know what went on in her mind, but he didn’t want to play games, so he didn’t query.

  “Why do you think I’m not relaxed?”

  He believed in straight talk. “If a bird chirped behind you right now, you’d jump. You’re scared to death that I’ll shake your sugar tree.”

  “Jason!”

  “Don’t act so surprised. You know the truth when you hear it. Play something, will you?”

  “Anything special?”

  He shook his head. “I only want to hear you play.”

  A soft, barely audible whistle slippe
d through his lips as he watched her slow, lazy glide across the room to the piano and the easy grace with which she slid onto the bench. Her fingers moved over the keys with practiced skill as she coaxed from them Duke Ellington’s haunting “Mood Indigo.” She threw back her head, closed her eyes, and teased the music until it surrounded him, flowing to him from every corner and nook of the room. He thought he’d lost her to the music until she opened her eyes, fixed them on his, and let their soft, brown beauty tell him that he was the most special of men.

  With her soul still open to him, her soft, mezzo-soprano gave life to the words of Ellington’s great song, one that he’d loved since listening to his parents’ records when he was a child. With every breath she took and every note that flowed from her lungs, he lost a little more of himself.

  At last no sound could be heard in the room, and she stared down at her hands lying in her lap. “Did you like it?”

  He longed to touch her, but controlled the urge for fear of destroying the moment. “The last time anything moved me so deeply, I was holding you while we gazed at the sunset and your tears dripped over my hand. You sing and play beautifully. Everything about you is beautiful.”

  She diverted her gaze and lowered her head. “I’m glad you like it so much. I…I don’t know what to say.”

  He figured he’d better get them out of there before he did something stupid and got on the wrong side of her. “This seems like the perfect time for champagne. Ready to go?”

  When she stood immediately, he got the impression that she wanted to get out of there as badly as he did and, he suspected, for the same reason.

  She returned from the kitchen with the champagne and a small wicker basket. “Ready when you are.”

  She seemed nonplussed, but he told himself to stop second-guessing her. She’d said she was scared, and that made sense, because anybody who was headed for what he knew they faced would be foolish to barge into it fearlessly. Giving yourself to another person wasn’t all that the muses claimed; it could ruin your life.

  Ginger laid a red-and-white checkered cloth on the concrete seating ledge beside the East River facing Manhattan and opened the basket.

  “What’s in there?” Jason asked as he eased the champagne from the confines of its bottle. “Some sandwiches.”

  He poured the bubbly wine into the long-stemmed glasses she’d brought, linked their right elbows and looked into her eyes. Her pulse raced crazily, and her senses whirled with the giddiness of a moth dancing around a flame. She fought the old, habitual caution that threatened to drag her back down to reality, back to the staid, conservative Ginger—the Ginger who didn’t take chances. This man meant business. If only she could ignore his mesmeric gray eyes, his tempting lips, and his air of power and authority, and concentrate on who and what he seemed to be—the real man.

  “Here’s to the woman who, with a single glance, rocked my world.”

  She raised her glass, smiled at him, and let the cool liquid caress her throat while he stared at her, stripping her bare with the naked desire in his eyes.

  “Don’t I get a toast?” he asked.

  She clicked her glass to his own. “A man such as you will always get his share in life and so much more.”

  His face clouded, though not, she knew, with bemusement, but impatience. “Try not to talk over my head, Ginger. All I’m seeking right now is some assurance that you’ll give us a chance. Nothing more. That doesn’t mean commitment, just openness. How about that toast, so I can enjoy my drink?”

  She tipped the glass toward him. “Here’s to the man with whom I have dreamed.”

  She didn’t think she’d ever seen a man change so quickly. The heated desire of minutes earlier dissolved into a kind of warm sweetness, and something else that she was scared to name.

  That smile. Lights danced in his eyes and his face bore such a gentleness, a softness that she wanted to hug him to her breasts. “Sail with me, Ginger, and I’ll make silver sails for you. If you’d rather we flew, I’ll give you golden wings, and if you’ll walk with me, I’ll put the spring of joy and life into your steps. Come with me, and your eyes will see only things of beauty, your ears will hear heavenly music, and you’ll dine on food prepared for the gods. What do you say?”

  Her breath had lodged in her throat, and she had to gasp for air, but his magnificent gray eyes refused to release her from his spell. He unlinked their arms and smoothed her cheek with his fingers, something he’d done twice in Harare, as though his fingers communicated what words could not. She wanted to drown in him. “Well?”

  “I’m speechless, Jason. You offer me a world I never heard of. One day at a time?”

  “All right. You said you weren’t married, living with a man or engaged. I don’t have any of those ties, either. You know I’m an honorable, law-abiding man, so I can’t understand your reluctance to let us get closer. I understood why you walked away in Zimbabwe. You didn’t know anything about me. But now you do.”

  Male logic. He couldn’t see a reason, so there wasn’t one. “Jason, would you walk into a roaring fire without an asbestos suit, or jump into the Atlantic Ocean knowing you couldn’t swim? You swept me off my feet in Harare, and I don’t like not being able to control my behavior. We’re a couple thousand miles from there, and…and—”

  “And you still want me? Do you think you didn’t sweep me off my feet? Honey, this is a mutual thing. You turned me around every bit as much as I unsettled you. Maybe more, from the looks of things. If we’re honest with each other, we don’t have anything to fear.” A full smile bloomed on his face. “Problem solved. What kind of sandwiches you got in there?”

  She uncovered the food. “Ham, smoked salmon, and cheese. Some grapes in here, too.”

  His grin couldn’t have been broader if she’d said she had a basket of diamonds. I could love this man, she admitted to herself when he lifted the bottle, winked at her, and said, “A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou beside me singing in the wilderness.”

  A barge floated by with the aid of her favorite tugboat. “I named that tug Midnight,” she told him, “because it moves by my bedroom window all times of night. I welcome it when I can’t sleep.” What she didn’t tell him was that those sleepless nights had begun after her return from Zimbabwe. Lovers barely into their teens strolled by holding hands, and a man and woman stopped a few feet from them and kissed with such passion that she had to close her eyes. She opened them to find Jason’s gaze locked on her and didn’t have to wonder as to his thoughts. They had once kissed each other like that. They finished the sandwiches and champagne, and Jason put the glasses, napkins, and tablecloth in the basket.

  “Where’s that garden you told me about?”

  “Not far. Want to walk down there?”

  She delighted in showing him her handiwork. Although it was still April, scallions, turnips, spinach, and lettuce grew six or more inches above the soil, and blooming jonquils, crocuses, and evening primrose beautified the small plot. He rested his arm around her shoulders and, as though programmed to do so, she moved closer to him. When his arm tightened around her, she snuggled nearer still, and savored once more the perfect peace that she’d known only with him.

  “Don’t move,” he warned, his voice hoarse with passion. “It won’t take more than a deep breath for me to wrap myself around you and get lost in you right here and now.”

  Her skin tingled, but she refused to be caught up in the web that he spun. She’d walked blindly into a life of unhappiness with Harold, but not again. Still, she knew that Jason was different, that he offered her more. So much more.

  “You’re moving too fast, Jason.”

  He squeezed her shoulders. “But you’re moving with me, sweetheart. It’s a tidal wave, and nothing we do is going to stop it.”

  He asked her not to move, but shivers shook her and she settled against him.

  The wind picked up velocity, and a whiff of perfume from the purple crocuses teased her nostrils. “This wind’
s bringing a storm,” she told him, “and it’s getting darker. I think we’d better get out of here.”

  “Yeah. Let’s run for it,” he said, picked up the basket and grabbed her arm as the first big raindrops spattered them.

  “There’s the minibus. Come on,” she urged.

  They boarded the red Island Transport bus as torrents of rain fell around them.

  “What does this remind you of?” Jason asked her.

  She put two quarters, one for each of them, in the fare box and pulled her damp shirt away from her body. “You didn’t let me get wet in Zimbabwe. You’re slipping.”

  He shrugged. “We’re on your territory now, sweetheart, so you should have protected me.”

  They got off at the second stop and dashed into West View, the building in which she lived.

  She couldn’t speak, because conflicting emotions clogged her thoughts as her desire to be one with him wrestled with her fear of losing her very soul.

  She pressed the elevator button and turned to him. “I’m crazy, Jason. Everything about you appeals to me, but right now I feel like putting a couple of miles between us.”

  A half-smile curled around his lips. “Okay to feel like it, so long as you don’t do it.”

  At her apartment door she noticed that he stepped back, leaving the decision to her. Marbles rattled around in her belly when she turned and looked into his turbulent eyes.

  “Come on in.”

  “You sure?”

  “No, I’m not sure,” she said, able to laugh at her own foolishness, “but come on in, anyway. You can put that basket in the kitchen while I get out of this wet shirt. Be right back.”

  He wasn’t wet, but he didn’t sit down. He had to get control of the longing for her that had begun to drive him like a locomotive sucking the wind in its headlong plunge out of control. The sensation of being propelled to her by some supernatural force had begun that morning in Harare at breakfast and hadn’t slackened; if anything, it had intensified. He had dissected it, analyzed it and prayed about it, but he still needed her.