Yes, I Do

by Gwynne Forster

  “Susan, honey, I think Grace is right,” he said, standing in her foyer after taking her home from the movie. “We ought to get married.”

  “What? Us get married? You can’t be serious, August.” She stared at him, but saw that he was no less serene than usual.

  “Why shouldn’t I be serious? We’ve got a lot in common, and you said yourself that Grace is never wrong. So why do you want us to waste time shilly-shallying about it. Let’s give it a shot.” Susan closed her mouth slowly just before he added, “For keeps, though. I mean we get married till death does us part.”

  “August, do you know what you’re saying?”

  “Sure I do. You don’t want to waste time courting and I’m uncomfortable negotiating this New York City scene with these New York women. I know what I want—and Grace says we were made for each other.”

  The abrupt disappearance of his warm, teasing smile unnerved her as he stepped closer, his expression unmistakably serious.

  “I’ll always be there for you, Susan, for better or for worse. No matter what.” Suddenly, he grinned. “Nothing will ever change that, and I’ll be faithful to you for as long as I breathe.” She gasped aloud. He was serious. She hoped he’d ignore her trembling, but he didn’t. “I’ll never do anything to cause you to regret marrying me, so don’t worry.”

  August wondered whether he’d moved too quickly, but he didn’t think so. He’d learned to go with his instincts, and if he followed them this time, his search for a mate had ended. An inner something told him Susan was the woman for him and that he’d still feel that way aeons into the future.

  “Uh…I’ll call you,” he heard her whisper.

  “All right. I’ll be in Washington for a few days. I’m leaving tomorrow evening.”

  “Work?” Her voice was tentative, he noted, as though she had no right to ask.

  “My work rarely involves travel. I did tell you that I’m a criminologist, didn’t I? Honey, I wish it was something as simple as work.” He had to camouflage his sudden feeling of distress. “For the last twenty years, I’ve been trying to find my younger brother, and I’m going to Washington to check a lead with my private investigator. It could be another wild-goose chase, but I never assume that—any bit of information is checked. We’ll talk about it when I get back.”

  “I hope it works out this time. I can imagine what this means to you, August. Will you call?” It surprised him that she would ask him that, but he took pleasure in it.

  “As soon as I get in my hotel room.” He looked at her upturned, worried face. He wanted to kiss her. Badly. But it was too early for that. She trusted him a little, but he was after more. Much more. He tweaked her nose, opened her door and playfully pushed her in.

  “Lock it.” He walked off. She wanted to throw something at him when it dawned on her that he’d been protective, but she could start right then to get used to him; he was in her life forever.

  Susan hung up her mink coat, got out of her blue designer suit, kicked off her Susan Bennis/Warren Edwards shoes, and paced the floor in her stocking feet. What in the world was August Jackson thinking about? And he was serious, too. In her mind’s eye, she recalled how his face sobered before he told her he’d always be there for her. She stopped, nearly panicking. She didn’t know anything about men who talked as he did and acted the way he acted. He had meant every word. Good Lord, he had actually pledged himself to her. She wrapped her arms around herself, seeking assurance that she was still a separate entity, that she wasn’t a part of him. What had he done to her? Without his having touched her, she’d felt enclosed securely in his arms, warm and protected. She rushed to the kitchen and got a glass of water. If she’d ever thought about the kind of man she wanted, she wouldn’t have dreamed his type existed, but there he was, and… She picked up the phone and dialed her aunt, praying that she wouldn’t get the answering service.

  “Aunt Grace. I’m so glad you’re home. I went to the movies with August tonight, and he…well, he…”

  “He asked you to marry him, did he? I knew he was going to—it was right there on the chart, plain as your face.”

  “Aunt Grace, marriage is a serious business. How can he take it so lightly?”

  “Don’t be fooled by that easy, charming front of his, honey. That man means business. You take my advice and quit pussyfooting around. Besides, you know you want to do it. You’re intrigued with him, plain loco. He heated you up the first time you saw him. That was in your chart. Don’t you get stupid and try to string him along, now, ’cause that won’t work with him.”

  Susan had to sit down. “Aunt Grace, be reasonable. We don’t know anything about him.” Her heart hammered in her chest, and she tried to calm herself.

  “He’s nice, Aunt Grace.”

  “Sure he is. His chart doesn’t show a single thing against him that I could see. And, honey, he’s so handsome, it’s sinful, and he acts like he don’t even know it. He ain’t faking, either. He wants to marry you, and he’ll do what he says, ’cause that chart of his shows he’s solid as a rock.”

  “Don’t you ever doubt your charts?”

  “Never. And something else. How many men like him will you find that’s equal to a woman like you? Most of his kind go for those cute little clinging vines, which, Lord knows, you are not.”

  “But we’re not in love.”

  “Shucks, honey, your cousin Ella fell head over heels for Richie, went home with him the same night she met him, stayed with him for four years before they got married, and left him three weeks after they said ‘I do.’ You’re the one with the college degrees so you figure it out.”

  “But, Aunt Grace, that’s…”

  “Please spare me that logic of yours. You want to marry him. Do it. You two are going to fall so hard for each other, you’ll think lightning struck.” Susan didn’t want to believe it.

  August prepared himself for another disappointment. He’d had so many where Grady was concerned that he’d almost become inured to the pain. He unlocked the door of his posh room in Washington’s Willard Hotel—too much for his taste, but that was what his private investigator had reserved for him—dropped his bag beside the bed, took out his cell phone and called Susan. Mere thoughts of her elevated his spirits. For once, he didn’t feel alone in it.

  “This is August. Did you miss me?” Susan laughed, giving him the reaction he wanted. He’d only heard her actually laugh just once before.

  “Hi. You’re impossible.” He caught the warmth in her voice.

  “Well, did you?” That lovely laughter again. He could listen to it forever, because it meant he’d get what he was after.

  “Not yet,” she teased, “but if you stay away long enough, I might.”

  Joy suffused him, and he let it flow out to her in his speech. “When are we getting married?”

  “Soon as you get back.”

  His back went up; that was a subject about which he refused to let her joke. “I’m serious.”

  “Me, too.”

  The sudden acceleration of his heartbeat made him grab his chest.

  “What size ring do you wear?”

  “That’s unimportant. I don’t want a ring.”

  “I don’t remember asking whether you wanted one. I want to wear your ring, and I’d like my wife to wear mine.”

  “But I won’t…”

  “Don’t draw the line, honey. You haven’t seen it yet.” He’d ask Grace what size ring Susan wore. He teased her for a bit and hung up.

  He’d had over a hundred so-called leads over the past twenty-six years, but this one really sounded promising. He felt as if he could run the five miles to the Sheraton Hotel where he was to meet his P.I. and the man thought to be his brother. The man was about his height, and vaguely resembled him, but August didn’t feel a connection between them. He’d planned to ask him some key questions but first, he’d have a look at the birthmark—the black quarter-size spot on one shoulder that had a thick patch of hair growing in it. The man oblig
ingly removed his shirt, but he didn’t have that birthmark. August thanked the man and offered to pay his expenses to and from Charlotte, North Carolina. He couldn’t help feeling relieved, though, because the man wasn’t the kind of brother that he’d want. The search would continue, as it had for the past two and a half decades.

  Later, in his hotel room, he called Susan again, her expressions of sorrow that he hadn’t found his brother touched him deeply. He hadn’t known how much he needed her caring and understanding. She was there for him, solidifying her niche inside of him.

  “What will you do now, August?”

  He’d keep looking, he told her.

  “Do you believe he’s alive?” she asked, and he admired the strength that her ability to ask him that difficult question communicated to him.

  “I know he is, Susan. I feel it. Besides,” he said, changing to a lighter mood, “Grace’s charts say I’m going to find him and, remember…”

  “I know,” Susan finished for him, “she’s never wrong.”

  He rolled over, heat beginning to pool in his belly just from the sound of her sultry voice.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow night, honey, and every night.”

  “But we’re not…”

  “Right. We’re not courting. We’ll just see each other.” He hung up and laughed.

  He got back to New York the following afternoon and went directly to Tiffany’s and chose a size seven diamond engagement ring of one and a half carats flanked by half carat diamond baguettes set in eighteen-karat gold. He tucked the red velvet, satin-cushioned box into his shirt pocket, and hailed a taxi for A Hundred Thirty-Fifth and Malcolm X Boulevard, where he had a fourth-floor co-op. His coworkers had asked him why he lived there when he could afford the upper east side. It wasn’t their business that he used his wealth to find his brother. Besides, he also lived there, as he told them, because he loved Harlem. It was the closest thing to rural southern living that he’d come across in New York. Turnips and mustard greens in every market, not to mention spareribs and plenty of fresh fish. He liked filet mignon, salmon, and lobster as well as anybody, but when he got good and hungry, he wanted some collard greens, baked sweet potatoes, and fried Norfolk spots, and he didn’t want his greens cooked with olive oil. He put his bag down and called Susan.

  “What time can I see you tonight?”

  “Auuuugusssst.” She drew it out. “We’re not supposed to…I mean, I thought we weren’t going to…”

  “Honey, we’re not courting. I promised you, didn’t I? We’re making plans. What time?”

  She told him seven-thirty and asked where he planned to take them. He had to suppress a laugh. She was priceless. He’d never seen a woman so reluctant to come down to earth.

  “Well, I thought we’d just eat dinner at a real nice restaurant. Anything else would be, well, courting.” He hung up and called the Plaza Athené. He didn’t intend to have but one engagement dinner, and he wanted his fiancée to remember it forever. Thinking about that, he called back and ordered pink orchids for their table.

  Susan kicked herself for putting on her full glamorous armor, but she wasn’t going out with him to a swanky restaurant looking like a poor relation. She knew what those other women would look like, and she intended for him to keep his fantastic eyes on her. She scurried into a red silk shift that was cut low in the back and front and would give him just enough cleavage to let him know there was a lot more. She put on a light makeup, gold loops at her ears, and dabs of French perfume. It was a come-on, but she wasn’t sure where he stood, and she hadn’t gotten where she was by taking foolish chances. She looked down at her feet. That’s it, she decided, experiencing a mild rebellion at herself. I will not put on heels; he has a big enough ego. She put on black silk ballet slippers, and wouldn’t admit that the effect was more striking than heels would have been.

  Her neighbors could have heard his whistle of approval, she decided, lowering her head in acute embarrassment. But she was glad he liked what he saw, even if it did remind her of the wolves in her office.

  “August, I’m glad you like my dress, but that whistle is the same thing I get from other guys.” She glanced up at him and excitement raced through her at the adoration his eyes revealed.

  “When those men whistle at you, honey, they’re tom catting. I was expressing appreciation for my woman.”

  “I’m not your woman,” she huffed, giving him an arrogant twist of her head.

  “Sure you are, and it doesn’t make sense to argue about it.”

  She had to admit that if she was going to marry him, he did have a point.

  “Well, not yet, I’m not.”

  “Ah, Susan, you’re so beautiful and so sweet.” His warm hand on her bare arm tugged her gently to him, and she couldn’t help trembling with heady anticipation. Frightened at what she felt, she attempted to move away, but his strong fingers caressed her arms and back, stroking her until she relaxed against him. Her deep sigh must have encouraged him, because he tipped up her chin and let her see the desire in his eyes, stunning her. She knew he felt her shivers when his arms tightened around her, and she grasped the right lapel of his coat with her left hand and clung to him. She couldn’t help it; she was sinking as sure as her name was Susan Andrews.

  “Darling, I want to taste your mouth. Kiss me.”

  She couldn’t make herself raise her head, but she didn’t object when he did it for her. His lips touched her tentatively, burning her, sending hot darts all through her.

  “Honey. Ah, sweetheart,” he murmured, “take my tongue.” She parted her lips slightly at first, but when he claimed her, she opened wider loving the taste of him, the feel of him. He groaned, and she stifled the urge to move against him. His hands stroked her back, and she wanted to beg him to soothe her aching breasts. She wanted… Her hips moved to him, and he turned and held her to his side. She stepped back, shocked at herself. What had she been thinking? She shook her head as though to clear it; August was behaving as though what they’d just done was perfectly natural. She had known him two weeks and, in her whole life, she’d never kissed a man with such—there was no other word for it—fire.

  Later, she sat across from him in the swank room looking around at the lovely mirrors and the gold leaf that adorned the pale blue walls and ceiling, the French Provincial chairs and crystal chandeliers. A nice restaurant, he’d said.

  “The orchids are beautiful, August. Thank you.” She wondered about the low regard in which he held New York nightlife, including its fancy restaurants, and she said as much.

  “I said I didn’t want to do it on a regular basis. Besides, if I’d suggested hot dogs and a fast food place, you would have been perfectly agreeable.”

  She stared at him. “How do you know?”

  He shrugged carelessly. “Am I right?”

  Susan nodded in agreement, wondering what he’d do when he took her home. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be left raw after another one of his kisses.

  They lingered inside her foyer until he said, “How about some coffee?” She made it quickly.

  “I wasn’t sure you knew how to make it,” he teased.

  “Well, if you had asked for anything more complicated, I probably wouldn’t have.”

  August looked at his future wife, hoping that his heart wouldn’t burst.

  “Did you tell your office associates that you’re engaged?”

  “Did I… Is it their business?”

  He didn’t like the sound of that, and he was going to set her straight.

  “That’s a courtesy, and it’ll let those bulls know you’re not available.” Now was the time, he decided, taking her left hand and beginning to slip the ring on her third finger.

  “I told you I didn’t want a ring.”

  “But, honey, that was before you kissed me.”

  “Before I…” she sputtered. “I didn’t kiss you; you kissed me. How can you…” Her glance swept the ring on her finger, and she gasped aloud.

  �
�Oh, August. It’s beautiful. Ooo. It’s…it’s…” Evidently at a loss for words, she threw her arms around him exuberantly, and he pulled her closer.

  “Will you wear it? I want everybody to know that you’re engaged to me. I’m so proud of you. Will you?” His heart turned over. Had he fallen so deeply in love with her already? She nodded assent and snuggled up to him, and August knew he’d made the right move.

  “You feel good in my arms,” he told her, but she wiggled nervously, and he figured she hadn’t accepted her reaction to him, hadn’t come to terms with her feelings.

  “Don’t move away,” he soothed. “We’re not courting. We’re just getting to know each other.” He smiled down at her, hoping to raise her temperature by several more degrees.

  “Honey, I saw the loveliest little white ranch house while I was in D.C. It had a white picket fence, trees, and shrubs. Perfect. I could see the two of us living there years from now with our hair as white as the white bricks of that house. I wished you were there so I could show it to you.” Was she tensing up? There certainly wasn’t any reason for that; his arm was around her and he was describing the most…

  “Susan, don’t tell me you dislike ranch-style houses.”

  “Okay. I won’t. I’ll tell you I hate them, because I do. There’s nothing imaginative about them. An entire block of sameness. It’s a wonder people living in them don’t let themselves into the wrong house. Oh, August. They’re so…so, well, you know.” She waved her hand as if the subject were of little moment. So much for the little white house of his dreams.

  She’d had the ring for almost twenty-four hours. Anybody who knew her would think she’d lost her mind, looking at her left hand every two or three minutes. She could have bought a ring for herself, but she hadn’t, and he had. She stared at it. It made her long fingers look daintier. Shocked at the change in her, she balled up her fist and contemplated putting on a glove. How had he ever persuaded her to do such a thing? Promise to marry him? She could figure that out, because he was perfect from head to foot, and sweet. But wear a ring? Why she was a feminist, for heaven’s sake. She took another look at her ring, twirled around, and dashed to the phone. But just before reaching the table on which it sat, she slowed to a dignified walk. Don’t forget yourself, she counseled. He answered on the first ring. “Hi.”