Suddenly Married

by Loree Lough

  She heaved an exasperated sigh. “Of course it is. If they’re married, she can stay with us all the time, instead of just during the day.” She aimed her wizened gaze at Dara, tiny worry lines furrowing her brow. “May I ask a question?”

  Smiling, Dara laid her hand atop Angie’s. “Sure.”

  “Will you…will you be sleeping in Father’s room or the guest room?”

  Fact was, she and Noah had never discussed it, so Dara didn’t know how to answer. She’d blinked and swallowed and clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “I—I, ah, I’m not—”

  “She’ll sleep in my room,” Noah interrupted, his frown deepening. “Wives are supposed to sleep with their husbands.”

  “Does it say that in the Bible?” Bobby wanted to know.

  Noah had coughed. Cleared his throat. “I’m sure it says something like that somewhere in the Good Book.”

  Another confused look between brother and sister had made Dara wonder if perhaps they, like their father, viewed her as a housekeeper, a cook, a glorified baby-sitter.

  Then, grinning, Bobby met her eyes. “Good luck,” he’d said, “’Cause Father sounds like a growly bear when he snores.”

  Angie giggled her agreement. “He hogs the blankets, too.”

  Their innocent warnings had caused his cheeks to flush slightly. “All right,” he broke in. “Get your chores finished so we can see that movie you’ve been talking about all week.”

  The recorded strains of the “Wedding March,” wafting from the overhead speakers, interrupted Dara’s reverie. Angie’s gentle tugging propelled her forward, and she allowed herself to be led down the whitecarpeted aisle. Another couple must be getting married when we’re through here, she thought as she passed huge white satin bows and flowers that hung from every pew. Funny, but I don’t remember reading about a wedding in last week’s bulletin, she added as she neared the altar that was alight with the multicolored blooms of daisies, chrysanthemums, and roses.

  So many questions ping-ponged in her mind—what other couple would become man and wife today and how had the pastor arranged permission for her and Noah to make use of their flowers, their decorations, their music?—that she barely knew how she made it from vestibule to altar. Later, Angie would get a well-deserved hug for being such a fastidious guide. For now, it was all Dara could do to keep her knees from knocking.

  Pastor Williams lifted his chin and, opening his gilded prayer book to a page marked by a purple satin ribbon, said in a booming voice that echoed in the nearempty church, “I didn’t think you’d mind a slight change in plans.”

  Dara read the mischief in his eyes, the impish grins on the kids’ faces, and deduced that a conspiracy was afoot.

  “Since the youngsters had to be here anyway,” Williams continued, “I thought it might be nice if they participated in the ceremony. Any problem with that?”

  Noah hesitated a moment before saying, “Makes sense to me. I only wish I’d thought of it.”

  Williams looked at Dara.

  “What’s about to happen here will affect them for the rest of their lives,” she said, glancing in Noah’s direction. “I think it’s only fitting and proper that we make them part of…things.”

  “Good, good!” Clearing his throat, Williams flipped another switch, which silenced the music. “Angie will be your maid of honor,” he said to Dara, “and Noah, Bobby will be your best man.”

  Maid of honor. Best man. It was happening. It was really happening!

  Dara and Noah looked at each other for an instant before he averted his gaze. “That’ll be fine. Just fine.”

  “Now, then,” Williams said with a nod. “Angie…?”

  She lifted her shoulders and smiled. “Oops! I almost forgot!” And tiptoeing behind the pulpit, she retrieved a huge bouquet. “Here’s your surprise,” Angie announced, handing it to Dara.

  “Wh-why thank you, sweetie,” Dara stammered, accepting the flowers. Almost instinctively, she lifted them to her face, inhaled their honeyed perfume. “But…But when…? Where—”

  “Now, then,” the pastor interrupted, “let us begin.”

  Was it Dara’s imagination, or was the pastor speaking in an unusually loud voice?

  Noah took his place at Dara’s right, and as if rehearsed, Bobby stood beside him. Angie got into line on Dara’s left as the doors swooshed open, admitting no less than half the congregation. As the parishioners—some Dara had known all her life—took their seats, Carl Rhodes scurried along the wall, tripod in one hand, photo bag in the other, a clunking necklace of cameras dangling around his neck.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” he said in a quietly apologetical voice as he snapped a 35 mm into place atop the tripod. “There. That’s got it. You can start now.”

  Flowers. Music. Friends. Dara didn’t know how to explain that the wedding of her dreams was unfolding all around her. And to think that a few minutes ago, you were standing in a wet doorway, feeling sorry for yourself, she scolded inwardly. Why me? she had demanded of the Almighty.

  Now she knew, and the knowledge brought tears of sweet, grateful joy to her eyes.

  “No good thing will He withhold from them that walk uprightly,” she recited mentally. “Praise ye the Lord. O give thanks unto the Lord…!”

  In the week before the wedding, while Noah was at work and the children were in school, Dara had made arrangements to put her condo and her parents’ place on the market. And box by box, bit by bit, she’d moved her personal belongings into Noah’s house.

  There were little reminders of her personality scattered through the rooms now, from the cookie sheets in the kitchen to the sunflower-covered ironing board in the laundry room. A black wrought-iron floor lamp that had been her paternal grandmother’s now stood beside Noah’s chair in the family room. Her father’s pipe collection sat on a shelf in the dining room hutch, her mother’s Wedgwood teapot beside it.

  When she’d pulled open the double doors to the brightly lit closet in the master bedroom, Dara found that Noah had cleared the entire right side for her things. She had a long rod for hanging her dresses and pants, and two shorter ones for skirts and jackets. On the back wall, built-in cubbies would hold as many as thirty pairs of shoes. Above it, there were hooks for belts and scarves, and shelves for sweaters. On one side of the shoe cubby stood a tall lingerie chest; on the other, a three-drawer dresser.

  She’d gone into his closet to hang freshly laundered and pressed shirts; why hadn’t she noticed all this before? And you were worried about crowding him! Dara doubted that even after she’d put away every article of clothing and every accessory she owned, her side of the closet would still be half-empty. She could shop until doomsday, and likely not fill it.

  Not that she had the money for shopping sprees, being out of a job and all.

  And speaking of work, Dara hadn’t given much thought to whether or not she’d continue teaching. Her preference was to be a full-time mom to Angie and Bobby, at least until they adjusted to her as their step-mother. She supposed if the subject came up, Noah would agree. At least, she hoped he would agree.

  And then there was the matter of fulfilling her lifelong dream…something Dara had been praying about almost since the night she’d gotten stuck at Noah’s because of the snow.

  For now, though, there were other, far more pressing, things to worry about.

  The sleeping arrangements, for starters.

  Though it had been on her mind—frequently—the issue hadn’t come up. If not for Angie’s innocent, inquisitive question, Dara probably still wouldn’t know where she’d be bunking down.

  Now, as she tucked shoes into their cubes, Dara could see the bed in the long narrow mirror at the back of the closet. He’d haphazardly slung a king-size hunter-green comforter over the pillows; a corner of the maroon blanket’s satiny trim dragged the floor. Though he’d hung room-darkening shades, there were no curtains at the windows. And not a knickknack in sight on the oak dressers or matching nightstands. One clay-p
ot lamp stood on the table to the left of the bed. He prefers the left, she thought, and that’s good, because I like the right.

  Dozens of times, she’d dusted the alarm clock on the table near the lamp. It had always fascinated her, the way the black-numbered white tabs flopped into place with an audible click. Eight-thirty-nine, it said now.

  Dara sighed. She’d heard the children come upstairs a few minutes ago to start getting ready for bed. If things went as usual, Noah would soon join them. Would she be invited to participate in their nighttime ritual? Or would they prefer to keep it private, something to be shared by the three Lucases? Much as she’d like to fuss over them once they’d climbed into bed, she wanted only what was best for them. If that meant she must keep her distance, she’d learn to deal with the hurt.

  The clock clicked again. Eight-forty now.

  What time did Noah turn in for the night? she wondered. Before the eleven o’clock news? Afterward? Was he the type who showered at night or first thing in the morning? Except for the time she’d gotten snowed in and the night that Bobby went to the hospital, Dara had never been in the Lucas house past nine.

  Oh, she’d made many a nighttime trip to the second floor during the week following Bobby’s recovery, but only to help the kids get into their pajamas. Never had she ventured to the other end of the hall, where the door to Noah’s room stood slightly ajar.

  Telling herself it was a necessary means to an end, she’d never had any trouble barging in there during the daylight hours. Sheets must be changed, carpets must be vacuumed, furniture must be dusted…

  There had been that one time, though, when she’d been on her hands and knees, trying to reach a balledup sock that had fallen from her laundry basket and rolled under Noah’s bed. It had been obvious, when he stopped dead in his tracks in the doorway, that he hadn’t expected to find her there, head and shoulders hidden by the dust ruffle, because the tune he’d been whistling died a quick and sudden death and the smile on his face vanished like a rabbit in a magician’s act.

  “What’re you doing?” he’d grumped as she got to her feet. And when she told him, he’d scrubbed a hand over his reddened face and stomped from the room, muttering something about people being more careful and paying more attention to what was going on around them. His tirade hadn’t made a bit of sense, but Dara had more or less gotten used to his mood swings. The inconsistency of his disposition sometimes baffled her, and that day, she’d likened him to the dark, brooding hero in Jane Eyre.

  The clock clicked again, putting an end to her moment of respite from the “who’s sleeping in my bed” quandary. Any time now, she’d have to unpack one of the nighties she’d just folded into the lingerie chest; sooner or later she’d have to scrub her face at one of the two sinks in the lavish master bath; eventually, she’d have no choice but to climb into that—

  “Dara?”

  She lurched at the sound of his voice and, clutching a hand to her throat, took a breath to steady her nerves. “In here,” she called.

  He joined her in the closet. “Getting settled, I see,” he said, smiling stiffly.

  She nodded. “There’s one more box to unpack, and it’s—”

  “The big one in the foyer, marked ‘Wolves’?”

  Another nod.

  “I cleared a space for you on the mantel.”

  The mantel? It was all she could do to suppress a laugh. “Noah,” she began, “I’ve been collecting wolves since I was ten years old. At last count, there were forty-seven of them.” The mantel, her comment implied, would never hold them all. Dara got to her feet, closed the lingerie drawer. “Don’t worry, though, I’ll find places for my ‘pets’ that won’t be too obtrusive for—”

  “I’m not worried.”

  He’d come into the room smiling, happy, and now he seemed upset with her.

  “I want you to feel free to do…” He ran a hand through his hair. “To do whatever you like around here.”

  “All right, I will.” A slight pause, and then, “Thank you, Noah.”

  His blue eyes widened; his jaw dropped. “Don’t thank me, for goodness’ sake.” He raised a hand, let it drop against his thigh with a quiet slap. “This is your house now, too, you know. You don’t need my permission to—”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry for upsetting you.”

  He looked at the ceiling, then ran a hand through his hair. “Dara, please. Don’t apologize,” he said, meeting her eyes. “I’m not upset, and you haven’t done anything to be sorry about.”

  Coulda fooled me, she thought, pursing her lips.

  But she’d promised herself she’d be a patient and understanding wife. Dara did her best to make sense of his attitude. It had been a long, eventful day. He’d eaten a lot of rich food. He’d been forced to sit through that old movie with the kids for the hundredth time. He woke up a bachelor, and he’ll be going to bed a bridegroom.

  “I—I’m…ouch!”

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, genuinely concerned.

  She grinned. “I could feel myself starting to apologize again, and I bit my lip…a bit too hard.”

  “Oh, gee, I’m sorry.”

  One brow high on her forehead, Dara smiled, then laughed, and so did he.

  She tried a different tack. “So…are the kids all tucked in?”

  The question coaxed a smile. “Well, they’re in bed, but I don’t know how ready they are to go to sleep.”

  She raised her eyebrows, waiting for his explanation.

  “Guess they’re pretty excited. They weren’t expecting a wedding and a party.”

  “Neither was I,” she admitted. She bent down, stuffed packing paper into one of the boxes she’d unpacked. “In fact, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Who planned it?”

  His cheeks turned bright red. “Planned what?”

  “The wedding.”

  “W-well, well, we did,” he stammered, “remember?”

  Dara climbed into the box, stamped the papers down with both feet. “No,” she said, shaking her head, “what we planned was a quickie ceremony in front of Pastor Williams’s battered old desk. No witnesses, no music, no—”

  “Wasn’t my idea,” he said, cutting her off. “That stuff…it was in the church when I got there.” One shoulder rose as he added, “Guess Williams figured it wouldn’t do any harm if we made use of it.”

  Brow furrowed, she narrowed one eye. “Funny, no one at the reception knew, either.”

  “Knew what?”

  Eyes wide now, she hopped out of the box. “When, where…that we were getting married.”

  He dismissed her comment with a noncommittal shrug. “You know how that kind of news travels.”

  Yeah, well, she thought, I’m not buying it. Not for a minute. Because the only person Dara had told about the wedding was the principal at Centennial. And he didn’t go to their church.

  Noah pocketed both hands, leaned forward a bit, stared at the toes of his shoes. “You, ah, you want a cup of tea before we turn in?”

  Before we turn in…She liked the comfortable, familiar married sound of that.

  “I’d love some tea, but only if you’ll have a cup, too.”

  Noah met her eyes, and after a long, penetrating stare, he smiled. “Okay, but only if you’ll let me fix it.”

  She shut the closet door and picked up the cardboard boxes.

  “Let me get those,” he said, taking them from her.

  He started for the door, but her hand on his arm stopped him. “Noah?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Thanks.”

  His eyebrows knitted in the center of his forehead. “For what?”

  “For whatever strings you pulled,” she said, “you know, to make the wedding, the reception…for making it all happen.” She tilted her head. “I don’t know how you knew it had always been a dream of mine…a wedding like that. It was lovely. Really. So thank you.”

  For a moment, transfixed by those big brown eyes of hers, Noah couldn’t seem to find h
is voice. Might have been a big mistake, he told himself, trying to give her something better than a “quickie ceremony,” because now she’ll expect more. Trouble was, he didn’t know if he could give her more.

  “I didn’t do a thing,” he said. And it was true; Pastor Williams and his missus had arranged everything.

  At Noah’s request.…

  “I’m leaving it in your very capable hands, Williams,” he’d insisted as he dashed off a generous check, made payable to the church. “Doesn’t need to be fancy. Dara doesn’t go for a lot of fuss and bother. But I want her to have flowers, lots of flowers. And friends around her. A nice meal. Some soft drinks and a pretty cake. Someone to take pictures.”

  “Ah, memories…” the pastor had said, a knowing smile on his face.

  “Yeah. Right. Memories.” He’d shoved the checkbook back into his jacket pocket “Whatever’s left over after you buy the supplies…belongs to the parish.”

  It had been worth every dime spent. The good ladies of the congregation had prepared a six-course ham dinner in the little kitchen behind the banquet hall and served it up piping hot on white stoneware. Lucy Barnes had whipped up a beautiful four-layer cake, topped off with the traditional painted-plastic bride and groom. Moe Houghton donated a barrel of root beer. The Kincaid family brought their mandolins and banjos and guitars and created a foot-stompin’, hand-clappin’ hoedown right there in the church basement. Dara had looked adorable, square dancing in her little white suit and hat.

  She’d looked enchanting, laughing and chatting with their friends and neighbors, too. So ravishing, in fact, that he almost forgot how petrified she’d looked earlier.

  Almost, but not quite.

  She’d stood at the back of the church, wringing her tiny hands in front of her, eyes wide and frightened, like a rabbit caught in the act of enjoying some gardengrown lettuce. He’d wanted to thunder down that white-sheeted aisle and scoop her up in his arms, promise that nothing would ever harm her—not if he could help it!—as long as they both lived.

  Which, if God had heard even one of the hundreds of prayers he’d said since the day he met her, would be a long, long time.