by Loree Lough
“I think you should know something first.”
He felt her stiffen, shift a bit, as if preparing to pull away.
“I—I’m…” She sighed and, exasperated, winnowed her fingers through her hair. “I don’t want to disappoint you, that’s all.”
“Disappoint me?”
“It’s…I’m not very…experienced.”
He chuckled humorlessly. “How experienced are you?”
Dara heaved a loud sigh. “The truth of it is, you’ve married yourself a thirty-year-old virgin.”
It stunned him a bit, the way she’d said it, as though she expected he’d be ashamed of her inexperience. “First of all, I thought your birthday was in May.”
“It is.”
“Then I’ve married myself a twenty-nine-year-old virgin.”
Dara smiled. “I stand corrected.”
He kissed the tip of her nose. “Second, why do you say it as though you’re ashamed, as though it’s something disgraceful? I think it’s wonderful.”
“I’m not ashamed. I know a lot of people these days think that for a woman to save herself for her husband is an old-fashioned notion. But I believe it’s the right thing to do.”
He nodded. “I agree.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think it’s the least bit disgraceful. Discouraging, maybe…a little unsatisfying, even.”
“For me, you mean?”
Burrowing her face deeper into his shoulder, she nodded.
“Sweetie,” he said, “look at me.”
When she didn’t, he cupped her chin in his palm, lifted her face until their eyes met. “You could never disappoint me.”
Her face broke into a smile so bright it could have lit the room, and when she kissed him, a muted sigh escaped her lips. He felt as if he might drown in the lazy pleasure of it.
Until the unhappy fact dawned.
Somewhere, way off in the deepest recesses of his subconscious, he acknowledged that as much as he’d hoped and prayed for this, Dara didn’t want their marriage to be a true one because she loved him. She’d said it in her usual kindhearted way, of course, but she’d made it clear nonetheless: he was the necessary means by which her dream of motherhood would become a reality.
He was a trained auditor and could easily add things up.
He held her gently in the curve of his arm, gazed longingly at her. She’d done so much for him, for Bobby and Angie, and he had a feeling she hadn’t even begun to make a home for them yet. If a baby would fulfill a wish, answer a prayer, make a dream come true, then she should have one…or a dozen babies, if that was what she wanted! Having grown up an orphan, he had more cause than most to consider each child a gift from God, would love and treasure every one she’d give him with every beat of his heart.
God had better have mercy on his miserable soul and provide him with strength—a double dose of it—in case this marriage of convenience he’d set up turned out to be just that…and nothing more.
Dara awoke to the sound of a phone trilling somewhere off in the distance. Rolling onto her back, she yawned and stretched, squinted into the bright sunshine peeking around the edges of the window shade. She must have imagined the telephone’s ring. Either that or one of the kids had—
The kids.…
With a flush of sudden warmth, Dara remembered where she was. Remembered who she was now…and that last night, she’d become Mrs. Noah Lucas in every sense of the word.
She had lain awake for hours afterward, thinking about the splendor of it all. If the man-woman union could be so nearly perfect when only one or the other was in love, Dara could only imagine how much more a couple might expect when the devotion, the desire, the love, flowed both ways.
It had been a risk, telling him what she expected to gain from this marriage. She had considered the possibility that Noah might not want to consummate their marriage, that two children were all he could handle, that he had no intention—or desire—to replace Francine, in any way. But, like the answer to a prayer, Noah had seemed almost pleased by her announcement. Not so surprising, really, when she considered his childhood, when she thought of how hard he tried to be a good father to Angie and Bobby.
On her side now, she scrunched the pillow under her neck so she could watch her new husband sleep. He lay on his back, right hand resting lightly on his chest, left hand flat on the mattress, just inches from her thigh.
Last night, those hands had touched her with such tenderness, as if he believed she were made of delicate crystal and one wrong move might shatter her.
His hair poked out in all directions, making her want to reach out and smooth it into place, the way she had in the darkness, when a lock of burnished blond fell across one eye, blocking his vision.
Long, thick lashes beneath the smooth brow dusted rugged cheekbones, and his slightly parted mustached mouth emitted a soft whistle with each exhalation. The slight smile that curved his beautiful lips up at the corners told her that his dreams, like his face, were at peace. Are you dreaming of Francine? she wondered, linking her fingers with his.
It was foolish—no, dangerous—to ask such questions, because the answers were torture, pure torture. And yet, the fact that he still cared for his departed wife made him all the more lovable. Because if he could feel so strongly about a woman he’d lost over three years ago how much more could he love her, if only he’d give himself a chance!
The children thundered up the stairs, making her wonder where the old expression, “pitter-patter of little feet” had come from. Two little fists knocked on the door.
“Father,” Angie called, “it’s Grandmother!”
Opening one eye, he wrinkled his nose. “Wha…?”
Dara tossed back the covers and shrugged into her robe. “It’s your motherin-law,” she whispered, hugging the collar tight to her throat. “She’s on the phone.”
“My motherin-what?”
Dara tied the robe’s belt. “Your—”
“Father? Are you awake?”
Gently, Dara shook his shoulder. “Noah…Noah, wake up! It’s Francine’s mother,” she said, a little more loudly this time.
He pulled the pillow over his face. “What time is it?” came his muffled question.
“Nearly nine.” She ran around to the other side of the bed and tugged at his covers.
The knocking increased in volume and intensity. “Fa-ther!”
“Noah, please. The children are right outside, no doubt with the portable phone in their—”
He hugged the comforter tighter and groaned. “What does she want?” he moaned, crooking an arm over his eyes.
“There’s only one way to find out.” Dara flung the quilt back, exposing long hairy legs that poked out from blue-striped boxer shorts, muscles that bulged under the snug sleeves of his white T-shirt.
After one last attempt to hold on to the disappearing blanket, he sat up. Planting both feet on the carpet, he shook his head. “C’mon in, kids,” he invited.
The door flew open as if it had been spring loaded, and Angie and Bobby burst into the room. Jumping onto the bed, they bounced around near him, giggling as they hugged him, kissed him, tousled his already mussed hair.
Angie held out the phone. “Grandmother says there hasn’t been any snow at all in Florida. She says she misses the change of seasons. She says she misses us, too, and that she wants to come and see us.”
Closing his eyes, Noah hung his head. “Lord, give me strength,” he whispered.
“What did you say, Father?”
Tucking in one corner of his mouth, he accepted the phone from his daughter. “Emmaline!” he said, standing. “How are you?”
Dara watched as he nodded and frowned, nodded and smiled, nodded and shook his head. After a while, Noah said, “That’ll be fine, Emmaline, just fine.” Another minute of silence passed as he raised his eyebrows, pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, drove his fingers through his hair. “That’s right, Emmaline, yesterday. Yes, yes
. I’m sorry you couldn’t make it, too.”
Then, “Aha, aha.…” He sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped.
“Mmm-hmm. Is that right?” He leaned forward, hid his face behind his free hand.
“Sure, sure.…” More silence, more nodding.
“I’m sure she won’t.” He sighed and listened.
“Yes, we’re happy.” He met Dara’s eyes for a moment and smiled slightly. “Very happy.” Then he closed his eyes and clenched his teeth.
“Of course not. She’d never do—”
He stood. Frowned. “Not in a million years! She’s nothing like that, Emmaline.” More nodding, another shake of the head.
“That’s right, you’ll see for yourself. All right, then, we’ll wait to hear from you. Aha. Mmm-hmm. Okay. We love you, too. Bye.…”
He depressed the phone’s off button, handed the phone back to Angie. “Thanks, honey,” he said, scratching his whiskered chin. “Did you guys have breakfast?”
“We had Fruity Oats,” Bobby volunteered.
“And orange juice,” Angie added.
He ruffled their hair. “Good. Let’s get cleaned up now, or we’ll be late for church. Services start in just over an hour, you know.”
“May I wear my wedding dress?” Angie wanted to know.
“I don’t see why not.”
“Can I wear jeans and sneakers?”
“May I,” Angie corrected.
He sighed and, narrowing his eyes, said, “So can I…Dad?”
Noah’s brows rose high on his forehead in response to the moniker. “What makes you think you could get away with that?”
“Well,” he started, grinning, “I’m still re-re- recuperating.…”
“Recuperating?” Noah echoed, grinning back. “Your vocabulary has improved since your last spelling test, you little con man. You’ll wear your suit. As usual.”
Dara had been standing off to the side, quietly taking it all in. She took half a step forward and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her robe. “So when is…Grandmother arriving?” she ventured.
His mustache tilted in a half grin and his blue eyes lit up with mischief. “Well, it’s like this, li’l missy. Grandmaw will be rollin’ in on the eight-oh-four,” he drawled, walking around the room like an old, bowlegged cowboy. “We-uns will need t’ be down at the station a tick or two afore that, though, just in case the ole chuggaroo pulls in a mite early.”
Giggling, Angie hugged Noah around the waist. “Oh, Father,” she said. “You’re funny!”
But Dara failed to see the humor in his words.
“How long…” Dara cleared her throat. “Will she be staying with us long?”
“Ay-yup,” Bobby said, continuing his father’s geezer imitation. “She’ll be stowin’ her gear in the ole spare bedroom right on through the holidays.”
Eyes widening, Dara clutched at her throat. “Through…” She swallowed hard. “Until…until after Christmas?”
“Until January third,” Angie offered. “She wants to help us ring in the New Year.”
Let me get this straight, Dara told herself. My new husband’s deceased wife’s mother is coming to town, tonight, and she’s staying…Dara did some quick mental calculating. She’s staying two weeks!
“Grandfather is coming, too,” Bobby said, nodding excitedly. “He’s attired.”
Angie’s shoulders slumped with frustration. “Retired,” she said. And facing Dara, she added, “That means he doesn’t have to go to work anymore.”
“’Cause he’s old.”
“Not old,” his sister scolded. She looked to her father for guidance. “He’s just…”
Smiling, Noah raised a brow. “He’s your grampa. That’s all you need to know.”
Dara could almost hear her father asking, Do you love your mother? Then what else matters?
Noah bent down, gave each child a kiss on the cheek, then patted their round little bottoms. “Go on, now,” he said, leading them to the door. “Start getting ready, and maybe we can avoid our usual Sunday rush.”
“Yes, Father.” Angie skipped through the doorway and quickly disappeared down the hall.
“Sho’ ‘nuff, Pa,” Bobby said. “You want I should wear me a bow tie aroun’ mah neck?”
“Pardner,” Noah replied, squinting one eye, “y’all decide that for yo’seff. Now, listen to yer pa and mosey along.”
Snickering, Bobby hop-skipped from the room. “I ain’t a-gonna wear no bow tie!” he hollered over his shoulder. “Just try an’ make me!”
Noah stood in the middle of the room for a moment, grinning and shaking his head. Then, turning to Dara, he said, “You’re sure you want another one of those running around here?”
“You bet I am.” What I don’t want around here, she added mentally, are Francine’s parents!
Noah crossed the room in three long strides and rested his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t worry,” he said softly. “They don’t bite.”
She couldn’t make herself meet his eyes. “It’s just that…Two weeks is such a long time, Noah. A very long time.” She bit her lower lip to still its trembling. Everything was happening too fast. Way too fast. She’d only just met Noah and the children six weeks earlier and now—
A terrible thought pinged in her mind: what if Francine’s parents jumped to the conclusion that she and Noah had been in a rush to get married because they were in trouble?
Running both hands through her hair, she expelled a long, shuddering sigh.
“Sweetie,” Noah said, a fingertip lifting her chin, “look at me.”
When she did, he pressed a light kiss to her forehead. “They’re…” He paused, as if groping for words. “You’ll…” His smile was forced. “You’ll like them.”
Oh, really? she asked silently. Then why do you look as though the hangman just slipped a noose around your neck?
“I’ll be right here.” He pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. “I promised I’d take care of you, and I will.” Releasing her, he headed for the door. “I think I’ll have a cup of coffee while you get ready for church.”
“Okay.”
“Want me to bring you a cup?”
“Sure.” She smiled shakily. “That’d be nice.”
He started down the stairs, then ran back into the room. “Dara?”
She was halfway to the bathroom by now. “Hmm?”
“Wear that red velvet thing-y.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Brings out the bloom in your cheeks.”
Her smile grew; her heart fluttered. How could she refuse him such a small request? Get real, Dara, she thought. You couldn’t refuse him anything.
“All right…if you’ll wear your blue sweater.” She winked. “Brings out the blue of your eyes.”
“Deal,” he said. And then he was gone.
A glance at the clock told Dara she had just about ten hours to get ready for her unexpected, extended guests. Well, she told herself, adjusting the water temperature for her shower, life around here is going to be a lot of things, but boring isn’t one of them!
Francine alphabetized her spice rack.
Francine ironed the bedsheets.
Francine scrubbed the bathroom tile after every shower.
Francine grew prizewinning roses.
Dara had heard enough Francine accolades to last her a lifetime, though Emmaline and Joseph had been in town only three days. But this last one, well, it was all she could do to hold her tongue.
“You’ve outdone yourself tonight, Dara,” Emmaline gushed, dabbing a napkin to the corners of her lipsticked mouth. “Even better than last night.”
Anyone with eyes could see that the woman didn’t approve of the meal, for it was written all over her narrow, pinched face. “Thank you, Emmaline,” Dara said stiffly.
Last night, Dara had whipped up a pot of Irish stew. Noah’s former motherin-law took one bite and, clucking her tongue, said, “Mmm…different.” After which Emmaline pointed out that Francine’s st
ew contained sage.
The evening before, when Francine’s parents had arrived, she’d cooked up her specialty…stuffed shells. And what had Emmaline said?
“They’re quite tasty.…”
“I know that tone,” her husband had said. And with a wry smile, he’d added, “We won’t get a moment’s peace until she’s finished.” Grasping his wife’s hand, Joseph smiled. “Tell us, Emmaline.”
“Why, Joseph,” she’d sputtered, “whatever do you mean?”
“‘They’re quite tasty,’” he said, doing an almost perfect imitation of her. “I distinctly heard a ‘but’ at the end of that sentence. Out with it, dear. ‘They’re quite tasty…” He waved an encouraging hand in the air. “‘Bu-u-u-ut.…’”
Pursing her lips, she’d lifted her double chins, expelled a feigned maternal sigh. “You didn’t use fresh basil, did you, Dara dear?” She looked at Noah. “Francine always used fresh basil in her tomato sauce.” She’d given his hand a squeeze. “She was such a wonderful cook, wasn’t she, darling?”
Wearing a strained smile, he’d said, “Yes. Wonderful.”
And now, as if to add insult to injury, Emmaline was crinkling her upturned little nose at Dara’s pot roast. “Noah, darling,” she said, “you saved Francine’s recipe box, didn’t you?”
“It’s in the pantry,” Angie offered.
“Thank you, darling,” she gushed, smiling at her granddaughter.
Then, aiming a thin-lipped grin in Dara’s direction, she added, “Perhaps Noah will let you have a look at it.” This time it was Dara’s hand that she squeezed. “I’m sure your heart is in the right place…that your intentions for Noah and the children are only the best, dear.” She tilted her head, as if to say, But you’re falling far short of the mark…dear.
“A new bride can use all the help she can get, after all.”
Lord, Dara prayed, gritting her teeth, give me strength or I’ll—
“Especially while she’s learning to become a good wife.…”
Dara had pulled out the battered old etiquette book her great-grandmother had brought over from England, so the table settings would be correct. And she’d pressed the damask tablecloth and matching napkins her mother had cherished. There hadn’t been a speck, not a single water spot, on the china or the crystal. And the silver had been polished to perfection.
