She smiled at this memory. She remained still. The two deer in the yard could easily be part of Santa's herd. She watched them until they moved off and she could no longer see them.
The bread had risen by the time Catherine poured her second cup of coffee. She punched it down, kneaded it and prepared rolls. Her grandmother could break off pieces of dough and form perfect rolls that were even and all the same size. Catherine had never been able to do that. Hers looked more like the croissants she'd tried on their honeymoon, missized and shapeless. She cheated by using a rolling pin and making perfect circles with a floured glass. She set them aside for the second rise.
By the time the first batch of fresh bread came out of the iron-stove oven, Jarrod walked into the kitchen. He wore a long-sleeved white shirt and gray slacks. The combination was striking in itself. Catherine immediately felt herself respond to his presence. They'd made love all afternoon, yet she still wanted him. She wondered if it would always be this way. It was a question she would like to ask her grandmother.
"It smells good in here."
"It must be my perfume," she said. "Eau de Yeast." Catherine stirred a pan on the stove.
"Definitely." He reached for one of the rolls and took a healthy bite. Then he lifted her mug and drank the remainder of her coffee.
"These are perfect," Jarrod said, obviously remembering her previous effort.
She ignored the implied insult, thankful that the kitchen was in order and the glass she'd used to make the rolls uniform had been cleaned and stored away in the cupboard.
"Those are for dinner, you know."
He turned her around and into his arms. "What's for dessert?" He kissed her soundly, bending her back until she was so off balance she had to cling to him or fall. Catherine clung.
"We'd better eat," she said in a breathy, surrendering voice.
"I agree," Jarrod said, his voice in her hair, as ragged as hers. "I'm starving to death." His tone told her everything, and it had nothing to do with food.
She stepped back, out of his reach, and took a deep, calming breath. The kitchen was hot. He was making it hotter. "I'll get dinner."
Jarrod moved to the table, which was already set. He took the basket of rolls with him. Using a dish towel to protect her hand, Catherine opened the bottom drawer of the oven. It was heavy and fell down from the unaccustomed weight. She pulled the pan out and set the lamb steaks on the counter. The crushed rosemary and butter mingling with mushrooms and onions permeated the air, wafting up to combine with the baked bread smells. Quickly she turned them onto the plates, added piping hot potatoes, baked without the skins, and fried zucchini and set them on the table.
Jarrod got up and took apple butter from the refrigerator. He returned to the table.
Catherine sat down across from him.
She watched to see Jarrod's reaction as he dug into the tender steak. He looked as if it was the best meal he'd ever eaten. She tried hers. It was surprisingly good. She'd never tried to cook this dish before.
“I thought you could only cook breakfast, spaghetti and sandwiches," he commented. "I see you've been practicing."
"And you've been sleeping the day away." She tried not to grin, but didn't do a good job of it.
"When I fell asleep I believe you were in my arms."
A flutter quaked through her at the memory of them in bed. "This is one of those places that makes me want to cook." She glanced around the country kitchen.
"You like it here."
"I love it, Jarrod. How did you find it?"
"I've been here before." He took another roll and lathered it liberally with the apple butter. "I never stayed here, but I've camped in the area. I wondered about this old house. I always wanted to see what the inside looked like."
"The whole setting reminds me of every Christmas I ever had. I was thinking about one when I was six and we saw the deer. Do you remember that?"
Jarrod nodded. "I remember your eyes were so big I didn't think they'd ever return to normal size."
"I was six," she defended herself.
They passed the rest of the meal and the cleanup as happy companions, reliving some of their memories. When Catherine returned the final dish to the cabinet and dried her hands Jarrod stood at the windows. She joined him. She didn't touch him or take his arm. The two stood looking out on the same scene she had stared at before. The light was fading, turning the pond water a dark gray. The leaves had turned to the golden yellows and reds of fall, incongruous to the snowy ground. The bleeding light that made them brilliantly alive earlier was nearly gone. Their fire had diminished, but they blended together in that post-card portrait of New England in autumn.
Without looking at her, Jarrod reached for her hand. She put hers in his larger one. They stood like that, watching the light fade into darkness.
Chapter 12
It was working, Jarrod thought the next morning. Catherine was falling in love with him.
She was still asleep when he left the bedroom and went downstairs. He walked in the cold morning air on his way back to the house from the village. Sometime during the night it had begun to rain. The snow of yesterday was gone, a memory to pull out and relive on another day. He hummed "Yesterday" as he walked, remembering all of what had happened yesterday. There was ice on the windshield of the Jeep in the front yard and the path leading back to the main road was slippery. He didn't mind. It was unlikely that he and Catherine would be marooned here, but he wouldn't care if they were. He'd welcome having her to himself night and day without the routine distractions of work and daily living to intrude on the idyllic world they had in this stone house.
He went through the gate, along the cobblestoned walkway and up to the front door. The fire in the living-room hearth burned bright and gave the room a homey smell. Jarrod went into the kitchen and put his packages down. He found a pan of uncooked rolls she'd made the day before and put it in the oven. The stove was hot and ready, as best he could determine. Catherine had cooked on it last night, and in their childhood he was sure she'd never seen a wood-burning cookstove. It was his turn today. The fire hadn't completely gone out, and he'd added wood before going into the village. The kitchen was comfortably warm.
Jarrod removed his coat and made coffee. In England, tea was the drink of choice. He found the English had as many kinds of teapots as they had occasions to drink the substance. The old-fashioned one that percolated on the stove offered no challenge to his talents. When he'd filled it with water and a measured amount of ground coffee, he wondered if Catherine was up yet. He thought of going to check on her, imagined her relaxed and asleep, her hair loose and calling to him as surely as if it could speak. She'd still been under the covers when he'd left her, naked and warm from their long night. He decided against it, although his body tortured him for the decision. Going to her now would mean their breakfast would have to wait for lunch.
He was sure Catherine was falling in love with him. Being without her for two days had been agonizing. He'd spent long hours at meetings, finalizing as much as he could so he could get away early to meet his wife. He thought of her as his wife now. And if their reunion in the stone house was any indication, she'd missed him just as much. They kept the banter light, but it was only a disguise of their true feelings. Jarrod could feel the changes in her. The intensity of their lovemaking and the way she settled so completely in his arms told him that she wanted to be there.
***
Catherine stretched in the bed. It was smaller than their bed at home, yet she and Jarrod fit so well in it. She smelled the coffee and the bread. He was downstairs. She grabbed his pillow, hugging it to her, remembering the night before and going weak with nostalgia. His smell lingered. She smiled, heady at the scent as she settled against her surrogate lover.
After a moment, she got up and went into the bathroom. The card was propped up against her toothpaste. It was the size of an invitation and had an embossed replica of the Stone House on it. Catherine s
miled, wondering what Jarrod had left her this time. She loved his humor and his thoughtfulness with the cards, the origami and the poetry.
She picked up the card. On the outside was a quote by Goethe, written in Jarrod's unmistakable handwriting. Nothing should be more highly prized than the value of each day. On the inside, he'd added his own epilogue: Yesterday was a masterpiece.
Catherine's legs buckled. She grabbed the sink for support. The card dropped to the counter. Her face burned with the reminiscence of the previous day. They had stood at the kitchen window, not talking, not needing to talk, only holding hands. It was as if everything between them was mutual and understood. Later they had put on coats and boots and walked in the cold, along the paths the deer had taken when she watched them from the window. The sun set, leaving the day in a blaze of glory, but Catherine had not seen it as the dying of one moment, but the beginning of another.
When they returned to the house, they had made love so exquisitely that she didn't believe she would survive the experience. But dying in Jarrod's arms would have been heaven.
She sat down on the closed toilet, taking long breaths until her heart calmed and her legs allowed her to stand.
They were married, Catherine thought. She picked up the card and read the quote one more time. Her reaction wasn't as violent the second time, but she felt the chords inside her pull tighter.
She took the card with her when she went downstairs dressed in slacks and a long sweater. Jarrod was in the kitchen. The table was set for two. A large vase of flowers stood in the center of it. Pink, yellow and red roses, baby's breath and green leaves filled the glass container.
"Where did you find flowers at this time of the morning?"
Jarrod turned. "I didn't know you were up."
Catherine came around the center counter. She stood on the side near the stove, near Jarrod. She went directly into his arms and he kissed her.
"I think the bread's ready," she whispered when they parted.
Jarrod turned quickly and took the pan of rolls out of the oven. They were golden brown and perfect.
"What would you like to do today?" Jarrod asked the question when they were seated at the table. Catherine flushed. She slid the card across the table with all its meaning in tact.
The next two days were idyllic. They spent time watching the rain, lying in front of the fire, walking in the woods and along the path to the small town of Standish. They talked for hours, held each other without speaking for hours and made love like honeymooners.
This had been their honeymoon, Catherine thought when they were back in the Newport house. It wasn't the planned time after the wedding, where nervousness was part of the package, but the close time where they got to know each other, when they talked and ate, made passionate love, spent hours watching each other sleep and, in her case, received love notes from her husband.
She had used the word many times before. She'd heard other people refer to Jarrod as her husband. She had referred to him using the same word, but she'd never thought of it having a meaning, a connection, a bond that identified them as a couple.
Catherine never expected to be part of a couple, a wife. She felt differently now. Jarrod was changing her, making her think differently, feel differently.
Stopping in the middle of her bedroom, a shudder ran through her. She turned fully around, checking every corner, every shadow of the room, making sure it was still her room, that she, like all wives, had not been lost somewhere within the lace curtains and chintz comforter.
***
The same cold wind that had Jarrod and Catherine wrapped in each other's arms in Maine swept down onto Rhode Island and seemed to drive a wedge between them. Jarrod sat on the stone wall, looking out on the Atlantic. He'd come here a lot lately. Why, he didn't know. It was Catherine's spot, where she came to be alone and think through her problems. Maybe he thought he'd meet her here one day and find out what had happened, but in the two weeks since they'd returned from the stone house he was at a loss to understand what was going on.
There was nothing he could put his finger on; they still talked, still made love, but the closeness they'd achieved had been left in the stone house in Maine. He'd asked Catherine if anything was bothering her, and she said there was nothing, but he could feel the change. He thought they were growing closer, that the dates were achieving his purpose, but now he wasn't sure.
Was it just a case of them getting used to each other, adjusting to routine and waiting for time to pass? It was already Halloween, and he felt he wouldn't be any closer to convincing her to stay married to him in February than he was now.
Maybe it was his confession. I love you had burst from him on a storm of surprise. Catherine couldn't have been more shocked than he was when he'd told her. How often had his heart tried to tell him the truth and he'd ignored it? The storm raged that day, drowning out all other sound, making it possible for him to hear what his heart had been telling him for years.
Jarrod faced the ocean. It was dark and gray, stretching to the sky, which was streaked with shades of gray, blue and white. He listened to the sea, wanting it to institute a dialogue with him, offer him its secrets, gossip, even lecture him, as long as it told him everything it knew about his wife.
"Jarrod, what are you doing here?" Robert Wells hunched his shoulders against the ocean spray. "It's freezing out here."
Jarrod looked surprised to see his friend.
"I saw the Jeep," Robert explained.
Jarrod had picked up the Jeep from Robert's dealership the day after he returned to the United States. While those around him went for the classic cars or the latest models, he preferred the Jeep. And it served him well in his business.
"So what's wrong? Don't tell me there's trouble at home. You two are my ideal couple."
Jarrod knew his friend could be trusted. Most people thought of Robert as talkative and unable to keep a secret, while Jarrod knew he could tell him anything and it would remain with him and go no further. But he hadn't told him about Catherine. Maybe Catherine wasn't hiding anything when she said there really was nothing wrong. Maybe it was all in his imagination.
"Just working out some kinks," he finally said.
"You might have picked a warmer day for it." Robert sat down on the Rhode Island rock next to his friend. The most prevalent building material in New England was stone. Consequently, many of the eighteenth and nineteenth century builders used it to construct homes and factories. Throughout the area, stone houses and fences stood as they had for over two hundred years.
"Do you want to tell me about it?" Robert asked. "I've always known there was something strange about your quick marriage, but I didn't know what. Catherine isn't pregnant, is she?"
Jarrod shook his head. "She's not pregnant." The question returned his mind to the spot several feet from where they sat, where she'd followed him after he accused her of keeping it a secret that she might be carrying his child and the devastating disclosure that he was in love with her during their storm-whirling lovemaking.
"Then what?" Robert prompted.
Jarrod took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "I'm her 1-800-HUSBAND."
For a second his words didn't register. Then Robert gasped. "Her what?"
"Her 1-800-HUSBAND," he repeated.
"Catherine owns that number?" Robert was clearly amazed.
"Owned," Jerrod corrected.
I should have guessed. It's exactly like something she would do, and I'll bet I could tell you why. It's so obvious, it's almost transparent." The smile that had been on his face disappeared. "I must be getting old, not to have known, and Elizabeth. . ." He stopped.
"Elizabeth knows," Jarrod said.
"She never said a word," Robert muttered.
Jarrod thought he was talking to himself.
"Other than Catherine and me, you two are the only ones who know."
Robert sobered. "So what is going wrong with the plan? Is it her falling in love w
ith you or you falling in love with her?"
Jarrod stared at him. Robert was perceptive, and his job was reading people's emotions, but Jarrod didn't believe he could hit the mark on the first try.
"Don't look so surprised," Robert said. "I've known for years. I was wondering why you didn't figure it out."
"You've known what for years?"
"How you and Catherine feel about each other. At least how you feel."
Even with his best friend, a man he'd trust with his life, Jarrod still felt his defenses rise. "And how is that?"
Robert turned on the wall to face him fully. "All right, I'll spell it out. Her first date; you scrutinized the pimple-faced young man until he was so uncomfortable I thought he was going to throw up."
"I did not."
Robert ignored him. "When she swam in the lighted pool at night, who stood in his bedroom window watching her?"
"She was alone. I wanted to make sure she had a lifeguard in case she got a cramp or something."
Robert threw him a look that said he didn't believe that for a moment.
"Do you want me to go on?"
"No," he said. "Even though I have perfectly logical explanations for everything you can bring up, the truth is, I am in love with her."
“Then I gather she does not return your affection.''
Jarrod honestly didn't know. He would swear on his life that she did when they were making love, but when they weren't he didn't know how to read her signals.
"I don't know," he answered.
"Have you asked her?"
"Not point-blank."
"Why don't you? If you catch her off guard she's bound to show it in the way she reacts."
Jarrod was quiet for a moment. The sea rolled in and the gulls cawed overhead. "If I ask the question," he began, "I have to be prepared for the answer. And I don't know if I'm ready to hear it yet."
His 1-800 Wife Page 20
