by Poppy Parkes
Ruth sighed, eyes still on the ring, turning it around and around her finger. “Okay,” she said, voice barely louder than a whisper. “I – I do love him. And I want to see him again. I want to marry him still, even, for some stupid reason. But . . .”
“But what?” said Padme voice gentle.
She felt tears burn at her eyes again. “I'm afraid. I'm so afraid.” Ruth's voice trembled.
“I know, hon. I know. But it's all part of it, I think. Love is risky. You're putting your heart in someone else's hands and hoping he'll treat it right.”
“This week has been – wow, it's been amazing,” said Ruth, words thickened by trailing tears. “And it's been horrible. I don't know if I can live through a relationship if it's like this.”
“You guys got off to what must be the worst start of all time,” Padme said with a snort. “But it won't always be like this, I promise.”
“Are you sure?”
“Way more people would be on antidepressants if love was always like the week you and Derek have had. Although it'd make an excellent romance novel.”
“Tell me about it,” Ruth said, a smile breaking through. “That's what I've been thinking all week.”
“So, if this was the plot of romance novel,” said Padme, “what ending would you write for it? And don't tell me yet. Surprise me, after you've already done it.”
“Written it?”
“Lived it, silly. And my offer of chocolate, booze, and sappy movies stands if it ends up you still need it.”
“I think I'm going to need chocolate and booze no matter what happens,” said Ruth dourly as she ended the call.
But in spite of her pessimistic words, she felt a tickle of stubborn hope fluttering to life within her. Peeling herself off the kitchen floor, she went to the sink and splashed water over her face, washing away the streaks of tears, then set the kettle on to boil for a cup of tea while she went to brush her teeth.
By the time she had tucked herself into bed, sipping at a mug of steaming chamomile and taking her mind off Derek for a few minutes with the romance novel she was currently reading, the cloak of sadness that had settled over her shoulders earlier at Derek's vehement rejection slowly fell away.
And when she awoke the next morning after a night of deep, restful sleep, it was with an idea and a sense of surety. She smiled, stretching, at the sunlight pouring in through her bedroom, knowing exactly what she was going to do.
Chapter 17
Derek watched as the day's fresh sunlight filtered across his ceiling, forming mesmerizing patterns over the plaster. A massive yawn tremored through him, ending in a sigh that sounded pathetic to his own ears.
He had barely slept, even though he'd headed straight for bed after arriving home from Ruth's apartment the night before. Rest had eluded him, but he had remained prone on the mattress, tangled in the bed covers, haunted by the knowledge that he had driven Ruth and a future with her away, probably for good and certainly for no reason. Usually when insomnia visited, he would get up and read or work on a case until he felt dreamland calling. But this night, he'd stayed, aching in the dark. He knew that there was nothing that could take his mind off what he'd done.
Finally, as the sunlight trickling across the ceiling turned into a flood, he kicked off the sheets and rose. Making for the kitchen with leaden steps, he set the coffee maker to brew and tugged open the refrigerator, looking for something to fill his growling stomach. His eyes fell on the case and a half of beer left over from Ridger and Sandra's visit the previous evening. Perhaps alcohol would make an appropriate breakfast today, weighing his stomach with the amber liquid so that it matched his burdened heart.
Derek shut the fridge door, forgoing the beer. The last thing he needed was to start his morning – and, he mused, his mourning – off with intoxicated wallowing. No, he'd make some toast and then go for a run, pound out some of his hurt and self-disgust that way.
The coffee maker pinged its readiness as he slid a slice of bread into the toaster oven. He poured himself a large mug and took a gulp, relishing the burning of the acrid liquid as it barreled toward his stomach.
He grabbed his phone to check the the day's forecast, but before he could tap on the weather app a chirping sound announced the arrival of a text. From –
Derek's jaw clenched. Ruth. Ruth was texting him.
He moved his thumb to open the message, but then hesitated. What could the text hold? Leaving it unread felt safer – he could imagine that she'd left him a note of hope, of love, instead of the “thanks, but no thanks” she'd probably sent.
But then if she was actually willing to give him another chance . . . Derek shook his head. As much as he knew it would hurt to read words of rejection, he couldn't risk missing out if she was giving him an opening.
He tapped the message open.
Meet me at Rowes Wharf in an hour, he read.
Derek frowned as he read the text again, and then again. He couldn't decipher if Ruth was inviting him to wound him as he'd wounded her, or to open her arms and heart to him once more, in spite of all the reasons she had not to.
He groaned. Her cryptic message was almost worse than a poisonous “no.” He felt like his insides were writhing, their former agony only increased by this contact with Ruth.
Damn it.
He read her words again. Meet me at Rowes Wharf in an hour.
An hour, he realized with a start. And here he was, bleary eyed, pajama clad, and mostly uncaffeinated. He needed to get going, and now.
Throwing the rest of the coffee down his throat, wincing as it scalded his esophagus, he grabbed his blackening toast from the toaster oven and started cramming it into his mouth as he made for the shower.
And in spite of himself, he felt hope blooming inside his chest. She probably just wants to return the ring, he told himself, spinning the bath tub's knobs and sending hot water streaming from the shower head.
But he couldn't quite convince himself, and couldn't stop a lilting hum from escaping his lips around the last mouthful of toast as he stepped beneath the steaming jets of water.
* * *
Ruth arrived at the arch at Rowes Wharf a few minutes early. She strolled through the vaulted space and out into the windy sunshine on the other side, taking in the late breakfasters enjoying their meals inside the wharf's various restaurants. There was something about weekend mornings, she felt, something special. Everything seemed more colorful, more shiny, somehow. In spite of her nerves, the thought made her smile at the gleaming harbor water lapping against the side of the wharf.
And she was nervous. Extremely so. She hadn't been able to bring herself to eat more than a few bites of her blueberry oatmeal that morning, the gummy porridge sticking in her throat. So now, she found herself trembling from a combination of anxiety and hunger.
She clutched close a small white paper bag, careful not to crush it. Taking a peek inside, she inhaled the contents' heady floral scent before folding the top of the bag closed again. The plan that she'd awoken with, that she'd felt so sure of earlier, now seemed risky, ill-conceived.
Ruth drew in a long, slow inhalation of the salt-tangy air, willing its delicious autumnal coolness to calm her. She imagined the wind sweeping down to her stomach, swirling there, cleansing her of all her fears.
If only it was that easy.
She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering the crisp harbor air. Earlier, she'd stood at her open closet, brushing her hands across her small collection of dresses and skirts, trying to piece together an ultra-gorgeous outfit. But the task had been beyond her, so she'd gone for comfort, donning her favorite and deliciously worn-in jeans and a oversized gray sweater with fawn colored ankle-high lace up boots and the whole thing topped by a purple scarf wound around her neck. She'd managed to remember to sweep some rose gloss over her lips when she was adorning her ears with her customary dangling-style earrings.
So she wasn't dressed up for the occasion . . . but she was fully herself, and that
was more than good enough to her. And, Ruth reminded herself, it would be more than good enough for anyone she wanted in her life, from friends to romantic interests. Especially romantic interests.
Turning on her heel to pace back through the sweeping arch, she stopped short, a scintillating cocktail of excitement and fear and affection trilling through her bones. She saw Derek making his way toward her, hands shoved in his jean pockets and eyes on his feet, as if he was afraid to look up to see if she was there or not.
Smiling, Ruth jogged through the arch and up to him, waving. “Derek!” she said as she drew near. She caught the infinitesimal flinch that rocked him as he looked up and their eyes met. “Hi,” she said, more gently, forehead creasing with concern as she took the sight of him in. From further away she hadn't noticed the ashen tone to his skin, the dark circles under his cerulean eyes. “Wow. You look . . . well, horrible.”
He snorted, a short, mirthless laugh. “I feel horrible. And, more importantly,” Derek said, eyes filled with emotion, “I was horrible. To you.”
“Yeah,” Ruth said, taking a deep breath to steady her surprise at how he spoke straight to her still-smarting heart, “you were. You really, really were.”
“I'm so sorry,” he said, then shook his head, wincing. “Damn, that sounds so stupid. So inadequate. I was a complete asshole, and an idiot.”
Ruth nodded. “You were. And you're right, words feel so inadequate sometimes, don't they?” She thought of her most recent encounters with Sam, frowning at herself. “But thank you for apologizing.”
“It's the least I can do.” Derek raised his hands helplessly.
Silence hung between them for a moment. “I got your note,” said Ruth finally, suddenly feeling awkward and clumsy.
“Oh?” said Derek. “I mean, I'm glad. And I'm glad you texted me. I . . . I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again.”
“Well,” she said, extending her arms to the side and giving a little twirl as she flashed a half-smile, “here I am.”
“You are. You are,” he said, as if he didn't quite believe it. “I don't know why, but here you are.” He paused, frowning. “Why are you here? I mean, I'm so happy that you are . . . but why?”
Ruth shook her head, feeling comforted by her curls brushing against her jawline. “I wasn't going to. I felt so . . . so bad,” she said. “So wounded. But then I got your note, I realized I loved you more than I hurt. So . . . this.” She gestured at the languidly buzzing wharf, smiling softly.
Derek stepped closer to her, an intensity replacing some of the sorrow in his eyes. “Loved?”
Her breath caught at his proximity. Ruth caught the scent of him now, breathing in the refreshing aroma of a recent shower, the fragrance of his cologne, and beneath that, the alluring, earthy smell of his body. She shivered, and not from the chill of the air. “Love,” she breathed. “I know I shouldn't. But I can't help it. I can't help loving you.”
Derek's exhalation burst forth, as if he'd been holding his breath. “I feel the same way. You are a treasure.” He ran his hands over her shoulders and down her arms, his touch eliciting a sharp inhale from her. “I thought I'd driven you away. I was so stupid. I was such a fool, to treat you like that. You deserve so much better. I'd take it back if I could.”
“The future is a blank slate,” Ruth said, running her eyes over the shaven expanse of his cheeks, his chin, the softness of his lips, the fierce expression burning in his eyes. “Our future.”
“Our future?” he repeated, eyebrows arching with emotion. “Do you mean that?”
“I do,” she said, with a gentle smile.
He sighed, a moaning sound of longing, of happiness. Derek pulled her into his arms, making her gasp, and lowered his lips to meet hers, almost. He hesitated just before the point of contact, looking questioningly into her eyes. Ruth relished the feeling of his breath against her skin and, reaching her hands up to cup his face, she pulled him to her, the feeling of their lips pressing together sending an electric jolt through her. Their kiss became insistent, intense, a storm within and around them.
Pulling away, Derek's hands rose to cover hers where they still rested on his cheeks. He ran his fingers gently over hers, then froze. With a frown, he grasped her hands and drew them down. He turned her left hand over, eyes widening.
“The ring,” he breathed, blue eyes rising to meet hers, shaking his head in disbelief. “You're still wearing it.”
Ruth smiled, the expression feeling warm and dazzling even to her. “I never took it off.”
His forehead creased. “But . . . why?”
“I told you,” she teased gently, tugging on the turned-up collar of the brown leather jacket he was wearing. “I love you.”
“Oh Ruth,” he said, gathering her into his arms and holding her tight against his chest so that she could hear the accelerated thump-thump-thump of his heart within. “Oh Ruth. I – I don't know what to say.”
Ruth pulled away, taking her hand in his and tugging, leading him through the arch and out onto the wharf. Grinning, she led him to where he had proposed just a few days before and then spun around. She held out the white paper bag to Derek.
“This is for you,” she said as he took it.
“For me?” He opened the bag and peeked inside, then shot her a perplexed look.
Ruth nodded. “Uh huh. Take it out.”
Derek reached a sinuous hand into the paper bag and drew out a single red rose bound with a spray of delicate greenery, the whole thing run through with a long pin. “It's . . .” he began, starting at the flower.
“A boutonniere,” she finished, biting her bottom lip.
Derek stared at her, mouth cracking opening in confusion. “I – I don't understand,” he said.
“It's in honor of the one you should have gotten . . . from Denise Parker, all those years ago,” Ruth explained, words tremulous. “She was wrong, to treat you how she did. She made you believe that she'd chosen you.” She paused, swallowing hard, feeling as if she was talking herself into a hold. “And – and I do. Choose you, I mean. I choose you.”
Derek shook his head, a stampede of emotions she couldn't name flying across his face. He fingered the rose's soft crimson petals. “That is – that is . . . absolutely amazing,” he murmured. He raised his eyes to hers. “Thank you.”
She sighed, glad that he wasn't offended by the gift, or the resurrection of the painful memory. Then she drew in another deep breath and, with a thrill of fear, sank down onto one knee.
“Derek Stone,” Ruth said, hearing her voice waver around her nervous grin, “will you marry me?”
Now his mouth was truly dangling wide. Ruth felt her skin growing hot and itchy under the stifling weight of his silence, his uncomprehending stare. Seconds, minutes – hell, hours could have been ticking by. Eternity flashed by as her knee kissed the ground, heart bleeding at the unanswered question.
Why isn't he saying anything? she thought desperately. Tears pricked at the backs of her eyes, and she blinked against them furiously. She wondered if she might be sick right there on the wharf. Or maybe she'd pass out. She found herself thinking she wouldn't mind being unconscious at all right at that moment. Anything to be away from Derek's choking, excruciating silence.
At last he heaved an expansive breath that seemed to shatter whatever paralysis had invaded him and his face fissured into a miracle of upturned lips and dancing eyes. “Yes,” he said at last. Then he laughed, a musical, magical sound, and crowed it again, “Yes!”
Ruth's muscles went limp with relief, with happiness, and she thought she might not have been able to stand if Derek hadn't reached down and scooped her into his arms, lifting her clear off the ground and spinning her around. Her laughter joined his as he twirled to a halt, leaning down and kissing her hard and deep, the ashen color of his skin giving way to his usual tawny complexion.
“Damn,” said Ruth as he drew away, words still breathy from relief, and the power of his kiss, “proposing is really terrifying, is
n't it?”
“So terrifying,” laughed Derek. “But not as terrifying as the thought of having lost you forever.” He filled his hands with her wild curls. “I love you, Ruth soon-to-be-Stone.”
“Ruth Stone!” she exclaimed as the reality of what had just happened began to settle. “I like the sound of that.”
He held out the boutonniere. “Will you do me the honor?”
“Gladly,” she said, taking the flower and pinning it to the chest of the gray sweater he wore beneath the leather jacket.
As she finished, Derek cupped her hands over his. “This – the flower – I meant what I said before. It really is amazing.”
She blushed. “I just felt like maybe that's where your distrust of women, of love, began. And I wanted you to know that I saw that. That I won't be like her.”
