Love Me If You Must

33

I closed my eyes and let my dreams run free around me. A pot of chili simmering on the stove. Brad at the kitchen island I’d be putting in next month, reading the paper, a cup of steaming hot coffee in his hand. Kid Number One, with reams of dark spiral curls framing her round four-year-old face, sitting next to him, filling in the lines of her princess coloring book. Kid Number Two beating on the tray of his high chair, babbling for more crackers. My heart swelled at the imagined scene.

I rubbed a tear from my cheek. A beautiful dream. Nothing more.

Yet for some reason, Brad led me to believe it could come true.

I gave in to the burst of maternal energy that lunch with him had somehow unleashed. By six that night I had finished another upstairs bedroom. The two little dream kids now had a place to call their own. By the time I finished everything, Brad and I could lodge four cuddly whippersnappers each in their own bedrooms.

I washed the paintbrushes in the sink, content. Everything seemed to fit together. My life had unfurled like a mural, with Rawlings the final chapter. Right here in this house I’d spend my days loving my husband, raising my family, and entertaining friends.

Life would be perfect, for the first time ever.

I looked up from the suds at a figure crossing in the dark outside my kitchen window.

David.

I squeezed my eyes closed and sighed. What would I say to him?

What could I say to him? Sorry, David, your worst nightmare has come true. One bite of Brad’s Coney Deluxe and now I’m hopelessly in love with him.

Hearing myself think the words snapped me out of my intoxicating drama. In love with Brad? In love with a churchgoing, iron-pumping police officer? It didn’t even sound like me. In fact, it was almost the exact opposite of what I’d planned for myself.

David knocked. I wiped my hands on a crusty paint rag and opened the door.

“Hi.” I couldn’t think of anything more brilliant to say.

“Tish. I missed you this afternoon.” Remorse, or maybe accusation, sounded in his voice.

“Oh, that.” I waved it off. “I just went for a quick bite to eat.”

“Then you and Brad aren’t . . .” He paused and raised his eyebrows.

“What? An item?” I giggled. “Good heavens, no.”

“Can I come in? Do you mind?”

“Oh, gosh, of course.” I stepped aside.

David walked over to the watercooler and poured a cup. “Would you care for any?”

“No. Thank you. Listen—” I fidgeted, uncomfortable with his familiarity in my kitchen—“why don’t we walk over to the coffee shop? We can talk there.”

He set his cup on the counter, its pure-as-a-mountain-spring contents untouched. Two long paces and he stood over me, barely a foot away. His body radiated heat. I blew at my bangs to cool my forehead.

“How long have we known each other, Tish?” His voice came low and soft. I nearly keeled backward.

“The cumulative total?” A whisper was all I could manage. “About three hours.”

David smiled, unshaken. He reached for my hand and pulled me six inches closer. “I think we know each other better than you think. We both want the same thing from life. Someone to love, a measure of happiness, maybe a child or two.”

My outer vision blurred until David’s face became the only thing in focus. The only thing in the room. The only thing in my life.

He slid his hands upward until they cupped my cheeks. Heat from his palms added to the impossible burning in my head.

“Tish. What I’m saying is, I want you to marry me. We’ll be happy together, I swear.” He pulled me to him. His heart beat in my ear.

I held on, drowning in the warmth of his body. I let myself go under for the third time, never wanting to come up for a breath of air, never wanting to end this moment of surrender.

His lips burned against my neck. I closed my eyes, feeling close to death from sensory overload.

“Marry me, Tish.” His lips touched mine. I clung to him, ignoring his question, ignoring nudges from the practical Tish who tried talking sense into me.

But Miss Practical wouldn’t shut up. “David.” I peeled myself away from him. “I can’t. I mean, I’ll have to think about it.”

His ragged breathing filled the kitchen. “Right. Right. Sorry.” He pushed me an arm’s length away, but kept hold of my shoulders. “Of course you have to think about it. It’s a big step. Take a week to mull it over. Just know that I love you, Tish.”

He brushed his lips against my forehead, cleared his throat, and went for the door.

I stood in place ten minutes after he left, wondering what had just happened. My first marriage proposal and I said I’ll have to think about it? The guy wasn’t perfect, but he wasn’t exactly a loser. I could do worse.

But could I do better?

I chewed on a fingernail, glad it was my own, and paced a square around the room. “Better” was all in one’s perspective. It came down to what I wanted in a man. Did I want the computer geek–engineer type with an amazing historic home and silky bathrobe? Or a Joe Schmo–cop type with a fixer-upper and sweatpants? Or somebody else altogether?

I couldn’t think. Why did David give me only a week to mull it over? Why not a year? What was his rush? If he thought he’d be getting the cooking, cleaning, domestic type, he’d probably be disappointed. It was one thing to imagine being a mom and wife, but another thing to actually be one. What was my example, after all? My mom ran into a snag or two in her life and took the easy way out. And Grandma. The woman could inflict pain on everyone around her but had no tolerance for it herself.

I couldn’t trust myself to do the right things or act the right way in a relationship. If I failed, perhaps I’d fall into despair. Then what would stop me from carrying out the family tradition? I couldn’t bear to do that to people I loved.

The only guarantee would be to remain single and childless the rest of my life.

I stopped at the bushel of wilted roses.

But what if I said yes to David and everything turned out all right? What if we had lots of wonderful years together? Things always worked out in my gothic romance novels. Arranged marriages, forced unions, all began with a measure of loathing. Maybe the couples weren’t on fire for each other at the beginning, but deep love and respect always grew over the years.

Besides, with David’s financial backing, I could finish the Victorian. The profit from the sale would help get our marriage off to a good start. We would even be able to afford to have kids right away.

I plucked the bouquet of roses from the paint can and laid it on the counter. I took the red ribbon and tied it around the stems. Then I hung the whole batch to dry, upside down from a nail over my kitchen window.

I knew how to make the best of things. I’d been doing it all my life. And David could definitely be the best of things.

Tomorrow I would tell him yes. Yes, I loved him. Yes, I would marry him. Yes, we would be happy together.

I finished cleaning up my paint mess, lost in a swirl of contentment.

Brad would be surprised at the announcement. Disappointed, even. I hoped the news wouldn’t come between our budding friendship. I thought of his beautiful, smiling sister, and I hoped she and I could still become friends one day.

I wondered about Tammy. How would she react? Would she be upset that David was off the market almost as soon as he’d gotten back on?

I thought about Dorothy across the street. She wouldn’t be pleased. She’d be certain I could do better than a member of the jet-set crowd, as she’d called David. She’d have been thrilled if I’d told her Brad would be my groom.

But I couldn’t worry about what everyone else thought. I was entitled to my own life, as Brad had pointed out. And my own life meant my own choices.

Tonight, I chose David, and all the happiness that choice would bring me.

I drifted asleep on my cot, dreaming of wedding decorations and dresses and invitation styles and cake patterns and bridesmaids and guests.