His 1-800 Wife (30 page)

"Happy for what?" Robert asked.

"Audrey is starting her own business. She's going to be a wedding consultant."

"And you can be my first customer," she told him.

Catherine stared at her, then at Robert. "Is there something going on I should know about?" she asked.

They both waited for the other to explain. "Just an observation," Audrey finally said. "You have deal­erships all over the area. Maybe I can plan an open­ing."

Robert let out a slow breath. Catherine didn't think her sister had been talking about a car party.

“You haven't danced with me," Robert said to Cath­erine. He offered her his hand.

"I would love to," Catherine said, rising.

"Excuse us, Audrey."

Audrey nodded.

"Save me a dance," Robert told her, and she smiled.

Robert took Catherine's hand and twirled her onto the dance floor. He was a really good dancer. They had once won a summer talent contest with a dance routine. Catherine loved dancing with Robert only slightly less than she liked dancing with Jarrod. In Robert's arms, she could have fun. In Jarrod's she had fun and more.

Robert danced her around, spinning and twirling her as if they were back at that long-ago competition. The dance ended with a dramatic drop, where Robert bent down on one knee, she went through a series of turns around him and ended in a back bend over his knee, her head inches from the floor.

The execution was perfect and her crown stayed on, but as Robert helped her up, they bumped into Julianna. The drink Julianna held spilled. Catherine jumped back, trying to avoid the liquid. The glass clattered to the floor and shattered. The liquid splat­tered the bottom of Catherine's gown and her shoes.

"Oops," Julianna said.

***

"Excuse me, Carl, but I need to borrow Jarrod." Elizabeth came to his rescue.

"Thank you," he said, walking away with her. Carl Wilson had been a chef on ocean liners for all of his adult life. Now in his sixties, he never tired of telling stories of his exploits at sea. Jarrod was sure the major­ity of them had only a nodding acquaintance with the truth.

"You looked as if one more story and we could use your eyes to glaze the ham."

They reached the dance floor and started to dance. "Carl means well, but his stories can sometimes be. . .hard to take."

"That's a polite way of saying he's a bore."

The two of them began to dance. Catherine had disappeared. She'd been dancing with Robert the last time he'd seen her. He looked around the room. She was missing.

"Do you think Robert is still calling that 1-800-WIFE?" Elizabeth asked matter-of-factly. Jarrod thought of what Catherine had said earlier and looked for his friend too. Robert stood at the bar. His expression was happy, expectant, optimistic.

"I hope not," Jarrod answered. "I had it disconnected." Elizabeth's eyebrows rose.

"Don't look so surprised." He mocked her with his own eyebrows. "Catherine told me you know about the phone. And the mar­riage. Robert knows too."

Elizabeth smiled knowingly. She glanced at Robert on the other side of the room. "I told Catherine her scheme wouldn't work, but I guess I was wrong.''

"Ever thought of trying it yourself?"

"A husband?" She shook her head. "Been there, done that. It didn't work."

Jarrod's step faltered. He'd heard that before, and from his own wife. It was what she would tell her parents when they finally dissolved this marriage.

"It might have some merit," she spoke softly, glancing at Robert. Then she turned her gaze back to Jarrod and smiled. "Catherine's never looked more radiant."

"She is beautiful."

"Being in love will do that to you."

Jarrod didn't falter this time. He stopped in the middle of the floor. "What did you say?"

"She hasn't told you?"

"Told me what?"

Knowing she'd said too much, Elizabeth clammed up as tightly as any crustacean fighting for survival, but he wasn't willing to let her be. He glanced around but still couldn't find Catherine.

"Tell me," Jarrod demanded.

"Jarrod, you should talk to Catherine."

"I will, but I want to know what she's told you."

Elizabeth took his hand. They left the dance floor and headed for the hall. Every room they passed had people in it. Elizabeth kept going until she was at the front door. She went through it and found the porch empty. The servants were taking care of the trick-or-treaters, but it was getting late for them.

It was cold outside, the wind stirring slightly, but the air had the teeth of winter deeply sunk into it.

"Promise me you'll keep this to yourself until Cath­erine tells you?"

"No," Jarrod stated. Elizabeth hugged her arms. He removed the huge robe of his outfit and slipped it around her, leaving him with only a shirt and trousers. He'd refused the headdress before they left home earlier in the evening.

"Are you in love with Catherine?" Elizabeth asked.

Jarrod didn't answer right away. He was in love with her, but he often hid it. For more than half his life he'd kept the secret. Now, looking at Elizabeth, he nodded.

"Do you think she's in love with you?"

"She's planning to divorce me in February," he answered. "But you already know that."

"When was the last time you looked at her, really looked at her?"

"I look at her everyday."

"But you don't see what's there."

He looked over her head, as if he had X-ray vision and could look through the heavy concrete wall into the house and see Catherine.

"Stop dancing around the story and tell me."

"She's in love with you."

Jarrod's hands reached out and took her arms. He pulled Elizabeth to within a foot of where he stood. "Did she tell you that?"

Elizabeth nodded.

Jarrod was gone in a flash. He left Elizabeth stand­ing alone and returned to the house, bent on finding Catherine. He searched the dance floor but didn't find the gold dress that made her seem to float when she walked. He spotted Robert.

"Where's Cather­ine?" he asked.

"She spilled something and went upstairs to clean it."

"Elizabeth is on the porch. Go keep her company."

"What's she doing out there?"

Jarrod didn't answer. He was already halfway to the stairs, which he took two at a time. Elizabeth's house was another one that they had played in and out of as children. He knew where Elizabeth had always slept, although she might have moved into the master suite since she was the sole owner of the house now.

"Catherine," he called. His heart hammered. He headed for Elizabeth's old room. "Catherine!"

"In here," she called back. Her voice was muffled, as if she was farther in the room than just beyond the door. He went into Elizabeth's room. It was a guest room now. Jarrod closed the door. Catherine came out of the bathroom. She dropped the hem of her dress.

"It was just a tiny stain. I got it out."

"Are you in love with me?" he asked without pre­amble.

She stood rock-solid still, as if a lightning bolt had rooted her to the spot and she was now a life-size statue of Nefertiti in a dress of gold inlay. "Why do you ask?"

"Answer me." He came closer to her. She didn't move, but oh, she wanted to. He could see it in her eyes.

"I'm still divorcing you."

"I didn't ask if you were divorcing me." He stood directly in front of her, towering over her. He knew the effect he had on her. She got nervous quickly when things weren't comfortable between them, and this moment was not comfortable. "I asked if you were in love with me."

"That's not an easy question. I've known you—"

"It's very easy. Either you are or you aren't. So which is it?"

"Jarrod, this is not the place—"

"It will have to do. Now answer me." He put his hand under her chin and forced her to look into his eyes. "Catherine Melissa Carson Greene, are you in love with me?"

"Yes," she whispered.

Jarrod let his breath go. He swept her into his arms, holding her totally off the floor, his hand behind her neck, his head on her shoulder. He squeezed her to him, holding her, never wanting to put her down, never wanting to let her go. He wanted to stay here, suspended, for eternity. Knowing she loved him. It was too much. It was a hope, a dream, an impossible dream, but it was true.

This was what Robert had suggested he do only a couple of hours ago. Jarrod hadn't thought about it. If he had, he might not be holding her now. He might not have this knowledge.

"Jarrod, put me down."

He felt the change before his brain registered it. Catherine wasn't pliant, she wasn't holding on to him as a lover. She held on to him to keep her balance. He knew something was wrong. He let her slide to the floor. Immediately she stepped out of his reach.

"Catherine, what is it?"

"You know, Jarrod. You've known from the first. From the night in Montana when I explained every­thing."

"You mean you're in love with me and you're still going to go through with this asinine plan?"

"We agreed—" she started.

"To hell with what we agreed," he cut her off. "After the way we are together, the way lightning strikes every time we get near each other, the way we make love and even when you've told me you love me, you still want a divorce?" It was incredible. She couldn't mean it. It had to be a mistake, but when he looked at her face, it was closed to everything. She loved him, but she wouldn't stay married to him because marriage, real marriage, scared her to death.

"Catherine, we don't have to wait until February. You can have your divorce tonight."

He turned and wrenched open the door. He was too angry, so angry that if he closed the door behind him, he'd slam it so hard the entire foundation of the Westfield house, which had stood for a hundred and fifty years, would crumble to powdered stone.

***

Life changed after she told Jarrod she was in love with him. The glass house they had been living in shattered to slivers. Jarrod didn't come home that night. She didn't know where he was. She waited all night for him to return. He didn't come home Sunday either.

He was there Monday afternoon when she got in from work. All his clothes had been moved back to the guest room. He barely spoke to her, and after dinner, he excused himself and went to the den, where he worked until he was too tired to stay awake or she was already in bed.

Catherine missed being with him. She missed sleep­ing with him. She'd tossed and turned for three nights now. She turned over and hugged his pillow. It didn't smell like he smelled. She wanted Jarrod back and there was nothing she could do to regain anything. He wouldn't be her friend and she couldn't remain his wife.

Getting up, she didn't turn on any lights. It was after midnight. She'd try some tea. Maybe that would help her sleep. She headed for the kitchen. At the bottom of the stairs she saw the door to the den was open. No light came from any other room. Only a small amount spilled from the room where Jarrod worked. She approached the door. The room was warm with the glow of the fire.

Jarrod sat at his drafting table. The intensity light attached to the drafting table illuminated the paper on which he was writing. He didn't see her and she remained silhouetted in the stillness. It was amazing how well he fit into this room, into her life. A few months ago, this space contained only her books and music and an arrangement of comfortable furniture. Now it contained Jarrod's desk and drafting table, a computer hooked up to a special printer, the general clutter of work projects and most of all Jarrod.

Catherine moved like a cat, her satin nightgown making no sound as she sank into a large chair across the room from him. She watched, unobserved and quiet, looking at the man she loved. She could see only part of him and he could see none of her. He hummed "Yesterday" softly under his breath. She often heard him humming it unconsciously. It had become his signature song, although he would surely deny it if she called him on it. She wouldn't. She liked knowing he thought of her and the song was a subliminal method of bringing her to his mind.

"Trouble sleeping?" Jarrod's sudden question sur­prised her.

"I didn't think you knew I was here."

"Catherine, you can't walk into a room where I am and not have me know you're there." His voice was as sexy as his comment. It was the voice that had her heart doing somersaults. She got up and went to the table where he worked. She stood on the side facing him, hesitating, not knowing how to approach him. He hadn't really talked to her in days.

"What are you working on?"

"Come see."

He pushed the rolling stool back a foot or so and she walked in front of him. White lines and notes covered the paper. Arrows pointed to places with numbers written in. It was a confusion of color, but in it, she could see the finished project.

"It's a roller coaster," she said.