Just Like Heaven (22 page)

“Excuse me?”

“We all know Father McDreamy’s taking you to the beach today.”

“Which big-mouth friend or relative of mine told you that?”

Grace paused, blow-dryer dangling from her right hand, round brush from the left. “Susie,” she called across the floor, “who told us about Kate and Father McDreamy?”

“Maeve told Helen at the bakery yesterday and Helen told Jack and Jack told me.”

“I heard it from Sonia,” a woman with a headful of foil volunteered. “I was browsing across the street and I asked how Katie was doing and she told me the whole story. It’s
so
romantic!”

“I’m thinking of converting,” Lee said as she touched up Claire Shuster’s gray roots. “That man is the poster child for Episcopalianism.”

“You all seem to know an awful lot about a man you’ve never seen,” Kate said to their reflections in the mirror.

“Haven’t seen him?” Grace laughed and they all joined in. “Katie, his picture’s splashed on the front page of this week’s
Coburn Bugle.
”

“What?” She leaped up, sending a lapful of clips and combs flying. “Let me see!”

They had a foot-high stack of them near the reception desk.

The headline was set in big bold letters.

The story read like romantic fiction, even though every word the reporter wrote was absolutely true. But those pictures . . .

“Oh my God!” She winced and turned the paper facedown on the table. “Where did they get that hideous photo of me?” She looked like something that had been left in the sun too long.

“Two thousand four Fourth of July Sidewalk Sale,” Lee said. “We all looked like gargoyles.”

They couldn’t find a bad photo of Mark to help level the playing field? It looked like a case of Beauty and the Beast with the roles reversed. Was he really that gorgeous? Good-looking, yes, but she hadn’t realized he had quite this much going for him. She had been caught by the sadness in his eyes, the gentleness of his touch, the warmth of his mouth on hers . . .

Whoa, French.
Get a grip.

“I have a good mind to sue those idiots at the
Bugle
,” she said. “How can they write a story about what happened to me without asking me any questions?”

“Angelina and Brad are probably asking the same thing,” Grace said to howls of laughter all around. “Now get back here, Kate, and let me finish making you gorgeous.”

This entire thing had a life of its own. It had from the moment she inadvertently stole his parking space and set into motion a series of events that still had her head spinning.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had this much fun. The teasing, the laughter, the feeling of being one of the girls. Okay, middle-aged girls, but the sentiment was still the same.

“You look fabulous,” Lee said when Grace finished her magic. “Thirty, thirty-five max.”

“You should wear it that way all the time,” Foil Head Woman said. “You look like that girl on
Will and Grace.
”

“No, she doesn’t,” the woman with the formerly gray roots said. “A young Susan Sarandon.”

Either way she couldn’t lose.

She got whistled at by a UPS driver and flirted with at the stoplight at Main and Elm by a man old enough to know better. By the time she reached her driveway she had decided she would wear her hair long and loose until she needed Depends.

Maeve was gathering up her books and papers and loading them into one of her many leather totes when Kate walked into the house. “What did I tell you, honey? Once a woman lets her hair down, there’s no stopping her.”

Maybe it was time to put one of her mother’s favorite theories to the test.

 
Nothing had changed. She was waiting on the front porch when he got there and the second their eyes met he knew this was either the best or the worst thing that had ever happened to him.

This was how happy felt. Not how he remembered it feeling. Not how he wished it felt. This was the real deal—full-blown, full-bore, full-throttle happiness.

She ran across the yard toward him, her hair long and loose, shimmering red-gold in the sunlight, and if you ever wanted to know why he believed in God, there was your answer. There could be magic between people, the kind of magic that made you want to do better, be better, reach for the stars and grab a handful.

“You look great,” Mark said as he held open the car door for Kate. “Did you change your hair or something?”

She gave him one of those looks women were born knowing how to deliver. “I’m wearing it down today.”

“You should wear it that way all the time.”

“Thanks.” She made a show of eyeing his hair. “Yours looks pretty good too.”

“I combed it today,” he said. “Makes a big difference.”

“I like the sweater. Is that part of your priestly uniform?”

“Your Catholic schoolgirl upbringing is showing. Priests don’t have a uniform.”

“You should be required to wear a collar at all times,” she said as he started the engine. “How else can we tell you from the civilians?”

They joked back and forth, trading comments at the speed of light. There was an ease between them, a deeper sense of communication that usually developed over a period of years, not days. He felt more fully himself, more connected with the world, optimistic in ways that should have surprised him into silence.

He had trouble keeping his eyes on the road. She was so vibrant, so alive, so filled with passion and energy, that he wanted to pull over to the side of the road and—

He was wrong. Something
had
changed and it wasn’t just her hairstyle.

He was in love.

Sixteen

Spring Lake was a tiny dot on the map of the Jersey shore that boasted 2.1 miles of wide, sandy beachfront and a crystal clear spring-fed lake near the center of town. The word
charming
had been invented to describe places like this.

He parked the beat-up blue Honda in front of one of the old beachfront hotels and they held hands as they dashed across the wide sun-swept street to the sandy shore.

“I’m going to miss this,” he said as they started walking south along the water’s edge.

“The beach?”

“New Jersey.”

She laughed as they stepped around a swirling tide pool. “Now that’s something you don’t hear every day.”

“I like it here.”

“You were highly complimentary the other day, but don’t spread it around.” She shielded her eyes and looked up at him. “Besides, I thought New England was the place to be when the leaves start to turn.”

“New Jersey has it beat.”

She knew what he was really saying, what those simple words meant. Two weeks ago the significance might have gone right over her head, but not today. Not with the warm April sun on their shoulders, the breeze off the ocean in her hair, her hand clasped tightly in his, the ocean at their feet. This was high school with a 401(k) plan and he had declared himself seriously smitten.

“We’re famous,” she said as they nodded toward some fishermen standing hip deep in the icy water. “Front page of the
Coburn Bugle.
”

“The
Coburn Bugle
?”

“Best and only weekly in Coburn, New Jersey, source of all news social, retail, political, and religious in town.”

“You told a reporter about what happened?”

“If I had my way I wouldn’t have told my mother.” She had to laugh at the look on his face. “People talk. We’re a gossipy small town.”

“Do you have a copy?”

“I left one in your car. We can analyze it over lunch.”

The wind kicked up and she shivered. He dropped her hand and draped an arm around her shoulders and she settled in closer to his side. Something close to pure contentment moved through her.

“No point to keeping a low profile anymore, then,” he said.

“None that I can see.”

“Once you hit the front page, you’ve been outed.”

“Totally.”

They stopped walking. He shifted. She adjusted. The companionable arm around her shoulders turned into something else. Something she had read about in books but never in a million years thought she would experience. A melting sensation that turned her limbs to ribbons of taffy left out in the sun.

You couldn’t hide in full sun. Full sun exposed every line, every wrinkle, every secret flourishing in the shadows.

His arms didn’t hold her in place. She could have slipped his embrace if she had wanted to. She was there because she couldn’t think of anywhere else in the whole wide world where she would rather be.

“Six weeks isn’t a long time,” he said.

“I know,” she said. “We’d be crazy to waste a minute more of it.”

He placed a finger under her chin and tilted her face up to his and for once in her life she didn’t want to duck her head or turn away or hide behind a wall of words. All she wanted was to kiss him.

A kiss would be enough.

She hadn’t expected, hadn’t dreamed that a kiss could be everything.

Their lips met and the world around her slipped out of focus. Perfect . . . better than perfect . . . his warm mouth . . . his strong hands . . . his long lean body pressed against hers . . . the yearning deep inside . . . she wanted . . . everything . . . she wanted everything and she wanted it now and she wanted it forever . . . could you build a world from a kiss . . . could a kiss last forever . . .

“We’re attracting a crowd,” he said when they broke apart, breathless, hearts thundering, both of them dazed and on fire from the inside out.

She blinked and peered over his shoulder as the world came back into focus. Three fishermen, rods resting on their shoulders, were watching them from about one hundred feet away. Two elderly women, bundled into sweaters and bright purple hats, stared intently from the boardwalk.

“I don’t care,” she said, starting to laugh.

“Me either.” He kissed her again, hard and fierce, and she melted against him.

“You don’t kiss like a priest,” she murmured against his lips.

“How many priests have you kissed?”

“None,” she said, “but I’ll bet you don’t kiss like any of them.”

They moved slowly apart, each trying to regain their balance and reclaim some of the space that used to exist between them.

She wasn’t sure that was possible anymore.

 
They found a luncheonette on a side street that was still serving lunch. The place was a haphazard affair, two buildings stitched together with a staple gun and some duct tape and bound by a baseball theme. Babe Ruth beamed down on the cash register up front. Lou Gehrig pointed the way toward the restrooms. Thurman Munson guarded the stack of well-worn menus while Willie Mays, Mickey Mantle, and Jackie Robinson watched over diners in the back room. A pair of Louisville Sluggers were crisscrossed over the nonworking fireplace like swords at a military wedding. The salt and pepper shakers were plastic baseballs with holes punched where the stitching would be. The menu featured hot dogs, hamburgers, French fries, and as much Coke as you could drink in one sitting. Dessert was something called a Cracker Jack Sundae.

“We’d better find somewhere else,” he said as they scanned the ketchup-stained menu. “This place will put you back in the hospital.”

“I love it here,” she said as the strains of “Take Me out to the Ball Game” wafted through the frying oil-scented air.

“You’re kidding, right?” He had a pretty good Mr. Spock eyebrow lift going.

“Nope.
This
is romantic.” As far as she was concerned, it put The Old Grist Mill to shame.

“Who are you, Kate French?” he asked as he put the menu down on the table. “Every time I think I know what you’re going to say, you say something else.”

She grinned at him. “That last one surprised me too. Since the heart attack even
I
can’t believe the things that are coming out of my mouth.”

“That’s not an uncommon complaint.”

“So I’ve been told, but it’s still disconcerting. You go through life believing you’re one type of person and then suddenly—” she waved her hand in the air—“poof ! You’re somebody else.”

“And what is the real you like?”

“For starters, I’m not spontaneous and I’m not romantic. I’m definitely not a lacy, flowery type of woman.”

He shot her a look. “I saw evidence to the contrary.”

She blushed as red as the lace thong he was talking about. “An aberration,” she said. “I was just back from ten days in London. I needed to run a wash. That was all I had in my lingerie drawer.”

“But you had it.”

“It still had the tags on it. Maeve gave it to me as a fortieth birthday gift. She thought I needed to shake things up.”

“It worked,” he said with a wicked grin. “I’m still shook up.”

She tossed a straw wrapper in his general direction. “You’re deliberately misunderstanding me.”

“Who says this isn’t the real you?” he countered. “Maybe the real you had been waiting for an excuse to get into the mix.”

“I don’t think that’s the way it works.”

“People change,” he said. “I see it all the time. We’re changed by the things that happen to us. There would be no growth if we weren’t.”

“You must have minored in psychology.”

“I’m just a student of human nature. We’re supposed to be changed by life. Otherwise there’s no point.”

“Well, the doctors seem to have this one all figured out right down to the millisecond. According to Lombardi, you’ll never know the real me because you’ll be heading back up to New Hampshire right around the time I’ll stop crying at television commercials.”

“You haven’t cried once since I picked you up.”

“The day’s young,” she warned him. “Give me time.”

He ordered a cheeseburger with the works and a chocolate milk shake. She ordered a bowl of Manhattan clam chowder and a glass of iced tea. The waitress disappeared into the kitchen with their orders and Kate dipped into her bag for a copy of the
Coburn Bugle.