Storms and Dreams (Becoming Jane Book 3) (9 page)

“I know the type.” He nodded.

“Yeah, but they were good to me. At least at first. Of course I wasn’t good enough for their son. But no one was, really, and I guess they didn’t worry about it because we were in high school and nobody thought we were going to get married or anything.” I swallowed hard. “Except Brian and me. We thought we were in love. So…” I took another deep breath and steeled myself. I felt like I was sitting at the apex of a roller coaster, staring down the incline, knowing that the safety harness wouldn’t hold. “So, when I got pregnant…” my lip trembled and I clenched his hand tightly. “When I got pregnant, Brian asked me to marry him.”

Tom scooted closer to me, and drew my hand into his lap, cradling it in both of his. He didn’t say a word.

“Naturally all hell broke loose. Our parents were pretty mad at us. We’d been safe, actually,” I said, glancing up at him. “Or rather we’d tried to be. But there’s that small percentage, you know, and I guess we just got lucky.” I laughed cynically. “So, stupid doe-eyed teenagers that we were, we decided to have the baby, get married and live happily ever after.”

He still didn’t speak, just squeezed my hand, gentle pressure, reassuring me. But this was the hardest part, and there was no comfort for it. There was no nugget of wisdom or silver lining to be found in the most horrible year of my life. There had been no marriage, no happily ever after. Instead, everything had blown right the hell apart. There was so much, so many layers to the tragedy that had shaped me, that had sent shockwaves through my family and my life, the aftereffects of which I still felt to this day. I didn’t know where to begin, and if I did, I didn’t know if I could stop. I tried to picture the timeline in my head, to organize the jumble of events so that I might better explain to him what had happened. It was no use, though. Emotion, combined with the wine, was making it hard for me to think, so I cut through it all, and gave him the truth that was the most simple and the most painful:

“My baby died.”

He pulled my arm over his shoulder, dragging my body into his lap, holding me, rocking me like you would a child. He smoothed my hair away from my face and gently held my head to his chest while I cried.

“I’m sorry,” I said, sniffling. “I’m ruining your shirt.”

“I can get another shirt,” he said, kissing my hair. “I can’t get another you.”

I crushed him to me, pressing frantic kisses up the column of his neck. He met me halfway, cupping my chin as his lips ghosted over mine, soft and sweet, brushing over my cheeks and my eyelids.

“Thank you for telling me,” he whispered against my ear. “I feel honored that you trusted me with that.”

I nodded and twisted my head, trying to capture his lips again. I wanted to kiss him, to let the heat between us distract me from my memories, to numb the pain and chase it all away. But he stopped me, stilling my head in his hands. His gaze found mine, eyes brimming with compassion.

“I have to tell you something now,” he said. “Something that I hope doesn’t break that trust.”

My stomach plummeted and I swallowed hard. “What?” I whispered, the sound barely audible to my ears.

“I already knew.”

“
W
hat do you mean
?” I sat bolt upright in his lap, my fingers digging into his biceps. All trace of the wine buzz was gone now. He had my full attention. “Tom, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Let me explain.”

“Explain fast,” I said, wiggling out of his lap to kneel on the floor beside him, “because you’re freaking me out.”

“Your medical records,” he said simply.

I shook my head. “What about them?”

“We exchanged medical records. My stupid idea,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry for that. It was ridiculous, and mind-bogglingly insensitive of me. Of course I didn’t know that at the time,” he said. Reaching for his wine, he drained the glass. “That’s no excuse, though, really. And I kept it from you. I’ve known for ages, since you sent the records. I didn’t know how to tell you. I hope you can forgive me.”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” I said, panic bubbling in my chest. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Your pregnancy, and the um, the result,” he said quietly. “It was noted on the copy of the records you sent me. It was the first thing I saw the night you emailed them to me.”

“Oh my god,” I said, folding my arms over my stomach. I hung my head and stared at the rug. “Oh my god.”

“I’m so sorry, Jane. I felt like such an ass when I saw it. Clearly you didn’t realize that information was on there.”

“No, I didn’t,” I said, remembering that night, how happy I’d felt. My heart had been light and flush with the excitement of a new relationship.

“I wasn’t sure how to handle it,” he said. “It’s been weighing on me, that I knew something you were unaware of. I didn’t know if I should say something, or stay quiet and let you tell me in your own time. I hope I did the right thing.”

I could feel his eyes on me, could hear the pleading undertone in his voice. Realization dawned and I felt my fear and anxiety dissipate with the thought. “That’s why you called me,” I said, looking up at him. You called me that night—you broke one of your rules to call me. Am I right?”

“Yes,” he said, his eyes bright in the firelight, his expression full of concern. “I was worried that I’d pressured you into something that you didn’t want.”

“You didn’t,” I said, shaking my head. “Really. I haven’t done anything I haven’t wanted to.” I smiled softly. He’d been caring for me from the very start, thinking of my wellbeing, and that touched me. That he’d known already, well, it felt like a relief.

“I’m so glad to hear it. And again, I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I said, shrugging. “It was my mistake. And you know what?” I sat back on my heels and folded my hands in my lap. “I think I actually feel okay about it. It’s weird, but it's okay. You know, when I started to tell you about it, I felt like I was going to vomit on your shoes. But now I feel, strangely…relaxed. I feel alright. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “And I’m glad to hear that your urge to vomit has passed, because dinner is ready, and I’m not wearing shoes.”

W
e had
our picnic after all. Dining on the carpet in front of the fire, we sat cross-legged, knee to knee, another bottle of wine, this one slightly less than four thousand dollars, decanting on the hearth.

“I wish I had known you in high school,” he said, taking a bite of steak pie, sucking air in through his teeth and waving at his mouth.

“I know.” I laughed. “It’s really hot. Delicious, but hot.”

“Vewwy hawt.”

“Why do you wish you’d known me then?”

He chewed and swallowed, took a sip of his wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Because I would have been your friend,” he said simply, glancing up at me. “I would have liked to have been there for you, during that time.”

“Ha.” I laughed. “If I’d known you in high school, none of that would have ever happened. I’d have jumped your bones and run off to England with you to play Lady of the Manor.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” He forked up a bite of pie. “I was not terribly impressive back then.”

“I refuse to believe it,” I said, shaking my head. “Dimples, curly hair, that accent and the glasses. Irresistible.”

“Well no one ever told that to Jennifer Chaudhry.”

“Oh no. Unrequited love? Sounds serious.”

“Nearly life-threatening.” He nodded. “I was besotted. Completely. And she didn’t even know I existed.”

“Poor boy.”

“I used to have fantasies, about proving my worthiness to her through some gesture of masculine heroics. Saving her from a bully, or a runaway train or something.”

“Aw, see? You’ve always had those Prince Charming tendencies.”

He laughed. “It comes from having sisters, I think.”

“It comes from having a good heart,” I said, smiling at him. “Thanks for being there for me today.”

He stroked my knee and smiled back. “As I recall, you were there for me first.”

“Okay then we’ll call it even.”

He beamed. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed this time. Your company.”

“Me too.” I felt the color rise in my cheeks. “And all the mind-blowing sex—can’t forget that.”

“I couldn’t if I tried. You’ve marked me,” he said. “Indelibly.”

“This whole weekend has been like a beautiful dream,” I said. “Like we’ve been living in this parallel universe, away from everything and everyone. I hate that it has to end.”

“I should’ve never answered my phone.” He ran a palm over his face and groaned. “God, what was I thinking? We’d have another whole day if I’d just said no to that imbecile.”

“No, I’m looking forward to the party,” I said. “I want to get dressed up for you. And I can’t wait to see you in a tux. I just wish we didn’t have to go back to the real world after.”

“The dream has to end sometime, I suppose,” he said, taking my empty plate from me and stacking it with his on the hearth.

“Maybe not,” I said, reaching up to stroke his cheek as he turned back and hovered over me.

“How’s that?” he asked. His hands released the belt to my robe, and slipped inside to caress my bare skin.

“Well,” I said hesitantly,
“I had planned to go to my mom’s house on Monday, just to get out of town, take some time off. She’s on a cruise right now, with her boyfriend. She won’t be back till Christmas Eve. But even then, I mean, you could stay and celebrate with us. I just thought you might…” I got my answer before I’d finished speaking. A sly smile was slowly spreading across Thomas’s face as his hands crept along my hips. He threw a knee over my legs and straddled me, caging me with his body.

“Are you asking me to go home with you for Christmas Holiday?”

“Only if you say yes.” I laughed. “If you say no, then this conversation was just a misunderstanding and you presume far too much, sir.”

“I’m going to say yes,” he said, leaning in for a kiss. “I’d be delighted to go home with you. But I think I’m also going to presume far too much, because that sounds like a hell of a lot of fun.” He caught my lower lip between his teeth and nipped it.

“Ow!” I squealed, smacking his chest. “Brute! You think that if you buy a girl a four thousand dollar bottle of wine you can just have your wicked way with her?”

“Absolutely not,” he said, his lips burning a hot trail over my throat to the hollow of my neck. He pushed the robe from my shoulders, his hands gliding down to my waist, urging me back against the rug. “The wine has nothing to do with it.” He pulled his shirt over his head and stood, removing his trousers. He towered over me, our gazes traveling hungrily over the other’s naked body. “I can have my wicked way with you because that’s exactly what you want.”

“God help me, that’s true,” I said, raising my hand to beckon him.

He lowered over me. Kicking my legs wide, he knelt between my thighs, his palms stroking, kneading their way up. Both hands glided over my skin, meeting at my core. His fingers splayed, framing my sex between his hands. “I can have my wicked way with you…” he said again, his fingers brushing over my curls, so tantalizing close, his gaze locked hotly on my sex, “pinky…” He glanced up, smirking at me. I felt the color in my cheeks deepen at the use of the nickname. “…Because that’s exactly what you
need
.”

My breath hitched and I bit my lip, my imagination reeling at the thought of what he might have planned.

He curled a hand under my waist, and flipped me over, yanking my hips up high so that I was on all fours, kneeling in front of him. I felt his breath on my neck as he loomed over me, his lips tickling my ear as he spoke.

“I can have you, every wicked, nasty, way I like, because that’s exactly what you
crave
.”

His hand cupped my sex, the heel blunt hard pressure against my core as his fingers feathered through my cleft. “Isn’t it?” he demanded.

“Yes,” I whispered, nodding my head as my arms shook under the weight of my arousal.

“But not tonight,” he said casually, his voice gentle and low. His hands urged me over, guiding me down to the rug, until I was laid out for him again, on display. “That’s not what you need tonight,” he said, brushing the hair from my forehead. He lay down next to me, our bodies parallel, and pulled me into him, weaving our limbs together.

“I swear you know what I’m thinking before I even know myself,” I said, stroking his cheek, my eyes searching his. “How do you do that?”

“Because I see you, inamorata,” he said. Capturing my hand, he laced our fingers, and pressed his mouth to mine, speaking against my lips. “We’ll do ‘wicked’ tomorrow. Tonight is for dreams.” He kissed me, our tongues tangling as his length notched against my core, hard and insistent. He slammed into me and I cried out, my teeth grazing over his lips, biting gently, trying to seize a piece of him, to claim him, as he laid claim to me. He laughed, soft and deep, the sound vibrating through his chest, into mine. Teasing his lip from my teeth with his tongue, he kissed me hard, and rolled, trapping me beneath him, pinning my hands with his, he plundered, fucking me into the floor, and I felt my body melt around him, surrendering.

T
he breeze
that wafted over the beach smelled of sugar and cream. I stretched, fingers and toes leaving long trails in the sand, the last linger of stiffness in my muscles giving way. I dipped a toe in the water, it was warm and inviting, the scent of cinnamon and coffee floating up from its foamy surface as gentle waves broke over my ankles.

Wait, that’s not right.

I opened my eyes, and saw Tom’s face, lips pursed, blowing over the edge of the largest mug of cappuccino I think I’ve ever seen. I stilled, drinking him in, long dark lashes fluttering over his cheeks. He looked up, caught me staring at him, and beamed.

“There she is. Wake up, sleepy head, we’ve got a full day ahead of us.”

“Is that what I think it is?”

“It wants to be a cinnamon cappuccino. Whether or not it is, is debatable. The fancy coffee machine and I had a few words earlier in the kitchen. So I can’t vouch for this concoction, other than to say I’m almost certain it has caffeine.”

"Is it for me?"

"Oh, definitely."

"Then hand it over, handsome." I sat up in the bed, pulling the sheet up with me, and took the mug from him, sipping gingerly.

“How is it?” he asked, his expression dubious.

“Cinnamon jet fuel,” I replied, licking my lips. “It may not be a cappuccino, but it is the best quadruple espresso I’ve ever had.”

“Damn,” he groaned, raking his fingers through his hair. I couldn’t help but notice how extra adorable he was when annoyed.

“You’ve invented a new drink,” I said. “We can call it the crackuccino. We’ll make a fortune.”

“You’re being kind,” he said, bending over to kiss me on the nose before turning to head into the bathroom. I could hear him in there, dragging suitcases from the closet and shuffling toiletries. “Best not drink all of it,” he called. “We can’t have your heart exploding on the drive into town. Bloody machine.”

“Pretty sure that happened already. Like, twenty times in the last two days, in fact,” I muttered.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing!” I called back as he emerged from the bathroom, dragging the suitcases behind him.

“I don’t want to rush you—” he said.

“But?”

“We’ve got a noon appointment at a boutique in Skysdale, which I’m told is on our return route home.”

“It is, sort of, if we take Route 1,” I said. “The coastal highway. Very scenic.”

“Oh good,” he said, digging his phone out of his trouser pocket to look at the screen. “Yes, that’s the route Max has laid for us.”

“Who’s Max?” I took another sip of coffee. It was actually pretty tasty.

“My mother’s concierge friend I mentioned. I emailed him last night, asked him to find us the best shopping on short notice. He said there’s a rather nice dress shop in Skysdale, but it’s appointment only during the holidays so we’ll have to hurry if we want to make it.”

“What’s the name of the shop?” I asked, excitement ping-ponging in my chest.

“Something to do with sky,” he said, dragging his suitcase to the bedroom door.

“A Piece of Sky?” I asked.

“That’s the one.”

“Oh my god!” I squealed. “Charlie will die when I tell her!”

“Why’s that?”

“That shop is famous. It’s full of vintage couture and one-off pieces. It’s like half museum, half dress shop, and I’ve heard it’s amazing. Celebrities shop there.”

“Celebrities fly to a little town in Maine to shop for dresses?”

“Well, actually I bet it’s their stylists that do that. But yeah I heard they loan dresses for movies, and somebody I know swore they saw Karl Lagerfeld in there.”

“Well, Max is pretty connected,” he said, shrugging.

“Tell him thank you for me. Charlotte and I have always wanted to go, but we never have. Oh, she’s going to just die.”

“I’m glad I could help facilitate your sister’s death by envy.” He laughed and threw my robe at me. “Get ready, we leave in an hour.”

I caught the robe and hugged it to my chest, setting the mug down on the bedside table, my gaze flitting from the lamp, to the bed, to the curtains that framed the four posters, the wall of windows at the end of the room. The water looked so pretty today, sparkling in the morning light. I sighed. I couldn’t wait to spend more time with him, but I also regretted leaving this place. This beautiful, magical house where I fell in love. Would things be the same between us when we left here? Would we still have this passion, this easy way with each other, this feeling?

Tom crossed to me and sat on the edge of the bed, dragging my hand into his. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. “I just hate to leave the dream.”

“Oh, well,” he rose, lifting my hands to his lips for a kiss. “There’s nothing to fret about. I’ve decided. We’re bringing the dream with us.”

I grinned at him as he bent to kiss me, his warm, strong hand cradling my cheek, threading through my hair and easing all the worry from my mind. He released me, stepped back from the bed and checked his phone again. “Fifty minutes,” he said. Walking to the bedroom door, he stopped for his suitcase and stood in the doorway. “The dream continues.” He winked at me, then exited, closing the door behind him.

W
e drove up the coastline
, enjoying the view and each other’s company. The heater blew softly as classical music played, a comforting drone, occasionally punctuated by our conversation, or the polite interruption of the navigation matron, informing us “in five hundred yards, turn left.” Something had been needling me, though, probing the back of my mind since the previous evening, one of those mental notes you make and promptly forget. As I stared at his gloved hands, the leather stretching with his fingers as he held the wheel, I remembered: inamorata. What
exactly
did it mean? I knew what he’d said it meant. But I wanted to find out for myself. I fished my phone out of my coat pocket and tapped the screen.

“Did someone ring?” he asked, glancing at my phone.

“No, just checking my email,” I lied. I didn’t want him to know what I was really doing. I tapped open the dictionary app and typed in the word…I…N…A… The screen hung, three little bars in the upper right straining for a signal. After a moment the screen refreshed.

M
y breath hitched
as I stared at the screen. I looked up and shielded my eyes as a shaft of winter light streamed in the driver side window, backlighting Tom’s face, his fine features outlined in a cool, blue glow.
I’m in love with you too
, I thought.
And that scares the shit out of me. Where do we fit in each other’s lives? Where do we go from here?

“Everything alright?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “Just lost in thought.”

“What about?”

“Just stuff, everything I guess. This weekend, the party, my graduation, my job, everything.”

“That’s a lot of stuff,” he said, reaching for my hand. “Easy to get overwhelmed. Might be better to focus on just one thing.”

“Okay,” I said. “What?”

“Us.”

Right…

“Now.”

Sure…

“Shopping.”

Wait, what?

“We’re here,” he said, letting go of my hand and shoving the car into park. “Time to spend some money.”

I
f my life were a movie
, the afternoon we spent shopping together would be the upbeat montage in the middle of a romantic comedy, complete with peppy musical accompaniment. The town was decorated for the holidays, great tinsel-covered snowflakes swayed from the top of every lamp post, fairy lights blinked from potted trees that lined the sidewalks, and tinny holiday music played from a public P.A. system. It was cheesy and quaint, and absolutely perfect. We had lunch from a street vendor—carnitas tacos washed down with ice cold Cokes from the bottle. Tom rescued my scarf for me when an unusually strong gust of wind whipped it down the street like a paper dragon in a Chinese parade. And we ran each other ragged, dodging back and forth across the main shopping street of Skysdale, to look at window displays that had caught our eye.

“Holy crap.” I stopped short in front of the window of a jewelry shop.

“What?” he asked, settling his chin on my shoulder.

“What stone is that? I’ve never seen that color in a gemstone. It’s like grayish, lavender-blue. It’s gorgeous.”

Bells tinkled and I looked up to see Tom holding open the shop door. He gestured inside. “Let’s find out.”

The saleswoman was on top of things with a capital T. No doubt she’d taken one look at Tom, and smelled money. I didn’t blame her. She had the necklace out of the display case and on a velvet pad in front of us before we said a word. I wondered what kind of commission scale she was on.

“Would you like to try it on?” she asked.

“Oh no,” I said as I felt Tom drawing my coat off my shoulders, and taking my purse from my hand.

“Yes, she would,” he said. “Thank you.”

He stepped back as the saleswoman came around the counter, lifting the necklace over my head and fastening it around my neck. She positioned me in front of a mirror, and I could see Tom standing just behind me, his eyes on mine. The necklace was the perfect length. It was a beautiful piece that hovered between vintage and contemporary design.

“It’s lovely,” I said, my fingers caressing the stone.

“It’s white gold and diamonds,” she said. “The large center stone is iolite. That’s Greek for ‘violet’. It has natural polarizing qualities so the Viking’s used to use it for navigation. Although there are legends that they used it for more spiritual things as well.”

“Like what?” Tom asked, stepping forward to stand beside me.

“They called iolite the dream stone. It was supposed to make dreams come true, to facilitate a journey into the dream realm. Silly stuff, but very romantic.”

“Interesting,” Tom said, and I saw him smile out of the corner of my eye.

Shit.
I had a feeling he was about to buy this necklace for me, and as much as I loved the idea, it was just too much. He’d already taken me away for the weekend and spent an ungodly amount of money on wine. I couldn’t think of accepting another thing from him.

“It’s really beautiful,” I said, unclasping the necklace and handing it back to the saleswoman. “Thank you for letting me look at it.” I turned to Tom and took back my coat and purse. “It’s nearly noon, we should head out,” I said, jerking my head towards the door.

“Killjoy.” He narrowed his eyes at me.

“Come along, Prince Charming,” I said, grabbing his arm. “Time to prepare for the ball.”

T
he saleswoman
at the jewelry store might have been able to smell money, but she was no match for the retail talents of Cordelia, the owner of A Piece of Sky.

Five-foot-nothing of Southern charm so sugary she could sweeten a gallon of tea just by dipping her finger in it, Cordelia met us at the door like we were family that was late for dinner.

“Dr. Grayson,” she whispered loudly, waving at us. “Quick, you two, c’mon!” She ushered us inside and shut the door quickly. The store was dark, the skeletons of clothing racks and shoe displays hulking in the dim light. “Let me just lock this door before the rabble find out we’re open, and start pounding at the windows like a horde of zombies.”

I thought she was kidding, till I glanced out the windows and saw a group of women whip their heads in our direction, point, and nearly cause a three-car pile-up trying to cross the road towards us.

“Oh damn it, they’ve seen us. Better batten down the hatches.” Cordelia trotted to the far wall, flipped open a panel and mashed her bejeweled fingers at the buttons inside. A sheet of metal descended from the ceiling, a cautionary beep sounding as it glided, rolling over the window, slowly blocking us from the view of the gathering crowd. Cordelia tilted her head as it lowered, watching the descent, inch by inch, giggling and waving at the crowd while they complained.

“Why don’t they just make an appointment?” I asked.

“Oh I don’t take appointments, honey. They can come back when we’re open again. January 15
^th
.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Honey, I’ve been doing this for thirty years. Year five I decided I’d rather have the Christmas season off. I can afford it. I want to see my family. I don’t care about the last minute Christmas sales and all that rush and hustle. It gives me indigestion. So I’m closed from December 15
^th
to January 15
^th
. Been that way for the last twenty-five years and everyone in this town knows it, too. Bless their hearts.”

She said the last bit in a tone that sounded more like “die in a fire” than it did an actual blessing. Cordelia’s brand of sweet tea had a healthy splash of lemon.

“But you took
our
appointment,” I said, stunned.

“I’m so sorry,” Tom said, coming up behind me. “I had no idea we were imposing. Max gave me the impression—”

“Oh no, don’t you two worry about a thing. I’m not talking about you. Max and I go way back, I’d do anything for him. Me cassa, sue cassa. Isn’t that what they say?” She strode away from us, her voice trailing off as she disappeared down a hallway at the back of the store. “Well, come on!” she said, her head popping out from behind a door. “In here. I’ve got everything ready.”

The room I walked into looked like backstage of a designer’s showroom at New York’s Fashion Week. High ceilings and bright lights, racks and racks of clothes and accessories, and a makeup table complete with two tragically bored teenage girls. But I didn’t think the girls were models. They wore black aprons, and sat on the edge of the makeup counter. One was smacking her gum while putting on lip gloss in the mirror, the other was filing her nails. When they turned towards us, I could see they were twins.

“These are my granddaughters,” Cordelia said, beaming at us. “Jeanine and Jeanette, good girls, very talented, hard workers, even if they are currently sitting on my makeup counter when I specifically” —she swatted the one closest to her on the butt— “told them not to!”