Sweet Memories (38 page)
“Do you know when I first became intrigued with you?”
She turned to find his eyes open, watching her. “When?”
They were still entwined, and he pulled her closer to keep possession of her while he went on. “It started when Jeff let me read a letter from you. In it you said you’d gone out on a date with somebody named Lyle, and he turned out to be Jack the Gripper.”
She chuckled, recalling both the letter and the disastrous date.
“That long ago?”
“Uh-huh. Two years or more. Anyway, after we laughed about it, and I wondered what kind of woman had written it, I began asking questions about you. Little by little I learned everything. About your red hair.” He threaded his fingers into it just where her widow’s peak would have been, had she one. “And your freckles.” He trailed a finger down her nose. “And your endowment.” He passed a palm down her breast. “And about the time Jeff defended you and punched out that kid, and about how you taught music in an elementary school and played violin, and how Jeff thought the sun rose and set in you, and how much he wanted you to be happy, to find some man who’d treat you honorably and wouldn’t ogle and grope and grip.”
“Two years ago?” she repeated, stunned.
“Longer than that. Closer to three now. Since Jeff and I were in Germany together. Anyway, then I saw your picture. It was one of your school pictures, and you were wearing a gray sweater buttoned around your shoulders, with a little white blouse collar showing from beneath. I asked Jeff a lot of questions then, and pieced together a picture of you and your hangup even before I knew you. There have been times when I even suspected that Jeff filled me in on all the details about you in hopes that when I met you I’d be the first man to treat you right, and end up doing exactly what I just did.”
“Jeff?” She exclaimed, surprised.
“Jeff. Didn’t you ever suspect that he engineered this whole thing from the start, feeding me tidbits about his marvelous, straight sister, who’d never had boyfriends, but who had so much to offer a man—the right man.”
She braced up on one elbow and looked thoughtful. “Jeff! You really think so?”
“Yes, I do. As a matter of fact, he all but admitted it when we were on the plane back after Christmas. He suspected things had fired up between us and came right out and said it’d been on his mind a while that he wouldn’t mind me as a brother-in-law.”
She smirked and lifted a delicate jaw. “Remind me to give old Jeff a gigantic thank-you kiss next time I see him, huh?”
“And what about you? When did you start thinking of me as a potential lover?”
“The truth?” She peered up at him coquettishly.
“The truth.”
“That night in the theater, when the love scene was on the screen. Your elbow was sharing the armrest with mine, and when the woman climaxed, your bones were almost cutting off my blood supply. Then when the man’s face came on, showing him in the throes of rapture, your elbow nearly broke mine, and when it was over,
you
wilted.”
“Me?” he yelped disbelievingly, “I did not!”
“You did too. I was practically dying of embarrassment, and then you dropped your hands down to cover your lap, and I wanted to crawl underneath the seats.”
“Are you serious? Did I really do that?”
“Of course I’m serious. Would I lie about a thing like that? I was so turned on myself I hardly knew what to do about it. Part of it was the movie, but part of it was you and your arm. After that I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like with you. Somehow I knew you’d be good ... and gentle ... and just what a freckled redhead needed to make her feel like Cinderella.”
“Do I make you feel like Cinderella?”
She studied him for a long moment, traced his lips with an index finger and nodded.
He captured the finger, bit it, then as his eyes closed, he lay very still, pressing her four fingertips against his lips.
“What are you thinking?” she whispered.
His eyes opened, but for a moment he didn’t answer. Instead he pressed his palm to hers and threaded their fingers together with slow deliberation. His fingers squeezed possessively. Hers answered. “About tomorrow. And the day after that and the day after that, and how we’ll never have to be alone again. There’ll always be each other ... and babies.” His fingers gripped more tightly. His eyes probed hers. “Do you want babies, Theresa?”
He felt her grip relax, then tug away. His stomach went light with warning, and he gripped her hand to keep it from escaping. “Theresa?”
She gazed at his face, wide-eyed, and when he saw the color begin to heighten between her freckles, he leaned above her on an elbow, frowning. “Theresa, what is it?”
She brushed his chest with her fingertips, dropping her eyes to follow the movement instead of meeting his frown. “Brian, there’s something I haven’t told you about my surgery.”
In a split second a dozen fledgeling fears spiraled through him, all dire: the surgery had somehow taken away more than met the eye, and they’d never have the babies he was dreaming of.
“Oh no, Brian, not that.” She read his trepidation, soothingly bracketed his jaws. “I can have babies—all I want. And I
do
want them. But ...”
Again she dropped her eyes while her fingers rested against his chest. “But I’ll never be able to nurse them. Not after the surgery.”
For a moment he was still, waiting for the worst. Suddenly he crushed her tightly. “Is that all?” he sighed, relieved. She hadn’t known he was holding his breath until it rushed out heavily upon her temple. Her lips were on his warm collarbone as he secured her fast and rocked her in his arms.
“It doesn’t matter to me, but I thought you should know. I thought in case you had any feelings about it we should talk about it now. Some men might consider me only ... well, half a woman or something.”
He pulled back sharply. “Half a woman?” He sounded gruff as he squeezed her shoulders. “Never think it.” Their eyes locked, and she read in his total love and approval. “Think about this.” He drew her into the warm curve of his body as he rolled aside and snuggled her so near, his heartbeat was like a drum beneath her ear. “Think about everything we’ll have some day—a house where there’ll always be music and a gang of little redheaded rascals whose—”
“Brown-haired,” she interrupted, smiling against his chest.
He went on with scarcely a missed beat “Redheaded rascals whose freckles dance when—”
“Oh no! No freckles! If you give me freckled, redheaded babies, Brian Scanlon, I’ll—”
The rest was smothered by his kiss before he grinned at her, continuing. “Redheaded rascals whose freckles dance when they play their violins—”
“Guitars. I won’t have anybody hiding under any violins!”
“Mrs. Scanlon, will you kindly stop complaining about this family of ours? I said they’ll be redheads and I mean it. And they’ll play violin in the orchestra and—”
“Guitars,” she insisted. “In a band. And their hair will be deep brown like their daddy’s.”
She threaded her fingers through it and their eyes met, heavy-lidded again with resurgent desire. Their bodies stirred against each other, their lips met, tongues sipped, and hearts clamored.
“Let’s compromise,” she suggested, scarcely aware of what she was saying, for already his hips were moving against hers.
He began speaking, but his voice was gruff and distracted. “Some redheads, some brown, some with freckles, some with guitars, some with vio—”
Her sweet seeking mouth interrupted. “Mmm-hmm ...” she murmured against his lips. “But it’ll take lots of practice to make all those babies.” Her breasts pressed provocatively against his chest. She writhed once, experimentally, glorying in her newly discovered freedom. “Show me how we’ll do it.” Their open mouths clung. His strong arm curved beneath her and rolled her atop him, then he settled her hips upon his, found the soft hollows behind her knees and drew them down until she straddled him in soft, feminine flesh. He pressed her hips away, and ordered thickly against her forehead, “Love me.”
Her heart surged with shyness. Then love moved her hand. Hesitantly she reached, found, then surrounded.
Their smiles met, faltered, dissolved. Eyelids lowered as she settled firmly upon him. A guttural sound of satisfaction rumbled from his throat, answered by her softer, wordless reply. Experimentally she lifted, dropped, warming to his encouraging hands on her hips.
Drawing back, she found his eyes still shuttered, the lids trembling.
“Oh, Brian ... Brian ... I love you so much,” she vowed with tears beginning to sting.
His eyes opened. For a moment his hands calmed the movement of her hips, then they reached to draw her face down as he kissed the outer corner of each eye. “And I love you, sweets ... always,” he whispered, drawing her mouth to his to complete the promise within it. “Always ... always.”
In the living room a forgotten record circled, circled, sending soft music down the hall. To its lazy rhythm their bodies moved. At the windows, sheets rippled, and beneath two lovers the soft swell of confined water rose up as an afterbeat to their rhythmic union. They would build a repertoire of sweet memories throughout their years as man and wife, but as they moved now, reaffirming their love, it seemed none would be so sweet as this moment that bound them in promise.
When their bodies were gifted with the manifest of that promise, when the sweet swelling peaked and the shudders ceased, they reaffirmed it once again.
“I love you,” spoke the man.
“I love you,” answered the woman.
It was enough. Together, they moved on toward forever.
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