A Bride After All (9 page)

She’d unpinned her hair from the French twist, intending to leave it down, but then reconsidered. In the end, she settled on a compromise: she’d pulled her hair back from her face, and then clipped it in place, leaving
most of it to fall free. She was wearing a simple A-line green linen skirt, a patterned shell and flat sandals. The working woman at home, at her leisure.

At least she hoped Nick would think she was relaxed.

Claire had spent the last twenty-four and more hours reliving her time with Nick. Sometimes she smiled. Sometimes she felt wistful. And more often than not, she felt heat running into her cheeks as she thought back on her behavior. Their behavior.

But she regretted not a single moment of their time together.

As Nick had said, they were adults. Adults made choices.

Hearts, however, worked independently of the choices of the mind, and never really planned ahead, thought about consequences.

Or the very real chance of being hurt.

He’d said his ex was out of his life, and had been since Sean was little more than a baby. And yet, within days of meeting him, being with him, his ex appeared to be back in the picture. Had he lied to her?

Men with sex on their minds often lied.

Not that she was an expert, but she had girlfriends. She’d heard the stories, wondered how so many otherwise intelligent women could be so gullible.

Like Janene, and the guy she had dated in secret for two years, believing that, although the guy still lived with his wife, they didn’t share a bedroom, the
marriage was all but over and he was just waiting until his daughter started high school before leaving for good. A good story—until Janene found out his wife was pregnant.

Or her friend from college, Edie, who’d confided to her just last year that the sex had never been better in her marriage than in the months before Aidan had admitted he’d been having an affair during all of those months, and was now leaving her for the other woman. Like he’d been comparison shopping, or something. Talk about your pond scum…

But Nick wasn’t like that. He simply wasn’t.

She’d heard his voice when he told her his ex had phoned him, the stunned disbelief in it.

The question was, did she really want to get involved in Nick’s life? Her own life was running smoothly now, with no dramas, no problems. She’d worked hard for the peace she’d found. It was safe here, on the ground.

The sound of the doorbell shook her from her thoughts, her pulse immediately going into overdrive. So she counted to ten, quitting at six, and opened the door.

“Delivery boy,” Nick said, holding up a large white plastic bag that was emitting decidedly enticing aromas. “I hope you like fajitas.”

“Chicken or steak?” she asked him, standing back so he could come in while doing her best not to notice how absolutely gorgeous he was, or how much she wanted to, yes, jump his bones.

“I’m allowed in either way?” he asked her.

“It’s seven o’clock and I haven’t eaten since I managed half a bologna sandwich around noon. If you want to leave, you can. But the bag stays here.”

“Then it’s chicken. Oh, and hi, thanks for taking me in tonight.” He leaned in, kissed her on the mouth, withdrawing before she was ready, so that she was left standing there with her eyes closed, her mouth still craving more.

By the time she’d recovered, Nick was unloading the bag, pulling out Styrofoam containers and arranging them on the table. She hastened over to help him.

“Wine’s in the fridge. I hope I bought the right kind.”

“Screw top or cork?” he asked her, straightening and pushing a hand through the hair that had fallen forward on his forehead.

“Cork,” she said, guessing.

“Then you bought the right kind. That’s as picky as I get about wine. I’ll get it, you sit down.”

The meal was pleasant. They talked about work, Sean’s Healthy Living project for school and the best way to keep poster board from folding in half when set up in a tripod display on a cafeteria table, the President’s upcoming visit to Allentown to kick off some small-business incentive just passed by the Congress and how traffic would be snarled all day.

They could talk about anything, move seamlessly from subject to subject. It was as if they’d known each other all of their lives. The meal disappeared, the level in the wine bottle went down, almost without them noticing.

By the time Claire picked up their plates and carried them into the kitchen, Nick was looking a lot more relaxed than he had when she’d opened the door to him. The tight lines around his mouth were gone, and the slight shadow had left his eyes.

Claire felt rather proud of herself about that.

Nick put the wine glasses down on the counter as she rinsed the plates and fitted them into the dishwasher. “Thanks, Claire, I know I needed that. I think I’m finally past the panic, and can maybe talk to you about Sandy’s phone call without breaking things.”

She rinsed and loaded the utensils and wine glasses before drying her hands on a dishtowel. “Since they’d be my things, I’m glad I could help. But you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Maybe it would be better if you just tried to forget whatever it is until you feel better equipped to…to—”

“Not want to choke her with her own guitar strap?” he suggested as they returned to the living room.

“Okay, that would be a good reason,” Claire said, smiling at him as she sat down on the couch, kicking off her sandals and pulling her legs up under her as she patted the cushion next to her, inviting him to join her. “It might also be a reason to tell me. You know, blow off some steam?”

“Yes. I’d like to do that.”

She sat quietly and let him talk. She rubbed his back when he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his very real and logical concerns for Sean touching her heart.

He finished with Sandy’s parting threat, that of hiring a lawyer.

“Do you really think she’ll do that?”

“I don’t know,” Nick said, leaning back against the cushions, looking exhausted. “I’ve thought about wiring her some money, thinking that maybe that’s what she’s really after, and she’s just using Sean as a club of sorts. But she could just as easily hire a lawyer with it.”

“And a lawyer could take her money, and then turn around and accuse you of trying to buy her off,” Claire pointed out carefully. “My vote would be no money. That is, not that I have a vote.”

He took her hand, brought it to his lips. “I like that you’re concerned. I really appreciate it.”

She felt her cheeks coloring. “I appreciate that you thought to…to share with me.”

“And thus ends the first annual convention of the Barrington-Ayers Mutual Appreciation Club.” He pulled her close, whispering his next words into her ear. “But before we adjourn…”

She smiled as he tipped her chin up so that he could kiss her blissfully closed eyes, the tip of her nose, teasing her with small kisses before at last claiming her mouth.

All the passion she’d felt before came rushing back, but now that passion had taken on a deeper meaning, a rich fullness that could only come from more than mere sexual compatibility, which they had in abundance.

She stroked his cheek, but more to feel his closeness than to further their passion. She wanted to be here with him, yes, but she also wanted to be here
for
him. As she instinctively knew he would be there for her if she needed him.

This was all new to her. This more mature passion. This totally unselfish giving.

She felt tears welling up in her eyes, and welcomed them, even as she welcomed Nick’s touch.

Over the weekend, they’d had sex.

Tonight, between them, they made love…

“S
o?”

Claire finished retouching her lipstick in the mirror above the sinks in the community center lavatory, trying not to laugh at the anxious look on Marylou Smith-Bitters’ face. Except for her forehead, of course, that couldn’t wrinkle if she were offered a million dollars to wiggle her well-plucked eyebrows.

She closed the lipstick and returned it to her purse before answering. “You know, Marylou, my grandmother always had an answer for that question. So what? Sew buttons. I don’t know what she meant, but I soon learned not to ask her questions that particular way.”

Marylou grinned. “You’re stalling. Good. That means it went well. Do I get details?”

Claire zipped shut her purse and turned around, leaning back against the countertop. “Uh-uh.”

“Ah, even better. I get to make them up on my own. And I have a
very
good imagination.”

“Good try, but you won’t embarrass me into telling you anything, either.” Claire headed for the door, as class would begin soon, but then turned around to face Marylou. “Thank you,” she said simply. “For butting in.”

“Me? Claire, sweetie, I don’t butt in. I…all right. I butt in. You will admit, though, that I do it very well. I like to see people happy, that’s all. And
how
they can be made happy is always so obvious to me.” She shrugged her Armani-clad shoulders. “It’s a gift.”

Claire laughed. “It’s something, that’s for sure. I understand I have a new class member tonight. Also a gift from you.”

“Evelina,” Marylou said, following Claire out of the restroom. “She only gave birth a month ago, to just the most beautiful little boy. He looks like an angel from one of Michelangelo’s paintings. Big brown eyes the size of saucers. You still have a minute—come see him.”

“Come see him? He’s here?”

“Don’t panic, I know you can’t have a baby in the classroom, or everyone would want to bring their own children, and then what could you get done, right? But Salvatore—Evelina’s husband—takes
Nick’s class, so it was either bring Stefano or Evelina couldn’t take the class. So I…improvised.”

They’d gotten to the registration desk by then, and Claire saw a good-looking young woman with a flattering mop of copper curls holding a blanket-wrapped bundle up against her shoulder, a mixture of soft affection and blind panic in her eyes.

“Chessie, support his head, for pity’s sake,” Marylou scolded the woman. “He’s little, but babies are strong, and he could decide to perform a back flip.”

The woman quickly put a hand to the back of the baby’s head. “I told you I love babies, Marylou. Do you remember me saying anything about knowing how to take care of them? Because I sure don’t.”

“You’re a woman, Chessie. It comes naturally.”

“That’s an old wives’ tale, unfortunately, which is why I give my class,” Claire said, immediately thinking of Nick’s ex-wife, Sandy. “Hi, I’m Claire Ayers,” she told Chessie. “May I see him?”

“Chessie Burton. Nice to meet you, Claire. And you can have him,” Chessie said, gratefully handing over the infant. “They’re so…breakable.”

Claire cradled the baby in her arms and smiled down at him. He did look like one of Michelangelo’s cherubs. Her eyes ran over him professionally. His color was good, he held his little hands in tight fists, and he seemed to be trying to follow voices with his eyes. Just a nice, healthy, precious little bundle of love.

“I brought Chessie along to help me watch Stefano while Evelina and Salvatore are in class,”
Marylou said. “I didn’t realize she was incompetent, did I, Chessie?”

“Har-har,” Chessie grumbled, folding her hands under her breasts. “The things you rope me into during a weak moment, Marylou…”

“Just ignore her, Claire. She’s really a sweetheart. Chessie owns Second Chance Bridal, you know. It’s just the most marvelous shop, and dedicated to second-time-around brides, who often aren’t comfortable in regular bridal salons. Isn’t that just a genius idea? I’ve been her customer. Twice.”

“One more time, and I may begin offering her a discount,” Chessie said, her cornflower blue eyes dancing.

“An interesting offer, but I finally got it right with Ted. Sometimes the first one just doesn’t stick, does it? Like, oh, like for Nick,” Marylou said, and now
her
eyes were dancing.

“And we’re off,” Chessie said, as if she’d witnessed Marylou in action before, and rather enjoyed the experience. “This would be Nick Barrington, right, Marylou? Barb’s cousin, who came with her to the salon? The one you said you had just the perfect woman for?
That
Nick Barrington?”

“Maybe,” Marylou said, taking Stefano from Claire. “You’ll be late for class, honey,” she added, expertly snuggling the now sleeping baby. Or perhaps using him as a shield.

Claire and Chessie exchanged glances, and a friendship was born.

“It was nice meeting you, Claire,” Chessie said. “Maybe we can all get together someday for lunch. My salon closes from twelve-thirty to two every day.”

“I’m afraid I rarely get to leave the office for lunch,” Claire said, genuinely disappointed. “But perhaps we three could have dinner one night?”

“Wonderful! Tomorrow night,” Marylou said quickly. Deftly balancing Stefano on her shoulder, she reached into her purse and pulled out an ivory-colored business card with gold edging, and handed it to Claire. “We’ll meet at the salon, all right? It’s central to your office and my hairdresser, and you really should see it, Claire. It’s just a lovely place. I’m having my roots touched up tomorrow at three, so we could all meet at, say, five-thirty? I’ll make reservations. Oh, I know! Do you like Italian? There’s this lovely restaurant in Bethlehem called Stefano’s I like a lot. Isn’t that perfect? Almost like a
sign
.”

Chessie stifled a giggle with her fist as she turned her reaction into a cough.

“Uh…okay. Sure,” Claire said, nodding her suddenly whirling head. “Tomorrow. Well, I’ve got to run.”

She was still within earshot when she heard Chessie say, “And now I owe you five bucks. You were right, Marylou, as usual. It’s perfect for her.”

It’s perfect for her?
What was perfect for her?

Claire shrugged her shoulders and kept walking,
mentally shifting gears to her topic for tonight’s class: ear infections. She lived such a glamorous life…

He watched her walk toward him, threading her way through the students just recently released from their classrooms.

She amazed him.

There was this…calmness about her. She stood out in any crowd. There was some sort of
aura
she projected, one that had nothing to do with how beautiful she was, or the clothes she wore. No. It was more than that.

Claire was the sort of person others automatically looked to for answers, for direction. For reassurance. If selected to serve on a jury, she would be unanimously nominated to be the foreperson. If a plane went down in the Hudson, you could count on her to not panic, to be the one others looked to for rescue. If the carefully constructed world you’d built for your son was in danger of coming apart, Claire could be counted on to remain objective, be supportive.

People couldn’t learn to be like Claire Ayers. You were either born with this special gift, or you weren’t. And like most people like her, she had no idea how very special she was.

He’d needed her last night. Her calmness, her competence. He’d been in a near panic ever since Sandy’s phone call, whether that was a rational
reaction or not. He hadn’t cared about himself—he had survived Sandy, and he was a big boy, he could handle his own problems.

But not Sean.

Nick’s son was his world, and now that world might be threatened. Rational thought hadn’t been at the top of Nick’s list of things to do after Sandy’s phone call.

A week ago, his reaction would have been to call his lawyer, demand a miracle, no matter what the cost.

Yesterday, his only thought had been to talk to Claire Ayers. That hadn’t been fair of him, he knew that, but it had felt so natural to go to her, to talk with her, to sort out his feelings and, yes, to have her rub his back, touch his hand, the physical contact, that so-human contact, making him feel less alone.

He hadn’t gone to her with the idea that they’d have sex again. Sex had been the last thing on his mind, for crying out loud. But when comforting had somehow segued to something more intimate the shift had been seamless, a natural progression.

Their pace had been more relaxed and unhurried than before, each touch more deliberate, to be slowly savored. He’d taken his time with her, rousing her even as she calmed him, until their bodies found their combined rhythms.

He’d worshiped her body with his mouth, his hands. Kissing her everywhere, touching her everywhere. She hadn’t been passive, but she seemed to know that he needed to be the aggressor, needed to be in control of something in his life at that moment.

She gave to him, opened herself to him, took him deep inside her. Holding him, unselfishly lending him her strength. Making him—God help him or damn him for a fool—remember he was a man, that he had strengths of his own.

Somehow she’d sensed when he’d moved beyond needing and progressed to wanting. Madly, deeply, wanting. Wanting her.
Only her.
Only then did she become the aggressor, openly sexual. Driving him wild, taking them both out of the world that was and into a new, boundless universe of sensual pleasure.

And when at last they came back to Earth, replete, holding each other, whispering nonsense things to each other, smiling, even laughing, Nick knew himself to be stronger than he’d been, more centered and less worried, better prepared to face his problem with Sandy head-on, and protect his son.

Because now, whether or not either of them had said so in more than physical ways, Nick had realized he was no longer facing that problem alone.

He pressed a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, reluctantly pushing away thoughts of last night, and smiled at Claire as he held up a white paper bag so she could see it.

“
Mille-feuille, mon chère
?” he said as she looked at the bag, and then inhaled deeply.

“If that means do I want to know what that heavenly smell is, yes, I do,” she told him, reaching for the bag. “I missed lunch again today, thanks to
Jaime Adams and his desire to see how many peas he could fit in his ear. Gimme!”

“You don’t even want to compliment me on my French?”

She reached again for the bag, this time managing to grab it. “Not particularly, no. Oh, Napoleons. Why didn’t you just say so? I
love
Napoleons. Let’s go to the cafeteria and snag some forks.”

“You didn’t eat lunch, and you want a Napoleon for dinner? I think you’re overlooking several other food groups, Ms. Ayers.” He grabbed the bag once more.

She tipped her head as she glared at him. “I’m a grown-up, Nick. One of the benefits of being a grown-up is getting to break a rule now and then. But you’re right.”

“I’ve also got an ulterior motive,” he told her as they turned in unison and headed for the cafeteria. “I want to tell you about Sandy’s follow-up call this afternoon, if you don’t mind.”

She shot him a concerned look. “Nope. I can’t tell by looking at you if this is going to be good news or bad news.”

They picked up trays and got in line behind the leotard-clad exercise ladies, Claire hanging back a little so that he had to get into line first. He hid a smile. “It’s half of one, half of the other. She’s flying in to Allentown from Vegas on Friday.”

Claire only nodded, as if she’d been expecting this possibility. “And the good news?”

“She promises not to come to see Sean or try to contact him in any way until I’ve talked to her and I agree that she can. And then we move on to the dilemna, I suppose. Do I tell Sean? What do I tell Sean?”

They both turned to look at his son, sitting at his usual table with his friends from the karate class. It was chocolate ice cream again tonight. Nick didn’t know if “real men” presoaked, but he’d learned how to do it.

“Thanks, Ruth,” Claire said, grabbing the plate holding two slices of plain pizza and quickly lowering it to Nick’s tray. “Pretend it’s yours,” she said quietly. “And then order, I don’t know, yogurt or something for me.”

Nick looked at her, glanced to his left to the petite blond whose heavily made-up face wasn’t made prettier by her sneering smile, or her condescending
tsk-tsk
, and then looked at Claire again. “You’re kidding, right?” he asked her in a whisper. “You care what that semi-anorexic woman thinks?”

“Well, I am going to eat at least half of one of those Napoleons, you know, so I shouldn’t really have too many other carbs,” she said, and then shook her head in disgust. “What, am I nuts? Ruth? Ruth! How about two more slices for Mr. Barrington now that I have mine. With pepperoni, please.”

Nick had laid the pastry bag he’d gotten courtesy of Salvatore on his own tray, but now Claire picked it up, unrolled the top, and stepped past him, to all
but stick the open bag beneath the blonde’s nose. “Here. Inhale. Sinful, isn’t it? That’s my dessert, and I’m going to eat it all. What’s yours? Or do you guys just go out on the lawn after this and graze?”

Nick tried to cover his bark of laughter by turning it into a cough. But it didn’t work and he gave it up. Instead, he leaned against the railing that served as a sort of cattle-shoot for the cafeteria line and laughed until tears came to his eyes.

The blond woman picked up her tray and nearly ran after her friends, probably in a hurry to get away from the lunatics, and Claire covered her face with her hands. “Oh, why did I
do
that? I must be really,
really
hungry.”

“Remind me to always keep you well fed,” Nick told her as he paid for their meals and they headed for what some romantic sort might have begun to call
their table
. Sean was already sitting there. “Hi, Sean. You boys are all done?”

“No, just me. You’ve got one of those bags from Mr. Georgio’s bakery again. What’s in it? Donuts? Hi, Ms. Ayers.”