Asking for Trouble (13 page)

She smoothed down the tight-fitting bodice of the sundress she’d chosen to wear over her slim figure, hoping that Tom wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off of her, and praying that a second date with him wouldn’t turn out to be the mistake of her lifetime. She slipped on a short matching jacket and moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue—remembering his kiss, craving another, and already regretting the ones she’d missed out on.

“Whoa, mama, look at you!” she heard Judy say when she emerged from the cloister of her bedroom, where she’d spent every second dressing and redressing and redressing again since they’d arrived home from the studio. Her friend shimmied her shoulders and wagged her brows. “If this is the way you dress for a date you’re not looking forward to, remind me never to double-date with you and someone you’re crazy about.”

“Too much?” Sydney asked. She looked at the dress ambivalently. She was perfectly willing to change into something drab and depressing.

“No. It’s perfect. You’ll knock him dead.”

Sydney looked horrified.

“For crying out loud, it’s a figure of speech,” Judy said, her tolerance for Sydney’s self-imposed misery obviously growing thin. “You’ve got to stop this. Think of him as a man, not a mortician. There’s more to him than just his job. You said so yourself. You spent twelve straight hours with him and never once guessed what he did for a living. You didn’t even talk about his job because you had so many other things to talk about.”

“Yeah, like how we were going to survive the night,” Sydney replied sarcastically.

“That was a fluke. It’ll never happen again. Tonight will be calm and peaceful.”

“Dull, you mean. And then we’ll run out of things to say and start talking about our jobs ... Oh, why did I agree to do this?” she wailed, flopping down on the couch beside Judy like an old dish rag. “I just should have said I was sorry and run away.”

“I really hate to sound like somebody’s mother, but—” July raised her voice and whined the words—“running away is no answer.”

“There is no answer.”

“Sure there is,” her friend insisted. “Go out with Tom and see if it’s still like magic. If it is, then think of a way to work things out. If the magic is gone ... well then, it’s gone. You won’t have to drive yourself nuts anymore.”

Judy was a down-to-earth, straight-thinking person, not unlike Sydney most of the time—which was why they got along so well. At that moment more than ever before, Sydney was grateful for her friendship.

“You’re right.” In a concise, linear manner Sydney plotted the course of the evening. “I’ll go. I’ll apologize, and he’ll be understanding. He’ll be patient and try to explain his job to me. I’ll get a clearer picture of what it is exactly that he does as a mortician ... and then I’ll throw up in his lap. He’ll get angry—madder than he was this afternoon—and hell start calling me insane or emotionally disturbed. I’ll be offended. I’ll call him a ... a mortician, and he’ll be insulted. He’ll stalk off and leave me stranded with the tab at the restaurant. I’ll call a cab, and it’ll be over.”

A defeated Judy threw up her hands in exasperation, but didn’t have time to speak before the doorbell rang. Sydney groaned.

“Stop that,” Judy said, smacking her friend’s arm with the back of her hand. “Give it a chance.”

Walking to the door, Sydney admitted to herself that she had no other choice but to give the feelings she had for Tom a second chance. While her mind was playing devil’s advocate, her heart was firmly set on loving Tom. Where her brain could detect and foresee insurmountable complications arising from the gulf that existed between her nature and his career, her heart vacillated blissfully between not caring and optimistically looking for a bridge that would span the gap between them. And although her thoughts could cause her chest to become heavy and her stomach to ache, her emotions ruled and motivated her.

Expecting to see Tom when she opened the door, Sydney gasped in surprise at the sight of a man dressed in black livery, cap in hand.

“Sydney Wiesman?” he asked in a detached but pleasant voice.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Ghorman has sent a car for you. I’m Wakefield, your driver.”

“Oh, this I’ve got to see,” Judy said, jumping up from the couch to the door in one swift motion.

Not knowing what to think or how to feel, Sydney took a firmer hold of her purse and followed the driver.

Judy’s giggles and ludicrous facial expressions had little effect on her. She still had reservations about going. Why had he sent a car for her? Wasn’t he as eager to see her as she was to see him? Was it a show of power? Had something happened to him? Was it an insult? Or was he trying to impress her, hoping to revive the feelings of affection they’d shared on their first date?

She remained silent until they emerged from the building.

“That’s not a ... a ...” she stammered, at the sight of a long black limousine parked at the curb.

“A hearse?” Judy supplied the word for her.

“But ... but ...” Sydney was too stunned to speak.

Judy, however, had no difficulty understanding her. “Will you relax? The family rides in the limousine. You have to be able to sit up and breathe to ride in the limousine.” She motioned for the perplexed driver to open the door. Giving her pal an encouraging headlong nudge into the back of the limo, she slammed the door closed before Sydney could turn around and get out again. Bellowing from the other side of the tinted window, Judy added, “It’s you, Sydney! You were born to ride in a limousine.”

Sydney seriously doubted it, but there wasn’t a whole lot she could do, short of throwing a hysterical fit—which she refused to do. She was determined to see Tom and finalize their relationship one way or another. And if the mountain wouldn’t come to her, she’d have to ride to the mountain in a black limousine. That’s all there was to it, she decided firmly, actively avoiding the driver’s curious glances through the rearview mirror, wishing the interior wasn’t as black and solemn looking as the exterior.

Some thirty minutes later, Tom’s face passed briefly through Sydney’s field of vision, and then she heard him say, “What’s the matter with her? What happened?”

“I don’t know, sir,” a male voice replied. “She looked okay when we left, but she kept muttering things like ‘I wish it were white,’ ‘I can do this,’ and ‘This isn’t what it looks like.’” He shrugged. “I tried talking to her, but she kept on muttering, and after a while she stopped and got all glassy eyed. That’s when I called and asked you to meet us here. I wasn’t sure of what to do for her.”

Tom bent and peered into the limo at Sydney. “Help me pry her out, will you? I think she’ll be okay once she’s out in the open and gets some fresh air.”

With the driver pushing from one side and Tom pulling from the other, they managed to get her to the door.

“Come on, sweetheart. You’re okay,” Tom said, coaxing her through the opening. “This wasn’t such a hot idea, was it?”

Like a zombie, she stood up beside the limousine, staring at the top button of Tom’s white shirt, hearing but not thinking or feeling. Mental and emotional shutdown had been her only defense against her overactive imagination and her overreacting senses.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “This is my fault. I should have guessed you’d connect a black limousine with—” he paused as he caught sight of the driver, who was standing several feet away and taking in the scene with less concern than curiosity.

“Thanks, Wakefield. She’ll be fine, so you can take off now. I’ll take her home myself.” His dismissal left the driver no alternative but to tip his hat and bid his employer a good evening before he drove away.

“There. It’s gone now,” Tom said, turning his attention back to Sydney.

They were alone in the parking lot above a private marina in Alamitos Bay. A breathtaking sunset was at its peak. The Supreme Artist had fused fuchsia, gold, and blue in a unique and perfect fashion, a once-in-a-lifetime, never-to-be-seen-again spectacle—but neither of them seemed to notice.

“Sydney, look at me,” Tom said, touching her face, soothing her with hand and voice. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d feel safer if I didn’t come to pick you up, and a taxi seemed out of the question, so I ... look at me, Sydney.”

Her eyes moved slowly in his direction, taking on a slow light of recognition.

“Bright pillows,” she muttered.

“What?”

“Bright pillows.” Her tongue grew more limber with the exercise. “It’s all black. Bright-colored pillows would help.”

Tom laughed, both in relief and at what was apparently her last rational thought before her mind had closed up shop.

“You know, I think you’re right,” he said, making a mental note to have all the interiors of his limousines redecorated. “Black is depressing, and the last thing in the world we need more of is depression. Whoever said that in keeping with decorum, everything had to be black?”

“Not me. Those silver-gray limousines are nice too,” she said, closing her eyes and trying to clear the fuzziness in her head. She felt at a distinct disadvantage having to spend her first few moments with Tom regrouping her senses. But of all the people in the world to be at a disadvantage with, Tom would always be her first choice.

She had great faith in Tom’s understanding and patience. From the moment she’d shared her secret with him, he had been nothing but compassionate. Tested by betrayal, anger, and pain, his integrity had never faltered.

“What’s this?” she asked when she began to take note of her surroundings. She felt Tom’s arm loop around her waist as he turned her toward the sunset and the flotilla of seagoing vessels below.

“This is Plan B. Remember? If you didn’t like me, I was going to win you over with my boat?” he said.

His words hit her like a gut punch.

“Tom. I
do
like you. I ... I like you very much. What happened at the police station wasn’t personal.”

“It wasn’t?”

“No. I mean, it wasn’t your fault. It was mine. It was a blind reaction to your being a ... a ...”

“Mortician? Undertaker?” He didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by her inability to accept his profession. In fact, He was teasing her about it.

“Well, yes,” she said, bewildered by his behavior. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am that I let myself react without considering ... How sorry I am that I hurt you.”

“Sure you can. But let me show you my boat first.” He had her by the hand and was pulling her down the planks that led to the docks.

“You don’t have to do this, you know. Having a boat isn’t going to change the way I feel about you,” she said, trotting along behind him to keep up with his long, hurried strides.

“You mean, I don’t stand a chance—ever? No matter what?” he asked, coming to a sudden halt.

She didn’t see the expression on his face. She’d collided nose first with his chest and was busy trying to right herself and answer him at the same time. If she had seen his face, she would have seen the glint of determination in his eyes and the stubborn set of his jaw and given up then and there.

“No. That’s not what I meant.”

“I do have a chance, then,” he concluded.

She stood back and saw that his eyes were filled with laughter and what could only be described as supreme confidence. It was baffling. It shook her own confidence to its core. He was a man with a plan. And she was the nucleus around which he’d designed his ambitions.

“There
might
be a chance for us,” she said carefully.

A shockingly cocky grin quivered across his lips. He turned and began to walk toward the end of the pier again, slowly but still with a tight grip on her hand.

“It’s more than just might or maybe, Sydney,” he said without a trace of humor. “I admit I had my doubts. I figured it was over the minute you found out I was a mortician. But that was before this afternoon.”

“This afternoon?” She let him lead her farther down the pier, wondering what had happened to furnish him with so much assurance. She’d obviously missed something.

“You were confused.”

“I’m
still
confused. How does that change anything?”

“It changes our future from an absolute impossibility to a conceivable possibility,” he said, guiding her onto a four-foot walkway between two large sail craft. “Your confusion is an open invitation for me to persuade you to start thinking my way.”

“Oh yeah?” she said, responding to the challenge he was presenting her. “And what exactly is your way of thinking?”

His gaze captured hers and held it fast, proving the seriousness of what he was about to say.

“We belong together,” he stated firmly, leaving no room for an if, and, or but. “What do you think of her?” he asked abruptly, sweeping a hand out over the boat on their right before she had time to argue.

In a state of denial—spiked heavily with yearning—she watched him step down onto the deck of the boat. He turned to help her, holding his arms out expectantly, seeming to know that she wouldn’t run, that she’d leap into his arms anytime he asked her to.

It was true, of course. As much as she wanted to feel in control of the situation, she knew in that instant that she wasn’t in control of anything—her mind, her heart, the circumstances. She was a willing victim of the moment, a fatality to a power far greater than any she possessed ... a casualty of love. She stood on the dock and looked at Tom, acknowledging in her heart that she loved him more than anything else in the world.

There were no bells, no firecrackers. Nothing was as she had expected it to be. After all the years of wanting and wishing for love, all she felt was a bittersweet soreness in her chest that was deeper and truer than anything she’d ever felt before.

Unable to disappoint him, she placed her hands on his shoulders and allowed herself to be lifted, then lowered to the deck beside him.

The double-mast schooner, with its gleaming white planks, varnished oak trim, and polished brass, was obviously well loved and cared for. It was a beautiful vessel. One Sydney normally would have gotten extremely enthusiastic over. But she wasn’t looking at the sleek, lean lines of the hull and the height of the masts and imagining herself sailing with the wind in her face.