Beguiled Again: A Romantic Comedy (22 page)

But she didn’t speak the words. Instead she whispered his name, over and over again, until his lips silenced her. They were meshed, legs and arms and bodies and souls.

They drifted into a restless sleep, and as usual, she was the first to waken. She covered them both with the quilt, then lay there in the silence, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

His eyelids opened slowly, but his eyes were clear, as if he’d been awake...and waiting...and thinking...and feeling her watching him. “Cecilia.”

She reached to touch his lips to trace their shape, to remember.

His words were measured. “Cecil, marry me.”

She froze, not believing her ears, testing the lead weight in her stomach, the reaction that was not joy. Why? she wanted to ask him. Why couldn’t you leave it alone? Why couldn’t you leave things the way they were? She tried to pull away from him, but he wouldn’t let go. “Come on, Jeff," she said, forcing a smile. "You know it would never work.”

"Why not?"

She took a deep breath and fought to keep her tone light. "You’re a smart guy. I’m sure you can spreadsheet all the reasons."

"But I don’t want to be that guy, the careful guy who spreadsheets all the reasons not to marry you. I want to be the guy who grabs happiness and holds on." He pulled her closer, tasted her lips, took them in a gentling kiss. “Feel that?” he murmured. “Do you feel it?”

“Yes, and it’s—it’s wonderful. It’s beyond wonderful. But, really, marriage? You just think you want to marry me. But what about living with our insanity for—” she choked on the words “—for the rest of our days.”

"The rest of your days? When you put it that way..." He nibbled the tender skin stretched over her clavicle, then stroked it with his tongue. "I’ll have to think about that. Men have committed murder and gotten off with shorter sentences."

"No fair! I’m ticklish!" And despite her core-deep knowledge that he was wrong, so wrong, for her and worse, for her oldest son—she found herself laughing in his arms, cuddled against his strong, warm chest.

“How can I convince you?” he asked, his thumbs rubbing her shoulders.

“Just slow down a minute, please,” she begged. “Jeff, listen to me. We’ve got to be reasonable. I can’t even picture you and Peter under the same roof.”

“Peter’s a spoiled brat.” His blunt words were softened with a crooked smile. “So am I. And we’re both used to getting our own way. We’ll both have to give, and learn to share you. It won’t be easy, but it’ll work. We’ll make it work.” He took her hands and squeezed them reassuringly. “And Brad and Annie are so much like you, how could I not adore them?”

“You make it sound much easier than it is,” Cecilia muttered.

Jeff tugged at her chin until she had to look straight into his eyes and see the confusion there. “Do you realize how difficult this is for me?" he asked. "I feel like I’m stepping blindfolded off a gangplank, hoping the water’s deep enough so that I won’t break my neck, and hoping that the sharks that are circling aren’t hungry, and hoping that I can swim with my feet and hands bound—and not giving a damn if all those hopes fall through, because the bottom line is that you’re waiting under that gangplank for me, and you’re worth all the risks. I don’t have all the answers, but I know the answer begins with you and me. Together. Whatever else it takes, I’m willing.”

“I want to believe you so badly.”

Finally she faced him, tears clogging her throat like stones. “You want to know what I’m afraid of? I’ll tell you what I’m afraid of! I’m terrified of needing you. Because I don’t know if I’ve got what it takes to pick up the pieces if I ever let myself get close to someone again and it doesn’t work. You don’t screw up your bank account and you don’t drop your towels on the floor and you don’t know how to walk barefoot across a minefield of toys in the dark to check on one of kids without waking them up, and—and you’ll end up miserable, and making me miserable because I can’t live up to your definition of orderly and normal. I’ve already lived that life, and I failed at it, and now that I have a life that fits me, that fits my kids, that works—I can’t risk it all again. I can’t."

“That’s it?” he asked, his voice strangled.

She nodded mutely.

“Do you realize what you’re saying? This—” his hands sliced the air “—this steel wall I’m banging against—it’s not even the issue! The kids aren’t the problem at all.” His tone was low, controlled, but his anger was as evident as if he had shouted. Moments passed and finally he added, his voice hoarse, “I thought there wasn’t anything we couldn’t work out. The kids, our differences. You see, Cecilia, I’ve spent the past weeks hoping, praying and finally believing that you needed me, loved me, would want me to be in your life. You’re such a damned good mother, always putting your kids first, and I understood that. But that’s not the way it was at all, was it? The kids were your excuse, your shield.”

“No,” she whispered. And then she added, more painfully, more honestly, “Maybe.”

“If I were a damned scoutmaster—you’d still say no.”

Was he right? Had she used the children as an excuse? Sick dread filled her, dread that she’d been lying even to herself. And so she dug deep, dug for the most quivering, vulnerable honesty she possessed.  "I’d say no if you were a scoutmaster...who was also an accountant,” she said, wiping tears with the backs of her hands.

"Wow." She saw the shadows shift as he moved away from her.

"You think that because you love me, you can change, you can be somebody different, to fit into my world. But I’ve already lived that nightmare, tried to be someone different to fit into someone else’s world, and I failed so hard, I took three kids and a broken family with me. And you think because you..." She forced the words out, words that she still couldn’t believe, "Because you love me, you can do this thing, change everything about yourself to fit in. But how long until you start making reasonable requests, little requests that anybody in the world would agree were reasonable—for me to meet you halfway? For me to change, too? And how selfish am I, that I can’t do that, that I can’t at least promise to try? How selfish am I, that I can’t go back to that life of trying and failing to fit into a neat, orderly world? Not even for you?"

“Sweet, sweet Cecil.” The kiss he offered her was almost reverent, beseeching, his lips soft against hers, continuing the promise his words had begun. “Give me a chance,” he whispered. “Give us a chance.”

“No,” she answered, tears welling in her eyes.

He rolled away from her. His movements were jerky with barely controlled frustration as he tugged on his shorts, his trousers, then, bare chested, braced himself against the old dresser and faced her. “What do I have to say that I haven’t said? What do I have to promise that I haven’t promised?”

His anger hung between them and she shivered, not because she felt cold, but because she knew this was the end. She’d known all along it wouldn’t last, but she hadn’t expected it to blow up so fast, so hard,. He snatched the quilt from the floor and tossed it at her.

She wrapped it around her shoulders and swallowed.
 

“Cecilia, don’t worry. You’re safe. You don’t need me. I’ve seen that from the beginning. I tried to make a place for myself, and maybe I could have if I’d been more patient, if I’d been willing to settle for less. But I’m just too selfish for that. I wanted to be more than just the something extra in your life.”
 

She heard the front door hinges squeak, long and grating, the screen shut, muffled and final.
 

She stumbled to her feet, to the foyer, wanting to call him back, yet knowing it was over.
 

When she heard his car drive away, she fell against the door, her trembling hands covering her face, the quilt sliding to the floor.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

SHE COULD ALMOST mark off, hour by hour, her existence during the ten days since she’d chased Jeff away.

At first she’d felt only numb acceptance. She’d done the right thing for her kids, for her, for Jeff. The house wrapped its familiar, comforting arms around her. She played the music that had masked the empty, painful places in her life after the divorce. She slept. It had been years since she’d slept that dead-to-the-world kind of sleep that sucked her under and blocked out the pain.

The kids had returned, too, full of their adventures at the Alamo and Sea World, and they noticed when her enthusiasm was too forced and too quickly spent. Monday afternoon had been hell. The kids had their playoff tickets and, of course, expected to go to the Mavericks game. Not knowing what else to do, she’d taken them...to be haunted by the empty seat where Jeff should have been. She had muttered an explanation—Jeff obviously hadn’t gotten back from his “business trip” in time to attend—and in the frenzy of the loudest arena in the National Basketball Association, no one questioned her excuse, not even Peter.

And when they asked why she wasn’t yelling, cheering, jumping up and down as the Mavs came from behind and won by thirteen, she had the best excuse of all. My voice. I can’t strain my voice. I have to sing tomorrow.

Tonight, Wednesday, had been the same. Walking up the steep concrete steps at American Airlines Center she’d scanned their row, looking for that familiar head of brown hair and the tall, lanky frame... and found the empty chair. She was numb, too numb to care, she told herself. Liar, she called herself. She cared. God, she cared.

The children had fallen into an exhausted sleep on the way home from the game and had been in their beds for hours. She would have to explain, somehow, why Jeff wouldn’t be around anymore. But not now. Not when she couldn’t even talk about Jeff without her throat tightening and her heart aching.

But she was right, damn it. She might be miserable, but that didn’t change the fact that she was right.

She stared into the darkness, the heavy scent of lemon oil from her cleaning spree still clinging to the air. She should be very proud of herself. Her life was continuing, smooth as clockwork. Smoother than usual. Recordings, basketball games, soccer practice—she was too busy to fret.

See? she said to the man who wasn’t there to hear. Without you, I can manage better than with you. I’m fine now. It was nice, Jefferson, but all good things come to an end. Ours was a little better than usual, and ended a littler harder than usual, but good ol’ Cecil always bounces back.

“Mom?” Peter’s voice was low, urgent.

Her head throbbed with fatigue as she turned to him. His thin form was silhouetted in the doorway.

“Have you been sitting in here all night?”

All night? She repeated to herself, finally noticing the pink-gold tinge peaking through the lace draperies at the window.

“Are you sick?” He stood beside her.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I just couldn’t sleep.”

“But all night?”

She pulled him close. “No,” she lied. “I woke up early and decided to watch the sunrise. Are you hungry? How about breakfast?”

“Pancakes?”

“Okay, sure. Why not?”

They walked together toward the kitchen, but then he stopped her. “Mom?”

“What?”

“I love you.”
 

~o0o~

The light blinked on his telephone. Jeff raised his head from his arms and picked up the receiver.

“Jeff, er... you have a visitor. A Mr. Evans.”

“Wait two minutes, then send him in,” Jeff directed, bemused. He straightened his collar and shrugged on his suit jacket. What was Robert Evans doing at his office? A prickle of unease crawled up his neck.

When he saw the “Mr. Evans” who entered, he sprang to his feet. “Peter? Well...well, how are you? Come in and sit down.” He fumbled over the words, and was irritated with himself for doing so.

Peter sat across the desk from Jeff and trained his cool blue-gray eyes on him as calmly as if he were the adult with the upper hand. His hair was perfectly combed; even his cowlick was flat. Jeff recognized the scent of Cecilia’s mousse with a pang of longing.

“Is your mother with you?”

Peter shifted in the chair. “No. I rode the bus. I had to transfer three times.”

“What are you doing on this side of town?”

Peter fixed Jeff with a penetrating stare. “I think we need to talk.”

Isn’t that supposed to be my line? Jeff thought, narrowing his eyes. He was suddenly a little warm, which he preferred to blame on his jacket.

Peter scanned the gray and burgundy graphics on the wall. “You have a nice office.”

“Thank you.”

“You must be pretty well off.”

Jeff felt an eyebrow arch, and tried hard not to show his surprise. Maybe the kid wanted a loan?

“I mean, you’re successful.”

Jeff decided it was safe to agree. He nodded.

“My mother respects your opinions.”

Jeff swallowed hard. The kid must not know about their breakup. She must be cool if she could pull that off.

The boy’s chin raised, and for a second Jeff saw a flash of Cecilia in that stubborn chin, those rebellious eyes. He threw his thin shoulders back. “I need your help.”

“I... I beg your pardon? Peter? Is something wrong?”
 

The boy shrugged. “Sort of.”

A light flashed and a buzzer blared on Jeff’s desk. “Damn.” He picked up the phone and snapped, “Can this wait?”
 

“Well... sure.”

His boss. He’d just blown off his boss. Jeff hung up, his mind racing. What on earth was the kid doing, asking him for help? “Come on, let’s get out of here so we won’t be interrupted.”