Prelude to a Wedding (24 page)

She turned away, but from the movement of her
shoulders he knew she drew in two deep breaths. When she whirled
back, the attack was a relief. Better to face that than her
hurt.

"And heaven knows you wouldn't want to be
caught, would you, Paul? You wouldn't want to marry and have a
family, because that would be too much like being a grown-up
wouldn't it? And that would never do for Paul Monroe, the kid at
heart."

He slashed across the last bit of sarcasm.
"So you're saying I should follow in my parents' footsteps, become
another—"

"I'm not saying—"

"—family clone. Just like you are, docilely
fulfilling someone else's dreams—"

"I am not—"

"I won't live my life by somebody else's
dreams, Bette. Not yours, not anybody's."

Silence stiffened around them, echoing with
harsh words. The hurt was back in her eyes, dampening the anger.
There was something else there, too, something that pulled at him
at the same time he tried to hold it off.

"And what are your dreams, Paul?" Her soft
voice didn't push him away with challenge, but drew him to her in a
way he couldn't explain. "What dreams are you living your life by?
What dreams, Paul?"

He stared at her. She drew her coat more
tightly closed, then walked around him and headed for the door. He
stood there a long time after it closed behind her.

He hadn't answered her questions because he
didn't know the answers. Work? He liked it, but it wasn't the most
important thing in his life. Certainly not his dream. So what was?
He liked his life all right, but not enough to satisfy him the next
fifty years, or even the next five.

What are your dreams, Paul?

What scared him as he stood soaking the cold
into his body like a punishment, was the possibility that he didn't
have any.

What scared him even more was the idea that
he did have one—the one he'd never wanted to have.

* * * *

Michael found him there half an hour
later.

"Your mom's serving dessert and coffee. You
ready?"

Paul dug his hands into his pockets and
shifted his weight, finding his shoulders tense and sore from
maintaining one position so long. The awareness of time passing had
penetrated his abstraction, but he couldn't have said what he was
thinking of all that time.

"Sure. Let's go."

Turning, he was stopped by Michael's hand on
his arm. "Wait a minute."

"Why? Don't want to miss dessert, do
you?"

"There's time. And if you go in there now,
looking like this, you'll make everybody think it's Halloween
instead of Thanksgiving."

"Thanks."

Michael nodded, as if the word hadn't been
loaded with sarcasm. "I thought Bette didn't look too happy when
she came in, but you look a whole lot worse. What happened,
Paul?"

He dismissed the possibility of ignoring the
question as quickly as it occurred to him. They'd been friends too
long. But he did try to laugh. "You know how it is. Just like you
said while we were painting your place. Women want what you don't
have to give—forever. They want commitment and families and houses,
and the whole schmeer."

"And you think you don't want the same
thing?"

"I
know
I don't want the same
thing."

"Ah."

"There you go with that damned 'ah' again.
What the hell does it mean?"

Michael gave him a long, considering look he
found even more discomfiting than usual. "It means you already are
committed to Bette."

"The hell I am."

"The hell of it is, you are. It might scare
you, but be honest with yourself. Bette's the only woman you've
ever made the commitment of pursuing. You told me yourself,
something about her 'just clicked.' You may not have known it then,
and you may not like it now, but it looks to me as if your heart's
been committed pretty much right from the start."

"You don't know what the hell you're talking
about."

"Maybe not. But you know what I'm talking
about."

Chapter Eleven

"Where are you going?"

Bette half sighed at the demanding note in
Paul's voice. He'd been so odd lately. One minute the man she'd
first met, full of humor and teasing. The next minute a brooding,
belligerent stranger. And the minute after that the man who could
make her blood simmer with something as simple as a look.

They'd gotten past the scene Thanksgiving Day
by pretending it didn't happen. She knew the underlying tension
remained, however, no matter how well buried it was.

"Down to State Street." She finished pulling
on her coat. If he hadn't arrived before she left, she would have
left him a note. Then he could have made the decision whether to
come out to her place, as he did most nights, or not. She couldn't
help hut think his moods might be the result of feeling pressured,
so she was conscious of giving him room. "I have some last-minute
things to pick up for Christmas at Field's and Carson's."

"Last-minute? It's barely into December."

She relaxed at the lightness in his voice.
But she repeated doggedly, "Last minute for me. Especially since
Centurian is interested enough to want a more detailed proposal.
I'll have to work extra hours to get it ready."

"I don't see how you can work extra hours
when you're already working twenty-four a day," he grumbled.
"Besides, they probably won't do anything until after the first of
the year."

"I know, but I want to get it to them
quickly, so if there's a delay, it's on their end, not mine. So I
have to do it before I leave for Arizona next week for my parents'
anniversary."

"Oh. Yeah. When's your flight?"

"Wednesday morning."

"And you won't be back until 7:45 the next
Monday night?"

"That's right."

They'd gone through this routine of her
telling him the date of her departure at least three times. As
haphazard as he could be about times and dates, she was beginning
to wonder if there was more to this than met the eye. Each time he
seemed to have only the vaguest recollection of when she was
leaving, but knew her return flight by heart.

Oh, how she wanted to believe it was because
he didn't want to be apart. Just as she wanted to believe that
there'd been more behind his getting her to the real estate office
too late to make the bid. Maybe even as she wanted to believe there
was more behind these odd behavior shifts than simple
moodiness.

But then she would realize all over that Paul
Monroe believed only in the moment. Not a future together.

"I'll go with you."

"Go with?" He couldn't mean to her parents',
yet—

"Yeah, you know, as in accompany you to State
Street."

"Shopping?"

"You don't have to sound so surprised. I have
been known to enter a store now and then."

"But, as you said, it's barely December."

"I didn't say I was going to do Christmas
shopping."

She knew she should say no, she knew that
having Paul around would surely prevent her from finishing all the
tasks she'd planned. But she couldn't resist.

"All right, let's go."

Shoppers teemed in the streets, and they
decided walking the last few blocks would be faster. While Paul
paid off the taxi driver, Bette noticed drifts of people piling up
in front of the broad expanse of glass in front of one of the
stores.

"Hey, the window decorations," said Paul,
hooking an arm around her waist and drawing her in to his side as
they started down the street.

"Uh-huh. They do that every year." The words
were dismissive, and she knew she really should be starting on her
errands, but her feet slowed as they neared the display of
mechanized bears skating on a mirror pond.

She couldn't even pretend to be surprised
when her own voice offered. "We could look at the decorations
first, sort of get in the mood."

But Paul's amazement showed. "Are you sure? I
thought you didn't have much time—"

She waved his caution away. "It hardly takes
any time at all," she said. She wondered at her blitheness—for
about half a second, the time it took for the smile to light his
eyes. Then she was lost.

It did take time, but she found she didn't
begrudge an instant of it. Hand in hand, they walked from window to
window, oohing and aahing with the best of the kids, then moving on
to the next department store to start all over. From a street
vendor, Paul bought roasted chestnuts because Bette said she'd
never had them.

"Don't you want any?" she asked after the
third of the rather gamy-tasting morsels warmed her mouth as well
as they had her hand.

"No thanks. I don't like them."

"Then why'd you buy so many?" She looked at
the large paper container in dismay.

He shrugged. "I like the idea of them."

Her laugh seemed to catch him by surprise.
But when she threw her arms around his neck, he showed no surprise
in responding to her kiss, only desire. He turned her kiss from a
brief, affectionate gesture to a caress of lips and tongue and
teeth. Layers upon layers of cloth buffered their bodies, but their
mouths met, naked and honest.

When the basic requirement for oxygen forced
them apart, Bette was sure she wasn't the only one rocked by the
intensity of that kiss at the State Street corner. Paul's eyes
looked opaque, with bright flecks of green against polished pewter.
With his hair flaring color in the glow of tiny fairy lights, he
looked almost fierce, and very unfamiliar. Not at all like the man
she'd come to know.

She pushed her hair back from her face in
some futile instinct to reorder her thoughts along with her
appearance. "I, uh, guess Dickens would be proud, huh?"

He stared at her. "Dickens?"

"The chestnuts," she supplied weakly.

"Oh. Yeah, I guess." He considered her a
moment longer, then grinned, slowly and meaningfully, a movement of
his lips unlike his usual quick humor. "I thought you might have
meant something else."

"Something else?" She heard the
breathlessness in her voice, corroborating that her heartbeat had
not slowed from its sprint.

"Yeah, I've always had the feeling that
behind all those closed Victorian doors, old Charles knew a thing
or two about passion."

He didn't wait for her answer, but tucked her
back in by his side, and headed for the Marshall Field's entrance.
She followed docilely, unable to remember a single thing on the
list tucked in her purse, and too content to bother looking.

"I've got an idea," Paul announced. "Let's
have dinner in the Walnut Room."

The restaurant was a Marshall Field's
tradition, especially at Christmastime when an elaborately
decorated tree rose from the center of the room to a point some two
stories higher. She opened her mouth to say she'd love to eat
there, but before she could get a word out, he jumped in.

"I know, I know. You have a lot of things to
do. But there's always a line. I'll stand in line while you shop.
So you won't be wasting any time." He slanted a look at her that
reminded her of their first few dinners together. "After all, you
do eat. That's one thing I have learned about you. Sometimes even
lunch, despite the way you misled me at first." He shook his head
disapprovingly. "Telling lies."

"Purely self-defense. I was trying to protect
myself from this maniac who'd burst into my life."

He smiled into her eyes, and she knew his
voice would be low and intimate even before he spoke. "Now aren't
you glad your ploy didn't keep me away for good?"

Only the truth, she couldn't give him
anything else. "Yes. I am glad."

And she was, she thought as she reached the
department where she hoped to find a special calendar for her
father. Though glad seemed entirely too mild.

As she ticked off items on her list, her mind
kept drifting back to the man waiting in line, and waiting for her.
Two months ago, she would have made this same shopping trip, have
made the same purchases. In fact, without Paul distracting her, she
probably would have accomplished more in the same amount of time.
But she wouldn't have enjoyed it half as much.

She accepted another package from the
salesclerk, exchanging wishes for happy holidays, and moved aside
to consult her watch. She still had ten minutes before she was
supposed to return to the Walnut Room. With four more items on her
list, she should make use of every minute. She really should . . .
But she didn't want to wait another ten minutes to see Paul.

She stepped off the escalator at the Walnut
Room's floor and scanned the line. There, at the front, she caught
the glow of Paul's hair. He turned, and then she felt the impact of
his smile.

She was in love with him.

She reached him as the hostess indicated they
were to follow her, and he took her hand. "Perfect timing."

"Yes, perfect." Perfect.

She was in love with a man who gave her
laughter and joy, but could never give her what she most wanted—the
promise that they would spend every Christmas together.

* * * *

If her plot had worked, Paul was waiting,
just inside this door.

If he'd believed her, he thought she was home
packing for her early-morning departure for Arizona. When she told
him it would be better if he didn't come to her house until later
because she needed time to get ready, he'd said exactly what she'd
been hoping for—that he'd stay late at the office and use the time
to catch up on some work. In fact, his ready acceptance had irked
her at some level. So he thought she'd sacrifice a last evening
with him in order to neatly fold slips and shirts?

At home her suitcase waited, already packed.
She'd left work in midafternoon to do that, and to find exactly the
right thing to wear. Now she stood, just outside his office door,
trembling between nerves and anticipation.