The Marriage Wish

She sighed and dropped her hand to rub it along a wooden beam of the pier. “Scott, I walked into a door.”

“So you said,” he agreed evenly, very aware of the fact she was not looking at him again. She did it when she didn’t want him to see the truth in her eyes.

She looked up. She didn’t even look offended that he didn’t believe her. She did look like she was in pain. She ran her hand through her hair. “Monday night before we met,” she said abruptly, “the third anniversary of my husband’s death. I got myself royally drunk. Finally went to bed about 3:00 a.m. When I woke up I headed for the bathroom. I was in a bit of a hurry. I ran right into the edge of the bedroom door.” She didn’t spare herself when it came to telling the story.

She was a widow. A chunk of his gut tightened. “Jen, I’m sorry. You’re way too young to be widow.” He put together what she had said, what he had seen, and he winced. “You must have had an awful night.”

She grimaced. “That’s one way to describe it.” The memories of that night came rushing back, and she felt the tension radiate up through her shoulders and neck. She wanted so badly to forget that night. She had thought drinking would help her forget, but it hadn’t. If anything, it had simply given her one more memory to regret.

She picked up a small twig the wind had blown down onto the pier and twirled it between her fingers. “How did you find out I was a writer?” she asked, changing the subject.

“I found Dead Before Dawn at the local bookstore.”

“Honey, it’s a perfect title. It’s short. To the point. An attention grabber.”

“Jerry, there isn’t a single murder in the whole book.”

“Then let’s add one. It’s a great title. Great titles are hard to come by.”

The memories haunted her. Jennifer tossed the twig she held into the water and watched the waves push it around. Scott’s answer surprised her. The paperback was out already? She had lost track of the publishing schedule. “Jerry liked the title,” she told Scott.

Scott wasn’t sure how to interpret Jennifer’s expression, there was distance there and memories of the past. Did she not like to talk about her work? Jerry—was that her husband’s name? “It was a very good book,” he told her, trying to feel out what she would consider comfortable to talk about.

He thought she was a very good writer. He had bought Dead Before Dawn and read it in one evening, not finishing until well after midnight. He had searched bookstores during the past two days until he found all eight of her books. They were now piled on his nightstand in the order she had written them. He was almost done with the first book in her series, the book that introduced Thomas Bradford. Her series was great. The closest comparison he could draw was to Robert Parker’s Spenser novels, and he loved those books.

“I’m glad you liked it.” She shivered slightly as the breeze picked up.

“Would you like to join me for breakfast?” The question came out before he realized it was going to be asked. He instantly regretted it. Had he learned nothing about her so far? Give her an opportunity to leave and she was going to take it. She had accomplished what she had come here to do—acknowledge his message and set him straight as to what had actually happened. How many times in the past ten days had he told himself he would be careful not to make her shy away from him again?

He felt an enormous sense of relief when he saw her smile. “That depends. Are you a good cook?”

He laughed. “You’ll have to decide that for yourself. I like to think I am.”

She moved to stand up, and he offered her a hand, feeling delighted when she accepted the offer. Her hand was small and the fingers callused, and she would have a hard time tipping a scale past a hundred pounds. He lifted her easily to her feet. The top of her head came to just above his shoulder, a comfortable height for him, and her long auburn hair was clipped back this morning by a carved gold barrette. Up close, her brown eyes were captivating. He forced himself to release her hand and step away once she was on her feet. He wanted to reach out and touch her cheek, say he was glad to see her bruise beginning to heal. Instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets and gently smiled as he waited for her to precede him.

The back patio door was unlocked, and they entered into a large kitchen, adjacent to a formal dining room. The coffee was brewed, the aroma rich and strong. Scott placed his jacket and hers across one of the six kitchen chairs and held out a chair for her at the glass-topped table.

His kitchen was spotless, a matter of honor with him. He found that cooking relaxed him, so he spent a lot of time here unwinding after a day of work. “Do you have any preferences for what you would like?” he asked, mentally reviewing the contents of the refrigerator. He had been planning homemade muffins, peaches and cereal for his own breakfast this morning, but that was pretty routine. He wanted this breakfast to be special. Maybe eggs Benedict, or fresh blueberry waffles, he could even do a batch of breakfast crepes with fresh strawberries.

“Since breakfast is normally coffee and maybe toast or a bagel, I think I’ll let you decide,” she replied.

He turned from the open refrigerator to look at her, knowing immediately that what breakfast normally was, was skipped. The last thing this lady needed to be doing was skipping meals. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you should at least try to have something like muffins and fruit,” he told her firmly. “How about an omelet?” he offered. He did a great omelet.

“Sure.” She spotted the bookcase he had in the kitchen for his cookbooks and got up to study them. “These are all yours?” she asked, surprised.

“Yes.” He started pulling items from the refrigerator. Ham. Tomatoes. Green peppers. Cheese.

He watched as she randomly selected one of the cookbooks from the bookcase and opened it. “Why are the page corners turned down?” she asked.

“A favorite recipe,” he replied. As the eggs cooked and he chopped the ham and tomatoes and green peppers, he reviewed the dishes he liked to cook, pointing out different cookbooks and which recipes were uniquely good in each one. It was a comfortable conversation. He liked to talk about his hobby, and she was more than casually interested. It was a comfortable conversation that continued as they ate. They split a western omelet between them and a half dozen warm, homemade blueberry muffins. It was not until they finished breakfast that the conversation turned back to personal subjects.

“How did Jerry die?” Scott asked quietly as he sat watching her drink her second cup of coffee. He didn’t want to ask, but he needed to know.

She looked out the large window and out over the lake. “He’d gone to the gym to play racquetball with my brother when he collapsed. He died of a massive heart attack.”

How old would he have been? Thirty? Thirty-five? “It was unexpected,” Scott said, stating the obvious.

“Very.”

He looked at the wedding ring she wore. He had noticed it ten days ago, a small heart of diamonds, and it looked like it belonged. “Was there any warning? High blood pressure? A history in his family?”

She shook her head. “No. He had passed a complete physical not more than six months before.”

“I’m sorry, Jennifer.” It was such an inadequate response. Her life had been torn apart, and all he could convey was words. She would have felt the loss like a knife cutting into her, especially if they had been a close couple. “You loved him a great deal.” Scott made the observation, more to himself than her, but she answered him, anyway.

“I still do,” she replied calmly.

He heard her answer and was envious that love could be so enduring. Not many couples had that kind of closeness. No wonder the anniversary of his death had been so painful for her.

She set down her cup of coffee and changed the subject abruptly. “I’ve decided to end the series of books.”

Scott didn’t know what to think, both of the abrupt change of subject and the statement she had just made. She couldn’t be serious. She had been writing the series for almost ten years. She wanted to end it? “Thomas Bradford is going to get killed?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not the same without Jerry.”

“You wrote the books with your husband?”

She nodded.

Scott didn’t say anything for some time. It wasn’t wise to make such dramatic life changes when you were grieving. But the books had to be a continual reminder to her of what she had lost. “You’ve been writing the series for years. Are you sure, Jennifer?” he finally asked.

“I’m sure. I’ve known for months it’s something I needed to do.”

“What are you going to do once the series is finished?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

He frowned, not liking one possibility that had come to mind. “You are still going to write, aren’t you?”

“It is the only profession I know.”

He leaned back in his chair, thinking, studying her. He had never known a writer before, and it was hard to make any sort of intelligent judgment about the decision she had to make. The sadness he saw in her expression made him frown. She needed some help. She needed to recover. She needed someone to ensure she ate. He forced himself not to follow that line of thinking any further.

“Do you know when you start how the book is going to end?” He had always wondered that. He assumed that knowing in advance would be helpful as far as clues and situations were concerned, but on the other hand, knowing the ending would make writing the book less interesting. Like seeing a movie for the second time.

Jennifer couldn’t stop the memory from returning—

“Jerry, you can’t kill the gardener. He’s the man who stole the will to protect Nicole’s inheritance. Kill the gardener and the will disappears forever.” Jennifer didn’t like the twist Jerry had added to the well constructed story. They had spent two months hammering out the details of a tight story plot and Jerry was changing the game plan a hundred pages into the book. They were out in the backyard, Jerry reclining in his hammock watching the 49ers and Rams game on his portable TV, Jennifer having come outside to find him. She dropped into the lawn chair beside him, retrieving the two pillows on the ground to use as a headrest. She was distracted momentarily as she realized she had missed the start of the game.

“Who said the gardener was dead?” Jerry asked, handing her a diet soda from the cooler beside him.

“Thanks,” Jennifer said, accepting the cold drink. She flipped open the dog-eared manuscript. “Page ninety-six, and I quote, ‘The bullet entered the man’s chest and did not exit. He fell forward into the cold waters of the lake without anyone seeing his departure from among the living.’” She dropped the script on his chest. “That sounds like dead to me.”

The 49ers threw a deep pass which was caught inside the twenty. The discussion paused while they both watched the replay.

“Did I ever say the man in the boat was the gardener?”

Jennifer thought about it carefully. “No. The killer assumed the man in the boat was the gardener.”

Jerry grinned. “Exactly.”

“Okay Jerry, what are you planning?”

“I don’t know,” he replied seriously.

Jennifer tossed one of the pillows at him. “Why do you always insist on adding wrinkles to our nicely planned books?” she demanded, amused.

Jerry smiled. “I have to keep you guessing somehow, don’t I?”

Scott watched as Jennifer struggled to come back from somewhere in the past and answer the question he had asked. It was not the first time he had seen memories cross her eyes, and he wondered what memory had just made her smile. “Every book we wrote had at least one major change in the plot by the time we finished writing the story. We would construct an outline for the book, then take turns writing chapters. Invariably Jerry would create a few extra twists in the story.”

Jennifer rested her hands loosely around the coffee mug and was amazed at how easy it was to talk to Scott about the past. Normally sharing about her life with Jerry brought back the pain, but not today. They were memories of good times, and she had thought they were gone forever.

She had been so embarrassed by her panicked flight, her reluctance to explain exactly how she had gotten the black eye. It had taken over a week to put the incident into the back of her mind, get past the embarrassment, and thankfully accept the fact she would never have to see Scott Williams again. The next morning her agent had called. Jennifer had wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Her one consolation had been the mistaken belief that Scott would have at least let the incident go. It had taken her forty-eight hours to work up the nerve to come back to this beach. She was glad now she had. Glad that now he knew the truth.

“You know what I do for a living, what about you, Scott?”

“I’m CEO of an electronics firm called Johnson Electronics.”

“Really?” She had expected him to be high up in some corporate setting, but she had not expected this answer. “How long have you been CEO?”

“Three years. They’ve been good years for the industry, so I haven’t had to weather my first downturn in the business. How well we do then will determine how good I am at this job.”

Interesting answer. A man who considered his performance under adversity to be the true measure of this worth. “You’ve been at Johnson Electronics a long time?” He was young to be a CEO.

“Eighteen years. I started out as a draftsman during my junior college days. I worked as an electrical engineer, got an MBA and moved into management.”

Jennifer asked him about every facet of the business she could think of—products, competitors, partners, financial numbers. She found the picture he presented of his company fascinating. He shared the smallest details, and she found his grasp of the business remarkable. It was obvious he loved his job. They talked for another thirty minutes before Jennifer rose to her feet and said it was time for her to be leaving.

“Jennifer, I’ve got tickets for the musical Chess next Saturday night. It’s an old play, kind of dated, but it’s a benefit performance and will be well attended. Would you like to join me?”

His offer caught her by surprise. She had to think about it for a few moments. She had not been on a date since Jerry died. She’d had no desire to. “Thank you, Scott, I would like that,” she finally replied. She was lonely. She knew it. And he was good no-pressure company. A night out would be a welcome diversion.

“The play starts at eight-thirty. I’ll pick you up at seven and we can have dinner first?”

She smiled and wondered how far he would extend the invitation if she let him. Dinner before and coffee afterward? “Sure, we can do dinner first,” she agreed.

He grinned and she liked the grin. “Good. I want an address and a phone number.”

She laughed. “I like my privacy, hence the unlisted phone number.” She wrote down the information on a piece of paper he pulled from a notepad beside the phone.

As he walked with her across the back patio and down to the beach, she slipped on her jacket and freed her long hair from the collar. “Thank you for breakfast, Scott.”

“It was my pleasure, Jennifer. I’ll pick you up at seven o’clock Saturday.”

Chapter Two

She was late. Jennifer rushed up the front walk of her home, fumbling with her keys. Scott was going to arrive in less than an hour. Her detour to Rachel and Peter’s to drop off a book had been a mistake. Her brother had wanted to debate the wisdom of her ending the Thomas Bradford mystery series and she hadn’t been able to invent an adequate excuse to leave. She knew better than to mention Scott and a date. She would never have gotten out of there. Peter took the responsibility of being her older brother very seriously.

Jennifer pushed open the front door to be met with the fragrant smell of roses. The bouquet sitting in the center of her dining room table had arrived Wednesday. Three dozen red, white and peach roses. The card had simply said “Looking forward to Saturday—Scott.” Jennifer had started crying. She couldn’t help it. It had been a long time since anyone had sent her roses.

“Jerry, I got a special delivery today.” Jennifer was curled up beside her husband on the couch, using his shoulder as a pillow. The credits of the late, late movie were beginning to roll by.

“You did?” Jerry asked, feigning surprise. His finger gently traced the curve of her jaw.

She smiled. “I think it was a bribe.”

“What was it?”

“Two dozen red roses.”

“It was a bribe,” Jerry agreed. “You know how much red roses cost these days?” he asked, amused.

She giggled.

“So what do you suppose this mystery person wants?”

Jerry leaned down to kiss her. “That’s hard to say,” he said softly. “I suppose you had better ask him.”

Jennifer turned on the couch to face him. “So what do you think my husband would like in return for two dozen red roses?”

The memory stopped Jennifer in the doorway. She sighed. These memories were going to drive her crazy.

She dressed with care. She had shopped for a new outfit. Those in her closet held too many memories. She had found a light green, long-sleeved dress. It looked expensive, moved with grace, and it helped her badly shaking self-esteem. She had bought a purse and new shoes to go with the dress. The gold necklace and earrings she wore had been a gift from Jerry.

She was ready before Scott arrived. To keep from pacing back and forth Jennifer went into her office, picked up the black three-ring binder on her desk and the red pen beside it. She turned on the stereo, already tuned to a favorite jazz station. Finding the page marked with a paper clip, she picked up the work where she’d left off, soon forgetting the time.

The doorbell rang. Quickly slipping the paper clip onto the top of the page she was on, she set the book back on the desk and went to answer the door.

He stood there, looking at the profusion of flowers growing around her porch, elegantly dressed in black slacks and an ivory dress shirt, contained, comfortable. A pleased smile lit his face as he turned and saw her. “Hello, Jennifer.”

She smiled back. “Hello, Scott.” She stepped back to let him enter her home. “Thank you for the flowers.” She motioned to the arrangement, already nervous.

“You’re welcome,” Scott replied easily. “Did you have a good week?”

“Quiet,” she replied. “Let me get my purse and jacket and I’ll be ready to go.”

She entered the living room, and he followed her. It was a simple room. A fireplace, couch, coffee table, easy chair, two end tables, display shelves. A prominent bookshelf held all the Thomas Bradford first editions.

The pictures caught Scott’s attention. There were several on the fireplace mantel, one on the end table. Her wedding picture. Jerry. Scott looked at the picture for several moments. His competition. He was surprised at the feeling, but it could not be ignored. He was competing with Jennifer’s memories of Jerry. Jennifer looked different in the pictures. She looked young. She looked happy. The past few years had taken a great toll.

“I’m ready,” she said quietly.

He turned to find she had joined him again. He smiled. “Then let’s go.”

Scott held her jacket for her to slip on. “You look beautiful tonight,” he said softly. The soft green dress had caught his attention the moment she’d opened the door, and he’d been watching it flair around her, wondering at the elegance she presented and how many more surprises she had in store for him. She was beautiful. Her face had healed, and while she still looked thin, there was color in her face and life in her eyes tonight.

She flushed. “Thank you.”

He gently slipped her long hair free from the collar of the jacket.

After she locked the front door, Jennifer walked beside Scott to his car, an expensive sports car. He held the passenger door, and Jennifer slipped inside. Her car was comfortable and dependable. This car was pure luxury.

“How does Italian sound?” Scott asked, looking over at her inquiringly.

“I love it,” Jennifer replied.

Scott nodded as he started the car. “I know a great place.”

Jennifer began to relax. Scott drove well, and she found it was a relief to be able to sit back and let someone else manage the traffic. They shared a comfortable silence, rather than the strained one she had feared.

“I’ve been looking forward to this evening all week,” Scott said, breaking the silence.

Jennifer looked over at him, and a chuckle escaped. “The week was that bad?”

Scott gave a slight smile. “I’ve had better,” he admitted.

He reached down and turned on the radio, his eyes not leaving the road. Jazz. Jennifer grinned. Okay, at least they had music in common. He clicked the volume down low. She studied him as he drove and wondered what had made his week so rough. She would have to ask him later. She liked a great deal the fact he was not threatened by the silence between them. She wasn’t one to chatter, and silence gave one time to think.

They arrived at the restaurant he had chosen, and the parking lot was crowded. Jennifer had heard of the place, but had never been here before. Scott found a place to park and clicked off the ignition. “Stay put,” he told her with a smile. Jennifer took a deep breath as Scott came around the car to open the door for her. She forced herself to smile. It was not Scott’s fault that her stomach was beginning to turn in knots again. This was a date, a real, honest to goodness, date. She had conveniently forgotten that fact. Scott offered her his hand to help her from the car, clicked a button on his key ring and all the car doors locked. He offered her his arm. Somewhat embarrassed, Jennifer accepted. He was picking up her nervousness and his smile was kind.

“Relax,” he said gently.

“Sorry, Scott. I hate first dates,” she admitted, then wished she hadn’t.

They were almost across the parking lot. He squeezed her hand. “I know what you mean. Trouble is, you can’t have a second one without it.” As they reached the door, Scott’s arm moved down to around her waist and Jennifer found the touch both disconcerting and comforting. He kept it there as they were escorted by a smiling maître d’ to the table Scott had reserved. The restaurant was elegant, the tables spaced for privacy, the lights slightly subdued. Scott helped her slip off the jacket, held her chair for her. He took a seat across from her. Jennifer forced herself to meet his eyes. She knew she was flushed, her face felt hot. All he did was offer a soft reassuring smile. He handed her a menu. “The veal here is very good. As is the quail.”

Jennifer nodded and gratefully dropped her eyes to the cloth-covered book that was the menu. She opened it. No prices.

“Jerry, there are no prices in this menu.” Jennifer nearly giggled. “Do you suppose everything is free?”

Jerry just smiled and motioned the waiter over. “Could we have two coffees please?” He didn’t need one. Jennifer did.

His wife had had too much champagne.

He wasn’t annoyed. Far from it. She had been petrified of attending the party their publisher had hosted for several writers introducing new books for the Christmas season. She had gone despite the fear and done a magnificent job. When they left the party shortly after eleven, it was with the knowledge that several nationwide bookstore chains would be prominently displaying their seventh book. Their agent, Ann, had sent a bottle of champagne to their hotel room with her congratulations. Jennifer had drunk three glasses. Jerry, who knew Jennifer had been too nervous before the party to eat, had wisely escorted her to the hotel restaurant. She needed to unwind.

“Jerry, let’s not do that again, okay?”

“You did a great job, honey.”

“I have a headache.”

“Too much champagne.”