Wedding For One

THAT KISS HAD BEEN a mistake, Nathan told himself in the shower the next morning—lighter fluid on the embers still glowing in his heart for Mariah. He was an idiot to tempt himself with the impossible. Mariah had moved on. He should, too.

He’d heard that men sometimes locked onto their first loves and stayed stuck. That was obviously his problem. Eight years was too long to hold on to someone who’d flown away.

He shoved his face in the pounding stream and promised himself no more flirting or kissing or touching. Period.

There was good news, though. There was a chance he could get Mariah hooked on the factory. She’d loved seeing the place, he could tell, and she’d stared, hardly breathing, at the spreadsheet while he’d explained it. Fascination was probably what accounted for the odd trembling he’d felt her doing. He, on the other hand, could hardly keep from grabbing her and kissing her.

She definitely liked being back at Cactus Confections. Hell, she even loved how it smelled—something he was no more aware of than the air he breathed.

She’d always been a sensitive person. That was one of the things he’d loved about her. She’d made him more aware of things—sunsets and cricket rhythms, the textures of things. Like skin and mouth…His mind locked on the kiss in the tasting kitchen.

Talk about tasting. He’d wanted to swallow her whole. Forget it, he told himself, toweling down roughly. If he kept himself in check and played it right, he could get Mariah to take his job. Then he could leave with a clear conscience, knowing Meredith and Abe would be fine and Mariah would have found her place in the world.

She’d be here any minute for more self-discovery baloney. She’d said therapy was the plan for today. He could only hope she wasn’t as good at psychology as she was at kissing. He did not intend to confess the real reason he wanted to leave Copper Corners.

He sighed, heading into the bedroom for clothes. He had to have some coffee. Screw the body’s natural wake-up mechanism. For this, he’d need fortification.

5

“I SMELL COFFEE,” Mariah declared, frowning at Nathan in the entryway of his house. It was only day two of the Mariah Monroe Institute of Self-Discovery and he’d already broken a rule.

“I needed coffee. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“If you don’t follow my instructions, we won’t get anywhere.” She was actually grateful for the irritation because it distracted her from how fabulous he looked in a white T-shirt and soft gray shorts.

“Want a cup?”

“Absolutely.”

He turned to go and she watched the way the fabric clung to the curve of his butt like a cotton hand. She wished desperately she hadn’t told him to dress comfortably. His comfort gave her considerable dis comfort.

Walking farther into the room, she saw that he’d set up the yoga mats, dimmed the lights, and lit candles and incense. She turned to him as he arrived with a steaming mug. “You set everything up.”

“Like I said, I’m your willing disciple.”

“You promised not to make fun.”

He shrugged and went to sit cross-legged on his mat, looking unbearably sexy in the dimly lit room.

Mariah took a deep gulp of coffee—the last thing she needed, since looking at Nathan already made her jittery—and took her place across from him.

“Relax your mind. Think peaceful thoughts,” she said, closing her own eyes so as to avoid looking into his and thinking about yesterday’s kiss. “Visualize the sun kissing your—” Kissing? What was she saying? “Um, the breeze caressing your—never mind.” She broke out in a sweat. “Just do what you did yesterday.”

“Yesterday? If you say so,” he said with a sigh, lifting a pillow off the sofa and tucking it into his lap. For comfort, she guessed.

While they meditated, Mariah tried to focus on the upcoming counselling session, but she kept feeling this energy between them shimmering like heat above a summer sidewalk. Finally, when Nathan’s gorgeous butt floated one too many times before her mind’s eye, she said, “Whenever you’re ready, open your eyes.”

“Mmm.” He slowly opened his eyes. Their gazes locked. “That was nice,” he said. “Very real.”

“Good. We want to make meditation real for you.”

“If that were any more real, we’d both be sorry.”

Her stomach flipped. Nathan was having the same kinds of thoughts she was. That was good. No, bad. Oh, hell. She didn’t want to think about it.

They worked through the yoga postures avoiding each other’s eyes the entire time, and when they were finished, Nathan sat up. “So, now you counsel me?”

“Right.” Except she’d never be able to do it with him looking like that—his face flushed from exercise, his sweat-damp T-shirt clinging to his chest, and his shorts outlining bumps she didn’t want to be aware of. “Why don’t you shower and dress for work, so we can concentrate better?”

“I can concentrate just fine like this.”

“It will feel more like a real appointment, okay?”

“Suit yourself.”

By the time he came out, she’d opened the shutters and turned on the lights and was seated on the edge of the leather chair kitty-corner to the sofa, which she patted. “Have a seat.”

He sat straight up on the edge of the sofa, then tugged at the collar of his shirt.

“Don’t be nervous. This won’t hurt a bit. We won’t discuss anything you don’t feel comfortable with, but if you’re truly interested in working through what you’re conflicted about, I advise you to be as open as possible.”

“I am open,” he said, folding his arms.

Impatience rose in her. You’re blocked. Defensive. In denial. But she couldn’t say that. The Gestalt therapist’s job was to carefully guide the client into a deeper awareness of his feelings and thoughts, all while keeping him grounded in the here and now. The key word for the Gestalt therapist was patience.

Which was exactly why two months of training hadn’t been enough to turn Mariah into one. She was too quick to draw conclusions, too eager to tell people what to do. Alarmingly like her mother, she’d been sorry to realize.

She took a breath and blew it out, trying to center herself. To do this correctly, she should focus on Nathan’s face, watch his eyes, his breathing patterns, become aware of his energy, notice where in his body he carried his distress, and share that with him. The body told the story of the mind if you paid attention. Except she couldn’t bear to look so closely at him. “So talk to me about what’s happened to lead you to want to change your life.”

He frowned. “I don’t know. Since I came to Copper Corners, I’ve had my nose to the grindstone, I guess, and I think it’s time to smell the roses, explore the world, do something different.”

“Hmm,” she said, putting on her most therapist-like expression. “Why don’t you tell me more about wanting to leave Cactus Confections?”

“I need a challenge, I guess. You should know the answer to that. Why do you leave jobs?”

“Our focus is on you, Nathan.”

“Yeah, but maybe your insights can help me.” He looked at her steadily. You tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.

She sighed. “Okay. I change jobs when I get bored, or when it’s obvious I don’t belong there any more, or something more interesting comes up, or I feel finished.”

“Exactly. I feel just like you do. Finished.”

“Except I’m hard-wired for short-term jobs and you’re Mr. Stable. You have a career and a degree and special expertise. You shouldn’t leap from job to job like I do.”

“You have expertise, too.” Nathan scooted closer and leaned toward her. “Your problem is obvious. The jobs you take aren’t challenging. If you had a job that used your creativity and skills, you’d want to stay.”

“That has nothing to do with it. What happens is that I—”

“You just need to make a commitment to a place. If you decided to stay and work through things—”

“Hold it,” she said, lifting her hand. “What you’re doing is ‘deflection’ and it’s the oldest trick in the therapy book. We’re focusing on you, Nathan. Not me.”

“First, tell me if I’m right.”

“Nathan.”

He gave her that stubborn look. Why hold out if it helped?

“I’m not saying I wouldn’t like work that kept me interested for a longer time. I did enjoy the travel agency, until that problem with the tours to no-toilet land.”

“So, instead of working things out, you decided you were bored.” He moved even closer, holding her with his eyes.

“But I was bored. And it wasn’t that creative.”

“So what about your creative jobs—the jewelry business?”

“It started out fine, but then I had tons of orders and it was one long assembly line. Completely dull. I—damn. You’re doing it again. Scoot back there.” Away from her. “I’m the therapist. You’re the client.”

He moved back with reluctance.

“So, you say you’re finished here,” she continued. “How did you come to that conclusion?” She held his gaze and managed to keep her therapy focus, too.

He seemed to be having an internal struggle. Probably with whether or not to tell her the truth.

“What are you feeling right now?” she asked. “This minute.”

He stared a moment longer and then the word just slipped out. “Empty.” His shoulders sagged, signaling he’d decided to be honest. “When I come home, I’m just…there. My house is comfortable and I have everything I need here, but I still feel…”

“Empty?” But she could see in his eyes that what he meant was lonely.

He saw that she understood and that seemed to scare him, because he folded his arms and began to babble about being able to run Cactus Confections in his sleep and how startup companies were so challenging, and on and on. As he talked, his expression was flat, his eyes dead. This could go on for hours, with Nathan pretending he was worried about his career, when it was really his heart that hurt. She decided to cut to the chase. “What about the rest of your life?”

“The rest of my life?” His gaze shot to her.

“Yeah. Tell me what happened with your girlfriend.” She wasn’t being nosy. This was therapy.

“There’s not much to tell. It was mutual. We got along well, but there was no fire. We were just passing time with each other.” He swallowed hard, then looked past her, lost in emotion.

There was more to it than that. “And does the breakup have something to do with your decision to leave?”

His eyes shot to her, then he looked away, then back. “In a way, I guess. When I start over in California I hope I’ll meet someone. I want love in my life.”

“Tell me more about this someone,” she said, swallowing. The question made her nervous. “What will she be like? How do you see her?”

“You really want to know?”

She nodded.

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, so close she leaned back. “She’ll be someone with fire in her soul, who’ll make me think and make me laugh. Someone I can’t wait to come home to so I can see her face, hear her voice, find out how she’s been while we were apart…You know what I mean?”

Yes, oh, yes. She swallowed and fought to maintain her therapist composure. She forced her words to come out calmly. “It sounds like having someone special in your life is very important to you.”

“Yeah. My life feels empty without her.” His eyes flared with emotion. For a second, she thought he was talking straight to her. My life feels empty without you. But that couldn’t be. How vain of her to think he was talking about her. That had been so long ago. They’d been kids. Or at least she had been.

She felt herself redden. She had to say something therapeutic, but she couldn’t come up with anything.

“Don’t you feel that way?” he asked her, still leaning close.

“Of course.”

“But you probably have your pick of men.” His eyes dug into her.

She sighed. “Not really. I’ve been on my own lately. Dating gets routine.”

“I know what you mean.”

“It’s like riding around the rotating restaurant at the top of the Hyatt hotel—how many times can you look out at the same landmarks?”

“Exactly,” he said.

She’d said the same thing to Nikki, but Nikki shrugged it off. She enjoyed the challenge of keeping things light with men more than Mariah did. “You start saying the same things,” she continued, “hearing the same lines, and pretty soon you just want to—”

“Find someone special,” he finished.

“I was going to say, ‘rent a good movie and eat some red licorice.”’

“Oh, sorry. So, you’ve given up on finding that person?”

“No, I’m just not looking now, I’m…” What was she doing? Holding her breath? Waiting for Mr. Perfect? Who probably didn’t exist anyway? She hadn’t felt sure of her feelings about a man since Nathan. And then she’d been a kid—clueless about love.

“You’re…?” Nathan prompted.

“I’m…” Nathan was the last person she should be talking about her love life with. “I’m late for work, that’s what I am,” she said, making a big show of looking at her watch. “I’ve got to go. I’m not even dressed.”

“When did you start worrying about being late for work?”

“I guess you’ve been a good influence on me. I think we’ve done enough for today anyway, don’t you?”

“Yes, actually. I think I’ve said enough.” He looked relieved to be off the hook.

She didn’t need more therapy time anyway. Nathan was lonely. And he was sublimating that loneliness, claiming it was career dissatisfaction. The obvious cure was a new woman. But Mariah wasn’t about to round up eligible singles. She did not want to be his dating service. Sleep with him yourself. She knew that’s what Nikki would advise her. That’ll clear the cobwebs from his psyche.

No way.

But you’re lonely, too.

Ouch. She hated when she was honest with herself. Turned out Nathan wasn’t the only person getting therapy here. Talking about his experience made her realize that the empty feeling she’d been carrying around for months—and trying to ignore—was loneliness. She wanted a special someone, too.

So, sleep with him.

Uh-uh. At best, that would be a short-term solution and, at worst, a heartbreaking disaster. Whatever Nathan felt for her was mostly the backwash of nostalgia. Even if it was more, she never stayed in relationships, and Nathan was the kind of guy who stayed and stayed. And stayed.

No. She had to find another way to cure Nathan’s loneliness besides sleeping with him. The sooner she did, the sooner she could leave everything about Copper Corners that bugged her—her parents, the candy factory and, most of all, Nathan.

Still pondering, she went home, took a shower and got dressed for work, choosing the most inappropriate thing she’d brought—a lime-green miniskirt and tank top.

“Good lord, Mariah. You’re not going to work in that,” her mother said, watching her dash from her bedroom to the bathroom to brush her teeth.

“It’ll be fine, Mother.”

Her mother tsked at her from the doorway. “Pardon me for saying this, dear, but the Salvation Army is for people who can’t afford clothes. Why don’t you spend some of the money I gave you on something new? Let’s go to Tucson and shop.”

“My clothes are fine,” she said, scrubbing her teeth.

Watching Mariah critically in the mirror, her mother lifted her hair off her neck. “Sergei could really work with this.”

“My hair’s fine.”

“You have split ends everywhere!”

“Didn’t you know? Split ends are all the rage.” She rinsed her mouth. When she raised up, her mother examined the size label on her blouse. “Mom…” she warned, but her mother patted the label in place, smiled and left.

“My clothes are fine!” she shouted down the hall. She had a terrible feeling it was too late. Meredith, the steamroller, had begun to chug into gear.

MARIAH PUSHED through Cactus Confections’ glass doors with a purpose. It was time for the next phase of her plan—getting banned from the premises. Lenore whistled at the sight of her. “What a hot tamale,” she said. “Louise, get out here and see this.” She turned back to Mariah. “Won’t Nathan be pleased?”

Oops. Maybe she should have gone with the baggy black jeans again, she thought as she headed for Nathan’s office. She’d meant to look inappropriate, not sexy.

“Late again,” Nathan said, not looking up.

“Sorry,” she chimed happily.

He looked up, then boggled. “You’re going to make men fall into the machinery dressed like that.”

“Should I go home and change?” she asked innocently.

“Forget it. You’re already two hours and twelve minutes late. Take a look at this printout.” He turned a bound thickness of computer paper to face the guest chair across from his desk.

She made a cross with her fingers and held it out, as if warding off the undead. “Anything but numbers.”

“Look, Mariah. If we’re going to do this, you’ve got to work with me here. Pay attention and make an effort.”

“Okay,” she said, “but don’t think I’d even consider staying.”

“Right,” he said.

“Just so we’re clear.” Then she smiled. “All right. Tell me everything I need to know.” So I can mess things up.

Nathan showed her the computer printout and explained the operations of Cactus Confections—the production calendar, hiring policies, the business plan, profit projections, equipment maintenance schedules, payroll, bookkeeping, on and on.

She did her best to act disinterested and confused, but she was annoyed to find it interesting. It wasn’t because of the way Nathan explained it, either, because every time he looked at her—or her cleavage—he lost his thought and she had to remind him what he was saying.

She was mostly pleased that it all made sense. She did have some expertise—Nathan was right about that. She’d seen the inside workings of a small ice cream store, and built her jewelry business and the kiddie party company, so she understood profit and loss and building a customer base.

She hid all that from Nathan, though, with stupid questions. She was soon delighted to see him grit his teeth whenever she interrupted him with an inane query.

“No, we don’t have our own trucks, Mariah. That’s why we use a distributor, remember?” He tapped the product list. “We count on our distributors to get product out fast and fresh. ‘Homegrown, handmade and fresh to you from Arizona’s desert,’ is our slogan. Stale product means lost accounts. And every account we have is critical.”

“Critical?”

“Yes. This is a specialty market.”

“What’s your advertising budget like?” Whoops. A sensible question.

“Good question,” he said, surprised. His gaze zipped to her face—after a little side trip to her cleavage. “You’ve hit on a problem. Let me introduce you to our marketing man, Bernie Longfellow, and that’ll explain everything.”

“I remember Bernie. He used to pretend to steal my nose.”

“You’ll probably recognize the suit he’s wearing from back then, too.” Nathan led her to a tiny office next to the entrance to the factory floor. He tapped on the door, then opened it.

Bernie was in the act of peeling an invoice off his cheek. He’d apparently been napping at his desk when Nathan knocked. He looked the same, except his hair was now white, instead of streaked with gray. “Hey, there,” he said, blinking rapidly.

“Bernie, Bernie,” Nathan said affectionately. “You’ve gotta quit partying ’til dawn. Say hello to Mariah.”

“Well, look at you, all grown up.” He stood to shake her hand, smiling fondly.

She blushed, feeling twelve all over again.

“I heard you were coming to work for us.”

She resisted the urge to explain his error and just smiled.

“Why don’t you tell Mariah a little about our marketing plan, Bernie?”

“Marketing plan? Now, let me see…Where did I put that?” He pretended to pat the surface of his desk. Mariah noticed he didn’t even have a computer on his desk. “Ah, here it is.” He picked up an index-card box and delivered it to her like a present. “Our customers,” he said, grinning broadly. “And the plan?” He tapped his skull. “All up here.”

“Bernie’s an old-style marketer,” Nathan explained.

“Marketer, my ass. Pardon the language. I’m a salesman. I don’t need no phony-baloney title. I’m in sales. Life is sales. And sales is personality. And relationships. I’ve got good steady customers who know me and trust me. That’s how it works.”

“I see,” Mariah said. She flipped through the dog-eared cards and saw that in addition to order dates and amounts, the cards contained wives’ birthdays and reminders to ask about how kids’ weddings had gone. “Impressive,” she said, handing him back the box. “Have you had any luck with the new coffee-houses and gourmet grocery stores? Seems to me I’ve seen some obscure products there—Australian rock candy and Native-American flat breads. I bet our candies would fit right in.”

“Fads come and go,” he said. “We stick with the basics, and the basics stick with us. I’ve been here twenty-five years and I know what works.”

“I’m sure you do. I know my father counts on you.”

He looked pleased at the recognition, then smiled wistfully at her. “I remember when I used to steal your nose. You remember that?”

“Sure do.” She hated feeling twelve. “What ads do you run?”

“A couple in warehouse catalogues. A full-color ad in Candy International. Advertising isn’t the answer. Relationships are the answer. My customers know me and trust me.”

“I see what you mean,” she said. “You’re the expert.”

“If you want me to show you how it all works, just stop in. End of the month I make my calls.”

As soon as Nathan and she were outside his door, Nathan said, “See what I mean? Bernie’s locked in the eighties. That coffeehouse and gourmet store lead sounded good. Why don’t you make some contacts?”

“I was just talking.”

“I mean it. You can see we could use the help.” He paused. “You’re fresh and new and—” He ripped his gaze from her chest— “Anyway…” A crafty look came over his face. “On the other hand, why bother? You’d never be able to get around Bernie. He’s completely set in his ways.”

“All you have to do is draw him into the planning. Lean on his expertise. Made sure he knows he’s respected and valued.”

“Good point,” he said, and she could see he was fighting a grin. “But still. I think it would be virtually impossible.”

“I could talk to him,” she said. “Just to keep busy.”

“Of course. Might as well use your time well.” He couldn’t hold back his smile. Okay, he’d manipulated her. But if she helped boost business, that would boost Nathan’s enthusiasm.

She could always goof up later. Or in between times.

WHEN SHE GOT HOME that night, Mariah’s mother met her at the door. “Tada!” she said and waved her arm to indicate the sofa on which she’d laid out three business suits with matching handbags and shoes. “Look what I got for you!”

“Mom, you shouldn’t have.”

“Sure I should. You’re a businesswoman. A tiger has to change his spots.”

“Tigers have stripes, Mom, and they don’t change them. That’s the point of the saying.” She went to finger one of the suits—gray and tailored. It was something a funeral director might wear. “This isn’t me, Mom.”

Then she caught sight of her mother’s crestfallen face. She hated that look. She’d caused it so many times as a teen. Since she’d been here, there had already been difficult moments. Her mother had pointed out her bad posture, bad eating habits— “you’ll give yourself cancer”—her colorful language and how loud she played the stereo.

“All right. I’ll wear them.” Dressing like a flight attendant for the few weeks of her visit wouldn’t kill her. She’d spice up the suits somehow. She knew her mother meant well. Mariah was her only child, after all. Why not give her this small pleasure? Clothes weren’t permanent at least.

“Terrific. You can model them for the girls when they come for pinochle.”

Before she could object, the doorbell rang. Her mother bustled to the door. “Why, Sergei, what brings you here?” she said, faking surprise.