“No. Up north, like Escanaba,” I said.
Brad raised his eyebrows. “An Upper Peninsula Girl, huh?”
I geared up for the insults I’d grown accustomed to hearing whenever I mentioned my place of origin. Sure, the U.P. had its problems. But so did the rest of the world.
Brad cleared his throat. “I went to the academy with a guy from Gladstone. Mike Segerstrom. What a great sense of humor. He’s a state cop in Manistique now.” He shook his head. “Man, is it beautiful up there. I spent a couple weeks fishing with Mike after graduation.”
I sighed in relief. No insults. “I barely remember it,” I said. “I was only seven when I moved downstate.”
I closed my eyes and saw gentle waves licking a rocky shore. Heard leaves fluttering in a playful breeze. Smelled fresh earth and pine needles. Felt hot sand running through my fingers. All memories of a happy childhood, before Mead Quarry rose up that night and swallowed my mother.
“Maybe I’ll take you back there one day.” Brad nudged my shoulder and smiled impishly.
“Maybe.” I looked toward the kitchen, avoiding Brad’s eyes.
I didn’t like the way he got to me. I shouldn’t want to know more about him. Or want to have lunch with him again. Or even feel comfortable around him.
But there was something about Brad that ate away my defenses, made me trust where I shouldn’t, made me hope where I mustn’t.
Sam glided to the counter and set our meals in front of us. Hot steam from the soup hit my nose and I grabbed for a napkin. I looked over at Brad’s fare. A Coney dog and a bowl of the chicken noodle. Not bad looking, actually.
I watched Brad take a bite out of the juicy chili-n-cheese-covered dog smothered with onions. I dipped a fork into my salad, spearing a chunk of lettuce. Brad chewed the spicy-scented Coney. I crunched away on iceberg.
Brad spotted me staring.
“Want a bite?” He pushed his basket toward me.
“Maybe just a little one.” Using my fork, I sliced off a piece. Nothing had ever tasted so good. “Mmmm” was all I could manage.
“You haven’t lived ’til you’ve had Sam’s Coney Deluxe.” Brad took another bite.
“Sounds like a radio ad. But I think you’re right.” I dabbed at the spot of mustard on a corner of my mouth.
“Sam,” Brad called.
She came around the corner.
“Yeah?”
“Get Tish a Coney Deluxe, please.”
I waved my hands in protest. “No. No, really. One bite was enough.”
“One bite is never enough,” Brad said.
Sam looked me up and down. “You look like you can afford it. One Coney Deluxe coming up.”
Brad had me laughing all the way through the second Coney. Sam joined in with her blithe jokes and bright smile. I’d never felt so warm inside. Must have been the chili beans. And all those onions.
At one o’clock sharp, Brad took me back to the house and dropped me off at the back door. Staring out the kitchen window, I rubbed my arms to warm up and watched Brad drive off. The Victorian had never felt so lonely.
33
I closed my eyes and let my dreams run free around me. A pot of chili simmering on the stove. Brad at the kitchen island I’d be putting in next month, reading the paper, a cup of steaming hot coffee in his hand. Kid Number One, with reams of dark spiral curls framing her round four-year-old face, sitting next to him, filling in the lines of her princess coloring book. Kid Number Two beating on the tray of his high chair, babbling for more crackers. My heart swelled at the imagined scene.
I rubbed a tear from my cheek. A beautiful dream. Nothing more.
Yet for some reason, Brad led me to believe it could come true.
I gave in to the burst of maternal energy that lunch with him had somehow unleashed. By six that night I had finished another upstairs bedroom. The two little dream kids now had a place to call their own. By the time I finished everything, Brad and I could lodge four cuddly whippersnappers each in their own bedrooms.
I washed the paintbrushes in the sink, content. Everything seemed to fit together. My life had unfurled like a mural, with Rawlings the final chapter. Right here in this house I’d spend my days loving my husband, raising my family, and entertaining friends.
Life would be perfect, for the first time ever.
I looked up from the suds at a figure crossing in the dark outside my kitchen window.
David.
I squeezed my eyes closed and sighed. What would I say to him?
What could I say to him? Sorry, David, your worst nightmare has come true. One bite of Brad’s Coney Deluxe and now I’m hopelessly in love with him.
Hearing myself think the words snapped me out of my intoxicating drama. In love with Brad? In love with a churchgoing, iron-pumping police officer? It didn’t even sound like me. In fact, it was almost the exact opposite of what I’d planned for myself.
David knocked. I wiped my hands on a crusty paint rag and opened the door.
“Hi.” I couldn’t think of anything more brilliant to say.
“Tish. I missed you this afternoon.” Remorse, or maybe accusation, sounded in his voice.
“Oh, that.” I waved it off. “I just went for a quick bite to eat.”
“Then you and Brad aren’t . . .” He paused and raised his eyebrows.
“What? An item?” I giggled. “Good heavens, no.”
“Can I come in? Do you mind?”
“Oh, gosh, of course.” I stepped aside.
David walked over to the watercooler and poured a cup. “Would you care for any?”
“No. Thank you. Listen—” I fidgeted, uncomfortable with his familiarity in my kitchen—“why don’t we walk over to the coffee shop? We can talk there.”
He set his cup on the counter, its pure-as-a-mountain-spring contents untouched. Two long paces and he stood over me, barely a foot away. His body radiated heat. I blew at my bangs to cool my forehead.
“How long have we known each other, Tish?” His voice came low and soft. I nearly keeled backward.
“The cumulative total?” A whisper was all I could manage. “About three hours.”
David smiled, unshaken. He reached for my hand and pulled me six inches closer. “I think we know each other better than you think. We both want the same thing from life. Someone to love, a measure of happiness, maybe a child or two.”
My outer vision blurred until David’s face became the only thing in focus. The only thing in the room. The only thing in my life.
He slid his hands upward until they cupped my cheeks. Heat from his palms added to the impossible burning in my head.
“Tish. What I’m saying is, I want you to marry me. We’ll be happy together, I swear.” He pulled me to him. His heart beat in my ear.
I held on, drowning in the warmth of his body. I let myself go under for the third time, never wanting to come up for a breath of air, never wanting to end this moment of surrender.
His lips burned against my neck. I closed my eyes, feeling close to death from sensory overload.
“Marry me, Tish.” His lips touched mine. I clung to him, ignoring his question, ignoring nudges from the practical Tish who tried talking sense into me.
But Miss Practical wouldn’t shut up. “David.” I peeled myself away from him. “I can’t. I mean, I’ll have to think about it.”
His ragged breathing filled the kitchen. “Right. Right. Sorry.” He pushed me an arm’s length away, but kept hold of my shoulders. “Of course you have to think about it. It’s a big step. Take a week to mull it over. Just know that I love you, Tish.”
He brushed his lips against my forehead, cleared his throat, and went for the door.
I stood in place ten minutes after he left, wondering what had just happened. My first marriage proposal and I said I’ll have to think about it? The guy wasn’t perfect, but he wasn’t exactly a loser. I could do worse.
But could I do better?
I chewed on a fingernail, glad it was my own, and paced a square around the room. “Better” was all in one’s perspective. It came down to what I wanted in a man. Did I want the computer geek–engineer type with an amazing historic home and silky bathrobe? Or a Joe Schmo–cop type with a fixer-upper and sweatpants? Or somebody else altogether?