“Clare?” His lips were curved slightly, but his eyes were wary. He was, she realized, unsure of himself. It wasn’t an expression she was used to seeing on Russ Van Alstyne’s face.
“It’s just… we haven’t talked about that. Marriage.”
He jammed his hands into his jeans pockets. “We have to be realistic. Living together isn’t going to be an option.”
“That’s not what I meant.” She was barefoot, wearing her old summer pajamas. Sausages sizzled and popped in the skillet. NPR had moved on to Car Talk. Even at her most down-to-earth, this wasn’t what she envisioned when she thought of a proposal. “I mean we haven’t discussed the issues. The details. Marriage is a big, huge deal.”
His mouth quirked. “Believe me, I take marriage very seriously.”
She flushed. She of all people had reason to know “divorce” wasn’t in his vocabulary. Which, when you got down to it, was the reason for the sinking feeling in her stomach. The fact he was mentioning marriage for the first time after being caught with his pants down smelled unpleasantly like shotgun wedding. With her vestry, instead of her father, holding the 12-gauge. Russ loved her. She knew that. She just didn’t know if in some deep well of emotion he was still choosing Linda over her. “Maybe this isn’t the time or place for a big ‘what do we want out of marriage’ discussion.”
He got that expression again. The uncertain one. “Is there that much to discuss? ’Cause I can tell you what I want in under five words. You as my wife.” He shrugged. “The rest of it, I figure we’ll make up as we go along. That’s pretty much how it goes, in my experience.”
“Why do you want to get married? I mean, other than the sex thing.”
“There has to be more than sex?” He grinned. “It’s not because I’m chomping at the bit to be the preacher’s husband, I can guarantee you that.” She laughed a little. He ran his hands up her arms and rested them on her shoulders. “I want to be married because I like those easy-to-understand, boring definitions. Husband. Wife. I want to be married because life is short, and I want to spend whatever I have left of it with you, every day, every night. I want to be married so that everything I have and everything I am is yours, and everything of you is mine. And I want to be married so I can lay you out on the dining room table if I feel like it and have you six ways from Sunday in the middle of the afternoon and if one of your parishioners walks in on us, it’s tough titties for them.”
She started laughing.
“I’m not a complicated guy, Clare. I keep trying to dress it up with flowers and stuff, but that’s what it all comes down to with me.”
She touched his cheek, smooth from his morning shave. She was afraid her heart would break open from feeling too much. “I told you. You don’t ever have to dress anything up for me. Just be yourself.”
The phone hanging on the wall between the door and the window rang before he had the chance to ask her the same question. What did she want out of marriage? Specifically, marriage to a guy fourteen years older, who thought God was a myth and whose job could get him killed.
Clare sighed and crossed the floor. “Hello?”
Maybe he was pushing it. She didn’t talk about Iraq, but he had held her while she thrashed around with bad dreams. He had seen the fatigue on her face as she tried to be everything for everybody in her church. Of course, that might argue for the two of them getting married as soon as possible. He knew he’d do a damn sight better job of drawing boundaries than she did.
Maybe he should just ask her right now. Get the damn thing settled. But Christ, the ring was back at his mother’s house, and she deserved something special. Memorable. Not him blurting it out before breakfast. Maybe he could make an excuse to swing by his mom’s place. He could take her on a picnic. Picnics were romantic, weren’t they?
Clare looked at him oddly. “Um. Certainly.” She handed the phone out. “It’s Harlene, for you.”
“What?” He took the receiver as if it might be booby-trapped. “Van Alstyne here.”
Clare went to the stove to check the breakfast. “Sorry to bother you and the reverend,” Harlene said.
“That’s all right,” Russ lied. “What’s up?” Clare drew a long meat fork out of the utensil canister and started pricking sausages. He tried to remember if the IGA sold picnic lunches.
“Eric’s called in sick, and Noble’s gone up to Tupper Lake for the weekend. We’re short and we need coverage.”
“Have you tried Paul?” Russ watched Clare take down a glass bowl and open the carton of eggs. They’d need sunscreen-and bug dope. Bug dope definitely wasn’t romantic.
“Well, I’m sure I could get ahold of him, but he’ll be on overtime. You want me to try him anyways?”
The magic word, “overtime,” brought his full attention back to Harlene. “No. No. I don’t want to give the alderman anything else to complain about.” He pointed at the egg Clare had picked up. He shook his head. Don’t bother. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. And call Duane to see if he’ll be available just in case. Last weekend before the holiday, we might need him for traffic and parking.”
“Let’s hope he remembers to turn his darned phone on so I can at least leave him a message. Unlike you.”
He slapped the front pocket of his jeans and drew out his blank, inactive cell phone. “Sorry.” He thought for a second. Did he want to know? “Harlene? Why did you call Clare’s number to reach me?”
She laughed in his ear. “I may be old, but I haven’t forgotten what it’s like. I figured you two would be making up for lost time.”
“Oh.”
“And Erla Davis mentioned to me that she saw you walking down her street and getting into your truck real early last week when she was headed out to open up the diner.”
Oh, shit. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll see you soon.” He hung up. Clare raised her eyebrows.
“Eric’s called in sick, and Harlene can’t raise Noble. I’ve got to go in.”
“How did she know you were here? Did you leave word at the station?”
“Are you kidding? No. She called my cell, and when that didn’t go through, she called here next. Seems the waitress from the Kreemy Kakes diner spotted me picking up my truck a few mornings ago.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I guess I’m not as good at sneaking around as I thought.”
Clare laughed. “Don’t look so grim about it.” She crossed the floor and wrapped her arms around his midsection. “I’m not complaining.”
“God. I’m sorry.” He pressed his lips against her hair. Over the aroma of the sausages, he could smell her, vodka and tomato juice and Clare. “I’ve got to go. If it’s anything like last weekend, it’ll be crazy today. I don’t want you to feel like I’m running away from this conversation, but I don’t know when I’ll be able to get back.”
“I’ll be at the Ellises’ tonight anyway.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Sunday.”
He groaned. “I’m in the seat all day Monday, but I’ll be free by dinnertime.”
She shook her head. “I’ve got a premarital session at six and a building and grounds committee meeting at seven.” She slanted her eyes up at him. “You could sneak over later that night.”
“No.” His voice was stonier than he intended. Probably because the idea was so damn appealing.
Clare growled with frustration and pushed him away. “Go. Finish getting dressed. While you’re at it, consider that I’ve been taking it easy on summer schedule. The Sunday after Labor Day is Homecoming Sunday, and everything starts up again: adult ed and weekly community suppers and all the committees. I’ll be twice as busy as I am now.”