Suddenly Married (14 page)

But he couldn’t seem to make himself leave. He’d come so close, paralyzingly close, to losing him.

Noah reached out, brushed Bobby’s blond hair back from his forehead. The young boy stirred and, without opening his eyes, murmured “Daddy?” in a small, soft voice.

On his knees beside the bed, Noah held the boy to his chest. “I’m here, son,” he whispered, lips pressed to the boy’s temple. “I’m here.”

He waited a moment to hear what Bobby wanted. A drink of water? A trip to the bathroom? A second bedtime story, perhaps?

But he slept on, deep and sound, and Noah realized he hadn’t awakened at all. Rather, he’d called, in his dream state, from an honest place where the man who’d been entrusted with the care of his little body and his big heart was, simply, “Daddy.”

He laid Bobby back on the pillow, tucked the covers under his chin, kissed his cheek. “Sweet dreams, son.” He sighed. “I love you.”

“Love you,” Bobby mumbled into his pillow.

If you hug him again, you’ll wake him for sure, Noah thought. And so, regretfully, he got to his feet, and walked from the room.

In the family room, Noah settled into his chair, laid the Bible on his lap, let it fall open at will. “I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine,” he read from the Song of Solomon. “Thou art beautiful.”

Like Dara.…

He closed the Holy Book. This time when he opened
it, it fell to Exodus: “If he came in by himself, he shall go out by himself; if he were married, then his wife shall go out with him.”

She’ll stand beside you, really stand beside you, forever…

“Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ also loved the church, and gave himself for it.”

I’ll be good to her, he promised himself.

“It is not good for man to be alone.…”

And it isn’t. He knew, because he’d been alone as a child, alone in his marriage, alone after Francine died. He’d had enough of it to last several lifetimes. But with Dara, it would be different. He hadn’t felt alone since meeting her; with Dara, he’d never be alone again.

He closed the Good Book, thumb tracing the gold cross emblazoning the brown leather cover. Two more days, he thought, a slow smile spreading over his face. Just two more days.

He wondered what she’d wear. Sensible shoes? A perky little hat? A kicky, knee-length dress? Surely not a billowing white gown and a long flowing veil like Francine had worn. No, not for a wedding in Williams’s musty office. It seemed terribly unfair, because Dara was a beautiful woman, inside and out, and she deserved to be married in satin and lace, surrounded by fresh-cut flowers, in a church filled with friends.

He remembered that night in his family room, when she’d said in her straightforward way: “My father gets his good name back, you’ll get a chief cook and bottle washer and your kids get a substitute mother. What’s in it for me?”

Noah hadn’t known what to say then. But he knew what had been in his mind. He loved her, more than he had ever thought it possible for a man to love a
woman, and he’d spend the rest of his days finding ways to prove it.

His smile grew as an idea began forming in his mind. If all went well, he’d start proving it on their wedding day. And it would be just the kind of wedding gift she deserved.

In bold black felt-tip marker, the sign printed on a cardboard shirt-backer said Please Use Church Entrance.

Tightening her hold on the umbrella’s hook-shaped handle, Dara stood at the door to Pastor Williams’s office and huffed her exasperation. Now she’d have to traipse along the narrow path that hugged the complex…in the driving snow.

Now, really, she asked herself, why are you surprised? Nothing about your life has been right. Not since Mom died.

Things had only gone downhill from there…her father’s first heart attack, his death, Dara’s discovery of his crime. She’d lost her job, too, and now she was on her way to marry a man who didn’t—and likely
never
would—love her, since he so obviously still loved the wife he’d lost years earlier. A terrifying, almost smothering, thought haunted her, one she’d tried her best to keep at bay: How do I compete with a woman he considers to be perfect?

The thunderstorm that blew through during the night had knocked out the electricity in her neighborhood. Dara guessed she must have fallen asleep sometime around 4:00 a.m. When she awoke again, the red numerals of the alarm clock said 6:42. A quick check of her watch had told her it was 8:58. She had exactly forty-seven minutes to shower, put on her makeup, fix
her hair, get into her suit and make the fifteen-minute drive to the church. Because the ceremony—if a quickie exchange of “I do’s” could be called a ceremony—would begin at ten. If she didn’t want to be late for her own wedding, there wasn’t a moment to lose. She’d skipped breakfast and rushed around, before leaving the house with a full ten minutes to spare.

But there had been a fender bender at the corner, blocking traffic, and she’d been forced to take the long way around. Despite hitting every red light, and the fact that folks were driving more slowly than usual because of the snow, Dara still managed to make it to the church five minutes ahead of schedule.

But now this little sidetrack.

The weight of it all descended without warning, and fighting tears, Dara ducked into a recessed doorway.
I was a well-behaved child, wasn’t I?
she asked God.
Didn’t I follow the letter of Your law? Wasn’t I an obedient believer?
Was this to be her reward, then, for having lived a life of doing the right thing—being forced to forgo a real church wedding she and her mom had dreamed of…without family and friends, without flowers, without music?

She recited a verse from Philippians: “‘Do all things without murmurings and disputings.’” Taking a deep breath, she recalled an even more appropriate line from Psalms: “O my God, my soul is cast down within me; therefore I will remember Thee.…”

And in the remembering, her father’s favorite Bible passage came to mind: “God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.”

Noah may never love her, but his children would.
And that’ll be enough, she thought, blotting her eyes with a crumpled tissue taken from her coat pocket. I’ll be the best wife and mother I know how to be, and by the grace of God, it’ll be enough!

The heels of her winter-white shoes clicked over the brick path leading from the pastor’s office to the wide double doors of the church. In the vestibule, once she’d closed the umbrella and hung up her coat, Dara looked at her wristwatch. Two minutes to ten.

She glanced toward the front of the church and saw him standing on the altar, feet shoulder width apart, hands clasped behind his back. He’d worn a coal-black suit, a starched white shirt, a silvery blue tie that, even from this distance, she knew matched his eyes exactly. Bobby stood to his right, Angie to his left. Well, she told herself, there they are…your new family.

Her
family!

Heart swelling and throbbing with joy and overwhelming love for them—for
all
of them—she was powerless to control her emotions. She bowed her head, praying that the veil of her hat would hide her tears.

She met Noah’s eyes, and he gave a slight nod, as if granting permission for her to join them as Angie, wearing a frilly, shin-length dress of deep red velvet, half ran, half skipped down the center aisle. Only then did Dara notice the white runner skimming the carpeted floor.

“Pastor Williams says when I get back up to the altar rail,” Angie whispered, “I’m supposed to give you something.”

Feelings of self-pity were quickly forgotten as Dara looked into the girl’s wide, expectant eyes. “A surprise?”

Nodding, Angie said from behind all eight fingertips, “I’ll give you a hint. It’s red and white.”

When Dara looked up, she saw the pastor’s usual tightly controlled smile. He wasn’t wearing a suit, as she’d expected. Instead, he’d donned the satiny white robe that he reserved for baptisms and confirmations…and weddings. He stepped aside and flipped a switch, then waved her forward.

“C’mon,” Angie said, taking Dara’s hand. “It’s time.”

“T
ime?” Dara asked, voice trembling nearly as badly as her hands. “Time for what?”

“Time to get
married,
silly!”

Married.

Dara’s heart thundered in reaction to the finality of it. If you walk up that aisle, she thought, staring at the white runner, there’s no turning back. If you say “I do” to Noah up there in a few minutes, four lives are going to change forever.

The thought reminded her of that afternoon last week, when Noah had insisted she be present when he sat the children down, and explained.

“Next Saturday,” he’d said, hands folded on the kitchen table, “Miss Dara and I will be getting married. What do you say to that?”

The kids had exchanged puzzled glances, then stared silently at their somber-faced father. Bobby spoke first. “Does that mean she’ll be your new wife?”

Noah had nodded.

He gave it a moment’s thought, then shrugged one
shoulder. “Sounds like a good idea to me.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he looked at Angie. “Isn’t it?”

She heaved an exasperated sigh. “Of course it is. If they’re married, she can stay with us
all
the time, instead of just during the day.” She aimed her wizened gaze at Dara, tiny worry lines furrowing her brow. “May I ask a question?”

Smiling, Dara laid her hand atop Angie’s. “Sure.”

“Will you…will you be sleeping in Father’s room or the guest room?”

Fact was, she and Noah had never discussed it, so Dara didn’t know how to answer. She’d blinked and swallowed and clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “I—I, ah, I’m not—”

“She’ll sleep in my room,” Noah interrupted, his frown deepening. “Wives are supposed to sleep with their husbands.”

“Does it say that in the Bible?” Bobby wanted to know.

Noah had coughed. Cleared his throat. “I’m sure it says something like that somewhere in the Good Book.”

Another confused look between brother and sister had made Dara wonder if perhaps they, like their father, viewed her as a housekeeper, a cook, a glorified baby-sitter.

Then, grinning, Bobby met her eyes. “Good luck,” he’d said, “’Cause Father sounds like a growly bear when he snores.”

Angie giggled her agreement. “He hogs the blankets, too.”

Their innocent warnings had caused his cheeks to flush slightly. “All right,” he broke in. “Get your
chores finished so we can see that movie you’ve been talking about all week.”

The recorded strains of the “Wedding March,” wafting from the overhead speakers, interrupted Dara’s reverie. Angie’s gentle tugging propelled her forward, and she allowed herself to be led down the whitecarpeted aisle. Another couple must be getting married when we’re through here, she thought as she passed huge white satin bows and flowers that hung from every pew. Funny, but I don’t remember reading about a wedding in last week’s bulletin, she added as she neared the altar that was alight with the multicolored blooms of daisies, chrysanthemums, and roses.

So many questions ping-ponged in her mind—what other couple would become man and wife today and how had the pastor arranged permission for her and Noah to make use of their flowers, their decorations, their music?—that she barely knew how she made it from vestibule to altar. Later, Angie would get a well-deserved hug for being such a fastidious guide. For now, it was all Dara could do to keep her knees from knocking.

Pastor Williams lifted his chin and, opening his gilded prayer book to a page marked by a purple satin ribbon, said in a booming voice that echoed in the nearempty church, “I didn’t think you’d mind a slight change in plans.”

Dara read the mischief in his eyes, the impish grins on the kids’ faces, and deduced that a conspiracy was afoot.

“Since the youngsters had to be here anyway,” Williams continued, “I thought it might be nice if they participated in the ceremony. Any problem with that?”

Noah hesitated a moment before saying, “Makes sense to me. I only wish
I’d
thought of it.”

Williams looked at Dara.

“What’s about to happen here will affect them for the rest of their lives,” she said, glancing in Noah’s direction. “I think it’s only fitting and proper that we make them part of…things.”

“Good, good!” Clearing his throat, Williams flipped another switch, which silenced the music. “Angie will be your maid of honor,” he said to Dara, “and Noah, Bobby will be your best man.”

Maid of honor. Best man. It was happening. It was really happening!

Dara and Noah looked at each other for an instant before he averted his gaze. “That’ll be fine. Just fine.”

“Now, then,” Williams said with a nod. “Angie…?”

She lifted her shoulders and smiled. “Oops! I almost forgot!” And tiptoeing behind the pulpit, she retrieved a huge bouquet. “Here’s your surprise,” Angie announced, handing it to Dara.

“Wh-why thank you, sweetie,” Dara stammered, accepting the flowers. Almost instinctively, she lifted them to her face, inhaled their honeyed perfume. “But…But when…? Where—”

“Now, then,” the pastor interrupted, “let us begin.”

Was it Dara’s imagination, or was the pastor speaking in an unusually loud voice?

Noah took his place at Dara’s right, and as if rehearsed, Bobby stood beside him. Angie got into line on Dara’s left as the doors swooshed open, admitting no less than half the congregation. As the parishioners—some Dara had known all her life—took their seats, Carl Rhodes scurried along the wall, tripod in
one hand, photo bag in the other, a clunking necklace of cameras dangling around his neck.

“I’ll just be a minute,” he said in a quietly apologetical voice as he snapped a 35 mm into place atop the tripod. “There. That’s got it. You can start now.”

Flowers. Music. Friends. Dara didn’t know how to explain that the wedding of her dreams was unfolding all around her. And to think that a few minutes ago, you were standing in a wet doorway, feeling sorry for yourself, she scolded inwardly. Why me? she had demanded of the Almighty.

Now she knew, and the knowledge brought tears of sweet, grateful joy to her eyes.

“No good thing will He withhold from them that walk uprightly,” she recited mentally. “Praise ye the Lord. O give thanks unto the Lord…!”

In the week before the wedding, while Noah was at work and the children were in school, Dara had made arrangements to put her condo and her parents’ place on the market. And box by box, bit by bit, she’d moved her personal belongings into Noah’s house.

There were little reminders of her personality scattered through the rooms now, from the cookie sheets in the kitchen to the sunflower-covered ironing board in the laundry room. A black wrought-iron floor lamp that had been her paternal grandmother’s now stood beside Noah’s chair in the family room. Her father’s pipe collection sat on a shelf in the dining room hutch, her mother’s Wedgwood teapot beside it.

When she’d pulled open the double doors to the brightly lit closet in the master bedroom, Dara found that Noah had cleared the entire right side for her things. She had a long rod for hanging her dresses and
pants, and two shorter ones for skirts and jackets. On the back wall, built-in cubbies would hold as many as thirty pairs of shoes. Above it, there were hooks for belts and scarves, and shelves for sweaters. On one side of the shoe cubby stood a tall lingerie chest; on the other, a three-drawer dresser.

She’d gone into his closet to hang freshly laundered and pressed shirts; why hadn’t she noticed all this before? And you were worried about crowding him! Dara doubted that even after she’d put away every article of clothing and every accessory she owned, her side of the closet would still be half-empty. She could shop until doomsday, and likely not fill it.

Not that she had the money for shopping sprees, being out of a job and all.

And speaking of work, Dara hadn’t given much thought to whether or not she’d continue teaching. Her preference was to be a full-time mom to Angie and Bobby, at least until they adjusted to her as their step-mother. She supposed if the subject came up, Noah would agree. At least, she hoped he would agree.

And then there was the matter of fulfilling her lifelong dream…something Dara had been praying about almost since the night she’d gotten stuck at Noah’s because of the snow.

For now, though, there were other, far more pressing, things to worry about.

The sleeping arrangements, for starters.

Though it had been on her mind—frequently—the issue hadn’t come up. If not for Angie’s innocent, inquisitive question, Dara probably still wouldn’t know where she’d be bunking down.

Now, as she tucked shoes into their cubes, Dara could see the bed in the long narrow mirror at the back
of the closet. He’d haphazardly slung a king-size hunter-green comforter over the pillows; a corner of the maroon blanket’s satiny trim dragged the floor. Though he’d hung room-darkening shades, there were no curtains at the windows. And not a knickknack in sight on the oak dressers or matching nightstands. One clay-pot lamp stood on the table to the left of the bed. He prefers the left, she thought, and that’s good, because I like the right.

Dozens of times, she’d dusted the alarm clock on the table near the lamp. It had always fascinated her, the way the black-numbered white tabs flopped into place with an audible
click.
Eight-thirty-nine, it said now.

Dara sighed. She’d heard the children come upstairs a few minutes ago to start getting ready for bed. If things went as usual, Noah would soon join them. Would she be invited to participate in their nighttime ritual? Or would they prefer to keep it private, something to be shared by the three Lucases? Much as she’d like to fuss over them once they’d climbed into bed, she wanted only what was best for them. If that meant she must keep her distance, she’d learn to deal with the hurt.

The clock
clicked
again. Eight-forty now.

What time did Noah turn in for the night? she wondered. Before the eleven o’clock news? Afterward? Was he the type who showered at night or first thing in the morning? Except for the time she’d gotten snowed in and the night that Bobby went to the hospital, Dara had never been in the Lucas house past nine.

Oh, she’d made many a nighttime trip to the second floor during the week following Bobby’s recovery, but only to help the kids get into their pajamas. Never had
she ventured to the other end of the hall, where the door to Noah’s room stood slightly ajar.

Telling herself it was a necessary means to an end, she’d never had any trouble barging in there during the daylight hours. Sheets must be changed, carpets must be vacuumed, furniture must be dusted…

There had been that one time, though, when she’d been on her hands and knees, trying to reach a balledup sock that had fallen from her laundry basket and rolled under Noah’s bed. It had been obvious, when he stopped dead in his tracks in the doorway, that he hadn’t expected to find her there, head and shoulders hidden by the dust ruffle, because the tune he’d been whistling died a quick and sudden death and the smile on his face vanished like a rabbit in a magician’s act.

“What’re you doing?” he’d grumped as she got to her feet. And when she told him, he’d scrubbed a hand over his reddened face and stomped from the room, muttering something about people being more careful and paying more attention to what was going on around them. His tirade hadn’t made a bit of sense, but Dara had more or less gotten used to his mood swings. The inconsistency of his disposition sometimes baffled her, and that day, she’d likened him to the dark, brooding hero in
Jane Eyre.

The clock
clicked
again, putting an end to her moment of respite from the “who’s sleeping in my bed” quandary. Any time now, she’d have to unpack one of the nighties she’d just folded into the lingerie chest; sooner or later she’d have to scrub her face at one of the two sinks in the lavish master bath; eventually, she’d have no choice but to climb into that—

“Dara?”

She lurched at the sound of his voice and, clutching
a hand to her throat, took a breath to steady her nerves. “In here,” she called.

He joined her in the closet. “Getting settled, I see,” he said, smiling stiffly.

She nodded. “There’s one more box to unpack, and it’s—”

“The big one in the foyer, marked ‘Wolves’?”

Another nod.

“I cleared a space for you on the mantel.”

The mantel? It was all she could do to suppress a laugh. “Noah,” she began, “I’ve been collecting wolves since I was ten years old. At last count, there were forty-seven of them.” The mantel, her comment implied, would never hold them all. Dara got to her feet, closed the lingerie drawer. “Don’t worry, though, I’ll find places for my ‘pets’ that won’t be too obtrusive for—”

“I’m not worried.”

He’d come into the room smiling, happy, and now he seemed upset with her.

“I want you to feel free to do…” He ran a hand through his hair. “To do whatever you like around here.”

“All right, I will.” A slight pause, and then, “Thank you, Noah.”

His blue eyes widened; his jaw dropped. “Don’t
thank
me, for goodness’ sake.” He raised a hand, let it drop against his thigh with a quiet slap. “This is
your
house now, too, you know. You don’t need my permission to—”

“You’re right. I’m sorry for upsetting you.”

He looked at the ceiling, then ran a hand through his hair. “Dara, please. Don’t
apologize,
” he said, meeting
her eyes. “I’m not upset, and you haven’t done anything to be sorry about.”

Coulda fooled me, she thought, pursing her lips.

But she’d promised herself she’d be a patient and understanding wife. Dara did her best to make sense of his attitude. It had been a long, eventful day. He’d eaten a lot of rich food. He’d been forced to sit through that old movie with the kids for the hundredth time.
He woke up a bachelor, and he’ll be going to bed a bridegroom.

“I—I’m…
ouch!
”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, genuinely concerned.

She grinned. “I could feel myself starting to apologize again, and I bit my lip…a bit too hard.”

“Oh, gee, I’m sorry.”