Wanted: Wife (11 page)

He pushed his glass forward, his jaw tightening. “I was thirteen, the son of a French national. If she wanted me with her, that was the end of the argument.”

“But what about your father? Didn’t he—”

“It was nearly ten years before I saw him again.” he said, making a cutting motion beside his glass. I set the bottle down. “After college I crewed for a year on a steamer. Then purely by chance I stumbled into him in a portside bar in Elizabeth. It wasn’t a happy reunion. He was still bitter and I was a pretty angry young man. So, I never came back here and he never invited me.” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug as he sipped more wine. “Ah, well.”

“Is that why you had to have a plan? Because you’re afraid our marriage will turn out like theirs?”

He looked up sharply. “It’s as good a reason as any, don’t you think?”

I let that lie for a moment before I asked, “So what happened to your mother? Did she ever remarry?”

“Yes.” He swirled his wine and reached for another slice of cheese. “And she lived happily ever after.”

I had an inkling now was not the time to examine that. “And your father?”

“No. But Jinks told me there were three or four women at his funeral looking way too mournful.” His mouth crooked. “Anyway, I was at sea when I found out he was sick. By the time I was able to get here, he was already gone. Jinks said he went so quickly. He was planting his garden one day, and not long after he was dead.”

“And since he left you this place,” I said, “it proves he was still thinking of you. He couldn’t have been all bad.”

That seemed to surprise him. “You think I hated him, but really there was a lot I admired about him.”

“Apparently.” Because it led to a logical conclusion. I swept a hand over myself. “You left the life of a sailor, and brought me here.”

He laughed, breaking the baguette and handing a piece to me. “Actually, I’m a marine engineer, and you’re still a bit of a mystery.” He leaned in, his arms across some very muscular thighs. “Tell me all about Julie Knott, Mrs. Devine.”

“What’s so mysterious?” I said, making little sandwiches out of fruit and cheese as I sipped some really excellent wine. “Anything worth telling’s on videotape or digitalized. I grew up in Northeast Philly with a kid brother. Now he’s a snotty ad exec for some boutique firm in New York. I talk to him twice a year. My parents live in Fort Lauderdale, and I see them even less.”

“Not a close family,” he said, polishing off the last of his wine.

“Not particularly. Though Mom was thrilled when I broke up with Richard.”

“What do you think she’ll say about this? Have you told her?”

I couldn’t tell him it wouldn’t last long enough to bother. “No. I’m letting a little time accumulate between you and Richard before I do. Because when I do tell her, she’ll only be hurt that she never got to wear her mother-of-the-bride dress. My father will mail me a check.”

“Which you’ll mail right back. You don’t need his money. I’m taking care of you now.” He reached for my hand. “Come here. There’s something I’d like to show you.”

Apparently, the interview part of the evening was coming to a close. I swiveled around the table to his lap. “What is it?” I asked, sliding my arms around his neck.

“This,” he said, his kiss ending any further interrogation.

My brain blanked, completely forgetting what we’d been talking about. Bad business, because we were just starting to get somewhere. But if I had to go off-topic, what better way to do it, his cabernet-scented self a double-whammy to my already-addled brain. I pressed against the expanse of his chest and breathed him in, his hair like dampened silk as I threaded it through my fingers.

“By the way,” I said, “where did you go to get gussied up while I was hogging the bathroom? Jump in the lake?”

He kissed my neck, and I shivered. “Close. There’s an outside shower behind the barn. Uses rainwater . . .” He kissed my collarbone. “Warmed by the sun.”

“Really,” I said, arching my neck, pulling him closer, his kisses trailing to the swell of my breasts. “I’d . . . I’d like to try that . . . sometime.”

“No doubt you’ll get the chance,” he said, unbuttoning the bodice of my dress. A moment later his hand was covering my breast, his fingers kneading it with expert ease. “
Quels beaux seins,”
he murmured, his mouth falling to a nipple, his teeth grazing it through the lace.

What was my regret earlier? Something about missing the chance to flaunt my lingerie? Well, here it was, and all I could think of was how quickly I could get out of it. I squirmed, feeling a little swoony. It was bad enough Andy looked like a Greek god, but when he spoke French—
my goodness
—I wanted to rip my clothes off. I wanted to rip
his
clothes off.

“Andy?”

“Yes . . .?” He switched to the other breast, sucking, nipping through the lace while I quietly went out of my mind.
“Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?”

I pulled away from him, his face between my hands. “Andy,” I said breathlessly. “I think we need to go inside now.”

He kissed me. Hard. “A very good idea.” When he stood I was still in his arms.

“I’ll grab the door.” And just as I reached for it, the last sound I was looking for assaulted me.

“Bucky,” he said, turning to the hellhound on the steps, who was barking to wake the dead. When Andy looked at me, I knew what was coming. “Do you mind?”

A foregone conclusion. “Let him in,” I said.

Andy set me onto my feet and opened the door to the yard; the collie loped in. He promptly sat down and, with his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, commenced to give me the stare down.

“He really is a good dog,” Andy said in his defense.

“An oxymoron,” I told him. “The only good dog is someone else’s.”

“How about if he sleeps on the porch?”

“As long as we have a wall between us,” I said, idly buttoning my dress.

Andy’s eyes flared. “Hey, stop that.” He looked to Bucky. “Dog—stay.” Then, throwing the door open, he swept me up in his arms and swifted me inside.

The dusk had cast a glow over the room, gilding it in crisp ambers, the brass bed gleaming like a shiny Krugerrand. He set me beside it then faced me, unbuttoning the last of my dress before gently pulling it over my head. When I undid my bra and let it drop to the floor, I was naked, hoping the falling night would be kind enough to gild me, too.

Andy’s gaze fell over me in waves as he stood silent, taking me in. “My God you’re lovely . . .” he whispered, his hands skimming my shoulders and down my sides, resting lightly on my hips. From there he slowly drew me in, my belly pressing against the hardness beneath his jeans, my neck arching to meet his kiss.

My heart pounded in my ears. Not from fear—I was at last, past that—but from restless anticipation, an almost feral need to continue what had happened way too quickly just minutes ago. The realization nearly floored me. I’d always been so sensible! But with his scent all around me, his taste clean on my lips, all coherence vanished and I groaned, slipping my hands into the back of his jeans.

“Not yet,” he said softly as he took a step back, going for his fly, still half undone from our first encounter. He unzipped then pulled out his shirt, unbuttoning it with torturous efficiency. I stared, transfixed, breathless with wanting him. When he slipped it off I got my first look at what I had lusted over every night since we met: his wide shoulders cascading to near perfect proportions, his chest taut, lightly tanned, and just hirsute enough to telegraph that this manly-man didn’t much go in for trends. Then his thumbs slipped inside the waist of his jeans and down they went. As I should’ve surmised, he’d worn no shorts to land atop them. Because if he had, that would have meant he’d have to keep me waiting one split-second longer to look upon what I was openly gaping at.

Andy was one beautiful man.

“Come here,” he said, holding out his arms.

I melted into him and he twisted us about until we fell on the bed, arms and legs weaving together as we rained kisses upon each other. I don’t know how long it took, seconds only, before I felt myself rising, Andy’s mouth on me sucking, nipping, driving me insane. I tried to hold on, keep his lips firmly on my own, but it was no use, he was everywhere, my skin alive, on fire. I dug my nails into his shoulders as he sunk lower and lower, his tongue trailing little stabs of lightning, my head arching into the quilt as the pleasure expanded and broke loose. When I could finally breathe again he turned me over, kissing my neck, the jut of a shoulder blade, the small of my back. Then he slipped lower, lower still, opening me to perform another small miracle. Before I could stop shaking he was atop me and I could feel his delicious heaviness, the drag of his chest across my back, his muscled leg twining mine, his hardness pulsing atop my bottom. He kissed my shoulder, my arm, his hands sliding under me to palm my breasts, but how much could one woman stand? I turned around in his arms, my sensitive nipples savoring the exquisite pressure, while the more immediate part of my body craved much more.

“Andy,” I begged him, feeling him right at the entrance. “I can’t stand much more.”

He held my head between his hands. “Julie,” he said softly, a bit gravely, “I didn’t have time to say this to you before when we . . .” His gaze deepened, and he nipped my lower lip. “But I want to say it now, because it’ll be true of every time we’re together.” He kissed me, so sweetly. “You honor me.” Then he spread my legs with his and slipped inside me.

We both gasped, stilling.
“Julie,”
he said, barely audibly. He kissed me, his forehead on mine. “Now we’re truly married.”

In another recent rendition of myself, the one more attuned to the ridiculous, the one who thought even the day before was passé, I would have heard those words just whispered and rolled my eyes, drolly opining,
if only he were real
. But at that moment, with my husband buried within me, his gaze languidly fixed on me, it was all I could do to keep my emotions in check. Even someone as jaded as me sometimes has hope, when my dissolute mind allows just enough slack to believe—
yes
, sometimes things actually lean in my direction. And because of that I reached up and pulled my husband to me, his kiss meeting mine with tenderness.

“Yes, Andy, we are,” I answered, still barely believing it, fully realizing it’d never be ‘til death do us part. And that’s the line that kept me tethered in the real world, a line taut and unbreakable.

But for now I was in a place filled with natural rhythms, with a man strong and beautiful, filling me. So as he whispered words that sounded too achingly lovely, I let each thrust of his lovemaking remind me that sometimes nothing matters but the moment, and what’s right in front of you.

He fell in even deeper, the sheen on his forehead matching mine as he pushed us even over the edge. As he spilled himself I kissed him, keeping everything.

Minutes later he lay back, his arm flung around me, his hand lost in my hair. I sprawled across his chest, listening to the slowing rhythm of his heart as he fell asleep. It was only after his breath deepened and he curled with me to his side that I eased away and crept into the bathroom, extricating the plastic bag containing my journal and the raft of birth control pills, from beneath the dresser drawer. So it was from there atop the toilet, with this stranger’s remains still seeping from me, his grandmother’s wedding ring encircling my finger, that I swallowed my insurance and rejoined my real purpose: recording mendacity, deep into the night.

Chapter Eight

Falling In

F
ROM
J
ULIE
K
NOTT’S
J
OURNAL

30 August

Six days ago the only Andy Devine I ever heard of was a tubby, squeaky-voiced character actor who drove a stagecoach in a 1939 movie starring John Wayne. Yet, that afternoon I was to meet an identically-monikered twenty-first century version: an impossibly muscled, blue-eyed, dark-haired, and mythically gorgeous alpha male, advertising for a wife via a handwritten flyer on a utility pole, deep in the New Jersey Pine Barrens. As a feature reporter for WPHA Channel 8 News, Philadelphia, I went to cover the interviews this Victorian throwback was giving for potential brides at the local firehouse, all the while wondering why it was even necessary. But instead of covering the story, five days later I became it.

My manly-man’s asleep now in the other room, while I’m naked on the toilet writing in this journal. I’ve stashed it under the linens dresser, in order to take notes for a book I’m going to write about this adventure. But, because I intend to bare all (no pun intended) and hold nothing back (except for one key point), I’d like to keep my initial impressions to myself and away from my new husband for a while.

Just this afternoon we were married posthaste at Town Hall in Iron Bog, after which I was then driven deep into the Pine Barrens, to what could only be loosely construed as a “farm.” Our reception consisted of midwifing the birth of Betsy the Jersey Cow’s yet unnamed calf; getting chased through a flock of chickens and into a lake by Bucky, an obsessed Border Collie; and nearly breaking my ankle confronting Rocky the stuffed raccoon in the groom’s landfill of a living room. Afterward I was ultimately fed, wined and unequivocally bedded by the stranger who’s now my husband.

The reasons why aren’t very complicated: I’ve got nothing to lose because I’ve already lost everything—my job, my home, the man I was supposed to marry. Not that I can go into detail at the moment; I can hear Andy stirring, and I’ve maybe a minute to get back to bed. And that’s a part of this story one I can honestly say merits further investigation.

I
WOKE UP
on my back in the chill bedroom, arms over my head, my body dampened from his warmth. And smiling. Good Lord, was I smiling.

With my eyes still closed I could picture him, lips soft and feathery against my breasts, his emerging beard deliciously abrading my skin as he traced from one nipple to the other. I squirmed, his tongue trailing down my belly to encircle my navel, his hands kneading my hips as he continued even lower, my hips rising with a jerk as he flicked the sweet spot, sending me aloft again.