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chapter four When Destinies Meet 1/7/2008 3:49:47 PM
chapter four Chapter Four
The sole occupant of the midnight blue convertible entered the restaurant’s overcrowded parking lot, only just managing to miss a second driver coming from the opposite direction.
“Sorry,” she muttered pointlessly to the driver of the other vehicle, biting her lower lip in concentration.
Edward, her oldest brother, had recommended this place. He had assured her that it was a must on her list of places to visit, but one glance at the tangled web of traffic now facing her, and she questioned her hasty decision to dine out. Under normal circumstances she weighed every option carefully before making a decision. However, these were not normal conditions.
The day had dawned all too quickly after a night of restless tossing and turning, and she was confronted with her pending visit to Mrs. Reynalls’s boutique. To her credit, she had to admit the older woman had made no further probing observations, but there hadn’t been any need to do so. Her actions had been much more subtle thus more effective. She had presented her hesitant guest with a gift-wrapped package and issued the puzzling admonition not to open it until the right time. When she’d skeptically inquired when that time would be, Mrs. Reynalls had further baffled her with a cryptic “You’ll know.” Add to that the frustration of arriving in Montego Bay only to learn that her luggage had taken a different flight to God alone knew where, and the most restrained of persons would have been somewhat vexed.
Even with all her paranoid precautions her bags had still managed to end up missing. The best laid plans, she’d thought wryly, a poor caricature of a smile appearing briefly to distort her features. She hadn’t smiled because she found the events of the day amusing, but because it was more palatable than the alternative. Tears of frustration were not her cup of tea.
Resolutely refusing to admit defeat, she had decided to approach her current misfortune in the same methodical way she would a challenging business venture or an experiment gone awry. After making careful inquiry as to the locations of the best boutiques, she’d set out determinedly to replenish her wardrobe. And although her shopping expedition had taken up a sizable portion of the day, she had to admit at the end of it that she had found it to be a pleasant diversion from her normal routine of work and more work.
To her surprise, she had quite enjoyed her visits to the boutiques for which Jamaica was so well known. She had been thrilled with the beauty and variety of their silks and found their artistry and detailed workmanship difficult to resist. For that reason, she’d been more extravagant than she’d intended and had consoled herself with the knowledge that she worked hard and an occasional splurge was acceptable.
The events of the day and the sleepless night had taken their toll, however. By the time she returned to the villa, she was more than ready for a rest. After a shower she lay down to relax, and to her surprise what she had intended to be a short rest had lasted several hours. She had awakened to the long shadows of early evening and the solitude of an empty house. The staff that had greeted her upon her arrival had already gone for the day.
Normally, being on her own didn’t bother her. She had grown accustomed to it and valued her privacy. She had even become adept at stifling any feelings of guilt or regret that might rear their ugly heads. But this time was different. Every second of silence, of inactivity was an unwelcome opportunity for Mrs. Reynalls’s enigmatic words to torment her.
Dispensing with the package had required little to no effort. She had simply passed it on to Paul. When he’d inquired what he was to do with it, she’d met his query with an indifferent shrug. But she had been unable to discard Mrs. Reynalls’s disturbing observations or the image of the stranger from the airport with the same ease.
Her present dwelling afforded her both the privacy and the anonymity she desired. When she considered the additional bonus of the light, airy affect created by the numerous windows and the breath-taking beauty of the view from the balcony, she was forced to concede that her present surroundings were sufficient to meet the demands of the severest of critics. But these were not normal circumstances, and tonight they were not enough to silence the haunting voices of her unwanted guests. The lavish decor and luxurious appointments of her borrowed dwellings could do nothing to dispel Mrs. Reynalls’s troublesome words that persisted in tormenting her. Furthermore, they seemed to be irrevocably linked to the stranger from the airport.
Deciding that she was more than a little fed up with her unwelcome visitors, she opted to forgo the meal left by the housekeeper and made the decision to dine out instead. Once her decision was made, she had donned one of her recent purchases and headed out to sample the Caribbean nightlife she‘d heard so much regarding. Hence her current predicament.
Never one to be put off by a challenge, she viewed the melee before her with a dry wit worthy of Jon. Should have taken a cab, she observed as she inched forward at a snail’s pace until she was finally in position to exit her vehicle.
Bringing the car to a smooth stop before the valet, her door was opened and she slid gracefully from behind the wheel. If his smile was a little too familiar or his grasp on her hand a tad too firm she chalked it up to the friendly attitude of the people on the island, and smiled her thanks for his assistance.
The open doors allowed for easy access, and the music that wafted out to her invited her to come in. Which is exactly what she did. Stepping through the arched doorway, she was captivated by the scene before her. There was the cheerful chatter of the diners, the reggae sound of the live band and the spicy aroma of the island cuisine. Her body tensed automatically in anticipation of the old familiar nausea that assailed her at the thought of food, but it didn’t come. Relaxing visibly, she proceeded to survey her surroundings with renewed interest and was not surprised to find that the congested parking lot had been indicative of the brisk business within.
A quick survey of the diners eased one of her concerns. Smoothing the batik silk of her dress and relishing the sleek softness of the fabric, she was pleased with her choice. She had known its clinging folds were flattering to her willowy physique, but she had been equally aware that it was inappropriate for formal dining. Scanning the guests, she was relieved to know that the deep, rich shades of purples, oranges, reds and yellows blended nicely with the others.
“Good evening, Ma’am. Do you have a reservation?” The greeting of the smiling hostess with the thick island accent captured her attention and drew it away from the other diners. Just for a moment her confidence wavered.
“No. I . . .”
“No problem,” she beamed. “Are you dining alone?”
“Yes,” she smiled her relief in answer to the query and prepared to follow the hostess through the crowded restaurant. She moved in and out among the other diners with an ease and grace that could not help but draw attention to her stunning good looks, but before she had time to experience any discomfort at the scrutiny of the other diners, the hostess had stopped at the one remaining table in the midst of the restaurant.
“Is this all you have?” she asked, glancing around at the other occupants of the room.
“Well, there’s the terrace,” she offered diffidently. Uncertainly. Somehow the new arrival did not appear to be the usual type who chose to dine outside. That was the place for lovers--the die-hard romantics, and she didn’t think this young woman was of a romantic nature.
“That would be fine,” she accepted with relief.
Once she had been seated at a table in a secluded part of the terrace, she was presented with a menu and the promise that a waiter would be there soon to take her order before the young lady rushed off to assist another prospective diner.
Falling back into her upholstered chair with a self-satisfied smile, she surveyed her surroundings. There were hanging baskets of lights strategically placed to cast a soft romantic glow over the diners. The soft light from the baskets and the pleasant aroma of the candle on her table mingled with the scents of the night air. Inhaling deeply, she had to admit that even the incessant chatter of the other diners was quite comforting. She didn’t have to put forth any effort, yet she was not alone. Most of the other patrons were couples, but there were several tables with young women or young men about her age who appeared to be here to have fun.
There was something about their carefree nature and the easy abandon with which they openly flirted with each other that suggested they too would soon be couples. Shaking her head in disgust, she turned her attention away from her fellow diners to the view out over the bay. There was a full moon surrounded by what seemed like millions of tiny points of light that sparkled and glistened in the pristine depths of the Caribbean. She could even see the shimmering grains of sand on the beach from her vantage point. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the flowery scents mingled with the tangy sea breeze coming in off the water and wondered why she hadn’t done this sooner.
“Excuse me, Ma’m.,” the hostess began hesitantly, hating to disturb her peaceful state. “But the gentleman wondered if you would be willing to share your table.”
Annoyed by the interruption, she opened her mouth to offer a curt refusal only to have her acid response die midway up her throat. It couldn’t be! She blinked several times in an effort to dispel his image, but this time it refused to go away as it had in times past.
Her reaction to his presence was immediate, unsettling, and, to her horror, she was soon to learn--predictable. His presence set up a barrage of emotions she could neither dismiss nor ignore. Lowering her lids in an effort to conceal her inner struggle and regain her composure, she became aware that she had not answered the waiting attendant.
“If you would rather not . . .” her offer hung there between them, giving her a way out if she wanted it. The problem was she wasn’t altogether sure what she wanted.
“May I?” he inquired, glancing at the vacant chair across from her.
His eyes openly mocked her uncertainty, but more importantly there was the hint of a challenge in his tones. His derision was the catalyst that dictated her response. She had never been able to refuse a dare.
“Certainly,” she answered shortly with a serenity that hid her inner turmoil, and with that she promptly subsided in an uncompromising silence. The message she was sending was crystal clear.
She would share her table with him, but that’s where the story ended. She wasn’t about to engage in idle chitchat. Lifting her menu, she buried her head in it as if it held the secrets of life. If he had expected to continue his earlier flirtation, he would be disappointed, she decided. But to her surprise, he made no effort to communicate either. Instead he lifted his menu and appeared to study it with equal intensity.
At first she didn’t mind the uncomfortable silence. It was what she wanted. But after a few minutes, their lack of communication made her painfully aware of the easy bantering of those around them. The sound of their laughter served as a bitter reminder that she was alone--a state that had not bothered her a short while ago... but now ….
Taking a surreptitious glance at her uninvited dinner guest, she noticed that he appeared to be totally unperturbed by the silence that reigned at their table. As a matter of fact, he seemed to relish his solitude as much as she had her own seconds before his arrival.
“How ‘bout we call a truce?” he offered without bothering to raise his head, but when she failed to respond, he closed his menu and trained the full force of his discerning gaze on her. “I see that’s a bust. How about this…?” he began, but she had no intention of allowing him to finish. He was having a good laugh at her expense. She could hear it in his voice and see it in his eyes. She had no wish to be the object of his ridicule.
“I’m sorry,” she began coldly. “I . . . ”
“And so you should be,” he cut in to inform her.
“I beg your pardon?” she queried, lifting a disdainful eyebrow. She hadn’t a clue as to what he was talking about.
“Once is enough,” he said, deliberately misinterpreting her sarcasm for an apology. Her intended snub had gone awry. “Your apology is accepted, but I must warn you that the next driver you cut off may not be so charitable. The world is full of disturbed people,” he cautioned.
“So it is,” she agreed nastily, leaving him in little doubt that she considered him to be just such a person. But once more her barb was wasted. Her allusion to his diminished mental capacity succeeded only in earning her a wounded look that she chose to ignore as she continued with assumed sweetness.
“I can only assume that you have firsthand knowledge of people of this sort,” she derided, but once again her jab missed its mark. He was either too thick-skinned or too sure of himself. Whatever the source of his impunity, he easily ignored her scathing putdown.
“Possibly,” he shrugged away her insult, and proceeded to turn the tables on her. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you,” he said softly. Initially, she wasn’t sure whether to be thrilled or annoyed at his unexpected pronouncement, however, after only a brief struggle annoyance won the day.
“If that’s true, allow me to give you some friendly advice,” she offered, her voice and mannerism successfully nullifying any claim of affability. “Set your sights somewhere else. You’ll do much better.”
“Whereas I hate to contradict you so early in our relationship, I feel very strongly that I must. You see, I find it impossible to imagine better than yourself, Miss Charles.”
His easy familiarity took her by surprise, sending her on a frantic, mental journey for a previous encounter they may have had prior to the one in Atlanta. But almost immediately she had to dismiss the possibility as improbable. He was not a man one could easily forget. The past thirty or so hours were proof of that, she conceded with a puzzled frown, still unable to shake the sensation that she knew him. Becoming aware that he waited for her response, but recalling the wife he seemed to conveniently forget, she remained stubbornly silent.
Lifting her menu she proceeded to give it her full attention once again only to find her concentration beginning to wander after just a few seconds. He was a handsome devil, she found herself forced to admit. There was no denying that. Controlling her tongue was a synch. Her wayward eyes were a different matter altogether, however. They seemed to have a will of their own and kept darting in his direction.
After several furtive glances, she was able to detect that he wore no ring. But no safe conclusion could be drawn from the absence of a wedding band. Lots of men didn’t wear them. Some because they couldn’t afford one, which wasn’t the case with the man seated across from her. His perfectly tailored, silk slacks and Italian loafers negated that probability. On the opposite side of the coin, there were those who didn’t wear a wedding band because they had a hidden agenda.
Exhaling rather noisily, she silently conceded that sharing her table had not been the wisest course of action to take. She had allowed her old nature to dictate her actions. Instead of accepting his challenge, she should have allowed him to think what he liked and sent him on his way. Yet there was something . . . .
“Do you make a habit of talking to yourself?” he inquired, making no attempt to conceal his amusement at her discomfort.
Her expression had gone from reflective to confused, to finally stop at horrified as she realized she had given voice to her thoughts. A character flaw she fervently promised to correct after tonight. His subsequent observation only served to strengthen that resolve. “I only ask because you did it before,” he pointed out, reminding her of their previous encounter.
“Do you make a habit of cheating on your wife?” she countered glibly. “I only ask because you did it before,” she mimicked perfectly.
Her taunt was sufficient to wipe the smug expression from his face but not for the reason she concluded.
“My wife?” he repeated questioningly, taken aback by the mention of a spouse. “Aaaah,” he drawled, smiling broadly as understanding dawned. “You’re referring to Leslee.”
“I have no way of knowing her name. Do I?” she retorted with pseudo-sweetness.
“Had you stayed around for just a few seconds more you would have,” he pointed out. “She’s my sister. Is that why you ripped me to shreds with those marvelous eyes of yours before you ran off?”
His outrageous comment forced her to conclude that his outlandish way of speaking had to be dealt with firmly and swiftly. If not for his good then certainly for hers.
“I did not run off,” she countered weakly, barely maintaining her air of aloofness and completely missing the mark when it came to that firmness she felt his behavior warranted. “And I most assuredly did not rip you to shreds,” she denied, dismissing his characterization of her actions as ludicrous. “And if you think I believe that dribble about a sister . . . ,” she paused to consider her next words, “. . . let it suffice to say you’re a few bricks short of a full load,” she castigated in classic Southern style.
“Is that a Mississippi phrase?” he quizzed calmly as though they had known each other for ages. Maybe they had met before, she mentally backtracked, reassessing her earlier conclusion and allowing his question to go unanswered. There was the distinct impression that she had seen him somewhere before . . . but . . . .
The waiter’s arrival presented her with the perfect opportunity to cast about in her mind for an encounter prior to Atlanta. After giving her order, she proceeded to do just that. But one covert glance was all she required to discard that idea as preposterous. Her lips twitched slightly as she conceded that he was definitely an unforgettable specimen of manhood.
“Care to share the joke?” his softly spoken query held just the right hint of diffidence, making it impossible for her to think it authentic. The man seated across from her didn’t have an uncertain bone in his body.
“No,” she retorted, but this time her reply was noticeably lacking its previous hostility. Briefly her eyes made contact with his, and a smile shone through their clouded depths just for an instant. But the troubling specter of the scene from the airport reared its ugly head once more, causing her smile to vanish as quickly as it had come.
“She really is my sister.” His quietly spoken assertion held a ring of truth, but . . . “How do I convince you?” he inquired of no one in particular. After pausing as if to consider possible solutions, he spoke again. “Would you like to meet her? I can arrange it,” he offered, and just for a moment she experienced a twinge of uncertainty, but then she realized this was probably just a ruse to gain her confidence.
“Now why would I want to do that?” she queried, deliberately inveigling her voice with indifference.
“You’re the best one to answer that question,” he came back, unaffected by her apparent lack of interest. “Whereas, I can merely offer an educated guess, you can cut straight to the heart of the matter, Ms. Charles.”
“Stop calling me Ms. Charles,” she snapped irritably only to regret her churlish behavior as soon as the words were past her lips.
“As you wish,” he agreed without rancor before falling silent.
It didn’t take long for her to realize that she found his withdrawal more disturbing than his constant goading.
“I didn’t mean to snap,” she offered by way of an apology.
“Do you want me to go?” he asked, ignoring her apology. “They could probably find me another table,” he pointed out. She opened her mouth to offer a stinging retort, but no words came. Instead she snapped it shut again without uttering a sound. His question was simple enough, yet she could find no ready answer. She couldn’t say yes. That wouldn’t be true, and she couldn’t say no. He might be married. Besides she reminded herself, his movements were of no interest to her one way or another.
“Do you?” he persisted.
“Suit yourself,” she shrugged with assumed indifference. “I didn’t ask you to come. I won’t ask you to leave.”
“Would it help if I reaffirmed my unmarried status?” When she didn’t answer, he pressed on. “Shall I prove it?” he offered, and once more she strongly suspected he was having a laugh at her expense.
“That won’t be necessary,” she forestalled him. “Married or single. It’s all the same to me.”
“I see.” Just two words, but they held a wealth of meaning.
Over the course of the next few weeks she was to learn that he could invest a few words with more meaning than anyone she’d ever known. But right now she had a more pressing problem: how to deal with his outrageous behavior. Eventually she concluded that it was probably best to just ignore him and any future comments. The waiter’s arrival with their dinner provided the perfect excuse, and with his departure she turned her attention to her meal.
She closed her eyes in appreciation as her teeth sank into a savory morsel of the curried goat she’d ordered. Marvelous, she sighed inwardly, unwilling to attribute her newfound appetite to her companion or his stimulating company.
“How long are you staying?” he asked.
“Must you talk?”
Her words and the timber of her voice suggested she had no wish to get further acquainted or carry on a casual conversation with him. But he was undeterred. Her stinging tones that would have sent a lesser man scurrying for cover had no outward effect on this one. Rather than deterring him, her hauteur served as a source of amusement.
“You are without question one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever laid eyes on,” his irrelevant statement took her by surprise. “But when those huge, brown eyes of yours flash fire the way they are right now; you’re . . . you’re . . . ” Finding no words to adequately convey his feelings, he shrugged expressively. “Let it suffice to say that beautiful is too tame a word.”
“I’m certain your wife wouldn’t appreciate such an effusive compliment to another woman,” she replied in the same crushing tones as much to stem her own reaction to his words as an attempt to put him firmly in his place.
“Listen very carefully. I do not have a wife. Leslee--the woman you saw--is my sister, and the baby is my nephew. I am not married nor have I ever been married. But don’t let that little bit of information trouble you. I have every intention of correcting that oversight in the very near future.”
“Your marital status--past, present, or future--is of no interest to me,” she denied quickly--too quickly.
“Could we please have this discussion another time? When you’re in a more reasonable frame of mind,” he requested as though dealing with a recalcitrant child.
“Excuse me?” she hissed, taking refuge in anger. He had very calmly called her irrational.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware you had a hearing problem.” His words of contrition were far from sincere. “I said we can discuss your interest in my marital status at a later date, when you’re in a more reasonable frame of mind,” he goaded, carefully enunciating each word as though he suspected she might need to read his lips.
“I know what you said!” she began crossly only to halt as she spotted the amused gleam in his eyes and realized that she was playing right into his hands. “I’m just not sure why you said it. I have absolutely no interest in your marital status,” she reaffirmed with a self-possession she was finding increasingly more difficult to maintain.
“You rise so beautifully to the bait.” At his confession her humiliation was complete. Now seemed like a good time to take her leave.
“If I promise to behave nicely, will you stay?” he pleaded as though having read her mind. “I’ve come all the way from Denver just to see you.”
“You . . . I . . . What . . . ?” she stammered before stopping to collect her thoughts and continue. “How did you know where I was?” she demanded to know, growing somewhat uneasy at his admission.
“I would much rather discuss what’s troubling you,” he prevaricated.
“You mean besides you?” she asked. “Until you showed up my evening was going marvelously,” she carped nastily. “I was in a beautiful place, surrounded by people yet not bothered by anyone.”
“Does that mean that I haven’t crossed your mind once since we met in Atlanta?” he wanted to know. “Tell me you haven’t thought about me once since then,” he challenged.
She searched her mind for a crushing retort. When none presented itself, she remained stubbornly silent, and he resumed speaking.
“Now, back to what’s bothering you . . . .”
“Are you an expert?” she cut in to inquire, grateful he had not waited for her answer to his question.
“I’ve done some counseling.” His answer told her nothing.
“Well, thank you, Mr. Newman . . . ,” she began, regretting the use of his name as soon as it slipped past her lips, “. . . but I do not need counseling. I’m more than capable of sorting through any problems I might have. ”
“You remembered my name,” he couldn’t resist pointing out with a compelling smile. So much for not answering his question, she admitted to herself dryly as she watched in fascination the smile spreading slowly over his features. “I must say I’m pleased,” he confessed.
“Don’t be,” she quipped saucily, her own lips curving slowly upward in answer to his infectious smile. “It wasn’t for a good reason.”
“Ah, yes. You thought I was married. I’m glad we got that little matter all cleared up. It could have presented a problem later on in our relationship,” he declared as though they were bosom buddies with the definite possibility of a future relationship. At his outrageous assertion she visibly struggled to suppress the smile begging for expression.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” he continued easily, slowly wearing away her resistance. “Anthony P. Newman at your service,” he stated with a flourish that had her lips twitching in spite of her best efforts. “. . . About that talk . . . ,” he pressed, pouncing on her deserting resolve. When no immediate rebuff was forthcoming, he persisted. “Sometimes it helps to talk. I was merely volunteering to be a listening ear.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. Newman . . .”
“Please, call me Anthony,” he interrupted to suggest.
“Thank you, Mr. Newman . . . ,” she repeated with emphasis. “But I have no intention of baring my soul to a perfect stranger. Neither am I in need of a big, strong man to sort through my troubles for ‘lil ol’ me’,” she drawled in her best southern accent.
“Call me Anthony,” he coaxed with a winning smile as he dismissed the rest of her words as insignificant. Her hesitation to grant his request was both brief and futile as she found herself yielding to his plea.
“Anthony,” she complied somewhat self-consciously as his name rolled easily off her tongue, and just for a moment their gazes met and held--his probing and searching, hers secretive and aloof.
“You aren’t one of those women’s libbers. Are you?” he asked, his voice slightly huskier than before.
He had lowered his gaze with his question, and she could no longer see his eyes. But she had the distinct impression of being deliberately set up. In some ways he was quite similar to Jon. He could get around her defenses much too easily, and just for a moment she considered where this turn in their conversation might take them. In the end she decided there was no harm in playing along for the time being.
“What if I am?” she challenged but without her former hostility.
“No need to get in a huff,” he assured her soothingly. “I think it’s a shame there was ever a need for anything so drastic as women’s lib in the first place. I admit that it’s entirely our fault,” he continued, his voice laced with just the right amount of guilt mingled with regret. Yet something in his overall demeanor convinced her that he was more amused than contrite. “If we hadn’t been so arrogantly domineering and overbearing, women’s lib never would have been necessary.”
His voice cracked near the end of his declaration she noticed and acknowledged that it could possibly have been from the passion of his convictions. But she suspected it was more probably the result of suppressed laughter.
“Is that a fact?” she inquired, inviting him to continue with a gesture of her hand even as she wondered where this conversation would eventually land her. And even more important was the question of whether or not she should be encouraging him.
“Absolutely. We--men and women,” he emphasized, lifting his gaze briefly at this point to jab the air with his fork, first in his direction then hers, “. . . were intended to live in harmony and work together. But our failure to treat women as equals from the beginning has made women’s lib necessary.” At this point he nodded his head vigorously in affirmation of his words but failed to meet her gaze. “It’s all a result of our failure to treat women as God intended.”
Any lingering doubt as to whether or not she was being set up had vanished. She was certain that he was carefully and expertly weaving a web, but she no longer cared. She was on vacation, and this was only one night. What harm could there possibly be? Deciding to allow him to play out his little scenario to the very end, she asked the obvious question.
“Just how is it that women should be treated?” she urged him to continue before sinking her teeth into a succulent piece of meat. And continue he did. His reply came easily and readily to his lips, affirming her conviction that he had anticipated her question.
“With unwavering devotion, tender care, and undying love.” The timbre of his voice had altered subtly with his answer, becoming low and seductive, enclosing them in a circle of intimacy that excluded everyone but the two of them.
“And naturally you possess that capability?” she questioned softly, not because she wanted to, but because she had to know. By now her former wariness was forgotten, and his answer was of utmost importance.
“I’m willing to learn,” he assured her softly.
That had not been the answer she had expected. It was flawless but not anticipated. She had looked for some glib retort. Something in keeping with his outrageous behavior up to now, but instead he had given her the perfect reply. He had answered honestly. Against that she had no defense. His penetrating gaze held her captive.
She was well aware that their conversation had taken a new direction. They no longer spoke in the abstract. His eyes had gone from teasing to compelling. He willed her to believe the words he spoke. And just for a moment . . .
“Is everything all right, Sir?” Both occupants of the table experienced strong but different emotions at the waiter’s arrival.
He wanted to vent his frustration on the unwitting interloper, but he didn’t. The poor man was only doing his job, he acknowledged resignedly as he watched her slip back behind that wall that meant no trespassing. Just for an instant she had been open.
The air rushed across her slightly parted lips and into her greedy lungs, and she realized that she had forgotten to breathe toward the end of his monologue. Leaning back against her chair, it dawned on her that she had sat forward in eager anticipation. Latching onto his every word. What an idiot! She berated herself. Hadn’t she learned anything? Allowing him to deal with the waiter on behalf of them both, she used this time to gather her scattered wits.
Staring at her plate in disgust, she realized her dinner had lost its appeal. The tender pieces of curried goat were not as flavorful. And the black beans and rice had turned to sawdust in her mouth, but she pressed on determinedly, not willing for him to know how engrossed she had been in their conversation.
“No doubt your wife appreciates your enlightened attitude and unique approach to life and love,” she carped acidly once the waiter had departed.
“I thought we had that issue firmly and forever settled. Apparently, I was mistaken,” he came back shortly. “Allow me to state for the last time I have no wife,” he avowed, allowing some of his own agitation to come through in his reply, but she was beyond caring. He had played her like a well-tuned instrument, and she resented it.
“This enlightened attitude of yours--is it something gleaned from your many hours of counseling others?” she derided, confident he had never counseled anyone in his entire life. “Or possibly a book you’ve read?” she made the last bit sound as though she seriously doubted the likelihood of his ever having cracked a book to read it in his entire life.
But to her dismay her gibe went awry. He gave no indication whatever that he found her words offensive. Instead they seemed to have restored his good humor. It was as if he actually welcomed her putdown. Just as she bit into a tender morsel of meat, he captured her gaze and answered her question.
“Heavens no!” he exclaimed, his sense of humor coming to their rescue. “They don’t put stuff like that in books,” he affirmed his own words with a vigorous nod of his head. Whatever she expected, it wasn’t his next words. “My mama told me,” he finished with a deadpan expression.
Nothing but those wonderful eyes of his smiled, and they challenged her to resist. She would, she vowed solemnly, lifting her napkin in a useless attempt to conceal the upward sweep of her lips because nothing could hide the laughter lurking in the depths of her normally troubled eyes.
“I suppose it’s too soon to ask you to marry me?” he questioned softly, sending her into a state of utter confusion. He was maddening and frustrating and . . . and . . . oh, so very handsome, her heart willingly supplied when her brain failed. Hormones, she scoffed.
“Just a bit,” she answered his query. After casting about in her mind for a suitable putdown and finding none, she had answered him in kind. She had never come across anyone quite like him before. Just when she thought she had him all figured out, he did the unexpected.
“I thought as much,” he returned easily, giving the impression there was nothing out of the ordinary about this outlandish conversation the two of them were having so soon after meeting as he skewed a piece of jerk chicken with his fork and prepared to thrust it into his mouth. “But make no mistake, I have every intention of asking and every expectation your answer will be yes,” he advised with maddening confidence.
“Do you always speak such absurdity?” she challenged.
“It’s not absurd if it’s true,” he countered easily. “Life’s too short to waste time,” he stated as if in defense of his behavior.
“Your mother sounds like a very wise woman,” she observed.
No suitable rejoinder presented itself. Therefore in an attempt to divert him and steer clear of the troubling subject of matrimony, she moved on to a safer topic. Or so she thought. He couldn’t possibly be serious, and she had no idea what the appropriate comeback should be. It had been a while since her last date, but she was fairly certain things hadn’t progressed to this extent or changed so drastically in just a matter of years.
“Undisputedly so,” he agreed, leaning forward in his chair and holding her captive with his gaze. “She always said I would recognize the woman I would marry the very first time I laid eyes on her, and, whereas, I’m willing to drop the subject for now--make no mistake, I meant what I said.” Their gazes clashed and dueled. His calm assertion only served to add to her frustration. He spoke as though they were long-time acquaintances.
“You have me at a disadvantage,” she began hesitantly. Not knowing how to handle what she deemed his lunacy, she chose what she hoped to be a safer topic. “Have we met before? Other than Atlanta?” she thought to clarify.
“No,” he replied succinctly, leaving her with the distinct impression that no further explanation would be forthcoming. But to her surprise he put down his fork, leaned back in his chair, trained the full force of his gaze on her, and continued. “I met your parents several months ago at a conference in Tulsa.”
“That doesn’t explain how you recognized me,” she pointed out reasonably.
“Photograph,” he clarified somewhat uncomfortably, lowering his gaze. He hadn’t wanted to admit to having recognized her from a picture. Not tonight. Maybe later. But at the same time, he conceded her right to know how he came to know so much about her.
“Are you a minister?” she inquired, accepting his explanation without question and returning her attention to her meal.
Mrs. Charles was famous for carting around numerous pictures of her family. She also knew that her mother had no qualms about holding others captive while she extolled the numerous virtues of her children.
“Will that make me more acceptable?” he countered, relaxing when she didn’t make the observation he’d dreaded
“Acceptable for what?” she asked, feigning ignorance. When all he offered was the lifting of a sardonic brow in response to her question, she moved on to voice the remark he had feared. “You actually remembered me from a snapshot?” She’d asked the question more in surprise than anything else, but once she became aware of his discomfort . . . well . . . he deserved to be made a little uncomfortable. “I should be flattered, I suppose. It’s not every girl who can lay claim to being recognized from a picture,” she observed, leaning forward in much the same way as he had earlier and assuming a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s not as if I’m a celebrity or anything. Just think. You saw my picture. What? Four, five months ago, and you remembered me. That’s unusual. Don’t you agree?” she sought his opinion teasingly.
“It was closer to seven,” he corrected unthinkingly.
“That only makes it more extraordinary. Don’t you think?” she countered.
“Enjoying yourself?” he drawled, fascinated by the change in her. This was the woman from the photograph.
“Joy is too tame a word to describe what I’m feeling,” she enunciated each word slowly, referring him back to his earlier comment regarding her beauty, but her victory was to be fleeting.
“Touché,” he conceded with a definite twinkle in his eyes.
“That’s what you meant when you said you hadn’t expected to see me in Atlanta,” she unwittingly declared as understanding dawned.
“Remembered that? Did you?” Too late she realized how revealing her observation was.
“Only because it was so unusual,” she shot back, returning his smile. No need crying over spilt milt, she reasoned.
That brief exchange set the tone for the remainder of the evening. It passed in laughter and light-hearted bantering, and before she realized it, the evening had come to an end, and it was time to say goodnight.
He’d had the attendant retrieve her car, and at her companion’s behest, it was parked beside the curb--farther down from the door and out of the flow of traffic. They stood under a star-studded sky next to her rental in the cool, tropical breeze. Now that the end to their evening was at hand, she found herself faced with the unpleasant reminder of her boorish behavior.
“About . . . ,” she began awkwardly only to break off and begin again. “. . . I’m so . . .”
“Forget it,” he told her, anticipating her apology and eradicating the need for it. Leaning forward and reaching past her to open the door to her car, he continued in the same easy vein. “Real women don’t apologize,” he quipped with a laugh, putting an end to her painful attempt at an apology.
“Is that a fact?” she asked, arching her brow skeptically.
His action had brought them within inches of each other. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek. But he didn’t immediately perform his task and back away; instead he searched her gaze for several heart-stopping seconds. And for one wild moment, she thought he was going to kiss her, but he didn’t. Instead he extended his hand to help her slide into the driver’s seat. With a quick flick of his wrist, her door closed and he was stepping away from the car.
“Not really,” he finally answered after some consideration. “I made it up,” he admitted with a heart-stopping smile.
He hesitated for a split second as though debating whether or not to say more. Deciding against it, he bade her goodnight, and before she could respond, he had pivoted and strolled away with a jaunty stride and a low, soulful whistle. She wasn’t sure whether to scream or laugh. He had strolled out of her life just as abruptly as he had entered it without deigning so much as to inquire about where she was staying or if he could see her again. Not that she would have obliged him in either, she assured herself. But he could have asked, she scolded in frustration. Refusing to analyze her reaction to his lack of pursuit, she revved her engine in a futile effort to drown out her perplexing thoughts, put her car in gear, and shot away from the curb.
During the return journey, she alternated between agitation that he had made no effort to further their acquaintance and relief that she could finally put his ghostly image to rest. Thoughts of him had plagued her since their encounter, but now that she had spent some time with him she could forget him and get on with the business of enjoying her time in Jamaica, she reasoned.
Later that evening she replaced the phone after bidding her mother good night and moved across the room to the doors that led onto the veranda. Pulling them open, she stepped out onto the balcony, made her way down the stone steps and into the moonlit garden. The heady fragrances of the flowers filled the air, drawing her attention to their beauty. Each blossom was clearly visible in the light from the low-hanging, full moon. Her brow puckered in concentration as she tried to remember if she’d once read that a person could occasionally read by the silvery light from the Caribbean moon. Glancing around, she decided that this must be such a night. Her lips curved gently upward as she plucked one of the numerous blooms, lifted it to her nostrils and inhaled deeply.
This was a perfumer’s paradise, she acknowledged distractedly. But for the first time in years, work was no longer paramount in her life. She did not experience the usual driving urge to make notes. Although she waited expectantly for the need to assail her, it never did.
Instead there was an inexplicable sense of euphoria hovering over her as she mentally rehearsed the events of the last few hours in her aimless wandering about the garden before deciding to call it a day.
She was on vacation; she excused her behavior as she prepared for bed, and this was a land of magic. She would let it weave its little spell. What harm could it do? After all, she was merely following the advice of her doctor and family. She was relaxing and having fun, nothing more.
Her last conscious thoughts were of him. She wondered if she would see him again. He didn’t know how to reach her. He hadn’t bothered to ask. All that chasing. The man had followed her all the way to Jamaica only to walk away and leave her hanging. His strange behavior had certainly peaked her curiosity if nothing else. Anyway, she surmised, he appeared to be a resourceful man. If he had located her once, she had no doubt he could do so again.
