The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(66)
On a March day when the wind was whistling through the window and Abigail was dreamily recounting how John had given her a satin slip with lace sheer as spun glass, Gloria asked, “What about getting married? Has he said anything about that yet?”
“Not exactly,” Abigail answered.
“He ought to have asked by now.”
“He will,” Abigail sighed, “in time, he will.”
Gloria started shaking her head side to side, “Don’t be too sure,” she grumbled, “some men just ain’t the marrying kind.”
“John’s not one of those!” Abigail answered indignantly, then she went on to tell about how he’d telephoned her long distance from New York City.
“Long distance ain’t the same as being there,” Gloria said, and it was a point with which anyone would have had to agree.
That night it was all but impossible for Abigail to fall asleep because when she tried to picture John lying beside her, the only thing she could see was a carved out indentation he’d left in the sheet.
The same thing happened the next night and the night after that. After she’d gone without sleep for three straight nights, Abigail found herself walking right by people she’d known for years without giving them so much as a nod. When Bobby Granby inquired about a book of nursery rhymes, she ignored him completely. She tossed Alice Flynn’s eyeglasses into the trash basket instead of the lost and found bin. And when Gloria called to say that she’d decided to call the baby Belinda if it turned out to be a girl, it took Abigail a full minute to remember what baby she was talking about.
By the time John arrived back in Richmond, Abigail had worked a conversation through her mind, a conversation that would lead him onto the subject of marriage. “Did you miss me?” she asked.
“Of course!” He pulled her body to his and kissed her so ardently that she almost forgot the thing she was leading up to. After he planted a row of kisses from her mouth down to the valley in her bosom, he asked, “What’s for supper?”
“Well, actually,” she smiled in what she thought to be a most alluring manner, “I thought we could go out for dinner. Someplace fancy. Maybe that French restaurant, the one with red velvet wallpaper –”
“Not tonight. I’ve been on the road all day.”
“But, we haven’t been out in such a long time,” Abigail moaned.
“I thought you enjoyed cooking for me.”
“Oh, I do!” she exclaimed. “But someplace romantic would be –”
“This isn’t romantic?” He came up behind her and brushed his lips across her shoulder. “Me and you, alone together? Nothing to do but make love?” As he spoke he slid his hand beneath her skirt.
“But,” she sighed, “I thought maybe we could talk.”
“About what?” His fingers were working their way into her panties.
“A more permanent relationship,” she answered.
He pulled his hand back like he’d suddenly discovered a patch of poison ivy. “Permanent? I’m here every chance I get. I go miles out of my way. I’m supposed to be in Arlington but I drive to Richmond to be with you. That doesn’t mean anything?”
“Of course it does, but you’re away so much of the time.”
“You think I like it?” he growled angrily. “I have to do it! It’s my job. My territory is the entire eastern seaboard – you knew that when we met.”
“Well, yes –”
“What did you expect?”
His voice was hard edged, so cold it caused Abigail to shiver. “I just thought – ”
“Thought what? That I’d quit my job? Let you take care of me? No!” he said emphatically, “That will never happen! I’ve got my pride!”
His hurt settled like a stone in Abigail’s heart. “I never meant to infer,” she said tearfully, but by then he’d turned and walked off to the parlor. She swallowed back the rest of the conversation she had planned and went to fix supper.
When they went to bed that night he turned his back to her and Abigail could sense the falling apart of things. Nothing was going the way she’d planned. Tomorrow morning he’d probably leave and never again come through Richmond. Never again send flowers or whisper about how much he loved her. Abigail reminded herself over and over again that he did indeed love her – he’d told her so a thousand times, maybe ten thousand times. It stood to reason that he’d balk at the thought of giving up his job. A man’s job was the measure of his merit, everyone said so. Fred proposed to Gloria, but then he was an electrician who could still go to work each and every day. In time, she and John would be able to work it out; they’d find a way to be together, people who were in love with each other always found a way. He wouldn’t have to quit traveling, she could move to New York, maybe even ride along in the back seat of his car; but if he left with a wedge of anger stuck in his throat it could be the end of everything. She reached out her hand and touched his shoulder, “John,” she whispered, “I’m sorry.”
He turned to face her. “I’m sorry too,” he said, then eased his arm around her body. “I shouldn’t have flown off the handle that way.”
She shushed him with a kiss and then they made love as if no anger or hurt feelings had passed between them. “I love you, Abigail,” he whispered, “I never meant to fall in love with you, but I have.”