My One and Only(84)
“What? Why didn’t…never mind. You broke up, huh? And why was that?”
I glanced at Nick, then threw Coco the ball for the four hundred and seventeenth time. “Well, to be honest, because I wanted to get married, he didn’t.”
Nick cocked an eyebrow. “Really? You want to marry that guy?”
“Not anymore,” I said. Thinking about Dennis still gave me a pang of guilt—that numbered list, my less-than-heartfelt marriage proposal. I was almost surprised I hadn’t done a spreadsheet on the pros and cons of our relationship or devised a mathematical formula for our success potential.
“Are you sure you’re done?” Nick asked.
I kissed the back of his hand. “Yep.”
“Really sure?” he repeated.
“Asked and answered, Your Honor. Can we proceed, or do you need constant reassurance that I’ve chosen to be with you? For the moment. If you play your cards right.”
Nick smiled. “Why do I put up with her, Lord? Come on, I’m starving. Let’s eat.”
We found a little restaurant that didn’t mind a well-behaved dog and ordered dinner. Played footsies as we ate our burgers. We talked a little (and very carefully) about Chris and Willa, drifted into other subjects, places we’d been, places we wanted to see. Knowing Nick loved buildings of all types, I described the courthouse of Martha’s Vineyard, its essential New England feel, the beautiful blue ceiling, the rows of benches, curving staircase and portraits of glowering judges. Nick in turn told me about the building he hoped to build for Drachen Industries, a German investment company.
“It would be our biggest project yet,” he said. “They want it on the banks of the Volme River, and we’d use hydropower wherever we could, you know? And glass, of course. No point in being on the water if you can’t see it from everywhere.” I smiled, listening to his fast, New York way of talking, his clever hands flying. “Anyway, we’re up against Foster, and they tend to kick butt wherever they go. But it’s a little small for them, so you never know.”
“Build me something,” I said. “Right now, mister.”
He cocked an eyebrow at me, then took my plate—the restaurant had provided enough fries to feed me for a month or so—and got to work. He trimmed some of the fries, laced a lettuce leaf with a toothpick, shaved off the remainder of my bun. Occasionally, he’d glance at me for a minute, as if assessing my needs as a client, but I kept quiet, just watched his beautiful hands cut and stack. Even at a silly task like this, he looked so…brilliant, so intent and focused as he carved a door out of a pickle.
“There,” he said. “Your home. All green construction, of course.”
And there it was, a surprisingly sophisticated little house made of French fries, cantilevered and shingled, complete with windows and a little bridge leading to the front door.
“Such a talent,” I said, and he grinned.
“It’s a little small,” he said. “We’ll have to expand when the triplets are born.”
A small wriggle of warning danced through my knees. Nick, I knew from experience, never said anything that didn’t mean something. This was, after all, the guy who’d called me “wife” before he even knew my name. The man with a plan that brooked no deviation. Not that I didn’t want some kind of…something…with Nick, but as my feelings had been through the food processor in the past twelve hours, I—
“Oh, my God!” the waitress said, saving me. “Did you make that?”
We ordered coffee and a slab of chocolate lava cake for Nick. The subject of children, or the future, was not broached again. It was different, this night—in some ways, like a first date, in others, dinner with an old friend. The buzz that always hummed between us was no longer painful, now that I wasn’t pushing it away.
Maybe we could work this time.
It was raining softly when we left the restaurant, and we held hands as we walked, Coco pattering beside us, stopping to sniff a tree once in a while. The hiss of tires on the passing cars, the murmur of water in a drainpipe, the distant roll of thunder all seemed like a blessing.
“What do you want to do tomorrow?” Nick asked as we approached the hotel. Coco shook, droplets of rain spattering my already soaked jeans.
I thought for a moment. Work was stable for the moment; I’d emailed the clients who were affected by this week’s sojourn, and the sky wasn’t falling as far as I could tell. “I just want to be with you,” I said, and realized that not only was it true, it felt pretty damn good to say out loud.
Nick seemed to like the answer, because he pressed me against the still-warm and wet brick wall of the hotel, and kissed me till my knees didn’t work anymore. And when we went upstairs to our room, it felt like coming home.
WE WOKE UP IN A LOVELY tangle of limbs before dawn the next morning, spent quite a long time untangling, then decided to see the Sitting Bull monument on our field trip du jour. We said a fond farewell to the hotel, bought muffins and coffee from a little bakery, got some dog food, water and potato chips at the grocery store, and headed for the gravesite of the famous hero.
While I followed my New England imperative to apologize for all the wrongs committed by my ancestors and was murmuring “wicked sorry” to the statue, Nick got a phone call. As soon as he answered, I could tell something was wrong; his voice was terse and fast.