A Bride Worth Waiting For

“Would it have made any difference?”

He didn’t know, so he didn’t say anything. She didn’t seem to expect him to. Unless he was mistaken, she was still in her pajamas, a kind of fuzzy two-piece short suit with pudgy angels frolicking in the pattern of fabric.

Not intended to be the least bit sexy, he found it unbelievably so.

“Is that coffee I smell?” he asked wistfully.

She glared at him.

“I’ll trade you this little posy.” He wagged his eyebrows at the flowers, hoping she would laugh.

“You’re offering those in trade? They look pretty near to death,” she said scornfully.

“The coffee’s an unknown. I tried cookies you baked on three or four occasions before I wised up and fed them to old Brewster.”

“No wonder that dog was so monstrously fat. I suppose it wasn’t just you, was it?”

This was encouraging. She was asking him questions.

“Mark, too,” he admitted, “and your dad.”

“My dad?” She was trying to look outraged, but he thought he could see a bit of smile trying to press out past the prissy set of her lips.

She took the flowers, got up and marched into the house. The shorts were really very short. Her legs were gorgeous. It looked like she could still ride a bicycle fitteen or twenty miles without breaking into a sweat, or shinny up a tree in five seconds fiat.

She glanced back and caught him looking. He half expected her to slam the door behind her, turn the key in the lock and then stick out her tongue at him, but she didn’t.

She came back out a few minutes later, a carafe of coffee in one hand and an extra mug in the other, a long white terry-cloth robe hiding her delectable little knees from him.

She poured him a coffee as the birds rioted in her yard.

“What a beautiful space you’ve created for yourself, Tory.”

She looked at him uneasily. “I grow most of these flowers for my business.”

“What is your business?” He took advantage of the tenuous peace between them.

“I make dried flower arrangements, like this one, and sell them to upscale gift shops like the ones on Kensington and in Mount Royal Square. I have some contracts in Banff, too.” There was a hint of pride in her voice.

She’ll need to know she can make it on her own.

“You’re doing well, aren’t you?”

“Extremely. Better than I ever expected. I call my business Victoria’s Garden.”

He wanted to pull her in his arms and swing her around at the pride he saw shining in her eyes. But that brought thoughts of what her body, wrapped in the fluffy robe, would feel like after all these years.

Now, for the first time, his mind going down a very dangerous path—thinking wayward thoughts of her—

“Adam?” she asked.

“Coffee’s great,” he said gruffly, taking a sip. It really was great Exotic. Like coffee and chocolate and mint all mixed together. “Have your cookies improved?”

“I seem to have better luck with flowers. Adam, what are you doing here?”

“I told you. Taking you Rollerblading.”

“But I don’t want to go Rollerblading!”

Neither do I, he thought. It was not on his list of the one hundred and one things that he most wanted to do in his life.

“Why not?” he asked, sneaking a look at her over the rim of his coffee cup. She looked beautiful. Flustered, her curls scattered around her face, the freckles standing out on her nose. Her freckles always stood out on her nose when she was upset.

Somehow the purpose of this exercise had not been to upset her.

“I’m too old,” she said.

He almost spit out his coffee. “Too old to have fun?”

“Oh, Adam.” she said. “I stopped believing life was fun a long time ago.”

And then, for the first time, he felt committed to his mission. Knew why he was here, knew why Mark had sent him, and knew that he couldn’t fail.

“It must have been very hard for you. Watching him die.”

“It wasn’t hard at all,” she said stubbornly. Her chin tilted up, and her eyes glittering dangerously. “It was incredible. I didn’t regret one minute of it. It was a privilege to make that journey with that strong, courageous man.”

Her speech finished, her composure crumbled. Silver tears trickled down her cheeks. She swiped at them impatiently. More replaced them. She covered her eyes, trying to regain control. Her shoulders started to shake. She hiccuped.

And then she was sobbing. Uncontrollably.

And a voice deep within him, in his soul, told him what to do. He went and scooped her from her chair, and then sat back down in it, with her cradled against his chest. And while she wept, her hot tears trickling down his shirt, he stroked her hair and murmured words to her that came from some part so deep within him he had not been aware it existed.

He told her how proud he was of her for being so strong. He told her it was okay to cry. He told her he was going to help her laugh again. All the time aware of how slight she was in his embrace, how good she smelled, how soft her shoulders were under his hands. And all the time aware that she still loved Mark.

That her love with Mark had been one of those loves that would transcend all obstacles, even death.

And that was good. He was relieved. His future was safe after all. Kathleen was real and good and eminently suited to him in every way, and he was going to go back to Toronto and lose no time in asking her to marry him.

They would buy a house somewhere in suburbia, and someday they might have children—two point two, just like the national average.

“How?” Her voice was small, muffled against his shirt

For a startled moment he wondered if she was asking how one had two point two children, which he had not exactly figured out.

“How what?”

“How are you going to make me laugh again?” she asked somberly.