Long Time Coming

It was Saturday. The power hadn’t been restored, and at six-thirty in the morning he was one of a dozen motorists on the Verrazano Bridge.

He’d woken up in bed with Tessa Whitfield, her huddled to his chest like a trusting child, him experiencing a gamut of emotions he hadn’t wanted to feel at that time. It was when he felt a rush of desire for the woman whose bed he’d shared that he knew it was time to leave Brooklyn.

Maneuvering into the driveway, Micah activated the remote device under the visor, raising the garage door. Less than a minute later he opened the door to his studio apartment and walked in. Streaks of gold had pierced the veil of night as the rising sun filtered through the skylight over a utility kitchen with a sink, a two-burner stove and a portable refrigerator.

Whenever he returned home he made it a practice to look in on his landlady. However, the eighty-two-year-old former schoolteacher was currently in Florida with relatives.

Diane Cunningham had complained of a pain in her side for several days, but when he’d offered to take her to the doctor she’d balked, saying she’d probably pulled a muscle from lifting a laundry basket.

She’d proudly announced that she’d waited more than a year to travel to Sarasota to see her newest great-granddaughter and a little old pain was not going to stop her from making her scheduled flight. Two days ago he’d gotten a call from Mrs. Cunningham’s daughter telling him that her mother was in the hospital recuperating from an emergency appendectomy.

Micah made a mental note to check on his landlady’s place as he emptied his pockets of loose change, keys to his office, credit card case and money clip, leaving them on the bistro table. He also had to call Tessa and give her an approximate time when he would pick her up on Sunday to take her to New Jersey.

He undressed and walked into the closet-size bathroom to shower. A slow smile parted his lips as he soaped his body with a bath gel in a scent that matched his aftershave and cologne, washing away the scent of fruit and flowers. His smile faded when he remembered waking up to find Tessa’s face pressed to his shoulder. The velvety smoothness of her body, the moist whisper of her breathing on his exposed throat and the soft crush of her breasts against his bare chest had elicited lascivious thoughts that were truly shocking.

What he did like about Tessa was her spontaneity. She was candid, without a hint of guile—attributes he hadn’t experienced with most women he’d dated. Her beauty and intelligence aside, it still didn’t explain why he’d reacted to her like a randy adolescent boy. Well, he thought, he didn’t have too much longer to wait to uncover why, because in a little more than twenty-four hours he would see her again—this time in the light and away from her cloistered sanctuary.

Minutes after eight on Saturday morning electrical power was restored to lower Manhattan; Brooklyn a little before ten; and portions of Staten Island an hour later. Tessa trained her gaze on the television, channel surfing and listening to the same rendition of the possible and probable causes of the blackout from network correspondents.

Experts reported that a Con Ed work crew had cut through a feeder cable, while other reports attributed the blackout to a fire in a substation. The result was that New Yorkers in three of the five boroughs had lost power for more than twelve hours, and the owners of restaurants and smaller eateries were particularly vocal because they were forced to dispose of food worth estimates exceeding twenty million dollars.

Sitting on a stool in the kitchen and sipping her second cup of coffee, Tessa’s attention was diverted when the telephone rang. Leaning over, she picked up the cordless instrument and peered at the display. Smiling, she pressed a button.

“Hello, Simone.”

“How was the blackout?” drawled a low, sultry voice.

“I managed to survive,” Tessa told her sister. “At least this time I was home when the lights went out.”

“Mama told me you were with a client. How on earth did you manage to conduct business in the dark?”

“I used candles.”

“Damn, Tessa. It’s not that critical. Couldn’t you’ve postponed the meeting?”

“Not when we have ten weeks to put together a formal interfaith wedding for more than eighty guests.”

“That’s really cutting it real close.”

“Tell me about it. I haven’t met the bride, so right now I have no idea what she wants.”

“Who were you meeting with last night?”

“Her brother.”

“Where’s the bride?”

“She’s on jury duty.” Tessa told Simone that Bridget had canceled two meetings and went over what she’d discussed with Micah. However, she didn’t reveal that Micah had spent the night or that they’d shared the same bed without making love.

“The girl sounds ditzy. The fact that she’s canceled twice could be a cry for help that she really doesn’t want to get married.”

Tessa rolled her eyes upward. Simone had enrolled in college with the intent of becoming a psychologist but changed her major from psychology to a liberal arts degree program. She never became a psychologist, and when her marriage ended she channeled her pain and frustration into flower arranging. The result was wannabe psychologist Simone Whitfield had become a much-sought-after floral designer and the official florist for Signature Bridals.

“Don’t go Dr. Phil on me, Simone. She just got engaged six weeks ago.”

“Now that proves she’s certifiably ditzy. Formal weddings usually take more planning than a few months. When’s her big day?”

“New Year’s Eve.”

“And I suppose she wants you to book a room at the Waldorf-Astoria or Tavern on the Green?”

“Thankfully, no,” Tessa drawled cynically. “She’s getting married at her parents’ house in Franklin Lakes, New Jersey.”

A soft whistle came through the earpiece. “Nice neighborhood. A lot of homes in that community start at a million and go as high as eight to ten.”

Tessa thought about Micah saying money’s not an issue, which meant the Sanborns were willing to pay for whatever Bridget wanted. “Well, I’ll find out how much her folks are willing to spend when I meet them tomorrow.”

“How old is baby girl?”

Tessa laughed. Simone always referred to spoiled, pampered brides as baby girl. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask her brother.”

“Then how old is baby boy?”

“I don’t know,” Tessa said. She didn’t want to tell Simone that if Micah had put in twenty years with the NYPD, then he had to be at least in his early forties. “I’ll let you know what I come up with when I see you and Faith Monday night.”

“Faith called me early this morning from Vegas—”

“Don’t tell me she’s not coming,” Tessa moaned, interrupting Simone. Of the three, it was Faith Whitfield who’d become the most elusive. Faith had missed their last two bimonthly Monday-night dinner meetings. At any given time she could be asked to create a cake for a surprise birthday celebration or for a high-profile celebrity’s impromptu gala.

“She’s coming, but she’s flying into Westchester instead of LaGuardia. I’ll pick her up, and she can ride back to Manhattan with you.”

“If she calls you again, please tell her that we’re going to need a wedding cake for New Year’s Eve.”

Tessa talked to Simone for another quarter of an hour before ending the call. As soon as she hung up, her phone rang again. Micah’s name came up in the display.

She smiled and said, “Good morning, Micah.”

“Is it really a good morning?” came his velvet baritone query.

“Yes. I have electricity. How was your drive home?”

“Quick. It took about ten minutes door to door.”

“You were speeding,” she said accusatorily.

He chuckled softly. “Guilty as charged. I called to let you know I’ll pick you up around ten. If that’s too early, then I’ll let my mother know we’ll come for an early dinner.”

“Ten is fine.”