Dr. Truth and the Logical Lady by Sarah Raplee

 Miss Henrietta Lafleur tipped her pink parasol back to peer up at the airship straining against its tethers under the hot May sun. Strong hemp ropes as big around as her wrist held the amazing flying ship captive to the St. Louis Air Dock. A light breeze ruffled the white lace bow at the front of Henri’s little straw hat. The ship’s lines creaked in protest.

Several people in line to board on the crowded wooden dock ducked and cried out when the huge shadow shifted a bit.

Henri shook her head in disgust. Anyone with half a brain could see that the tethers were more than adequate to control Eagle. The ship was only one hundred and fifty feet long. When railroad workers had announced their anticipated strike a month ago, a wealthy shipbuilder had been ready with plans to launch a fledgling regional air service. Relatively small airships like the Eagle would transport a dozen passengers as well as mail and small amounts of freight between cities in only hours—for an exorbitant fee, of course.

Her little dog wriggled in the heavy portmanteau she carried. Her stomach clenched.

“Scotty, quiet!” she said under her breath. She did not believe a small black dog, no matter how well-behaved, would be welcomed on board an airship.

The wriggling stopped.

A tall, gray-haired woman wearing an unfashionably-large hat peered down at her through a smudged pince-nez.

“Do you need to borrow a handkerchief to clean your lenses?” Henri asked without thinking. Gazing through smudged glass made her hair stand on end.

The woman had opened her mouth to speak, but she snapped her jaws shut with an audible click, stuck her big nose in the air and then turned her back on Henri. She is offended. Henri swallowed hard. She had meant the offer as a kindness. She feared she would never completely blend in, despite Miss Green’s best efforts to mold her into a lady.

Henri sighed. She would miss her kind governess. Leaving home was surprisingly heart-wrenching.

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The ship’s looming presence drew her gaze upward once more. The shear mechanical genius of the thing made her heart skip a beat. Her face felt strangely stretched. She must be grinning from ear to ear—something she hadn’t done since Father had surprised her with a telescope last Christmas.

She stiffened, remembering what had followed. The next day her parents had explained all the logical reasons why her fascination with science was all well and good as a pass-time, but she must give up her ambition to be recognized as a real scientist. Instead, Father and Mama would provide a governess to teach her the finer points of etiquette and how to run a household. She must apply herself to learning these skills like any proper lady from a good family—in preparation for a suitable marriage, of course.

In that moment she had decided to wrest control of her destiny from the hands of her hopelessly old-fashioned parents. Henri agreed one-hundred per cent with the Rationalist movement that asserted the restrictions Society placed on women in 1860 were not only illogical, they were harmful. All that potential talent going to waste! Women like Underground Railroad conductor Harriet Tubman and airship designer Marie Van Allen were making significant contributions to America and the rest of the world. Henri would do the same.

With her parents none the wiser, she had pretended meek submission to their plans for her. She’d studied the ways young ladies hid their true feelings behind masks of civility while manipulating others to get what they wanted. Using her newfound social skills to hide her plans, she’d managed to secure an in-person job interview at Chicago’s prestigious University of Science and Industry—which was what had brought her to the air dock today. She’d pawned her jewelry for funds to procure an airship ticket.

The conductor’s whistle blew from the top of the docking tower. “All aboard!”

Henri glanced up with a frown. She dreaded having to haul her heavy bag up the steps. A mustached man in a gray uniform frowned down at the elderly gentleman with a cane who was first in line. The poor man could only climb the thirty-foot stairway at a snail’s pace.

Relieved to have a moment’s rest, she set her bag down. Scotty should be all right until after their flight left. If only the day had not been unseasonably warm. As it was, she’d wet his fur to keep him cool. Even so, she feared he might grow ill from the heat in his stuffy bag. However she could not bear to leave Scotty behind. If she secured the position at the university she would not be returning home. Scotty must remain hidden until they were well underway.

Henri pulled her handkerchief out of her reticule and dabbed at her sweaty face in what she hoped was a dainty fashion. Her cheeks burned with the heat and her throat was parched. The effort of carrying the heavy bag and the abominable parasol had made her bodice cling unbearably to her warm skin above the accursed corset Society required her to wear. The damp dress felt like some unnatural second skin. She shuddered and bit her lip to take her mind off the urge to strip off her clothing as she would have done in her room at home.

A giggle bubbled in the back of her throat, threatening to squeeze off what little breath the corset had not. Undressing in public would definitely draw attention to herself, something she could ill afford. Where in heaven’s name had she put her fan?

Bending over to unbutton the side pocket of her portmanteau, Henri nearly pitched forward onto her face as black spots appeared at the edges of her vision. A strong hand caught her elbow and easily righted her. She looked up into a smiling male face sporting a well-trimmed brown beard. Aunt Eliza’s voice echoed in Henri’s head. A fine physical specimen, that. Aunt Eliza had held great admiration for the male of the species. The proportions of this stranger’s features were certainly pleasing.

“Please forgive me, Miss,” the man said. “I fear the heat may have overcome you.”

He scooped up her bag with one long-fingered hand as if it were as light as a dandelion seed. In his other hand he carried a large traveling case that no doubt held his own belongings.

Eyes the color of aquamarines gazed into hers. “Are you feeling lightheaded, Miss?”

Henri shook her head in denial. The breeze had strengthened, cooling her cheeks.

His gaze raked her from top to toe and back in a perfunctory manner. “We Americans would do well to dress for the weather rather than for modesty. It is unfortunate that Society does not agree with me on this point.”

I agree with you, she thought, but she didn’t speak aloud. The less she conversed, the less chance she would say the wrong thing and draw more unwanted attention.

In her bag, Scotty growled a warning.

The man’s brows drew together above his blue-green eyes. He leaned in and whispered. “Do you realize there is an angry animal in your portmanteau?”

His warm, whisky-scented breath on her cheek made her shiver in spite of the heat.

How very strange.

As he straightened his eyes sparkled, however the corners of his mouth did not turn up. Was he alarmed? Angry? Joking?

Nonverbal communication was not her strong suit.

She decided the simple truth would have to suffice. “Scotty is my dog,” she whispered. What had Miss Green taught her to do to disarm a gentleman? She stepped closer to him and fluttered her lashes. “Please do not give us away. I can’t leave him behind.”

The man blinked. His eyes darkened. “I could never give you away,” he responded softly. “I’m not a fool. Besides, I’ve always fancied myself capable of smuggling. Now is my chance to test the idea in the company of a beautiful woman.”

Henri did not know what to say. Why would giving her away make him a fool? Why did he want to try a criminal activity with a beautiful woman? Why did his words make her feel hot and cold at the same time? She moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue, her mind uncharacteristically devoid of thought.

He indicated the base of the tower with his chin. “After you, Miss. The Eagle awaits.”

Scotty had settled into a resigned silence, apparently deciding the stranger was no threat. In her experience the dog was a good judge of character. A young woman in the company of a gentleman would not stand out among the passengers. She could turn the man’s attentions to her advantage. However, she must act the proper lady. It wouldn’t do to give him the wrong idea.

Henri inhaled deeply and lifted her chin. “We have not been properly introduced, Sir.”

The corners of his wide mouth turned up. “Under these unusual circumstances, I shall beg you to allow me to introduce myself. Dr. David Truth, at your service. I promise I won’t let the cat out of the bag.”

He waited patiently while she sorted out his meaning. He was joking, of course, because he had already promised not to let Scotty out of the bag. Henri considered pointing out that Scotty was not a cat She decided the species of her pet was irrelevant.

Miss Green had instructed her to express admiration when introduced to a gentleman. Truth was an unusual name. “Truth is a name to be proud of, for what is more desirable than Truth?”

His smile widened. “I like the way you think. But what of beauty? Kindness? Skill? Meaning?”

Henri tipped her head to the side, considering. “Are they not all a form of Truth?”

He nodded. “You are intelligent as well as beautiful, Miss—?” He paused and looked at Henri with expectation in his eyes.

“Lafleur,” she said, hoping she was not making a mistake. “Henriette Lafleur, of Lafayette, Louuisiana.” Would he expect more information?

“A lovely name for a lovely lady,” Dr. Truth said.

She dropped her gaze to the ticket in his pocket. Why did his statement make her cheeks burn and her breasts ache? Other men had said as much, but as soon as she had opened her mouth, they had come to realize she was ‘touched’ and the admiration had faded from their eyes. Yet she had spoken to this man for several moments and he continued to compliment her. She stole a glance at his face. His eyes shone with what she believed was intelligence and humor.

“Miss Lafleur, I assure you I am quite harmless,” he said. “I’m a physicist on my way to Chicago to interview for a position at the University of Science and Industry. You are quite safe in my company.”

Henri’s felt as if someone had just cinched her corset. This stranger must be the other applicant for the position with Dr. Krieger. They were on their way to apply for the same opening. He was her competition.

The conductor’s whistle shrilled three times in quick succession. Glancing around, she found the line had moved past them and up the tower to the boarding gangway without her noticing. Dr. Truth dropped his bag, grabbed his hat and waved it overhead. “Hold!”

The red-bearded conductor returned his wave. Dr. Truth retrieved his big travel case. “We must hurry. Miss Lafleur, or we will not make our flight.”

They hurried. Henri worked at digesting this new revelation. Having knowledge her competition didn’t might give her an edge. She must keep her true reason for traveling hidden.

Five minutes later a winded Dr. Truth stood beside her with his back to the Eagle’s railing. About half the passengers remained on deck to experience the airship’s launch, They had spread out to give one another privacy. The remainder preferred to sit inside the main cabin with a cool drink and watch through glass windows.

Henri’s portmanteau sat on the deck between her and Dr. Truth. She unfastened one end to let Scotty breathe some fresh air. His black button nose poked through the opening. Straightening, Henri leaned her arms on the chest-high railing and scanned the crowd behind the safety barriers for familiar faces. Many had come to the air dock to see a fabled airship. When a thin, well-dressed mulatto man appeared, Henri feared for a moment Uncle Claude had come to fetch her home. Then he lit up a pipe. She was mistaken. Smoke of any kind gave Uncle Claude coughing fits. Her knees sagged with relief.

A strong hand on her elbow should have steadied Henri Instead the doctor’s kind support further weakened her knees. Her hands tightened on the polished brass rail. What was the matter with her?

“Perhaps we should sit down,” Dr. Truth said. His gentle touch guided her to a wooden bench attached to the outside of the ship’s main cabin. Strange new sensations coursed through her body like the effects of a spirituous drink.

She took her seat and opened her parasol. At least the ugly pink monstrosity blocked some of the heat of the sun. And the eject-able knife she’d built into the tip might come in handy if she encountered ruffians on her journey. She had only to press a small button in the handle and the knife would appear.

Dr. Truth stowed their bags under the bench and sat down.

She sighed. “If only it weren’t so pink.” Miss Green insisted men preferred a woman with a pale complexion. Henri’s skin darkened with the slightest kiss of the sun, so she must be extra careful to be consistent with the use of her parasol.

“What?” Dr. Truth said, fingering his aquiline nose. “Am I sunburned?”

She must cease talking to herself in front of others, as Miss Green had told her a thousand times. People became confused. “No. My parasol is so ugly. I hate the color pink.”

“I see,” he said, lips twitching below his thin moustache. “Does it help if I say that I am color blind? To me, your parasol appears the same color as a field of lush spring grass. I cannot tell the difference between reds and greens, other than the intensity of the shade.”

“I only wish it appeared that way to me.” Color blindness. She’d heard of the condition without giving any thought to what it would mean to someone afflicted.

A bell like a train bell rang at the bow of the airship. Dr. Truth started To Henri’s surprise he proceeded to reach underneath the bench and unbuckle his travel case.

“How very odd the world must seem to you now,” Henri said.

Peering between his legs, he lifted the lid of the case an inch as if verifying the contents, then shut his bag and sat up without fastening the locks. “I have never seen it any other way, so the world is as beautiful to me as to you.”

She tipped her head, considering. “Perhaps more so. Bright pink hurts my eyes. I cannot enjoy that color as others do.”

“Nor can I,” he pointed out.

“Is this a debate?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because each time I present a theory, you counter it. I point out our differences; you insist they are similarities.”

“We are flirting, Miss Lafleur. It is a common courtship ritual.”

She frowned. “Forgive me. I did not intend to flirt.”

“No forgiveness necessary—”

The deck lurched beneath them. All the color drained from his face. Henri braced her boots against the boards and grabbed a handle nailed into the wall beside the bench. She watched the doctor do the same while her stomach seemed to drop, then rise. The deck slanted upward toward the bow.

Scotty whimpered.

Henri had never felt so daring. The changing forces of lift and acceleration were the only thing keeping her from running to look over the side.

“We’ve taken off!” she said to Dr. Truth.

The man’s face seemed to be turning green. The expression on his face reminded her of Father when he’d had too many whiskies.

Then her dog made repeated hacking noises.

“Oh dear! I have heard of this, Dr. Truth. You and Scotty have the air sickness.”

Sweat shone on his skin as he shook his head in denial. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “The dog, yes. My problem is not the same.”

“Perhaps drinking and flying do not mix,” she ventured.

“I believed a few shots of whisky and a parachute would keep the terror at bay,” he ground out. “I have an illogical fear of flying. Of not flying, actually. Of c-crashing.”

The bench pressed against Henri’s bottom, the deck against the soles of her boots. The Boatswain’s Mate relayed orders to the crew and the crewmen called them back to him.Tthe great ship seemed to crest a wave and the pressure fell away until Henri thought she would float off the bench. The ship leveled and the world seemed to right itself.

Dr. Truth gasped air as though he’d been holding his breath through the maneuvers. “I apologize…for my cowardice.”

Henri’s father had a similar horror of birds. So odd that such an unreasonable fear could bring a strong man to his knees. Birds were mostly small and harmless creatures. Whereas on occasion, airships did crash. Not often, though.

“No apology necessary,” she said. The poor man was trapped in a nightmare.

Once, determined to overcome his fear, Father had bought Henri a pretty yellow canary in a gilt cage. At the tender age of five years she had been unable to understand his distress. She’d simply accepted that, no matter how hard he tried, he could not bear to be in the same room with the little creature that sang pretty songs. She’d accompanied her mother give away her pet as a gift to a distant cousin. Her father had been gone for a week after they’d returned home.

A small object impacted the hull with a solid thunk. Eyes closed, Dr. Truth flinched.

“Probably an unfortunate bird,” Henri said.

There was no response.

Unlike her father, the doctor could not escape the situation until this evening when they landed in Chicago. Perhaps she could distract him?

“The odds against the airship crashing are a hundred to one,” she said, smiling. She laid her hand on his rigid one that gripped the seat between them. “Personally, I am more concerned with a fire. The hydrogen gas that gives the ship lift is extremely flammable. That is why no firearms are allowed onboard.”

Dr. Truth’s gazed at Henri through slit lids. “Are you trying to make me feel better?”

“No. Do you? Feel better, I mean?”

He gave his head a little shake.

“I have lavender drops in my reticule. They calm me when my nerves act up. Would you like one?”

His gaze had fastened on her mouth as if it were a lifeline. His nod was nearly imperceptible. She located the small drawstring purse tied to her waist and removed a smaller bag of the medicinal sweets. When he merely stared, white-knuckled, at the drop she offered, she reached over and poked it between his lips with her index finger. The moist heat of his mouth penetrated her

One Hot Medium by Sarah Raplee

Psychic medium Cora Merryweather popped a couple of antacid tablets to quell the burning in her stomach.  Today’s one o’clock appointment will be a doozy for sure.

Limiting readings to locals might weed out the haters, but her bank account couldn’t afford to take that kind of hit. Half of Cora’s clients came from outside Iowa City, some from as far away as Waterloo and Des Moines. Like everyone else, mediums had to eat. And she refused to set her rates so high only the well-off could afford a reading.

                Cora’s sigh was cut short by a string of sneezes. Great, just great. She sounded like Typhoid Mary. How was she supposed to relax into a meditative state with her anxiety level rising like the temperature outside?

The sneezing fits had started as soon as silver-haired Mrs. Donovan, her morning client, had departed. After grabbing a box of tissues off the table, she’d settled down at her small desk and opened her old laptop. By lunchtime, she’d finished her record-keeping in spite of continued bouts of off-and-on sneezing. The persistent, unusual symptom made her suspect she was having a negative psychic premonition. She was normally an extremely healthy young woman. Besides, her negative premonitions had manifested as physical symptoms a few times in the past. When the chocolate protein shake she called lunch soured as soon as it hit her stomach, her fears had been confirmed.

The grandfather clock she’d inherited from Aunt Tillie along with the house whirred before emitting a single deep chime to mark the quarter hour. A shiver skittered up her spine. Fifteen minutes to show time. She reached for her blue plastic water bottle to wash down the last of the minty antacids.  The burning in her stomach had eased, but now she needed to pee. She plunked the bottle down  and drew her brows together in a deep, dark, heartfelt scowl.

No doubt her next client would turn out to be a hater. Why couldn’t the Doubting Thomases live and let live, the way she and most other mediums did? How would they like it if she barged into their places of business and accused them of being liars and con artists? Tried to ruin them?

She grabbed her neon orange cell phone off the desktop, paused to sneeze into a tissue and then texted her friend Joan at Discrete Security.

Is Owl on duty? The message was code asking if the security camera in the stuffed barred owl on her bookshelf was working properly.

Owl’s awake, Joan replied. Big Sister is watching. Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha.

            Cora’s lips stretched into a grateful smile. It helped to know someone had her back, someone who cared about her and believed in her unusual abilities.

On a computer monitor in her office across town, Joan had a clear view of Cora’s room through the wide-angle lens in Owl’s left eye. Her friend wouldn’t hesitate to deploy a pair of well-trained security officers if “Barry” flipped to the Dark Side.  No cops would be called unless Cora appeared to be in physical danger; Joan’s business wasn’t called Discrete Security for nothing. Plenty of business people whose clients expected privacy preferred to handle unpleasantness without attracting media attention. Lawyers, therapists, talent agents…psychics.

Knowing Joan had her back gave Cora confidence. She stood and waved at Owl before heading down the short hallway toward the bathroom.

Bring it on, Barry—or whatever your name really is!

She never asked for more than the client’s first name and phone number. Her job was to channel their loved ones to bring her clients healing and a measure of peace. In order for them to accept that she was the real deal, she had to be careful not to acquire any information about them or their deceased loved ones ahead of time. No last names, no checks, nothing.

Her lack of information made it relatively easy for the haters to get in to see her. The patient ones, anyway; she was booked up for months ahead because of her spotless reputation. Luckily most doubters weren’t that dedicated.

Unlike Barry, her one o’clock. She sneezed three times and shut the bathroom door.

***

Tom Chase twisted the bell key beside the red front door of Cora Merryweather’s blue Victorian house and schooled his face into a pleasantly neutral expression. The authentic antique bell sounded a lot like an old-fashioned bicycle bell, only louder.
         The smell of fresh paint permeated the air. Business must be exceptionally good if she could afford to hire house painters. He squelched a grimace that wanted to curl his upper lip. How many grieving widows did it take to paint a house, metaphorically-speaking?
         An indignant-sounding meow sounded at his elbow. He glanced down into the unblinking, deep-blue eyes of an enormous, long-haired white cat laying in the wide porch swing. A sunbeam highlighted the snowy whiteness of his fur against the red-checkered cushion  How could the animal stand to lie in a sunbeam when it was so damned hot? Tom’s oxford shirt was already sticking to his back, and he’d only been outside his air-conditioned truck for a few minutes.

       “Hello,” he said. He'd always liked cats. The cat’s tail tip twitched a warning. He turned away.

       A bee buzzed past his head and drew his gaze to baskets overflowing with sweet-scented, multicolored flowers that hung above the porch railing. As he’d gone up the front walk, he’d half-noticed the row of neatly-tended snapdragons that guarded the front of the house and the green, long-leafed hostas that encircled a young sugar maple tree.

He caught a whiff of the flowers’ perfume and clenched his teeth. This place reeked of hope.  He knew from hard experience that hope was a dangerously addictive emotion. He’d spent more than two years trying to break his own habit.

His eyes narrowed at two weathered wicker armchairs framing an equally dilapidated side table at the far end of the porch. A cluster of white spray paint cans peeked out from behind one of the chairs.

Tom frowned. Maybe business wasn’t as good as he’d thought.Or she needed to raise her rates.

On the other side of the red door, a clock chimed the hour. He glanced at his watch and then gave the bell key another impatient twist. The medium was late. He tried the doorknob, but it wouldn’t turn. Maybe she’d stood him up. His gut began to burn. He’d waited six months for this reading. She’d damned well better show up.

The knob rattled and then turned.  The door opened and a pretty, ponytailed blond wearing a short pink sheath that showed off her legs smiled up at him. The smile didn’t quite reach her clear gray eyes.

“Hello,” he said. “I’m Barry.” If she’d had a tail, he was sure it would have twitched a warning.  

Even so, she nodded, sending her gold beaded earrings swinging in graceful arcs from delicate her delicate earlobes. She opened the door wider. “I’m Cora. Please come in, Barry.” She turned and walked away.

Eyeing the seductive swing of her hips, he followed.

They passed through a small, tiled foyer that was empty except for a coat rack and an umbrella stand. The large room they entered ran the width of the house. To his left, a comfortable-looking overstuffed couch and chair were grouped around a brick fireplace.  On either side of the fireplace, mullioned windows let in the light.

Cora moved to the right. “What kind of name is Barry, anyway?” she said.

“What do you mean?” He turned and watched her retreating ass. She didn’t seem to have heard him.

“Please, sit down.” She waved a casual hand at the square, polished wooden table, then took a seat. The wall behind her was lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books and a few knickknacks. 

Tom chose the seat across from hers. He wanted a clear view of her facial expressions while she “read” him.

She sat as if a she had a broom handle for a backbone and folded her hands on the tabletop. Her short, neatly-manicured nails were unpainted, probably because she worked in the garden.  A thick gold band etched with a raven totem encircled the middle finger of her right hand. Her left hand was bare.

His shoulders twitched. She made him uncomfortable in his own skin.

“Is Barry short for—what? Barold? Barney? Barrow?” The frozen smile had been replaced by a look of disdain.

Why was she fixated on the damned name? “I was named after my father.” That much was true.

Something flashed in her eyes. “I don’t doubt that for a minute. Your father’s come forward, you see. The problem is his name is Thomas, not Barry.”

***

Cora scowled when his earth-brown eyes slid away from hers. The skin under his fashionable dark stubble reddened. A muscle jumped in his jaw. At least he had the decency to be embarrassed at being caught in a lie.

When he shot to his feet, she realized she was mistaken. His voice dropped to a feral growl. “Where is it?”

She swallowed. He seemed to occupy a lot more space than he had a minute ago. Her tongue darted out to lick lips that were suddenly parched. 

A jumble of images flashed in her. Too many spirits vied for her attention for her to make sense of the mess in her head. Right now she needed to focus on the crazy guy in her living room, and he was very much alive.

Not now, she told the spirits. Later, I promise.

They pulled back their energy and left her to deal with Thomas on her own.

He squatted and ducked his head to look up at the table bottom, then stood once more and glanced wildly around the room.

Heart chugging like a runaway train, she rose from her chair. She had to tip her head back to catch his troubled gaze. Why had she bothered to bait this tall, dark and handsome nut job? How long would it take Joan’s minions to get here?

BIRTHDAY PROMISES - Part 2

Birthday Promises - Part 2
By: Deanne Wilsted

Noah searched Julianna’s face. While she appeared jovial, he knew she had to be suffering inside. After all, no one wanted to end up divorced. In truth, when they’d made the promise to get divorced if either of them were in loveless marriages when they turned thirty-five, neither had really believed it would end up that way. They’d been at each other’s weddings; had been best woman and man of honor. He’d seen the love and confidence glowing from the inside when she’d taken her vows with Mark. And, if he’d had some doubts about the guy’s character, well he’d also known Julianna would be strong enough to bring out the best in him.

Yet here they were, seven years later, with Julia standing in front of him telling him she wanted to keep the promise.

“Are you sure, Julianna? I mean, isn’t there anything you can do?”

Julianna sighed and set her champagne glass down. Noah followed her lead. He really didn’t feel much like toasting anymore either.

“Oh Noah. I’ve tried. You have no idea how hard I’ve tried to let go of Mark’s unfaithfulness. I just, he just, well, we just can’t seem to move beyond it.”

To Noah’s way of thinking, moving beyond infidelity seemed like the wrong approach. It felt like something you would need to tackle head-on in order to grow and re-establish a bond.

“It probably doesn’t help that I’m pretty sure he’s still messing around with other women.” She barked out a wry laugh. “Of course he claims it’s not true. He says it’s my imagination.” She shrugged, deflated. “Which may be right. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I can’t live like this anymore.”

Noah watched Julianna square her shoulders then look him in the eye.

“Besides, a promise is a promise, right?”

He reached out and pulled her into another huge hug. More than anything he wished he could take away some of her hurt. “I wish you’d told me,” he said.

“I would have. I wanted to. But after everything you’ve been through these last two years I really didn’t want to add to your troubles.”

Noah felt his insides curl, twist, and tighten like a Cheeto. He glanced at the photo of Mattie that he’d placed on the table. What was he going to do?

“When Mattie died….” He swallowed the grief that still overwhelmed him whenever he spoke of it. “After she was gone, it felt like she took the very best part of Leslie and me with her.”

“Oh no, Noah!” Julianna was emphatic. “The two of you have always been like rays of sunlight shooting from the same sun. Even when you were young and thought you hated each other.”

Noah remembered those days. It was high school and Leslie, the cheerleader had seemed like everything wrong with society. Her perfect little curls always bounced in time with her steps- a walk that was always done in sparkly, name-brand, sneakers. She smiled and giggled and totally intrigued him, though he would never have admitted it to anyone. But he didn’t need to tell Julianna. She saw it in him from the beginning. “You really should get to know her,” she’d claimed. “She’s really nice. And she likes Tito Puente.” She’d looked at him slyly. But Noah hadn’t bought it. How could anyone who cared so much about being popular appreciate music by the King of Salsa?

Noah had watched her enthrall the school for four years. It wasn’t until their senior year lock-up that he finally too succumbed to her charm. A bunch of the kids had begun to get out of control and Leslie had stepped in and described all of the important work around the school that would be destroyed if they sprayed the classrooms with fire extinguishers as they were planning on. He’d watched her that night, ponytail whipping around, as she mapped out the entire school and all of its valuables. He’d suddenly realized that what looked like superficiality in fact hid an observant, intelligent and caring heart.

Love had grown from there. It had inspired the many novels he’d written over the years. There was no better story than love found.

But like a tilt-a-whirl his view had shifted when their five year old daughter Mattie had died. Astoundingly, Leslie had bounced back, like the curls which still jumped around on her shoulders. She’d demanded the same of him. But he couldn’t give it, didn’t know how she could.

He was beginning to think his original assessment of Leslie’s character had been correct.  After all, what sort of person, he wondered could recover so easily from the death of their child?

* *

Late that night Julianna and Noah sat on his balcony looking up at the night sky. The champagne had kicked in and they were both sleepy and a bit maudlin.

“Do you think we’ll ever find love again?” Julianna asked.

Noah tried to imagine himself with anyone besides Leslie and came up blank. “Not sure.”

“Well, I don’t care.” Julianna pounded her fist on the iron railing and then looked at her hurt hand as if it weren’t attached to her own body. “Ow?”

He grabbed her fist and rubbed the spot below her pinkie where she’d hit. “Silly girl. That’s going to leave a bruise.”

She looked at her hand again curiously and then shrugged. “I don’t care,” she repeated.

Noah got the impression she was referring to finding love rather than to her hurt hand.

“I think I do,” he said quietly, almost to himself. But as always, Julianna knew he was saying something important and pinpointed him with a laser-like gaze.

“I think you care too,” she said. “But not about finding new love.”

Noah huffed. Even though they’d been talking about things all night it was impossible for her to understand what the last six months had been like for him. His daughter was gone. His cold wife was constantly either at work or at the gym. He couldn’t even write. He was lost.

“You’ve always been Leslie’s strongest cheerleader. But try living with someone who acts like nothing has changed; like the worst thing in the world hasn’t just happened. You try showering with someone who still sings; eating with someone who somehow empties their plate; sleeping with someone whose eyes close as soon as the light goes off.”

“Um, but Noah, isn’t that just things we all do in life?”

“Not after your DAUGHTER is killed!”

Julianna pulled back as if slapped. And Noah’s hands tightened into fists on the arm of the chair. God damn it! No one, not even Juliana understood that life- even the word life- didn’t mean anything to him anymore.

* *

Noah’s head was pounding the next morning when he awoke, half-way on, half-way off, the couch. He’d insisted Julianna take the bed. She didn’t know he never slept in it anymore and there was no way he would have slept in Mattie’s room.

An image of Leslie cleaning out Mattie’s closet hit him like a slap on his whiskered face. He’d yelled at her about it; thrown the coffee cup he’d held at her to make her to stop. She’d moved out that day four months ago. Now they only saw each other at the counselor’s office. Their appointments had become fewer and fewer, so that Noah wasn’t even sure when their next one was. He shut down the ache inside himself, not noticing how tightly he held the couch pillow.

In the other room he heard the shower turn on and knew Julianna was awake. But Noah could feel the darkness taking hold and couldn’t find the motivation to move from his prenatal position on the couch. Like a curtain falling on the final scene, the room went black and silent. He heard his own breath, but even the sound of the shower was now a distant, indistinct noise, like the meaningless hum of a refrigerator.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out. The sound of whispering voices- of Leslie’s whispering voice, eventually cut through the heavy lethargy that took hold after one of his blackouts. Not wanting to move in any case, he simply lay there listening.

“Does this happen often?” Julianna asked.

“I, I’m not sure.” Leslie’s hesitation was in contrast to her rigidity of late. “He told the counselor and me the blackouts had stopped. I thought he was getting better.”

It was Leslie’s sob that finally snapped his eyelids open. Across the room the two women he loved most in life sat across from each other at the dining room table. Julianna held Leslie’s hands, cushioning Leslie’s forehead which had dropped onto them.

“Oh Julianna, I don’t know what to do. I’ve tried so hard to hold it all together for us- tried to be the strong one. But I just can’t anymore.  I can’t live like this.

Her sobbing grew until it was impossible to ignore. At the same time, Noah didn’t know what to think of Leslie’s atypical emotions. At least she was finally showing some. And a part of him wanted to rush over to reassure her. But another side, the one that was omni-present, wanted to yell and throw things. All of this time, after all that had gone on, and only now she cried? Could it even be believed?

“Bravo!” he called across the room, clapping his hands at her theatrics. “What a performance. I’m sure Julianna is impressed with your heartfelt emotion.”

Noah lay back on the couch and covered his eyes with the back of his hand. “But if you don’t mind, I’m resting after a champagne fête last night. Perhaps you could take the theatrics outside.”

The room went silent for a moment and then he heard the front door slam shut. Good! They’d left.  It wasn’t like Julianna could do anything to help him anyway. He knew from past experience he wouldn’t have the energy to deal with anyone for at least a few hours. He took a breath and tried to sink into sleep.

Slap!

The noise reverberated across his cheek and out into the otherwise quiet room. His eyes flew open and found Julianna standing over him, fury making her cheeks as red as his now was. Still she remained silent; the only sound her huffing breath.

He rubbed his cheek with the palm of his hand and sat up against the pillow that had cushioned the blow.

“Care to tell me what that was about?” His calm tone belied the anger and hurt beneath the words.

“Seriously?” Julianna’s stare turned to one of pity. “Thirty-five and it’s like I’m dealing with a fourteen year old.” She sat down next to him on the couch and he shifted ever so slightly away from her, not allowing her body heat to sooth her blow.

“Flashback,” she said, waving her hand in the air in front of them to paint the picture. “Sophomore year and your art representation of Nelson Mandela being freed was displayed in the hallways with the question: What is Freedom? Do you remember?”

Noah nodded. People had written things all over the school walls, and the principal had allowed it.

“It was huge. But instead of seeing freedom in the very act of writing on the walls, you obsessed on one quote…  Leslie’s. Choosing how to wear my hair, she’d written. You ranted and scoffed and told everyone who would listen that it was the very definition of blond.”

“Yeah, right. See, even back then I was a great judge of character.”

“Yes, except you weren’t. Even worse, I can’t believe that in all these years you never stopped to ask what she’d meant by that quote…  or by any of the other myriad of actions you self-righteously declared superficial back then. You claim that she deserted you. But I think she just finally lived up the judgment you’ve never really let go of.”

Noah wanted to deny what Julianna was suggesting but memory after memory of his and Leslie’s fights over the years flew at him and dug at his conscience. He’d never actually accepted, let alone understood her differing views, just decided, whenever they’d disagreed, to forgive her apparent shallowness because of her kind heart. Seen in this light his doubt of her and even his own self-righteousness was glaring.

Noah let his head fall back on the couch. He expelled the breath he’d been holding and looked around the room. Every space, every corner, was Leslie. It was why he’d hated the condo…. Sunny and warm and optimistic, it was like his grief was being ridiculed in the very cushions he sat on.

“Why did she write that?” he asked.

Julianna’s eyes searched his face as if looking for a cure for cancer. She must have found what she sought because she leaned over and gave him a hug.

“Why don’t you ask her,” she said. She walked toward the bedroom, but then turned back again. “I’m going to pack and get out of here. I’ve got to get back so I can hit my divorce deadline. Mark’s divorce papers will be in his hands by the time you call for my birthday. But what are you going to do about the promise?”

Noah smiled and stood up. He looked at the front door then back at Julianna.

“I’m not sure I ever met the original criteria,” he claimed. “The promise was we’d divorce by thirty-five, but only if we were in a loveless marriage right?”

“Yep.”

“Well then. Leslie and my love might not have been up to the task of healing after Mattie died, but I can’t believe it’s lost entirely.”

“Well then.” Julianna smiled and ran over to him. On tiptoes she reached up and hugged him with all her might. “Happy birthday, Noah.”

“Happy birthday, Julianna,”

THE END

In the mid-1990 the United Nations recognized the growing awareness of Women’s Rights, Inequality and Empowerment.

They aggregated the outcome of a number of conferences on this important topic in a paper called, Guideline on the Empowerment of Women. Quote: “Clearly, a common thread uniting each of the major international conferences of the 1990's is women's empowerment. Furthermore, the international community is now accountable to the world's women for fulfilling the significant commitments it has made to help make empowerment a reality of women's lives.  What, then, is women's empowerment?  Women's empowerment has five components:  women's sense of self-worth; their right to have and to determine choices; their right to have access to opportunities and resources; their right to have the power to control their own lives, both within and outside the home; and their ability to influence the direction of social change to create a more just social and economic order, nationally and internationally.”
 

For more on this original paper refer to: http://www.un.org/popin/unfpa/taskforce/guide/iatfwemp.gdl.html

I hope you enjoyed, THE PROMISE, a Journey Inspired by Love.

Find more from Deanne Wilsted at: www.deannewilsted.com

Birthday Promises

BIRTHDAY PROMISES By: Deanne Wilsted

An animal-like scream pierced the air and Julia dove for cover. A bloody hand descended, edging over the desk where she trembled in fear. It was gnarled with age and lord knew what else. Feet kicking out in front of her, Julie scrabbled back in the corner, as far as she could get from the zombie looking appendage. It was no use. The fingers caught the hem of her apron and began to pull.

“Cut. That’s it for today.”

Finally!

Julia wiped the sweat that had begun to trickle down her forehead five takes earlier. Someone arrived to disengage the mechanical hand from Julia’s clothes and she pulled herself out from under the desk, rolling her shoulders to release their tension.

“Thank God you finally got that wretched hand working, Arnie. I’m not sure my body could have handled another take.”

She smiled to relieve some of the sting from her words, but she was serious. It had been a long day of throwing herself to the ground over and over while the technicians tried to fix the hand that kept jerking to a stop before actually grabbing her.

“You were brilliant as always, Julia.”

Julia wanted to roll her eyes at the director’s statement. Sure. It takes all kinds of talent to yell like a banshee and hit the ground like an anchor. The sensation of tunnel vision was threatening to return, so Julia shook her head and shrugged.

“Thanks Arnie. You know I love working with you.” And it was true. If she had to do thriller movies, she was happy to at least be working with the tanned, eighty-six year old genius. There was something about his direction that made even the most redundant script come alive.

Julia scrubbed the make-up off her face. And, not caring that her normally shiny-clean, brown hair still had flecks of fake blood and dirt in it, twisted it into a ponytail. She grabbed her stuff from her studio locker and plugged her nose to block out the smoke which permeated the LA air after a slew of unexpected springtime fires. Back in Oregon she’d be lounging in the cool sunshine, watching the robins build their nests. Or perhaps she’d be cuddled up inside listening to the rain. Either way, she wouldn’t be facing an hour long commute in smog so thick it was like fog. She’d be reading a great book. Not a thriller, a nice, steamy, rose-colored glasses sort of romance. The kind of story Noah knew how to tell.

Noah! For the last few months he’d be constantly in her thoughts. Today though, on his birthday, she knew she would finally need to make the phone call she’d been avoiding. Her hand dropped from its spot holding her nose, to the pocket where she kept her cell phone. It had been so long since she’d last called him that she had to search for his number in her contact list.

Did she want him to answer or not? Perhaps he’d forgotten.

“Julianna!” It must have been the artist in him; he was the only person who used her full name.

“Noah. Happy Birthday.”

Since her birthday was a week after his she always got the first call. It was a tradition. And no matter how infrequently they spoke during the year, they never missed each other’s birthdays. Perhaps it had something to do with the promise they’d made so many years ago, back when they were too young to know better. It seemed unlikely Noah even remembered the clichéd promise. After all, twenty years old was a long, long way from thirty-five. Julia was sure they’d both since realized that marriage was to be taken more seriously than their youthful pledge would have others believe.

“So, what amazing birthday plans do you have?” she asked.

“Ahhh, well, as you know, this is a big one.”

So he did remember! Julia’s stomach fluttered and she took a big breath, then heard Noah laugh on the other end.

“Relax! You’re still thirty-four for one precious week. Enjoy your freedom. In fact, I can picture you now; top down on your Mercedes, hair gleaming in that LA sun, nails bitten to the quick.”

“Well, you needn’t point out that last part.” She huffed, curling her fingers under the steering wheel though there was no one there to see the blunt nails but her. “And for your information the top is up to keep out the toxic mix of smog and smoke.”

“Riiiiight. I heard there was a fire. But you’re okay right?”

“Just fine, though I’m missing home right now.”

“Home? Aren’t you in LA?”

“No, I mean Portland. You know, where you are.” She visualized him in his loft in the Pearl. He’d have his computer open and be unconsciously tapping his toe along to some jazz music while staring vacantly off into space.

“Well.” Noah’s voice softened and sounded as far away as it was. “I’m not in Portland much anymore. I’ve been doing a lot of book signings. It’s just easier to be gone, you know?”

“So, still the same then?”

“Same, same.” The false cheer in his voice was hollow even to her ears.

“Sounds lonely.” Shoot, she shouldn’t have said that. She knew exactly where it would lead. Still, they were friends, and she cared for him… was worried about him.

“No worries Julianna. Just because my life is ready for a change doesn’t mean I’ll hold you to the promise.”

Julia wanted to cry. If only he knew how much she desperately needed change. She talked with her counselor about it every single week. It was the theme of her life. And yet she found she couldn’t quite take the next step.

“I’m surprised you remembered.” She said quietly.

“Like I could forget.” His wry laugh sounded like a cough it was so abrupt. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about for months now.”

“Do you think...? I mean, maybe we should get together. You know, give each other some courage to decide.”

“What!” Noah’s shock was so powerful it had probably shorted out a cell tower somewhere. “I thought things were going well for you and Mark.”

Tears came to Julia’s eyes and she bit her lip hard to keep from really breaking down.

“I didn’t want to say anything when we talked last time. I thought… I thought we could still fix it. I thought I could make it better.”

But how did one make cheating better? It was like silly string wrapped around her. Every time she tried to rid herself of the hurt and distrust, she’d find it attached to some new area of her life. He said she wasn’t trying, but that just wasn’t true. She’d been fighting like a pit bull for months now and was beginning to feel like the horrified victim she was playing in her most recent movie.

“So is it…” Noah didn’t have to finish the question. She knew what he was asking and why.

“Yes. It’s way past time for it to be over.” The freedom of simply saying those words aloud made her want to put the top down on the car, as he’d suggested, and drive until she hit the Made in Portland sign.

“Come to Portland,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “We need to talk.”

“I’ll be your birthday present,” she said wryly. “Don’t start celebrating without me.”

* * *

Arnie was surprisingly flexible when she called to tell him she was heading out of town till Tuesday. “I knew something was going on. Your scream had an even more frightening chill in it than usual.”

Free of the smog and smoke that had haunted her in LA she stopped briefly in Santa Barbara to lower the top before getting on with the drive. She turned the music up louder to compensate for the wind. She would never have blasted it in LA. Celine Dion just wasn’t something everyone enjoyed as much as she did.

Singing along to the music, sun warming her face, the power of the car responding easily to her slightest move, Julia felt her mind begin to expand beyond the beautiful views that surrounded her. She and Mark had made this drive. Or at least this part of the drive. They’d stopped in San Francisco and they’d acted like kids, going to all of the tourist attractions- even riding the carousel at Pier 39. They’d talked about kids and travel and work. The plans they had made on that trip had bound Julia to him even when everything else had fallen apart.

Julia’s hair, freed of the tight ponytail, flew in the wind as she shook her head in both disbelief and anguish. Things had seemed so perfect for a while. It was still almost impossible to believe it could have unraveled so quickly. Her counselor told her what she felt was grief. But mostly Julia thought she felt confusion. Well, that and distrust. It was one of the things that had kept her from calling Noah to vent and seek support. The ground of all of her relationships felt as shaky as the ground beneath the last 6 point earthquake that had rocked Southern California.

Ahead of her Julia saw a sign for u-pick strawberries. She turned off highway 101 and wound up a hill, following where the signs pointed her. Direction feels good, she thought, smiling at the simple pleasure of knowing where she was going. She planned to spend the night in Napa, cutting over to I-5, a less scenic but much quicker route, to finish her drive to Portland the following day.

She parked the Mercedes next to a quaint shack which advertised jams, frozen berries, and early vegetable starts. A few minutes picking strawberries wouldn’t kill her, she thought, ready to stretch her legs out after 6 hours in the car. A cute girl wearing overalls and sparkly high-tops handed her a basket and pointed her to row after row of berry bushes.

Kneeling in the soft dirt, Julia lifted the leaves to get at the juicy red fruit. One for me, one for the basket. She smiled as the juice ran down her chin. Hopefully they didn’t mind her eating a few since the red stain would be a giveaway that she’d been sneaking them. She’d only made it down a row when her phone rang. Thinking it was Noah, trying to hurry her, she answered with a bubbly, “Hiya. I’m almost halfway.” It was a bit of an exaggeration but close enough that she didn’t feel too guilty.

“Halfway where?”

Mark’s questioning tone was like a bucket of ice water over her sunny mood.

“I’m going home for the weekend,” she said. Julia didn’t know why she felt defensive. “It’s not like you are even around this weekend.” He was on another of his many business trips of late that Julia had stopped believing had anything to do with business.

“I came home.”

Once again the idea of home struck Julia. They might live in the same house, but it had stopped being home many long months earlier.

“Okay.” She really wasn’t sure what else to say.

“I thought you’d be here. You could have called.”

“Mark, when exactly was the last time you called to tell me where you were going to be? I’ve stayed home the last four weekends thinking you would be around, and never heard a word about your extended trip until Monday morning when you showed up to grab more clothes.”

“I’ve told you, business is lousy right now. I need to be there when my customers call.”

He’d completely skipped over the point about a phone call to apologize, or to even just let her know.

“Right. So, now there’s something I need to do.”

“Ahhhh. Now I see. You’re going to visit him, aren’t you?” Mark spit the name out like it was something disgusting; like she was the one sneaking around behind his back rather than the other way around.

“Yes. In fact, for the first time in a year I’m going to go visit Noah. If you’d been around we could have gone together. But obviously you had more important, uh, plans.”

Julia wiped the dirt off her hands and picked up her rather small basket of berries. The moment was ruined, like grocery store fruit, processed to the point where it held no essence of its original beauty.

“There’s that tone I know and love,” Mark said. Julia could picture the sneer narrowing his otherwise huge blue eyes. “I knew that’s what this was all about. You’re never going to get over this, are you Julia?”

Whereas the thought made Julia sad, Mark’s guilt translated to anger. Julia pinched the bridge of her nose to ward off the headache she could feel sitting there.

“No Mark. I don’t think I am. Maybe you should use the time alone this weekend to pack.”

The words hung there. It was obviously not what he had expected to hear. Maybe he’d grown used to the discussions that always deteriorated into arguments. But Julia was too tired to do it anymore. Like she’d told Noah, she was done.

“I’ll call you next week when I return.” She pressed end, wishing it were that simple to finish things in real life.

* * *

 

Too tired to do anything more than fall into bed, Julia awoke the next morning still dressed in the sweats she had thrown on when she checked into the hotel the night before. The cool early-morning spring temperature felt fresh, so she pulled the top back on the convertible and let the wind draw out any leftover angst from the day before.

Having flown back from wherever he’d been hiding out, Noah was waiting for her when she got to his place in the early afternoon. He opened the door before she even knocked and pulled her into a huge hug. His height encompassed her and she let herself melt into his solid strength.  Dark hair, green eyes, and pale skin… whether he knew he was gorgeous or not, it really didn’t matter to him. He was a quiet, earthy sort of guy for whom looks mattered only as a means of describing his characters.

“Noah?” Her voice was muffled in his large Portlandia sweatshirt which smelled of fabric softener.

“I know,” he said, petting her hair to comfort her.

“No… I mean, I can’t breathe.” She laughed.

He pulled back, laughing too, but still not entirely letting go. Julia tilted her head up to see his face.

“Oh Julianna, I’m so glad to see you.”

“Me too!” She stood on her tiptoes to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Happy Belated Birthday!”

“Come in.” He stood aside and ushered her into the large open room that was part living, dining, kitchen, and game room all in one. It was devoid of personal items, except for a photo of Noah with a beautiful girl.

Julia walked over to the photo to study it. “I sometimes forget how angelic she looked.”

Noah came to stand next to her and picked the framed picture up off the side table.

“Mattie’s smile could light up a room.” His own smile was sad and Julia wondered, not for the first time, how he stood the grief. She wished there were someone there to comfort and support him but the accident had stolen that as well.

“You weren’t kidding when you said it was time for a change.” Her eyes scanned the nearly empty room searching for any sign that a happy couple had once lived there.

“Yes. Happy Birthday to me,” Noah said ironically, going over to the dining room table where he’d put a bottle of Champagne into an ice bucket. He laid down the photo and reached for the Champagne he’d put on ice earlier. He popped the top and poured them each a glass before raising his in a toast.

“Here’s to birthday promises.”

Julia clinked glasses and took a huge swallow looking deep into Noah’s eyes in order to gauge his seriousness.

“Okay, I’m ready to keep the promise if you are.” She held her glass up again. The bubbles floated from the bottom, freeing themselves from their liquid prison which bound them. Freedom. She took a deep breath.

“Here’s to ending loveless marriages by the time we turn thirty-five. Crazy our insight at age twenty, right?”

 

Author note:

What . . .   Divorce?
Bet that was a twist. Well, there’s a lot more to the story…. What will Julia do now? Who was the girl in the photo who died? And who exactly is Noah divorcing and why? If you want to read more about the BIRTHDAY PROMISE you’ll have to check back May 19^th when I’ll reveal part two of The Promise that these two intriguing characters made.

 

Deanne Wilsted Bio - Journeys Inspired by Love
With an English teacher for a mom, DEANNE WILSTED grew up reciting conjugations instead of nursery rhymes. Now, forty years later, she's sharing that special skill through her writing and her mothering. Her first book, a contemporary romance called BETTING JESSICA, was published October 2011. Her second Novel, UNTANGLING THE KNOT, was released February 13, 2013 from Soul Mate Publishing. She is currently marketing her third book for publication and writing her fourth, fifth, and sixth while blogging about the crazy things she overhears while writing.

Find more by Deanne at www.deannewilsted.com
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Lord Pennington's Proposal

by Christy Carlyle

     

London, 1867

            Lord Jonathan Pennington had always considered himself a patient man, but as he sat listening to the steady drone of Arthur Lanham, he began to reconsider. Perhaps impatience was the better choice. In this instance at least, brevity was certainly preferable. He cut the man off just as Lanham took a breath to begin another sentence.

            “Yes, of course, Lanham.” He had no idea what he had agreed to, but it seemed to satisfy the man and, more importantly, silence him. “Do let us get to the matter at hand.”

            Lanham smiled at that, and Jack noticed that his lips were inordinately wide. It made him look hungry. Voracious even.

            “Isabella,” Lanham said, still smiling.

            Jack hated the way Lanham said her name. His tongue stuck on the s, and he hissed a moment before continuing on to the other syllables. Like a snake—a voracious snake. Jack leaned forward in his chair, the buttons on his brocade vest clicking against the edge of his desk, and stared directly into Lanham’s pale blue eyes. “Miss Danvers, if you please.”

The man’s overfamiliar way of addressing Jack’s ward would most definitely count against him. Jack dipped his pen into his inkwell and scratched far too familiar onto the piece of paper in front of him.

Lanham leaned over as if to read Jack’s writing.

“Are you compiling notes about me, old man?”

It was Jack’s turn to smile, but it was a gesture that held no warmth, no true mirth. His every impulse told him to turn the young upstart out on his ear and forbid him from ever calling on Isabella again. But he had done that with the five other men who had asked for her hand in marriage over the years, and he could no longer shirk his responsibility. Though she was beyond the age when any young woman should require a guardian, her dear, foolish father had insisted Bella’s guardian remain her caretaker until she wed. The late Harold Danvers could never have imagined his daughter would remain unmarried at four and twenty.

“I am a busy man, Lanham. I take notes on virtually everything. Helps me sort out what’s what. I have two estates to run and a ward to marry off. Too much for a man to remember without the aid of paper and ink.”

“Well, I am more than happy to take Isa—, er, Miss Danvers off of your hands.”

            The smile was back on Lanham’s face, broad and gleaming. The very sight of it made Jack’s stomach churn and he took up his pen again. He wrote Unpleasant smile and underlined the words before settling back in his well-worn desk chair and giving Lanham his full attention.

            “You make her sound like a pony I wish to be shot of. I have known Miss Danvers since we were children, Mr. Lanham. I will not give my approval lightly, and she is quite discerning. Tell me, what do you find to admire in my ward?”

            “Pardon?” The man looked truly befuddled, but not enough for Jack to feel an ounce of sympathy.

            “Why do you want to marry her, man?” Jack knew that Bella’s dowry made her an appealing catch for most bachelors of her acquaintance, though it was, thankfully, not great enough to attract fortune hunters. Yet he was determined to secure her a betrothal based on true admiration. He couldn’t bear the thought of her wed to a man who did not appreciate her many fine qualities, especially her sharp mind and even sharper wit.

            Lanham cleared his throat and sat up straighter in his chair. Jack clasped his hands in front of him and waited—impatiently.

            “Well, she is a very fine-looking lady. Isn’t she, my lord?”

Good God, did the man truly need confirmation of Isabella’s beauty? She was a vision, truth be told. Jack always found pleasure in looking at her, yet it was only one of her many fine qualities, and the one she least concerned herself with. Jack knew Bella wished to be loved for her mind, for her character, not for the blush of her cheek nor the extraordinary shade of her violet-grey eyes.

Lanham droned on. “Her hair is a most attractive shade of brown…”

Chestnut, actually. Bella’s hair was chestnut, richly burnished with hints of gold and red. When she wore it in a braided coil and left a few tantalizing curls to brush her shoulders, those strands shone like gold. The man hadn’t even bothered to identify the true color of her hair.

“And her skin is so very—“

            “Yes, thank you, Lanham. That will be all.”

            “My lord?”

            “The answer is no, Mr. Lanham. I will not give my approval for you to marry my ward, and I ask you not to call here again.”

            The young man sat gaping, his mouth open and eyes wide. He did not look like a snake now. More like a fish that had inadvertently flopped onto the riverbank. When he made no move to leave, Jack stood and approached the door of his study. He opened it and turned back to Lanham.

            “Good day, Mr. Lanham.”

            The young man stood, straightened his tie, and tipped his chin a notch, recovering all of the over-confidence with which he’d entered Jack’s house less than an hour before. He moved toward the door and Jack itched with eagerness to close it behind him, but Lanham stopped just on the threshold. He did not look at Jack and spoke in a clipped, tight voice.

            “It is no wonder Isabella is an old maid at four and twenty. You turn away every man who wants her. Take care, sir. Soon no one will.”

            Wilkins, Jack’s ever-watchful butler, scuttled down the hall, presented Arthur Lanham with his coat and hat, and escorted him to the townhouse’s front door. Without another word, the young man strode out—chin still aloft—into the frosty London morning.

            Jack closed the door of his study and sank into his comfortable chair, stretching his legs until the heels of his boots rested against the grate of the fireplace. The fire had waned long before, but there was enough heat to provide a measure of comfort.

            He had to tell her, had to acknowledge that he had turned away another of her suitors. Would she understand he had no choice? Would she see that he could not give her away to any man ignorant of her true worth?

            As he pondered what to say, how to explain, he heard the study’s door handle turn and the slight creak of hinges as it swung open. He knew she was there without turning. Her presence ignited his senses, as if the air around him had changed, and he could smell the faint scent of rosewater she wore.

            He heard her footsteps approach and sensed her standing behind his chair.

            “I take it I have reason to thank you.”                       

            Jack turned to look at her and Bella moved to take the seat next to his, her favorite chair. As he met her gaze, a burst of relief surged through him. He read nothing like regret in her expression. If anything, she looked relieved and slightly bemused.

            “You did not wish to marry Mr. Lanham?”

            She gave him a look—the look she gave him when he said something ridiculous and she could barely conceal her disdain.

            “Certainly not. But I would have done so if you told me to. Papa trusted you to help me choose a worthy husband, and so do I.”

            Jack tried not to stare at her. Bella was highly animated whenever she spoke, and she said as much with her eyes as she did with her mouth. They had known each other so long that much of what they said to each other was contained in gestures and glances; even the silences between them held meaning.

            “What if I find no man worthy, Bella?”

            She settled back in her chair and stared into the fire, though there were only a few glowing embers to draw one’s eye. Jack turned his gaze from Bella’s face and glanced into the fireplace too. One ember glowed particularly bright and suddenly burst into a tiny dancing flame. He saw Bella grin out of the corner of his eye and wondered—not for the first time—if she affected everyone and everything as she did him.

            She turned her head to gaze at him. “Then I suppose you will have to do the deed yourself.”

            Jack didn’t move, didn’t speak, but his heart began a frantic tattoo. He could hear it pounding in his ears and felt certain it would burst from his chest.

            Bella gave voice to the notion he had kept hidden away in his heart and mind for so many years.

When he returned from the war, he had been determined to ask her. Then word had come of his brother’s death. He had never expected to be heir to an earldom, never anticipated the responsibility. Never wanted it.

            After a year he had come to London with one thought—to ask Bella to be his wife. But then her father had died and left a will naming Jack as her guardian, the man tasked with finding her a husband. Harold Danvers had seen them simply as childhood friends, or perhaps he thought only of their six year age difference. It was a difference which had seemed so much greater in their youth than it did now.

            “Don’t look so frightened, Jack.” He heard the smile in her voice, though he could not meet her gaze. “I was only jesting. It’s nearly time for tea. Shall we have walk in the park after? I won’t mind the cold if you won’t.”

            His heartbeat began to steady as a soothing sense of certainty rushed through him. Marry Bella. It was there before him all the time. How could he ever approve of any of her suitors when he wanted her for his own?

            “Jack, please say something.”

            He had lost track of time and was unaware of how long he sat pondering their future, leaving the woman he loved to mistake his silence. He turned and reached for her hand.

She smiled at him—that warm, open Bella smile—and lifted her hand to meet his.

            “Marry me, Bella.”  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Will Bella accept Jack's proposal? Check back in October for Miss Danvers Decides