I could feel his gaze on me. “Is it because of what I just told you?”
“Of course not. Don’t you dare try to turn that into an issue!”
“So why won’t you say yes?”
“I told you before you left. I don’t—” God, why was this so hard? “I don’t feel about you the way you deserve for a woman to feel.”
He leaned in and gripped my upper arms. It wasn’t romantic; it was uncomfortable and desperate. I was still holding the fried chicken. “I can make you feel that way, Addie. When we’re married, and you know everything is sacred and blessed, why, then you can relax and everything will be just the way it should be.”
I didn’t say anything. What could I say? I clutched the dish of chicken as if it were a shield.
“You think that life is like the movies, Addie—that love is like some kind of magic spell. It’s not that way in real life.”
I knew damned well that it could be, but I couldn’t say it. “It’s not just that, Charlie. I love being independent. I want to work and travel and see the world.”
“Travel’s not what it’s cracked up to be. It’s messy and inconvenient and believe me, there’s no place as wonderful as home. Move back here, Addie. Move back, and let’s get married.”
I shook my head, tears welling up in my eyes.
The wounded look in his eyes made me feel like I’d just kicked a puppy.
“Is there someone else?”
I didn’t answer. What could I say? I looked through the picnic basket as if I were ravenous. “I’ve had enough of this talk, Charlie. Let’s eat.”
He put his hands on my wrists, stopping me. “Answer me, Addie. Is there a man waiting for you in New Orleans?’”
Joe wasn’t in New Orleans anymore, so I could answertruthfully. “No. And I’m seriously tired of talking about this. Let’s just eat our lunch and have a good time, Charlie. I’ll tell you all about my job and all the news about Margie and the USO, and you can tell me more about the funny things you wrote me about—about the pranks the guys pulled on each other on the ship over, and how you hid the sergeant’s shoes. Let’s just have a good time and not spoil everything by talking about the future.”
“Talking about the future will spoil everything?” His voice had a bitter edge to it I’d never heard before.
“I’m just not ready, Charlie.”And I never will be. But I couldn’t tell him that. Not with his shoeless, sock-clad foot hanging out of his pants, and his collarbones sticking out of his shirt, and his eyes so haunted and forlorn that I couldn’t bear to meet his gaze.
21
matt
Icame home late Thursday evening—I’d been to a three-day conference in D.C.—and was greeted at the door by both daughters and Jillian.
“Our room’s all sketched up and Hope’s ready to start painting!” Sophie said breathlessly as she hugged my neck.
“Come and see!” Zoey took me by the hand and pulled me toward the stairs. “We’re all in the picture.”
“Is Hope still here?”
“No,” Jillian said. “She left about half an hour ago.”
I followed a prancing Sophie up the stairs, feeling a little tug of disappointment. The thought of seeing Hope had added lead to my foot on the drive home from the airport.
In the bedroom, Sophie stood against the wall and flung out both arms. “Isn’t it bootiful, Daddy?”
I had to step closer to see it. In very light pencil, Hope had drawn stone walls and two large arched windows. The view out one of the windows showed a sprawling hill with a winding trail leading from a forest toward us. On the trail, two little princesses in flowing gowns rode ponies over a drawbridge.
“Look—that’s us!”
I looked closer, and the faces of the princesses were, indeed, Zoey and Sophie.
“And there you are, Daddy!”
