Chapter Fifteen
DELIA WORRIED THE BUTTONSthat decorated the front of her bodice as she stared at the stack of newspapers Max had brought home. There was no more putting it off. Even if she didn’t have the right words, she had to tell him.
Now, before any more time passed.
Anna was asleep, and Max had just gone upstairs. Delia grabbed the lamp and stepped quietly up the stairs.
She found him setting aside the clothing he planned to wear the next day. “Do you think this is nice enough?” He held up a white shirt. “Most of what I have doesn’t fit the role I’ve taken on.”
“That’ll do nicely.” Delia twisted her hands together.
“What is it?” Max draped the shirt over a nearby chair. “You look worried.”
“I am.” Delia let out a breath.
Clearly concerned, he made his way toward her and took her hands. “Is it about Anna going to school? Or her grandfather?”
Delia shook her head, although both of those topics were on her mind too, even if they were drowned out by the farce she’d been putting on for Max since she’d arrived.
“What is it? You can tell me.”
Delia wanted to keep her hands in his forever, but it felt wrong to let him hold her while she confessed, so she drew them away and busied herself with opening her jewelry box. “Itold you I was writing a story. I was, in a way, but not as you assumed.”
“What do you mean?”
She glanced at him, at his sweet face crinkled in confusion. The desire to slam the box shut and run to him and tell him she meant nothing by it at all was so strong that she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from doing it.
Keeping it secret would only make it worse.
She swallowed and pulled the pages out. Max’s eyes widened when he saw how many there were.
“It’s more of a story about me. About coming here and marrying you, about Anna, about the town and everything I’ve experienced. About you.” She looked down at the top page, as if it would give her courage. Her own words swam before her eyes.
“That sounds like a good story,” Max said with an encouraging smile.
Delia felt almost sick at what she needed to say. But she had to do it if there was any hope of continuing this life she’d come to love. “It wasn’t meant to be a story. Not like that,” she said quietly. “In New York, I worked for a newspaper. I wrote a column for women, about fashion, parties, weddings, any topics of interest to ladies.”
His mouth opened a little, but he said nothing.
Delia looked down at the pages again. It was easier to speak if she didn’t have to see his reaction. “I proposed an idea to the editor of the newspaper. I wanted to come out west as a mail-order bride and write about the experience. It sounded daring and fascinating, and I knew my readers would hang on every word. My editor said no. He feared for my safety, and he was also concerned about my plans to . . .” This was the worst part of all. Delia squeezed her eyes shut as she spoke. “To leave once I’d finished the articles and return to New York.”
“But you came anyway.” Max’s voice was flat.
Delia forced herself to open her eyes and look at him. His expression was one of disbelief. “Yes.”
“And you planned to do what? Divorce me on a whim and leave?”
Delia cringed. For the first time, she heard what Roy had heard when she’d first proposed the idea. It sounded callous and cruel. “Before I met you, I thought I would . . .” She trailed off. Telling him that she’d planned to find him someone else wouldn’t help the situation. “It doesn’t matter. All that matters now is that I metyou, and everything changed.”
Max’s expression had moved from disbelief to a mask she couldn’t see through. He dropped one hand to his hip and gestured with the other one to the pages in her hands. “I don’t see how. You still wrote those articles.”
“I did.” Delia looked down at them again before holding the stack out to him. “I wrote, but I sent nothing to my editor. Not a single word. I wrote every sentence from my heart, and it felt too personal to be printed in a newspaper. I decided I wanted to keep these to myself. To us. I’d like you to read them.”
Max stared at the pages she held out. Then he shook his head and brushed her hand aside. Without a word, he grabbed his jacket from where he’d tossed it on the bed and moved past her.
“Max?” Delia said as he made his way to the stairs. “I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner.”
He said nothing at all. He didn’t even look at her as he ran downstairs.
