Roses in Autumn (22 page)

“Yes.” Tom grinned at her. “And would you believe—the Empress Hotel too?”

Laura giggled. “No, I wouldn’t.”

Arm in arm they strolled through the Wishing Gardens. Laura paused at the True Love wishing spot. “I like having gray-haired elves on lovers’ lane. It means more than showing romantic youngsters.”

“Love endures. ‘There is no limit to its faith, its hope, and its endurance.’”
Tom
said that? What had happened to him? He seemed so different. That was one of the most romantic things he had ever said to her. She turned to him open-mouthed.

And when she turned he was already bending toward her.

All her wishes, hopes, and dreams were in that one kiss. Her wishes for their marriage to grow solid and strong—a fortress where their two spirits could flower and produce fruit; her hopes of building a family—a real family that nurtured and supported, yet allowed freedom for creativity; her yearnings to love Tom freely—physically.

She stood long in the curve of his arms, longing to go with her beloved into the wine garden …

My beloved spake and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come; and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; the fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell.

“My love is beautiful.” Tom’s words were such an incredibly perfect continuation of the poetry in her head that it took Laura a moment to realize he had spoken.

And then his words flowered in her mind. Tom had called her beautiful—love. She wanted to answer him, but all she could do was make a choking sound and lean more tightly into his arms.

His touches on her neck were like drops of burning sunshine. “Tom—”

And then the sound of approaching voices required that they pull apart. “Now I understand why the owners sold this place,” Tom muttered.

And then the old Tom looked at his watch. “Oops, I have to make a phone call.” He pulled out his cell phone. “Do you want to wait here?”

“Yes, I’d like to stay here.” Preferably forever. The trouble with dreams was waking up from them and finding they
were
dreams. But Tom was the realist, the businessman, the one who never forgot an appointment—because it would be illogical to do so. For once, though, Laura was amused rather than irritated by his methodical habits.

She sat on a bench facing a giant cornucopia spilling forth its floral blessings in mounds of copper chrysanthemums, silver astilbe, and golden marigolds. She smiled at the appropriateness of the monetary theme as Tom walked to the far side of the garden to place his business call.

Almost without conscious effort she opened her notebook. In this wonderful setting, fresh in the glow of a few moments of real tenderness with Tom, she wanted to write a poem, a song, a magnificat. That was it, she wanted to worship.
Glory be to the Creator and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost.
She paused, her pen suspended in midair. She knew the traditional words, “Glory be to the Father …” But she couldn’t say that.

She shivered at the image of a Father God. She had heard the phrase often enough in church, but never in her own mind or heart. The idea of God as a father—someone close and intimate was—she sought for the word—repellent. She never even said the first line of the Lord’s Prayer. She had never had a father. She had never needed one. And she could continue doing very well without one, thank you.

That settled, she turned back to the page waiting blank before her.
I want to worship You, Lord; I want to worship You, Christ; I want to worship You, Spirit. I want to love You, Lord; I want to love You, Christ; I want to love You, Spirit. I want to praise You, Lord; I want to praise You, Christ; I want to praise You, Spirit.

She sighed at the trite expression and put the cap on her pen. Somehow her exercise hadn’t produced the epiphany she had hoped for. Something was lacking, but she didn’t see what it could be.

All the way back to town she sat close to Tom, concentrating on her dream. It could last. It could. With Tom’s cooperation they could apply the new things she had learned—continue her progress. Physical and spiritual ecstasy could come together in their home. They would live in their garden always …
I went down into the garden … to see whether the vine flourished, and the pomegranates budded.

But like Adam and Eve, the owners of Fable Cottage had been driven from their Eden. How long could she and Tom dwell in theirs?

Chapter
19

Laura rang the doorbell on Glenda’s apartment in high spirits. After her fantasy afternoon with Tom, Laura looked forward to spending a cozy evening with her friend while Tom had his business meeting. Glenda had sounded so surprised and pleased when Laura called to explain that they were still in Victoria. “Yes, come over this evening. I should have news. I’m seeing Kyle in a few minutes.”

“You’re finally going to have that ‘appointment’?”

“Yes, and you can’t imagine how nervous I am.”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure it’ll go fine.”

Laura couldn’t wait to hear the good news. She raised her hand to the bell again when the door flew from her reach. One look at her friend told Laura that desperation had replaced Glenda’s earlier happiness. Glenda engulfed Laura in a hug. “Thank goodness you’re here.”

Glenda drew her from the doorway and onto the deep plush sofa. Words tumbled from Glenda as fast as she could move her mouth. “It’s this awful mess with Darren. Kyle is determined to take him away if the judge will let him. He’s talking about going to Toronto. I feel like I’ll never see him again.”

“And what about Janelle?”

“Kyle talked really straight to those kids. But I don’t know if they listened. Kyle was adamant about calling Mrs. Wilson, Janelle’s mother. I thought he and Darren were going to have a shouting match—or worse—right there in McDonald’s. But Kyle promised he wouldn’t tell where Janelle was unless her mother agreed to listen to what she had to say about Lewis.”

“And she agreed?”

“Well, Mrs. Wilson said she’d listen. But who knows. If Kyle isn’t convinced she’ll shelter Janelle from her halfbrother, he’ll petition to have her put in foster care.”

Laura grimaced. “That sounds dreadful.”

“Yeah. Well, we can hope for the best. Mrs. Wilson will be here tomorrow, and we’ll see. Kyle has a thing or two to say to her.”

Laura leaned forward with a jerk. “And I’ve got something to tell them too.” Even as she said it, she realized she had never considered such a possibility before. She had kept her story hidden for so long, even denied it to herself as much as she could. It had never occurred to her that she might be able to tell it in a way to help others. If she spoke out, she might be able to make other parents listen to their kids better and react more honestly. She might be able to save others from going through much of the anguish she had known. It would be nice to help another. Yet she shrank from the thought.

Maybe in one of her stories—she could use the experience in developing a fictional character with safe anonymity. But to look another person in the face and speak about it …

“Oh,” Laura suddenly realized Glenda was waiting while she daydreamed. “Sorry. Bad habit of mine. And what about Darren?”

“It’s hard to tell. He seems to realize how unrealistic he was being—that Janelle needs to get things straightened out at home. And I think he understands how serious—and foolish—the things he was doing were.”

“So it sounds like a new start is the right thing for him.”

“Oh, yes.” Glenda hit her hand into the sofa cushion. “I suppose I should be happy. Maybe I’m just being selfish. I certainly don’t mean to be putting my happiness ahead of Darren’s welfare. I just want there to be room for me too.”

“I’m sure there will be. Things will work out. You’ll see.” The more Laura insisted, the more hollow her words sounded even to herself. The best she could do was promise that she and Tom would be at Darren’s hearing.

Laura’s head reeled as she returned along the street lined with white-globed Victorian lampposts cascading with baskets of flowers. When she got up this morning she thought she would be back in Boise unpacking by this time tonight. Back home with nothing changed.

Instead, here she was still in Victoria, and so much had changed. It was easy to shut out Glenda’s problems as her mind drifted again to the floral-scented garden and she imagined herself in Tom’s arms once more. Even in simply recalling the warmth she had felt all the tightly closed buds inside her beginning to uncurl.

Not bursting flowers yet, but small tips of color, showing the promise of bloom. And it was strange because so little had really changed. Tom was still Tom, dashing off to his business meeting. And—she made herself think it, even as she winced—Marla was still Marla, holding all the moneybags.

And yet Tom had expressed his love, and Laura had warmed to it. Surely Marla could be forgotten.

Laura slipped her key in the lock and stepped into her hotel room. Then jerked back. She had the wrong room. No, the key fit. It was the right number. But this room was alight with candles, a spicy vanilla fragrance floated on the air, and the soft strains of a Mozart aire came from the bedroom.

“Come wiz me to ze Caasba, my dahlink.”

“Tom! You idiot! What is going on?” She looked around in amazement. “How did you manage a fire in the fireplace? I’ve been longing for one.”

“Look again, my observant darling.”

“Oh, candles!” Tiers of votives lined the artificial logs.

“You’re an absolute genius. I can’t believe all this.” “Why don’t you slip into something more, ah, comfortable, and I’ll tell you all about it. We’ve needed to talk for days, but in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s been a bit hectic around here.”

“Something more comfortable.” At last Laura had a chance to wear the red caftan. While she was changing, room service arrived bearing a tray of after-dinner tea and an assortment of canapés and pastries. Honeymooners at last, Tom and Laura sat on the love seat in front of the fireplace sipping tea and feeding each other tasty tidbits while the candlelight danced warm and live around them.

Tom leaned back and regarded her for several moments. “You are beautiful.”

Laura gave a small laugh and ducked her head. “I don’t know what’s come over you. But please don’t stop. Every woman needs to hear those words—even if they aren’t true. Maybe she needs it most when they aren’t true.”

“Laura?” Tom sat forward and held her by one shoulder. “What are you saying? Do you mean you don’t believe you’re beautiful?”

She ducked her head lower. “I know I’m not. But it’s lovely to hear anyway.”

Tom shook his head. “I can’t believe this. Kyle must have been right.”

“Right about what?”

“He said he had never counseled a sexually unresponsive woman that had a good self-image. I said that was ridiculous. You’re so beautiful, so successful—you couldn’t possibly have a poor self-image.”

Laura stared at the sofa cushion, not daring to believe what she heard, yet longing to.

Tom ran his hand up her arm, gliding over the sensual silkiness of her gown. “He said that professional success wouldn’t build your sense of self-worth if you felt you were a failure in bed. You see, I always took it for granted that you knew—that reinforcement from your mirror and your readers was enough.”

Laura shook her head, incapable of speech.

“Kyle said your mirror and your readers weren’t your husband and that what you would really believe were the messages from me.” Tom turned away. “That was pretty tough for me to swallow, because he was telling me that an enormous share of our problems were my fault. And all this time I’d been feeling so righteous because I was putting up with
your
problem.”

Laura’s voice came out in a jagged whisper. “I think a man should always tell the women he loves she’s beautiful. It’s another way of telling her she makes his life beautiful.”

And then Tom was making her life beautiful with a kiss that spoke to her of beauty and affection far beyond anything mere words could say. This was a kiss she could keep forever in her heart—a kiss to hold fast, to savor, to cherish. Tom was giving her a gift of himself.

Even after they pulled apart they sat in the incandescence of the electricity that kiss had created. It was a glow to light their whole life with affection and caring.

At last Laura spoke. “And when did Kyle say all this to you?”

“That’s what I’ve been wanting to tell you about. That afternoon you were out getting yourself bashed over the head I had an appointment with Kyle. He said some of the most amazingly simple things—things simple enough to change our whole life: ‘pay attention to her, make your time together special, be sensitive to her feelings, develop an attitude of romance—court her.’”

“For a beginner you’re doing an incredibly expert job.” She leaned to him.

“Laura …” His lips were against her hair. “I was so frightened in the hospital that night. So scared I might not get to tell you—to show you. And then you were OK, and I could have my chance … Then last night … everything went all wrong. I’m terribly sorry about that. I want to make it up to you. I want to make all our last nights up to you.”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I want too. A second chance—or a third or fourth or however many times we’ve tried. But for this one to be different.”

She thought they would go to bed then, but instead, Tom stood up, kissed the top of her head, and said, “Don’t go away.”

She was surprised the next moment to hear the water running in the bathroom. What a strange time for Tom to take a shower. But it was pleasant not to be rushed. After all, they had the whole night. A terribly wanton thought crossed her mind—what would Tom think if she joined him in the shower?

Before she could act on any such idea, however, Tom came back looking inordinately pleased with himself. “I’ve got something for you.”

Wondering what in the world he could have for her in the bathroom, she went to him. The room welcomed her with a delightful herbal scent, and there was Tom’s surprise—the wide, oversized tub was brimful of hot, Caribbean blue water, and floating on its surface was one perfect, white rose, immaculate in its bridal purity.