Stand-in Groom (18 page)

She could hardly wait to go back home and make him late for his work at the restaurant too.

The old man squinted at Chelsea. “You training a new girl?”

“No, sir,” Johnny told him. “This is Chelsea. My wife.” He still laughed whenever he said that. “I brought her over here to meet you.”

Chelsea shook Mr. Gruber’s hand. At one time he’d been remarkably tall, but time had made him stooped and thin, and now he was a narrow tower of a man. His hair was pure white and it grew thick and full. The thick lenses of his glasses made his eyes seem huge in his wrinkled face, but they were still a vivid shade of blue.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” she said.

“Pretty girl,” the elderly man told Johnny, shuffling into the kitchen, leaning heavily on a thick, wooden cane. “Your wife, huh? How’d you manage that one?” He laughed, a dry wheezing cackle.

“Wow, you’re really a laugh riot today, Mr. G,” Johnny said good-naturedly as he put a wrapped sandwich and a plate of microwave-ready food into the refrigerator.

“No, no, I’m just teasing, just teasing. Can’t think of anyone more deserving of such a pretty girl’s love.” He turned to Chelsea and shook one finger at her. “You take good care of my friend Johnny.”

“I will.”

My friend Johnny. At every delivery stop, there had been someone—someone elderly or someone ill—that Johnny had made smile with his cheerful banter and friendly jokes. It was clear to Chelsea that he brought them far more than nourishing food.

He brought color into the grayness of their lives—the same way he’d splashed a psychedelic swirl of emotions and sensations onto the monochromatic sameness of her own life.

“What’ve we got for breakfast today?” Mr. Gruber asked Johnny.

“Standard fare, Mr. G. Cornflakes, bran flakes, crisp rice, or—drumroll please—instant oatmeal!”

“I think I’ve got some fresh eggs in the icebox. If I ask very nicely, might you scramble me a pair of eggs?”

Johnny laughed. “You know I will, Mr. G, but you also know as well as I do that what you really want is a bowl of instant oatmeal with brown sugar on top.”

“Come to think of it, you’re right,” the old man mused. He grinned at Chelsea. “I’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth.”

“You have an entire mouthful of sweet teeth, old man,” Johnny teased, setting about making the oatmeal.

“At my age, it’s a wonder I have any teeth at all!”

“At
your
age? What, do you really think eighty-four years is some kind of accomplishment or something, Mr. G? You want to boast about your age, you should wait until you hit a really big number, like one hundred. Then you can say things like ‘at
my
age.’”

Chelsea smiled, recognizing that this conversation was one the two men had probably had every time Johnny came to visit.

“Do you know, Chelsea works just a few blocks away from here, Mr. G,” Johnny said.

“Oh,” the old man said darkly as he sat down to eat his bowl of oatmeal. “That’s not good.” He turned to look at Chelsea. “This neighborhood isn’t what it used to be. I’ve lived here thirty years—no, forty years now—and I don’t go out at night anymore. It’s not safe.”

“Fifty-four years,” Johnny reminded him. “You moved in right after World War Two, remember? You were just out of the service.”

“That’s right. Martin was just a baby, and—” He broke off, a look of confusion crossing his face. “I don’t know why he won’t write. I told him to write when he’s away at camp. …”

“How’s the oatmeal, Mr. G? Did I put enough brown sugar on, or do you want to add a little more?”

“This is delightful, thank you.”

The old man ate quietly, suddenly subdued. Whoever Martin was, he deserved to be strung up for not writing or visiting.

Johnny kept up a steady stream of conversation as he made short work of a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. But nothing he said seemed to bring Mr. Gruber out of his introspective mood.

“Ready for a quick game of cards?” Johnny asked, when Mr. Gruber had scraped his bowl clean.

Mr. Gruber carefully set his spoon down next to the empty bowl. “Not today, I don’t think. I’m a bit tired. If you don’t mind, I’ll head in for a nap.”

In the course of the past few minutes the old man had seemed to age a dozen years.

“How about I give you a hand into the other room?” Johnny asked quietly.

“Thank you.”

As Chelsea watched, the older man let Johnny help him out of his chair, and together, they walked slowly down the hall to the bedroom.

“I’ll give you a call later to remind you to put that dinner in the microwave,” she heard Johnny tell Mr. G.

“All right, Martin.”

“Should I pull down the shades or do you want to be able to look out the window? I know you like to watch the clouds. …”

“Leave them up, thank you.”

“Okay, I’ll see you later—probably not for another few days, so be nice to Bobby or Carlos or whoever comes out here. No fair trying to win their paychecks with your card games.”

“All right, Martin.”

“It’s Johnny, Mr. G,” Johnny said softly. “Johnny Anziano from Meals on Wheels. Remember?”

Johnny headed down the hall toward Chelsea, and she could hear the old man’s voice, quavering now, calling after him, “Martin, call me if you’re going to be late. …”

Johnny briefly closed his eyes and shook his head very slightly. “It’s Johnny,” he called back. “And I
will
call you later.”

Chelsea followed Johnny out the door and waited while he carefully locked both bolts. He stood there for a moment, just staring at his keys, and when he finally glanced over at her, he looked impossibly sad.

“He seemed like he was having a good day, but …”

“Why won’t Martin visit?” she asked softly.

“Because he died when he was fourteen years old.” Johnny sighed, shaking his head slightly. “I
can do everything for Al Gruber but the one thing he truly wants. I can’t be Martin.”

Chelsea knew at that moment, as she gazed into brown eyes made even darker with compassion, that she had been fooling herself for days now. She knew with a certainty that rocked her to the core that despite her pretending otherwise, she had fallen desperately in love with her husband.

“Johnny, will you kiss me?” she whispered.

He smiled then. It was a small smile, but it was real. “Always,” he murmured, pulling her into his arms.

He tasted like coffee sweetened with sugar and cream. He was both gentle and demanding, both sweet and full of passion, both powerful and yielding. He was smart and funny and kind and sexy. She loved the sound of his voice, the husky catch to it when he was turned on. She loved the way his smile could light up an entire room. She loved the way he watched her when she talked, the way he listened to her so intently, every cell in his body alert as if what she had to say truly mattered. She loved the way the laughter in his eyes could dissolve into instant, searing heat. She loved everything about him.

She loved him.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Johnny breathed into her ear. “I have to be at work in a couple of hours.”

Holding his hand, Chelsea let him lead her down the four flights of stairs and out to where the Meals on Wheels truck was illegally parked in a loading zone.

“I’ve been thinking about what Mr. Gruber was saying,” he told her as he unlocked the truck. “About this part of town being dangerous at night.” He helped her up into the passenger seat, then crossed around in front of the truck.

Chelsea reached over and unlocked his door.

“Thanks,” he said, climbing in. “So I was thinking, if you ever want to work late, you know, past dark, maybe you could call me at the restaurant, and I could pick you up on my way home.”

“I work late almost every night,” she told him.

“Then I’ll meet you over there almost every night,” he told her as he pulled out into the traffic.

“You don’t have to do that.” She didn’t
want
him to do that.

“Yeah, I know—but I want to.”

“It’s out of your way.”

“It’ll take me an extra ten minutes. Big deal. Your safety’s worth that to me.”

“If it’s late, I call a cab, and wait to unlock the door until I can see it out the front window,” Chelsea said coolly. She was a grown woman, and she could take care of herself.

He glanced at her and laughed. “Uh-oh, I’ve conjured up the Ice Princess. I’m in trouble now.”

“That’s the second time you’ve called me that,” Chelsea told him, exasperation tingeing her voice.

“I’m just teasing,” he said. “You sometimes get a certain tone in your voice, and you start shooting icicles out of your eyes. It’s just really different from the way you are the rest of the time, it’s kind of funny, that’s all.”

Icicles from her eyes … She’d always thought that her father had had what she called “Siberian eyes.” At times colder than cold. Was it possible that she did the same thing? “God, do I do it a lot?”

“No. Just when you’re mad. Or scared—you know, when you’re feeling threatened.” He glanced at her again. “Like right now.”

Chelsea nodded. “I don’t want you to pick me up every night after work, as if I’m a child that
needs to be taken care of. I don’t want that kind of relationship.”

“I’ve noticed your resistance to the idea,” he said dryly. He pulled up to a red light and turned to look at her appraisingly. “Promise me you’ll do the thing with the cab?”

She looked back at him. “I promise you that I’m smart enough and old enough and experienced enough to take care of myself.”

“That’s not quite the promise I wanted, but I guess it’ll do,” he said with a smile.

Chelsea found herself smiling back at Johnny, marveling at the way he’d taken a potentially volatile situation and defused it. Of course, the fact that he’d backed down had surely helped. If he had insisted on picking her up and driving her home every night, there would have been figurative bloodshed.

But he respected her enough to recognize that she
could
take care of herself. And he seemed to know that when it came to protecting her independence, she would not negotiate.

Chelsea watched the morning sunlight reflecting off his face, accentuating his rugged features, making his dark hair gleam. On the other hand, maybe
she
would
negotiate. In fact, it was entirely likely that if she wasn’t careful, she would find herself giving in.

Because she loved him that much.

She was hit with a wave of panic, and she tried to calm herself, taking a deep breath and letting it slowly out. It could be worse. She could very well be in love with a man who insisted on imposing his rules upon her.

But she was lucky—Johnny wasn’t like that. And maybe, just maybe, he was the one man she could live with as equal partners, both giving and sharing. Maybe, she could stay strong and refuse to let herself love him so much that she would give up her self and her dreams just to be near him. And maybe—and she knew that she was asking for an awful lot of miracles here—if she were really lucky, over the course of the next year he’d come to love her too.

“Can we go home now?” she whispered.

Johnny smiled, and he put the truck in high gear.

It was after seven before Johnny could get away from the stove and give Chelsea a call. It was time
for a break, and he took a cup of coffee into his office, closing the door behind him. There was a stack of papers that needed his signature in his in-basket, and as he dialed the phone he set to work skimming them quickly then signing his name.

He tried Chelsea’s number at work, assuming since she went in late, she’d be there still, working late.

He was right—she picked up on the first ring. He paused in his signing, afraid the sound of her voice would make his hand shake.

“Spencer/O’Brien,” she said shortly. She sounded overworked and overstressed and not very friendly.

“Hi, it’s me. Is this a bad time to talk? I can call you later if you want. …”

“John. Hi.” Her voice warmed up considerably. “No, it’s no better or worse than any other time. God, I’m glad you called.”

Johnny took a sip of his coffee, feeling the jolt of the caffeine mingling jazzily with the electric feeling he got just from talking to Chelsea on the phone. Talking to his
wife
on the phone. She was his
wife
. He laughed aloud in pleasure at the bizarre thought. “I was wondering if you had
plans for later. I figured since we only had lunch at three, you wouldn’t have eaten yet.”

“Are you asking me to dinner?”

The next stack of letters were form letters to their food suppliers, and he could sign them one after another without having to read each one through.

“You bet,” he told her. “Do you think you can catch a cab over to the restaurant in a few hours? I promise I won’t make you eat anything that ever had a face.”

Chelsea laughed then lowered her voice. “I’d rather meet you at home. Right now.”

Home. This wasn’t the first time she’d referred to his condo as “home.” Johnny felt a rush of happiness. His condo was their
home
. And she wanted to meet him there. Now. It seemed almost too good to be true. “I can’t get away right now, but you know I would if I could.”

“Are you absolutely sure you can’t just sneak off? I’ve had a truly awful afternoon, and …” She sighed, and when she continued, her voice suddenly sounded so sad. “All I want is for you to hold me.”

Johnny’s heart lurched. “Chelsea, if I worked
for myself, I’d be at your office in an instant, but I don’t. I work for a really nice guy named Rudy, who would be very unhappy if I left in the middle of the dinner rush.” He glanced at the clock on his desk. As it was, he had to get back to the kitchen pretty soon. “Did something happen at work?”

She drew in a deep breath. “My father called. He didn’t say anything directly, but it was a little obvious that he’s waiting for me to come crawling, asking for money to pay back that bank loan.”

He signed another letter. “Maybe he called because he thought by initiating a conversation, he might make it easier for you to ask him for the money.”

She sighed again. “Well, whatever his motivation, I couldn’t do it. Not over the phone. If I’m going to beg, at least I’m going to hang on to some shred of my pride by doing it in person. My parents are having some sort of party Sunday afternoon. I thought it would be a good time to corner my dad and grovel. I can get it over with, and he’ll have all his party guests to distract him afterward, so I won’t have to spend an hour or two listening to him lecture me on poor business decisions. I
know it’s your day off, and if you want, I can make up some kind of excuse for why you can’t—”