Don't Wait Too Long Read online

  Now it’s his turn to be surprised. “Why don’t you?”

  A slow shrug. “Same reason I don’t do a lot of things, I suppose.”

  He pushes his glasses up his nose. “You’re welcome to use my welder.”

  She feigns a look of horror. “I might set your garage on fire. Thanks, though.”

  “I’m not an expert but I can show you what I know.”

  Her lopsided smile fades fast. “You’re a nice guy, Kip.”

  Frustration wells up. Nice? Nice equals boring, if he reads her right. He wants to be dangerous. Sexy. An alpha whose mere presence in a room turns every female’s head. A cross between James Bond and Mick Jagger.

  Yeah, right. Dream on. “What about New York?”

  Confusion dims her smile for a moment. “What about it?”

  “Have you exhausted every museum and show in the Big Apple?” He hopes not.

  “No,” she says, “I don’t get up there as often as I’d like.”

  “So let’s go there. Next weekend.”

  Her rounded eyes have the look of a frightened rabbit. “I can’t next weekend.”

  Too much, too soon? “Maybe this summer, then.”

  “Yes, maybe.” She visibly relaxes, and it almost makes up for the evasive answer.

  Chapter Eight

  Conversation draws Kip and I along through street after street. We stroll through the center of New Hope, stopping in the bookstore and a few shops with quirky or handmade items. We cross the bridge to Lambertville and explore a few art shops. Dusk is settling in when we turn to walk down the Delaware footpath. It’s like stepping inside a Monet painting, all blurred edges and glimmering surfaces. And a bit surreal, as if any moment, the bubble could burst and the colors run together, indigo into black. But I don’t want to overanalyze it and ruin the moment. With my hand in his, the night chill doesn’t touch me.

  His cell chimes, and he checks the display. “Better take this.” He presses the button. “Hi babe. What’s up? Uh huh.”

  I stiffen at ‘babe’ but then he rolls his eyes at me and grins, and I understand he’s talking to one of his daughters.

  Daughters, two grown daughters. What must it be like? The old ache returns, the yearning of the void that has never been filled.

  So he won’t think I’m eavesdropping, I wander to the stone bridge spanning the canal and lean on the wall. I still feel like I’m intruding.

  I hear him say, “Okay, good. Can I call you back? I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

  Then he appears next to me, his shoulder bumping mine. “Sorry. Liz doesn’t call often, so I can’t pass up the opportunity. Ella, on the other hand, worries about me too much, and her calls are clockwork.”

  “That’s nice they check up on you.” A clear image of the two girls returns. Liz loved storybooks and drawing, and treated them as serious subjects. Ella had seemed a natural leader, excelling in her work.

  “Guess it’s better than having to guilt them into calling.” He grins. “Hey, are you getting hungry? I didn’t realize it’s after seven.”

  “Is it?” Have they really spent all those hours together? “I suppose I could eat.”

  He inclines his head toward the old train station converted into a restaurant and hotel. “I’ve heard they have good food.”

  “Let’s find out.” I’m not ready to call it a night yet. The day has been a whirlwind, passing so quickly. The thought of the moment he’ll take me home sends a shiver of dread through me. What should I do, invite him in? Would he interpret it as an invitation to spend the night? I’m not even certain I can kiss him without overreacting again. This dating business is nerve-wracking.

  We enter the old station, and a hostess guides us through the candlelit dining room to a window table looking out onto the street. I pass on sampling the alligator offered on the menu. A delicious meal of scallops and a few glasses of wine later, and it’s nearly ten o’clock.

  “Guess I’d better take you home.” He arches his brows in question.

  “Ten hours with me is probably more than you bargained for.” Certainly more than I recall spending with any man in years.

  He lays his hand atop mine and gives a gentle squeeze. “Less than I’d hoped for, actually.”

  The soft huskiness of his voice sends a shock of warmth through me. Like I’ve downed a shot of vodka, my mouth turns dry and my head buzzes. “I should go home.”

  His smile has an edge of disappointment. Despite my protest, he insists on paying the check, and we stroll back across the bridge to New Hope to the street where we’d left his SUV.

  After climbing in, he pins me with a look. “Let’s do this again soon.”

  He seems to need some reassurance, so I keep my tone light. “Sure. Next time, though, I pay for dinner.”

  “Deal.” He turns the ignition and we ride in amiable silence. Outside my house, he cuts the engine and rounds the car to open my door. After taking my hand to help me out, he holds on as we walk up the sidewalk.

  “Good night.” He leans in to kiss me.

  His lips brush mine gently, but the thrill’s so startling, I hardly move. I slowly push him away. “Thanks for a lovely day.”

  His lids grow hooded as he gazes longingly at my mouth. “It doesn’t have to end. I don’t have to rush home.” He strokes my chin, my neck.

  Shivers trail along the path of his touch. I’m falling under his spell, falling and spinning. My thoughts are an incoherent jumble, disappearing into a narrowing cyclone.

  In one desperate attempt to regain control of my senses, I duck my head. “No. Not tonight.” Not yet. I can’t fall into another relationship so soon. Not when I’m just getting to learn important things about myself. Like what I actually want.

  He salvages the awkward moment with a grin. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  Thankful he isn’t pressuring me, I tug his collar straight. “Good night, Kip.”

  The heavy sigh, the way he steps back, he probably regrets coaching me how to say no. My heart might yearn for ‘yes’ but I need to stand my ground. Until that ground isn’t quite so shaky beneath my feet.

  I cling to the open door until his car rounds the bend, out of sight. Inside, I rest against the door, resisting the urge to grab my cell, invite him to come back. But that will send mixed signals, which give too much leeway to claim confusion about boundaries. And I want to be very clear.

  But I need to talk to someone. Trish. I kick off my shoes, pull out the phone as I pad to my bedroom. I toss my bag onto the dresser and text her: Still awake?

  Before I finish folding my legs beneath me on the bed, my cell pings with the reply: Yes. Why are you up?

  Um, because sleep will be impossible tonight? My fingers fly across the keypad. Just got home from a date.

  With who??? comes the immediate response.

  I’m halfway through typing the next response when my cell chimes, and Trish’s name appears. Taking the call, I lean against the headboard and say, “If you’d have given me another second—”

  “Texting’s too slow,” Trish blurts. “I need details now. Who? How? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “He’s just a guy I ran into. We began talking, and the longer we talked, the more we found we had in common. Technically, the first night we went out wasn’t a date date. More of an accidental date.”

  “But tonight was a date date, right?”

  I pick absently at the duvet cover. “Yes, but I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d read too much into it.”

  “I am not.” Trish sounds defensive. “I’m just excited for you.”

  Uh oh, better clamp down the excitement before she gets carried away, maybe starts writing out nuptials announcements. “We had dinner, we didn’t get engaged.”

  “Where? Tell me everything.”

  Hoo boy. Not everything. So I give her the CliffNotes version.

  “So,” Trish draws the word out. “When are you seeing him again?”

  He
re we go. Trish is already tightening the screws. “I don’t know. Maybe next week?”

  “Don’t you like him?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “But what?” she fires back.

  Internal brakes dig in. I slam a pillow onto the bed. “But I’m not going to throw myself at him, for goodness sake.” Regret immediately replaces my anger. I don’t mean to take out my frustrations on Trish.

  “Don’t get mad at me,” my friend huffs with pretend teasing, but the hurt beneath is clear.

  “Sorry. I’m not mad at you. Maybe at myself for being so confused. Yes, Kip seems like a good guy. Before I married Doug, I thought I knew him, too.” Turned out, I knew only what Doug had wanted me to know. No way will I make another huge mistake like that, especially so late in life.

  “Sweetie,” Trish croons, “how will you get to know him unless you spend time with him?”

  She has a point, and I relent. “I guess I can’t. But you can’t blame me for being gun shy.”

  “None of us get guarantees, hon. But none of us are perfect, either.”

  I understand the hint, and hold in a sigh. “Especially not me—go ahead and say it.”

  “No, not especially you. That statement was all-inclusive. And keep in mind that not all men are like Doug.”

  Thank goodness. “True. And Doug never made me laugh,” I concede.

  “See? Why deny yourself the fun?”

  Because I’m afraid of starting to need him? “Maybe I’m not ready.”

  “Honey, you’ve waited long enough for someone good. You might not find another man you like so much.”

  Though Trish left out the obvious ‘at your age,’ the implication practically screams at me. “I’ll get over the whole nervous business, I suppose.”

  “Yes, go enjoy yourself. Enjoy him. Enjoy the rare thrill of a new man. It doesn’t come around that often.” Trish gives a throaty chuckle.

  Kip is more like a used man than a new one, but I won’t argue. “He loved his wife very much.”

  A small sound of pity comes through the phone. “He sounds so great. But when are you going to tell me who your mystery man is?”

  “When I’m more sure about him.” And about myself. His touchy-feely approach—not to mention those knock-my-socks-off kisses—likely mean he has healthy sexual appetites. Me, on the other hand, am so pathetically out of practice. Could I even keep up with such a man?

  Another shiver of nervousness chills me. The last decade of marriage, Doug hardly gave me more than a peck on the lips. Not exactly the stuff of romance novels, and I’d shut away my emotions as a defense mechanism. I’m not sure I can retrieve them so easily.

  She says on an exhale, “Well, don’t take too long.”

  Trish’s words startle me from my self-defeating thoughts.

  “What?” Kip had used the same turn of phrase in his first message to me.

  “You heard me,” Trish admonishes. “You’re not getting any younger, chickie.”

  Aaaaand there it is. The hurry-up-before-you-die warning. “Thanks for the reminder.”

  “You’re welcome,” Trish sing-songs, then yawns. “I’d better go. The mom bus is making an early run tomorrow for cheerleading practice.”

  “Okay, talk soon.” I used to envy Trish and her mini-van, always full of chattering kids. My old Saab holds me and my school supplies and not much else. And when school lets out for summer, well… I fill my car with other things, pop in audio books and drive to who knows where. I sure don’t. But that’s the unknown future, the journey I can’t wait to begin. Toward finding the real me.

  Chapter Nine

  Sunshine warms my skin. Giving into a luxurious catlike stretch, I squint against the blinding morning sun. Guess I forgot to close the blinds last night. Doug used to hate that.

  I love it. Those blinds are going into storage in the garage with the other things I’d moved there. Any reminders of Doug. Things I’d rather not remember, like how he insisted everything remain closed off, pristine and solitary. Things that chipped away at me over the years. Bit by bit, I’m reclaiming those lost parts of myself. Changing my surroundings is only the first step to becoming whole again.

  When I step out of the patch of sun, I still feel aglow. Memory calls up Kip’s smile, and fills me with warmth. Yesterday had been such a wonderful day. Hopefully I hadn’t hurt his feelings when I sent him home.

  Should I call him? But then he might suggest getting together today, and I might get carried away again on the rush of his attention. Email will work better.

  Humming, I pad barefoot to the kitchen to make coffee. The rich aroma of the grounds in the bag smells better than usual, and I breathe it in.

  Once the machine begins chugging and burbling, I carry the laptop to the island, then turn on the radio. Susan Tedeschi is belting out one of my favorite old blues songs, one that used to haunt me, but now I’m immune. I grab the spoon and sing into it: If dreams were thunder, and lightning was desire, this old house would have burned down a long time ago.

  The truth of the lyrics strike me into silence. I look around at the house, the home I’d lived in all these years. The year we’d wed, Doug’s grandparents had moved to Florida, and he insisted we buy their place. Traditional isn’t my style, but he’d convinced me the purchase would make a great investment. Just a starter house, he’d assured me.

  Yet, here I am, twenty years later, still living in the house. Had I ever really felt at home here? Doug had taken care of the house, kept the paint fresh, even renovated the bathroom himself. He’d never altered the layout, though. So to make up for the closed-off feel of the rooms, I’d decorated with a light touch.

  Maybe it’s time to renovate again, but the way they do on those home improvement shows. The house needs an extreme makeover. Knock down some walls, tear off the dark paneling, and make this place fit my new life—open and warm.

  The other part of my life I control now is finances. And I can’t go bankrupt on fulfilling old dreams.

  I always have the option to sell. Oh, then I could shop for another house. I bounce on my toes as visions play through my head of an A-frame, or mid-century modern… any house with character and an open floor plan. Someplace I’ll love coming home to every night. The possibilities are endless.

  A tiny squeal of happiness ekes out as I dance back to the coffee maker, pour a cup and swirl toward the island.

  A few keystrokes, and my heart does a somersault.

  Kip has beat me to an email, by the time stamp, he sent it late last night. His message reads:

  “Sorry to rush things. It feels great to spend time with you and it’s been too long since anyone made me feel anything. But I don’t want to frighten you away by pushing for too much, too soon. I’d love to see you again this week, but why don’t you let me know when you’re ready?”

  Excitement makes me light as a feather. My feet won’t stay still, and I hurry to the bedroom for my cell. Now. I’m ready now.

  I toss my head back when I straighten, and catch my reflection in the mirror. Bedhead hair, smudged mascara, prancing like a teenager. Yeah, send him a selfie of that.

  I drop the phone back onto the bed. No. I’m going to stick with my original plan. Through email, at least, I can take my time composing a reply. And composing myself.

  I stroll to the island and hold the coffee mug between both hands. After a deep inhale, I re-read the message. This time, I read for subtext.

  And consider other possible meanings.

  On the surface, he’s extending me the option to take my time. But maybe he’s the one who really needs it? Much as he claims to be ready for something new, is he really?

  Pecking with one finger, I type, How about Saturday? A week? Really?

  I backspace to erase the day and retype Friday.

  Five days will give us both time to clear our heads. I close the laptop, and head to the shower.

  A few hours later, I find his answer: Dinner and dancing?

&nb
sp; Hm, except for the brief one I shared with Kip in the café, I haven’t danced since Doug’s brother’s wedding. Six years ago. Trish has a Wii, and is always pestering me to join her for the salsa workout. So I’ll have a few days to practice anyway.

  To Kip, I type: Looking forward to it.

  So long as I don’t end up in a mangled heap on the floor in an imitation of the game Twister. The game never ends well for me. It’s too late to take back the message. I’ll have to roll with it, baby.

  The saying would make a great mantra. Snapping my fingers, I sing the old Steve Winwood song and dance to the shower with a syncopated rhythm. In front of the wide bathroom mirror, I frown at my frumpy image. Seriously pathetic.

  I turn on the faucets. Because with moves like that, that’s the only thing I’ll be turning on. A sigh, and I turn my back on the mirror to undress. No need to further depress myself with how out of shape I’ve grown.

  Afterward, while toweling dry my hair, I dial Trish. “Hey, so when are you doing your salsa practice again?”

  “Tuesday night,” comes the wary reply, as if she’s uncertain it’s really me.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “I’d love it. But why the change of heart? I’ve been after you for months.”

  Change of heart describes my condition to a tee. “I’m just trying to get back in the swing of things.”

  “Good.” She’s tentatively cheery. “Glad to hear it. How’s six thirty?”

  “Perfect.” The few days until Tuesday will allow me to start a stretching routine, if nothing else. Somewhere in this house, years’ worth of exercise videos are hidden. In VHS, then DVD formats, I’ve acquired quite the library of programs, everything from yoga and pilates to aerobics and weight training. If there’s a fad workout, I buy into it, literally.

  Physically, not so much. I never stick with one for long. Life gets in the way of any routine I plan, and way too often, I grow bored in about five minutes. Trish is way better at sticking to regular workouts.

  “Ah ha.” A stack of them lurks in the recesses of the media cabinet. The second I touch one, I can almost see Doug shaking his head, telling me I shouldn’t have wasted the money.