Susan Crosby - Wedding Fever

J.D. pushed the button to disconnect the call. He closed his eyes a moment as he waited for the traffic light to turn green. Naked, except for his necklace. Dios. After he locked in the image, he smiled. She was paying him back for the way he’d teased her. That’s why he hadn’t ever given her the slightest encouragement. She was too smart, too quick. Too addictive. Too much woman.

They had their differences. She planned everything; he liked just to react. She organized her life to the minute; he’d rather be spontaneous. She was an open book; he was locked tight as a diary.

He wished for both their sakes that he could have kept the distance that he’d established and held all this time, but he couldn’t. No matter how much she would hate him afterward.

He glanced at the dashboard clock. Making sure he wasn’t followed, he drove across the Golden Gate Bridge, then maneuvered the twists and turns of Highway 101 and Sausalito until he pulled into the driveway of a small house guarded by an abundance of winter-hardy foliage. A light burned from his father’s office. Relieved, he let out a breath. His father was the only person in the world he could talk to about Magnolia and his job. He pictured him, relaxed in his high-backed leather chair, listening, advising, encouraging, so different from his mother, the mother he had seen only once in the past fourteen years. “Jimmy,” he’d say, followed by words of wisdom. He wished for the thousandth time he’d known his father during his childhood.

But that was history.

Her Christmas presents were wrapped. Her new winter coat needed only to have the buttons sewn on. She had time to spend on the magazine article for which she had a January 13 deadline. She booted her computer and opened the file for her final article in a series of fifteen she’d been contracted to write for A Woman’s Life on organizing busy lives. “Creating storage space where there is none,” she read at the top of the screen. “An organized home reduces stress—”

Maggie stopped typing as she cocked an ear toward her front door. Someone had knocked. She hurried into the living room. “Who is it?”

“Delivery for Miss Walters.”

She opened the door an inch. A young woman stood there, holding an elegant arrangement of long-stemmed white roses in a crystal vase.

“Oh, how beautiful,” she exclaimed, pushing the door open and reaching for them. Diego’s intentions really were serious.

She shut the door and set the vase in the center of her dining room table, inhaling the sweet rose fragrance as she reached for the tiny white envelope.

Smiling, she pulled out the card. I will make thee beds of roses. BH.

BH? Brendan, not Diego? And he was quoting Christopher Marlowe, Maggie realized, horrified—“The Passionate Shepherd to His Love,” until now, one of her favorite poems. She couldn’t remember telling him she was an English major, but maybe she had. Or was he just trying to impress her with his knowledge?

How had he found out where she lived? Certainly no one at the Carola would have divulged it. Had he followed her home? Repulsed by the thought, she rubbed the chill from her arms as she walked to her front window and looked out No limousine, no stranger leaning against the lamppost across the street, nothing out of the ordinary.

The phone rang, startling her.

“Good morning., Maggie.”

Brendan. “Who is this?”

A soft chuckle preceded his words. “I was disappointed that you didn’t call me. Did you get my flowers?”

She continued to play dumb. “Mr. Hastings?” Silence. She sighed inwardly. There was no way she would win any battle of wits with this man. “They’re lovely, but I must ask you not to send me anything ever again. I can’t accept gifts from you.”

“You deserve lovely things.”

“I don’t lack for anything. I like my life just as it is. I have plenty for my needs.”

“‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’”

The man quotes Shakespeare—accurately, no less. “I’m being honest with you. I don’t want you to call me or send me gifts.”

“I do so like the chase, Miss Walters.”

“I’m not teasing you, sir. And I’m involved with someone ”

He laughed. “Sir? Am I that much older than you? I just wanted you to know I’ll be out of town through the holidays. I’ll call you when I get back.”

“Didn’t you reserve a card room for tonight?”

“Cancel it for me, will you? Oh, and Maggie? I happen to know there’s no one special in your life right now.”

She stared at the receiver long after it went dead. Hanging it up quietly, she thought about how much he knew about her. She eyed her front door, double-checking that it was locked.

If Maggie had any doubt that Diego’s interest was tied to Brendan’s, that doubt was erased during the next week. Now that Brendan was gone, Diego once again wore calmness and control like his elegant tuxedo. She was not only irritated, but discouraged. And suspicious again of the reason for his sudden focus on her. She’d thought their relationship had taken a positive turn on her birthday, but he hadn’t even accepted her invitation to share Christmas with her.

Still, she wore the necklace. And she didn’t miss the fact he always checked that she did, even though he never commented on it.

She wondered what he’d do if he knew Brendan was sending her gifts.

The packages that arrived almost daily didn’t tempt her, but she was curious about the cards and always opened them. The first one read, A gown made of the finest wool. BH. Still quoting Marlowe. That was followed a couple of days later by Fair lined slippers for the cold BH. And then, A belt of straw and ivy buds, with coral clasps and amber studs. BH.

Because she knew the poem so well, she knew where he was headed with his gifts. The payoff came on New Year’s Eve late in the afternoon, when a small box was delivered to which a card had been attached—Come live with me, and be my love. BH.

She shook the box, speculating on the contents. The others had been so easy. This one could be anything. Jewelry, maybe. Brendan would definitely go the ostentatious route, advertising how much in material goods he could offer her. Or perhaps it was a house key. Solid gold, of course, and diamond studded. She was smiling at the thought when the phone rang and she said hello.

“Magnolia.”

“Well, well. James Diego Duran.” She dropped onto the sofa. “To what do I owe the honor of a communication from you?”

A slight pause. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Nope.”

“Have you been sampling New Year’s champagne early?”

She grinned. “Nope. High on life.”

“Why?”

“I was just sitting here pondering absurdities.”

“Such as?”

“Ohhh, such as... roses in winter. Solid gold, diamond-studded house keys. People who can quote Shakespeare accurately.”

“These things are absurd to you?”

“You don’t find solid gold, diamond-studded house keys absurd?”

“I suppose so. Are you in possession of one?”

“Not yet.” She smiled at the’ceiling as she contemplated his silence. He wanted to ask. Oh, how he wanted to ask. But she’d bet her life’s savings he wouldn’t.

“I called for a reason, Magnolia.”

“Of course you called for a reason, honey. You never do anything without a reason.” And I’d really like to know why you teased me the other night and have ignored me ever since.

His pause was short but meaningful. Was he counting to ten?

“I wanted to know if you would celebrate New Year’s with me tonight,” he said.

Out of character. Definitely out of character. What was going on? She swooped up the phone base and carried it with her as she paced her living room. “Well, thank you so much, honey, for believin’ I would be free on New Year’s Eve.”