Marisa Carroll - Last-Minute Marriage

“Dad!” Sam’s shout from the driveway cut through the tension in the little room. “It’s time to go.”

“I have to leave.” Mitch came a little closer. “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you want. But promise me you won’t go before the fog lifts.”

“I promise.”

“Drive safely, Tessa.”

He held out his hand. For a wild moment she hoped he would try again to talk her into staying and taking the job in his store. But he didn’t say anything more. He just stood there waiting, with his hand out.

She took it. “Thank you for everything, Mitch. Goodbye.”

FOR THE PAST HALF HOUR Harvey Medford had been debating the pros and cons of buying a new lawn mower now, while Mitch had them at rock-bottom prices, or waiting until spring, when he really needed one.

“My old one probably has a good couple of Saturday afternoons left in her,” he said, taking off his green John Deere cap to scratch his bald head. “It’s already coming on to the middle of October. Supposed to get a hard frost end of the week. Probably won’t have to mow again at all this year.”

“Might not,” Mitch agreed, laying both hands on the big lawn tractor, leaning his full weight on the sturdy housing, a gesture not lost on his potential customer. “Then again, it might stay warm for another couple weeks. You never can tell about the weather this time of year. Grass will grow some with this rain we’re getting.”

“You’re right there.” Harvey continued to ruminate, running gnarled fingers over the two-day stubble on his chin. He moved his cud of chewing tobacco from one cheek to the other, and Mitch couldn’t help but think how much the old man looked like one of his prize milk cows.

“You got nearly two acres all told to mow, Harvey. You won’t get this good a deal on next year’s model in the spring.” Mitch didn’t let the slightest hint of impatience show in his voice or on his face. Dickering a little was part of the ritual of buying from the hometown merchants. If Harvey had wanted to plunk down cash for a lawn tractor without any conversation to go with it, he’d have gone to one of the big chain stores.

“I’ll tell you what, Harvey. It’s worth another twenty-five dollars to me not to have to store this baby over the winter. I’ll give you as good a deal as you’ll get anywhere on the snowplow attachment. And if it does up and freeze next week, you can run her over the yard and chop up the leaves so they blow over onto Roger Nickels’s place.”

Harvey’s rheumy blue eyes shone with a wicked light. He and his neighbor hadn’t spoken a civil word to each other since Mitch was in grade school. No one in town remembered what had caused the falling-out. Maybe not even Roger and Harvey. No one knew or cared anymore. But they respected the old codgers’ right to carry on their feud. “You got a deal,” Harvey said, then held out his hand. “Darned if you don’t drive near as hard a bargain as your granddad.”

“Who do you think taught him what he knows?” Caleb said, coming up to them. “I’ll write up the bill for Harvey’s mower, Mitch. There’s someone wants to talk to you in the office.”

“Thanks, Granddad.” Probably another salesman, although Mitch didn’t remember having any on his appointment schedule for this morning. He really had to get some more help. Too many things like this were falling through the cracks since Larry had quit.

His office was in the oldest part of the building. It was situated at the top of a flight of stairs, open to a view of the sales area below. The walls were bare brick, the ceiling beaten tin in a wheat-and-sheaves pattern that was worth its weight in gold these days. It was still up there on the ceiling, but not because his granddad or his father, or even Mitch himself, had known there was going to be a revival of such things. It was there because when times were bad, remodeling the office was the last place to spend scarce capital. And when business was good, like now, there wasn’t time.

Mitch took the stairs two at a time and looked over the half wall, expecting to see a copper-tubing salesman or the guy who sold the new brand of tools. Both were due to call in the next week or so. Mitch figured they’d just gotten into town ahead of schedule.

But the figure seated in the chair beside his desk wasn’t a salesman. It wasn’t a man at all. It was a woman. A pregnant woman.

Tessa Masterson rose to greet him. “Hi,” she said with that smile of hers, half shy little girl, half siren. The image had stuck in his mind like a burr since yesterday.

“I thought you’d be halfway to Ohio by now.” He didn’t smile back. He’d spent the last three hours attempting to forget he’d ever seen that smile or the woman who wore it.

He’d taken Sam to school the long way around when the fog lifted. He’d been determined to eat lunch at the Sunnyside Café and not go home to let the dog out, in case she was still there. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t set foot in the boathouse until her scent had dissipated and the imprint of her head on the pillow was gone.

Her smile faded as she regarded him. She tugged nervously at the hem of the fuzzy sweater she wore over her denim jumper. Today her blouse was lime green. A bright cheerful color, he supposed. But somehow it only served to underscore the paleness of her skin and the dark bruiselike smudges of fatigue that shadowed her blue eyes.

“I came to see if the offer of a job is still open,” she said.

“I still need help,” Mitch admitted. “That hasn’t changed since this morning. But since you’re here, I’m figuring you’ve changed your mind about taking it. Why?”

“It’s a woman’s prerogative, changing her mind.” He walked to his desk and rounded it, facing her across the cluttered expanse of scarred walnut. “Not in this day and age.”

“You’re right.” She took a quick little breath and spoke in a rush, as though she was afraid she’d lose her nerve. “I wanted to say yes this morning, but I needed to consider my options.”

“You weren’t prepared to act on impulse.”

Her chin rose a little and her eyes narrowed. Then she nodded. “Exactly.”

“I can understand that.” He motioned for her to take a seat. She lowered herself carefully into the chair. She wasn’t clumsy in her pregnancy, but neither had Kara been until the end. He wondered exactly how pregnant Tessa Masterson was.

“I’ve learned the hard way not to walk into a situation without both eyes wide open,” she said, and he thought he heard sadness, laced with an undercurrent of resignation, in her voice. She looked past him for a moment, as though his scrutiny had made her uncomfortable. He didn’t fool himself that she was looking at the Riverbend Farmers’ Co-op calendar hanging on the wall behind him.

He waited for her to go on. It was quiet in the office area. Linda Christman, the bookkeeper, had gone to lunch. His granddad was still chewing the fat with Harvey. Someone was loading lumber out in the yard. He could hear Bill Webber’s amplified voice calling for the yard boy to bring up the forklift. But Tessa took her time, ordering her thoughts, or gathering her courage, or both.

“I had every intention of leaving town this morning. But as I said, circumstances have changed. I called my sister from the phone booth in front of the courthouse. My nieces have been exposed to chicken pox. I’ve never had chicken pox.” She was looking at him again, not past him, and he didn’t have to guess about the emotion in her cornflower-blue eyes. It was plain to read. Fear. Not for herself but for her unborn child. “I can’t take the chance of catching it from the girls and risk harming my baby.”