That was fine with her because she couldn’t think of one thing to say.
A circus train of SUVs followed them back to the house. Bram zoomed through the gates, pulled up to the front, and braked to a sudden stop before he turned off the ignition.
His labored breathing filled the suddenly quiet interior. He opened the console and took out a DVD. “This is why I couldn’t come see you earlier. It wasn’t done. I was planning to deliver it tonight.” He set the DVD in her lap. “Watch it before you make any more big decisions about our future.”
“I don’t understand. What is this?”
“I guess you could say it’s…my love letter to you.” He got out of the car.
“Love letter?” But he’d already disappeared around the side of the house.
She glanced down at the DVD and took in its hand-printed label.
SKIP AND SCOOTER
“Going Underground”
Skip and Scooter had ended after 108 episodes, but the label marked this as episode 109. Clutching the DVD to her chest, she kicked off her remaining sneaker and rushed barefoot into the house. She didn’t have the patience to fumble with the complicated equipment in the screening room, so she carried his cinematic love letter upstairs and slid it into the DVD player in his bedroom. She sat in the middle of the bed, wrapped an arm around her knees, and with pulse racing, hit the play button.
Fade in on two sets of small feet walking across an expanse of vivid green lawn. One set sported black patent leather Mary Janes with ruffled white socks. The other, shiny black boy’s oxfords that brushed the cuffs of black dress slacks. Both sets of feet stopped walking and turned toward someone behind them. The little girl whimpered, “Daddy?”
Georgie hugged herself.
The boy’s response was fierce. “You said you weren’t going to cry.”
Another whimper from the little girl. “I’m not crying. I want Daddy.”
A third set of shoes came into view. Black men’s wing tips. “I’m here, sweetheart. I had to help grand-mère.”
Georgie shivered as the camera panned up along sharply creased black slacks to a man’s long-fingered, manicured hand bearing a platinum wedding band. The little girl’s hand slipped through his.
A close-up of the child’s face came into view. She was seven or eight years old, blond and angelic, wearing a black velvet dress and a delicate strand of pearls.
The camera pulled back. A solemn-faced boy of about the same age took the man’s other hand.
Cut to a wider angle showing the tall, lean man and two small children from the rear as they walked across the manicured lawn. A shade tree appeared, a broader stretch of lawn, more trees. Some kind of stones. The angle expanded.
Not stones at all.
Georgie pressed her fingertips to her lips.
A cemetery?
Suddenly the man’s face filled the screen. Skip Scofield. He was older, more distinguished, and perfectly groomed, as all the Scofields tended to be. Crisp, short hair, tailored black suit, a respectable dark burgundy tie knotted at the neck of a white dress shirt. And deep lines of grief etching his handsome face.
Georgie shook her head in disbelief. He couldn’t possibly—
“I don’t want to, Daddy,” the girl said.
“I know, sweetheart.” Skip picked her up. At the same time, he wrapped his free arm around the boy’s thin shoulders.
Georgie wanted to scream. It’s a sitcom! It’s supposed to be funny!
Now the three stood at the side of an open grave with black-clad mourners in the background. The boy buried his face in his father’s side, muffling his words. “I miss Mommy so much already.”
“So do I, son. She never understood how much I loved her.”
“You should have told her.”
“I tried to, but she didn’t believe me.”
The minister began to speak off camera, his resonant voice familiar. Georgie narrowed her eyes.
Cut to the end of the service. Close-up of the coffin in the ground. A handful of dirt landed on the polished lid followed by three puffy blue hydrangeas.
Cut to Skip and the minister—the minister who had no place being a minister. “My condolences, son,” the minister said, patting Skip on the back.
Dissolve to Skip and his two weeping children standing alone by the grave. Skip went down on his knees and drew them close, his eyes squeezed shut with pain. “Thank God…,” he murmured. “Thank God, I have you.”
The boy pulled away, looking smug, almost vindictive. “Except you don’t.”
The girl splayed her hands on her hips. “We’re imaginary, remember?”
The boy sneered, “We’re the kids you could have had if you hadn’t been such a jerk.”
Just like that, the children vanished, and the man stood alone at the graveside. Anguished. Tortured. He picked a hydrangea from one of the floral arrangements and lifted it to his lips. “I love you. With all my heart. This is forever, Georgie.”
The screen went dark.
Georgie sat there stunned, then shot off the bed and stalked into the hallway. Of all the… She raced down the stairs, across the veranda, along the path, and out to the guesthouse. Through the French doors, she saw him sitting at his desk, staring at nothing. As she charged inside, he jumped to his feet.
“Love letter?” she cried.
He gave a jerky nod, his face pale.
She shoved her hands on her hips. “You killed me off!”
His throat worked as he swallowed. “You…uh…didn’t think I’d kill me off, did you?”
“And my own father! My own father buried me!”
“He’s a good actor. And a—a surprisingly decent father-in-law.”
She gritted her teeth. “I spotted a couple of familiar faces in the crowd. Chaz and Laura?”
“They both seemed to”—he swallowed again—“enjoy the ceremony.”
She threw up her hands. “I can’t believe you killed off Scooter!”
“I didn’t have a lot of time to work on the script. It was the best I could come up with, especially since I had to…shoot around you.”
“I’ll say!”
“It would have been done yesterday, but your angelic fake daughter turned out to be a diva. Total pain in the ass to work with, which doesn’t bode well for Tree House. She’s playing the kid.”
“A great little actress, though,” Georgie drawled, crossing her arms over her chest. “I know I had tears in my eyes.”
“If we ever have a child who acts like that…”
“It’ll be her father’s fault.”
That stopped him cold, but she wasn’t ready to let him off the hook, even though little balloons of happiness had started to rise inside her. “Honest to God, Bram, that was the stupidest, sappiest, most maudlin piece of cinematic garbage…”
“I knew you’d like it.” He couldn’t seem to figure out what to do with his hands. “You did like it, didn’t you? It was the only way I could think of to show you I understood exactly how much I hurt you that day on the beach. You understood that, right?”
“Oddly enough, yes.”
His face twisted. “You’re going to have to help me, Georgie. I’ve never loved anyone before.”
“Not even yourself,” she said quietly.
“Not much to love. Until you started loving me back.” His hand slipped into his pocket. “I don’t want to hurt you again. Ever. But I’ve already done it. I sacrificed what you wanted the most.” His face twisted. “Helene is really gone, Georgie. The contract is signed. That role meant everything to you—I know it—and I screwed that up, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do. Unless I signed another actress, I had no way to prove I need you for yourself.”
“I get that.” She thought of the painful things people did to themselves and to each other because of love, and she knew the time had come to tell him what she’d only recently figured out herself. “I’m glad.”
“You don’t understand. I can’t fix this
, sweetheart, and there’s no way I can make that up to you.”
“You don’t have anything to make up.” She said it aloud for the first time. “I’m a filmmaker, Bram. A documentary filmmaker. That’s what I want to do with my life.”
“What are you talking about? You love acting.”
“I loved being Annie. I loved being Scooter. I needed the applause and the praise. But I don’t need that anymore. I’ve grown up, and I want to tell other people’s stories.”
“That’s fine, but—Your audition? That amazing performance?”
“Not a bit of it came from my heart. It was all technique.” She chose her words carefully, pulling the pieces together as she spoke, trying to get it exactly right. “Preparing for that audition should have been the most exciting work I’ve ever done, but it was drudgery. I didn’t like Helene, and I hated the dark place she took me to. All I wanted to do was escape with my camera.”
He cocked an eyebrow, beginning to look more like himself. “Exactly when did you figure this out?”
“I guess I knew it at the time, but I thought I was reacting to how messy everything had gotten with you. I’d rehearse for a while, and when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I’d pick up my camera and pester Chaz, or go interview a waitress. With all my talk about reinventing my career, I didn’t understand I’d already done it.” She smiled. “Wait till you see the footage I’ve shot—Chaz’s story, street kids, these amazing single mothers. It doesn’t all fit in the same film, but figuring out what goes where is going to teach me so much.”
He finally came around from behind his desk. “You’re not just saying this so I don’t feel guilty?”
“Are you kidding? I love you guilty. It makes it easier for me to wrap you around my finger.”
“You’ve already done that,” he said huskily. “Tighter than you can ever imagine.”
He seemed to drink in her face. She’d never felt more cherished. They gazed into each other’s eyes. Into each other’s souls. And neither one offered up a single wisecrack.
He kissed her as if she were a virgin. The tenderest meeting of lips and heart. It was embarrassingly romantic, but not as embarrassing as their damp cheeks. They held each other close, eyes shut, hearts hammering, naked in a way they’d never been. They knew each other’s flaws as well as they knew their own, and each other’s strengths even better. That made the moment all the sweeter.
They talked for a long time. She wouldn’t hide anything, and she told him about her call to Mel Duffy and what she’d almost done.
“I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d gone through with it,” he said. “And remind me not to ever let you have a gun.”
“I want to get married again,” she whispered. “Really married.”
He kissed her temple. “Do you now?”
“A private ceremony. Beautiful and intimate.”
“All right.” His hand wandered to her breast, and the lust that had been simmering between them erupted. It took all her effort to pull back. “You can’t imagine how hard this is for me to say.” She drew his hand to her lips and kissed his fingers. “But I want a wedding night.”
He groaned. “Please don’t let that mean what I think.”
“Do you mind so much?”
He thought it over. “Yes.”
“But you’ll agree anyway, right?”
He cradled her face in his hands. “You’re not going to give me any choice, are you?”
“I am. We’re in this together.”
He smiled and curled a hand around her bottom. “Poppy has exactly twenty-four hours to put together the wedding of your dreams. I’ll take care of the honeymoon.”
“Twenty-four hours? We can’t—”
“Poppy can.”
And Poppy did, although it took her forty-eight hours, and then they banned her from the ceremony, which she didn’t like at all.
They were married at sunset on an isolated stretch of beach in a sandy cove. Only five guests stood with them: Chaz and Aaron, Paul and Laura, and Meg, who’d come alone because they wouldn’t let her bring a date. Sasha and April couldn’t make it back in time, and Bram refused to wait for them. Georgie wanted to invite Rory, but Bram said she made him too nervous, which caused Georgie to hoot with laughter, which in turn forced Bram to kiss her breathless.
They asked Paul to perform the ceremony. Georgie said it was the least he could do after burying her. When he pointed out that he wasn’t ordained, they brushed him off. The legalities had been observed months ago. This wedding was a ceremony of the heart.
A Crayola box sunset framed the beach that night. Bouquets of larkspur, iris, and sweet pea spilled from simple galvanized pails tied with ribbons that floated in the warm breeze. Although Georgie had forbidden Poppy to erect a bridal bower or paint hearts in the sand, she’d neglected to mention building a sand castle, so a six-foot seashell-and-flower-bedecked replica of the Scofield mansion rose up near the bride and groom.
Georgie wore a simple yellow cotton dress with a spray of flowers in her dark hair. Bram went barefoot. The vows they’d written spoke of what they knew, what they’d learned, and what they promised. After the ceremony, they sat around a bonfire to feast on crab and Chaz’s cream-filled chocolate cupcakes. Paul and Laura couldn’t take their eyes off each other, and as the fire snapped, Laura briefly left Paul’s side to approach Georgie. “Do you mind about your father and me? I know it’s too fast. I know—”
“I couldn’t be happier.” Georgie hugged her as Chaz and Aaron wandered off, side by side, down the beach.
Bram watched his wife’s beautiful face glow in the flames from the bonfire and realized that the panic that had been his silent companion for as long as he could remember had disappeared. If a woman as wise as Georgie could accept him, flaws and all, then it was long past time he accepted himself.
This exquisite, caring, smart, wonderful creature was his. Maybe he should be afraid of failing her, but he wasn’t. In every way that counted, he would always be there for her.
As night settled in, Georgie finally noticed a dinghy approaching from a yacht anchored offshore. “What’s that?”
“My surprise,” he whispered against her hair. “I wanted our wedding night to be on a boat. To make up for the first time.”
She smiled. “You did that long ago.”
Their guests saw them off with a shower of organic brown rice Meg had brought along. As they rode out to the yacht, Bram held his wife tight. He wanted their wedding night to be perfect. Lance had given her a carriage with six white horses, and Bram couldn’t stand the idea of falling short.
As soon as they were on board, he led her through the quiet ship to the largest stateroom. “Welcome to your honeymoon, my love.”
“Oh, Bram…”
Everything was just as he’d arranged. White pillar candles nesting inside hurricane shades cast a shimmering light across the warm wooden paneling and luxurious carpets. “It’s beautiful…,” she said in a way that convinced him she’d forgotten all about the carriage and horses. “I love it. I love you.” Her gaze moved past him to the bed, and she burst out laughing. “Are those rose petals scattered on the sheets?”
He smiled against her skin. “Too much?”
“Way too much.” She threw her arms around him. “I love it!”
He undressed her slowly, kissing all that he uncovered: the curve of her shoulder, the swell of her breast. He went to his knees and kissed her belly, her thighs, knowing he was the luckiest man on earth. She undressed him just as slowly, and when he couldn’t endure it any longer, he drew her to the bed, and the rose petal sheets.
Which had seemed like a good idea, but…
He pulled a petal from his mouth. “These suckers are everywhere.”
“I’ll say. Even here.” She eased open her thighs. “Do something about it, will you?”
So maybe the rose petals weren’t such a bad idea after all.
The boat rocked beneath them. They made love again
and again, cocooned in their private, sensual world, vowing with their bodies everything they’d promised with their words.
The next morning, he awakened first and simply lay there, with his wife cradled in his arms, breathing in her scent, giving thanks…and thinking about Skip Scofield. You’re going to need to help me out, pal. I don’t have as much practice being a sensitive guy as you do.
You could start by losing the sarcasm, Skip replied.
Georgie wouldn’t recognize me.
At least pick your moments.
That he could do. Georgie nestled closer, and he curled his hand over her hip. I’m finally one up on you, Skipper. There you are, stuck forever with little Scooter Brown. And here I am… He kissed his wife’s soft hair. Here I am with Georgie York.
She finally stirred, but she wouldn’t let him kiss her until she’d brushed her teeth. As she stepped naked out of the bathroom, he took in a withered rose petal clinging to her nipple and held out his hand. “Come here, wife,” he said softly. “Let’s get you pregnant.”
She shocked him by waving him off. “Later.”
He eased up against the pillows and eyed her warily as she pulled her video camera from one of the suitcases delivered to the yacht. “Chaz warned me about this,” he said.
She smiled and positioned herself at the footboard of the bed so she was facing him. The morning sun sliding through the portholes buttered her dark hair. He leaned against the pillows and watched her raise the camera.
“Start at the beginning,” she said. “Tell me everything you love about your wife.”
He could see that she was teasing him, but he wasn’t playing her game. Instead, he leaned back against the headboard, cradled her foot in his hand, and did exactly as she asked.
Epilogue
Iris York Shepard was as unhappy as a four-year-old could be. She stood in the middle of her backyard, with her arms crossed over her flat chest, her small foot tapping ominously in the grass, a scowl stretched across her adorable little lopsided face. Iris didn’t like it when the attention shifted too far from herself, and even her adoring grandparents had moved away to talk to Uncle Trev.