My One and Only

“Well, it’s a little nippy, that’s for sure. I’ll have to bring my plants in tonight. Might be a frost, can you believe it?”

I smiled. I found myself a little in love with Harold, North Dakota, to be honest. Granted, I’d only had Nick to talk to these past couple of days, but these people had to be the friendliest, nicest people ever. Martha’s Vineyard wasn’t exactly a simmering hotbed of evil and malice, of course…but it was an extremely wealthy area, and with great gobs of money came a lot of…well, let’s be honest. Snootiness. Here, life seemed a bit more even, more clearly defined, which was, I admitted, ridiculously condescending and naive of me. Wishful thinking. Then again, I was only here for the night, and if I wanted to cling to some stereotypes, there was probably no harm in that.

“Can I take your dog for a walk around the church?” a girl asked. She was about twelve, tall and slender, hair in French braids. My mom had braided my hair that way when I was small. “I’m very responsible,” she added.

“Well, in that case, sure,” I said. The girl thanked me and roused Coco, who leaped up with joy at the sight of another fan.

“Your fella’s quite a looker, isn’t he?” Margie commented.

Oh. Right. One more thing about Harold, N.D. Everyone here was under the impression that Nick and I were married, despite the fact that neither of us wore a ring. I hadn’t corrected that impression, and though Nick and I hadn’t talked much since Deacon picked us up, I was pretty sure he was letting it ride, too.

I glanced over now at Nick. He was a looker, all right, standing there with his hands in his pockets, an easy half smile on his face as he talked to the mechanic and Deacon. Dennis was undeniably gorgeous, but Nick… Nick did things to me.

“How long have you two been together?” Margie asked.

“We got married when I was twenty-one,” I said. “\ There. Not a lie. Let them think we were married. Introducing the facts…that would diminish the glow of this sweet night.

“Any kids?” another lady asked.

For a second, the image of a dark-haired, brown-eyed boy appeared in front of me. He’d be skinny. Impish, irresistible smile. The kid would get away with murder and I’d let him, because he’d look just like his daddy…“Nope. No kids.”

“There’s still time,” an older lady said.

“You betcha,” I answered.

“But you better get on that, don’tcha know,” she added. “No time to waste.”

As if aware that I was lying about him, Nick turned his head and met my eyes. Boom. There it was, that locked-in feeling, like two magnets that had been quivering around each other before the forces of nature finally smacked them together. For a long moment, we just looked at each other. Then I smiled, reluctantly, maybe, and Nick started over to our corner of the lot.

“Breaking up marriages again, darling?” he asked.

“Your wife has been so patient there, Nick!” Margie exclaimed. “Oh, Harper, you’re a good sport, aren’tcha? Now, I have to run over there and get those boys up on stage. If they don’t start playing soon, people’ll go home. See you later, kids!”

The remaining two ladies wandered off as well, leaving Nick and me and my hot dish alone together.

“Care for some soda pop?” I asked.

“Wife, huh?” He cocked an eyebrow.

I shrugged. May have blushed. Then the microphone squeaked, and a man’s voice came over the PA. “Folks, let’s get things started off, how’d that be? Here’s a classic—Patsy Cline’s ‘Crazy.’”

“Want to dance, wife?” Nick said.

“Not really,” I said.

“Great.” He took my hand and towed me to the dance area, which was outlined with hay bales.

“Typical of you, ignoring my opinion and doing what you want anyway,” I muttered as he put his hand on my waist.

“Shush, woman, you’re ruining the moment,” he said, pulling me a little closer.

There were a few other couples out there. The little girl who’d taken Coco was now dancing with my dog, and Coco was apparently all for it, since she had her head on the girl’s shoulder, braid in her mouth. The white steeple of the Lutheran church glowed against the cobalt sky. And despite the fact that Nick wore my last nerve down to a nub, my heart was nonetheless fluttering away like it was 1950 and this was the prom.

Nick was smiling that faint, wry smile that turned his eyes from tragic to mischievous, as if we had a secret that only we knew. He wasn’t much taller than I was, and I had a disconcerting view of his face, those too-seeing eyes. I moved a little closer so I wouldn’t have to look right at him…mistake. Now I could feel his heat, and he held me a little tighter. His neck was right there, next to my cheek, and the urge to bury my face there, kiss the hot, velvety skin—damn. My eyes closed. No one had ever felt this good. No one had ever felt this right.

“Hey there, Harper and Nick. Didja meet my husband, Al? Al, this is that nice couple who broke down out on Route 2.”

“Hello,” I said.

“How are ya?” Al said.

Nick released my hand to shake Al’s. “We’re great,” he said. “Lovely town you live in.”

They smiled in unison. “Oh, we couldn’t agree with you more, there, Nick,” Margie beamed. “It’s so nice to have you kids join us.”

“That it is,” Al agreed, winking.

They swayed away, and Nick took my hand once more.

“How’s the car?” I asked briskly and not at all as if I was melting from the bones out.

“Well,” he said softly, and we were now so close that I could feel the vibration in his chest as he spoke, and my knees went weak with longing, “Lars said we—and by we, I mean you, of course—ripped out a hose.” His arm tightened a little—my imagination? “But he thinks he can either replace it or patch it enough to get the car running. We should be good to go.”

“Good to go. Good. That’s good. Great,” I breathed. “Excellent.”

Crazy for crying, crazy for trying, crazy for loving you.

You said it, Patsy. Nick + Harper = Disaster. Been there, done that, had significant emotional scarring from said event. But it was easy to ignore in this moment, Nick’s arm around my waist, his clean, spicy smell, the gentle rasp of his unshaven cheek against mine, the slide of muscle under his warm skin. He held my hand the way he always had. With certainty. With commitment. As if I belonged to him.

I swallowed, then gulped in a quick breath of the cool night air. The band had morphed into another sweetly melancholy song. “I’m Not Supposed to Love You Anymore.” If that wasn’t the voice of God, I didn’t know what was.

I stepped back. “That was nice. Thanks, Nick,” I said, my voice a little loud. “I better find Coco.” And without giving myself the chance to do something stupid, I slipped off to reclaim my dog and some peace of mind.

DEACON MCCABE’S HOUSE was a tiny little one-story house in the middle of a lot of land. There were a few trees clustered around the house, and the earlier storm appeared to have stripped them of their leaves. Margie had been right—it had turned quite cold, and the wind gusted around the house, swaying the squat little bushes that crouched outside the door. I picked up Coco and kissed her head. Wondered what she thought of our strange little trip.

Inside the house, the living room was decorated with knotty pine paneling and mounted elk heads, which made Coco growl most adorably. Orange shag carpeting, a woodstove that, judging from the chilly temperature, had gone out some time ago. A pug came trotting in to greet its master, and Deacon bent down. “Lilly, this here is Coco and her mommy and daddy,” he said, scooping up the chubby little package of dog. Lilly made wheezing, snuffling noises at my dog. Coco gave me a quick Chihuahua look…Seriously? I have to let this thing slobber on me?…but then decided to allow Lilly a few ecstatic licks, which delighted the pug no end.

“The wife’ll be in bed already,” Deacon said, scratching his dog’s head, causing Lilly to wriggle madly with joy. “She’ll be sorry to miss you tonight—her rheumatism was acting up, which is why she skipped out on the festival. A shame. But she’ll be eager to meetcha come morning. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll get you folks settled and hit the hay myself.”

“No, that’s fine,” I said.

“We’re both beat,” Nick said, cutting a glance at me. It was nine-thirty.

“I’ll take you into town in the morning, Lars should have you all set up,” he said, ushering us down a narrow hallway. He stopped, reached into a room and flicked on the light. I jumped back a little. Behind me, Nick made a strangled noise.

The room contained a double bed, a small bureau and…um…well…

“Wife’s kinda devout,” Deacon said by way of explanation. “This room’s her, uh, special place. Sorry if it’s a little chilly in here.”

“No, it’s great,” Nick said in a carefully controlled voice. The room was, in fact, frigid.

“You and your wife are so nice to put us up,” I added. It was true, of course.

“We really appreciate it,” Nick seconded, tearing his eyes off the decor. “Hope it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all, not at all. Well now, there are clean towels in the bathroom,” Deacon said. “You need anything, you just let me know, all right?” He took a deep breath, surveying the room as if seeing it for the first time, gave his head a little shake. “Okeydokey then. Good night, you two.”

The door closed, and Nick and I just…well, we just took it in.

Pictures—dozens of them—of a blond-haired, blue-eyed Jesus decorated the walls, and apparently, Jesus had a very strong resemblance to Brad Pitt circa Legends of the Fall. Amen!

“Is it wrong to find the Lord attractive?” I asked, earning a rush of Nick’s warm laughter as reward. I turned in a slow circle…more Jesus. Wow. And not only pictures, but, oh gosh, a small area where unlit candles sat on a long, low table in front of the biggest crosses I’d ever seen outside a church. A big church.

“Think they’re planning to crucify us?” Nick whispered, his eyes bright with laughter. He set our suitcases down. “I mean, what do we really know about these people?”

There was only one bed. One small double bed that, had Nick and I actually still been married, would’ve been quite cozy. I set Coco down, and she jumped right onto a pillow, as was her custom. She curled into a ball and ignored the two of us and our silent machinations.

Then, as if reading my mind, Nick said, “You can take the bed. I’ll sleep…on the, uh…altar.” A squeak of laughter escaped from me, and Nick gave me a lightning grin.

I sobered up a bit. “I’m gonna brush my teeth. Back in a flash.”

In the bathroom, I stared at my reflection. The past few days had taken their toll; I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in days, and I wasn’t about to get one, either. Shadows lurked under my eyes, and out of its ponytail, my hair looked scraggly. Good. The last thing I wanted right now was to look alluring in any way, shape or form.

Of course, in the movies, this was where the hero and heroine hooked up, trapped in some little motel or whatever. But Nick and I were not going to hook up. “You and Nick—not gonna hook up,” I whispered to my reflection, just in case I forgot. Because come on. Nick stirred things in me, damn the man. Once I’d become turned on watching him empty the trash. I’m serious.

With a sigh, I scrubbed my face without tenderness or mercy, brushed my teeth and pulled on my pajama bottoms, which were bright yellow and printed with laughing monkey faces. About as unglam as you could get, luckily. A vast Red Sox sweatshirt (my Christmas present from Dennis) completed the don’t touch me look, about as close to a chastity belt as I could manage at the moment.

Nick was in the hall when I came out, toothbrush in hand, and we did that awkward step-to-the-left-step-to-the-right dance for a second until he grabbed my shoulders and just held me still, hands warm and strong, causing my girl parts to croon. He brushed past me with a half smile and went into the loo.

Sober up, Harper, I told myself briskly, dragging my gaze off the bathroom door. Was he shaving in there? If so, I was a goner, because honestly, was there anything sexier than a man shaving? Was he brushing his teeth? Frooow. Granted, he could be hunched over the toilet, retching, and I probably would’ve found him incredibly hot.

“You’re pathetic,” I muttered, shaking my head at my own stupidity.

Back into the bedroom. Under the Brad-like gaze of Jesus, I climbed into bed, lifting up Coco and earning her please don’t beat me look. “Warm my feet, doggy,” I whispered, setting her down. “It’s freezing.” Then I pulled the covers to my chin. The bed was comfy, if icy. I’d always hated getting into a cold bed, the shock of the sheets bringing on dramatic bouts of shivering that I was unable to control. I huddled under the blankets, waiting to get warm. Coco, deciding that she really wasn’t the foot-warming type, moved to another corner of the bed, faithless diva that she was.

It was very quiet out here on the outskirts of town, on the prairie. The wind blustered outside, and the branch of a tree tapped against the window. In my little cocoon of blankets, the sheets smelled sharply fresh and clean, a testament to line-drying, but the usually lovely scent failed this time to slow my thudding heart.

A minute later, Nick came back into the room, and I closed my eyes, not wanting to see him, chicken that I was, then opened them. He wore plain green pajama bottoms and a faded Yankees T-shirt, thank God.