Chapter 9 Mona
MONA
The next day I wake up with a little guilt about feeling like I’m vacation when I’m being paid a lot of money for working this month.
So I text Douglas early to tell him to wear something comfortable, and then I announce as I bring up his breakfast that we’re going to do the monumental task of dusting his entire library today.
He lifts his eyebrows over the rim of his smoothie but doesn’t object.
It’s obvious to me that Colleen does a good job keeping his rooms clean, but she doesn’t regularly dust all these books. It’s not a task that needs to be done often, but it does need to be done occasionally.
So today is that day.
I give him a respite to eat, and then I return the dishes to the kitchen and tidy up before I come back upstairs with my cart of cleaning supplies.
Douglas is bent over, stretching his hamstrings like he’s preparing for a workout. I take a moment to admire his neatly curved ass beneath his trousers before I decide it’s inappropriate to leer in professional circumstances.
Reluctantly I look away until he straightens up.
He’s in his normal quiet, thoughtful mood as I clear the first shelf. I polish the wood while he starts dusting each individual book. I ask him about a copy of a Thoreau because it looks particularly old, and he tells me its printing history and when his family acquired it.
Fascinated, I keep asking him questions about the books as we clean them.
We make good progress, and I’m having such a good time that I forget about lunch until Douglas’s stomach growls audibly. After we take a break for sandwiches, we resume our work, having reached the shelf of British Romantic poets.
I ask him about his favorite Wordsworth poem, and he recites “Tintern Abbey.” The entire poem—which isn’t short. From memory.
I’m so moved by the emotional depth in the words and in his voice that my eyes are burning at the end of it.
I ask him for more, and he spends the next hour reciting poetry to me from memory.
Coleridge. Tennyson. Yeats. Both Brownings.
A lot more Wordsworth. So much Shakespeare.
And he even gets through the whole of Goblin Market with only being prompted twice.
He doesn’t have an eidetic memory. He’s memorized all these poems from reading them so often.
It’s not simply a brain exercise for him.
He clearly loves the poetry he recites. Loves it deeply.
Sincerely. Passionately. More than once he brings me close to tears from the beauty of the words and the authenticity of his love for them.
By late afternoon we’ve finished the last shelf, and I’m not ready for the day to be over.
After we gaze at our finished work—walls full of clean and neatly arranged books—we smile at each other.
“You shouldn’t have let me go on and on this way,” he says, suddenly looking self-conscious.
“What are you talking about? I loved it!”
“Did you?”
“Of course! Why do you think I kept asking for more? I could listen to you read poetry for days on end.”
He chuckles at that, pleased and embarrassed both as his eyes focus on the floor.
“Do ‘Tintern Abbey’ for me again,” I tell him.
He glances up. “Right now?”
“Right now.”
He clears his throat, shifting his gaze out one of the windows at the lowering sun casting white winter light on the lake. Then he recites the poem once more.
This time the bittersweet emotion in the final lines—the truth of how time and experience change us, ground us, transform our emotional responses to the world, leading to loss as well as gain—touch me so much that tears slide down my cheeks unchecked.
I honestly don’t know why it moves me that way since it’s not at heart a sad poem. But something about Douglas’s voice and who I know the man to be as he speaks the lines makes me cry.
When he finishes the final words, he darts me a quick look and sees the tears. “Oh no, my dear, you shouldn’t be crying.”
“I’m sorry.” I choke on a half laugh, half sob. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
He appears completely unaware of the fact that he called me my dear as he steps closer and peers at me. “Are you all right? Did the poem speak to something you’re grieving?”
I shake my head. “Nothing specific. I honestly don’t know why I’m doing this. It was just so… lovely and moving, and the emotion got to me somehow.”
The emotion was connected to him, but I don’t say that.
No good would come from saying that.
“Okay,” he murmurs, lifting a hand to gently swipe away the last of my tears. “Because if you have a grief that is still making you cry, I would like to hear what it is.”
He means it. And despite the weirdness of our connection, if I had something specific that was making me cry, I would tell him. Right now.
But it’s all a heavy, achy tangle in my chest and throat. There’s no way to put it into words.
“Thank you. But it’s just… feeling. And it hasn’t come together enough for me to really identify it.”
He nods as if he understands. “Well, that’s enough Wordsworth for the day. If for no other reason than my voice will give out soon. I shouldn’t have dragged you into such a nerdy pursuit.”
I’m not usually an emotionally unstable person, but I spill over with giggles at that.
“Why is that funny?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Just hearing you say nerdy, I think.”
“Isn’t that the most appropriate word?”
“Oh yes. It’s definitely appropriate. But you forget that I’m from a family of academics. Nerdy pursuits are some of my favorites.”
That makes him smile, and then that makes me smile. So we smile at each other for longer than is normal until we both realize it.
He clears his throat and turns away, and I hurriedly start gathering up cleaning materials.
* * *
As I’m taking a shower afterward, I come to the realization that if we don’t get out of the house this evening, I’m going to have a hard time not jumping the man.
After the way I’ve been feeling all day, another cozy, intimate evening like yesterday will be the death of my self-control.
If Douglas wanted something physical with me, he’s had more than one opportunity.
I haven’t exactly been playing hard to get here.
He told me the door is closed for a real relationship, but he hasn’t spoken of sex at all.
He’s more of a cerebral man than a carnal one—I actually really like that about him—but that doesn’t mean he’s not interested in sex.
But he hasn’t given me any indication he’s inclined in that direction with me, so it doesn’t feel right pushing him toward it.
But I want that man. A lot. Not just his mind and his heart but also his body. And if I’m going to manage to keep my hands off him tonight, I need to get out of the house.
So after I dry off, I send him a text saying I want to go downtown this evening to check out holiday decorations and I’m happy to go on my own if he’d rather stay here. I can always fix him something for dinner first.
His text comes in almost immediately. I’ll come too.
* * *
My hope that getting out of the house would help me want Douglas less is a futile one. The evening we spend in Green Valley only makes me want him more.
He drives us into town, and we eat at a cute little place with a rustic menu and a romantic ambience.
He says since he spent most of the afternoon talking, I need to do most of the talking this evening.
He asks me about family vacations we took and about my time in college and for more specifics on my previous romantic relationships.
I have a good time chatting away about myself because it feels like he’s really listening.
After spending a couple of hours at dinner, we stroll around town in the dark.
As always during the holiday season, Green Valley is lively in the evenings.
It’s a charming, well-tended town, and all the downtown blocks are festooned with lights and greenery.
There’s a huge Christmas tree in the main town square, and each night different musicians play or sing holiday songs nearby.
Tonight there’s a folk band providing pleasant accompaniment to our wanderings.
Douglas buys me the cutest little snowflake earrings from a display of local crafts. He puts his hand on my back as we walk in a simple protective gesture I adore. And I can’t help loving the way people must assume we’re a couple, that we’re really together.
That he’s mine.
No one seems to notice or care about our age difference, and it’s obvious that he’s not well-known in town because only a couple of people we pass greet him. He’s kept to himself for a long time. He doesn’t have a lot of friends here.
I wonder how long it’s been since he’s come into town like this for no reason but to hang out.
At ten it’s getting colder. I button my red wool coat and secure my scarf better. My cheeks must be as bright as my coat. But I don’t want the evening to end yet, so when Douglas mentions it’s getting too cold, I suggest we get something warm to drink at a coffee shop.
There is more than one in town, and the one directly across the street from us is obviously still open.
“Unless you’re ready to get back,” I add, checking his face.
He doesn’t look at all reluctant about extending our time here. “Not at all. It doesn’t look too crowded across the street.”
It’s a warm, pleasant coffee shop, and there’s only one person in line ahead of us. I remember the tall, laid-back guy behind the counter from when I was here last. He’s got a bland surfer-type manner belied by his clever eyes.
“Evening,” he says as we step up to order. “What can I get you?”
“Hot chocolate, I think,” I say, scanning the menu printed on the chalkboards on the wall above the equipment.
“Peppermint or regular?” The guy isn’t smiling with his mouth, but he is with his eyes as they move from me to Douglas and then back.
“Ooh, peppermint.” I give a little handclap of excitement over the treat.
Douglas laughs. “Make that two.”
For some reason I’m surprised and delighted that he’s going for peppermint hot chocolate too.
The guy behind the counter nods as he rings up the order. I get my card out to pay first, and Douglas just gives me an amused eye roll—at my trying to beat him, not at my wanting to pay.
“It’s Douglas, right?” the guy behind the counter asks, his marker ready to write on our cups.
Douglas blinks. “Yes. How did you know?”
“I’ve been working here since high school. You used to come in with your wife. She was always so kind to me. I was really sorry when you lost her.”
Douglas’s expression flickers slightly as he processes the gentle words. “Thank you,” he murmurs at last. “She was kind to everyone. And she would have been so pleased that you remember her after so long.”
My throat is aching as I slide my card back into its slot in my wallet.
“I’ll bring these out to you when they’re ready,” the guy says.
I thank him, and we’re about to turn to find a table when Douglas glances back. “What’s your name?”
The guy looks briefly surprised as he says, “I’m Chase. And I’m glad to see you out and about again.” He gives me a little smile as if he’s assuming I’m the reason for it.
I hook my hand around Douglas’s elbow as we head for an empty love seat in the corner near the window. He doesn’t appear particularly affected emotionally, but I think he probably is.
Despite my interest in him—my growing desire to have him—I don’t resent the memory of his wife coming up right now.
She must have been a lovely person. Not only because of the way people remember her but because Douglas chose to spend his life with her.
A man like him would never have been with someone who didn’t possess real depth and compassion.
She’s not competition. To think of her that way would be wrong. She was a good person who died too early, and that’s a tragedy under any circumstance. It’s been ten years. Her loss isn’t what’s stopping him now from being open to romantic relationships.
It’s something else. Something about the way he views himself.
But the memory of his wife might still make him emotional, so I slide my arm around him as we settle into the love seat together.
“I’m okay,” he says, slightly gruff. “I like to think about her. I like to remember her.”
“I know. You should.”
“And it means something. That I’m not the only person who cared that she’s gone.”
Shit.
Damn it.
What the hell?
My eyes are pooling with tears again.
I do my best to hide them, but one slides from the corner of my right eye. Douglas isn’t so lost in his thoughts to not notice it.
He gently wipes it away with his fingertips. “Kind of a crybaby today, aren’t you?”
I give a silly snort. “I know! I’m not usually like this.”
He turns on the love seat slightly so we’re facing each other. His face is tilted down toward me, and mine is tilted up toward him. I grow still as his expression softens, deepens, warms.
My lips part as he leans closer.
He’s going to kiss me. I know it. I can see it in his face, in his eyes.
And I want it so much.
Then he does.
His lips brush against mine very gently, but it’s enough to fire up every single one of the nerve endings there. I make a gasping sound and stretch toward him, eagerly claiming his mouth again.
He responds. His hand curves around the back of my head, holding it in place as he moves his mouth against mine. His tongue darts out to tease at the line between my lips until I open for him.
My body is pulsing with excitement and pleasure. I grip a handful of his coat.
How much deeper the kiss might have gotten, I don’t know. A motion nearby distracts us, and we break apart by mutual agreement as Chase approaches with our hot chocolates.
We’re both flushed and breathless, but I manage to thank him with a degree of composure. Then I giggle over the rim of my cup.
“Yum!” I burst out as the sweetness hits me.
That makes Douglas chuckle, and he gazes at me fondly as I take another sip.
Only December.
That’s all the time we have.
I’ve really got to keep remembering that unalterable fact.
It’s fine—it’s good—to enjoy this month with him, but nothing beyond that has been offered.
So I really need to keep my heart from hoping for more.