Chapter 8

Given that patience wasn't exactly his strong suit, Carlton considered it a hell of an accomplishment he'd managed to hold out until Saturday. He'd sent the first letter Tuesday, knowing it would arrive on Thursday. Sent the next one as promised on Wednesday. Letter Number Three went on Thursday. Early Friday morning, however, he'd paused in the act of slipping the latest letter into the slot, the early-morning silence in the post office's lobby heavy with the echo of a thousand mocking whispers.

Okay, yes—part of him had hoped, if Karen received the first letter on Thursday, that she might have responded somehow. A text, a phone call, an email. Smoke signals.

Semaphores would've done.

But nothing.

Deep inside, however, he hadn't been all that surprised and it wasn't even his native pessimism speaking with such certainty. It was simply that almost more than anyone, Carlton knew how stubborn she was. Regardless of what he'd written so far—all his assertions that it was Karen, it had always been Karen—she no doubt had it in her head he needed time to come to his senses. That the responsibility for his relationship with Marlowe collapsing fell completely on her shoulders. That it was too late for them.

That he'd be better off without her.

The hell he would.

However, he was also well aware of the woman Karen had become. The one who, inexplicable faith in Spencer aside, tended to only trust well-thought out approaches and plans with a high probability of success. So he forced himself to remain patient and channel his emotions into yet another letter. But then the thought she might not even be receiving the letters at all just wouldn't let go and he knew there was only one thing that would assuage his fears.

Now—if he could only stop feeling like a nineteen year-old, fidgety asshat.

With a deep breath, he pushed open the wrought iron door set into the adobe wall and stepped into his past. The small courtyard that provided a buffer between the sidewalk and the front door hadn't changed much in the past twenty-five years. The shutters that had once been dark green had been repainted to a soft, weathered blue and there was a carved Mexican folk bench against an exterior wall, but otherwise, it looked just the same as when he'd stood there nearly twenty-five years earlier, holding tight to Karen's hand as she'd unlocked the door and led him across the threshold.

She'd been nervous, too, her hand cold, the narrow white gold band he'd slipped on her finger digging into his skin, but her obvious pride and love had absolutely radiated from her. She'd been so damned gorgeous, all he'd wanted to do was say this was stupid, he'd been stupid to insist on this—they should just leave, right now, and go back to Santa Barbara where they could just disappear into the life they'd been creating. A feeling that had only intensified as he'd watched the expression on her father's face change from a neutral pleasantness to something harder as he'd noticed the rings on their fingers. The old man had said all the right things—in front of Karen—but Carlton had sensed the boom was imminent.

Even so, he'd thought he could hold out—with the cockiness inherent to all nineteen year-old boys, especially those who were crazy in love—had been certain of his ability to defend himself and Karen. He just hadn't realized how wily the son of a bitch would be.

But he wasn't nineteen anymore, dammit. There was no reason for his palms to be sweating and his heart to be slamming against his chest like leprechauns with sledgehammers were having a field day.

Oh, hell—who was he kidding? He didn't give a rat's ass about facing Karen's parents any longer. He gave a rat's ass about facing Karen. It was the idea that she might be behind that door—worse, that she might not be behind that door—that was cause for the leprechauns and sweaty palms.

With a final compulsive adjustment to his shirt collar and a muttered, "Just get on with it, jackass," he pressed the doorbell.

The mellow chimes echoed through the house, followed an instant later by a distant "Do you need me to get that?" in a voice that left his knees feeling more than a little watery. Thankfully, however, it was her mother who approached the wide glass-paned door, because if anyone was going to see him planted face first in the weathered brick pavers, he'd prefer it be Mrs. Dunlap. Despite a dodgy few seconds, however, his knees held and he remained upright. Whether the utter terror he felt was showing on his face, that was another issue altogether. Certainly, her calm countenance didn't reveal a thing as she unlocked the door and held it open.

Staying put on his side of the threshold, Carlton began, "Mrs. Dunlap, I don't know if you remem—"

"Of course I remember you, Carlton." One eyebrow rose and while she and Karen really didn't resemble each other that much, in that moment, she gave off an aura that was so much like her daughter's, Carlton found himself both taken aback and relaxing. A little.

"Well, come on," she said, stepping back and opening the door wider. As he stepped through and into the terracotta tiled entry she added conversationally, "I was wondering when you'd show up. I was actually betting on tomorrow, since there wouldn't be mail delivery."

"I—" He stared, dumbfounded for a moment before recovering his voice. "I couldn't wait any longer to see her," he finally admitted. Taking another breath, he met her gaze squarely. "But first, I need to speak with Mr. Dunlap."

She smiled and said, "No, you do not," in the same pleasant tone she might have used to offer him coffee. Closing the door, she put a hand to his back and ushered him through the cool, white-walled rooms, their high ceilings offset by the heavy dark beams soaring overhead, making the rooms feel simultaneously open yet intimate.

One of Karen's favorite features, he recalled with more than a little wistfulness. She'd so wanted a house like this. He'd so wanted to give it to her.

As she led him into the kitchen she added, "There's only one person you need to speak with." Once in the kitchen, however, she shifted her hand to his arm, turning him to face her. "But I want you to see something first."

He finally managed to pry his tongue from the dry roof of his mouth enough to stutter, "Excuse me?"

The corner of her mouth quirked up in a smile and again, he marveled at how closely her expressions mirrored her daughter's. Or was that the other way around? Whatever. It's just he could see so much of Karen in that expression—mild overlaid with mildly evil. In that instant, he experienced a flash of just how formidable Karen would be the older she got. Not that she wasn't now. She absolutely was. And he was so absolutely looking forward to her transition into formidable older ladyhood. Harboring every hope he'd be by her side throughout that evolution.

Damned anxious to see her.

Any time now.

"Mrs. Dunlap—

"I'd ask you to call me by my first name," she broke in, her smile gentling, "but I expect you're not likely to be comfortable with that for a while yet."

For a while? Yet? Like she expected him to be… around. With Karen.

Not that it wasn't exactly what he wanted and felt should happen and was going to do his damnedest to make happen, but to be hearing what sounded like a tacit acknowledgment—from Karen's mother—that it was something she expected to happen? Moreover, was okay with?

Carlton stood there, feeling as if he'd dropped down Alice's hole. Part of him half-expected a giant Spencer-shaped rabbit clutching a pineapple smoothie to hop by at any second.

"I don't understand."

Not her calm assurances that he didn't need to speak to Mr. Dunlap, not the fact that she actually seemed pleased to see him twenty-five years and enormous emotional trauma to her daughter later, not her mysterious assertion there was something he needed to see—not the implication that she'd be getting to know him well enough for him to call her by her first name. He didn't understand a damned bit of it, but it all faded in light of the fact that the only thing he wanted was Karen and he couldn't understand why he couldn't see her yet. He knew she was here. He'd heard her. More than that,, he could feel her nearness.

"Karen's spoken of you quite a bit this past week so I feel as if I know you—at least well enough—and I certainly know my daughter well, so here's the thing."

Mrs. Dunlap crossed her arms and leveled a stare at him. "Given your natures, not to mention, your shared history, both of you can't help but be cautious if not outright skeptical—of everything and everyone, but perhaps most of all, each other. All understandable, but also a potential recipe for disaster. I'm just trying to eliminate any questions or doubts that might befall the two of you before you even get an opportunity to get your relationship off the ground."

By some miracle, his voice emerged steady and in its actual normal register and not an octave higher as he repeated, "Relationship? I…" Caution prodded his ass as he stammered, "I think that might be a bit presumptuous. You know, um, right now. But I hope—"

Rolling her eyes, she cut off his nervous burblings by the simple act of pulling him to a spot by the French doors leading out to the courtyard patio where Karen sat with Iris at a table before large sheets of paper, paint sets and brushes scattered across its surface. He barely had opportunity to catch his breath at the sight of Karen's elegant profile , clearly laughing at something Iris had said, before Mrs. Dunlap slipped through, leaving the door ajar far enough for him to be able to clearly hear. At her mother's approach, Karen turned more fully toward the house and he stopped breathing altogether

"Who was at the door?"

"Just the mail—"

The leprechauns started with their jackhammering again at the way her face brightened, even as his brain frantically insisted, relax, it probably has nothing to do with you or your letters or—

"And—?"

"Relax, Karen." From her skirt pocket, Mrs. Dunlap drew a letter—even from this distance, Carlton could tell it was one of his. Likely the one written on Thursday, seeing as Friday's currently resided in the inside breast pocket of his blazer. Not that any of that mattered, really. The only thing that mattered was Karen's expression as she stood and accepted the letter from her mother—the way her fingertips skimmed the surface where he'd written her name in a gentle caress he could feel ghosting across his skin before she lifted it to her lips.

The leprechauns reached up from his chest to shut his brain down with a resounding slam.

"There was also a special delivery." Unnoticed by Karen whose attention was still fixed on his—his—letter,Mrs. Dunlap glanced back over her shoulder, the slight inclination of her head clearly conveying, "Tell me again how I was being presumptuous?" A moment later, she lifted her eyebrows as if to say, "Well? What are you waiting for?" And if he didn't know better, he could almost imagine an acerbic, "Asshat," punctuating the end of the silent question, but that was probably just the leprechauns, given he heard it delivered in a distinct Irish brogue.

Also, the thought of his erstwhile mother-in-law delivering an epithet like "asshat" was just…

Yeah… no.

Carefully, he pushed open the door and stepped through just as Karen lifted her head, her curious "Oh?" floating off on the breeze as her gaze met his across the courtyard. Softer, she repeated, "oh," as her mother stepped aside, leaving him a clear path.

She stood stock still, barefoot, wearing battered cutoffs and a tank top that revealed endless expanses of sun-kissed skin, wind-tossed honey-blonde hair falling around her face, where a broad stroke of bright blue paint streaked across one cheek.

God, she was beautiful.

Even the dark smudges beneath her eyes—a matched set to the ones he'd been facing in his own mirror all week—didn't detract in the slightest. If anything, they only served to draw even more attention to them—dark and luminous and God help him, reflecting the same sort of fragile hope he was experiencing.

Resolutely holding Karen's gaze as he approached, Carlton only vaguely registered Iris' curious, "Who's that, Grandma?" and completely missed whatever Mrs. Dunlap said in response as he came to a halt, leaving barely two feet between them.

"Hi," he said quietly.

Her eyes were huge and watchful, staring at him as if she half-expected him to be a figment of her imagination.

"Hi."

Slowly, he reached into his inside jacket pocket and drew out Friday's letter. "I, um—" He cleared his throat and tried again. "I wanted to deliver this one in person."

"Why?" That deep brown gaze flickered down to the letter and back to his face, curious overlaid with a healthy dose of that caution he'd fully expected.

He shrugged. "No mail on Sunday."

Her perfect full mouth curved in a slight smile as she held up the letter her mother had just handed her. "But it's Saturday."

That smile was very nearly his undoing, leaving him as lightheaded as if he'd just been riding the wildest, fastest roller coaster at the fair. A subtle edge crept into his voice as he admitted, "I couldn't wait."

Next thing he knew, she'd stepped closer, definitely into his personal space and never had he been more glad to have it invaded. Warmth radiating from her, she reached out, as if to take the letter, but closed her hand over his instead, her hold sure, if trembling a bit.

Keeping her gaze fixed on their hands she quietly said, "Mom accused me of running away."

He swallowed hard. "You kind of did."

"I had to."

"I know."

Her shoulders rose and fell with a huge sigh just before she moved those last few inches, her head coming to rest on his chest. Carlton knew they had a curious audience, he knew there were still questions, he knew it was only the beginning of what was sure to be a long road, but in that moment, he simply didn't care. All he cared about was that Karen was finally in his arms—where she should have been long ago.

With a slow, relieved sigh, he lowered his head over hers, wrapped his free arm around her shoulders and held her close.