Jim was the best of men, an ideal partner. Malcolm was like him but not. Yet he, too, was the best of men. An ideal partner? It was too soon to tell. But I kept thinking about what Monica said when she told us that Bob was “just a friend.” If the crowd hadn’t started to cheer on the first racer at precisely that moment, I would have told her the same thing I told Luke, that falling in love with your best friend is one of the best things that can happen to a person. I knew from experience. Jim Wilja wasn’t just my husband, he was my best friend. Had fate not deemed otherwise, he would have remained so for life.
Now, there was Malcolm. Certainly he was my friend. Could he be my best friend? Could I love him?
With Malcolm’s lips on mine, sweet and soft and searching, and his arms pulling me into an embrace that made me melt, I understood that there was more than one kind of kiss, just as there was more than one kind of man, and that each could be the best and oh . . . so lovely.
Finally, at the end of that long kiss, which was still far too short, Malcolm loosened his grip and looked into my eyes.
“Well?” he asked. “What did you think?”
It was the voice of a man who was bracing himself for the best or the worst, the kind of anxious but stalwart tone people use to question a physician about the outcome of a potentially life-altering lab result. Hearing it, I couldn’t help but smile.
“I think we should definitely go to the ball together. Definitely. And . . . I think you should kiss me again.”
He didn’t wait to be asked twice.
The second kiss was just as good as the first. Even better, in fact, because this time I kissed him back. I slid my fingers slowly along his shoulder and the length of his neck, up into his hair. I admit to feeling tentative at first, hesitant, like a musician who is trying to remember the exact position and placement of her fingers on the keyboard after a years-long lapse at the piano. Even so, it was an elating sensation, the thrill that comes from breathing an old ember into new flame.
When we finally broke apart, I was smiling.
“Like riding a bicycle,” I laughed.
“All comes back to you, doesn’t it? Just imagine if the emergency brake wasn’t standing between us,” Malcolm said, glancing down at the console with a grin. “We might spontaneously combust.”
“But . . . maybe we’d better keep the brakes on for a bit? I’m no prude, Malcolm, but I—”
“You don’t need to say more, Nan. I understand. And I agree. One step at a time. The Scottish Book of Common Prayer says that marriage is to be entered into ‘reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God.’ That was my mind-set when I married the first time. Though I know we are miles away from taking any steps in that direction, if I were ever to marry again, I’d be just as committed and would enter into that union just as soberly, just as reverently.”
“Oh, Malcolm,” I laughed.
He shrugged. “I know. Hopelessly old-fashioned.”
“Well, if that’s true, then we both are. But . . . we can still kiss, can’t we?”
“Aye, that we can, lass,” he said, purposely thickening his brogue and making me laugh again.
He reached for me again and I leaned toward him eagerly, my hands arching over his shoulders. And then, just as our lips were about to touch, someone rapped sharply on the back window of the car.
Startled by the sound, I quickly pulled away. Malcolm jumped, too, swiveling his neck in the direction of the noise. A moment later, a face with sallow skin, sunken eyes, and dirty blond hair appeared in the frame of the passenger’s side window.
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
My breath caught in my throat and my hand flew to my heart. I reached for the door handle, but Malcolm grabbed my wrist to stop me.
“Wait. Who is that? Do you know her?”
“It’s my daughter,” I said.
He looked at me blankly and I pulled from his grasp.
“It’s Dani.”
Chapter 30
Nan
Malcolm and I had fallen into the habit of sharing a pot of tea after he finished the evening round of dog walking. When he heard my footsteps on the back stairs after I finished checking on Dani, he called out, “Chamomile or Earl Grey?”
“Chamomile. Not that I’ll be able to get a wink of sleep tonight. But . . .”
Malcolm scooped tea into a strainer and placed it in the pot to steep. I took a flowered plate out of the cupboard and filled it with a half-dozen oatmeal cookies.
By this time, Malcolm knew my kitchen so well that we were able to complete the preparations in silence. Though this wasn’t the normal procedure, I was glad he left me to my own thoughts. I had so much on my mind.
When everything was ready, Malcolm carried the tea tray into the dining room. Blixen, Nelson, and Lovey padded along behind him, then curled up in a pile in the corner.
“Is she asleep?” Malcolm asked after pouring the tea.
“Out like a light. She didn’t even bother drying her hair after her shower. The pillow was soaked so I slipped another one under her head. She didn’t even stir. But she’ll feel better in the morning after a good sleep and a good breakfast. We need to get some weight back on her,” I said, more
