Read Online Things I Want My Daughters to Know by Elizabeth Noble - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Noble
Tags: Contemporary, Adult
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they still had it. Not so loud it forbade conversation, or so quiet that it permitted abstinence. Like everything else, it was perfect.
She felt a wave of gratitude wash over her. She was so lucky.
Andy looked up and saw her in the dress. And something in him shifted. He’d wanted to ask her . . . for God knows how long. Sometimes he thought he’d known he would end up here from that first night, when he watched her sitting in the fountain. Known, or hoped. He knew it was more complicated for her. He knew she was certain of so much less—that for her life was shades, not stripes. But tonight . . . tonight she was different. How did the song have it go? Had it given him the girl and the music and the moonlight? Was it leaving the rest to him?
Their eyes met, and they smiled at each other. One of those smiles with history and memory and knowing in it. Andy put up one hand to stop her descent and pointed to the top of the stairs, indicating that he would come up to her. He grabbed two glasses of champagne from a 48 e l i z a b e t h
n
o b l e
waiter’s silver tray and weaved his way through the crowd toward her.
As if he had ordered it himself, the song suddenly changed to something Motown slow—rhythmic and romantic. His heart was racing. He’d only done this once before—asked a woman to marry him—and everything had been different then. He was different. He always thought he would never do it again, unless he was 100 percent sure—of the woman and of the answer. Why the hell would you, right? Masochists are us. But right now he wouldn’t give you more than 60/40. And yet he knew that he was going to ask her anyway.
When he got to her, she took one glass from him and sipped from it, her eyes never leaving his. She looked about twenty. Tendrils of hair escaped from the pleat she wore, curling across her ear and down her slender neck. She put her arm around his neck and pulled him toward her, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, “Have I told you lately that I love you?” He heard the emotion in her voice, and it gave him the courage he needed. Andy inhaled deeply, and whispered back, “Marry me.” An instruction, not a question. She pulled back and her eyes searched his face. He nodded, smiling, and answered her unspoken request that he repeat what he had said. “Marry me, Lisa. I mean to say, will you marry me?” Then, “Please?!”
Maybe it was Smokey Robinson. Maybe it was Moët and Chandon.
Maybe it was the spirit of her mother, woven into the fibers of her dress.
And maybe, just maybe, it was because, for a second, the clouds of doubt parted and she saw a future where she suddenly, shockingly, could not conceive of not having him beside her. Lisa laughed. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
She awoke the next morning with the beginnings of a creeping headache stirring behind her ears. She knew that by lunchtime it would have taken up residence in her temple and would be throbbing there through the afternoon, not really leaving until the next morning.
Not so perfect. Her heart was beating fast, which, again, was due to champagne and not to romance. For the first two minutes, as she laid T h i n g s I W a n t M y D a u g h t e r s t o K n o w 49
her head back against the pillow, and closed her eyes again, she forgot the romance. Then she heard Andy, whistling in the kitchen. He was whistling the song from last night. She remembered. Oh God. Oh no.
She listened to the whistle come through the hall and into the bedroom. It came with a tray bearing tea and toast. And a beaming Andy.
“Morning, gorgeous.”
“What time is it?”
“About eight thirty.”
She groaned. “Too early. No wonder I feel like death. What woke you up?”
He shrugged, setting the tray down on the chest of drawers, and pulling pillows from the warm tangle behind her head, propping her up as though she were a patient.
“Sit up like a nice girl and drink some tea. You’ll feel better, I promise.”
“Don’t make promises
She felt a wave of gratitude wash over her. She was so lucky.
Andy looked up and saw her in the dress. And something in him shifted. He’d wanted to ask her . . . for God knows how long. Sometimes he thought he’d known he would end up here from that first night, when he watched her sitting in the fountain. Known, or hoped. He knew it was more complicated for her. He knew she was certain of so much less—that for her life was shades, not stripes. But tonight . . . tonight she was different. How did the song have it go? Had it given him the girl and the music and the moonlight? Was it leaving the rest to him?
Their eyes met, and they smiled at each other. One of those smiles with history and memory and knowing in it. Andy put up one hand to stop her descent and pointed to the top of the stairs, indicating that he would come up to her. He grabbed two glasses of champagne from a 48 e l i z a b e t h
n
o b l e
waiter’s silver tray and weaved his way through the crowd toward her.
As if he had ordered it himself, the song suddenly changed to something Motown slow—rhythmic and romantic. His heart was racing. He’d only done this once before—asked a woman to marry him—and everything had been different then. He was different. He always thought he would never do it again, unless he was 100 percent sure—of the woman and of the answer. Why the hell would you, right? Masochists are us. But right now he wouldn’t give you more than 60/40. And yet he knew that he was going to ask her anyway.
When he got to her, she took one glass from him and sipped from it, her eyes never leaving his. She looked about twenty. Tendrils of hair escaped from the pleat she wore, curling across her ear and down her slender neck. She put her arm around his neck and pulled him toward her, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, “Have I told you lately that I love you?” He heard the emotion in her voice, and it gave him the courage he needed. Andy inhaled deeply, and whispered back, “Marry me.” An instruction, not a question. She pulled back and her eyes searched his face. He nodded, smiling, and answered her unspoken request that he repeat what he had said. “Marry me, Lisa. I mean to say, will you marry me?” Then, “Please?!”
Maybe it was Smokey Robinson. Maybe it was Moët and Chandon.
Maybe it was the spirit of her mother, woven into the fibers of her dress.
And maybe, just maybe, it was because, for a second, the clouds of doubt parted and she saw a future where she suddenly, shockingly, could not conceive of not having him beside her. Lisa laughed. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
She awoke the next morning with the beginnings of a creeping headache stirring behind her ears. She knew that by lunchtime it would have taken up residence in her temple and would be throbbing there through the afternoon, not really leaving until the next morning.
Not so perfect. Her heart was beating fast, which, again, was due to champagne and not to romance. For the first two minutes, as she laid T h i n g s I W a n t M y D a u g h t e r s t o K n o w 49
her head back against the pillow, and closed her eyes again, she forgot the romance. Then she heard Andy, whistling in the kitchen. He was whistling the song from last night. She remembered. Oh God. Oh no.
She listened to the whistle come through the hall and into the bedroom. It came with a tray bearing tea and toast. And a beaming Andy.
“Morning, gorgeous.”
“What time is it?”
“About eight thirty.”
She groaned. “Too early. No wonder I feel like death. What woke you up?”
He shrugged, setting the tray down on the chest of drawers, and pulling pillows from the warm tangle behind her head, propping her up as though she were a patient.
“Sit up like a nice girl and drink some tea. You’ll feel better, I promise.”
“Don’t make promises
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