Waking Up With You (3 page)

“There’s no need for you to. I’m not a poor man. It was never my intention to let my wife work.”

“Again, just to remind you, we are in the twenty-first century. Women no longer belong just in the kitchen. We have careers,” I say while I roll my eyes up in my head.

“You’re not going to shut up, are you? I knew you would be a handful. You were a willful child and now you are a headstrong woman. I will have to punish you,” he remarks in an ominous tone.

I instinctively lean back further into the leather seat and say nothing.

He throws back his head and lets out a great peal of laughter. “You should have seen your face, Emma.”

“Not funny,” I say, while lightly hitting him on the shoulder. But my own sense of humor takes over and I laugh in response.

“Seriously, Em, I don’t want you to work. You have years to go before you become a full-fledged doctor. Why would you want to work anyway? You’ll have access to a joint account and some credit cards.”

“That’s just it. I want to earn my own money. You’ve done more than enough for Charlie and me. I am already beholden to you for a lifetime. No, make that ten lifetimes,” I stubbornly say.

He doesn’t reply, as if carefully considering what his response should be. His mouth is tight and grim. He quickly takes the nearest exit, finds a strip mall, and parks in an empty space. He then turns to me, notably incensed, and says, “Once and for all, get this into your head. Charlie owed me nothing. I owed Charlie. For that matter, I owed your parents, too. They were kinder to me than my own foster family. I never thought of you as a sister, but I always thought of you as family. So, there, since you like to tally up debts, why don’t you hand me a bill?”

I swallow hard, unable to respond. I tentatively touch his shoulder, and when he whirls around, I see that his eyes are unmistakably melancholy, as if I’ve unwittingly opened a portal to the past that he’d rather forget. I’m instantly apologetic. I inch my way towards him and embrace him as I murmur, “I didn’t mean to upset you, Jake. I can be such a moron sometimes.”

He withdraws from my arms and looks directly into my confused face. I see a spark of some indefinable emotion in his eyes. “Forget it,” he quickly mutters, looking away. He begins to drive again, but, this time, I do not dare say anything, knowing he’s already more than upset with me.

The drive back to Burbank lasts at least an hour more, but not a single word passes between us. I fall asleep midway through the trip, finally wake up as his car goes up the hill and he drives up the pebbled driveway. He gets out of the car and opens the door for me. I stretch my limbs as I alight from the car.

I gaze at my new home and observe how visually stunning it is – the type of modern architecture Jake and his firm are known for. There’s a lack of ornamentation, though the elements are combined for dramatic effect.

I’ve been here twice before, and on those two occasions I was intimidated by its beauty and elegance. There are large expanses of glass and steel bars that overhang around the exterior. Natural light filters through from all directions. The rooms flow together in a casual and relaxed way. I recall that an indoor pool is at the center of the house, but water surrounds the building as well.

Jake seems to be studying me closely. I’m quite sure he’s aware of my nervous trepidation. He clutches my hand and says, ”Let’s go inside.”

It is a showcase house and I’m skittish about fitting in. The furnishings are all in shades of cream and taupe, and no unnecessary detail is allowed to mar the fluidity and design of its surroundings. I’m in awe of how truly gorgeous the house is but, more than that, I’m struck by how it hints at nothing at all about the owner’s personality. Jake guards his privacy well, and it shows in the interior of his home.

“I’ll show you to your room.” I don’t miss his use of the pronoun ‘your’ instead of ‘our.’ I do feel sort of relieved that I’ll not be sharing a room with him. Perhaps he understands that I need to be alone. Or maybe he’s uncomfortable with the thought of being in close quarters with me. Evidently, this is his way of clarifying that ours is a special arrangement and that a bed is not something we’ll ever be sharing. I can’t help but think that it’s like we are venturing into uncharted waters, as we finalize what started as a pledge to my dying brother.

In the middle of my room is an expensive-looking bed with a beige leather frame and a good-sized tufted headboard, ideal for late night reading. There’s a comfortable lounge chair and a wall-to-wall bookshelf, half-filled with books. It is spare, but luxurious in every sense of the word. Sliding doors lead to the gardens and I notice that the serene landscape blends so well with the rest of the house. He has clearly spent a tidy sum on the exterior. The sound of rippling water from a vertical waterfall, and the symmetrical pattern of stones and pebbles, lend an air of tranquility to the site.

I turn my attention indoors again and spot a magnificent wildflower arrangement on one of the side tables. I smile, thinking how lucky I am to have a husband with such impeccable and original taste.
Husband? How easily the word slipped into my thoughts.

I plop on the bed, feeling like I don’t have a care in the world. Jake chuckles at my child-like action. “I’m glad you have decided to make yourself feel at home,” he says.

“Well, it’s a beautiful room, and the bed looks so cozy and inviting,” I reply in amusement.

“The bed does look inviting,” he murmurs, but he’s looking into my eyes and not at the bed. A shiver goes through me and I immediately get up from the bed and smooth my clothes. I turn to the flowers and give them my undivided attention. “You surprise me with your choice, Jake.”

“What choice would that be?”

“I would have thought you’d go for a more traditional arrangement of pretty roses, but you chose these instead, “ I remark, pointing to the flowers.

“Let’s just say that wildflowers remind me of you.”

“Oh,” I say, unable to add anything else.

He abruptly changes the subject. “You know, I made reservations for dinner at Antonio’s. I’ll bring over your luggage so you can dress up.”

“No… I mean, if you don’t mind, I’d rather just cook and spend a quiet evening with you at home,” I say shyly.

He looks surprised. “Are you sure? Aren’t you tired?” I quickly shake my head and he finally agrees to my suggestion. “Okay, but I must warn you that I may not have every ingredient you need.”

“I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to whip up something up,” I say confidently.

“Will you be alright, then, if I take a quick shower while you putter about the kitchen?”

“Sure. Go ahead.” It’s rather disconcerting to imagine him naked in the shower, but I hurriedly shake my head to clear the image.
Don’t go there
.

I go to the kitchen and stand in the midst of it for a few minutes, checking every feature. The room is like a dream come true for every cook – from the stainless steel countertops to the Thermador professional range and the integrated Sub-Zero refrigeration. I almost feel like a famous chef on the Food Network. I catch sight of an apron on the towel bar and quickly tie it around my waist. I have every intention of keeping my dress immaculate.

I open the built-in fridge and take out some butter, heavy cream, and parmesan cheese. The vegetable compartment yields some broccoli, asparagus, and red pepper. The pantry is more stocked than I expected and I easily find a box of pasta noodles. Did he fill up his pantry for my arrival, or does somebody else use this kitchen?

I boil water in a five-quart pot and wait for it to boil. In the meantime, I chop the veggies, toss them with olive oil and garlic, and bake them for eight minutes. I warm the butter and cream in a skillet to make white sauce. While still waiting for the water to boil, I turn on the Mac Pro at the corner desk. I check my email and see that there are at least a dozen messages from Paige in my inbox.

I hurriedly email her two sentences: “Married. Lunch tomorrow?” That’s when the water starts to boil and I go back to cooking. I have to put in the pasta and stir for a bit. Once again, I’m about to read the very first email when Jake strolls in, casually dressed in a plain white T-shirt, jeans, and with no shoes on. Even in the most informal of clothes, he still looks terribly dashing.

“Back so soon?” I inquire lightly.

“Yup, and I can see you’ve been pretty busy. You want your fettuccine al dente, so maybe you should drain it right now,” he suggests, as he peers into the pot.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” I comment with astonishment.

“Just the basics. It’s not like I attended Le Cordon Bleu.”

“True, but I wouldn’t have thought you the type. A regular guy wouldn’t even know about Le Cordon Bleu.”

He grins and says, “I’m a man of surprises. That should keep you on your toes.”

“Huh!” I exclaim laughingly, though somewhat relishing the idea of uncovering more of his secrets.

I assemble the pasta, white sauce, and roasted vegetables in a big bowl. He gets the plates and silverware from a side cabinet and sets the table for two. We sit down for our first official meal as husband and wife.

“You’re full of surprises yourself, Em. I thought you would like the idea of a romantic dinner at a fabulous restaurant. Instead, you chose this,” he points to the table.

“Maybe romantic is not the right word to use. Uhm, to be honest, I was nervous at the idea of going somewhere fancy with you as your …you know,” my sentence tails off.

“As my…?” he inquires teasingly.

“Wife!” I slap his arm.

“Why do you have to make such a big deal out of this? I’ve known you since you were born. Your brother was my best friend. You guys were my family. Still are. End of story,” he says with a loud exhale. “I really don’t want to have to go through this again and again.”

“Okay, Jake. I’m never bringing it up again. But, just so we’re clear, it doesn’t matter what you say… this means a lot to me. This,” I say, as I look around the room, “means the world to me. “ I stand up slightly and am about to give him a peck on the cheek, but he turns and our lips touch. I flush and immediately sit down, pretending to put some florets on my fork with my unsteady hand. He looks at me enigmatically and does not say a word.

After an interminable silence, he says in a soft voice, “I don’t want or need your gratitude, Emma. It will make me happy, however, just to see you feeling at home and being comfortable. I don’t see why marriage should change us in any way. Be yourself. Stop tiptoeing around me and… I don’t know…” He moves his hands expansively. “Things will happen accidentally, and you don’t have to fixate on them. You don’t have to attach meaning to every little thing that happens.”

He lifts my face, his palm beneath my chin. “Emma, can’t we just be cool and keep things simple?”

I gesture with my head affirmatively, embarrassed that I’m again overreacting to the minutest details. “I’m sorry.”
I
m
ust stop acting like an idiot.

“And stop apologizing. The day has been stressful for you. I get it. You just moved into your new home. It’s a period of adjustment,” he responds with grace.

I smile, grateful that he doesn’t want to pursue the topic.

“This pasta is really good. Not the usual heavy cream base. You’re a terrific cook.”

“Thanks.” After a couple of minutes, I clear my throat and ask, “I’m not sure if you know, but I missed many classes last spring, so I had no choice but to withdraw from my subjects. The next sem starts in two weeks. I know you don’t want me working at your office, but perhaps there’s some project I can help you with?” I finish awkwardly. “I can work on it at home, if you’d like.”

He’s immersed in thought for some time. “Well, most of our work is CAD-based, and you’re not trained for that,” he finally replies.

“Filing?”

“The admin assistants do a great job.”

“Mailing?”

“Emma,” he admonishes. “What am I going to do with you?!”

“I want to keep busy. Two weeks of doing nothing will bore me to tears.”

“And social media doesn’t keep you busy enough?” he asks good-humoredly.

“You may not believe it, but I check my emails only once… okay, twice a day. I’m not on Twitter. My Facebook account has been inactive for months. I don’t even follow a lot of people.”

“Not your typical teenager, are you,” he says rhetorically. “Look, I don’t really think it’s a good idea for you to work for the firm.”

“Jake, I’m offering my time. That’s all. If you don’t want me to work for your company—fine. I just want to keep busy while waiting for school to start.”

“Well, our social media specialist, Elise, is going back to Sweden. And…”

“Yes, I could do that,” I interrupt excitedly.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t offering you the job. The thing is that ours is a boutique firm. All of our clients come through word-of-mouth, so we really don’t need to do any marketing at all.”

“Oh,” I say dejectedly.

“However, even though we don’t need it, I think it’s good to maintain visibility in the social media, just because we can engage and educate people that way. It keeps our profile high. Anyway, it can be done on a part-time basis, even from home. You can use one of the spare rooms as an office. Matthew from Human Resources will call you about salary, benefits, etc.” His manner of speaking has become business-like.

“I just told you that I don’t want to get paid. I just want to help,” I protest.

“Emma, we had this conversation this morning. Your duties as my wife are in no way related to the work you’ll be doing. Don’t undersell yourself. Your time is just as valuable as anyone else’s.”

Duties as a wife?
I want him to say more but, of course, he doesn’t. Instead, I content myself with, “Thank you, Jake. I can’t wait to start.”

He gives me a brief nod and then says nonchalantly, “Two things to remember: One, our private life is off-limits. Two, school is your priority. If this thing gets in the way of your school responsibilities, then I will ask someone else to take over.” It sounds very much like an order, but I don’t take offense since I completely agree with him.