Bobby emptied the final fry from the paper wrapper and popped it into his mouth. "My father'll be relieved that he didn't have to dress up in a monkey suit and spend a morning in church watching me get hitched. Your mother'll yell at him until he hangs up on her."

"My mother's going to blow a fuse." She would, too. She'd be devastated that Joelle wasn't marrying Drew. If only Joelle had played things more shrewdly, she could have had a big wedding in the Episcopal church-no matter that Joelle and her mother were Catholic-and a reception at Green Gates Country Club, and then Wanda's little girl would be set for life, free of Tubtown and poverty forever.

"What's up?" Bobby asked as he gathered their trash. "You look worried."

"Do you think we're doing the right thing? Or are we just two dumb-a.s.s kids?"

He swung his long legs over the bench to head to the waste bin with their trash, and his eyes darkened. "Who the h.e.l.l knows?"

THEY DROVE STRAIGHT THROUGH Pennsylvania, pausing only to buy gas, use the bathroom and eat a quick supper at a rest stop along I-80. By ten at night they'd reached the outskirts of Trenton. Bobby pulled in to the parking lot of a motel with a vacancy sign glaring in pink neon in the office window. He parked and shut off the engine.

They'd hardly spoken all day and now they were faced with spending the night together. Bobby cleared his throat. "It's not like we're legal or anything yet," he said, addressing the windshield more than her. "I mean, Joelle, I-"

"Call me JoJo," she said. She longed to have her friend back, not this quiet, brooding boy.

He glanced at her. "This marriage...once we do it, it's for real."

She nodded. "That's how I see things, too."

"You'll be my wife. It's not going to be like it used to be with us."

She suffered a pang in her soul. She had treasured Bobby's friendship for so many years. She had no desire for their relationship to change. But it would. Once she was his wife, maybe they wouldn't be friends anymore.

"I think-" he gazed past her "-I think we should wait until we're married, if you know what I mean."

Oh. She noticed the flush reddening his face-they were too far away from the vacancy sign for her to think its glow had caused him to blush. Once they were married, they'd share a bed. They would sleep together. Have s.e.x together.

s.e.x with Bobby. G.o.d, she'd always loved him; he was her best friend-but s.e.x?

Grow up, Joelle, she scolded herself. If he wanted s.e.x, of course they would have s.e.x. That was what marriage was all about, right? Sharing a bed.

"I think we should wait, too," she agreed, hoping he didn't hear apprehension in her voice, hoping that once they shared a bed he wouldn't hate her, or hate himself for having married her.

THEY HAD PLENTY TO TALK about during the next couple of days, but mostly it involved logistics: blood tests performed at a clinic in Trenton, papers filed at city hall, a futile search for an apartment for Joelle. Bobby mentioned that there might be base housing at Fort Dix, but she couldn't imagine anything more depressing than living on an army base, especially once Bobby had shipped out. "Don't worry, I'll find something," she said, sounding more positive than she felt.

They bought rings, the cheapest they could find. The store wouldn't engrave them-their skimpy width offered no surface to engrave on-but they were genuine fourteen-karat gold and they came in pretty plastic boxes lined with velvet. Finally, the day before Bobby had to report to Fort Dix, all the paperwork was done, the blood test results were normal and she and Bobby returned to city hall to get married. She would have liked to buy a new dress for the occasion, but she couldn't fritter away her money on a dress that wouldn't fit her by December. So she wore a ribbed white turtleneck and a short gray skirt.

Bobby wore his cleanest jeans, a b.u.t.ton-front shirt, an ugly striped tie and a brown corduroy blazer. "I stole the jacket from my father's closet," he confessed. "He never wears it, anyway."

Over Joelle's protests, he'd insisted on buying her flowers. Nothing big, nothing like what a real bride would carry, but a small bouquet of daisies and carnations. She broke the stem of one of the carnations and tucked the flower through the b.u.t.tonhole in his stolen jacket's lapel. Then they entered city hall. When they emerged an hour later, it was as Mr. and Mrs. Robert DiFranco.

They ate dinner at an Italian restaurant a few blocks from city hall, a small place with red-and-white checkerboard tablecloths and mandolin music piped through ceiling speakers. Bobby a.s.sured her they could afford a restaurant meal, and she wouldn't deny him a hearty dinner when, starting tomorrow, he'd be stuck eating army food for the next year.

He seemed cheerful. Joelle wasn't cheerful at all. When she gazed across the table at Bobby, with his long, s.h.a.ggy hair and his drooping boutonniere, she felt...dread. She was married now. To Bobby. Oh, G.o.d, what had she done? Was this an even bigger mistake than giving in to Drew in the backseat of his father's Cadillac two months ago?

"Eat," Bobby ordered her. "You' re supposed to be eating for two."

She occupied herself coiling long, marinara-soaked strands of spaghetti around her fork. "I wish you didn't have to leave tomorrow," she said.

"Don't worry." He smiled gently, then tore a hunk of Italian bread from the straw basket and smeared b.u.t.ter onto it. "I'll be back soon enough."

"I don't know, Bobby, I just-"

"JoJo." He set down his bread and reached across the table, covering her right hand with his left. She stared at the gold band circling his finger. The ring looked so delicate in contrast to his labor-roughened hand. "Yeah, this whole thing is crazy. But we can make it work. I'll go, I'll come back, I'll get a job. We'll be a family."

Moisture gathered along her lashes-pregnancy made her much too weepy-but she batted her eyes to keep the tears from falling. They were tears of grat.i.tude, not joy. Wasn't a woman supposed to feel joy on her wedding day? What was wrong with her? Why did she feel as if she'd lost something terribly precious today?

During the rest of their dinner, he reviewed everything she had to do once he was gone: find a place to live, find a doctor to monitor her pregnancy, find a job. "I think there are some colleges in the area, if you'd like to take some cla.s.ses," he said.

"I can't afford college."

"Well, it was just a thought. Remember-the gas gauge in the truck isn't always accurate. The minute that needle points to three-quarters empty, fill the tank. Otherwise you might wind up getting stranded somewhere."

"Okay."

"And the clutch pedal is tight. You have to press real hard on it."

"Okay."

He continued talking about the d.a.m.n clutch pedal the whole drive back to their motel. Honestly. He would be leaving tomorrow, shipping off to Vietnam in a matter of weeks, and they'd just gotten married, and all he could do was babble about his stupid clutch pedal. She wanted to scream at him to shut up.

He parked the truck in front of their door near the rear of the motel and she swung out, inexplicably furious. She fumed while he unlocked the door and shoved it open-and then he surprised her by hoisting her into his arms.

She let out a gasp.

"Isn't this how it goes?" he asked, one arm securely under her knees and the other under her back, leaving her no choice but to wrap her arms around his neck. "I carry you over the threshold, right?"

"I guess." That was when she realized she wasn't furious at all. She was petrified.

The truth settled deep into her bones. This was their wedding night. Bobby DiFranco, her buddy, her confidant, her dearest friend, was carrying her over the threshold and into her new life as his wife. Their room had two beds in it, but tonight they would be using only one of them.

She steadied her breath. She could handle this. It would just be one night, and then he'd leave. She could figure out how she felt after he was gone.

Besides, s.e.x with Bobby couldn't possibly be as awful as s.e.x with Drew Foster had been. And it was too late for her to worry about getting pregnant. And this was the deal they'd made: once they were married, the marriage would be real.

He kicked the door shut behind them, carried her across the small, stale-smelling room and lowered her to her feet next to one of the beds. His smile melted away as he gazed down at her. "You okay?" he asked, evidently struggling to read her expression.

She nodded and bit her lip. You can do this, she lectured herself.

"A little nervous, huh," he guessed.

"A little."

"Me, too." He smiled then, and brushed her lips with his. "Relax, Jo. I'm not going to hurt you. I would never hurt you. You know that, don't you?"

Yes, she knew that. Hearing him say the words convinced her, not in her brain but somewhere else, some part of her where knowing was a visceral thing. When Bobby kissed her again, a little less gently, she closed her eyes, parted her lips and let him in.

She had never been kissed like this before. She hadn't kissed all that many boys, but none of them had kissed like Bobby. His mouth was so strong, so sure. His tongue was so aggressive. She felt his kiss through her entire body, which felt as if it was unfolding inside, opening like a flower's petals to the sun, warming and softening and wanting.

He undressed her first, and then himself. His body was different from Drew's-bigger, more ma.s.sive...older, somehow. He had hair on his chest; not much, but it made him seem like a man. So did the thickness of his shoulders, the swells of muscle in his arms and legs, the contours of his torso.

When he urged her onto the bed and then lay down beside her, he didn't go straight for her crotch. Instead, he kissed her neck, her shoulders, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He ran his hands all over her, every now and then murmuring her name. He caressed her feet, her knees, her belly, and when he finally touched her between her thighs, she was embarra.s.sed by how wet she was there.

He didn't seem embarra.s.sed at all. He only murmured her name again and then climbed onto her and pressed her hand to his erection. She stroked him the way she used to stroke Drew, until he covered her hand with his and slowed her down, showing her how he liked it.

She desperately wanted to please him. Whatever he wished, she would do it. This was Bobby, and he hadn't made fun of her for being so wet or for stroking him the wrong way. This was Bobby, who'd done her the immeasurable favor of marrying her.

This was Bobby, her husband.

When at last he entered her, it didn't hurt at all. It felt...good. Better than good. He moved in a steady, seductive rhythm, and his stomach rubbed hers and he sighed her name again and again. She thought she would die from the sweet sensations surging inside her. "Oh, Bobby..."

"Yeah," he whispered.

Lush pulses swept through her, endless spasms wrenching her and then soothing her. She closed her eyes and sank into the soft mattress, astonished by what she'd just experienced. Above her Bobby thrust hard, then groaned and trembled and lowered himself into her arms. Given his size, he should have crushed her. Yet his weight and warmth felt as good as everything else he'd done.

Was that what s.e.x was supposed to be like? So intimate, so tender, such an excruciatingly lovely mix of glorious sensations still throbbing deep inside her, wringing her body and ma.s.saging her soul, filling her with the urge to laugh and cry at the same time?

If being Bobby DiFranco's wife meant experiencing s.e.x like this, she yearned to spend the rest of her life in his bed.

She opened her eyes and gazed up at him. His hair fell forward to brush her cheeks and his eyes were dark and beautiful as they searched her face.

Her husband. Dear, G.o.d, he was her husband.

"I don't want you to go," she said.

He kissed her. "I'll come back," he vowed.

FIVE.

"HEY, DAD?"

Bobby slammed his desk drawer shut and glanced up. He'd been staring at an old photo of Joelle that he kept stashed in the top drawer, the picture he'd asked her to pose for before the senior prom. In it she was radiant, her hair rippling around her face, her eyes bluer than the blue dress she wore. He'd carried that photo with him through Vietnam and pretended, whenever he'd looked at it, that she'd been his girl the night she'd worn that blue prom gown. He'd pretended that she'd loved him. In time, she'd sent him other photos-of herself pregnant, of herself very pregnant, of herself holding Claudia, a little pink peanut of a girl. But the photo of Joelle before the prom had been his treasure.

The color had faded from it over the years. Three of the corners were bent, the fourth torn. It didn't matter. Some important part of him was in that picture, a slab of his life, his memory, his dreams.

But he didn't want Mike to catch him mooning over it and wondering whether Joelle was any more his girl today than she'd been the night that photo had been taken, thirty-seven years ago. He shaped a smile for his elder son. "How's it going?"

"Good. We're ahead of schedule on the Griffin job."

"Great." He continued to gaze at his son, continued to fake a smile. At twenty-six, Mike resembled Bobby, with thick dark hair a bit curlier than his father's and dark, deep-set eyes. Those eyes were studying Bobby. "It's four-thirty, Dad. What do you say we quit early and celebrate the job you nailed this weekend."

Bobby had spent most of the day making arrangements for that job: a conference call with a swimming pool company he worked with, an order placed with a granite quarry, more calls to area nurseries, a review of his staff a.s.signments to determine who'd be available when, plenty of paperwork and number crunching. As much as he enjoyed outdoor work, he also enjoyed the mental demands. Until he'd taken business cla.s.ses, he'd never known he had a gift for negotiating and strategizing.

He'd gotten a lot done that day-an amazing amount, considering what a train wreck his personal life was. Bobby had learned how to focus, how to ignore distractions. In 'Nam, distractions could kill a soldier, so he'd developed the ability to tune them out.

Mike wasn't a distraction, though. He was Bobby's son, and if he wanted to celebrate, Bobby would put on a happy face and do his best.

He locked his desk and followed Mike out of the office, which occupied a corner of the small warehouse building that housed trucks and equipment and supplies. Most of what he needed-construction materials and plants-was shipped directly from suppliers to work sites, cutting down on DiFranco Landscaping's storage requirements. But the trucks and tractors had to be parked somewhere at night.

Exiting to the gravel parking lot outside the building, Bobby blinked in the glaring late-afternoon sun. "The Hay Street Pub shouldn't be too crowded," Mike suggested. "Why don't you meet me there."

"Sure." The Hay Street Pub was a relatively subdued place where the TVs were adjusted to a low volume and young singles didn't crowd the place, prowling for pickups. Bobby would steer the conversation toward Mike and survive the next hour without revealing the mess his life was in. He'd gotten through worse; he could get through a drink with his son.

As Mike had predicted, the pub was calm and not too busy and they were able to snag a quiet booth along the back wall. A lamp with a stained-gla.s.s shade hung above the table, casting half of Mike's face in red and half in amber.

"I'll have an iced tea," Bobby told the waitress who materialized before them.

"Oh, come on, Dad. Live a little. Have a beer."

Bobby reluctantly ordered a Bud. He enjoyed beer, liked the foam and the sour flavor. But growing up the son of a drunk made him cautious around liquor, so he rarely drank it.

Mike requested a microbrewery lager Bobby had never heard of, and the waitress departed to get their drinks. Bobby gazed at his son through the wash of colored light from the stained-gla.s.s lamp. Mike wore a dark green polo shirt with DiFranco Landscaping st.i.tched in white above the breast pocket. All the employees wore those shirts except for Bobby. Collared polo shirts weren't his style. They looked like something a man would wear on a racquetball court or a sailboat, or at the Green Gates Country Club.

"So, would you like to hear about this English-garden job?" he asked.

Mike's smile faded. He tapped his fingers together, then let his hands rest on the table. "As a matter of fact, no. Dad..." He took a deep breath. "Gary called me yesterday."

The waitress chose that moment to reappear with their drinks, denying Bobby the opportunity to bolt for the door. Not that he could run away from his son. The truth lay squirming on the table between them. It had to be dealt with.

He waited until the waitress was done arranging c.o.c.ktail napkins, beers, frosted-gla.s.s mugs and a bowl of pretzels on the table. He watched her walk away, not because she was worth looking at but because he needed a minute to collect his thoughts. He and Mike shouldn't be having this conversation alone. Joelle ought to be a part of it. Revealing the truth to Claudia had been not his idea but hers-hers and Foster's. Let her do the heavy lifting.

She wasn't here, though. Bobby would have to struggle through it himself.

"Did you talk to Claudia?" he asked.

Mike shook his head. "Gary said she was too upset."

"How about Danny? Did you talk to him? Did Gary mention whether he-"

"Danny's been up at Tanglewood all weekend. Lauren got them tickets to some symphony thing."

"And he went?" Danny's current girlfriend had grown up in Manhattan, surrounded by museums, theater and the Lincoln Center. "He really must love her."

"Either that or she's good in bed," Mike muttered cynically. He was between girlfriends right now. Maybe he wished that, like his younger brother, he had a woman in his life willing to drag him off to symphony concerts. "I saw him for ten minutes this morning, before he headed down to Trumbull for that strip-mall job. We didn't really talk." Ignoring the mug the waitress had brought him, he hoisted his bottle to his mouth and drank. Then he set the bottle down and leaned forward. "What the h.e.l.l is going on, Dad? Is this for real? Some other guy is Claudia's father?"

"Yes." Bobby took a sip of beer, hoping it would keep him from choking.

"I can't believe it." Mike shook his head. "How could you-" Apparently the question stymied him, because he left it dangling.

"How could I what?"