by Nora Roberts
"How about Guinevere if it's a girl?" Kate wondered.
"Byron's family has this tradition of choosing names from literature."
"Guinevere was a weak-moraled round heel," Margo commented. "She boffed her husband's best friend. But if that's the kind of thing you want—"
"I've always liked Ariel," Laura put in. "From The Tempest."
"Ariel De Witt." Kate took a notebook out of her pocket and jotted it down. Names were a serious matter, she thought, and had to be considered from all angles. Had to sound right, look right. Feel right. "Hmmm." This one definitely had potential. "Not bad." She pocketed her reading glasses as she looked at Laura. "Laura's nodding off again."
"I'm not." Caught, she jerked her lolling head up, struggled to focus. What the hell had they been talking about? "Names," she said quickly, as though it was a pop quiz. "Girl names for the baby out of literature. Hester, Juliet, Delilah."
"And your prize for the correct answer is a complete home entertainment center." Kate arched a brow. "Would you like to move on to round two and try for the trip to Honolulu?"
"Very funny." Laura resisted rubbing at her eyes like a cranky child. "I rather like Juliet."
"We'll put it before our distinguished panel of judges. Laura, take five before you fall on your face."
"And if anyone knows the consequences of over-extending herself," Margo put in, "it's our pregnant pal with the dopey look in her eyes. Why don't you go in the back and catch a quick nap?" As she studied Laura, Margo polished glassware. "Spending the night with Michael's bound to sap a woman's energy."
Laura winced and looked around to see if there were any customers within hearing distance. "I told you we were birthing a foal, not tearing up the sheets."
"Which only proves you've got your priorities skewed. Kate, I think that customer's ready for a little push." Margo nodded toward a man contemplating snuffboxes. "He's got his eye on you," she added when Kate walked away.
"The customer?"
"Michael, Laura. Michael. If you don't have yours right back on him, you need to visit your optometrist."
"I don't have time for… all right, maybe I've looked."
Margo set down a Waterford water glass and turned away. Progress, she thought, at long last. "And are you ready for a little push?"
Laura blew out a breath. "He wants to—He wants me."
"Surprise, surprise."
"No, I mean, he said it. Just like that. How do you respond to something like that?"
"There are a variety of ways. Let's see, I believe I've tried them all." Margo tapped a finger on her cheek. "Which of Margo's ploys would you prefer?"
"I'm not looking for a ploy." Because her knees kept disappearing on her, Laura sat down on the stool behind the counter. "Margo, I've slept with one man in my life. I was married to him for ten years. I don't have any ploys, or ways, or answers."
"No ploys, maybe, and good for you. But every woman has ways, and I think you have answers. Try this question. Are you attracted to him?"
"Yes, but—"
"The answer is yes," Margo interrupted, and kept one eye on a pair of customers contemplating the jewelry in the display along the side wall. "You are a responsible, unattached adult female, who is attracted to an attractive unattached adult male."
"That works fine if you're a rabbit."
"It can work fine for people, too. Laura, there aren't any guarantees. You certainly know that. Yes, you could be hurt. You could also be happy. Or you could just get your oil checked."
Snorting, Laura shook her head. "Sex has always been easier for you than me."
"I won't argue that, but I'm not particularly proud of it."
"I didn't mean—"
"I know you didn't. I've slept with more than one man. Some of them were married to someone else. Sometimes it meant something, sometimes it didn't." She could shrug it off now, without regret or recriminations, because she understood that everything she'd ever done had carried her toward where she was now. "Josh is the only one who really mattered."
"Because you love each other," Laura said quietly. "We're not talking about love between Michael and me. It's just plain lust."
"And what's wrong with that?"
"I can usually figure out what's wrong with it, until he puts his hands on me, or kisses me."
As far as Margo could see, that was an excellent sign. "And then?"
"Then I just want, and I've never wanted like that. Everything's too hot, too fast." She shifted uneasily—even thinking about it stirred something inside her. "It's not comfortable."
"Hallelujah!" With a chuckle, Margo leaned closer. "Surprise yourself, Laura, go down to the stables some night and jump him."
"Right. That's just what I planned. Really, Margo, I could use some sensible advice here."
"Sensible's for retirement plans."
"Miss." One of the customers signaled. "Could I see this pin, please?"
"Of course." Taking up the keys, Margo moved away. "Oh, don't you adore Art Deco? That's a fabulous piece. I found it at an estate sale in Los Angeles. They said it once belonged to Marlene Dietrich."
Laura scanned the shop, stifled a yawn. They were busy, she noted, but not overwhelmed. Maybe she could sneak in a quick catnap. She slid off the stool, wandered toward a customer to ask if she needed help. Prayed the answer would be no. And then the door opened.
"Peter." She stopped in her tracks.
"I called your office at the hotel. They indicated I would find you here."
"Yes, this is one of my regular afternoons at Pretenses."
"Interesting." He hadn't been in before, had purposely stifled his curiosity about his ex-wife's little venture into shopkeeping. Now that he was here, he took a slow, measuring study.
Candy's description of the shop as a jumble of secondhand junk hadn't been quite accurate. Then again, understanding his fiancée’s feelings toward Laura and her partners, he hadn't expected it to be.
Still, neither had he expected to find the place charming, peopled with well-to-do clientele as well as the tourist trade. He hadn't expected to be intrigued by the displays and more than a little envious of the merchandise.
"Well?" She recognized the appraisal. "What do you think?"
"It's different, isn't it? Certainly a change of pace for you." He looked at her again. Still cool and lovely, he mused. Odd, he'd never have believed Laura or either of her friends had the brains, the wherewithal or the imagination to create something so appealing, so successful.
"It's not a change of pace any longer." She refused to allow the way he studied her, and hers, to upset her. "It is the pace."
"I suppose you're enjoying the distraction."
"It's a business, Peter, not a distraction." Why should she expect him to understand Pretenses? He'd never understood his wife. Perhaps, she thought, he would deal much more comfortably with the new wife he'd chosen. "I doubt you came in to pick up a gift for Candy. She doesn't care for our stock as a rule."
"No, I came to speak with you."
He looked around again, noted the twisting staircase, the open balcony. Then he spotted Margo, watching him with a cold look of calculated dislike. He certainly didn't have to tolerate silent abuse from the daughter of a servant.
"Do you have an office, a private office we can use?''
"We use most of our space for merchandise." There was an office, of course, but she wasn't willing to speak with him in the shop. It was hers; it was not to be soiled with personal problems. "Why don't we take a walk outside? Margo, I'll be back shortly."
"If that's what you want." Margo smiled thinly at Peter. "Be sure to give our best to your fiancée, Peter. Kate and I were just saying how delighted we are you've found your match."
"I'm sure Candace will find your sentiments… entertaining."
Laura merely shook her head at Margo, to forestall another, pithier comment. "I won't be long." She opened the door herself, waited for Peter to step through onto the veranda.
> He didn't care for Cannery Row or what he considered its carnival atmosphere. It was crowded, noisy, inconvenient. "This is hardly private, Laura."
She smiled at the people strolling on the sidewalk, the busy families, the snarled traffic.
"Nothing's so private as a crowd." Without asking him what he preferred, she moved to the curb to wait for a break in traffic. "We find the location quite a plus. We lure in a lot of browsers who come to the Wharf, or wander down after a tour of the aquarium."
Idly brushing her hair back as the breeze teased it, she started across the street, wanting to be closer to the sea. "And, of course, it's pleasant being able to take a break now and again and come out to watch the water, feed the gulls."
"You'll hardly keep a business afloat by daydreaming over the sea."
"We're managing." She leaned on an iron rail, skimmed her glance over waves and boats. Gulls fluttered and sent a young girl into excited laughter when they landed one by one on her knee as she sat with a bag of crackers. "What do you want, Peter?"
"To discuss Allison and Kayla."
"All right." She turned to him, leaned back. "Allison is doing very well in school. Her grades are exceptional. I'm sure you'd approve. Kayla's having a little trouble with math, but we're working on it"
"That's hardly what I—"
"Excuse me, I'm not finished." She knew he wasn't interested, but she was revved. "Ali played Clara in the Nutcracker production put on by her ballet class last December. She was beautiful, and she cried afterward because her father hadn't come as he'd told her he would."
"I explained that I had a conflict."
"Yes, you did. Kayla played one of the mice, and she didn't care particularly whether you were there or not. I believe Ali will continue the dance lessons, and should be en pointe in another year. Kayla's losing interest, but her drawing is improving every day. They're also taking riding lessons now from Michael Fury. He's very impressed with both of them. Kayla had the sniffles a few weeks ago, but they didn't slow her down for long. Oh, and I've gotten them a puppy and two kittens."
He waited a beat. "Are you done?"
"There's quite a bit more, actually. They're active, growing children. But that should cover the high points for now."
"I came here hoping to have a calm and civilized discussion, not to be treated to one of your diatribes, Laura."
"That wasn't even close to a diatribe, Peter, but I can oblige you."
He shifted, irritated when someone bumped his shoulder. "Candy and I are to be married in just over eight weeks in Palm Springs. Allison and Kayla should attend."
"Is this a demand or an invitation?''
"People will expect the children to be there. Candy is making arrangements for her children to attend. Her au pair will bring them down the day before the ceremony. Allison and Kayla can travel with them."
How civilized, she thought. And how cold. "You want them delivered by Candy's au pair, and returned the same way, I suppose."
"It's sensible, and it's convenient."
"And it won't infringe on your time at all." She held up a hand before he could speak. "I'm sorry. I'm tired and apparently short-tempered. I'm sure the girls would appreciate being included. If you'd call tonight—"
"I have plans. I hardly see the necessity of running through the details again."
She turned away, looked once more out to sea. She could and would bury her own resentments and try, once again, to give her daughter what she needed. "Peter, Ali is very hurt, very confused, and very afraid. You so rarely come to see them or call. She feels abandoned."
"We've been over this before, Laura." And he considered himself infinitely patient for listening to it all again. "You wanted the divorce. Now it's done, settled, there's been adequate time for her to adjust. I have my own life to think about."
"And do you ever think of the children?"
He sighed, checked his Rolex. He could spare ten minutes more, and no longer. "You always expected more than I found manageable in that area."
"They're not an area, they're children."
She whirled around, stopped herself from spewing out all the resentment, the bitterness. And simply looked at his face. So handsome, she thought. So cool, so composed. So perfect.
"You don't love them, do you, Peter? You never did."
"Simply because I refuse to dote on them, to spoil them as you've chosen to do doesn't mean I don't understand my responsibilities."
"That's not what I asked." Surprised at herself, she laid a hand on his arm. "Peter, it's just the two of us here. We've neither of us anything to lose at this point, so let's be honest. Let's put this in its place so that we can stop going over the same ground again and again and accomplishing nothing."
"It's you who insists on going over the same ground," he reminded her.
"All right, I keep going over it." Arguments were useless and, she admitted, just too tiring. "I want to understand. I need to. It's no longer a matter of what you did or didn't feel for me, or I for you. They're children. Our children. Help me understand why you don't want them."
For a moment, he stared down at the hand on his arm. Delicate. He'd always found that delicacy appealing. The fact that there was steel under it had been both disconcerting and disappointing.
And perhaps if they cleared up this matter, she would stop her constant requests that he flex his schedule to meet her expectations.
"I'm not father material, Laura. I don't consider that a flaw, simply a fact."
"All right." Though her heart ached, she nodded. "I'll accept that. But, Peter, you are a father."
"Your definition of that term and mine are essentially different. My responsibilities are met," he said stiffly. "You receive the child support payments every month."
And they were banked, she thought, into the college funds that he had emptied before the divorce. "Is that it? A financial burden, an obligation. That's all there is for you?"
"I'm not a doting parent, and never have been. I thought once that I would do better with sons. That I wanted them." He spread his elegant hands. "The simple truth is that it doesn't matter now. We didn't have sons, and I don't want more children. Candy's are well tended, polite, and don't require my attention. I don't believe Allison and Kayla require it either. They're being raised well and comfortably in a good home."
Like poodles, she thought, as pity stirred. "The answer is, you don't love them."
"I don't feel the connection you'd like me to." He angled his head to look down at her. "Let's both be honest, Laura. They're more Templeton than Ridgeway. More yours than mine. That's always been true."
"It didn't have to be," she murmured. "They're so beautiful. Miracles. I'm so sorry you can't take what they would give you."
"And I would say that all of us are better off the way things stand. I was angry initially when you insisted on divorce. Angry that it cost me the position I had earned at Templeton. But over the past few months I've come to see that it was inevitable. I enjoy the challenge of running my own hotel, and frankly, Candace is more the kind of woman who suits my needs and my nature."
"Then I hope you're happy. Really." She shuddered out a breath. "Do you really want the girls at the wedding, Peter, or is it for form?"
"If they choose not to attend, it's a simple matter to make the proper excuses."
"All right. I'll talk to them, leave it up to them."
"I'll expect to hear from you by the end of the week. If we're done, I have an appointment shortly." He glanced back across the street. With the air somewhat cleared between them, he chose to be magnanimous. "Your shop is very impressive, Laura. I hope it's successful for you."
"Thank you. Peter," she said when he turned to leave her. People milled around them, but they didn't matter. She remembered a magical night, with moonglow drifting through the gazebo and the scent of flowers and the promise of a dream. "Did you ever love me? I have to know. I also have my life to think about."
He looked at her, standin
g with the sea at her back, the sun glinting off her hair, her skin pale and fragile. Until the words were out of his mouth he'd had no plans to tell her the truth.
"No. No, I didn't love you. But I wanted you."
A heart could break again, she realized as she nodded and turned back to the sea. It could break again, and again, and again.
The minute she walked back into the shop, Kate pounced. "Upstairs."
"What?" Dizzy with fatigue and grief, Laura let herself be hauled up the winding steps.
"Upstairs and into bed."
"But we're open. The boudoir—"
"Is closed for the rest of the day." In the boudoir, Kate pushed her onto the slippery satin quilt on the big bed and knelt to pry off her shoes. "You get in, turn it off. I don't want you thinking about anything. Anything. Especially whatever that creep said to upset you."
Odd, Laura mused, her vision was all gray at the edges, like a screen narrowing. "He never loved them, Kate. He told me. He never loved my babies. He never loved me."
"Don't think about it." In sympathy, Kate's eyes began to swim. "Don't worry. Go to sleep."
"I feel so sorry for him. So sorry for all of us. I'm so tired."
"I know. I know, honey. Lie down." Fussy as a mother hen over a sick chick, she smoothed the covers over her friend. "Sleep." She sat on the side of the bed, took Laura's hand.
"I used to dream about the way things would be. So perfect. So lovely."
"Shh," Kate murmured even as Laura's voice trailed off. "Dream about something else. Find a new dream."
"Is she out?" Margo said from the doorway.
"Yeah." Kate sniffled and wiped her cheek. And thought of the child inside her. Of the man she'd loved and married, who already cherished it, and her. "I hate Peter fucking Ridgeway."
"Stand in line." Margo stepped in to lay a hand on Kate's shoulder. "When she walked back in, she looked so… broken. I could kill him for putting that look in her eyes."
"Stand in line," Kate echoed. "She'll be all right. We'll make sure of it."
Laura's mind was still fuzzy with fatigue when she returned home. She thought briefly about a long, steaming bath, cool, smooth sheets, and oblivion. But she needed her children, and needed them badly.
She found them, as she'd expected to, at the stables. Bongo greeted her first, racing forward with his tongue lolling out in a grin. He skidded to a halt at her feet, promptly sat his rump down, and lifted a paw.
"What's this?" Charmed, she crouched down to shake.
"Trick dog. Michael's been playing with you. What else can you do, huh? Can you lie down?"
He flopped down into the prone position instantly, looking up for approval, and the expected biscuit.
"Can you roll over? Play dead?"
"We're still working on that." Michael strolled over and to Bongo's relief offered him a biscuit. "You've always got to pay for the show," he said to Laura.
"The girls must be thrilled."
"They're teaching him the rollover. He's making progress." But his eyes were on Laura's, and the shadows under them. "You just getting back?"
"Um. I came down to see the girls and to get a look at the foal. How's she doing?"
"She's doing great, which is more than I can say for you." The frustration and annoyance he'd pent up all day spewed out in rough words. "Are you crazy, going to work a full day on no sleep? You might have nodded off behind the wheel and killed yourself on Highway 1."