by Ginna Gray
Then Maggie remembered that Thursdays and Sundays were Ida Lou's days off, which meant she wouldn't be home until around ten. Every Thursday for as far back as Maggie could remember, Ida Lou ran her personal errands in the morning, joined her cronies for an afternoon of bridge, then had dinner at the City Café with her best friend, Clara Edwards, and the two of them capped the day off either with a movie or an evening of bingo over at the Grange Hall.
A sweet scent hung in the air. Maggie inhaled it deep into her lungs and smiled. Ah, peaches.
Automatically her gaze darted beyond the house in the direction of the cannery on the opposite side of the property, though it wasn't visible through the trees. These days, the Malone Cannery offered a full line of canned fruits and vegetables, but it was the smell of peaches stewing that she would always associate with home.
Home. Fixing her gaze on the house again, she drew a deep breath and reached for the door handle.
After shaking the travel wrinkles out of her blue-and-burnt-orange broomstick skirt, Maggie started up the short walkway and climbed the steps.
No one watching would ever imagine the turmoil going on inside her. She walked with her head high, her shoulders back, her hips swaying with sassy confidence. Maggie'd had years of experience at hiding her feelings. And one thing she'd learned since leaving home was how to project an image.
At the door she paused, not sure whether to ring the bell or just walk right in.
Cupping her hands on either side of her eyes, she peered in through the screen down the long central hallway. There wasn't a soul in sight.
She hesitated, reluctant to call out or knock, in case her father was resting.
Oh, what the hell? This was her home, wasn't it? she thought, and opened the screen door and stepped inside.
She had barely taken a step when she heard a faint sound coming from her father's study, to the right of the front door.
One of Maggie's eyebrows rose. Apparently he wasn't as sick as her mother had led her to believe if he felt well enough to work.
Her nerves began to jump. She had been longing for, praying for this meeting for seven years. Now that it was finally about to happen she was almost sick with nerves.
Pressing her fist against her fluttering stomach, she drew a deep breath and stepped to the open doorway … and froze.
"Who are you? And what the devil do you think you're doing?" she snapped.
The stranger rifling through her father's desk looked up. His rugged face remained impassive, but those silver-gray eyes pinned her.
Belatedly, Maggie recalled the numerous reports she'd heard on the evening news in New York about people who'd had the misfortune to stumble across a burglar. Immediately visions of murder and mayhem flashed through her head, and fear slithered done her spine.
For an instant she considered running, but it was too late. He would catch her before she made it out the front door. Besides, her knees were trembling so much she wasn't sure her legs would support her.
Left with no choice, she lifted her chin and stood her ground.
The man was big and tough-looking—at least six four. The rolled-up sleeves of his chambray work shirt revealed muscular forearms dusted with dark hair, wide wrists and powerful hands. He had the kind of broad-shouldered impressive build that didn't come from working out in a yuppie gym three times a week.
Clearly, she was no match for him.
But dammit, she was no wimp, either. Barefoot, she stood six feet tall and was in excellent physical condition. Maggie narrowed her eyes. I may not win, but lay a hand on me, buster, and you'll damn well know you've been in a fight.
She braced herself, but instead of rushing her, he straightened, crossed his arms over his chest and looked her up and down. "Well, well. If it isn't the prodigal daughter come home at last."
The drawled statement—snide though it was—reassured her as nothing else could have.
The awful fear and tension left her in a whoosh, like air rushing out of a balloon. A burglar might have recognized her, but he wouldn't have had any knowledge of her personal life.
"Ah, so you're a local, are you?" While that discovery allayed her fear of being attacked, it produced a different kind of uneasiness. His only knowledge of her had to have come from others, and she could just imagine the kind of stories he'd heard.
As a teenager Maggie had learned to hide her insecurities and pain behind saucy humor and flippancy. During the past seven years she'd acquired self-esteem and poise, but she'd found that the strategy still worked when dealing with men, particularly with a bit of audacious flirting thrown in. The harmless ones either dissolved into stammering wrecks or ran for the hills, and the macho types never seemed to know quite how to handle a confident woman who possessed sass and style. Either way, it gave her an edge.
Turning on a sultry smile, Maggie cocked one hip, planted her hand on it and gave him a slow once-over. "Do I know you, handsome?"
"I doubt it." Instead of the reaction she expected, he turned the slow perusal back on her.
His pale eyes skimmed her dispassionately, examining her famous face feature by feature, her bright, wind-tousled hair. When he was done his gaze slid downward over the burnt-orange knit top that clung to her curves, then down farther to her ankle-length skirt. His attention lingered there before continuing down to the cinnamon-colored toenails peeking out of her sandals, only to return seconds later to linger again in the region of her thighs.
Maggie realized that, backlit as she undoubtedly was by the light streaming in through the front door, he could see through her gauzy skirt, but she didn't move. Let him look at her legs. It would take more than this brawny workman to fluster her. Besides, she had fantastic legs, and she'd shown them—and a whole lot more—in dozens of swimsuit layouts.
When he was done his gaze met hers again. The disdain in his eyes and the slight twist of his chiseled mouth was not the reaction she was accustomed to receiving, and it gave her a jolt.
"But I know you," he said finally in a flat voice.
Anger curled in Maggie's stomach but she controlled it and feigned amusement. "I doubt it," she mimicked. "You can't believe what you read in the gossip columns, you know. Or what you think you see in the photographs of me."
"I wouldn't know about that. I don't read gossip columns or look at many magazines. But you can't grow up in Ruby Falls without knowing about the Malones. And you have to admit, as a teenager, you made your mark around here."
"Ah, I see. My misspent youth has come back to haunt me," she drawled, strolling into the room. She hitched one hip onto the corner of her father's desk. "You still haven't told me who you are or why you were going through my father's papers."
"I was looking for an account file that Jacob was reviewing last night. And the name is Garrett. Dan Garrett. I'm general manager of the cannery and orchards."
"Oh, I don't think so, sugar. Harry Putnam has been the general manager for over twenty years."
"Harry retired two years ago."
"Oh, right. I guess I forgot." Forgot, hell. This was the first she'd heard of it. When it came to business matters, her mother might as well be on another planet.
"So Daddy made you the new general manager, huh? Odd, I would've thought he'd give the job to an older hand. How long have you worked for Malone Enterprises?"
"Twenty years."
"What! That's impossible. I've only been gone seven, and I don't remember seeing you around here at all."
He shot her a steady look, then bent and went back to searching the desk drawers. "Hardly surprising. I was seven or eight years ahead of you in school. I started working on the picking crew parttime on weekends and after school when I was fourteen. When I graduated I was hired on full-time as a crew boss. By the time you took off I'd worked my way up to foreman in the cannery.
"But as I recall, in those days you didn't spend much time hanging around the orchard workers or on the cannery floor. And our families sure as hell didn't move in the s
ame social circles."
Maggie frowned. The implied accusation of snobbery didn't set well. Growing up, she'd spent most of her free time at the cannery, but mostly in the office trying to learn the business. Her father would have skinned her alive if she'd gone down onto the cannery floor or into the orchards during harvest time.
Tipping her head to one side, she studied him curiously. "You don't like me very much, do you?"
"No," he replied without the slightest hesitation, startling a laugh out of her. He didn't bother to look up.
"Oh, gee, don't hold back. Spit it all out, why don't you? What's the matter, sugar? Don't you like redheads? Or is it just me?" When he didn't bother to answer, she went on. "Surely you don't hold my teenage rebellion against me. I was a little wild, I know, but I was just a kid, for heaven's sake."
"From what I hear, nothing has changed. But that's not it. I don't give a rat's ass about your teenage pranks or what kind of dissolute life-style you're into now." He straightened with a file folder in his hand and pinned her again with those cold eyes. Absently, he raked back a lock of dark hair that had fallen across his forehead. "I happen to think you're a spoiled, self-centered brat who doesn't care about anyone but herself."
Maggie's jaw dropped. Before she could find her tongue he went on.
"Your father was diagnosed with cancer over two years ago. Two years! He's been through ten kinds of hell since then—chemotherapy, radiation treatment, a barrage of tests—and he's grown weaker by the day. And not once in all that time have you come home or even bothered to call him."
Maggie stiffened. "I talk to Momma about him every day." The flirtatious, honeyed tones disappeared as anger sharpened her voice.
"It's not the same. He needs to talk to you, to see you."
Maggie shot off the desk and drew herself up to her full six-foot height. "You know nothing about me or my feelings for my father. Or what my father wants and needs. Furthermore it's none of your business."
"Your feelings?" Dan snorted. "What feelings? Since you walked in you haven't even asked where he is."
Maggie blinked, thrown off guard. Uneasiness trickled down her spine. "I assumed he and my mother were napping."
"Jacob is in the hospital in Tyler. At two this morning Lily and I had to rush him to the ER."
* * *
Two
« ^ »
"The hospital! For God's sake! Why didn't you tell me right away? Which hospital?"
"Mercy."
Maggie spun around and tore out of the office and out the front door. She cleared the steps in one leap and almost made it to her car before the screen door banged shut behind her.
In only seconds she'd slid behind the wheel and the Viper roared to life. "Oh, God. Oh, God. Please don't let me be too late. Please. Oh, please, God, please."
From the corner of her eye Maggie saw Dan Garrett standing on the other side of the screen door, watching her, but she had more important things on her mind. Tires squealing, she spun out of the circular loop in front of the house and smoked down the long drive toward the road.
The forty-two-mile drive from Ruby Falls to the Tyler city limits normally took forty-five to fifty minutes, and then another fifteen to negotiate the city traffic to the hospital. Maggie made it in thirty-five.
The first person she saw when she rushed off the elevator onto the second floor of Mercy Hospital was her mother.
Lily Malone stood beside a nurses' station, talking to the women behind the counter.
"Momma!"
Lily looked around, her face lighting. "Maggie!" She hurried forward with her arms outstretched. "Maggie! Oh, Maggie, love, I'm so glad you're here."
Eight inches taller than Lily, Maggie had to stoop to return her mother's hug. Fear had her heart knocking against her ribs, her nerves screaming, so for an instant she allowed herself the comfort of her mother's embrace. Clasping her close, she squeezed her eyes shut and breathed in the familiar scent of violets that always seemed to cling to Lily's skin, and absorbed the unconditional love that flowed from her.
"How is he?" Grasping her mother's shoulders, Maggie eased her back and searched her face.
At fifty-two, Lily was still a beautiful woman, Maggie thought, as she did every time she saw her. With her fair coloring and small build she had a delicate look that made everyone want to protect her, her husband most of all.
Jacob Malone adored his wife and treated her as though she were a fragile angel. Seeing the fear and strain in Lily's face, Maggie knew that he was probably more worried about what his illness was doing to his wife than what it was doing to him.
Fatigue smudged dark circles beneath Lily's blue eyes and deepened the lines that ran from each side of her nose to the corners of her mouth. Her blond hair had a few more streaks of silver than when she'd visited New York six months ago, Maggie noticed. However, it was the worry in her mother's eyes that concerned her most.
"He's all right, dear," Lily assured her firstborn gently. "He's weak, but he's resting comfortably now. Thank God."
"What happened? When we talked yesterday you said he was resting comfortably at home."
"He was. Then last night he began to have difficulty breathing. His lungs were filling with fluid, so we brought him here. They drained it off, and he's doing better now."
"By 'we' I take it you mean you and that Dan Garrett person I met at the house."
"Oh, you met Dan. Good, good. He's a wonderful young man, and he's been such a help to your daddy. And to me, too."
"Mmm," Maggie hummed noncommittally. She fully intended to question her mother about Mr. Garrett, particularly about how he came to hold such a responsible position in the family business, but that could wait until later. "What caused the fluid to build up, and what's the doctor doing about it?"
Pretending not to notice the agog stares of the nurses behind the station, Maggie slipped her arm through her mother's and nudged her down the hall toward her father's room before one of the women could work up the nerve to ask for her autograph.
Though she didn't understand what the fascination was, normally Maggie went out of her way to be cordial to fans. At the moment, however, she simply wasn't up to dealing with their adulation. Later, when things were more settled, she'd make a point to stop by the station for a chat.
"It's just part of the disease," Lily explained, oblivious to the stir her daughter's arrival had created. "The tumor prevents his lungs from functioning as they should, and the fluid builds up gradually. This is the second time they've had to be drained. The doctors have adjusted his medication and want to watch him for a few hours, but barring complications, we can take him home tomorrow."
"Is it all right if I go in and see him?"
"Of course it's all right. He's allowed visitors. Your sisters are with him right now."
"Oh, wonderful. I can't wait to see Laurel and Jo Beth."
"Well, come along, then. Jacob was sleeping when I left to get some coffee, but he should wake up soon."
Maggie eagerly walked with her mother down the hall. She had missed her sisters terribly these past seven years. Her mother visited her regularly, but never Laurel or Jo Beth. Whenever she talked to them on the telephone their conversations never lasted long, and they always had an excuse why they couldn't accompany Lily to New York. Maggie had never pressed her mother for an answer, but she suspected that her father had forbidden them to have any contact with her.
Lily opened the door a crack and peeked into Jacob's room. "He's still sleeping," she whispered to Maggie over her shoulder. "We'll have to be quiet."
She stuck her head inside the room and said softly, "Look who's here, everyone." Pushing the door open all the way, she dragged Maggie into the room with her.
"Maggie!" A look of blinding joy flashed across Laurel's face. She took an eager step forward, but her husband's barked warning halted her in her tracks.
"Laurel!"
Laurel's gaze darted to Martin, and instantly her expression sobered and t
he light went out of her eyes. Visibly reining in her emotions, she clasped her hands together. "Hello, Maggie," she said in a flat voice.
Maggie had no intention of settling for such a cool greeting. Surging forward, she threw her arms around her sister. In return she received a lukewarm hug, but she pretended not to notice.
"Oh, it's so good to see you," she declared, squeezing her much-shorter sister in a bear hug. "I've missed you so much." Holding Laurel by her shoulders, she eased back with a warm smile. "How are you, sis?"
"I'm fine. Just fine."
She didn't look fine. She looked pale and listless, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Laurel had always been a delicate beauty, but now she wasn't just slender, she was almost skeletal, her arms and legs bony and her classic facial features pared down to sharpness. Her natural blond hair, which had always been her sweet sister's one vanity, was clipped at her nape and hung lank and limp down her back like an old rag.
Jeezlouise, Maggie thought. Laurel was only twenty-six, a year younger than she was, but all her sparkle was gone. She looked used up and drab, and so skinny a good wind would blow her away.
Was she anorexic? Or had worry over their father's condition done this to her?
Most worrisome of all, Laurel wouldn't quite meet Maggie's eyes.
"What's she doing here?" Martin demanded.
Maggie stiffened. Up until that moment she had studiously avoided looking at her brother-in-law. Now the outrage in his voice fired her temper. Before she could turn and deliver a cutting retort her mother stepped in.
"Maggie is here because her father is gravely ill. And because I asked her to come. She's our daughter, too, Martin. She has as much right to be here as her sisters."
"I don't agree at all."
"That may be, but it isn't your decision to make, is it?" Lily smiled slightly to take the sting out of the words, but her voice was velvet-covered steel.
The exchange flabbergasted Maggie. She knew her mother wasn't fond of Martin, but, good, genteel southern lady that she was, she always treated him cordially, for Laurel's sake and because of Jacob's determined support of the man. Her mild-mannered mother usually went along with whatever her husband wanted, leaving the decision-making to him. That she had taken a stand against Martin, especially in that emphatic tone, was amazing.