“Well—no.”
“A woman who will pout when I’m working without ever trying to find out why it’s important to me, or who will expect me to guess what she wants though she can’t begin to guess what I need?”
“That isn’t fair,” she complained.
He moved closer until the muscles of his legs brushed her jean-clad thighs. “Someone who isn’t curious at all?”
“Curious, as in crazy, you mean.” She refused to look at him, even as he reached to take her hand and draw her toward him, putting her hand on his shoulder and circling her waist before clasping his hands behind her back.
“That isn’t what I meant at all. Curious as in wondering, or so I believe. Curious as in expecting. Curious as in anticipating.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” She met his gaze for only the briefest of heated seconds before looking quickly away again.
“Oh, I think you do.”
“What in the world would I anticipate?” She risked a longer glance, and was snared by the tender light in his eyes and the pledge for the future that was backed by the full weight of his strict notions of loyalty and commitment.
“Oh, Lara, you know, you do know,” he said, his voice warm and freighted with anticipation as great as her own. “You can’t wait to find out if I’m as good as your imagination.”
She studied his face, searching for the final answer. “You were there, weren’t you?” she asked when she still couldn’t be sure. “You saw, heard, felt everything that I did back there in the woods when I…when we…”
“Only because you let me.”
“But you believe me, about the things I see without being there, feel without touching, know without being able to explain?” She thought he had more ability than he realized, but only time and use would reveal its extent.
“I believe in you,” he said simply. “That means I’ll believe in anything you can or will allow me to share.”
He kissed her then, a slow and deep exploration, as if time had no meaning and the world would stand still for them while they communicated on a level that some called primitive but that felt sublime. When he lifted his head, she held his gaze, drowning in its rich, blue depths as in a warm ocean of years and promise. With a decided catch in her voice, she asked, “So…are you?”
“What? As good as you imagine?”
“Or possibly better?”
“Wait and see, love,” he said before he rested his beard-shadowed chin on the top of her head, swinging her gently in the circle of his arms. “Just wait and see.”
A Night in Paradise
Heather Graham
Prologue
“There is nothing so beautiful as a sunset like this,” Michael Wulfson said. Then he turned to the woman at his side and added softly, “Unless it’s you.”
Mary Beck reached for his hand, and the two entwined their fingers as she replied gently, with just a touch of mischief, “The sunset is magnificent, and as to the other, well, I thank God that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
Michael grinned. “Mary, I tell you, I’ve never seen more beautiful blue eyes than yours. They’re the color of a cloudless day. And you know how partial I am to blue.”
“And the sea, of course,” Mary said. “Look at the sails out on the horizon.”
Michael smiled, squeezing her fingers. “It’s so wonderful here. Paradise. And it’s incredible to share it with you.”
“Ah, well, it’s my home,” Mary said.
“Once it was my home, too. Well, at least St. Augustine was, all those years when I was out at sea looking for treasure.”
“Do you miss the sea?”
He grinned. “I found my treasure on land,” he assured her. “And this place…this place is wonderful. To think you were born here.”
“I’ve always loved it here. Twenty minutes and you’re in St. Augustine, an hour and you’re in Jacksonville. A few hours’ drive and you’re in Miami. Theme parks to the west, the hills of Ocala and horse country just above, and here, where we are, the sea, the sand and moss dripping off the old oaks. It is paradise.”
“You’ve known it your whole life. As close as I’ve been, I’ve really just discovered it,” Michael reminded her. “But for all its wonders, it would still be just a place—if it weren’t for you.”
Mary laughed, reached over and touched his face. “My darling, you are the most incredible romantic. And I thank you.”
Michael was serious for a moment, then said, “I want you to marry me.”
“What?” Mary said, nearly falling out of her wheelchair.
“I want you to marry me.”
A rueful smile crept slowly over his face, still handsome after all these years. “Please, Mary. I’d go down on my knees and be traditional and really romantic—if I could.”
“You silly old coot!” Mary said. “You mustn’t even think about getting down on your knees.”
“I know that. I’d never get up. But the desire is there.”
Mary hesitated. “Michael, I love you. I’m grateful for every moment with you. But…well, neither of us knows just how many moments we have left.”
“Does it matter, so long as we make the most of them?” he asked. “We could have years, you know. I mean, our bones aren’t great—as we’ve both discovered. And we definitely move slowly.”
“Michael, let’s face it. We’re old. I mean marriage…what sense is it?”
“The best sense in the world, as far as I’m concerned. We love each other. Mary, please, I warn you, if I have to, I will try to get down on my knees.”
“Don’t you dare! You’d wind up breaking one.”
“Then…?”
Mary laughed.
“Well?”
“Yes, I will marry you.”
Michael smiled. “Then come on, honey. Lay one on these ol’ lips before sourpuss comes to take us back in.”
They both leaned close. A kiss was still a kiss….
“We’re going to have some difficulty explaining this to the kids,” Mary said.
“Hmm. What on earth will we tell them?”
“That we’re getting married for the only real reason any two people should ever get married, just as you said. We’re marrying because we’re in love.” Now that she had made her decision, she was firm in her resolve. “Besides, Aurora will be delighted. She loves you, too. And, well, you’ve really only got the grandson I’ve yet to meet, right?”
“Max,” Michael said. “And Max…well, he should understand perfectly. He’s always forged out on his own, so he should understand that trait in me. I’d like to tell him in person, and of course, I’d like him to be my best man. I’m going to have to get him down from New York.”
Both Mike and Mary had lost their children young, and both had been mainly instrumental in raising their grandchildren, Max and Aurora.
“I can’t believe it. I’m nervous about meeting him.”
“Mary…”
“Well, you already know Aurora and Angie. Naturally Aurora will be my maid of honor,” Mary said. “I can’t wait to tell her. We can do it together, this afternoon.”
Michael smiled, squeezing her hand. “Here we are…you and me, in paradise. Mary, in all my years, I don’t think I’ve ever known such bliss.”
“Michael, you are an incredible man. When should we have the ceremony?”
“Just as soon as we’ve got the rabbi and the priest convinced we haven’t got time to mess around with a lot of interfaith counseling.”
One
Aurora Beck stared at the computer screen before her and hit the backspace key until she had erased an entire paragraph.
She stared at the screen, then wrote: Enter the Witch.
Okay, so the witch was going to enter before the goblin. And say…
The phone started to ring. She should have let it go, but she absently reached for the receiver, still staring at the computer screen.
“Hello?”
“Mom!
”
She frowned. It was definitely Angie’s voice, but as far as she knew, her daughter was still in the back bedroom, sleeping.
“Angie, where are you?”
“In the shower. Mom, you’ve got to come quick.”
“You’re calling me from the shower?”
“I’m on the cell phone. You’ve got to come quick. There’s a huge roach in here. I mean a huge roach. Mom!”
Aurora heard a clatter as Angie apparently dropped the phone.
“Oh, Angie,” she muttered, hanging up. “It’s not as if you’ve never seen a roach before.” But she armed herself with a can of spray and headed through the living room/office for the back bedroom, and then on through to the back bathroom.
“Mom!” Angie wailed.
The water was still spraying; the curtain was closed.
“Where is it, Angie?” she asked with a sigh.
“Crawling over your way.”
“Ah-ha, I see it!” It was a big one. She’d lived in Florida all her life, kept the place clean and treated for bugs as best she could, but still, it was the nature of the place to get a roach now and then. Spray tended to be her weapon of choice. They would get wet and fall, and then she could pick them up with a large wad of toilet tissue and discard them.
No disgusting smashed creature-bits on the floor that way.
Aurora lifted her can and sprayed.
The roach, instead of falling, crept its way desperately up and over the curtain into the shower.
“Mom!” Angie shrieked again, leaping from the shower, making a wild grab for a towel and nearly tearing the curtain down.
“It’s all right, it’s almost dead,” Aurora assured her. She wrenched back the curtain. The creature had finally fallen. It was lying on its back on the shower floor, wiggling its ugly legs beneath the spray of the shower.
“Get him, get him!” Angie cried.
“Toilet paper,” Aurora said, like a surgeon asking for a scalpel.
“Here,” Angie said, supplying half a roll.
Aurora leaned forward, forgetting the shower was on.
“Did you get him? Did you?” Angie demanded.
Dripping, Aurora emerged. “Yes,” she said dryly. “I got him.”
She cast the creature into the toilet and stared at her daughter. Angie stared back and burst out laughing. “Mom, you’re soaked.”
“Yes, I know—thank you very much.”
“Sorry.”
“Angie, you’re eighteen. You’ve got to kill your own roaches. It’s a responsibility in life. And what on earth were you doing in there with a cell phone?”
“Well, I always bring it in. You said yourself that we need to be available at all times, what with Great-Gran in that place.”
“Were you waiting for a call from Great-Gran—or from Douglas?”
Angie flushed. Aurora didn’t get it. Yes, she was prejudiced, but her daughter was beautiful. Slim, golden blond, with immense blue eyes and perfect features. And she was in love—with a young idiot with whom she fought constantly.
Before she could say anything more, Angie’s cell phone began to ring. Angie retrieved it from the shower, and they both stared at it, amazed the thing was still working.
“Hello?” Angie said. She smiled at her mother. “Hi. Yup, of course. Actually, I was coming by this afternoon. Anyway, she’s right here.”
With a definite smile of amusement and an I-told-you-so look, Angie handed the phone to her mother. “Great-Gran,” she said casually.
“Um, thanks,” Aurora said, heading out of the bathroom. “Hi, Gran. Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s perfect, dear.”
“You’re joking, of course.” Aurora loathed the place where her grandmother had gone for rehabilitation after breaking her hip, but there had been no choice. And to tell the truth, the place wasn’t really that bad. She just didn’t like seeing her grandmother there.
“No, darling, it’s lovely. I have something important to tell you. I just wanted to make sure you were coming by.”
“I am. I was just trying to finish my script.”
“Take your time. I’ll be here.” Her grandmother’s soft chuckle amazed Aurora. Mary had been in serious pain after she had broken her hip, though she had never complained. Mary’s “incarceration,” as they both had termed it, had, in a way, been a good thing. Both Aurora and Angie had been forced to learn that life could be far more difficult than either of them had ever imagined. And Aurora had been able to make up the difference between the cost of the facility and what Mary’s insurance and Medicare covered by providing a unique service for the inhabitants—a special theatrical presentation once a week.
“You have good news for me, I take it?” Aurora said.
“The best.”
“Tell me now.”
“Oh, no, dear. This has to be in person.”
“You’re cruel.”
“I’m trying to be inspiring. Get in there and write.”
“All right. I’ll see you soon.”
Aurora hit the end key and strode back to the bathroom. The shower was still going.
“Angie?”
“Yeah?” Her daughter peeked out from behind the curtain.
“You’re still in there?”
“I just got back in. I had to scrub the shower. Hey, there’s nothing wrong with Great-Gran, right?”
“No. She says she has good news.”
“Cool. I’ll run by on my way to class, and then I’ll see you later, okay? I won’t say goodbye if you’re working.”
“Okay, but don’t forget tonight.”
“Yes, yes, I know. I’m the princess. And be on time for rehearsal. Eight o’clock.”
“Hey, be glad you get to be the princess.”
“I know, I know, you’re the witch. Typecasting, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t.”
Aurora hurried back to her computer.
To her amazement, the words began to flow, and the next thing Aurora knew, she was finished and the afternoon was waning. She hit the save key, closed down and hurried out of the house to her car.
“You’re going to have to rewrite the scene,” Jon Monroe said, staring at Max. His tone implied that Max must have realized that his statement was entirely obvious, since he had just seen Jena Ronson perform. Jon leaned closer to Max. “Please,” he said. It wasn’t often that Jon had such a note of desperation in his voice.
Max leaned over to Jon. “There’s no way we can replace Jena?”
“Not unless you’ve suddenly managed to come up with a whole wad of extra millions,” Jon said quietly.
Max gritted his teeth and lowered his head. The show was being financed by a corporation, a corporation headed by one man. And that one man happened to be the grandfather of one Jena Ronson.
She wasn’t a bad dramatic actress, but she was a horrid comedienne. She simply had no sense of timing whatsoever.
“If I rewrite the scene, it won’t be the same play anymore,” he said, but the words weren’t argumentative; they were the simple truth. Jon knew. They both knew it.
“Maybe we could turn it into a drama,” Jon said, looking at the stage.
“All right, we’re going to make major changes,” Max said. They both needed and wanted this show, with the huge money behind it, to be a success. Not that they didn’t have their share of successes behind them. But this was different. This was the ticket to ultimate triumph.
And he could rewrite. He could give the actress a true showcase. But it was going to be a whole new play.
He didn’t want to compromise on the script he had intended; he would rather do a completely new piece.
“How long…?” Jon queried.
“Not as long as you think,” Max said, figuring in his head. “A week. Give me a week, and I’ll have what we need.”
A week? Max asked himself. He’d lost his mind.
Rather that than their financing.
“I’m going back to
my office,” Max said.
“Great. What do I do about rehearsal?”
“Hey, you’re the director. I’ve got my own problems.”
Despite the distance, Max walked from the theater to his office, which was also his apartment. He had a great two-bedroom apartment in the Village, in a fine old historic building. He did well at his chosen livelihood, and he liked where he lived. Even so, today had been a blow. His work had been critically acclaimed for years, but this was his shot at the real gold. A play that could go on for years and years. And he could make life easier on himself. Just rewrite the script he already had.
No.
There would have to be similarities. He knew that. But his comedy lines had been raw and jabbing, the kind that made people think as well as laugh. The actress simply couldn’t carry them off.
He reached his apartment, thinking, barely aware of the time he had spent walking and the hordes of people he had passed. When he entered his front door, however, he couldn’t ignore Margorie who was his assistant and more.
Margorie had taken it on herself to be girl Friday, mother, mentor and scold, all in one. She’d been with him for ten years. He usually managed to do whatever he wanted to in spite of Margorie, who—with or without being solicited—had an opinion of his decorating, his work and the women in his life. In fact, she could be a royal pain in the butt. But she was also invaluable to him, running the household and his calendar, and intimidating those who didn’t toe the line when it came to timeliness—especially in paying him.
Today she was waiting at the front door for him, as if she had a sixth sense that had told her he was on the way. She was small for such an opinionated woman, slim, with a deceptively pretty face. He knew that she was close to sixty, though she could have passed for forty. Once upon a time she had been a dancer, until a broken ankle had ended that dream. She had told him once that she pursued the stage vicariously through him, so he had better be successful.
Closing the door behind him, he groaned. “What is it?”
“Your grandfather.”
Max frowned anxiously, his heart skipping a beat. Mike was back home, where he had wanted to be. He hadn’t been happy about the decision, but he had respected his grandfather’s desire to live where he chose—even though it meant they would no longer have the times together they had once shared. But Mike, despite the fact that he had been nearing ninety, had gotten it into his head to go out on a fishing boat. Not a bad thing in itself, but he’d gone out on high seas, lost his balance, crashed into the hull, and paid for sowing his old oats with a broken femur.
With a Southern Touch: AdamA Night in ParadiseGarden Cop Page 10