Second Harmony

by Barbara Bretton

  He glanced again at the pile of tree limbs. Maybe he was the crazy medievalist his neighbors said he was, because now what he needed was to let off steam in the most basic way he could think of.

  To hell with chain saws.

  He got up to get his axe.

  #

  The first thing Sandra noticed when she pulled into her driveway forty-five minutes later was the fact that the streetlights were working.

  The second thing she noticed was the fact that the shoulder-high stacks of tree limbs the handymen had left in front of her garage were missing.

  She cut her Mazda's engine, then got out. A brisk wind was blowing off the sound; the smell of salt and wet earth surrounded her as she searched around the front of her property.

  With the thousands of felled trees on Long Island there was enough free tinder simply for the asking. It didn't seem likely that anyone would bother to steal this particular cache of firewood.

  She thought about her earlier conversation with Michael. She'd told him about the huge pile of tree limbs the handymen had left neatly stacked in the middle of her driveway. Maybe he'd called them back out to cart the wood into her backyard so she could at least use her garage.

  She followed the flagstone path around the side of the house, and was about the enter the moonswept yard when she saw him.

  There, stripped to the waist, his torso gleaming in the luminous silver light, was Michael.

  He raised the axe, its blade poised for one heart-stopping moment over his head, then brought it down in a sweeping arc, until the glittering blade buried itself deep within the fragrant wood of a fallen pine tree.

  Hidden behind the bare lilac bush, she watched him, drinking in the way his torso rippled with lean muscle; she reveled in the shadow formed by the inward curve of his abdomen, the way his jeans dipped low across his hips. His body and the axe were one unit, the motion as fluid and beautiful as anything she'd ever seen.

  She couldn't imagine any of the other men she knew taking such obvious pleasure in physical action for its own sake. No Reeboks, no treadmill, no Nautilus, no incline bench. He didn't monitor his pulse rate every five minutes or balance his upper-body workout with his lower.

  He used his body for the sheer joy of it, the same way he had used his body to bring her more pleasure than she had ever imagined possible.

  He brought the axe down again in a wide, sweeping arc, and she felt as if it were her own resistance to the future being split in two. For a long time she'd recognized the empty spaces in her life that her career could never fill.

  Her engagement to Andrew Maxwell had been an attempt to let go of all that had come before, to embrace the future, uncertain as the future might be. When her mother's illness had suddenly taken hold, she'd turned to Andrew for emotional support, only to find that Andrew had none to give.

  He had his ex-wife to contend with, his three children, mortgage payments, and an upscale career. Sandra would be a welcome addition to his life, an asset to him. He hadn't banked on a mother-in-law who needed round-the-clock nursing care and oxygen tanks and wheelchairs, or on the slim, but real, chance that it might happen to Sandra, too.

  And so Sandra had finally discovered how tenuous their connection really was, a connection born of dinners and late-night talks and shared political viewpoints. She hadn't expected him to understand the responsibility she felt toward Elinor, and, true to form, he hadn't.

  She was willing to shoulder that responsibility on her own and keep her marriage to Andrew separate.

  He had his children to worry about, both the ones already born and the ones he'd thought to have with Sandra.

  He couldn't risk anything less than perfection.

  Andrew was a decent man, but the past meant nothing to him. He had loved the woman Sandra presented to him, the beautiful, brilliant package; he hadn't given a damn about the girl who'd shaped that woman.

  But with Michael it could be different. He'd sat next to her in first grade. He'd given her her first kiss.

  He was her first love, the only person she'd ever trusted with her heart.

  The years had made her cynical, but maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to understand the forces that drove her, the bittersweet responsibilities that had shaped the woman she was today.

  And as she watched him working in her back yard, with the moonlight spilling over him like a benediction, she knew she'd traveled nearly twenty years simply to return to the place where she belonged.

  I

  ~~

  Chapter Seven~~

  Michael had heard her car crunching its way up the gravel driveway. He had listened to the sound of her footsteps against the wet leaves as she came around the side of the house, and his whole body had been aware of her gaze on him as he wielded the axe.

  It would have been a simple matter to acknowledge her presence, but being the object of her scrutiny turned out to be so powerfully erotic that he found himself slowing down his movements, drawing out the moment of discovery as long as he could. His blood was beginning to gather in all the familiar places, a downward rushing of heat and anticipation that made him want to pull her out from the shadows and make love to her right there in the moonlight.

  Finally she stepped out from her hiding place.

  "Hi," she said, her voice drifting toward him on the salty night air. "If you do windows, you've got yourself a job."

  He leaned against the axe handle and casually hooked a thumb into the belt loop of his jeans, as if the sound of her voice hadn't sent a violent surge of desire rocketing through his body.

  "What kind of job you got for me, lady?"

  She walked toward him, a wonderful slow walk that could only belong to a woman approaching her prime.

  She stopped about ten feet away from where he stood. The scent of her perfume mingled with the smell of the Sound, and called to mind sex in all its infinite variations.

  "Do you do windows?" she asked.

  "I don't do windows."

  A smile flickered across her face. "Do you do floors?"

  The axe topped to the ground with a soft thud.

  "Sorry."

  "Walls?"

  "No way."

  "Carpets?" Her smile widened.

  "Wouldn't be caught dead." He took a step forward, closing the distance between them.

  She met him halfway. "Not good for much, are you, mister?"

  He ran his hands down the sides of her arms, then wrapped his fingers around her narrow wrists. "Invite me inside, lady, and we'll see."

  The look she gave him was long and slow and hot,. "Why is it I feel as if I've been set up?"

  He had no answer for that, but then she hadn't expected one.

  She was in his arms before the door closed behind them.

  Sandra leaned across Michael and grabbed another handful of popcorn from the huge bowl propped up on his side of the bed.

  "Okay," he said, grinning as she tossed a kernel in the air and caught it in her mouth, "so now you're in South Dakota. What happened next?"

  For the past two hours, they'd been playing catch-up, filling each other in on the parts of their lives their mutual friends had neglected to mention.

  It was still Sandra's turn, and she felt as if she'd been trapped in a time tunnel. The occasional modeling jobs, the miserable year at Harvard when she went for her MBA, the long hard climb up the ladder at US-National. Amazing how much detail she could remember.

  She took a sip of Beaujolais from the glass they were sharing.

  "You know what happens next. I worked very hard, performed brilliantly, and was transported back to New York in a blaze of glory." She licked some salt off her fingers. "Your turn."

  He took her right hand and drew his tongue across the palm, over the tips of her fingers.

  She laughed as a ripple of pleasure shot through her. "Once more and we'll be in the Guinness Book of Records."

  "I'm game if you are," he said. "It'll be one of those memories we look back at in our old age.
"

  "Will we still be together?" Her voice was soft. "The odds aren't exactly in our favor, Michael."

  He pulled her close, and she let the warm, familiar smell of his body fill her senses.

  "What were the odds that we'd find each other again, Sandy? If we managed this, we can manage anything."

  "I used to daydream about seeing you again," she whispered. "I would be rich and successful and married, and you'd hate yourself for ever letting me go."

  "I didn't let you go. You pushed me away."

  "I was seventeen," she said. "I had to find my way."

  If Sandra had learned anything watching Elinor struggle to keep food on their table, it was that even good men didn't always stick around when the going got rough.

  If a woman couldn't take care of herself, she'd always walk three steps behind.

  "I would have helped you find your way."

  "You hadn't even found your own way, Michael. You were still in love beads and bell-bottoms when I was going for my MBA." She propped herself up on one elbow and kissed the cleft in his chin. "For all I know, you still burn incense and draft cards for old times' sake."

  "What if I told you I was CEO of a Fortune 500 company?"

  "Not with those hands. CEOs have paper cuts, not calluses."

  "Do you still have something against blue-collar workers?"

  "Are my old prejudices coming back to haunt me?"

  "You haven't answered my question." His eyes were riveted to hers.

  She took a deep breath; it wasn't hard to figure that they were venturing out onto thin ice.

  "I never had anything against blue-collar workers," she said. "I hated what they represented."

  "Which was?"

  She made a face. "Elmhurst," she said. "Queens. The subway. The dirt, the noise." The feeling of being dead-ended. "Everything I hated about New York City."

  "You know I never quite believed it was that simple, don't you?" His hand rested against the small of her back. The roughness of his fingertips was in strange contrast to the gentleness of his touch. "You hated yourself too, Sandy."

  She said nothing; his words had hit too close to home. She'd hated the softness she felt every time she looked at him; she hated the deep, yearning feeling that crept into her heart when he held her; she hated the way she wanted just to let go, give in, turn her life over to him and hope for a happy ending.

  Her mother had been trapped by love, first by loving a man, then by loving the small daughter he left behind.

  Michael had represented everything dangerous, everything that could take a woman's dreams and turn them into an endless chain of love that held her back.

  "I've learned a lot since then," she said finally. "I might be slow, but I finally caught on."

  "So how do you feel about blue-collar workers now?" His dark eyes twinkled, but she sensed his underlying anxiety.

  She drew her finger lightly across his chest. "Depends on the worker."

  "I don't wear a suit to work every day. I don't carry a briefcase or read the Wall Street Journal. Can you handle that?"

  She met his eyes. "I don't care, Michael. None of that is important to me anymore." Success came in different guises; it had taken a long time, but she finally understood that. "I don't give a damn if you dig ditches for a living, as long as you're happy."

  She waited for his smile, but it didn't come. Her right eyelid began to twitch.

  "I don't dig ditches," he said, watching her closely, "but I am happy."

  "I'm glad for you."

  "I work in Manhattan." He paused. "At the Cathedral of St. Matthew the Divine."

  "That huge church off Amsterdam Avenue?" There'd been a few items on her desk lately about fund-raising events. "The one that needs money?"

  He laughed, and some of the tension in the room broke up. "That's the one. I'm working on the construction crew."

  She fought down the last vestige of white-collar snobbery left in her. "That's great."

  "But I have another job besides that one."

  "Part-time?"

  "Not exactly." He sat up against the headboard. "Actually, this job's more important."

  Maybe he was back in school, or building a new home for himself. A sign of growth, not failure. "What is it?"

  His chest rose as he drew in a deep breath before answering. "I'm a father."

  She sat up straight and stared at him. "You're what?"

  "I'm a father," he repeated. "I have a five-year-old son."

  What on earth was the matter with her? His words tumbled over themselves inside her head like Scrabble tiles. "You have a son?"

  "David," he said. "He loves chocolate-chip cookies, Fraggle Rock, and the New York Yankees." He took a quick gulp of wine from the glass on the nightstand. Her heart twisted as she saw the way his expression softened. "Not necessarily in that order, you understand."

  No, she didn't understand at all.

  She was finding it hard to understand anything.

  Accepting the fact that he'd been married had been relatively easy. Why hadn't it occurred to her that a child would be the natural result?

  "Well." She took the glass from him and polished off the rest of the wine. "I suppose he lives with your ex-wife?"

  He reached for the bottle on the nightstand and refilled the glass. Somehow she knew that wasn't a good sign.

  "Diana and her husband died in a plane crash last year," he said. "David lives with me."

  "My God, Michael, you spent the night with me Saturday! Where was Donald – "

  "David."

  "Where was he?"

  "Down in Florida with Diana's parents. It was the first anniversary of her death, and . . . " His voice trailed off, and he shrugged. "They said they needed David there to give them strength."

  "When does he come home?" It amazed her that she was able to hold up her part of the conversation, because her mind was numb with surprise.

  Time hadn't stood still for Michael, and she'd been a fool to think that it might have.

  "He was due home this afternoon, but my ex-father-in-law pulled one of his cute tricks on me."

  "Cute tricks?"

  "Custody stuff," he said, swinging his legs off the bed and rummaging through the nightstand. "Don't you have any cigarettes in this place?"

  "I don't smoke anymore," she said. "And don't change the subject. Do you have custody of David?"

  "Of course I do. It's just that they're beginning to get ideas." He pulled out a half-empty pack of Virginia Slims. "Where are the matches?"

  She grabbed the cigarettes from him and threw them across the room. "Talk to me, Michael. Please."

  He sagged back onto the bed. "Can't we keep real life out of here a little longer?"

  She thought about her mother and her own secrets. "Maybe not."

  What had happened to the free-spirited man she had once known? Was nothing the way she had imagined it to be?

  He bunched the pillows behind his back and drew her close to him. "They want my son," he said, his voice harder than she'd ever heard it. "And I'm beginning to get the feeling they'll do anything to get him."

  "But you have custody," she said, pushing away the thought of how much simpler their relationship would be without this child. "You're a decent, hardworking man – at least I think you are." She forced a smile. "What can they do to you?"

  He told her about what had happened that afternoon at the airport.

  "A power play to get under your skin. I wouldn't worry."

  "You don't know the Bentleys," he said. "It's part of a plan." His hand curled into a fist on top of the blanket. "I should've caught on a hell of a lot earlier."

  A tremendous feeling of loss washed over her. The past few days had been filled with the most powerful emotions she'd ever experienced. This unexpected renewal of love, this coming back to the place where she belonged, had given Sandra a sense of the future that shattered all the careful, cautious plans she'd settled on.

  Even her mother's illness
, terrible as it was, could be dealt with if she had Michael in her life.

  Michael McKay, with his rough hands and gentle touch.

  Michael McKay, with his hopes and dreams.

  Michael McKay, with his five-year-old son.

  Why did she feel as if she'd been betrayed?

  "You're quiet," he said after a few moments had passed. "You can't be that surprised about David. People do have kids."

  She pushed away from him and pulled the covers over her shoulders. The room seemed to be growing colder by the second.

  "Sandra?"

  "I don't know what to say. Everything I can think of sounds so incredibly selfish, so horrible, that – " She stopped, horrified to find herself close to tears.

  "I love that kid," he said, gently brushing a lock of hair off her forehead. "He's the only good thing to come out of that lousy marriage."

  "It's ridiculous, and I know it, but somehow I never thought of you as having a child."

  "We didn't plan on David," he admitted. "We'd been talking about divorce, and Diana had stopped taking the pill – hell, I don't have to explain to you how these things happen."

  "No," she said, her tone suddenly sharp. "That's one thing you don't have to explain to me." Her own existence was the end result of just such a slip-up.

  "This is as tough on me as it is on you."

  She said nothing. What was there to say? Nothing would change the fact.

  "I take it you're not crazy about kids," he said.

  "How would I know?" she asked honestly. "You don't meet too many of them in the boardroom at US-National."

  "You must have had a social life out there in South Dakota. Didn't any of those people have kids?"

  "I guess so," she said, "but I was too busy working to ask."

  His expression was an odd mixture of pity and curiosity. "What the hell have you been doing all these years, Sandy? What kind of life have you been living?"

  "Boring," she answered. "Single-minded."

  Arid.