by Neesa Hart
Resolutely, he dragged his thoughts back to her hair. He wondered if it was as soft as it looked. Unable to resist, he touched it with his gloved fingers. “You have beautiful hair, Maggie.”
Her eyes widened. Scott was suddenly aware of everything about her. He smelled her faint perfume. He could distinguish it from the scent of her shampoo. He felt the rhythm of her breathing, saw the uncertainty in her gaze. Reluctantly, he lowered his hand. “Thank you for going with me tonight,” he said. She continued to stare at him. “I had a good time.” He wanted to ask her out again, wanted it badly, but something in the startled way she was watching him made him hesitate.
“Scott, I—”
“Yes?”
“Would you help me carry Ryan inside?”
He had momentarily forgotten about the child sleeping in the back of the car. He seized the fragile excuse to spend even ten more minutes in the warm cocoon of Maggie’s company like a lifeline. “Of course.”
Scott climbed out of the Bronco, then reached inside to lift Ryan’s sleeping body. “I’ll carry him,” he said. “Why don’t you unlock the door.”
It took Maggie mere minutes to get Ryan settled in his bed. Scott had already called a cab by the time she returned to the foyer. Maggie stood at the top of the landing for several long seconds, watching him. He was staring out the window, his features lit by the moonlight. She had removed her shoes in Ryan’s room, so she padded silently down the carpet.
He started when she touched his shoulder. “Scott?”
He turned abruptly. “I didn’t hear you,” he said. “Is Ryan in bed?”
Maggie nodded. Almost against her will, she laid her open palm on his jacket. “Scott, I—we had a good time. Ryan really enjoyed himself.”
“What about you, Maggie? Did you enjoy yourself?”
“Except for getting lost,” she quipped, uncomfortable with the mounting tension between them. She was having trouble keeping her gaze off the firm contours of his mouth.
“Be honest, Maggie,” Scott said.
She met his gaze. “Yes. I had a good time.”
He breathed a sigh of relief. “Can I see you again?”
“I . . . all right.”
“Ah, Maggie,” he jerked his hands from his pockets to pull her into his arms. When his mouth found hers in a ravenous kiss, she melted into him. The kiss was hot, hungry. Maggie wrapped her arms around his neck even as she forced aside lingering doubts. This was right. Being with him was right.
At the sound of a horn in the distance, Scott raised his head. She gasped at the sudden lack of contact. “My cab’s here,” he said. “When can I see you again?”
Maggie shivered. When? She tried to lock on to a date, and found the edges of her concentration dimmed. “When?” she repeated.
The horn sounded again. “I’m not leaving until you tell me,” Scott said.
“Thanksgiving,” she said.
“Thanksgiving?” he sounded confused.
“It’s the day after tomorrow.”
He nodded. His arms were still wrapped around her. Maggie twined her fingers into the hair at his nape. “I know when it is,” he said. “I planned this trip on purpose. I didn’t want to spend the holiday in Dallas. My family wanted me to come, but I didn’t think I could take it.”
“Ryan and I will be alone here. Why don’t you join us?” She didn’t have time to consider the wisdom of the invitation, or the odd sensation that she was somehow doing something wrong. Scott’s hands were rubbing her back through her wool sweater, and she only knew that she couldn’t let him leave without first ensuring that she’d see him again.
Scott hesitated only briefly before he responded. “As long as you’re sure I won’t be intruding.”
She shook her head. “The truth is, I’d appreciate the company. I wasn’t really looking forward to the holiday anyway, but I felt like it was important for Ryan’s sake to try and restore some semblance of normalcy to our routine.” Maggie leaned her head against Scott’s chest. She ignored the sound of the taxi horn.
Scott waved at the driver through the window, signaling him to wait. “I don’t know, Maggie. It’s kind of a family thing.”
“Ryan’s had a tough time with all this,” Maggie continued, “and I know Christmas is going to be very hard on him. I thought we might try and do a dry run at Thanksgiving, just to see.” She wondered if he’d accept. He seemed wary, as if he, too, knew that the invitation was more than just another date. She was asking him to share a part of her life.
Scott tipped her chin up with his thumb. “What time should I be here?”
When Scott rang Maggie’s doorbell on Thursday morning, he was thankful for the biting cold. It froze the sweat on his palms. He still wasn’t sure it had been wise to agree to share Thanksgiving dinner with her and Ryan. He was even less sure it had been wise to agree to do it at her house, in the center of her life, rather than in someplace more neutral. He was still reeling from the effects of their date two nights ago. There was a connection between him and Maggie Connell that made him feel like the world had tilted off its axis. He didn’t know what it was, but it scared the life out of him.
In the thirty-six hours since he’d seen Maggie, he’d had a nagging, persistent feeling of misery coupled with the strongest sensation of Annie’s presence he’d felt since the days just following her death. It had thrown him mentally off-balance, and he wasn’t sure he was up to handling what could prove to be an explosively emotional situation. Worse yet, he hadn’t had the courage to call her yesterday, and he had no idea if she was as disturbed as he.
The door swung open. Scott stared at Maggie for a few seconds before he thought to say anything. “Hi.”
She studied him warily. “Hi.” Maggie stepped aside and motioned for him to come into the house.
He paused to brush the snow off his shoulders. “I’m sorry I’m a little early. The cab didn’t get here this fast the other night. The guy must have taken a shortcut.”
Maggie shook her head. “I guess you wouldn’t know, would you?” she joked, in obvious reference to his lack of directional aptitude.
Scott choked out a slight laugh. “Guess not.”
She motioned him inside. “Don’t worry about it. In fact, I was just going to try and start a fire in the living room. As long as you’re here, you might as well make yourself useful.”
He sniffed appreciatively at the combination of scents wafting from the back of the house. “Something smells really good.”
She held out her hands for his coat. “It’s the sweet-potato casserole that Ryan insisted we had to have.”
He paused, feeling awkward. Maggie was nervously smoothing an invisible wrinkle off the sleeve of his cashmere coat. He reached over and touched her hand. “Maggie?”
She looked up. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you yesterday. I should have.” She looked so appealing, standing there with an apron looped over her neck and tied around her slim waist. Her blue sweater made her eyes look even clearer than he remembered, and the glimpse of jeans-clad legs beneath the apron hinted at the long, shapely limbs he hadn’t been able to stop fantasizing about. He swallowed.
She shrugged. “Why would you think that? I did wonder if you’d come, when you didn’t call to confirm, I mean, but there was no reason for you to feel obligated to—”
“Maggie,” he said, cutting off her protest. “It was rude. I should have called. I just needed—I needed some distance.” He spread his hands out in front of him. “It’s hard to explain.”
She sighed. “I understand, Scott.” She met his gaze. “I was kind of undone by the whole thing myself.” She juggled his coat onto her other arm. “I’m really glad you came.”
Scott almost sagged in relief. “So am I.” He dropped a brief kiss on her forehead. “Now, which way is the fireplace?”
She waved a hand to her left. “In the living room. If you need anything, I’ll be in the kitchen.”
Scott
made his way into the living room. He took his time building the fire while he studied the room around him. There hadn’t been much time the night of the hockey game.
It was comfortable and unpretentious, with an understated elegance that reminded him of Maggie. Mostly deep blues and soft pinks, its warmth was accented, not diminished, by the homey touches of a hockey stick jutting out from the umbrella stand and the scattered pictures strewn across the mantel.
He lit the kindling and waited, blowing gently until the fire seemed to catch. He stood and examined the pictures. He hadn’t had time to really examine them the other night.
Most were of Ryan. His face was a miniature copy of Maggie’s. There was a formal shot of him, probably a school picture, and another of his tiny body swallowed up in hockey gear. Scott chuckled at another picture where he was covered in mud, holding a squirming cat beneath his arm.
He stopped short when he came to the picture of a Marine captain in dress uniform. Mark. Scott looked closely at the blue eyes, the determined face, the dark hair, and wondered how long before Mark’s death the picture had been taken.
Mark pointed at Scott. “Why is he staring at my picture like that?” he asked Annie.
“Sizing up the competition,” she said.
“That’s not funny.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be.”
“Look, I don’t think this—” he lost his train of thought when he saw Maggie walk into the room carrying a plate of cookies and a coffeepot. “Dinner will be ready in about an hour,” she told Scott as she set her burden on the coffee table. “I made these yesterday, and I thought you might like some coffee. I have soda and tea if you’d rather.”
“Coffee is fine,” Scott said, still staring at the picture of Mark.
“I see you got the fire started.”
Scott turned from his inspection of the mantel to smile at Maggie. At the sight of that smile, Mark felt something uncomfortable shift around in the pit of his stomach.
Scott strolled over to the couch and sat down next to Maggie. “Maggie,” he said, reaching for her hand.
Mark stepped forward, but Annie restrained him with a hand on his shoulder.
“Yes?” Maggie said, pouring a cup of coffee.
Scott leaned back on the couch to stare up at the ceiling. “Nothing. You’ll think I’m nuts.”
Maggie handed him his cup. “Depends on what you have to say.”
Scott took a sip of his coffee. “Yesterday”—he paused—”why I didn’t call you.”
Maggie picked up her own cup. “It’s because of Annie, isn’t it?”
Scott stared at her. “Why do you think that?”
“Because,” Maggie said, “ever since the other night, I’ve had the strangest feeling that Mark was here, watching me.” Annie’s fingers tightened on Mark’s shoulder. Maggie continued to watch Scott. “You’ve felt the same way about Annie, haven’t you?”
Annie gasped. Scott thumped his cup down on the table. “Yes. God. I thought I was going crazy.”
Maggie shook her head. “I felt it, too. Maybe it was the discussion we had on the plane. That was the first time I’ve really talked about Mark with anyone since the weeks following the funeral.”
Mark started pacing the room. “What the hell?” he said, meeting Annie’s gaze. “This has never happened before. At least, not that I know of.”
Annie shook her head. “I don’t think it’s happened to Scott either.”
“What if”—Mark looked back at Maggie and Scott—”what if they are subconsciously aware of us?”
Annie frowned. “What do you mean?”
“What if we really are here? What if they can hear us, see us, and they just don’t know about it?”
“Why wouldn’t they have noticed before?” Annie said, crossing the room to sit next to Scott. She ran her fingers over the moss green of his sweater.
Mark shrugged. “There are two of us now. Maybe it’s like, increased activity or something.”
“You watch too much television,” Annie said.
Mark stalked over to the couch. He braced his hands on the curved back, leaned down, and stared right into Scott’s face. Scott didn’t blink. Mark looked at Annie. “Something is going on here.”
Scott released a long breath. He smiled at Maggie before Annie had a chance to respond to Mark’s challenge. “Well,” Scott said, “at least that’s settled. I’m glad I’m not the only one hearing things that go bump in the night.”
Maggie shook her head. “I’ve heard a few of those myself lately.”
“See,” Mark told Annie. “They can hear us.”
“It’s just an expression.” She waved a hand in his direction. “Shut up for a minute, I want to listen.”
“That’s eavesdropping.”
“It is not.”
Scott swallowed a bite of sugar cookie. He leaned back on the couch. “Maggie, I think it’s more than just the plane.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. I think there’s something going on between us, and we both know where it’s headed.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“I know I’m right. You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it, what it was like,” he said, referring to the kiss.
He knew from the look in her eyes that she had thought about it as much as he had. “I don’t think we should discuss this right now.” Before he could interrupt, she hastened to add, “I don’t want Ryan to hear us talking about it.”
Scott could certainly see the wisdom in that. He felt better knowing she wasn’t simply trying to avoid the issue. “Where is Ryan?” he asked.
Maggie put her cup down on the coffee table. “He’s in the kitchen watching the rolls rise. He thinks they’re breathing.” She looked over her shoulder toward the swinging door. “Ryan! Ryan, honey, come here a minute.”
“Hold on, Mom!” Ryan’s voice came from behind the door.
“Right now,” she said. “Come say hello.”
“What about the rolls?” Ryan called.
“They’ll still be breathing when you get back. Come out here.”
Ryan crashed open the door and ran into the room. He skidded to a stop in front of Scott. “Hi, Scott.”
Scott nodded and stuck out his hand. “Hey, bud.”
“Did you know we’re having sweet-potato casserole?”
“Your mom told me.”
“Then can we build a snowman, right?”
“This afternoon,” Scott said.
Ryan beamed at him. “It has to be a really big one. With a hat, and a broom.”
“Can’t have a snowman without those,” Scott concurred.
“Cool,” Ryan said. “How long do you think it will last?”
Scott met Maggie’s gaze over Ryan’s head. “A very long time,” he said.
Five
Except for Ryan’s polite inquiry as to whether he should set the table for three or five, the rest of the afternoon passed without incident. Maggie was relieved when the meal was finally over, and Ryan seemed ready for a nap, despite his protests to the contrary. Under the guise of letting him listen to music in his room, Maggie took him upstairs. She handed Scott her design book before she left the living room. “Here are my plans for Cape Hope,” she told him. “I’ll be back down in a minute.
Once upstairs, she tucked Ryan in, then bent down to kiss his forehead.
“When can me and Scott build our snowman?” he asked.
“After you wake up.”
“But I’m not tired.”
“I know.” She snapped off the light. The room was dark except for the weak sunlight fighting its way through Ryan’s shades.
“Mom?” he said, visibly stifling a yawn.
“What?”
“Why don’t you think I can see Annie and Dad?”
Maggie closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, Ryan was watching her intently. “I know you think you see them, Ryan, but I want you to stop talking about it in front of Sc
ott.”
“But I really see her, Mom,” he said, looking toward the corner of the room. “She’s standing right over there.”
Maggie sat down on the side of the bed. “I know she’s real to you, Ryan, just like Daddy.”
“No,” he said, staring at the corner. “She’s different than Dad. She’s kind of see-through.”
Maggie stroked the side of his face. “Oh, Ryan.”
“She’s wearing a pink sweater and a pink skirt, and she’s got brown hair. It’s real short, too.”
Maggie tucked the blankets closer around his slender shoulders. “Just try to remember what we talked about, OK?”
Ryan turned onto his side and met her gaze. “I know. She isn’t real. I just think so.”
Maggie felt a twinge of regret at his mournful tone. She brushed a lock of blond hair off his forehead. “She’s real to you, Ryan. Just like Daddy. That’s real enough for me. I just think it’s hard for Scott when you talk about her. So let’s keep it between us. Deal?”
He smiled at her. “OK, Mom.” The last was lost in a massive yawn.
“I love you.”
He mumbled something that might have been “I love you, too,” but Maggie couldn’t be entirely sure.
Scott was waiting for her on the sofa, idly flipping through the sketches she’d handed him. He looked up with a smile. “Is he asleep?”
Maggie nodded. “Out like a light.” He looked at ease, right, seated on her couch. The sleeves of his burgundy-chambray shirt were rolled back to expose strong forearms dusted with light hair and freckles. His long, jeans-clad legs were stretched out in front of him as he examined her designs, and, somehow, impossibly, his masculine presence seemed to belong in the Victorian decor, and among the laces and bows and baskets of her home. She sat down on the couch, indicating the sketches with a wave of her hand. “What do you think?”
“These are amazing, Maggie. I mean, really amazing.”
She looked at him, skeptical. “Do you think so, or are you just trying to make me feel better?”
He shook his head and pointed to a sketch. “I love this. The whole design is wonderful. I don’t think there’s another resort in the country that can come close to this type of concept.”