by Neesa Hart
Scott seriously considered ignoring the intrusion, but he could feel Maggie pushing at his chest. Reluctantly, he lifted his head. Max Wedgins was standing in the middle of Maggie’s living room. He was dressed in black evening clothes, complete with a heavy wool cape and top hat. “Max,” he said.
Max’s lips turned into a smile. “Sorry to interrupt, Bishop.”
Maggie scrambled up from the couch. “What are you doing here?” she asked Max.
Max tipped his black top hat to her. “Madam, that is no way to speak to your future employer.”
“Future employer?” Maggie said.
“Yes.” Max reached into his pocket and removed three envelopes. “I was going to forestall this announcement until Monday, but your rather passionate argument changed my mind.”
Scott stood up. He frowned at Max. “What argument?”
Maggie poked him in the ribs. “I’ll tell you later. Max,” she said, “I hope you know I meant what I said.”
“Of course,” he said. He handed her the first envelope. “There is an advance for your expenses. I shall expect you to coordinate with the architect on any changes.”
“Max—” she tried again.
He handed the second envelope to Scott. “I trust, Bishop, there is enough there to cover the expense of your relocation to Cape Hope. I can’t have you coordinating this project all the way from Dallas.”
Maggie’s mouth dropped open. “You’re giving the bid to Scott?”
Max gave her a wry look. “I had already decided to do so. You don’t think I was taken in by the rather dubious charms of Irene Fussman, do you?”
“I—Carl said that you—”
Max fingered the third envelope. “I was curious about you, Maggie. I’ll admit to doing a bit of manipulative matchmaking. I wanted to see just how important the bid was to you. When you showed up at my house to argue on Scott’s behalf, I knew that was the kind of passion I wanted on this project. I was also fairly certain you were having a good bit of difficulty with your relationship with poor Mr. Bishop. Your former husband and I discussed it at length.”
“You talked to Mark?” Maggie asked.
“See, Mom. I told you.” Ryan slid his hand into Maggie’s.
Scott was staring at Maggie. “When did you go see Max?”
“Later,” she told him. “How could you have talked with Mark?” she asked Max.
Max pushed his hat back on his head with the tip of his walking stick. “You know, of course, that I’m insane? Everyone says so. It does have certain advantages, being out of one’s mind, that is. I could see him all along.”
“Is he here now?” Scott asked.
“Oh no. He’s gone. I believe he was waiting for the two of you to get things straightened out.” He looked at Scott. “Your Annie is gone, too. I assure you, they’re quite pleased with the whole business.”
“This is unbelievable,” Maggie muttered.
“I hope you’ll forgive an eccentric man’s irresistible impulse to meddle, and accept my sincere congratulations.”
Scott nodded. “Sure.”
Max looked at Ryan. “And lest you think I’ve forgotten your part in this, young man”—he handed the last envelope to Ryan—”this is for you.”
“What is it?” Ryan stared at the envelope.
“Four season tickets and two locker-room passes for the Boston Bruins. I confess, I don’t know a thing about hockey, and now that I own the team, I’ll expect you to keep me well informed about their doings.” He gave Ryan a conspiratorial wink. “Perhaps you’d better call me from time to time and give me an update.”
Ryan tore open the envelope. “Oh, cool! Mom, I gotta call Franklin.” He raced out of the room.
Max spun his walking stick between his fingers. “Now that we have that settled, I’ll expect to see you both in Carl Fortwell’s office the Monday following the new year. We have a resort to build.” He turned toward the door.
“Max,” Maggie said, “you’re welcome to stay for lunch. That is, if you don’t have other plans.”
“Alas,” he said, indicating the limousine parked at the curb, “I have already made arrangements for my holiday celebration.”
Bobbi leaned against the limousine. Through the open door, a pair of shapely legs, complete with Christmas red high heels were visible. Maggie giggled. Max brushed the snow from his cape with a dramatic sigh. “Perhaps I shall accept that invitation at another time.”
“The door’s always open,” Scott said.
Max nodded. “I’ll remember.” He regarded the two of them carefully. “I suppose I will have to delay building long enough to allow you a proper honeymoon. Ah well, a month should do it. With all this snow we’ve had, there’s no doubt our groundbreaking will be put off any way.” He tipped his hat. “Merry Christmas. Tell Ryan I’ll be expecting his call.”
He walked out the front door, closing it quietly behind him. Scott looked at Maggie. Maggie looked at Scott. They both started to laugh. Scott grabbed her around the waist and spun her in a circle. “If I hadn’t seen it myself, I never would have believed it.”
Maggie framed his face in her hands and kissed him. “I love you, Scott.”
“I love you, back,” he said.
She shook her head. “You don’t think he really talked to Mark, do you?”
“Who knows?”
Maggie looked at the tree. “I can’t deny that I felt like I could hear him talking to me this morning.”
“Do you think they were here all along?” Scott asked.
“I don’t know. It seems incredible.”
“Ryan was so sure.”
“So was Max.”
They stared at each other. Maggie listened to the wind in the eaves. “It couldn’t be. Could it?”
Scott opened his mouth to answer when a sudden draft wafted across the room. The bells on the Christmas tree jingled. The tinsel shimmered in the slight breeze. He felt the faint gust of air brush against his face.
“Scott,” Maggie said.
“Yeah?”
“I think Mark’s picture just winked at me.”
Epilogue
One year later
Mark dug his toes into the sand, with a loud, lusty yawn. A man could get used to this. After he and Annie had left Cape Hope, they’d decided they had seen enough of snow and ice for a while. Except for the occasional visits they made back to Massachusetts, they spent their days on this tropical island. Mark had begun to see Annie in a whole new light after they’d left Cape Hope, and lately he was beginning to see signs that maybe she wasn’t oblivious to him either. It was looking eminently possible that this life after death wasn’t as bleak as he’d first thought.
He was suddenly aware of Annie’s presence beside him. He opened one eye. “Where have you been?”
“Around,” she said.
He gave her a knowing look. “You were in Cape Hope, weren’t you?”
“I just wanted to see how they were spending Christmas this year,” she said. She looked defensive.
“Yeah, right.”
She poked him in the ribs. “You’re the one who sneaked back on Thanksgiving so you could smell Maggie’s sweet-potato casserole.”
“Well, at least I didn’t cry myself silly when Amy was born.”
“It was sweet,” Annie said.
“I don’t see what was sweet about Scott passing out.”
“He was moved by the moment.”
“He was sick as a dog.”
Annie flung a handful of seawater at him. “You’re hideous.”
He grabbed her hand. “That was cold.”
She splashed him with her foot. The spray hit him square in the face. At his startled yelp, she tugged her hand free. She began running down the beach. “Bet you can’t catch me, Romeo.”
Mark took off after her.
Maggie rubbed her foot against Scott’s bare leg. “How much longer do you think we have?” she asked.
He craned his neck to look at
the clock. “It’s five-thirty. Ryan should be begging to get under the tree in about ten more minutes.”
Maggie traced a lazy pattern on his chest. “Do you want your Christmas present now?”
He arched an eyebrow. “Can I have it in ten minutes or less?”
She tweaked one of his curling hairs. “You’re rotten.”
“What am I supposed to think when you ask me a question like that while you’re draped all over me?”
“I should have known.”
Scott heard a slight sound from the nursery adjacent to the bedroom. “Make that five minutes,” he said. “She’s gonna be squalling for breakfast any second now.”
Maggie stretched, wondering how it was possible to feel so content. She could hear the wind whistling through the eaves of the house. They had never bothered to have the draft fixed. It meant too much to them both. Maggie propped her head on Scott’s chest. “Do you think they’re arguing?” she asked.
He knew right away she was referring to Mark and Annie. “Who knows. They sure do make enough noise up there.”
“I think they’re really happy, Scott.”
“I know they are.”
She kissed him. “I’m really happy.”
“I didn’t think it was possible to be this happy,” he confessed.
Maggie glanced at the family portrait now prominently displayed on their dresser. “Scott?”
“Hmmm?”
“What would you say if I told you that by this time next year, we’d have to have a new portrait made?”
He looked at the picture. “Don’t you like that one?”
“I love that one. It’s just that it’ll be incomplete by next Christmas.”
“Incom—” He stopped. “Maggie, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“How do you feel about adding another room onto the house?”
Scott laughed as he rolled her beneath him. “Really?”
“Really. I’m due the end of September.”
“You don’t mind do you? I mean, it’s so soon after Amy.”
She shrugged. “I would have liked to have waited a little while longer, but we’re so, well, compatible. I guess it was kind of inevitable.”
Scott kissed her soundly. “I have never felt this good in my whole life.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Merry Christmas, darling.”
“Merry Christmas,” he said, bending to kiss her again.
The shutters began to rattle, and the windows to squeak. The sun glistened on a fresh Christmas snow. And the wind blew through the frost-laden pines of the quiet corner of paradise in a place called Hope.
About the Author
NEESA HART, who writes contemporary romance under her own name and historical romance as Mandalyn Kaye, lives outside Washington, D.C., where she says “truth really is stranger than fiction.”
An avid romance fan for years, she got hooked while majoring in international affairs and geography in college. “Romances,” she said, “were always more fun, more informative, and more relaxing than anything I was supposed to be reading for class.” After a brief political career, including a Senate confirmed appointment to the President’s Council on Women’s Educational Programs, Neesa abandoned the hectic world of politics to pursue her dream as a full-time author. “Nothing,” she says, “could be better than telling stories for a living.”
Her interests, other than writing and reading, include volunteering at her church, collecting Barbie dolls, watching professional hockey, and playing the banjo. One day, she hopes to learn to pick “Oh, Susannah.”
Neesa loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her at: 101 E. Holly Avenue, St. 3, Sterling, VA 20164 or email [email protected]
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Copyright
Inside cover author photo by James Stephenson/Chrysalis Studios
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
HALFWAY TO PARADISE. Copyright © 1999 by Moneesa Hart. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Published by arrangement with the author
ISBN 0-380-80156-6
EPub Edition JUNE 2013 ISBN 9780062303387
First Avon Books Printing: April 1999
AVON TRADEMARK REG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND IN OTHER COUNTRIES, MARCA REGISTRADA, HECHO EN U.S.A.
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