by Nora Roberts
with her head feeling just right on his shoulder, he wasn’t so sure. “Friends?”
“I guess.”
“I haven’t had a chance to ask you how long you’re staying.”
“I haven’t had a chance to decide.”
“Your schedule must be packed.”
“I’ve taken a few months.” She moved restlessly. “I may go to Paris for a few weeks.”
He picked up her hand again, turning it over. Her hands had always fascinated him. Those long, tapering fingers, the baby-smooth palms, the short, practical nails. She wore no rings. He had given her one once—spent the money he’d earned mowing grass all summer on a gold ring with an incredibly small emerald. She’d kissed him senseless when he’d given it to her, and she’d sworn never to take it off.
Childhood promises were carelessly broken by adults. It was foolish to wish he could see it on her finger again.
“You know, I managed to see you play at Carnegie Hall a couple of years ago. It was overwhelming. You were overwhelming.” He surprised them both by bringing her fingers to his lips. Then hastily dropped them. “I’d hoped to see you while we were both in New York, but I guess you were busy.”
The jolt from her fingertips was still vibrating in her toes. “If you had called, I’d have managed it.”
“I did call.” His eyes remained on hers, searching, even as he shrugged it off. “It was then I fully realized how big you’d become. I never got past the first line of defense.”
“I’m sorry. Really.”
“It’s no big deal.”
“No, I would have liked to have seen you. Sometimes the people around me are too protective.”
“I think you’re right.” He put a hand under her chin. She was more beautiful than his memory of her, and more fragile. If he had met her in New York, in less sentimental surroundings, would he have felt so drawn to her? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
Friends was what he’d asked of her. He struggled to want no more.
“You look very tired, Van. Your color could be better.”
“It’s been a hectic year.”
“Are you sleeping all right?”
Half-amused, she brushed his hand aside. “Don’t start playing doctor with me, Brady.”
“At the moment I can’t think of anything I’d enjoy more, but I’m serious. You’re run-down.”
“I’m not run-down, just a little tired. Which is why I’m taking a break.”
But he wasn’t satisfied. “Why don’t you come into the office for a physical?”
“Is that your new line? It used to be ‘Let’s go parking down at Molly’s Hole.’”
“I’ll get to that. Dad can take a look at you.”
“I don’t need a doctor.” Kong came lumbering back, and she reached down for him. “I’m never sick. In almost ten years of concerts, I’ve never had to cancel one for health reasons.” She buried her face in the dog’s fur when her stomach clenched. “I’m not going to say it hasn’t been a strain coming back here, but I’m dealing with it.”
She’d always been hardheaded, he thought. Maybe it would be best if he simply kept an eye—a medical eye—on her for a few days. “Dad would still like to see you—personally, if not professionally.”
“I’m going to drop by.” Still bent over the dog, she turned her head. In the growing dark, he caught the familiar gleam in her eye. “Joanie says you’ve got your hands full with women patients. I imagine the same holds true of your father, if he’s as handsome as I remember.”
“He’s had a few…interesting offers. But they’ve eased off since he and your mother hooked up.”
Dumbfounded, Vanessa sat up straight. “Hooked up? My mother? Your father?”
“It’s the hottest romance in town.” He flicked her hair behind her shoulder. “So far.”
“My mother?” she repeated.
“She’s an attractive woman in her prime, Van. Why shouldn’t she enjoy herself?”
Pressing a hand against her stomach, she rose. “I’m going in.”
“What’s the problem?”
“No problem. I’m going in. I’m cold.”
He took her by the shoulders. It was another gesture that brought a flood of memories. “Why don’t you give her a break?” Brady asked. “God knows she’s been punished enough.”
“You don’t know anything about it.”
“More than you think.” He gave her a quick, impatient shake. “Let go, Van. These old resentments are going to eat you from the inside out.”
“It’s easy for you.” The bitterness poured out before she could control it. “It’s always been easy for you, with your nice happy family. You always knew they loved you, no matter what you did or didn’t do. No one ever sent you away.”
“She didn’t send you away, Van.”
“She let me go,” she said quietly. “What’s the difference?”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
With a shake of her head, she pulled away. “I stopped being her little girl twelve years ago. I stopped being a lot of things.” She turned and walked into the house.
Chapter 3
Vanessa had slept only in snatches. There had been pain. But she was used to pain. She masked it by coating her stomach with liquid antacids, by downing the pills that had been prescribed for her occasional blinding headaches. But most of all, she masked it by using her will to ignore.
Twice she had nearly walked down the hall to her mother’s room. A third time she had gotten as far as her mother’s door, with her hand raised to knock, before she had retreated to her own room and her own thoughts.
She had no right to resent the fact that her mother had a relationship with another man. Yet she did. In all the years Vanessa had spent with her father, he had never turned to another woman. Or, if he had, he had been much too discreet for her to notice.
And what did it matter? she asked herself as she dressed the next morning. They had always lived their own lives, separate, despite the fact that they shared a house.
But it did matter. It mattered that her mother had been content all these years to live in this same house without contact with her only child. It mattered that she had been able to start a life, a new life, that had no place for her own daughter.
It was time, Vanessa told herself. It was time to ask why.
She caught the scent of coffee and fragrant bread as she reached the bottom landing. In the kitchen she saw her mother standing by the sink, rinsing a cup. Loretta was dressed in a pretty blue suit, pearls at her ears and around her throat. The radio was on low, and she was humming even as she turned and saw her daughter.
“Oh, you’re up.” Loretta smiled, hoping it didn’t look forced. “I wasn’t sure I’d see you this morning before I left.”
“Left?”
“I have to go to work. There’re some muffins, and the coffee’s still hot.”
“To work?” Vanessa repeated. “Where?”
“At the shop.” To busy her nervous hands, she poured Vanessa a cup of coffee. “The antique shop. I bought it about six years ago. The Hopkinses’ place, you might remember. I went to work for them when—some time ago. When they decided to retire, I bought them out.”
Vanessa shook her head to clear it of the grogginess. “You run an antique shop?”
“Just a small one.” She set the coffee on the table. The moment they were free, her hands began to tug at her pearl necklace. “I call it Loretta’s Attic. Silly, I suppose, but it does nicely. I closed it for a couple of days, but… I can keep it closed another day or so if you’d like.”
Vanessa studied her mother thoughtfully, trying to imagine her owning a business, worrying about inventory and book-keeping. Antiques? Had she ever mentioned an interest in them?
“No.” It seemed that talk would have to wait. “Go ahead.”
“If you like, you can run down later and take a look.” Loretta began to fiddle with a button on her jacket. “It’s small, but I have a lot of
interesting pieces.”
“We’ll see.”
“Are you sure you’ll be all right here alone?”
“I’ve been all right alone for a long time.”
Loretta’s gaze dropped. Her hands fell to her sides. “Yes, of course you have. I’m usually home by six-thirty.”
“All right. I’ll see you this evening, then.” She walked to the sink to turn on the faucet. She wanted water, cold and clear.
“Van.”
“Yes?”
“I know I have years to make up for.” Loretta was standing in the doorway when Vanessa turned. “I hope you’ll give me a chance.”
“I want to.” She spread her hands. “I don’t know where either of us is supposed to start.”
“Neither do I.” Loretta’s smile was hesitant, but less strained. “Maybe that’s its own start. I love you. I’ll be happy if I can make you believe that.” She turned quickly and left.
“Oh, Mom,” Vanessa said to the empty house. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Mrs. Driscoll.” Brady patted the eighty-three-year-old matron on her knobby knee. “You’ve got the heart of a twenty-year-old gymnast.”
She cackled, as he’d known she would. “It’s not my heart I’m worried about, Brady. It’s my bones. They ache like the devil.”
“Maybe if you’d let one of your great-grandchildren weed that garden of yours.”
“I’ve been doing my own patch for sixty years—”
“And you’ll do it another sixty,” he finished for her, setting the blood pressure cuff aside. “Nobody in the county grows better tomatoes, but if you don’t ease up, your bones are going to ache.” He picked up her hands. Her fingers were wiry, not yet touched by arthritis. But it was in her shoulders, in her knees, and there was little he could do to stop its march.
He completed the exam, listening to her tell stories about her family. She’d been his second-grade teacher, and he’d thought then she was the oldest woman alive. After nearly twenty-five years, the gap had closed considerably. Though he knew she still considered him the little troublemaker who had knocked over the goldfish bowl just to see the fish flop on the floor.
“I saw you coming out of the post office a couple of days ago, Mrs. Driscoll.” He made a notation on her chart. “You weren’t using your cane.”
She snorted. “Canes are for old people.”
He lowered the chart, lifted a brow. “It’s my considered medical opinion, Mrs. Driscoll, that you are old.”
She cackled and batted a hand at him. “You always had a smart mouth, Brady Tucker.”
“Yeah, but now I’ve got a medical degree to go with it.” He took her hand to help her off the examining table. “And I want you to use that cane—even if it’s only to give John Hardesty a good rap when he flirts with you.”
“The old goat,” she muttered. “And I’d look like an old goat, too, hobbling around on a cane.”
“Isn’t vanity one of the seven deadly sins?”
“It’s not worth sinning if it isn’t deadly. Get out of here, boy, so I can dress.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He left her, shaking his head. He could hound her from here to the moon and she wouldn’t use that damn cane. She was one of the few patients he couldn’t bully or intimidate.
After two more hours of morning appointments, he spent his lunch hour driving to Washington County Hospital to check on two patients. An apple and a handful of peanut butter crackers got him through the afternoon. More than one of his patients mentioned the fact that Vanessa Sexton was back in town. This information was usually accompanied by smirks, winks and leers. He’d had his stomach gouged several times by teasing elbows.
Small towns, he thought as he took five minutes in his office between appointments. The people in them knew everything about everyone. And they remembered it. Forever. Vanessa and he had been together, briefly, twelve years before, but it might as well have been written in concrete, not just carved in one of the trees in Hyattown Park.
He’d forgotten about her—almost. Except when he’d seen her name or picture in the paper. Or when he’d listened to one of her albums, which he’d bought strictly for old times’ sake. Or when he’d seen a woman tilt her head to the side and smile in a way similar to the way Van had smiled.
But when he had remembered, they’d been memories of childhood. Those were the sweetest and most poignant. They had been little more than children, rushing toward adulthood with a reckless and terrifying speed. But what had happened between them had remained beautifully innocent. Long, slow kisses in the shadows, passionate promises, a few forbidden caresses.
Thinking of them now, of her, shouldn’t make him ache. And yet he rubbed a hand over his heart.
It had seemed too intense at the time, because they had faced such total opposition from her father. The more Julius Sexton had railed against their blossoming relationship, the closer they had become. That was the way of youth, Brady thought now. And he had played the angry young man to perfection, he remembered with a smirk. Defying her father, giving his own a lifetime of headaches. Making threats and promises as only an eighteen-year-old could.
If the road had run smoothly, they would probably have forgotten each other within weeks.
Liar, he thought with a laugh. He had never been so in love as he had been that year with Vanessa. That heady, frantic year, when he had turned eighteen and anything and everything had seemed possible.
They had never made love. He had bitterly regretted that after she had been swept out of his life. Now, with the gift of hindsight, he realized that it had been for the best. If they had been lovers, how much more difficult it would be for them to be friends as adults.
That was what he wanted, all he wanted, he assured himself. He had no intention of breaking his heart over her a second time.
Maybe for a moment, when he had first seen her at the piano, his breath had backed up in his lungs and his pulse had scrambled. That was a natural enough reaction. She was a beautiful woman, and she had once been his. And if he had felt a yearning the night before, as they had sat on the glider in the growing dusk, well, he was human. But he wasn’t stupid.
Vanessa Sexton wasn’t his girl anymore. And he didn’t want her for his woman.
“Dr. Tucker.” One of the nurses poked a head in the door. “Your next patient is here.”
“Be right there.”
“Oh, and your father said to stop by before you leave for the day.”
“Thanks.” Brady headed for examining room 2, wondering if Vanessa would be sitting out on the glider that evening.
Vanessa knocked on the door of the Tucker house and waited. She’d always liked the Main Street feeling of the home, with its painted porch and its window boxes. There were geraniums in them now, already blooming hardily. The screens were in the open windows. As a girl, she had often seen Brady and his father removing the storms and putting in the screens—a sure sign that winter was over.
There were two rockers sitting on the porch. She knew Dr. Tucker would often sit there on a summer evening. People strolling by would stop to pass the time or to relay a list of symptoms and complaints.
And every year, over the Memorial Day weekend, the Tuckers would throw a backyard barbecue. Everyone in town came by to eat hamburgers and potato salad, to sit under the shade of the big walnut tree, to play croquet.
He was a generous man, Dr. Tucker, Vanessa remembered. With his time, with his skill. She could still remember his laugh, full and rich, and how gentle his hands were during an examination.
But what could she say to him now? This man who had been such a larger-than-life figure during her childhood? This man who had once comforted her when she’d wept over her parents’ crumbling marriage? This man who was now involved with her mother?