by Julie Miller
Maggie shoved open the door and plowed into the super, Joe Standage. Her cell phone flew across the carpeted floor, a tray of tools spilled in a noisy avalanche and a stepladder crashed into the opposite wall.
“Sorry. Are you all right?”
“Where’s the fire?” he asked, pushing himself upright.
Maggie was quicker to get back to her feet. She scooped up pliers and a screwdriver and dropped them into the tray, then slid her hand beneath Mr. Standage’s wiry arm to help him up. The peppering of gray in his ruffled hair was a closer match to the arthritic knees that made him slow to stand. But the surprising fitness of his arm muscles made her think his turtle-paced, aw-shucks demeanor was more about personality than age. “Long day. I wasn’t looking,” she apologized. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Been doing some work for Miss Applebaum in 716. She fried up another batch of those apple fritters.” He straightened his clothes and picked up his tool tray. “I put in a call to the phone company to have those phones up and running again by morning. I must have accidentally severed a line when I was cutting through a wall to move the cable for her. Got the elevator fixed, though. Found a disconnected wire. No need for you to be taking the stairs anymore, Mrs. Wheeler. Say, have you had any trouble with ants? Miss Applebaum pulled out the sugar when she was baking and found a whole trail—”
While Joe chatted away, Maggie handed him the folded stepladder. The retired gentleman might have time for a friendly confab, but she didn’t. Besides, after that weird encounter with Lawrence Boyle, bugs were the last thing she wanted to think about right now.
“My apologies again.” Maggie scooped up her cell phone and hurried past her own apartment door.
“Don’t you want to know about the ants?”
Ignoring the older man, Maggie knocked on the door of Apartment 709. “Travis?” She pushed her damp hair off her face and knocked again. “Travis, are you in there?”
Miss Applebaum opened the door behind Maggie and poked her wrinkled nose beneath the security chain. “Is everything all right, dear? I heard a crash. It’s not that elevator again, is it?”
“No, ma’am. Joe says it’s working now. Travis?” Maggie knocked again. If her son had added a lie about his whereabouts on top of everything else that had happened this evening…
“Now what?” a new voice asked. “Are the phones working yet?”
Miss Applebaum raised her tinny voice. “No, Bernard. Joe had to call the phone company for assistance.”
Heat crept into Maggie’s cheeks as two more doors in the hallway opened. “Come on, sweetie. Travis?”
The door of 709 suddenly opened in front of her raised fist and she punched John Murdock in the middle of the chest. The big man filled the doorway. He wore a barbecue apron beneath the belt of his jeans and was drying his hands on a towel.
Maggie pulled her hand back. “I’m sorry. Is Trav—”
“He’s here. He’s safe.”
The concise words had no time to register before his hazel eyes darted to the left and the right. Instinctively, Maggie turned her gaze to follow his lead. Miss Applebaum was still checking on the commotion in the hallway. Bernard Cutlass stood in his pajamas and groused about rude people and needing to call his daughter in Belton. Joe Standage was holding the elevator doors open; his face was wreathed with concern. One by one she became aware of eyes at each of the occupied apartments on the seventh floor.
“It’s just a miscommunication, folks.” John’s big hand closed around Maggie’s wrist, the warmth and sureness of his touch jolting her again. “Everything’s all right.”
He pulled her inside and shut the door behind her before letting go. He angled his head down to hers, filling up her vision with a square jaw and narrowed eyes. “Did I just lie to those people? Or does every evening here have this much drama?”
“I’m sorry I hit you. Where’s my son?”
The square jaw backed away. “Kitchen.”
Maggie darted through the apartment, its layout mirroring hers next door, and found Travis at the table, doing his homework. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, Mom? That’s all you have to say?” Clothes were dry, face was smiling. He looked normal and safe and content, and she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him.
“Told you she’d be worried.” John moved past them to check something on the stove. Maggie pulled Travis to his feet, nestled her cheek against his thick, damp hair and hugged him even tighter. “As soon as I realized you didn’t know he’d called me, I had him use my cell phone.”
“Do you have any idea how scared I was?”
Sooner than she wanted, Travis wriggled free. “Mom, jeez.”
Maggie captured his chin in the palm of her hand and looked down into his sweet green eyes. “Don’t you ever do anything like that again. I went to the ballpark. I couldn’t find you. You wouldn’t answer your phone.”
“I couldn’t.” He squinched his face up in apology and sat back at the table.
“Coach Hernandez should never have left you…” Cool it, Maggie. The coach was someone Travis looked up to. She shoved aside the tendrils of hair sticking to her damp skin. “It was getting dark and it was raining and there was a man there—”
“What man?” Casual though an apron and soup ladle might make him appear, there was a probing intensity in John’s eyes that reached her clear across the room. “The last couple of vehicles were leaving when I picked him up. No one was in the stands.”
Maggie shivered at the assessing gaze that pierced through the armor she wore, inside and out. But she shook her head, dismissing his concern. Danny Wheeler and Lawrence Boyle and lousy timing were her problems, not his. She wound her arms around her own waist, trying to alleviate a chill that couldn’t be entirely blamed on the wet clothes she wore.
“You’re all I have, sweetie. And with work and that reporter and…” She fisted her hands beneath her crossed arms so she wouldn’t embarrass Travis with another hug. “I couldn’t find you. I didn’t know you were safe.”
“I borrowed Juan’s phone to call the fire station and John came and got me. I took care of the situation myself. You don’t have to worry about me.” He did a very good imitation of mature, but his next sentence reassured her that Travis was still her little boy. “And please don’t call me sweetie.” His eyes flicked to the man at the stove and he dropped his voice to a whisper. “Not in front of other people.”
A relieved laugh sneaked out. She just couldn’t resist reaching out and mussing his hair with her fingers. She felt the dampness of it and remembered she must look like a waterlogged mess herself. “You’re ten years old, not thirty. I’m supposed to take care of you.”
John set down the ladle and joined them at the table. “Come on, slugger. Finish that last problem so I can clear things off and set the table.” He looked over the top of Travis’s head to Maggie. “You two want to stay for dinner?”
Another dinner invitation from a man? When had she ever been this popular? And when had it ever been a good idea for her to think about saying yes?
“Please, Mom?”
The tug at her sleeve wasn’t nearly as persuasive as the warmth that spread through her beneath John Murdock’s focused attention. As her fear for her son’s safety dissipated, other sensations were sneaking in—like the way John hadn’t budged when she’d knocked on his chest. Like the distinctly masculine hills and hollows filling out his khaki-green T-shirt, and the way the color of the cotton intensified the pale green of his acutely observant gaze. And she couldn’t help but notice that he was tall enough that even she had to tip her chin to see the color and expression of those intriguing eyes.
That surprising appreciation about a man made her self-conscious about how she must look. The rain had probably washed away what little makeup she did wear. Damp strands of hair had escaped from her bun and kinked around her face and collar. And even though it hadn’t mattered for a long time, she knew her mannish uniform, thick belt and Kevlar trans
formed her figure into something about as feminine as the long plank table between them.
No, she needed to get out of here before she did something silly like accept his invitation. Travis was the only guy she needed in her life.
“We wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Aw, Mom.” Travis moaned on three different pitches.
“I wouldn’t have invited you if it was an imposition. Food’s made. There’s plenty. Stay and eat. Or don’t.” John’s matter-of-fact offer was an embarrassing reminder that he hadn’t asked her on a date. This was about food, practicality and being kind. And they’d have a ten-year-old chaperon, for Pete’s sake.
She must be in a pretty vulnerable state to be worrying about such things around a man who was more stranger than friend. Yet he’d rescued her son. He’d answered the call to protect the most precious thing in her life when she hadn’t been there to rescue him herself. He’d touched her, and she hadn’t minded. He didn’t remind her of Danny Wheeler in any way.
Moody as he seemed to be, John Murdock was a good, decent man. Maggie had known far too few of those in her life. Maybe that’s all this sudden attraction was. He was a good guy, the kind of man she wanted her son to know. The kind of man who should be their friend.
And whatever he was cooking, it really did smell wonderful. That was some kind of spicy stew, and corn bread if she wasn’t mistaken. Her empty stomach grumbled in noisy appreciation. Oh, yeah, she was a real catch right now. Like she should worry about becoming anything more than friends.
“Do you have honey to go with that corn bread?” she asked.
“I bet I could find some packed in a box somewhere.”
“Does that mean we can stay?” Travis really did seem to like the guy, and John didn’t seem to mind the adulation.
“Can you give me five minutes to change into some dry clothes?”
John nodded.
“All right, then. We’ll stay.”
“Yes!”
Maggie rested a hand on Travis’s shoulder to calm him down. “Just for dinner. We don’t want to take up any more of John’s time. And you and I will clean up the kitchen afterward.”
Travis’s groan was as loud as his cheer had been.
John grinned, transforming his chiseled features into something quite handsome and making her pulse trip over itself when he turned that smile on her. “Sounds like a deal to me.”
“Finish your homework.” She sat Travis back in his chair and returned to the living room. John followed her out to escort her to the door.
She’d been in such a rush on the way in that she hadn’t paid any attention to the decor. While she had to admire a man who could move in one day and have most of his stuff unpacked and put away so quickly, she wondered at the lack of personal touches. The only shots of color in the room were the spines on a collection of books that filled an entire shelf from floor to ceiling—and the rich navy blue of his Marine Corps uniform in a plastic cleaner’s bag draped over the back of the couch.
“That’s impressive.” Drawn to the subtle display of pride and patriotism, she detoured to the sofa to get a closer look at the brass buttons and royal blue slacks with the red stripe down the side.
“Just got them out of storage yesterday.”
“My dad was a marine, too. But his uniform was a little different—he was enlisted.”
“Ooh-rah.” John stopped at the front door and turned. “Where did he serve?”
“Quartermaster Corps out in Barstow.” She blinked away the grim memories of her teen years in Southern California. “He was killed in a motorcycle accident off base.”
“I’m sorry.”
Soon after, she’d met a young Navy seaman named Danny Wheeler, who’d seemed like the answer to her heartbreak. Her late mother had approved of Danny, had told her it would be good to have a man in the family again. Thank God her mother hadn’t lived to see how her marriage to Danny had turned out.
Maggie blinked again and forced herself to concentrate on the computer-generated pattern of grays and tans on John’s utility work uniform. She gently shifted the carefully pressed dress blues aside to get a better look. “Even the camouflage looks different from what Dad wore. That was a different generation, I guess.”
Beneath the camo uniform she found an open box. She immediately recognized the Purple Heart container and reached inside to retrieve it. Danny had burned her father’s service mementos one drunken night in an effort to keep her from putting any other man before him. She blinked away that raw memory, too. “Dad had one of these from his tour of duty in Vietnam. Before I was born.”
She couldn’t help but let her gaze slide over to the denim pant leg that folded in around John’s artificial limb. “Can I ask what happened? Does it still hurt?”
John crossed the living room and plucked the felt box from her fingers. “That’s a conversation for another night.”
She noticed the felt covers of several other medals when he placed the Purple Heart back inside the moving box.
“Are you pinning these on your uniform?”
“No. Just haven’t got them put away yet.”
Another medal case caught her eye and she reached inside to pick it up. Her neighbor was even more of a hero than she’d defended against Lawrence Boyle that evening. “But you should, Captain. At least put them in a display cabinet. A Silver Star is something to be proud—”
He grabbed the medal and dumped it back with the others. Then he quickly scooped up the box and uniforms, shoved them in the front closet and shut the door—taking away any trace that he was a military man…beyond the buzz cut of pecan-brown hair and the proud carriage of those broad shoulders. “It’s just John, remember? You’d better get out of those wet things before dinner gets cold.”
“I’m sorry if I said something wrong. I was just admiring—”
“You didn’t say anything wrong.” He drilled her with a look that told her his words weren’t entirely true.
She’d touched a nerve. But as someone who’d completely fried her own nerves for the day, she understood his need to avoid touchy subjects right now. She headed for the door he held open for her. “Okay, Just John. Thank you—for everything this evening. I’m not used to depending on anyone else.” She wanted to say or do more, but the steely cast to those suddenly cold eyes told her that no apology would be welcome. So she opted for a simple smile and a quick exit. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Chapter Six
11:47 p.m. John read the time on the table beside his bed and tried to remember the last time he’d gone this long without checking a clock or watch and wondering when something would end—like lying in a burning vehicle and listening to his comrades dying, pushing himself to the limits during a painful physical-therapy session, or working side by side with Meghan Taylor and pretending he didn’t care.
But tonight he hadn’t thought about time. He hadn’t thought about Meghan. He hadn’t really thought much about the war he’d left behind. There’d been no past to grieve or regret, no future to worry about. For a few hours tonight, he’d simply lived in the moment.
Dinner with the Wheelers had been surprisingly relaxing and fun and…distracting. Maggie was true to her word, taking only a few minutes to change and come back. She’d washed away the smudges of mascara that had shadowed the freckles beneath her eyes. And even though she hadn’t released her hair from that practical bun she liked to wear, it was nice to see her in civvies and discover that the curvy hips and butt down below were balanced with equally sweet curves on top.
Not that he’d complimented her or flirted. He’d just noticed. A lot. He’d noticed the way she’d loaded up her corn bread with honey, and then licked the sweet golden mess off her fingers. She was genuinely pretty and unpretentious and crazy about her son.
And yeah, maybe his ego had taken a few strokes when he’d caught a soft smile or curious glance directed his way. But he wasn’t looking for a relationship or date, or even the chance to exerc
ise some of the other parts of his body that hadn’t seen any action since the roadside bomb outside that Afghan village. He didn’t need to be with anyone until he was sure his body could keep up with his brain, and he was certain he could keep the demons that sometimes still haunted him back in the past where they belonged.
Besides, Travis Wheeler had demanded the bulk of his attention at the dinner table. The boy had thoroughly tested John’s knowledge of all things baseball, and only the promise of spending some time in the batting cage with him before his game on Thursday night had finally been enough to let John turn the dinner conversation to something other than sports.
Not that Maggie let the discussion stray to anything deeper than the jovial incompetence of their building super. Joe Standage was as friendly and helpful as they came, but it had already been a comedy of errors when it came to fixing things around here. The elderly lady whose apartment sat kitty-corner from John’s had complained about a leaky toilet and wound up having to replace her entire bathroom floor after a visit from Joe. Then there was the stuck elevator, and the phones that were still out of order. He’d gone down to the basement himself to inspect the leads running through the building. Judging by the sloppy work he’d seen, the super was lucky that his power saw had cut through a telephone line instead of one carrying electricity to the seventh floor. Could the guy in charge of building maintenance really make so many mistakes? Or was someone deliberately sabotaging things on the seventh floor, leaving Joe to clean up afterward?
John had learned several other things about the tenants on the seventh floor. Maggie had warned him to expect gifts of baked good from Miss Applebaum. And that the Wongs would probably not come out of their apartment to interact with him, but that they would somehow know everything that was going on in the building anyway. Bernie Cutlass talked like a grouch, but he’d been a heck of a lot friendlier before his wife of fifty-some years had passed away last year.
John had learned that Travis loved science and math but thought reading was for girls. After the meal, he’d introduced Travis to his library in the living room, earning a hidden thumbs-up from Maggie. Then she’d insisted on putting away the food and loading the dishwasher by herself, urging John to keep her son interested in the books on his shelves. He’d been happy to lend Travis a couple of YA books—one about a dog who was adopted by an Army unit, and a classic fantasy by Madeleine L’Engle.