by Metsy Hingle
When he returned to the table, he was surprised to find that Lily had bought him a large cup of coffee. “I remembered you ordered a cup after your meals at the diner,” she explained, lowering her green eyes shyly.
“Thanks,” he told her, sliding back onto his seat at the booth. “What about you?”
“I think I’ve had enough caffeine for one day,” she said with a smile. “I’m not usually much of a lunch-eater. And today I not only had lunch, but dessert, too.”
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those women who are always on a diet? Because if you ask me, you could even stand to gain a few pounds.”
“Thanks. I think,” she said, parroting his earlier response to her at a backhanded compliment. “And no, I’m not a dieter. But I guess I serve so many breakfasts and lunches at the diner, I must inhale some of the food, because I’m usually not hungry until dinnertime.”
“Mommy, I pway on swide?” Timmy asked, motioning to the playland outside the window where at least a dozen little ones were enjoying themselves.
“Sweetie, we’ll come back another time and you can play. Mr. Sullivan needs to be going.”
“I’m in no hurry,” Michael assured her. “Come on, I’ll take the coffee outside. And while he’s playing, maybe I can convince you to let me take you out for dinner and spring for a real thank-you meal.”
“I’ll agree to going outside and letting Timmy play while you finish your coffee,” she said as the three of them headed outdoors. They’d no sooner gone through the doors when Timmy charged straight for the playland.
“And the dinner?” Michael prompted once they’d sat down at one of the picnic-style tables.
“I meant what I said earlier, Michael. I’m not interested in a relationship.”
“Who said anything about a relationship? All I’m asking is for you to have dinner with me.”
“It isn’t going to work, you know.”
“What isn’t going to work?” Michael asked innocently, flashing her a smile.
“You trying to charm me with that sexy little grin of yours.”
“You think my grin’s sexy?” he asked.
She shot him a reproachful look. “I think you’re very skilled at getting people to do what you want—particularly when it comes to women.”
“You make me sound like some kind of Casanova.”
“I don’t mean to. The truth is, I think you’re a really sweet guy.”
Michael cringed at the description and glanced around furtively. “Careful, you’ll ruin my reputation.”
Lily laughed, as he’d wanted her to do. “What I’m trying to say is that I like you, and I appreciate your being so nice to Timmy.”
“Why do I think there’s a ‘but’ coming?”
“Because there is. But I’m all that Timmy has. His father…his father died before he was born, and neither of us have any other family. So Timmy has to be my first priority. There’s no room in my life for anyone else. And if I were to go out with you, well, it just wouldn’t be fair to you. You should be spending your time and money on a woman you might have a chance of developing a relationship with. I’m not that woman.”
“What if I were to tell you that you’re the woman I want?” The question tripped off his tongue before he could stop it, and Michael was shaken because he realized that he’d meant it.
Lily lowered her gaze, but not before Michael caught the flicker of yearning in those green eyes. He hadn’t remained a single heterosexual male for the past thirty-three years without knowing when a woman was attracted to him. Lily was attracted to him—even if she didn’t want to be.
“Then I’d have to tell you that I’m sorry, because I’m not available.”
Her statement hit him like a slap to the face, a slap that brought him back to his senses.
Of course, she isn’t available. She already has a man—a husband. A husband who’s paying you one million bucks to bring her back to him.
The reminder made him furious. With Webster. With her. But mostly with himself. How in the devil had he managed to let his feelings get all tangled up where she was concerned?
“We should go. It’s time for Timmy’s nap,” she said, and went to retrieve her son.
Timmy zonked out within minutes of strapping him in the car seat. And since the drive back to Lily’s place was relatively silent, Michael used the short trip to get a grip on his ricocheting emotions. By the time he turned onto Lily’s street, he had himself and his objectives under control. But judging by the way Lily’s fingers kept curling and uncurling around the strap of her purse, he’d made her more nervous than ever.
When he pulled up to the curb in front of her house Lily jumped out of the truck. “If you’ll give me a minute to get Timmy inside, I’ll come back and get the car seat,” she told him.
“Hang on a second.” Quickly he exited the truck and came around to the rear passenger door where she was fighting to unhook the safety belt on Timmy. “Why don’t you let me get that,” he suggested, and without waiting for her to comply, he shoved her fingers aside. He released the catch and removed the slumbering little boy from the seat.
“I’ll take him,” Lily told him as she held out her arms.
“Go unlock the door, Lily. I’ll carry him in for you.”
“That’s not necessary. I can—”
“Lily, go unlock the door,” he said firmly, using the same tone with her that he’d used when reprimanding Janie’s boys.
She gave him a mutinous look, removed the car seat from his truck and shut the door. Then she turned and headed up the stairs to the porch of the house. After she’d unlocked the door and placed the car seat on the floor, he followed her inside. “Timmy’s room is at the end of the house.”
Holding Timmy in his arms, Michael followed her through the long, narrow house. As he did so, he caught glimpses of the small, neat and sparsely furnished rooms. Lily pulled back the colorful comforter atop the bed and Michael laid the little boy down. She covered him, then pressed a kiss to his head before exiting the room and pulling the door almost closed. Silently she headed back toward the front of the house. Since he knew she was probably eager to get rid of him, Michael stopped at the kitchen. “You’ve done a nice job in here.”
Lily paused, turned to face him. “Thanks. And thanks for the lunch.”
When she turned and started to lead him to the door again, Michael walked over to the small two-burner stove and said, “I forgot to ask Mrs. Davis. Is it gas or electric here?”
“Gas,” she told him with a sigh. “Most of these old shotgun houses are equipped for gas heat.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask how come they call these houses shotguns?”
“Michael, I really did mean what I said. I’m not going to change my mind. There’s no room in my life for anyone but my son.”
“Not even a friend?” he countered. When she eyed him warily, he told her, “Listen, I understand what you’re saying. I may not necessarily agree with it, or even like it. But I do understand. Remember that friend I told you about? The one with the two boys?”
Lily nodded.
“Her name’s Janie. Her husband was my best friend, and he was…he died when their youngest son was less than a year old. That was five years ago, and Janie’s been totally devoted to her two boys ever since,” Michael explained, opting for the truth and hoping that maybe by doing so Lily would open up and tell him who she really was. He didn’t know why it suddenly mattered to him that she be honest with him—especially when he hadn’t been honest with her. But for whatever reason, it did matter. “Anyway, a couple of weeks ago Janie told me that she thought maybe she’d been unfair to her boys and to herself by shutting herself off from any other relationship all these years. Maybe you’re making the same mistake.”
“I’m not,” Lily insisted.
“All right. But it seems to me that everybody could use a friend. I know I could. I’d like to think that, if nothing else, we can be friends.”
&nbs
p; “I’m not sure that’s possible.”
“We could try.”
“Michael, it’s—”
“Come on, Lily. All I’m asking is for friendship. How much harm can there be in you offering me a cup of coffee and telling me about shotgun houses?”
Nine
Lily didn’t know how it had happened. One minute she’d been prepared to kick the man out, tell him she didn’t want him as a lover or a friend. And the next minute she was brewing a pot of coffee and sitting across the kitchen table from him, explaining the history of shotgun houses.
“So what you’re saying is that the people built these long, skinny houses as a way to beat the tax collector.”
“Partially,” Lily conceded. “But since the lots were only thirty-by-a hundred feet, it was actually an efficient way to house a lot of people on a limited piece of land. Since this particular house is a double, it was probably built originally to house two families.”
“There certainly are a lot of them in this neighborhood.”
“Not just in this neighborhood. You’ll find shotguns throughout New Orleans. Depending on whether or not you classify the side-halls as shotguns, about forty-nine percent of the housing in the city consists of shotguns.”
Michael took a bite of one of the chocolate chip cookies she’d piled on a plate between them. “Shotguns. You think when this place was built, the owner actually shot a bullet through the front door and then dashed around back to see if it went straight through the rear door without hitting anything in between?”
Lily shivered as Michael repeated the explanation she’d given him on how the houses were given their name. “I certainly hope not,” she said. After her own experience of finding Timmy with Adam’s gun, she didn’t ever want to see a gun again.
“How old do you think this house is?”
“It’s Italianate in style, and those were most popular during the Victorian period and post-Civil War until about 1900,” she told him, caught up in the subject. She’d always adored architecture and had spent countless hours studying houses. “If you noted the brackets on the front galley—”
“Brackets?”
“The fancy millwork,” she explained. “It’s a hallmark of the late-Victorian style.”
“For someone who’s only lived here for a few months, you certainly know a lot about the architecture.”
Lily flushed. She wrapped her hands around the glass of milk she’d poured herself in lieu of coffee. “I like houses. Ever since I was a little girl, I used to make sketches of homes I liked. And it’s become sort of a hobby of mine to study old houses like this one. It’s fun being able to find identifying marks like the brackets or the quoins.”
“Coins?”
Lily laughed. “It’s pronounced coins, but it’s spelled ‘quoins.’ Those are the raised, squarish decorative elements that line the top to bottom at the front edges of facades on some of the houses. Anyway, it’s a challenge to try to analyze all the components of a house and be able to pinpoint its age and the era it was built in.”
“Maybe you should think about going into restoration work. You know, someone who comes in and takes an old place like this one and restores it to the way it looked originally.”
“I could never do that,” she told him.
“Why not? You certainly know enough about it.”
“You need a degree in architecture and probably one in design or something before you can get a job like that. I never even went to college.”
“So? Go now and get your degree,” Michael said as though it were the easiest thing in the world.
“I’m twenty-five years old. And I have a child to support.”
“First off, twenty-five is young. And there are women a lot older than you are with more than one child to support who go back to college. You can, too. There are all kinds of programs available to help working mothers. Seeing how much you love this stuff, I think you’d be crazy not to consider making a career of it.”
“I already have a career. I’m a wi—” Lily caught herself, cutting off the familiar response Adam had given her when she’d told him she wanted to go to college. “I’m a mother,” she corrected. “Being Timmy’s mother is the only career I want.”
Michael narrowed his eyes. “You were about to say you have a career as a wife, weren’t you? Is that why you didn’t go to college and study architecture? Because your husband didn’t want you to?”
Nervous, Lily brought her hand to her throat. “My husband preferred that I be a full-time wife…and a mother after Timmy was born,” she added.
“I thought you said he died before Timmy was born?”
Lily paled, realized the slip she’d made. “He did. But when I was pregnant, he used to say how good it was going to be for Timmy to have a mother who didn’t work and could be at home with him instead of leaving him with a nanny or sending him to a day-care center.”
“It sounds to me like your husband was pretty domineering.”
“He wasn’t,” Lily defended, because she felt that she should. “My husband was older than me. He knew a great deal more than I did, and I respected his judgment.”
“Yet you work now, and I assume Timmy’s in day care while you’re at the diner,” he pointed out.
“Timmy stays with a friend of mine while I’m working. And I work now because I’m a widow and I have to.”
“Didn’t your husband have any insurance?”
“Yes. Of course he did,” Lily said. “But his death was unexpected and the coverage wasn’t enough.”
“You never did say what happened to him.”
Lily’s gaze shot to Michael’s face. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, how did your husband die? Was he ill? Or in an accident?”
“It was a car accident,” she said, wanting to kick herself for being so jumpy. “I was pregnant with Timmy and he was racing to get me to the hospital. Only there was a nasty rainstorm that night, and the roads were dark and wet,” she told him, describing the night she’d gone into labor and Adam had taken her to the hospital. She’d been so frightened when she’d started to bleed that night and Adam had talked of miscarriages, had claimed a miscarriage was God’s way of correcting a mistake.
“What happened?”
Lily swallowed and pulled her thoughts back to the present. “He took one of the turns too fast and lost control of the car and hit a median. I was thrown from the car, hardly had a scratch on me. But my husband…he was killed instantly.” She’d told the lie so often, Lily could almost believe it was true. That Adam had wanted Timmy. That there really had been an accident and that he’d died rushing her to the hospital for Timmy’s birth.
“I’m sorry,” Michael said. “That must have been pretty tough for you. I mean, having your baby on the same day you lost your husband.”
“Yes, it was.” Lily closed her eyes a moment, recalled her utter joy and relief when she hadn’t miscarried and Timmy had been born a month early, but healthy. And she’d been so sure that once Adam had seen his son, held him in his arms, he would love Timmy as much as she did. Only, Adam hadn’t wanted to hold Timmy, and he’d looked at their son as though he were an annoying pet who’d just soiled his Aubusson rug. Adam’s only concern had been whether the C-section would leave a scar and how long it would be before she could resume her marital duties.
“Lily?”
She snapped her eyes open at the feel of Michael’s hand touching hers. She jerked away from him. “I’m sorry.”
He frowned, stared at her out of worried blue eyes. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. I just don’t like talking about it.” And that was the truth. “I think I’m going to break down and have a cup of coffee after all. Would you like another cup?”
“Sure,” he told her. “But why don’t you let me get the coffee.”
“No. I’ll do it,” she insisted, needing to move, needing to escape the memories Michael’s questions had brought to the surface.
“Ti
mmy? Was that your husband’s name?”
“No. Timmy’s named after my maternal grandfather.”
“You and your grandfather were close?” he asked.
“No. I never even knew him. But my grandmother raised me, and I guess I learned to love him through her memories.”
“She sounds pretty special. Does she live here in New Orleans?”
“No. She passed away when I was fifteen,” she said as she set out a cup for herself and reached for the coffeepot. “You certainly do ask a lot of questions.”
“Sorry. Occupational hazard, I guess. I used to be a cop.”
Lily felt the glass coffeepot slide through her fingers. And then suddenly everything seemed to move in slow motion. She heard the glass carafe shatter, could see herself grabbing for it, the shards of glass slicing her hand, blood dripping onto the countertop and floor. Through a haze in which the room had begun to spin, she saw Michael’s lips move as he called out her name, saw him rushing toward her.
“Dammit! Lily? Lily?”
Finally his voice penetrated. So did the icy water coming from the faucet at the sink under which he’d shoved her hand. Lily looked at the blood running down the drain with the water. Suddenly she could feel the net closing around her again. And she was back in Miami, trapped once again in the fancy house with Adam. Only this time…this time Timmy was dead.
“Lily, look at me,” he demanded.
Lily looked up at him, and when she realized it was Michael her knees went slack.
Michael swore again. He shoved Lily’s hand back under the water. He had expected a reaction from her. Hell, he’d wanted one, he admitted. He wanted to see the guilt cloud her eyes, maybe even a flicker of fear that he was onto her. He’d wanted something, anything, that would make him shut off these tender feelings she kept stirring inside him. Because telling himself that she’d drugged and robbed her husband, then kidnapped her son sure as hell wasn’t working.