For long seconds she felt immeasurably heavy, defeated by the sheer breadth of the challenge that still lay ahead of her. She had no choice but to fight on, but right now it would be nice to be able to call a time-out and curl up in the corner with her thumb in her mouth for a while.
Life didn’t offer time-outs, though. She needed to keep plowing on with her rehab program, and she needed to keep getting better. Otherwise, losing her job wouldn’t only be a possibility; it would be a certainty.
She spent the day in bed and woke feeling marginally better the following day. She swapped the bed for the couch, and the evening found her ensconced on the window seat, Mr. Smith warming her toes as she ate a bowl of soup. The sun had set long ago and the world outside was dark except for the glow of Oliver’s window next door.
She could see him moving behind the thin net curtain. By the way he kept moving in and out of sight, she deduced he was in the kitchen. She watched him idly, her thoughts slow and lazy. She wondered what he was having for dinner, and how he was feeling after their shared ordeal, and if he ever glanced out his window and wondered what she was doing.
Why on earth would he do that?
It was a good question, since she’d already established that she’d given him precious little reason to be interested in anything she might do or say. Plus, he was a married man—she was almost sure of it—so he had no business wondering about her. At all.
She set down her bowl and picked up the book she’d been reading, getting lost in a world of murder and mystery and romance. When she tuned into the real world again she heard music emanating from next door. Acoustic guitar, low and mellow. She wondered idly who it was. She wasn’t a huge fan of instrumentals, but this song was like a warm breeze on a summer’s day, easy and undemanding and thoroughly pleasant. One song melded into another, then another. Then the music stopped and the only sound was Mr. Smith snoring from the other end of the window seat and the creak of the wind in the trees outside.
When she saw Oliver again, she would have to ask him who the artist was. In the meantime, it was time for bed again.
Tomorrow I will start back with my exercises, she promised herself. She would also leave the house, and she would go grocery shopping and, depending on how she felt, she’d invite Oliver over for dinner. Maybe not for tomorrow night, but perhaps the next, which was a Tuesday if her calculations were correct.
If he wanted to come, of course.
Potentially a big if.
CHAPTER FOUR
OLIVER DUMPED THE LAST wheelbarrow load of gravel at the top of the driveway and paused to wipe his forehead with the bottom of his sweatshirt. Most of the gravel had washed down the slope and collected in front of his house thanks to the storm, and he’d spent the past three days alternating between cleaning up outside and trying to set the inside of his aunt’s house to rights.
He wasn’t sure which was the least fun task—sweeping up dirt and shoveling gravel, or cleaning out cupboards filled with the flotsam and jetsam of a lifetime. So far, he’d made half-a-dozen trips to the local charity shop, offloading books and china and knickknacks. He figured there would be many more trips in his future, too, since he’d cleared out only one of the bedrooms and part of the living room.
He grabbed the rake and started spreading the gravel across the driveway. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and he glanced over in time to see someone shifting through the front window of Mackenzie’s house.
He hadn’t had any contact with her since the storm. Hadn’t even heard her calling to Mr. Smith or seen her out in the yard. The lights had been going out very early on her side of the fence, too.
Not that he’d been looking. He’d simply happened to glance out the window a couple of times and noticed she seemed to be keeping very early hours.
None of his business, any of it. Even if there had been a small, completely testosterone-driven part of his brain that had been looking forward to seeing her again.
Amazing the power of a see-through tank top.
He resumed raking, but the sound of a door closing made him lift his head. Sure enough, Mackenzie was descending the steps, Mr. Smith on a leash.
“Hello,” she said.
He lifted a hand in greeting. She approached, Mr. Smith pulling at the leash with the eagerness of a dog that had been indoors for several days.
She surveyed his driveway and grimaced. “I guess the flood messed with your place, too, huh?”
“Not too badly. Just putting this gravel back where it belongs.”
There was something about the way she held herself—a sort of wariness—that made her seem almost fragile this morning. As though a puff of wind or a rough gesture could knock her over.
“I’ve been meaning to come see you,” she said. “I wanted to thank you again for the other night.”
He shrugged. “Really, I didn’t do anything.”
“You saved me from bailing out my house. And I’d really like to cook you dinner to say thank-you. Tomorrow night, if you’re available...?”
Oliver did his best not to let his surprise show on his face, but he wasn’t sure he pulled it off. A dinner invitation was the last thing he’d expected from the difficult neighbor. Any social invitation, really. She’d made it pretty clear she wasn’t into chitchat and small talk.
She was waiting for his answer, her gaze fixed on his face. In full daylight, the color of her irises was nothing short of arresting, reminiscent of the deep, deep blue of tropical water or the clarity of the summer sky.
His first instinct was to offer a polite excuse and keep his distance. They didn’t have the best track record, after all. But there was something about the way she was waiting for his response that appealed to his better nature.
“Dinner sounds great,” he said after a slightly too long silence.
She smiled, the action showcasing straight white teeth and the rather charming crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes. “Is seven okay for you?”
“Sure. What can I bring?”
“Your appetite. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Her dog was sniffing the cuffs of his jeans, clearly looking for eau de Strudel. Oliver bent to scratch him behind the ears.
“Sorry, mate, but she’s inside, staying out of all this mud.”
Mr. Smith gave him a beseeching look.
“I think that’s a plea for clemency. Maybe you could bring Strudel over when you come to dinner.”
Oliver looked into Mr. Smith’s pleading eyes and tried to remember that it had taken this furry Lothario less than twenty-four hours to impose himself upon Strudel in the most intimate way possible. Mr. Smith was the picture of innocence and worthy doggy loyalty.
“That could probably be arranged,” Oliver said.
“Great. Then we’ll both look forward to seeing you tomorrow night. Come on, Smitty.”
Mackenzie gave a little tug on the lead and Mr. Smith fell in beside her as she headed up the road. Oliver stared after her, noting her undemanding pace, the slight stiffness to her gait and the fact that her black pants fit very snuggly over the curves of her small backside.
As he’d already observed, she was too scrawny for his tastes, but what there was of her was nicely proportioned. Small but very nicely formed.
He realized he was staring and shook his head, turning to his work. Tomorrow night was sure to be awkward. They didn’t know each other, so conversation would be polite and superficial and no doubt stilted, as it had been the other night.
It was too late to take back his acceptance, so he would have to simply suck it up and take his medicine. Mackenzie would have a chance to get her gratitude off her chest and any sense of obligation that existed between them would be a thing of the past.
Then they could go back to being strangers and each get on with their lives.
* * *
MACKENZIE SPENT THE evening planning the menu for tomorrow night’s meal, flicking through cookbooks and trying to work out what she could
pull together given the limited supplies likely to be available at the local supermarket. She settled for a pasta dish—tortellini with salami, goat cheese and Kalamata olives, fresh bread and a baby spinach, Parmesan and pear salad. She made a shopping list sitting up in bed, more than a little amused by her own organizational zeal. She was planning this simple dinner with military precision—a strong indication her mind needed more to think about. The sooner she got back to work, the better.
She went into town first thing to do her shopping, then spent the afternoon pottering around the house. She started prepping for dinner at five o’clock so she could take her time and enjoy the process.
She was looking forward to tonight. There was no point denying it, even to herself. Having another warm body to talk to would be a welcome novelty.
“No offense, Smitty, but sometimes a lick and a scratch don’t quite cut it in the witty repartee department.”
Mr. Smith lifted his head from his paws and gave her an uncomprehending look.
“Exactly.”
She had everything prepped by six o’clock, the table set by a quarter past. At loose ends, she wandered into her bedroom and caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror. Her hair was limp and lifeless, her face pale. Her black leggings had seen better days, as had the long-sleeved wool tunic she’d pulled on. Combined with her sensible walking shoes, she looked...frumpy. There was no other word for it.
As if he’s going to notice what you’re wearing. He’s going to have one eye on the exit all evening.
She wasn’t stupid. She’d noted Oliver’s hesitation when she invited him. Given her not-so-enchanting behavior to date, it didn’t surprise her that he might be cautious about breaking bread with her. The last thing he’d be concerned with would be if she looked frumpy or halfway presentable.
So what? It concerns me.
She opened the closet on a surge of determination. She was allowed to look nice if she wanted to. So what if Oliver was unlikely to register the cut of her pants or the drape of her sweater? She would know, and it would be a welcome change from workout pants and warm sweaters.
She pulled on a turtleneck made from cashmere and silk, matching it with her steel-gray wide-legged linen pants. They made her feel elegant, like the heroine from a thirties noir movie, and she felt infinitely better as she slipped on a pair of simple ballet flats and went into the bathroom to do something with her face.
Some blush worked wonders, as did a few swipes of mascara. Her hair, however, refused to cooperate. Amazing to think that it had once been her crowning glory, almost long enough to sit on, a sleek, smooth waterfall of hair that—in her own mind, at least—had made up for the fact that she wasn’t exactly stacked in the breast department. She’d never been the frilly, feminine type, but the swish of her hair against her back had made her feel saucy and womanly and sexy without fail.
Those were the days.
The E.R. nurses had shaved it all off when they prepped her for emergency surgery after the accident. For long days and weeks afterward, it had been the least of her concerns, but there was no denying that it had been a shock to see herself in the mirror for the first time. The scars on her scalp had been visible through the regrowth by the time they let her look in a mirror, ugly and far too visible. She’d waited till she was alone in her room before letting a few silly, vain tears slide into her pillow. A small moment of mourning for her lost mane.
It had been tempting to grow it all out, but it was much easier to maintain this way. She didn’t have to worry about tying her hair back when she was doing her exercises and it didn’t require special conditioning treatments or take half an hour to dry.
She did what she could with some styling product, trying to coax some texture into it. Finally she rolled her eyes at her own reflection and turned away from the mirror.
Enough, already. She was having dinner with the guy next door, not attending a bloody state reception for the queen.
She was heading for the entry hall to turn on the outside light when the phone rang. She grabbed it from its station on the occasional table as she passed by.
“Mackenzie speaking.”
“Mac. It’s me.”
She came to a dead halt as she heard her ex-husband’s voice. It took her a moment to summon the casual tone her pride demanded.
“Patrick. How are you?” she asked coolly.
It had been more than five months since she’d last spoken to him. The ink was long-since dry on their divorce and technically he owed her nothing, not even a phone call or two. But the friends-with-benefits arrangement they’d slipped into in the months before her accident had led her to believe that there was still a degree of affection between them.
Yet another misconception to add to the many misconceptions in their shared history.
“I’m good. How about you?” he asked in the mellow, lovely voice that made women across the nation swoon.
Her ex, the matinee idol.
“I’m well, thanks.”
“That’s really great to hear. Really great. Gordon’s been keeping me up-to-date with your progress.”
“Has he? That’s nice of him.”
Her words hung in the small silence that followed. She could hear the click of a lighter on the other end of the line and guessed he’d started smoking again.
“Okay, fair call,” he said. “I’ve been an asshole. I should have called and I didn’t. I should have sent flowers and I didn’t. I should have done a bunch of things, but it doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking about you. It doesn’t mean I don’t care, Mac.”
Mackenzie stared at the toes of her shoes. There were so many things she could say to him. She could take him to task for being lazy and neglectful. She could tell him that he’d hurt her, that while she hadn’t expected undying devotion, she’d assumed he at least liked her enough to want to check for himself that she was doing okay. After all, that had been the raison d’être of the highly inappropriate affair they’d been indulging in before her accident—that, despite everything, they still liked and enjoyed each other.
There was no point, though. Their marriage was over, and whatever friendship remained was not worth stressing herself over. She only had so much energy to invest at the moment, and Patrick was a bad bet. Too much work for too little return.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to read you the riot act. You’re officially off the hook.”
“Don’t be like that, Mac.”
She pictured his face, the sheepish, naughty-boy hangdog expression he’d be wearing. Patrick was accustomed to skating by on the power of his charisma. Fortunately, she’d become immune to his powers during the first year of their short marriage.
“I’ve got someone coming for dinner any second now. Did you want something or was this just a social call?”
“It’s about work.”
So not a topic she wanted to discuss with Patrick. Anything he had to say was probably the result of gossip and innuendo. She would do better keeping her contact to the show—and her job—limited to conversations with Gordon. So did she really want to hear whatever it was Patrick had to say? “What about work?” Apparently she did.
“You’re not going to like this, but as soon as I heard I knew you’d want to know. Gordon came out to the studio today to talk to Phil. It’s not official yet, but the word is that Phil’s signed on for another two years.”
Mackenzie closed her eyes.
She’d lost her job. All those years she’d put in, slaving away like a good little worker ant. All the unpaid overtime, the days she’d worked when she’d been dead on her feet with a cold or the flu, the many, many times she’d gone beyond the call of duty to get the job done...
All for nothing.
Her loyalty, her passion, her dedication, none of it had mattered when push had come to shove. She’d been replaced.
“Mac? Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
Barely.
“I didn’t want to be
the bearer of bad tidings, but I figured you’d rather hear it from me than through the grapevine. For what it’s worth, everyone thinks it’s a shitty move.”
Everyone being the other members of the cast, she assumed. Which also meant the whole world knew and there was absolutely no way for her to salvage an ounce of pride out of this situation.
“You’ll get something else. The moment you’re back on the market you’ll be snapped up. Everyone knows how good you are,” Patrick said.
It was nice of him to try to bolster her, but they both knew she’d struggle to find a position at the same level. The opportunity to produce a successful show didn’t come up every day in the Australian television industry—and even if something did come up, her accident and extended convalescence were well-known in this tight-knit world. No one would want to take her on until she’d proved she wasn’t a liability or a spent force. She’d have to start the climb all over again....
Despair gripped her. She could live with the fact that she might never regain full range of movement in her arm and shoulder. She could live with the occasional killer headache and the fact that she would never walk with a swing in her hips again. But that job had meant so much to her. She’d been so proud of it. She’d earned it, damn it.
It wasn’t fair. It simply wasn’t. She’d done all the right things. She’d always done all the right things—worked hard, sacrificed, kissed ass, taken shit, swallowed her pride. And a slick mountain road had taken it all away from her.
“Mac, say something. You’re starting to freak me out.”
“I’m okay.”
It was such a lie she could barely get the words out her mouth.
“If you need me, I can be there in an hour. Hour and a half, max. Just say the word.”
She pressed her hand to her forehead. Her fingers were icy cold.
“You don’t need to do that.”
“I want to do it. If I’d be welcome, that is. You don’t deserve this, Mac. No one knows better than me how much you put into your career.”
He’d blamed her work for the breakup of their marriage. Said that she cared more about her career and proving herself than she did about him. It wasn’t true, but the long hours hadn’t helped an already fraught situation, that was for sure.
The Other Side of Us (Harlequin Superromance) Page 6