That Special Smile/Whittenburg

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  Max sighed and remained silent until they reached the concrete steps in front of his house. Then he released her hand and gestured grandly toward the porch. “What a romantic way to end an evening. Almost as good as a crossword puzzle.”

  Sylvie laughed and led the way to the door, where she waited while he opened it, switched on a light, and motioned for her to enter. Inside, he took her coat and casually tossed it on the couch.

  “Come along,” he said, moving toward the kitchen doorway. “You can tour the workroom to your heart’s content while I prepare our nightcap.”

  “I’d prefer coffee.” She dropped her hat onto the couch beside her coat and smoothed her disheveled hair.

  Max stopped. “Please don’t take every word I say literally. I was referring to the coffee. Nightcap tonight equals coffee. Any other questions?”

  She merely smiled and followed him into the kitchen, which was remarkably similar to Juliette’s. Max stepped to another doorway, reached around the doorjamb and flipped on a light. “Be my guest.”

  Sylvie didn’t wait for further invitation. She’d wanted to see his studio for quite some time. In fact, she’d teased him for weeks, telling him she knew his workshop at home was a smoke screen, invented as an alibi for staying at home instead of going to his store.

  But it was real.

  And so were the toys, in various stages of creation, that littered all the available work space. Max obviously did work here, and as she wandered at random about the room, Sylvie felt as if she were seeing a whole new facet of his personality.

  The pride he took in his craft was evident in everything she saw.

  It still amazed her that Max’s large hands could create the delicate, lifelike features of a doll’s face. But there was something more here, an aura different from that of the toy store, a lingering sense of ideas rather than polished products. This room held a part of his soul, and Sylvie felt honored to have been allowed to enter it.

  When she realized he was still standing in the doorway, she pivoted slowly, wanting to express her approval, but not knowing exactly how to go about it. “You could have invited me sooner. I’d never steal your secrets.”

  “Maybe I thought you’d steal something else.”

  She smiled gently, uncertain of his mood. And her own. “Don’t worry. Your coffee recipe is safe with me.”

  His lips made no attempt to form an answering curve and as he turned toward the kitchen, Sylvie called out to him. “Max? I just wondered why you never let me see your workroom before.”

  He turned back, his eyes dark and intensely blue, his expression pensive as he regarded her from the doorway. “A lot of me is in this room. Not everyone would understand that.” He paused. “Maybe you don’t either.”

  How could she not understand? She’d known for quite some time that he was a creative, tender and sensitive man. She just hadn’t realized how much she liked knowing it.

  “I’ve never met anyone like you.” It wasn’t what she wanted to say, but it was as close as she could come at the moment. “You’re a limited edition.”

  He stood there in the doorway, his eyes holding her steady, and then slowly, inexorably, she was drawn forward.

  She stopped just short of his reach, but as his hand grasped hers, she knew she’d somehow miscalculated. His arms went around her and her sudden reaction was both self-protective and involuntary.

  “Have you tried to find a distributor for your dolls, Max? I’m sure with the right marketing techniques, you could – ”

  “Not now, Sylvie.” The remaining distance into his arms was bridged forcefully and without hesitation. He took her lips roughly, but he excused the action by thinking that at least she’d know he was serious.

  Why did she always do that to him? Just when he felt she was beginning to understand, just when he’d decide she had finally accepted him as he was, she’d suggest something he needed to do in order to make himself better. She’d patronized him just now with her business expertise. Why did he allow her to act as if he were totally innocent of the most simple business logic and needed her guidance?

  The tension in her body ebbed beneath his touch, and the denigrating questions washed away with it. Max reacted instinctively, gathering her close, feeling her pliant response to his kiss. He discovered he no longer cared about anything except holding and touching her.

  Sylvie, finally, was returning his investment.

  Her lips moved against his, her body pressed into him, and he ached to hold her even closer. He’d thought from the first day they met that she was vulnerable beneath her veneer of brash sophistication; he’d known that, if she ever stopped thinking of him as a man who was not at all her type, she would discover the multitude of things they had in common.

  But even as he savored the warm taste of her lips, he was aware of his own conflict. He wanted to make love to her, but how could he, when he knew she didn’t understand his most basic motivations? Sylvie wanted him to be something he wasn’t, something he would never be.

  Not by her definition, anyway.

  Slowly, reluctantly, he drew back and watched the expression in her green eyes change from soft surrender to apprehensive questioning. His body told him to settle for the moment and strive to win her understanding later, but his heart warned him to hold out for more.

  “If I’d known how impressed you’d be, I’d have invited you into my studio sooner.”

  Sylvie tried to catch her breath and her racing pulse. He sounded so unaffected, so normal. How could he be so nonchalant about a kiss that had changed her whole concept of the term serious? She drew a long, unsteady breath. “It’s just as well you didn’t.”

  “Why?” His voice was light, not teasing, but hardly shaky either.

  With forefinger and thumb on either side of her glasses, she refocused, tried to find some logical answer, and finally said the first thing that came to mind. “I have no idea. I don’t even know what I meant to say.”

  His grin was slow as he tapped her chin with a playful knuckle. “Take your time, Sylvie Anne. Maybe it will come to you.” He turned and went into the kitchen, glancing back at her over his shoulder. “Ready for that nightcap now?”

  She felt as if she’d just had one nightcap too many. “No.” She followed him at a slower pace. “I probably should go home. If Juliette had car trouble or Benton trouble or anything, she might, uh, need me. And since I’m here instead of there....”

  The sentence was lost along with her train of thought. Maybe she ought to have a nightcap after all, or another kiss. Or maybe she just ought to get the hell out of Max’s kitchen.

  “Since you’re here…?” Max prompted.

  “No one’s there.” Which made no sense, except in some dazed corner of her dazzled brain.

  His eyes teased her again, and yet she recognized a shadowy tension at the corners of his mouth.

  “Then I suppose you should be there. We can have coffee some other time.”

  He could have sounded a little unhappy about it, Sylvie thought. “Yes, some other time. It was a … a lovely evening, Max. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I’d offer to hold your hand while you walk across the yard, but I know you don’t need that kind of protection. Good night, Sylvie. Be sure the door closes behind you. Sometimes the latch doesn’t catch.”

  Put like that, dazed or not, she didn’t know what choice she had except to get her coat and go.

  Outside, the snow welcomed her into a cold world that was turning whiter by the minute. Snowflakes waltzed past like debutantes at a winter ball. Sylvie stuck her hands in her coat pockets and lowered her head to keep the icy drops from her face. The white, frosty air made her think of the sugar angel in the candy-shop window.

  Only, of course, it was just crochet.

  Max had a lot to answer for, she decided. Kissing her like that and then sending her home.

  Alone.

  Juliette would have known how to turn that one kiss into several and win an
overnight invitation if she’d wanted one. But Sylvie had gone straight from a promising beginning to a terse good-night and she didn’t have any idea how it had happened.

  No, actually, she did know.

  It was Max’s fault.

  She had thought he was serious this time. All week long he’d smiled at her in that special way, touched her as if he couldn’t help himself, watched her lips when she talked ... little details that he’d meant for her to think about and wonder about and anticipate.

  And she had, although she’d tempered the reasoning with a healthy measure of doubt. All her life she’d known the appropriate thing to say at all the appropriate moments ... except when there was a man involved. She’d always had trouble adjusting from casual conversation, with which she was comfortable, to the whispered vows of undying devotion, with which she was distinctly uncomfortable. At the crucial moment in a relationship, when it was balanced precariously near commitment, she found herself skeptical, wondering if forever after was possible or just an advertising gimmick.

  But Max had courted her in such a subtle, teasing sort of way that she hadn’t considered the possibility of a relationship developing between them.

  And yet, tonight, she had believed he was serious. She’d wanted to believe it and that in itself, she supposed, was the classic punch line to her own private joke.

  She, Sylvie Anne Smith, who would be thirty years old in a matter of weeks, who was ambitious and successful and particular, was serious about a man who was thirty-five and had no higher aim in life than to create exquisite toys that he was content to sell to tourists. He wore denim, flannel, and canvas almost exclusively, but when he kissed her, she didn’t care if he owned a pinstripe suit.

  Sylvie sighed her frustration with Max’s behavior and with her own feelings.

  Well, she had been warned.

  But who would ever have thought Juliette knew anything about fate?

  When she reached the driveway, she paused. Her leased car was parked in the drive as usual, and Benton’s sporty Lexus was parked closer to the house with Juliette’s Mini Cooper squeezed between the two.

  Sylvie pursed her lips and moved past the cars to the house.

  The windows were dark and the only sign of habitation was the faraway sound of the stereo. A little mood music.

  She wished Juliette had switched on the porch light but, in a very few minutes realized that was the least of her troubles.

  She was locked out.

  The front door, the back door, and the windows were locked.

  And Juliette had the keys, all of them. With a sigh Sylvie looked around. Pounding on the door was a possible means of entry, she supposed. Calling her sister’s phone was another. But considering the evidence – Benton’s car, the stereo, and no lights – Sylvie decided that would be wasted effort for some time to come.

  Her gaze slid to the lighted porch next door as she considered her options. A plan of action wasn’t difficult to decide; she would tell Max she’d changed her mind about the nightcap and first thing Monday morning she would see an attorney about putting Juliette up for adoption.

  Chapter Eight

  “What do I get out of this?” Max asked as he watched Sylvie take off her coat and toss it on the sofa.

  “Backgammon,” she replied with crisp, clear irritation. “Double or nothing.”

  “Keep in mind I’m the rescuer in this situation. I’ve offered you the use of my couch. What more did you want?”

  “A little mood music.” The words snapped past her lips with all the frustration of the last half hour.

  “Sorry. The closest I could come to your mood is the 1812 Overture.”

  “How do you feel about humming?”

  “I prefer a full orchestra, but if you want to give it a try, I’m all ears.”

  “Forget it, Max.” Sylvie ran restless fingers through her hair. She was not going to beg him to kiss her. She wasn’t. “Would it be possible to have that nightcap now? Something lighter, brighter, and more numbing than coffee?”

  He folded his arms across his chest and regarded her pensively. “Beer or wine?”

  “That ought to do it.” She sank onto the sofa and leaned down to rub the chill from her ankles. Her feet were cold, too, but as she cupped the back of her shoe to remove it, she glanced at Max. He was still standing, still eyeing her with undue caution. “Do you mind if I take off my shoes?”

  The corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly, before mischief etched the crease in his cheek. “Feel free to take off anything you like.”

  “What is this? I ask for a glass of wine and you suddenly become Mr. Hospitality?” She kept her gaze on him as she slid off first one gray pump and then the other.

  “Just trying to be a good neighbor.”

  “Oh, is that why you practically pushed me out the door a little while ago?” She hadn’t meant to mention that, hadn’t wanted him to know it bothered her, but at the moment she couldn’t think of a good reason for him not to know. Consequently, her tone was sharp and brusque. “You might have walked with me as far as the front door, Max.”

  “I wasn’t feeling very neighborly then.” His amusement faded from sight. “And come to think of it, I don’t feel very neighborly now either. Your quarrel isn’t with me, Sylvie. You might keep that in mind.” He walked past her and stopped in the kitchen doorway to look back. “How much wine do you think it will take?”

  Sylvie lifted her chin. “To do what?”

  “To lighten, brighten, or numb you.” Max raised his brows in answer to the challenge in her voice. “Of course.”

  “Of course,” she said sweetly. Rising, she followed him into the kitchen and watched as he opened a cabinet. “How much will it take to make you feel neighborly?”

  “I don’t know, but we’re not going to find out tonight.”

  “Does that mean I’m drinking alone?”

  He set a glass on the counter and opened the refrigerator. “You got it, neighbor.”

  Sylvie pursed her lips, pushed up her glasses, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She waited until he set the wine bottle on the table and uncorked it. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m not thirsty after all.”

  His eyes clashed with hers across the width of the kitchen; then he shrugged, corked the bottle, and put it back in the refrigerator.

  Just as he put away the glass and closed the cabinet door, she cleared her throat. “On second thought, maybe I will have ...”

  “Think again, Sylvie. It’s cold outside.” The slant of his lips left her in no doubt that he was only not teasing.

  “It’s cold in here.” She leaned a shoulder against the door casing. “But I can’t figure out why. I’m the one who’s locked out. I’m the one who’s being taken advantage of.”

  “Does that give you a monopoly on the feeling?” Max braced a hand on the counter and irritably-tapped his fingers. “Has it ever occurred to you, Sylvie, that Juliette isn’t the only member of your family who takes advantage of others?”

  Sylvie drew a deep breath. “I assume you’re not referring to my father.”

  “No one could fault your intelligence,” Max said. “But your sensitivity leaves something to be desired.”

  She pivoted away from his accusing blue eyes. “I don’t have to listen to this.”

  “Which only proves my point.”

  She pivoted back. “It proves nothing. If I – ”

  “If you were the least bit sensitive to my feelings you wouldn’t always be on the receiving end of this relationship.”

  “W-what relationship?” She took a step toward him, stopped, touched her glasses and let her hand fall to her side. “I didn’t think we.... ”

  “Well, what did you think, Sylvie? That I had nothing better to do with my time? Didn’t you consider that maybe – just maybe – I made time to be with you? That I enjoy your company, that I like being with you? You’ve never once admitted that you even like having me around. And it would be nice to he
ar you say it once in a while. It would be nice to have you tell me how you feel and what you want. A relationship has to be reciprocal, Sylvie. Don’t you think it’s about time you faced up to that?”

  “I told you in the beginning I wasn’t looking for a relationship.”

  “And I said one just might find you anyway.”

  Her heart was beating so hard and so fast she could hardly think. “What did I say to that?”

  Max rubbed his palm across his cheek. “More importantly, what do you say now?”

  “Is there an interpreter in the house?”

  He didn’t smile.

  Neither did she. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Max. You’ve accused me of being insensitive and taking advantage of you, but I….” She paused, looked away from his penetrating gaze, then met his eyes again. “I’m not good at relationships, Max. This sort of thing makes me uncomfortable.”

  “Look, I’m the same guy who beats you at backgammon and Crazy Eights. The same guy who helps you hang wallpaper. I’m the irritating guy who points out your mistakes to you, remember? How can you be uncomfortable with me?”

  She moistened her lips. Couldn’t he hear the thundering thud of her heartbeat? “Because I can’t tell when you’re serious and when you’re not.”

  He sighed. “Do I have to tell you everything?”

  “No!” She swallowed the panicky feeling in her throat. “No, I’m sure it would lose something in the translation.”

  Max crossed his arms on his chest and regarded the floor for the space of two deep breaths and a sigh. “Tell me what you want, Sylvie.”

  She just wanted him, but she could hardly say that.

  Could she?

  He seemed to want discussion, the whys and wherefores. She wanted something more ... memorable.

  Oh, the whole thing was ridiculous.

  “I don’t know, Max. What does it matter?” She turned and walked into the living room with the half-formed intention of finding a hotel for the night.

  Max shattered that idea with the touch of his hands on her shoulders. And in that moment she knew it did matter, knew she mattered.