by Susan Wiggs
“But maybe if I hadn’t been such a mess, I wouldn’t have started writing,” she added. She used to write with an anger and eloquence far beyond her years. “In my stories, I was always the big star. The prima ballerina, the doctor curing cancer, the heroine saving a town from a flood. I was larger than life in my imagination. Maybe that’s why I’m such a Walter Mitty in reality.”
As she circled around to check the front, he grabbed her and held her still. “Not in my reality.” He kissed her briefly and hard.
“Quit distracting me, Malloy. I ‘m almost finished.”
A few minutes later, dark curls littered the newly re-finished floor. She dusted his neck with a towel and stood back to admire her work.
“Damn, I’m good,” she said. “You’re Russell Crowe.”
“Who’s Russell Crowe?”
“Duh. Didn’t you see Gladiator?”
“Nope.”
“Well, you should. You look like him. Sparky was so right about you.”
“What did Sparky say about me?”
“She called you a living, breathing love god.”
He hooted. “Yeah, right. So I’m done?” He reached up and ran a hand through his hair. “Thanks.” He went and got a dustpan and swept up.
“Don’t you want to check yourself out in a mirror?” Sandra asked.
He dumped the clippings into a paper bag. “Does it look okay to you?”
“Living, breathing love god,” she reminded him.
“Okay by me.” He put the broom away, stuffed the bag in the trash and opened the back door. Zeke came in from his run and flopped down on the hearth.
Mike led her upstairs and they made love again, slowly, with a lingering ecstasy she found so moving that she felt like a different person. She found a new side of herself, and it was like finding a secret door in the old house, stepping through to discover another world, a place she had never been before and had never quite believed in, Neverland or Oz. The journey back was gentle and leisurely; she was reluctant to leave, to let go.
Quite late, he kissed her and slipped out of bed, groping for his jeans. “Got to go,” he whispered.
“Don’t,” she whispered back. “Stay with me.”
He hesitated.
“Please, Mike.”
“Okay.” He got back under the covers and she snuggled up against him, and happiness shimmered through her. “But why are we whispering?” he asked.
She didn’t answer; she was filled to overflowing. She understood completely what she had with him, what could be lost, and beneath her cautious joy lay a stark fear.
Chapter 30
It felt so damned good to wake up with a woman in his arms that Mike didn’t move a muscle other than opening one eye at six A.M. He had never needed an alarm clock—he naturally awoke at the same time each day.
Here in this isolated house, there was no need to draw the drapes for privacy, and the big picture window framed a stunning view of the sea. The sun hadn’t risen, but its silver gleam lifted the sky above the horizon and sent a bloom of light across the quiet bedroom.
Carefully propping himself on one elbow, he watched Sandra sleep for a while. Just the sight of her moved him. Smooth skin and untroubled brow, silky hair fanning out across the pillow, full lips slightly parted, colored like the heart of a rose. He was glad he had stayed, though he understood it changed things between them. He might be forced to put a name to this, something he had deliberately avoided doing.
There were all kinds of useful phrases—they were “seeing each other.” “In a relationship,” whatever the hell that meant. The trouble was, none of those fit anymore.
All he knew was that she filled the places inside him that had been empty for so long, and he didn’t want to let her go. But her secrets ran deep, and she held them away from him. He wondered if she would ever let him know her completely.
He touched his lips to her temple, affection radiating through him. She was like the faceted glass that edged the antique windows of the bedroom—finely wrought, ever-changing, switching from sunshine to darkness at a shift in the light.
From the very start he’d sensed that she held a part of herself back, even as she surrendered her body to him and offered the broken, whispered confession that she loved him. She had not given him everything; he knew that. She kept some of her facets hidden.
Right on cue, Zeke awakened at six-thirty and scratched at the door. Grumbling softly, Mike got up, ignoring the sleepy, pitiful protest that issued from the tangled covers. Promising he’d be back, he pulled on his jeans and went to let the dog out.
It was so cold in the house he could almost see his breath. He didn’t like to think of Sandra here, day after day, waking up alone to an uncertain future. He stoked the stove and put on the coffee, and the morning routine felt as natural and right as breathing.
While the coffee brewed, he watched Zeke scramble across the dunes on his way to the beach. The ocean was flat and impenetrable, the rising sun dimmed by clouds the color of gunmetal. The harsh beauty of the shore called to him as it always did, raw and elemental.
Leaning against the window frame, he stared out at the view. He felt a rare and deep sense of connection to this place; this was the landscape of his boyhood, where he had learned the secrets of the coves and marshes, the sounds of crying gulls and ships’ whistles, the ways of the sea. In a strange way, he had fallen for the house as well as the owner.
Zeke sent a flock of sandpipers scattering across the wet sand, and Mike grinned at the dog’s exuberance. The coffeemaker hissed to a stop, and he wandered into the kitchen. He fixed two mugs and took them upstairs. She was sitting up in bed, her hair tousled, a slow smile unfurling on her lips. “Bless you,” she said, reaching for the mug he offered. “When I smelled coffee, I thought I was dreaming.” She took a sip, then frowned at something on the floor. “What’s that?”
With his thumb and forefinger, he picked up a tattered brown object. “Oops,” he said. “It’s that old teddy bear you kept on the bed. Zeke must’ve gotten it.” Rotten stuffing dripped from the mess.
“Victor won that thing in a ring toss the night he proposed.” She paused, then added, “Put it in the trash.”
“Sorry,” he muttered, and carried the ruined toy to the bathroom. When he returned, she cradled the mug between her hands and regarded him with such intensity that he turned away, pretending interest in the recently rebuilt bay window. On her house, at least, he was doing a hell of a job. The enduring lines of the architecture and the matchless view each window commanded gave the place a powerful appeal. As the renovation continued, the house was turning out as fine as the place on earth it occupied.
His phone rang, and he pawed through his pile of clothes to find it clipped to the waistband of his jeans. “Mike Malloy.”
“It’s Angela.”
“Angela.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Sandra stiffen and draw up the covers. “Are the kids okay?”
“Absolutely. Listen, I need a favor. School’s been canceled today—some kind of central power outage again. I’ve got to go up to Providence. Can you take the kids?”
“Of course. I’ll be over in half an hour.”
“Thanks, Mike.”
He explained the situation to Sandra as he got dressed. “Can you tell Phil to call me when he gets in? We’ve got another electrical inspection today. I wanted to be here for that, but I’ll have the kids with me, so I’ll have to cancel.”
“Bring them along,” she said reasonably.
He rubbed a hand over his stubbled chin. Another new turn in the road. Putting her together with his kids for a boat ride was one thing. Having them spend the day at her home was another; he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. “I can’t ask you to—”
“Malloy. I like your kids. I’d love to hang out with them today.” She handed him a pink disposable Lady Schick. “You’d better shave.”
Sandra moved through the morning in a haze of happiness. The presence of Mal
loy and his kids brought the world into balance. Everything seemed brand-new and magical, painted in brighter colors, with sharper clarity. She fixed blueberry muffins from a mix, and was rewarded by a look of pure bliss on Kevin’s face when he walked into the kitchen and smelled the aroma from the oven.
After he and his sister devoured several muffins, Sandra played half a dozen games of checkers with him. He showed no mercy, trouncing her five times. She gave Mary Margaret the pen and notebook she’d promised, and the girl spent an hour bent over the book, writing until her fingers cramped. Sandra asked Mary Margaret if she would like to read Simple Gifts in manuscript form, and the girl jumped at the chance. She sat at Sandra’s desk in the library nook, absorbed in reading the crisp, typed pages, turning them with painstaking reverence.
“What if you spelled something wrong?” she asked.
Sandra gave her a pad of Post-it notes. “Stick one of those to it and I’ll fix it.”
“Really?”
“Sure. I’ll put your name on the acknowledgments page.”
“Cool.” Tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, she started reading again with diligent concentration, and was soon oblivious to the parade of workmen passing through the room.
Kevin was distracted by a lumber delivery, so his dad gave him a hard hat and let him tag along while the crew sorted and stacked the new wood.
Having the kids around made the day feel like a holiday. Sandra wondered what they thought of her relationship with Mike. By now, Mary Margaret probably understood they were more than friends, but Sandra hoped the girl hadn’t guessed how much more. Their tentative approval could chill if they saw her as a threat, competing for their father’s affection.
After lunch—fried baloney sandwiches that made Kevin wild with delight—she took them out to the beach, with Zeke in the lead. He raced ahead, barked at the chasing waves, took off after scolding gulls. Kevin was nearly as frisky, running along with his jacket and shoelaces loose, making jet engine noises as he dive-bombed imaginary targets.
Mary Margaret walked in a meandering path, picking up shells and bits of colored sea glass and putting them in her pocket. “Charlotte’s grandmother isn’t going to get better, is she? In your book.”
“No.” Sandra wasn’t going to be coy with this kid, tell her she’d have to read the book to find out. Mary Margaret was a girl who liked honesty and could spot a phony a mile off. “No, the grandmother won’t get better. But Charlotte will change.”
“She sure has a lot of troubles. Failing in school, her mom working all the time, her grandma getting worse and worse every day.”
“That’s the way fiction works. My fiction, anyway. Sometimes the character finds out there’s no perfect solution, but she goes on anyway, and she’s better off for it.”
“Oh, gross!” Kevin yelled out, running toward them, Zeke at his heels.
“What’s the matter?” Sandra asked.
“Zeke found something rank, and he rolled in it. Gross! Gross! Gross!” Kevin made a gagging sound and pretended to retch in the sand.
Sandra and Mary Margaret recoiled from the dog. Some sort of dead matter, fishy and harsh, clung to his coat as he skittered in a circle around them, certain this was a new game to play.
“Ew, that reeks,” Mary Margaret said.
“We’re going to have to bathe him,” Sandra said, wrinkling her nose.
“No way! I’m not—”
“We’ll all pitch in.” Sandra whistled for the dog, patted her thigh and led the way back to the house. In the garage, she found an old picnic tablecloth and wrapped Zeke in it, tucking the foul thing under her arm and marching upstairs to the bathroom.
“Fill the tub with lukewarm water,” she said to Kevin.
“What’s lukewarm?” he asked.
Mary Margaret rolled her eyes. “I’ll let you know.”
Sandra made a quick, furtive assessment of the bath-room, praying they’d notice no trace of Mike here. The pink plastic razor beside the sink looked innocent enough, she hoped. She tried not to think about the unspeakable pleasures she’d experienced here the night before, but her body remembered with a warm spasm of pleasure. She didn’t want his kids to know he’d spent the night with her. She wasn’t ready for that yet. She was pretty sure they weren’t, either.
“Do you have dog shampoo?” asked Kevin, his question banishing any lingering traces of lust.
“She doesn’t have a dog, moron,” his sister said, and he stuck his tongue out at her.
“Use that stuff in the blue bottle.” It was French organic shampoo from Bergdorf Goodman in New York City.
Mary Margaret dumped in about half the bottle.
Sandra wiped off the worst of the muck with the tablecloth, then lowered the dog into the tub, mounded high with white suds. Zeke panicked, paddling wildly and trying to shake himself off. Kevin shrieked with glee as he and Mary Margaret took turns soothing the woebegone, trembling dog and scrubbing him with a loofa sponge Sandra knew she would never use again.
“Look how scrawny he is,” Kevin said, lifting the dog to show off his undersized physique.
While her brother guffawed, Mary Margaret kept scrubbing. “Hey, check it out,” she said. “His fur is actually white. I always thought he was gray.”
Sandra finally took pity on Zeke. She drained the tub, then held him under the shower while he howled in misery. Shutting off the shower, she wrapped the dog in a thick Egyptian cotton bath towel. It had been a wedding gift from Victor’s great aunt, a dozen of them delivered in a shiny red Macy’s box.
Zeke shivered uncontrollably, whining like an infant.
“What if he catches cold?” Mary Margaret bit her lip.
“Hand me that blow dryer,” Sandra said, pointing. “And the brush,” she added.
“Isn’t that your hairbrush?” asked Mary Margaret.
“I’ll buy another,” Sandra said, resigned.
Zeke actually liked that part—the blow drying and brushing. Kevin thought it was hilarious, the way the dog pushed his nose into the hot stream of air, as if he stood in a wind tunnel. Mary Margaret was enchanted. “He’s pretty,” she said. “He almost looks like a real poodle. But his face is disappearing into all that fluff. He probably can’t even see. I think he needs a haircut.”
“You just said the magic words, Mary Margaret.” Sandra became a woman on a mission. She sent Kevin to get the scissors—the same ones she had used on Mike the night before. Grooming a dog was a new challenge. She stood Zeke on the linen cabinet by the window, directing Kevin to keep hold of him. Both kids offered advice and opinions while she snipped away. “Make a puffball on his tail, like they have at dog shows.” “Can we put these barrettes here?” “What about a bow?” “Let’s paint his nails!”
An hour later, Zeke looked as perfectly groomed as a Purina dog chow label. The three of them stood back in awe.
“He’s perfect,” Mary Margaret whispered.
The dog jumped down from the cabinet and pranced around, delighted by all the attention.
“Think he knows?” Kevin wondered.
“Hard to say.” Sandra surveyed the bathroom—a wasteland of wet towels and white dog hair.
“Let’s go show Dad.” Kevin burst out into the hall-way, Mary Margaret and Zeke at his heels. Sandra followed more slowly, thinking about how much fun these kids were, wishing the day would never end.
As she watched the kids, she felt a stirring inside her. She used to believe in the impossibility of a perfect love, but this felt as close to perfect as she’d ever come. A rare contentment took hold. The possibility, the promise of happiness with Mike and his kids dangled in front of her, tantalizing. Today, they’d felt like a family, they’d functioned like one. Whether they’d planned it or not, she and Malloy had opened the door to a new kind of intimacy, deeper and truer—maybe even stronger.
Yet as she descended the stairs, she felt the old currents of fear traveling through her, the ominous sense of calm before a storm.
In the downstairs parlor, Mike stood talking to Phil and the crew. They looked up when his kids and dog pounded down the stairs. Mike gaped at the white powder puff trotting across the foyer toward him. “Jesus H. Christ,” he muttered, dropping a pencil on the floor.
The other guys shuffled their feet and elbowed each other.
“Zeke,” said Mike. “Zeke, buddy. Oh, man, what did they do to you?”
“Isn’t he adorable?” Mary Margaret cooed. She scooped up the dog and presented him like a gift to her father. “Isn’t he just the cutest thing?”
“Nice poodle, Malloy,” said Phil. “I guess we’d better be going.” The three slipped out while Mike shook his head in chagrin.
He held the dog out at arm’s length. Zeke squirmed with delight and strained toward him, licking his face.
Only Sandra heard the slam of a car door. Through the sidelight, she noticed a burgundy Volvo parked in the drive, and a tall, attractive woman walking to the door.
There was no mistaking the visitor’s identity because of the striking resemblance to Mary Margaret. Swallowing a knot of nervousness in her throat, Sandra composed herself and opened the front door for Malloy’s ex-wife.
“H—”The word stopped, severed at the throat. God, not now.
Recognition—and then suspicion—dawned on the woman’s face.
“H—yes, hello,” Sandra finally managed with a burst of air.
“Hiya, Mom.” Kevin sped out onto the porch. “Check it out—we gave Zeke a haircut.”
“That’s nice, sweetie.” At close range, Angela was more than attractive. She was quite beautiful in a polished, honey-haired fashion. She wore a dark cashmere coat and thin leather gloves the color of butter.
Sandra tried not to think about her own appearance— an old sweatshirt and jeans, soiled from the dog’s bath. “How do you do,” she said. “I’m Sandra Winslow.”
“Angela Falco. “ The words were clipped off, just short of rude. She looked past Sandra. “Mike?”