by Mary Campisi
“I don’t think you want the neighborhood listening to what I have to say. May I come inside?”
She hesitated, weighed the risk of letting him peek at her life against the neighbors getting an earful and an eyeful that could blow through town faster than an afternoon thunderstorm. Maggie turned, opened the door, and said, “I’m on my way out, so you’ll have to make it fast.”
His laughter caught her off guard, made her chest ache. “Sure, if you say so.” He stepped inside, glanced around the small living room with the overstuffed floral couch, the recliner, and the picture frames stuffed with eleven years of living on the mantel. “Nice place,” he said, following her into the room and taking a seat on the couch.
He didn’t belong here. David Cartwright belonged on that couch, dark eyes peering at her from behind horn-rimmed glasses, his smile gentle, his lean body relaxed. David had been her comfort and her strength, a man of honor and loyalty, who had loved her since high school and welcomed the opportunity to make her his wife. How she missed him, wished illness had not claimed him so soon.
“I’m sorry I hurt you.”
She did not want to hear that. What good were those words now? Even tinged with remorse, they were useless and much too late. Maggie didn’t respond, sat on the edge of the recliner, wishing more than a few feet separated them. Why was he here, in her town, in her living room? What did he want? Whatever it was, she would make him wish he’d never found her. “You’re sorry you hurt me? You were relentless in your pursuit, determined to make me one of your conquests, even though you knew I was too naïve to realize what you were doing. You didn’t care, though, did you?” She ignored the narrowed gaze, the twitch in his jaw as she plowed on. “You let me believe you cared, said I was part of your future, right up to the point where I told you I was pregnant.” He flinched at that last part, but so what? She’d held it all inside for too many years.
“That’s the part I regret most.”
She laughed at the ridiculousness of that statement. “Really? As I recall, you refused to talk about it and when you finally did, two days later, you said you had to consider your options, whatever that meant. Interesting that you thought you were the only one with options to consider.”
“I was scared and misguided.” He ran a hand through that damn perfect hair, frowned.
“Oh really? I don’t think you were misguided at all. I think you did exactly what you planned to do, and that was stay on track as you rose to become a super doctor, worshipped by all.”
The jaw twitch again. “Not exactly.”
Oh, he didn’t like that comment, actually seemed upset, or maybe the better word was annoyed. She doubted he was used to anyone challenging him. When the Grant Richot she knew spoke, everyone listened, even those who had no idea what he was saying. She’d been one of those. “I was a detour for you, a pothole that almost derailed your plans, but you got back on track, and I’ll bet you never thought of me, or us, again.”
His blue gaze burned her. “That’s where you’re wrong.” He cleared his throat, his voice filled with an unfamiliar sadness. “I’ve been derailed more than once, and each time I’ve thought about the period in my life where I was really happy, where the possibilities were endless.” His brows pinched together, his mouth flattened into a thin line. “I had a future, and someone who believed in me even though I didn’t deserve it.” His gaze turned hotter, brighter, forced her to look away. “I had you, Maggie.”
Yes, indeed he had. She’d been young and foolish and oh so gullible. Why would she think the young medical student who kissed her with such passion she couldn’t draw a clean breath would cast her aside? He’d told her there had never been anyone like her, vowed to show her Venice and Prague, Madrid, and Paris. They would dine on escargot and the finest wine, make love between satin sheets, climb mountains. He promised they would do it all together. Side by side.
And then she’d told him she was pregnant.
“Look,” she said, “I’m sorry if your life didn’t turn out the way you wanted it to, but trust me, nobody’s does.” She’d never considered she might be a widow at thirty. David had been gentle and kind, the perfect husband and father, and he did not deserve to die of leukemia, but he had, and no amount of prayers or bargaining had been able to save him.
“I’m sorry you miscarried.”
There was something in the way he said it that put her on alert. Was he testing her? Watching to see how she would handle the comment? She might have cared about Grant Richot at one time, might have actually loved him, but that was a lifetime and a pregnancy ago. She wasn’t that naïve woman anymore; now she knew how to protect herself and those she loved. Now she knew how to fight back. “I really don’t want to talk about that. Actually, I don’t have anything to say to you.” She paused, sipped in air and said, “I’d like you to leave.”
“You’ve grown up, Maggie Finnegan,” he said with a familiarity that hinted at secrets and the past they’d shared.
“It’s Cartwright. Maggie Cartwright.”
He cocked a brow, studied her. “But you’re a widow, aren’t you? Two years now?”
She gripped the edges of the recliner, glared. “What did you do, hire an investigator to spy on me?”
“Call it information gathering. It’s amazing what can turn up when you start poking around.” He shrugged, the tenseness in his face relaxing. “Who would have thought you’d have a son? William, isn’t it?”
No. No. Not William. Maggie nodded, kept her mouth shut.
“I had the same haircut when I was his age.” He paused and his next words slipped out, whisper soft. “The same cowlick in the back, too. Even the same blond-streaked color. Imagine that?”
Maggie looked away, forced a response. “Yes, imagine that.” She kept her voice calm, detached, as though his comments held no significance, as though there was not a reason for the resemblance.
“Your husband must have been very proud of William.”
“He was.” Maybe he was just being polite. And curious. But his next words said he was neither.
“It takes a special person to raise another man’s child.”
Maggie swung her gaze to his, didn’t miss the anger that flashed across his face. “William is David’s son.”
Those blue eyes sliced her with resentment. “No, he’s not and we both know it. William is the child you told me you miscarried.”
“That’s ridiculous. I have no—”
“Stop. Do you think I couldn’t demand a DNA test, but for what? To tell us both what we already know? It would humiliate you and devastate the boy. I know why you did it, and I can’t say I blame you. I was self-absorbed and obsessed, so busy reaching for that dream, I didn’t realize what I was throwing away.” He paused, his words spilling out with a fierceness that surprised her. “All I’m asking for is an opportunity to get to know my son.”
“No.” She shook her head, dug her nails into the edges of the recliner. “No,” she said again.
“Yes.”
That single word signified a change in life as she knew it. When did Grant Richot not get exactly what he wanted? “Please, can’t you just go away? I’ve never asked you for anything; can’t you just give me this? William’s still grieving his father’s death.”
“I’m his father,” he said, his words quiet, filled with conviction.
Where was this man eleven years ago? Had even a glimpse of him emerged, Maggie wouldn’t have been forced to set him free with a lie, a lie he’d accepted with relief and without question. Grant had wanted a way out and she’d given it to him. “You fathered William, but you were definitely not his father. There’s a big difference.”
“I know that.” He blew out a disgusted sigh. “I’m asking for an opportunity to get to know the boy, be a male figure in his life.” He paused, studied her. “Are there any other men in his life? You never mentioned any when we were together, not even a father. In fact, you never talked about anyone but your mother.”
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br /> Right, maybe because there was no father, or maybe because they’d been too busy talking about him and his plans for a grand future, one he said she’d share in. He hadn’t talked much about his own family, the sick mother, the pastor father, the younger sister. For twelve short weeks, they’d lived in a cocoon where nothing existed but them. Being around Grant was exhilarating, intoxicating, and all-consuming. She’d never felt anything like it before and wanted it to go on forever, grow and morph into the words I love you. But none of that had happened because Grant Richot wasn’t about commitment and settling down. He was about conquering, winning, and moving on.
“Maggie, is there a male figure in William’s life?”
“Of course there is.” Uncle Jack was a true Finnegan who had a tale and a lesson wrapped up in every word he spoke. But he wasn’t the only man in her son’s life. William loved to stop by Nate Desantro’s manufacturing plant where his uncle worked as a foreman. The machines and the parts they made fascinated her son, and two weeks ago, Nate had given William a ride on the forklift, showed him the steel shipment that had arrived a few days before. When they’d finished at the shop, Nate took him to Lina’s Café for a burger and fries where they discussed how that steel would get transformed into plow blades. The man certainly had changed since he married Christine Blacksworth. Uncle Jack and Nate Desantro had values and principles and families who loved them. What did Grant Richot have other than super-doctor status and piles of money? “He’s a good boy with strong principles.” She didn’t add, unlike you. The raised brow told her she hadn’t needed to speak the words; he’d figured out her meaning. And he wasn’t buying it.
“Great. I’m sure you taught him a lot.”
He sounded like he meant it, but the man she’d known would not compliment with such ease if it were at cross-purposes with his goal. What was he up to and why? Before she could utter a thank-you, he continued.
“But I think I have something to offer him, too.” He shrugged, his lips working into what could almost be called a smile if not for the coolness behind it. “I’ve traveled the world, seen the pyramids, attended Mass at the Vatican, swum in the Mediterranean.”
“Good for you.” He’d always been about the next greatest achievement, not the day-to-day moments of real life. “He doesn’t need an experience that will leave him wanting more. What my son needs is love, security, and stability.” Her gaze narrowed on him. “He needs to know he’s safe, that he isn’t going to be tossed aside when being with him isn’t convenient anymore.”
The left side of his jaw twitched, twitched again. “Are you talking about yourself or the boy? I get that you don’t trust me, don’t like me, probably can’t stand the thought of breathing the same air. If I let myself, I’d feel the same way about you.” His voice spilled over her with resentment. “You told me my child died, and then you just disappeared, married someone else, and let the boy believe that man was his father. Whether I wanted a child or didn’t is not the point. You stole my choice, and I want it back.”
“You didn’t want us; can’t you at least admit that?” Eleven years had passed and she’d almost felt safe from him, but every once in a while, she’d swirl into a panic, picture him pulling into the driveway in a fancy car, dressed in designer clothes, demanding to see his son. And now it had happened.
“I didn’t know what I wanted where you were concerned.” He looked away, his blond hair streaked by the sun, lighter than she remembered. Perhaps it changed with the seasons, some people’s did, but how would she know when she’d not survived to the next season?
“You knew what you didn’t want.” Me or a baby.
His gaze shifted back to hers. “I resented having to make a choice. When you said you’d miscarried, I was relieved, but there was a small part of me that wasn’t, and that scared the hell out of me. You were the only woman who’d made me forget to be careful when I was with you, made me forget I had a vision that would not permit distractions. You don’t get to the top of the mountain unless you cut out the distractions.” He paused, added, “Precise. Clinical. Like a surgeon.”
“What a lovely sentiment. Did you biopsy the relationship? Or did you already know it was benign and would never be at risk of turning into anything more?”
“Not exactly,” he said, his words clipped, his expression dark.
“Right.” She glanced at her watch, anxious to get him out of her house, out of her life. “Look, you can’t be here when William gets home. How would I explain the presence of a man in our living room?”
“Are you saying no man’s been here since your husband died?”
She didn’t like the question or the implication. Whoever was or wasn’t in her life was not his business. “What I’m saying is you’re a stranger and William will not be fooled if I tell him you’re selling vacuum cleaners.”
He smiled. “That would be interesting. Maybe you could tell him I’m an old friend of your husband’s.” He paused, added, “Or yours.”
Was he serious? “I don’t think so.”
His eyes glittered with determination. “I’ve given this situation a lot of thought and the easiest way for me to get to know William is to spend time with him, and the easiest way to do that is through you. Say I’m visiting Magdalena for the summer and we’ve become friends. It’s plausible, isn’t it?”
Plausible? No, it wasn’t. She ignored his question, posed one of her own. “How can you just pick up and plant yourself here for the summer? What about your job, your life? Surely you have other obligations.” Please, just go away. He stared at her, said nothing, his lips flat, brows pulled together. Was that despair or sadness flitting across his face?
“Actually, I don’t have anywhere I need to be right now, except here.”
That didn’t sound right. Grant Richot, with an empty schedule? “What about the hospital? Who’s covering for you?”
The look on his face shifted, became a blend of despair and sadness. “I haven’t worked in a hospital in almost two years. I work at an institute that specializes in research and diagnosis of congenital anomalies.”
“But…you’re a surgeon.” The statement fizzled, fell apart. “Aren’t you?”
“I’ll always be a surgeon, but I haven’t performed surgery in almost four years.” He eased his right hand from his jacket, held it out, ignoring her gasp. “Car accident on my honeymoon. Stole my wife and my livelihood, and nothing’s been the same since.” Those blue eyes turned bright, too bright. “So, you see, I have nothing but time and regrets. And one way or another, I am going to get to know my son.”
Chapter 4
She’d promised to meet Grant Richot this evening at his house, which, thankfully, was on a quiet street on the opposite side of town. It wasn’t as if she had a lot of choice. Since his surprise appearance yesterday, she’d found it hard to think of anything else. What was going to happen now? Would he demand to meet William, insist she tell him he was his real father? Would he insinuate himself into their lives with the determination and persistence of the Grant Richot she remembered? The worrying and not knowing had stolen her sleep and her appetite. And then there were the other, less obvious questions. Losing his wife and his livelihood at the same time must have been devastating. How had he survived? A surge of pity shot through her but she pushed it away. Grant Richot was not a man to be pitied. He would use her weakness to his advantage and take what he wanted, and right now, that meant William.
Maggie checked her watch and headed toward Lina’s Café. Her mother would be waiting, filled with the latest tidbits of gossip and speculation about the goings-on in the community. She claimed once she retired from school, she’d write the book she’d been thinking about since she was twenty-two, but they both knew she’d never stand still long enough to pen the first line. As she reached for the door to Lina’s, it opened and there stood Grant Richot.
“Maggie. What a nice surprise.” His gaze slid over her face, subtle yet intense. Too intense.
“T
hank you.” She edged past him into the café, careful not to breathe in his cologne. The man was intoxicating enough without engaging her other senses.
“Maggie?”
She turned, hoping people wouldn’t notice her in conversation with the handsome newcomer to their town. How silly. Of course they would, down to what he wore and how he smiled at her. This town missed nothing, and if she weren’t careful, that could be a huge problem. “Yes?”
That smile spread over her, dipped into places it had no business being. “I’ll see you tonight. Seven.” Then he was gone, heading into the early morning sun and Saturday bustle of small-town life with an ease that didn’t sit well. The man belonged in a city, with skyscrapers and chrome, lots of it, not here, and the sooner he realized it, the sooner he’d leave. She pushed him from her thoughts and made her way toward her mother, ignoring the look Phyllis, the waitress, gave her as if she knew there was more to the exchange she’d just witnessed than a thank-you-for-holding-the-door. There were times when Maggie wished she was the one who lived in a city, surrounded by noise, chaos, and strangers who didn’t care about you or what ached in your heart. But when the aggravation settled, she had to admit there was no place quite like Magdalena. Maggie slid into the booth, threw a smile at her mother, and grabbed a menu. Lina’s Café had changed specials three weeks ago, forcing everyone to rethink their “go-to” selection.