by Mary Campisi
Lorraine Finnegan tilted her fire-red head, asked, “Who was that young man you were talking to just now? Goodness, with those looks, he could be a movie star.” She placed her hands on the table, leaned in. “Spill.”
Darn, but Maggie had hoped her mother would be too busy chatting with the other customers to notice Grant Richot. Of course, that hope was ridiculous because any woman would notice the man, and the fact that Lorraine Finnegan’s daughter had been in earnest conversation with him only made him more interesting. Maggie scraped the emotion from her voice and said, “He’s the one who moved into Judge Tomichelli’s old place.”
Her mother’s face lit up. “That’s some house. The floors are all cherry, and there’s a double oven from Italy.” She paused, her voice coated with excitement. “Can you imagine? He probably can’t even cook.”
Actually, he’s very good in the kitchen…at least he used to be.
“And the master shower has Italian marble walls and a rainfall shower. Dolly counted six ceiling fans, the fancy kind with the remote controls.” She laughed. “It’s right out of a magazine. Picture perfect. I think it has one of those fancy thermostats you can control with your phone?”
“Why do you think that?” Maggie gave her mother an it’s-none-of-our-business look and asked, “Does Uncle Jack know you and Aunt Dolly have been snooping around in someone else’s house?”
Lorraine shrugged. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, getting information from another source is not snooping, even though you and your uncle think it is.”
“Getting information?” Code for gossip. Lorraine and Dolly Finnegan loved to tell stories, especially when they involved Magdalena residents, and they never considered it gossip because as they insisted, We only tell family.
Her mother developed a sudden interest in a packet of sugar. “Herb hooked up a bidet in the bathroom and he happened to leave the front door unlocked.”
“Uh-huh.” Herb Carey, Magdalena’s plumber and Lorraine Finnegan’s longtime companion, as in they’d been a couple for twelve years. Some said they should marry and be done with it because they shared everything, including toothbrushes. But Lorraine Finnegan had refused the man’s offer of marriage. Three times. “And you and Aunt Dolly couldn’t wait to spread the word about what you saw, could you?”
Another shrug. “We were only admiring the man’s decor and taste in furnishings.” She let out a huff and muttered, “No harm in admiring; it’s not like we paraded through his home, taking pictures for the Magdalena Press. Besides, he probably hired a decorator.” Pause. “Wonder who he used? We don’t have decorators in Magdalena. Do you think he hired an outfit from the city?”
No, I think he decorated it himself. In fact, I’d bet on it. Maggie forced a smile and said, “I have no idea, Mom. Why does it matter?”
Lorraine toyed with a silver dangle earring, pulled her red lips into a smile, and pushed aside Maggie’s question with one of her own. “What’s his name?”
No need asking who her mother meant, because the questions about decor had all been leading to this. Her mother wanted to know about the man with the designer tastes so she could speculate whether or not he had a designer bank account. Maggie sighed, let the name fall out. “Grant Richot.”
“Ooh, I like that. Classy.” She tilted her head to the side, considered this. “Grant Richot. French?”
Maggie shrugged. “I have no idea.” At least that was the truth. They hadn’t discussed heritage because it hadn’t mattered. They’d been more interested in passion and goals…and passion…. Thank goodness Phyllis appeared just then, pen poised over her small pad, a look on her face that said she knew Lorraine Finnegan was matchmaking again and her daughter was the unlucky subject.
“Hey, darlin’, plan to change it up a bit today?”
“I thought about it, I really did, but…I’m staying with the turkey Reuben on rye. Coleslaw on the side.”
Lorraine sighed. “There’s no hope for this child, Phyllis, no hope at all.” She tapped a red nail on the Formica tabletop, her bracelets jangling with the motion. “How am I ever going to get her to look at a man again when I can’t even get her to change her lunch choice?”
Phyllis snapped her gum, grinned. “Something tells me when Maggie’s ready, she’ll figure it out all by herself.”
“By then I’ll be in the ground or senile and won’t know any different.” Lorraine handed Phyllis the menu and said, “I’ll have the usual.”
Maggie stared at her mother. “You just did what you criticized me for doing.”
Her mother raised a brow. “I was trying to make a point. I’m not searching for a man, I have Herb. You, however, do not.” She leaned forward, red nails gripping the edge of the table and said, “Tell me all about Grant Richot.”
She was not going to let this go. “First, I’m not searching for a man either.” Her mother gave her a but-you-should-be look, which Maggie ignored. “He moved here a few days ago from the Syracuse area. I met him at Sal’s Market; he was looking for shiitake mushrooms, which, of course, Sal’s doesn’t carry.” What was a little fabrication when the truth was so much worse? Besides, it was only half a lie. If Grant had been in Sal’s Market, he’d be the type to be on the hunt for high-priced ticket items like shiitake mushrooms.
“And what else?”
Those blue eyes zeroed in on her, narrowed, waiting for a more significant scrap of information. Maggie sighed and let the words slip out. “He’s a doctor.”
“A doctor? A doctor,” she repeated, her voice dipping as though already picturing the man she’d spotted for 2.2 seconds as a son-in-law. “What kind of doctor?”
The truth would ratchet him up the scale of Lorraine Finnegan’s eligible bachelors’ list, but there was no avoiding it. “He’s a pediatric neurosurgeon.”
“Goodness gracious.” Her mother made the sign of the cross. Twice. “No wonder he has that air about him.” She nodded, her lips sliding into a knowing smile. “Confidence.”
Arrogance…self-importance…that was the Grant Richot she remembered. Self-absorbed …egotistical…
“Yes, confidence, blended with a keen intelligence, and of course, a heavy dose of sensuality.”
Maggie rolled her eyes. “You noticed all that in a few seconds?”
Her mother nodded, ran a hand through her short hair. “I made a one-second assessment and inferred the rest. I’ll bet I’m not far off either.” She smiled. “You know I’m very good at this sort of thing, which is why I’d like to help.”
“Mom, I do not need help finding a man because I don’t want a man, and if I did, I could find my own.” The look her mother gave her said she had serious reservations about that comment, but before Maggie could respond, Phyllis slid their lunch plates in front of them.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that last bit about a man,” Phyllis said, sending a why-don’t you-leave-the-poor-girl-alone look to Lorraine. “Don’t listen to your mother, hon. Not every woman needs a man to tell her he worships the air she breathes.” Phyllis rolled her eyes and laughed. “Tell your mother you’ll let her fix you up when she says yes to Herb.”
Lorraine huffed and picked up her tuna on wheat. “Don’t you even get me started, Phyllis. I know all about that mystery man of yours who sneaks in to see you every other month. How many catheters does the hospital need, hmm?”
Phyllis laughed again, winked at Maggie. “Lester sells more than catheters. He’s a good man and if he ever pops the question, I’ll hang up my apron right then and there and take off with him.” She laughed again. “I’ll even buy myself a cowboy hat and a pair of boots.”
The town all knew the story about Phyllis and the traveling salesman who came to Magdalena, New York, to get an order for medical supplies from their hospital and kept returning, every other month, like clockwork. Still, it was a sweet tale, and all it needed now was a happy ending that would come soon enough, if Lorraine’s predictions were accurate.
“Lester will pop the quest
ion before the first frost.”
That was several months away, but it would be here soon enough. Phyllis’s eyes grew bright, brighter still, seconds before she cleared her throat and pointed her pen at Lorraine. “I’m gonna hold you to it.” She plopped a few extra napkins on the table and said in a low voice, “That man I saw you talking to a little bit ago sure was a looker, Maggie. Maybe you should listen to your mother, just this once.”
Maggie pretended she didn’t hear Phyllis and bit into her sandwich. While she might choose to pretend, it was obvious from the smile on her mother’s face, Lorraine had heard every word. “See there? Phyllis knows.” Lorraine paused, forked a bite of potato salad. “You and Grant are both in the medical profession. You’re a physical therapist assistant, he’s a pediatric…what kind of pediatric surgeon?”
“Neurosurgeon.” And then because her mother would nag the rest from her, Maggie added, “That’s a doctor who operates on children’s brains.”
“Oh my. He must be brilliant.”
How many times had she heard that note of awe in people’s voices, especially women’s, when referring to Grant Richot? She’d talked about him that way, too. But that was years ago when she’d been naïve and much too young. It hadn’t taken long to learn the truth about him, and when she had, the awe had switched to disgust. “He is,” she admitted.
“And I’ll bet he’s quite wealthy.”
Maggie shrugged. “Probably.” What would her mother say if she knew the real reason Grant Richot had come to town? Would she be so welcoming and eager to play matchmaker if she learned he wanted to lay claim to her grandchild?
“But why is he here in Magdalena? We don’t have hospitals for pediatric neurosurgeons.”
“He can’t operate anymore.” A twinge of sadness flitted through her words. She might not care for the man, but for him to lose his ability to operate was tragic. “A car accident damaged the nerves in his right hand.”
“No.” Lorraine set down her fork, made the sign of the cross. “That poor man.”
Maggie cleared her throat, tried to change the subject. “Yes, it’s sad. By the way, Nate Desantro’s going to show William a few things at the shop tomorrow. He’ll drop William off at your house around 3:00 p.m.”
“Nate, huh?”
Talk of Nate Desantro always sidetracked her mother who said the man reminded her of a shot of whiskey, the kind that sends a burn straight to your gut. Christine Desantro had quieted the burn, made the man more civilized, almost friendly, but the rawness still lived just below the surface. Lorraine said that’s what made him so darn attractive. Maggie had to agree; there was something about the man that made a woman suck in an extra breath of air, as if he’d stolen the first. Certain men possessed that ability and to Maggie that was a neon signal, flashing beware and danger. Cash Casherdon was another danger signal, so was Ben Reed, and Grant Richot was a definite caution—enter at your own risk all wrapped up in one. The looks these men had were so direct it made it impossible for a woman to formulate a thought, let alone an intelligent sentence. Thank goodness David had not been like that.
Lorraine sighed, murmured, “Nate Desantro. Now there’s a man who can make a woman think about sin, and lots of it.”
“Mom! Really?”
Her mother laughed, scooped up a forkful of potato salad. “What? I’m not allowed to appreciate a man like that?” Her lips twitched. “Well?”
Maggie ignored the rush of heat to her cheeks. “You’re my mother; it’s a little uncomfortable. And besides, Nate’s not like that, not anymore. He’s settled down, married, with a child and another one on the way.” She paused, added, “He’s tamed.”
“Honey, that man will never be tamed, and I’d say his wife is the lucky one there.” She dabbed her lips with her napkin, leaned forward, blue eyes glittering. “What I want to know is if you might be the one to tame that doctor friend of yours?”
Chapter 5
“Can I help you?”
Grant stepped up to the counter and nodded at the silver-haired man in the designer suit. He looked to be in his mid-fifties with a casual elegance about him that spoke of breeding and money. Grant recognized both, just as he recognized the man’s suit and striped tie for what they represented: money. The wedding ring surprised him, though; he would have catalogued the man with the blue eyes and ready smile as the playboy type. Maybe he’d been reformed. Grant nodded and said, “I’m here to pick up an order for Richot.”
The older man eyed him an extra second before he turned to a young waiter dressed in black pants and a white shirt. “Will you get the Richot order?” When the waiter disappeared, the man made his way toward Grant and held out a hand. “Harry Blacksworth. This is my joint.”
Grant clasped the man’s hand with both of his, a habit he’d employed to hide the issues with his right hand. If Blacksworth noticed, he didn’t let on. “Nice to meet you. Impressive place you’ve got here.”
The man let out a full-bellied laugh and said, “No thanks to me. I’ve got a great crew working here, and if it weren’t for my wife keeping us all in line, this place wouldn’t have made it two weeks.”
So, the man was married, and from the dip in his voice when he mentioned his wife, he was happy about it. “You’re not from here, are you?”
“Hell no, I’m from Chicago. Moved here last year with my wife and kids.” He eyed Grant. “How about you?”
“Just moved here. I renovated Judge Tomichelli’s place.”
“Ah, so you’re the one. I heard about you.” The blue eyes narrowed a fraction. “You’re a doctor.” He grinned. “Good dresser, too. Silk shirt. Nice touch, breathes in the summer.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure. Tell you what, though; you’re gonna have a tough time getting a decent haircut around here. When you’re ready, you give me a call, and I’ll fix you up. I know somebody who does it on the side; knows how to layer without chopping it.”
Grant laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I’m serious; give me a call. Clothes-wise, you have to go out of town. These people only know flannel and khaki, and you don’t look like a flannel-khaki kind of guy. Same with the shoes and outerwear. Hmm.” He rubbed his jaw. “Wait. You’re not one of those docs who lives in scrubs, are you? I’d say no, but I’ve been surprised before.”
“No, definitely not. I prefer the feel of silk, pinpoint poplin, gabardine…anything but scrubs.”
“How about cashmere?”
The light in the other man’s eyes said he’d worn his share of cashmere. “Is there anything better? I brought a cashmere scarf home from Ireland years ago. Best scarf I ever had.”
Harry Blacksworth grinned. “My wife thinks I’m crazy, but there’s a way to dress and a way not to dress, right?” Grant nodded and the man continued. “Now I’m not saying a guy’s got to wear designer duds to be somebody, and there are a helluva lot of men in this town that don’t even know what a lapel is, good men, friends of mine, some relatives. They could care less if they never felt the brush of silk on their skin. Not me. I like it.” He nodded. “Good stuff. Still trying to convince my wife she needs more silks, but not having much success. She says it doesn’t clean up well when you’re trying to make a marinara sauce.”
“You could buy her an apron.” Grant pictured Maggie in a silk shirt, tossed the idea aside. “But some women really don’t care about clothes, and as long as she doesn’t mind that you do, what’s the problem?”
“Damn straight. Greta’s beautiful, no matter what she’s wearing.” A splash of red covered his cheeks, crept to his neck. He glanced at the counter where the waiter had placed Grant’s order and said in a gruff voice, “Let’s get your food before it gets cold.” He lifted the bag, handed it to Grant. “No charge. Welcome to Magdalena.”
Grant thought about Harry Blacksworth’s generosity as he made his way home, selected the music, lit candles, and chilled the wine. There was something about small towns that made people feel les
s alone, more a part of something. He had to say he liked that feeling, liked that he could have a conversation with a stranger about fabrics and style and it felt almost normal. That would never happen in the city, not that people intended to be rude or uncaring, but they were so bent on schedules and commitments, they didn’t have time to think about commenting on fabric selections with a stranger.
He’d been like that for a lot of years as he raced from one goal to the next, obsessed with excelling at each one, being the best. Why would he stop to consider what he might be missing when there were lines of patients, coworkers, newspaper reporters, and women waiting to see him? After the accident, the patients still came, but he wasn’t the surgeon anymore, only the consulting doctor: second string. The other doctors shied away from him, as if by looking at his less than functional hand, they’d contract the same condition. And the reporters? Well, they no longer wanted to ask him about his surgical greatness; now they wanted to know how he coped with losing that greatness, and losing a wife. He’d pasted a smile on his face, been courteous and accommodating, but he’d seethed inside, cursed them all. The women were one constant that remained. Give a woman a cause, especially a woman in the medical field, and that was too attractive to resist. He’d taken what they offered, shared time, a few trips, a bed, but they never got to his heart or in his head, and for that, they later hated him as much as they’d desired him.
Grant filled the crystal vase with the bouquet of lilies he’d picked up and set it in the middle of the dining room table. Life had taken a strange turn and he supposed he had that bastard, Jack Wheyton, to thank for it. If the man hadn’t broken his sister’s heart, they might all still be working at the same hospital, Leslie would not have tried to kill herself, and Grant might have ended up with Audra Valentine Wheyton. But probably not. Years, loss, and heartache had taught him nobody was like Maggie.