by Mary Campisi
That stole her smile, made her look away a few seconds, but she recovered fast, brought the subject back around to him. “I’m very curious about how you met my daughter. She’s not one to give a man like you a second look. Maggie would say you’re a player; I think that’s what your generation calls it.” She tapped her chin with a red nail, nodded. “And you’re too good-looking and too well-dressed. My daughter doesn’t know or care about the difference between designer labels and off-the-rack clothing.” Lorraine nodded again, slower, as if the motion gave credence to the commentary. “But do you know what I find even stranger? When I mention your name, and I will admit I’ve done it a time or three lately, my daughter turns beet-red.” She raised a brow, waited an extra half second before adding, “That’s not like my Maggie. Men don’t make her blush, especially ones she says are strangers. So, either you’re a stranger or you’re not, but whichever way you look at it, there’s something going on between you two.” She threw him a wide smile that pulled out the dimple in her left cheek. “And for the record, I am perfectly fine with that.”
What did a guy say to that? Thanks for the vote of confidence? I think you’re getting ahead of yourself? That’s wishful thinking on both of our parts? Or maybe, Can you convince Maggie we’d be great together? Grant had no response that wouldn’t give away too much, so he settled for a mere “Thank you.”
“Which still doesn’t answer how you know each other, but I think we’ve chatted enough today, and William should be coming out soon, don’t you think?” She opened her handbag, removed a small metal container. “Mint?”
Grant shook his head and hid a smile. Oh, this woman was clever, and she could extract and assimilate information with the automation of a machine. He’d have to watch what he said around her and control his facial expressions—body language, too—or the woman would figure out that he and Maggie shared a whole lot more than a past. She might think she’d dodged the question about his house and why she’d been there, but he was a patient man, and something told him he and Lorraine Finnegan would have ample time to test one another in the coming weeks.
He welcomed the challenge.
Twelve minutes later, the double door to the emergency area buzzed open, and William and Maggie walked through it.
“It’s broken,” William announced, a hint of pride and excitement filtering through his words.
“Oh, my goodness gracious, you’ve got a cast!” Lorraine Finnegan jumped from the chair and ran toward her grandson as fast as her red-sandaled heels would take her. “What on earth?” She hugged him hard, kissed his temple. “The color suits you though,” she said, eyeing the neon green cast covering his forearm and part of his hand. Another hug, a second kiss, more smudges of red lipstick on his temple. “Thank the dear Lord you’re safe.” She slid a glance at Grant, murmured, “And thank Dr. Richot, too.”
William darted a look at him. “Thank you, Dr. Richot.” He hesitated, added, “Mom said you’re a doctor. That you operate on kids’ brains.”
Grant nodded. “That’s right.” Only it wasn’t, not all of it. He had operated on kids’ brains, past tense. Now he couldn’t operate a potato peeler.
“Thank you.” Maggie met his gaze, held it, as though she recognized the pain behind his expression.
Lorraine Finnegan burst through the quiet moment with a rambunctious, “Who wants Mexican? My treat. I’ve got a hankering for some salsa and chips and a beef burrito.”
Chapter 7
Could her mother be any more obvious? Maggie bit into her chicken taco, chewed. The booths at the Mexican restaurant were small, necessitating contact with the other person in the booth, which, of course, her mother made sure was Grant Richot. He tried to keep his thigh from brushing hers, but men weren’t built to sit like they were wedged into a church pew on Easter Sunday, feet together, hands in their lap. Grant didn’t seem uncomfortable with the closeness, but he did try to stay in his personal space—a near impossibility given the close quarters. At least he was making good on his vow not to try to turn the relationship physical. Unless she wanted it to become physical, that’s what he’d said. Maggie tried to ignore the scent of his cologne, the smoothness of his voice, the blueness of his eyes. And that smile was too darn inviting.
“Grant, do you like pie? Maggie makes the best peach pie; guaranteed you’ll come back for seconds.” Her mother winked at him and scooped salsa on a tortilla chip. “The crust will melt in your mouth.”
He gave Lorraine Finnegan a smile, the kind that made a woman think she was special. Maggie remembered those smiles, remembered the words that went with them, too. “Mom, he’s not interested in my pies.”
Her mother lifted her margarita, took a sip. “Well, he might be.” She turned to Grant. “Do you like peach pie?”
“I do,” he said, focusing his attention on her mother. “I’m a big pie lover.” Pause, his gaze sliding to Maggie. “Especially peach.”
“See, Maggie? My daughter’s hiding her talents; she’s not interested in showcasing them. Way too modest.”
Because Lorraine Finnegan did not know the meaning of modesty.
“Dad loved your peach pie,” William said, munching on a tortilla chip. “He said you put love in it.” He shrugged. “You can’t put love in a pie, but he liked to say it.” His eyes lit up. “Remember how we’d play that game where he’d close his eyes and try to guess the food? He could tell what kind of apple he was eating, even the hard ones like Pink Lady and Honey Crisp.” William turned to Grant. “My dad was really, really smart.”
Grant’s jaw twitched, but he held that smile, nodded. “I’ll bet he was.”
William sipped his lemonade, drained the glass. “Do you have any kids?”
Another jaw twitch, but this time the smile slipped, flattened, seconds before the words fell out. “No, I don’t.”
Lorraine must have sensed the agony in Grant’s voice because she jumped in. “Never too old to change that.” Her laughter danced across the table. “And don’t try to tell me you didn’t have more than your share of opportunities because I will never believe that. No indeed.” Her blue eyes narrowed on him until they were slits of eyeliner and mascara. “I’ll bet they all wanted your child: blond-haired, blue-eyed gods and goddesses.” She smacked her lips. “Luscious.”
A split second hesitation, a flash of pain before he said, “Are you sure they wouldn’t have been blond-haired, blue-eyed devils? I’ve been called that a time or two.” His laughter mixed with hers, a blend of humor and mischief that would almost make Maggie believe it was real, had she not witnessed the pain seconds before.
Was he thinking of William?
Her mother continued in the flirtatious nature that had banned her from more than one women’s group and church meeting. Other women didn’t like their men engaging in conversation with a woman who wore spiked heels and full-out makeup to the grocery store and pulled laughter and silliness from the very same men who didn’t offer more than one-word responses at home. Her mother had made it difficult for Maggie to carve out a respectable reputation, one of the reasons she latched onto David Cartwright her junior year in high school. Who would question the integrity of an accountant’s son, one bound for college to study math? Oh, she’d wanted that respectability, thought that was all she needed, even more than the emotional spark that never quite fanned into a flame between her and David. But a year at college observing other couples showed her the difference.
And then she met Grant in her second year, and the chemistry was hotter and more explosive than a forest fire in summer, torching everything in its way to get to its goal: completion, a union so powerful it stole logic, made them reckless and desperate. Made Maggie pregnant.
“Maggie? What’s wrong, honey?” Her mother stared at her, concern pinching her eyebrows together. “You’re so quiet. Do you not feel well?”
“I’m fine.” She dabbed her lips with her napkin, did not meet her mother’s gaze lest the woman spot the lie. “Just tired.”
“Ah. You work too hard.” Lorraine shook her head. “All fun and no entertainment. What do you do for fun, Grant?”
Of course. The perfect segue to discuss a man and his diversions. What did Grant Richot do for fun? Maggie had no idea. Years ago, there had been no “just for fun” moments other than when he was with her…in bed. But that hadn’t really been about “just for fun” either, at least not for her, and she hadn’t thought it was that way for him either. It had felt different, not that she had vast experience in that area, but it had felt different: the intensity, the need, the desperation.
It had never been that way with David. Her husband had been attentive, considerate, controlled. He’d taken on the role of pleasing her in and out of bed as though it were a math equation to be solved and archived, and just when he believed he’d almost figured it out, he’d gotten sick. She’d cursed the memory of Grant Richot that would not quite let her forget what those twelve weeks had been like with him. But she cursed herself more for wondering what it would have been like had she told him the truth.
Grant Richot’s soft voice sliced through those memories, pulled her back. “I find things to do for fun like cooking, attending concerts and the theater. I even joined a book club last fall. But joy, that’s what I’m really after and that’s what’s escaped me these past few years.” His voice drifted closer, touched her. “I’m not giving up, though. I’m pushing forward here in Magdalena, and with a little luck and a lot of prayer, I’m finally going to find that joy.”
Those comments were still swirling in Maggie’s head the next morning as she and Gina Reed prepared a file for their next patient. “Ugh,” Maggie mumbled under her breath, when she spotted Cynthia Carlisle’s name typed across the printout. “Do I really have to work with Miss I’m So Rich?”
Gina shot her a look. “That woman tried to put the moves on my husband, even after we were married. Said her car broke down two miles outside of town and she needed Ben to help her out.”
“The family owns a car dealership. How does a car break down?” She and Gina had gone to school with Cynthia Carlisle, been subjected to the I-have-money-and-you-don’t looks along with the I-am-the-Queen-of-Magdalena-High aura. The woman had even attempted to sweet-talk David into doing her math homework in exchange for what she called “face time,” which meant being seen with her at a football game, the Homecoming bonfire, or Lina’s Café. His choice. Sweet David had declined the invitation, choosing instead to escort Maggie to those events, but David being David, still helped her with the math problems. And Cynthia being Cynthia had never forgiven the snub or the fact that Maggie was the one he chose. Now the woman was due any minute for a shoulder strain injury and Maggie had the bad luck to be slated as her physical therapy assistant.
“I really have no time for that woman,” Gina said, snatching her chart. “It was hard enough doing her assessment last week, but I got through it. Just follow my instructions and whatever she says, subtract the validity by half and divide it by ten.”
Maggie laughed. “So, don’t believe anything she says, right?”
Gina grinned, nodded her dark head. “Right.” She turned and waddled toward the other end of the room, far away from Maggie’s work area. It wouldn’t be long before she and Ben welcomed their first child, and bets were on the baby would be a boy, but that was according to Pop Benito’s unscientific calculations. The man had only been off once, and then he claimed that was because he hadn’t gotten used to his new eyeglass prescription and the lenses distorted the shape of the mother-to-be. What a character. He and Lily Desantro provided their own brand of support, cheer, and goodwill to the residents in need, of which Maggie had been one when David grew ill and later, when he passed. There was something comforting about knowing you weren’t alone during times of such tragedy and sorrow. Everybody needed someone and Magdalena provided a community of true support. Had Grant had anyone to help him through his grief? What about the sister? Where was she?
“Oh. You’re my therapist?”
Maggie looked up from the chart, took in Cynthia Carlisle’s tanned and toned yoga body, the glossy hair, the green eyes, the clear skin. “Hello, Cynthia.”
The woman acknowledged and dismissed her with one sweep of her dark lashes. “Where’s Jason?” She glanced around, no doubt in search of the physical therapy assistant who, being the lone male on staff, was requested by women ages fifteen to eighty-five.
“Sorry, he’s off today.” Maggie wanted to add that Jason Remmington pretty much refused to work with Cynthia again unless she left her cell phone and entourage at home.
“Oh.” She huffed her displeasure, said, “Can I schedule with him next time?” She offered a thin smile that threatened to flip into a frown and added, “Nothing personal, of course, but Jason has a very soothing voice, and those arms…muscled and toned…and what hands...”
“I’ll see what we can do.” Jason would not be happy when she told him his name came up and he certainly wouldn’t be thrilled to know Cynthia Carlisle had dissected his attributes—and drooled over them. Maggie should spare the woman and tell her the truth: Jason had a partner named Alexander and they were both very happy. Of course, she couldn’t say that, but she wanted to because Maggie could detect a woman on the hunt and this woman was definitely on the hunt.
“So, let’s get started.” Sigh. “This shoulder won’t settle down and I haven’t been able to work out or walk Tina and Toby in three days, and they aren’t happy.” Big sigh. “Of course, I should be the one who’s not happy with them. Tina knows better than to pull when she sees a squirrel, same with Toby. But did they listen? Oh, no, they yanked so hard, my poor shoulder almost came straight out of its socket. Did that ever hurt.”
“Bet it did.” Tina and Toby were the Great Danes Cynthia called her “babies.” The whole town knew about the four-legged brother and sister who got more Christmas presents than most children and only ate grain-free food and homemade treats.
Talk of her dogs settled Cynthia down, made her almost human. Maggie assessed the woman’s shoulder, began carrying out Gina’s treatment plan, and had actually gotten a little cooperation, even interest, from the woman when a loud “Hey, girl!” interrupted the session.
Juliette Shaw, next in line to inherit her father’s insurance business and Cynthia Carlisle’s longtime sidekick, walked up to the treatment table and thrust a coffee cup at her friend. “Espresso with a dash of cinnamon.”
“Thank you!” Cynthia pursed her pink-glossed lips and kissed the air near Juliette’s face. She glanced at Maggie and said, “Hold on a sec,” before she shifted to her side, and sat up enough to take a long sip of espresso. “Mmm. Delicious.” She handed it back to Juliette and lay down again. “Okay, proceed.”
If Maggie didn’t need this job so much she might work up the nerve to tell the woman to shove her orders and her espresso. But probably not. That sort of confrontation wasn’t in her nature, though sometimes she wished it were. Then she wouldn’t hesitate or feel guilty about saying what was on her mind. She sipped in air and continued with the treatment, doing her best to ignore Juliette Shaw who was less tolerable than Cynthia Carlisle.
“Guess who I ran into at Sal’s?” Juliette gushed.
Cynthia sighed, rolled her eyes. “I’m not playing fifty questions because I am so not in the mood. I’m injured, can’t you see I’m in pain?” She winced, winced again, but the act came across forced and fake.
“Sorry, but you told me to keep you posted if there was a new-guy-in-town sighting.” She grinned. “And there certainly was.”
“Really?” Cynthia turned to stare at her friend, no sign of pain or a wince on her face. “Spill. What was he doing? What was he wearing?” And then, “Was he alone? Please, tell me that gorgeous man was alone.”
Who were they talking about? Oh, no. How many “new” men were in Magdalena, and of those, how many could be called gorgeous? Maggie bet only one, and she bet she knew his name.
“He wa
s alone.” Juliette held up a hand, began ticking off attributes with her fingers as she spoke. “Jeans, dark-washed, designer, black polo shirt, black loafers. Nice watch.” Pause, then a hitch in her voice when she said, “No rings.”
Cynthia sighed. “Oh, I do like the sound of that, but I already know he’s not married. He’s a widower.”
“How tragic.” Juliette shook her head, sighed. “Someone needs to comfort that man, and I think it should be you.”
Cynthia Carlisle slid a smile toward her friend. “I would be perfect for him, wouldn’t I?”
Was she serious? The woman didn’t know Grant, didn’t know anything about him other than surface information that she’d collected from somewhere, like random data off a computer printout.
“There is something kind of odd,” Juliette said, lips pulling into a frown. “He was talking to Fred at the butcher’s counter, asked him to cut up two filets, wanted them sliced just so, and he ordered thick strips of bacon, too. Did you know you can wrap the bacon around the filet and it gives it a really good taste?” She shrugged, scrunched her nose as if picturing how it would all taste. “I don’t know, but that’s what they said.”
“What else did they say?” Cynthia snipped.
“Mr. Gorgeous said something about risotto. That’s the stuff like fluffy rice—”
“Stop. I know what risotto is.” Big sigh. “Two steaks, two strips of bacon. He is not dining alone.”
Maggie worked Cynthia’s shoulder, tried to fight the heat rushing up her neck to her cheeks. Who was coming for dinner? He hadn’t really spoken much to her last night, but then she hadn’t been in a chatty mood between William’s broken forearm and her mother’s nonstop and very obvious matchmaking attempts. There’d been several times during dinner when she’d caught him staring at William, his gaze so intense she doubted he knew he was doing it. When they left the restaurant, they’d stood in the parking lot next to Maggie’s car. He’d hugged her mother and shaken William’s hand, telling him he’d been very brave. Then he’d looked at Maggie and nodded, his mouth firm, the ever-present smile women associated with him absent. Take care of him, he’d said, seconds before he turned and walked away.