A tight lump formed in her throat, his gruff kindness making her feel even worse. Fighting against the constriction, she dredged up another small smile. “It’s just a headache, Frank. Not the end of the world.” There was a burst of laughter and a series of loud pops, as if someone was exploding balloons, and she glanced toward the shop. She caught a glimpse of Kelly in the crowd, but that wasn’t what made her insides drop away. It was seeing Tony standing in a group of people, laughing at something happening outside her field of view. Feeling more alone than ever, she turned abruptly and started toward her house, wanting to crawl in a hole and never come out. What was wrong with her? She hadn’t been this adolescent when she was an adolescent. It was as if that one single kiss had opened up the floodgates, and she was never going to be the same again.
She was never going to be the same again. Maggie sat on the sofa in total darkness, her legs drawn up, her arms folded around them, her head buried in her knees. She had been wallowing for the past three hours, and she could not make herself stop. She would just about get things under control when something would happen and she’d start all over again, until her nose was plugged, her eyes throbbing and her throat raw.
She’d headed straight to the bathroom when she got home and had taken a long shower with the water turned on full blast, mentally allowing herself one good, cleansing cry in the safety of her shower enclosure. She had stayed in there so long that she’d emptied the forty-gallon hot-water tank, but that therapy had only worked for a little while—until she got out of the shower. Then somebody had cranked up the volume on the stereo next door, and the sound of music seemed to echo in her silent, empty house, bringing on another wave of emotion. She’d finally shut the living room windows and closed the drapes, but that hadn’t helped. Nothing helped.
Her chest feeling as raw as her throat, Maggie pressed her forehead against her knees. It was crazy. Some guy moves in next door—a hunk who has an overdose of sex appeal, a body like a Roman god and a smile with more wattage than Las Vegas—and she falls apart at the seams. She was having fantasies about him in her sleep, and she was terrified to go outside in case she ran into him in the back alley. Her body hummed every time she thought about him, and her suppressed sexuality was wound up like a clock.
What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she stuff all those feelings in a mental closet? She had done it once; why couldn’t she do it this time? Maggie didn’t know what was wrong with her. She was forty-three years old, for crying out loud, and she was daydreaming about being twenty-five with no stretch marks. It was nuts. One little emotional upheaval in her life and she was a mess. She was normally a levelheaded, practical person, wasn’t she? Why was it that a simple pizza and beer had changed all that?
Okay. It wasn’t just the pizza and beer. It was that one long, deep, devastating kiss that had thrown her into total chaos. Just remembering the feel of Tony’s hands cradling her face was enough to put her heart into overdrive. Lord, one kissone unbelievable, bone-melting kiss—and he had turned her world upside down and given it a darned good shake. And now she was left with the consequences. And those consequences were pretty hard to deal with, especially for someone who truly believed she didn’t have a shred of foolishness in her. What a joke. At the moment she didn’t have an unfoolish thought in her head. She had developed an adolescent crush on a man who was nine years her junior.
“Mom?”
She kept her head down, heartily wishing she was somewhere else. Kelly could make more noise than a herd of elephants, but she could also move like a shadow when she wanted to. And she was the only person in the whole world who could miss the squeaky floorboard by the front door. Maggie prayed she would leave the light off.
The light came on, and Maggie heard her daughter kick off her shoes. Still resting her forehead against her knees, she made a stab at normalcy. “So did you have a good time?”
“How come you left without even saying hello to Tony?”
There was no mistaking the miffed tone in Kelly’s voice, and Maggie released a tired sigh. It served her right for drilling her daughter in good manners—now she was going to get drilled herself. Determined not to let Kelly see the state her face was in, she kept her head down. “I didn’t even see Tony,” she responded.
“Well, he was looking for you. He seemed pretty ticked off when Frank told him you’d gone home.”
Wondering why she felt compelled to defend herself, she mumbled. “It wasn’t a deliberate insult, Kelly. I was getting a headache, so I came home.” Which was no longer a lie. A dull pain was developing behind her eyes, and her head was beginning to pound.
“You were fine when we left home.”
“Yes, I was. Then I wasn’t. It’s not a federal offense.”
“Well, you should have at least thanked him for the invitation.”
Maggie experienced a tiny flicker of amusement. She wondered what Kelly would say if she told her she was beginning to sound just like her father.
“Big Bertha said to give you these. They’re the keys to the coffee shop, so you can pick up her books on the way to work Monday.”
Knowing she couldn’t hide any longer, Maggie released a long sigh and lifted her head. Without looking at Kelly, she took the keys her daughter was holding out to her, sticking them in the kangaroo pocket on her sweatsuit top.
“Mom?” Kelly crouched down in front of her and touched her hand. “What’s the matter?”
Setting the keys on the end table, Maggie avoided her concerned gaze. “Nothing, honey. I’ve just got a bad headache, that’s all.”
“You’ve been crying.”
The tone of quiet accusation in her daughter’s voice made Maggie smile just a little, and she finally met Kelly’s gaze. “That’s not a federal offense, either, Muffy.”
Kelly gave her a return smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Come on, Mom. You never cry. What’s the matter?”
Reaching out, Maggie smoothed back some loose wisps of hair that had slipped out of Kelly’s braid, her throat cramping a little. “Nothing’s the matter,” she said, her voice husky. She tried to put a little lightness into her response, a tug of wry amusement lifting one corner of her mouth. “Maybe my hormones have run just amok.”
Kelly looked up at her, her eyes serious. “You aren’t worried about anything, are you?”
Maggie smiled back. “No, I’m not worried about anything. It was just an off day.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
The teenager stared at her mother, as if assessing her response. Finally she spoke. “Okay then.” She got to her feet. “Well, I guess I’d better go to bed. We swim at six thirty tomorrow morning.”
Maggie watched as she picked up her shoes. “Do you need a ride?”
“No. Mr. Gordon is going to take us. Scott wants him to videotape us so we can see how we’re doing.” Kelly paused at the archway. “Go to bed, Mom.”
Maggie gave her a small smile. “I will.”
Stacking her arms on her knees, Maggie rested her chin on them, considering the room. She liked the results of her labor. She had painted the walls an eggshell color, and with the oak woodwork and floors, it had given the room a clean, uncluttered look. One thing she had indulged in over the past few years was artwork, all done by local artists, and she had spent a fortune getting it all matted and framed. The frames were a mix—wide, narrow, some with wide matting, some less dramatic—but the effect pleased her. There were some oils, several watercolors and some pen-and-ink sketches, and she had spent considerable time arranging them in groupings.
The sound of car doors slamming interrupted her mental wanderings, and she realized it had finally grown quiet next door. Experiencing a funny let-down feeling, she raked her hair back with one hand and got up. The party was over, in more ways than one. Going over to turn off the light, she winced at the heavy pounding in her head. It served her right for claiming she had a headache. Now she had one for real.
It was nearly nine when Maggie awoke the next morning. Her first thought when she looked at the clock was that she’d slept in and was late for work. The second thought, after she waded through the grogginess and remembered it was Sunday, was that she felt like hell. She groaned and rolled over on her stomach, the movement setting off a drum chorus in her skull. Pulling the pillow over her head to block out the brightness, she tried to swallow against the rawness in her throat. Feeling hot, sweaty and kick-the-dog cranky, she pushed off the covers. Too tired the night before to change into one of the oversize T-shirts she used as nighties, she had gone to bed in her sweatsuit. She felt as if she were strangling in it. She tried to swallow again. Yep, no question about it. Her throat was definitely sore.
Trying to scrape together enough energy to get up, she pushed the pillow away and squinted at the clock again. Ten o’clock? She was sure it had said nine. Or had she gone back to sleep? She didn’t know.
A loud knocking on the back door made her consider pulling the pillow over her head once more. But then she remembered that she had come home late on Wednesday and missed paying David, her paperboy. Which meant he’d be back sometime today. Since he delivered her paper in a neat little roll and never dumped it in the hedge, unlike his predecessor, she felt obliged to pull herself out of bed. Holding her head with both hands, she staggered down the hallway, feeling decidedly off kilter, as if one leg had suddenly become shorter than the other. This did not feel like the aftermath of three hours of howling self-pity. This felt like something else altogether. The other obvious answer did not fill her with joy. About once every five or six years, she got nailed with a bout of bronchitis that made her feel like she had a forest fire raging in her chest and that her throat had been put through a meat grinder.
Another knock sounded and she muttered a nasty comment under her breath as she unlocked the dead bolt. Shading her eyes against the brightness, she pulled open the door, about to give David a lecture on patience and prudence.
Only it wasn’t David. His feet were definitely the wrong size. A nasty little fizzle spreading through her, Maggie lifted her gaze, her eyes widening in alarm. It definitely wasn’t David standing there. It was Tony Parnelli, her tray hanging from one hand, his other hand braced on the door frame. He had on a pair of faded jeans with frayed rips in the knees and an unbuttoned orange shirt that had one pocket torn off. His jaw was dark with heavy stubble, his hair was standing on end as if he’d just got out of bed and his eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot. And from the grim set of his jaw and the glint in his eyes, he was feeling cranky as well. “Here,” he said, his tone hostile. “Your name is on the bottom.”
Grasping the tray, Maggie lifted her chin, taking exception to his tone. Her head felt as if it just might explode if she moved too fast, her legs were telling her to sit down and now she had to deal with Bozo the Bear.
“And a good, good morning to you, too,” she said, her tone sarcastic.
He glared at her. “Don’t start in with the good-morning crap, lady. I’m returning your damned tray. That’s all.”
He turned and started for the steps, and pure, unadulterated annoyance sizzled through Maggie. “Thank you for bringing over such a nice tray of goodies, Mrs. Burrows,” she said, as if prompting a small, spoiled child.
Tony stopped. He didn’t move for a moment; then he turned. Jamming his hands on his hips, he stared at her, the muscles in his jaw bunching. Then he came toward her, a dangerous glimmer in his eyes. “Boy, did I have you figured wrong. I invited you over thinking you might have a good time. But no. You toss some food on the table, then leave. What’s the matter, Mrs. Burrows? Wasn’t the company good enough for you?”
Gripped with the totally unexpected urge to laugh, Maggie closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the door, wishing she didn’t feel so darned dizzy. What was wrong with her? She should be absolutely indignant over his accusation; instead she wanted to laugh. But the way her throat and head were feeling, it would probably kill her. Making an effort to school her face, she raised her head and looked at him. “I didn’t see you there.”
Shifting his weight onto one hip, he narrowed his eyes. “I had to pick up some more beer. What was your excuse?”
“I had a headache.”
One corner of his mouth lifted in a nasty smile. “Yeah. Right.” He cast her one last look, then turned and went down the stairs.
Experiencing a rush of all the same feelings she’d had the night before, Maggie watched him go, suddenly on the verge of tears. On top of that, she had offended him, and that made her feel even worse. He had tried to be nice. Tried to be a good neighbor. If her female hormones were in full revolt, that was her problem, not his. He had got clawed up helping her with the Captain, and he’d brought her pizza and beer. He also kissed you, whispered a devious little voice in her mind, like you have never been kissed before.
A good dose of guilt mixed in with everything else she was feeling, and Maggie felt like pure slime. He was at the corner of the garage when she swallowed hard and called out to him.
“Tony?”
He turned, his expression set.
Feeling as if she was either going to throw up or cry, she tried to dredge up a smile. “Thank you for the invitation,” she said, her voice raw and scratchy. “It was nice of you to ask. And I was rude not to stay until you showed up.” He started to say something, but she stepped inside, shoved the door closed and rested her head against it. Closing her eyes, she waited for the painful cramp in her throat to ease; then she turned and stumbled back to her room. Crawling into bed, she pulled the pillow over her head, tears leaking out. Damn it. She had cried more in the past two days than she had in the past twelve years. Maybe Frank was right—maybe she was menopausal. She pressed her face against the mattress, blotting up the tears. But if that was the case, why did she feel as if she’d just shot Bambi?
By Sunday night she was running a fever, her chest was starting to get tight and her throat was so sore it made her eyes water every time she tried to swallow. Her head still feeling as if it might explode any minute, she did all the home-remedy things—gargled with saltwater, breathed in mentholated steam, loaded up on vitamin C. She had to make it to work on Monday. Frank would be ready to rip out what was left of his hair over the Macinrow account, and she felt bone-deep obligated to rescue him from Mr. Macinrow and vice versa.
By Monday morning, she knew she was in big trouble. Sometimes she was able to head off a case of bronchitis with home treatment, but this time it hadn’t worked. She breathed very carefully, partly because of her raw throat and partly because she knew if she coughed, her chest was going to hurt like the dickens. She felt a little better after she took a hot shower and cautiously, very cautiously inhaled the steam. But she still felt like hell. Knowing her legs wouldn’t hold out for four blocks, she drove to work. She was halfway there when she remembered she was supposed to pick up Big Bertha’s books, and she had to turn around and go back for the key, then stop at the coffee shop. Bertha had closed up for a week to do some renovating, and the smell of fresh, oil-based paint was like breathing in fire. After a coughing spell that just about killed her, Maggie arrived at work feeling as if she had a troupe of acrobats loose in her head.
Frank took one look at her, then grabbed her by the shoulders and firmly turned her toward the door. “Get out of here. Go home, go to bed and take a bottle of rum with you.”
She locked her knees and braced her legs. “I’m just going to finish the Macinrow—”
“No,” he said, pushing her toward the door. “I don’t want your big red nose and hacky cough in here. You look like hell and you sound like hell. Which means you probably feel like hell.” He opened the door and tried to push her out. “Go.”
Grabbing either side of the door frame, she resisted. “Frank,” she whispered, her voice so hoarse that it sounded like gravel. “Just a minute.”
He quit shoving her, and she turned, pressing her fists against her chest to stifl
e another cough. The burning tightness made her eyes water, and she remained motionless, praying the seizure would pass. Swallowing hard, she looked up at him, her eyes tearing in the bright lights. “Would you phone Dr. Donaldson and see if I can get an appointment?” she whispered, her voice gone almost completely.
He shook his head, as if despairing for her; then he walked to her desk and picked up the phone, raising his eyebrows in a silent query. She went over and wrote the number on a notepad, and he shook his head again and punched in the number. Maggie went outside and leaned against the door frame. Frank’s establishment was really an old house that he’d bought and renovated twenty years before. It was situated on a corner lot, with big trees in the yard, a cotoneaster hedge and a single-car garage in back. The only thing that indicated it was a business was the big, old-fashioned sign hanging from a post by the front walk.
Maggie leaned her head back and closed her eyes, trying to endure the waves of heat washing through her. She had been cold when she got dressed, so she’d put on a sweater. Now she wanted to rip it off. God, she wanted to lay down and die.
Frank came outside. “The doc was just leaving for an emergency at the hospital, but he said it sounded like the usual. He’s phoning in a prescription. He said to go home, go to bed, and if you don’t feel any better in twenty-four hours, to come in and see him.”
Hooking his big beefy arm around her neck, her boss guided her down the walk to her car. He opened the door, practically stuffed her inside, then shut it. Then he waggled one finger at her. “I don’t want to see you back here for another week, Mary Margaret. You got that?”
Gripping the wheel, she looked up at him. “But, Frank—”
“No buts,” he said, scolding her. “You go home. And you take care of yourself.” His voice became gruff. “If you need anything—anything at all—you call me, you hear?”
Wanting to put her head down on the steering wheel and not move for a week, she dredged up a weak smile. “I hear.”
Driven To Distraction Page 8