This Love of Mine

by Miranda Liasson

  Nothing could stop the hum of contentment that radiated all though her body, the feeling that for once, everything in her life, at least the important stuff, was headed in an upward direction. She had never felt such a ridiculous rush—it was something for other people to experience, not her. Yet in her own life, a kind of miracle had happened, and she basked in it like it was sunshine on the beach.

  “Hi, Lukas,” she said cheerily.

  He arched one raven brow and looked her over with a mistrustful glare.

  “That is your name, isn’t it?” Meg asked.

  His answer was a squinting of his dark-as-coal eyes. “Ma’am, I’d like to know when Sam’s coming in today.”

  He moved to the side as she unlocked the door. “I’ll tell you if you wouldn’t mind helping me move some dress boxes upstairs.” She didn’t really need help from an exotic and interesting loner whom everyone had pegged as bad news, but what could she say, she’d always had a soft spot for wounded animals. “Come in,” she said as she opened the door and held it for him.

  He pushed off carelessly from his slouchy position and walked into the shop. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Maurice, coffee cup in hand, headed out of Mona’s and steering himself in her direction. She locked the door behind her and made sure the Closed sign was still facing outward because she could only triage one problem at a time. She placed a bakery bag on the counter and gestured to Spike to check it out while she went around flicking on lights.

  “No, thanks,” he said. That same hungry look inhabited his eyes as always, except this time, since Sam wasn’t around, it might just be from wanting food. Meg pushed the bag under his nose. “You’re helping me, remember? That means you get paid in cinnamon rolls. Take one.”

  He reached for it tentatively. Every finger wore a ring of hammered silver, each with exotic engravings that looked to her like Egyptian hieroglyphs.

  “What do the symbols mean?” she asked, grabbing a roll from the bag.

  “They’re African symbols of peace and tranquility.”

  “You made them yourself?”

  He looked surprised she’d asked.

  “Sam showed me the work you put on Etsy. You’re quite a talented artist.”

  Maybe an emo artist, but she was going to give the guy a chance.

  “Look, I’m not here for small talk. I just want to know—”

  “Why don’t you fight for her?” She had no time for bullshit. Maurice was strolling back and forth, peeking in the windows, and she had a full day booked ahead.

  Spike flinched just the slightest bit. Crossed his arms so his muscles flexed and his tattoos became prominent. His diamond studs glistened. Everything about him looked intimidating except for a flash in his eyes—of doubt, or hurt, or something she couldn’t quite get a handle on. “I’m not for Sam,” he said.

  “And that other guy is?”

  “What’s it to you, anyway?” His eyes narrowed. “You mean to tell me you’d rather see her with a guy like me than with him?”

  “I want to see her with whoever makes her happy. And I don’t see Harris Buckhorn, the third, doing that.”

  “I don’t see me doing that, either.” He started to walk toward the door.

  She should have let it go. Let him go. Maybe she was too sleep deprived to care. Maybe she was so sexually sated that she’d temporarily lost every single one of her inhibitions. For whatever reason, she went after him.

  “Then get yourself in shape. Don’t be a quitter. Make yourself worthy of her.”

  He spun around. “Excuse me?”

  “Do whatever it takes. Look, I don’t know you very well except that you’ve managed to keep my old Malibu running far past its expiration date. But I overheard you talking to Sam the other day. You know who she is. You see her.”

  “I’m not from her world.”

  “So what?”

  He smacked his hand against his head in frustration. “Man, you don’t understand at all. You live in a fairy tale. I have nothing to give her. I would only drag her down.”

  Meg tossed her arms up in the air. “You have a job, don’t you? You make her laugh. What else do you need?”

  For years she’d accepted that same doctrine. I’m not good enough kept her from doing a lot. Like talking to Ben, being honest with him, getting to know him. Fear of failure was a bitch.

  “The family hates me.”

  Oh, and then there was that. But today, no problem seemed too impossible not to fight for. She shook him by the shoulders. He shot her a don’t-touch-me-you-crazy-woman glare.

  “The family doesn’t know you. Hell, I don’t know you, but I tend to think the best of people. What you told Sam was the truth. She needed to hear it, because no one else has dared to tell it to her.”

  He looked stunned. Maybe she’d finally gotten to him. Or maybe he was just thinking he’d better do his business on the other side of the street. “Besides,”—she poked him in the chest with her finger—“whining is so unbecoming for a badass like you.” His expression turned murderous but Meg did her best to ignore it. “Sam’s coming in at ten,” she said. “Now, would you mind carrying up those boxes?”

  He sighed. “Where do you want them?”

  “Up the stairs, first room on the right.”

  As soon as he got busy hauling, she opened the front door. “Maurice, get in here. I have hot buns.”

  He looked her up and down in a flustered sort of way and blushed. “Indeed.”

  “From Mona’s,” she said to clarify. “Gran doesn’t come in until eleven, but I’m glad you’re here. I need to ask you a professional question.”

  She waited until Spike left, which for him couldn’t be fast enough, and Maurice had eaten his fill of rolls. Then she sat him down in one of the big cushy chairs, took the other for herself, and leaned over to speak.

  “This is—” She took a breath. Craziness gave her courage. “This is about my brother.”

  He looked down his spectacles at her. “Your deceased brother. The one who died years ago from an accident at the quarry.”

  “Yes. Patrick.” Her voice cracked a little when she said his name. But it was about time somebody had finally said his name out loud without cringing or apologizing. Oh, Patrick, she prayed. Please give me the strength I need to ask this one question. Because if there was any chance to change things, you would want me to ask it. “It’s about how he died.”

  Maurice set his coffee down as carefully as if it were a glass figurine. He folded his arms and set his face in a serious but attentive expression that reminded her for the first time that he used to be a physician. “Go on,” he said.

  “When Ben Rushford pulled Patrick out of the water that night, he said he panicked. He attempted to do CPR but he didn’t know what he was doing. He feels that if he would have done it right, Patrick might have had a chance.

  “I was wondering if—if that’s completely true? I thought you might know how I could find the autopsy report. Maybe you know who was coroner at the time, or where records for these kinds of things are kept? I just wondered if there was medical evidence that suggested my brother might have been dead a long time before Ben got there, or something—”

  “You mean your Ben has felt guilt for all these years because he couldn’t save his friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s quite a trauma for an eighteen-year-old to sustain. Finding his friend in such a state, trying to save him, and then losing him. Or for a grown man to carry. Especially if he’s in love with his friend’s sister.”

  Meg couldn’t think about the love part. She just knew that for Ben and her to truly have a chance, she had to help him release this burden. For their sakes and for her family’s, too. The old man reached over and took up Meg’s trembling hands. His grasp was firm, his voice steady and sure. Meg, on the other hand, felt like some critical thread holding her body together had snapped and she was coming unraveled at the seams.

  “CPR in this case would not
have made one bit of difference,” Maurice said. “Your brother hit his head on the bottom of the quarry and surely died instantly.”

  Meg looked into the old Irishman’s bright, intelligent eyes. “H-how do you know that?”

  “Because I was working in the ER that night when they brought him in.”

  Meg was shaking so hard she had to sit down before her knees gave way. “I knew about a head injury but—”

  “A very serious one. Nothing your Ben would have done would have made a difference. When your brother dove into the quarry, he severed his spinal cord.” Maurice placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, dear.”

  Meg put a hand over her mouth and sobbed. For her brother, for his sudden, sad, unnecessary death. For the aching loss of him over all these years. For her family, still so broken. And for Ben, who’d carried this burden for years in silence.

  Maurice drew a real handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her, and she took it gratefully, blowing her nose long and hard. “How is it no one spoke to Ben about this?” he asked.

  Meg took a deep breath. “The whole thing was horrible for him. My mother always thought he was a bad influence on Patrick and hasn’t spoken to him since the accident. I’m not sure Ben has really discussed it with anyone.”

  “Shame is a perilous thing. It makes people not talk about things. Not ask questions. Maybe no one realized how he suffered over it. With all the trauma of what he went through that night, it’s a miracle he’s come to achieve what he has.”

  “He loves being a doctor and he’s good at what he does.”

  He patted her hand. “And you love him.”

  She managed a small smile. With all my heart. “I’m glad you gave me information for his sake. Maybe I can somehow use it to fix this for my family.”

  “And for the sake of you both as a couple. May I ask how your grandmother feels about Ben?”

  Meg waved her hand. “Oh, you know Gloria. She never met a soul she didn’t like.”

  “Except for me,” he said.

  “Speaking of Gran, there she is now.” Out the big plate glass window, they saw Gloria walking down the sidewalk, arms laden with shopping bags. Today’s color was vivid purple, which she wore on everything from her rimmed feathered hat to her skirt and jacket, to her massive satchel and all the way down to her cute kitten heels. Maurice watched her with an expression of undisguised longing.

  Meg hugged the elderly doctor. “Thank you, Maurice.”

  He switched his gaze from outside to Meg. “I’m truly sorry about your brother.”

  “I know you are,” she said, giving his hand a pat. “And I appreciate the handkerchief. I’ll make sure to wash it for you.”

  He made a dismissive motion, like that wasn’t at all necessary.

  As she wadded up the handkerchief and stuck it into her skirt pocket, she said, “You know, my grandmother’s not that tough an egg to crack. You just need to know the secret.”

  CHAPTER 18

  “You’re here,” Ben said with a feeling of disbelief, standing up from the collapsing front stoop of what was once his grandparents’ graceful red brick home and brushing off the butt of his dress pants. Meg walked up the cracked cement walkway, not wearing anything out of the ordinary, just a patterned skirt and a yellow blouse, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail. The way his heart was crashing into his rib cage, he felt like one of his patients who just might need a high-joule shock to straighten it out. He had to stop himself from dropping to his knees in gratefulness for being the lucky bastard to have spent an entire night with her.

  She smiled widely as she approached, and he flashed her back what was probably the same stupid grin he’d been wearing the whole damn day. Everything he saw and felt seemed magnified a hundred times over. The gummy smile the cute baby with the runny nose gave him this morning, the pat on the back from the old nurse when she handed him a very-needed cup of coffee. Hell, he’d even shrugged off the fact that he’d had to wait an hour for some results because one of the lab machines had broken down.

  He kissed Meg on the lips and smoothed back a strand of her raven-dark hair that had come undone from her ponytail. Her green eyes seemed to dance with happiness, the same giddy feeling that coursed through his veins now, making him feel more alive than he had in years.

  “Hi,” he said dumbly.

  “Hi.” She giggled. They stared at each other for a few moments, basking in each other’s presence. He ran a hand up and down her soft arm, inhaled her pretty lemony scent, kissed her again on her lips, and tasted the unique essence that was her and only her.

  “We’re in public,” she said, pulling away a little.

  “So what?” he asked, pulling her closer.

  “You don’t do PDA,” she reminded him.

  He chuckled. “I do now,” he said, just before planting his most mind-blowing kiss on her, teasing her mouth open, kissing her slow and softly, then stroking her tongue with his until she gave a little moan. A couple of car horns beeped and they both pulled apart.

  “Guess I got carried away,” he said, touching her blushing cheek. More like blown away by a petite, five-foot-two hurricane who made him want to skip work—which he never, ever did—and spend the rest of the day naked in her bed.

  “I have something to tell you,” she said, taking up his hand.

  He could tell from the way her eyes shone that it was good news. “You got the loan?”

  “Nope. Something bigger.”

  “Pippa Middleton really is coming with an entourage to check out your shop?”

  “Nothing to do with the shop.” She pulled him over to the crumbly front stoop and sat him down.

  “If I have to sit down, maybe I should be getting nervous.”

  “Ben, I . . . did something on your behalf. At least, I was asking a question on your behalf and I accidentally got an answer right away. But I’m worried you’re going to think I was meddling.”

  “Is it about the ER job?”

  “No, of course not. I would never interfere with that. However you take this, I want you to know I did it to help not just you, but us together. Both of us.”

  He could tell from the deep knit of her brows that she was worried. He gathered up her hands, used his thumbs to stroke her soft skin. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it. Tell me.”

  “I asked Dr. Manning who the coroner was when Patrick died.”

  Instinctively, Ben withdrew his hands. “Meggie, no. Not that.”

  “Please hear me out. I kept thinking, what if there was some evidence Patrick was already dead—some concrete proof, so you’d stop tormenting yourself over it.”

  “It’s done, Meggie. He drowned. No one can say exactly when. He probably was gone by the time I got to him. We’ll never know for sure.”

  “Dr. Manning was working in the ER that night. He said Patrick hit his head when he dove in and severed his spine. By the time you got to him, it was already too late. The worst thing you did was be in the wrong place at the wrong time, to have been the one to find him like that.”

  Ben stared at the ground. He happened to spy an anthill with dozens of ants in a line busily doing the mundane chore of carrying particles of sand to add to the hill. It took a little while for her words to register. He felt like he was someone else, not himself, who could somehow make his body move.

  “Please don’t be angry with me,” Meg said.

  Instinct made him reach for her and pull her in close. She was warm and real and tangible and such a contrast to the paling ghosts from the past who finally had a reason to release their grip. They sat like that for what must have been a while, because she finally drew away enough to look at him. “Say something. Please.”

  “The doctor in me understood for a long time that your brother was probably dead. But I could never stop asking myself the question, what if he wasn’t?” She’d given him evidence, despite the emotional price she’d paid to get it. He pulled her to him again almost violently and kissed th
e top of her head. “Thank you for what you’ve done.”

  He couldn’t find words. No one had ever put themselves so unselfishly on the line for him. She brought out feelings in him he’d never felt for anyone else. “Meg, I—” The words choked in his throat. Worse, he discovered he was crying, making him swipe quickly at his eyes with his fist. He wanted to say he loved her. But he didn’t want it to be about Patrick, about her helping him to heal his past. When he said it, he wanted it to be about her. About them. About the future.

  He didn’t have to worry about what to say, because she kissed him gently on the lips and stood up, wiping away her own tears.

  “So, your grandparents’ old home is zoned for business?” She stood in the walkway and looked up, shielding her eyes from the hot sun. He stood with her, relieved to change subjects and get to the reason he’d asked her to meet him here in the first place. She took in the peeling paint on the white trim, a dangling disconnected gutter, and patches on the roof where the old slate had been replaced by cheaper roof tiles. Not to mention the marquee-like sign planted in the middle of the front yard that read Hometown Insurance, Goddard Optical, Leonard Portraits, and Jones, Day, and Coleman Law Offices.

  “Actually, the businesses all left and the city’s about to tear it down. Jeannie Marshall gave me the key and told me I could take all the time I wanted to go through it.”

  “Oh. The teardown’s a shame,” she said. “It has majestic bones.”

  He had to agree. It was majestic in its traditional boxy way, with a massive oak in the front yard that used to hold a tire swing. To the right stood another century home that was now a funeral home and to the left was a little park that connected to wooded bike trails he’d explored many a time in his childhood. It saddened him to see the house at the end of its lifespan.

  “I thought we could look around, maybe take a few pictures. My grandfather’s office was on the left.” He pointed to a side addition. On the opposite side of the building a closed-in sunroom reflected the classic Georgian symmetry of the house. “What time do you have to be back?” he asked.