by Dawn Douglas
Today was different.
Today he stared out the window above his desk, going over the previous evening again and again. He thought of Marcy’s sweet, rueful smile, her habit of tucking her wavy hair behind one ear, only to have it tumble loose. He’d wanted to reach out and tuck it behind her ear himself, found himself wondering what would happen if he did exactly that, and smiled. She’d probably have blushed—she was one of those women who colored easily, her cheeks blooming a deep pink.
The smile faded as he recalled their kiss, the sweetness and passion of those brief moments when their lips touched. It was as if his black and white existence had suddenly blazed into dazzling technicolor. Now she was gone, and his life had faded back to gray. Forcing his attention toward the pile of paper on his desk, he wondered what she was doing at that very moment.
The phone rang and he picked it up absently.
“How did it go?” his sister blurted with no attempt at a greeting.
“Good afternoon, Lillian,” he said. “How are you today?”
“Fine. How did your date with Marcy go?”
Thinking of the fortune cookie crumbs clinging to Marcy’s pink and very kissable lips, Frank said, “She’s a nice lady.”
“Nice?” Lillian echoed, sounding disappointed. “She’s more than nice. Her mom has told me how special she is, how Marcy has raised her child alone, held down a job, plus she’s beautiful and smart and—”
“Well, her mom’s bound to be biased, isn’t she?” he cut in smoothly. “I was just in the middle of something. I’ll talk to you later.”
Frank hung up and sighed deeply, wondering why he suddenly felt as if he had a very large problem.
****
At that moment Marcy despondently nibbled on a tuna sandwich in the library's break room. A coworker popped her head in the door. “Call for you.”
She leaped to her feet, dabbing at her mouth, filled with a wild hope and excitement. She went to the phone and grabbed it up. “Hello?”
“Hey, pumpkin!”
“Oh. Hi, Mom.” She wanted to weep.
“Well? How’d it go?”
“It was nice, but—”
“You’re seeing him again?”
Suddenly Marcy felt tired. Tired of being sad and alone and disappointed. Tired of feeling like a loser. “No, I won’t be seeing Frank again,” she said. “His choice. Look, I’ve got to go, Mom. Bye.”
She put down the phone, wanting nothing more than go home and climb into bed, pull the covers up over her head and stay there for a very long time. But she was at the library, her lunch hour was over, and it was time to get back to work.
****
February
One week after their date at the Jade Wok, Frank decided that calling Marcy was probably the right thing to do. They’d kissed, after all, and sometimes women could let their imaginations get the better of them. It was best if he made things crystal clear. Explain to her that although they’d kissed, it was just one of those things and meant nothing. Just two lonely people, a moment of weakness, and a beautiful, snowy night.
He picked up the phone.
Once again, Justine answered. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, after Frank’s greeting. “Look, I don’t know what went down between you and my mom over the weekend but she is in, like, a totally crappy mood.”
“Could I speak to her?”
“Can I ask you a favor? Seeing as how you’re dating my mom and everything?”
“We’re not exactly—”
“I’ve got this project for school,” Justine rushed on, “we have to interview somebody. I totally do not want to have to choose a random old person so … maybe could I talk to you?”
“Well, I...”
“Please, Frank.”
“I’d need to look at my calendar...”
“Oh, would you? And then get back to me so we can schedule a time. Oh, thank you so much. This is so cool!”
“Justine, who is that?”
Frank tensed when he heard Marcy’s voice.
“It’s Frank, Mom, and he’s agreed to let me interview him for my school project.”
“Frank?”
He thought she sounded dismayed when her voice sounded tentatively on the line. “Hello?”
He cleared his throat. “Hello, Marcy.” There was a long silence as he wondered what to say next. “I thought we needed to talk.”
“Oh, okay,” she said. “What about?”
He was completely thrown by her question. Isn’t it obvious?
“What is this? You actually agreed to an inteview with my daughter?” she asked. “She wasn’t pushy about it, was she?”
“No,” he said. “Not at all.”
“Oh, good,” Marcy sounded relieved. “Um, would you like to come over for lunch on Saturday? Then Justine can conduct her interview and we can talk.”
In the background, Frank heard Justine saying something. Then Marcy spoke again, sounding slightly embarrassed. “I’m sorry—she said she’d like to do it at your place so she can get some pictures of you in your writing environment. Is that okay?”
“Um, sure,” he said, and then recited his address.
Frank felt confused and slightly dazed by the time he’d hung up. How the hell had this come about? He’d called to tell Marcy that in spite of one sizzling, unforgettable kiss he had no intention of ever seeing her again. Instead he’d somehow invited her and her daughter over for lunch at the weekend. Frank shook his head in bewilderment—what had he got himself into?
He wondered if Marcy and Justine liked chili.
****
It was amazing, Marcy thought, how quickly a bad mood could melt away. Hers vanished the instant she heard Frank’s voice. How quickly everything changed. It was amazing to think that just a week ago her life felt utterly devoid of hope, and now she was face to face with the tantalizing promise of romance with a man she found deliciously attractive. Frank was more than sexy and attractive and intelligent, she reflected. He was nice. He’d invited Justine to interview him.
Rather than showy, the address Frank gave her was quietly impressive. Marcy and Justine climbed the steps leading to the front door of the old, three-story home in the middle of Denver’s historic district. As she rang the bell, Marcy was suddenly seized with nerves, and she gulped, then brushed her sweaty palms down her jeans. At least her hair had been a bit more cooperative today. From behind the door she heard footsteps, a dog barking, and then Frank opened the door. Their eyes met for a moment, and Marcy’s heart lurched.
A huge black lab surged forward to greet them. Justine laughed.
“Doc,” he scolded, pulling on the dog’s collar. “Sorry, ladies—he’s not used to company.”
They managed to get inside, and Frank banished the dog into the back yard before taking their coats. He gave Marcy an awkward smile. “How are you?”
“I’m good,” she replied softly.
“Great to meet you, Justine,” he said, holding out his hand. “Hungry?’
She nodded, smiling as she shook his hand.
Marcy glanced around as they followed him into the kitchen. It was a beautiful house, she thought, but there were very few personal touches. The pale walls were bare of photographs, the wooden floors scuffed, the furniture bland and functional. The kitchen, large and modern, opened into the room which Frank obviously worked in. A computer sat on a large desk that overlooked the back yard. Books and magazines lay stacked everywhere, on the coffee table, on the floor, and overflowed from a tall, oak bookcase. A large painting of a cowboy racing across the open plains hung over the fireplace.
The interview was informal. While Frank stirred a large pot of chili, Justine asked him when he’d first decided he wanted to become a writer.
“As far back as I can remember,” he replied. “When I was a kid, reading by flashlight under the blankets long after I should have been asleep, I couldn’t think of anything more wonderful than being able to create a world all my own, with people
I dreamed up all by myself.”
Justine’s poised her pen over her notebook. “You began writing when you were a boy?”
“Nope, didn’t think people like me actually wrote books,” Frank said, spooning chili into three bowls and coming to the table. “I joined the Army.”
“Hmm,” Justine murmured, scribbling hard.
Marcy tried not to stare at the man sitting across from her at the wooden table, but couldn’t help herself. His dark hair was shot through with gray, his features craggy, his eyes a fierce and piercing blue. He could almost have been one of the cowboys he liked to write about. Just then, Frank looked up and caught her staring. She flushed and turned back to her chili.
“How did you feel when Texas Drifter was made into a movie?” Justine asked.
Frank chewed thoughtfully on a mouthful of food.
“It must have been so exciting!” Justine said.
He smiled slightly. “It was.”
“Okay. What are your hobbies apart from writing?”
“The usual—walking my dog, a little cooking.”
“Did you bake that?” Justine asked, eyeballing the chocolate cake on the counter.
“No, I don’t bake cakes,” he said. “Like to eat them though.”
“Mom bakes,” Justine said. “She won first prize in the county fair last year for her German chocolate cake.”
As if to confirm, Frank glanced at Marcy who shrugged modestly.
“What if she baked one for you?” Justine asked.
“I wouldn’t say no.”
The sun came out and Justine wondered out into the yard to play with Doc while Marcy helped Frank load the dishwasher.
“She’s nice kid,” he said gruffly.
“Thanks.” Marcy smiled. “It was really nice of you to agree to this.”
“I like kids,” he said.
“Do you have any of your own?”
He went still for a moment, and she wondered if she’d overstepped some boundary. Then he shook his head. “My wife couldn’t have children. Guess it just wasn’t meant to be.”
“For a writer, you’re a man of very few words,” Marcy observed.
He turned to her with a smile, and the moment became intimate, charged with electricity. He took a step toward her. “Marcy—”
The moment dissolved when the back yard door opened and Doc came loping in, followed by Justine. “Where’s his water bowl?” she asked. “I made him thirsty, didn’t I, boy?”
Frank filled Doc’s water bowl. They each enjoyed a slice of chocolate cake while Justine asked a few more questions. Marcy stroked an appreciative Doc. This felt so good, she thought. The three of them hardly knew each other and yet the atmosphere between them was so light and easy, almost as if they belonged together. Don’t, she warned herself, don’t get carried away. But every time Frank looked in her direction Marcy felt herself fill up with a heady mixture of lust and affection.
“I like him,” Justine said, going over her notes as they drove home.
“So do I,” Marcy admitted quietly.
Justine looked over at her. “So, are you going to bake him a cake?”
Marcy smiled. “I think I just might.”
****
A week later, Frank hung up the phone and wondered why he didn’t feel more elated. He’d just received the news he’d been waiting months to hear.
“It’s finished,” he said quietly to Doc, who dozed lazily at his feet. “The house is finally finished.”
As much as he’d loved Katie, his wife had been very much a city girl, which was why they’d always lived here in Denver, close to the restaurants, museums and the hustle and bustle she’d thrived on. When he’d started to make a success of his writing, Katie had argued that it was much more convenient for them to live in town. After she’d died, he couldn’t bear to live in the home they’d shared, so he’d sold it and moved into the townhouse he lived in now, thinking it would be a good base from which to plan the creation of a real home—a log house up in the mountains, where he could ride for hours on end and walk around in the woods, just him and nature, the stars shining down every night bright and clear.
Room by room, he had planned his dream home, thinking it would be his salvation. It would have a conservatory and a huge, well-equipped kitchen where he could cook up batches of chili and tacos. His office would have soaring windows so that he could glance up as he worked and see the mountains in all their glorious and unchanging splendor. His bedroom would have a deck so that he could step outside at night and hear the coyotes howling in the distance and look up at the stars. But now, thinking about the home that waited for him, Frank felt an aching sense of emptiness. He’d achieved quite a lot during his life. But when he was with Marcy and Justine, he was reminded of all the things he didn’t have, and never would.
Abruptly, he got to his feet, snapped on Doc’s leash, and left the house for what he called a therapy walk. What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I having these pointless thoughts?
But of course he knew exactly why. Marcy Garrett had gotten under his skin. After he’d agreed to Justine’s interview, he’d cursed himself, because if there was one thing he hated it was strangers invading his home asking damn fool questions. But that was just it—Marcy and Justine hadn’t seemed like strangers. Sharing a meal with them had seemed like the most natural thing in the world. When Marcy walked into the kitchen to help him load the dishwasher he’d wondered if taking her in his arms would seem natural, too. The sight of her licking the wooden spoon clean before placing it in the dishwasher had almost sent him over the edge.
After his guests said their goodbyes, Doc looked at him reproachfully, before slumping despondently on the rug in front of the fireplace. Frank knew exactly how he felt.
After the “therapy”, he attempted to write, knowing the current work in progress wasn’t going well. The heroine was a flirtatious brunette named Clara, but when he tried to write her, all he could think of was a quietly intelligent woman with wayward curls and a tendency to blush. When suppertime rolled around Frank switched off the computer in relief, ate and took a quick shower.
Then he looked over the pictures of his new house again, trying to reignite some of the enthusiasm he’d once felt at the idea of living in a glorified log cabin in the middle of nowhere.
He couldn’t do it.
Suddenly, Doc barked, seconds before the doorbell rang. Frank opened the door, and there stood Marcy on his doorstep. She peered at him from around the enormous dome-covered platter she was carrying. Through the clear dome, Frank spied a chocolate cake.
“Oh, you are home,” she said. “I tried to call, and when there was no answer I thought I’d drive over anyway and just leave this outside for you.”
“I must have been in the shower,” he said, surprised by the rush of joy he felt at the sight of her. “Come in.”
After following him into the kitchen she placed the cake on the counter. “I wanted to tell you that Justine got an A for her assignment. This is a thank you from both of us.”
Frank nodded, staring at her. She looked so pretty. Some sort of gauzy blue scarf draped around her neck, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold night air. He had absolutely no idea what to do, didn’t know whether he should ask her to remove her jacket, offer her a cup of coffee, ask if she was hungry. It was as if his brains had scrambled the second Marcy Garrett came into his house.
She stood there, her hands fidgeting with her scarf. He fought the urge to cover them with his own. “I guess I’ll be going,” she said. “I really just wanted to say thanks and deliver the cake.”
Panic grabbed at him just before his spirits crashed in complete and utter disappointment. “Okay.”
Marcy nodded, looking at him with an expression he couldn’t read, her eyes huge and sad. “I thought...” she began, then shook her head. “Oh, it doesn’t matter. Goodnight, Frank.”
“Marcy.” As she walked to the door he knew he should keep his mouth shut and let her g
o—but couldn't. “What did you think?”
She took a deep breath. “At the restaurant that night you made your feelings very clear. You said you weren’t looking for a relationship and I appreciated your honesty. But then afterward when we, when you—”she stumbled helplessly over the words. “We sort of kissed and I thought things had changed...”
“They did,” he admitted. “Marcy, the last thing I planned on was becoming interested in a woman, but I haven’t been able to get you off my mind.”
“Oh, Frank.” She stepped away from the door and rushed to him. “You’re all I can think of—I feel like I’m going crazy.”
She felt so small in his arms, and she smelled so good, like roses and chocolate and sunshine. And it was such a relief to hold her close again that for a moment all he could do was close his eyes and savor the feel of her, the pounding of her heart and the warmth of her body. When she lifted her face, he kissed her in a deliberate, sweet exploration.
And he knew in that one brilliant moment he never wanted to let her go.
****
Without him realizing it, they were in the living room, feverishly kissing like there was no tomorrow as he helped her wiggle free of her jacket and unwinding the scarf from around her neck so he could get to the silky skin of her throat, her face, her mouth. Heat pulsed through him, need exacerbated by her soft, desperate moans.
He pulled off her top then unclipped her bra. Almost reverently, Frank touched her full, round breasts, gently grazing the pale pink nipples with his fingertips.
Marcy stood and pulled off the rest of her clothes while Frank watched. In the dying light of the fire, her pale skin appeared golden. Quickly, he took off his jeans and shirt, saw Marcy swallow convulsively as her eyes ran over his body, and then she was touching him, gliding her hands across his skin and making him shudder, then guiding him inside her. He groaned aloud, struggling for control as Marcy moved, finding her own release. She whispered his name, her body tensing as it was overtaken with ecstasy, and Frank felt his own need explode as he plunged deeply inside her.