The Reluctant Cinderella

by Christine Rimmer

  Greg passed Anthony the covered plastic bowl. “Take good care of this.”

  “I will,” he vowed.

  Greg gunned the powerful engine and they were out of there. As soon as they turned the corner, he handed Megan his cell phone. “Call your sister. They have to have her permission to treat Michael—and she needs to know what’s going on, anyway.”

  Megan had her sister’s work number memorized. Luckily, she caught Angela at her desk. As calmly as she could, with Michael crying in her ear, she told her what was happening.

  Angela wasted no time on freaking out. She got right to what needed doing. “I’ll call Emergency at Rosewood Regional and tell them you’re coming and that I’m on my way.”

  Megan asked, “Do you want to talk to—”

  Angela cut her off. “Bad idea. He’ll only cry harder. Just tell him I’ll be there to meet him at the hospital….”

  At Emergency, Greg drove up under the circular porte cochere entrance and let Megan and Michael off. “I’ll park and be in with the other kids in a minute.” He glanced over the seat. “Anthony?”

  “Here.” The boy passed the plastic bowl to Greg, who got out, went around and held the car door for Megan. He handed her the container as she turned for the entrance.

  Inside, the clerk at the entry desk was ready for them. “Michael Buffington, right? This little boy’s mother already called.”

  Michael only let out another pitiful sob and buried his head against Megan’s shoulder. The clerk, unruffled, asked the pertinent questions and filled in the form for Megan, as Michael clutched his injured hand to his little chest and cried.

  Angela came in with Greg and the kids.

  “Mama!” Michael cried at the sight of her. “Mama! My finger…” Angela stepped up and Megan handed him over. A fresh flood of tears coursed down Michael’s plump cheeks. “Mommy, I hurt. I hurt so bad….”

  “I know you do, sweetheart. I know you do….” Angela rocked him, kissed his flushed little face and made more comforting noises as the inside doors swung open and a nurse came through with an empty wheelchair. Angela tried to settle Michael in the chair.

  But he clutched her with his good hand and wailed in frantic pain and misery, “No, no. Mama, Mama…”

  “I’ll just carry him,” she said.

  The nurse frowned. “It’s procedure. He should be in the chair.”

  “Forget procedure,” Greg said darkly. “The boy wants his mother and it won’t hurt a thing if she carries him in.”

  The nurse gave up. She took the plastic container from Megan and set it on the empty chair. “All right, then. Let’s go.” She wheeled the chair through the doors. Angela, carrying the sobbing Michael, went through at her side.

  With a low, hydraulic hiss, the doors swung shut behind them.

  An hour later, Michael, calm now, but still looking small and lost in the grown-up wheelchair, emerged from behind the wide doors, his mom at his side. His little hand was encased in a thick, snowy mitt of white gauze. His eyes drooped from pain medication.

  The doctor came out a moment later to give Angela a few more instructions. Since the boy was so young, he said, recovery should be quick. The finger was likely to heal without scarring or loss of sensation.

  “He’ll be good as new in a month or two,” the doctor promised. They were letting him go home for the night, but Angela should bring him in the next day, just to make sure that everything was okay.

  Since they had two cars, Megan drove Michael and Angela in Angela’s car. Greg took Anthony and Olivia in the BMW. Now that Michael was calm, Angela put him in back, safely strapped in, and took the seat beside him.

  By the time they got home, Michael was dead to the world. He didn’t stir as Angela unhooked him from the seat belt and gathered him into her arms.

  Inside, Megan hurried up the stairs ahead of mother and son, leading the way to the boys’ room, where she rushed to strip off the bloody bedspread, wipe up the blood on the bed table and remove the offending pocketknife.

  Angela saw the knife. She whispered, “Is that how he cut himself?”

  Megan nodded. “I’ll tell you all about it. Later…” Leaving Angela to put her injured little boy to bed, she carried the spread down to the laundry room and put it in the washer. Once she had the machine going, she went out to the kitchen, rinsed and dried the knife, folded it up and put it in a cabinet—high up, in the back—where it would be safe from small hands.

  She turned to find Greg standing in the door from the dining room, watching her. “Oh!” She squeaked in surprise and put her hand to her chest.

  “Sorry.” The warmth in his eyes said he wasn’t that sorry. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Just admiring the view.” He reported, “Anthony’s in the living room hooked up to his Game Boy. And Olivia went upstairs, I think.”

  Megan realized she’d yet to thank him for what a huge help he’d been. “You’ve been wonderful about all this.”

  “It was no hardship, honestly. Men like to feel…useful.”

  “Well, you were. Definitely—more than useful. Indispensable.”

  He covered the distance between them and rested his hands to either side of her on the counter, trapping her in the middle. “Show me your gratitude.”

  “Love to.” She kissed him, a chaste kiss, in consideration of the fact that they were in her sister’s kitchen and likely to be interrupted at any time. “More later,” she whispered, when he lifted his head.

  “Can’t wait—and what else can we do to help out around here?”

  As it turned out, there was still Michael’s pain medication and antibiotics to pick up. Megan volunteered to run over to Wal-Mart, where the pharmacy would still be open. Greg insisted on driving her.

  It took awhile for the pharmacist to fill the prescriptions. To pass the time, they wandered around the big store. As they strolled up and down the wide aisles, Megan found herself thinking of the way Irene had snubbed her at Rosewood Market, of the crushed look on Carly’s face when she’d seen Megan getting into Greg’s car….

  Lots of people went to Wal-Mart. The chances of running into a mutual acquaintance were pretty good here. Megan dreaded that someone else from the neighborhood would see them together and judge them—and spread more rumors about them.

  Greg must have picked up on her growing anxiety. In the home electronics section, as they browsed the racks of CDs, he asked her if something was bothering her.

  It really didn’t seem like the time or the place to talk about it, so she sent him a bright smile—and told a white lie. “No. Nothing. Just, you know, a little stressed out after all the excitement.”

  He caught her arm in a gentle grip and turned her to face him. “Michael will be fine. If there was something to worry about, they’d have kept him at the hospital.”

  She nodded—and eased away from his touch. “I know. Yes.”

  He frowned at her reaction. But he let it go. They headed back to the pharmacy area, picked up the medications and returned to the house, where they found Angela in the kitchen whipping up some pasta with meat sauce to feed her hungry crew.

  She turned from the stove with a wide smile for both of them as Megan set the prescriptions on the island counter. “Terrific. And Greg—I can’t thank you enough. I’m so sorry that your first time here to see Megan had you heading straight for the hospital.”

  Greg laughed. “I didn’t mind. I was glad to help.”

  Megan beamed up at him. “He actually had sense enough to call 911 and get some instructions.”

  He shrugged the compliments away. “No big deal. Honestly.”

  “Well, thank you again….” Angela tasted the sauce and set the spoon in the spoon rest. “And I know you two didn’t plan to stick around here forever. As of now, you are both officially dismissed. Take off and have a great evening—what’s left of it, anyway.”

  Megan still needed to talk to Angela about Jerome giving Michael that pocketknife, but she supposed she would have to wa
it for a more appropriate time. Greg had been incredible about everything. She couldn’t ask him to wait even longer while she and Angela got into it about the problems with Jerome—which Angela really wouldn’t feel comfortable discussing with Greg around, anyway.

  She wondered if Angela would try to call Jerome and let him know what had happened. Angela always did her best to play fair with the kids’ father, to keep him informed of their troubles and triumphs.

  Really, Ange did need to know about the knife before she called him….

  Greg said good-night to Angela and headed for the foyer. Still thinking about that pocketknife, Megan followed him out.

  He stopped at the door and turned to her. “How about tomorrow night? Could you swing it, do you think?”

  “Hey,” she teased. “Wait a minute. Tonight’s not over yet.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  She started to protest—and then she realized: he got it. He understood that things still needed dealing with here at home. “Oh, Greg…”

  He said, “I know you and your sister have to handle the pocketknife issue. And besides, I think she’d really appreciate it about now if you stuck around.”

  “You’re sure? You don’t mind?”

  “Not as long as I can see you tomorrow. Same time?”

  She had way too much work to do to take two evenings off in a row. But she would manage it somehow. “Tomorrow,” she promised, and then remembered her plan to go to him in Manhattan, to avoid being seen with him in town. “How about this? When Angela gets home, I’ll take the train down to the city and meet you at—”

  He was shaking his head. “Uh-uh. It would be nearly eight by the time you got there. I’m coming here. At four-thirty. Same as today—only tomorrow I’m hoping we’ll get lucky and avoid the thrills and chills of a visit to the E.R.”

  She really did need to have a long talk with him about keeping things a little more…low-key. Very soon. Like tomorrow…. “Okay, then.” She put on a bright smile. “Four-thirty.”

  He tipped her chin up with a finger. “Is there a problem? You seem a little…I don’t know. Doubtful, maybe. Unsure….”

  They could talk about it tomorrow. She evaded the actual question, sliding her hands up around his neck, lifting on tiptoe. “I’m fine.”

  “Good.” He brushed a soft kiss across her mouth, making her lips tingle and sending a wash of warmth cascading through her.

  When she walked back into the kitchen, Angela blinked. “Forget something?”

  Megan went to the sink, flipped on the faucet and squirted soap on her hands. “Green salad?”

  “Huh?”

  She rinsed her hands and reached for the towel. “Greg’s gone. He’ll be back tomorrow, but tonight he said he thought I’d want to stick around here—which I do.”

  Angela started protesting. “Oh, that’s silly. You don’t need to—”

  “Yes, I do need to. Now, quit arguing and answer my question.”

  “What question?”

  “Green salad?”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive—and it’s okay. Truly. He’ll be here tomorrow. It’ll all work out fine.”

  Since Michael was still sleeping, they sat down to eat without him. Angela frowned at Anthony and asked how Michael had gotten his hands on his big brother’s pocketknife.

  Anthony cried, “But it wasn’t my knife!”

  Once she’d heard the real story, Angela said quietly, “Your father shouldn’t have given Michael a knife. I’ll have to talk to him about it.”

  Instantly, Anthony jumped to Jerome’s defense. “But Michael kept bugging him about it. What could Dad do?”

  “Say no—but that’s not your concern. I’ll discuss it with your father later.”

  “But Dad was only trying to—”

  “Anthony. That’s enough. Eat your spaghetti.”

  After the meal, there were baths and bedtime stories. Finally, the two older kids went to bed—and then Michael woke up, crying; the medication they’d given him at the hospital had worn off.

  Angela gave him his medicine, convinced him to slurp up a little chicken noodle soup, and then sat with him in the big chair in the living room until he dropped off. When those blue eyes finally drooped shut, she carried him back upstairs and tucked him into bed again.

  Downstairs once more, she called Jerome. She used the kitchen extension. Megan went on into the living room so her sister could have the privacy to say what needed saying.

  It was only five minutes or so before Angela was dropping down next to her on the sofa.

  Megan asked gingerly, “How did it go?”

  Angela cast a glance toward the ceiling. “Jerome is Jerome and his own bad judgment is somehow never his fault.”

  “Sorry, sis.”

  “Yeah. Me, too…” Angela sank onto the cushions and lazily turned her head Megan’s way. “On a happier note, I’m glad at least one of us has good taste in men.”

  Megan flopped back and sank down until she was eye to eye with her sister. “Greg was wonderful today, wasn’t he?”

  Ange agreed. “Absolutely the best. It’s so funny. When he lived in the neighborhood, we hardly ever saw him. He was always working, rarely at home. And he was nice enough, but distant, didn’t you think? He always seemed…preoccupied, then. He comes across as so much more relaxed now. A happier man, you know?”

  “Umm…” Megan’s dreamy grin faded a little as she remembered Irene at the market. And Carly, so pretty and so very sad, standing in front of her huge, empty McMansion in her gardening gloves and sun visor.

  “Okay,” said Angela. “Why the long face?”

  “My reputation is in shreds.”

  Angela chuckled. “Lucky for you this is the twenty-first century. Nowadays, people do what they want to do, and they don’t waste a lot of time worrying about what the neighbors are going to say.”

  “Too bad that here in Rosewood, the neighbors are still gossiping just as much as they ever did back in the bad old days.” Megan pretended to shiver. “I mean, can you believe it? I’m the ‘other woman.’ That is so not me. I’m everybody’s best friend—the woman everybody else can talk to. I’m no threat. If you’d asked me a month ago, I would have sworn to you that I would never get myself in a position like this. I am not and never have been the husband-stealing type.”

  Angela chided, “How many times do I have to remind you that Greg and Carly are divorced—not to mention that you’re way too concerned about what other people think?”

  “I think I sense a lecture coming on.”

  Angela widened her blue eyes. “Me? Lecture you? Never.”

  Megan blew out a breath. “Okay. Yeah. I know I worry too much about other people talking. But, well, they are talking. And it does bother me.”

  “You’re sure they’re talking—that it’s not just you thinking that they are?”

  Megan told her about Irene, in the market that day. And about Rhonda’s little visit on Saturday.

  Angela advised, “Ignore them. Those two aren’t worth the time it takes to get upset at them.”

  “I know you’re right. But it just seems like, well, this thing between Greg and me…it’s happening so fast.”

  Angela reached across and lightly squeezed her arm. “Too fast, you mean?”

  “I’m totally gone on him—but yeah. Maybe. Too fast.”

  “Talk to him. Tell him you need to…slow down a little.”

  “I will. Tomorrow. He’s coming at four-thirty. He’ll hang out with me and the kids until you get home, and then I think he’s taking me out to dinner or something.”

  “He does like kids, I noticed.”

  “Yeah. He does.”

  “Still, he and Carly never had any…”

  “Greg told me that at first, he wanted to and she wasn’t ready. Then, by the end, she wanted to—and he felt they just had too many problems to solve.”

  “Sad, huh? The way things work out sometimes….” The faraw
ay look in Angela’s eyes had Megan wondering who she was really talking about—Greg and Carly or her own failed marriage? Then her sister smiled. “Did I mention that I do think Greg’s a terrific guy?”

  “Yes, Ange. You did.”

  “And I’m taking a family day tomorrow to look after Michael, so you’re off the hook as far as the kids go.”

  That news had Megan popping up straight on the couch. “I could meet him in the city, after all.”

  “Well, yeah. I guess you could.”

  She jumped to her feet. “I’m calling him right now.”

  “No way,” said Greg. “It has to be Rosewood.”

  “Er, it does?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll find out. Tomorrow.” He seemed really pleased with himself, so pleased that she didn’t have the heart to ruin whatever it was he had planned. “I miss you. Already,” he said.

  And she clutched the phone tighter and said, “I miss you, too,” and realized she meant it with all of her heart.

  “Dress casual,” he instructed. “Flat shoes.”

  “Well, all right…”

  “Four-thirty,” he said. “Be ready.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “I do like the way you say that.” She could tell he was smiling. And then he whispered, “Good night, Megan,” and he was gone.

  All the next day, while she plowed through the mountain of work in front of her, Megan practiced how she’d tell him that she needed to take things a little slower, that she didn’t want to meet him in Rosewood anymore, not for a while, anyway. That she would come down to the city whenever she could get away—and that she did, after all, have to go to Banning’s, Inc. every couple of weeks, at least, now they had a contract to fulfill. So of course, they could be together for the evening then….

  By the time he drove up at four-thirty, she knew just what she would say.