Last Christmas her children and their spouses had converged at the old house to celebrate the holiday, same as they did every year, but with one small difference. This year they were determined to convince her it was time to move on.
"It's time to simplify things, Mom," Eileen, her youngest, had said to her as she served the eggnog. "This house is way too big for one person. You'd have so much more free time if you didn't have this barn to take care of."
"And where would the lot of you stay if I didn't have this barn?" she had tossed back. "You'd be sleeping in tents in the front yard."
Of course, Eileen's was only the initial salvo in an assault designed to open her aging eyes to what they considered to be reality. Terri commented on how difficult it must be to keep four bedrooms and two baths clean and sparkling, which made Claudia smile into her eggnog. It was certainly easier now than it had been years ago when the house was bursting at the seams with toddlers and teenagers and John's hobbies. The boys talked about taxes and upkeep and how the plumbing was going to need repairs before next Christmas rolled around and why hang onto a money sink as if she didn't have the right to make up her own mind. Finally she had to stand her ground.
"This is where I lived with your father, it's where you grew up, and it's where I'm going to die," she had said in a tone of voice that brooked no argument. "Now, who'd like another piece of pie?"
Annie was the only one who understood what Claudia was talking about. In an unfair twist of fate, Kevin's death had united the two women in a way not even Claudia's flesh-and-blood daughters could understand. Annie knew how it felt to lose the man you loved, how it felt to sleep on his side of the bed because it made you feel less alone. Annie knew without being told that time didn't heal a broken heart, it only helped you learn how to live with it.
You can't run away from your memories, Annie, she thought as Susan barreled into the parking lot at full speed. The world wasn't big enough. Better to stay in the house where they had been happy and comfort herself with the dear and familiar. Didn't Annie know that she would still see him in every shadow, hear his voice when the room was still, feel his touch where no one had touched her in a very long time.
It was enough for Claudia. Sooner or later, it would be enough for Annie, too.
#
Annie was wiping down the sink in the master bathroom when she heard the Flemings pull into the driveway. They drove one of those minivans that sounded like a thousand hamsters spinning one gigantic wheel. The neighbors would hear them coming three blocks away. She glanced down at her watch, visible above the worn cuff of Kevin's old denim work shirt. It was only ten minutes to three.
"You're early, " she muttered as she pushed her hair away from her face with the back of her hand. What kind of people were they? Didn't they know that being early was every bit as rude as being late. She still had to vacuum the bedroom, coax George and Gracie into their cat carriers, and then make sure the felines hadn't left any personal messages behind for the new owners to discover. She would need every single moment of the nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds she had left.
She tossed the paper towel into the garbage bag she'd been dragging from room to room then moved to the bedroom window that overlooked the driveway. The Fleming children were already in the backyard. She could hear their shrieks of excitement over the groan of the tree swing that had been Kevin's last project the summer before he died.
Joe and Pam Fleming were leaning against the passenger door of their minivan. Her head rested against is chest and he stroked her hair while they talked. Soft whispers of conversation floated up toward the second floor window where Annie watched them from behind the pale green curtains. It hurt to look at them but she couldn't seem to turn away. She wanted to tell them to hang on tightly to each other, that life wasn't always fair or kind, but they would probably think she was crazy. They were young and in love, with their whole lives stretched out before them like a summer garden on a sunny day.
Down in the driveway the Flemings stole a kiss. The sweetness of that gesture made Annie turn away from the window. She missed the touches, the whispers, the laughter that smoothed the bumpy patches every marriage encountered. She missed the lovemaking, that sweet escape from reality. She missed being the other half of someone's heart, and the temptation to barricade herself behind a wall of memories was hard to resist. Staying, however, was a luxury she couldn't afford and, in a way, she was grateful. She might never have gathered the courage to leave if she had a plump bank account and endless prospects.
It was time to go. She had known it for months now. One morning she woke up and the house no longer felt like home. Suddenly the old ways, the old routines, didn't fit and she found herself dreaming about starting all over again in a place that was hers alone. She had had that dream before but this time was different. This time she was free to do something about it and so, against everyone's advice, she put the house up for sale and began the painful process of finally letting go of the past. She paid off the last of Kevin's debts and bought the tiny Bancroft cottage with the cash that remained. Warren tried to lower the price three times but she stood firm when it came to accepting charity and they negotiated a figure that satisfied both his kind heart and her need to stand on her own two feet. The four room cottage near the water was a far cry from her sprawling Victorian on an acre of land but it represented a triumph of sorts to Annie.
Her dreams of a family of her own had died with Kevin but she still had a future, and for the first time in years, that prospect made her happy.
How long had it been since she had felt deeply happy? She couldn't even begin to guess. For a long time she had known happiness only in fleeting bursts: a beautiful sunset, a well-told joke, a good hair day. She missed that deeper sense of joy that had been as much a part of her as the rhythm of her heartbeat and she wanted it back. This move was a step in the right direction.
Sometimes she wondered how Claudia did it, living all these years in that big old house without John by her side. As it was she saw Kevin everywhere, in every room, around every corner. She heard his car in the driveway, his footfall on the steps, the wail of the ambulance on that last night when nothing, not even love, could save him. He had died in their bed, the big brass one they had fallen in love with and couldn't afford, died before the emergency crew could slap the paddles on his chest.
He died before she had a chance to say goodbye.
Before she had a chance to say, "I still love you."
She couldn't remember the last time she had said those words to him. She had been angry with him for so long that love was more a memory than the living, breathing sacrament it had been at the start. There were times when she had thought about leaving him -- throwing her clothes into a suitcase, grabbing the cats, and starting new someplace else, some place where the phone didn't ring in the middle of the night and strange men didn't wait on the porch in the darkness for her husband. He had taken everything they had worked so hard to achieve and thrown it away on horses and cards and the spin of a roulette wheel -- and in the process, he had thrown away her love as well.
"Give me time, Annie," he had said not long before he died. "I know I can make it all up to you."
Why hadn't she told him that she still loved him, that she wanted to believe in him, that if he met her halfway maybe they could find their way back to the life they'd dreamed about when they were high school sweethearts and the world was theirs for the asking? Instead, she had simply turned away from him and, after a few moments, the front door closed softly behind him and the distance between them grew a little wider until three weeks later, he was dead and there was no turning back.
Susan and Eileen found her on the morning after the funeral, alone in the bedroom, slamming an old wooden baseball bat against the tarnished brass. "I hate you!" she'd screamed with each slam of the bat. "Why did you do this to us?" They'd tried to grab her arms, to hold her still, but she was wild with rage and anger, stronger than she had ever been in her lif
e, and she broke free. She smashed mirrors and lamps, pulled his clothes from his side of the closet and threw his running shoes against the wall.
Her sisters-in-law tried to reason with her but Annie was beyond their reach. It wasn't until they helped her drag the mattress, box spring, and dented frame down the stairs and outside with the rest of the trash that her adrenaline-fueled rage ebbed and she sank to the curb, buried her face in her arms, and sobbed as if her heart would break.
There had been times when she hated him, times when she wondered why she stayed, but through it all she had never once stopped loving him. She knew that now, two years too late, when it no longer mattered to anyone but herself. Maybe if she had loved him a little less and helped him a little more, she wouldn't be a thirty-eight year old widow with two cats, bad credit, and the feeling that after today nothing would ever be the same again.
~~end of excerpt~~
The Marrying Man - a novella
Chapter One
Catherine O'Leary Zaslow knew twenty-seven ways to kill a man and on that morning before Thanksgiving she contemplated a twenty-eighth. If looks could kill, her agent would be six feet under.
"I must be crazy," she announced as Max took her coat then handed it to his assistant. "I don't know how I let you convince me to come all the way down to Manhattan for this meeting. This is the day before Thanksgiving, Max. Normal people are home baking pies, not taking meetings."
"This was the only day Riley McKendrick could make it," Max said. "We had to grab him when we could."
Cat took a seat at the long conference table. "So who is this Riley McKendrick, the uncrowned king of England?"
"Better than that," said Max, taking a seat opposite her. "McKendrick's the best time management expert in the country. I know how you feel about organization, Catherine, but the time has come--"
"If you think I'm letting one of those schedule-loving lunatics into my house so he can alphabetize my spices and color-code the toilet tissue, you're crazy."
"Think how successful you'd be if you could actually find your computer in that rat-trap office of yours. I've been to your house, Catherine. I'm surprised you can find your children."
"You mind your business, Max, and I'll mind mine." What difference did it make if she had the organizational abilities of the average fruit fly? Everyone was clean, fed, and happy. If more was required in raising children, she couldn't imagine what it was. Besides, her kids weren't any of Max's business, her books were. And these days her mystery novels were number one on bestseller lists across the country.
"Frank Fairbairn's production has doubled since he hired a time management specialist to whip him into shape." Frank Fairbairn was her closest competition in the murder mystery field. Max looked downright wistful at the thought of double production.
"Frank Fairbairn is a man," Cat pointed out, choosing to ignore Max's statement about a time-management specialist. "His wife keeps his world running smoothly."
"Listen, if a wife'll get you back on track, I'll find you a wife."
"Jenny and I do just fine on our own." Jenny was her housekeeper, confidante, and partner in chaos.
"I know Jenny," Max reminded her. "That's not a very convincing argument. The woman can't make scrambled eggs without consulting the Joy of Cooking."
"I know why you're doing this," she said, tapping her index finger against the table top. "Last year it was a personal trainer, this year it's a time management consultant. You're too trendy for your own good, Max."
"Trends come and trends go," Max intoned, "but an organized life is forever."
She glanced at her watch. "What time was he supposed to be here?"
Max shifted uncomfortably. "Ten o'clock."
"It's ten-fifteen," she observed. "Sounds like the world's best time management consultant needs to have his credentials updated."
"This is Manhattan, Cat. He probably got stuck in traffic."
Cat rose then walked around to the other side of the table and placed a quick kiss atop Max's elegant, perfectly barbered head. "Dinner's at four o'clock tomorrow, Max. We'll pick you up at the train station at three-fifteen."
"Catherine, Catherine, Catherine! See reason, please. An hour with Riley McKendrick will change your life forever."
"Sure, Max," she said. "That and a magic lantern with a genie inside. No nearsighted weenie with an obsession for clocks and calendars is going to get close enough to--" She stopped, a frown creasing her forehead. Max's smile was incandescent. His eyes sparkled. He'd seen reason!
Her heart soared with delight until she realized Max was looking right past her toward the door.
"McKendrick!" Max said in a booming, hail-fellow-well-met voice he reserved for contract negotiations and Elite models. "We were about to send out a search party."
"Sorry," drawled a deep male voice behind her. "Flat tire on East 54th Street."
The number-crunching clockwatcher. She barely suppressed a groan. If she hadn't stopped to kiss Max on the head, she'd be safely in the elevator and on her way home.
No big deal. She'd turn, she'd smile politely at the poor dweeb in the doorway, and then excuse herself with dispatch.
She turned around.
She looked at him.
And her entire life seemed to pass before her eyes.
That was no dweeb. That was the Marlboro Man - in all of his untamed, uncivilized Wild West glory.
Her jaw dropped open and for a moment she wondered if she'd need professional help to get it closed.
The guy wore artfully faded jeans, a cream-colored sweater, and a leather jacket that looked as if it had a few stories to tell. Her gaze slid across his torso, down his long legs, to the boots. And not the kind of boots you'd find on some ersatz urban cowboy. These were the real thing, tough, worn, sexy as hell.
Same as the man who wore them. He was at least six-four and most of that was muscle. Hard, well-developed muscles, some of them in places she'd believed only Greek statues had muscles. Dark hair, green eyes, your basic Adonis. For a moment she considered swooning but thought better of it. This was the 90s, after all, and modern women were supposed to take things like amazing male pulchritude in stride.
He was the kind of guy you saw on the cover of a paperback historical romance, one of those perfect specimens that came complete with a bosomy blond companion clutching at his manly chest.
That couldn't be the clockwatcher. Maybe he really was a cover model and that was why he was looming in Max's doorway. If she could breathe at all, she'd breathe a sigh of relief. Max handled a few big name romance authors and he probably had a say in who posed for the covers. Riley McKendrick must be standing behind the Marlboro Man, hidden behind the cowboy's broad shoulders. You could hide a redwood tree behind those shoulders.
"Cat." Max's voice broke into her reverie. "I want you to meet Riley McKendrick."
She waited for a small, plain man to peer around the cowboy's shoulder but none did. It can't be, she thought, heartbeat accelerating. It's just not possible!
The cowboy smiled down at her. This was the man who watched clocks for a living? Men who looked like this guy did usually spent more time looking in the mirror. His teeth were white, shiny, and symmetrical. Instead of money, the tooth fairy had probably left porcelain veneers under his pillow.
"C. O. Lowe," McKendrick said, as her hand was swallowed up in his. "I know your books."
She nodded, aware that he'd said he knew her books, not that he either read and/or liked them.
"My name's Cat," she managed, wishing she had more experience dealing with cowboy Adonises, "and I'm not interested in getting organized." Blunt but true.
"That's what they all say."
"I'm sure they do," she murmured as reason made a delayed return, "but let me say it again: I don't know what Max promised you, but there's no deal. Not with me."
Max popped up between them, a referee in Armani. "Coffee," he said in an unnaturally cheerful voice. "That's what we need. Coffee." He looke
d toward McKendrick. "How do you take it?"
Talk about a loaded question. A voluptuous shiver rose up from the soles of her feet and she wondered if anyone would notice if she poured a pitcher of iced water over her head.
"Black," said the cowboy. "No sugar."
"Cat?" Max asked.
"With cream," Cat mumbled. "Two sugars. Decaf."
"Decaf?" asked McKendrick.
"What's wrong with decaf?" she asked.
"Most people drink coffee for the caffeine."
"I drink it for the taste."
"No taste in decaf."
"That's why the cream and sugar."
"That's illogical."
"So sue me."
Max mumbled something then vanished in search of refreshments. Cat considered the wisdom of following hard on his heels but the cowboy barred the way.
"So what exactly do you have against organization?" McKendrick asked, bracing an arm against the doorjamb.
In for a penny, in for a pound. "Organization is anathema to the creative spirit." Anathema, she thought with a grin. Let him chew on that for a while.
He didn't bat an eye. Was it possible, brawn and brains? Dangerous combination. "I've seen your office," he said. "Your creative spirit better come with a road map."
"What do you mean, you've seen my office?"
"Max sent me pictures."
"Max will need a road map of the intensive care ward if he doesn't stop doing things like that."
"Don't blame Max." The guy had a smile that could light up a movie screen. "I asked him for one."
"Someone should have asked me."
"Someone should've sent in a wrecking crew."
The Edge of Forever Page 19