Sweets to the Sweet

by Jennifer Greene

“I’ve noticed,” Laura said wryly. “He told me you and Gary had just joined the business?”

  Susan nodded. “Gary’s got a master’s in marketing; he’s the brain. I never pretended to be, but Owen bullied me into getting a degree in home economics and chemistry. All I really want to do is work on the recipes. And the patents.” She made a face. “Owen insists that’s part of my area. Both the recipes and the manufacturing process are patented, but the legal part of the business is strictly boring. And my older brother is a terrible tyrant.”

  “So he’s confessed.”

  “Has he?” Susan fingered her hair, a gesture Laura already noticed was habitual. “It’s partly true, actually—but not nearly as much as we tease him about. To watch him in action is like watching a symphony conductor—he gives the signals, the rest of us follow, and suddenly there’s a smooth flowing business—like music.” Susan swung her leg down, slipped on her shoe and stood up. “He should be coming back. I’ll ask Marna if she ordered lunch—you met our office manager? Marna’s an angel, puts up with all of us.”

  “I met her.”

  “You won’t hurt him, will you?”

  The words seemed to come from nowhere. Susan was standing at the phone, poised and cool, but there was suddenly a hint of strain on her even features. “He’d kill me for talking to you,” she admitted quietly.

  “Susan—” But there was no stopping her.

  “He needs someone, Laura. Someone who can stand up to him. Someone who can teach him to open up. Someone who’s willing to give as much as he does. The thing is, he’s always been the one man we could count on. He bandaged our skinned knees and listened to our growing-up problems and served as best man for every wedding. I’ve always been afraid he would fall into a relationship where he did all the giving.” She smiled suddenly, but not with her eyes. “You’d think he never needed anything from anyone, wouldn’t you? A very self-sufficient man, our brother—only I’ve never thought that. He’s damned easy to depend on, but I’d like to believe he’ll fall in love with woman he can depend on, too.”

  Rain came down in torrents as they were driving home. Mari fell into a fitful nap in her infant seat. Laura was quiet.

  Too quiet. Owen stole repeated glances at her pensive profile. “Everything okay?” he asked lightly.

  She smiled absently, leaning her head back against the soft leather headrest. “Everything’s fine with me, but you’re in a lot of hot water, Reesling.”

  He chuckled. “For any particular reason?”

  “You led me to believe the business ran like a well-oiled clock. Good Lord. Between the problems of shipping perishables to market fluctuations to calls from Brazil, there’s a disaster a minute there.”

  “Which is what makes it fun.”

  “Which means you’ve managed Grand Central Station alone for too many years,” she accused firmly. “Superman should have had it so easy.”

  “I coached everyone before you got there to make me look good.”

  She gave him a scolding look. “Considering they all call you a tyrant behind your back, it’s a miracle you don’t have a constant turnover.”

  “I beat people who threaten to leave me,” he explained, and added quietly, “Could we change the subject?”

  “To what?”

  “Marriage.”

  She turned to face him, a catch in her throat. She’d guessed it was coming, but not at this particular moment.

  “I don’t want to drive you to your place. I want to drive you to my home. I want you with me. Night and day.” At a red light, his eyes seared on hers. He hadn’t meant to ask her, not here and now. All day he’d felt her gradually withdrawing from him, and the words had just popped out. Now he couldn’t seem to stop them. “I love you, Laura. And you know I love your daughter. If you don’t feel quite as strongly as I do, I think you will—I know you care. After last night—”

  “I more than care,” she whispered.

  “Then say yes.”

  Until they reached her drive, she was silent. Owen had made her believe in rainbows again…but their whole relationship had been unbalanced. He had done all the giving; she had been a taker. He’d barged into her life, helped her through the roughest weeks she’d ever lived through, stormed her defenses and turned her into sexual Silly Putty. She loved him. But she’d given him nothing. Everything Susan had said only drilled home her own feelings. Don’t hurt him, will you…

  “Laura…” He stopped the car in her drive and switched off the key. He was so tense inside he could barely breathe. “Look at me.”

  “I’ll do more than look at you.” A distinctly feminine smile barely curved her lips. Ignoring all the difficulties of gearshifts and bucket seats, she raised her arms and tugged him closer. She hugged with love, hating anything that caused him to look so tense and wary, needing to feel him close. “I love you,” she said fervently. “Don’t doubt it, Owen, but I need time.”

  “You don’t need time.” She smelled like hyacinths and rain, just as she had on the day he met her. His mouth searched for and found hers. “You don’t need time to know how you feel when you’re with me.”

  “I know,” she agreed huskily, “exactly how I feel when I’m with you.”

  “Then say yes.” His lips hovered over hers, prepared to apply persuasion.

  “A few weeks—” His mouth homed in again, wooing her with texture and softness and taste. Last night spun in front of her closed eyes, the silky darkness when she’d waited for him, the fear and anxiety, the reluctance to release control, the burning excitement when she had. She broke free, whispered desperately, “All right. A week—” His hand pushed up her blouse, claimed her taut breast. “You’re not being fair—” His tongue drove inside her parted lips, intimately claiming the sweet darkness of her mouth. How could fire be so soft? And more memories danced through her mind, of the feel of the man inside her, of the explosion of a thousand fantasies when the reality of equally wanting and being wanted was so much richer. Equally wanting and being wanted. Equally. There was no love without equal give and take. She broke free again. “Three days, Owen. You have to give me three days. And the baby’s crying.”

  “My princess wouldn’t dare cry at this particular moment.”

  “She is.”

  Owen drew back, his eyes pure pewter as he studied her. His breathing was low and rasping, his features harsh with tension. “Three days is too long.” But her chin was set in that special way of hers, and he sighed. “Then do something for me, Laura,” he said quietly. “Don’t think—feel. And then trust what you feel.”

  He let her go, against all his better judgment. Every instinct told him not to. Every instinct told him to persuade her by fair means or foul that they belonged together, because something would happen in those three days to keep her from him.

  He called each morning at six, and she could hear him sipping his first cup of coffee at the other end of the phone line. By six in the evening, a satin-wrapped package of chocolates had arrived. Wednesday passed and then Thursday. By Friday morning, Laura was bewitched, bedeviled and anxious.

  Owen had never been long on patience.

  Laura had worked up a storm, landed several sizable commissions, taken the baby papoose-style on endless walks in the woods, cooked for one, and failed to find the courage to say yes. Or no. She loved him; that was a given. But did she have what it took to make a successful relationship of equals?

  There were no answers. Trust what you feel, he’d said.

  “Well, that’s easy to say,” she told Mari wearily. Returning from a quick shopping trip, she set the infant seat on the kitchen counter, then wagged her finger at the baby. “Now, don’t get into trouble. I just have to bring in the grocery bags.”

  She brought in two the next trip, and rushed in the door just as the phone rang. Jamming both bags on the counter, she blew back an errant strand of hair and grabbed the phone.

  “Laura? I’m less than a mile from your place, and I’ve got a coupl
e hours free. Could I stop by to see the baby?”

  She hesitated. For days, she’d thought only about Owen, and when she thought about Owen, she could almost forget Peter had ever been part of her life. Yet at the sound of her ex-husband’s voice, random feelings of anger and hurt clustered in the pit of her stomach, feelings she’d never resolved.

  Feelings she’d never faced?

  “Laura? Are you there?”

  “Yes.” She glanced at her watch. “I have an appointment with a local antiques dealer in an hour and a half, Peter, and I’d planned to take Mari with me. But if you only want a short visit…”

  She barely had the rest of the grocery bags in the house before he pulled into the drive. He stepped out of the car wearing jeans and a denim jacket, and Laura had an odd sensation of déjà vu. How many times in her life had Peter climbed out of a car and walked toward her just like that, with the same smile, the same blond hair and masculine good looks? Was there anything in the way he looked or smiled or walked that could have clued her in to the cause of their bleak relationship?

  “She’s grown.” He motioned to Mari.

  “She grows by the hour,” Laura agreed. “I’ve got iced tea in the kitchen—I’m afraid I’m in the middle of putting away groceries.”

  “I won’t get in your way.”

  Peter stuffed his hands in his pockets and followed her, at least until they reached the kitchen, where he offered to hold the baby. Laura released the little one and turned back to her groceries. Orange juice, steaks, ice cream—butter pecan. Owen liked butter pecan.

  “Your friend’s not around?”

  “No—you can take her in the other room, if you’d like.” Baby lotion, baby shampoo, Q-Tips, diapers. How could one tiny baby’s needs fill an entire grocery bag?

  “She’s falling asleep.”

  Laura didn’t turn around. Opening the freezer, she stacked packages of frozen food. “She usually takes a quick nap about this time of day. There’s a pack-and-go in the living room; you can just set her down—on her back.. A blanket’s on the side.”

  “Would you rather do it?”

  “Yes.” She closed the freezer door, absently rubbing her cold hands on her jeans as she looked at him. “But you can.”

  He was gone only a moment before he returned to stand in the doorway, this time without the baby. His marvelous blue eyes pinned hers, “You really don’t like it when I touch her, do you?”

  “I feel protective,” Laura admitted, and shrugged. “I’ll learn to control it,” she said quietly. “You have a right to hold her. And take care of her. And be a father to her, Peter—as long as you don’t hurt her.” She turned back to unloading brown paper bags. Why on earth had she bought six cans of mushroom soup when she used it so seldom?

  Why were her hands suddenly shaking?

  “You said you had iced tea. Mind if I pour myself a glass?”

  “No, of course not.” She removed the soup cans from the spot where she had absently stacked them. Soup cans didn’t go next to glasses. Soup cans went down by the tomato sauce—if she could remember where that was. Face this, Laura. For you…for Owen.

  “You’ve been okay?” Peter asked quietly.

  “Fine. You?” His arms bumped hers when he reached for a glass. He didn’t move away. Vaguely, Laura tried to remember four years back, to when she trembled with longing for an accidental touch with Peter. All she could recall was wanting to tremble, wanting the right kind of love to be there. Which seemed suddenly terribly…sad.

  “I’ve been fine. Laura.” He hesitated. “I came to see the baby, but most of all I came to talk to you. I’ve been seeing a therapist.” He waited for her to say something, but she didn’t. “We talked a lot about you.”

  She moved to the sink to rinse her hands. Cans were dusty. The air suddenly seemed dusty, yet it was a clear sunny day without a cloud!

  “My therapist said…I hurt you.” Peter’s voice suddenly came out in a rush. “I already knew that. What I really came here to tell you was that…I never meant to.”

  When she turned around, he was leaning back against the counter, sunlight glinting on his blond head. Peter had the look of a golden boy, a California surfer, a healthy, wholesome all-American halfback. And he was an artist, a marvelous cellist.

  During their marriage, she had always stepped in between Peter and the world whenever he was confronted with something unpleasant. Artists needed to be protected. Golden boys needed sheltering. Only she’d been the victim as well as the guardian. “Then why did you?” she asked evenly.

  A quick frown furrowed his brow. “Maybe…I didn’t know how to handle the problems I had. But at the time—Laura, I really didn’t meant to hurt you. Or necessarily realize that I was.”

  “Know something?” Laura said slowly. “That’s not good enough.”

  He drew in a long breath. “Look. I didn’t choose to be bi. I know you’re hung up on that—”

  “No,” she said swiftly. “It was a shock—but that wasn’t what hurt, Peter. It was your cutting me down. Hitting below the belt. Trying to make me ashamed for…feeling.” Leaning back against the stove, she raked her fingers through her hair distractedly. “Why?” she whispered. “Why couldn’t you simply have been honest with me? Told me what you were feeling—or at least tried?”

  “Because you’d have left me,” Peter lashed back.

  She stared at him, seeing something in Peter’s face, in his eyes, she’d never seen before. The phone rang suddenly, a jarring sound in the still room. When Laura didn’t immediately answer it, Peter lifted the receiver. “Yes?” he clipped out. His eyes were blue chips as he handed it to her.

  Owen’s tone was cool. “If I’d known he was there… Laura, if he’s come over there to give you a hard time again—”

  “No. No,” she repeated more softly, and oddly wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. His voice was ballast. He was Gibraltar. She took a breath, and clean, pure air filled her lungs. “Owen, I’ll call you back. I promise—within an hour.” She glanced at her watch. “No, I’ll be gone later. I’ll call around dinnertime.”

  She hung up, regretfully aware that she’d cut Owen off, but Peter was still leaning against the counter, and she wanted the unfinished business with him over and done with.

  “You’re serious about him, aren’t you?” Peter lifted the iced-tea glass to his lips and took a long draft. “You don’t have to answer that. I always knew you would leave me for someone else sooner or later.”

  Laura shook her head. “You’re not making sense,” she said gently. “You didn’t want me, Peter. You made that very plain. So why on earth would you have cared if I had left you?”

  He raised the glass, and studied the gleam of the amber liquid in the sunlight, then set it down and walked to the door. “I loved you,” he said quietly. “In my own way, Laura. Don’t doubt that. And I held you as long as I could…the only way I knew how.”

  “Peter?”

  But he kept on walking, through the kitchen and hall, then outside toward his car. Laura followed him as far as the front door. Leaning against the doorjamb, she watched his car back up and disappear down the long drive. When he was gone, she closed her eyes in sudden weariness.

  So much hurt, so much anger, so many confused feelings… She’d wanted answers from Peter. And gotten half of them. Gradually, she understood that she’d had the rest of those answers inside herself all the time.

  He said that he’d held her as long as he could, the only way he knew how…and that he’d loved her. Laura had always known he cared—which was why it was so difficult to understand why he’d deliberately used guilt and shame to hurt her. He’d given her that answer.

  Guilt had kept her with him, much longer than she should have stayed in the marriage. He made me a victim, Laura thought fleetingly. When she heard stories about wife abuse, she’d never understood why a woman stayed with a man who hurt her. Peter had never physically harmed Laura, but she suddenly understood the whole
syndrome very well. A woman could be made to believe that she was responsible for a bad marriage, that she was the source of the problems, and that she deserved the blame.

  She’d believed that.

  No more.

  Long-buried anger and hurt surfaced and dissipated like an early morning fog. Her anger wasn’t at Peter but at herself. He wasn’t evil and he wasn’t a bastard. Real people were never one-dimensional. Peter was simply a lonely and unhappy man…but his troubles weren’t hers. Owen had said it, so very gently. How long was she going to stand around and pay for Peter’s problems?

  How long before she found the courage to demand what she wanted and needed in her life? And to believe she had a right to those things?

  Abruptly Mari let out a sharp cry. Not a wail, not a tantrum yell, just a conversational I’m-awake-Mom whimper. Laura smiled and hurried into the living room. She picked up her daughter, holding and hugging and loving her.

  Before she sat down to nurse the infant, she took the phone off the hook. After the baby had been fed, she would take her to the antiques dealer. And absolutely as soon as possible, she was desperate to see Owen.

  But for now, just for a few moments, she needed silence. And her daughter. And in a curious way, herself.

  Chapter 10

  “You can’t get the Lear ready faster than that? No… Hell, I understand that. Midnight then, Stover.” Owen hung up the phone, tossed his reading glasses on the desk and irritably rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  He’d barely slept the past three nights.

  Leaning forward, he picked up the phone and dialed Laura’s number again. Busy. It had been busy for four hours; she had taken it off the hook. And that bastard of an ex-husband had been there. Tilting back his chair, Owen stared bleakly at a sun-dazzled landscape and saw none of it.

  Dread tied a knot in his stomach. It was after seven. She wasn’t still making business calls. She’d taken the phone off the hook for privacy.

  She didn’t want to talk to anyone.

  Correction. She didn’t want to talk to him.