Molly had to hand it to Spencer. He gave it his best shot, but Rafe outwaited him.
"Too bad I have a four o'clock appointment," Spencer said as he shrugged back into his suit jacket. "I would've liked to spend the afternoon with both of you."
Rafe's face was a study in innocence. "Damn shame," he said as he poured an avalanche of sugar into his coffee cup. "Those court stories are riveting."
Molly fought down the overwhelming urge to kick him in the shins. Spencer had been nothing but gracious and friendly to Rafe. He deserved better than this low-grade sniping.
"I'll call you tonight," Spencer said to Molly as she walked him to the front door. "Why don't I drive us to the dance next week?"
"You don't have to do that," she protested, acutely aware of Rafe's interest. "That ticket comes with no strings."
"I want to," he said, then smiled. "No strings." He paused a moment. "Tell Jessy she's welcome to join us."
Molly wasn't sure if she was grateful or disappointed. She wasn't looking for a date with Spencer—at least she didn't think she was. Sharing a ride with Jessy was no big deal at all.
"Don't worry," Rafe said when Molly returned to the kitchen. "She's not his type." He leaned back in his rickety folding chair and extended his legs in front of him. She tried not to stare, but it wasn't easy. Up until that moment she hadn't realized just how much she liked long, muscular legs on a man.
She poured herself a glass of decaf iced tea and leaned against the kitchen counter. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You didn't see the way she was looking at him?" She took a sip. Jessy was right. It did taste better with sugar. "How was she looking at him?"
"Like she wanted to jump his bones."
She choked on her tea. "That's ridiculous!" she sputtered. "They just met."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
What indeed, she thought, as that familiar heat gathered low in her. belly. This was dangerous territory.
"Let's just say I don't think. Spencer is her type."
"Whose type is he?" Rafe asked. "Yours?"
"Actually he reminds me a lot of my husband."
"Your ex-husband."
"We're not divorced yet."
"Hook up with someone like Mackenzie, and the only thing that'll change is your last name."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"Depends what you're looking for."
"Nothing," she said, meeting his eyes. "I'm not looking for anything."
"You're sure about that?"
She placed her glass down on the counter and pushed her hair off her face with the back of her left hand. "I think you've used up your quota of questions for the day."
His eyes held hers, and something inside her heart shifted. She tried to will it back into place, but it wouldn't go.
"Here." He reached into the front pocket of his denim work shirt and pulled out the dinner-dance ticket. "Nice idea, but I won't be using it."
She felt a simmering combination of anger and disappointment. "Put it in your scrapbook," she said. "I have no use for it."
"No friend you could invite?"
"I thought that's what I did."
"We're not friends," he said. "We're not even close."
"You're right," she said, ignoring the heat moving over her breasts and up her throat. "I was being polite."
"So was I," he said, then turned and strode from the. room.
Now, what was that supposed to mean? She heard the front door open then slam shut. Who would have figured him to be so literal? She didn't mean "friend"; she meant "acquaintance." Of course they weren't friends. Jessy Wyatt wasn't her friend either.
Spencer was, though. She enjoyed his company, his conversation. He knew when to talk and when to listen. Being around him was safe and familiar. She knew who she was when she was with Spencer.
#
Rafe finished mowing the yard then concentrated on hammering nails deep into hapless planks of pressure-treated redwood. Nothing like pounding nails to get rid of a man's aggressions. Maybe by the time he finished the deck, he'd have it under control again.
He'd come close to making a total fool of himself back there in Molly's kitchen. If she'd shown him the slightest encouragement, he would have dropped to his knees in worship. That was how far gone he was. He barely knew her and .he worshipped her. She came to him in his dreams, and those dreams carried him through each day.
That ticket was burning a hole in his pocket. How in hell was he going to sit there and watch another man cradle her in his arms, breathe the sweet smell of her hair, feel her heart beating against his chest. That was how it started, and he'd have to sit there and watch as Mackenzie got her to lower her defenses. It wouldn't be much of a stretch. She already trusted the guy—he was her lawyer. He was helping her get free of a bad marriage. He probably knew as much about her as she was willing to share with anybody.
He swung the hammer in a wide arc and brought it down squarely on his thumb.
"Son of a bitch!" He dropped the hammer and popped his thumb into his mouth.
"You should be more careful."
He turned around and saw Jessy Wyatt standing there looking concerned.
He grunted something and turned away. Just what he needed: an audience for his stupidity.
"Let me take a look."
"Nothing to look at."
"You hit yourself pretty hard."
"Nothing I haven't done before."
"You don't like me much, do you?"
That got him to turn around. Her plain face looked even plainer in the late afternoon sun, and he found himself feeling sorry for her. She didn't stand a chance against Molly's fiery beauty. No mortal woman would.
"Where'd you get that idea'?"
"Call it female intuition."
"I didn't think doctors went for that kind of thing."
"This doctor does."
"You might want to work on your game face, Doc." He aimed his battered thumb toward the kitchen where Molly was fixing supper. "You gave yourself away in there before."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"The lawyer."
"Spencer Mackenzie?"
"That's the one. You don't stand a chance. You might as well know that going in."
Her plain face took on color, and she glanced toward the kitchen. window. He followed her gaze. Molly was doing something at the sink. Her head was bent low. Her cascade of hair covered her lovely face. She must have sensed they were watching her because she looked up and smiled, gave a little wave. Time stopped. He'd heard people say that before but he never understood. Now he did. He could live the rest of his life in this moment.
He didn't know how long he stood there. Days? Hours? Minutes? If Molly hadn't left the window, he would have stayed there until the millennium.
Jessy met his eyes as he turned away. She didn't say a word. She didn't have to. Her smile said it all.
Chapter Eight
Before the first week was out, Molly decided that living with Jessy was a lot like living alone. Jessy worked long hours, sometimes not returning home until two or three in the morning, only to start over again at six. She was neat, quiet, self-sufficient. If she used the kitchen, she cleaned up after herself so completely that Molly was never quite sure she'd been there. One morning their paths crossed, and Molly took the opportunity to remind her that she had kitchen privileges. Jessy just nodded and said that she knew. She lived and breathed her work. Molly couldn't help wondering how it would feel to be so passionately involved in something beyond your own narrow life.
Spencer came to the house one evening to get Molly's signature on some papers. He was leaving just as. Jessy pulled into the driveway. Molly watched from the living room window as the two of them chatted politely for a few moments, then Spencer climbed into his Porsche and drove away. If there was anything between them, it was invisible to Molly.
She wished Rafe had been there to see it. That would prove to him that he'd been wrong about Jess
y's supposed infatuation with Spencer. Women could sense these things much better than men, and Molly definitely wasn't getting those vibrations about Jessy and Spencer—although she had to admit she was surprised when he suggested Jessy ride with them to the dinner-dance on Saturday. She wasn't sure if he was being polite to Jessy or reassuring Molly that he wouldn't take advantage of the situation between them.
He was attracted to her. That much she knew. And she certainly found him to be pleasant company and easy on the eyes. He listened when she spoke, respected her opinions, expressed the right amount of concern for the baby. It wasn't at all hard to imagine going through life with a man like that—he was exactly the man she thought she'd married. Life would be easy and comfortable, with no surprises and no upheavals.
And no passion. Don't forget about passion.
The thought brought her up short. She could live without passion. She'd lived without it through most of her marriage and never stopped loving Robert. Just because she'd entertained a few vivid fantasies about Rafe Garrick was no reason to think she'd suddenly lost her grip on what was really important.
Loneliness.
She was lonely. Deeply, unutterably lonely. She'd been lonely her entire life, even if this was the first time she'd ever come face-to-face with the depth and darkness of her loneliness. Her childhood had been spent in a sort of limbo, trapped between warring parents and new spouses and a sense of isolation that had shaped her character more than any other factor. She'd looked toward Robert and their marriage to end her loneliness, and when it didn't, when her heart still ached with longing, she told herself that these things took time. When Robert was finished with school, once he was established in a law firm, when their first child was born—that was when everything would change. That was when the loneliness would vanish.
Sometimes she thought about the baby, looking toward that tiny soul as a means to end her loneliness, but she knew that was a trap. It wasn't fair to put all of her hopes and dreams on such tiny shoulders. The baby deserved so much better.
So, for that matter, did she.
She found a note from Rafe on the kitchen counter. He had left early, something about another job over in New Hope. He was almost finished with the deck. He worked from first light to last, stopping only for his solitary lunch in the backyard. She went outside once and asked him if he wanted to join her for a bowl of minestrone, but he shook his head. She waited for him to say something, offer an explanation, but he turned his back and returned to work. She considered turning on the charm and trying to convince him to join her inside, but she knew it would be a waste of effort.
Besides, she wasn't sure she really wanted to share a meal with him. He unsettled her. Being around him made her aware of every movement she made, the shape of her breasts, the sound of her own voice. The last time she'd felt so painfully self-conscious was when she was thirteen and her mother sent her out to buy her first bra. She wasn't used to quiet men. Her father was a talker. So were Robert and Spencer. They understood small talk and used it well. Molly was good at small talk herself. Sometimes she thought her. entire life had been composed of one meaningless conversation after another, all of them linked together until they formed the approximation of a life.
Rafe wasn't a talker. She watched him move through his wordless day and wondered how it would feel to hold your emotions so close to, you that nobody knew they were there. Not that it mattered. His emotions were none of her business. In a few more weeks he'd be finished with the deck and the baby's room. He'd say goodbye and walk out the door, and she'd never know how he tasted. That struck her as a terrible shame, although she didn't know why it should since she hadn't the slightest idea how any man tasted.
"You're home early," Molly said when Jessy finally strolled into the kitchen.
"Just passin' through." She sounded almost giddy, as if she'd been drinking champagne. "I have to be back at eight."
"I was about to start dinner, if you're interested." She smiled at Jessy. "Supper, if that sounds better."
"I noticed you put sugar in the iced tea yesterday," Jessy, said as she looped her purse over the back of a kitchen chair. "Thanks."
"I'm always open to new ideas."
Jessy watched her as she opened the fridge and removed a head of lettuce, two tomatoes, and an oblong Tupperware container filled with tuna salad. "Can I help?"
Molly's first instinct was to say thanks but no thanks, but she caught herself. If they were going to live together in some semblance of harmony, she'd have to learn to work in tandem with Jessy. At least now and then.
"I left a manuscript and a huge stack of papers on the kitchen table," she said. "If you'd gather up everything and put it in the dining room, I can set the table."
"I'll set the table, too," Jessy said.
"Be careful," Molly said, "I might get used to this."
"Don't," Jessy said with a quick smile. "I don't really live here. I live at the hospital."
To Molly's surprise, they worked well together. Jessy worked quickly and carefully. She had the kitchen table cleared and set before Molly got the lid off the Tupperware container.
"I don't think they taught you that at med school," she observed with a shake of her head.
"They taught me that at the Pancake Cottage," Jessy said, pouring them each a glass of iced tea. "I worked there during school."
"I waitressed once, right after Robert and I first got married," Molly said, scooping tuna salad onto their salad plates. "I was a disaster."
"It takes some organization," Jessy said, "but it's not brain surgery."
"It might as well have been," Molly said. "I screwed up orders, broke plates, and had a bad attitude."
"They probably blamed it on your red hair, right?"
"They blame everything on my red hair," Molly said, smiling naturally for the first time. "They might be right."
"I dyed my hair red once," Jessy said as she plucked a slice of tomato from one of the plates. "It was like putting a dress on a monkey."
Molly stopped what she was doing and took a good look at the woman. "I don't see you as a redhead," she said.
"There's a surprise for you," Jessy said. She sounded both defensive and self-deprecating, as if she'd bad enormous practice with each. "I'm not exactly the glamorous type."
"Actually I see you with some blond highlights and maybe some wispy bangs. You have a blonde's complexion."
Jessy frowned. "I do?"
"You have beautiful skin." The last thing she'd expected to share with Jessy Wyatt was girl talk. "You should do something to show it off."
"Maybe I should switch specialties to dermatology," Jessy said with a swift grin. "Be my own best advertisement."
"Well, there you go," Molly said as she carried their salad plates to the table. "Who needs obstetrics, right?"
"I saw you coming out of Dr. Rosenberg's office day before yesterday," Jessy said as they both sat down. "Regular appointment?"
Molly nodded and unfolded her napkin. "He did a sonogram, but we couldn't tell the baby's sex. I'm kind of glad, in a way."
"And you're doing well?"
"Very." She seemed genuinely concerned, but Molly assumed it was as much professional curiosity as anything else. "I'd had a few problems last month, but they've resolved themselves."
"Stress, no doubt," Jessy said.
"No doubt," Molly said dryly. "This isn't exactly the way I'd planned my pregnancy."
Molly's words were innocent enough. She was talking about her marriage, about the husband who'd walked away from a miracle. She couldn't possibly have known those words would find their mark in the hidden part of Jessy's heart.
"I didn't plan my pregnancy at all." Jessy heard the words tumble from her lips, but she couldn't quite believe them. What on earth had possessed her?
Molly's eyes almost popped out of her head. "Your pregnancy?"
"It was a long time ago," Jessy said, tapping her fingernails against the side of her iced tea glass. Why couldn
't it be a glass of hemlock? "I don't know why I even mentioned it to you."
"Me neither," said Molly. "You don't even like me."
"I never said that."
"You didn't have to. It's right there on your face."
"That's ridiculous. I don't even know you."
"You don't like what you do know."
Good Lord, thought Jessy. Molly sounded like Granny Wyatt, who read your mind by reading your tea leaves.
"You're too much like everyone at the hospital," Jessy said bluntly. "You make me feel as if I'm the last one at the table."
"You make me feel as if you'd rather be at any table but mine."
"You're right."
Molly's face turned bright red and she looked down at her salad plate.
Jessy was instantly overcome with remorse. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to say that"
"Don't apologize," Molly said. "You'll only make things worse. You said what you meant. Stick with it."
Jessy wanted to crawl under the card table and stay there. Just three weeks up north, and already she'd forgotten everything she ever knew about good manners. "Look," she said, "it's my problem, not yours. It's not your fault if I'm pea-green with envy."
"Now you've lost me," Molly said. "I thought we were talking about why you didn't like me."
"We are," said Jessy. "I don't like you because you have everything."
Molly started to laugh, that same full-bodied laugh that seemed so out of keeping with her delicate beauty. That laugh probably brought men to their knees. "Oh, yes," said Molly, "I have absolutely everything a woman could want. I can understand why you'd be pea-green. My husband left me for a judge's daughter, I can't afford this house so I'm taking in boarders, and—here's the best part—I'm pregnant."
"You forgot the most important thing," Jessy said. "You get to keep your baby."
Molly pushed away her plate and leaned across the table. There was nothing comforting about the expression in her big blue eyes, nothing warm and fuzzy. "If you want to tell your story, tell it," she said. "I'd like to listen. But if you're looking for a punching bag, you'll have to look elsewhere."
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