by Nora Roberts
Then, there’d been the time she’d come out of the bath to find the bedroom lit with a dozen candles. When she’d asked if there’d been a power failure, Michael had just laughed and pulled her into bed.
He did things like reaching for her hand at dinner and whispering in her ear just before dawn. Once he’d joined her in the shower uninvited and silenced her protests by washing every inch of her body himself. She’d been right. Michael Donahue didn’t follow the rules. He’d been right. He was getting to her.
Pandora removed the bracelet from the vise, then absently began to polish it. She’d made a half a dozen others in the last two weeks. Big chunky bracelets, some had gaudy stones, some had ornate engraving. They suited her mood—daring, opinionated and a bit silly. She’d learned to trust her instincts, and her instincts told her they’d sell faster than she could possibly make them—and be copied just as quickly.
She didn’t mind the imitations. After all, there was only one of each type that was truly a Pandora McVie. Copies would be recognized as copies because they lacked that something special, that individuality of the genuine.
Pleased, she turned the bracelet over in her hand. No one would mistake any of her work for an imitation. She might often use glass instead of precious or semiprecious stones because glass expressed her mood at the time. But each piece she created carried her mark, her opinion and her honesty. She never gave a thought to the price of a piece when she crafted it or its market value. She created what she needed to create first, then after it was done, her practical side calculated the profit margin. Her art varied from piece to piece, but it never lied.
Looking down at the bracelet, Pandora sighed. No, her art never lied, but did she? Could she be certain her emotions were as genuine as the jewelry she made? A feeling could be imitated. An emotion could be fraudulent. How many times in the past few weeks had she pretended? Not pretended to feel, Pandora thought, but pretended not to feel. She was a woman who’d always prided herself on her honesty. Truth and independence went hand in hand with Pandora’s set of values. But she’d lied—over and over again—to herself, the worst form of deception.
It was time to stop, Pandora told herself. Time to face the truth of her feelings if only in the privacy of her own heart and mind.
How long had she been in love with Michael? She had to stand and move around the shop as the question formed in her mind. Weeks? Months? Years? It wasn’t something she could answer because she would never be sure. But she was certain of the emotion. She loved. Pandora understood it because she loved only a few people, and when she did, she loved boundlessly. Perhaps that was the biggest problem. Wasn’t it a sort of suicide to love Michael boundlessly?
Better to face it, she told herself. No problem resolved itself without being faced first and examined second. However much a fool it made her, she loved Michael. Pandora rubbed at the steam on the windows and looked out at the snow. Strange, she’d really believed once she accepted it she’d feel better. She didn’t.
What options did she have? She could tell him. And have him gloat, Pandora thought with a scowl. He would, too, before he trotted off to his next conquest. She certainly wasn’t fool enough to think he’d be interested in a long-term relationship. Of course, she wasn’t interested in one either, Pandora told herself as she began to noisily pack her tools.
Another option was to cut and run. What the relatives hadn’t been able to accomplish with their malice and mischief, her own heart would succeed in doing. She could get in the car, drive to the airport and fly to anywhere. Escape was the honest word. Then, she’d not only be a coward, she’d be a traitor. No, she wouldn’t let Uncle Jolley down; she wouldn’t run. That left her, as Pandora saw it, with one option.
She’d go on as she was. She’d stay with Michael, sleep with Michael, share with Michael—share with him everything but what was in her heart. She’d take the two months they had left together and prepare herself to walk away with no regrets.
He’d gotten to her, Pandora admitted. Gotten to her in places no other man had touched. She loved him for it. She hated him for it. With her mood as turbulent as her thoughts, she locked the shop and stomped across the lawn.
“Here she comes now.” With a new plan ready to spring, Sweeney turned away from the kitchen window and signaled to Charles.
“It’s never going to work.”
“Of course it is. We’re going to push those children together for their own good. Any two people who spat as much as they do should be married.”
“We’re interfering where it’s not our place.”
“What malarkey!” Sweeney took her seat at the kitchen table. “Whose place is it to interfere if not ours, I’d like to know? Who’ll be knocking around this big empty house if they go back to the city if not us? Now pick up that cloth and fan me. Stoop over a bit and look feeble.”
“I am feeble,” Charles muttered, but picked up the cloth.
When Pandora walked into the kitchen she saw Sweeney sprawled back in a chair, eyes closed, with Charles standing over her waving a dishcloth at her face.
“God, what’s wrong? Charles, did she faint?” Before he could answer, Pandora had dashed across the room. “Call Michael,” she ordered. “Call Michael quickly.” She brushed Charles away and crouched. “Sweeney, it’s Pandora. Are you in pain?”
Barely suppressing a sigh of satisfaction, Sweeney let her eyes flutter open and hoped she looked pale. “Oh, missy, don’t you worry now. Just one of my spells is all. Now and then my heart starts to flutter so that I feel it’s coming right out of my head.”
“I’m going to call the doctor.” Pandora had taken only one step when her hand was caught in a surprisingly strong grip.
“No need for that.” Sweeney made her voice thin and weary. “Saw him just a few months past and he told me I’d have to expect one of these now and again.”
“I don’t believe that,” Pandora said fiercely. “You’re just plain working too hard, and it’s going to stop.”
A little trickle of guilt worked its way in as Sweeney saw the concern. “Now, now, don’t fret.”
“What is it?” Michael swung through the kitchen door. “Sweeney?” He knelt down beside her and took her other hand.
“Now look at all this commotion.” Mentally she leaped up and kicked her heels. “It’s nothing but one of my little spells. The doctor said I’d have to watch for them. Just a nuisance, that’s all.” She looked hard at Charles when he came in. Eventually she looked hard enough so that he remembered his cue.
“And you know what he said.”
“Now, Charles—”
“You’re to have two or three days of bed rest.”
Pleased that he’d remembered his lines, Sweeney pretended to huff. “Pack of nonsense. I’ll be right as rain in a few minutes. I’ve dinner to cook.”
“You won’t be cooking anything.” In a way Sweeney considered properly masterful, Michael picked her up. “Into bed with you.”
“Just who’ll take care of things?” Sweeney demanded. “I’ll not have Charles spreading his germs around my kitchen.”
Michael was nearly out of the room with Sweeney before Charles remembered the next step. He coughed into his hand, looked apologetic and coughed again.
“Listen to that!” Pleased, Sweeney let her head rest against Michael’s shoulder. “I won’t go to bed and let him infect my kitchen.”
“How long have you had that cough?” Pandora demanded. When Charles began to mutter, she stood up. “That’s enough. Both of you into bed. Michael and I will take care of everything.” Taking Charles’s arm, she began to lead him into the servant’s wing. “Into bed and no nonsense. I’ll make both of you some tea. Michael, see that Charles gets settled, I’ll look after Sweeney.”
Within a half hour, Sweeney had them both where she wanted them. Together.
“Well, they’re all settled in and there’s no fever.” Satisfied, Pandora poured herself a cup of tea. “I suppose all they need is
a few days’ rest and some pampering. Tea?”
He made a face at the idea and switched on the coffee. “Since the days of house calls are over, I’d think they’d be better off here in bed than being dragged into town. We can take turns keeping an eye on them.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Pandora opened the refrigerator and studied. “What about meals? Can you cook?”
“Sure.” Michael rattled cups in the cupboard. “Badly, but I can cook. Meat loaf’s my specialty.” When this was met with no enthusiasm, he turned his head. “Do you?”
“Cook?” Pandora lifted a plastic lid hopefully. “I can broil a steak and scramble eggs. Anything else is chancy.”
“Life’s nothing without a risk.” Michael joined her in her rummage through the refrigerator. “Here’s almost half an apple cobbler.”
“That’s hardly a meal.”
“It’ll do for me.” He took it out and went for a spoon. Pandora watched as he sat down at the table and dug in. “Want some?”
She started to refuse on principle, then decided not to cut off her nose. Going to the cupboard, she found a bowl. “What about the bedridden?” she asked as she scooped out cobbler.
“Soup,” Michael said between bites. “Nothing better than hot soup. Though I’d let them rest awhile first.”
With a nod of agreement, she sat across from him. “Michael…” She trailed off as she played with her cobbler. The steam from her tea rose up between them. She’d been thinking about how to broach the subject for days. It seemed the time had come. “I’ve been thinking. In two months, the will should be final. When Fitzhugh wrote us last week, he said Uncle Carlson’s lawyers were advising him to drop the probate.”
“So?”
“The house, along with everything else, will be half yours, half mine.”
“That’s right.”
She took a bite of cobbler, then set down her spoon. “What’re you smiling at?”
“You’re nice to look at. I find it relaxing to sit here alone in the kitchen, in the quiet, and look at you.”
It was that sort of thing, just that sort of thing, that left her light-headed and foolish. She stared at him a moment, then dropped her gaze to her bowl. “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that.”
“No, you don’t. So you’ve been thinking,” he prompted.
“Yes.” She gave herself a moment, carefully spooning out another bite of cobbler. “We’ll have the house between us, but we won’t be living here together any longer. Sweeney and Charles will be here alone. I’ve worried about that for a while. Now, after this, I’m more concerned than ever. They can’t stay here alone.”
“No, I think you’re right. Ideas?”
“I mentioned before that I was considering moving here on a semipermanent basis.” She found she had no appetite after all and switched back to her tea. “I think I’m going to make it permanent all around.”
He heard a trace of nervousness in her voice. “Because of Charles and Sweeney?”
“Only partly.” She drank more tea, set the cup down and toyed with her cobbler again. She wasn’t accustomed to discussing her decisions with anyone. Though she found it difficult, Pandora had already resolved that she had an obligation to do so. More, she’d realized she needed to talk to him, to be, as she couldn’t be on other levels, honest. “I always felt the Folley was home, but I didn’t realize just how much of a home. I need it, for myself. You see, I never had one.” She lifted her gaze and met his. “Only here.”
To say her words surprised him was to say too little. All his life he’d seen her as the pampered pet, the golden girl with every advantage. “But your parents—”
“Are wonderful,” Pandora said quickly. “I adore them. There’s nothing about them I’d change. But…” How could she explain? How could she not? “We never had a kitchen like this—a place you could come back to day after day and know it’d be the same. Even if you changed the wallpaper and the paint, it would be the same. It sounds silly.” She shifted restlessly. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Maybe I would.” He caught her hand before she could rise. “Maybe I’d like to.”
“I want a home,” she said simply. “The Folley’s been that to me. I want to stay here after the term’s up.”
He kept her hand in his, palm to palm. “Why are you telling me this, Pandora?”
Reasons. Too many reasons. She chose the only one she could give him safely. “In two months, the house belongs to you as much as to me. According to the terms of the will—”
He swore and released her hand. Rising, he stuck his hands in his back pockets and strode to the window. He’d thought for a moment, just for a moment, she’d been ready to give him more. By God, he’d waited long enough for only a few drops more. There’d been something in her voice, something soft and giving. Perhap she’d just imagined it because he’d wanted to hear it. Terms of the will, he thought. It was so like her to see nothing else.
“What do you want, my permission?”
Disturbed, Pandora stayed at the table. “I suppose I wanted you to understand and agree.”
“Fine.”
“You needn’t be so curt about it. After all, you haven’t any plans to use the house on a regular basis.”
“I haven’t made any plans,” he murmured. “Perhaps it’s time I did.”
“I didn’t mean to annoy you.”
He turned slowly, then just as slowly smiled. “No, I’m sure you didn’t. There’s never any doubt when you annoy me intentionally.”
There was something wrong here, something she couldn’t quite pinpoint. So she groped. “Would you mind so much if I were to live here?”
It surprised him when she rose to come to him, offering a hand. She didn’t make such gestures often or casually. “No, why should it?”
“It would be half yours.”
“We could draw a line down the middle.”
“That might be awkward. I could buy you out.”
“No.”
He said it so fiercely, her brows shot up. “It was only an offer.”
“Forget it.” He turned to look for soup.
Pandora stood back a moment, watching his back, the tension in the muscles. “Michael…” With a sigh, she wrapped her arms around his waist. She felt him stiffen, but didn’t realize it was from surprise. “I seem to be saying all the wrong things. Maybe I have an easier time when we snap at each other than when I try to be considerate.”
“Maybe we both do.” He turned to frame her face with his hands. For a moment they looked like friends, like lovers. “Pandora….” Could he tell her he found it impossible to think about leaving her or her leaving him? Would she understand if he told her he wanted to go on living with her, being with her? How could she possibly take in the fact that he’d been in love with her for years when he was just becoming able to accept it himself? Instead he kissed her forehead. “Let’s make soup.”
They couldn’t work together without friction, but they discovered over the next few days that they could work together. They cooked meals, washed up, dusted furniture while the servants stayed in bed or sat, bundled up, on sofas drinking tea. True, there were times when Sweeney itched to get up and be about her business, or when Charles suffered pangs of conscience, but they were convinced they were doing their duty. Both servants felt justified when they heard laughter drift through the house.
Michael wasn’t sure there had been another time in his life when he’d been so content. He was, in essence, playing house, something he’d never had the time or inclination for. He would write for hours, closed off in his office, wrapped up in plots and characters and what-ifs. Then he could break away and reality was the scent of cooking or furniture polish. He had a home, a woman, and was determined to keep them.
Late in the afternoon, he always laid a fire in the parlor. After dinner they had coffee there, sometimes quietly, sometimes during a hard-fought game of rummy. It seemed ordinary, Michael admitted. It was ordinary, unless you added
Pandora. He was just setting fire to the kindling when Bruno raced into the room and upset a table. Knickknacks went flying.
“We’re going to have to send you to charm school,” Michael declared as he rose to deal with the rubble. Though it had been just over a month, Bruno had nearly doubled in size already. He was, without a doubt, going to grow into his paws. After righting the table, he saw the dog wiggling its way under a sofa. “What’ve you got there?”
Besides being large, Bruno had already earned a reputation as a clever thief. Just the day before, they’d lost a slab of pork chops. “All right, you devil, if that’s tonight’s chicken, you’re going into solitary confinement in the garage.” Getting down on all fours, Michael looked under the couch. It wasn’t chicken the dog was gnawing noisily on, but Michael’s shoe.
“Damn!” Michael made a grab but the dog backed out of reach and kept on chewing. “That shoe’s worth five times what you are, you overgrown mutt. Give it here.” Flattening, Michael scooted halfway under the sofa. Bruno merely dragged the shoe away again, enjoying the game.
“Oh, how sweet.” Pandora walked into the parlor and eyed Michael from the waist down. He did, she decided, indeed have some redeeming qualities. “Are you playing with the dog, Michael, or dusting under the sofa?”
“I’m going to make a rug out of him.”
“Dear, dear, we sound a little cross this evening. Bruno, here baby.” Carrying the shoe like a trophy, Bruno squirmed out from under the couch and pranced over to her. “Is this what you were after?” Pandora held up the shoe while petting Bruno with her other hand. “How clever of you to teach Bruno to fetch.”
Michael pulled himself up, then yanked the shoe out of her hand. It was unfortunately wet and covered with teeth marks. “That’s the second shoe he’s ruined. And he didn’t even have the courtesy to take both from one pair.”