Boyd felt an odd emotion take hold of him. He told himself it was relief. "Works for me," he said, getting to his feet. He was about to offer to bring her a cold drink when she held out a small hand.
"Then it's a deal," she declared with a smile full of whimsy and spunk—and pride.
"Yeah, sure." He took her hand in his and felt her fingers mold around his for an instant before they stiffened into a businesslike shake.
"Now if you'll kindly give a little tug to help me up," she said with perfect composure, "I'll go put that marvelous crab dish of Linda's into the oven."
Well, hell! Boyd thought as he ducked his head under the shower spray and let the water pound on the knotted muscles at the back of his neck. So much for the diplomatic speech he'd been rehearsing damn near all afternoon. About how he didn't want to hurt her any more than she'd been hurt. And how they should keep things on a strictly friendship basis. Platonic. Just like the lady said, an inner voice taunted. Cut his good intentions right off at the knees.
So how come he was feeling like he'd just taken a right cross to the jaw?
Because he was an idiot, he thought as he lifted his face to the needle-sharp spray. An idiot who'd just condemned himself to five weeks of the fires of hell.
Over the next few weeks, they learned to live with each other.
Stacy learned never to feed him liver or talk about his years in medicine. Boyd learned to keep his distance in the morning until she'd downed the one cup of black coffee Luke Jarrod allowed her.
Boyd bought a cellular phone and pinned the number next to each phone, along with Jarrod's at home and work. A few days later he started wearing a beeper again and that number, too, he added to the list.
Whenever they were discussing current events or business matters, they were perfectly comfortable with each other. But whenever one of them trespassed on the rules they'd tacitly set up, the attraction between them seethed and bubbled like simmering water about to boil.
By unspoken agreement she waited until he'd left for the day before showering. He showered at night, while she was watching television or visiting with Prudy next door.
Stacy cooked and he cleaned up. No matter how careful she might be, or how cautious he was about his movements, they couldn't help bumping into each other in the tiny kitchen. Or brushing hands when she passed him a plate to wash.
After a week of stiff tension and even stiffer apologies from one or the other, Boyd had tersely suggested she relax in the living room while he finished up. One look at the hot hunger in his eyes had sent her scooting for the sofa as soon as the meal was ended.
Things were better then. To Stacy's delight she discovered that Boyd shared her passion for baseball, and they spent hours debating the finer points. As a kid Boyd had followed the San Francisco Giants and had played center field like his idol, Willie Mays.
Stacy herself had been partial to Johnny Bench of the Cincinnati Reds, a bush leaguer compared to Willie, Boyd had scoffed one night while they'd shared a bowl of popcorn and watched a Mariners game on the tube. If Mays hadn't played in a ballpark perched practically in the middle of San Francisco Bay where the wind blew in from center field, he damn well would have hit as many homers as Aaron.
Stacy had disagreed vehemently, more to watch Boyd's usually wary eyes take on a passionate glow as he waxed almost poetic over the sweetness of Willie's swing and his grace in the field.
He seemed to like talking to her about baseball and other things, too—like the trouble he'd been having replicating a piece of gingerbread trim he'd recommended to the Gilmartins and the satisfaction he'd felt when he'd finally mastered the intricate pattern. Or the problem getting the house's cranky old dumbwaiter to work again.
It didn't take her long to realize that Boyd demanded a standard very close to perfection in the work he did—and in himself. When he fell short, his frustration and self-contempt were painful to see. Whenever possible, she made suggestions for some minor improvement or other and was ridiculously pleased when he praised her ingenuity.
Twice since she'd settled into his house almost a month ago, he'd taken her to dinner at D'Agostino's Old World Ristorante where the checkered tablecloths were always clean and the atmosphere soothingly casual. To thank her for solving a nagging problem, he'd told her with an offhand shrug that she suspected masked a concern that she was working too hard to untangle his convoluted bookkeeping system.
The third time they'd shown up, owner Mario D'Agostino had greeted them with a satisfied wink, as well as his usual grin. The stocky transplanted Italian and his tall, slender wife, Sofia, lived above the restaurant with their four little ones. According to Boyd, Sofia too was one of Luke Jarrod's patients. Their last baby, an adorable little bambino with his father's soulful brown eyes, had just turned eight months old.
"I have just said to Sofia that it is again Wednesday evening and so I expect to see my friend Boyd and his lovely lady," Mario said when he had seated them at the table by the window. The best in the house, he'd told them the first time he'd smiled Stacy to her seat at the padded banquette.
Even though Boyd had taken great pains to introduce her as a friend who was helping out with his bookkeeping, it was clear to Stacy that Mario wanted to believe his friend Boyd was head over heels in love. Stacy knew better. In his mind she was simply another stray kitten to be looked after until it was safe for her to be on her own again.
"Is Mario Junior still teething?" Stacy asked as she scooted backward as far as she could in order to make more room for her swollen belly.
"And how!" Mario rolled his eyes. "All night he cries, that one. First I walk with him and then Sofia."
"Did you try whiskey on his gums?"
Mario nodded, sighed. "First whiskey, then Chianti. The poor little one, he only cried louder. So I finished the wine myself, and the baby's crying didn't seem so loud." His grin flashed white against his olive skin as he opened a menu with a Latin flourish and set it before her. "The linguine with clam sauce has been blessed by the angels."
"That's a good enough recommendation for me," Stacy declared without even sparing a glance at the menu. "And a double order of antipasto with—"
"Extra peppers," Mario finished for her, his eyes sparkling as they met hers for an instant before shifting across the table. "I'll fix up a carton to go for you so you won't have to come knocking on my door at midnight," he told Boyd with a grin.
Stacy saw the color rising in Boyd's neck and felt her jaw drop. "You didn't?" she questioned, her gaze seeking Boyd's across the gleaming white tablecloth.
"First line of self-defense," he muttered, lifting his water glass to his mouth and taking a long swallow. "So you wouldn't be opening and closing cupboards in the middle of the night."
Stacy took in air, half annoyed, half beguiled at the thought of Boyd running out at night to replenish the jar of peppers she kept next to his collection of coffee mugs. "I offered to sleep on the couch," she reminded him a bit astringently.
"Don't start that again," he muttered, closing the menu with a snap that reminded her Mario was still hovering. "I'll have the special."
"Good choice, my old friend." Mario beamed. "And the usual glass of Chianti?"
Boyd nodded. Scowled. Shifted position. He was wearing a shirt she'd ironed for him over his strenuous objections, and slacks for once, instead of jeans. As usual, he'd brushed his hair with his fingers, and though it was shiny and clean, any real styling had been left to chance. It gave him a windblown look she found utterly irresistible.
"And for my lovely new friend, milk, as always?" Mario turned to Stacy and his smile seemed fashioned to reassure and approve. Nodding, Stacy returned his smile with an inner sadness. Once Tory was born, and she herself was fully recovered, she had made up her mind to return to Wenatchee Falls.
After chatting for another moment or two, Mario picked up the menus neither had read and hurried off toward the kitchen. Stacy slipped the silverware from her napkin, then grimaced as she had
trouble squeezing it between the table and her belly.
"Looks like we'll have to sit at a table next time," Boyd said, snapping open his own napkin.
"Only if the chair doesn't have arms," she said, laughing ruefully.
Their drinks and salads arrived, brought by a matronly waitress Stacy hadn't seen before. "Extra peppers?" she asked in an accent that mirrored Mario's.
"Mine," Stacy told her with a greedy smile.
While Boyd sipped his wine, she dug in, all but purring as she bit into a hot pepper. "Your stomach is moving," he said after a moment or two. "Tory must like peppers."
Stacy glanced down. Sure enough, the kicks and punches she was feeling under her heart were clearly visible under her floppy shirt. "Dr. Jarrod says an active baby means an easy delivery. I told him I wanted that in writing."
Boyd glanced toward the next table where Mario was seating a young couple. "Other than being active … the baby's okay?"
Stacy was touched by the faint raspiness in his tone. And by the anxious look in his eyes. Every Wednesday morning she saw the doctor. Every Wednesday morning Boyd drove her to Jarrod's office. Instead of coming in with her, he waited in the truck. On the way home he asked detailed questions about her condition. This was the first time he'd asked about the baby.
"The baby's fine," she assured him, drawing his gaze to her face. "The heartbeat of a stevedore." And she, herself, was blooming. Jarrod had given her the okay to resume normal activities, with the usual caveats of what had been a routine pregnancy before her accident.
Boyd returned her smile, briefly. But the strain in his face didn't ease. It hurt to see the ambivalence in his eyes. There was too much concern there. Too much pain, too many memories.
She ached for him in ways he could never tolerate. The books she'd read about the process of grieving had all stressed the need to express, to vent. To scream and rage, if that's what was needed. To batter a pillow or a punching bag, perhaps. Or to cry until there were no more tears. According to Prudy, Boyd hadn't cried. But he had all but destroyed the room meant for his child. So perhaps he'd taken one tiny step.
The trouble was she didn't know how to help him take the next. Or in what direction he needed to go. And so she tried to make him loosen his death grip on his emotions enough to laugh. She'd even succeeded a time or two. But just when she thought he might be learning to accept a past he couldn't change, he withdrew from her as completely as though he'd stepped through a door and slammed it behind her. It hurt when he shut her out.
Worse by far, however, were those fleeting moments when he looked at her with an unguarded hunger in his eyes that stole her breath and heated her blood. Her own hunger to be in his arms again was never far from the surface of her daily routine. Even now, as she watched him lift his glass to his mouth and drink, she longed to feel that hard mouth softening over hers.
The impulse to lean forward and taste the wine lingering on his lips was nearly irresistible. Instead, she lifted her own glass. "Here's to the successful completion of the Gilmartins' remodel," she said with a smile. "I sent them the final bill this morning."
"Good thing I collected my tools yesterday," he said, touching his wineglass to her milk tumbler. "And here's to my bookkeeper, who keeps me on track." As they drank the toast, their gazes met and locked. In the restaurant's deliberately dim lighting, his eyes were as smoky as Mexican topaz. For an instant she was sure she saw more than the appreciation of an employer for a competent employee in the depths. Much more. She felt a tightness in her chest and a stirring around her heart that had nothing to do with the baby.
"What job have you decided to accept next?" she asked over the muted notes of a Puccini aria playing in the background.
His gaze flickered, then shifted to follow the waitress as she approached. "I've been giving some thought to taking a few weeks off," he said when their entrées were in front of them.
"A vacation?" she asked, picking up her fork.
He shrugged one shoulder. "Why not? June's already half over. I figured it's time."
She tasted the linguine and felt her taste buds sigh with pleasure. "Any idea where you want to go?" she asked, forking up another bite.
"Nowhere special." His tone was offhand, deliberately so, she suspected.
"Boyd, it's sweet of you to worry, but I have another two and a half weeks before I'm due. Maybe longer, according to Dr. Jarrod."
"Yeah, so you said." He concentrated on his pasta, working his way halfway through the more-than-generous portion before glancing up again. "Guess I'm about as subtle as a Mack truck, huh."
"Just about. But I appreciate the thought." She was about to tell him she didn't need a baby-sitter when she remembered what Prudy had told her. Let him take care of you, fuss over you, if that's what he wants to do, see you through your delivery.
She took a sip of milk to steady herself, then glanced around until she caught Mario's eye and waved him over. "More peppers?" he asked, nodding toward the few bits of lettuce on the salad plate, all that remained of her double order of antipasto.
"Well, maybe just a few more," she said, distracted for a moment by the anticipation of the spicy, stinging taste on her tongue. Mario and Boyd exchanged identical looks, two superior males indulging the little woman's whim. She told herself she should be indignant. Instead she was touched.
Directing a smile Mario's way, she added brightly, "Also, I was wondering if I could talk you into preparing a picnic lunch for me tomorrow. My boss is taking some time off and I thought I'd treat him to a day in the woods."
* * *
Twelve
« ^ »
Boyd couldn't remember the last time he'd gone on a picnic in the middle of a work week. Hell, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been on a picnic, period. But as he shoveled his hands under his head and idly watched the leaves overhead dancing in the breeze, he had to admit he was having a damned good time.
As a kid he'd never had the time to idle away an afternoon. There'd always been chores to do, siblings to watch over, schoolwork to wedge into odd moments. In college and med school, he'd been even busier. After he'd married, he'd done the things Karen liked. Symphony openings and black-tie dinners. Charity dances and opera parties. As far as he'd been concerned, they'd been little more than trumped-up excuses for the Waverlys and their crowd to dress to the nines and play grown-up.
He could still see Karen frowning in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to decide which earrings to wear. Diamond studs or pearl drops, she'd asked him once, driven almost to tears by her struggle to decide.
He remembered being half-dead from a double shift and two trauma cases, remembered the urge to grab the damn earrings and toss them down the toilet if that meant the two of them could stay home for a change. Instead, he'd mumbled something that seemed to please her.
Closing his eyes, he inhaled the air that smelled of summer heat and river water and tried to picture Karen perched on a spread ragged blanket with her shoes off and her hair flying every which way. Tried and failed.
A hothouse orchid by birth and inclination, she'd hated bugs and dirt and sweat almost as much as she'd hated the stretch marks pregnancy had gouged into her smooth, salon-pampered skin. Sometimes he thought she'd hated him for giving her a baby in the first place. Sometimes he hated himself. No, not sometimes. Most of the time. Or he had, until a pixie with smiling amber eyes and the moxie of a nineteenth-century buccaneer settled into his house.
Smiling to himself, he turned his head and tried to picture Stacy with a bandanna restraining her thick hair and a gleaming cutlass clamped in those small white teeth. Instead, he saw a woman so lovely it took his breath. A wild rose like the kind that had set down roots in this rich soil a century ago. A woman with the kind of class money couldn't buy. A survivor who could laugh through her tears and fight an army of troubles to protect her babies.
He'd never been much for sentiment. Or saying the romantic words women liked to hear. Words he suddenly wished c
ame more easily. And yet, in a dozen lifetimes he would never be able to describe the things he felt when he looked at her. About how pretty she was, how he'd never seen a woman with a smile as appealing or hair the color of hers.
Dark brown wasn't adequate. Not with so many shades of brown and gold intermingling. Since they'd met her hair had grown longer and, when she wore it down, reached beyond her shoulders in a soft, lustrous fan that begged for a man's touch.
Because of the day's heat, she'd pulled it into a kind of ponytail that bounced playfully every time she moved her head, which she did often as she talked, and the strands that had escaped framed her face like wispy quotation marks. A face that needed not a lick of makeup to make it beautiful, he decided, his gaze lingering on a profile as fine as any museum miniature. Not even the slanting pink scar left by the accident over her dark, expressive eyebrows could mar the perfection of its oval shape.
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