What Makes a Family

by Debbie Macomber

  “Of course, but you’re overreacting.” He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. “My father wouldn’t stay in business long if he ordered the editors to purchase my friends’ manuscripts, would he? Believe me, it would all be on the up and up, and if you’ve got an idea for a series using Leo—”

  “I said no.”

  “But—”

  “I mean it, Annie. This is my book and I’ll submit it myself without any help from you.”

  “If that’s what you want,” she concurred meekly.

  “That’s the way it’s going to be.” The stern unyielding look slipped back into place. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ll quietly go back to my messy little world, sans wife and countless interruptions from a certain neighbor.”

  “I’ll try not to bother you again,” Maryanne said sarcastically, since he was the one who’d invaded her home this time.

  “It would be appreciated,” he said, apparently ignoring her tone.

  “Your apartment is yours and mine is mine, and I’ll uphold your privacy with the utmost respect,” she continued, her voice still faintly mocking. She buried her hands in her pockets and her fingers closed around something cold and metallic.

  “Good.” Nolan was nodding. “Privacy, that’s what we need.”

  “Um, Nolan…” She paused. “This is somewhat embarrassing, but it seems I have…” She hesitated again, then resolutely squared her shoulders. “I suppose you’d appreciate it if I returned your keys, right?”

  “My keys?” Nolan exploded.

  “I just found them. They were in my pocket. You see, all you had in your refrigerator was one limp strand of celery and I couldn’t very well make soup out of that, so I had to go to the store and I didn’t want to leave your door unlocked and—”

  “You have my keys?”

  “Yes.”

  He held out his palm, casting his eyes toward the ceiling. Feeling like a pickpocket caught in the act, Maryanne dropped the keys into his hand and stepped quickly back, almost afraid he was going to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. Which, of course, was ludicrous.

  Nolan left immediately and Maryanne followed him to the door, staring out into the hallway as he walked back to his own apartment.

  * * *

  The next Thursday, Maryanne was hurrying to get ready for work when the phone rang. She frowned and stared at it, wondering if she dared take the time to answer. It might be Nolan, but every instinct she possessed told her otherwise. They hadn’t spoken all week. Every afternoon, like clockwork, he’d arrived at Mom’s Diner. More often than not, he ordered chili. Maryanne waited on him most of the time, but she might have been a robot for all the attention he paid her. His complete lack of interest dented her pride; still, his attitude shouldn’t have come as any surprise.

  “Hello,” she said hesitantly, picking up the receiver.

  “Maryanne,” her mother responded, her voice rising with pleasure. “I can’t believe I finally got hold of you. I’ve been trying for the past three days.”

  Maryanne immediately felt swamped by guilt. “You didn’t leave a message on my machine.”

  “You know how I hate those things.”

  Maryanne did know that. She also knew she should have phoned her parents herself, but she wasn’t sure how long she could continue with this farce. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, of course. Your father’s working too hard, but that’s nothing new. The boys are busy with soccer and growing like weeds.” Her mother’s voice fell slightly. “How’s the job?”

  “The job?”

  “Your special assignment.”

  “Oh, that.” Maryanne had rarely been able to fool her mother, and she could only wonder how well she was succeeding now. “It’s going…well. I’m learning so much.”

  “I think you’ll make a terrific investigative reporter, sweetie, and the secrecy behind this assignment makes it all the more intriguing. When are your father and I going to learn exactly what you’ve been doing? I wish we’d never promised not to check up on your progress at the paper. We’re both so curious.”

  “I’ll be finished with it soon.” Maryanne glanced at her watch and was about to close the conversation when her mother asked, “How’s Nolan?”

  “Nolan?” Maryanne’s heart zoomed straight into her throat. She hadn’t remembered mentioning him, and just hearing his name sent a feverish heat through her body.

  “You seemed quite enthralled with him the last time we spoke, remember?”

  “I was?”

  “Yes, sweetie, you were. You claimed he was very talented, and although you were tight-lipped about it I got the impression you were strongly attracted to this young man.”

  “Nolan’s a friend. But we argue more than anything.”

  Her mother chuckled. “Good.”

  “How could that possibly be good?”

  “It means you’re comfortable enough with each other to be yourselves, and that’s a positive sign. Why, your father and I bickered like old fishwives when we first met. I swear there wasn’t a single issue we could agree on.” She sighed softly. “Then one day we looked at each other, and I knew then and there I was going to love this man for the rest of my life. And I have.”

  “Mom, it isn’t like that with Nolan and me. I…I don’t even think he likes me.”

  “Nolan doesn’t like you?” her mother repeated. “Why, sweetie, that would be impossible.”

  Maryanne started to laugh then, because her mother was so obviously biased, yet sounded completely objective and matter-of-fact. It felt good to laugh again, good to find something amusing. She hadn’t realized how melancholy she’d become since her last encounter with Nolan. He was still making such an effort to keep her at arm’s length for fear… She didn’t know exactly what he feared. Perhaps he was falling in love with her, but she’d noticed precious little evidence pointing to that conclusion. If anything, Nolan considered her an irritant in his life.

  Maryanne spoke to her mother for a few more minutes, then rushed out the door, hoping she wouldn’t be late for her shift at Mom’s Place. Some investigative reporter she was!

  At the diner, she slipped the apron around her waist and hurried out to help with the luncheon crowd. Waiting tables, she was learning quite a lot about character types. This could be helpful for a writer, she figured. Some of her customers were pretty eccentric. She observed them carefully, wondering if Nolan did the same thing. But she wasn’t going to think about Nolan….

  Halfway through her shift, she began to feel light-headed and sick to her stomach.

  “Are you feeling all right?” Barbara asked as she slipped past, carrying an order.

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “When was the last time you ate?”

  “This morning. No,” she corrected, “last night. I didn’t have much of an appetite this morning.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Barbara set the hamburger and fries on the counter in front of her customer and walked back to Maryanne. “Now that I’ve got a good look at you, you do seem a bit peaked.”

  “I’m all right.”

  Hands on her hips, Barbara continued to study Maryanne as if memorizing every feature. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m fine.” She had the beginnings of a headache, but nothing she could really complain about. It probably hadn’t been a good idea to skip breakfast and lunch, but she’d make up for it when she took her dinner break.

  “I’m not sure I believe you,” Barbara muttered, dragging out a well-used phone book. She flipped through the pages until she apparently found the number she wanted, then reached for the phone.

  “Who are you calling?”

  She held the receiver against her shoulder. “Nolan Adams, who else? Seems to me it’s his turn to play nursemaid.�
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  “Barbara, no!” She might not be feeling a hundred per cent, but she wasn’t all that sick, either. And the last person she wanted running to her rescue was Nolan. He’d only use it against her, as proof that she should go back to the cosy comfortable world of her parents. She’d almost proved she could live entirely on her own, without relying on interest from her trust fund.

  “Nolan’s not at the office,” Barbara said a moment later, replacing the receiver. “I’ll talk to him when he comes in.”

  “No, you won’t! Barbara, I swear to you I’ll personally give your phone number to every trucker who comes into this place if you so much as say a single word to Nolan.”

  “Honey,” the other waitress said, raising her eyebrows, “you’d be doing me a favor!”

  Grumbling, Maryanne returned to her customers.

  By closing time, however, she was feeling slightly worse. Not exactly sick, but not exactly herself, either. Barbara was watching Maryanne closely, regularly feeling her cheeks and forehead and muttering about her temperature. If there was one thing to be grateful for, it was the fact that Nolan hadn’t shown up. Barbara insisted Maryanne leave a few minutes early and shooed her out the door. Had she been feeling better, Maryanne would have argued.

  By the time she arrived back at her apartment, she knew beyond a doubt that she was coming down with some kind of virus. Part of her would’ve liked to blame Nolan, but she was the one who’d let herself into his apartment. She was the one who’d lingered there, straightening up the place and staying far longer than necessary.

  After a long hot shower, she put on her flannel pyjamas and unfolded her bed, climbing quickly beneath the covers. She’d turned the television on for company and prepared herself a mug of soup. As she took her first sip, she heard someone knock at her door.

  “Who is it?” she called out.

  “Nolan.”

  “I’m in bed,” she shouted.

  “You’ve seen me in my robe. It’s only fair I see you in yours,” he yelled back.

  Maryanne tossed aside her covers and sat up. “Go away.”

  A sharp pounding noise came from the floor, followed by an equally loud roar that proclaimed it time for “Jeopardy.” Apparently Maryanne’s shouting match with Nolan was disrupting Mrs. McBride’s favorite television show.

  “Sorry.” Maryanne cupped her hands over her mouth and yelled at the hardwood floor.

  “Are you going to let me in, or do I have to get the passkey?” Nolan demanded.

  Groaning, Maryanne shuffled across the floor in her giant fuzzy slippers and turned the lock. “Yes?” she asked with exaggerated patience.

  For the longest moment, Nolan said nothing. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his beige raincoat. “How are you?”

  Maryanne glared at him with all the indignation she could muster, which at the moment was considerable. “Do you mean to say you practically pounded down my door to ask me that?”

  He didn’t bother to answer, but walked into her apartment as though he had every right to do so. “Barbara phoned me.”

  “Oh, brother! And what exactly did she say?” She continued to hold open the door, hoping he’d get the hint and leave.

  “That you caught my bug.” His voice was rough with ill-disguised worry.

  “Wrong. I felt a bit under the weather earlier, but I’m fine now.” The last thing she wanted Nolan motivated by was guilt. He’d succeeded in keeping his distance up to now; if he decided to see her, she wanted to be sure his visit wasn’t prompted by an overactive sense of responsibility.

  “You look…”

  “Yes?” she prompted.

  His gaze skimmed her, from slightly damp hair to large fuzzy feet. “Fine,” he answered softly.

  “As you can see I’m really not sick, so you needn’t concern yourself.”

  Her words were followed by a lengthy silence. Nolan turned as though to leave. Maryanne should have felt relieved to see him go, instead, she experienced the strangest sensation of loss. She longed to reach out a hand, ask him to stay, but she didn’t have the courage.

  She brushed the hair from her face and smiled, even though it was difficult to put on a carefree facade.

  “I’ll stop by in the morning and see how you’re doing,” Nolan said, hovering by the threshold.

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  He frowned. “When did you get so prickly?”

  “When did you get so caring?” The words nearly caught in her throat and escaped on a whisper.

  “I do care about you,” he said.

  “Oh, sure, the same way you’d care about an annoying younger sister. Believe me, Nolan, your message came through loud and clear. I’m not your type. Fine, I can accept that, because you’re not my type, either.” She didn’t really think she had a type, but it sounded philosophical and went a long way toward salving her badly bruised ego. Nolan couldn’t have made his views toward her any plainer had he rented a billboard. He’d even said he’d taken one look at her and immediately thought, “Here comes trouble.”

  She’d never been more attracted to a man in her life, and here she was, standing in front of him lying through her teeth rather than admit how she truly felt.

  “So I’m not your type, either?” he asked, almost in a whisper.

  Maryanne’s heartbeat quickened. He studied her as intently as she studied him. He gazed at her mouth, then slipped his hand behind her neck and slowly, so very slowly, lowered his lips to hers.

  He paused, their mouths a scant inch apart. He seemed to be waiting for her to pull away, withdraw from him. Everything inside her told her to do exactly that. He was only trying to humiliate her, wasn’t he? Trying to prove how powerful her attraction to him was, how easily he could bend her will to his own.

  And she was letting him.

  Her heart was beating so furiously her body seemed to rock with the sheer force of it. Every throb seemed to drive her directly into his arms, right where she longed to be. She placed her palms against his chest and sighed as his mouth met hers. The touch of his lips felt warm and soft. And right.

  His hand cradled her neck while his lips continued to move over hers in the gentlest explorations, as though he feared she was too delicate to kiss the way he wanted.

  Gradually his hands slipped to her shoulders. He drew a ragged breath, then put his head back as he stared up at the ceiling. He exhaled slowly, deliberately.

  It took all the restraint Maryanne possessed not to ask him why he was stopping. She wanted these incredible sensations to continue. She longed to explore the feelings his kiss produced and the complex responses she experienced deep within her body. Her pulse hammered erratically as she tried to control her breathing.

  “Okay, now we’ve got that settled, I’ll leave.” He backed away from her.

  “Got what settled?” she asked swiftly, then realized she was only making a bigger fool of herself. Naturally he was talking about the reason for this impromptu visit, which had been her health. Hadn’t it? “Oh, I see.”

  “I don’t think you do,” Nolan said enigmatically. He turned and walked away.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Whose turn next?” Maryanne asked. She and her two friends were sitting in the middle of her living room floor, having a “pity party.”

  “I will,” Carol Riverside volunteered eagerly. She ceremonially plucked a tissue from the box that rested in the centre of their small circle, next to the lit candle. Their second large bottle of cheap wine was nearly empty, and the three of them were feeling no pain.

  “For years I’ve wanted to write a newspaper column of my own,” Carol said, squaring her shoulders and hauling in a huge breath. “But it’s not what I thought it’d be like. I ran out of ideas for things to write about after the first week.”
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  “Ah,” Maryanne sighed sympathetically.

  “Ah,” Barbara echoed.

  “That’s not all,” Carol said sadly. “I never knew the world was so full of critics. No one seems to agree with me. I—I didn’t know Seattle had so many cantankerous readers. I try, but it’s impossible to make everyone happy. What happens is that some of the people like me some of the time and all the rest hate everything I write.” She glanced up. “Except the two of you, of course.”

  Maryanne nodded her head so hard she nearly toppled over. She spread her hands out at either side in an effort to maintain her balance. The wine made her yawn loudly.

  Apparently in real distress, Carol dabbed at her eyes. “Being a columnist is hard work and nothing like I’d always dreamed.” The edges of her mouth turned downward. “I don’t even like writing anymore,” she sobbed.

  “Isn’t that a pity!” Maryanne cried, ritually tossing her tissue into the centre of the circle. Barbara followed suit, and then they both patted Carol gently on the back.

  Carol brightened once she’d finished. “I don’t know what I’d do without the two of you. You and Betty are my very best friends in the whole world,” she announced.

  “Barbara,” Maryanne corrected. “Your very best friend’s name is Barbara.”

  The three of them looked at each other and burst into gales of laughter. Maryanne hushed them by waving her hands. “Stop! We can’t allow ourselves to become giddy. A pity party doesn’t work if all we do is laugh. We’ve got to remember this is sad and serious business.”

  “Sad and serious,” Barbara agreed, sobering. She grabbed a fresh tissue and clutched it in her hand, waiting for the others to share their sorrows and give her a reason to cry.

  “Whose idea was the wine?” Maryanne wanted to know, taking a quick sip.

  Carol blushed. “I thought it would be less fattening than the chocolate ice-cream bars you planned to serve.”

  “Hey,” Barbara said, narrowing her eyes at Maryanne. “You haven’t said anything about your problem.”