A Winning Battle

by Carla Neggers

  “I thought we came from the same kind of background,” Page said sheepishly and, before he could respond, climbed down from the truck.

  Gladiola, who looked to be half Labrador and part everything else, trotted happily up to meet her, and Chris watched in amazement as Ms. Neatnik herself patted the grubby dog on its head. He was quite honestly taken aback. This was her home? But then he thought of the huge house in Concord where multiple generations of Battles had been raised—no, bred—and he supposed it would give her a similar shock.

  An old man in a baseball cap and work clothes trudged out of the shed to see what all the commotion was about. Chris climbed out of the truck, and Page made introductions. “Grandpa, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Chris Battle.” She turned to Chris and bit down on one corner of her mouth. “Chris, my grandfather, Will Tucker.”

  They shook hands, the old man’s callused and half-frozen, but he didn’t seem uncomfortable. He said, “That’s a good-looking truck you have there.”

  Instant approval. Chris grinned at Page’s scowl and then followed her inside, where it was bedlam. He was introduced to various sisters, brothers, cousins and in-laws and a half-dozen infants and preschoolers who were visiting. Page’s mother was an attractive woman with gray-streaked auburn hair who didn’t seem to let much bother her, including surprise guests. She invited them to make themselves at home; there was food in the refrigerator if they were hungry.

  “It’s like this every weekend,” Page explained as she and Chris went back outside. “Mother never knows who’s going to show up. She and my grandfather live here. They have about two hundred acres, most of it woodland. It’s kind of the family homestead.”

  “What about your father?”

  “He lives in Arizona. He left when I was in high school.”

  “Divorced?”

  She shook her head. “They never bothered. He turns up three or four times a year for a visit, but he hates New England winters. He has a condo near Phoenix.”

  “What does he do?”

  “Whatever he feels like doing. My family always manages to get by. They just don’t make it easy. They thrive on living on the edge, I guess.”

  “But you don’t. You’re the planner.”

  She laughed. “Ms. Organizer, to quote a famous columnist.”

  He was relieved to see that any awkwardness she might have felt when they first rolled into the driveway had vanished, and he thought he understood: for better or worse, this was her home.

  Grandpa Tucker put them to work fixing the fence around what promised to be a monstrous vegetable garden and filling a dozen bird feeders with seeds and hauling sap and building an outdoor fire and digging out the big tub to boil down the first of the sap ... and my God, Chris thought, he could work a horse to death! Meanwhile, Grandpa fiddled with a small tractor. At various times adults and kids filed out of the house and played, pestered or helped. Chris began to understand where Page had gotten her capacity for work. He’d worked up a hell of a sweat himself.

  “How long does this stuff have to boil before it starts looking like syrup?” he asked, dubiously eyeing the bubbling cauldron.

  “Hours. It takes about forty gallons of sap to make one gallon of syrup.”

  “No wonder the damn stuff’s so expensive. I feel like a witch, don’t you?”

  “Don’t let Grandpa hear you say that. He’s very practical about this sort of work. You’ll make him think you’re from the eastern part of the state.”

  “A city boy?”

  “Uh-huh. I guess you should be glad you don’t drive a Mercedes.”

  “But you’d have had me drive it here, anyway, if I did?”

  “Why not?” She grinned at him as she stirred the sap, the heat of the fire flushing her cheeks.

  “Grandpa Tucker wouldn’t have approved.”

  “I know.”

  “So that’s it. If your family approves, I’m doomed.”

  She laughed, keeping the tone of their conversation light, although Chris suspected he’d stumbled on a touchy subject. “A more precise definition of an unsuitable man than the one I gave you last night might be a man my family approves of. Silly, you think?”

  “Damn silly.”

  Finally they let the fire die down and gathered with the rest of the family at the long kitchen table for chili, corn bread and salad. Chris did feel their approval. The young ones razzed him about whatever they could think of—including his “Boston accent,” which he didn’t have, as far as he was concerned. The older ones got him talking about his column but made it obvious they’d never read it. He appreciated their bluntness. They took him for exactly what he presented to them at that moment at the supper table.

  When dinner was finished, people began to leave, perfectly delighted that Page and Chris had volunteered to do the dishes.

  He said, “They’re quite a crew. And you never forget a birthday?”

  “Nope.”

  “Amazing.”

  “Once you have a system in place, it’s not amazing at all.”

  “But the rest of your family isn’t so organized.”

  “No. Not that they forget things. It’s just that they’re always on the brink of disaster. I can’t live like that, and I’ve quit trying to pretend I can. I need a calendar, money in the bank, plans, goals, grocery lists. Maybe sometimes I’m too rigid, but I couldn’t stand this level of... spontaneity.”

  Chris threw a towel onto one shoulder as he got the empty chili pot off the stove. “You seem to get along with your family.”

  “I hope so. I just don’t try to change them, and they don’t try to change me. It all works out, at least most of the time.”

  “About tonight... did you plan to stay over here?”

  Page laughed, her eyes twinkling. “Are you kidding? Grandpa would have us out cutting wood next. No, as it so happens, there is an inn nearby.”

  “Did you make reservations?”

  “Why, Chris Battle,” she said, “this is Page B. Harrington you’re dealing with. You and the rest of the Tucker-Harrington family would have just winged it. Me, I called ahead.”

  They thanked Grandpa Tucker and Mrs. Harrington for a wonderful day and got out of there before the old man could notice his woodpile was getting low and give them just one more job to do before they left.

  It was Chris who suggested they stop back there in the morning. “Your grandfather offered me a pint of syrup when it’s done.”

  “Don’t let him exploit you. He’ll do anything to have someone to order around. You can buy maple syrup, you know.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not the same as making my own.”

  “There’s no hope. You like them, don’t you?” She shook her head and sighed. “And they like you. I might add, Christopher O. Battle, that although I haven’t brought home scores of men, you’re the first who didn’t either run at the sight of them or get chased off.”

  “Question is, is that a point in my favor or a point against me?”

  She shrugged, leaving the question unanswered, as if she didn’t take him seriously. Chris didn’t push for an answer. But he was serious: if Page didn’t fancy herself fitting in with her own family, would it matter that much that he did? The Harringtons weren’t anything like the Battles of Concord—with whom Page would fit in beautifully—but he did like them.

  And damned if he was going to let old Will Tucker reap all the rewards of his hard work today. As he drove along the highway to the inn, Chris could almost smell the pancakes and his very own maple syrup he was going to fix Page and him one morning for breakfast ... one morning soon, he thought. Very soon. Her world had become his, and he wasn’t going to back out of it just because they didn’t have everything down to their handwriting in common.

  * * *

  He had fit right in.

  Page sighed as she headed up the wide stairs at the adult education center where she was teaching her Monday-night class on getting organized. She had been incredibly distr
acted all day. Her new clients ran a small, wonderful cafe in Cambridge’s Porter Square, but they needed help—lots of help—in making the best use of their limited time and space. They’d fed her an apricot-filled croissant for midmorning snack and a monumental sandwich of lean corned beef on homemade rye bread for lunch, with, of course, as much hot coffee as she could drink. And there were the warm chocolate chip oatmeal cookies for dessert. She’d skipped dinner.

  But food and work hadn’t stopped her from thinking about her weekend with Chris. They’d stayed in a charming inn and had made love most of the night, sleeping late the next morning—after she’d awakened him at eight o’clock. He’d been groggy at first, but it hadn’t lasted. They’d had a fabulous breakfast of buttermilk pancakes dotted with tiny wild blueberries and moistened with pure maple syrup, Vermont cob-smoked bacon, fresh fruit and several cups each of coffee.

  Then Chris had suggested they head back over to her mother and grandfather’s place and burn off all those extra calories. When they got there and trekked off into the woods with Grandpa, she began to wonder. Did Chris fit in too well? She’d lit one hell of a fire and boiled down the rest of the sap, finishing it off in the kitchen with her mother, who’d learned long ago not to ask her daughter questions about her love life. They’d talked business and animals and family.

  During the entire trip back to Boston Chris had raved about what a great guy her grandfather was and how laid-back her mother was and what a beautiful place they had. He’d used words like relaxed, uninhibited, easygoing, unperturbable.

  In her world, red-flag words.

  He’d said, “Your mother and grandfather seem to take life as it comes.”

  That was her whole point, which he didn’t seem to understand.

  Because he fit right in.

  She’d replied through clenched teeth, “See why I live in Boston?”

  “Yes,” he said, “I do. It’s barely two hours away. You can go to your mother’s just about whenever you want.”

  In other words, he hadn’t seen at all.

  They’d arrived back in Boston late, and he’d asked her if she’d be embarrassed to have him drop her off at the Four Seasons in his truck. She explained that if Mother and Grandpa could visit her in their truck, he could damn well drop her off in his. So he had. He’d smiled at her in lieu of a kiss and promised he’d be in touch soon.

  When she’d returned to her condo at 4:15 that afternoon, there was a message on her machine from him. “Dinner tonight?” Nothing more. She’d called ten times before finally getting through to him minutes before she had to leave for class.

  “I’m not available for dinner tonight,” she’d said, and explained. “Sorry. Tomorrow night, maybe?”

  He hadn’t made her feel guilty for having to work, which she’d appreciated. But he’d asked, “Where’s this class?”

  “At the adult ed center on Commonwealth Avenue.”

  “Meet me after for a drink?”

  “Okay. But I might have students with me.”

  “No problem. You can bring them up to my place.”

  “Your place?”

  “Something wrong?” he asked, his voice low and very sexy. There was no doubt what he was intimating.

  “Chris, I...” She’d paused. “I don’t know how long I’ll be able to stay.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll just see what develops.”

  Now as she went into the classroom and smiled at the dozen students gathered at the single long table, she regretted not having been more direct. She couldn’t just see what developed. She hadn’t brought any clothes or cosmetics or even her facial cleanser, and she had to be up early tomorrow. Her clients had asked her to come by before the cafe opened at seven, which meant she had to leave her condo by six. No way could she spend the night with Chris and meet her business commitments.

  But she wanted to. As she’d walked along Commonwealth Avenue, she’d thought of him... wanted him. Even when he wasn’t with her, he filled her being with his presence. A few weeks ago she might have blamed spring fever. But now she knew it was more than that. Much more. She smiled. This madness wasn’t going to go away with the beginning of summer!

  She opened her leather portfolio and pulled out her notes as she greeted her students. Everyone seemed to have arrived on time. Not bad, she thought, pleased. She took a moment to compose herself before beginning.

  The sound of footsteps echoed in the hall. Thinking it must be someone from another class, Page asked a student at the other end of the table to please close the door. As he rose, however, a deep, languid voice said, “Hold on a sec.”

  Chris Battle appeared in the doorway with his tousled dark hair and completely disarmed the rest of the class with his grin. The teacher, however, remained rigid.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, his gaze meeting hers briefly, and he sat down.

  Page recovered her poise and managed to smile. She said to the class, “It seems in every course I teach there’s always one incorrigible. Welcome, Mr.—”

  “Battle,” he supplied, deadpan. “Chris Battle.”

  The class made a collective gulp, and in a tight voice Page reassured them that “Mr. Battle” was there for personal reasons and wasn’t—repeat, was not—there to do research on a column on professional organizers.

  It amazed her when everyone groaned with disappointment. Chris’s slate eyes flickered up to hers, as if to say, See, I could’ve had your hide if I’d wanted to!

  She wondered if he’d get it yet, one way or the other, in a cool, professional voice she said, “Let’s begin.”

  All the way down the table notebooks were opened and pens uncapped...except for Chris. He was the only student who hadn’t brought anything to write on or write with. Without a word Page passed a sheet of paper and a sharpened pencil down to him and shot him a look that told him exactly what she expected. He complied. Uncrossing his legs and dropping his feet flat on the floor, he got to work.

  Chapter Ten

  As he ambled toward Page from his end of the table, Chris observed the way she tucked her leather case under one arm, with just enough tightly controlled anger that he knew she wasn’t too pleased with him. Class was over. He hadn’t done anything disruptive—except be there. Page had already gotten rid of any students who might have wanted to join her for a drink: presumably, he thought with a hint of foreboding, she wanted him all to herself.

  “You could have told me you were going to be here tonight,” she said. “Why didn’t you?”

  He shrugged, hoping to dissipate her anger by not letting it get to him. “I didn’t have a chance. I didn’t think of it until after I’d talked to you.”

  “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision?”

  He didn’t miss her scathing tone but replied evenly, “That’s right.”

  She snorted in disgust and pounded out of the classroom and down the stairs, leaving him to follow if he so chose. He did. He admired her energy, but he thought her irritation with him a bit uncalled for. All he’d tried to do was show a little interest in her work. As he joined her on Commonwealth Avenue, he took a breath of the warm spring air. It was a romantic night.

  “Page,” he said, coming up beside her, “why are you so upset? It’s not as if I acted like a jerk or anything. I didn’t say a word.”

  “No, you just sat there.”

  “What was I supposed to do? Ask questions, take notes?”

  “Not be there.”

  He tried humor. “I wanted to see Barracuda Harrington at work.”

  She spun around at him so hard and so fast he thought she was going to keep on spinning, like a top. But she had perfect control over herself and leveled those angry turquoise eyes at him. “There you go, that’s it. That’s my point. You were a distraction. I kept wondering what you’d think of my ideas. Every time I said a word, I thought about you and your column and how you could twist my words and make them sound dumb or stuffy or...or like I was running some kind of scam!”

&n
bsp; “I made you self-conscious.”

  “Yes!”

  “I’m sorry if I did. But I thought you understood that I have no intention of doing the column. My God, after this weekend how could I?”

  She resumed walking down Commonwealth, still moving at a good clip. “But if you had still been working on your column, tonight would have been terrific research, right?”

  “Yes.” She’d never believe him if he tried to deny it. “Wish I’d thought of it while I was on the story. But that doesn’t mean you said anything that was easy to make fun of. In fact, I was rather impressed. Look, I didn’t go tonight because of my column or because I wanted to denigrate what you do. I went because I wanted to know more about what you do—about you, Page. I figured if you could read my column three times a week, I could show up at one of your classes.”

  They came to the corner of Commonwealth Avenue and Arlington Street. Straight ahead, across Arlington, was the Public Garden. Beacon Street ran parallel to Commonwealth on the left, Boylston Street on the right. If Page turned right, it meant she was calling it a night and heading home. If she turned left, it meant she was heading to his place.

  She glanced at him, and he could see her anger had started to cool. “All I want is a little respect.”

  “Most of us do, but it’s damn hard to get these days. Everyone’s looking to dump on someone.”