A Mother's Heart (13 page)

“Mmm, can you do that for the next forever? I won’t mind, I promise.”

“It’s a deal.” He worked across her upper back, up into her neck, savoring her soft skin, the tickle of her hair. Then the desire got too strong to touch her everywhere, and he knew he had to stop. Miraculously, his hands obeyed his brain’s command to drop. “Ready to bowl?”

“Aww, now who’s on a schedule?”

He chuckled. “You want to skip it?”

“What?”
She jerked her head around as if he’d suggested she eat small children. “Skip
bowling!
?”

He laughed and pushed himself up, glad he’d escaped temptation relatively easily—and also not. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”

It wasn’t until they were halfway into their first game that Grant remembered how erotic bowling with Maggie could be. She did this little shimmy with her perfect round rear when she prepared for her turn, and dove down the lane with power and grace. The pins couldn’t withstand her; they tumbled for her as fast as he had his first day at PDS.

They reminisced and teased each other, drinking coffee to bolster their energy; she even sucked down a bag of chips as if she were eating forbidden fruit. After their second game, they left the bowling alley, still laughing, bumping into each other as if they were drunk, which they probably were, but not on alcohol.

“Want to go right to dinner?”

“I want to shower first. Can you drop me at the Inn?”

“Shower at my place.”

“I’d like to change, too.”

He probably sounded irrational, but instinct told him not to let her get away from him. “I can lend you clothes.”

“Whoa. For what restaurant?”

“We can get takeout.” He glanced at her when she didn’t answer. She was sitting in his passenger seat with a worried look, fingers back to tapping on her leg. Damn it.

“Maggie.” He covered them with his hand. “What is it?”

“I need to check in at work.”

A jolt of frustration made him take his hand away and start the engine, putting the car in gear more roughly than he needed to. “You’re on vacation.”

“As you and Clara keep pointing out.” She sighed exaggeratedly. “However, it is my vacation, my job and my life. So if I want to—”

“Point made.” He merged onto Route One and headed toward Princeton. “I’ll drop you at the Inn.”

“Thanks.”

He drove them into town and turned into Palmer Square, annoyed that their relaxed chatter had turned into occasional stilted comments.

“So.” He pulled up to the Inn and got out to open her door, even though he knew it drove her crazy. Or maybe because he knew it did. “I’ll be back in an hour and we’ll go to Princeton’s best spot for sushi, over on Chambers.”

“Sounds good.” She hopped out of the car and started briskly toward the Inn’s front door, all business.

“One hour, Maggie.”

She turned and rolled her eyes. “What, you don’t think I can shower and change in an hour?”

“It’s all the rest of the stuff you’re going to do that takes longer.”

Another exasperated look over her shoulder and she disappeared inside.

Grant drove home, the uneasy dark mood persisting. Back at his house, he ignored his blinking message light, showered and changed his jeans for neat khakis and a knit polo shirt, smiling grimly at what his younger self would say, “What happened to
you
, man? You sold out!”

Yeah, well life was more complicated than he, even with his complicated past, could have imagined.

His phone rang. He relaxed when he saw Clara’s number. If Maggie blew him off now…

“Hi, Clara.”

“I don’t want to bother you and I don’t want to pry
but I saw your car come home and I was wondering how your afternoon went.”

“But you don’t want to pry.”

“Of course I want to pry, but it’s universally accepted that if you
say
you don’t want to pry right before you do, it’s somehow more polite.”

Grant laughed. “I think you’ve got that right. The afternoon was nice. We went on a long, slow kayak trip. I even got her to take a nap.”

“Well, that is something. Is she still with you?”

“She’s back at the Inn changing for dinner.”

“You’ll have the most beautiful children. One of each, a boy and a—”

“You’re sure you don’t mind me hogging her for a whole day of your time together?” He didn’t want to think about mini Maggies or a child version of himself. More to the point, he didn’t want to feel the accompanying leap of excitement.

“Of course not.” Clara made a dismissive sound. “You should be with her. She still loves you.”

Oh, man. No way did he need or want to hear this. “You think so, huh?”

“I know so. The way she looks at you, reacts to you. Oh yes, I’m quite sure.”

“Nice thought.” He kept his voice neutral. If Maggie loved him, she’d be here right now, not back at the Inn with her head buried in her job.

“So, dinner now, and then…?” Her suggestive tone was unmistakable.

“Clara…”

“If you want breakfast here tomorrow, I’ll be making muffins.”

Grant shuddered. He remembered Clara’s muffins. “You bought eggs?”

“Oh. Well, no, I forgot. But I finished my painting. And I was thinking…” She cleared her throat. “I’d like to paint my daughter.”

Emotion welled up at the vulnerability in her voice. “I think she’d like that.”

“I’m not sure.”

“Ask her. Or I will, though she’d rather hear it from—”

“Would you?” Her relief was obvious. “I’d appreciate it. You can get an honest response. She’d feel she had to be polite to me. We still know so little about each other.”

“I’d be happy to.” His phone line beeped. “Clara, I have another call.”

“Thank you, Grant. And have fun tonight.”

“Thanks.” He clicked to the next call, afraid it was—

“It’s Maggie.” Her voice was too loud and tight.

He leaned wearily against his kitchen counter. “What happened?”

“What makes you think something happened?”

“I know you. What is it?”

“It’s work. This complete mess came up, the sales team misrepresented what we could do for a client, and now we’re stuck with this project that’s half-finished in entirely the wrong direction and I have to—”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do, Grant. It’s my job. It’s important. You and I had a great afternoon together. I hope we’ll be able to have dinner while I’m here. But I can’t tonight. This is going to take hours. They’ve already been frantic all day because they couldn’t reach me.”

He set his jaw, trying for perspective. He had crises at work where he had to stay late. He understood that. But while he was on vacation he could handle them with one quick e-mail or call. There were plenty of talented people on his staff who could make do when he wasn’t there.
That was how companies ran. But if he tried any kind of power play right now, when Maggie was safely in her element and he was far away, she’d put her foot down and that would be that.

“Okay. Another time is fine.” He kept the frustration from his voice. “Have fun.”

Her silence told him she hadn’t expected him to give in so easily. She’d better be disappointed.

“Grant…you know it’s not personal.”

“Of course not. Never occurred to me. Work is work.”

“Oh. Well. Thank you.”

Another silence. He hoped she was beside herself that he wasn’t trying to talk her out of it. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of that martyrdom. If she wanted to do the wrong thing for the wrong reasons, she could do that all on her own.

“So…um, maybe I’ll see you tomorrow. After I go to Clara’s in the morning.”

“Sure.”

“I’m really sorry about this. It’s just—”

“You don’t have to explain, Maggie. I’m a professional too, I completely understand.” By some miracle he sounded calm and, more amazingly, sincere.

“Good. Good. Okay. Well…thanks.” She sounded miserable. She deserved to.

He hung up the phone, imagining her alone in her room with the panic and responsibility that coworkers had thrown on her to get themselves off the hook. Did it make her feel needed? Powerful? In control? Why did she so desperately want those things? He didn’t know. But in spite of what he’d just put her through, it wasn’t in his nature to back down and wait.

He wanted answers to those questions as much as he wanted her to learn to value herself and her time more
than other people’s, something they’d argued about even back in high school. And he wanted to find out why she affected him so strongly even after all these years.

Grant grabbed his phone, dialed a familiar number and pocketed his car keys while he waited for an answer. One thing was sure, he couldn’t accomplish any of those things sitting here without her.

M
AGGIE STARED
at her laptop. Something was very wrong here. She generally enjoyed a crisis, enjoyed that she was the one people ran to, the one who knew how to finesse a client and fly in with the save-the-day compromises everyone needed and could live with. Exhausting yes, stressful, no question, but ultimately satisfying.

Now that satisfaction had become the equivalent of feeling wonderful because you’d stopped beating your head against a wall. She knew what needed to be done. She could do it. But resentment was creeping…no, racing through her. The call had interrupted one of the most fabulous days she’d spent in a long time. How long since she went with the flow? How long since someone else organized her day and she got to sit back and enjoy it? How long since that person was the ex-love-of-her-life for whom Maggie was developing the beginnings of a dangerous relapse?

Who was Maggie, anyway? Big as the work crisis was, a bigger one brewed in her. She was either going nuts or becoming sane. Was there a Clara inside her dying to get out? Would she stop cleaning her apartment, take up sculpting again and get a smelly dog with a nose built for sexual harassment?

Would that end up being a good thing or not?

Her cell rang; she glanced at the number. George, her assistant. She closed her eyes, wanting the phone to self-
destruct. Everyone at Anderson and Dargin must be convinced she was dead or lying in a hospital. When had she ever not answered? When had she ever not been available? Morning noon and night, vacation days, sick days…

“Hello?”

She listened wearily as he outlined staff problems, arguments, childish personality and ego issues.

“George, this is nothing new. Tell Stan the drawings stay the way the client wants them until we have a chance to explain his theory. Tell Darla to kiss up to their VP until I get back next week. And she should absolutely not let Stan speak with him. Clear?”

Yes, it was clear. He promised to handle it and hung up. Maggie’s e-mail dinged. Two new messages. One from Stan, one from Darla. She got up and went to the window, heart like a cinder block in her chest. She could be with Grant right now. She could be feeling the way she’d felt all afternoon. Happy. Free. Relaxed.

Her e-mail dinged again. She crossed back through the lovely room which currently felt like a maximum security prison. From Loren this time, the VP at Barkson’s Shoes. Maggie opened it and read his version of what an ass Stan was. Stan’s e-mail, a version of what an ass Loren was. Darla’s, predictably, announced that both Stan
and
Loren were asses.

Okay. This was her job. She had signed on to do it. Time to stop feeling sorry for herself and get busy.

Fifteen minutes and four e-mails later, the room phone rang and she reached absently, trying to figure out who she should—

“What room are you in?”

Grant. Her fingers stopped typing; her breath suddenly had trouble flowing smoothly. “Three-fourteen. Why?”

“Never mind.”
Click.

Maggie frowned at the receiver in her hand. What was that about? Was he going to have something sent up? Flowers? A smile tugged at her lips, first one since she’d been with him earlier today. Flowers would be so nice.

She sent her next e-mail, pulled up a new blank one and smiled goofily at it until she realized what she was doing. Work. Right. On with it.

A knock on the door made her jump. “Delivery for Ms. Chesterton.”

Wow. She hurried for the door, all aflutter, and yes, it felt damn good to flutter again. How did he get a delivery guy here that fast?

She opened the door eagerly and gasped. “Grant.”

“Ms. Chesterton?”

She couldn’t stop grinning. Just the sight of him after she’d been so buried again in her work life was like Dorothy landing in Oz and opening the door of her black-and-white home to her first glimpse of Technicolor. “I’m Ms. Chesterton.”

“One Conte’s pizza with mushrooms, onions and olives and green peppers…”

“Oh, Grant.” Their classic pizza battle—she wanted hers with veggies and he wanted his loaded with every possible kind of meat. “Conte’s with vegetables! I’m in heaven.”

“Your idea of heaven and mine are different. But only slightly.” He produced a six-pack from behind his back. “New Jersey’s own Rolling Rock beer. The mountain wouldn’t come to Mohammed…”

“I know.” She let him into the room, not even hesitating. Work could go to hell. She’d never been happier to see anyone in her life. “I’m sorry. I got swamped.”

“Tell them you’ll be back when you’re back.”

“These problems needed handling now.”

“So tell them to handle them.”

“They can’t handle them, Grant. My position is—”

“Okay, wait.” He put the pizza and beer down on the room’s table, pulled out a bottle, opened it and held it out to her. “Go with me here. What would happen if you didn’t help?”

She sat across from him and took the beer. “Stan would go screaming to the client VP, tell him he knows nothing about the market and that the changes he’s requested are going to sink the whole campaign. Then the client will be furious, cancel the account, and I’ll get fired.”

“Really. This Stan guy is so stupid that he’ll sabotage a project and jeopardize his own job in the process?”

“He’s pretty hot-headed.”

“Why hasn’t he been fired?”

“He’s also very talented.”

“Did it ever occur to you that he only has fits because you’re there to stop him?” He opened his own beer, took a swig.

“I don’t…I mean he’s—”

“Tell them you’re not available until you’re back. Stan isn’t stupid enough to ruin the deal. Once you stop enabling the prima donna crap, the prima donna crap will stop itself.”

Maggie took a swallow of beer to avoid answering. He’d always done this. Confused her by sounding so sensible when she was so sure she was right. Like when she’d volunteered to help decorate their senior prom and ended up doing ninety percent of the work. He’d told her to do her share and leave the rest. Who cared if the decorations weren’t perfect? It wasn’t fair that she was stuck with the whole job. If the rest of the committee wasn’t willing to help, fine. The prom would go on, decorated or not.

Against her judgment, she’d taken his advice. For about twenty minutes during the prom she’d been mortified by how lame the gym looked. And then…he was right, it didn’t matter. Everyone had a great time, including her. Okay, Grant had sneered the whole time because that was his thing, but she was pretty sure he’d had fun doing that, at least.

However, this situation was a lot more important than a decorated-or-not gym for a high school dance. This was her career. As manager, she was responsible for—

“Pizza?” He opened the box, picked up a fragrant steaming slice and handed it to her. She couldn’t resist. The crust was thin and chewy, the sauce with just the right combination of zip and sweetness, and the toppings plentiful and fresh, scattered on the rich melted cheese. A person could forget him or herself eating Conte’s pizza.

“Oh my God, it’s still so, so good.”

“
Much
better with various animal products, but okay.” He took a healthy bite. “Remember that night we got to Conte’s about a minute before they closed and begged for anything they could give us?”

“Yes, I was starving.” She took another huge bite, not caring she’d have to talk with her mouth full. “Where had we been?”

“Martha Henderson’s. Her parents were away and the party had been going on since noon. We got out just before the cops showed.”

“I remember. Thank God. My parents would have killed me. They thought I was at Carol’s house for a sleepover.”

“We spent the night in the park, eating pizza.”

“Double cheese and to hell with our arteries.”

“Drank Diet Coke to help keep us awake all night.”

Maggie concentrated on her pizza, down already to the crust. They had been awake all night, wrapped in the infamous blanket. That had been the night, the only night in the two years they’d dated, when Grant had asked her to go all the way. She’d finally said yes, and was astounded when he simply grinned and said he was fine waiting. He just wanted to know she was willing, that he was really the one. Maggie had cried, knowing deep in her heart that she and Grant were meant for each other, that they’d be together forever.

Her eyes filled up; she blinked them away. Grinned nervously when she found him watching her with a look on his face that told her he was remembering, too. “Good times, Grant.”

“The best, Maggie.”

Her phone rang. She sent it a look of pure hatred, which made him chuckle.

“Sorry.” She reached for it on the table. “I’ve got to—”

He put his hand on her wrist. “Don’t answer it.”

“It may be important.”

“Just try. This time. Let your voice mail get it while we’re eating. Then if you want, I’ll leave right after we’re done and you can call them back. Twenty minutes, half an hour, tops.”

She hovered half out of her seat, looked at the pizza, at Grant, then at her phone. And sat back down, feeling as if she were embarking on a stroll across a minefield.

“What are you afraid of? That they’ll stop needing you?”

“I guess I’m a control freak.”

“Relinquish that control, just for tonight.” He polished off his beer and put the bottle back in the cardboard holder. “Who knows, you may end up liking it.”

“Could be.” She was thinking of how often during the
years they were together he’d pushed her to the edge of what she would ordinarily do, and then over. Was that part of what drew her to him so strongly? That he gave her permission to step outside herself?

“I definitely like this.” She held up her second piece of pizza, downed it, then her third, thinking that an afternoon of bowling and kayaking had done good things for her appetite. She could barely remember feeling so deeply hungry.

“Clara sends love, by the way.”

Maggie jumped on the chance to change the subject. “I’m worried about her. Does she ever leave the house? And has she ever tried to sell a painting?”

He shook his head, looking at her strangely.

“I want to help her, Grant. She seems so lost. I wonder if she’s depressed.”

When he didn’t answer, she looked up from considering a fourth piece of pizza and found him eyeing her with amusement.

“What?”

“I was thinking all those same things about you, Maggie.”

“I’m nothing like her. I have a great job, a great apartment in which I can locate anything and everything, and which is not only tidy but clean at all times. I have plenty of reasons to leave my house, lots of friends…”

He was looking skeptical. “Two sides of the same coin. She’s too messy, you’re too neat. She’s always home, I bet you never are. She’s not ambitious, you let work rule your life.”

Maggie’s minefield became very threatening. She didn’t want to take another step, not a single one. An angry fear inside her told her rational mind Grant had hit too close to home.

He drew his chair close to hers, took her hands and looked into her eyes, which made her insides tango. “You don’t look happy. You’re like an overstretched rubber band.”

“You just called me a depressed workaholic neat freak, so no, I don’t feel so terrific right now.”

“I mean in general.” He smiled, a slow sensual wicked smile that she recognized all too well. “Cut loose, Maggie. Let it all go. Remember who you were with me? Be that person again. You came so close this afternoon.”

She felt the temptation, leaning forward as if he were pulling her.
Cut loose.
“I don’t—”

“Look at you.” He smoothed a gentle finger over her forehead; she realized only then that she’d been holding it tight. “Worry lines, and you’re not even thirty.”

“I’m close.”

His finger drew down the bridge of her nose to touch her lips, which started buzzing. “Relax here.”

She did and realized she’d been bunching her mouth.

“And here.” He touched her shoulders, which were up nearly to her ears. “You’re a mess, Maggie.”

“Thanks a whole lot.”

“Come here.” He drew her up and over toward the bed. Immediately she pulled back.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t panic.”

“I’m not panicking. Who’s panicking?” She could hear the panic in her voice.

“You are. Lie down.”

“Why?” If he made love to her she’d be lost, swallowed up by…something. She had no idea what she was feeling, only that it was big and potentially beyond her control. “What are you going to—”

“You don’t have to know. Cut loose.”

Cut loose.
She gritted her teeth and lay stiffly on the bed, staring at the ceiling, knowing she must look as messed up as she felt.

“Turn over.”

“Why should—” She made a face at him. “Cut loose, I know. Fine. Turning over.”

“Now relax.”

“I’m relaxed.”

“Not even close.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try this way.” His hands began on her shoulders, then did strong sweeps over the muscles of her back.

“Mmm.”

“Good?”

“More than.”

A few more sweeps, then his fingers concentrated on individual spots, probing and—

“Ow.”

“My God, your back is practically macrame.” His fingers kept working. “I’m surprised your muscles haven’t all snapped.”

Maggie sighed. “I suppose you think this proves your theory.”

“Beyond reasonable doubt.” He pushed at a sore spot and held the pressure. “Now concentrate on relaxing. One body part at a time, head to toe. Clear your mind.”

“Yes. Okay.” She moved into a more comfortable position and set herself to try. She did pretty well on the relaxing, but her mind would not come close to clearing. Not while hands that had known every inch of her body were exploring that territory again.

Uh-oh. She should stop him now. Because she wanted
to go to that blissful place with this man she was still crazy about more than she wanted just about anything else, and that was not good. Because…

Because…