A Mother's Love (9 page)

T
HE EFFECT OF THE WINE
waned even during the short drive from the Green Lantern to her house. Or so Leila told herself. After all, three glasses wasn't all that much for most people. Some of her wooziness might be simple confusion, which was natural to feel after the day she'd had.

A day that had somehow—she still couldn't quite figure out how—ended with her telling all her troubles to Mark Duncan, of all people, and then accepting a ride home from him. She usually avoided him! And yet here she was. And the extraordinary part was, he'd been both kind and insightful.

She felt as if she were in a house of mirrors, with every reflection distorted.

“Turn here,” she remembered to tell him. “My house is on the left, the one with the arbor along the driveway.”

Her father had helped build that arbor when she first bought the house. Climbing roses now draped it. Just another few weeks and they'd be in bloom, singles and doubles in pink and white, exuding a heady, sweet scent.

Mark pulled into her driveway, set the brake and turned off the engine. Alarmed by the silence, Leila rushed into speech. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee? It would just be instant, but…”

Oh, dear. Had she really invited him in?

She couldn't quite read his expression in the limited light cast by the streetlamp at the corner, but he sounded merely courteous when he said, “Thanks, I'd appreciate that. I've still got the drive home.”

Uh-huh. All the way to Lake Stevens, maybe twenty minutes. She was pretty sure he hadn't even finished the one beer.

But before her suspicion had a chance to coalesce, he opened his door and added, “Long day.”

Oh. Yes. He'd started it early and probably was tired. Maybe he did just want a cup of coffee.

She didn't stagger on the walk up to the front door—in fact, she was very careful to walk a straight line and was proud of herself that she managed. It did require an effort.

She even took her keys from her purse and got the right one in the lock without much fumbling. Leila switched on the lamp beside the front door and turned on more lights as she continued in. After setting down her purse, she saw that he was looking around with interest.

“Nice place.”

Self-conscious, she said, “Thank you.”

She hadn't realized quite how feminine the decor was until she saw it through his eyes. Or maybe it was just seeing him standing in the middle of her living room. He was so…male. Not, somehow, tamed the way her ideal man was. The effect was enhanced by his obvious tiredness. His jaw was shadowed by an end-of-the-day beard—or had he not had a chance to shave at all this morning? His dark hair was disheveled, his hands shoved in the pockets of a black leather jacket. She knew that beneath it he wore a gun in a shoulder holster. His badge was clipped to the belt of his black slacks.

Don't stare.

“Coffee,” she said hastily. “I promised you coffee.”

He followed her to the small kitchen with its cupboards painted white and the walls a soft peach. Yesterday she'd impulsively bought a bunch of tulips from a woman selling flowers on a street corner. They were white and deep pink and peach, mingled in a cream-colored ceramic pitcher. The blooms had opened more today, making them look blowsy, something Michelangelo might have painted beside a reclining nude. Who would also, of course, be blowsy. Unlike her, who, if she posed nude on the kitchen countertop, would be much too scrawny to complete the picture.

Oh, dear. She'd definitely had too much to drink.

She gave her head a firm shake, trying to relodge her common sense. How long had she been standing here as blankly as someone in a strange kitchen who had no idea where to find anything?

“I'm afraid it'll have to be instant,” she said as she filled the teakettle and set it on the stove.

He didn't say anything. Leila turned to find him watching her with an odd expression on his face. A couple of lines furrowed his brow.

“I wasn't going to ask—and I'm sure I'll be sorry once I do—but…why don't you like me?”

Panic fluttered in her chest. “I don't, um,
not
like you.”

He seemed to take that in. “Ah…so you don't dislike me.”

“No. Of course not.” Her cheeks felt distinctly hot.

“You're just neutral? I'm okay? Not interesting enough to date?”

Completely sober, she might have been able to handle this conversation. As it was, she couldn't think of a sassy, sophis
ticated retort. Instead the best she could do was a mumbled, “It's not exactly that.”

Gaze fixated on the vinyl floor, she didn't notice he'd moved until she lifted her head to find him right in front of her. She'd have retreated, except her back was already to the counter.

“So I am interesting enough,” he said in a meditative tone.

Her standard excuse popped out of her mouth. “I don't date guys from work.”

“I hear you used to.”

That's right. He hadn't joined the department until after she'd told Gary Phillips to get lost. “I learned my lesson.”

Just like Mark, Gary had tempted her with his air of danger. He'd brooded, making Leila believe he was a complex man with hidden depths. She had just begun to wonder if he wasn't instead sulking anytime he wasn't the center of attention when she'd discovered a new flaw.

Foolishly Leila had assumed they were exclusive. She found out they weren't in a particularly painful way when she dropped by his apartment to surprise him one Saturday morning.

Still watching her closely, Mark mused, “So that's the only thing wrong with me. We both work for the city.”

“And you're a cop.”

“Which is bad…how?”

“It's not a lifestyle that appeals to me.”

“We're not talking about getting married.”

The teakettle burped and rumbled behind her.

Still embarrassed but driven to honesty, she tilted her chin up. “I'm getting to an age where I don't want to start something that doesn't at least have that possibility.”

To her shock, he nodded. “Getting so I feel that way myself.”

Lord help her, she simply melted at the idea he'd been thinking of her as a woman he could see meeting at the altar. Her legs weren't as dependable as usual anyway. Now they quivered. The next thing she knew, he'd grasped her upper arms and was steadying her, which brought him so close she could see every individual spiky, dark lash around his eyes, which had a glow that compounded her meltdown.

“Doesn't seem like we're so out of sync,” he murmured in a voice that sounded as scratchy as his cheeks looked.

No, she thought fuzzily, they felt very much
in
sync right this minute. He had the absolute most sensuous mouth she'd ever seen. She hadn't, despite her best efforts, been able to forget how it felt against hers during that brief kiss after which she'd panicked. She seemed to be swaying toward him—or he was toward her—because the length of his body was touching hers, and the feel of his arousal pushed her over the edge.

Leila made a small, strangled sound, rose on tiptoe and threw her arms around his neck. Groaning, Mark bent his head and kissed her.

It was the most glorious kiss of her life, deep, dark, skillful, a plundering that unashamedly mimicked the way he would take her body. His hips crowded hers, and finally he lifted her to the countertop so that he could stand between her legs.

Sex, in her experience, had always been almost furtive. A fumbling, eyes closed, as though she could pretend something much grander was happening. Or as if she wasn't actually doing it at all. She had never, ever sat on a kitchen countertop with her legs parted so a man could shove his
erection against that wet, aching place down there. She'd never had a man stroke her breasts as rhythmically as his tongue stroked hers—and they were in the kitchen, with the fluorescent lights on overhead and the kitchen curtains open and…

The teakettle shrieked.

With a squeak, Leila levitated.

The kettle kept screaming, and Mark growled an obscenity and backed away so he could reach the stove. It only took him a moment to lift the teakettle from the burner and for the shriek to become a whimper. But that was long enough for shock to sweep through Leila.

What was she
doing?
She was about to have sex with a man she'd already decided—for good and rational reasons—not to date! It was the wine. It had to be the wine. She never had been able to handle alcohol.

He took a step toward her, saw her face and stopped.

“Don't look at me like that,” he said roughly.

She drew a tremulous breath. “Like what?”

“As if you think I'm going to attack you.”

“I don't think that.” She gathered courage along with another breath. “I know I'm the one who actually started that. But I think, um, that I had too much to drink.”

A muscle bunched in his cheek. “Feeling the need for an excuse, huh?”

Leila was inexplicably ashamed of herself considering she'd told the truth. Hadn't she?

“I just…that was going really fast.”

His eyes still glittered. “Yes. It was.”

“I need to think.”

Frustration showed on his face, but he dipped his head. “Tell you what—I think I'll skip the coffee.”

“Are you sure?”
Don't be an idiot. Get him out of here before…
Her eyes widened. Before what? She begged him to stay? “Thank you for the ride, Mark. Obviously I wasn't in any shape to drive.”

He nodded again and backed out of the kitchen. “No problem. I guess I'll see you tomorrow.”

Not if I see you first.

Or, sober, would she long for a repeat of that kiss?

Leila followed him to the front door and said, “Drive carefully. Um, thank you again. I mean, for telling me what you did…. It was nice of you.”

“Nice.” His tone was so flat, his expression so unenthusiastic, she wondered if she'd just insulted him. Did you not tell a man who'd just been kissing you passionately that he was “nice”?

Trying to make amends, she began, “You didn't have to…”

“Forget it. Good night, Leila.” He turned and left.

She locked up behind him, then leaned her back against the door, pressed her hand to her still-racing heart and tried to convince herself she'd just had a lucky escape.

The knot of regret under her breastbone…well, in the morning, when she was herself again, it would be gone.

“W
HEN
I
HEARD
, I maneuvered myself into a business trip to San Diego,” Leila's brother was telling her. “I'm flying down Monday.”

Leila had phoned Jon—who lived in Portland, Oregon—after the latest alarming conversation with her mother, only to find he'd taken all of her news placidly.

“I'll give the guy a call when I get down there, see if we can have dinner. I'll report afterward,” Jon continued.

Feeling semihysterical, Leila said, “Jon, haven't you been listening? Mom's getting married six weeks from now! What difference does it make if you like the guy or not? Mom doesn't care what we think.”

“I have to believe, if I really detest him, she'll pay attention to me.”

Leila snorted. “Good luck. She's completely uninterested in my reservations.”

When she'd called the day after their lunch to apologize for walking out, her mother had told her gently that she understood—but she hadn't said one word about Leila possibly being right that she was going too fast.

“Maybe she's not interested,” her brother said, “because you hate the whole idea without even having met the guy.”

“She chats online with him for a few weeks…”

“Months.”

Ignoring his interjection, Leila continued, “…then she flies down there for a long weekend and she's ready to
marry
him? That doesn't seem just a little hasty to you?”

“She did know him before. They went together for nearly four years.”

“When they were in college. Over forty years ago! People change.”

“What do you think—he marries women for their money and then buries them in the basement?”

Irritated beyond measure, she said, “Who knows? Maybe he beat his wife! Maybe he'll spend all her money on…on sports cars and…and…”

Her brother's voice was unexpectedly soft. “Would that be so bad as long as she went everywhere with him in the sports car? I don't need her money. I make plenty and I'll bet you do, too.”

“I don't care about the money!” Darn it, she was struggling not to cry. “I care about Mom.”

“I'll let you know what I think of the guy. Isn't actually meeting him the logical step?”

She sniffed.

“Try to be a little more open, okay? She's so happy! Really seems in love. You know,” he said craftily, “if I ever lost Kait, I'd want another chance.”

“Is Kaitlyn within earshot?”

He laughed and said goodbye. Leila sighed and hung up.

Jon was right. Leila knew he was. She
should
give this Robert a chance. And she would, if only Mom wouldn't race ahead so fast.

Mark Duncan had put his finger on her real problem. These last few days, since talking to him at the Green
Lantern, she'd found herself constantly thinking,
But I thought Mom and Dad were so much in love!
Leila hadn't forgotten the years after Cody died, when their family had nearly fragmented, but after that… Well, her parents hadn't divorced, as couples so often did after losing a child. They had to have loved each other deeply to weather that kind of tragedy. Their relationship had become her ideal, and she fervently wanted one just like it.

They'd been happy together! They'd held hands sometimes when they'd gone for walks, and her father had never forgotten Mom's birthday or their wedding anniversary or Valentine's Day. Mom certainly had never criticized Dad to Jon or Leila.

So…which part of the picture was wrong? She kept peering at the past as if it was one of those puzzles where you were supposed to spot the item that didn't belong.

Had Mom been faking it all those years? Had she been secretly miserable or at least disappointed in how her life had turned out? And if she could pretend that well…could Leila believe
anything
she'd ever believed about her mother?

And…had Dad known and been reconciled to being second best?

Her thoughts veered. How much worse it would have been to have a parent kill himself! Just decide life wasn't worth living at all, that he didn't love his wife or kids enough to get through even another few days. And to do it right before something that was so important to Mark… That would have been devastating. In comparison, what she was feeling right now was…unsettling. The same but not the same.

Ever since Mark had told her about his father, she'd tried to relate the tragedy to the man he was now. Did his father's
suicide have something to do with his decision to go into law enforcement? She wondered about his mother, and whether the woman had ever gotten over the cruelty and betrayal of having the man she loved choose death over her. Because that's what it would feel like, wouldn't it? Even if you knew, rationally, that clinical depression was an illness and that Mark's father might have battled it for years for his wife and children's sake before he'd lost.

Of course, Leila could have asked Mark more about his parents and siblings and what had happened to him after his father's death if only the evening hadn't ended so awkwardly.

She'd seen him only twice since then. He was caught up in a case and seemed distracted the first time, when they'd met in the hall. He'd merely nodded and kept going. What could she do but the same? And that was what she'd wanted, wasn't it? The fact that she'd poured her heart out to him, gotten tipsy and they'd kissed didn't mean anything. She'd made plain that she was sorry things had gone so far. He wasn't the kind of man to push it. She should be grateful.

Because she
did
still have good reasons for not starting a relationship with him. Just because she'd discovered he was nicer than she'd imagined, more empathetic, didn't mean he was a man she could imagine herself having any kind of future with.

She'd been sure Gary Phillips had fascinating depths, too, and look how wrong she'd been. There was no getting around the fact that the two men had some real similarities. For one thing, they'd both chosen the same dangerous job that meant carrying a gun. They were both sexy men who knew it, who walked with blatantly male confidence, who had an air of mystery.

Forget mystery. Leila needed a man who was an open book, who had an even temper and who never, ever brooded. And while she was at it, she appreciated a regular schedule. Even dating a cop meant getting used to last-minute cancellations and dinners interrupted by urgent phone calls. Imagine being married to one!

But, darn it, now she found herself watching for Mark, and he was nowhere to be seen. Except for yesterday, when he'd come into the Records unit looking for some information and she'd practically fallen over her feet rushing to the counter to be the one to help him. At the end, he'd lowered his voice so no one else would hear and asked, “Have you and your mother talked again?”

Leila had nodded. “The wedding is the first weekend in June. I guess I don't have any choice but to get used to the idea, do I?”

“You can watch over her.” He'd still spoken in that low voice, his eyes kind. “And talk to her about your confusion.”

She'd bitten her lip and nodded. “About the other night…”

“Don't worry about it.” He'd given her an easy grin that was just a little wry, lifted a hand and walked away.

The trouble was, she kept wanting to talk to him again. Which was ridiculous; she had friends! It was true that none of them had been of any more use than her brother was. They thought it was romantic that her mother had found her first love again. Only Mark had understood why Leila wasn't happy about Mom's giddy rush to the altar.

Talk to her,
he'd said. And she would. After she got Jon's report on this Robert Wojack.

 

“H
E'S A GREAT GUY
!” Jon assured her. “Nothing like Dad.”

Outraged, Leila protested, “Dad was a great guy, too!”

“Yeah, yeah, but quiet. I mean, let's face it, Mom made the decisions in our house.”

“Maybe Dad let her think she was making them.”

Her brother snorted. “You're kidding, right? How many times did we hear ‘Go ask your mother'?”

“But he backed us sometimes, when she was unreasonable. Like that scouting jamboree you wanted to go to so much.”

“Yeah, he did.” Jon's voice softened. “Leila, I loved Dad, too. All I'm saying is he wasn't a take-charge guy. Robert is.”

“What makes Mom think she's going to like being married to a take-charge guy, anyway? She's used to making her own decisions!”

“You've got a point,” he conceded. “They may both have to make some major adjustments. But that's their problem, not ours.”

Leila could all but see his heedless shrug. That was Jon, like Mom in some ways and Dad in others.
Water off my back,
he'd say when Leila had been fuming, always with that same shrug. He completely lacked the fussing gene that caused his sister to worry about every permutation of every decision. Not to mention every shade of meaning in other people's words.

“You know, he's going to be up there next week,” Jon added. “You'll get to meet him then.”

Yes. She knew. Mom had sprung it on her with a phone call two days ago, announcing, “Robert said he has a lull at the office and he's so eager to meet you he's taking the week to come up.” Her delight made Leila suspect that wasn't all Robert had said, but her thoughts shied away from imagining her mother flirting or…

Heaven help her, she slammed up against an inescapable question.

Would this Robert be getting a hotel room or was he planning to stay at her mother's house? Her eyes widened. Were they having
sex?

Did she actually want to know? Almost hyperventilating, she decided,
No.

Her mother was coming to dinner that evening. She'd seemed delighted when Leila called to invite her, babbling about how they'd have to plan a shopping expedition soon, too, since they'd both need dresses for the wedding.

Great. They'd be shopping for a wedding dress for her mother and a maid-of-honor one for her. Shouldn't it be the other way around?

Ashamed of her grumpiness, Leila wondered when she had gotten so…so
sour.

Her mother looked so happy when she arrived Leila was even more ashamed of herself. While they ate she made an effort to ask about the wedding plans themselves, which turned out to be far more elaborate than Leila had imagined anyone could conjure with so little lead time. People took a year to plan a wedding! Far from being an intimate, family-only affair, her mother intended to invite a couple hundred friends and former co-workers.

“I can't leave anyone in the garden club out,” she said. “Or my book club, of course. And your father and I had so many friends.”

Leila almost asked if she thought Dad's friends would necessarily want to come—wouldn't they, too, be shocked at how hastily this remarriage had come about? But she bit her tongue.

“I made a cobbler,” Leila said, standing to clear the
dishes. “And I have ice cream. The real stuff—fat, sugar and all.”

Her mother threw up her hands. “You know my weaknesses!”

The peach cobbler was still hot from the oven, and the taste of it with sinfully rich vanilla ice cream on top kept both women silent but for murmurs until their bowls were empty.

They took their tea to the living room, which had been furnished bit by bit as Leila had money to buy a new piece of furniture or art or was lucky enough to find a treasure at a garage sale or thrift store. It had taken some searching to find a deep, comfortable sofa and chairs that were suitably sized for a small house. She loved the shades of yellow she'd used in here, set off by white walls, refinished woodwork and hardwood floors, old-fashioned rag rugs and bright, sunny watercolors bought at local art fairs.

Leila kicked off her shoes and sank into an armchair, legs curled under her. She took a sip of tea and said, trying to sound casual, “I keep picturing you and Dad and wondering whether all that time you had regrets.”

“Regrets?” Her mother looked startled, then pensive. “No. I suppose in the early years…” Her voice trailed off. She seemed to be gazing into the past. “If Robert had called when he came back to town…I suppose I might have. But as it was…no.” She shook her head, once more her usual decisive self. “I was happy, Leila. Your father never gave me any reason not to be. Except… No.”

“Then why?”

“He's gone, honey. It's not disloyal to grab for a chance to be happy again.”

Leila shifted uneasily, able to tell that her mother was seeing more on her face than she'd meant to reveal.

“But…the fact that you tried so soon to find Robert must mean you thought about him sometimes!”

Her mother's brows rose. “Of course I did. Robert was part of my life. And no relationship that lasts forty years is without its ups and downs. If you could pin down any man and woman celebrating even a silver wedding anniversary, they'd have to admit to longing looks backward and rebellious ones forward. That's life.” Her voice became very gentle. “But I can promise you that I never once considered looking for Robert until I'd been widowed. Does that help?”

It should, but Leila wasn't sure the reassurance did help.

She looked down at her teacup cradled in her hands. “I've always wanted to find someone like Dad.”

“But you're not like me,” her mother said, still in a voice so gentle it almost sounded pitying. “What I needed when I met your dad and what you need now aren't the same thing.”

“But I always felt so—so safe with him!” she burst out.

“Oh, honey.” Her mother set down her cup, stood and came to Leila, bending to hug her. “When it comes to falling in love, safe isn't what you should be feeling. Try breathless, terrified and exhilarated! Isn't there anyone who's ever made you feel those things?”