Chances Are (37 page)

Kelly’s left hand slipped to her belly in a gesture as old as time itself. She quickly caught herself and pretended to adjust the hem of her sweater, but not before she caught the look of curiosity in Rose’s eyes.

“Look at this,” she said, pointing to an almost invisible snag in the knitted material. “I caught it on the car door this morning.” Her stupid eyes started to fill with tears, and she made a face. “It’s my favorite sweater.”
Lame, Kel, really lame. Who cries about a snagged sweater?

Rose met Kelly’s eyes over the top of her reading glasses. Curiosity was still there, only this time there was sadness threaded through it as well, and Kelly looked away.

“Maddy is wonderful at fixing things,” Rose said gently. “I’m sure she could help you.”

“It’s just a sweater,” she said, reaching into the box for a stack of photos. “It can wait.”

“Sometimes even the best of us have to ask for help.”

She didn’t say anything, just looked down at the stack of photos.

“Ask her,” Rose said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Trust me. She’ll be glad you did.”

NOTHING AIDAN HAD imagined or dreamed or wished for came close to the reality of Maddy, warm and satisfied, asleep in his arms.

The room was bathed in starshine. The only sounds were her soft breathing, the beat of their hearts. There was nothing else the world could show him that would ever compare to what they had shared in that bed, naked in every way a man and woman could be.

No more secrets. She knew him now the way he really was. She knew the scars, the limitations, the frustrations, the pain, and she hadn’t run for the door. The ring was still on her finger. She was there in the bed beside him. He had everything he had ever wanted within the span of his arms, and yet the feeling that he was losing her lingered.

It wasn’t anything he could put his finger on, no particular incident or conversation that led him to think that she was slipping beyond his grasp, but the sense of impending loss was there just the same, and he didn’t know why.

She sighed softly and looked up at him. “I fell asleep.” Her laugh was apologetic. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He pulled her closer. “You earned it.”

She pressed her lips to his shoulder. “I did, didn’t I.”

He grasped her by the waist and rolled her on top of him.

“Nice upper body strength you’ve got there, fella.”

He liked the view. She had a beautiful, lush body. A woman’s body. Full breasts, tiny waist, hips that cradled a man and reminded him why he had been born.

“You’re going to get tired of doing all the work,” he said.

“Try me.”

She moved against him, and he was instantly hard.

“I’m impressed,” she said, reaching for protection. She ripped open the packet, and he grew harder still.

“I aim to please,” he said as she unrolled a condom down the length of his shaft.

She leaned forward and kissed him deeply. “So I see.”

He slid his hands down from her waist to her hips and positioned her over him. She caught his rhythm and, taking control, lowered herself slowly, painfully slowly, until he was lost in her heat. She made him feel young. She made him feel strong. She made him believe good things were possible, that happiness was there for the taking. Most of all, she made him feel loved, and for a little while the uneasy feeling that this taste of heaven wouldn’t last forever receded like a bad dream forgotten in the morning light.

She cried out when she came, a low, guttural cry of almost unbearable pleasure that sent him tumbling right over the edge with her.

Instead of curling up against him and sleeping afterward, this time she seemed energized. Once their heartbeats had returned to something approximating normal, she leaned over him, her breasts grazing his chest and sending pleasurable ripples of sensation along tired but resourceful nerve endings.

“It’s almost eight,” she said, peering at the tiny clock on the night shelf next to the bed. “No wonder I’m starving.”

“I can think of a few other reasons,” he said, and she laughed.

“They’re going to be bringing our dinner any minute. We really should—”

“They’ve probably figured out what’s going on in here.”

She gave him a wonderfully wicked smile. “Well, we don’t need to confirm their suspicions, do we? Put on one of those gorgeous silk robes that are hanging in the closet.”

“I’m not wearing a silk robe.”

“Just to answer the door.”

“Especially not to answer the door.”

“Then I’ll put one on and answer the door.”

“No.”

Her smile widened. “Aidan, somebody’s going to have to put on something in the next two minutes or—”

Two quick taps on the door were followed by a cheery, “Your dinner is served!”

Maddy dashed for the bathroom, leaving Aidan to fend for himself. No way he was putting on a red silk robe. He couldn’t find his pants, and naked wasn’t an option. So he grabbed for the bed sheet and hoped for the best.

The room service waiter was personable and clearly accustomed to being greeted by guests in varying stages of undress. He set up a small table near the open French doors and quickly turned it into a work of art with intricately folded napkins, candles, fresh flowers, and enough china and silverware to host a family of twelve.

“You’re good,” Aidan said as the guy settled a bottle of Veuve Clicquot into the wine bucket.

“I try.”

He gave him a great tip, promised to call if they needed anything else, then locked the door behind him.

“The coast is clear,” he called out to Maddy.

She popped out of the bathroom wearing a short, pale blue robe that clung to her curves and stopped midthigh, leaving her long legs bare and inviting. She looked like every man’s idea of a goddess. Whoever had designed that outfit had his undying gratitude.

She took one look at him and burst into laughter. “You look like you’re on your way to a toga party!”

“It was good enough for Caesar.”

She eyed him up and down, then let loose with an ear-splitting wolf whistle. “If Caesar’d had legs like yours, O’Malley, we’d still be speaking Latin.”

“You flirting with me, Bainbridge?”

“You bet I am,” she said. “What does a girl have to do around here to get some dinner?”

He made a few suggestions, and Maddy decided they should try one of the juicier ones between the lobster and the crème brûlée.

“Room service,” he said with a shake of his head. “Is it great or what?”

 
CLAIRE DEVOURED HER last bite of lobster and sank back in her chair a happy woman. “Tell me the truth, David: is this how real grown-ups live?”

“Beats me,” he said, polishing off his prime rib. “I’ve heard rumors, but I can’t prove anything.”

“Look around,” Claire said with a wave of her hand. “Nobody in this room has school Monday morning.”

“Sara Ogilvie over there has school Monday morning.”

Claire made a face. “She teaches math. You techie types are way too literal.”

“It’s a failing,” he said, “but at least we know how to balance the family checkbook.”

“Just don’t tell me you use coupons.”

“I’m not saying anything.”

David Fenelli was great company. He liked to listen, he liked to talk, and she didn’t have to cut his food for him. What more could a woman ask for?

Now there was a stupid idea. Want a recipe for disaster? Try wanting someone who had stopped wanting you a long, long time ago. No, she wasn’t going down that particular patch of bad road ever again. Not for anybody.

So what if she jumped every time the front door opened. That was nothing but some weird kind of biochemical response to stimuli, a reflex reaction to the contradictory messages bombarding her poor, overworked synapses. Funny how you could want something and not want it simultaneously and with the same degree of intensity. The last thing on earth that she wanted was for Corin Flynn to show up at Chadwick’s for lobster . . . and damned if she wasn’t disappointed every time the door opened and he didn’t.

David was watching her. “If you’re worried, call them.”

He thought she was worrying about her family. The guy was too nice to live. She pulled herself back into the moment and rolled her eyes. “If they can’t manage without me one Saturday night every twenty years, there’s no hope for the lot of ’em.”

His serious expression melted into an easy smile that triggered a smile in response. “So if you’re not that worried, how about we take in a movie?”

“Movie?” Claire feigned puzzlement. “You mean, where you go and sit in a big room with a lot of other people and watch moving pictures on a giant screen?”

“Right,” said David, deadpan. “And they have sound, too.”

“Do they give you a remote control so you can fast-forward through the dull patches?”

“No, but the stale popcorn with fake butter makes up for it.”

Their waitress popped up with dessert menus, and they ordered cappuccinos and an enormous slice of chocolate mousse cake to share.

“I’d recommend a brandy, but you two seem to be having enough fun without it.”

“She’s right,” David said as the waitress headed back to the kitchen with their order. “I’m glad you said yes, Claire.”

So was she.

The movie didn’t begin for another hour and twenty minutes, so they made short work of the chocolate mousse cake and lingered over their coffee, and by the time he motioned for the waitress to bring over their check, Claire had put thoughts of home, family, and Corin Flynn from her mind and relaxed into the moment. It wasn’t something she usually did well. She was better at worrying, obsessing, wondering what disaster was lurking around the next corner waiting to pounce.

Which was why she didn’t see it coming when it finally did.

They were halfway to his car when her cell phone chimed.

“Don’t freak out,” Kathleen said, “but Grandpa’s in the emergency room.”

“Jesus Mary and Joseph!” Claire stopped walking dead in her tracks and cupped her hand over her ear. “Say that again.” Better yet, don’t say it again and let it all be one god-awful bad joke.

“Grandpa tripped over Fritzie in the back hallway,” Kathleen said. “I think he broke his ankle.”

“Where are you?”

“The waiting room. He threw me out.”

“I mean, what hospital?”

“Good Sam.”

“Billy’s with you, right?”

“I sent him to the coffee shop for sandwiches.” A short pause. “The Szechuan tofu wasn’t exactly a success.”

No surprise there. “I’ll be right over.”

“Something happened to your father?” David asked as he opened the car door for her.

“He’s at Good Sam.”

“His heart?”

“No,” she said. “The cat.”

He gave her a blank stare, and she quickly explained the situation. “I’ve warned him a thousand times about watching out for Fritzie, but does he listen?” Her hands were shaking, and she clutched her purse tightly to control them. The last time she saw her husband alive was in the emergency room at Good Sam. It wasn’t a place she wanted to revisit. “Why didn’t I have a light installed in the back hallway?”

“I put one in for my father last year, but he’d rather bitch and stumble around in the dark than replace the lightbulb.”

He kept up an easygoing, low-key monologue as he drove them to the hospital, and that initial burst of panic began to subside. A broken ankle was an inconvenience, but it wasn’t life-threatening. She wasn’t going to lose him.

David let her off at the entrance to the ER, then went to park his car. Claire dashed through the automatic doors and bumped straight into Kathleen, who had been waiting for her.

“He’s back there,” Kathleen said, pointing toward the area beyond the information desk. “Cubicle three.”

Claire’s hands started to shake again, and she plunged them into the pockets of her jacket. “Did you eat?”

Kathleen nodded. “Tuna sandwiches.” She grinned at her mother. “Billy’s request. The tofu sucked.”

She glanced around. “Where is he?”

“Donna Leitz is upstairs visiting her grandfather. She brought her youngest daughter with her. Billy’s showing her the cafeteria.”

“David’s parking the car. Keep him company, would you, while I go see how Grandpa’s doing.”

Kathleen gave her a hug. “You got it.”

Years ago one of the counselors they had gone to see in an effort to save their family, to save Kathleen, had told them that if they kept working at it, if they managed to keep their focus and never give up, they would be rewarded. She was right. This wonderful, caring young woman standing in front of her was living proof.

She pushed through the double doors and walked straight toward cubicle 3, averting her eyes as she passed the spot where she had said good-bye to her husband. Mike Meehan’s booming voice had the curtain rippling.

“Get my clothes,” he demanded the second he saw her. “I’m not staying in this dump waiting for them to scratch their—”

“Shut up, Dad!” She marched over to the examining table and kicked the step stool out of his reach. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“The hell I’m not. Help me off this damn table. They’re not going to keep me prisoner here while they take a coffee break.”

“I’m not helping you go anywhere until they examine your ankle.”

He screwed up his face into a mass of angry wrinkles. “I’ve had hangnails that hurt more than this. Gimme a couple of aspirin and call it a night.”

She knew testosterone poisoning when she saw it. A man could walk ten miles through a blizzard with a broken leg while a common cold would send him to bed, whining, for a week.