Finding Home (20 page)

Stacey
stared, trying to process the scene. The candles flickered and glowed before her. Was she in the wrong house? No, her key had worked in the lock. And everything else looked familiar.

What was going on? And where was Brad?

Stacey heard a noise coming from the kitchen. Brad? The dogs weren't barking, so that was a good sign. She hurried through the dining room and came to an abrupt halt at the kitchen's threshold, where she received a second surprise in as many minutes.

With a dog on either side in attendance, Brad was standing at the kitchen counter, Gulliver surrounded by a dozen Lilliputians. In his case, the Lilliputians came in the form of white bags, their mouths undone and gaping open. A rather fierce red dragon on the side of each bag was exhaling the words China Sea written in delicate red script.

Stacey blinked.

The scene didn't change, didn't disappear. The bags remained. It was enough to make a woman believe in the existence of parallel universes.

Or more likely, given the way her day had gone, she'd
gotten sucked into her own computer, a human sacrifice of the infernal “Gotcha” virus.

Brad, his back to her, was doing something with silverware and plates. Feeling slightly uneasy, Stacey cleared her throat.

“Brad?”

She'd said his name at the exact same moment he'd begun to turn around. Facing her, he held one of the bags in each hand. On either side of him, a dog watched with bated breath, hoping for an accident. Hoping to be able to clean up the mess.

Brad grinned. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she echoed, too stunned by the candles and the army of take-out bags to form a coherent question.

Taking the initiative, Brad nodded at the bags he was holding. “I think some of this might still be warm.” The delivery boy had left a little over fifteen minutes ago, but everything had been steaming at that point.

Well, the voice certainly sounded like Brad's. Maybe she hadn't been sucked into the bowels of her computer after all. But Brad never ordered takeout anymore. He said he didn't believe in it. Too much salt, he maintained sternly.

Still, the bags were here. And it
did
look like Brad. Smelled like him, too. The moment she thought that, she realized that he was wearing his old cologne. When was the last time he'd worn cologne?

Stacey snapped to attention and crossed to him. “Brad, what's going on?”

Turning back to the cabinet, he took out two wineglasses. “Well, I came home and you weren't here.”

“So in your frustration, you decided to knock over a Chinese restaurant?”

“I had it delivered,” he corrected matter-of-factly. “I couldn't remember if you liked moo goo gai pan or lobster Cantonese better, so I ordered both.” Which explained two of the bags, but not the rest. “And then dinner for me, plus egg rolls, fried rice and a few other things they talked me into.” He shrugged philosophically. “There's got to be something here you like.”

She stared at him as if she'd never seen him before. And maybe she hadn't. Or at least, not this way. Not for a very long time. Affection flowed through every vein. She moved closer to him, close enough for their clothing to brush. Her eyes smiled up into his.

“Yes,” she attested softly. “The waiter.”

Because the moment called for it and he felt impulsive, he brushed his lips against hers even as he picked up several of the bags. “I'll bring this in, why don't you sit down?”

She caught herself sighing. It was a good sigh, not like so many others that had the sound of defeat or resignation about them. Picking up the plates and silverware, she followed him into the dining room.

He was distributing the bags on the table. “What made you do all this?”

“I ran into Kyle McDermott this afternoon.” Bunching up the bags, he left the little white cartons on the table. McDermott was one of the physicians she worked for. “He told me all about the computer bug. And that, like the obsessive soldier that you are, you hadn't left your desk all day.” Bringing the last of the bags to the table, he emptied them out. “I thought maybe you could do with a break.”

It was too good to be true. But she wasn't going to examine
it any further. Magic had a tendency to disappear when held up to the light of day. Still, because it was so unlike him, she couldn't resist one more question. “And the candles?”

Taking the wine that he had chilling out of the refrigerator, he came back into the dining room and looked at her, one brow raised quizzically. “Women like candles, right?”

“But you see a fire hazard every time someone lights a birthday candle.”

After removing the cork, he poured white wine into her glass. “This isn't about me. This is about you.”

Wow.
Stacey could feel her pulse begin to accelerate. She sank down more than sat down in her seat. “Who
are
you and what have you done with my husband?”

“What do you mean?” Filling his own glass, he sat down opposite her. “I've always been like this.”

She took a long sip of her wine. God, that felt good. Setting the glass down, she looked at him for a long moment, then said, “Honey, I love you and I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but—not hardly.”

“Well, I meant to be like this,” he told her. “I just got sidetracked.”

Yes, by the past eighteen years or so.
But that was behind them and she had never been one to carry a grudge. A crumb of kindness went a very long way with her.

She raised her glass to him in a silent toast. “Well, all that counts is that you seem to be on the right track now.”

Compliments, when not about his expertise in the operating room, had always made him uncomfortable. Even coming from his wife. He pushed two little white cartons toward her. “So, which do you like? Moo goo gai pan or lobster Cantonese?”

She saw no reason to choose. She liked them both. “Yes,” she grinned.

Touching the side of the first container, he realized that it was more cool than warm. Dinner should at least be warm. “Maybe I should put these in the microwave for a minute.”

She moved the container aside and took his hand in hers. “We can always do that later.”

“Later?”

Rising, she began to lead the way toward the living room. The bedroom seemed much too far away. “Suddenly, I don't feel nearly as wiped out as I felt just a few minutes ago.”

Amused, he allowed himself to be led. “Must be all that exercising you've been doing.”

She pretended to nod solemnly. “Must be.”

They were in the living room now. Stacey released his hand and went over to the bay window.

“I've renewed my membership at the gym, you know,” he told her.

She drew the drapes, then turned around to look at him. “No, I didn't know.”

“Well, I did.” When she rejoined him, he slipped his hands to her waist. “That's where I ran into Kyle. At the gym near the hospital.” Catching the tie that was fastened at the top of her blouse, he tugged on it lightly, undoing it. “We played a game of handball.”

Her eyes widened. At his subtle touch and at the thought of his playing. “Handball? You haven't played that since college.”

He shrugged, working the buttons of her blouse loose. “Second childhood.”

She began to undo his shirt. “Nothing wrong with that.”
She smiled as his shirt and her blouse found the rug together. Trousers and skirt went faster. “We all have an inner child within us.”

He kicked aside the material at his feet. Underwear disappeared as if it had never existed. Bodies heated. “My inner child wants to know if your inner child can come out and play.”

“Can it ever.” Stacey laughed as she threaded her arms around his neck. When her chest came in contact with his, she backed off for a moment, then glanced up at him with mild surprise. “You're right. You
are
working out.”

He nodded, bringing her close again. Wanting her and savoring the force of the desire. “I'd be the first to know that.”

“But not the first to appreciate it,” she guaranteed him. She deliberately lowered her head as he went to kiss her. Playing a little hard to get upped the stakes. Instead, she ran the flat of her hand along his chest. And sighed appreciatively. “Very nice.”

He raised her head again with the crook of his finger beneath her chin. “Talk is cheap.”

Enough playing hard to get. She wanted him. Badly. Her voice was low, sensual, as she promised, “Then I'd better show you.”

 

And when it was over, when they were spent, exhausted and lying there beside each other on the rug that had taken them six weeks of deliberation to finally agree on, their breathing slowly becoming less audible and more steady, Stacey felt as if she had never been this content before.

Everything was perfect.

Except…

Except for one last thing.

Raising the subject now, especially after this, after he'd been so thoughtful and then so loving, would be pushing the envelope. She knew that. But the question refused to be banked down. Refused to leave her in peace.

She was like the Fisherman's Wife, she supposed. As soon as one thing was granted—even something wondrous and grand the way this was—she wanted something else. She wanted more. But unlike the Fisherman's Wife, she didn't want an empire to rule. She just wanted one last thing to make life complete.

Stacey drew in her breath. Quietly.

Here went nothing,
she thought, pressing her lips together before she sailed into the choppy seas. “Brad?”

“Hmm?”

He sounded as if he was drifting off to sleep. They had dinner and candles waiting in the other room. Had he really gotten that relaxed? She found it difficult to believe.

“Have you given it any more thought?”

“Hmm?” Rousing himself, Brad turned toward her, his expression quizzical as he waited for her to give him something more.

“Jim's band is playing at that club on Friday. The Wild Orchid.” She realized that she was holding her breath and forced herself to release it. “Have you thought about what I'd said? About going?”

“Yes.”

The single word hung out there without any accessories or adornments, giving her no clues. “‘Yes' you've thought about it?”

“Yes.”

It was like pulling teeth. But every second that went by
she could hope for the right response. “And what is it that you've thought?”

His eyes met hers and held. And time stretched out before them like a feline waking from a long nap, asserting its flexibility.

Just
when her patience had reached its limit, Brad asked, “How many different ways do you want me to say it?”

There was a touch of irritation in his voice, but after all these years, she finally accepted that without this annoyance, it just wouldn't be Brad.

“Say what?”

“Say yes,” he reiterated. Then, in case she still missed what he was telling her, he said the word again. “Yes, although I'd probably rather sit through a root canal, I'll go with you on Friday night to listen to Jim and his band play.”

Even as he agreed, he struggled to bank down a shudder. He didn't care for what he'd heard of the contemporary music being played these days. But he wasn't going because he liked music. He was going because Jim was his son. And because the boy who'd been brought into the emergency room today, a shattered victim of a senseless freeway shooting, had been about Jim's age. And the boy had died. Reminding him that life was far too short for estrangements.

“Most likely,” he theorized, “it'll sound like someone gutting a cat without the benefit of anesthesia, but like everything else, it'll be over with and in the past soon enough.”

Propped up on her elbow, Stacey had been watching his lips
as they moved. She'd heard only one thing. The important part. That he was going. And that meant the world to her.

“I love it when you talk crazy like that,” she told him with a grin.

The next moment, she took his face between her hands and kissed him. Kissed him hard, as if this was the first time she'd ever kissed him and she'd been waiting to do it for an eternity.

“Wow.” It was the kind of kiss that would have knocked the socks off a barefoot boy. He looked at her with new, keen respect.

Stacey batted her lashes at him flirtatiously. “There's more where that came from.”

His back ached a little from the floor, but he didn't care. Brad tucked her against his body and felt their heat mingling. Whispering promises. He was one of the lucky ones. After all this time, he was still turned on by the woman he'd married. And lately more so than ever.

He cupped her cheek, tilting her head up so that her lips became a tempting target. “Is there, now?”

“You bet.” Her eyes sparkled. Lifting her head a little more, she brought her lips a fraction of an inch away from his. “Come and get it.”

Brad needed no more of an invitation than that.

 

Brad's voice preceded him as he walked into the master bathroom. “So, what would you do if I decided to change my mind?”

Stacey never turned from the mirror. She'd been dressed and ready to go for the past half hour. Her makeup, however, had far less staying power and it had already begun to fade.
She'd popped into the bathroom to give it one final boost before they walked out the front door.

It was Friday night and traffic into L.A. was going to be a bear, the way it always was. Since Jim's show began at eight and the club where he was performing was approximately thirty-five miles away, she had allotted two hours for traveling a route that, under normal circumstances, would take them no more than forty minutes.

They were minus three minutes to departure. Time to get going.

Her eyes met Brad's in the mirror as she finished applying a fresh layer of eye shadow. “About the marriage? I'd have to say I'd be pretty upset—however, not nearly as upset as I would be if you told me you'd changed your mind about going to hear Jim play.”

He'd only been kidding, although he had to admit it would have been tempting. He leaned against the doorjamb, his arms crossed before his chest. She looked pretty damn good for a woman close to fifty.

“That bad, huh?”

She snapped the tiny compact closed and returned it to the shelf. “That bad,” she confirmed. Leaving the bathroom, she switched off the light.

As she passed the bed, she picked up a light gray shawl with silver threads shot through it, and her purse. Brad walked in her shadow.

“You realize you're going to owe me. Big time.”

She was at the head of the stairs and turned to look at him over her shoulder. “You might have a good time.”

Brad shut out the light in the bedroom as he came out into
the hall. “And I might sprout wings and fly within the next month, but I won't.”

Walking down the stairs, she smiled to herself. She had rubbed off on him over the years. The Brad she first knew would have never uttered such a wild exaggeration. That Brad had had no imagination. She liked the new, improved model much better.

At the bottom of the stairs, they were met by both dogs, who sniffed and made small, whiny noises. Rosie and Dog knew they were leaving. The dogs were almost human. She hurried into the family room to check if they both had water in their dishes. Leaving food would just be a waste. Neither dog ate when the house was empty. They needed human companionship.

“He's your son,” Stacey told him, rejoining him at the front door. “He wants your approval—”

Brad snorted, opening the door for her. “If my approval had meant anything, he'd be in medical school, or going for an MBA, anything but a strolling troubadour.” Taking out his keys, he locked both locks before turning from the front door and going down the two steps.

Stacey laughed and shook her head. “Nobody knows what that is anymore.”

“Troubadour,” he repeated. “A medieval musician who wanders around, playing on street corners and hoping someone tosses him some money.” The look on his face told her he hated thinking of their son in those terms. But he did.

She threaded her arm through his and tugged him toward the driveway, where he'd left his black Mercedes parked. “C'mon, we don't want to be late.”

Aiming his key ring with the car alarm at his vehicle, he disarmed it. “‘We' don't want to be there at all,” he corrected.

On the passenger side, she stopped to give him a look over the roof of the car that was half pleading, half assertive—and all Stacey. He sighed. There was no fighting that. Not if he didn't want his conscience to overwhelm him.

“Like I said, you owe me big time.” He pulled open the door on the driver's side. “You know how much I hate to drive in traffic.”

She paused before getting in on her side. “We can take the carpool lane, which is usually moving.” Stacey looked at him over the roof of the car. “And if you don't want to drive, I will.”

“No,” he remarked as he got in, “I don't particularly have a death wish tonight.” Key in hand, he put it into the ignition but didn't turn it on. “But wait, the evening's still young. Check back with me later after their first set.”

“Their first set?” she repeated, and looked at him incredulously. She'd teased him about looking for pods in the garage, but now he was scaring her. “You know what that is?”

“Yes, I know what that is.” He struggled to bank down his irritation as he turned on the engine. It purred to life. One hand on the back of his seat, Brad slowly pulled out of his driveway. “I'm not a complete idiot.”

“You're not an idiot at all,” she was quick to underscore, even though, in her opinion, he was the last man on earth who should have needed to have his ego stroked, “it's just that I didn't think you'd pick up something like that.”

“You'd be surprised,” he told her. The winding path from their block to the end of the development ended quickly
enough. He glanced both ways, saw no oncoming headlights, and pulled out into the main drag.

“All the time, lately,” Stacey responded. She looked at him with a broad, leading smile. God, she loved him for doing this. “All the time.”

 

“This doesn't look much bigger than our first off-campus apartment,” Brad grumbled.

Stacey's hand was tethered to his as she led him inside the club, the Wild Orchid, some eighty minutes later. Luck had been with them. For once there were no pileups, no traffic snarls to tie up all the lanes and bring traffic down to a maddening trickle. Instead, traffic had chugged along at the speed limit, which by most standards was still slow.

They'd made the trip in fifty minutes. The other thirty minutes had been spent trying to find some place to park that wasn't located in the next state. The lots filled up quickly on a Friday evening.

Brad frowned at the implications that working in a place this size had. How much business could it take in on any given night? It seemed fairly packed, but that could be because this was a brand-new show and curiosity had a power all its own.

“What could they be paying him?”

She prayed he wouldn't ask Jim that. Having silence between them was preferable to angry words and hurt feelings.

“The money's not the point,” she reminded him.

Not in the real world, he thought. “Try telling that to a landlord when the rent's due.”

“That's why he has a family to fall back on—” she emphasized.

He'd always believed in calling them the way he saw them. “And mooch from.”

That wasn't the word she would have used, but this was not the time to get into any kind of discussion, no matter how innocent it began.

“Nobody ever started out at the top except for God.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “Not even you. Jim's good, Brad. Give him a chance to prove himself and make something of his talent.”

Brad made a noncommittal sound just before she grabbed onto his hand harder and dragged him over to the side.

“We have a table,” she declared like Columbus's lookout when he first sighted land in the New World.

“Good, now let's get a drink.”

Brad looked around to see if there was a waiter or waitress around to help him reach his goal. His patients were all covered for the night, which meant that for once, he had the freedom to have more than one drink.

He had a feeling he was going to need that freedom.