Home Field Advantage (8 page)

Damn. Why did John McRae make
her feel so...so hungry? So safe?

Those feelings were
deceptive. They had to be. He hadn't offered her anything but casual sympathy
and camaraderie. He was an easy man to know and like, that was all. He had
revealed nothing of what lay beneath the surface. He'd never said any more
about his wife or her death, nor asked about the twin's father. John might look
at her sometimes with terrifying intimacy, but whatever attraction he felt was
strictly physical. She still scarcely knew him.

They talked briefly when he
called on Sunday night, but with none of the closeness she had sometimes felt.
He sounded preoccupied and tired, and Marian could hear her own wariness in her
voice.

The most personal the
conversation got was when he asked, "Find anything?"

"I'm afraid not,"
she said ruefully, hiding her own, bone-deep weariness.

"Marian..." Then he
stopped. In the pause that followed she could hear his breathing and knew he
was still there. "I've got to go," he said then, almost abruptly.
"See you in the morning."

But he said little when he
collected Emma after breakfast. He was friendly but distant. He didn't once
look at Marian with that glint in his eyes or lower his voice to that husky,
intimate level. He didn't once mention running away for the weekend. He didn't
even linger to chat.

Marian tried very hard to
convince herself that what she felt was relief. She had never been very good at
self-deception, however. Impatient with herself, she managed a smile for the
kids.

"Okay, story time!"
She collected a couple of her favorite picture books and plopped down on the
living-room floor, her back against the couch. Children clambered on her lap
while others leaned trustingly against her. The group included most of her
regulars. It was strange how conscious she was of Emma's absence. "Which
book first?" she asked.

"Fritz and the Beautiful
Horses," Lizzie said promptly.

"Fritz," Jesse
agreed.

"Okay, Fritz it
is."

As Marian opened the book, Lizzie
wriggled in place and confided, "I like Fritz, 'cuz he kinda looks like
Snowball. And Snowball is gentle and kind, too."

Marian ruffled the little
girl's blond bangs. "Yes, he is. But I'm not sure he's always willing to
work, like Fritz."

They all giggled.
"Snowball doesn't have to work!" one of the little boys said.
"Giving us rides isn't workl"

"No?" Marian
teased. "Then what is it?"

"It's fun!" they
all said in chorus.

"Oh, I see. Has anybody
told Snowball that?"

Lizzie looked at her as if
she were stupid. "Snowball can't understand human talk. You know
that!"

"I'd forgotten for a
minute," Marian said with a straight face. Then she laughed and hugged as
many kids as she could get her arms around. Tired as she sometimes got, what
she did wasn't really work, either. The children were too much fun. The thought
of losing the joy as well as the money scared her. "Okay, here we go,' she
said. " 'Once there was a walled city known for its beautiful horses...'
"

*****

When the doorbell rang
Wednesday evening, Marian glanced automatically at the clock. Seven-thirty. Who
on earth could it be? She dried her hands on the dish towel and raised her
voice.

"For heaven's sake,
Rhodo! Aja! Shush!" Hopeless, of course. The hysterical yaps continued
above the big shepherd's deeper, booming bark.

Ever shy, Jesse and Anna
peered around the corner from the living room when their mother went to answer
the front door.

At the unexpected sight of
John McRae standing on her doorstep, his big hand cradling the back of his
daughter's head, Marian's heart took an uncomfortable lurch. Tonight he had on
jeans and a worn leather jacket that made his shoulders look even broader. His
expression was imperturbable, while beside him Emma was dancing on her toes
like a child who could hardly wait to open presents at her birthday party.

"Well, hi," Marian
said, trying to speak above the barking. "Aja, Rhodo...!" She
gestured helplessly. "Come on in. Then they'll shut up."

Emma stooped to hug Rhoda's
big black head and let herself be kissed on the nose by the smaller dog. Marian
closed the door behind father and daughter and followed them into the living
room. When John glanced around, Marian immediately felt self- conscious again,
even though by this time she was pretty sure he wouldn't care if there were
Cheerios under the couch or fun fruits squished between the cushions. She still
felt exposed, as though on some deep level the house was her.

She had been stuck at home so
much these last three years, her life so circumscribed, that she had begun to
think of her house like a turtle does its shell, needing its protection from
more than the wind and rain. Was that why losing the house was hitting her so
hard?

John made no move to sit
down, just met her eyes. "Emma and I have a proposition for you."

Jesse was saying something to
one of the dogs and Anna clung to Marian's leg. Emma's brown eyes were fixed
eagerly on Marian's face. Marian was aware of all three children, and yet not.
Somehow the world had narrowed. All she really saw was John's face with the
shadow of a beard on his jaw, the hollows beneath his cheekbones, his mouth controlled
and his eyes watchful. She felt something similar to what she had felt the
other week, standing on her front porch, when she had known he was going to ask
her a question that might change her life. Until now, she had forgotten that
moment, the sensation of being on the brink of something earth-shattering. She
couldn't seem to think now, or anticipate. She only waited.

"We would like you to
become our housekeeper. We want you and Jesse and Anna to come live with
us."

Marian felt a rushing in her
ears, and realized that she was dizzy. "Your housekeeper?" she
echoed, then sank onto the couch.

"I didn't expect you to
be surprised," he said.

On one level the offer was a
complete surprise; but in her heart she had known what he would suggest. It was
almost too perfect to be true.

She and the children would be
secure, with a comfortable roof over their heads and food on the table. She
would have time for Jesse and Anna, time to remember who she really was. She
could mean something to Emma, too, who needed to feel secure as badly as Marian
did. And John would be there, perhaps gradually letting her know him beneath
that self-possessed, humorous facade. Did he ever lose his temper? Laugh until
he cried? Mourn? Ache with loneliness?

Marian sat there staring
stupidly up at father and daughter, seeing a vision. The five of them together,
a man, a woman, and their children. Dinner-table conversations, silly, serious,
in between. Good-byes and good mornings. Making his bed, folding his laundry.
School open houses, horseback rides.

A family. Dear God, that was
what she wanted so badly that she ached. So badly that there was no way on
earth she could accept what he had offered, because it would never be enough.
She didn't want to work for him, relegated to belowstairs. She didn't want to
accept a paycheck once a week, smile pleasantly when he took another woman out
to dinner, discreetly absent herself when required. She wanted everything, his
passion and his anger, the prosaic with the tempestuous.

What he had offered instead
would hurt too badly. If Crystal's parents or Lizzie's parents had offered the
same deal, she would have accepted. Would have had to accept, for Jesse and
Anna's sake. From John McRae, she couldn't.

But forcing the words out was
bitterly hard. Her voice was husky from the effort, and her fingernails bit
into her palms. "I ... I appreciate your asking. It's very kind of you.
But I'm afraid I...I have to say no."

Emma's face fell so
ludicrously it might have been funny in other circumstances. A frown gathered
between John's dark brows, though Marian couldn't tell whether he was annoyed
or dismayed.

"Will you think about
it?" he asked. "I can promise you I'd be a considerate employer. It's
a practical solution for both of us."

Marian stood. "I know
you'd be kind to Jesse and Anna and me. Of course you would be. It's..."
she swallowed and clasped her hands in front of her. "I just don't think
it's right for me. I've fought so hard to be on my own. Working for you and
living with you, too, would make me feel dependent. As though I had given up. Do
you understand?"

He didn't answer right away,
but studied her with a frowning gaze. At last his mouth twitched ruefully.
"I understand. That doesn't mean I like your answer. And I won't promise
to accept it."

Marian felt a tiny spark of
leavening humor. "Please don't make me feel like a football."

"Something I don't like
fumbling?" His smile was as wry as hers. "It's...a little more
complicated than that."

What did he mean? Marian
wished she knew exactly what he had been offering in the first place. She
couldn't have misread the desire she'd seen in his eyes. Had he imagined that
sharing his bed would be part of the deal? Or did he simply feel sorry for her?
Marian told herself that it didn't matter. Either way, his offer wasn't for
her. Her pride wouldn't let her accept his charity, and she was afraid to
accept his desire. She would only want more.

And if he offered more... She
was afraid of that, too. How could she trust him? He was a man, just like Mark.
A man, she had to remind herself, who was offering her a job so that he could
more conveniently abandon his daughter half of every week.

"I'm sorry," she
said to Emma. She put her hands on each side of the girl's face and tilted her
chin up so that her brown eyes, swimming with tears, met Marian's. "You
know what?" she said softly. "I'd love to go home with you. But you
wouldn't need me for very long. And then we'd have to say goodbye, and that
would be hard. We can be better friends this way."

Emma gave a small, jerky nod
and stepped back. Her hand clung tightly to her father's. Marian looked up from
Emma's averted face to John's. Their eyes met, and she saw something
disconcerting there before he wiped it away. But what? Physical desire again?
Anger? Hurt?

Whatever he had been feeling
was securely tucked away, because he smiled again, still ruefully, and said,
"I won't argue anymore. Will you at least let us help you move when the
time comes? I can bring the truck and a horse trailer. I don't think you have
anything we couldn't get in it. That'd save you some money and me some
pride."

She had to laugh, just a
little. "Okay," she said. "I won't argue anymore, either."

"Then we'll say good
night and give you some peace," John said. "By the time I pack Emma's
lunch, it'll be bedtime for me, anyway. I have to roll out of bed tomorrow at
the crack of dawn. Not my best time of day, but my partner's taking a couple of
horses down to a show in Portland."

Marian scooped Anna up on one
hip and followed John and Emma to the front door. "When you were a
football player, didn't you have morning practices?"

"God, I hated 'em."
He grinned at his own fervency.

"Emma tells me you were
All-Pro, whatever that means. You couldn't have played too badly, even if you
were still dying for another cup of coffee."

"I faked it." He
smiled again. " 'Bye, Jesse, Anna. Good-bye, Marian."

"Emma, I'll see you
Friday," Marian called to their retreating backs.

Emma didn't answer and John
just waved.

Marian went back inside the
house and closed the door, feeling absurdly lost and let down. Their departure
had come so quickly, it seemed like an anticlimax. As she steered Jesse and
Anna into the bathroom to brush teeth, she made herself analyze why.

Had she wanted John to argue?
To overwhelm her with logic until she agreed despite herself? She was terribly
afraid that she had. He had accepted her answer so easily, even if he had made
protesting noises. Well, why should that surprise her? He could hardly have
wanted a housekeeper encumbered by twins in the midst of the Terrible Two's!
No, she had to face it. John McRae was a nice man who had felt sorry for her.
No more and no less.

*****

John tried hard to keep his
distance over the next couple of weeks. The only alternative was begging her to
have dinner with him, and he was pretty sure that was the last thing she wanted
or needed right now.

Every time he saw her, she
looked more tired. With that translucent skin, lack of sleep left purple bruises
beneath her eyes. She made him think of a fine porcelain doll, not just because
she was beautiful, but because he was increasingly aware of how fragile she
was.

The next two weekends he
didn't even have to ask whether she had found a new rental. When she saw him on
the doorstep, she gave a tremulous smile that was meant to be insouciant and
shook her head. But the mountain of boxes in one corner of her living room
grew, and the small, shabby house began to feel chilly and bare.