House Calls: Callaghan Brothers, Book 3 (9 page)

“Maggie.”

She hobbled back to the brick chimney and pulled a fresh loaf of crusty bread out of the warm oven, placing it on a cutting board with a bowl of whipped butter and brought that over as well.

“
Maggie
.”

Turning on her heel, she pulled a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator, grabbing two glasses before she finally sat down. 

Michael glared at her.  With anyone else he would be annoyed with her blatant refusal to acknowledge him, but with her, he wasn’t.  Especially when he noticed her trying to hide the tiny quirk at the corner of her mouth.  She was teasing him with her defiance.  The weird thing was, he actually kind of liked it.  What he didn’t like, however, was the fact that she was obviously not taking care of herself the way she should.

With substantial effort, Michael fixed her with his best stern look.  “As wonderful as this looks and smells, you were supposed to be resting, not cooking all day.”

“I did,” she shrugged, seemingly unfazed by the use of his authoritative physician’s tone.  “For a while.  But I need to eat, don’t I?” 

“Most people would pop a frozen dinner in the microwave or open up a can of soup.  Not make a homemade stew and bake their own bread.” 

She shrugged, looking down into her bowl.  And once again, the truth struck him like a bolt of lightning.  She hadn’t done this for herself.  She had done it
for him
.  Because he had told her he would be coming back.  Suddenly he felt like the world’s biggest ass.

“It smells wonderful, Maggie.” 

She lifted her head and offered him a small smile that had his heart clenching in his chest.  She’d prepared this for him, despite the fact that she was hurting, and he’d chastised her for it. 

Michael tried a spoonful of the stew.  He closed his eyes, savoring the incredible taste.  A perfect blend of vegetables – carrots, potatoes, a tiny bit of corn, onions, tomatoes – all tasting as if they had just been picked from the garden.  Beef so tender it practically melted against his tongue.  Damn, but the woman knew how to cook.

“This is amazing,” he said truthfully, and was rewarded with a full-fledged smile.  “Do you cook like this all the time?”

“It’s no big deal,” she said, but he could see that she was pleased.

“So tell me, Maggie.  What do you do?  Besides dance and cook, that is.”  He bit into the crusty bread, stifling a groan as it, too, melted in his mouth.

“My dancing skills are definitely lacking,” she said, lightly tapping her bruised face. 

“For the record, I think you are a wonderful dancer.  It’s walking you seem to have a problem with.”

Maggie gave a soft feminine snort and continued as if he hadn’t spoken.  “And I cook out of a combination of necessity and boredom.  But officially, I suppose I’m kind of a logistical analyst.”

“A logistical analyst?  What exactly is that?”

“Well, I look at a business, see what its needs are, and then draw up and execute a plan to make that happen.”  She sighed.  “Call it a professional organizer, if you will.  You’d be surprised how inefficiently most offices are run. ”

Michael nodded, thinking of some of the red tape he’d had to deal with at the hospital, and encouraged her to continue.

“I got my B. A., worked for a couple of small businesses in town, then applied for a position at Dumas Industries.”

“Big place,” he said carefully.

“Yeah.  They kept me busy.”  She frowned a little.  “I don’t work there anymore, though.”

“What happened?”

She looked away, slicing another piece of bread for herself.  She had yet to touch the first one, he noticed.  “I guess I just wasn’t cut out for the corporate life.” 

It was interesting, he thought, how she didn’t really answer his question, but hadn’t lied to him either.  Was she embarrassed by what had happened with Dumas?  Given the little bit he knew about her, probably.

“Not everyone is.”

“What about you?” she asked in a blatant change of subject.  “Do you practice independently or are you involved with a partnership?”

“Independently.”

Maggie looked down at her hands, breaking the large slice of bread into smaller pieces with her fingers, absently feeding them to George.  Her eyes were doing that stormy/flashing thing again; he could practically see the wheels turning in her head.

“Do you have an office downtown?” she asked finally.

“No, I keep an office at the hospital,” he said carefully.  He was a doctor, but most of his “practice” did not involve the general population.  He and his brothers – all one-time Navy SEALs – now ran a covert team, completely off the books.  He couldn’t explain that to Maggie, however. Not yet. 

“That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it?”  She kept her tone light, casual, but he could sense her curiosity, knew that she’d probably been doing a little homework and would most likely have come up empty.  Ian was a master at covering their tracks.  On the plus side, the mere fact that she’d been following up had to indicate some kind of interest, didn’t it?  After all, he’d spent the afternoon doing exactly the same thing, although he’d had the benefit of Ian’s mad skills.

“A little,” he admitted, his lips quirking slightly.  How much dare he tell her? 
That depends
, he answered himself. 
How much do you want her to know?  Everything
, came the immediate response.

“I work
pro bono
for the hospital,” he said slowly, watching her reaction closely.  “In return they provide me with an office and use of the facilities.”

“Oh.”  She seemed to consider this for a moment.  “Doesn’t sound very lucrative.”

“It’s not.  There are some things more important than money, Maggie.”

She nodded.  “Yes, that’s true enough,” she said thoughtfully.  “Although it sure does make life easier when you have enough to get by.”  She added that second part so softly he guessed she hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

––––––––

T
hree bowls of stew later, Michael finally forced himself back from the table.  “That was fantastic, Maggie.  I can’t remember when I’ve eaten so much at one sitting.”

“You have a good appetite,” she said, smiling.  “A fine mon’s appetite,” she added, coloring her words with a distinctive Irish accent.  Michael raised an eyebrow.  She seemed to have a knack for doing little things that surprised him.

“That’s what my grandmother would say,” she explained, slipping into the familiar brogue once again.  “’Ah, Maggie darlin’, ‘tis a man with a good appetite you’ll be wantin’.  A good appetite an’ a fine arse te hold on te when he’s givin’ you a good tuppin’.” 

She laughed at Michael’s slightly shocked – but definitely amused - expression.  Her eyes twinkled mischievously.  “She would have
loved
you.”

Michael actually felt a little heat rise in his cheeks.  Was she talking about his appetite or his ass?

“This place seems so much ... bigger ... without her somehow,” she said wistfully.  “She was a tiny woman, really, but she was filled with so much life and love.”  There was a sadness in her eyes he hadn’t seen before, and he knew instinctively that he was seeing a side of her not many got to see. 

“You miss her.”

“Terribly,” Maggie admitted with a heavy sigh.  “Did you ever know someone who just understood you?  Who knew what you were feeling, without words, without doing anything more than just looking at you?  Gram was like that.  With me, anyway.  Gramps used to say we were cut from the same cloth.”

“Then I’m sure she was a remarkable woman.”

Maggie studied his face as if trying to gauge his sincerity.  Hers softened just a bit, just enough to make him believe he’d passed the test. 

She stood, gathering their bowls and silverware.  Maggie hadn’t eaten very much.  Throughout the meal, she’d spent more time playing with her food more than actually eating it.  George benefitted by having the remains scraped into his dish.  Her lack of appetite, combined with her slow, deliberate movements, told him she was still hurting.  The fact that she had gone to all this trouble - despite what she said – tugged at his heart. 

Michael took the dishes out of her hands.  “You’ve done more than enough, Maggie.  Sit down for a while, okay?”

“Doctor’s orders?”  She smiled teasingly.

“Absolutely.”

“Then I guess I’d better listen.”  She eased herself down into a chair and let him take over.  It pleased him greatly that she heeded his advice.  George was curled up at her feet; she stroked his side lazily with her good foot while she rested the other on a chair.

“So tell me, Dr. Callaghan,” she said a few minutes later.  “Do you take this much of a personal interest in all of your patients?”   

“No,” he answered honestly.  The only sounds in the kitchen were the howl of the wind outside the window, the soft clink of dishes as he washed them and placed them in the drainer, and George’s rumbling snores.  He finished with the dishes, carefully folding the towel and draping it over the edge of the sink. 

He turned and caught Maggie watching him with an odd expression on her face.  It was unguarded, almost... longing.  She covered it quickly.

“Would you like some pie?” she asked, getting up stiffly. 

“You made a pie, too?” he asked incredulously.  He couldn’t decide if he was impressed or exasperated with her seeming inability to sit still for more than five minutes.

“Apples from the orchard,” she shrugged.  “Might as well use them.  It would go great with some of that heavenly stuff you managed to brew this morning, if you’re willing.”

Despite himself, he smiled.  “It’s a deal.”

While the coffee was brewing, Maggie stuck the pie in the oven for a few minutes to warm it up. 

“So,” Michael asked, trying hard not to stare at her backside too much as she bent over, “you get a lot of apples?”

“Apples, peaches, cherries, pears, apricots.  Bushels and bushels of them.”

“What do you do with them all?”

“Most of them go to waste, truthfully.  I preserve what I can, dehydrate a bunch, make lots of jams and whatnot, but I’d venture I’ve got the fattest deer this side of the Appalachians.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.  Wanna see?”

Maggie asked him to precede her, keeping one hand on his shoulder as they made their way down the steep, narrow stairway to the cellar.  An old bar had been riveted against the stone foundation wall, but there was no railing to grasp on the other side.  When they reached the bottom, Michael looked in wonder at the massive ancient timbers that shored up the house, the dirt floor, the walls of massive rough-hewn granite stone.  Along with the smell of earth, he was hit with an aroma of spices.

He blinked once, then twice.  It looked like an old fashioned farmer’s market.  From the timbers hung hand-knotted baskets holding onions, garlic, potatoes, yams.  Huge bunches of dried herbs hung as well, neatly tagged with little cards hanging from twine – rosemary, basil, parsley, oregano, not to mention several varieties of mints and herbs Michael knew had been used to brew homeopathic teas.

But none of that compared to the walls of shelving containing hundreds of jars – canned peaches, pears, apples, applesauce, jams, butters, tomatoes, sauces, pickles, carrots, corn...

“You did all this?” he asked. 

“Uh-huh,” she said modestly.  “I have a big garden.”

“I guess.”  Well, he’d been right about one thing.  The woman obviously couldn’t sit still for a moment.

T
hough he wouldn’t have believed he was capable of swallowing another bite, Michael nearly polished off a large piece of Maggie’s homemade apple pie while she sipped at the coffee.

“Maggie, I don’t know what to say,” he said finally, wiping his mouth.  “I can’t remember when I’ve had such a delicious meal.”

Maggie’s eyes shone.  “Thanks.  It’s nice to have someone to cook for for a change.”  George chose that moment to let out a soulful woof, prompting Michael to give him the last bite of the pie.  “Excluding you, of course, George,” she added lightly. 

“One thing is certain,” Michael said.  “My brothers are never coming here.  You’ll never get them to leave.”

Maggie laughed.  “An entire kitchen filled with Callaghans.  Now that’s an image.”  She sipped at her coffee.  “I get the sense that you are all close.”

“Very,” Michael agreed.  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“No,” she said softly.  “Just me.” 

There was a hint of sadness to her voice, and he sensed there was a story there, but she didn’t elaborate.  Hopefully, Maggie would eventually feel comfortable enough to share some of those personal thoughts with him.

Maggie put her hand up to her mouth, stifling a yawn.

“You’re tired,” he said.

“Just a little,” she replied with a slightly embarrassed smile.  Her lashes fluttered, her eyes sparkled.  Once again, he felt that strange energy coursing through his chest.

“Maybe I should be going, let you get some rest.”

The change was instantaneous.  Her eyes widened and she sat up suddenly, eliciting a protest from George when she inadvertently poked him with her toes.  “You want to leave?  In the middle of a blizzard?”

Hell, no he didn’t.  But not wanting to leave had very little to do with the weather and everything to do with the woman currently looking at him with those big, pretty green eyes.  The one who had fed him homemade stew and bread and eased a loneliness inside him he didn’t even know he had.  The one who, only moments before, had eyes filled with such longing that his heart ached.  As much as he wanted to stay, he had to be very careful here.  He already cared for Maggie, and didn’t want to hurt her in any way.

He hesitated, then decided to be honest with her.  “I really enjoy being with you, Maggie,” he said truthfully.  “I don’t want to do anything that might jeopardize seeing you again.  That includes overstaying my welcome.”

Her lips parted slightly, as if caught off-guard by his words.  “You had no problem staying last night.”

“You were semi-conscious.  I didn’t think leaving you alone was a viable option.” 
Not that I wanted to
, he added silently.