Key Trilogy (29 page)

Light and shadows. The house was full of both.

She could only be grateful it wasn’t full of things. Flynn’s spartan style was going to make the search simpler.

She started in the living room, automatically wincing at the couch. She looked under the cushions, found eighty-nine cents in loose change, a Bic lighter, a paperback edition of a Robert Parker novel, and cookie crumbs.

Unable to stand it, she hunted up the vacuum cleaner and a dustrag and began to clean as she went.

This two-for-one process kept her in the kitchen for more than an hour. At the end of it she was sweaty and the kitchen sparkled, but she hadn’t turned up anything resembling a key.

She switched gears and headed upstairs. She’d begun and ended her dream upstairs, she recalled. Maybe that was symbolic. And certainly there couldn’t be anything up here in as deplorable shape as the kitchen.

One glance at the bathroom disabused her of that notion. Even love—of a man and of order—had its limits, she decided, and shut the door without going inside.

She stepped into his office and was immediately charmed. All the dark thoughts that had damned him for a pig vanished.

It wasn’t neat. God knew, it needed a good dusting, and there was enough dog hair balled in the corners to knit an afghan. But the walls were sunny, the desk was a beauty, and the framed posters showed an eye for art and style that she hadn’t given him credit for.

“You’ve got all these wonderful sides to you, don’t you?” She trailed her fingers over the desk, impressed by the stack of files, amused by the action figures.

It was a good work space. A good thinking space, she imagined. He didn’t give a damn about the state of his kitchen. His sofa was just a place to take a nap or stretch out and read a book. But he took care with his surroundings when it was important to him.

Beauty, knowledge, courage. She’d been told she would need all three. In the dream there had been beauty—love, home, art. Then the knowledge that it was illusion. And finally the courage to break that illusion.

Maybe that was a part of it.

And love would forge the key.

Well, she loved Flynn. She accepted that she loved Flynn. So where was the damn key?

She turned a circle, then wandered over to take a closer look at his art collection. Pinup girls. He was such a . . . guy, she decided. A very clever guy.

There was a sexual punch to the photographs, but an innocence underlying that. Betty Grable’s legs, Rita Hayworth’s mane of hair, Monroe’s unforgettable face.

Legends, as much for their beauty as their talent. Goddesses of the screen.

Goddesses.

Her fingers shook as she took the first print from the wall.

She had to be right. This had to be it.

But she examined every print, every frame, then every inch of the room, and found nothing.

Refusing to be discouraged, she sat at his desk. She was close. A step off, one way or the other, but close. The pieces were all there, she was certain of it now. She just needed to find the right pattern and make them fit.

She needed to get out in the air for a while, let it turn over in her mind.

She would do something ordinary while it brewed in there.

No, not something ordinary. Something inspired. Something artful.

FLYNN
decided it was time to reverse the roles back to where they had started, and so he stopped off on the way home to buy her flowers. There was a bite of fall in the air, and its nip had already teased color into the trees. The surrounding hills were hazed with reds and golds and umbers over the green.

Over those hills, a three-quarter moon would rise tonight.

Did she think of that, he wondered, and worry?

Of course she did. It would be impossible for a woman like Malory to do otherwise. Still, she’d been happy when she came to his office. He meant to keep her that way.

He would take her out to dinner. Maybe drive into Pittsburgh for a change of scene. A long drive, a fancy dinner—that would appeal to her, keep her mind off . . .

The minute he stepped in the front door, he knew something was off.

It smelled . . . good.

A little lemony, he thought as he approached the living room. A little spicy. With female undertones. Did women just sort of exude scent when they’d been in a place for a few hours?

“Mal?”

“Back here! In the kitchen!”

The dog beat him by a mile and was already being given a biscuit, a stroke, and a firm nudge out the back door. Flynn wasn’t sure what made his mouth water, the scents pumping out of the stove or the woman wearing a white bib apron.

God, who knew an apron could be sexy?

“Hi. What’re you doing?”

“Cooking.” She shut the back door. “I know it’s an eccentric use for a kitchen, but call me crazy. Flowers?” Her eyes went soft, almost dewy. “They’re pretty.”

“You are too. Cooking?” He tossed his embryonic
plans for the evening aside without a qualm. “Would that involve anything resembling dinner?”

“It would.” She took the flowers, kissed him over them. “I decided to dazzle you with my culinary talents, so I went to the grocery store. You didn’t have anything in here that qualified as actual food.”

“Cereal. I have a lot of cereal.”

“I noticed.” Because he didn’t own a vase, she filled a plastic pitcher with water for the flowers. The fact that she didn’t cringe while doing so made her very proud of herself. “You also didn’t appear to own any of the usual implements used in preparing actual food. Not a single wooden spoon.”

“I don’t understand why they make spoons out of wood. Haven’t we progressed beyond carving tools out of trees?” He picked one up off the counter, then frowned. “Something’s different in here. Something changed.”

“It’s clean.”

Shock registered on his face as he stared around the room. “It
is
clean. What did you do, hire a brigade of elves? What do they charge by the hour?”

“They work for flowers.” She sniffed at them, and decided they looked very sweet in the plastic pitcher after all. “You’re paid in full.”

“You cleaned. That’s so . . . weird.”

“Presumptuous, but I got carried away.”

“No, ‘presumptuous’ isn’t the word that springs to mind.” He took her hand, kissed her fingers. “The word’s ‘wow.’ Should I be really embarrassed?”

“I won’t if you won’t.”

“Deal.” He drew her close, rubbed his cheek against hers. “And you’re cooking. In the oven.”

“I wanted to take my mind off things for a while.”

“So did I. I was going to play the let’s-go-out-to-a-fancy-dinner card, but you trumped my ace.”

“You can tuck the ace up your sleeve and play it anytime. Putting things in order helps clear my mind, and
there was a lot to put in order around here. I didn’t find the key.”

“Yeah, I got that. I’m sorry.”

“I’m close.” She stared at the steam puffing out of a pot as if the answer might appear in it. “I feel like I’m just missing a step somewhere. Well, we’ll talk about that. Dinner’s about ready. Why don’t you pour the wine. I think it’ll complement the meat loaf.”

“Sure.” He picked up the wine she had breathing on the counter, then set it down again. “Meat loaf? You made meat loaf.”

“Mashed potatoes too—shortly,” she added as she set up the mixer she’d brought over from her own kitchen. “And green beans. It seemed harmonious, considering your column. And I assumed that since you used the meal, you must like meat loaf.”

“I’m a guy. We live for meat loaf. Malory.” Ridiculously moved, he caressed her cheek. “I should’ve brought you more flowers.”

She laughed and got to work on the potatoes she’d boiled. “Those will do nicely, thanks. This is actually my first meat loaf. I’m more a toss-some-pasta-together or a sauté-some-chicken girl. But I got the recipe from Zoe, who swears it’s foolproof and guy-friendly. She claims Simon inhales it.”

“I’ll try to remember to chew.” Then he took her arm to turn her toward him and moved in, slowly, ran his hands up her body until his fingers skimmed her jaw. He laid his lips on hers, softly, sliding her into the kiss the way he might slide her into a feather bed.

Her heart did one long, lazy roll even as the mists shimmered over her brain. The rubber spatula she held slipped out of limp fingers as everything inside her melted against him, into him.

He felt it, that shudder and give, that surrender to self as much as to him. When he eased her back, her eyes
were blue and blurry. It was woman, he realized, who had the power to make man feel like a god.

“Flynn.”

His lips curved as he brushed them over her forehead. “Malory.”

“I . . . I forgot what I was doing.”

He bent down to retrieve the spatula. “I think you were mashing potatoes.”

“Oh. Right. Potatoes.” Feeling a bit drunk, she walked to the sink to wash the spatula.

“This has to be the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

“I love you.” She pressed her lips together, stared out the window. “Don’t say anything. I don’t want to make things uncomfortable for either of us. I’ve been thinking about this a lot. I know I’ve rushed and I’ve pushed. Neither of which is much like me.” She spoke briskly now as she went back to the mixer.

“Malory—”

“Really, you don’t need to say anything. It’d be enough, more than enough for now, if you just accepted it, maybe enjoyed it a little. It seems to me love shouldn’t be a weapon or a device or a weight. Its beauty is that it be a gift, with no strings attached to it. Just like this meal.”

She smiled, though the steady way he watched her was unnerving. “So, why don’t you pour the wine, then wash up? And we’ll both just enjoy it.”

“Okay.”

It could wait, Flynn thought. Maybe it was meant to wait. In any case, the words in his head sounded off-key when compared with the simplicity of hers.

So they would enjoy each other, and the meal she’d prepared in the awkward, homely kitchen with fresh flowers arranged in a plastic pitcher.

As beginnings went, this one had elements of both of
them. Wasn’t it interesting how one managed to complement the other?

“You know, if you made me a list of stuff I should have in here, I could pick it up.”

She arched her brows, took the wine he offered, then pulled a little notepad out of her apron pocket. “This is already half full. I was planning to wait until you were lulled into complacency by meat and potatoes.”

He flipped through the notebook and noted that items were listed under specific headings. Foodstuffs, Cleaning Supplies—with subheadings Kitchen, Bathroom, Laundry—Household Necessities.

Jesus, the woman was irresistible.

“Am I going to need to take out a loan?”

“Think of it as an investment.” Taking the notebook from him, she tucked it into his shirt pocket, then concentrated on the potatoes. “Oh, by the way, I really like the art in your office upstairs.”

“Art?” It took him a minute. “Oh, my girls. Really?”

“Clever, nostalgic, sexy, stylish. It’s a great room altogether, which I admit was something of a relief to me, considering the rest of the house. Enough that I wasn’t flattened by disappointment when my brainstorm about the key didn’t pan out.” She drained the beans that she’d dashed with basil into one of her serving bowls, handed it to him. “Monroe, Grable, Hayworth, and so on. Screen goddesses. Goddess, key.”

“Good segue.”

“Yeah, it seemed so, but no luck.” She passed him the bowl of potatoes, then using the potholders she’d bought, took the meat loaf out of the oven. “Still, I think I’m on the right track, and it gave me the chance to see your thinking space.”

She sat, scanned the table. “Hope you’re hungry.”

They dished up the meal. At the first bite of meat loaf, Flynn sighed. “Good thing you put Moe out. I’d hate to
torment him with this, since he won’t be getting much of it. My compliments to the artist.”

There was pleasure, Malory discovered, in watching someone you loved eat what you’d prepared. Pleasure in sharing a simple meal at the kitchen table at the end of the day.

She’d never felt deprived eating dinner alone, or in the company of a friend. But now it was easy to see herself sharing this hour with him, night after night, year after year.

“Flynn, you said that when you accepted that you were meant to stay in the Valley, you bought this house. Did you—do you—have a vision for it? How you want it to look and feel?”

“I don’t know if you’d call it a vision. I liked the look of it, the lines of it, and the big yard. Something about a big yard makes me feel prosperous and safe.”

He went back for seconds. “I figure I’ll have to gut this room sooner or later, rip it into the new millennium. Buy stuff for the rest of the place, eventually. But I never seem to get around to it. I guess because it’s just me and Moe.”

He poured more wine for both of them. “If you’ve got some ideas, I’m open to suggestions.”

“I’ve always got ideas, and you should be careful before you get me started. But that wasn’t why I asked. I had a vision for the property we bought—Dana and Zoe and I. As soon as I walked into that house I could see how it would work, what it needed from me, what I could bring to it. And I haven’t been back since.”

“You’ve been pretty busy.”

“That’s not it. I deliberately haven’t been back. That’s not like me. Usually when I have a project, I can’t wait to get started, to start fiddling with things, lining them up, making lists. I took the step. I signed on the dotted line, but I haven’t taken the next step.”

“It’s a big commitment, Mal.”

“I’m not afraid of commitment. Hell, I thrive on it. But I’ve been a little afraid of this. I’m going to go over tomorrow, take a look at the place. Apparently the previous owners left a lot of stuff they didn’t want in the attic. Zoe asked me to go through it before she started hauling things out.”

“What kind of attic? A dark, spooky attic or a big, fun, Grandma’s attic?”

“I have no idea. I haven’t been up there.” It shamed her to admit that. “I haven’t been off the ground floor, which is ridiculous, as I own a third of the property. Or will. I’m going to change that. Change isn’t my best thing.”