Summer's Freedom (3 page)

Maggie rolled her eyes and picked up the bear claw. “Forget it, Gram. I’m not interested. Men are terrific for about six months, then you have start picking up socks and changing the channel so they can watch their ball games.” She wrinkled her nose. “And they all want you to cook. Ugh.” With a grin, she added, “Sharon calls it PMS—Permanent Male Syndrome.”

Anna nodded appreciatively, her cornflower eyes sparkling. Then she patted her white collar into place. “The right man can make it all worthwhile.”

“Hmm…” Maggie murmured. As she focused on the flavor of brown sugar and pecans, she remembered the way Joel had described a prairie falcon in his resonant voice, the way he had searched for a word to describe the birds he worked with.

She heard his voice utter the word again.
Magnificent.

Resolutely, she shut it out. “What else did my mother have to say this morning?”

L
ate Friday night, Joel heard the waffling rumble of souped-up cars on the street outside. A car door slammed, and shortly afterward the front door next to his own was opened and closed.

Moments later, a high, hysterical teenage voice raised in protestation seeped through his walls. Although he turned up the late movie, a rare showing of
The Maltese Falcon,
he could still make out an argument. Only the tone drifted through, but even that made Joel feel like a spy. After a few moments, he clicked off the television and headed out the back door.

Outside, cool air touched his bare forearms. He stretched hard and settled on the steps, leaning backward on his elbows to look at the sky. Just over the treetops loomed the shadow of the mountains, their tips twinkling with the red lights of radio and television towers. Higher, stars shone brilliantly in a sky free of dingy pollutants, thanks to a rain that afternoon.

It was a pattern he had forgotten in his years away—the clouds that rolled in with an ominous rumbling by four every day throughout the spring and early summer. Some days, lightning cracked and burst as the rain fell in torrents for twenty or thirty minutes. Other days, there would be a whispering of moisture, like a mist. Always, the clouds moved on by dinnertime, leaving the air fresh, the night sky sparkling. He let his head fall back in thankfulness, thinking perhaps he would find a telescope somewhere.

The back door twin to his own suddenly slammed. Joel straightened curiously. A figure moved into sight. Maggie. Her heavy, honey-colored hair shone around her shoulders, and she wore a straight cotton skirt with a simple, long-sleeved T-shirt. She collapsed on the back steps, dropping her head to her knees in a posture of defeat.

Now what? Joel thought. She obviously hadn’t seen him. He didn’t want to startle or embarrass her.

He coughed.

Her head flew up and she turned toward him. “You scared me,” she said. She stood up.

Joel jumped to his feet. “You don’t have to go.” He’d been restless and hungry for company all evening. “It’s your backyard, too.”

She smiled, acknowledging the reference to her words earlier in the week.

He crossed the grassy area between them and stood at the foot of her stairs. “I can offer you a beer,” he said with a quick lift of his eyebrows.

For an instant, Maggie said nothing. He was close enough that she could have stretched out a hand to touch his powerful shoulders beneath the blue cotton. There was something oddly familiar about him, something she couldn’t quite place. “Do I know you from somewhere?” she asked.

“Another life.” His words held only the barest note of teasing, so that for a moment she couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. The amusement on his face gave him away.

Maggie laughed. “Oh, yes. You were that wretched sea captain.”

“Were you my promised bride?”

“No.” She lifted her chin. “Your maiden aunt, irritated with you for running off to sea and leaving your mother a nervous wreck.”

He grinned and his rather severe features were transformed into an irresistibly boyish expression. Dimples, she noted with an inward sigh. How could one man have been gifted with such an array of physical perfections?

“Let me make it up to you, Auntie,” he said.

“And well you should,” she returned.

“I’ll be back in a flash.” He gave a salute and a bow.

As soon as he departed, Maggie wondered what she was doing. But the choice was a simple one—stay outside in the company of another adult or go inside and listen to Samantha weep over her punishment. She sank back down onto the steps.

Joel returned with two long-necked bottles of beer. “I never could resist a woman who drank her beer from the bottle,” he said with a smile, handing her one.

“That sounds like an innuendo,” Maggie said.

He laughed. “No, that’s not what I meant.”

“In that case,” she said with a smile, “thanks for the reassurance. I keep trying to develop a ladylike taste for Chablis or cognac, but I can’t seem to pull it off.” She sipped gingerly. “Old habits die hard. I started drinking beer in college and never have found anything I liked as well.”

“Beer’s got heart.”

“I guess it does.” He stood at the bottom of the steps and Maggie shifted, gesturing toward the lower stair. “You can sit down if you like.”

“Thanks.” He settled just below her and immediately seemed to fill every available inch of space. The shapely arms and broad thighs crowded her field of vision, and as he relaxed on one elbow, his forearm warmed her shin without quite touching it.

“So,” she said, trying to distract herself, “how are you doing with the cat?”

“You mean the old tom?”

“I saw you with the can of tuna yesterday.”

Joel sighed. “He’s a tough case.” He looked at Maggie. “Do you know anything about him?”

“He’s been around as long as I’ve lived here—about two years. I feed him in the wintertime.” She pointed to a loose board on the cellar door. “And he crawls in there when it’s cold.”

“He’s probably been abused.”

“Poor thing. I wish you luck.” She frowned. “I thought you were a bird man. Why would you want to save a cat?”

A throaty chuckle rumbled into the still night. “The kind of birds I’m interested in would make short work of that cat.”

Maggie smiled. “I guess I’m used to Tweety and Sylvester.”

“That cat probably can’t kill birds anymore, anyway. Even if he could, I wouldn’t dislike cats just because they hunt birds.” He looked up to the treetops, as if seeing doomed prey. “A robin kills a worm, a cat kills a robin, an eagle carries off a cat—it’s the natural cycle.”

“That’s a terrible thought,” Maggie protested.

He looked up at her, his clear eyes sober. “Not really,” he said. “When you can see the overall design of nature, the checks and balances, the predators and the prey, it’s incredible.” He paused, giving a sad twist to his lips. “It’s only when mighty humanity gets involved that the balance falls completely out of whack.”

“You know,” Maggie said. “It’s funny you’re bringing that up—I thought so much about pollution this past winter.” She leaned forward. “On the days the carbon monoxide looked like fog on the ground, I kept worrying about the prairie dogs and the squirrels and all those other little creatures that had no idea why they couldn’t breathe. I kept wondering what would happen to them.” She laughed. “Naturally, I interviewed an expert for a story.”

“I’m sorry I missed reading it.” He inclined his head. “As terrible as things seem right now, people are a lot more aware of ecology than they were thirty years ago. I like to think that’s progress.”

“Too bad it took such dramatic illustrations to get our attention.”

“No, we just have to go from here.” He straightened abruptly and his arm grazed her leg as he lifted his beer, then he glanced almost shyly at Maggie over his shoulder. “Don’t get me going on this,” he warned. “I’ll climb right up on my soapbox and start making speeches. You’re a good listener.”

“Not always,” she said honestly.

“I’ll wager, just the same, that you write the advice column in your newspaper.”

Maggie laughed. “Guilty.”

“Those kids ask some tough questions—questions I don’t know if I could answer.”

“It’s easy when you’re not involved,” she said, thinking of Samantha with a pang. Maggie had overreacted tonight. She’d even realized it in the middle of the argument, but by that time Samantha had been half-hysterical and there had been no choice but to send her to her room to cry it off.

Samantha was hiding something. And it hurt. No matter how well Maggie had succeeded in walling herself off from the rest of the world, she couldn’t help feeling a sharp stab of sorrow over her daughter’s dishonesty. It hurt to know that Samantha thought she couldn’t trust her.

Joel said nothing as Maggie drifted, obviously awash in deep thoughts he had no wish to disturb. Instead, he enjoyed the opportunity to study her. Her skin was tawny, even so early in the year, and in spite of the bruises and stitches surrounding her left eye, he thought she was exotic and wild looking, with almond eyes and unusual slants in her face. Not everyone would think she was beautiful, he felt sure—but he wasn’t everyone.

Her mouth turned down as she mulled her problem, and with a weary gesture, she reached back to gather her hair into a ponytail, which she held loosely in her hand. The movement showed her graceful neck and the lobe of an ear pierced with an earring that shone golden against her flesh. Joel felt a restlessness stir in his belly, an almost forgotten sensation of desire.

She looked at him suddenly as if reading his vaguely carnal perusal. “Sorry,” she said, “I went off on a little walk of my own.”

“That’s all right.” He smiled.

“How long have you worked with your birds?” Maggie asked, more comfortable shifting the conversation away from herself.

“A long time—off and on.” He glanced at his hands.

Maggie sensed again his disillusionment or sorrow, but his tone of voice made it clear this line of conversation was a dead end. She studied him wordlessly. No matter what she’d told her grandmother about men, there was a lot more to Joel than the ability to grace the scenery. In fact, when she listened to him talk, she felt ashamed for assigning him such a trivial function.

Still, it was hard to ignore his physical presence. From where she sat, the long column of his tanned throat showed at the open neck of his shirt, and she could see the whorl at his crown that governed the way his thick hair grew. Her gaze fell on his lips, full and firm and ripe. She allowed her gaze to linger for the barest instant, then looked away.

“Listen,” he said, touching her shin with his fingers. “I think I hear the cat.”

Maggie lifted her head. From the cove of lilac bushes toward the back of the yard came the unmistakable sound of the tom’s call, a meow so worn it sounded like a piano with half the keys missing.

“That’s my cue,” Joel said, standing. He paused, looking at her. “I enjoy your company, Maggie. I hope we’ll have another chance to talk again soon.”

“So do I.” She stood almost reluctantly and smiled. “Good night.”

She carried her bottle inside and threw it away, then combed through the cabinets, trying to find her stash of sour-cream-and-onion potato chips. For a minute, she thought Sam might have found them, and then she remembered where they were—in the closet with the built-in ironing board. She took a soda and the chips with her as she checked the doors and closed any curtains that had been missed.

Joel, she thought as she automatically performed the duties. What woman couldn’t spin a fantasy about a man like that? Intelligent and warm and strong and handsome—the perfect man for cologne advertising.

As she headed upstairs, she wondered cynically what the catch was. That age-old fantasy of a strong and gentle man was terrific, but in her experience, real men didn’t come in that combination.

After her divorce, Maggie had resolved to play it smart with men, and for practical purposes she had divided them into three categories: macho, weak or charming. Her father had been a macho man, insistent upon his own way, and when he hadn’t gotten it, he’d resorted to whatever means necessary to get it.

The second category, the weak men, was a little rarer. To this group Maggie relegated all the men who were intimidated by her height or her directness, men who found themselves at a loss for words when Maggie threw down the gauntlet of a debate. Nothing, in her opinion, was more aggravating than a man who couldn’t stand on his own two feet in the face of an opponent.

Between the two categories fell the charming ones—articulate, often handsome men who’d learned how to give a woman the appearance of what she needed without actually giving anything of themselves. Paul had fallen into that category. He was accomplished and good-looking, even warm when he chose to be.

The problem with her ex-husband had been his need to exercise his charm over any woman he felt to be worthy of the challenge.

But she’d long since forgiven Paul. At twenty, she’d been unable to see what now was plain: Paul had never overcome his grief over losing his beloved first wife—Samantha’s mother. Instead, he ran into the arms of women who chased away her ghost.

Joel, now, didn’t seem to fit into any of the categories previously developed. Macho men didn’t try to tame stray cats. Weak men wouldn’t state their opinions as clearly as he had about ecology. Charming men—well, he might fall into that category. She bit her lip in consideration. No, she decided. He seemed too sincere.

So, since she prided herself on open-mindedness, she created a new category. He’d be the first member of her new file of sincere men. Since he was the first one, she didn’t know what the accompanying flaws were, but one thing was certain: there
would
be flaws.

She stopped at Samantha’s door. Seeing the light spilling across the carpet through the crack, she knocked softly. “Can I come in?”

A muffled “Yes” came through, and Maggie opened the door.

Sam, dressed in an ancient T-shirt and gray sweats, her hair tumbled around her face, lay across the bed. Her eyes were swollen and red with crying. “Are you all right?” Maggie asked.