With This Ring (7 page)

Amy painted until six, then finally stood and stretched and touched her toes a few times to loosen her cramped muscles. She put on a pot of coffee and while it was brewing, changed into shorts and a T-shirt and her Reeboks. When the coffee was ready, she took a cup out to the deck and watched the sunrise and listened to the birds. By seven she had headed out for a walk.

As she walked the quiet, neighborhood streets, she thought about Sam and everything they'd said and done the previous night. Even the memory of the kisses they'd shared was enough to send a plume of heat curling into her belly. Maybe it would be safest if she didn't think about the kisses, especially since she knew it wouldn't be wise to rush into a sexual relationship with him. But, oh, she wanted to. She wanted to more than she'd wanted anything in a long, long time.

Still thinking about Sam, at eight o'clock, she turned toward home. As she climbed the steps to her apartment, she could hear the phone ringing. Maybe it was Sam. She raced up the remaining steps. "Oh, damn! Don't hang up!" Fumbling with her key, she finally got it inserted in the lock and opened the door.

Once she was inside, she made a final mad dash toward the phone and yanked up the receiver. "H'lo." She was breathing hard.

"Amy?"

"Mom!"
You idiot. Of course, Sam wouldn't call you this early . . .

"Is something wrong? You sound funny."

"No, no. I'm just out of breath. I was out walking and ran up the steps when I heard the phone."

"Oh, good. For a minute there, I was worried."

Amy chuckled, mentally shaking her head at her mother's needless concern. "You don't have to worry. I'm fine. In fact, I'm great! And I'm so glad you called. I really wanted to talk to you."

"Something
is
wrong. I knew it!" Faith Carpenter declared.

"
Mom!
Nothing is wrong," Amy said emphatically. "I'm just excited because I've met this terrific guy and . . . well, I couldn't wait to tell you about him."

"Oh? Now that sounds important."

Amy smiled. "Yes. Very important."

"Well, come on, tell me. Who is he, and how did you meet him?"

Amy explained, ending with, "And it all happened just the way you said it had happened with you and Dad. I took one look and I just knew Sam was the one. I couldn't say this to many people, because it would sound silly, but I knew
you'd
understand."

"Well, yes, I do, but—"

"But what?"

Her mother sighed. "Just be careful, darling, won't you? Don't jump into anything. Give it some time. Get to know him before . . . well, you know . . . "

Amy frowned. "I'm not sure I understand.
Haven't
you been saying I'd know when I found the right man?"

"Yes, darling, but your father and I were introduced by mutual friends. I already knew about his family and his background. It was
safe
for me to fall in love so quickly. It's a little different in this case, don't you think? You really don't know this young man at all, and I don't want you to be hurt."

"There's no need to worry. Sam wouldn't hurt me."

Her mother sighed again. "I'm sorry, Amy. Perhaps he's every bit as wonderful as you think he is. Just promise me you'll be careful."

Amy started to say she wasn't a child. She started to say she was perfectly capable of making her own decisions and that she wasn't gullible or stupid. She was smarting from her mother's lack of confidence in her judgment and confused by Faith's about-face.

But she said none of these things. Her mother loved her. She had Amy's best interest at heart.
Besides,
said a tiny part of Amy's brain,
she could be right.
Pushing away the traitorous thought, Amy said, "Don't worry. I'll be careful. Now tell me about your trip. How's Brussels? Did Dad knock 'em dead?"

For the rest of the conversation, Faith recounted their itinerary of the past week, and Amy passed on several messages that she'd received on her parents' behalf. Just before they said good-bye, her mother said, "Are you seeing this young man again today?"

"I think so. He's going to call me later."

"And how long will he be in Houston?"

Her mother's question was sobering. Amy had been trying not to think about the fact that Sam would be leaving again, probably fairly soon, and might be gone for weeks or even months. She had no idea how long an assignment might take. He had talked a little about his work, but he hadn't described any specific assignment in detail. "I'm not sure," she finally said.

"I see," was all her mother said in return.

That
I see
said a lot, though, Amy mused as she hung up the phone. An awful lot.

She was still thinking about her mother's cryptic comment when she finally reached Lark later that morning. "You still mad at me?" she said after Lark gave her a sleepy 'hello.'

"Totally pissed," Lark mumbled.

Amy grimaced. "Seriously?"

Lark said something else unintelligible, then more succintly, "No, I'm not mad at you anymore. However, I do need a strong jolt of caffeine before I can talk with my usual scintillating wit and intelligence. So how 'bout if I go get some coffee, then call you back?"

Amy smiled. "Even better, why don't you roll out of bed and throw on some clothes and come over here? I'll have coffee and breakfast waiting for you."

"You got a deal."

Twenty-five minutes later, Lark's hot pink Amigo pulled into the driveway.

"So what's for breakfast?" she said as Amy greeted her from the top of the steps. "Sackcloth and ashes?"

Amy grinned. "Would you settle for French toast and bacon?"

"Honey, I'd
kill
for French toast and bacon!"

The two young women hugged as Lark reached the deck. Amy grinned again as she took in Lark's appearance. Her short, blunt cut blond hair looked like it had been struck by a tornado, and her white shorts and red T-shirt were so wrinkled, it was obvious she'd probably plucked them out of the laundry basket where they might have been sitting for days. She wore no makeup, and her feet were shoved into well-worn sandals.

Lark was a flight attendant for Continental, and on the job she was meticulously groomed, efficient, and organized. At home she was a complete and utter slob, the exact opposite of Amy. She was proud of being a slob, too. She reveled in it. Once, when Amy had asked her how she could stand living in such clutter, she'd said, "It's friendlier that way," and oddly, Amy had understood what she meant.

They went inside, and Amy poured Lark a mugful of coffee while she cut up fresh strawberries and put the French toast in the skillet. The smell of bacon, cooked and being kept warm in the microwave, permeated the kitchen.

"C'mon, tell me about him," Lark said, perching on one of Amy's barstools. Her large gray eyes were bright with curiosity. "He must be something to make you forget about me."

"He's wonderful," Amy said softly.

Lark raised her eyebrows. "Wonderful, eh? Wow. Tell me more. How'd you meet him, and what does he look like? Spare no details." Lark grinned, the tiny gap between her two front teeth giving her an impish look.

So for the second time that morning, Amy talked about Sam. By the time she'd finished, breakfast was ready, and they sat down at Amy's round dinette table and began to eat. "I know it sounds corny," Amy finished, meeting Lark's gaze and gearing herself for her friend's teasing, "but it . . . it was love at first sight. He's the one, Lark. I just know it."

But Lark didn't return her smile, and for a long moment, she didn't answer, either. She took another bite of her French toast, chewed it slowly, and thoughtfully studied Amy's face. "Did you sleep with him?"

"
Lark!
"

"Well,
did
you?"

"No."

"Good."

Amy shook her head. "You know, even though we've been friends forever, and I think I know you better than anyone, you continually surprise me."

Lark paused with her fork in midair. "What? You thought I would've encouraged you to have sex with some guy you'd just met?"

"Well, you're always telling me what I need is a good, you know . . . "

"Fuck, Amy. The word is fuck," Lark said dryly. "And the fires of hell will not leap out to get you if you say it." Lark put down her fork. "And, yeah, I do think you need to get laid, but that doesn't mean I think you should do something stupid."

"
You've
gone to bed with a guy on a first date," Amy pointed out.

"Yeah, but I'm different. I'm tough, and you're not. I don't expect hearts and flowers and engagement rings, and you do. I go into things with my eyes open, and you wear rose-colored glasses."

Amy had no answer for Lark's logic, because she knew her friend was right.

"You see things the way you think they should be," Lark continued softly, "the way you want them to be, and I see things the way they are."

"Maybe that's true, but sometimes you just have to trust your heart."

"Amy, listen to me. What do you know about this guy, anyway? Just what he told you, right? Well, maybe he's the slickest con artist on the face of the earth."

"He's not!" Amy protested. "I know he's not."

"Fine. Okay, let's forget about that, for now. Let's say he's everything he said he was, completely honest. Even so, he's obviously a here-today, gone-tomorrow type. I mean, hell, Amy, look at what he does for a living. The guy's constantly on the go, traveling all over the fucking world."

"People can change," Amy said stubbornly, trying not to think about Sam's words.
I have itchy feet. I like the adventure, the excitement, the risks . . .

Lark sighed. "Maybe. But they usually don't."

"You're so cynical." Amy didn't want to have doubts. She didn't want to think about her mother's warning and now Lark's.

"Listen, if you'd had a mother who'd been married three times, a stepfather who put the moves on you one night when your mother was out playing bridge with her buddies, and you spent most of your working life saying 'thanks, but no thanks' to married fly-boys who forget they're married the moment they say good-bye to the little woman, you'd be cynical, too."

Amy couldn't think of anything to say in answer. She knew she'd led a sheltered life compared to Lark, but she refused to believe the worst about people.

"Just be careful, will you?" Lark said. "If you want to go out with him again, fine, have fun. If you want to have sex with him, fine." She grinned. "Have even more fun." Then the grin faded. "Just don't give this guy your heart until you're sure he won't trample on it, okay?"

"God, you sound just like my mother."

"Don't try to change the subject."

"Okay, okay, I'll be careful," Amy agreed, but inside she knew it was too late. It didn't matter what her mother had said. It didn't matter what Lark had said. And it didn't even matter what Sam had said. Amy had already lost her heart to him.

Sam picked up the phone at least six times Sunday morning, then replaced the receiver without making a call. The last time, he'd banged the receiver down, saying, "Shit," under his breath.

He'd never been in this kind of dilemma before—wanting to call a woman, wanting to see her again, yet knowing it would be a mistake. Usually, when he met someone he knew wasn't his kind of woman, he steered clear of her to begin with.

Amy was different. Amy was everything he knew he should avoid. In addition to being the marrying kind, she was a wide-eyed innocent. He reminded himself that even if she hadn't been the type to expect more than he was capable of delivering, he didn't mess with any woman who didn't know the score. He wanted no scenes and no broken hearts when he walked away.

Do the right thing. Stay away from her, no matter how much you'd like to see her again. You can't afford to get involved. Remember, everything you decided about Jessie applies to Amy.

But he kept thinking about her. He hated that she would think he was a complete jerk, after saying he'd call and then not calling. Ah, hell, so what if she did? Except for his ego, did it really matter what Amy thought? Wasn't it better that she
would
think he was a jerk? That way, she'd be angry for a while, then she'd forget all about him.

He kept telling himself all of this as he got ready to go to Justin's family home for Sunday dinner, and by the time he pulled into the driveway of the big old house in the Heights, he had almost succeeded in convincing himself that as far as Amy was concerned he'd done the only thing he could do.

"Sam!" Claire Malone, Justin's mother, gave him an exuberant hug and a kiss on the cheek. "It's wonderful to see you again." She pulled back to study him. "You look terrific, as usual. Come on in. The kids are all back on the sun porch." Her blue eyes shone with pleasure and her smile was wide and welcoming.

Claire Malone was the woman Sam would have picked if he'd been able to choose his mother. Intelligent, honest, generous and loving, she was everything a woman should be.

He smiled down at her. "How's my favorite girl? Did you miss me?"

She laughed. "Flatterer! Of course, I missed you. We all did." She linked her arm with his and led him to the glassed-in sun porch that ran the entire width of the house and overlooked the tree-filled back yard. A chorus of voices greeted him as they crossed the threshhold.

Sam shook hands with Stephen, Justin's younger brother, said hello to Lisa, Stephen's wife, and patted the head of Ryan, their two-year-old, whose face lit up as he said, "Tham!"

"Hey, slugger, how's it going?"

Then Sam turned his attention to Justin's sisters. "Hey, Susan, looking good . . . how're the wedding plans coming?"

Susan flushed with pleasure.

"Hey, Katie, I hear you made the Dean's List. Congrats."

Katie grinned, and they exchanged high fives.

"Good to see you again, Win," he said to Winston McNally, Susan's fiancé, who returned his greeting with a pleasant smile and handshake.

The last person he acknowledged was Jessie. "Sorry I missed your party last night, Jess."