by Nora Roberts
And she could imagine it. The babies and toddlers whose mothers needed a reliable place to leave their children while they worked. The older children who would come after school and before the close of business. It would fill some of the ache, she thought, and the emptiness that throbbed inside her. She and Robert hadn't had children. They had been so sure there was plenty of time. So sure.
"I'm sure Rogan could help you with the business end of it, Patricia," Anne went on. "After all, you've no experience."
"She's my daughter, isn't she?" Dennis interjected with a wink. "She'll do fine."
"I'm sure she will." Again Anne itched to connect her foot with her husband's shin.
She waited until she was in the parlor with her daughter and the men were lingering over glasses of port in the dining room—a custom Anne refused to believe was outdated. She dismissed the maid who had wheeled in coffee, and rounded on her daughter.
"What are you waiting for, Patricia? You're letting the man slip between your fingers."
"Please, don't start this." Already Patricia could feel the dull, insistent throb of a headache in progress.
"You want to be a widow all your life, I suppose." Grim-eyed, Anne added cream to her cup. "I'm telling you it's been time enough."
"You've been telling me that since a year after Robbie died."
"And it's no more than the truth." Anne sighed. She'd hated to watch her daughter grieve, had wept long and hard herself, not only over the loss of the son-in-law she'd loved, but for the pain she'd been unable to erase from Patricia's eyes. "Darling, as much as we all wish it wasn't so, Robert's gone."
"I know that. I've accepted it and I'm trying to move on."
"By starting a day-care service for other people's children?"
"Yes, in part. I'm doing that for myself, Mother. Because I need work, the satisfaction of it."
"I've finished trying to talk you out of that." In a gesture of peace, Anne raised her hands. "And if it's what you want, truly, than it's what I want as well."
"Thank you for that." Patricia's face softened as she leaned over to kiss her mother's cheek. "I know that you only want the best for me."
"I do. Which is exactly why I want Rogan for you. No, don't close up on me, girl. You can't tell me you don't want him as well."
"I care for him," Patricia said carefully. "Very much. I always have."
"And he for you. But you're standing back, all too patiently, and waiting for him to take the next step. And while you're waiting he's becoming distracted. A blind woman could see that he's interested in more than that Concannon woman's art. And she's not the type to wait," Anne added with a wag of the finger. "Oh, no, indeed. She'll see a man of Rogan's background and means and snap him up before he can blink."
"I very much doubt Rogan can be snapped up," Patricia said dryly. "He knows his own mind."
"In most areas," Anne agreed. "But men need to be guided, Patricia. Allured. You haven't set yourself out to allure Rogan Sweeney. You've got to make him see you as a woman, not as his friend's widow. You want him, don't you?"
"I think—"
"Of course you do. Now see to it that he wants you, too."
Patricia said little when Rogan drove her home. Home to the house she'd shared with Robert, the house she couldn't give up. She no longer walked into a room expecting to find him waiting for her, or suffered those silvery slashes of pain at odd moments when she suddenly remembered their life together. It was simply a house that held good memories. But did she want to live in it alone for the rest of her life? Did she want to spend her days caring for other women's children while there were none of her own to brighten her life? If her mother was right and Rogan was what she wanted, then what was wrong with a little allure.
"Won't you come in for a while?" she asked when he walked her to the door. "It's early still, and I'm restless."
He thought of his own empty house, and the hours before the workday began. "If you'll promise me a brandy."
"On the terrace," she agreed, and walked inside.
The house reflected the quiet elegance and faultless taste of its mistress. Though he'd always felt completely at home there, Rogan thought of Maggie's cluttered cottage and narrow rumpled bed. Even the brandy snifter reminded him of Maggie. He thought of the way she'd smashed one against the hearth in a rage of passion. And of the package that had come days later, holding the one she'd made to replace it.
"It's a lovely night," Patricia said, and snagged his wandering attention.
"What? Oh, yes. Yes, it is." He swirled the brandy, but didn't drink.
A crescent moon rode the sky, misted by clouds, then glowing white and thin as the breeze nudged them clear. The air was warm and fragrant, disturbed only by the muffled sound of traffic beyond the hedges.
Tell me more about the school," he began. "What architect have you chosen?" She named a firm he approved of. They do good work. We've used them ourselves."
"I know. Joseph recommended them. He's been wonderfully helpful, though I feel guilty taking his mind off his work."
"He's well able to do a half-dozen things at once."
"He never seems to mind my dropping into the gallery." Testing him, herself, Patricia moved closer. "I've missed you."
Things have been hectic." He tucked her hair behind her ear, an old gesture, an old habit he wasn't even aware of. "We'll have to make some time. We haven't been to the theater in weeks, have we?"
"No." She caught his hand, held it. "But I'm glad we have time now. Alone."
A warning signal sounded in his head. He dis missed it as ridiculous and smiled at her. "We'll make more. Why don't I come by that property you've bought, look it over for you?"
"You know I value your opinion." Her heart beat light, quick, in her chest. "I value you."
Before she could change her mind, she leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his. If there had been alarm in his eyes, she refused to see it. No sweet, platonic kiss this time. Patricia curled her fingers into his hair and poured herself into it. She wanted, desperately wanted, to feel something again. But his arms didn't come around her. His lips didn't heat. He stood, still as a statue. It wasn't pleasure, nor was it desire that trembled between them. It was the chilly air of shock. She drew back, saw the astonishment and, worse, much worse, the regret in his eyes. Stung, she whirled away.
Rogan set his untouched brandy down. "Patricia."
"Don't." She squeezed her eyes tight. "Don't say anything."
"Of course I will. I have to." His hands hesitated over her shoulders and finally settled gently. "Patricia, you know how much I ..." What words were there? he thought frantically. What possible words? "I care about you," he said, and hated himself.
"Leave it at that." She gripped her hands together until her fingers ached. "I'm humiliated enough."
"I never thought—" He cursed himself again and, because he felt so miserable, cursed Maggie for being right. "Patty," he said helplessly. "I'm sorry."
"I'm sure you are." Her voice was cool again, despite his use of her old nickname. "And so am I, for putting you in such an awkward position."
"It's my fault. I should have understood."
"Why should you?" Chilled, she stepped away from his hands, made herself turn. In the dappled starlight, her face was fragile as glass, her eyes as blank. "I'm always there, aren't I? Dropping by, available for whatever evening you might have free. Poor Patricia, at such loose ends, dreaming up her little projects to keep herself busy. The young widow who's content with a pat on the head and an indulgent smile."
"That's not at all true. It's not the way I feel."
"I don't know how you feel." Her voice rose, cracked, alarming them both. "I don't know how I feel. I only know I want you to go, before we say things that would embarrass us both more than we already are."
"I can't leave you this way. Please come inside, sit down. We'll talk."
No, she thought, she would weep and complete her mortification. "I mean it, Rogan," she
said flatly. "I want you to go. There's nothing for either of us to say but good night. You know the way out." She swept past him, into the house.
Damn all women, Rogan thought as he strode into the gallery the following afternoon. Damn them for their uncanny ability to make a man feel guilty and needy and idiotic. He'd lost a friend, one who was very dear to him. Lost her, he thought, because he'd been blind to her feelings. Feelings, he remembered with growing resentment, that Maggie had seen and understood in the blink of an eye. He stalked up the stairs, furious with himself. Why was it he had no idea how to handle two of the women who meant so much to him? He'd broken Patricia's heart, carelessly. And Maggie, God cursed her, had the power to break his. Did people never fall in love with anyone who was eager to return it? Well, he wouldn't be fool enough to toss his feelings at Maggie's feet and have her crush them. Not now. Not after he'd inadvertently done some crushing of his own. He could get along very well on his own, thank you. He stepped into the first sitting room and scowled. They'd put a few more pieces of her work on display. A mere glimpse of what would be toured over the next twelve months. The globe she'd created in front of his eyes gleamed back at him, seeming to contain all the dreams she'd claimed were held inside, dreams that now mocked at him as he stared into its depths. It was just as well she hadn't answered the phone when he'd called the night before. Perhaps he'd needed her at that moment while the miserable guilt over Patricia had clawed at him. He'd needed to hear her voice, to soothe himself with it. Instead he'd heard his own, clipped and precise on the answering machine. She'd refused to make the recording herself. So instead of a quiet, perhaps intimate late-night conversation, he'd left a terse message that would, no doubt, annoy Maggie as much as it annoyed him. God, he wanted her.
"Ah, just the man I wanted to see." Cheerful as a robin, Joseph popped into the room. "I've sold Carlotta."Joseph's self-satisfied smile faded into curiosity when Rogan turned. "Bad day, is it?"
"I've had better. Carlotta, you say? To whom?"
"To an American tourist who strolled in this morning. She was absolutely enthralled by Carlotta. We're having her shipped—the painting, that is—to someplace called Tucson."
Joseph sat on the corner of the love seat and lighted a celebratory cigarette. "The American claimed that she adores primitive nudes, and our Carlotta was certainly primitive. I'm quite fond of nudes myself, but Carlotta was never my type. Too heavy at the hip—and the brush strokes. Well, the artist lacked subtlety, shall we say."
"It was an excellent oil," Rogan said absently.
"Of its type. Since I prefer something a bit less obvious, I won't be sorry to ship Carlotta off to Tucson." He pulled a little flip-top ashtray out of his pocket and tapped his cigarette in it. "Oh, and that watercolor series, from the Scotsman? Arrived an hour ago. It's beautiful work, Rogan. I think you've discovered another star."
"Blind luck. If I hadn't been checking on the factory in Inverness, I never would have seen the paintings."
"A street artist." Joseph shook his head. "Well, not for long, I can guarantee that. There's a wonderfully mystical quality to the work, rather fragile and austere." His tooth flashed in a grin. "And a nude as well, to make up for the loss of Carlotta. More to my taste, I'll have to say. She's elegant, rather delicate and just a bit sad-eyed. I fell hopelessly in love."
He broke off, flushing a little around the collar as he saw Patricia in the doorway. His heart trembled hopelessly. Out of your reach, boy-o, he reminded himself. Way out of your reach. His smile was dashing as he rose.
"Hello, Patricia. How lovely to see you."
Rogan turned, decided he should be flogged for putting those shadows under her eyes.
"Hello, Joseph. I hope I'm not disturbing you."
"Not at all. Beauty is always welcome here." He took her hand, kissed it, and called himself an idiot. "Would you like tea?"
"No, don't trouble."
"It's no problem, no problem at all. It's near to closing."
"I know. I'd hoped ..." Patricia braced herself.
"Joseph, would you mind? I need to have a moment alone with Rogan."
"Of course not." Fool. Dolt. Imbecile. "I'll just go on down. I'll put the kettle on if you change your mind."
"Thank you." She waited until he'd gone, then shut the door. "I hope you don't mind my coming, since it's so near closing."
"No, of course not." Rogan wasn't prepared, again, he discovered, to handle himself. "I'm glad you came."
"No, you're not." She smiled a little as she said it, to ease the sting. "You're standing there, frantically trying to think of what to say, how to behave. I've known you too long, Rogan. Can we sit?"
"Yes, of course." He started to offer a hand, then let it fall back to his side. Patricia lifted a brow at the movement. She sat, folded her hands in her lap. "I've come to apologize."
Now his distress was complete. "Please, don't. There's no need."
There's every need. You'll do me the courtesy of hearing me out."
"Patty." He sat as well, felt his stomach lurch. "I've made you cry." It was all too obvious now that they were close. However careful her makeup, he could see the signs.
"Yes, you did. And after I'd finished crying, I began to think. For myself." She sighed. "I've had much too little practice thinking for myself, Rogan. Mother and Daddy took such close care of me. And they had such expectations. I was always afraid I couldn't meet them."
"That's absurd—"
"I've asked you to hear me out," she said in a tone that had him staring in surprise. "And you will. You were always there, from the time I was what— fourteen, fifteen? And then there was Robbie. I was so in love there was no need to think, no room for it. It was all him, and putting the house together, making a home. When I lost him, I thought I would die, too. God knows I wanted to."
There was nothing else Rogan could do but take her hand. "I loved him, too."
"I know you did. And it was you who got me through it. You who helped me grieve, then move past the grieving. I could talk about Robbie with you, and laugh or cry. You've been the best of friends to me, so it was natural that I'd love you. If seemed sensible for me to wait until you began to see me as a woman instead of an old friend. Then, wouldn't it be natural enough for you to fall in love with me, ask me to marry you?"
His fingers moved restlessly under hers. "If I'd paid closer attention—"
"You'd have still seen nothing I didn't wish you to see," she finished. "For reasons I'd rather not dis cuss, I decided I'd take the next step myself, last night When I kissed you, I expected to feel, oh, Stardust and moonbeams. I threw myself into kissing you, expecting it to be everything I'd been waiting for, all those wonderful, terrifying tugs and pulls. I wanted so much to feel them again. But I didn't."
"Patricia, it's not that I—" He broke off, eyes narrowing. "I beg your pardon?"
She laughed, confusing him all the more. "When I'd finished my well-deserved bout of weeping, I thought through the whole episode. It wasn't just you who was taken by surprise, Rogan. I realized I'd felt nothing at all when I'd kissed you."
"Nothing at all," he repeated after a moment. "Nothing more than embarrassment for having put us both in such a potentially dreadful situation. It came to me that while I love you dearly, I'm not in love with you at all. I was simply kissing my closest friend."
"I see." It was ridiculous to feel as though his manhood had been impugned. But he was, after all, a man. "That's lucky, isn't it?"
She did know him well. Laughing, she pressed his hand to her cheek. "Now I've insulted you."
"No, you haven't. I'm relieved we've sorted this out." Her bland look had him cursing. "All right, damn it, you have insulted me. Or at least nicked my masculine pride." He grinned back at her. "Friends, then?"
"Always." She let out a long breath. "I can't tell you how relieved I am that that's over. You know, I think I'll take Joseph up on that tea. Can you join us?"
"Sorry. We've just gotten in a shipment from
Inverness I want to look over."
She rose. "You know, I have to agree with Mother on one thing. You're working too hard, Rogan. It's beginning to show. You need a few days to relax." "In a month or two." Shaking her head, she leaned down to kiss him. 'You always say that. I wish I thought you meant it this time." She tilted her head, smiled. "I believe your villa in the south of France is an excellent place not only to relax, but for creative inspiration. The colors and the textures would undoubtedly appeal to an artist."
He opened his mouth, closed it again. "You do know me too well," he murmured.
"I do. Give it some thought." She left him brooding and went down to the kitchen. Since Joseph was in the main gallery with a few lingering clients, she began to brew the tea herself. Joseph came in just as she was pouring the first cup. "I'm sorry," he said. 'They wouldn't be hurried along, nor could they be seduced into parting with a single pound. Here I thought I'd end the day by selling that copper sculpture. You know, the one that looks a bit like a holly shrub, but they got away from me."
"Have some tea and console yourself."
"I will, thanks. Have you—" He stopped when she turned to him and he saw her face in the full light.
"What is it? What's wrong?"
"Why, nothing." She brought the cups to the table, nearly dropping them both when he caught her by the arms.
"You've been crying," he said in a tight voice. "And there're shadows under your eyes."
On an impatient breath she set the jostling cups down. "Why are cosmetics so damn expensive if they don't do the job? A woman can't indulge herself in a good weeping spell if she can't depend on her powder." She started to sit, but his hands remained firm on her shoulders. Surprised, she looked up at him. What she saw in his eyes had her fumbling. "It's nothing—really nothing. Just some foolishness. I'm . . . I'm fine now."
He didn't think. He'd held her before, of course. They'd danced together. But there was no music now. Only her. Slowly, he lifted a hand, brushed a thumb gently over the faint smudges under her eyes. "You still miss him. Robbie."
"Yes. I always will." But her husband's face, so well loved, blurred. She saw only Joseph. "I wasn't crying for Robbie. Not really. I'm not sure exactly what I was crying for."
She was so lovely, he diought. Her eyes so soft and confused. And her skin—he'd never dared touch her like this before—was like silk. "You mustn't cry, Patty," he heard himself say. Then he was kissing her, his mouth homing to hers like an arrow, his hand scooping up into that soft swing of hair. He lost himself, drowning in the scent of her, aching at the way her lips parted in surprise to allow him one long, full-bodied taste of her. Her body gave to his, a delicate sway of fragility that aroused unbearable and conflicting needs. To take, to protect, to comfort and to possess. It was her sigh, part shock, part wonder, that snapped him back like a faceful of ice water. "I—I beg your pardon." He fumbled over the words, then went rigid with regret when she only stared at him. Emotions churned sickly inside of him as he stepped back. 'That was inexcusable." He turned on his heel and walked away before her head stopped spinning. She took one step after him, his name on her lips. Then she stopped, pressed her hand to her racing heart and let her shaking legs buckle her into a chair.
Joseph? Her hand crept up from her breast to her flushed cheek. Joseph, she thought again, staggered. Why, it was ridiculous. They were no more than casual friends who shared an affection for Rogan and for art. He was . . . well, the closest thing she knew to a bohemian, she decided. Charming, certainly, as every woman who walked into the gallery would attest. And it had only been a kiss. Just a kiss, she told herself as she reached for her cup. But her hand trembled and spilled tea onto the table. A kiss, she realized with a jolt, that had given her those moonbeams, the Stardust, and all the wonderful and terrifying tugs and pulls she had hoped for. Joseph, she thought again, and raced out of the kitchen to find him. She caught a glimpse of him outside and darted past Rogan with barely a word.
'Joseph!"
He stopped, swore. Here it was, he thought bitterly. She'd slap him down good and proper, and— since he hadn't made a quick enough exit—in public as well. Resigned to facing the music, he turned, tossed his streaming hair back over his shoulder. She skidded to a halt inches in front of him. "I—" She completely forgot what she'd hoped to say.
"You've every right to be angry," he told her. "It hardly matters that I never meant—that is, I'd only wanted to ... Goddamn it, what do you expect? You come in looking so sad and beautiful. So lost. I forgot myself, and I've apologized for it."
She had been feeling lost, she realized. She wondered if he would understand what it was like to know just where you were, and to believe you knew where you were going, but to be lost just the same. She thought he might.
"Will you have dinner with me?"
He blinked, stepped back. Stared. "What?"
"Will you have dinner with me?" she repeated. She felt giddy, almost reckless. "Tonight. Now."
"You want to have dinner?" He spoke slowly, spacing each word. "With me? Tonight?"
He looked so baffled, so leery, that she laughed. "Yes. Actually, no, that isn't what I want at all."
"All right, then." He nodded stiffly and headed down the street.
"I don't want dinner," she called out, loudly enough to have heads turn. Almost reckless? she thought Oh, no, completely reckless. "I want you to kiss me again."
That stopped him. He turned back, ignored the wink and encouraging word from
