Loved Me Once (Love, Romance and Business)

by Gail Hewitt

  "Why don't I believe that?" Alison grinned conspiratorially at the camera as Miles and Aimée moved away, "Just look at how perfect those two are together. You can't tell me they aren't a couple."

  Maggie clicked off and sat where she was, thinking. Were they a couple? That dance clip Tom had so thoughtfully sent her made it appear that they were, but Miles had not looked particularly involved just now and Aimée herself — even while implying a relationship — had denied any seriousness in the situation, citing the fact that Miles had told her he had a girl friend. Maggie wondered if, by any remote chance, what Aimée had said was accurate and if the girl friend were Maggie herself. Her heart rose. Taking that with Tom's statement that it was Miles who'd bought the Atlanta house, a sale that had closed only a few weeks before, how could Miles not care about her still, no matter how ambiguously cool his manner the last time they'd seen each other?

  She thought about that meeting at the City Club. It had been very kind of Miles to respond to her text, a kindness that she now realized was characteristic of him. Once there, he'd responded to her plea for help because he was a nice guy. Even though he bitterly disapproved of her working for TTI, he'd provided counsel which she was sure would have proved to be excellent had her question related in any way to reality. In one way, she thought his coming at all was a good sign, but then he'd used the word "brotherly" — could anything be worse? As for the Atlanta house, its sale had closed only a week or so before that meeting, and he'd said nothing. The terms he'd had his agent offer showed his sensitivity to Maggie's concern for her mother, tailored as they were precisely to her needs. How much more considerate could a guy be? But he was no pushover, not one of those disagreeably limp males who sat around and drooled even when things didn't go to suit them. Instead, he'd let her walk out when he concluded what she was doing couldn't work within his assessment of a permanent relationship. As for that relationship, was it possible that any of it still remained? If so, how should she feel about that?

  As if she had a choice, she told herself. For good or bad, she had Miles firmly implanted in her brain and those days — and nights — at Lake View seemingly imprinted in the very texture of her skin.

  With the smell of Tom still in her nostrils, she sat on the sofa and longed for Miles. Tom had been great in so many ways. Personally, at least if she assumed that his bossiness was modifiable, the only thing for which he could be faulted was that he wasn't Miles. What made this sense of loss and longing worse was her memory of all those months when Miles had only registered peripherally in her consciousness, months when he'd been just one more in the casually accumulated line of men who'd floated in and out of her life over the years, the difference being that she'd liked him enough to avoid as long as possible taking it to a point where it was — given her track record — likely to end. Ultimately, it was as if it had ended while she was just beginning to realize what had been going on all along. And she felt cheated, she felt so cheated. And she had no one to blame but herself. She had not respected his heartfelt objections to Tom's TTI job offer enough even to give them a fair hearing. Instead, she'd rushed headlong into the very situation he'd warned her about, only to learn that it was Miles who had been right even as she had been wrong.

  So here she was, caught between Tom's desire for her and her desire for Miles, and was she even getting this right? Perhaps Miles was just a fever in the blood, a passing fancy, but what if he weren't? What if he were the love of her life? For that matter, what if he weren't, but Tom was?

  And, if it came to it, how to compare the two men?

  She tried to put them in perspective as if they were the same age and she'd known them in the same place. Tom, she decided, would in any school be the quarterback of the football team, the athletically gifted golden boy who was smarter than anyone guessed and whose good looks made everyone —especially the girls — forget that his family wasn't perhaps all they could be and that his money would have to be earned and not inherited, with all the pressures that would involve. As for Miles, Miles was the captain of the tennis team, the well-born charmer whose easy manners and attractive grin made it possible to overlook the fact that he was also the school's chess champion, the strategist thoughtful or perhaps just lucky enough always to come out on top, whatever the competition — at least if it mattered to him. Perhaps because of these differences in backgrounds, Tom would always wonder if something (or someone?) were quite good enough, whereas Miles would be sure of his judgment and indifferent to anyone else's.

  And now? Miles seemed to want her just as she is, Tom as she was. Miles wanted her; Tom wants to know he has her. Miles respected her professionally, even tried to help her professionally; Tom doesn't recognize that she is a professional. Miles helped her secretly in the way that he bought the West Paces Ferry house so that — she was certain, knowing him — she wouldn't feel obligated; Tom obviously wants brownie points for everything he can do for her.

  As for the future, with Miles everything would be new, whereas Tom would almost certainly never quite get over measuring the present by what should have been all along, or at least his image of it. Miles would hold her accountable for helping him make a life they could share; Tom would treat her like a pampered pet and give her anything she wants as long as she stays in her place at his side.

  The thing that mattered, however, more than all the analysis, more than all her attempts to be sensible, was that when she lay back upon the sofa and closed her eyes, it was Miles' face that appeared before her, Miles' voice that she heard speaking her name, Miles' hands she felt upon her body, Miles' skin melded with her own. The chessmaster's strategy had proven to be more powerful than the quarterback's game plan.

  But what if Miles no longer felt the same? What if she had been a fever in the blood and all he felt now was relief at a close call and a fervent wish that she'd exercise the option to buy back the house? She wished she knew, then was glad she didn't. What if he'd completely changed his mind? And if he hadn't, why the continuing silence?

  She barely slept, tossing and turning through the night, everything churning around in her mind. The next morning her eyes were red-rimmed and her skin blotchy. She was so nervous that she jumped when she dropped a cup and broke it. She got out another, poured coffee, and sat down at her little dining table, the cityscape before her for once making no impression.

  Damn, damn, damn. This was silly. This was stupid. She had to risk it or wonder, miserably, the rest of her life. But what should she do? How could she convince Miles that it was he who mattered most to her in all the world and she was ready to commit if he still was? Then it came to her, and she jumped up and hurried to the phone. Conveniently, the Lake View number was still on speed dial.

  "Thomas Beverly, please. It's Maggie McLaurin calling."

  The Events Manager did not keep her waiting. "Ms. McLaurin, what a pleasure to hear from you."

  She told him what she wanted, asked if it would be possible.

  "Well," he said, "Saturday is just two days away, and it is Valentine's Day. Normally, we'd be sold out and all the venues reserved, but the economy has taken its toll. We've had a few cancellations. I think with some shifting around we can accommodate you, and may I say that what you're planning is most creative? Mr. Brewster is a lucky gentleman indeed."

  "I appreciate it," Maggie told him.

  Well, she thought, the stage was being set, the easy part was done. Now for the hard stuff. She thought about what she should say. She had a feeling if she sent him another "I need you" message, he might blow her off. This one, she felt instinctively, would have to be more personally intriguing to have even a chance of working. She got out her Palm and texted: "Miles – Valentine Day – Lake View – Reception Desk 4 pm. Luv, Maggie."

  Lake View was sending a car for her in the morning, so there was packing to be done. She went to the wardrobe and began to think about what — assuming Miles showed at all — she'd need to achieve the effect she wanted. Very little of what hung before h
er seemed quite right, but could she justify yet another trip to Bergdorf's? Screw the budget. She returned to the phone and called Maja. She described what she wanted and said she'd be there in half an hour.

  Would Miles come? And if he came, what would he do?

  Favorite Valentine

  As soon as she'd texted Miles, Maggie went on Palm alert. Whatever she was doing, wherever she was — shopping at Bergdorf 's, back at the condo packing, making phone calls, sleeping, showering, dressing, riding to Lake View, registering — she kept the device powered and on her person or immediately at hand, but as of noon on Friday Miles had not responded. She sighed as she checked the Palm yet again at the registration desk to make sure it was functioning. Thomas Beverly had seen her from his office and come out to welcome her. "Ms. McLaurin," the Events Manager said, a smile spreading over his face.

  "Mr. Beverly," Maggie replied, then stopped. "Look, I'll be more comfortable if you call me Maggie and tell me what you prefer to be called."

  "Bev is my nickname, Maggie," he told her.

  "All right, Bev, what have we got so far?"

  "As you probably gathered when you checked in just now, you're in the Prince Albert Suite, the same unit that Mr. Brewster occupied in December, the last time you were here. The private dining room that Mr. Brewster reserved before is being set up for you, as you directed. The Tea Lounge took a little more doing, but we worked it out. So all the venues, as well as the catering you requested, are set. I've arranged for an early check-in today, so you can go to your suite whenever you like, and the suite is booked for you through Sunday night. If you need it past that, we can probably accommodate you. Meanwhile, would you like to look at the decoration in the private dining room?"

  "I would," Maggie told him.

  "Just give me a moment to tell the room steward to take your luggage up."

  "I appreciate it," she said.

  As Bev led her down the corridor toward the private dining room, he expressed his pleasure in her return. "I'm flattered that you've selected Lake View as the scene of what is undoubtedly a meaningful personal event, particularly since Mr. Brewster is such a valued client."

  "I gather he and his family come here a lot."

  "Several times a year, each time bringing their families and guests, of course," Bev said. "His grandparents and great-grandparents came here as well according to the old registration records. In fact, his great-grandparents are in one of the oldest of the archival albums. Would you like to see it?"

  She nodded, and he led her down a side corridor to the library, a large but simple space with windows that overlooked the gardens. In it were shelves of books, mostly paperbacks, and a couple of large newspaper racks. To one side sat a wall-sized cabinet in heavy wood fronted by glass doors reinforced with metal grillwork. Behind the glass, Maggie could see rows of large albums. Bev touched a button on the back side of the cabinet and then selected a key from the large ring he carried in order to open the efficient-looking lock. Retrieving the first album from the top row, he carried it over to one of the tables that covered the center of the space and set it down carefully. He began to turn the heavy, stiff pages as Maggie watched. Each page held one or two photographs, complete with captions. Most of the pictures were of groups, lined up in two or three rows, standing on a porch or by the porte-cochere, some all male, some all female, a few mixed, the photographic subjects stiff in nineteenth-century attire. The page at which Bev stopped contained one large photograph, a charming image showing a young couple holding tennis rackets and smiling at each other. Save for the absence of jackets, they wore clothing only marginally less cumbersome than that of the people in the group shots and the picture was obviously posed; nonetheless, there was something buoyant and spontaneous in their expressions and the way in which they held their bodies. The caption identified the subjects as "The young Brewsters (John and Alice, of Boston) on their honeymoon, 18 June 1898."

  Bev handed Maggie a magnifying glass, and she held it over their faces. "A highly attractive young couple," Bev said. "I think there is some resemblance to their great-grandson, don't you?"

  Maggie nodded. "They look happy. I hope they stayed happy."

  "Let us hope so," Bev agreed, shutting the book. "Mr. Miles Brewster appears to have that gift."

  "He does," Maggie said slowly. She hadn't thought of Miles in that way, but he did indeed have that gift. It was a rare gift, certainly one to which she hadn't often been exposed. She shivered slightly and a quick glimmer of tears came into her eyes. She turned away so that Bev wouldn't notice.

  Bev replaced the album and relocked the door. "The Brewsters have close ties to this area, you know. Over the years, they've done quite a bit for the local community. They rebuilt the local humane society facility a few years ago, and they set up an arts and crafts center for the marketing of work by local professionals. They sponsor a food kitchen run every winter by the local churches. Perhaps of even greater long-term significance, they underwrite a scholarship to SUNY each year for a qualified local youngster who would otherwise not be able to attend college."

  "They sound wonderful," Maggie said.

  Bev looked at her quizzically. "You haven't met them?"

  "Only Miles. He and I became friends in the course of business."

  "They're good people. Mr. Howard Brewster, Mr. Miles Brewster's father, died some years ago, unfortunately, but Mrs. Brewster is delightful, a real lady and I would imagine an excellent businesswoman. As for his brother and sister and their families, they're much as you would expect. Wonderful people." He looked at his watch. "I didn't mean to keep you. I'm sure you'd like to get on with inspecting the arrangements."

  "It's been nice, seeing this," Maggie assured him, meaning it. Somehow, the photograph of Miles' great-grandparents and the account of some of the family's local benefactions made her feel she knew him better. It certainly provided a context for his life and behavior that she hadn't had.

  As they moved back into the corridor to continue on to their original destination, Maggie looked around at the Victorian decoration, handsome in a men's-club library sort of way. "I can see why the Brewsters return here generation after generation. It's a reassuring kind of place, isn't it?"

  Bev looked at her appreciatively. "That is exactly how I think of it. Reassuring and consistent. If Mr. Brewster's grandparents could see it as it is today, they would find it much as it was when they visited."

  When they arrived at the private dining room, Bev opened the door with the stained glass inserts, and they stepped inside. The room was exactly as she remembered, save that today the mantel was festooned not with poinsettias but with a garland of pink, white, and red silk roses. "It's lovely," Maggie said. "It's exactly what I want."

  Bev surveyed it with satisfaction. "I'm glad you're pleased. As you requested, afternoon tea according to the menu you provided will be brought in as soon as you signal, at any time after 4 p.m. Now, let me show you what we've done in the Tea Lounge." He led Maggie along the corridor and to the double doors, which he unlocked and opened to reveal that the configuration of the room had been changed so that the chairs that normally ringed the dance floor had been pushed against the walls and a trellised canopy outlined the dance floor. "I realize this is more formal than you requested," Bev said apologetically, nodding toward the columns that marked each of the canopy's four corners, "but it was the best we could arrange on such short notice. There wasn't time to put together the balloon towers that you mentioned."

  "It looks fine," Maggie reassured him, "and the banner will be strung between these two front columns?"

  "Just as you directed. A local sign painter is doing it. It reads 'Maggie loves Miles,' with the names in pink and the 'loves' in bright red, with a red heart at either end pierced by an arrow." He smiled indulgently. She could tell he was getting quite a kick out of this.

  "Sounds perfect," she said, "and the quartet will be where it was before, there by the windows?"

  "Exactly there," Bev
reassured her. "The same four musicians are coming. They've been given the playlist you emailed, which they'll initiate at 4:30 and continue playing until 6:30. The room will be completely yours during that period."

  Bev consulted the list he carried. "Arrangements of roses — in red, pink, and white — will be placed in cut-glass vases in both the sitting room and bedroom of your suite at 2 p.m. tomorrow, so they'll be as fresh as possible. And a magnum of champagne will be deposited in a Waterford bucket on the table in the sitting room at 4 p.m., together with two Waterford Lismore flutes in crimson."

  "The Waterford's a nice touch, Bev," she grinned.

  "It seemed in the spirit of everything else you've requested," he told her, smiling. "The champagne will be the same brand and year that Mr. Brewster has ordered in the past."

  "Ah yes," Maggie said, "the 'girl friend' visits."

  Bev clucked disapprovingly. "Young men have their flings before they find the right person. I hope you won't hold it against him."

  "Of course not. I'd think it was odd if he hadn't had 'flings,' as you so nicely put it," she said.

  "Excellent. Now, if I may make a suggestion?"

  "Of course."

  "I was notified that the last time you were here, you did not fully avail yourself of my gift of spa services."

  "Time got away from me," she said cryptically.

  "To show my appreciation for your including us in this special event, I've taken the liberty of booking you tomorrow for our Beautiful Valentine package, as my guest. It includes massage, facial, hair services, manicure and pedicure, and requires a total of six hours. Is that acceptable?"

  "That's very kind of you, Bev. The only thing is that I'll need to be back in the suite to dress no later than 2:30."

  "The spa opens at 7 a.m. I'll tell them to expect you at 7:30."

  "I really appreciate it, Bev."

  "My pleasure, Maggie."