FIRST KISS

by Marylin Pappano

  "I'll go with you."

  "But—" Spending her few hours away from the inn with Margery McBride sounded more like hell than a pleasant change. She forced an excuse. "It's awfully cold outside, Mrs. McBride, and I'm walking."

  "Good. I can use the exercise."

  "But—"

  "Wait one moment. I simply need to change shoes and get my coat." Margery turned to start up the stairs. "Don't think about leaving without me. I don't feel kindly toward people who disobey me."

  Because she didn't have the nerve to disobey, Bree waited, shifting her weight from foot to foot, listening to the grandfather clock tick off the seconds. When finally Margery returned, she'd changed clothes as well as shoes, pulled a knitted cap over her head, and put on her full-length fur. With the cap and the heavy-duty, top-dollar Nikes, the fur looked silly. Not that Bree would have minded looking silly if it meant keeping as warm as Margery appeared to be.

  "Why are you walking to town?" she asked as they started down the drive. "You obviously don't need the exercise. You're thin enough as it is."

  "I don't have any other way to get there," Bree replied.

  "Where's your car?"

  "I don't have one." From the corner of her eye, Bree caught the incredulous look on Margery's face. How nice it must be to take for granted all the little luxuries that made life easy, like a car, a fur, enough money to pay the rent and the bills and still have groceries, too. Margery had never wanted for anything in her life, but look where it had gotten her. Her husband was dead, her daughter wanted nothing to do with her, and she was a drunk.

  Maybe it wasn't so nice having life easy.

  "Do you have a boyfriend?" Margery asked.

  "No, ma'am."

  "Why not? You're a pretty enough girl. In fact…" She studied Bree intently for a moment. "You look rather familiar. Have we met?"

  "N-no, ma'am."

  "Are you sure? Because I rarely forget a face, and yours seems…" With a sudden loss of interest, she waved a hand to dismiss the topic. "When I was your age, I had young men lined up for the chance to take me out. I lived in the city and went to the ballet, the symphony, the opera, and I attended the most fabulous parties and more opening nights than I can remember. Oh, I had the most wonderful times in the city."

  Why did she talk about New York City as if it were the only city of any consequence in the entire state? Bree wondered. And what was so special about the ballet, the symphony, and the opera? She couldn't imagine many worse ways to spend an evening. Her activities at home had been much simpler and cheaper—high school football games, free concerts in the park, a hot afternoon in a cool movie theater—but at least she'd never been bored to tears. She wouldn't have survived long in the life the older woman spoke of so longingly.

  "I met Holly's father at the opera, you know," Margery said, then laughed. "Of course you don't know. How could you? It was La Bohème. He was so handsome, and I was quite a beauty then. We were the perfect couple. Everyone always said so."

  "My father wouldn't have been caught dead at the opera. He liked movies and carnivals and zoos."

  "Oh," Margery said with a patronizing look. As in, Oh, how common. Or, Oh, that explains a lot. Then she went on. "So… Why are you working for my daughter as a maid?"

  "I needed a job."

  "Don't you have any ambition? Don't you want to better yourself?"

  "My dad always said there's nothing wrong with honest work."

  "Don't you want to go to school? Find a better job? I don't know what my daughter pays, but I'm sure it's not enough to balance the indignity of cleaning up after strangers." Margery laughed scornfully. "I'm sure there's not enough money in the world to make me take such a job."

  Pausing on the curb, Bree gave her a narrow look before announcing, "You're a snob, Mrs. McBride."

  Margery wasn't the least bit offended and kept walking. "Well, of course I am. Being a snob is the only thing I do well."

  That, and drink. And boss people around. And make her daughter miserable.

  "I was an only child, and nothing made my parents happier than to make me happy. Nothing was too good, or too expensive, for me. I got what I wanted when I wanted it, and no one—" she pointed a gloved finger in Bree's direction "—no one ever dared tell me no." Then she grudgingly added, "Until my husband forced me to move to this god-awful place."

  Bree gave the "god-awful place" a close look. The houses they were passing were neat and pretty. Downtown Bethlehem lay ahead, a half-dozen blocks of businesses in old buildings, with a grassy square and friendly people everywhere. The town was everything she'd expected—lovely, quaint, artsy, old-fashioned. The instant she'd stepped off the bus, she had felt a connection to her past. Lately she'd begun to think her future might lie there, too, if she didn't screw it up in the present.

  "I like Bethlehem," she said stubbornly. "It's a lot nicer than where I grew up. Everyone's friendly, and it's safe to walk the streets, and it seems like a good place to raise kids."

  "God, that's what my husband used to say. He never bothered to find out that I wasn't looking for a place to raise kids because I wasn't planning any kids to raise. Holly just sort of … happened. After she was born, there was no way I could get him out of that awful old farmhouse or this detestable little town. I was stuck."

  A snob and self-centered, too, Bree thought as they crossed another street. There she stopped and gestured toward the bank. "This is where I'm going. If you need a ride back to the inn—"

  Margery smiled. "Run along and take care of your business. I don't mind waiting."

  "But—"

  "Go on. I'll just stand out here and recite all the things I hate about this— Oh, hell, I'll come in and hurry you along." Taking Bree's arm, she pushed her into the bank lobby, then waited at the door while Bree cashed her check. If she got the chance to stay in Bethlehem long, she would open a checking account, but for the time being, she needed to keep all her money handy. She never knew when she might have to leave.

  When they stepped out into the cold again, Margery gave a huge sigh of relief. "God, did you see the way those people looked at me? I could never stand that—everycould in town knowing everycould else, along with all their secrets. Where are you from?"

  "Rochester."

  "Well, no wonder Bethlehem looks good to you. My husband spent a great deal of time in Rochester. Once he even suggested we live there." Margery shuddered. "I told him I should think not! If I can't live in the city, I might as well not live at all!" Without pausing for breath, she exclaimed, "Oh, look, here's Harry's. Let's go in and have something warm to drink."

  "I'd rather not— I have other places to—"

  Ignoring her protests, Margery took her arm and steered her toward the door. "You chose where we stopped first. Now it's my turn, and I want to stop here. Don't worry. It'll be my treat."

  It was easier to go in with her and be embarrassed than to cause the scene it would have taken to free her arm from Margery's grip. Hoping it was both Maeve's and Harry's day off, she drew a deep breath as Margery propelled her through the door. The first voice she heard, though, was Maeve's.

  "You're a stubborn old man, Harry. You'd rather beat your head against a brick wall than admit you're wrong."

  "Maybe I would," the old man retorted. "If I'm ever wrong, I'll let you know."

  Ducking her head, Bree headed toward the nearest empty booth. Once seated, she kept her knit cap pulled down over her hair and turned slightly to face the town square across the street. It didn't do her any good, though.

  Maeve slapped two menus on the table, then said, "Why, if it isn't our friend, Bree. How are you, hon? How do you like that job at the inn?"

  Her cheeks burning, she straightened on the seat, pulled off her cap, and combed her hair. "I'm fine, Maeve. And the job's fine, too."

  "I hear Holly's made room for you to stay there."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  The waitress shifted her gaze, and the warmth and friendliness faded fr
om her smile. "Margery. You're looking better."

  "Than what?" Margery asked.

  "Than the last time I saw you. Let's see, that would have been Saturday night at the dance."

  Two sentences that just about knocked Margery off her seat. Her face turned as pink as Bree's, and for a moment her mouth worked without making a sound. Maeve filled their coffee cups, murmured something about another customer, and walked away.

  "That woman never did like me," Margery muttered when she recovered her voice.

  With good reason, Bree thought, but she clenched her teeth to keep from saying it aloud.

  After a moment, Margery waved one elegant hand as if brushing the subject away, then studied Bree thoughtfully. "You really do look familiar. Are you sure we haven't met?"

  Bree nodded.

  "Maybe I met your mother. Does she have ties to the city? Do you look like her?" When Bree shook her head, Margery shrugged. "Oh, well, it'll come to me. It always does."

  Bree slid out of the booth. "When Maeve comes back, I'd like a cinnamon roll and a cup of hot chocolate. I'll be back."

  "But where are you—"

  In the nights she'd slept in the café, she had discovered that through the door marked Rest Rooms, all the way to the end of the hall and around a corner was a pay phone. She dug a few coins from her jeans pocket, dropped them in the slot, then hesitated a long moment before dialing the number.

  On the sixth ring, the phone was answered by a sweet, soft, familiar voice. She wrapped her fingers tightly around the receiver, blinked back a tear, and said, "Mom? Mom, it's me, Sabrina. How are you?"

  * * *

  Pushing away from the desk, Tom rubbed his eyes, then swiveled his chair around to face the windows. The winter sky was dull, the color of well-used pewter, and the temperature, according to the weather report, was easing toward the single digits. Another typical winter day. A warm beach somewhere was starting to sound good. And if he could persuade a certain innkeeper to share that beach with him…

  Behind him, the door opened, then closed. "Mr. Flynn, there's someone here to see you," his secretary said with a disapproving note in her voice. "She doesn't have an appointment, and frankly, she doesn't look like someone who'd have legitimate business with you. Shall I send her away?"

  As he turned to face her, he wondered what someone with legitimate business looked like. "What is this person's name?"

  "Sophy." The secretary wrinkled her nose as if the name alone supported the judgment she'd already made. "Sophy Jones."

  "Send her in."

  "But, Mr. Flynn—"

  He gave her a look that silenced her protest, prompted her to nod and leave the room. A moment later, Sophy strolled in. Her look was different for the building. The long coat flapped around her ankles, and she wore clunky tennis shoes that looked far too big for her.

  "In the neighborhood?" he asked dryly.

  "Yeah. Thought I'd come by to see you."

  He folded his arms over his chest. "How did you get past the guards?"

  "I told them I had important business to discuss with Mr. Flynn."

  He shook his head. "It wouldn't work."

  "I made myself invisible and walked right past them."

  This time he raised his eyebrows.

  With a sigh and a shrug, she pulled off her knitted cap and came a few feet closer. "I sneaked in. I thought about waiting in the street for you to run me over again, but…"

  Her choice of words made Tom flinch inside, but Sophy grinned.

  Clutching her cap in one hand, she took the long way around his desk. The paintings on the wall received a thorough look, as did the oriental rugs on the floor. She seemed particularly taken with the collection of jade netsuke he'd bought on trips to Japan.

  Finally she stopped on the other side of the credenza and sat on the windowsill. "How is Holly?"

  Holly was beautiful, soft, warm. She was intelligent enough to carry on any conversation. When they danced, she fitted in his arms as if she'd always been there. After only a few kisses, her taste was a familiar one that he'd begun to crave. She was a better daughter than her mother deserved, and a better woman than he deserved, but he was going to marry her anyway, even if it took the rest of his life to persuade her to say yes.

  "Holly is fine," he said.

  "Have you asked her to marry you yet?"

  "Not that it's any of your business, but yes."

  "And she said…?"

  "Something along the lines of 'Not only no, but hell no.'"

  Sophy gave him a wide-eyed look. "Good heavens, what did you say to her? Exactly what kind of proposal did you make?"

  He rubbed one hand over the back of his neck, debated confiding in her, then decided there was nothing to lose. A woman's take on the subject might be helpful, and she was the only woman with whom he could remotely imagine himself discussing anything so personal. "I told her that we were a good match. We each find the other interesting. We're both in business so we understand the demands on our time. Neither of us wants a family, and she's not interested in my money. Our getting married is a perfectly reasonable, logical decision. What more could she want?"

  Sophy stared at him, her expression utterly appalled. "Oh, gee, I don't know. How about, 'I love you, I need you, you make my life complete'? Marriage is a matter of the heart, not a business merger. Do you love her?"

  He waited a moment before stonily answering, "I … like her."

  Her features screwed into a wince. "You haven't had much experience expressing sentiment, have you? What if you never saw her again? Would you miss her?"

  He considered life without Holly. Endless evenings with women like Deborah and Cyndi. Meaningless sex. Terminable boredom. The answer was clear, but it wasn't easy to give. "Yes," he said grudgingly. "I would."

  "See? That wasn't so hard. Do you feel better when you're with her? Do you enjoy being with her more than other women? When you're not together, do you think about her? Wonder what she's doing, if she's thinking of you? If she pays attention to another man, are you jealous?"

  He settled on a shrug for an answer.

  "Then tell her so. Don't talk about reason and logic. Tell her what you think, what you want, what you feel." She stifled a chuckle. "Good grief, you deserved to be turned down with a proposal like that."

  Tell her what he felt… Not a bad idea, if he knew exactly what that was. If he had any experience at all in feeling anything, or in identifying feelings. If he was convinced he wouldn't be placing himself in a position of weakness. Any businessman worth a damn knew you couldn't negotiate effectively from a position of weakness.

  "Holly's not a very sentimental person," he remarked.

  "Maybe not, but she turned down your levelheaded business-merger proposal. If you really want to marry her, try something a little more personal. A little more human. Does she like flowers?"

  "I don't know."

  "Chocolates? Jewelry? Perfume?"

  He shrugged again.

  "Well, find out. Give her gifts that are unbearably romantic. Let her know that she means more to you than simply closing your latest deal. Let her know you … like her."

  Long after Sophy left, her words kept echoing in his mind. Finally that night, he picked up the phone in his home office, dialed the number, and curbed the impulse to hang up before it rang.

  She answered in the voice that had fueled his fantasies and fevers. He had to swallow hard, had to force his fingers to loosen their white-knuckled grip on the receiver. "Holly, it's Tom. I, uh … just wanted to say, uh … I've missed you…"

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  « ^ »

  Holly's Friday lunch routine with her female friends was in full swing by twelve o'clock. She sat between Emilie and Maggie and listened to the latest gossip, as well as watched her friends graciously tiptoe around the preceding weekend's fiascos. No one mentioned either her mother or the marriage proposal, for which she was grateful, though she wouldn't hazard a guess on
how long they would avoid the subject of marriage.

  Not long, it turned out, though the lead-in came from a different tack. "Kelsey, I saw Bud's car parked in front of the Winchester house twice this week," Maggie remarked.

  "And I saw him at the hospital yesterday, hanging around the Information desk during Miss Agatha's shift," Melissa added.

  "He's moving kind of fast, isn't he?" asked Shelley.

  Holly snorted. "At their age, they have to move fast."

  "Yeah, they don't have the time for a leisurely courtship like some people," Emilie replied with a sly grin.

  "I'm not being courted," Holly said sternly, daring any of her friends to argue with her. Even her fiercest scowl didn't deter them.

  "Of course you are," Maggie disagreed. "Tom wants to get married, and he's spending time with you to try to change your mind. Sounds like a courtship to me."

  "Tom doesn't know what he wants. As soon as I get through that thick skull of his, he'll see that." Holly indulged in her most seductive of smiles. "And then I'll get what I want."

  "Tom Flynn has known what he's wanted since he was sixteen," Maggie argued. "He's the most decisive, reasonable, logical man I know—after Ross, of course. And what he wants, Holly dear, is you."

  Holly wanted to argue, wanted to say, Oh, yeah, then why had he made what must surely be the most unromantic proposal on record? Why had he spoken of things like money and reason instead of commitment, emotion, and forever?

  Why hadn't he said even once that he loved her?

  But she didn't say any of that, even to her best friends in the world, because … truthfully, she was embarrassed. It was a sure bet not one of their husbands had made such a cold, unemotional proposal. They'd talked about love, happiness, growing old together, about sharing each other's lives, about wanting no one or nothing more than they wanted their wives. Each of her friends had gotten the hearts-and-flowers routine, while she'd gotten a business proposition.

  Of course, there was a very simple explanation for it. Tom didn't love her. His happiness didn't depend on spending the rest of his life with her. She couldn't make his life complete, and there were plenty of things that were more important to him than she was.