"Come on, guys," she said, walking into the workroom with a bravery born of insanity. "Why don't you let me in on the joke?"
The guy with the purple streak – she'd heard him called Leon – grinned at her. "We know all about you, lady."
"Yeah," said the girl who'd been dancing when Sandra first opened the door. "We've been wonderin' when you'd finally show up."
"I didn't know he talked so much," Sandra muttered.
"He doesn't."
Sandra spun around at the sound of a new voice in the doorway and found herself face-to-face with one of the most exotically attractive women she'd ever seen. She was tiny, with yards of curly black hair that tumbled around a triangular face blessed with clear, ivory-colored skin. Her eyes were huge, a burnished gold, and frighteningly direct.
Sandra felt an odd, queasy sensation in the pit of her stomach.
"He doesn't what?" she finally managed.
"McKay doesn't talk very much," the tiny woman with the lushly curved body said as she came into the room. She smelled of pottery clay, turpentine, and Obsession. "At least not to the kids." She circled Sandra once, then stopped in front of her, her hands deep in the pockets of her black jumpsuit. "And sure as hell not about you."
"Does everyone in this place talk in riddles?"
"Whoo-eee," hooted one of the workers in the far corner of the workshop. "The lady's got a temper ! Wonder what the man thinks about that?"
"Mind your own business, Bobby!" The small woman wheeled around, instantly back to business. "Don't you people anything better to do than eavesdrop? If Michael comes back and the finials on the east portico aren't started . . . " She shrugged and let them fill in the rest of the horror story themselves.
Then she turned her attention back to Sandra.
Sandra willed herself to stand perfectly still while the woman blatantly checked her out.
"Do I meet your approval?" Sandra finally snapped. "I feel like I'm up on the auction block and you're not sure I'll bring full price."
The woman grinned up at her, and Sandra had to restrain herself from knocking her little block off.
"It's the nose," the dark-haired woman said, tapping her booted foot against the cement floor."It should be a shade thinner at the bridge."
Sandra glared down at her. "I'll make an appointment with the plastic surgeon tomorrow."
Did church work attract the incurably rude?
The woman's smile faded. "You really don't know about it, do you?"
"Your pronouns are driving me nuts," Sandra said, "and no, I don't know anything about anything."
The woman tilted her head toward the back room. "Come on. I'll show you."
Walking the thirty feet or so past the young stonecutters, who were ostensibly working at the benches lining the walls, was tougher than walking past a crowd of sailors on shore leave.
At least she'd have known exactly what the sailors had in mind.
Finally the woman stopped near a stack of busts in various stages of complete. Griffins, unicorns, dragons and demons snarled at her from atop wooden cabinets, and a surprising number of them looked familiar in a way she couldn't quite figure out.
But no matter. The brunette had turned her full attention on Sandra.
"You're Michael's old friend, aren't you?"
Sandra nodded. "I'm old Sandra Patterson. And you're --?"
"Annie Gage." She extended her hand. "I run Altar Ego over in the church basement. We help keep money in their coffers."
"I see."
Of course she didn't see, but Sandra was already suffering from information overload. Wondering how Annie Gage and Michael connected with one another was occupying most of her brain circuits at the moment.
"You look just the way I thought you would."
"Except for the nose." Sandra wasn't above a quick shot.
Annie laughed. "Except for the nose."
Sandra's eyes narrowed. "Michael described me to you?" That didn't sound like the Michael McKay she knew at all, not unless he and this Gage woman were much closer than she cared to contemplate.
"He didn't have to," Annie said. She stepped back and gestured toward the carved torso of what seemed to be an angel-in-progress. "He did this."
It was a female angel, with a fall of straight hair, but without her glasses on, Sandra couldn't make out the details. Curiosity piqued, she moved closer, aware of Annie's scrutiny but unable to resist. The hair, the long, slightly slanted eyes, the full mouth – suddenly it all came together in a rush of understanding so overwhelming that she leaned back against a nearby workbench.
"That's me." Her voice was low, hushed. "I can't believe it."
"Believe it," Annie said. "We've been taking bets on the Mystery Lady. As soon as I heard about the Hurricane Henry reunion, I knew."
Sandra took another look at the carved stone. The sensation of seeing her own features staring blankly back at her was disconcerting; it was almost as if she were watching herself sleep.
"He did all this work in less than a week?" It hardly seemed possible.
"You don't know much about stonecutting, do you? He's been at this since last March."
Sandra started in surprise. "That's six months ago."
Annie nodded. "Stonecutting's a long, painstaking process. You wouldn't think he'd have the patience for it."
It was Sandra's turn to nod, but it wasn't Michael's patience that she found amazing. It was the fact that she had obviously been as deeply embedded in his heart as he had always been in hers.
This incredible work of art in front of her was the most visible testament of love – or obsession – she had ever seen.
Annie Gage was watching her closely, her huge golden eyes frankly curious and assessing. Sandra forced herself to turn away from her own eerie likeness and meet the other woman's gaze.
"Is something wrong?" she asked.
A half smile tilted Annie's mouth. "You didn't know he was a stonecutter, did you?"
"I knew he worked here at the church," Sandra hedged.
"But you didn't know he was capable of anything like this."
She bristled at Annie's unabashed frankness. "Michael is capable of anything he sets his mind to," she said, her words clipped.
"Did you think he was a construction jock-type?"
"I knew he worked with his hands."
"You think I'm pushy, don't you?" Annie plunged her small, paint-stained hands into the pockets of her jumpsuit.
"Yes," Sandra said. "Extremely."
Annie laughed. "I am pushy. It's a family trait. I just can't help being curious about where you fit in."
That queasy feeling returned to the pit of Sandra's stomach. Annie Gage was an extremely sexy and attractive woman. It wasn't hard to imagine that she and Michael might have progressed far beyond sharing a bagel and coffee in the church cafeteria.
The concept of knowing one another in the biblical sense took on yet another dimension. One that Sandra didn't like at all.
She decided against asking the obvious – and very direct – question, because it was all too apparent that Annie Gage would give a direct answer.
"Is Michael around?" she asked instead. "I know I'm early but . . . " She let her words trail off.
Annie checked her watch, a big round-faced Timex with huge Roman numerals. "Davey's plane came in at three. They must've hit traffic coming back from Newark, because they should have been here an hour ago."
"Maybe the plane was delayed."
"No, it wasn't," Annie replied quickly. "I called to make sure."
Sandra stared at the woman. She called Delta to make sure?
What on earth was going on? Unless Annie Gage was waiting for someone on that plane herself, why would she care if the plane carrying Michael's child was early, late, or on time? The only reason she could come up with was that Annie Gage and Michael had –
"Annie!"
Sandra's disturbing thoughts were stopped midstream as a small bundle of boy, dressed in a candy-a
pple-red baseball jacket, catapulted himself across the workshop and into Annie's arms.
She knew it was idiotic, but Sandra's legs began to shake, and she was glad she had the worktable behind her for support.
"Well, look at you!" Annie, who wasn't much taller than the boy, ruffled his dark blond hair. "You have a tan, Davey!"
The child's head was turned away from Sandra. All she could see was the curve of his right ear. This wasn't the way she'd had things planned.
"Grandpa Art took me fishing on a boat," she heard the boy say in a high, clear voice.
"Did you catch anything?" Annie asked.
"Un-unh." He shook his head. "It takes practice. Daddy says we can go fishing in the spring by home."
"Daddy also says you have to learn how to swim first and wear a life jacket, pal."
Sandra's entire body reacted to the deep, thrilling sound of Michael's voice as he walked toward them. She felt as if she were suspended over a flame, yearning toward its warmth but aware of the danger inherent in fire.
On one side of the stone angel, his son stood, hugging Annie Gage. On the other side, Sandra waited, hands clutching the edge of the worktable, heart pounding uncontrollably.
What Michael did in the next ten seconds would determine much of her future.
She held her breath.
He looked at her, his dark eyes unreadable. "You're here early."
She swallowed. "Yes. I decided to make a break for it."
Everyone in the place was staring at them, including the little boy whose face she had yet to see.
She couldn't take her eyes from Michael.
"Risking the wrath of your boss?"
She snapped her fingers. "Piece of cake. I told them I had something important to do."
A slow, lazy smile broke across his face, and her heart turned over. Joy, pure and wonderful, was in his eyes, and she felt that same joy flood her entire body.
Risking the wrath of US-National was a small price to pay for a moment of such intense pleasure.
And then he walked toward her.
That simple act of singling her out, publicly stating her important in his life, sent what was left of Sandra's defenses tumbling to the floor.
Michael drew her into his arms and gave her a warm hug. She wanted to bury her face against his shoulder and close out the rest of the world.
"See the resemblance?" he murmured, angling his head toward the lovely stone angel.
"You have an incredible memory," she said.
"Not incredible enough. You're more beautiful now than I ever imagined."
"When you said you worked with your hands, I had no idea you meant this."
"It still surprises the hell out of me, too," he said. "When I found out I could create something so beautiful – " He stopped and shook his head. "Hell, I finally knew what I was all about."
Everything she was, everything she'd hoped and dreamed and strived for, was tangled up in this moment and with this man she loved.
Of course, now the man she loved had a small son to care for, and that small son would be at the center of any future she and Michael might have.
She wasn't a stranger to the responsibilities required by love. The depth of her commitment to Elinor was proof of that. But this was something else again.
Bonds of love didn't exist behind her and Michael's child. The easy rapport Annie Gage enjoyed with David was something Sandra wasn't sure she could manage.
She could feel the boy's eyes upon her, and knew it was time to face the music.
Michael released her from his embrace, and she took a deep breath.
"Davey," Michael stepped toward his son. "This is the friend I told you about."
If Sandra had been worried that she would see Michael's ex-wife's face each time she looked at this child, that fear vanished the moment she looked at David McKay.
The dark, midnight eyes of the boy she'd known looked back at her across the years, and only the mop of curly blond hair assured her that she hadn't stepped back in time.
Those eyes belonged to David McKay and no one else, and right now David McKay was wondering what on earth she was doing there.
"Hi," she said, bending down and extending her hand for him to shake. "I'm Sandra."
He moved closer to Annie, his right forefinger resting against his lower lip. Sweat began to pop out along Sandra's hairline as she realized her hand was fluttering in the breeze like a forgotten flag.
She pulled it in and swiftly wiped her palm against the side of her expensive skirt.
Gathering her forces, she gave it another try.
"Your father and I went to school together. I knew him when he was just about your age."
Annie Gage's eyes widened, and Sandra felt a wicked burst of pleasure.
David looked up at his father as if the thought of Michael's ever having been five years old was incomprehensible.
Michael swooped the child into his strong arms and laughed. "Sandy was just like you are, pal," he said. "She loves animals, too."
It had been so many years since Sandra had lived a life that was table enough to include pets that Michael's words surprised her. How many long-ago parts of herself had she lost along the way to discovering who she was – and what she wanted?
She moved closer to them.
"Do you have a dog, David?" Not a brilliant question, but the best she was able to come up with. Thank God Michael had brought up the topic of pets; if he hadn't, she would still be stumbling around looking for something to talk about.
The boy was watching her with those huge, dark eyes of his, and she had the strangest feeling that he understood her uncertainty, could see right through to the fears gnawing at her heart.
You think you have it tough, David? At least you know you'll end up with him.
Michael caught her eye as he spoke to his son. "Why don't you tell Sandy about Pepper?"
Sandra waited, conscious of the Motown music behind her, of the concentrated interest of Annie Gage, of Michael's apparent discomfort and of her own failure to manage a two-minute conversation with a five-year-old boy.
"Is Pepper your dog?" she asked, her voice sounding strained and false to her ears.
David looked at her, then shook his head.
"Your cat?"
He made a face, then buried his nose against his father's chest.
Two giant steps backward for you, Patterson.
What she wanted to do was blink her eyes and disappear, but since magic was beyond her reach at the moment – and since Annie was watching her with something uncomfortably close to pity in her eyes – she decided to give it one more shot.
"Then I guess Pepper must be your pet rhinoceros."
He looked at her again, this time with more interest.
"Your hippo?" she continued. "Your dragon? Your dinosaur?"
He squirmed until Michael put him back down on his own two feet.
He looked up at her with his father's eyes. "Everyone knows Pepper's a parrot."
She knelt down so they'd be eye-to-eye. "Pepper's a funny name for a bird. Why did you name him that?"
David looked at her as if she were terribly backward. "Because he eats hot peppers, silly."
Michael cleared his throat. "Remember what I said about that, pal. We don't call people names. This is Sandra."
She started to say that she'd been called worse things than silly, but caught herself. The last thing she wanted to do was undermine Michael's authority over his son.
Annie, however, had no such inhibitions. She jumped right in.
"Pepper's a Double Yellow-Headed Amazon. I bought him for David's fifth birthday."
"Double head?" All Sandra could imagine were two beaks, each the size of a cattle prod.
David giggled. At least her monumental ignorance was amusing him. That was a start.
"When he's grown up, he'll have yellow all the way down to his shoulders," David said, sizing her up with the same open curiosity that had been his father's trad
emark as a boy.
Sandra smiled and nodded, but she didn't understand a thing she'd heard.
"Don't worry," Michael said. "It'll make sense once you meet Pepper."
"I hope so. Right now all I can picture is a two-headed bird wearing a yellow cape."
David laughed, and then cast a quick look at his father. Sandra knew he was dying to call her silly again – or possibly something stronger – but he was obviously a good kid, and he controlled himself.
Suddenly the beeper in her purse began to shrill. David's mouth dropped open in surprise, and he tilted his head to one side as he listened.
Sandra winked at Michael and Annie and pretended nothing was happening. Michael chatted about the music playing in the background. The beeper in her pocketbook continued to shriek, sounding like a strangled hyena.
Finally David could stand it no longer.
"Your purse is making noise," he said, pointing at it from a safe distance away. "Something's in there."
Sandra looked at him and smiled. "Don't worry, David. It always does that."
"Maybe it's hurt."
She shook her head. "It's not hurt. It just wants me."
"What is it?" he asked, venturing closer, his eyes as big as half-dollars.
"What do you think it is?"
His index finger tugged at his lower lip. "Is it a bird?"
"It's not a bird."
"Is it a turtle?"
She shook her head.
"A puppy?"
"Not a puppy."
He bent down and put his ear near her pocketbook, giggling as it beeped in his ear.
"I know," he said, his voice shrill with excitement. "It's a kitten."
"Sorry, David. It's not a kitten either." She unclasped her bag and reached inside. "Do you want to know what it is?"
He was practically dancing with excitement. "Yes!" He glanced over at his father and grinned. "Yes, please!"
"Put out your hand," she told him.
He did. His fingers were small, the palm of his hand broad like his father's. A faint streak of orange paint circled the base of his thumb. For some reason, a lump formed in her throat, and she had to look away.
"Now close your eyes," she said.
His eyes closed, and she placed the beeper in the palm of his hand.
"You can open them now."
Second Harmony Page 14
