Hidden Hearts

by Olivia Dade

  Her next breath hitched.

  “Mary?” Suddenly, Sarah was perched right beside her on the couch. “Are you okay?”

  Mary blinked hard. “Just a little sad.”

  “For Miles?” Sarah put an arm around Mary’s shoulders and pulled her close.

  Mary nodded. “Because the accident obviously damaged more than his arm.”

  Despite her inveterate chattiness, Sarah always seemed to know when to stop talking. For a minute, she did nothing more than provide a soothing embrace and a soft shoulder. Precisely what Mary needed.

  That soft shoulder remained dry, though, as Mary soaked in the comfort but fought back the tears. Just like she always did. She really had nothing to cry about, after all, not compared to Miles or so many other people. So what would be the purpose of weeping? What would be the point of making other people uncomfortable, even if it might ease her own heart?

  After a minute, Sarah pulled away enough to meet Mary’s eyes. “So he’s emotionally damaged. Too damaged for you to date?”

  Mary snorted out a soft laugh. “He rushed me out of his house like it was on fire, Sarah. I don’t even know if he’ll ask me on another date.”

  “But if he did?”

  “I’d say yes. I like him, and I think we have chemistry.” Mary sat up straight, gently detaching herself from Sarah’s consoling hug. “But even with that chemistry, and even if he asks me out again, I don’t think we’ll be getting too intimate anytime soon.”

  “You don’t think he’s ready for that?”

  “Exactly. And I’m not ready either.” Despite what her hormones had been urging her to do earlier on his couch. “I won’t be ready until I’m sure he really wants me, not just a distraction or someone to keep him company in his bunker.”

  Sarah’s smile was wry. “So maybe it’s good he hustled you out the door tonight, huh?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. I was hoping for a kiss, at the very least. And not on the cheek, either.”

  “Hussy.” Sarah gave her an affectionate squeeze and rose from the couch. “It’s almost one in the morning on a school night. I guess I’d better head home. Besides, Chris is probably getting lonely, whether he admits it or not.”

  A few more laughs and good-byes, then Sarah was gone. And as her friend’s headlights vanished in the distance, Mary thought, He’s not the only one. Not tonight.

  8

  Miles spent an embarrassing amount of time staring at his phone the next morning, working up the nerve to call the woman he’d essentially ejected from his house the night before.

  So what if I panicked at the end of our first date? I’ll make it up to her during our second date. If she agrees to it. Which she might not. But you don’t know until you try.

  Once he repeated the pep talk often enough, he almost believed it. At least enough to pick up the damn phone and tap her name on his contacts list.

  To his surprise and relief, she not only answered his call, but also agreed to another date at his house that upcoming weekend. Which, fortunately, gave him enough time to make the place presentable for her. Maybe even enough time to rediscover his ab muscles?

  As the weekdays passed, his runs on the treadmill got easier, as did his crunches, lunges, and squats. Jessie’s improvements to the house started making a noticeable difference in its function and appearance. He even began to practice some simple cooking while his handywoman worked nearby, figuring she could help if he either chopped off his remaining fingers or set his kitchen on fire.

  And, most importantly, he resumed his daily e-mail messages with Mary, falling into their easy rapport like a soft bed. By the time the weekend arrived, he figured he could handle another intimate evening alongside her without freaking out at any point.

  Maybe. Possibly?

  When his doorbell rang that night, he took a deep breath before answering.

  “I made a salad,” he informed Mary as he swung open the newly repaired door. “In the sense that there’s lettuce in a bowl and an unopened bottle of dressing next to it. I expect a lot of praise. Maybe even an assertion that it’s the best prewashed salad from a plastic box you’ve ever had.”

  Opening that box had taken some doing, but she didn’t need to know that.

  The bridge of her nose crinkled when she grinned, and he could barely stop himself from planting a kiss there. “I promise to be suitably impressed. And we should have a great dinner, then. I brought brownies for dessert. I made them just an hour or two ago, so they’re still warm.”

  She lifted a rectangular pan, and the scent of chocolate wafted toward him. He breathed it in, content.

  “You’re a goddess, Mary Louise Higgs.” He gazed hungrily at the brownies. They looked fudgy, exactly how he liked them. “Thank you.”

  Her smile turned teasing. “You’re welcome. But I’m disappointed about the lack of pizza. I was hoping to witness Eugene’s ‘This Is Your Brain on Pizza’ egg demonstration.”

  A puff of dust appeared at the end of Miles’s driveway as a small car turned off the main road. “You may get your chance. I decided not to push my luck with an entrée, too.”

  By the time Mary had deposited her brownie pan on to Miles’s kitchen counter and returned to the porch, Eugene had arrived. He came to a screeching halt near the cabin, his wheels sliding a bit on the gravel. And when he climbed out of his car, he did so with a disapproving grunt.

  “At least you only got one pie this time. But I can’t countenance the addition of breadsticks.” His pink face was determined as he marched toward the front porch, boxes in his arms. “That’s a slippery slope. First you order breadsticks. Then it’s cheese sticks. Then come the dipping sauces. Next thing you know, you’re stuffing pepperoni in your crusts and dead on the floor within a month. I can’t watch it happen, son. Not to you.”

  Eugene’s expression changed, though, when he got closer to the cabin. “Did you fix the front porch? And repaint the trim and window frames?”

  I wish. Controlling a wince, Miles watched Eugene and Mary study the work Jessie had done over the past week. His handywoman was skilled, both efficient and persnickety about her measurements. He appreciated both, even as he resented the ease in her every movement and the need for her help.

  “I didn’t do it, but I made sure it got done.” He shut the front door behind him. It closed easily, and then reopened without a single hitch. “I also got the door repaired.”

  “Huh.” Eugene handed the pizza and breadstick boxes to Mary, then walked up to Miles and peered in his face. “I think you may have cheekbones again.”

  “Really?” Miles fought the urge to find the nearest reflective surface for confirmation.

  Mary deposited the food on the coffee table—newly polished, its bolts tightened—and came back to the door. “Miles, may I leave the tip for Eugene this time?”

  “Nope. Thanks, though.” He fished a ten out of his front jeans pocket and offered it to Eugene. “Here you go. Please charge the rest to my credit card.”

  For the first time in months, Eugene actually accepted the tip. Miles decided that was as good a sign as any that he didn’t look as pitiful as he once had.

  After tucking the ten into his wallet, Eugene lingered on the porch, his brow furrowed. “I brought along my eggs, but…”

  A quick glance at Mary’s face revealed mixed emotions. She clearly did want to see the egg demonstration, but probably also wanted to eat her damn pizza while it was still warm.

  “Can we do it quickly, Eugene?”

  The man brightened. “Of course. Just give me a moment to prepare the eggs and my musical accompaniment.”

  Ten minutes, three broken eggs, a lengthy drum solo, and one very messy Tupperware container later, Eugene’s car was crunching back down the gravel driveway.

  “Wow.” Mary stared after the car as it turned on to the road. “I had no idea pizza could crack my skull like a sledgehammer. Or that my brain contained so many yolky
bits.”

  “I think Eugene takes a certain amount of creative license.” He held out his hand to her. “Let’s go inside and eat. I think I picked a movie you’ll like even better this time.”

  Her fingers curled around his, strong and steady. “What is it?”

  “A Lady from Nottingway. Set in the nineteenth century. Tearjerker Reviews rated it five handkerchiefs, so I think you’ll be happy. I mean, sad. But also happy.”

  He still had no idea why anyone would watch a movie she knew from the beginning would make her cry, but whatever. Not everyone found a lathe exciting either. He was willing to roll with it.

  Once the door shut behind them, she smiled and nodded toward the coffee table. “You got plates. And silverware!”

  “I figured salad wasn’t necessarily a finger food.” He let go of her hand and shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether to be pleased at her reaction or embarrassed by his choices for their previous date. “And the movie seemed too classy for paper plates.”

  She served herself a huge mound of salad, a glug of dressing, a breadstick, and a couple of pieces from the veggie lover’s pizza—her favorite, as he’d noted last time. “I’m all in favor of anything that decreases the amount of dishwashing I need to do.”

  Just like before, they settled on to their sides of the couch, and he started the movie as they began eating. This time, though, his nervousness eased enough for him to observe something a little odd. Well, maybe not odd, but at least notable.

  When Mary ate, she did so very methodically. The salad disappeared first, the breadstick second. After that, she seemed to follow a sort of pattern with her pizza. She’d take a couple of small bites. Then she’d stop, set down the slice, and wait a minute before picking it up again. Two bites, stop, wait, and resume. Again. And again.

  The routine repeated itself for one-and-half slices. Finally, halfway through her second piece of pizza, she sat looking down at the cheesy remains of her dinner for a long moment before pushing her plate away.

  For the life of him, he’d never seen someone eat pizza or anything else with such deliberation. By the time she’d finished contemplating and consuming her dinner, he’d mowed his way through half of their pizza, leaving nothing but microscopic scraps in his wake.

  Despite his rampant curiosity, though, he wasn’t going to make a single comment. Maybe he wasn’t the world’s biggest dating prize at the moment, but even he knew better than to remark on someone’s eating habits. Plus, telling her he’d been watching her eat? Creepy. Creepy and guaranteed to make her uncomfortable about ever consuming food in front of him again.

  Given his fixation on Mary, he hadn’t been paying too much attention to the movie. So he was surprised when she turned to him after twenty minutes, pointed at the screen, and declared, “A secret admirer didn’t send Annalee that love note. Her students did.”

  Had he missed something? “But the note said it came from an ardent admirer who felt too shy to approach her, and Horatio certainly seems interested. Besides, we haven’t seen the kids do anything but sit in her class.”

  “Mark my words. The students did it.” She settled back against her cushion, her legs crossed beneath her. “And by the way, Horatio’s up to no good as well. Trust me on that.”

  He took a moment to admire her jeans and draped knit shirt—the first truly casual clothing he’d ever seen her wear—and how they fit against her curvy, strong body. She’d even arrived in tennis shoes, which she’d promptly removed and politely placed just inside his front door.

  Good thing he’d had the place cleaned. Otherwise, those white socks would be gray by now.

  Finally, he forced himself to stop staring at his date and watch the movie. And fifteen minutes later, just as Mary had predicted, poor Annalee’s heart had been crushed by the revelation that her mischievous students, rather than a besotted admirer, had been writing her the love letters. Mary reached into her little black purse and produced a travel pack of tissues, which she offered to him.

  He lifted a hand in refusal. “Thanks, but I’m good. How the heck did you know the kids had written those stupid notes? And that Horatio would take advantage of the confusion to seduce her?”

  “This isn’t my first tragic rodeo.” She dabbed at her eyes and grabbed a small brownie. “Poor Miss Simperington.”

  “There, there.” He patted her on the shoulder, wondering if he should scoot closer and provide a supportive arm. “Please don’t cry.”

  She waved off his concern. “Don’t worry. I’m used to this.”

  So he returned to his corner of the couch to watch both the film and his date.

  Eventually, his mind wandered to the post-movie portion of the evening. Should I try to kiss her tonight? I mean, not just on the cheek? Are both of us ready for that step, or should I wait a little longer?

  Lost in his thoughts, he barely noticed when Annalee swayed on her feet at the front of the classroom, the back of her hand plastered against her forehead. She bent over slightly at the waist, as if sick to her stomach.

  Immediately afterward, Mary poked him in the arm with uncharacteristic intensity. “Did you see that? That poor girl’s either pregnant or dying. Maybe both.”

  He blinked at her, confused. “I don’t know. She hasn’t eaten much since Horatio’s betrayal. Maybe she’s just hypoglycemic.”

  “Nope.” She blinked hard, tissues clutched at the ready. “With child or terminally ill. Wait and see.”

  Well, now he really did have to pay attention, if only to prove Mary wrong.

  Thirty minutes and one heartrending plot point later, he accepted one of her tissues. “Man, those homes for unwed mothers were harsh.”

  “I know.” Mary blew her nose with a distinct honking sound. “Good thing she found that terrible job as a scullery maid so she can support her moppet.”

  He paused the movie and took her hand. “Do you want to stop watching? I hate to see you cry.”

  “Are you kidding?” Her fingers intertwined with his, she tilted her head toward the television. “We can’t stop now. I have to see what happens.”

  So he kept Mary’s hand in his, glorying in the contact even as he despaired at poor Annalee’s fate. Scene by scene, her clothing grew more tattered, and the shadows under her eyes grew darker. And then, in between scrubbing pots, she coughed delicately into a handkerchief.

  This time, Mary snatched the remote control and paused the movie. “Aha!”

  He groaned. “What now? Hasn’t she suffered enough?”

  “She totally has consumption.” Mary sniffled and stabbed a finger toward the screen again. “See that handkerchief? At some point, she’ll cough again, and there will be little flecks of blood on it. That’s when we’ll know for sure that she’s doomed.”

  “First of all, what the heck is consumption?” He narrowed his eyes at Mary, outraged by the prospect of hapless Annalee enduring any further hardships. “And second, maybe she has a common cold. I mean, that garret where she and little Millie are staying looks inadequately insulated. There are drafts everywhere, did you notice?”

  “Forget about the shoddy construction, Miles.” She shook her head. “Poor Miss Simperington is going to die of consumption, now known as tuberculosis, sooner rather than later. Especially since we only have”—she checked the time on her cell phone and dabbed at her nose—“twenty minutes left of the movie. Just enough time to watch her waste away and say good-bye to her daughter.”

  Sure enough, ten minutes later, Annalee and Miles were both staring at a blood-stained handkerchief.

  “Shit,” Miles muttered and surreptitiously rubbed his eyes against his shoulder.

  And ten minutes after that, the movie credits were rolling. Mary sobbed against his chest as he manfully sniffed away his own tears and rubbed her back.

  “Poor Miss Simperington. Poor Millie,” she whimpered against the fabric of his T-shirt. “It’s all s-s-so t-terrible. They couldn’t even afford a g
ravestone! Just a pile of rocks Millie collected for her mother’s pauper grave!”

  “Shhhh. It’s okay.” The room had grown dim, and he could barely see Mary in his embrace. But he could feel her. Oh, he could definitely feel her. “I’m sure Millie will do just fine at the home for poor, parentless kids. Although that woman in charge, Mrs. Withersneer, didn’t seem very child-friendly.”

  “I hear there’s a sequel coming out next year.” She lifted her head from his shoulder. “Millie’s story. Tearjerker Reviews is already predicting it’ll be their first-ever six-handkerchief movie, based on the trailer.”

  “Oh, God.” His head dropped back to the sofa cushion. “I’m not sure I can take it.”

  She sniffled one last time and patted him on his chest, right where his heart was racing at her nearness. “I’m sorry, Miles. Maybe we should have chosen a different movie.”

  Her fingers lingered lightly on his shirt, like a butterfly at rest, and he couldn’t help himself. He covered her hand with his, ensuring she couldn’t simply flutter away into the dark night.

  His throat turned dry, and he swallowed hard. “It’s fine. Really. I’m happy to watch whatever you want to see. But I’m not sure I understand why you love sad movies so much. Can you tell me?”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment.

  He tried to catch her eye in the dark. “If that’s too personal a question, feel free not to answer.”

  “That’s not it,” she said slowly. “I’m just trying to figure out how to explain it.”

  “Take as long as you need.” He rested back against the couch cushion, gently drawing her with him. Without a murmur, she settled against his body as if they’d sat like this a million times before.

  “I’m not…” Her voice was low. “I’m not very good at expressing myself sometimes. Especially when I’m sad. Watching tearjerkers kind of helps me get it all out, I think. And I really enjoy figuring out major plot points ahead of time.” She bit her lip. “I’m sorry if you hated the movie.”