by Nora Roberts
liked them both, and caviar, which I hadn’t yet acquired a taste for. There was pizza and hot fudge sundaes. An eight-year-old’s fantasy meal. I was half sick from it, and sitting on the bed with probably a hundred in ones he’d given me to play with.”
She waited a beat. “Not exactly from the same world, Max.”
“We’re in the same one now.”
She looked back at him. He looked confident and tough, his clever hands on the wheel of the powerful car, his sun-streaked hair unruly from the breeze, those dangerous cat’s eyes hidden behind tinted lenses.
Handsome, in control, sure of himself. And the butterfly bandage on his temple was a reminder he didn’t always come out on top, but he didn’t stay down.
Man of my dreams, she thought, what am I going to do with you?
“Hard to trip you up.”
“I already took the big stumble, sweetheart, when I fell for you.”
Laughing, she let her head fall back. “That’s sappy, but somehow it works. I must still have a weakness for a guy with a quick line.”
He pulled up in front of her shop. “I’ll pick you up at closing.” Leaning over, he gave her a light kiss. “Don’t work too hard.”
“This is all so strangely normal. A little pocket of ordinary in a big bunch of strange.” She reached out, feathered her fingertips over his bandage. “Be careful, all right? Alex Crew knows who you are.”
“I hope we run into each other soon. I owe him one.”
The normal continued through most of the day. Laine waited on customers, packed merchandise to ship, unpacked shipments of items she’d ordered. It was the sort of day she usually loved, with plenty to do but none of it rushed. She was sending things off with people who enjoyed or admired them enough to pay for them, and finding things in the shipping boxes she’d enjoyed or admired enough to want in her shop.
Despite it, the day dragged.
She worried about her father and what reckless thing he might do while the grief was on him. She worried about Max and what could happen if Crew came after him.
She worried about her relationship with Max. Mentally examined, evaluated and dissected it until she was sick of herself.
“Looks like it’s just you and me,” Jenny said when a customer left the shop.
“Why don’t you take a break? Put your feet up for a few minutes.”
“Happy to. You do the same.”
“I’m not pregnant. And I have paperwork.”
“I am pregnant, and I won’t sit until you sit. So if you don’t sit down you’re forcing a pregnant woman to stand on her feet and they’re swollen.”
“Your feet are swollen? Oh, Jenny—”
“Okay, not yet. But they could be. They probably will be, and it’ll be your fault. So let’s sit.”
She nudged Laine toward a small, heart-backed divan. “I love this piece. I’ve thought about buying it a dozen times, then remember I have absolutely no place to put it.”
“When you love a piece, you find a place.”
“So you always say, but your house doesn’t look like an antique warehouse.” She ran her fingers over the satiny rose-on-rose stripes of the cushions. “Still, if it hasn’t sold in another week, I’m going to cave.”
“It’d look great in the little alcove off your living room.”
“It would, but then I’d have to change the curtains, and get a little table.”
“Naturally. And a nice little rug.”
“Vince is going to kill me.” She sighed, plopped her joined hands on the shelf of her belly. “Okay, time for you to unload.”
“I’ve already unpacked the last shipment.”
“Emotionally unload. And you knew what I meant.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Start with what pops to the surface first. You’ve got a lot bobbing around under there, Laine. I know you well enough to see it.”
“You still think you know me after everything you’ve found out in the last couple of days?”
“Yeah, I do. So uncork it. What comes first?”
“Max thinks he’s in love with me.”
“Really?” It wasn’t as easy for her to come to alert as it once had been, but Jenny dug her elbows into the cushions and pushed her heavy body straighter. “Did you intuit that, or did he say it? Right out say it?”
“Right out said it. You don’t believe in love at first sight, do you?”
“Sure I do. It’s all chemicals and stuff. There was this whole program on it on PBS. I think it was PBS. Maybe it was The Learning Channel. Anyway.” She waved that part aside. “They’ve done all these studies on attraction and sex and relationships. Mostly, it boils down to chemicals, instincts, pheromones, then building on that. Besides, you know Vince and I met when I was in first grade. I went right home from school and told my mom that I was going to marry Vince Burger. Took us a while to get there. State law’s pretty firm about six-year-olds getting hitched. But it sure was the right mix of chemicals from day one.”
She never tired of picturing it—gregarious Jenny and slow-talking Vince. And she always saw them with their adult heads on sturdy little kids’ bodies. “You’ve known each other all your lives.”
“That’s not the point. Minutes, days, years, sometimes it’s just a click, click.” Jenny snapped her fingers to emphasize. “Besides, why shouldn’t he be in love with you? You’re beautiful and smart and sexy. If I were a man I’d be all over you.”
“That’s . . . really sweet.”
“And you’ve got this interesting and mysterious past on top of it. How do you feel about him?”
“All sort of loose and itchy and feebleminded.”
“You know, I liked him right away.”
“Jenny, you liked his ass right away.”
“And your point would be?” She snickered, pleased when Laine laughed. “Okay, besides the ass, he’s considerate. He bought his mother a gift. He’s got that accent going for him, has a sexy job. Henry likes him, and Henry’s a very good judge of character.”
“That’s true. That’s very true.”
“And he’s not hung up with commitment phobia or he wouldn’t have used the l word. Added to all that,” she said softly, “he’s on your side. That came across loud and clear. He’s on your side, and that won him top points from the best-pal seats.”
“So I should stop worrying.”
“Depends. How is he in bed? Gladiator or poet?”
“Hmm.” Thinking back, Laine ran her tongue over her bottom lip. “A poetic gladiator.”
“Oh God!” With a little shudder, Jenny slumped back. “That’s the best. Snap him up, girl.”
“I might. I just might. If we manage to get through all this without screwing it up.”
She glanced back as her door opened and the bells jingled. “I’ll get this. Sit.”
The couple was fortyish, and Laine pegged them as affluent tourists. The woman’s jacket was a thin butter-colored suede, and the shoes and bag were Prada. Good jewelry. A nice, square-cut diamond paired with a channel-set wedding band.
The man wore a leather jacket that looked Italian in cut over nicely faded Levi’s. When he turned to close the door behind him, Laine spotted the Rolex on his wrist.
They were both tanned and fit. Country club, she thought. Golf or tennis every Sunday.
“Good afternoon. Can I help you with anything?”
“We’re just poking around,” the woman answered with a smile, and a look in her eye that told Laine she didn’t want to be guided or pressured.
“Help yourself. Just let me know if you need anything.” To give them space, she walked to the counter, opened one of her auction catalogues.
She let their conversation wash over her. Definitely country club types, Laine thought. And made one of her little bets with herself that they’d drop five hundred minimum before heading out again.
If she was wrong, she had to put a dollar in the ginger jar in her office. As she was ra
rely wrong, the jar didn’t see much action.
“Miss?”
Laine glanced over, then waved Jenny back before her friend could heft herself off the divan. She gave the female customer her merchant’s smile and wandered over.
“What can you tell me about this piece?”
“Oh, that’s a fun piece, isn’t it? Chess table, circa 1850. British. It’s penwork and ivory-inlaid ebony. Excellent condition.”
“It might work in our game room.” She looked at her husband. “What do you think?”
“A little steep for a novelty piece.”
All right, Laine thought. She was supposed to bargain with the husband while the wife looked around. No problem.
“You’ll note the double spiral pedestal. Perfect condition. It’s really one of a kind. It came from an estate on Long Island.”
“What about this?”
Laine walked over to join his wife. “Late nineteenth century. Mahogany,” she said as she ran a fingertip over the edge of the display table. “The top’s hinged, the glass beveled.” She lifted it gently. “Don’t you just love the heart shape?”
“I really do.”
Laine noted the signal the wife sent her husband. I want both, it said. Make it work.
She wandered off, and Laine gave Jenny the nod to answer any questions she might have over the collection of wineglasses she was eyeing.
She spent the next fifteen minutes letting the husband think he was cutting her price to the bone. She made the sale, he felt accomplished and the wife got the pieces she wanted.
Everybody wins, Laine thought as she wrote up the sale.
“Wait! Michael, look what I found.” The woman hurried to the counter, flushed and laughing. “My sister loves this sort of thing. The sillier the better.” She held up a ceramic black-and-white dog. “There’s no price.”
Laine stared at it, the practiced smile still curving her lips while her pulse pounded in her ears. Casually, very casually, she reached out and took the statue. An icy finger pressed at the base of her spine.
“Silly’s the word. I’m so sorry.” Her voice sounded perfectly natural, with just a hint of laughter in it. “This isn’t for sale. It’s not part of the stock.”
“But it was on the shelf, right back there.”
“It belongs to a friend of mine. He must have set it down without thinking. I had no idea it was there.” Before the woman could object, Laine set it on the shelf under the counter, out of sight. “I’m sure we can find something along the same lines that will suit your sister. And if we do, it’s half off for the disappointment factor.”
The half off stilled any protests. “Well, there was a cat figure. Siamese cat. More elegant than the dog, but still kitschy enough for Susan. I’ll go take another look at it.”
“Go right ahead. Now, Mr. Wainwright, where would you like your pieces shipped?”
She finished the transaction, chatted easily, even walked her customers to the door.
“Nice sale, boss. I love when they keep finding something else, adding it on.”
“She was the one with the eye, he was the one with the wallet.” It felt a little like floating, but Laine got back to the counter, lifted the dog. “Jenny, did you shelve this piece?”
“That? No.” Lips pursed, Jenny walked over to study it. “Sort of cute, in a ridiculous way. A little flea market for us, isn’t it? It’s not Doulton or Minton or any of those types, is it?”
“No, it’s not. I imagine it came in one of the auction shipments by mistake. I’ll sort it out. Look, it’s nearly five. Why don’t you take off early? You covered for me for more than an hour this morning.”
“Don’t mind if I do. I’ve got a craving for a Quarter Pounder. I’ll swing by the station and see if Vince is up to dining at Chez McDonald’s. I’m as close as the phone, you know, if anything else pops to the surface and you want to vent.”
“I know.”
Laine shuffled papers until Jenny gathered her things and headed out the door. She waited another five full minutes, doing busywork in case her friend doubled back for any reason.
Then she walked to the front, put up the CLOSED sign, locked the door.
Retrieving the statue, she took it into the back room, checked those locks. Satisfied no one could walk in on her unexpectedly, she set the statue on her desk, studied it.
She could see the glue line now that she was looking for it, just a hint of it around the little cork shoved into the base. It was good work, but then Big Jack was never sloppy. Beside the cork was a faded stamp. MADE IN TAIWAN.
Yes, he’d have thought of little details like that. She shook it. Nothing rattled.
Clicking her tongue, she got out a sheet of newspaper, spread it on the desk. She centered the dog on it, then walked to the cabinet where she kept her tools. She selected a small ball-peen hammer, cocked her head, swung back her arm.
Then stopped.
And because she stopped, she realized, without a single doubt, she was in love with Max.
On a breath, she sat, staring at the dog as she set the hammer aside.
She couldn’t do it on her own because she was in love with Max. That meant they would do it together. And do whatever came next together.
And that, she thought, is what her mother had found with Robert Tavish. What she’d never really had with Jack, for all the excitement and adventure. Her mother had been part of the team, and possibly the love of Jack’s life. But at the core, they hadn’t been a couple.
Her mother and Rob were a couple. And that’s what she wanted for herself. If she was going to be in love with someone, she damn well wanted to be half of a couple.
“Okay then.”
She rose, got bubble wrap from her shipping supplies. She wrapped the cheap ceramic dog as carefully, as meticulously as she would’ve wrapped antique crystal. Over layers of bubble wrap, she secured brown shipping paper, then nestled the package into a tissue-lined shopping bag, along with a second item she’d taken from her stock and wrapped.
When the job was complete, she arranged for the shipping for her final sale of the day, then filed paperwork. At precisely six o’clock, she was at the front door waiting for Max.
He was fifteen minutes late, but that only gave her time to calm completely.
He’d barely pulled to the curb when she was walking out, locking the door.
“You’re always on time, right?” he asked her when she got into the car. “Probably more like always five minutes early.”
“That’s right.”
“I hardly ever am, exactly on time, that is. Is this going to be a deal with us down the road?”
“Oh yes. You get this initial honeymoon period where I just flutter my lashes when you show up and don’t say a word about your being late. After that, we’ll fight about it.”
“Just wanted to check on that. What’s in the bag?”
“A couple of things. Did you have any luck with the key?”
“That depends on your point of view. I didn’t find the lock it fits, but I eliminated several it didn’t.”
He drove up her lane, parked behind her car. “How come Henry doesn’t zip out his dog door when he hears a car drive up?”
“How does he know who it is? It could be someone he doesn’t want to talk to.”
She got out, waited for him to pop the trunk. And beamed at the bucket of fried chicken.
