Almost Heaven

by Charlotte Douglas

  Later, when Grant had completed his rounds, they stood in the barnyard in the deepening twilight.

  “When are you expecting your first clients?” Grant asked Jeff.

  “Not until June,” Jeff said, “after construction on the main building is finished.”

  MJ looked around and saw no structures other than the house and barn. “But you haven’t started yet.”

  “No sweat,” Jeff said. “I have a whole crew of former Marines coming next week to help put up a timber-frame building. It’ll have a dormitory, a dining hall and big kitchen. We’ll be ready in time. Speaking of kitchen, y’all want to stay for supper?”

  MJ looked to Grant, hoping he’d say yes. For reasons she couldn’t explain, she wasn’t looking forward to dining alone with him.

  “Thanks, but we’ve made other plans,” Grant said.

  “Ah,” Jeff said with a knowing expression. “I understand.”

  “It’s not what you think,” MJ said quickly.

  Amusement tugged at the corners of Jeff’s mouth. “And what was I thinking?”

  In spite of herself, MJ blushed and almost stumbled over her words in her haste to explain. “Maybe you haven’t heard that Grant and I broke our engagement years ago. But we’re still friends.”

  She could have kicked herself the minute the words left her mouth. Why did she feel the need to make explanations to a man she barely knew? And why didn’t Grant say anything? He merely stood, watching her with an expression she couldn’t read.

  “I had heard that,” Jeff admitted. “But situations and people change. I’m living proof.”

  MJ opened her mouth to insist that her situation hadn’t changed, but Grant spoke first.

  “Call me if you have any problems.” He started for the truck.

  “Whoa,” Jeff called and ran after him. “What do I owe you?”

  “It’s on the house,” Grant said. “If you’re willing to risk your neck and sanity taking in juvenile delinquents, providing free vet care is the least I can do.”

  “You’re a good man.” Jeff shook his hand.

  As the truck pulled away, Jeff’s praise rang in MJ’s ears. Grant was a good man. The best, now that her father had slipped from top place on her list. And also one of the few men she actually knew, she reminded herself, except for Randy and Phil, who shared an apartment across the hall from her New York place and were delightfully gay. In her line of work, most men she crossed paths with were either getting married or just turning thirteen years old.

  “You knew about Jeff’s project?” she asked.

  Grant nodded. “He consulted me before purchasing his livestock. He’s hoping caring for animals will help instill a sense of responsibility in his teenage clients.”

  “Bonding with an animal might be the only affection some of these kids have known,” MJ said. “I have a friend in New York who takes her Jack Russell terrier to nursing homes. The elderly patients adore him. Dad always said animals are good therapy.”

  “You took a lot of pictures at Jeff’s,” Grant observed as he pulled onto the highway.

  Satisfaction, something she rarely experienced after a shoot, flooded her. “These are some of the best I’ve done. They’ll make a great start for the book.”

  “The book’s supposed to be about your father,” Grant reminded her, “not me.”

  “I’m going to expand the project to include the whole practice,” MJ said.

  No way was she going to omit the shots of Grant she’d taken today. Even before printing them, she knew they were extraordinary examples of light and composition. More than photographs, they were true works of art.

  “Will your nana approve?”

  “As long as I bring Mom and Dad back together, Nana won’t care what’s in the book.” A thought struck her. “But I’m not going to let Nana pay for it.”

  He took his eyes from the road for a quick glance that revealed his surprise. “You’re self-publishing? Isn’t that expensive?”

  “I don’t have the funds to produce the book myself,” MJ said. “I’ll find an agent to sell it for me.”

  “With your New York contacts, that shouldn’t be hard.” Bitterness sharpened his tone. “I’m surprised you don’t already have an agent.”

  She refused to admit that she hadn’t considered her work good enough yet to warrant one. But today’s shots were different and, as she analyzed why, she realized that the pictures she’d taken in New York had a staged, artificial quality, while what she’d shot at Jeff’s farm had a freshness and spontaneity that breathed life into her work.

  Nana had always said that things had a way of working out for the best, if one just waited long enough. Earlier, MJ had bemoaned the interruption to her work that her homecoming had caused. Enthusiasm filled her now as she contemplated the possibility that the book Nana had conjured to reunite Jim and Cat might launch MJ’s career in ways she’d never imagined.

  She’d broken her engagement with Grant to pursue that career, and now, ironically, returning to Pleasant Valley appeared to place the keys to success within reach. But she’d die before she’d admit that to Grant.

  “What’s for supper?” she asked to change the subject.

  “Worried?” His teasing look warmed her and stirred feelings best left buried.

  “Maybe you’d better just take me home,” she suggested.

  He laughed. “Not only worried, but chicken, too. Afraid I’ll poison you?”

  She was afraid all right, but not of food poisoning. Watching Grant in action today had reminded her of too many reasons she’d loved him in the past. If she spent much more time with him, she’d be playing with fire.

  “Most men aren’t exactly renowned for their cooking,” she said.

  “Yeah, you’re right. James Beard, Emeril, Wolfgang Puck, Bobby Flay, they’re all famous for something besides their skill in a kitchen.”

  “You watch the Food Channel?” she asked in amazement.

  “You think vets are only allowed Animal Planet?”

  “I never guessed you’re into cooking.”

  “Somebody has to feed me.” The look he gave her glowed with enough heat to boil water. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know, Merrilee June.”

  Better that she didn’t learn, she assured herself. Better that she not place herself in the intimacy of Grant’s home, the home he’d originally intended to share with her and their children. The prospect panicked her.

  “You were kind to invite me this morning, but I don’t want to inconvenience—”

  “I’ve thought of you in a lot of ways, but never as an inconvenience.”

  The innuendo in his voice only increased her agitation. “I’m exhausted, Grant. Please take me home.”

  “Afraid to be alone with me?”

  “No!” she lied.

  “Good. I’ll feed you, then take you home. Besides, I want to show off the house. It’s changed a lot since the last time you saw it.”

  If she continued to object, he might sense the reason behind her reluctance and her pride couldn’t allow that, so she abandoned her protests. But she had shut the door on a life with Grant long ago. Tonight she’d make certain it remained locked and barred.

  As they neared Grant’s place, her curiosity stirred. The one glimpse she’d had of the house that fateful summer day had revealed a log cabin, ready to collapse in a strong wind, nothing like the picture-perfect home her parents owned. She’d hated the house the moment she saw it, but not liking the place had been the least of her problems that day.

  The following morning she’d broken their engagement, certain she’d done the right thing. Even though she’d missed Grant terribly, she’d never doubted she’d made the best decision.

  The last thing on earth she wanted was for Grant to prove her wrong.

  Chapter Seven

  Nearing his house, Grant flicked on his turn signal and pressed the brake. As he swung the truck toward the driveway, the headlights swept a split-rail fence and
two stone pillars at the entrance.

  “Is this the same place?” Disbelief colored Merrilee’s voice.

  “Don’t tell me I’ve surprised you twice in one day,” Grant said with a chuckle.

  “What happened to the red dirt road with a gazillion potholes?”

  He’d used the money he’d intended to spend on an extra wing, the one with the children’s bedrooms and Merrilee’s studio, to pave the driveway. “I’ve made lots of changes.”

  The drive wound up the hillside through the forest. At the last curve, the house was visible through the trees. Every time Grant saw it, satisfaction at his achievement overflowed.

  A green-metal roof replaced the rotting shingles. He’d rechinked the logs, repaired the sagging porch columns and installed missing rails. He’d also torn down the crumbling brick chimney and rebuilt it with fieldstone he’d gathered off his own land.

  Working on the house had kept him sane. When Merrilee had broken their engagement, fled to New York and refused to speak to him, when she hadn’t answered his letters or returned his phone calls, Grant had refused to yield to heartbreak.

  He’d held on to anger instead.

  Every nail hammered, every board sawn, every rock mortared had provided a slow release for turmoil that had nowhere else to go. He’d loved Merrilee too deeply to vent his rage at her. And he’d been mad as hell at himself for falling so hard for a woman who’d insisted from the start she’d be pulling up stakes and leaving town. In his conceit, he’d believed he could change her mind. For almost a year he’d been convinced that he had changed her mind. Then, when their relationship went south and Merrilee headed north, he’d felt lost, disoriented.

  And hopping mad.

  The house had saved him. When he hadn’t been working as a vet, he’d spent every spare moment on the place, falling into bed in the wee hours of the morning so exhausted that he’d slept hard in spite of his emotional pain.

  Two years later he’d expended his anger, finished his house and gained a tenuous inner peace. What he hadn’t had, however, were answers. Even if only for the sake of his ego, he intended to find out tonight why Merrilee had misled him and whether she’d really loved him, loved him still, as his gut insisted, or if she’d simply been pretending all along.

  He parked the truck on the flagstone landing he’d built in front of the house. Welcoming golden light poured from the windows onto the porch and low-voltage lamps illuminated the surrounding gardens and up-lighted the ancient hickory in the front yard.

  “The lights are on,” Merrilee said. “Is somebody here?”

  Grant shook his head. “Photoelectric cells.”

  He didn’t add how he hated coming home to a dark house. Bad enough that the place was empty, but stepping alone into darkness was too depressing.

  Gloria whimpered in the back seat.

  “Don’t worry, girl,” he consoled the dog in his most soothing voice. “You’ll get fed.”

  To Merrilee, he added, “I’m glad her appetite is back. When I first found her, she’d given up the will to live. Wouldn’t eat or drink.”

  Merrilee reached into the rear seat and scratched Gloria’s ear. “She was hurt that badly?”

  “Her injuries were severe, but her spirit had taken the biggest hit.”

  “How did you perk her up?”

  “I kept her with me round-the-clock. Literally carried her to the clinic every day where I had a special bed for her in my office. At night, she slept next to me. It took a while to earn her trust, and once I did, she wouldn’t let me out of her sight. She suffers from separation anxiety now if I leave her, but I’m hoping the new medication helps.”

  “I do, too. She’s a sweet dog.”

  Gloria stuck her head between the seats and licked Merrilee’s cheek. To Merrilee’s credit, she didn’t flinch or pull away.

  “She likes you.” Grant bit his tongue to keep from adding how much he liked Merrilee, in spite of his best efforts not to.

  He climbed out, with Gloria on his heels, circled the truck and met Merrilee as she was jumping down from the high seat.

  “I hope you like soup,” he said.

  “You’re opening cans.” She confronted him with an I-told-you-so grin. “You should be ashamed. I knew you couldn’t cook.”

  “Wanna bet?” He took the porch stairs two at a time, unlocked the door and opened it wide. “Step inside and take a deep breath.”

  He followed Merrilee indoors and tried to see the room through her eyes. He’d converted the lower floor into a great room that contained living and dining areas and the kitchen. A spacious bedroom loft above the kitchen gave it a low, intimate feel, but the living and dining room ceiling soared two stories high with exposed, ancient beams.

  Except for the fireplace, the gable end of the room was a wall of glass that overlooked a fieldstone terrace and the adjacent mountains. A deep leather sofa, a comfy recliner and an antique wooden rocker with a seat of woven rushes were grouped around the stone hearth. Not anywhere close to the Ritz, but homey and comfortable, a place a man could relax in after a hard day.

  He crossed the room and set a match to the logs and kindling already laid.

  “What is that delicious smell?”

  Merrilee wasn’t admiring the decor. She stood just inside the door, eyes closed, sniffing deeply.

  “Canned soup?” Grant teased.

  “No way.” She opened her eyes and looked at him. “What with worrying over Mom and Dad, I’ve hardly eaten in two days. That aroma brings my appetite back. Please tell me what you’re cooking is as good as it smells.”

  “Better. Let me take your coat.”

  She shrugged hurriedly out of her jacket and handed it to him. He hung it on a coatrack by the front door and turned to discover she’d moved to the middle of his kitchen.

  She surveyed the Shaker-style maple cabinets, granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances with interest. “This looks like something out of Home and Garden. I could fit my New York kitchen in here five times and still have room for a square dance.”

  He didn’t speak for fear of exposing the emotion rising in his throat. He’d dreamed about her in his house, his kitchen, his bed, more times than he cared to admit. To see her actually here made him happy but also resurrected his old anger.

  Gloria’s whimper of hunger jarred him out of his thoughts and he joined Merrilee in the kitchen and poured the dog’s evening ration of kibble into her dish.

  Finally trusting his voice not to break, he said, “Supper will be ready as soon as I warm the bread.”

  He turned on the broiler, took a package of Texas Toast from the freezer and placed the pieces on a baking sheet.

  Merrilee arched an eyebrow. “You don’t bake your own?”

  Grant nodded to the bread-making machine on the kitchen island. “If you want to wait a couple hours to eat.”

  Gloria was wolfing down kibble with intermittent moans of delight. Merrilee pointed to the dog. “I think I’m as hungry as she is.”

  “Store-bought bread it is, then.” He placed the toast under the broiler. “Silverware and napkins are in the island drawer, if you don’t mind setting the table, please.”

  For the next few minutes they worked in companionable silence. Grant tossed a salad with ready-cut greens from a bag and added slices of tomato and Bermuda onion. In a few weeks he’d have lettuce from his own garden, but the weather was too cold yet for planting outdoors. He ladled soup from the Crock-Pot into hand-made crockery bowls and placed the hot bread in a basket.

  Merrilee stole a piece of lettuce from the salad, set two places at the round antique-oak farm table, then helped carry dishes from the kitchen.

  The tranquil domesticity wrenched at his heart and made him face the fact that he’d built this house as much for Merrilee as himself, keeping alive the hope that someday she’d come back and share it with him.

  And now she had.

  But she was only here for supper, he reminded himself. Tomorr
ow morning her place at the table would be empty once again.

  “Dig in,” he said.

  She took a mouthful of soup and closed her eyes as if savoring the flavors. She chewed, swallowed and asked, “What is this? It’s wonderful.”

  “Portuguese stone soup.”

  “You got the recipe from Jodie, I’ll bet.” Merrilee took another spoonful.

  Grant shook his head. “Bon appetit.”

  “The magazine?” She cast him a skeptical glance. “Don’t tell me you have a subscription.”

  “Fran saw the recipe and made me a copy. Not everyone in South Carolina lives off cornbread, fried chicken and black-eyed peas.”

  “Not many make soup with pepperoni, either. This is incredible.”

  He was glad to see her eating again. Maybe a good meal would put some color back in her cheeks and help her sleep. The smudges of fatigue under her eyes worried him. She’d taken her father’s betrayal hard, and with her innate mix of tenacity and impulsiveness, she clearly intended to mend her parents’ marriage single-handedly. Grant hoped she wasn’t in for more heartache.

  She’s caused you plenty, so why should you care? After all, what goes around comes around.

  Grant hoped not. He was angry because things hadn’t worked out between them, but he didn’t want Merrilee hurt. He loved her too much. He tried to analyze his feelings for the umpteenth time, hoping that if he understood the emotions, he could free himself from them.

  She had grown more beautiful with age, but Merrilee would always be much more than a gorgeous face and a knock-out body. She exuded enthusiasm for life and she tried to capture the thrills of living in her photographs. He’d watched her in action this afternoon and noted the shots she’d taken. Her photographs would be more than pretty pictures. They would have depth and emotion, like Merrilee herself. She cared deeply about causes because she cared deeply about people.

  So why hadn’t she cared about him?

  “Grant?”

  Her voice jerked him from his thoughts. He’d been lost in them so long, he hadn’t noticed that Merrilee had finished her meal.