by Lisa Kleypas
“You know what you need? A provisional boyfriend.”
“Provisional?”
“Yes, like when you get a provisional driver’s license so you can brush up on your skills before you get the real one. Don’t worry about finding a guy to have a serious relationship with…just pick someone fun to help you get on the road again.”
“I guess that would make me a Class C dater,” Maggie said, entertained. “Could I do that while unaccompanied by a parent or guardian?”
“Absolutely,” Jill said, “as long as you practice safe driving.”
After lunch, they stopped by Rocket Donuts at Maggie’s insistence. She ordered a selection of doughnuts that included oblong confections covered with maple frosting and topped with strips of bacon, doughnuts crusted with chunks of Oreo cookies, and fried cake doughnuts drenched in Guittard Chocolate.
“Those are for Dad, of course,” Jill said.
“Yep.”
“Mom will kill you,” Jill said. “She’s been trying to cut back his cholesterol.”
“I know. But he texted me this morning, begging me to bring him a box.”
“You’re an enabler, Maggie.”
“I know. That’s why he loves me best.”
The long driveway leading up to the house was congested with a half-dozen vehicles, the three-quarter-acre lot swarming with children. A few of them ran to Maggie, one of them showing her where he had lost a tooth, another trying to entice her into a game of hide-and-seek. Laughing, Maggie promised to play with them later.
Entering the house, Maggie went to the kitchen, where her mother and a group of siblings and in-laws were all busy cooking. She kissed her mother, a voluptuous but trim woman with a silver-gray bob and a beautiful complexion that had no need of makeup. She was wearing an apron that proclaimed: SEEN IT ALL, HEARD IT ALL, DONE IT ALL. JUST CAN’T REMEMBER IT ALL.
“Those are not for your father, are they?” her mother asked, with a stern glance at the box of doughnuts.
“It’s full of celery and carrot sticks,” Maggie said. “The box is just for presentation.”
“Your dad’s in the living room,” her mother said. “We finally got surround sound, and he’s been glued to the TV ever since. He says the gunshots sound real now.”
“If that’s what he wanted, you could have just driven him to Tacoma,” one of her brothers said.
Maggie grinned as she went to the living room.
Her father occupied the corner of a big boxy sofa with a sleeping baby on his lap. As Maggie walked into the room, his gaze fell to the box of doughnuts in her arms. “My favorite daughter,” he said.
“Hi, Dad.” Leaning over, Maggie kissed him on the head and placed the box on his lap.
Her father rummaged through the box, found a maple-bacon doughnut, and began to devour it with an expression of bliss. “Come sit by me. And take the baby…I need two hands for this.”
Carefully Maggie settled the warm, sleepy weight of the baby onto her shoulder. “Whose is he?” she asked. “I don’t recognize this one.”
“I have no idea. Someone handed him to me.”
“Is he one of your grandchildren?”
“Could be.”
Maggie answered questions about the store, and the latest goings-on at Friday Harbor, and whether she had met anyone interesting lately. She hesitated just long enough to make his eyes brighten with interest.
“Aha. Who is he, and what does he do?”
“Oh, it’s no one, he’s…there’s nothing. He’s taken. I talked to him on the ferry on the way over here.” Feeling the baby twitch in his sleep, she put her hand on his tiny back, soothing him with a circling stroke. “I think I sort of accidentally flirted with him.”
“Is that bad?”
“Maybe not, but it makes me wonder…how do I know when I’m ready to start going out again?”
“I’d say involuntary flirting is a sign.”
“I feel weird about it. I was attracted to him even though he’s nothing like Eddie.”
Eddie, before his illness, had been sunny, lighthearted, a prankster. The man she had spent time with this morning was darker, quieter, with a reserve that hinted of deeply felt intensity. She hadn’t been able to stop from imagining, in the most private corner of her mind, about physical intimacy with him, and it had seemed so potentially volatile that it had scared her. And yet that was part of the attraction. She remembered having wanted Eddie because he had been safe. But now she had caught herself wanting Mark Nolan for the exact opposite reason.
Lowering her head, Maggie kissed the sleeping baby in her arms. He was vulnerable but solid against her, his skin a miracle of smoothness and downy warmth. Briefly she remembered a moment in those last ephemeral days of Eddie’s life when in quiet desperation, she had wished that she’d had a baby with him. Any way to keep a part of him with her.
“Sweetheart,” her father said, “I’ve never had to go through what you did with Eddie. I don’t know when the grieving process ends, or how you finally know when you’re ready to move on. But there’s something I’m sure of: The next guy will be different.”
“I know. I knew that. I think what’s bothering me is the realization that I’m different.”
Her father gave her a vaguely owlish look, as if the comment had surprised him. “Of course you are. How could you not be?”
“Part of me doesn’t want to change. Part of me wants to stay the same person I was when I was with Eddie.” She stopped when she saw her father’s expression. “Is that crazy? Do you think I need to see a therapist?”
“I think you need to go out on a date. Wear a nice dress, enjoy a free meal. Give someone a kiss good night.”
“But once I move on from being Eddie’s widow, who’ll remember him? It’ll be like losing him all over again.”
“Honey.” Her father’s voice was quiet and kind. “You learned a lot from Eddie. The things about him that changed you for the better…that’s how he’ll go on. He won’t be forgotten.”
“I’m sorry,” Shelby said, as Mark brought her a mug of hot tea. She was curled up on the sofa, dressed in gray cashmere loungewear. She was about to say something else, but instead let out a violent sneeze.
“It’s fine,” Mark said, sitting beside her.
Pulling a tissue from a box, Shelby blew her nose. “I hope it’s just allergies. I hope you don’t catch anything. You don’t have to stay with me. Save yourself.”
Mark smiled at her. “It takes more than a few germs to scare me off.” Opening a bottle of cold medicine, he shook out two tablets and handed them to her.
Shelby picked up a bottle of water from the coffee table, downed the tablets, and made a face. “We were going to such a great party,” she said dolefully. “Janya has the coolest apartment in Seattle, and I was going to show you off to everyone.”
“You can show me off later.” Mark draped a throw blanket over her. “For now, focus on getting better. I’ll even let you have the remote.”
“You are so sweet.” Sighing, Shelby leaned against him and blew her nose again. “So much for our sexy weekend.”
“Our relationship is about more than sex.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that.” Pausing, she added, “That’s number three on the list.”
Mark flipped slowly through the cable channels. “What list?”
“I probably shouldn’t tell you. But recently I read a list of five signs that a man is ready for the C-word.”
Mark stopped channel-flipping. “The C-word?” he asked blankly.
“Commitment. And so far you’ve done three things on the list of what a man does when he’s ready for commitment.”
“Oh?” he said cautiously. “What’s number one?”
“You’ve gotten tired of nightclubs and bars.”
“Actually, I’ve never liked nightclubs.”
“Second, you’ve introduced me to your family and friends. Third, you’ve just indicated that you think of me as more than an o
utlet for sex.”
“What’s four and five?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I tell you, you may not do them.”
Mark smiled and gave her the remote. “Well, let me know if I do. I’d hate to miss anything.” He put his arm around her while she looked for a movie on demand.
The silences between them were usually comfortable. But this silence was tense, questioning. Mark was aware that Shelby had given him an opening. She wanted to set new parameters for their relationship, discuss where they might be headed.
Ironically, that was exactly what he’d wanted to bring up this weekend. There was every reason in the world for him to commit to Shelby, and tell her that he had serious intentions. Because he did.
If marriage with Shelby would be anything like dating her, it was what he wanted. No craziness, no screaming, no arguing. His expectations of the whole thing were reasonable. He didn’t believe in fate or a great destined love. He wanted a nice, normal woman like Shelby, with whom there would be few surprises. They would have a partnership.
They would be a family. For Holly.
“Shelby,” he said, and had to clear his throat, which had started to close up, before he could go on. “What do you think about…being exclusive?”
She turned in the crook of his arm to look at him. “You mean, you and me officially being a couple? Not seeing other people?”
“Yeah.”
Shelby smiled in satisfaction. “You just did the fourth thing,” she said, and snuggled back against him.
Six
As anyone familiar with the Washington State Ferries system knew, ferry delays could happen at any time for a variety of reasons, including rough seas, low tides, onboard traffic accidents, medical emergencies, or maintenance issues. Unfortunately a “necessary repair to a vessel safety feature” was being given as the reason for a delay on the Sunday afternoon departure.
Having arrived an hour early to get a decent place in the long parking lanes leading to the ferry landing, Mark was left with time to kill and nothing to do. People were getting out of their cars, letting their dogs out, wandering to the terminal building to get refreshments or magazines. It was overcast and misty, an occasional cold raindrop breaking through.
Feeling restless and moody, Mark walked toward the terminal. He was starving. Shelby hadn’t felt like going out for breakfast that morning, and all she’d had in the apartment was cereal.
It had been a good weekend with Shelby. They had stayed in and talked and watched movies, and on Saturday evening they had eaten Chinese takeout.
A breeze whipped directly from the Rosario Strait, bringing a clean salty scent, slipping into the collar of his light jacket like cold fingers. A shiver chased down his neck. He breathed deeply of the sea air, wanting to be home, wanting…something.
Entering the terminal, Mark headed toward the café, and saw a woman lugging a weekend bag to a nearby vending machine. A smile tugged at his lips as he saw her long streamers of red hair.
Maggie Conroy.
Thoughts of her had lurked in his mind all weekend. In idle moments, scenarios of how or when he might see her again had played in jaunty loops. His curiosity about her was relentless. What did she like for breakfast? Did she have a pet? Did she like to swim? When he had tried to ignore these questions, the fact of having something to ignore had made it all the more persistent.
He approached Maggie from the side, noticing the frown notched between mahogany brows as she studied the contents of the vending machine. Becoming aware of his presence, she looked up at him. The cheerful, quirky energy he remembered had been replaced by a vulnerability that went straight to his heart. He was caught off guard by the force of his response to her.
What had happened during the weekend? She’d been with her family. Had there been an argument? A problem?
“You don’t want any of that stuff,” he said, with a nod toward the array of glassed-in junk food.
“Why not?”
“Not one item in that vending machine has an expiration date.”
Maggie scrutinized the display as if to verify his claim. “It’s a myth that Twinkies last forever,” she said. “They have a shelf life of twenty-five days.”
“At my house they have a shelf life of about three minutes.” He looked into her dark eyes. “Can I take you to lunch? We’ve got at least two hours, according to the ferry agent.”
A long hesitation followed. “You want to eat here?” she asked.
Mark shook his head. “There’s a restaurant down the road. A two-minute walk. We’ll stow your bag in my car.”
“There’s nothing wrong with having lunch,” Maggie said, as if she needed to reassure herself of something.
“I do it nearly every day.” Mark reached for her overnight bag. “Let me carry that for you.”
She followed him from the terminal building. “I meant, the two of us having lunch. Together. At the same table.”
“If you want, we could sit at separate tables.”
He heard a laugh stir in her throat. “We’ll sit at the same table,” she said decisively, “but no talking.”
As they walked along the side of the road, the mist thickened into a drizzle, the air white and wet. “It’s like walking through a cloud,” Maggie said, drawing in deep breaths. “When I was little, I used to think that clouds must have the most wonderful taste. One day I asked for a bowl of cloud for dessert. My mother put some whipped cream in a dish.” She smiled. “And it was just as wonderful as I had imagined it would be.”
“But did you know at the time that it was only whipped cream?” Mark asked, fascinated by the way the mist had provoked little wispy curls around her face.
“Oh, yes. That didn’t matter, though…the idea of it was the point.”
“I have problems trying to figure out where to draw the line for Holly,” Mark said. “In the same classroom where she’s learning that dinosaurs were real, they’re also writing letters to Santa. What am I supposed to tell Holly about what’s real and what’s not?”
“Has she asked about Santa yet?”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I said I hadn’t decided one way or the other, but a lot of people believe in him, so it was okay if she wanted to.”
“That was perfect,” Maggie said. “Fantasy and make-believe are important for children. The ones who are allowed to use their imaginations are actually better at drawing the line between fantasy and reality than those who aren’t.”
“Who told you that? The fairy who lives in your wall?”
Maggie grinned. “Smart-ass,” she said. “No, Clover wasn’t the one who told me. I read a lot. I’m interested in anything having to do with children.”
“I need to learn more.” His voice turned quietly rueful. “I’m trying like hell to avoid ruining what’s left of Holly’s childhood.”
“From what I can tell, you’re doing fine.” On impulse she caught at his hand, her fingers squeezing lightly in a gesture meant to reassure and offer comfort. Mark was pretty sure that was the way he was supposed to interpret it. Except that his hand closed over hers and turned the spontaneous clasp into something else. Something intimate. Possessive.
Maggie’s grip loosened. Mark felt her indecisiveness as if it were his own, her unwilling pleasure in the way their hands fit together.
The press of skin to skin, such an ordinary thing. But it had set the axis of the entire earth off-kilter. He couldn’t seem to assess how much of his reaction to her was physical and how much was…other. It was all tangled together in a way that was new and visceral.
Maggie tugged free.
But he still felt the imprint, the shape of her fingers, as if his pores had begun to absorb her.
Neither of them spoke as they went into the restaurant, the interior fitted with polished dark wood, ancient scarred furniture, and wallpaper of indeterminate design. The air was scented
with food, liquor, and slightly mildewed carpet. It was one of those restaurants that had undoubtedly been established with good intentions, but had gradually succumbed to the inevitability of a certain amount of tourist business, and had relaxed its standards. Still, it was a decent enough place to pass the time, and it offered a view of the strait.
An indifferent waitress came to take their drink orders. Although Mark usually drank beer, he ordered a whiskey. Maggie ordered a glass of house red, and then changed her mind. “No, wait,” she said. “I’ll have whiskey, too.”
“Straight?” the waitress asked.
Maggie gave Mark a questioning glance.
“She’ll have a whiskey sour,” he said, and the waitress nodded and left. By this time Maggie’s damp hair had renewed itself into buoyant zigzagging curls. He could easily become obsessed with them. Clearly any attempt to ignore his attraction to her was doomed. It seemed that everything he had ever liked in a woman, including things he hadn’t even been aware of liking before, had been arranged in one perfect bouquet.
Before the waitress left, Mark had asked if he could borrow a pen, and she had given him a ballpoint.
Maggie watched, brows lifting slightly, as Mark wrote something on a paper napkin and handed it to her.
How was your weekend?
A smile crossed her face. “We don’t really have to follow the no-talking rule,” she told him. Setting the napkin down, she stared at him while her smile faded. A short sigh escaped her, as if she’d just finished a sprint. “The answer is, I don’t know.” Making a little face, she gestured with palms turned upward, as if to indicate that the issue was hopelessly complicated. “What about yours?”
“I don’t know, either.”
The waitress arrived with the drinks, and jotted down their lunch orders. After she left, Maggie took a sip of the whiskey sour.
“You like it?” Mark asked.
She nodded at once and licked the salty tang from her lower lip, a delicate flick of her tongue that made Mark’s pulse jump in several places at once. “Tell me about your weekend,” he said.
