At what point does a string of coincidences gather significance and add up to something more than chance?
I stuff my phone into my handbag and head back to my car. Suddenly, I can’t wait to get home.
* * *
When I arrive, the guys are out on the back patio, eating their lunch. In addition to Coop and the ginger-haired Toby, Theo’s brought two burly Latino guys who look like brothers, and one tall, wiry fellow with tattoos all the way up both arms. They all stop and look at me when I appear in the open doorway.
“Hi, guys.”
Coop and Toby grin, the Latino guys nod respectfully, and the wiry guy waves, then immediately goes back to eating his sandwich.
Theo looks at me with slightly narrowed eyes. Like the others, he’s sitting on an ancient Adirondack, but somehow, he manages to make it look like a throne.
Coop introduces the men I don’t know, then asks, “You want a baloney sandwich? I’ve got an extra.”
I haven’t eaten yet, but I’m not hungry. My stomach is too twisted in ropes to handle food. “No, thanks. How’s it going with the rewire?”
Coop shrugs. “Piece of cake. For us. Because we’re awesome. Obviously.”
That tugs a smile from my pinched lips. I glance at Theo. He’s still staring at me with that assessing look, as if he knows there’s something wrong. “Where’s the delivery from Craters and Freighters?”
“Oh,” says Coop, “we had ’em put it in the garage. We thought since it was empty in there, and the house was gonna be pretty jacked up with all the work—”
“The garage is perfect, thank you.” I leave before he can say anything else, and hurry out to the garage, ignoring his startled look and Theo’s relentless, studied observation of my face.
The garage is detached from the main part of the house. It’s a newer structure, built within the last few decades to accommodate three cars. I enter through the side door and hit the light switch, and there it is, alone on the cement pad, a big pine crate about five feet tall and eight feet long, stamped with the words “Fragile” and “Handle with Care” on the sides.
I walk over to it and rest my shaking hands on the top edge.
Then I haul myself on top of it, lie down on my back, and close my eyes.
I’ll call the company later to find out what the hell happened, but I need a moment to compose my thoughts. I need a moment to reconnect with these relics from my past.
It was a clerical error. Someone made a mistake, that’s all. The schedules were switched, the hotel found other art they wanted to hang on their walls, there’s a reasonable explanation for all of it. These coincidences don’t mean anything, Megan. You’re not thinking straight.
Nothing has anything to do with Theo.
I sense him there before I even open my eyes. He’s a presence in the doorway, silent, but palpable nonetheless.
“Don’t mind me. I’m just having a little nap.”
Footsteps slowly approach. I turn my head and meet Theo’s eyes. He’s a foot above me, his expression bemused. He glances at the words on the side of the crate, then his dark eyes slash back to mine. His brows lift in inquiry.
I sigh and hide from his penetrating gaze by staring at the exposed wood beams on the ceiling. “It’s stuff from my old house. I wasn’t expecting it yet.” My chuckle is low in my throat, full of dark humor. “The list of things I wasn’t expecting is growing by leaps and bounds lately.”
After a moment, Theo strokes a finger along the edge of the crate. From my peripheral vision, I can see that his expression has turned thoughtful. He wants to know what’s inside.
I’m not going to tell him what’s inside.
I’m being ridiculously superstitious, and I hate myself for it, but I can’t handle any more weird coincidences. If I tell him the crate is full of oil paintings and he sends me a chipper text that reads, “Hey, I’m a painter too!” I’ll have a heart attack and die on the spot.
“It’s…um. Pottery.”
Silence. Without moving my head, I slide my eyes sideways and look at Theo.
With exaggerated slowness, he mouths the word Liar.
I huff out a breath, sit up, cross my legs beneath me, and drag my hands through my hair. Propping my elbows on my knees, I drop my head into my hands and close my eyes again.
“Okay. Here’s the truth: it’s stuff I don’t want to talk about. It’s stuff that hurts me to think about, and it’s gonna hurt even worse to look at.” I swallow. My voice comes out thick. “It’s my husband’s things.”
I hear him softly exhale. Then I hear the scratching noise of pen on paper, then a tearing sound. Then Theo gently nudges my elbow. I crack open an eye and see a small piece of notebook paper resting on my knee, with the words I’m sorry written on it.
“You don’t have to be sorry. Not your circus. Not your monkeys. Don’t worry about it.”
He takes back the paper, scribbles something else on it, and sets it back on my knee. It reads, Can I get you anything?
When I look at him, he’s visibly worried, his dark brows drawn together, his full lips turned down.
“A lobotomy? A nice case of amnesia? Some brainwashing, perhaps?”
He knows what I mean, but he shakes his head sharply in disagreement. I get a new note, this one scribbled furiously fast.
If the good memories outweigh the bad,
you shouldn’t want to forget the past.
I read it, twice, then crush the piece of paper in my fist. Blinking back tears, I whisper, “I don’t want to forget him. I want to forget who I am without him.”
Then—impossibly, horribly—I’m crying.
Ugly crying, because I’m not one of those lucky women who can weep into a handkerchief and make it look dainty. When I cry, it involves unattractive noises and great gasps of air like I’m drowning. It involves full-body shaking and snot.
A big, warm hand presses against the space between my shoulder blades. A steady, reassuring pressure, it stays until my tears slow and I’m glowing with embarrassment for breaking down in front of him. Then Theo takes his hand back, and I wipe my eyes with my fingertips and my nose with my sleeve.
Avoiding his eyes, I hop off the crate and look at my feet. My voice comes out sounding small and strangled. “Sorry about that. Anyway. I’m gonna go inside now.”
Neither one of us moves. At his sides, Theo’s hands are clenched. When I glance up at his face, it’s strained. I think he’s trying to hold himself back from taking me into his arms to comfort me, and I’m swamped by another wave of sadness.
My loneliness pounds so hard inside me, I’d probably have a total mental breakdown if he did.
A lone tear crests my lower lid and slides down my cheek. Watching it fall, Theo looks like he’s been stabbed in the gut. I lift my hand to dash it away, but Theo reaches out and gently swipes his thumb over my cheekbone.
My entire body goes electric at his touch. I freeze, inhaling sharply. From one breath to the next, I become aware of his heat, how erratically his chest is rising and falling, the faint scent of soap on his skin. We stare at each other in crackling silence, my heart like a wild animal trying to claw its way out of my chest.
His hand trembles against my face. His eyes blaze with emotion. Lips parted, he leans toward me.
Off in the distance, one of the men calls his name, and the spell is broken as abruptly as it was cast.
Theo snatches his hand away, reddens, then spins on his heel, his jaw tight and his brows lowered. He stalks out of the garage, letting the door slam shut behind him.
15
For the rest of the day, Theo avoids me, and he makes it obvious. If I step into a room, he steps out. If I glance in his direction, he looks away. Whatever was about to happen between us in the garage, it’s rattled him even more than it has me. He’s gone back to scowls and thunderclouds, and once again, I’m at a loss.
Before the guys finish at five o’clock, Coop gives me an update on their progress. Then they leave,
Theo first. I watch from the front window as he throws himself into his Mustang and roars off down the road at top speed as if he’s competing in the Indy 500.
I’ve never had patience with mysteries. I loved math at school because of the concreteness of it, the absolute confidence you had that every single time, two plus two would equal four. There’s beauty in that kind of unchanging, provable perfection.
So the pure inconsistency of this man and situation is driving me crazy.
Which is why I decide I’ve had enough of it. Things between us from now on will be strictly business. His problems aren’t my concern, and my problems aren’t his concern. It’s not healthy for me to get caught up in whatever this is.
No matter how tempting this “whatever” is.
The next day, I ignore Theo completely. I go about my chores without glancing in his direction even once. By the time five o’clock rolls around, my shoulders are so tense from how hard I’m trying not to notice him that I’ve given myself a headache. When my cell phone rings, I answer distractedly, rubbing my forehead with my free hand.
“Hello?”
“Hey, there, Megan. It’s Craig.”
Shit. It’s Wednesday. He’s calling about the date. I haven’t spent a moment considering what my answer would be since we talked on the phone on Monday.
“Hi, Craig. How are you?”
“I’ll be better when you tell me what time I’m picking you up on Friday night.”
I have to smile at that. “You sure do cut right to the chase, don’t you?”
“I haven’t thought about anything else since we talked. Say yes.”
Now I laugh out loud, because he couldn’t be more different from Theo if he tried. It’s a relief not to have to break my brain wondering what a man is thinking. “Well, I don’t know. I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
It’s his turn to laugh. “Yes, you have, you’re just being a woman.”
“Oh, really? And here I thought I knew myself better than that. I guess my silly female brain has fooled me.”
I was trying to be flirtatious, but because I’m utter crap at anything requiring feminine wiles, it comes out like an accusation. He backtracks so fast, I can almost hear tires squealing on pavement.
“Sorry, I wasn’t saying you’re silly. I was trying to be cute. It obviously didn’t go over well.”
Now I have to sigh, because at this rate, this phone call is doomed to leave both our egos in ruins. “No, don’t apologize, I was trying to be cute and it didn’t go over well. I need to stop pretending I’m good at witty repartee. Inevitably, it ends with me crawling under a table to hide because I’ve made a fool of myself.”
The relief in Craig’s voice is obvious. “So I haven’t botched it.”
“Not yet,” I say warmly, which makes him laugh again.
“Oh, good. That makes me feel so much better.”
Smiling, I walk from the kitchen to the front parlor, where I look out into the yard. The sound of hammering, footsteps, and the murmur of male voices drifts down from upstairs, where Coop and the guys are working on installing a new circuit box in a utility closet. I have no idea where Theo is, but I’m not paying attention to him anyway, so it doesn’t matter.
“I visited your building the other day.” The instant it leaves my mouth, I know how it sounds. Judging by the pleasure in Craig’s response, he’s thinking the same thing.
“You drove all the way to Portland to see my burned-out building?”
I close my eyes and shake my head, mentally kicking myself. “I, um, had some shopping to do, and…I found myself in that neighborhood.”
Now Craig’s laugh is delighted. He says teasingly, “You ‘found’ yourself in an industrial park? Hmm. You must need a new battery in your GPS.”
I groan. “God, I sound like some kind of stalker. I promise it wasn’t as creepy as it sounds.”
“It doesn’t sound creepy at all to me. I think it’s sweet. In fact, I think you should just admit that you think I’m devastatingly handsome and charming so we can go on our first date.”
I was wrong. There’s no way his ego is going to be affected no matter how lame my repartee might be. You could drive a tank over this guy’s ego and it would pop right back up without a scratch.
“Our first date?” I shoot back. “You’re assuming we’ll have more than one?”
“Oh yeah,” he says, all confidence. “You’re gonna fall in love with me over dinner and insist I take you out again. By this time next year, we’ll be picking out our wedding invitations.”
My mouth falls open. Then, struck by the sheer size of his nerve, I break into laughter.
Craig pounces on my amusement like a lion on his dinner. “Or maybe you’re in love with me already!”
“You’re nuts,” I say between gasps. “Seriously nuts!”
“And you’re completely infatuated with me. It’s the hair, isn’t it? It’s my thick, glorious head of hair. Go on, admit it. I’ll wait.”
I’m laughing so hard, my sides hurt. I can’t remember the last time I laughed this hard, but Craig and his supersized ego are reminding me how.
“Yes, Craig. Obviously I’m infatuated with you because of your magnificent hair. No woman alive could resist.”
“Aha!” he crows, victorious. “You said magnificent!”
“I was just repeating what you said.”
“No, I said glorious. You came up with a completely different adjective that had an entire additional syllable. Case closed. You’re madly in love with me. What time should I pick you up Friday?”
“Wow. Are you always like this?”
“Funny, charming, and dazzlingly sexy? Yes. Yes, I am.”
My eye roll is so extravagant, I might’ve popped something in my brain. Still chuckling, I relent. “Okay, Craig, you’re on. Dinner on Friday. Pick me up at six. And don’t make me regret this, I haven’t been on a date in a hundred years.”
His voice drops a notch. “I promise I won’t ever make you regret anything where I’m concerned, Megan. See you at six.”
He disconnects before I can say anything else.
I shake my head in disbelief, muttering, “Well, this should be interesting.”
When I turn around, Theo is standing still in the hallway, staring at the floor.
“Oh,” I say, startled to see him standing there. “Um…did you need me for something?”
Without looking at me, he pulls his cell phone from his pocket and types something into the keyboard. It comes through on my phone with a chime.
We’re done for the day.
“Oh, great. Okay. Anything I need to know?”
Theo lifts his head and looks at me. Really looks at me, his eyes searching my face. Slowly, he shakes his head no.
Something in his gaze elicits a powerful urge in me to run to him and throw my arms around his shoulders. The feeling is so strong, I have to physically restrain myself from moving my feet.
I know he overheard my call with Craig. How much he heard, I’m not sure, but judging by the expression on his face, he’s feeling some kind of way about it. Some major kind of way.
I whisper, “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
He doesn’t acknowledge I’ve spoken. He simply stares at me for a beat, then turns abruptly and disappears down the hallway, his boots thumping loudly against the wood floor.
I blow out a breath and press my hand over my heart. That does nothing to stop its frantic fluttering.
* * *
My insomnia that night is worse than usual. Despite my decision to keep things pure business between Theo and me, my mind runs on a hamster wheel, going over and over every look, text, and email that has passed between us, furiously trying to read between the lines of all that he doesn’t say.
Considering he’s mute, that’s a lot.
At midnight, I give up and rise from bed. I go stand at the patio windows and stare out at the ocean, which is as black as the sky. Neither has any answers for
the questions swirling in my head. I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the cold glass.
Cass. I wish you were here. I miss you. I love you. I still love you so goddamn much.
When I open my eyes, a figure has appeared out on the beach, standing in the darkness.
My heart hammering, I jerk back a step from the window. I can barely see the person because it’s so dark, but moonlight sifts between the clouds overhead, casting a ghostly glow on him, crowning his dark head in a halo of white. Whoever it is stands unmoving, hands by his sides, legs spread apart, staring up at the house. I move back to the window and flatten my hand against the glass.
I whisper, “Theo?”
The figure takes a single step forward.
All the tiny hairs on my body stand on end. My hands tremble, and I start to panic.
There’s no way on earth he could’ve heard me speak, yet, irrationally, I’m convinced he somehow knew his name left my lips, the way you sometimes feel a tug of recognition when you pass someone you’ve never met on the street. You know you’ve never seen them before, yet something tells you they’re not a total stranger. Something in their eyes sparks a sense of déjà vu.
Like maybe you met in another life.
“You don’t believe in kismet, Megan. You don’t believe in ghosts or fate or the tarot or any of that other nonsense. You’re a rational, intelligent person. You know he didn’t feel you call his name.”
Really? Try it again and see what happens.
I mutter, “Keep pestering me, you idiotic little voice, and I’ll take a drill to my skull to shut you up.”
Sounds like something a crazy person would do. Might as well test my theory if you’re already nuts anyway.
I curse and turn away from the window. Groaning in exasperation, I start to pace the length of the room, my hands clasped together on top of my head so they don’t pick up the nearest object and throw it at the wall.
“I won’t say his name again. I won’t.”
Chicken.
Midnight Valentine Page 14
