by Carol Grace
"Yes. She said you were despicable."
"Then why did she said me the fruitcake?"
Jack shrugged. "Don't ask me. I don't understand women. She probably made too many. Or maybe she's got mixed feelings about you. Maybe she's confused. Love and hate are very close to the same thing, you know."
Adam shook his head. "How did she look?"
"The same."
Adam nodded. The same curly hair framing her face, the same wide blue eyes brimming with laughter one minute and burning with passion the next. The hands that could set him on fire with just a touch or beat against his chest in helpless fury.
"Oh, she said something else," Jack said, refilling his coffee cup.
Adam fastened his eyes on Jack and drummed his fingers on the table, though he would have preferred grabbing his friend by the shoulders and shaking him until he'd spat out everything that had happened between them.
"She said she thought about you with mild interest."
"Well I don't think about her at all," he insisted.
"Then I'll take the fruitcake," Jack suggested.
"You will not. She sent it to me, didn't she?"
"Then you'd better write and thank her."
"I don't know about that," Adam said.
"Want some help?" Jack offered.
"No, thanks."
Adam took the fruitcake to his quarters at the rear of the barracks. A single room was a luxury reserved for senior scientists which be had never appreciated as much as he did at that moment. How strange, after pouring his heart out nonstop to Mandy all those months in letters, that he should be stumped at the thought of a simple thank-you note. He started it four times and when he finally finished, he had filled the wastebasket full of crumpled stationery.
He reread the final copy.
Dear Mandy,
Thanks for the fruitcake. It looks great. I hope business is good at the inn. Life up here is pretty much as I expected and then some.
Adam thought about telling her he missed her, but he didn't. He thought about confessing that life was not as exciting as he'd expected, but why bother? He didn't want her to feel sorry for him.
He thought about telling her he thought about her all the time, but she probably wouldn't believe him. It was unbelievable, coming all this way only to wish he'd stayed where he was, only to wish he could start all over again with Mandy without any deception or lies between them. But it was too late for that. He should have told her the day he'd walked into her house, the day he'd seen her for the first time. Because he'd known, even then. He'd known that she was the one. His destiny.
He opened the fruitcake and let the fragrance fill the small room. Just this once he'd give in to the memories and remember the good times and pretend they still had a chance, pretend that she still cared about him. But when reality set in, he knew the most he could hope for was that she'd forgiven and forgotten him.
On Christmas Eve, Mandy placed little gifts under the tree for her guests and after they'd retired to their rooms upstairs, she and Laurie sat on the floor next to the tree and opened their presents from each other.
"Just what I wanted, new stationery. I love the flowers around the edge," Mandy enthused.
Laurie smiled. "Just in case you have someone to write to again."
Mandy shot her a warning look. "I won't. And you can cancel your subscription to Yukon Man, as far as I'm concerned. Don't you think I've learned my lesson? You don't seriously think I'd ever write to a stranger again, do you? After what happened?"
"What about a non-stranger, someone who's stuck on an oil-drilling platform in the North Sea?"
Mandy set the box of notepaper down in front of her. "Nobody's 'stuck' anywhere," she explained patiently. "Anyone who's working on an oil rig is there for a reason. Because he's fulfilling some dream, or to make money, or to relieve one of the workers so he can come home for Christmas, like Jack."
"Jack sounds like a prince charming," Laurie commented.
"Yes, he is, and he's still available."
"So?"
Mandy shook her head. "Jack's a sweet guy, a great guy, for someone else. Jack never would have done what Adam did to me. No one would have." Mandy smoothed a wrinkle in her long, wool skirt, wishing she could smooth away the hurt and ache in her heart as easily.
"What did he do that was so terrible?" Laurie asked.
Mandy gave her sister an exasperated look. "I've told you before, about a thousand times before. This is the last, the absolute last time I'm going to mention his name. As far as I'm concerned, he's out of sight and out of my mind. Gone, disappeared from my life forever. Have you got that?"
Laurie held up her hands. "I've got it. Just indulge me one more time and I promise I'll never mention him again."
Mandy took a deep breath. "First, he lied to me about not knowing Jack. Then he asked a lot of questions to find out if I was good enough for Jack.''
"Disgusting," Laurie agreed.
"Exactly," Mandy agreed. "And then he decided I wasn't."
"Are you sure?"
"What do you think? Jack went off immediately to marry the other woman."
"But you're not interested in Jack. So what do you care?"
"I was at the time," Mandy explained.
"When I was here," Laurie mused, "I had the distinct impression that you were interested in Adam, and vice versa."
"Adam is an attractive man," Mandy said defensively.
"No kidding," Laurie agreed. "He's also funny, sexy, and he does dishes."
Mandy wanted to add that he did many other things, too, but she didn't dare. When Laurie was on a kick like this, she didn't need any more ammunition to fuel the fires.
"Do you think I don't know all this? Do you think it makes me feel any better to know how nice he can be when I also know what a rotten, deceiving—" Mandy stopped abruptly and took a deep breath. "But the worst part was that he wrote all those letters, the ones that supposedly came from Jack. Jack, the man who really wants to get married, who's honest enough to admit it and to go after what he wants."
Laurie wrapped a strand of tinsel around a branch of the tree. "So, you're mad because you fell in love with Adam by mail, thinking he was Jack. Then you fell in love with Adam all over again in person, not knowing he was really Jack."
“Yes, no. I don't know.'' Mandy got up and walked to the window. "I didn't fall in love with Adam or anybody. In the first place, nobody falls in love by mail."
"What about Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning?" Laurie asked.
"All right. Some people fall in love by mail, but I don't." Mandy looked longingly at the hall that led to her bedroom. When Laurie got started on one of these discussions she was like a terrier with a bone. She just wouldn't let go. Her miserable record with men was the last thing Mandy wanted to talk about on Christmas Eve, or ever. But Laurie had a theory that you couldn't put things behind you until you'd talked them out, over and over and over.
"You said Jack stopped by," Laurie commented.
"Yes, I gave him a fruitcake."
"What did he give you?"
"A photograph of Adam with his father. Taken years ago. I don't know why he gave it to me." She yawned deliberately. "I don't know about you, but I'm going to bed now. We've got to stuff that turkey in the morning, you know."
When Mandy finally escaped the all-seeing, all-knowing eyes of her sister, she closed the bedroom door behind her and took out the picture of Adam from her dresser drawer. Then she undressed and slipped into bed and propped the picture up against her knees. She wished she hadn't accepted it, wished she'd never seen Adam as a young boy or gained any insight into his childhood.
She didn't want to think about his parents splitting up or fighting over him. She didn't want to imagine him moving from place to place as he was doing now. She didn't want to understand him or care about him. It was too painful. Laurie was wrong. She wasn't mad. She was sad, so sad that she was close to tears at any given moment thinking of the man who'd
turned his back on her and walked out of her life. He had never been half as interested in her as she was in him. That was the part that was hard to bear. She fell asleep clutching the picture in her hands, dreaming of Christmas in faraway places.
New Year's Eve on a drilling platform is not quite the festive occasion it is elsewhere. There was music, but it was in the form of golden oldies piped through the sound system that only contributed to the melancholy atmosphere that hung over the installation. There was only a skeleton staff on duty until the next day when most of the crew came back. Adam and Jack were in the mess hall after dinner, each musing a bottle of beer.
"I hate to leave you like this," Jack said, slapping Adam on the shoulder.
"Why?"
"Because you're not happy."
"How do you figure?" Adam asked, not pleased to know it showed.
"You haven't laughed at any of my jokes, you walk around in a fog, and you've been the first one at mail call this week. Who are you waiting to hear from?"
"I don't know. Gene, maybe."
Jack shook his head. "You didn't let me see your thank-you letter to Mandy. Too personal?"
"Right," Adam said dryly.
Jack pulled a copy of Yukon Man out of his pocket. "Have you seen the latest issue?" he asked.
Adam shielded his eyes. "Put that thing away."
"I thought you'd want to see my new ad and Mandy's."
Adam grabbed it out of Jack's hands. "Where?" He thumbed through the magazine until he came to a pen-and-ink sketch of a slope-roofed house on the edge of a cliff framed by cypress trees. "Miramar Inn," the copy read. "Your home away from home on the California Coast. Your hostess, Mandy Clayton." He stared at the ad, thinking of all the men who would go there, eat her muffins and share the patio, run on the beach and drink sherry in the living room. His heart contracted.
If only. If only he could go there now, wipe the slate clean and start all over again. But that wasn't possible. He'd seen the hurt in her eyes when he'd confessed, and he'd heard the painful catch in her voice when she'd tried to act as if it didn't matter.
"Page forty-three."
Adam looked up and remembered where he was. "What?"
"My ad. Page forty-three."
Adam found it immediately. A large photo of Jack staring engagingly at the reader with a list of his qualifications under the picture. Surprisingly, there was no mention of his being a millionaire. He looked at Jack, then back it the picture. "Not bad," he admitted. "But are you sure you want to go through this again?"
"I haven't given up," Jack said. "And neither should you. Come on, give it another try."
"Put an ad in Yukon Man?" Adam asked incredulously.
"Why not?"
"Mandy might see it."
"That’s the idea," Jack said.
"I'll miss you, Jack," Adam said. "You're right. You never give up.'' But Adam took the magazine and stuffed it into his back pocket, while Jack watched with a smug look on his face.
Jack left the next day, but the idea of putting an ad in Yukon Man hung around long after Jack's departure. Every time Adam walked into his cabin, the smell of brandy and spices from the fruitcake haunted him along with the magazine.
What if he put in a small ad, targeted for one person only? And what if that one person saw it and answered it?
The worst that could happen was if she didn't see it and didn't answer it. No, it would be worse if she saw it and then didn't answer it. Or she might write him a seething, scathing letter telling him how much she still despised him. But even that would be better than nothing. Better than not knowing if she was dead or alive, married or not married. She hadn't answered his thank-you note. He didn't think she would. But she'd sent the fruitcake. You don't send fruitcakes to people you hate, do you?
Normally Mandy put Laurie's mail in a basket and left it in her room until she got back from a trip. But that day she opened Laurie's issue of Yukon Man to see if they had gotten her ad for the inn right. Then she riffled restlessly past well-toned loggers and fishermen with stocking caps ant sexy smiles. Halfway through, she stopped abruptly and gripped the page between her thumb and forefinger. There it was, in small print.
LONELY MILLIONAIRE seeks warm, sensuous woman with bed and breakfast on the coast of California for long-term relationship. No math skills necessary, just a forgiving nature and the desire to start over. I've made mistakes, but I've learned a few things along the way.
Mandy fell into her desk chair and pressed her cool hands against her flaming cheeks. She hadn't answered his thank-you note. What was there to say? I never sent you a fruitcake? But this, this was different. The thing that worried her was his advertising himself as a millionaire. Did he think she was attracted to money? Did he still think it was okay to lie? She paced back and forth in front of the picture window. Then she sat down, the old urge to take up a dare propelling her to pick up her pen and a sheet of her new stationery.
She didn't say she had a forgiving nature or a desire to start over. She just asked for details. He knew she'd answer his ad. He knew she couldn't resist a dare. Then she sat back to wait for his answer.
She wouldn't say she was anxious, but her days revolved around her visit to the mailbox and her anxiety increased with each day that she didn't get an answer. She became more nervous, jumpy and irritable as the weeks passed. No number of guests could cheer her up, no telephone chats with Laurie, nothing.
One glorious winter day with the sun shining on the blue waters of the ocean below her house, she went down to the beach at low tide to try to get a new perspective on the situation and to let the hypnotic crashing of the waves calm her nerves.
Wearing shorts, a sweatshirt and canvas sneakers, she sat on the wide, sandy beach and looked out beyond the reef to the horizon, until a large shape blocked her view and threw a shadow across the sand. She rubbed her eyes with her hand.
"Adam." She dug her elbows into the sand to keep from falling over backward. He was wearing his same leather jacket, the same intense expression in his dark eyes as the first time she'd seen him. Her heart pounded like a jack hammer.
"I thought you might be down here," he remarked, sitting down next to her as if he were some casual beachcomber instead of a geologist from the North Sea.
Mandy told herself to be calm. She told herself nothing had changed but the weather since the last time they'd met on this beach. But she couldn't stop her wildly beating heart. Couldn't stop hoping against hope that something else had changed, too.
"Did you get many answers to your ad?" she asked, looking into his dark eyes for a glimpse into his mind.
"Only one," he admitted. "So I thought I'd answer it in person."
She nodded, letting her gaze travel over his broad shoulders and narrow hips, drinking in the sight of him like a woman stranded in the desert without water.
"I thought it was you," she said. "But I was confused by the lonely millionaire part. The last time I saw you, you didn't plan to be lonely and you weren't a millionaire."
Adam moved as close to Mandy as he could without touching her, leaving only a half inch of sand between them. He turned his head to meet her inquiring gaze. Explaining was not the hard part. Getting her to believe him was.
"I was a millionaire," he said. "I've always been one, since my dad died. He put the money for me into a trust fund and I've never had reason to use it or tell anyone about it. It was just there."
"Then why me? Why now?"
"I'm telling you now because I don't want to have any more secrets from you. And because I might need some of the money. I just quit my job."
He heard her gasp, saw her tilt her head back and close her eyes. The sun picked up the sheen on her hair and his hands itched with longing to run them through her soft curls, to pull her to him, to look deep into her eyes to find the answers to his questions. Did she believe him? Did she trust him? Did she want him?
"I was wrong about the drilling platform," he said soberly. "The thrills and the excit
ement, they couldn't compare to the thrills and excitement I found here with you."
She opened her eyes and looked at him. She wanted to believe, how much she wanted to believe. But if be didn't mean it, if he wasn't sure, she couldn't afford to take a chance. If he let her down again, it would kill her.
"What if you'd had other answers to your ad?"
He shook his head. "There was only one person who fit the description, only one person I want for a long-term relationship."
"How long?" she asked, her eyelashes dark against her pink, windblown cheeks.
"Mandy," he said in a quiet voice. "I'm sorry about what happened. I was caught in a bind. I was supposed to be finding a wife for Jack, but when I saw you I wanted you all for myself. All those months, all those letters, and then there you were in person, better, more beautiful than I could have imagined. I wasn't only lying to you, I was lying to Jack. I told him you were an eight on a scale of ten."
Mandy jerked to a sitting position and turned her back on him. Her shoulders shook. She might have been laughing, she might have been crying, he couldn't tell. He just went on. He had no choice but to keep talking until she either walked away or told him she'd give him another chance.
"I even told him you might be a gold digger, I didn't know."
"Do you know now?" Her voice was muffled. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and turn her around to face him and kiss her doubts away. But that wouldn't work. He had to talk them away or it was all over.
"Yes, I know. But you've got to know that I'm rich. And that I want to share my money with you. My life, too. Everything from now on."
She didn't speak.
"Oh, God, Mandy, would you say something, anything? Am I making any sense?"
She nodded. He saw her eyes were wide and luminous. Her lips, full and inviting. "Is that all?"
"There's more," he said, "but it will take hours, years, maybe, to unravel my personality. But you're acquainted with most of my faults by now."
