Driven to Distraction (Silhouette Desire S.)

by Dixie Browning; Sheri Whitefeather

  Shaking her head, she quietly opened the door. “Perry? Are you awake?”

  It was a subdued group that met in the kitchen later that night. The worst of the sickness was evidently over. “They’ll live,” said Charlie, “but they’re feeling pretty drained.”

  Groans could be heard around the table, where an array of safe snacks had been set out. Charlie, who hadn’t been affected, said, “Sorry. No pun intended. Stuff acts like salmonella. I figure it had to be either the raw cider or the sprouts. Not everybody put sprouts on their salad, and not everybody drank the cider, but I tossed the leftovers just in case.”

  “Godalmighty.” After emptying pails for the past few hours Ben was too tired to watch his language. The brow-soothing and hand-holding had been left to Janie, Georgia and Maggie, while the woman called Bea had manned the kitchen, brewing tea, serving up warm ginger ale and oven-crisped saltines.

  “How’s Perry doing? Is Ann looking after him?” Bea asked.

  “Evidently his stomach’s fine,” Maggie told her. “It’s his carpal tunnel that’s acting up.”

  “Just in time to keep him from being pressed into service in the bucket brigade,” Ben commented.

  Charlie slathered mustard on a corned beef sandwich. Evidently his appetite hadn’t been affected. “Carpal tunnel? Must come from painting all those thousands of picket fences and dead twigs.”

  “That’s what Ann says anyway, and she’s known him all her life. They’re cousins.”

  Nobody seemed to know what to say after that. Georgia twisted her wedding rings. Janie handed Charlie a paper napkin when his sandwich dripped mustard on his shirt, and Ben wheeled his chair around, stretched his long legs in front of him and sighed. “What now? We break camp, shut down and go home?”

  “He can still talk. He doesn’t have to use his wrist to teach,” Georgia offered.

  Maggie leaned forward, arms crossed on the long wooden table. She didn’t want to go home. They were all exhausted, but if they packed up and left, where would Ben go? To his grandmother’s house? Back to Texas? She felt like crying, and not only because it was late and she was bone tired.

  “I left something in the truck,” he said softly. They’d brought in the supplies earlier. “Maggie, how about a short walk to help you sleep?”

  “I don’t need a walk, thanks. I don’t even need to be horizontal, all I need is to let my eyes close.” Her lids were already drooping, but she got up and followed him to the door. Dead and in her grave she would probably follow him if he so much as crooked his little finger.

  As Perry was fond of saying, Faugh!

  Once outside, Ben told her he’d be leaving the next day. “First thing tomorrow, matter of fact.” He eyed her uncertainly. When she didn’t react, he said, “So I was just wondering…will you be all right?”

  Stunned, she took only a moment to recover. “I think I’ll stay on for the last couple of days. I’m really getting into this—this art stuff.” It was a lie and they both knew it, but it was the best she could do on short notice.

  “Maggie? You’re sure you’re okay?”

  What had he expected her to do, throw herself in his arms and beg him never to leave her? She might look like a weakling on the outside, but inside she was tough as nails. “I’m sorry about your grandmother, but at least maybe she’ll enjoy her prints—reproductions—whatever.”

  Ben nodded. It wasn’t Miss Emma’s so-called prints he wanted to talk about. He’d already made up his mind to buy them from her, offering her twice what she’d paid. It would just about wipe out his bank account, but what the heck. He could tell her he knew of a man back in Texas who’d be glad to take them off his hands.

  He would deal with Miss Emma tomorrow. Right now he had another problem that would never have become a problem if he hadn’t suffered a major lapse in judgment. “Maggie, I have to go back to Dry Creek for a few days—maybe even a few weeks—but—”

  “That’s great! I mean, you must be getting homesick. I know I would be if I had to—well, anyway, just drive safe, all right?”

  He’d be flying, not driving. Not that he bothered to correct her. Before she turned away he saw a suspicion of tears in her eyes.

  Sweet Jesus, he didn’t want to hurt this woman, but if he told her why he had to leave, he’d have to tell her the whole ugly story. He’d just as soon not leave her with that impression. Until he dealt with the past, though, he couldn’t afford to think about the future.

  “It’s been a long day,” she said with quiet dignity, and he watched her walk back to the shabby old mansion. She stumbled only once on the steep, graveled path.

  “Damned shoes,” he swore softly. She wasn’t fooling anyone, and he had a feeling she knew it. Maggie wasn’t a pretender. She was a straight-shooter. She expected the same of the people she let herself get close to, and God knows, they’d been close. So close it was threatening to undermine everything he’d always taken for granted. Such as being married to a cop was a high-risk position for any woman.

  He waited until she was inside, then he called on his cell phone and booked his flight. Packing wouldn’t take long. He had a few more goodbyes to say, but those would wait until morning. Whereas with Maggie…

  Had she believed him when he said he’d be back?

  Had he believed himself?

  “Damn Ben Hunter, anyway.” Maggie stumbled over the sandals she’d just kicked off. Why couldn’t he have had the decency to ignore her? So what if she’d been attracted to him? What woman with a viable hormone wouldn’t be? She should have known better than to sleep with him though, especially after dealing with the very same kind of heartbreak practically every week in her column.

  Although admittedly, some of the letters were from Mary Rose.

  And that was another thing, she thought as she rummaged through her suitcase for some of the snack foods she’d brought with her. Angrily, she bit into a Moon Pie, scattering crumbs down her nonexistent bosom. All things considered, this whole week had been a waste of time. She should have stayed home where at the very least she could have seen that her father ate decent meals and didn’t smoke more than the one cigar a day his doctor allowed him.

  After a largely sleepless night, Maggie had been tempted to throw her things into her car and take off, but sheer stubbornness prevailed. If she left first, Ben would know why, and that she couldn’t have borne. If he’d even greeted her this morning with a smile instead of a wary nod, she might have felt better, but he hadn’t. She watched as he spoke to Charlie, to Bea and a few others, and hugged Janie and Georgia.

  Not so much as a smile in Maggie’s direction.

  She stirred a third spoonful of sugar into her breakfast coffee. Fine. They’d said their goodbyes last night, nothing more to be said. She would damn well show a little class if it killed her.

  And then Perry showed up in the kitchen. Was it only her imagination, or did he look a bit apprehensive? Probably spent the past few hours poring over the fine print in his liability policy.

  Ben cornered him and the two men stepped out into the hall. Maggie strained to hear what was said, but others were talking and she caught only a few words. Ben was speaking quietly, but Perry’s voice suddenly cut through the desultory conversation.

  “Don’t threaten me, dammit! What do you know about anything? You wouldn’t know a giclee from a serigraph, you’re nothing but a—a security guard!”

  Oh ho, she thought—this isn’t about last night, after all. Way to go, Texas! She made up her mind on the spot to write a column exposing—

  Exposing what? The truth was, she still didn’t know enough about the subject to write about it. Maybe she’d better stick to writing advice to the lovelorn. She definitely knew about being lovelorn, if “lorn” meant being depressed, discouraged and angry all at the same time. If it meant wanting to kick something or throw something, or just curl up and cry until she ran out of tears.

  A thin-lipped Perry marched into the studio and slammed the door. Maggi
e remained in the kitchen, ignoring her cooling cup of coffee. Ben collected the two small bags he’d set by the front door and headed out to his truck.

  Maggie watched from the house, her throat aching the way it did just before the hurt spilled over into tears. At least one of them had accomplished something. From now on Perry might not be so quick to offer his pretty pictures as investments. Personally, she couldn’t tell the difference between a zircon and a diamond, but if she ever needed money in a hurry, a zircon wouldn’t do her much good.

  As for Mary Rose, she might just have to learn her lesson the hard way. Any rescuing Maggie did from now on would be strictly through her column.

  Halfway to the parking lot she saw Ben drop his bags and turn back toward the house. Without even thinking, she headed outside, across the porch and down the steps.

  They met halfway. For one long moment they simply looked at each other. Ben said, “I’ll call you.”

  No you won’t, Maggie thought. But she nodded, unable to think of a single thing to say that wouldn’t betray her true feelings.

  “Maggie, about yesterday…”

  The worst actress in the world, she tipped back her head and laughed. “You mean the food poisoning? What a mess! Thank goodness we ate in town.”

  Through the studio windows they could hear Perry speaking in triplicate again. Something about “Values, values, values!”

  “Write down your phone number for me,” he said. “Got a pencil?” She shook her head, so he patted his pockets down and came up with a stubby drawing pencil. “Here’s my number. I always have my cell phone with me.” He handed her the scrap of paper—a gas station receipt.

  “I rarely carry mine,” she said, just to be contrary. If she thought he might actually call her, she would sleep with the thing. Bathe with it. But she told him her number and he wrote that down on a card from his billfold.

  In whisky-clear eyes, she should have been able to read all sorts of hidden messages. The books always talked about things like that—how a woman could read a man’s true thoughts in his eyes.

  Maggie couldn’t read a blessed thing, maybe because her own eyes were burning with unshed tears. She blurted the first thing she could think of. “You were right—about the forgery, I mean. Ann was signing his name on all those pictures because of his wrist.”

  Ben nodded.

  “That makes it even worse, I guess. I mean…”

  “I know what you mean, Maggie.” It was as if they were both speaking a foreign language that bore no relation to what was in their minds. At least, none to what Maggie was thinking.

  Ben turned to go, then reversed once more. When he swept her into his arms, her feet actually left the ground. The kiss, as sweet as it was, held more than a touch of desperation. It ended far too quickly.

  “Later,” he said gruffly, and turned away once again. This time he didn’t come back. Maggie watched him all the way to the pickup, watched him open the door and swing himself inside.

  Long-legged men, she thought wistfully. Long, lean, strong, graceful—all the beautiful things a man could be. There ought to be a law against them. At the very least, the federal meat inspectors should stamp a warning in purple ink on their sides.

  When his dust died away—there wasn’t much of it on account of yesterday’s rain—she went back inside and actually considered joining the class. Before she did anything else, though, she was going to retrieve her cell phone, in case he thought of something else he wanted to say.

  “You’re pathetic, you know that?” she muttered.

  Just as she reached the room, she heard the quiet buzz of the cell phone she’d left on the dresser. Startled, she stopped dead for an instant, then she nearly broke her neck lunging across the room.

  “Hello?” Oh, God, please let him have changed his mind about leaving.

  She hadn’t even bothered to check the numbers when she heard a familiar voice. “Maggie, where in the world have you been, I’ve been trying to call you since forever! You’ll never guess what’s happened!” There was a pause while Maggie tried to swallow her disappointment. And then, “Mag, it’s me, Mary Rose. Say something!”

  Without waiting, her friend rushed on. “Guess what, I’ve lost seven pounds—I know, I know, it’s mostly water weight so far, but my waistband’s are getting loose, and I’m getting a really terrific tan. There’s this new lotion—I’ll tell you about it when I get home. Look, do you think you could make me an appointment with Zelle for a cut and maybe some color for two weeks from now? Because, wait’ll you hear—I’ve met this really neat man…”

  Two minutes later Maggie was still holding the tiny instrument in her hand, staring dumbly at the wall. “She met this really neat man,” she repeated softly. “Well, shoot!”

  All the way back to Miss Emma’s neat frame house in Mocksville, Ben thought about his options and the situation he’d got himself involved in. He’d called his grandmother last night, letting her know he’d be stopping by before catching a late evening flight from Greensboro International.

  Maybe he should have explained to Maggie why he had to leave, but then he’d have had to tell her about the ugly mess he’d left behind. Dammit all to hell and back, why couldn’t someone else have uncovered the truth and turned over the evidence to I.A.? The thing that worried him most was that Mercy—the man who had saved his butt when he’d been a street-smart kid headed down a dead-end road—Mercy had gone along with it. Maybe he hadn’t been involved personally, but he’d known. He had to have known. Hell, he’d admitted to just wanting to hang in there ’til he retired to secure his benefits package.

  Ben knew he could’ve told Maggie simply that he had to go back and testify in a court case, but that he’d be back as soon as the trial was over in case she wanted to pick up where they’d left off, but—

  That’s where he pulled up short. Even if Maggie was willing, how far down that particular road did he want to go? As far as he was concerned, it was unexplored territory. And while he wasn’t a coward, he never liked to go into any situation unprepared.

  How the hell did a man prepare for falling in love?

  Twelve

  Purely because she hated to admit defeat, Maggie stayed to the bitter end. She helped Ann matte the new shipment of reproductions—she called them that deliberately. Soon Ann was calling them that, too. Several would go on display at the end-of-the-workshop exhibit along with two of his originals.

  Evidently Ben had spread the word before he left, because she heard Georgia telling one of the librarians that she intended to buy a copy of Stone Mill in Winter to hang over the bookcase in her dining room—because she liked it, not because she considered it an investment. Janie entered the conversations, and the print versus original thing was openly discussed.

  Ann winked at Maggie and whispered, “I’m glad they know. I couldn’t say anything because Aunt Iola, Perry’s mama, lent my brother a down payment on his house, and Brother hasn’t paid her back yet.”

  There would be other workshops, other exhibits, and probably other people talked into buying reproductions as an investment. Ben had done all he could, but Maggie hadn’t. She still had a column to write.

  Ben had left his paints behind, including all his awful attempts at landscape painting. Maggie matted what she considered his best attempt for the exhibit and put the rest of his gear with her own. After tonight’s festive “opening” she would load her car and get an early start tomorrow.

  The celebration was dismal. Not even the wine helped. Charlie claimed he never drank screw-top wines as they gave him headaches. He and Janie were openly holding hands now. Maggie warmed to the thought that they’d been able to put the past behind them and look forward to a new future.

  Don’t waste time, she wanted to urge. Follow your heart!

  But then, who was she to advise anyone? Just because she wrote an advice column…

  Faugh, as Perry would say.

  The next morning she hugged them all goodbye, even those s
he hadn’t got to know very well. Even Perry. For all his faults, he was probably a competent painter and an excellent teacher. Not that he’d been able to teach her to paint, but at least she knew now that being an artist involved a lot more than splashing paint on a blank piece of paper and calling it art.

  Home was just as she’d left it. The lawn needed mowing, the gutters still needed cleaning and there was a sinkful of dirty dishes, despite the fact that they had a dishwasher. Sooner or later she would get around to everything.

  Her father wasn’t home yet, but then he often worked on Sundays when he could have the office to himself. Maggie checked his room, collected the clothes that needed laundering, stripped his bed and remade it after opening several windows to air out the cigar smoke.

  Her own room was just as she’d left it, too. She set up the laptop computer she hadn’t bothered to open back at Peddler’s Knob, already thinking about the column she would write as soon as she got something cooking for supper.

  Her mind still free-ranging over possibilities, she sorted through the mail to see if there was anything for Miss Maggie. Only a single letter from a man wanting to know if a wife was obligated to do all the housework even if she had an outside job.

  That one she would definitely answer. She might even invent a few more letters along the same lines to get her point across. As long as both partners were working outside the home, she thought, mentally phrasing her response while she scrubbed sweet potatoes, wrapped them in foil, and shoved them in the oven, then both partners should share equally in household chores.

  She was catching up on the news on television later that night when her cell phone buzzed softly from the kitchen where she’d left it. She hurried to answer it before it could wake her father, who had fallen asleep reading the Journal.