by Vicky Loebel
What a night. They’d made love and made love and made love until her life and troubles and even the gidgets had melted into an insignificant puddle of satisfaction and all that remained was him and now.
The flat’s feeble air conditioning rumbled against the morning heat. Mike must have shut the windows and switched it on.
What a guy. She stretched again, tender in unaccustomed places, especially her heart. What a lover. Lane strangled a rush of giggles. Don’t make more of this than it is. She’d spent a fantastic night with a fantastic guy who was about to sail out of her life. Don’t get clingy. Despite her celebrity husband, Lane had no experience with casual hookups. She’d fallen for Alex when he visited her theater class in college, let him chase her a while, married, and that was that. Even after the accident when sex had to be more creative, she’d never wanted anyone else, had come to believe the intimacy that grew out of their particular relationship made lovemaking even better.
Which might be true. But oh, to be held by a man, to feel his weight, his passion, his bunched and muscular body merge with hers. To ask and give without protecting anyone’s feelings. To lose herself.
Lane sighed happily. Those things mattered, too.
What if he’s done with me? What if he’s gotten cold feet?
Mike entered the bedroom dressed exactly the way she liked him—in jeans and nothing else. “Breakfast’s ready.” His grin, his hungry look, announced that Mike’s feet were still warm. “Unless you’d rather….” He stepped forward, reaching for the sheets.
Lane would rather. Unfortunately, she had to get moving. “My work team’s going to be here in thirty minutes. To clean the auditorium.” She rolled up into his arms and squandered three of those minutes kissing.
“Twenty-seven minutes,” Mike murmured, “is plenty of time….” He whispered suggestions, rubbing her neck, her back, her—
“Stop.” Lane pulled away. “Must find clothes.” She grabbed jeans, debated sexy vs. practical tops, and dashed for her unnaturally clean shower. Ten minutes later—a lifetime of running late had made Lane a speed-demon in the bathroom—she was admiring a kitchen table set with actual dishes heaped with genuine food. He’d even located a tablecloth and freshly dusted vase of silk flowers.
Don’t get clingy. Lane gazed in wonder at her transformed kitchen, at the enticing breakfast, at the even more enticing man. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” she said slowly, “but can I keep you?”
Mike clasped her hands, lifting them, bringing them to his lips. “I charge extra for windows.”
“We’ll work it out in trade.” They came together hungrily, lips, fingers, elbows, knees. Mike tugged her shirt out of—
The front door rattled. There was the fumbling sound of a key in the stairwell lock, some muffled cries of “Mommy, Mommy!” And then the gidgets boiled through the flat like overheated pots of pasta.
“Lane?” Janet called from the living room. “The girls forgot….” Her voice faded as she caught sight of Mike and Lane through the kitchen door. “We thought….”
“Mommeeeee!” Gemma dashed in and hugged Lane’s waist.
“Rain guy!” Mima attached herself to Mike. “What happened to your face?”
“New boat, low bulkheads,” Mike said. “Forgot to duck.”
“Bet you’ll remember next time.”
“I bet I will.”
“Breakfast.” Gemma tugged her younger sister’s arm. “Let’s eat.” The girls attacked the food.
“Excuse me.” Janet’s frigid tone gave the weak air-conditioning a boost. “Your daughters forgot to pack their fairy wings for the photo shoot. We came to get them.”
“Ah, right.” Lane winced. “Mike, this is my mother-in-law, Janet Talmadge. Mom, this is the new building owner, Mike…um….”
“Evans,” Janet supplied thinly. She eyed Mike’s bare chest and feet and then stepped forward, offering her hand. “I believe you met my husband, Judge Talmadge, last night.”
“Yes ma’am,” Mike answered. “My pleasure.”
“He met the judge?” Lane frowned at Mike. “Wait, when?”
“I understood,” Janet continued, “that you were living on your boat.”
“It needed airing. Ms. Talmadge was kind enough to offer me her couch.”
“I see.” Janet looked at the couch, still stacked with bits of costumes and theater props. “Congratulations,” she told Lane. “That was fast work.”
Fast? Lane felt the blush she’d been trying to hide break free. Fast? She thinks I slept with Mike because he owns the building? Sharp prickling heat rose up her neck and flowed along her arms. Does Mike think that?
Mike caught Lane’s hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. “Will you join us for breakfast, Mrs. Talmadge? I make excellent pancakes.”
“Thank you, no. As everything is under control here, I believe I’ll leave Lane to deal with the girls.” She started for the door.
“Wait, stop!” Lane couldn’t take the gidgets to Casa Blanca. Once she got mixed up in the photo shoot she’d never get away. “Janet, please.” She hurried after her mother-in-law. “Mom.”
“Don’t call me that.” She turned with hard, bright eyes. “Don’t you dare call me mom with that man in your husband’s bed.”
“Janet….”
“Good day.” The door closed with quiet, damning dignity.
Ten years. Lane couldn’t believe it. Ten years I’ve been a perfect daughter-in-law. She gulped a mixture of indignant guilt and rage. Lane had had a theater career when she got married—a start of one—that she’d willingly placed on hold for kids. After the accident, she’d moved into her suffocating in-laws’ house to make sure Alex could get the care he needed and live at home. Then as her husband’s health slowly deteriorated, Lane had worked hard to make the two rooms she and her little family occupied into a rich and satisfying world.
Ten years. The last two without a man of any sort. It isn’t fair.
It wasn’t fair. Lane shivered in reluctant sympathy. Because however long she waited to find another lover, Janet would never find another son.
I’m sorry, Alex. Sorry your mom’s unhappy. Sorry you died. Lane sighed, knowing her late husband had never wished unhappiness on anyone. So now what? The day was ruined; her night with Mike felt spoiled.
“More pancakes!” Mima banged on the kitchen table.
“More sausage!” Her older sister copied her.
Lane’s gloom dissolved in a practical shrug. She braced herself and went to the kitchen, expecting her overnight hookup—my landlord, the thought brought back Lane’s blush—to beat a quick retreat from family drama.
Instead, she found Mike serving second helpings.
“Time’s short today, so this breakfast is free,” he told the girls. “Next time I need your solid promise you’ll help wash up.”
“We will!”
Next time? Lane’s stomach fluttered, but she crossed her arms and eyed the girls. “Fairy wings, huh?” She tried her best to look severe. “You know I know that you both know those wings are with your costumes at Casa Blanca.”
“We needed kisses.” Mima jumped on her chair and launched herself at Lane.
“And hugs.” Her older sister hopped to her feet and grabbed Lane’s waist, sending them staggering against Mike’s solid chest.
“Hey, take it easy.” He took Mima and swung her toward the ceiling. “You’ll break your mother’s back.”
“Mothers don’t break,” Mima squealed cheerfully, “just dads.”
“Moms never fall,” Gemma pronounced, “they rise above.”
Mike lowered Mima. “Sounds like a useful skill.”
“Gemma’s my scholar.” Lane kissed her daughter’s head. “She’s been quoting Shakespeare since she was three.”
“Me, too,” Mima exclaimed. “All’s well that ends in a well.”
“To be or not to be,” Gemma recited, “that is the question.”
“Violet delights have violet end
s.”
“Violent,” her big sister corrected. “Neither a borrower nor a lender—”
“Enough.” Lane scooped up her eight-year-old and twirled her in a circle. “You’ll make us dizzy.” She aimed her daughters at the hall. “Go wash your hands, and then I’ll drive you to Casa Blanca.”
The day was going to need reorganizing. Lane looked at Mike. “OK. I’ll open the auditorium and leave a note for the crew. You’re welcome to stay…um…I mean, obviously. It’s your building.” That wasn’t all. “I guess I’ve been driving your car, too. Esther gave me the keys so long ago I never thought.” Oh, dear, what would she do without the MG? Walk? Buy a second-hand clunker? Haul the girls in a pedicab? Lane didn’t regret the fact they’d spent Alex’s fortune on medical bills. It had been his money, and it had almost saved his life. Unfortunately “almost” didn’t get her kids to school in the morning.
“We’ll sort the vehicles out later,” Mike said, not quite implying she could keep the car. “Meanwhile, would you like me to take the girls to Casa Blanca?” He carried the breakfast dishes to the sink. “Or I can stay and help with the auditorium. I’m meeting someone—a guy someone—”
The fact he’d cared enough to clarify gave Lane goosebumps.
“—a temporary captain on board my boat this afternoon. But I can help with auction setup until then.” He grasped Lane’s hips and tugged her close. “I’m very competent.”
“I noticed.” She gulped, amazed how easily a little gentle manhandling set her heart racing. “I definitely noticed. Given my choice, I’d take the girls.” Lane longed to watch the photo shoot. “But I’m afraid I’ll never make it back.”
“Then I’ll drive.” He went to the bedroom and returned with his backpack, dressed in a forest green polo shirt that matched his eyes.
The girls skipped into the living room, Gemma lugging a stack of books, Mima wearing two hats—one Hello Kitty, one monster truck—on her head.
“Two books, one hat,” she told the girls. “Where did you leave your backpacks, Grammie’s car?”
“Downstairs by the door.”
“Of course.” Lane smelled a plot to get her to the photo shoot. “OK. Except I’m staying here. Mike’s driving you to Casa Blanca.”
“Rain guy?” Gemma looked doubtful. “Does he know where to go?”
“I’ll know if you navigate.” Mike dangled keys. “Who wants to ride in a truck?”
“A monster truck?” Mima jumped for his hand.
“A pickup?” Lane wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that. “Wouldn’t you rather take the car?”
“The Ford’s safer. Besides, when’s the last time you changed the oil in the MG?”
“Not that long….” Um, had she ever changed it? Definitely last year when Mima started Kindergarten.
A horn honked in the parking lot. Lane checked the time. “That’s Tip, my sound and lighting guy. He’s very punctual.” She raised a window, winced at the summer furnace, and hollered hello.
“You’ll come back?” she asked Mike at the bottom of the stairs. So much for not clinging. “After you take the girls?” Lane bent to kiss her daughters.
“I’ll come back.” Mike waited patiently for his turn. “You’ll be here?”
“I’ll be—” They kissed. It was remarkably hard to pull away.
“Does this mean we’re not single?” Mima opened the parking-lot door to blinding heat.
“Not yet,” her sister hissed. “Aunt Gussie says less than a month is shacking up.”
Lane groaned inwardly, stepping away from Mike.
“Well,” Mima said, “I think shacking up is great.”
Mike winked at Lane, taking her daughters’ hands. “Me, too.”
Chapter Seven
“No doubt about it. You got yourself a beautiful fishing boat.” Skeeter Davis wiped dark hands on a rag and accepted a cold beer from Mike. “Runs dry, handles good, and those engines are sweet and clean as a baby’s behind. I don’t suppose you want to sell her?”
“Sorry.” Mike shook his head and plopped into a shaded deck chair. The heat was murderous, but here, with the gulf breeze blowing across Hermia’s stern deck, the afternoon seemed almost pleasant. “My late Uncle Elias would roll over in his grave.” He’d hired Skeeter—the brother of an Air Force buddy—to captain the Striker-44 during her first month at sea. Mike was an experienced blue-water fisherman. He’d packed, helmed, navigated, anchored, and even caught fish from time to time. But there was a huge difference between being experienced and being responsible for the lives of passengers. Skeeter had already earned his fee running the Hermia around the treacherous coastal waters this afternoon.
“You think we’re good for the Bahamas?”
“Should be.” Skeeter stretched out his legs. “Plus there’s plenty boat yards down there if something goes wrong. Long as you’ve got plenty room on your credit card.”
“Break Out Another Thousand,” Mike quoted the old acronym for BOAT. He’d sunk half his savings into Hermia’s long-distance refit during the last few months, upgrading engines, installing state-of-the-art electronics. He planned to live on his Air Force retirement pay—possibly running occasional charters—but there was still a bit of money to draw on if he needed it.
“Well,” Skeeter said, “we’ll head down to the Keys Monday, catch a few fish, see how she anchors. Then if the weather’s clear, we’re good to go.”
“Great,” Mike said with more enthusiasm than he felt. Before last night, he’d been eager to set out on his two-month cruise to the Bahamas and the Caribbean. After last night…. The sad fact was that after last night he’d have preferred two months in bed with Lane. However, Hermia’s maiden voyage couldn’t be postponed. Skeeter had another job lined up, and Mike had scheduled several fishing trips with friends, many of whom had already bought tickets to fly down and meet him.
He drained his beer. “You sleeping aboard?”
“I am.” Skeeter raised an inquiring eyebrow. “You’re not?”
“Dunno. Maybe.” Lane had her daughters, after all. “Unfortunately.” Not that he wanted to come between Lane and her children. Mike loved kids. He’d always wanted his own. Just right now, he wanted their mother more. He wondered if she’d finished working in the auditorium or, if not, if she could find an hour or two to slip away. At any rate, he’d promised to go back and check on the cleanup.
Mike waded through sweltering heat across the parking lot to the Mimosa Theater. A few hours ago, the place had been swarming with amateur handymen busily replacing bulbs, clearing cobwebs, hauling leftover bits of Uncle Elias’ dry dock to the trash. Now, with the space cleared and a thin coat of whitewash brightening the plywood floor his uncle had installed to level the auditorium, the theater had recovered a bit of elegance. It wasn’t huge—two stories, no balcony, room for maybe a hundred and fifty seats—but the inlaid sunburst ceiling was in good condition, and most of the plaster dolphins lighting the walls still had fins.
Mike located Lane in the shabby art-deco lobby, holding a stack of empty pizza boxes. The smell of cheese and pepperoni stirred the beer he’d drunk, making his stomach rumble. “Everyone gone?”
“Just left. There’s extra pizza in the cloakroom.” She set the boxes down and opened a low door. “I hid it to make sure the gidgets would get some—they’re on their way over with Gussie—but all they’ll want is one or two slices.”
“Thanks.” Mike walked through with a sense of déjà vu. The cloakroom—once the secret entrance to a speakeasy—still smelled faintly of cedar hangers, mink coats, and bathtub gin. The coats were gone, the shelves that had been lined with gentlemen’s hats crammed with seat cushions and boating magazines. But the green-paneled walls were just as Mike remembered.
“I used to pretend this was a hideout in Sherwood Forest.” He snagged a slice of pizza and moved a child’s table to look behind an empty bookcase. “Back here. Aunt Esther painted this when I was five.” He heaved the bookcase out of the
way, revealing a woodland mural of trees and owls. “Uncle Elias set up targets in front of the stage for me to practice archery.”
“So that’s where all those holes came from. It took two of my high-schoolers all day to patch them in with wood filler.”
“Don’t look at me.” Mike grinned. “Robin Hood never misses.” He ran his hand along a coat rack. “Does the old door still work?” He turned a coat hook and the door, hidden between two strips of paneling, swung inward. “I see it does.”
“You’re kidding.” Lane joined him. “I never knew this was here.”
“Enter ze haunted szpeakeazy,” Mike beckoned in his best Transylvanian accent. “Vollow me eef you dare.” He flicked a switch. Amazingly, a few of the bulbs came on.
Lane took his arm. “Spooky.”
Inside was a narrow room that ran the length of the auditorium, lined on one side with 1920s bistro tables and stacks of dusty chairs. Six windows, bricked over during Prohibition, formed shadowed arches along the outside wall.
“Wow,” Lane said. “We must be under the green room—the actors’ lounge. I never thought to wonder what was here.”
“There’s a room in back where they stored liquor during Prohibition. People used to boat over from Naples, pretend to come to the theater, and sneak in here to drink.”
“Hey.” Lane nudged him. “People came for the theater, too. Famous people like Frank Sinatra used to drop in and even perform. We’ve got lots of old programs and photographs.” She walked to a table covered in looping strips of wood and spider webs. “What’s this? Depression-era sculpture?”
“My hot-wheels track. Homemade.”
“You’re kidding.” She leaned in to examine it and sneezed.
“You know….” Mike pulled Lane back, turning her toward him. Her long dark hair was gray in front with dust. “You know….” He brushed cobwebs away and resurrected Dracula. “Venn I vas twelve, I sought zis vas zee pervect make-out hideavay.”
