“Now I know. Beyond the shadow of a doubt.”
She took a slow, deep breath, savoring the moment. There would be many others like this, she knew. But this one was still precious, and she was going to treasure it. She was in the right place at the right time with the right man, and it was good.
Best of all, they’d done enough miles and weathered enough storms to know it. It didn’t get much better than that.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from Within Reach by Sarah Mayberry, available as an ebook.
Within Reach
Sarah Mayberry
PROLOGUE
ANGELA BARTLETT STRODE up the path toward her best friend’s house, very aware she was running late. It was a warm October day and only the screen door barred her way when she arrived on the front porch.
She rang the doorbell, then leaned close to the screen. “It’s me. Sorry I’m so late,” she called into the house.
“So you should be.” The voice echoed up the hallway, followed by the sound of footsteps.
A petite, pretty woman with pixie-cut blond hair appeared, a baby balanced on one hip. She was dressed in hot-pink capri pants, an aqua T-shirt and bright yellow sneakers with hot-pink laces.
She sounded grumpy, but her brown eyes were smiling and Angie knew she wasn’t really in trouble. They’d been friends long enough that Billie could easily forgive a few minutes’ tardiness.
“Happy birthday, sweetie,” Angie said, dropping a kiss onto her friend’s cheek as she opened the door. The baby stared at her with big, liquid eyes and she dropped a kiss onto his forehead, too. “Hello, Charlie-boy.”
“Shh. We’re pretending it’s any old party so one of us doesn’t get all maudlin about getting old,” Billie said.
“Thirty-two is not old,” Angie said, as they walked into the spacious country-style kitchen.
Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows that opened onto a deck. The adjacent open-plan living room was also flooded with light, the brightness accentuating the brilliant jewel tones of the furnishings. Like Billie herself, this was a house full of color and life and vibrancy.
“Where’s Michael?” Angie asked when there was no sign of Billie’s husband.
“Where do you think?”
Which Angie guessed meant he was in his study. An architect, Michael often brought work home with him, something Angie knew Billie sometimes resented.
“Auntie Angie.” A small body launched itself at Angie and Billie’s five-year-old daughter wrapped her skinny arms around Angie’s hips.
“Hi, Eva.”
Eva looked up at her, adoringly. “I thought you were never going to come.”
Angie sank onto a crouch. “I was late. Sorry about that.” She hugged her goddaughter close, breathing in the smell of berry shampoo and Barbie perfume.
“Don’t let it happen again,” Eva said mock-sternly. She was a cheeky little thing, funny and smart as a whip.
“I will make a concerted effort, I promise,” Angie said solemnly.
“Okay, time to get this party started,” Billie said, crossing to the sound system and hitting a button. James Brown’s “Get On Up” blasted through the house. Billie started dancing, holding Charlie out from her body and shaking her backside as only she could.
Angie smiled at her friend’s antics. “Here’s an idea—you could just ask Michael to come out of the study like a normal person,” she yelled over the music.
Billie simply grinned and kept dancing.
Eva giggled, thrilled to be part of the conspiracy to flush out her hardworking father. Angie grabbed her hands and they joined Billie, doing their best to match Billie’s moves.
A minute later, a tall, broad-shouldered figure appeared in the doorway. Michael Robinson’s dark, curly hair was ruffled. His feet were bare, his jeans old and faded, his white T-shirt well washed. He crossed his arms over his chest, the expression in his gray-green eyes equal parts amused and frustrated.
Billie sidled up to her husband and passed him their son before starting to dance in earnest, her small body moving smoothly to the beat. She shook her booty, jiggled her small breasts and wiggled her hips until Michael lost the battle and his mouth curved into an all-out grin.
“Okay, message received. No more work. What needs doing before everyone arrives?”
A flurry of activity ensued. Billie took Angie on a whirlwind tour of her birthday present from Michael, the small wooden studio in the backyard designed to give Billie the space to pursue her current passion for all things ceramic. They had barely returned to the house when a couple of neighbors arrived, along with a few other friends. Michael entertained them on the deck while Angie helped Billie put the finishing touches on the food in the kitchen.
“So… How are things with the hot Greek guy?” Billie asked as she mixed oil and vinegar for the salad dressing.
“Nonexistent,” Angie said.
“Don’t tell me it’s over already?”
“It’s over.”
“Angie, I swear. What are we going to do with you?”
Angie frowned, irritated by the despairing note in her friend’s voice. “Being single is not a disease. I love my life.”
“I want you to be happy.”
“I am happy. A man does not happiness make. Sometimes, in fact, he makes unhappiness.”
Billie opened her mouth to say something, then obviously thought better of it. Angie was glad, since she suspected her friend had been about to say something about Finn, and that would have really pissed her off. They had talked Finn to death years ago. There was nothing new to be said, no new conclusions to come to. He was firmly in the past.
Where he belonged.
“I’m not giving up on you,” Billie said after a short silence. “There’s a new guy at Michael’s office. I haven’t convinced Michael to find out if he’s single or not yet, but if he is, I want you to meet him.”
Common sense told Angie to let the comment slide—Billie was like a runaway freight train when she got an idea in her head—but her own stubbornness demanded a response.
“Let me get this straight. You don’t know this man at all, haven’t even set eyes on him, I’m betting. Yet you want me to go out with him?”
“I’m only thinking of you.”
“I’m curious. What, exactly, is his qualification for being a good prospect for poor old Angie? Having a pulse? Walking upright?” She put down the knife she’d been using to focus all her attention on her misguided friend.
In the loaded silence after her speech Billie slid the knife out of Angie’s reach. “Just in case,” she said, poker-faced.
Angie laughed. Billie was too damn irreverent and likable and her heart was so obviously in the right place. “You are hopeless.”
“So are you.”
They took the salads outside and the next few hours drifted by in a haze of sunshine and white wine and laughter. Angie kicked off her shoes and sat back and listened to the others talk around her, occasionally pitching in a comment of her own, but mostly happy to watch Billie do what she did best—shine and sparkle and glow.
When it came time for dessert, Michael produced a white box sporting the logo of Billie’s favorite bakery and they all oohed and ahhed over the giant chocolate-and-coffee mousse cake inside.
Angie fished a small box from her handbag and handed it to her friend with a smile. “Something for your collection.”
“You spoil me, but I’m not going to say no,” Billie said.
Angie watched as Billie lifted the lid to reveal a delicate black-pearl necklace, the pearls suspended on hand-beaten gold wire that had been curved into delicate, impossible spirals. As always when she first revealed a new piece, there was a little stab of nervousness in the pit of her stomach. After nearly ten years of being a professional jewelry designer, she’d resigned herself to the fact that that small moment of self-doubt would probably never go away.
Perhaps, in some way, it was essential to
her craft.
“Oh, Angie.” Billie pressed a hand to her chest, her gaze glued to the necklace. “It’s so beautiful… I don’t have the words. You’ve outdone yourself. My God.”
Angie smiled, pleased, and accepted her friend’s hug when Billie shot to her feet and rounded the table to embrace her.
“I love you, sweetie. Happy birthday,” Angie said, speaking quietly so only her friend could hear.
“I love you, too, String Bean. You talented hussy. I will treasure it always, I swear.”
Angie could see all the memories they shared reflected in Billie’s eyes as her friend drew back from their hug—the years at boarding school, the mistakes they had made, the highs, the lows. Unexpected sentimental tears burned at the back of her eyes and she blinked rapidly.
Billie sniffed, too.
“Do I need to go get the tissues?” Michael asked drily.
“We’re having an intense moment of womance here, do you mind?” Billie said.
Everyone laughed and the moment was gone. Angie helped clear the table while Billie played a game of tag with the children, running around the backyard until they were all breathless. Angie loaded the dishwasher and smiled to herself as she listened to Billie complaining about how she would have to retire from playing tag now that she was an old lady of thirty-two. Angie was rinsing out a salad bowl when Billie entered the house, red-faced, hands on her hips as she labored to catch her breath.
“Wow, you really are winded, you tragic fossil,” Angie said as her friend walked to the cupboard and reached for a glass.
“Don’t laugh. Your birthday is coming up soon,” Billie said.
She was genuinely out of breath and the smile faded from Angie’s lips. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. Just need some water.” But Billie’s hand trembled as she held her glass under the water.
“Maybe you should sit down.”
She waved an impatient hand, already walking away with her drink. “I’m fine.”
Angie shrugged and resumed rinsing the salad bowl. The sound of glass shattering had her spinning around. She was in time to see Billie press her hands to her chest before collapsing to her knees, the sound of bone hitting wood a loud, resonant thunk.
“It hurts,” Billie gasped, fingers pressing into her chest.
Then she hit the floor, unconscious, her body loose and lifeless.
Angie let the salad bowl crash into the sink.
“Michael!” she screamed. She rounded the counter, her bare feet slipping on the floor. She fell to her knees beside Billie’s pale, still body as Michael appeared in the doorway.
“What happened?” he asked, his face a stark, terrified white as he took in his wife’s body on the floor.
“I don’t know. I don’t know. Call an ambulance.”
CHAPTER ONE
Ten months later
THE FAMILIAR HEAVINESS settled over Angie as she parked in front of Billie’s house. Every time she came here, she saw the same image in her mind’s eye: the flashing blue and red ambulance lights reflecting off the white stucco facade, the shocked neighbors gathered on the sidewalk, Billie’s too-still body being rushed to the ambulance, an EMT working frantically to keep her alive.
Angie reached for her purse and the bag containing the gifts she’d bought in New York and made her way up the drive, noting the mail crowding the letterbox. The lawn needed mowing, too.
A pile of shoes lay abandoned on the porch—two pairs of child-size rubber boots and a pair of adult sneakers. She hit the doorbell, checking her watch.
After what felt like a long time, she heard footsteps on the other side of the door. It swung open and Michael appeared, his features obscured by the screen.
“Angie.” He sounded surprised, but she’d emailed him three days ago to tell him she’d be coming by to see him and the kids once she arrived home.
“Hey. Long time no see,” she said easily.
He rubbed his face. “Sorry. I forgot you said you were coming over.” He pushed the screen door open. “Come in.”
His hair was longer than when she’d flown out six weeks ago, his jaw dark with stubble. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, both hanging on his frame.
“How are you?” she asked as she kissed his cheek.
“We’re getting by.” His gaze slid away from hers and he took a step backward, one hand gesturing for her to precede him up the hallway to the kitchen. “How was New York?”
“Good. Busy. Hot and hectic.” She’d gone to train with an American jewelry designer and show her work at an arty little gallery in Greenwich Village. She’d also gone to get away, because she’d needed to do something to shock herself out of her grief.
She blinked as she entered the dim kitchen and living space. The blinds had been drawn on all the windows, the only light coming from the television and around the edges of the blinds.
It took her eyes a few seconds to adjust enough to see that Charlie was ensconced on the couch, his gaze fixed on the flickering TV screen as Kung Fu Panda took out the bad guys.
“Hey, little man,” she said, crossing to his side and leaning down to drop a kiss onto his smooth, chubby cheek.
He glanced at her and smiled vaguely before returning his attention to the movie. She took in the stacks of books on the floor, the dirty plates on the coffee table, the clothes strewn over the couch.
“Eva should be home soon. She went to a friend’s place after school,” Michael said. “You want a coffee?”
She returned to the kitchen, her gaze sliding over the dishes piled in the sink and the boxes of cereal and other foodstuffs lined up on the island counter. Paperwork sat in a cluttered pile, and an overloaded laundry basket perched on one of the stools, leaning dangerously to one side. Everything looked dusty and ever-so-slightly grubby.
“Coffee would be good, thanks,” she said slowly.
The house had been like this when she’d visited before she’d flown to New York, but for some reason it hadn’t made the same impression as it did today. Then, she’d talked with Michael amidst all the dishes and laundry and not registered the darkness and the mess and his gauntness. It had all seemed normal, because in the months since Billie’s death it had become the norm as she did her best to help Michael any way she could.
Today, she saw it all—the disorder, the dullness in Michael’s eyes, the air of neglect and hopelessness—and she understood with a sudden, sharp clarity that this wasn’t simply a household in mourning, this was a household veering toward crisis.
Her chest ached as she watched Michael go through the motions of making coffee. For as long as she lived, she would never forget the look in his eyes when she arrived at the hospital hard on the heels of the ambulance that horrible day. He’d been sitting in a small side room, elbows propped on his knees, head in his hands. She’d stopped in the doorway saying his name. When he’d looked up the emptiness and grief in his eyes had told her everything she needed to know. The memory of that moment of realization—the death of her last hope, that somehow they had managed to save Billie from what had clearly been a catastrophic major event—was still sharp and bitter and hard, but she knew that her loss was nothing compared to Michael’s.
He’d loved Billie so much. She’d been the center of his world and she’d died far, far too young. Was it any wonder that he was finding it so hard to pull himself together and move on?
She swallowed a lump of emotion and lifted the basket off the stool so she could sit.
“How did your show go?” Michael asked as he slid a brimming coffee mug toward her.
“Well, I think. But it’s so competitive over there, I’m not holding my breath.”
“Your stuff is great. You don’t need to hold your breath.”
She didn’t doubt the sincerity behind Michael’s words, but the lack of emotion in his voice was yet another marker of how flat he was. He’d taken a year off work after Billie’s death to provide some stability and continuity for the children.
As equal partner in an architecture firm with two other architects, he’d been fortunate that he’d been in a position to do so. At the time Angie had applauded the decision but now, with the benefit of the new perspective provided by her six-week absence, she wasn’t so sure.
“Did I miss anything while I was away?”
Michael shrugged. “Like what?”
“Eva was talking about starting ballet again. How did that go?”
“She changed her mind.”
“But she was so keen.”
He shrugged again. “You know how kids are.”
The doorbell echoed through the house before she could ask any more questions.
“That’ll be her now.”
He left to answer the door. Unable to stop herself, she slid off the stool and crossed to the stack of dirty dishes. The dishwasher was full of clean dishes, and she started stacking them in the cupboards. She was as familiar with Billie’s kitchen as she was her own and she’d emptied the top rack by the time Michael returned, Eva trailing in his wake.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Angie said, scooping Eva into her arms. “I missed you so much.”
Eva’s arms tightened around her with surprising strength, her head burrowing into her chest.
“I missed you, too, Auntie Angie.”
Angie smoothed a hand over her hair and squeezed her as tightly. She met Michael’s gaze over his daughter’s head and offered him a faint, sympathetic smile. He didn’t respond, simply dropped Eva’s school bag on top of the rubble on the table and went to the fridge.
“How was school?” Angie asked, tucking a strand of hair behind Eva’s ear.
“It was okay. Dad, I got invited to Imogen’s birthday today. It’s going to be a fairy party. I can go, can’t I?”
“When is it?” Michael piled ingredients on the counter—carrots, zucchini, onions.
“Not this Saturday but the one after that, I think.” Eva pulled a crumpled invitation from her uniform pocket and handed it over.
He glanced at it briefly. “Okay. Remind me to take you shopping for a present beforehand.”
The Other Side of Us (Harlequin Superromance) Page 27
