The question took her by surprise. “How do you know he’s cute? You’ve never met him.”
“Not in person, no,” Tilda agreed. “Okay, the guy who writes the sports column and takes good pictures—that accurate enough for you? And by your evasive answer,” she continued with her deduction, “I take that as a yes. So, are you going out with him?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Miranda answered. And then she smiled as she shook her head. “Maybe you should take up mind reading.”
“Maybe I should.” Walking in front of her, Tilda pushed one of the heavy glass doors open and walked into the cool building. The temperature was never very high inside, even in the dead of one of their colder winters. Warm temperatures affected the outcome of experiments. “It would certainly give me a lot more answers than you are these days.”
Miranda followed. The glass door swung shut behind her. She felt bad about being evasive with her best friend, but then, she was being evasive with herself, as well. “He invited me to a family party.”
Tilda stopped in midstep and turned around. “When did it get serious?”
Okay, so now she was going to pay for being too honest and open. “It didn’t.”
“Yes, it did,” Tilda insisted, lowering her voice. “There’s family involved.”
Miranda shrugged. “Maybe he believes in the philosophy of ‘I’ll show you mine and then you show me yours.’”
Tilda bit back a laugh as she resumed walking again. They turned down a long corridor. “We are still talking about family, aren’t we?”
Miranda took a breath, opening the door to the lab where they spent a large portion of their days. Apparently they were the first ones back from lunch.
“Yes, we are,” she told Tilda firmly. “I don’t know, maybe Marlowe thinks that I’ll be less protective of my father if he shows me how he interacts with his own family.”
Tilda seemed far from convinced. Her scientific mind had its limits. “Miranda, sometimes there’s such a thing as overthinking.”
Miranda slipped on the white lab coat she’d left draped over the back of her chair. “Meaning?”
“Maybe the guy just wants to get lucky and since you’re obviously such a daddy’s girl—you are, you know, whether you admit it or not—he thinks that the way to get to you is to show you how close he is to his.”
Wow, talk about convoluted, Miranda thought. “Now who’s overthinking things? And for your information,” she added, “Marlowe’s not going to ‘get lucky.’”
Tilda took her seat at her desk. Genuine regret came over her features. “Now that’s a shame.”
“Why?” Miranda demanded.
“Because, dear friend, that means that neither are you.”
Miranda opened her mouth to deny there was anything going on between her and Marlowe, then closed it again. There were times when retreating was the only way to handle things. She just wasn’t going to convince Tilda of her platonic relationship with the good-looking sportswriter so there was no point in fighting a losing battle.
“Guess not,” she murmured in agreement as she turned her attention to her latest experiment.
“Like I said, a real shame.”
Miranda pretended not to hear.
Miranda had absolutely no intentions of “getting lucky.” Tilda’s words still echoed in her head Wednesday afternoon as she pulled her car into the school parking lot. Much to her disappointment, she’d discovered a few years ago that like most mythical creatures, sex had been assigned a whole litany of attributes it just didn’t possess.
Granted she hadn’t had that many partners, only three actually, but she’d never once heard bells ringing, or music playing, and never seen fireworks go off before or during sex. The so-called out-of-body experience never happened for her—and she’d been in love with each of her partners. She did know that the anticipation of lovemaking for the first time with each was always far more exciting than the actual consummation.
If—and it was a huge “if”—it ever got to that point with Marlowe, she knew that history would just repeat itself.
But even as she reasoned with herself, a warmth slipped over her the moment she spotted Mike. He’d obviously arrived early and was already on the field. She saw him carefully lining up the bats by the bench behind the batting cage.
He was talking to her father.
Watching them, she felt torn and more than a little conflicted. Part of her wanted to tell her father who Mike really was, while the other part of her thought that this interaction with another man was good for him.
Even from this distance, her father finally seemed to be opening up. Oh, not like the average man who might just go on and on about something once the right buttons were pressed. In her father’s case, saying more than two or three words was a huge accomplishment.
Obviously Marlowe was good at what he did, she thought, closing up her car. She still watched the two of them as she crossed the field. Maybe it was a good thing she was going to this family celebration with him on Sunday. Who knew? Watching the way a person interacted with his own family would give her valuable insight into the man she had inadvertently allowed into her father’s life.
More than that, it would indicate if she was making a mistake by trusting him.
“Hi, Dad,” she called out the moment she was within earshot. Because she’d made it a point to leave work early today, she had the time to actually dress more appropriately for a game. Instead of high heels and a skirt and blouse, she wore sneakers and jeans along with a royal blue hoodie she left unzipped. The light blue T-shirt she had on beneath had seen more than its share of spin cycles.
She saw Mike turn toward her and felt his eyes pass over her, taking inventory. An appreciative look came into them. The heat rose to her cheeks. She silently cursed the fact that she was so light-skinned. Her father’s complexion was almost bronzed from all the time he’d always spent out in the sun. She took after her mother and right now really wished she didn’t.
Mike waved at her. “Hi.”
“Hi,” she murmured back, nodding her head. Feeling a bit self-conscious, she focused her attention on her father, deliberately turning her head away from Mike. “It’s kind of chilly, Dad. Shouldn’t you be wearing a warmer jacket?”
“Only if I wanted to,” he replied. He was busy looking over a list of notes on his clipboard. In the distance, cars had begun arriving, depositing children in uniforms.
Putting down the last bat, Mike looked over in her direction. “I think your dad’s old enough to make decisions for himself.”
When did this happen? When had Mike joined Team Shaw and when did she get kicked off?
“I’m not implying he can’t make his own decisions—I’m not, Dad,” she said with feeling, glancing at him. “I just worry about you.”
She saw the faintest of smiles on her father’s lips. “Doesn’t do any good, does it?” he asked simply.
“No.” She sighed, giving in. Nobody could ever get her father to do anything he didn’t want to do. That had always been a given. “It doesn’t.”
“Then why do it?” Steven asked.
Miranda shrugged. “I guess that I’m just made that way.”
“It’s kind of nice,” Mike interjected, this time addressing his words to her father, “having someone care enough to worry about you.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her father nodding in agreement. Marlowe was incredible, she thought. Without any effort at all, he was playing both sides of the field. And managing to score points for each team.
Chapter Eight
“I think you’re getting your wish,” she said to Mike when he picked her up the following Sunday afternoon at her apartment.
He smiled at her seductively. “Which wish would that be?”
Miranda suddenly had trouble swallowing. Her hands tightened around the bouquet of flowers she held. What would it be like to feel those lips against hers?
It wasn’t easy, talking with her
breath backing up in her lungs, but she managed. “About getting my father to like you.”
Mike opened the passenger-side door for her and waited until she got in. After he closed the door, he went around the rear of his vehicle. Sitting down behind the steering wheel, he pulled the seat belt around him.
“You’ve got my undivided attention,” he told her. “But then—” he smiled at her again “—you already had that.”
They were just lines, she told herself. Lines a man used to get a woman to lower her defenses.
And were they ever working.
“I talked to him last night, just to make sure he was okay, and he mentioned you.”
Mike pulled out of the parking space and made his way out of the apartment complex. “Do you do that often?” he asked.
“Do what?” she asked, confused.
A blue SUV tore past him, narrowly avoiding clipping the nose of his car. Mike swore silently in his head, then composed himself.
“Call to check on him,” he answered. “Your father doesn’t strike me as being in particularly bad condition. I mean, other than the fact that he’s in a wheelchair and can’t walk.”
Without thinking, she held the bouquet closer to her, as if that could somehow contain the emotions churning inside her. “I almost lost him during the last operation—he’s had several so far. His heart stopped beating,” she continued. “The doctor said it took two attempts to get it going again.” She blew out a breath. Even talking about it made her throat tighten up. “I don’t take a single thing for granted when it comes to my father. He’s all the family I have.”
They stopped at a light and Miranda caught herself studying his profile. Marlowe was more complicated than she’d thought.
“Why aren’t you asking what he said about you?” she finally asked. “Aren’t you curious?”
The light changed and Mike took his foot off the brake, but not before he glanced at her. “Yes,” he freely admitted, “but when it comes to your father, I’m curious about everything, including his relationship with you.”
A small laugh escaped her lips. Nobody was interested in a woman who spent her days trying to break down proteins and synthesize cures for illusive diseases. “That would make for very boring reading,” she assured him.
There it was again, that smile that curled straight into her stomach. She felt poised at the top of a thirty-foot roller-coaster drop, one second before descent.
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” he suggested smoothly.
“Besides,” she insisted, deliberately looking at the bouquet rather than his face, “it doesn’t have anything to do with the price of tomatoes.” Glancing up, she saw a slight frown slip over his mouth. “My life has nothing to do with getting the ban against my father rescinded.”
Mike shook his head. “We have a difference of opinion there. I’m trying to deal with the whole man, not just the icon, and you’re very much a part of that.” Getting comfortable, he shared his approach with her. “If I get the feel for the whole person, I can pass that onto my readers. It’ll make them feel as if they’re really getting to know him.” He made a sharp right turn, narrowly avoiding missing it. “Are you and your father close?”
“Not exactly. We’ve slowly become closer since the accident, but I don’t think that my father can actually be close to anyone,” she admitted with regret. “He had a very hard upbringing. From what I gathered, his parents believed that displays of emotion were equivalent to being weak. In order to please them, he was stoic. It became a habit he couldn’t break.” And she hated that invisible barrier that always seemed to separate them. “He kept everything inside—except that one time when my sister died.” She realized she was repeating herself. “But I already told you about that.”
“I don’t mind hearing it again.” He sounded so sincere, she almost believed him. “I was the type of kid who liked to hear the same story night after night—gave me a sense of stability and continuity, I guess.” He saw the amused expression on her face. “What?”
“Me, too,” she admitted, surprised that they had that in common. “There were three stories I had my mother read to me every single night before she went on to anything new. Drove her and my sister crazy,” she recalled.
Miranda enjoyed dipping into the past for a minute. Remembering the good times. Because the bad times cast such a large, dark shadow she tended to forget about the happier moments.
“My sister was the daredevil in the family. For her, everything had to be new, exciting. In their own way, both my parents got a real kick out of her. I think Dad saw a lot of himself in her—and so did my mother.” She paused for a second, trying to come to terms with the pain. “After Ariel died, everything changed. Everything in the house was so quiet, like a church where everyone’s lost in prayer.”
Her words replayed themselves in her head. She blinked, eyeing him in wonder. “How did I wind up talking about this? Tell me about your family,” she coaxed, settling back.
“You planning on writing an article about them?” he deadpanned.
“I’m just looking for a fair exchange of information.” She glanced down at the flowers and realized her error. “Like I hope your stepmother’s not allergic to roses.”
He thought of Kate. “Even if she were, she wouldn’t let on. She’s that kind of a person. Doesn’t ever want to hurt anyone’s feelings for any reason. I can’t think of a single person who doesn’t like her.” He smiled, remembering the first time he’d ever seen her, at one of his friends’ birthday parties. Kate had been hired to entertain them and she was conducting a puppet show. “She certainly fixed our world.”
Miranda waited, but he didn’t follow up and explain. “You’re going to have to give me more than that, Marlowe.”
“Okay.” He slanted a glance at her and nodded. But just as he was about to continue, he stopped. “I will if you will.”
“Not much more to tell you than I already have,” she said, sounding as innocent as she could. She wouldn’t relay her father’s one low point shortly after he’d come home from the hospital, when he’d tried to end it all himself. And he would have, if she hadn’t come in when she had. She’d called a trusted family doctor and persuaded him to make a house call—and then begged him not to tell the police. Her father’s eyes were devoid of emotion when they opened the next day. But in time, though he never said it in so many words, he was thankful that she’d kept him from killing himself.
“Now, just how did your stepmother manage to fix your world?” she prodded.
“My mother died in a plane crash. My father couldn’t really cope with coming home and not seeing her there so he threw himself into his work—even more than he already had. That’s what they used to argue about, that he was spending too much time at work. He always told her it was because she spent money faster than he could earn it. The nannies he hired just weren’t up to a set of triplets and a cocky six-year-old.”
“I take it that the cocky six-year-old was you.”
He laughed, taking another sharp right. “Guilty as charged. We went through three nannies in short order—maybe four. And then my dad found Kate. She wasn’t really a nanny, but a student trying to earn extra money on the side by doing kids’ parties. She was—is—a ventriloquist. Impressed with the way she handled a bunch of six-year-olds, my father cornered her before she could leave and offered her a job.”
Miranda smiled. “And the rest is history?”
“No,” he countered, “Kate turned him down at first. But then her tuition and her rent went up and she was really strapped for money. Being our nanny meant she could have free room and board, as well as a salary—my father was really desperate—so she said yes.”
Mike drove by a mall that hadn’t been there when he and his brothers were growing up in the neighborhood. Things had really changed, he thought. “We weren’t easy on her. God knew we came with our own special baggage even at that age, but she stuck it out, found a way to bring out the b
est in us, and along the way, she made us whole again. Made us a family again. Especially after Dad proposed to her.” His smile widened. “They’ve been together for twenty years now and Dad still worships the ground she walks on.”
Miranda tried to imagine what that was like, having parents who openly cared about one another. All she remembered was the silence, the lack of communication. “Must be nice having parents who love each other that much.”
“Your parents didn’t?”
Miranda shrugged, helpless to change a past that had left its mark her. “Like I said, my father wasn’t the kind who opened up. Oh, he did what he could, brought presents and took us places when he was home, but he was gone a good six to eight months out of the year. I guess in retrospect he was more of a lover than a husband to my mother. I don’t doubt they loved each other once, but the lasting, familiar, comfortable kind of love, that they didn’t have,” she lamented.
“When he was home, he didn’t know where anything went, how things were done from day to day, things like that. He was a stranger in his own home and he resented it. Meanwhile, my mother resented him trying to take over after not being around. After a while, my parents realized they were just two strangers living under the same roof for a few months out of the year.”
She took a deep breath, steeling herself. “And then Ariel died and things just fell apart. They both went to their separate corners to grieve.” She remembered how cold it seemed then. How there was no one to turn to because they had both withdrawn into themselves. “Mom divorced Dad and just kept slipping into this netherworld where nothing and no one could get through to her. She died a little more than eighteen months after Ariel did.”
She could remember having to tell her father the news. It was one of the most awful moments of her life. He didn’t say anything for a long time, so long that she’d thought he’d just hung up. He came the next day to take her home with him and make the funeral arrangements.
Diamond in the Rough Page 8
