Sighs Matter

by Marianne Stillings

  Even so, she wasn’t sure if she felt flattered, charmed, or annoyed.

  He lifted his head and smiled down into her eyes. Adam had gray eyes. She loved gray eyes. They were almost her favorite color. Who needed laser blue eyes when you could have smoky, foggy gray?

  He wore a charcoal suit and silver silk tie. He’d shaved and obviously taken care to look especially nice. When he offered her his arm, she slipped her hand through the crook, becoming instantly aware of his muscles under her palm. It was hard to ignore the warmth of his body, the clean smell of his soap, his height, his good looks. People seeing them together would think they were a couple. His attire and attitude seemed designed to perpetuate that assumption.

  She wasn’t sure if she felt flattered, charmed, or annoyed.

  “There’s a table with an ocean view waiting for us at Vittorio’s,” he said. “And a bottle of very expensive wine.”

  “Sounds great.”

  Vittorio’s Restaurante occupied the floor above The Crow’s Nest, a cozy bookstore built on the docks near the ferry landing and marina. As Adam seated Claire, she glanced out the window at the crimson sun, settling for the night into the wrinkled sea. Just below, harbor lights began to wink on, illuminating sailboats, fishing trawlers, small yachts, all rocking gently in their moorings. Through the glass, she could hear the rhythmic tink-tink-tink of the wind slapping ropes and tack against bare masts.

  The young tuxedoed waiter arrived to pour the wine, and as they lifted their glasses, Adam said, “To everlasting friendships.” Tapping the rim of his glass against hers, he smiled.

  Sipping the wine, she let the rich taste flow across her tongue and down her throat.

  As another waiter began clearing the table behind Adam, she turned and gazed for a moment out the window, listening to Adam chat on about the superb menu choices. Conversation turned to shop talk, and they discussed patients, procedures, policies.

  Their waiter returned, then departed after taking their orders.

  Her wineglass in one hand, Claire felt herself begin to relax a little. This would be okay. A nice dinner with a man she liked. Nobody and nothing could throw off her equilibrium tonight.

  Until she caught a glimpse of the man they were seating directly behind Adam: Taylor McKennitt.

  The wine in her mouth went down hard, and she choked, covering her lips with her napkin.

  Adam’s brow furrowed. “You okay?”

  She nodded enthusiastically, set her glass down, picked up her water goblet, and chugged the contents.

  Glaring into Taylor’s bemused eyes, she scooted her chair to the left, hoping to use Adam’s body to block her view. It didn’t work. Taylor scooted his chair to the right. She scooted again, so did he. If she scooted any farther, she’d be on the other side of the window.

  “Is something wrong with your chair?”

  “Not at all,” she said lightly. “The, uh, view was getting on my nerves.”

  Over the top of his open menu, Taylor winked.

  Fury sizzled her brain. Her nerves felt like somebody had gone at them with a steel scouring pad. How dare he follow her . . . and sit facing her . . . and position himself to hear their every word.

  Adam glanced out the window. “The view?” he mumbled around a bite of breadstick. “I can have them lower the blinds if you like. I didn’t know you hated boats so much.”

  Redirecting her gaze to Adam, she said, “No need. I’m fine now. Really.”

  Silently, she cursed Taylor’s parentage and lineage and ancestors and even their belongings and pets, and vowed to get even with him for this if it took the rest of her life.

  While Adam tried to engage her in conversation, knowing Taylor could hear every word they said, Claire kept her responses to nods and brief yeses and nos.

  Adam set his wineglass on the table and tilted his head. “You seem a little distracted tonight, Claire. I know you’ve been through a lot this week. I’m here for you, if you’d like to talk about it.”

  In her line of vision, Taylor broke a breadstick in half and glared at the back of her dinner companion’s head, subtly sticking out his bottom lip in an isn’t-that-sweet pout.

  “It’s been a very trying few days, Adam. That’s all.”

  At the demon table behind Adam, Taylor grinned, then quietly gave his order to the waiter.

  “So, Claire,” Adam said as their waiter returned to set their plates in front of them. “Tell me more about that handyman I met at your aunt’s place.”

  All too handy, if you asked her.

  Taylor took a sip of wine and sat back in his chair, thumbing the rim of his glass as though he didn’t have a care in the world.

  She set her jaw and glared at him just beyond Adam’s shoulder.

  “He’s a former patient,” she snapped. “Victim of a hit-and-run. Cerebral trauma. Prognosis poor. Not long to live. Down to minutes, I’d say.” Her eyes locked with Taylor’s, she grabbed her fork and stabbed her herbed chicken breast, then sliced it in half. Violently.

  “Really.” Adam leaned forward over his plate as if to confide a secret. “He seemed okay to me, even though I thought he was a bit of a prick.”

  She curved her lips in an appreciative smile. “You’re very astute.”

  Taylor took a bite of his salad and chewed it, watching her intently.

  “He’s fine during the day, nearly normal,” she said, making sure Taylor could hear every word. “But, according to his team of psychiatrists, his personality undergoes a dramatic change when his meds wear off and he forgets his second dose.”

  Taylor stopped chewing.

  “And this manifests how exactly?”

  She bit into her chicken, baring her teeth. “Multiple personalities.”

  “Well, one of those personalities is definitely a prick,” he drawled.

  “Oh,” Claire hastened, “he was like that before the accident. But since the trauma, when he’s under stress, a secondary identity apparently emerges.”

  Taylor tilted his head as though he was dying to hear what she’d say next.

  She leaned forward as if to divulge a secret. “He believes himself to be a Cassanova, and thinks every nubile woman he meets a potential conquest.”

  Taylor raised his brows, grinned, nodded, and gave her a thumbs-up.

  Adam scowled. “Does he consider you a potential conquest?”

  She shrugged. “Oh, I’m sure he does. I mean, I am a woman, and he is wholly indiscriminate. Any nubile female will do. The file from his psych eval says that when he’s pursuing a woman, he exhibits pronounced disfluency and agitation. Yet he persists in the belief that, if he can just find the right pickup line, he can get any woman into bed.”

  Adam laughed. “He stutters, gets pissed, and thinks he can score?”

  She slid her gaze from Taylor’s eyes to Adam’s, and smiled serenely. “It’s been known to happen.”

  Taylor pursed his lips and slowly shook his head as if to say, Is that the best you’ve got?

  “The fact that he’s impotent compounds the problem, of course.” Picking up a breadstick, she snapped it in half.

  Taylor straightened, blinked, then scowled.

  Adam raised his head. “Yeah?” he smirked. “Well, I sure had that one pegged.”

  The waiter appeared to refill their wineglasses. As he picked up the bottle, Adam’s cell phone rang and he reached for it, accidentally bumping the waiter’s arm and splashing the dark Cabernet all over his shirt and tie.

  “I’m sorry, sir!” the waiter choked. “Here, let me get a nap—”

  “Never mind,” Adam growled, jumping to his feet. He pressed his napkin to the saturated fabric as he thumbed a button on the cell phone. “This is Dr. Thursby,” he said quietly. “Yes. One moment.” Turning to Claire, he said, “I’m sorry. I have to take this. A patient in Portland. You understand.”

  “Certainly,” she said, partly rising from her chair. “The wine stain. Is there anything—”

  Moving aw
ay from the table, he said, “No, I’ll be fine. I’ll take the call in the men’s room while I try to wash some of this wine off my shirt.”

  “Of course.”

  Taylor’s blue eyes bored holes into the back of Adam’s skull as he retreated to the bathroom. When Adam had gone, Taylor downed his wine, then tossed his napkin on the table like a gauntlet thrown at her feet. He shoved his chair back, stood, and began walking toward her.

  Claire froze in place, locking eyes with Taylor.

  Stay away you self-serving jerk! Don’t come any closer!

  He ignored her telepathic order and stopped when he reached her table.

  “W-w-well, I’ll be d-damned,” he stammered loudly. “Look at this. A n-n-nubile female.”

  “Go. Away.”

  “N-Nice dress,” he said. “Do you know what would look good on you?”

  “No,” she sighed wearily.

  “Me.”

  “My,” Claire drawled, looking into Taylor’s glittering blue eyes. “That is an old line.”

  “Hey, b-b-baby. Should I call you in the morning, or just n-nudge you?” He waggled his brows.

  “Taylor . . .”

  “Do you believe in the hereafter? Then you know wh-what I’m here after.”

  “Taylor,” she warned. “You’ve gone far enough.”

  “My name’s not Taylor. It’s Haywood.”

  “Haywood?” she said dully.

  “Yeah. Haywood Yakissme.”

  He smiled down at her, and their eyes met, and for a moment, it was as it had been a year ago when things were fresh between them, uncomplicated, and the possibilities had seemed endless.

  In spite of herself, she felt the ends of her mouth curl into a smile.

  “Haywood Yakissme?” she snickered.

  “Yeah,” he said softly.

  His lids lowered a bit, and his eyes sparkled like fireworks on a clear July day. He leaned forward. Without thinking, she lifted her chin.

  A large, masculine hand appeared out of nowhere, a barrier between them. Claire looked up the length of arm to see Adam staring daggers at Taylor.

  “Not on my watch, pal. What in the hell are you doing here, McKlintock?”

  Taylor shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, shaking his head. With a smile, he stuttered, “Mc-Mc-McKennitt.”

  “You sound like a frigging chicken,” Adam mumbled. “What do you want?”

  Taylor’s eyes assessed her companion. “A place in the country. A good home-cooked meal. Warm socks on a cold day. Oh, and world peace.” Turning to Claire, he said, “Nice seeing you both again.” He glanced at Adam. “Except for you.”

  “Hey,” Adam said. “What happened to your stutter?”

  Taylor cocked his head and considered Adam for a moment. “It took a hike, right along with your humility, pal.”

  With a quick nod to Claire, Taylor turned on his heel and returned to his table, where he threw down some bills, then left.

  Another young waiter appeared at their table, dabbing at the wine stain on the white cloth. As he worked, he slid narrow glances at Adam.

  “Where’s our other waiter?” Claire asked. “Is his shift over?”

  The boy turned to her, but before he could say anything, Adam interrupted. “Oh, I saw him in the restroom. Seemed to not be feeling well. A stomach thing, I think. Isn’t that right, boy?”

  Without a word, the waiter nodded, gathered up the soiled napkins, and left.

  Taking his seat, Adam fumed, “Did you know McKennitt would be here tonight?”

  “Adam,” she laughed. “I didn’t know we’d be here tonight. You picked the restaurant, remember?”

  “Sorry,” he said, his eyes dark and troubled. “This has gone so badly. I’m sorry.”

  “Adam, it’s okay. Things hap—”

  “No. That stupid son of a bitch ruined everything.”

  True, Taylor had obviously followed them and intruded on their dinner, but he’d been harmless enough, even funny, and she didn’t like hearing Adam refer to him that way.

  Relaxing back in her chair, she smiled again. When it was clear Adam was going to continue behaving like a little boy who’d been denied dessert, she said, “Well, he’s gone now. No harm done. There was no everything to ruin, was there?”

  He huffed out a long breath, eyed her for a moment. Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out a small black box. With his thumb, he snapped it open.

  And there it sat. Moonbeams on velvet, snatched from the sky, resting on a band of gold.

  Her heart stopped. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to his.

  “Everything,” he murmured, “was me . . . asking you . . . to marry me.”

  Chapter 10

  Dilate

  To live a long time.

  Claire stared at the ring, then at Adam, then back at the ring, then back at Adam. Searching his shining and eager eyes, she tried to find some kind of rationale for his proposal.

  The truth was, she barely knew the man. He’d appeared one day at the hospital, asking about staff positions. It had been a slow day, so they’d had a chance to chat for a while. Since then, they’d met for drinks or dinner a few times. He always mentioned his kids and how much he missed them. Beyond that, they’d never held hands, strolled in the moonlight, even kissed until tonight. Basically, they’d never been intimate in any way.

  Yet Adam Thursby wanted to marry her?

  Apparently he had quietly developed deep feelings for her—much deeper than the ones she’d developed for him.

  “Adam,” she said with a nervous laugh. “We hardly know each other. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say yes.” He grinned sheepishly at her and set the ring on the tablecloth by her wineglass.

  It was uncomfortable, even a little embarrassing, to have a man invest in a diamond ring the size of a doorknob and propose marriage when you didn’t return his affections. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but this was so out of the blue . . .

  “I’m afraid I can’t.” She gently moved the ring box back to his side of the table. “We barely know each other.”

  With his index finger, he slid the box back across the table. “So let’s get to know each other.”

  What on earth had happened to his hand? “Your knuckles, Adam. They’re red and swollen. How—”

  He shoved his hand under the table. “Nothing,” he said in an airy tone. “Banged ’em on the bathroom door. I was in such a rush to get this damn wine off my clothes.”

  That’s not what it looked like to her, but why would he lie about hurting his knuckles? It wasn’t as though he’d been in some kind of fistfight, which was what the redness, scraping, and swelling suggested to her.

  Glancing down once more at the box, she set it on his side of the table. “I like you, Adam. But I think that’s as far as it will ever go.”

  His friendly eyes went a little dull at that, and he cleared his throat. Quirking his mouth into a charming grin, he picked up the box and set it firmly in front of her.

  For a moment, she wasn’t sure if she felt flattered, charmed, or annoyed.

  Clasping his hands together, knuckles curled under so only the index fingers protruded, he aimed them at her. “I don’t think you’ve given me a fair chance, Claire. When you know me better . . .”

  Annoyed won by a landslide.

  “I’m sorry, but the answer is no. I think I’d better go. I can take a cab home, if you prefer.”

  His handsome features suddenly seemed distorted. Too angular, too hard. The gray eyes she’d thought attractive had gone dark, flat, accusing. Then he shrugged and gave her a smile.

  “My fault,” he said apologetically. “I rushed things. You’re just so . . . well, perfect for me. And for my kids.” His cheeks flushed. “I’d love for you to meet them when they get here. Really, they’re terrific. You have no idea how much I miss them.”

  Guilt at hurting his feelings flooded her heart. Reaching over, she patted his arm.
“I know you miss your kids, Adam. I wish I were the woman to make you happy, but I’m not. I’m sure you’ll meet someone soon.”

  Claire wanted to pay for her meal, but Adam insisted on picking up the tab. To make up for upsetting her, he said. He drove her back to the farm, and though he’d been cordial the whole way, some niggling thing had begun eating its way into her mind. Something was off about him. Perhaps it was his body language. His actions and unconscious movements didn’t match his words. She was no psychologist, but she’d studied human behavior enough to know he wasn’t being entirely truthful with her. Maybe it was as simple as fear of rejection; maybe it was more.

  When he’d pointed at her after she’d rejected his proposal, he’d used the “gun” posture with his index fingers. Though he was smiling, that action indicated he was angry—very angry—and possibly thought she should be made to pay for infuriating him.

  Whether that was true or not, however, she had no way of knowing. She only knew she never had to see him again. She wished him well, of course, but considered their relationship had run its course.

  When she finally fell into bed, she found sleep as elusive as vapor. She dreamed of Taylor, but whenever he was close enough to kiss, Adam’s angry face would intervene, startling her into waking.

  Curled under the covers in the big bed she’d used since she was a kid, she inhaled a cool breath of the morning air that tickled the hem of the curtains at her open window. Down around her feet, Agatha stirred, stretched, blinked at the new day, and raised her back leg straight up to begin her morning ablutions.

  Shoving the covers aside, Claire decided to push thoughts of Adam and Taylor away, too.

  After a quick shower, she dressed and checked her messages. There were seven—three from patients, three from other physicians, and one from the pharmacy. Since she wasn’t on call, her pager had been pretty quiet for the last few days, which was a blessing, considering what had been happening in her life.

  She glanced out her bedroom window to see Aunt Sadie working down in the vegetable garden at the side of the house. Beside her, Agatha had taken a position in the shade of an enormous tomato plant, its ripe fruit shiny and red in the late morning sun.