“They’re great. God willing, I’d like at least four of my own someday.” As he checked the machine for fuel, for some unknown reason, the acrid fumes made his heart rate gallop. He swallowed back the panic and the bitter taste of bile that rose in his throat. “It just needs some gas.”
“Duh.” She slapped her forehead. “Too bad they don’t hand out awards for stupidity.” She retrieved a gas can from the attached two-car garage.
He knelt to fill the tank, and a flash of reflected light drew his gaze to her left hand.
Damn. His wife wasn’t just involved. She was engaged. Closing his eyes, he sent up a silent prayer. Please don’t let her be marrying that jerk anytime soon.
“You should let your hubby know the oil needs to be changed,” he threw out as bait, hoping to reel in a few answers.
“Well, that’s sort of hard since I don’t have one.”
He motioned toward the huge diamond she wore. “You’re engaged, though?”
“Uh-huh. Robert and I are getting married in six weeks.”
Robert....hmm? The guy had looked like a stuffed shirt. A wedding in only a month and a half didn’t give Matt much time to convince Abby she wanted him instead of Mr. Mercedes.
Venting his frustration, he yanked the pull-start on the lawnmower harder than necessary. As the machine roared to life, Abby hollered over the engine, “When you’re done, knock on the back door. Dinner should be ready by then.”
Silently, he nodded and pushed the mower, watching his sexy wife stroll to the door. He shifted uneasily in his jeans as the gentle sway of her rounded behind turned his semi-aroused flesh into a heat-seeking missile.
Damn—if she wasn’t hotter than a sunny patch of asphalt in July.
The only thing his fellow prisoners and he had been able to talk about all the way home was what they wanted to eat first and getting into bed with a soft, sweet smelling female. Spending so many years without setting eyes on a pair of breasts or breathing the feminine scent of a woman had left all the guys feeling like bucks in rutting season.
His whole dilemma about Abby would be settled in a heartbeat if his only concern was whether he wanted to hop in the sack with her. That was an unequivocal certainty. But a marriage based on lust couldn’t help but fail. Fortunately, from what he’d seen so far, the woman he’d married seemed to have a great personality in addition to a pretty face and knockout figure.
Having been declared dead, he had no idea if they were still legally bound or not, so his silence could have more ramifications than he’d originally anticipated. The Army would be contacting her soon, so there was no chance of her unknowingly committing bigamy.
In any case, he still felt bad about deceiving her and allowing her to continue making wedding plans she would no doubt have to change if they were truly still married.
Before he spoke up, though, he would give himself a couple of weeks to become reacquainted with her. He needed time to find out if Abby could love him—the man who’d come home—instead of the boy who’d gone away.
~~~
Abby sank into her sewing-table chair to work on Helen Dalton’s alterations, keeping one eye on the boys through the window. She smiled at their antics while they climbed on the swing set like a couple of chimps.
The kids’ eagerness for Mac’s male attention had affirmed her decision to marry Robert. Unfortunately, her body’s response to the lanky stranger had done the exact opposite.
He’d smelled so good, unlike any commercial fragrance. He had the clean, natural male scent that reminded her so much of Matt—minus the odor of tobacco smoke that had always clung to his clothes. Maybe that was why Mac affected her so powerfully. She hadn’t felt this intense attraction to a man since she’d lost Matt.
If it weren’t for all the nights she woke up throbbing with need from dreams of making love with her husband, she would swear she’d lost the ability to become aroused along with her uterus.
She really didn’t want to spend the rest of her life as a single mother, doing everything herself. Rob was a good-looking, personable, successful man, and they had a lot in common. But most importantly, unlike the majority of the men she’d dated, he didn’t care that she couldn’t give him children.
In the eighth month of her pregnancy, she’d gone into premature labor. During an emergency C-section, she’d hemorrhaged, and the doctors had been forced to do a partial hysterectomy to save her life.
Rob was probably right about her relationships. If she’d been willing to jump into bed, some of her previous dates would’ve most likely hung around longer. But she wanted a husband, not just a lover. So what good would it have done to go to bed with a man who might walk away later after he learned her bitter truth?
Since she didn’t believe it was fair to let a man get involved without giving him all the facts, she’d never dated a guy for long before telling him her tragic story. Invariably, all her relationships had ended within a week or two of sharing her heartbreak—except with Rob. He wanted her just the way she was. He’d been extremely patient and understanding—until several nights ago when he’d left her little choice but to accept his proposal.
As the waiter removed the broiled scallops she’d barely touched, Robert’s deep voice had startled her. “Well, Honey? Should I order champagne? Or am I inviting Johnny Walker home with me?”
Her eyes welled with tears as she absently traced the tablecloth’s pattern with her finger.
“I’m sorry to pressure you like this, Abby.” He covered her hand with his. “But if you won’t marry me, I need to start looking for someone else.”
She loved Robert....like a brother. And he loved her unconditionally. She didn’t want him to vanish from her life. But it wasn’t fair to continue leading him on.
Her chest shuddering, she heaved a resigned sigh and nodded. “Okay, Rob, I’d be honored to be your wife.”
He smiled and dug a velvet box out of his pocket. “I’ve had this for almost a year.”
The fingers on her left hand instinctively closed in a fist, protecting the wedding and engagement rings Matt had given her. She forced her hand to relax so Rob could remove her rings and replace them with his huge glittering diamond. The cool white platinum failed to ease the chill that removing the symbol of Matt’s love left in her, and she shivered.
“I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to finally see this on your hand.”
Tears rolling down her cheeks, she gazed at the two rings he placed in her palm. The pain of losing Matt hurt like a fresh wound. She swiped at her face and sniffled. “I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t think your ring is beautiful. It’s just replacing Matt’s with yours has suddenly made his death real to me.”
“I know it hurts.” He reached across the table and stroked her cheek. “But it’s long past time for you to let go of him. Why don’t you call your brother and ask him to stay the night with the boys. I’ll get a suite for us upstairs in the inn.”
Her stomach plummeted like a runaway elevator. “I know I’ve been totally unfair to you, Rob, and you’re right about me making excuses. But could we wait just a bit longer?”
“Abby, I’ve been waiting. I want to take the woman I love to bed, damn it. We’re getting married. Don’t you think it’s about time?”
She slid Matt’s rings on her right hand to keep them safe. “I’m sorry, but can I please have a little longer?”
“How much longer?”
“Is a month or two too much to ask? I know it’s hard for you to understand, but I feel like Matt died tonight. The pain of it is....” She sobbed into her hands. “I’ve been deluding myself for so long that somehow the army made a mistake and he’d come home to me one day. I just can’t sleep with you feeling this way. The hurt’s too fresh. I need time to grieve.”
“Okay.” Rob pursed his lips. “If you can pull together a wedding in six weeks, I’ll wait until then. So start planning.”
No one understood how she felt. Her brother believed Matt had o
nly married her because he’d gotten her pregnant. Her late mother had insisted Abby had simply suffered from a schoolgirl crush on a bad boy.
But Matt’s reputation for having the fastest zipper in New Jersey wasn’t why she’d fallen for him. In fact, it had only made her less eager to get involved.
She’d wanted a man like her dad, who’d been dependable, caring, and willing to give up his life to save a child. It had been Matt’s gentleness and the way he’d always put her first that’d made her so sure he was that kind of guy.
He’d been so excited about becoming a father. If nothing else, his death had spared her the agony of telling him their dreams of a big family had been shattered.
Abby finished stitching the seam on Mrs. Dalton’s gown and choked back a sob. “Oh, Matt,” she whispered, “please forgive me. I’m so lonely. I had to say yes to him.”
Even though Robert wasn’t nuts about children, he’d always been nice to the boys. How much more could she expect from someone who had no desire for kids? He was her best choice, considering her situation.
She watched out the window while Mac steered the lawnmower into the backyard, and a warm flush crept up her neck. It didn’t make sense to be so attracted to him. The man had at least ten or twelve years on her—maybe more.
He picked up the toys scattered over the grass and stacked them neatly on the patio. The meticulous attention Mac gave the menial job said a lot about his integrity. The fellow she usually paid to cut her lawn would’ve kicked the kids’ things aside.
Instead of shooing the boys inside so he could finish, Mac spent time teaching them how to travel hand-over-hand across the laddered top of the swing set.
When Royce had invited Mac into the backyard, her maternal radar had initially gone haywire. But the indulgent way he listened to the boys and his sincere concern for their safety were compelling evidence that Mac genuinely liked children.
Wasn’t this typical of her luck? She’s just become engaged to Mr. Almost Right, and she finally meets a guy who makes her pulse do the mambo—and who, unfortunately, was also looking forward to having kids of his own.
Chapter 3
Matt finished sweeping the clippings off the patio and driveway, then wheeled the lawnmower back into the garage. He reached up to close the overhead door and noticed an old sheet draped over a set of motorcycle wheels. He lifted the tattered cloth and breathed out a long sigh of appreciation for the classic cycle. What an incredible bike.
The strange affinity he felt to the machine suggested it might have belonged to him. If so, he had great taste in cycles. Somehow he knew he’d ridden a hog. It mystified him that the heady feeling of whizzing along the open highway with the wind in his face managed to filter through his subconscious even though he couldn’t recall a freaking thing about his life or family.
Since he had no memory of his parents, he hadn’t felt up to talking to them yet. But in good conscience, he also hadn’t been able to allow the people who had raised and undoubtedly loved him to continue believing he’d died.
After arriving at the Philly VA hospital with Dr. Grant yesterday morning, he’d called directory assistance to make sure his parents still lived at the address in the personal information file he’d been given with a copy of his birth certificate. He’d spent the previous evening writing a long letter to them, explaining his situation, and asking them to be patient while he worked some things out for himself. He’d promised to get in touch in a week or two and begged them not to contact Abby.
By the time he’d finished his letter, his roommate was ready for lights out, so Matt hadn’t had an opportunity to read much of the information in the his paperwork. He needed to study his personal file before he could fill out a job application.
The moment he knocked on the back door, Abby swung it open. “Come on in. Dinner will be ready any minute now.”
“You really shouldn’t invite me into your home. For all you know, I could be a serial killer. It’s no problem for me to eat out here at the picnic table.”
“Don’t be silly. You saved my son’s life. Besides, if you were a member of the Manson family, I’m sure you’d find a way to hurt us, regardless of whether I invite you in or not.”
“The Manson family?”
“You know, Charles Manson. Helter Skelter, August of ‘69.”
He stared at her in complete ignorance.
“The Tate/LaBianca murders. Everyone has heard of Charles Manson. It happened with everything else that summer.”
He shrugged. “I have no idea what else happened.”
Abby looked at him as if he had three heads. “We landed on the moon. Ted Kennedy’s car went off the bridge on Chappaquiddick Island. Woodstock.”
Major news stories had filtered into the POW camp through recently captured prisoners, but he was totally in the dark about more minor events. “I heard we landed on the moon, but what’s Woodstock?”
“I thought you said you were in Vietnam. You sound more like you were on Mars. Woodstock was a three-day rock concert in Bethel, New York. All the biggest artists performed.”
“It sounds great.”
“It was hippie heaven. Thirty thousand people were expected, and they ended up with nearly half a million. They had to shut down the New York Thruway. How could you have not heard about it?”
“I guess I had a little trouble with my paperboy that summer.”
She released a light snort. “Sure, blame it on the poor paperboy. Next you’ll be telling me you’ve never heard of Watergate.”
“No, that I’ve heard about.” Tricky Dick Nixon was all they were talking about on the news.
She motioned him inside. “As long as you promise not to commit any heinous acts while you’re here, you can eat with us.”
He left his duffle bag next to the back door and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad for my sake you’re so trusting, but you really should be more careful.”
“You sound just like my brother. There’s a fine line between caution and paranoia. I suppose I’m one of those people who believe in the innate goodness of man.”
“You’re lucky no one’s ever taken advantage of you. Take it from a guy who’s seen a whole lot of bad, if you’re not careful, one day someone will exploit your faith in mankind.”
She stepped aside for him to enter the large sunny kitchen filled with a mouthwatering aroma. The room was decorated in varying shades of gold and green, and a good portion of the spacious dining area was taken up by shelves and a built-in work station holding a couple of expensive-looking sewing machines.
While he leaned on the counter and watched Abby mash the potatoes, her cheeks flushed to a deep pink.
“Do you mind if I use your bathroom to wash up?” he asked, acutely aware that his presence unsettled her.
“No, not at all. Down the hall, first door on the left.”
He took his time using the facilities, and when he returned, she was stirring fresh mushrooms into a pan of rich homemade gravy. His mouth flooded in anticipation.
She pointed to one end of the small table. “Take that seat. The boys always sit on either side. If anyone takes their chair, they throw a conniption.”
“I imagine that’s a major calamity to a six-year-old.” Matt noticed the bowl of potatoes and another filled with peas on the counter and carried them to the table. “Can I pour the kids’ drinks?”
“Thanks. They get milk. Help yourself to whatever you prefer.”
He pulled open the gold refrigerator’s door. “How about you, Abby? What would you like?”
Her spine stiffened as if rigor mortis had set into it. “How’d you know my name?”
He froze, holding the milk carton poised over a glass. Great. She had him on that one. “Umm—I saw some magazines in the bathroom with your name on the mailing label,” he ad-libbed, praying she had a subscription.
“Oh, right. I’ll just have ice water, please.”
“You don’t min
d if I call you Abby, do you?”
“No, of course not. I just realized I’d been rude and hadn’t introduced myself.”
If he could get her talking, maybe he could learn something about himself. “So, are you widowed or divorced?”
“My husband Matt was killed in Vietnam right before Tommy was born.”
He shot a glance at the kids as they slipped into their seats at the table. “Tommy?” Matt frowned. “What about Royce? Aren’t they twins?”
The two boys giggled hysterically.
He peered at them sideways. “What’s so funny, guys?”
Abby chuckled. “What they find so hilarious is you think they’re brothers. They’re not even distantly related.”
Not related? A wave of disappointment surged through Matt. He wanted Royce to be his son, too. “But you act as if they’re both yours.”
She placed a helping of mashed potatoes, meatloaf, and peas onto the boys’ plates before adding a squirt of ketchup. “Well, I’ve taken care of Royce since he was born, so I pretty much feel like he’s mine. His mother Lucy and I were roommates in the hospital when we had the boys. The house next door went up for sale around the same time, and it was exactly what she and her husband were looking to buy.”
“Ahh.” He nodded. “You’re just babysitting.”
“Sort of.” She cast a reassuring smile at Royce. “I’ll explain later.” Her rose-garden scent stirred something deep inside Matt—not a memory, but rather a comforting sense of familiarity.
He pulled out her chair and sat across from her. “So—was the Harley I saw in the garage your husband’s?”
“Yes.” She looked down at her plate. “It hasn’t been ridden since he left. I was always terrified he’d kill himself on it. Matt was a real adrenaline junkie.”
“You wouldn’t be interested in selling it, would you?”
“Uh—gee, I don’t know. I guess it’s a little silly not to, huh? I just haven’t been able to make myself get rid of any of his things. It was already really old when Matt rode it, so I can’t imagine why you’d want it.”
The Memory of You Page 4
