“You research the history of old homes and buildings, as I understand it. Fascinating. Margaret also said you do quite a bit of work for the restoration division of MacAllister Architects so they can restore old structures in such a manner they will be eligible for registration with the historical society. Not only that but your reputation for excellence is spreading up and down the coast.”
Emily glared at her grandmother. “Did you remember to tell him that I brush my teeth in the morning when I get up and again before I go to bed, Grandma?”
Margaret laughed. “Don’t be silly. Mark asked how you were, what you were doing, and I told him. A proud grandmother has the right to boast. It’s in our job description. We’d already moved on to the subject of the exciting events of Maggie and Alice’s weddings and their new lives on the Island of Wilshire.”
“Good topic,” Emily said, pointing one finger in the air. “There’s nothing like a couple of royal weddings to put a little zing in the daily grind.
“Jessica is married now, too, Mark. She’s a successful attorney, crazy in love with a police detective named Daniel, and became an instant mother to a darling baby girl named Tessa. We MacAllisters have spent a lot of time going to family weddings in…”
“But you’ve never married?” Mark interrupted quietly, looking directly at Emily.
“Me?” she said, splaying one hand on her chest. “Oh, heavens, no. When I was young and immature and such a starry-eyed child I thought I wanted that type of lifestyle but it suddenly dawned on me that it just wasn’t my cup of tea and…”
She flipped one hand in the air. “Well, you know all that because you and I were inseparable from the time you moved to Ventura until you zoomed off to fame and fortune in Boston and… Well, silly us, we were so sure we were deeply in… We were so young and dumb, weren’t we? Oh, my, yes. Well, that’s enough of that subject.”
It was enough of that subject, Mark thought, to slice and dice him, to hear spoken in Emily’s own words an echo of what she’d written in that letter she’d sent him in Boston so many years ago.
His first instinct then had been to get on a plane and fly back to Ventura, confront Emily, make her look him right in the eye and repeat what was in that letter. But he hadn’t had two nickels to rub together, let alone money for airfare. And besides, she’d made it perfectly clear in that damnable, hateful letter that it was over between them, so what was the point?
And now here he sat in the same room with her over a dozen years later hearing her say it all right to his face. And it still hurt. God, it hurt.
Well, wasn’t this an efficient use of time? During the very first meeting with Emily since arriving this morning in Ventura, he’d gotten the cold, hard facts he needed to begin to retrieve his heart from her uncaring stranglehold.
But…
There was something just off the mark about what she had just said. She made it sound as though they’d mutually agreed that their feelings for each other weren’t what they’d believed them to be, and that wasn’t even remotely close to the truth.
He had left for Boston with the heartfelt promise to send for her just as soon as he could figure out a way to provide a home for her while he attended college on the scholarship he’d received.
Emily had vowed to wait for him no matter how long it took, but about a month later the shattering letter had come and…
“Yo in the house,” a voice called in the distance, jerking Mark back to the present. “I’m here as ordered to dig in the dirt.”
Emily’s eyes widened and she jumped to her feet. “Can’t. No digging in dirt today. Sorry, Grandma, I’ve got a killer headache so we’ll do this tomorrow. I’ll just go tell… Bye, Mark, enjoy your vacation and…”
The front door of the house opened and an adolescent boy came into the living room.
“Oh, dear heaven,” Emily whispered, “no.”
“Hi,” the boy said. “Didn’t you hear me holler? I came right over on my bike when I got home from swimming and saw your note, Mom. Hi, Great-Grandma. We’re going to dig the dirt, plant the plants, do it to it.” His attention was caught by a tall man across the room getting slowly to his feet. “Oh, hi. Sorry. Didn’t know there was company.” He looked questioningly at his mother.
“Yes, well,” Emily said, having difficulty breathing. “I…Mark Maxwell, I’d like you to meet…” She drew a shaky breath. “…my…my…son. Trevor. Trevor MacAllister. Trevor, say hello to Dr. Mark Maxwell. He’s an old school…chum of mine.”
“Cool,” Trevor said, nodding. “Hi.”
“You’re Emily’s…son?” Mark said, his voice sounding strange to his own ears as he stared at Trevor.
“Yep, that’s me. Her genius-level offspring. Do note that I’m taller than she is already. Cool, huh?”
“Very cool,” Mark said. “How…how old are you, Trevor?”
No! Don’t answer that, Emily thought, taking a step toward Trevor.
“Yes, the time has come for this,” Margaret whispered to no one.
“I’m twelve, almost thirteen,” Trevor said. “Closer to thirteen, so just go with that. I’m about to become a bona fide teenager.”
Who looked exactly as he had at that age, Mark thought, his mind racing. Tall, lanky, feet like gunboats, arms and legs seeming too big for his yet-to-fully-develop body, brown eyes, light-brown hair and a cowlick creating a curl on the crown of his head.
This was Emily’s son? Mark’s mind screamed. Oh, he didn’t doubt for a second that she had given birth to him but, by damn, this boy standing a room away from him was more than just Emily’s son.
There was no doubt in his mind. None.
He, Mark Maxwell, was Trevor’s father!
Two
Just after ten o’clock that night, Emily stood in front of the full-length mirror mounted on the back of her bedroom door and sighed as she stared at her reflection.
Blimpo, she thought dismally. The jeans and over-blouse she was wearing made her look like a Pillsbury Dough Girl, complete with pudgy cheeks.
Her hair was freshly shampooed and her light makeup was just enough to accentuate her signature MacAllister brown eyes, but nothing could erase the fact that she weighed twenty pounds more than she should.
She’d been so proud of herself, of the thirty pounds she’d lost during the past months, but tonight the twenty extra she still carried around made her thighs, stomach and bottom look like heavy sandbags and her face like a moon waiting for a cow to jump over it.
“Blak,” Emily said, then left the bedroom, smacking off the light as she went.
She wandered down the hall into the small living room, aware that the sound of Trevor’s stereo had stilled and there was no light shining from beneath his door as she glanced along the hallway.
And now Mark would knock on the door, she thought, sinking onto the sofa. It didn’t require magical powers or a crystal ball to know that he would appear on her doorstep as soon as he was assured that Trevor…that his son…was asleep for the night.
She’d seen the look on Mark’s face when he’d stared at Trevor that afternoon and saw the carbon copy of himself when he was young and skinny.
A shiver coursed through Emily. She wrapped her hands around her elbows as she moved to the edge of the sofa cushion and bent over slightly.
She felt so strange, she thought. It was as though she was standing outside herself watching a drama unfold scene by scene, not knowing what would happen next.
The beginning of the story had starred a pretty, slender young girl and a not-quite-having-it-together teenage boy. They had been deeply in love and had created a child together, a baby boy who the hero knew nothing about.
Fast forward to the present for act two. The hero was now a successful and highly respected doctor in the world of medical research, and the heroine was a fat, unattractive woman, who was struggling to hang onto a modicum of self-esteem she had fought desperately to obtain.
As for the deeply in love part?
<
br /> A portion of her heart would always belong to the Mark Maxwell who had left Ventura to follow his dreams.
The Mark who had been so serious, so determined to achieve his career goals so he could provide for her in the manner he was convinced she needed because she had come from a fairly wealthy family.
The Mark who wouldn’t believe her when she said she didn’t need a fancy home and oodles of things, that she just wanted to be his wife, for better, for worse, for richer or poorer.
Oh, yes, Emily mused, she’d never really stopped loving that Mark Maxwell, not completely.
But Dr. Mark Maxwell, who was now on stage in act two? She didn’t even know how to talk to men like him…so handsome, well-built, confident and successful, able to have any woman who caught his fancy. A man who wouldn’t give a chubby woman like her a second look.
Deeply in love? Oh, ha. The Mark who was going to knock on her door at any second probably hated her with an intensity that was equal to the passion with which he had once loved her.
A soft knock sounded at the door and Emily jerked, tightening her hold on her arms.
“Mark read the script,” she said, hearing the edge of hysteria in her voice. “Now comes the big scene, the ugly words and accusations and…”
The knock was repeated.
Emily closed her eyes for a moment, took a steadying breath, then got to her feet and went to the door, speaking as she opened it.
“Hello, Mark,” she said, stepping back. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“I’m sure you have,” he said gruffly, coming into the house, then turning to look at her as she closed the door behind him. “I waited across the street until what I hoped was Trevor’s bedroom light went out, then sat in my car another twenty minutes so he would definitely be asleep. My son is asleep, isn’t he?”
Emily nodded, feeling suddenly exhausted, so weary it was difficult to cross the room and sink onto an easy chair. Mark sat on the end of the sofa and frowned as he stared at her. Several silent moments passed until the very air in the room was oppressive, making it difficult for Emily to catch her breath.
“One question,” Mark said finally. “Just one simple little question, Emily.” He paused. “Why? Why did you keep the fact that I have a son a secret from me? Why did you feel you had the right to do that?”
Because I loved you more than I loved myself, Emily thought wildly. Because I was so young and terrified when I discovered I was pregnant, needed you with me so much, but I was so afraid you’d give up your dreams to do the proper thing, marry me, help me with our baby, then come to hate me for destroying everything you’d worked so hard for and would never have because of me.
“I believed it was the best thing to do for everyone involved,” she said quietly. “What we had together was over and…”
“Oh, now wait a minute,” Mark said, raising one hand. “You pulled that routine at your grandmother’s this afternoon. You made it sound as though we had mutually agreed to break things off between us. That isn’t true and you know it, Emily.
“That’s what your family has thought all these years, right? That we broke up before I left? That’s what you told them so they wouldn’t come charging after me in MacAllister fashion and bring me back here to marry you. Right?”
“Yes,” she said, lifting her chin. “My father was ready to drag you back kicking and screaming if he had to, but I told him…I told him that we didn’t…we didn’t love each other anymore, that what we had shared was over.”
“You lied to them,” Mark said, narrowing his eyes. “Why?”
“No, it wasn’t a lie, not entirely. I wrote you the letter, Mark. I told you that since you had gone, I’d realized that I was much too young to really know what love was. The distance between us had made me come out of the clouds and face the fact that…that it was best to just end things between us and…
“So, okay, I told my parents that you felt the same way but…you can’t possibly understand everything I was going through, Mark. You just can’t.”
I couldn’t bear the thought of you eventually hating me, Mark, can’t you see that? Emily’s mind rushed on. You were all I had and I loved you so much. I felt so special and important, beautiful and loved when I was with you. To have you hate me? No, I couldn’t stand the mere image of it in my mind.
I was never as self-assured as Jessica, didn’t have her confidence, her ability to win friends simply by being herself. And I didn’t have the courage to rebel, be a unique individual like Trip…Alice. I was just Emily, lost in the shuffle, always smiling, never making waves, just wanting to please everyone so I would be accepted and then? Oh, God, then there was you and you loved me. Me! I…
“If I hadn’t come to Ventura now,” Mark said, jolting Emily back to the moment at hand, “I’d have never known that I have a son, would I? Damn you, Emily MacAllister, you had no right to keep his existence a secret from me.”
“I…”
“Well, guess what, lady,” Mark went on, “the ball just came into my court. I fully intend to tell my son that I’m his father. I may have missed out on the first thirteen years of his life, but that is ending as of now.”
Emily’s eyes widened, and she felt the color drain from her face.
“Oh, Mark, please, you can’t do this,” she said, shaking her head. “You can’t just suddenly announce that you’re… It’s too much for a twelve-year-old boy to handle, to deal with and Mark, Trevor believes that I loved his father, that he was a wonderful young man and we were going to get married, but then…he…was…he was killed in an automobile accident.”
A strange buzzing noise roared in Mark’s ears as though he’d suddenly stepped into the midst of a swarm of bees. He shook his head slightly to quiet the sound, only to hear the wild beating of his heart.
He was dead? he thought incredulously. Emily had simply erased him from this world with a few carefully chosen words? Yep, Trevor, your dad was a super guy but, hey, he croaked in a car wreck. Tough luck, kid, you’re joining the rank and file of the multitudes being raised by a single mom because your daddy is dead, dead, dead.
My God, Mark thought, dragging both hands down his face, not only had Emily never felt about him as he had about her, she had been capable of wiping him off the face of the earth. Out of sight. Out of mind. Out of her heart where he had never really been.
“Incredible,” Mark said, shaking his head. “Just when did you drop this bombshell on my son?”
Emily sighed. “Trevor has always had a great many father figures because of the size of the MacAllister family. It wasn’t until he started school that he questioned why he only had uncles instead of having a daddy, too.”
“So I died, so to speak,” Mark said tightly, “when Trevor was about five years old.”
“Yes. I informed everyone in the family that that was what I had told him and they agreed, although reluctantly, to go along with it. I also told them that I would never divulge your name to Trevor, would tell him just to envision a special angel in heaven whenever he wanted to think about his father. Trevor, I’m thankful to say, has never brought up the subject again.”
“How convenient for you.”
Mark ran one hand over the crown of his head. It was a gesture that was so familiar to Emily, so endearing, a telling sign that Mark was upset, stressed, and one that Trevor executed whenever he was emotionally disturbed about something.
“You never loved me at all, did you?” Mark said, narrowing his eyes. “Jessica was the homecoming queen, the cheerleader, the president of the student council and on and on. Trip was in her own little world of rebellion that set her apart from the ever-famous MacAllister triplets. You were caught in the middle, always trying to please everybody, attempting to…hell, I don’t know…find your place, or space, or something.
“Then here I was, arriving in our junior year in high school. Poor funny-looking Mark Maxwell, whose mother had split when he was a little boy and who was being raised by an alcoholic father w
ho finally wiped himself out by driving into a tree when he was drunk as a skunk.
“You found a purpose, a cause. You’d take pity on the weird new kid, be his girlfriend, which would give you a status you’d never had before. Plus you were romantically involved with a guy, which was great because neither Jessica nor Trip were going steady with anyone. And, hey, wow, you would even lose your virginity before your sisters did. Score points for Emily.”
“Oh, Mark, don’t, please,” Emily said, feeling the sting of unshed tears burning her eyes. “I did love you—as much as any seventeen-year-old can understand love. Don’t make what we shared ugly, tacky, something to be ashamed of. It wasn’t like that.”
“No?” he said. “You sure were capable of turning that love off like a faucet after I left here. Then I was killed and became an angel five years later? Oh, yeah, that’s really strong evidence that you loved me. What a joke. You used me, Emily, to feel special, to make it possible to have something your sisters didn’t. You really outdid yourself, didn’t you? I mean, hey, you even had a baby out of wedlock. Neither Jessica nor Trip would top that one.”
“Don’t,” Emily whispered, tears filling her eyes. “Please.”
“The truth bites, huh? Well, there’s a lot more truth where that came from. Truth…I’m Trevor’s father. Truth…I’m alive and well. Truth…I intend to tell my son exactly who I am.”
Emily got to her feet and started across the room, stopping in the middle and pressing clutched hands against her stomach.
“Listen to me, please, Mark,” she said, her voice trembling. “I know you hate me, but don’t destroy my…our son because of your feelings toward me. I know I can’t keep you away from Trevor, but won’t you just be his friend, get to know him, let him get to know you? Then, when you’ve built a firm foundation with him, we’ll find a way to tell him that… Oh, God, how do I tell my child that I lied to him?”
“Write him a damn letter,” Mark said, getting to his feet.
Plain Jane MacAllister Page 2
