The Reluctant Cinderella

by Christine Rimmer

  She rode home in what could only be called a daze of happiness. Never in her life had she felt so…

  Megan giggled, right there in the luxurious silence of the car. She simply could not think of a word fine enough to describe how incredible she felt.

  The privacy window slid open. “What was that, Ms. Schumacher?”

  “Nothing, Andy.” Only pure happiness. Delirious happiness.

  “As long as you’re all right.”

  “I am, Andy. I’m very, very all right.”

  Megan was up in the morning before dawn. She grabbed some coffee and headed for Poughkeepsie, where her in-box was invisible beneath the cascade of mail, where her computer waited, packed with project folders, each one demanding to be dealt with right now.

  Greg called at nine. “Working hard?”

  “You bet.”

  “Can you get away tonight?”

  Oh, how she wanted to. “I just can’t. I’ve got to go down to Rosewood and watch the kids in the afternoon—and then I’ve got to get myself back up here. I’ll be parked at this desk of mine well after nine tonight.”

  “You sound frantic.”

  “I’m not, not really. Just…regretful that I can’t take you up on your extremely tempting offer.”

  “Wednesday night,” he said.

  “What about it?”

  “Can you take Wednesday night off, do you think?”

  She shouldn’t. But she did long to see him…“Okay. I’ll manage it somehow. I do have to watch the kids at four, as usual, though.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “‘There’ meaning?”

  “At your sister’s place. Say, four-thirty?”

  She warned, “Angela won’t be home until a quarter of six or so. It’ll be you and me and three little darlings.”

  “No problem. I’ll get some quality time with the kids.”

  That pleased her, a lot—that he wanted to come early and get to know the kids. Still, she teased him, “Quality time, huh?”

  “That’s right. And once your sister gets home, you’re all mine.”

  She was blushing, and she knew it. She put her hand against her cheek to cool the fire a little—and right then, Nancy, her assistant, appeared in the door to the hallway and signaled toward the meeting room, where Megan should have been five minutes again. Megan raised her index finger and mouthed, “One minute.”

  Greg said, “Wednesday. I need a yes.”

  “Yes. And I have to go….”

  When she got home that night, he’d left a message on her apartment line. “It’s Greg. I wish it was Wednesday….”

  She almost called him. But it was ten forty-five. Even wild, mad lovers needed a little sleep now and then.

  Tuesday, he sent flowers to the office—a huge crystal vase of stargazer lilies. She called to thank him. They talked for an hour about nothing in particular. She kept thinking that she really had to go…but somehow, she never did. Finally, he had a meeting he had to get to.

  “Tomorrow.” He made the word a promise.

  “Tomorrow,” she echoed, and he was gone.

  Again that evening, she returned to the office after Angela came home. Megan worked until ten. And by Wednesday, she was actually beginning to feel more or less on top of her workload.

  She could afford to take the night off.

  She left the office a little early, so she and the kids would have time to stop at Rosewood Market and still get back home to be there for Greg. They needed milk and eggs and cereal, among other things. With three kids in the house, supplies tended to run low about midweek.

  They were barely beyond the market’s big sliding doors when Olivia and Michael got into it over which of them would push the cart. Nowadays, the two of them vied for the honor, ever since Michael had decided he was much too grown up to sit in the cart seat—which used to be his favorite thing about shopping.

  Not anymore, though. Now, he turned up his nose at the very idea. “That’s only for little kids. I want to push. I’m old enough to push. Ask Mom. She lets me.”

  “He pushed last time,” Olivia argued. “And he’s too little to do it right, anyway.”

  “Am not.”

  “Are so.”

  Anthony, in headphones with his Game Boy, as always, stood to the side, thumbs flying, eyes fixed on the small screen in his hands, expression rapt.

  “Am not!” Michael folded his arms hard over his small chest and stuck out his lower lip.

  “Aunt Megan.” Olivia stomped her dainty foot. “It’s my turn.”

  “Is not!”

  Finally, Megan got them to agree to share. Michael would push to the pasta aisle and Olivia would take over from there. After that, things went relatively smoothly. Megan had Olivia getting stuff off the shelves while Michael pushed—and then, when Olivia’s turn came, she enlisted Michael’s aid in filling the cart.

  They did lose Anthony temporarily in the bread aisle. He forgot to keep up as he reached a new level in his game. But Megan ran back and found him. As always, when she took the kids anywhere, she found herself marveling at her single-mom sis, who managed to do a great job handling all three of them on a day-in, day-out basis. Raising three children, even with a husband to help, was not a task for the faint at heart.

  And Greg said he wanted ten kids….

  Truly. The man had to be either totally oblivious to the enormity of the job, or joking. She grinned to herself. He’d been exaggerating for effect, and she knew it.

  The important thing was, he did want children and so did she. If this magical thing between them went all the way to the altar, she knew they had one important goal in common: kids and all the craziness, challenges and fulfillment the little darlings entailed.

  Not that Megan had a clue how she’d handle a family, be an attentive, loving wife and deal with all the demands of her growing business. But they’d work it out—well, that is, if it ever came to that: to marriage.

  Wow. Talk about a big step. Getting married to Greg. Thinking about it caused a warm glow all through her. A happy, if somewhat nervous glow.

  And really, she was getting way ahead of herself here. They weren’t anywhere near the altar yet. Why, it had only been a little over two weeks since she’d walked into his office intending to make a purely professional proposal—and quickly discovered that her secret crush wasn’t anywhere near as over as she’d thought.

  Sixteen days since that first meeting. Nine days since their first kiss, in his empty house five blocks from Danbury Way. And four days since Saturday, when they’d made love for the first time—all night long.

  Would he be a good husband? She had to face facts here. He’d failed at marriage once—not to mention that the ink was barely dry on his final divorce papers….

  And what about her? Really, she was about as inexperienced with men as a twenty-first century girl could get. In her entire twenty-eight years, there’d been Seth Prankmier and now Greg and that was pretty much it….

  “Aunt Megan, Aunt Megan!” Megan blinked away her day-dreaming haze. “Look.” Olivia, rolling her eyes, pointed at Michael, who was trekking back and forth from one of the freezers, loading the cart with box after box of freezer pops.

  “Michael.” Megan spoke firmly.

  He dropped another box of pops into the cart. “I really like these.”

  Megan shook her head and patiently explained that two boxes of freezer pops was more than enough, thank you very much. Michael stuck out his lower lip—but he did put the other six boxes of pops back in the freezer where they’d come from.

  With Olivia pushing the cart, Michael skipping along beside her and Anthony trailing behind with his Game Boy, Megan turned into the produce aisle—and almost ran smack-dab into Irene Dare, who was blocking the way, chatting with another woman Megan didn’t recognize.

  “Oops.” Irene glanced over, smiling. But when she saw who it was, her eyes narrowed and her thin-lipped mouth drew tight. She nodded, the movement little more t
han a quick, dismissive jerk of her head. “Megan.”

  “Hello, Irene.” Megan forced a smile—for Irene and for the woman she didn’t know—and hurried the kids on by.

  One of the best things about Rosewood Market was the demonstrations they always had going in the produce department. A nice lady with a microphone would chop things and make jokes and talk about how to prepare this or that….

  Megan tried to enjoy the show the demonstration lady put on. She helped Michael choose apples and bananas. She did her best to ignore Irene and her friend, who still stood at the corner near the freezers, their heads bent close together. Once, she made the mistake of glancing their way and caught Irene looking straight at her.

  Megan knew damn well that Irene was talking about her, spreading stories about her right there in Rosewood Market. She knew it and she hated it. She also knew that Rhonda would be talking about her, too. The knowledge that there had to be gossip going around—featuring Megan as the evil, betraying “other woman”—knotted her stomach and made her heart pound in a heavy, hurtful way. She hustled the kids along and they left the market as quickly as she could manage with three children in tow.

  By the time she reached the house, she was feeling a little bit better. The talk would die down. She just needed to give it time—and avoid giving people more to whisper about. Moments like the one Saturday morning, where Rhonda had run into Greg when he came to pick Megan up, had to be avoided at all costs.

  It shouldn’t be that difficult. As a rule, she and Greg would be meeting in the city, anyway. It wasn’t as if they’d be rubbing everyone’s noses in their relationship, or anything. For a while, until Rhonda and Irene found someone else to pick on, until Carly had time to accept the end of her marriage and move on, Megan and Greg could kind of keep it low-key, couldn’t they? They could be more careful about being seen around town.

  Yes. That should work. From now on, whenever possible, she’d go to him. They’d be together in Manhattan, where people minded their own business.

  This evening, they could talk about it. She was certain that he’d understand.

  When Greg arrived, about twenty minutes after Megan and the kids got home from the market, she’d managed to put aside her distress at the encounter with Irene. The doorbell rang and she rushed to let him in. She threw back the door and their eyes met and…

  Pow. Magic, pure and simple.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hi.” She got out the word with a breathy sigh.

  Since the kids were all upstairs, she figured it was safe to drag him into the foyer, shut the door and pretty much hurl herself into his waiting arms.

  He laughed, the sound so rich and deep and warm, as he cradled her close. “Glad to see me, huh?”

  “Ecstatic. Euphoric. Overjoyed. In seventh heaven…”

  He put a finger to her lips. “A little less talk,” he whispered. “And a lot more kissing.”

  Sounded like a fine idea to her. She lifted her mouth to him and the kissing commenced—a long, slow, lovely one. When they came up for air, she only pulled his head down again for another kiss that was every bit as pulse-pounding and toe-curling as the first one.

  “Better watch it,” he advised as he lifted his head for a second time. “We don’t want to get too crazy—I mean, with the kids in the house.”

  “You are so right. Just one more…”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  “You know you love it.”

  He grinned then. “You’re right. I do.”

  She was just pulling his head down to steal a third kiss when a bloodcurdling scream erupted from upstairs.

  Chapter Twelve

  “My God. That sounds like Michael….” Megan whirled and raced for the stairs. She took them two at a time, Greg right behind her.

  Olivia was waiting at the top, white as a sheet, eyes enormous with fright. “Aunt Megan, Michael’s bleeding….”

  Michael wailed again. And Anthony came running up the stairs. “What’s going on? Is somebody screaming?”

  Megan blinked. “I thought you were in your room with Michael.”

  “Uh. No…”

  Michael screamed again. Megan took off along the upper hall as fast as her suddenly shaky legs would carry her. The door to the room the boys shared stood wide open.

  “Michael? Michael, are you…?” Megan stopped in the doorway, words deserting her.

  Michael sat on his bed, rocking, gripping his left hand with his right. Blood poured from between his fingers. There was blood on his cargo shorts, blood on his T-shirt, blood staining the blue bedspread patterned with a tumble of footballs, baseballs and soccer balls. His little face was pinched, dead-white with pure terror. “Aunt Megan, Aunt Megan, I cut my finger off!”

  “Oh, honey.” She rushed to him. Greg and the kids piled into the doorway. “A towel,” she commanded. “Hurry….”

  Greg was back in an instant with one of Angela’s pretty green bathroom towels. Megan wrapped it around Michael’s index finger, scooped him up and carried him to the bathroom.

  He continued to wail as she rinsed the wound in the sink. At least, with some of the blood washed away, she could see the extent of the problem: not the whole finger, thank God. Only the top section, from the base of the nail up.

  She got the big first aid kit from under the sink and wrapped his finger in gauze, took a clean towel and wrapped that around the gauze. Then she scooped him up into her arms again. “See if you can keep it raised up high, honey, until we get you to the doctor….”

  Michael was beyond keeping anything high. He clutched his injured hand to his chest and went on sobbing.

  Greg, who stood in the doorway, Olivia and Anthony on either side of him, had his cell phone to his ear. “I’ve got 911. They say they can reattach it. If we can find it.”

  Michael wailed again and pulled away from Megan’s embrace just enough to point with his good hand. “Little table…by my bed…” He burst into a fresh flood of frantic tears and collapsed against Megan once more.

  Greg left the doorway. Within seconds, he returned, the phone still at his ear. “All right,” he said into it, “will do.” He flipped it shut and stuck it in a pocket. “It’s there—I think,” he told Megan.

  “You think?”

  “It’s so small—and there’s blood all over it. It’s next to an open pocketknife.”

  Pocketknife?

  Michael didn’t have a pocketknife…but Anthony did. “Oh, God. Anthony.” She sent her other nephew a furious scowl.

  He shook his head. “Uh-uh. My knife is locked up in the case like always. It’s prob’ly the one that Dad gave him.”

  “Your father gave Michael a pocketknife?” It was the first Megan had heard of such a thing—and she would bet Angela didn’t know about it, either.

  Now, Anthony was bobbing his head. “Every time we’d go with Dad, Michael kept asking him for one like mine. So finally, he got him one. Dad told him to put it away safe until he was older and—”

  “Hey.” Greg interrupted, as Michael let out another agonized wail. “Can we worry about the knife later?”

  Megan gulped and nodded.

  Greg added, “Right now, we need something to carry it in—a plastic bag, they told me. A plastic bag in another container with crushed ice and water.”

  Megan turned to Olivia. “Honey, run downstairs and show Greg where the zip bags and plastic containers are.”

  Olivia only stared—until Greg took her gently by the shoulders and knelt so they were eye to eye. “Olivia. Can you show me? Show me real quick?”

  “Yes,” the little girl whispered. Greg let her go and she ran for the stairs. He followed.

  “It hurts, it hurts, it hurts….” Michael sobbed and moaned. Megan lowered herself carefully to the edge of the tub and rocked him, promising him over and over that it would be all right. Anthony, solemn and wide-eyed, dared to enter the bathroom with them. He came close and patted Michael’s shaking shoulder.


  An endless couple of minutes later, Greg and Olivia reappeared with a plastic bowl half-filled with crushed ice and water, a lid, and a sandwich-size Baggie.

  “We need gauze,” Greg said, “to wrap it in….”

  Megan tipped her head toward the first-aid kit she’d left open on the counter. He took a couple of squares of gauze from it, went to the boys’ bedroom and came back with the bit of finger, which he rinsed at the sink, wrapped in clean gauze and put in the Baggie. Olivia held out the plastic container. Greg took it, put the Baggie in it and snapped on the lid.

  By then, Michael was chanting between sobs, “It hurts, it hurts, oh, it really hurts….”

  Greg asked, “Want me to carry him down?”

  “No. I can do it.”

  “All right, then. I’ll drive.” He turned to the other kids, who stared, white-faced. “Come on, you two.” He gestured with the covered plastic bowl. “We’re all going to the hospital.”

  Olivia nodded. Anthony gulped. Obedient as lambs, they turned to trail after Greg as he headed for the stairs.

  Megan stroked Michael’s clammy hair. “Honey, keep that towel around your finger. We’re going to take you to the hospital now.”

  “It hurts, it hurts. Aunt Megan, it hurts….”

  “I know. The doctor will make it all better real soon.” She gathered him closer. Easing one hand under his legs and putting the other at his back, she stood. He clung to her, cowering close, sobbing and moaning.

  “All better,” she promised. “Good as new, you’ll see….”

  Greg had brought his own car, a sporty, silver BMW. Olivia and Anthony scrambled over the seat to the back, leaving the passenger door wide for Megan and Michael.

  It was all such a frantic, mad, scary rush that Megan didn’t even notice Carly until she and Michael reached the car. Carly stood out in her front yard in a pink visor and gardening gloves, staring. Even from three houses down, Megan could see the stark misery on her pretty face.

  Megan looked away. Right then, there was no time to worry about how Carly Alderson was taking seeing Greg drive off with Megan and a carful of kids. She tried to get Michael to sit in the back seat, where he would be safest and have his own seat belt, but he clung to her and cried even harder. She gave in and let him sit in her lap, hooking the seat belt over both of them.