"I could stay, I guess." She glanced at Sam. "Are you sure it's all right with you?"
"Does it matter?" He didn't look her in the eye. Sometimes she thought he went out of his way to avoid looking at her. Maybe she did the same thing. It was easier to keep the distance between them.
Sam gently urged Megan out of his lap and rose to his feet. "I'll call Nina's. The usual?"
Why was it always the simple words, the familiar memories that hurt the most?
"The usual," she agreed.
Sam walked over to the desk and picked up the phone. While he dialed the number for the pizza parlor, Megan handed Alli the high school yearbook.
"Daddy showed me your picture," Megan said. "You were really pretty, Mommy."
Alli stared down at her sophomore photograph. She'd been trying to grow her hair out, to be more like Tessa. But where her sister's thick, wavy blond hair grew like a weed, Alli's own copper-colored hair never quite made it past her shoulders, and was so thin and fine it almost seemed to disappear.
Once, a very long time ago, Sam had told her that her hair was like silk, and she'd thought, foolishly of course, that he'd found something about her that he liked better than Tessa.
Alli slammed the book shut. Megan looked at her in surprise.
"What's wrong, Mommy?"
"Nothing." She forced a smile on her face. "What did you do today?"
"We waxed the hot rod."
"Of course," Alli said. Because next to his business, waxing his 1955 red Thunderbird was Sam's favorite pastime. She wouldn't have minded so much if the damn car hadn't been just another reminder of Sam and Tessa. In her mind's eye she could still see the two of them tooling around town in it.
"Do you want to see it?" Megan asked.
"The car?" Alli asked in confusion.
"No, the thing I made you. Weren't you listening, Mommy?"
"I'd love to, honey."
"I'll get it." Megan ran out of the room, and Alli walked over to the bookcase and stuck the yearbook in a dark corner where she hoped it wouldn't be discovered for another decade.
As her gaze traveled around the familiar room, she realized that Sam had done some cleaning, made some changes since he'd moved back into his family home and his parents had retired to Arizona. His father's pipe no longer sat in the ashtray on the desk. The three-foot-high pile of fishing magazines had been tossed in a large open box along with some other knickknacks -- obviously destined for storage.
The changes made her feel uncomfortable. The thought that Sam was finally accepting that this was his home bothered her more than she cared to admit. That he was changing the house to fit him as a man instead of a child was odd, too. This house had been a part of her own childhood, because she'd grown up next door.
When she was nine, and Tessa eleven, they'd lost their parents in a car crash and come to live with their grandmother, Phoebe MacGuire. They'd traveled between houses as kids do, and Alli had come to know this one almost as well as her own. Although she had usually been the one tagging behind, trying to catch up to Sam and Tessa, and somehow the door always seemed to slam in her face.
Sam hung up the phone. "The pizza will be here in fifteen minutes."
She nodded. "Great. So, how did the weekend go?"
"Fine."
"Megan starts summer school tomorrow. We'll have to redo our visitation schedule."
"I hate that word," he said with a fierceness that startled her. "Megan is my daughter. We should all be living together, not visiting each other."
Alli didn't know what to say. So much for thinking that Sam had accepted things. "I'm sorry; that was the wrong word to use. You know you can see Megan as often as you want, Sam. I would never keep you apart."
"Then why ask for a divorce? Why break up our family? Why the hell do you have to be so selfish, Alli?"
His words hit her like bullets, each one hurting more than the last, and her only defense was to hit back.
"Don't blame it all on me, Sam. I wasn't the only one who wanted out, just the one who had the guts to ask."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"The hell I don't," she said sharply. "When I found that box of clippings and photographs of Tessa, I felt like I'd just stumbled upon you in bed with another woman."
"I was never unfaithful to you."
"Maybe not in body, but in mind you certainly were. How do you think it feels to know the man who is touching you is thinking about someone else?" Her voice shook with the depth of her pain. She could still see herself sneaking into Sam's office to surprise him with an intimate anniversary dinner, only to find a box of Tessa's photos hidden away in the bottom drawer of his desk. She'd been looking for the corkscrew he kept there so she could open the wine she'd brought to celebrate nine years together. What a fool she'd been.
"It was never like that," Sam said.
"It was always like that. And it wasn't just the box of photos. It's been so much more, and you know it. I wanted more children, Sam, and you refused over and over again. Because having another child with me, making a deliberate choice to add to the family, would mean you were planning to stay with me. But you couldn't make that commitment, could you? You couldn't cross that line, because you weren't planning to stay forever. Well, I just cut the time short."
Before Sam could reply, Megan returned to the room.
"Look, Mommy, I made you a candleholder out of a wine bottle, see?" Megan held up the paper-mache-covered bottle with a proud smile. "Daddy helped me. Can we light a candle for dinner?"
"I guess."
"No," Sam said abruptly. "We don't need a candle."
Megan's smile vanished. "Why not, Daddy?"
"Candles are for special occasions, honey," he said more gently as he headed for the door. "I'll get some drinks."
* * *
Sam walked into the hallway and leaned against the wall, stopping to catch his breath, to steady his pulse. Candles are for special occasions. What a stupid thing to say. But the thought of a candlelight dinner with Alli... No, he couldn't do it.
Alli put his stomach in a knot every time she walked through the door, every time she opened her mouth. She'd destroyed his life not once but twice, for when he'd finally come to terms with being a father and a husband -- after he'd struggled so hard to make it all work, she'd bailed on him.
A twinge of guilt poked at his conscience. Okay, so maybe he'd kept up with Tessa's life, stored a few photographs. They were harmless pictures. Half the world owned magazines with Tessa's face on the cover. And how could he tell Alli that her grandmother had given him most of the clippings? It would only destroy their relationship, because she'd think her grandmother was favoring her sister.
And what did it all matter anyway? He'd married Alli as soon as he'd found out she was pregnant. He'd been twenty years old, Alli only eighteen. But they'd had to grow up overnight. He'd thrown aside all of his plans of traveling and seeing the world and gone to work for his father, eventually taking over the business and working his ass off to provide for his family.
Damn it all. He felt as unsettled as the weather outside. He didn't know whether to be furious or relieved it was all over. He didn't know why he couldn't look at Alli anymore, why her voice made him so nervous, why he was so afraid that the merest touch of her hands would be the death of him. They'd lived together for a long time, but he'd never been as aware of her as he was right now.
Alli walked out of the family room and bumped into him, not expecting to find him still standing there. He automatically reached out to steady her, his hands coming to rest on her waist, his fingers burning as the warmth of her body seeped through the thin material of her dress.
She sucked in a short breath, and his pulse quickened. He didn't want to look into her eyes. It was bad enough that he could smell her favorite perfume -- that he could feel her body under his hands, that he could hear her breathing.
He couldn't look into her eyes. He couldn't take that risk. He didn't know
what he would see there.
He wasn't sure he wanted to know. She'd confused him since the day she'd moved in next door as a bossy little girl, changing personalities as often as a chameleon changed color. Just when he thought he knew who she was, she turned into someone else.
"Sam?" she questioned, her voice turning husky.
It almost undid him. He'd loved her voice in the dark of the night, whispering, promising... He drew in a breath and dropped his hands from her waist. "I'll get those drinks."
She stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Look at me."
He sent her a brief glance that barely grazed her face, then turned away. "I'm thirsty."
"Sam--” The ringing phone cut off her words, and Sam felt a great relief. He brushed past her, returning to the family room to find Megan on the phone.
"Oh, hi, Mr. Beckett," Megan said. "Yes, he's here."
Sam took the phone from her hand. "William? How are you?"
"Not too good, Sam." William's usually brisk seventy-six-year-old voice trembled. "It's Phoebe. I don't know how to tell you this, but she's -- she's had a stroke."
"No!" Sam couldn't stop the word from bursting out of his mouth. He sat down on the edge of the desk, grateful for the support. Not Phoebe. Alli's grandmother was strong, vital and energetic, and he couldn't imagine the world without her. "How bad is she?"
"I don't know yet. We were walking along the pier and all of a sudden she stopped making sense and she couldn't walk. I got help as soon as I could," he said helplessly. "We're at the hospital now. They said to call the family. I couldn't find Allison. She's not home."
"She's here."
"Then you'll tell her?"
"Yes. I'll tell her." Sam looked at Alli standing in the doorway and saw the fear draw sharp lines in her face.
"And Sam..." William hesitated. "I know there's bad blood and all, but I've called Tessa and asked her to come home. She agreed. She'll be here tomorrow."
Sam's entire body tightened, a knee-jerk reaction impossible to stop. He hadn't seen Tessa since the night he'd told her he was marrying her sister. And now she was coming home.
Because Phoebe was sick, he told himself. It had nothing to do with him.
"Sam?" Alli asked after he'd said good-bye to William and hung up the phone. She'd wrapped her arms around her waist, as if she could protect herself from whatever was coming.
"Your grandmother has had a stroke. She's in the hospital."
Alli's eyes searched his. "Is she--”
"No one knows anything yet," he said quickly.
"I don't understand. Grams never gets sick. She's strong. I just spoke to her a few hours ago. I have to go. I have to see her." Alli looked wildly around the room, searching for something. Sam reached out and closed her fingers over the keys she still held in her hand.
"Easy," he said. "I'll take you."
She looked into his eyes with desperation. "She has to be all right. She has to be."
"She's a fighter, All."
"But she's seventy-six years old."
"Mommy, is Grams going to die?" Megan asked.
Alli turned and opened her arms as Megan ran into a tight hug. "I hope not, honey. I really hope not."
They clung together for a long minute, and Sam itched to join them, but he couldn't. Alli had made it clear that she didn't want him in her life.
Finally, Alli set Megan aside. "Go get your things, honey. We need to leave."
Megan ran out of the room, and Alli slowly straightened. Sam dug his hands into his pockets to stop himself from doing anything foolish, like hugging her.
"I can't lose Grams," Alli whispered, her eyes filled with fear. "She's all I have left of my family."
Sam didn't say a word. It wasn't true, because Alli wasn't alone. She had a sister -- a sister who was coming home. He couldn't stop the sudden quickening of his pulse.
Alli's eyes suddenly changed, and he wondered if she could read his mind.
"Oh, my God! William called Tessa, didn't he?" she asked.
Apparently she could read his mind, or she'd simply added up the equation. Despite the animosity between the two sisters, Phoebe MacGuire adored both of her granddaughters.
"Yes, he called Tessa." It felt strange to say her name out loud. And stranger still to think of seeing Tessa again, her blond hair, her blue eyes, her generous smile. Not that she'd be smiling at him.
"Is she coming back?" Alli asked, her face so tense she could barely get out the words.
"Yes."
"Then those divorce papers can't come a minute too soon."
Sam touched her arm, but she shrugged him away.
"Don't touch me, Sam. You don't have to pretend you care about me anymore. We both know it isn't true."
"I married you, didn't I?"
"There it is again, your favorite refrain -- you married me. That was your gift to me. And I'm divorcing you. That's my gift to you. Now I guess it's Tessa's turn."
Buy JUST THE WAY YOU ARE
ALL SHE EVER WANTED
Excerpt @ Copyright 2011 Barbara Freethy
All Rights Reserved
Chapter One
"Pick a card, any card."
Natalie Bishop stared at the playing cards in the old man's hands. "Mr. Jensen, I really need to listen to your heart. You said you were having some chest pain earlier?"
He ignored her question and tipped his head toward the cards. His fingers were long, his hands wrinkled and pale, weathered with age spots. His dark eyes pleaded with her to do as he asked. The emergency room of St. Timothy's Hospital in San Francisco was not the place for card tricks. But Natalie had learned in the past three years of her residency that healing wasn't always about medicine, and patient visits weren't always about being sick. Sometimes they were just about being old and lonely. So she did what he'd asked -- she picked a card. It was the ace of spades. The death card. A chill ran through her.
"Don't tell me what it is, Dr. Bishop. Just hold it in your hand." Mr. Jensen closed his eyes and began to mutter something under his breath.
Natalie had a sudden urge to throw the card down on the bed, which was ridiculous. She wasn't superstitious. She didn't believe in card tricks, hocus pocus, or any other kind of magic. She didn't believe in anything that couldn't be scientifically proven. The ace of spades was just a card. If she were playing poker or blackjack, she'd be excited to have it.
Mr. Jensen's eyes flew open and he stared at her as if he'd never seen her before. "The dark ace. Spades."
She swallowed hard. "Good guess." Handing him back the card, she asked, "How did you know?"
"I felt you shiver." He met her gaze with a seriousness that made her feel even more uneasy. "You're afraid."
"No, I'm not." She didn't have time to be afraid. She was a medical resident working double shifts most days. She was overworked, overtired, and stressed to the max. She didn't have the energy to be scared. Except that she was scared. She was terrified that something would go wrong at this late date, that with only a month to go on her residency, after years of struggling against almost insurmountable odds to become a doctor, she would somehow fail. And failure wasn't an option. Her career was her life.
"Something bad is coming," the old man continued. "I can feel it in my bones. And these old bones have never been wrong."
"I don't know what you're talking about. Why don't you let me listen to your heart?" Natalie placed her stethoscope on his chest and listened to the steady beating of his heart. It sounded fine. Hers, on the other hand, was pounding against her rib cage. Too much caffeine, she told herself, nothing more than that.
"Your heart sounds good," she said, focusing her mind on the present. "Are you having any pain?"
"Not anymore."
Natalie wasn't surprised. Mr. Jensen was a regular in the ER, and by now they both knew the drill. "What did you have for lunch?”
"Pepperoni pizza."
She had suspected as much. "I think we found our culprit. Was it a burning pain right
about here?" she asked, putting her hand on his chest.
He nodded. "Yes, that's it exactly."
"Sounds like the same indigestion you had last week and the week before. It's time to stop eating pizza, Mr. Jensen." She pulled out her prescription pad. "I can give you something to help with your digestion, but you really need to work on changing your diet."
"Maybe I should wait here for a while, make sure it doesn't come back."
Natalie knew she should send him on his way. There was nothing physically wrong with him, and they would no doubt need the bed in the next few hours. It was Friday after all, a perfect night for madness and mayhem. But Mr. Jensen was almost eighty years old and lived alone. He probably needed company more than medical treatment.
Don't get involved, she told herself. Emergency medicine was about fixing specific problems, not getting emotionally involved with the patients. That's why she'd chosen the specialty. She was good at the quick fix but bad at personal relationships.
"I can show you another trick," Mr. Jensen offered, fanning the cards with his hand. "I used to be a magician, you know, a good one, too. I once worked in Las Vegas."
"I've never been to Vegas."
"And you don't believe in magic," he said with a sigh.
"No, I don't."
He tilted his head, considering her with wise old eyes that made her nervous. "When did you stop believing?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"In Santa Claus and the tooth fairy and leprechauns."
"I never believed in those things."
"Never? Not even when you were a little girl?" he asked in amazement.
She opened her mouth to tell him she'd never really been a little girl, when an image of herself in a long pink nightgown came into her head. She couldn't have been more than seven. Her dad had swept her up into his arms so she could hang her stocking over the fireplace and they'd put out chocolate-chip cookies for Santa Claus. It was their last Christmas together. A wave of grief hit her hard. She'd almost forgotten. And she didn't know which was worse -- that she'd almost forgotten or that she'd remembered.
Natalie looked down at the prescription pad in her hand and forced herself to finish writing. She ripped off the paper and handed it to him. "This should do the trick."
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