by Donna Fasano
"What's wrong?" Norma tapped the pen in her hand against her fingers. "I know you're not upset about setting things straight with—"
"No. No," she rushed to say before Norma Jean had a chance to insult Scott with another nickname. "It's not that." To keep her hands busy, she flattened her palms together and smoothed them back and forth.
"Well, what is it? You look like you're going to crawl out of your skin."
Sighing, she said, "It's Greg."
"Lew told me he'd come to the hospital."
Lauren nodded. "He did. Even after I'd said some horrible things to him earlier that day. I was scared, Norma. Dad looked so sick. So I called Greg, and he didn't hesitate. He came to the hospital even though he didn't have to; even though he wasn't obligated. I, um. . .he made me realize a few things."
A few things? What an understatement. He had shined a bright beam of light on who she was and how she'd been behaving. And it hadn't been pretty. Yet he'd come when she'd been afraid and alone.
"Anyone else would have told me to stuff it. But Greg. . .didn't."
Norma smiled. "Of course he came. He's family."
She shook her head. "That's just it. He was there just long enough to get me through. Then he left. He didn't even come back to the room to see Dad when Doc said we could. It was like Greg was sending me a message. He came when I called because that's the kind of person he is. He's a good man. But he didn't hang around like, well, like family would. He left as soon as he could. As if to point out that. . .we're not a couple anymore."
Norma softly remarked, "I'm confused. Why would that upset you? You're not a couple anymore, hon." Gently, she added, "That was your choice. In fact, you've felt pretty strongly about it."
Lauren worried her bottom lip between her teeth. "It felt so final, Norma. Watching him walk away made me feel. . ." What she'd experienced that night had been so wretched that she couldn't describe it. "The timing is just bad because, well, I've realized I still have feelings for him."
Feelings, nothing. She still loved the man. Looking at Norma Jean, Lauren saw that she'd stunned her friend into silence.
"It's just as well, I guess." She walked across her office, rounded her desk and sat down. "We're too different to be together. If I was up, he'd be down. If I was left, he'd be right. Our life was crazy. Our marriage was pure chaos." She waved her hands in dismissal. "I've just got to get over myself. Greg's made his peace. I have to make mine."
"Now, hold on just a minute." Two steps brought Norma to the desk, front and center. "Different isn't necessarily bad. My Harry—may he rest in peace—was as different from me as night is from day. But we got along well. We had a great, crazy life together." Norma shoved the pen behind her ear. "Crazy can be good. Why, just look at me and your dad. Our personalities are poles apart, honey. You said it yourself. Yet we have a blast when we're together."
Norma bent at the waist and rested her hands on the desktop. "Nature is made up of nothing but opposites, Lauren. Summer and winter, day and night, wet and dry, hot and cold. If the sun shined all the time, we'd never have a chance to appreciate the moonlight." She grinned. "And, sweetheart, heavenly things happen in the moonlight." Her chuckle was throaty, then she sobered. "Hold on. Lost my train of thought. What was my point?"
Lauren smiled despite the dejection she felt. "Opposites?"
"Oh, yes. Opposites allow differences to shine." She frowned. "That didn't make much sense, did it?" Then she tried again. "A woman's best characteristics never have a chance to stand out if she's with a person who has those same characteristics. And vice versa, of course." Norma straightened. "Am I making any sense?"
Back in the far reaches of Lauren's mind, a memory floated, hazy as a foggy day. A 'chick flick' date. A movie that had sparked a spirited discussion between her and Greg. Lauren zeroed in on the recollection, and the instant it came into sharp focus, the blood drained from her face.
"Oh, honey," Norma Jean said. "I've only confused you more."
Lauren looked up a Norma, her heart feeling like it was melting in her chest. "Oh. Oh, Norma Jean," she breathed. "I realize what he was doing. I finally understand what he was trying to show me." She shoved her chair back, the wheels grating against the oak floor, and she tugged open the desk drawer with such force the contents rattled. "I can't believe I didn't see it. All this time. Wasted. I didn't understand."
"What? What didn't you understand?"
Scrambling around in the shallow drawer, Lauren latched onto the small key she'd been looking for and curled her fingers around it. She stood up so quickly she sent her desk chair thumping into the wall.
"Norma, I've got to run out. To the bank and. . ." Her gaze flitted across the furniture surfaces in search of her purse. The instant it dawned on her that she'd left everything on Norma's desk, she made a bee line for the reception area.
"Lauren, wait." Norma followed on her heels. "What about your ten fifteen?"
"I'll be back in time." She snagged her purse by the handle without stopping. "I hope."
But she couldn't worry about that right now.
"Lauren! Your coat!"
"I'll be fine," she called, but she was already out on the sidewalk and feared Norma might not have heard. Oh, well. She could explain her haste when she returned.
She dashed across the street to the bank and, thankfully, didn't have to wait long for Marsha, the branch manager, to let her have access to her safe deposit box. She pulled two envelopes from the metal box, then grinning wickedly, she extracted a third.
Greg wasn't the only one who could make grand gestures.
After thanking Marsha, Lauren headed out of the bank, her smile slipping. What if she was too late? What if he'd had all he could take? What if she'd worn his patience clean out and he'd washed his hands of the whole mess they'd made of their lives?
The answer to all those questions, she guessed, was that she'd end up looking stupid. But she'd been acting stupid for a very long time, so another few minutes of it wouldn't hurt too much, now, could it?
She started her car and realized she had no idea where she was going. But a resourceful lawyer always knew where to find the answers she needed. Flipping open her cell, she phoned her father.
"Hey, dad," she said when he answered. "Where's Greg today?"
"Aw, Lauren, would you back off? What'd he do now?"
"Dad, he didn't do anything. I want to talk to him."
"You've got his number."
"I do, but I want to see him, Dad." Then she revised, "I want to surprise him."
"With what?" The gruff words toted a thick coat of suspicion.
Lauren gritted her teeth. "It's a surprise, Dad. If everyone in the world knows about it, that would kind of take away the ta-da factor, don't you think?"
"Now, Lauren, I'm not everyone in the world."
She shook her head. Her irascible father had obviously fully recovered from his scary medical emergency.
"Dad," she said, softly, patiently, "do you know were Greg is or don't you?"
"As far as I know he's still working on that woman's garage. I think he said he was painting today."
"Are you sitting in front of you computer?"
"Where else would I be?"
"How about going to white pages dot com and looking up the address for a Jo Leigh Stapleton? Can you do that for me?"
She cranked up her car's engine and turned on the heater. Maybe she should have taken the time to heed Norma's warning about a coat.
"Have you found it, Dad?"
"Hold on, hold on. Our connection is high-speed, not supersonic. Here. It's loading now."
He rattled off the address and she thanked him before snapping the phone shut. Turning onto Third St, she headed toward Maplewood.
Not fifteen minutes later, she was cruising slowly down Jo Leigh's street. By the time she'd spied Greg's truck, she'd already driven past the colonial with the detached garage and had to back up several feet. She parked at the curb, gathered up the env
elopes from the passenger seat and then paused long enough to look at her reflection in the rear view mirror.
"Well," she whispered, "here goes nothing."
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Out on the limb is the only place to find the fruit.
Leap and the net will appear.
Do something every day that scares you.
Wise men and women down through the ages had spent their lives conjuring encouraging words meant to urge people to take risks. That's where success and happiness, and yes, even greatness was found, all of them promised. Well, Eleanor Roosevelt would be proud as a flippin' peacock today, Lauren thought, because she was scared to death. Tramping up the driveway, she swiped her sweaty palms on the thighs of her trousers.
The wide opening of the garage, where a metal door would normally be, sported a heavy-duty, plate glass door on one side and a large window on the other, like any other business might have. Lauren rapped on the glass.
"It's open," Greg called.
She went inside and saw him climbing down off a step ladder, a paint roller in his hand and smears of white ceiling paint here and there decorating his shirt.
"Lauren."
Surprise lifted his tone. Clearly, she was the last person he expected to see. Lauren's stomach twittered.
"What's wrong? Is Lew okay?"
"Dad's good. Irritatingly good." She smiled. "I called him to find out where you were and he had me clenching my jaw in two seconds flat."
The sight of Greg's grin made her heart thud against her ribs.
"Sounds like he's back to normal," he said.
She nodded. She crossed the royal blue carpet, stepping carefully to avoid the plastic drop cloths that were strewn about.
"You look good, Greg." He had no clue just how good; she had to make a conscious effort not to let her eyes rove the length of him. "You doing okay?"
His brow pinched the tiniest bit as he nodded. If nothing else, her showing up here had thoroughly confounded him, that was certain.
She looked around her. "This place is amazing. You've done a great job. Jo Leigh must be very happy."
The pinch tightened and he nodded again, but the motion was slower, more doubtful, this time. He bent and set the paint roller in the pan.
That 'new carpet' smell permeated the space, mingling with the heavy scent of wet paint. Vaguely, Lauren was aware that a car passed by outside. She glanced out the big front window at the street, then back at Greg, noticing for the first time the smudge of white paint on his chin. A nervous smile automatically curled the corners of her mouth.
No one can move this forward but you, she told herself. So move! She took a step closer to him as if physically prodded by the thought.
"Here," she said, offering him of the envelopes she'd brought, "I want you to have this."
"What is it?" His dark eyes never left hers as he accepted her offering.
"It's the deed to the land. Out on Skeeter Neck." She flipped her hair back behind her ear. "But you need to know that it's worth a lot of money." Then she stressed, "A lot of money. So don't go giving it away." Realizing her comment might sound to him like an inferred criticism, she rushed to add, "Not that you would. It's just. . ." The rest of the sentence petered out.
"What'd you do?" He glanced at the manila envelope in his hand. "Strike oil out there?"
Lauren's chuckle sounded too jovial. "No, nothing like that. It's not the land, but the merry-go-round."
"Really?"
She nodded. "But the treasure is in the figures. In order to cash in, you'll have to dismantle it." One look at his expression had her adding, "Yeah, I know. I kind of figured that's how you'd feel. But I just wanted to make you aware." Now that she'd mentioned the carousel horses and circus animals, another thought popped into her head. "Oh, and I plan to keep paying your friend to refurbish them. I want to do that for you."
Greg was looking at her as if she'd suddenly sprouted a second pair of ears.
"And here's your check." She handed him another envelope. "I never cashed it. And here—" she forced the final, largest envelope into his hand "—that's the deed to my house." She quickly amended, "Our house. You really should have fought me for it, you know." Then she told him, "I want you to have it. I want you to have it all."
While she spoke, the deep frown on his brow began to smooth and the consternation fogging his dark gaze cleared.
Quietly, he said, "You remembered."
His eyes were impassive and the smile on his mouth had disappeared, and anxiety so overwhelmed her that she was forced to look away. She only nodded in answer.
Not long after they married, they had watched a movie—a dark comedy about a divorcing couple's one-upmanship antics. It had sparked a lively conversation between them about the fine art of divorce. Lauren had claimed that she would fight for every penny that the law allowed. Greg, on the other hand, had claimed that he would hand over all that he owned; that if the two of them were ever to find themselves in divorce court, he could only imagine himself as the guilty party, and he would want to do everything he could to win her back.
"As I recall," she murmured, dragging her gaze to his face, "I was very annoyed with you that night."
Finally, he his lips quirked and she knew he remembered, too.
He glanced at the envelopes. "Our tactics were always miles apart."
She studied his face for a moment, wondering how on earth she'd lived without this man in her life for all these months. The streak of paint on his chin shouted out for her to reach up and wipe it away. But she didn't dare. "We are different, that's the truth. But that wasn't why I was angry back then. I was irritated that you'd come up with a more romantic solution than I ever could have. While I was conjuring a cold-hearted outcome, you were thinking like someone who was. . .in love. You always did. No matter what, you always acted like a man who loved his wife. Like a man who was married—who intended to stay married."
Her compliment evidently discomfited him because he broke eye contact with her.
"I wasn't exactly sure I'd correctly pegged your motives," she told him, "remembering how you argued with Judge Brooks when he awarded me the land."
His gaze swung back to hers. "I'd intended to fix up the merry-go-round. Then I was going to surprise you with it. But the judge threw a wrench in those plans pretty quick."
They both fell quiet.
Finally, she said, "I just wish you would have explained what you were doing." Sudden emotion made breathing difficult.
"I couldn't." He reached out and curled his fingers around one ladder rung. "You had to figure it out, or not, all on your own."
A knot rose in her throat and she swallowed around it. "You gave me plenty of time."
He lifted a shoulder. "That's something I had plenty of. I had faith in what we had, Lauren. In the trust we'd built. I hoped it would be strong enough to see us through."
Like night and day. They were that different. She was the kind of person who didn't like to take a single step until she could see and feel solid ground beneath her feet; whereas, he was happy to step out on nothing but a cloud of faith, to live on trust and hope.
"Greg, I was blind and selfish and stupid. It wasn't you I was disappointed in, it was the failure. I didn't know how to handle it, and I ended up handling it all wrong. I didn't stand by you when you needed me most. My behavior's been unforgivable, I realize that now. I'm sorry, and my greatest wish is that someday you'll find it in your heart to accept my apology. It probably won't be today, or tomorrow, but someday. . .someday, I'm praying you can forgive me."
Had those words just come out of her mouth? Wishing and praying? Maybe there was hope for her yet.
Exhaling a long, soft breath, she felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off her chest. She looked into his dark, steady gaze and was still unable to tell what he might be thinking or feeling. She'd done the best job she could do. When she had forced him into this hurtful game called divorce, he'd immediately lob
bed the ball into her court. It had taken her over a year to recognize the ball for what it was and smack it back in his direction. The next move was his to make, and there was no way for her to tell if he was still interested in playing the game.
"Well, that's all I came to say." She lifted her hands and then let her palms slap her thighs lightly. "I have a client due at the office soon. So I should go."
She turned to leave but stopped in her tracks when he said her name. Lauren twisted back around to face him, a jumble of tense and daunting emotions filling her.
"If I were to accept your apology. . ." He let his fingers slide off the ladder, his hand coming to rest at his side. "If I were to forgive you, right here, right now, what might that mean?"
His gaze was intense, expectant but at the same time suspicious. That was understandable. She'd tossed the man out of their home, she'd filed for divorce, she'd pressed him into signing the legal papers a whole year before the law required it. She'd called him all manner of names, hurt him with her derisive attitude, her anger, her bitterness. No wonder he was wary.
She couldn't believe he'd lobbed the ball back into her court so quickly. She was going to give him the point, the set, the whole match. He deserved it.
The boldness that crept over her was strong, almost erotic. She sauntered toward him until there were mere inches between their bodies, and then she slid her hand up the length of his broad chest. The heat of him seeped through his shirt and sent her heart racing.
"If you forgive me," she whispered, leaning even closer, "I promise to spend the rest of my life trying to make you happy. I'll be the best wife I know how to be. And I will never—" she reached up and placed a soft kiss on his mouth "—ever—" she kissed him again "—lose faith in you again." Her lips twisted into a goofy, apologetic grin. "I can't stop being me, of course. So I can't promise I won't ever get angry, but I'll try really hard to—"
He cut off the rest of her sentence with a gentle press of his index finger against her lips. "Spending the rest of your life making me happy will be enough." He touched his nose to her temple, inhaling the scent of her, and when he next looked into her face, hunger sparked his onyx eyes. "I'd never want you to stop being you."
