by Janet Dailey
Maggie made a brief inspection of him and nodded. "Set the table while I see what I can fix in place of a salad."
"Can't we just forget the salad? I promise I'll eat two helpings of green vegetables at dinner tonight instead. I'm starved! I really worked up an appetite at the ball field."
She smiled crookedly and gave in.
"All right, set the table and I'll dish up the beef and noodles."
Later when Mike helped himself to another portion of noodles, Maggie carried her empty plate to the sink, picked up the mail from the counter and returned to the table.
She sifted through the half-dozen envelopes, a mixture of advertisements and billing statements, until she came to the last.
Even before she saw the Alaskan postmark, she recognized the boldly legible handwriting. Her heart missed a beat, then resumed its normal pace.
"You have a letter from your father, Mike."
Her thumb covered the return address and the name Wade Rafferty as Maggie handed the envelope to her son.
"Great!" He abandoned his plate to tear open the flap with the eagerness of a child opening a present. Maggie sipped at her glass of milk, trying to ignore her pangs of jealousy.
Mike read the first paragraph and exclaimed, "Oh, boy! He's coming home!"
Her heart missed another beat. "Why is he coming to Seattle?"
She refused to use the word home.
"To see us, of course." Mike continued to read the contents of the letter.
Not us. He's coming to see you, but not us, Maggie corrected him silently.
Wade had no more interest in seeing her than she had in seeing him.
"Does your father say when he's coming?"
It had been six years since she had seen him last, shortly after their divorce, before he'd left for Alaska, a transfer Wade had requested from his company. Of course Mike had seen him regularly, flying to Alaska in the summers and during Christmas holidays.
The first time Mike had gone, it had been awful, with Maggie worrying about him every second. But it had been even worse when he came back, every other sentence containing "daddy." Even today, she still experienced moments of jealousy, although none as intense as that first time.
To say her five-year marriage and year's separation from Wade had been stormy was an understatement. It had been six years of one flaming argument after another, each alternately demanding a divorce from the other until finally their demands coincided.
They had been too much of a match for each other, her fiery temper equal to his black rage. Yet, since their divorce they had managed to be civil to each other for Mike's sake, albeit at long distance.
"He's coming home Sunday the …" Mike glanced up at the calendar hanging on the kitchen wall, notes scribbled on various dates. "Wow! He's coming home this Sunday!"
He pointed at a section of the letter. "He says right here, 'I'll see you on Sunday. I'll call you first thing in the morning.' This Sunday. Wow!" Mike repeated with incredulity and delight.
"Does he say why? I mean, didn't you write him in your last letter and tell him how much you were looking forward to coming to Alaska this summer?" Maggie felt uneasy.
It was so much better when there were hundreds of miles separating her from Wade. "Surely your father knows how much you wanted to come, so why would he disappoint you this way?"
"I'm not disappointed. I'd much rather have him come here. Dad knows that, 'cause I keep asking him to come home. Mom, do you suppose he could —"
"He is not staying here!" She read the rest of the question in Mike's expression and immediately rejected the idea.
"And I'm sure your father wouldn't want to, anyway."
"It was just a thought." Mike shrugged and tried to hide his disappointment.
There was sudden perception in her green eyes as Maggie studied her son's face.
"Mike," she began hesitantly, "I hope you aren't holding out any hopes that your father and I will get back together again. We both tried very hard to make our marriage work, but we simply couldn't get along."
"Yeah, I know." He neither admitted nor denied that he had been hoping. "I remember the way you used to yell at each other. That's about all I can remember."
"I'm sorry, Mike."
He folded the letter back up and inserted it into its envelope.
"I hate fighting," he declared with unexpected vehemence.
Maggie's head lifted a fraction as she realized that Mike's unwillingness to argue or remain angry for long was a result of the shouting matches he had overheard. She and Wade had inflicted a few scars on him.
"Arguments can be good, Mike. They can clear the air, bring things out in the open and straighten out misunderstandings. It's normal for two people to argue. In the case of me and your father, we were simply never able to resolve our differences. We weren't able to reach a mutual understanding. Sometimes it happens that way." She tried to explain, but it was difficult.
"Weren't you ever happy with him?"
"Of course. In the very beginning," Maggie admitted. "Your father swept me off my feet in the true romantic fashion. He was very masterful. It wasn't until after we were married that I realized that I didn't want to be mastered. And your father couldn't regard me as an equal."
Mike impatiently pushed his chair away from the table. "Why do you always have to refer to him as 'your father'? He has a name just like everybody else," he muttered.
"It's a habit, I suppose. Something that's carried over from the days when you were younger." That wasn't exactly the truth. It was still difficult for her to say Wade's name. To say "your father" came easier; Maggie couldn't explain why.
"Well, he's coming Sunday anyway, and I'm glad." Mike rose from his chair, ignoring the food on his plate. "I think I'll go see if Denny wants to play catch."
Again Maggie took note of the way he had avoided an argument with her.
It was his turn to do the dishes, but she didn't bother to remind him of it.
She'd do them this time.
AT THE NEXT PRACTICE SESSION Maggie kept her word and arrived at the ball park early so Mike could get the extra coaching on his hitting game. One of his young teammates was already there, sitting in the bleachers and tossing a ball in the air.
"There's Ronnie!"
Mike bopped from the car before Maggie could shift the gear into park. Closing the car door, he paused a second to ask, "Can you stay for a while to watch me practice?"
The station wagon Tom Darby had been driving the last time was nowhere to be seen. Maggie hesitated, then agreed.
"I'll stay, at least until your coach gets here."
Maggie stayed mostly because she didn't like the idea of leaving Mike alone — an overly protective attitude, but she admitted to that.
There was also the motivation, though, of wanting to see Tom Darby again. First impressions could be misleading. Perhaps on second meeting Maggie would find him less attractive.
"Great!" Mike responded to her decision and raced off to greet his teammate.
Maggie followed at a more sedate pace.
By the time she reached the tall wire fence protecting spectators from the batting area of the diamond, Mike had persuaded the second boy to join him on the field. Maggie leaned a shoulder against a supporting post and watched them tossing the ball back and forth.
A car door slammed and she glanced over her shoulder at the sound. A iridescent shimmer brightened her eyes as casual, effortless strides carried Mike's coach toward her.
He was good-looking, almost too good-looking, she decided, letting her attention shift back to the boys on the playing field.
"Good morning." His voice was pleasantly low as he stopped beside her.
With the greeting, Maggie let her gaze swerve to him. The hazel eyes regarding her so admiringly had definite gold flecks. On closer inspection, her initial opinion didn't change.
"Good morning," she replied naturally. "It's a beautiful day, isn't it?"
He nodded agreement and ad
ded, "The kind of day Seattle people always brag about, but seldom see."
Maggie didn't argue that the perfection of their weather was occasionally overstated. Instead she let her smile widen and remarked, in question form, "You aren't from around here, then?"
"No, not originally, I'm a native southern Californian."
It fitted. With that deep golden tan, he looked as if he had walked straight, off the beach. "But I'm beginning to enjoy the change of scenery."
The lazily explicit way he was eyeing her plainly indicated that he wasn't referring to the landscape of mountains and sea. No woman with an ounce of femininity could be immune to that look.
Certainly Maggie wasn't. If she had possessed any doubt that she was a strikingly attractive woman, it no longer existed.
"It's a nice place to live." Her noncommittal reply didn't reveal that she had interpreted a second meaning to his remark.
Her gaze shifted back to the baseball diamond and the two boys. As yet, neither had noticed the arrival of their coach.
And Tom Darby was in no hurry to make them aware of his presence. That fact produced a warm glow of satisfaction in Maggie.
"Are you staying to watch the practice?" The way Tom asked the question seemed to imply that he would like it if she did.
"I'm afraid I can't." A rueful smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. "I have a bunch of errands to do this morning. I promised Mike I'd only stay for a few minutes."
Maggie didn't tell him that she had agreed to wait only until he came.
She didn't want him to think he had been the sole reason, or even the main reason she had waited, because it wasn't so.
At the same time she didn't want to totally rebuff the interest he was showing in her.
This time Tom was the one to glance at the two boys playing catch. "Your little brother is a very good ball player."
"He isn't my brother," Maggie corrected him with a laughing gleam in her green eyes.
"Mike is my son."
Startled hazel eyes flicked a surprised look back to her. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Rafferty. You must have been a child bride."
"No, I wasn't. And the name is Maggie."
"Tom Darby," he introduced himself, his gaze sliding to her ringless left hand.
Maggie saw the question forming in his expression and was about to inform him of her unattached status when a shout of recognition from Mike eliminated the chance.
Both boys came racing to the wire fence.
"You said if we came early, coach, you'd give us some tips on switch-hitting," Mike reminded him on a breathless note, all eagerness and enthusiasm.
"So I did," Tom smiled indulgently.
"The bats are in the back of my wagon. Why don't you two go get them?"
As they started to dash off to do his bidding, he called them to a halt.
"Wait a minute — it's locked. I'll have to get them for you."
The opportunity for private conversation was gone.
But Maggie wasn't concerned. There would be others.
"I'd better be going," she told everyone in general, but Tom in particular, as she started for her own car. Her parting remark was directed at her son."I'll pick you up after practice."
"Okay."
He absently waved a goodbye.
THERE WASN'T ANOTHER CHANCE that week for the personal discussion the boys had interrupted. That day Maggie was late getting back to the ball park to pick up Mike, and Tom Darby had already left. At Mike's next practice Maggie brought him early but couldn't stay, and again picked him up late.
It couldn't be helped.
There was so much she wanted done before Wade returned this Sunday. The biggest task was spring-cleaning the house from top to bottom. She intended it to be spotless when he came.
Plus, there was shopping to be done for new kitchen and dining-room curtains. A new outfit in a shop window caught her eye and Maggie bought it, as well. Amid all the preparation, she squeezed in a visit to the beauty salon.
She was perfectly aware that she was doing all this because of Wade.
It was deliberate, if a trifle vindictive. She wanted him to see how very well she managed on her own. She was doing it all to impress him and wasn't ashamed to admit it to herself.
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Chapter Two
"HEY, MOM, are you going to sleep all morning? I'm hungry!"
Maggie opened one eye to see Mike standing in the doorway of her bedroom.
She groaned and pulled the covers over her head, trying to shut out her son and the daylight streaming through the window.
"Get yourself some cereal," she mumbled. "You're old enough to get your own breakfast."
"It's Sunday," he protested.
Maggie groaned again. It had become a Sunday morning ritual that breakfast was a special meal. No hot cereal and toast, nor a quickly fried egg on this day. No, it was pancakes with blueberry syrup and bacon, eaten at leisure with neither of them rushing off anywhere, not to school nor work.
"Come on, mom, get up," Mike insisted when she failed to show any signs of rising. "Dad's going to be calling anytime now."
That opened her eyes as the full significance of the day hit her like a dousing of cold water.
Maggie tossed the covers back and rolled over to sit on the edge of the bed.
She yawned and paused to rub the sleep from her eyes. Mike was still at the door, as if he expected her to slide back under the covers any minute.
"All right, I'm up. Go and put. on some coffee." Maggie waved him toward the kitchen. "I'll be right there."
Mike hesitated, then trotted off.
She slid her feet into a pair of furry slippers and padded to the clothes closet. Ignoring the new robe hanging inside, she removed a faded quilted one from the hook.
"Old Faithful" had seen better days.
A seam was ripped out under an arm. Two buttons were off on the bottom.
But it was as comfortable as a pair of old shoes, cozy and warm and dependable.
She touched an inspecting hand to her hair to be certain all the clips and hair rollers were in place.
Setting her hair had been a precaution to keep the attractive style she had got at the beauty parlor the previous morning.
Sometimes the thickness of her red gold hair refused to keep the discipline of a style after being slept on and Maggie hadn't wanted to take a chance this time.
As much tossing and turning as she had done last night trying to get to sleep, it had probably been a good thing she had taken steps to make sure her hair looked right this morning.
She hadn't been able to forget that Wade was coming. She kept trying to imagine how she would treat him, what her manner would be.
She couldn't make up her mind whether she would be cool and polite or indifferently friendly. How, exactly, did one treat an ex-husband?
Even now the answer eluded her.
At the door to the bathroom, she paused. Shrugging, she walked toward the kitchen.
There would be time enough to fix her hair and put on makeup after Wade had telephoned to say when he was coming.
The coffeepot was perking merrily in the kitchen. Maggie inhaled the aroma wistfully and took out the skillet to begin frying the bacon.
While it sizzled in the pan, she mixed up the pancakes and heated the griddle, putting Mike to work setting the table.
As she stole a sip of the freshly brewed coffee she had poured, she noticed the way Mike kept eyeing the telephone extension by the cupboards. She knew he was anxious to receive the phone call from his father, but made no comment.
When she put the food on the table, Mike didn't eat his favorite meal with his usual enthusiasm. He did more playing than eating, his gaze constantly straying to the telephone,
Half a pancake was drowning in blueberry syrup, slowly disintegrating under his pushing fork.
"There's more bacon." Maggie offered him the platter.
He shook his head in refusal.
"Why hasn't he called yet? He said in his letter he'd call Sunday morning."
"It's a little early." The wall clock indicated a few minutes after eight o'clock. Maybe he thinks you're still sleeping."
"But he knows I'll be waiting for him to call."
"He also said he'd be arriving late last night. Maybe your father is sleeping late this morning," Maggie suggested.
"Him? Dad never sleeps late."
Mike dismissed that suggestion as unworthy of any consideration.
Maggie had to admit that Mike was probably right. Wade had always been a disgustingly early riser, constantly chiding her for being such a sleepyhead. Wade had always been punctual, if not early, for appointments, while she had been habitually late.
There was a long list of differences between them and they had been a continual source of conflict during their marriage.
"You'd better eat that pancake before it turns into mush," Maggie advised.
She turned her mind from the long-ago problems that had been resolved by a divorce.
"I'm not hungry anymore." Mike pushed his plate back.
His dark eyes gazed at the beige phone as if willing it to ring.
"You've heard the old saying, haven't you, Mike? 'A watched pot never boils.' I think your telephone is turning into a watched pot that isn't going to ring. Why don't you see if the paperboy has brought the Sunday newspaper yet?"
When he hesitated, Maggie added, "You can hear the phone ring outside and it won't take you a minute."
"Okay," he agreed, but reluctantly.
As Mike walked to the side door, Maggie rose to begin clearing the table. Leaving the dirty dishes for the moment, she covered the butter tray and put it in the refrigerator.
The door closed behind Mike.
Blueberry syrup had trickled down the side of its container. She wiped away the sticky substance with a dishcloth from the sink and put the syrup jar in the refrigerator.
As she picked up the bottle of orange juice, the lid wasn't on tight and skittered off onto the floor. It rolled into the narrow slit between the refrigerator and the cabinet.
"Damn!" Maggie muttered beneath her breath, and stooped down.
She could see the lid in the shadowy aperture. Kneeling, she worked her hand into the slit, just barely, and tried to reach the lid.
