Pulling his hands free of his pockets, he dragged them down his face.
“Okay,” he said, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. “I’m in my ‘gently’ mode. Jillian, do you believe that I love you with all my heart?”
“Yes,” she said softly.
“Oh. Well, that’s good, great.” He paused. “Look, it’s so important that you come to grips with your past, deal with it, then put it away. It’s the only way you can have the fulfilling present and future that you deserve to have.”
“I realize that, but—”
“You do? That’s fantastic, terrific.” He stepped forward and sat down next to her, shifting on the sofa so he could face her. “That’s wonderful, Jillian.”
“No, you’re misinterpreting what I’m—”
“Jillian, please,” he interrupted, raising one hand. “Let me have my say before I botch this up.” He covered her hands with his. “I love you, Jillian. There’s nothing to be afraid of by admitting that you love me. Maybe that sounds conceited as hell, but you’ve been the other half of all we’ve shared, every step of the way. We’ve grown together, learned so much, put solid bricks into place as the foundation of our relationship.”
“But—”
“Shh.” He gave her a quick kiss on the lips. “We can have it all, together, if you’ll look forward instead of backward. Because I trust you. I’ve come to believe that a fulfilling two-career marriage is possible. I really listened to what you said about compromises.
“Ah, Jillian, we’ll have a home—not just a house, but a home filled with love and the sound of our children’s laughter. I won’t put in such long hours or bring work home, and your career isn’t a stumbling block, so—”
“Halt.” She slipped her hands free of his and raised them, palms out. “Whoa. Why isn’t my career a stumbling block?” She crossed her arms under her breasts.
Forrest frowned, confusion evident in his expression.
“It’s very simple,” he said, with a shrug. “I respect what you do more than I can even tell you. That’s important, you know, that a husband and wife respect each other’s work. I don’t feel threatened by your success, or by your ability to support yourself on a financial level.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Forrest, my novels don’t write themselves. It takes me months to complete a book.”
“Oh, that.”
Jillian narrowed her eyes. “Meaning?”
“Well, holy smoke, what’s the problem? It’s been obvious to me from the day I met you that you have a healthy balance in your life of work and leisure time.
“You needed a vacation, so you took one. You’re a professional, who’s organized, intelligent, the whole nine yards. I can’t imagine you having any difficulty revamping your writing schedule to include hearth, home, husband and kids.
“I’d do my share, you know, be right in there pitching. I could hold down the fort if you went on an autographing tour, or whatever. Your writing wouldn’t get in the way of anything.”
Jillian jumped to her feet, and Forrest jerked in surprise.
“Get in the way?” she shrieked, her hands curled into fists at her sides.
“What are you getting stressed-out about? All I’m trying to do is show you that I’ve changed my opinion on two-career marriages, and it’s possible for us to have a wonderful life together. We’ll iron out the nitty-gritty details and go for it. There’s nothing standing in our way, Jillian.”
Emotions slammed against Jillian’s mind in a brutal attack, causing a momentary wave of dizziness to sweep over her.
The fears born of past pain were there, as well as the aching chill of knowing she was in love with Forrest but had no room for him in her life.
And anger. Oh, the fury, the rage. Forrest MacAllister, she fumed, was dismissing her career as incidental, something that could be worked in around the edges, something that wouldn’t get in the way of anything.
“Jillian?” Forrest said tentatively. “What’s going on, here? You look mad as hell, but I sure don’t understand why.”
“You don’t understand anything,“ she said, none too quietly. “You’ve had your say, Forrest MacAllister, and now I’ll have mine, so listen up. Maybe, just maybe, I could have put the past behind me in regard to the pain I suffered in my marriage. But there’s no point in dwelling on that ‘maybe,’ because it’s not the major issue here.”
“It isn’t?”
“It sure as hell isn’t, buster.”
“Buster? You are mad as hell. What did I do? What did I say wrong to set you off?”
“I am a woman,” she said, splaying one hand on her breasts, “and I am a writer, a published author. The writer part of my being is intricately entwined with the woman. Without my writing, I wouldn’t be complete, whole, the total essence of who I am.
“My work, Mr. MacAllister, my writing, does not get penciled in on the calendar when I’m in the mood. It’s my focus, my purpose, my center, my life. Everything else takes second seat.”
“But—”
“You just happened to meet me when I was starting a two-week vacation—fourteen days, and not one hour more. Those vacations only happen two or three times a year. The remainder of the time, I work.
“I’m in my office eight, ten, even twelve hours a day. I rarely see anyone, or go anywhere. I’m totally immersed in the story I’m writing, in the characters. I laugh with them, cry with them, become them, in order to make them alive and real to the people who read my books. I have no room for anything or anyone else during those months.”
“Holy smoke,” Forrest whispered, staring at her with wide eyes. “I thought—”
“I know what you thought,” she rushed on. “A vacation would be nice? Oh, what the heck, I’ll just take two weeks off. Have a baby? Tend to a house? Hey, no problem. My little hobby of writing books could be juggled into the system someplace. You’re so off base, MacAllister, it’s a crime.”
Forrest lunged to his feet. “Why didn’t you tell me all of this before? You led me to believe—”
“No! You drew your own conclusions. I was following my strict vacation rules for stepping away from my world of writing. I was concentrating on what Andrea and Deedee convinced me to take on as The Project, what they called an Angels and Elves assignment. They felt you were focusing all your energies on work, and needed to be shown how to relax, have fun.”
Oh, dear heaven, no! she thought frantically. She hadn’t meant to say that, to bring up the subject of The Project. It would sound so terribly cold and calculating, so unfeeling.
Forrest stiffened, every muscle in his body tightening to the point of actual pain.
“The project?” he repeated, his voice ominously low. “The rules of your vacation call for you to put space between yourself and your writing, to take on a ‘project,’ and I was it for your little hiatus this time?
“Well, guess what. Andrea and Deedee convinced me to take you on as my Angels and Elves assignment because they were worried about how hard you were working.”
“They were matchmaking, being Cupids,” Jillian said, her eyes widening.
“Bingo. I’d give them a heavy-duty piece of my mind about their scheme, but I believe they did it out of genuine caring. The thing is, in my case what they hoped would happen actually came to be. I fell in love with you. But you? Ah, damn it, Jillian, you—” He stopped speaking and shook his head.
Jillian pressed trembling fingertips to her lips as she watched Forrest stare up at the ceiling for a long moment, struggling to control his emotions. When he looked at her again, she felt instant tears burn her eyes as she saw the anger in his brown eyes change to stark, raw pain.
“It was all a game to you, wasn’t it?” he said, his voice flat. “A project, an Angels and Elves deal, something to do to keep from being bored while you took time off from work.”
“Forrest—”
“God, what a fool I’ve been,” he went on, self-
disgust ringing in his voice. “How did you keep a straight face, not fall on the floor laughing, when I talked about wanting to marry you, have babies with you, spend the rest of my life with you?”
He dragged one hand through his hair.
“Oh, hey, I’ve got it.” He snapped his fingers. “This was all research for your next book. Right? Well, you’ll have some sizzling love scenes to put on paper. No, correct that. Sex scenes. That’s what it was to you—just casual sex.”
“Forrest, no,” she said, tears filling her eyes. “Please, it wasn’t a game, or research, I swear it wasn’t.” Two tears spilled onto her pale cheeks.
“Tears, Lady Jillian?” There was, a bitter edge in his voice. “Nice touch. You’re an actress, as well as a famous author.”
He paused.
“No...” he said slowly. “I think this whole number is more complex than it appears. I think you’re playing games with yourself, as well.”
“What...what do you mean?” she said, dashing the tears away.
“You’re hiding, Jillian. You were hurt once, and you’re so damn scared of it happening again that you’re using your writing as an excuse not to square off against life and the risks people run if they embrace it. You’re so terrified of reality that you live your life through make-believe characters.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? You can control those characters, decide on everything they’ll say, guarantee them a happy ending by having them do exactly what you dictate. You venture out into the real world for a couple of weeks here and there, then hightail it back behind your protective walls, hole up in your office where it’s safe.
“You transport yourself back in time to another era as an extra precaution against the ‘now’ of your existence being able to touch you. You don’t allow anyone into that space, that place in history, where you exist. Oh, yes, Jillian, you’re hiding.”
“No!”
“Think about it. Or don’t think about it. Hell, I don’t care. I’ve had enough of this.”
He turned and started across the room.
“Forrest, wait.”
He hesitated, then stopped, shifting slightly to look back at her.
“No, thanks. You’re a helluva writer, Jillian. I really believed that truth, trust and honesty were important to you because they were emphasized in every novel of yours I read. What a joke. I was a joke to you, too, and that hurts. That hurts like hell.
“I just hope it doesn’t take me too long to put you entirely out of my heart and mind, to forget that I love you. I don’t think it will be too tough, because the truth of the matter is, I never really knew you at all. It was all a game of make-believe.”
He turned again and strode away. A few moments later, Jillian heard the front door slam. She flinched as the loud noise reverberated through the house.
“Forrest, don’t go,” she said, nearly choking on a sob. Tears streamed unchecked and unnoticed down her face and along her neck. “You’re wrong. I love you, Forrest MacAllister.”
She sank back onto the sofa and buried her face in her hands.
The only sounds in the large room were the crackling flames in the fireplace, and the heartbroken weeping of Jillian Jones-Jenkins.
Eleven
A week later, Jillian shut off the computer and leaned back in her chair, staring at the darkened screen. She glanced at her watch, then got to her feet to roam around her spacious office.
Jillian, she told herself, it’s time to gather some data.
She had relived the final encounter with Forrest over and over in her mind, seeing the raw pain in his beautiful brown eyes, hearing his harsh accusations that she was living her life through the characters in her books, even transporting herself back in time, because of her fear of reality and “now.”
Her emotions had swung continually back and forth like a pendulum, moving from tear-producing sorrow to rip-roaring anger.
But two facts remained constant: she loved Forrest MacAllister with every fiber of her being, and she missed him with an aching intensity.
Those items, however, were not the topics on which she was presently data-gathering. No, the subject at hand was her work.
The morning after the disastrous evening with Forrest, she’d headed for her office, knowing she still had several vacation days left, but having no desire to be idle.
She hadn’t expected to be able to accomplish a great deal of writing due to her emotional upheaval, but found to her surprise that the outline for her new book fell nicely into place.
The next day she’d returned to the office with the mind-set that she was still off duty, didn’t have to be there, and, hence, anything she produced would be viewed as a bonus against her future deadline.
To her amazement, she once again was pleased with her output and the knowledge that she’d been able to set aside her personal turmoil the moment she’d stepped inside the room designated only for writing.
In the week that followed, she’d met her daily quota of pages in half the normal time allotted each day. Half the time!
Why? she wondered, continuing to wander back and forth across the room.
She stopped and wrapped her hands around her elbows in a protective gesture, having realized that the truth of the answer to the question was stark and painfully revealing.
She had subconsciously, for a very long time, made her day-to-day production schedule take up more hours than were necessary.
“Oh, perdition,” she whispered.
Forrest’s accusations were right on the mark. She had escaped into her office, into the lives of her characters and the place in history where they existed, rather than face her own reality. She’d been hiding like a frightened child.
“Oh, Jillian, what have you done?”
She’d lost the man who loved her, the man she loved. Her fears had caused her to forfeit a wondrous future with Forrest MacAllister. There would be no marriage, no home overflowing with joy and sunshine, no miracle of a baby created with Forrest.
Tears misted her eyes and she left the office to go to the sofa in front of the warming fire in the living room.
It was all so clear to her now. She’d lived the majority of her childhood in a fantasyland born of her imagination and providing an escape from her loneliness.
When she’d ventured out of her protective cocoon to marry Roger, she’d been betrayed, terribly hurt. So, she’d returned to a world comprised mostly of make-believe, where it was safe, risk free, under her command and control.
She was long overdue to grow up, to behave like the mature woman she professed herself to be. She would muster her courage, defeat the haunting ghosts of the past, and fling them into oblivion forever.
Jillian sniffled, then swept an errant tear from her cheek.
She’d be eligible for high scores in newfound mental health. She’d be the woman she was meant to be; whole, embracing life, functioning as a complete person.
But she would not be with the man she loved!
“Oh, perdition,” she said, hiccupping along with a sob. “I love him, I want to spend the rest of my life with the man. I want to have his baby—two babies, four, a whole bunch of babies. I want it all, and it’s too late. I’ve lost him. He’s gone. And it’s all my fault.”
If she didn’t stop talking aloud to herself, her next stop would be a place with bars on the windows where weird people were kept.
Jillian jumped to her feet and narrowed her eyes.
Wait just a darn minute, here. She’d spent more years than she cared to admit being defeated by her worst enemy—herself. Well, this time she wasn’t giving up the battle without a fight. If there was any way possible to share with Forrest the future he’d once wished to have with her, she’d find it, by gum.
Oh, yes, she was ready. Well, she would be, once she figured out a genius-level plan.
Jillian Jones-Jenkins was on the march!
Settling back onto the sofa, she squeezed her eyes tightly close
d and began to concentrate on The Plan.
She had a vivid imagination, for heaven’s sake. It was time to apply that creativeness to real life. The heroine was intent on winning back the hero. Victory would be hers!
* * *
In the late afternoon, one week later, Michael appeared next to Forrest’s desk at MacAllister Architects, Incorporated.
“Forrest?”
“What?” he said, not looking up.
“See my face?”
Forrest shifted his gaze to Michael. “It’s as ugly as it usually is. What else do you want to know?”
“Whether or not you still recognize this kind of thing,” Michael said, pointing to his lips. “It’s called a smile. Remember smiles?”
Forrest redirected his attention to the file in front of him. “No.” He glanced at his watch. “My day is over. I’m outta here.”
“No,” Michael said quickly. “You can’t leave yet.”
“Why not?”
“The phone might ring.”
“So answer it, or have our secretary answer it. She’s really into answering the phone.” Forrest got to his feet. “I hope you didn’t pass on your nutso gene to Bobby. Poor little kid. That would be a bum rap. You’re strange, Michael, very strange.”
The telephone on Forrest’s desk rang.
“Ah-ha.” Michael pointed to the shrilling phone. “It rang. One should not doubt those who are older and wiser than you, Forrest.”
“Bull.”
“Answer the damn phone!”
Forrest glared at his brother, then snatched up the receiver. “MacAllister Architects, Incorporated.”
“Forrest? It’s Andrea.”
“Hi, Andrea. How are the munchkins?”
“Phase one of The Plan,” Michael said under his breath, as he walked away, “is a done deal.”
“The babies are super,” Andrea said to Forrest. “I wish they’d get together more on their sleeping routine, though. It seems that when Matt goes to sleep, Noel wakes up.”
“I’ll speak to them about it,” Forrest said. “They’ll heed the words of their Uncle Forrest.”
“How nice. Listen, you wouldn’t happen to be leaving the office now, would you? I mean, I just couldn’t possibly know the schedule around there these days. Did I, by some slim chance, get lucky?”
Angels And Elves (The Baby Bet #1) Page 14
