"Then that’s all that counts." She kissed Melanie’s cheek. "Because if he gives you one bad moment, I’m going to have to kill him, you know."
A smile twitched Melanie’s lips. "That should keep him in line nicely." The Wedding March had already begun. Melanie took a deep breath, trying to settle her nerves. Surprisingly, it worked. "Well, they’re playing our song."
"No, only yours, baby. They’ll never play that song for me."
Margo had resigned herself to that a very long time ago. Marriage had no place in her world. It was better to just go through life expecting little, enjoying whatever there was for however long it lasted. And when some relationship continued, in her estimation, for too long a time. she was the one who tactfully ended it. Before someone ended it for her.
The doors were pushed opened. Music swelled all around them. Holding tightly to the arm wrapped around hers, Margo began to slowly walk down the aisle with her daughter. As with most of her life, this was a break with tradition. Margo was infinitely pleased that Melanie had asked her to give her away, rather than choosing to walk down the aisle alone or having some older man she knew accompany her.
If Melanie had ever belonged to anyone. she’d belonged to her. And now she was going to belong to someone else. And he to her.
Margo could feel her heart swelling with each step she took. She had raised Melanie as best she could, loving every moment of that time. But it had been too short, she thought. Much too short.
"You all right, Mama'?" Melanie whispered, inclining her head toward Margo.
Margo nodded. "Fine," she whispered back. "just fine." But she wasn’t fine. She wasn’t even herself’, she thought, annoyed at her own lack of control. "I promised myself I wouldn’t cry, and here I am, being so hopelessly traditional I could just scream."
Taking a deep breath, Margo tried to stem the flow that was trickling from the corners of her eyes. After a few seconds, she succeeded. With all her heart she wished she had someone to share this moment with. But for all the friends she had garnered, all the men she felt affection for and who returned the feeling, there was no one for this special moment. No one who had been there from the beginning, to watch a frightened young girl become a mother and somehow manage not to mess up the life of the tiny miracle she’d been entrusted with.
The only person who’d been there, whom she could have shared this with, was gone. Margo thought of Elaine, the woman who had come to her aid, who’d taken her out of a tiny, one-room apartment and a dead-end job as a chorus girl in Las Vegas and brought her into her home and her heart. It was because of Elaine that she had been able to blossom, to be who and what she was today.
"Your aunt Elaine would have loved seeing you like this."
Melanie smiled fondly. Aunt Elaine had been gone almost three years now. The void she left behind would never be filled. But loving Lance had helped a great deal. "I know. Mama. l know."
She didn’t want to be maudlin at a time like this. Margo’s eyes fixed on the young man standing on the priest’s left. "So that’s him, eh?"
Melanie's smile lit up her whole body. "Yes, that’s him."
"Very nice." Almost there, Margo’s eyes strayed to the groom's side of the church. Bruce was in the front row, on the aisle. "The early edition is every bit as handsome as the later one." She gave Melanie’s arm a little squeeze. "You two’ll make beautiful music and equally beautiful children."
They had come to the front of the church. With a tinge of reluctance that caught her completely off guard, Margo handed her daughter over to a man with kind eyes, then stepped back.
"I see you’re not dancing."
Bruce caught the scent of sexy perfume that accompanied the voice and felt a hand on his shoulder. For the second time that day. Bruce was surprised by the same woman.
He looked up to see Margo standing just to his left. The remark was based on the fact that he was sitting alone at a table for eight. Everyone else was on the floor, dancing to the orchestra music.
He shrugged as he felt the hand slide from his shoulder. "l don’t really like to dance."
She knew there were men who truly loathed to dance, but there was something in his voice that had Margo not quite buying Bruce’s excuse.
She moved to stand in front of him to get a clearer view of his face. "Don’t like to dance or don’t know how to dance?"
One quick glance told her what she wanted to know. She took his hand in hers, struck by the understated power she felt. She’d always had a fondness for strong men.
"Just as I thought. Come on, let me show you." She was already urging him to his feet. "It’s all in the hips, really." To prove it, she placed one of his hands on her hip and moved slowly.
Bruce felt something tighten in his gut even as he found himself being charmed. "What is?" he asked belatedly.
"Rhythm," Margo said, still demonstrating. Gently, as if she were coaxing a fawn out on the ice, she got him to the dance floor. "Let it take you over. Don’t think of it as dancing, think of it as moving with the rhythm." Locking her hand with his, she was ready with the first lesson.
When he looked down he saw that her dress seemed to cling to her body like a second skin. The smile on her lips was inviting as her body sealed itself to his. Then she said, "You look like the kind of man who knows just how to move with rhythm." Before he could protest again, Bruce found himself on the floor with Margo, surrounded by other couples. He didn’t want to call attention to himself, but he hated feeling like a fool.
She read the reluctance in his eyes, and felt it in his body. He was afraid of being embarrassed. She’d lost the fear of being embarrassed herself years ago. "Don’t worry, we’ll pretend you’re leading."
Her assurance struck him as particularly baseless. "How can I pretend that I’m leading when I don’t know what I’m doing?
The same smile he’d seen on Melanie lit up Margo’s eyes. "Simple. Presidents do it all the time."
She winked at him, a lightning-fast flutter of dark brown lashes that had a far greater effect on him than he thought it should. In a last-ditch effort to save himself, he issued her a warning he thought was only fair. "I’m going to step all over your feet."
Oh no, she thought, he wasn’t going to get out of having fun that easily.
"My feet can look out for themselves." She jiggled his arm slightly. "Loosen up, Bruce. Just let yourself have a good time."
He thought he was having a good time. "Loosen up?" he echoed, "I wasn’t aware that I was 'tight.'"
She looked up into his eyes, wondering if she was making him tense. or if he was just that way in general.
"Oh yes. there’s tension all through your shoulders." She brushed her hand lightly across one to make her point. "And judging from the distance from one end to the other, that’s a lot of tension."
He took her hand into his, more to immobilize it than to conform to any proper dance position. "I’m out of practice on more than one score." He saw the merriment in her eyes and cocked his head. forgetting to feel like a fish out of water. "Are you flirting with me?"
Amusement danced along cheekbones that a sculptor would have wept over with joy. "If you have to ask, I’m the one out of practice." She relaxed, Ending something utterly comforting about being with this man. For the moment she allowed herself to sink into the sensation. "But yes, I’m flirting with you."
They hardly knew each other, he thought. "Why?"
She raised and lowered her slim shoulders. "Why does a woman usually flirt?" He underestimated himself about the dancing, she thought. He was dancing very nicely.
The smile on his lips was self-deprecating. "I said I was out of practice."
Margo enumerated the reasons for him. "A woman flirts with a man to be complimented. Or because she’s with a good-looking man and would like his attention. She flirts because it feels good. Or to be friendly because that’s her
way."
They danced by Lance and Melanie. Margo felt a slight tug on her hear
t. She’d encouraged Melanie to be independent since she’d taken her first step, but she’d never seen how well the lesson had been learned until this moment. Melanie was all grown-up and on her own.
"Or maybe," Margo said quietly. watching the younger couple dance, "because her only daughter’s just gotten married and she’s feeling a little world-weary, a little lost."
Bruce waited until the pause drew itself out into silence. "Is this where I’m supposed to choose one of the above?"
Rousing herself, Margo smiled as she nodded. "Yes, this would be the logical place."
"The last one'?" He thought it was a safe guess.
She’d opened up a little more of herself than she’d meant and now retreated. Light laughter filled the air. "Wrong. To be friendly," she told him. Purposely Margo maneuvered Bruce so that her back was to her daughter. Getting misty twice in one day was twice too many. "I like people. Bruce. I like them to like me. With men, that means a little flirting."
Across the floor Melanie watched their progress with amusement and a touch of concern. She liked Bruce. Liked him a great deal. A man like that was completely unarmed when it came to someone like her mother. Unarmed and unprepared.
She raised her eyes to her new husband. "My mother is dancing with your father. Think I should warn him about her?"
Lance would have hated to admit it at one time, but he and his father were a lot alike. Or had been, until Melanie had entered his life. His father deserved a chance at mining that kind of treasure.
Lance shook his head. "If she’s anything like you, she’ll be the best thing that ever happened to him."
The compliment warmed her. but it didn’t dispel her concern. That was just the problem. At bottom, her mother wasn’t like her.
Melanie bit her lower lip as she watched the pair move in slow circles on one tiny section of the dance floor. Go easy on him, mama.
CHAPTER TWO
Margo raised her head to look up at the man who managed to extend an attitude of respectfulness toward her even while he held her close enough to make her pulse beat in time to the music. She knew without being told that Bruce Reed was a shy man. A hundred years or so ago, he might have even been referred to as a courtly man.
There was a lot to be said for courtly, she mused, enjoying the feel of his arms around her.
The thought occurred to her that chivalry and manners had definitely been underrated in the past few decades.
Or maybe, a small voice whispered to her, it might be that she had gotten just the least bit weary of life in the fast lane. Bruce Reed, with his reluctant, shy smile, his kind eyes and polite ways was like a breath of fresh air to her.
Mentally. Margo shrugged away the choices. Whatever the cause of her feelings, it was nice, dancing like this with the tall, handsome stranger fate and the state of Califomia had linked her to. Drifting with the music, she let herself just enjoy the moment. That had been her credo for the last twenty some odd years. Enjoy the moment, because the next one might just come by and knock you on your seat.
Margo moved her hand up along his arm, resting it lightly on his jacket. Even so, she could detect the hard muscle that was just beneath. Handsome and strong, she thought. That was unusual in a man over thirty.
The smile she directed Bruce’s way was slow, deep and some had told her, lethal. His unspoken reaction to it pleased her, as well.
She studied his face. "How old are you?"
Leery about where this was going, he asked, "Why?"
She shrugged. her shoulder brushing against him. It was a nice sensation. Going with it, Margo laid her head against his chest. "You don’t look old enough to have a son like Lance."
This was nice, he thought, surprised by her familiarity and his own reaction to it. They were hardly moving on the floor and yet it felt nice. His cheek brushed ever so slightly against the top of her head. The vague tingle he felt made him forget that he hated to dance. "Thank you," he told her. "I can honestly say I return the compliment."
Margo raised her head. A smile curved her mouth. "I don’t look old enough to have a son like Lance?" she asked, teasing him. "I’m not."
That had gotten twisted somehow. "No, I meant--"
"I know what you meant," she told him, taking him off the hook he seemed destined to impale himself on, although she had to admit, he made being flustered seem almost adorable. "That I don’t look old enough to be Melanie’s mother. And it’s a very nice compliment."
It took Bruce a moment to focus on the conversation. The way she had looked up at him had temporarily blown all thoughts out of his mind, filling the space with her image. He’d never seen eyes quite so blue before, or quite so compelling. Hypnotic was the word for it, he amended. And for the lady, as well. It was like holding solidified quicksilver in his arms. There for the moment, but not for long.
Lance’s new mother-in-law, he caught himself thinking, was one hell of a remarkable woman.
"It’s not a compliment." Bruce corrected her. She was probably on the receiving end of a dozen a day. He had no intention of getting involved in some sort of unofficial competition. "It’s an observation. You really do look more like Melanie’s sister than her mother."
She’d heard it before, but it wasn’t something she was about to become tired of anytime soon. As time went by, she cherished the compliment more and more.
With a stately nod, she replied, "I had her when I was eleven."
Her face was so straight, her voice so solemn, Bruce didn’t know whether she was pulling his leg, or, fueled by champagne, revealing a deep, dark confidence to him. There were women in his acquaintance, his sister, Bess, being one of them, who couldn’t take more than a few sips of anything remotely alcoholic without feeling compelled to make a clean breast of any and all past sins and transgressions, whether minor or major. He had no idea which category Margo fell into, although he had his suspicions.
The best way to handle this, he decided, was gracefully. He just hoped he remembered how. "You’re that much older than she is?"
The guileless remark caught her off guard. And then she laughed, completely charmed by a man she could tell wasn’t trying to be charming. Despite the very handsome figure he cut in his tailor-made tuxedo, Bruce Reed was very obviously just struggling not to commit any unforgivable social error on this very important day in his son’s life.
Here was a man, she decided, she’d really love to spend some time with.
"Oh. Bruce, you are good for me." When her eyes swept over him. Bruce felt a good deal warmer than he had just a moment earlier. "The truth is, I’m seventeen years older than Melanie." Margo paused, quickly subtracting the months that separated her birthday from her daughter’s. "Seventeen and a half, to be precise."
The figure struck very close to home. It occurred to Bruce that they had an unofficial bond, Margo and he, both becoming parents before they reached their twentieth birthday.
"My wife was almost nineteen when Lance was born. She was live months older than I was." He was unaware of the fond smile that took possession of his lips as he allowed himself, for the space of a heartbeat, to be transported to another time and place.
But Margo wasn’t. What she didn’t understand was why his smile sent such a ripple of bittersweet longing through her.
"I always told her I had a fondness for older women," Bruce said. A ream of memories tumbled through his mind and he laughed. "She never cared for that remark." And then he sobered slightly as the sadness, even after all this time, came to embrace him. "But she never got to be old enough for that to become an issue." And then he realized he probably sounded as if he were rambling. Margo deserved an explanation. "My wife died while she was still very young."
And he was still in love with her. Margo was touched by the sentiment she saw in his eyes.
She supposed that the appropriate response to his revelation was something along the lines of offering her condolences, but somehow she had a feeling he didn’t want to hear empty words from a strange
r. They wouldn’t change what was.
Instead she told him what she felt. "Your wife was a very lucky woman."
Surprised, Bruce raised a brow. How could a woman who died too young to see the autumn of her years, too young to see her child reach his destiny, be considered lucky? "What makes you say that?"
"The way your face lit up when you mentioned her."
She couldn’t help but envy Lance’s mother. Though gone, the woman still retained her husband’s love. It said a lot about the woman. And a lot about the man who loved her. "The most important ingredient in a person’s life is love, and it appears to me that she had it in abundance."
Yes, he thought. Ellen had. He couldn’t remember a day when he hadn’t loved her. It seemed to him that they had always been together, right from the very beginning. Whatever had come before that time was a blur. Just like life without her had become.
Never Too Late For Love Page 2
