At first he let that comment pass. Then, as if she was taxing him to the limit of his endurance, he called out, “The way you care is truly touching.”
“I was hoping you’d notice.” For someone who’d been outraged at the sight of her dishpan hands a week earlier, he seemed oddly unconcerned that she was washing his dirty dishes. Not that Maryanne minded. It made her feel good to be doing something for him.
She soon found herself humming as she rinsed the dishes and set them in his dishwasher.
Fifteen minutes passed without their exchanging a word. When Maryanne had finished, she looked in the living room and wasn’t surprised to find him sound asleep on the sofa. A curious feeling tugged at her heart as she gazed down at him. He lay on his back with his left hand flung across his forehead. His features were relaxed, but there was nothing remotely angelic about him. Not about the way his thick dark lashes brushed the arch of his cheek—or about the slow hoarse breaths that whispered through his half-open mouth.
Maryanne felt a strong urge to brush the hair from his forehead, to touch him, but she resisted. She was afraid he’d wake up. And she was even more afraid she wouldn’t want to stop touching him.
Moving about the living room, she turned off the television, picked up things here and there and straightened a few piles of magazines. She should leave now; she knew that. Nolan wouldn’t welcome her staying. She eyed the door regretfully, looking for an excuse to linger. She closed her eyes and listened to the sound of Nolan’s raspy breathing.
More by chance than design, Maryanne found herself standing next to his typewriter. Feeling brave, and more than a little foolish, she looked down at the stack of paper resting beside it. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure he was still asleep, Maryanne carefully turned over the top page and quickly read the last couple of paragraphs on page 212. The story wasn’t finished, but she could tell he’d stopped during a cliff-hanger scene.
Nolan had been so secretive about his project that she dared not invade his privacy any more than she already had. She turned the single sheet back over, taking care to place it exactly as she’d found it.
Once again, she reminded herself that she should go back to her own apartment, but she felt strangely reluctant to end these moments with Nolan. Even a sleeping Nolan who would certainly be cranky when he woke up.
Seeking some way to occupy herself, she moved down the hall and into the bathroom, picking up several soiled towels on the way. His bed was unmade. She would’ve been surprised to find it in any other condition. The sheets and blankets were sagging onto the floor, and two or three sets of clothing were scattered all about.
Without questioning the wisdom of her actions, she bundled up the dirty laundry to take to the coin-operated machine in the basement. She loaded it into a large garbage bag, then set about vigorously cleaning the apartment. Scrubbing, scouring and sweeping were skills she’d perfected in her Rent-A-Maid days. If nothing else, she’d had lots of practice cleaning up after messy bachelors.
Studying the contents of his refrigerator, more than an hour later, proved to be a humorous adventure. She found an unopened bottle of wine, a carton of broken eggshells and one limp strand of celery. Concocting anything edible from that would be impossible, so she searched the apartment until she found his keys. Then, with his garbage bag full of laundry in her arms, she let herself out the door, closing it softly.
She returned a half hour later, clutching two bags of groceries bought with her tip money. Then she went down to put his laundry in the dryer. To her relief, Nolan was still asleep. She smiled down at him indulgently before she began preparing his dinner. After another forty-five minutes she retrieved his clean clothes and put them neatly away.
She was in the kitchen peeling potatoes when she heard Nolan get up. She continued her task, knowing he’d discover she was there soon enough. He stopped cold when he did.
“What are you doing here?”
“Making your dinner.”
“I’m not hungry,” he snapped with no evidence of appreciation for her efforts.
His eyes widened as he glanced around. “What happened here? Oh, you’ve cleaned the place up.”
“I didn’t think you’d notice,” she answered sweetly, popping a small piece of raw potato in her mouth. “I’ll get soup to the boiling stage before I leave you to your…peace of mind. It should only take another ten or fifteen minutes. Can you endure me that much longer?”
He made another of his typical grumbling replies before disappearing. No more than two seconds had passed before he let out a bellow loud enough to shake the roof tiles.
“What did you do to my bed?” he demanded as he stormed into the kitchen.
“I made it.”
“What else have you been up to? Damn it, a man isn’t safe in his own home with you around.”
“Don’t look so put out, Nolan. All I did was straighten up the place a bit. It was a mess.”
“I happen to like messes. I thrive in messes. The last thing I want or need is some neat-freak invading my home, organizing my life.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” Maryanne said serenely, as she added a pile of diced carrots to the simmering broth. “All I did was pick up a few things here and there and run a load of laundry.”
“You did my laundry, too?” he exploded, jerking both hands through his hair. Heaven only knew, she thought, what would happen if he learned she’d read a single word of his precious manuscript.
“Everything’s been folded and put away, so you needn’t worry.”
Nolan abruptly left the kitchen, only to return a couple of moments later. He circled the table slowly and precisely, then took several deep breaths.
“Listen, Annie,” he began carefully, “it isn’t that I don’t appreciate what you’ve done, but I don’t need a nurse. Or a housekeeper.”
She looked up, meeting his eyes, her own large and guileless. “I quite agree,” she answered.
“You do?” Some of the stiffness left his shoulders. “Then you aren’t going to take offence?”
“No, why should I?”
“No reason,” he answered, eyeing her suspiciously.
“I was thinking that what you really need,” she said, smiling at him gently, “is a wife.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“A wife,” Nolan echoed. His dark eyes widened in undisguised horror. It was as if Maryanne had suggested he climb to the roof of the apartment building and leap off.
“Don’t get so excited. I wasn’t volunteering for the position.”
With his index finger pointing at her like the barrel of a shotgun, Nolan walked around the kitchen table again, his journey made in shuffling impatient steps. He circled the table twice before he spoke.
“You cleaned my home, washed my clothes and now you’re cooking my dinner.” Each word came at her like an accusation.
“Yes?”
“You can’t possibly look at me with those baby-blues of yours and expect me to believe—”
“Believe what?”
“That you’re not applying for the job. From the moment we met, you’ve been doing all these…these sweet girlie things to entice me.”
“Sweet girlie things?” Maryanne repeated, struggling to contain her amusement. “I don’t think I understand.”
“I don’t expect you to admit it.”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.”
“You know,” he accused her with an angry shrug.
“Obviously I don’t. What could I possibly have done to make you think I’m trying to entice you?”
“Sweet girlie things,” he said again, but without the same conviction. He chewed on his bottom lip for a moment while he mulled the matter over. “All right, I’ll give you an example—that perfume you’re always wearing.
”
“Windchime? It’s a light fragrance.”
“I don’t know the name of it. But it hangs around for an hour or so after you’ve left the room. You know that, and yet you wear it every time we’re together.”
“I’ve worn Windchime for years.”
“That’s not all,” he continued quickly. “It’s the way I catch you looking at me sometimes.”
“Looking at you?” She folded her arms at her waist and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.
“Yes,” he said, sounding even more peevish. He pressed his hand to his hip, cocked his chin at a regal angle and fluttered his eyelashes like fans.
Despite her effort to hold in her amusement, Maryanne laughed. “I can only assume that you’re joking.”
Nolan dropped his hand from his hip. “I’m not. You get this innocent look and your lips pout just so… Why, a man—any man—couldn’t keep from wanting to kiss you.”
“That’s preposterous.” But Maryanne instinctively pinched her lips together and closed her eyes.
Nolan’s arm shot out. “That’s another thing.”
“What now?”
“The way you get this helpless flustered look and it’s all a simpleminded male can do not to rush in and offer to take care of whatever’s bothering you.”
“By this time you should know I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” Maryanne felt obliged to remind him.
“You’re a lamb among wolves,” Nolan said. “I don’t know how long you intend to play out this silly charade, but personally I think you’ve overdone it. This isn’t your world, and the sooner you go back where you belong, the better.”
“Better for whom?”
“Me!” he cried vehemently. “And for you,” he added with less fervor, as though it was an afterthought. He coughed a couple of times and reached for a package of cough drops in the pocket of his plaid robe. Shaking one out, he popped it in his mouth with barely a pause.
“I don’t think it’s doing you any good to get so excited,” Maryanne said with unruffled patience. “I was merely making an observation and it still stands. I believe you need a wife.”
“Go observe someone else’s life,” he suggested, sucking madly on the cough drop.
“Aha!” she cried, waving her index finger at him. “How does it feel to have someone interfering in your life?”
Nolan frowned and Maryanne turned back to the stove. She lifted the lid from the soup to stir it briskly. Then she lowered the burner. When she was through, she saw with a glimmer of fun that Nolan was standing as far away from her as humanly possible, while still remaining in the same room.
“That’s something else!” he cried. “You give the impression that you’re in total agreement with whatever I’m saying and then you go about doing exactly as you damn well please. I’ve never met a more frustrating woman in my entire life.”
“That’s not true,” Maryanne argued. “I quit my job at Rent-A-Maid because you insisted.” It had worked out for the best, since she had more time for her writing now, but this wasn’t the moment to mention that.
“Oh, right, bring that up. It’s the only thing you’ve ever done that I wanted. I practically had to get down on my knees and beg you to leave that crazy job before you injured yourself.”
“You didn’t!”
“Trust me, it was a humbling experience and not one I intend to repeat. I’ve known you how long? A month?” He paused to gaze at the ceiling. “It seems like an eternity.”
“You’re trying to make me feel guilty. It isn’t going to work.”
“Why should you feel anything of the sort? Just because living next door to you is enough to drive a man to drink.”
“You’re the one who found me this place. If you don’t like living next door to me, then I’m not the one to blame!”
“Don’t remind me,” he muttered.
The comment about Nolan finding himself a wife had been made in jest, but he’d certainly taken it seriously. In fact, he seemed to have strong feelings about the entire issue. Realizing her welcome had worn extremely thin, Maryanne headed for his apartment door. “Everything’s under control here.”
“Does that mean you’re leaving?”
She hated the enthusiastic lift in his voice, as if he couldn’t wait to be rid of her. Although he wasn’t admitting it, she’d done him a good turn. Fair exchange, she supposed; Nolan had been generous enough to her over the past month.
“Yes, I’m leaving.”
“Good.” He didn’t bother to disguise his delight.
“But I still think you’d do well to consider what I said.” Maryanne had the irresistible urge to heap coals on the fires of his indignation. “A wife could be a great help to you.”
Nolan frowned heavily, drawing his eyebrows into a deep V. “I think the modern woman would find your suggestion downright insulting.”
“What? That you marry?”
“Exactly. Haven’t you heard? A woman’s place isn’t in the home anymore. It’s out there in the world, forging a career for herself. Living a fuller life, and all that. It’s not doing the mundane tasks you’re talking about.”
“I wasn’t suggesting you marry for the convenience of gaining a live-in housekeeper.”
His brown eyes narrowed. “Then what were you saying?”
“That you’re a capable talented man,” she explained. She glanced surreptitiously at his manuscript, still tidily stacked by the typewriter. “But unfortunately, that doesn’t mean a whole lot if you don’t have someone close—a friend, a companion, a…wife—to share it with.”
“Don’t you worry about me, Little Miss Muffet. I’ve lived my own life from the time I was thirteen. You may think I need someone, but let me assure you, I don’t.”
“You’re probably right,” she said reluctantly. She opened his door, then hesitated. “You’ll call if you want anything?”
“No.”
She released a short sigh of frustration. “That’s what I thought. The soup should be done in about thirty minutes.”
He nodded, then, looking a bit chagrined, added, “I suppose I should thank you.”
“I suppose you should, too, but it isn’t necessary.”
“What about the money you spent on groceries? You can’t afford acts of charity, you know. Wait a minute and I’ll—”
“Forget it,” she snapped. “I can spend my money on whatever I damn well please. I’m my own person, remember? You can just owe me. Buy me dinner sometime.” She left before he could say anything else.
Maryanne’s own apartment felt bleak and lonely after Nolan’s. The first thing she did was walk around turning on all the lights. No sooner had she finished when there was a loud knock at her door. She opened it to find Nolan standing there in his disreputable moth-eaten robe, glaring.
“Yes?” she inquired sweetly.
“You read my manuscript, didn’t you?” he boomed in a voice that echoed like thunder off the apartment walls.
“I most certainly did not,” she denied vehemently. She straightened her back as if to suggest she found the very question insulting.
Without waiting for an invitation, Nolan stalked into her living room, then whirled around to face her. “Admit it!”
Making each word as clear and distinct as possible, Maryanne said, “I did not read your precious manuscript. How could I possibly have cleaned up, done the laundry, prepared a big kettle of homemade soup, and still had time to read 212 pages of manuscript?”
“How did you know it was 212 pages?” Sparks of reproach shot from his eyes.
“Ah—” she swallowed uncomfortably “—it was a guess, and from the looks of it, a good one.”
“It wasn’t any guess.”
He marched toward her and for every st
ep he took, she retreated two. “All right,” she admitted guiltily, “I did look at it, but I swear I didn’t read more than a few lines. I was straightening up the living room and…it was there, so I turned over the last page and read a couple of paragraphs.”
“Aha! Finally, the truth!” Nolan pointed directly at her “You did read it!”
“Just a few lines,” she repeated in a tiny voice, feeling completely wretched.
“And?” His eyes softened.
“And what?”
“What did you think?” He looked at her expectantly, then frowned. “Never mind, I shouldn’t have asked.”
Rubbing her palms together, Maryanne took one step forward. “Nolan, it was wonderful. Witty and terribly suspenseful and… I would have given anything to read more. But I knew I didn’t dare because, well, because I was invading your privacy…which I didn’t want to do, but I did and I really didn’t want…that.”
“It is good, isn’t it?” he asked almost smugly, then his expression sobered as quickly as it had before.
She grinned, nodding enthusiastically. “Tell me about it.”
He seemed undecided, then launched excitedly into his idea. “It’s about a Seattle newspaperman, Leo, who stumbles on a murder case. Actually, I’m developing a series with him as the main character. This one’s not quite finished yet—as I’m sure you know.”
“Is there a woman in Leo’s life?”
“You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
Maryanne wasn’t. The few paragraphs she’d read had mentioned a Maddie who was apparently in danger. Leo had been frantic to save her.
“You had no business going anywhere near that manuscript,” Nolan reminded her.
“I know, but the temptation was so strong. I shouldn’t have peeked, I realize that, but I couldn’t help myself. Nolan, I’m not lying when I say how good the writing was. Do you have a publisher in mind? Because if you don’t, I have several New York editor friends I could recommend and I know—”
“I’m not using you or any influence you may have in New York. I don’t want anything to do with your father’s publishing company. Understand?”
What Makes a Family Page 26
