Gillian's Do-Over (21 page)

Mo
followed her, carrying the tray with the teacups and the plate of cookies, now empty of all but the last one.

Gillian smiled to herself.
He’s just like Quinn.
Mo had eaten her cookies while she worked, leaving the last one for her. She plucked it off the plate and took a bite. “Would you like some more?”

“No thanks. They were very good.” He scanned the kitchen. “You’ve lived here long?”

She nodded. “Since Quinn was a baby.” Had he noticed the wear in the carpet, that the kitchen appliances were not the latest style? No fancy granite counters?

“And those
teacups?”

“My grandmother’s.
Along with the buffet.” Also of a classic style that spoke to her. But would he think them old-fashioned? That
she
was old-fashioned?

His eyes seemed to shine in a way that sent a shiver down her spine as he scanned the living room. “
If you think your sketch is dry, I’d better be going.”

“Let me check.” She
did so then handed him the finished sketch. “Here you are.”

“Thank you.”
He stepped forward and kissed her cheek then grasped her with both hands, pulled her to his chest and planted another kiss firmly on her lips. “I’ve been wanting to do that for days. Want to see a movie tonight, maybe make out in the balcony? Pretend we’re horny teenagers? Although I wouldn’t exactly be pretending,” he murmured into her hair.

She sucked in a quick breath before his mouth descended on hers again, this time more gently, but no less insistently.

He released her and leaned against the table. “Do you like me, Gillian?”

“You know I do.”

Now what do I say to him that won’t hurt his feelings?
She bit her lip, thought better of it and tried to hide her hesitation by concentrating on brushing the crumbs into her hand.

“Your hesitation speaks volumes,
Gillian Griffiths.” Mo sat down heavily on the nearest chair. “I guess the answer is no. To the movie. To me.”

“Mo. I like you. As a friend. A dear friend. A friend to walk with, to talk with.” She took another sip, breathed in too soon, and began to choke.

One of Mo’s large hands banged her back several times.

“Thank you,” she rasped out. “It’s nice to have a doctor around when one needs one.” She gave him a quick smile. “I just don’t have
much free time these days for a movie. Maybe dinner. How about take-out somewhere?”

He rose from the chair. “Next time you want to take a walk, let me know.” He strode to
ward the front door, not waiting for her to follow.

Her eyes widened. “Let me show you out.” She waved at him as he descended the porch stairs to the sidewalk.
Quinn was approaching her house, a bouquet of flowers in his hand. He scowled as Mo passed him.

Oh
, dear. What now?

Gillian greeted
Quinn. “What a nice surprise.”

He looked over his shoulder at
Mo, now nearly to the corner.

“Do I know him?”

“That’s Mo. The doctor you said you checked out.”

Quinn
nodded, still staring at Mo’s back as he walked away.

“
I showed him some of the work Cammie wants to carry.”

“Looks like he bought one, too.”

“It was a gift. Just a quick charcoal sketch.”

He thrust the flowers into her hands. “These are for you.”

“You didn’t have to bring me flowers.”

“
They’re from Bianca and me. For helping us with the wedding. And her folks.”

Gillian stared back at
Quinn. Would he be unpleasant to Matt, if Quinn ever met him? Her heart began a slow thud against her chest.

“Y
ou’ve been hard to reach lately.”

She huffed out a breath. “I’m sorry.”
She clasped his hand. Why was he being so testy? She glanced at the grandfather clock as she moved from the dining room to the kitchen. “It’s barely two.”

“I took the afternoon off to bring you these
.”

Gillian burst out laughing then regretted it when she saw
Quinn’s expression. “Surely, you don’t think I was in any danger. From Mo, I mean.”

“He was in your house
, Mom. How serious
are you
about him?”

“Just like the plumber would be
, if I called one,” her words clipped. “For heavens’ sake, Quinn. Lighten up.” She turned to face him after setting the flowers in a vase. “I thought you liked Mo, that I was seeing him.”

“I didn’t think you were still seeing him.  Didn’t you say two dates was your limit?” He frowned.

“I probably was thinking of someone else. Besides, Mo’s just a friend.”

Relieved that he didn’t
press for more details, Quinn said he was meeting Bianca to talk with the minister. Gillian saw him off with a kiss on both cheeks.

She took her time straightening the kitchen and then grabbed her sketch pad, intent on going back to the park.
Perhaps she would feel inspired by whatever children were playing there. Perhaps the afternoon light on the fountain would be the perfect antidote to the combination of feelings plaguing her. Guilt, regret, a tangle of anger, too, that Mo couldn’t accept just being friends with her without feeling she was rejecting him. She really wasn’t. She just didn’t like him in any way other than as a friend. She sighed.

Her brief walk to the park forced her to look on the bright side. She would call Mo and invite him for a walk
around the lake. She would finish putting together her note cards and take them to
Cammie’s Closet
and frame the pictures for the other gift shop owner. If that worked out, she would get more serious about developing a business. Quinn would know how to help her set up a website, something Cammie had mentioned. She should have asked him about that when he’d surprised her with the flowers. And if Quinn didn’t have time to help her, Gillian was sure he would know who she could approach.

She crossed the street and wandered in the direction of the fountain, its sprays casting
droplets beyond the usual confines on the light breeze that had sprung up. She edged away from the spray to the far side of the fountain. The angle of the sun was such that she imagined rainbows shifting among the droplets.

Minutes after settling her supplies next to her fold-up
, three-legged stool, she lost herself in creating pastel splashes of color on the page. She stood up and stretched her back then sat back down, glad to see children had now arrived who were running toward and away from the fountain sprays. “Perfect,” she murmured to herself as she sought to capture their action. An hour later, she glanced down at the several pages of sketches she’d completed. Her stomach growled. Time to go home and think about dinner.

She rose from her seat and reached for her stool. A man was approaching from the trail on the far side of the fountain. He was looking down, his hair mussed, one shoe untied, the laces flicking forward and back in time
with each deliberate step he took.
Matt.

Gillian’s
heart leapt into her throat as he drew closer. He looked haggard. Gray-flecked bristles on his cheeks suggested he hadn’t shaved in days. When he glanced in her direction, she detected dark smudges under his eyes, which were red-rimmed and bloodshot. Matt looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His jeans were well-worn and fit him well. But, unlike those times she’d seen him at the office, or when he’d been biking, his shirt was wrinkled and buttoned wrong near the center of his chest, as if he’d paid no attention when he’d dressed that morning.

“Matt,” she
called to him.

He
startled and stopped walking. He looked at her in momentary confusion, as if unsure who she was, before he acknowledged her with an almost imperceptible nod.

“I read about your wife
’s passing. I’m so sorry.”

He nodded and slumped on
to the nearest park bench. He looked lost. Bereft was more like it.

“How
’ve you been?” But she could see how he was. Why had she even asked?

“I took Carl
and Wes to the airport this morning. Decided I didn’t want to go home right away. Or the office.”

“
Your sons?”

His head bobbed slightly.
He rubbed a hand down one jean-covered thigh. “Ursula probably thinks I’ve deserted her. I wasn’t scheduled to see clients today. She came in to do some background work. Stuff I put off because of …” He gave a harsh sort of cough.

Gillian imagined his office
was the last place Matt wanted to be. She saw despair in his eyes, as if he was lost in some dark place. She reached over and touched his hand, daring to think she might be able to help him feel better. “May I give you a hug? You look like you could use one.”

S
he placed her stool on the ground and set her sketch pad and supplies on it before reaching for Matt’s hands. When he stood, Gillian slid her arms around him. His heart was a steady, comforting beat against her breast, the warmth of his body a startling counterpoint to how he looked.

She’d imagined he would feel cold from the way his eyes
had sunken in his head. His arms, at first hanging loosely at his side slowly came around to her back. Now he clung to her, pulling her closer, his head bowed slightly over her shoulder. She thought she felt a hitch in his breath, as if he was holding back tears.

It felt wonderful
to hold him close. She imagined kissing away his tears, loving him as her core heated to the boiling point. Loving him because she wanted him in her life, unable to deny what those zings of electricity meant and how much she wanted to feel them. Daily. Maybe even hourly. To know that she was capable of loving a man again. That she was ready to take the plunge. To love him.

The scent of lilacs and vanilla filled Matt’s nostrils when Gillian’s arms pulled him close, urging him to taste and touch. At first he stiffened against the urge, afraid to touch her, intending to jam his hands into his pockets to avoid the temptation. But, as if on their own accord, he twined his arms around her body, returning the hug, holding her close. He was unable to let go and eased her closer, the warmth of her body melting the ice block that had taken the place of his heart for so long.

She leaned away slightly and her lips brushed his cheek, acknowledging his grief.
Fearful she was going to break away, he pulled her closer. He turned his head and their lips met. He couldn’t help himself as he held her there, his lips blending with hers in a flash of heat that turned every cell to flame. He felt as if he’d found home after being lost in a loveless plane devoid of water or food. The flames of desire that engulfed him warmed him through and through, opening his heart to a future of possibilities, the kind of heat he needed if he was to go on living.

Finally, he released her and
Gillian slowly backed away. Her eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed. “Oh.” The sound was tiny, but it popped the balloon in which Matt had been floating and dropped him back to earth with a forlorn thud. When he realized what he’d done, how his body had reacted to her, he reared his head back, his eyes burning behind his lids, squinting at her, self-anger and disgust causing his voice to shake. “You—I—we can’t do this. It’s. Wrong.”

The high color in Gillian’s cheeks paled to nothingness
. A hand came up to her mouth. She looked as if he had slapped her. Were those tears in her eyes or was he imagining them? Before he could be certain, her gaze dropped to the ground and she took two steps back, out of the range of his arms, miles away from his lips that still tasted hers.

She leaned down and retrieved her painting supplies.
Her voice was so soft, he wasn’t sure he heard her. “I’m so  sorry. All I meant … I just wanted to comfort you.”

H
er pained expression skewered his heart. He’d misunderstood her intent, offended her. She turned on her heel and half-walked, half-ran out of the park.

Chapter 14

Gillian’s vision blurred and she succumbed to the tears she’d managed to hold back when Matt’s arms fell away from her. His words flayed her, his misinterpretation of her actions weighing on her. She shouldn’t have hugged him. Even if she’d only wanted to comfort him. But then he’d hugged her back—she was sure of it—and he’d kissed her, not what she was expecting. And those zings of awareness. Had he felt them, too?

But
his words were unmistakeable. He didn’t want her. She couldn’t halt the little moan that escaped as she approached the intersection, her vision still hazy. She stepped into the street. A car horn blasted and she halted in midstride just as someone grabbed her arm and hauled her back onto the sidewalk.

“What
are you trying to do, get yourself killed?” Mo’s voice intruded on her thoughts.

Where had he come from? Had he been following her?
She pressed against the stitch in her side when he whirled her around and pulled her to his chest. She tried to muffle her sobs as she pressed against him. “I’m sorry. I should have been more careful.”

“You think? Put down your paint stuff,” he ordered, reminding her she was still holding
her stool and supplies.

“
I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help myself.”

“Shouldn’t have what?”

“He didn’t understand, or maybe he did, that I—”

She
eased out of Mo’s arms and her painting stool and portable easel tumbled to the ground.

Mo leaned down and propped them next to the bus bench. He
stared at her. “What’s going on here?” His voice was so soft, so caring.

She shook her head.
She couldn’t tell him.
It hurt too much.

“
Talk to me. When people face what’s bothering them, the demons tend to shrink, become manageable.”

“You’re a psychiatrist now?” She sniffed and
scrubbed a palm against each weeping eye before shoving her hand into a pocket, desperate to find a tissue but coming up empty.

“
Just a family doc with lots of experience. Talk to me, Gillian.” He sat down on the bench. “Aren’t we still friends?” He patted the seat.

She edged onto the bench. “But you want us to be … more,” she croaked, and tears gushed again.

“I suspect what upset you has nothing to do with me.”

She bobbed her head. “I offered someone something
…” Her heart squeezed painfully. “… something he didn’t want.”

He remained motionless on the bench
, only his chest rising and falling as he looked her way. “Well.” Mo’s words rumbled softly. “I guess that explains it. Another man.” He sighed loudly.

Gillian wiped
her hand across her face again.

Mo fumbled in a pocket
, pulled out a wrinkled tissue and handed it to her. “It’s clean, just not neatly folded.”

“Thank you.” She mopped her eyes and blew her nose. “Are you always so prepared?”

“So call me a Boy Scout.” He grinned at her crookedly. “Mind if I ask
who
you were thinking about when you almost got yourself killed?”

She shook her
head. “I’d rather not say, Mo. If it’s all the same.”

“
It isn’t. Matter of fact, I’d like to knock his block off for hurting you. And because it isn’t me. Just so we’re clear.” He grasped her hand and gave it a little squeeze.

“We’re only a couple of blocks from home, Mo.
I think I should go.”

“Fair enough.” He walked her across the street
, holding one hand, her stool and drawing easel under one arm. They walked the last two blocks before turning onto her sidewalk and up the steps to her porch.

“
We’re here.” He released her, handed over her art supplies, and crossed his arms over his chest.

Mo deserved an explanation. She turned and faced him.
“You’re right, it was a man. He just lost his wife, doesn’t want me. Obviously.” Tears welled up again and she blotted her eyes again. “What I feel for him is wrong, that’s all. And I shouldn’t have …”

Mo remained where
he was, only his jaw muscles working. “I guess you know we’re in a real pickle here. I want you but it seems you want him.” His mouth quirked up for an instant. “Never imagined I’d ever be in the middle of a ménage a trois.” He chuckled.

Gillian
’s pulse picked up at the thought. A threesome? Not something she’d ever imagined for herself either. “Couldn’t we, you and I, just be friends?”

“G
uess I’ll have to settle for that. Are you sure you’re going to be all right?”

“Yes. Thank you for listening, for understanding.”

“Don’t give me too much credit. I can’t say I understand or even want to accept it.”

Gillian couldn’t think of a thing to say. Instead, she watched
him back off the porch and stride down the sidewalk.

Late that evening, Matt rose slowly from the easy chair in his office. Who the hell was banging on his door? It had to be past ten. He glanced outside and spotted the shadow of someone standing on the porch, barely illuminated by the streetlamps.

“It took you long enough.” TJ tromped into the house and shut the door.
“You haven’t answered any of my calls or my texts for over a week. Not since the memorial service.” TJ peered at the longneck bottle in Matt’s hand. “How many have you had?”

“Huh?”

“The beer. You’re holding one. And you look like it’s not your first. How many?”

“Two, three. Who’s counting?”
Matt returned to the office and slumped into his recently-vacated chair.

TJ detoured into the main floor kitchen that now served as a place to make coffee or tea for clients, or a quick lunch if
Matt wasn’t meeting someone at a local restaurant. TJ’s voice rose. “I see three empties in the trash here. That makes the one you have number four. Since when you do drink more than two beers?”

Matt took another pull from the
bottle he was holding.

“You got any others?
Never mind. I found one. Have you had dinner? Or are you on a liquid diet tonight?”

When TJ returned and took a seat,
Matt shook his head. “Didn’t get around to it.”

TJ reached inside his pocket, pulled out his phone, and speed-dialed a local pizzeria.
After he’d ordered, he peered at Matt.

“You’re drunk,” he concluded.

Matt remained silent.

“
Look, I know it’s been hard. Marnie dying, Carl here, and Wes and then having to leave again. Back to the front. But you’ve got to get hold of yourself. You
knew
she was dying—after that first stroke and then the dementia. This wasn’t a surprise. If anything, it was probably a relief.”

Matt looked up at those words. His feelings were that apparent
, the ones he’d been struggling to deny? Had others figured it out, too? Even Carl and Wes?

TJ waved his hands in the air
, answering Matt’s mental questions. “It would’ve been torture for anyone. Marnie’s been going downhill for the better part of three years. You redesigned the house and your business so you could be with her. Most of the people at the courthouse think you’re a saint for doing that. Cutting back your practice, staying with her, having a nurse take care of her upstairs.”

“Just ’cause I moved my office into the house
? I cut my commute. No more traffic to deal with. I loved her. So much.”

“Of course you did.” TJ snorted. “But t
here’s more to how you’ve been acting and you know that, too.”

Matt shrugged a shoulder. When had he started in on the beers? TJ was right. The boys were more into
drinking beer than he was, unless he was trimming the trees along the back fence or doing heavy yard work on a hot July weekend. Why had he started drinking? Because he’d run into Gillian, the last person he’d wanted to see, the only person he wanted to be with.

He’d seen Gillian there, sketching,
just like those other times. Her laughter had reminded him of the bells from that church a couple blocks away. Cheerful, upbeat, the definition of peacefulness. More than once he’d seen people stop to comment on what she was drawing. He’d been tempted to approach her the first time he’d seen her that day. But a man was with her. The same man he’d seen her talking to before, and realized it was a bad idea, bad for him—more grist for his nighttime images of her—and bad for her.

S
o he’d walked away, coming back only when he knew the park would be empty, when he’d decided to go home, to go over things with Ursula before she gave up on him and left the office. Too late, Gillian had seen him. She was a magnet he couldn’t seem to resist.

He
slid a hand through his hair.
Greasy, in need of a good washing.
Gillian had called him her in-the-park friend, but that had to stop. He couldn’t see her any more. Especially after that hug she’d given him and that kiss he couldn’t resist taking, a kiss he was sure she’d returned. No way could he be alone with her. He imagined what might it lead to, particularly after she no longer needed his legal help, when her status as a client no longer acted as a barrier. Except even that hadn’t worked.
How
was he going to be able to see her in the office without wanting to repeat that kiss? Its sizzle lingered in his mind.

The doorbell rang
and Matt looked up. TJ stared back at him and climbed out of his seat. “I’ll get it.” He paid for the pizza and brought the box into the room. He set it down on the table between the two chairs and motioned for Matt to grab a piece. “Eat. You need something more than beer.”

Matt reached for a piece and slowly chewed.

The silence as the two men ate weighed on Matt. Words TJ had uttered moments earlier echoed in his mind.
Saint?
His colleagues had it all wrong. He’d never qualify. No saint would resent what Marnie’s illness had created. Her slide into a mental fog, never really coming fully back, and then those others that gradually led to oblivion.

His
frustration that he couldn’t do anything about her condition had escalated each week that she’d declined further. But he thought he’d hidden how he felt from most people. Maybe TJ had figured it out because he knew him so well. But Matt’s relief at no longer being faced with the challenges of caring for Marnie only fed his guilt. He was sure it wasn’t something the boys would accept, even if they understood it.

He pressed his face into his hands. Tears that he’d been holding at bay since
TJ’d called him a saint slid out from between his fingers and his shoulders shook as he lost control and began to sob. “I loved her. So much. She was my whole life—from that first dance. You know that. But I couldn’t help her.
I
should have been the one who fell, who had the stroke. It should have been me.”

TJ pressed a box of tissues against the back of Matt’s hand. “I know, buddy. I know. Being left behind sucks. Been there. Done that.”

After several minutes, Matt finally gained a semblance of control. He blew his nose, wiped his eyes once, twice and coughed to clear his throat. His voice hoarse, he pleaded, “Don’t call me a saint. I don’t deserve it. He ran both hands through his hair and wiped his eyes again. “It’s not just Marnie dying.”

TJ shifted in his seat
and reached for another slice of pizza. “I know. Tell me. Ursula called me—”

“What?” That
got Matt’s attention. He sat up straighter.

“She
asked me to make a few calls, on your behalf, on a couple of your cases—so you wouldn’t lose them completely. She said you’ve been a total washout for days. Not what she was expecting, especially after you told her that getting back to work would help you through all this.”

Another person who knew hi
m too well. He’d let Ursula down, especially with those clients who hadn’t responded well to her attempts to put them off. Matt covered his eyes with one hand.

“
Talk to me!” TJ’s voice thundered. He lowered his voice and added, “Look, we’ve been friends since law school. It’s obvious you’re not yourself. Is it the boys? Tell me what’s going on.”

What was the use? If anyone would understand, it would be TJ
. He’d lost his wife, too. But maybe he wouldn’t. He might think Matt was the lowest creature possible. TJ hadn’t gone looking for another woman. He still talked about his wife as if she were still around. Pictures of her still adorned TJ’s house and his office. He was a better man than Matt. If anyone was a saint, it was TJ.

One of the first things Matt had done after the memorial service was remove
Marnie’s pictures, first from the credenza behind his office desk, and then from the rooms upstairs. Only from the boys’ rooms did her image still goad him to get on with life, to stop moping around, living in the past. How much worse would it be if he voiced what he’d been unable to ignore? That he’d failed as a husband. Miserably. Totally. Especially today.