Together Alone (23 page)

It was a typical Grannick night. Only nothing felt typical inside Emily. She wanted. Stunningly, selfishly wanted.

She went into the bathroom for a drink of water, but that made her no less restless, so she headed for Doug’s den to surround herself with his trappings, sat in his chair with her feet on the desk, and flipped on the television. She went through the channels twice before flipping it off.

She put something smooth and smoky on the stereo, went to the living room window and swayed before it in the dark for a while, but what should have been soothing became sensual. Well before the music ran out, she was in the kitchen, tugging the last of the sweet red grapes from the bunch that Jill had otherwise denuded.

She tried to feel guilty for feeling desire, but the desire was too strong. Neither guilt nor reason could kill it. Shyness didn’t even have a chance.

She went to the back door, held the knob for a minute, turned around and leaned against it for another minute. She directed her thoughts to Jill, inviting the pain of that particular loss, but Brian came again in no time flat, filling her mind with all that she had been telling herself she couldn’t have.

This is wrong, this is wrong,
her mind sang, but her body kept hearing a different tune. Snagged by its beat, she slipped into her jacket and stole out the door. She took the longer, darker, colder way around the back of the garage, giving herself every opportunity to change her mind, but the beat went on and the heat held.

She knocked softly on his door. He couldn’t possibly hear, she knew, but she couldn’t get herself to ring the bell and wake Julia. So she knocked again, still softly, then put a shoulder to the doorframe and waited.

She figured that either she would come to her senses, turn around and go home, or she would get chilled and forget about sex.

Both scenarios became moot when she heard his footfall on the stairs. Pulse skittering, she waited with her head down, wondering what to say, what to do. The door opened. She looked up, feeling positively depraved.

“I shouldn’t be here,” she said, but before she could turn and run, he drew her inside, out of the cold that she didn’t feel, and closed the door. She settled against it. “I shouldn’t be here. I was lying in bed. I couldn’t sleep.”

“You’re missing Jill.”

“Some.” She focused on his shirt. It was a heavy, faded plaid, open over a pair of jeans. “Weren’t you sleeping?”

“No. I was reading. Dozing. Whatever.”

The jeans weren’t snapped. The sight of his navel upped her heat several notches. Not knowing what to say, but needing, needing, she reached over and caught his waistband. “Make me leave,” she begged.

A throaty whisper. “I can’t.”

“This is wrong. My husband was just here.”

“Did you make love with him?”

“No. And I wouldn’t have been thinking about him, if I had.” She had been praying Doug wouldn’t reach for her, for just that reason. The betrayal would have been compounded.

Brian’s breathing had grown uneven and his body tight against her fingers. She put her cheek to his chest. “There’s this…awful…restlessness. It won’t go away.” She touched his middle, then, when desire got the better of her, higher. The hair on his chest was soft by contrast to the firm skin beneath. Her hand was in heaven, knowing what it wanted and taking it in ways that her mind resisted. The loud beat of his heart in her ear chipped at that resistance, as did the elbow he hooked around her neck to hold her close.

He wanted her. That fact alone made her love him.

And then it all seemed so necessary to life—the heat, the desire, the budding of things that were female and too long put down. She brushed her mouth over his chest, pushed at the lapels of his shirt, touched her tongue to one hot, hard nipple. She was someone she hadn’t been before, a different woman from the one who was married to Doug.

A different woman. That was better. Easier to accept.

Egged on by the shaky glide of his hands on her back, she moved impatiently against him. She needed to taste more, touch more, but the hunger wouldn’t be sated, it seemed, and then, tasting and touching weren’t enough, not for her, and not for him. When he urged her hand lower, she unzipped his jeans and let him loose.

Untamed was one word for what happened then. Brian had her nightgown bunched at her waist in no time, had his hands under her and her back to the wall. In no time, he had her filled so full she thought she would burst, but he held that off, stoking her with fierce thrusts that pushed the pleasure up and up, well beyond what she would have thought she could bear. With her arms and legs wrapped around him, she held on for dear life until she was lost, then found, then cradled ever so gently in the damp, dark afterglow, in the stairwell by the garage.

C
ELESTE WALKED INTO THE SUNFLOWER WITH A
rose in her hand and stood quietly in the waiting area just beyond the hostess’s post. The restaurant occupied a glass bubble that clung to the side of a hotel in downtown Springfield. She had chosen it for its openness and its brightness, and would have actually preferred to have been there in daylight. Unfortunately, what with work and transportation, her men couldn’t meet her for lunch unless they took the whole day off. She couldn’t blame them for not doing that. They didn’t know her name, or whether they would like her in the least. They didn’t know if she would even show up.

She didn’t know if they would, either, but the drive from Grannick to Springfield was an easy one, and if she was stood up, nothing but her ego would know it.

So the rationale went. It was seven o’clock, the very time she was to meet the marathoner for supper. Not dinner, supper, She had made that clear. The Sunflower specialized in salads and sandwiches. Anything heavier would have entailed more of a commitment, not to mention taking longer. If the marathoner turned out to be a dud, she wanted a fast supper and a faster escape.

There he was. She knew instantly. He had said he was tall and slim, and he was slim, indeed—to the point of gauntness. Not that he was ugly. Just very angular.

He approached her. “I was told to look for someone holding a rose.”

“You found her.” She extended her hand. “My name’s Celeste.”

His hand was knobby. “Craig.”

It fit him. She moved toward the hostess. “Did you have any trouble finding the place?”

“No. I’ve run races in Springfield.”

“Ahhh. Two, nonsmoking,” she told the hostess.

During the walk to their table, Celeste cursed whatever impulse had made her do this. She hated small-talk, hated awkwardness, hated first dates. But first dates led to second dates, which weren’t so bad. Not that she thought she would have a second date with Craig. Gut instinct told her he wasn’t the one.

Maybe gut instinct was wrong. She supposed she could sit through supper and see.

They sat down at the table. “You’re very pretty,” he said in a straightforward, almost factual way that took something from it.

“Thanks.” She tried to think of something to say back on the same vein. All she could come up with was, “So you’re a marathoner. How many have you run?”

“Seven.” He listed them, along with his times for each, along with the winners, the first-runners up, and notable also-rans.

“Ahh,” she said. She smiled and turned to her menu. “They make a wonderful chicken Caesar here.”

“I don’t eat eggs.”

“No, no, I’m talking salad.”

“Caesar dressing contains eggs.”

She wanted to tell him that the roll he was reaching for did, too, but she didn’t want to sound snippy. So she said, “Take anything in moderation, and you’ll do fine.”

“I
never
eat eggs.”

She closed her menu and set it aside. “What do you eat?”

“Complex carbohydrates. Pasta is a mainstay of my diet.”

The waitress materialized. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Bottled water for me. I don’t touch alcohol.”

Celeste looked the waitress in the eye. “I’ll have a glass of the house chardonnay. And the quiche, please.” She asked Craig, “Do you know what you want?”

He ordered rotini with sun-dried tomatoes and basil, no oil, no cream, no garlic, no salt. It sounded boring as hell to Celeste.
He
sounded boring as hell to Celeste.

But she was determined to give him a chance. So, patiently, she said, “Tell me what you do. You said you were in health-care management.”

“I’m in the accounting department of an HMO on the North Shore.”

“Ahh. An accountant.”

“I’m actually looking for another position. Health care isn’t a stable field anymore.”

She knew enough not to open that can of worms. “What are you looking for?”

“Something in sporting equipment. My friend is opening a running store. I’d be a natural for it.”

“To sell?”

“To manage the books. I’m an accountant.”

How could she have forgotten. “Would that be a full-time job?” It didn’t sound it to her, and if not, where would he get the money to indulge in the fine wine, good music, and adventure that he claimed he wanted. If he was looking for a woman to bankroll their relationship, he was sitting across from the wrong one.

“I’ve never worked full-time,” he said. “If I did that, I wouldn’t have time to run. I do a hundred miles a week.”

“Really.”

“I have to, to keep in shape.”

Celeste didn’t see any shape. She assumed there had to be muscle somewhere, but she couldn’t see much beyond skin and bones. She couldn’t
see
herself reaching for that in the night.

“Are you into fitness?” he asked.

“I don’t run, if that’s what you mean.”

“You should. You have the build for it.”

Celeste had no desire to run. With a dismissive smile, she said, “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

He proceeded to tell her. He talked about shoes and singlets, sweatbands and gloves. He talked about starting slow and building up, about keeping a log, about warm-up exercises and cool-down ones. He talked about shinsplints. He named the kind of watch she would need. He even pontificated on jogging bras.

By the time he was done, their food had come and gone, as had every last bit of Celeste’s interest. She glanced at her watch. “I have to leave. I have a long drive home.” She put enough money on the table to more than pay for her meal, then rose. “It was nice meeting you.”

“If you give me your address, I’ll send you a notice when my friend opens his store. We could set you up to get started.”

“Tell you what,” she said. “I have your phone number. When I get the urge to run, I’ll give you a call.”

Two days later, Celeste walked into the Sunflower with a rose in her hand and was immediately approached by the hostess. “The gentleman is already here. Right this way.”

Celeste followed her to a corner table—valued not for privacy here, but for the lovely sense of being surrounded by glass—and got her first glimpse of the British widower.

He had said he was fifty, and he looked it. His hair was gray and his face lined and round. But it was the kind of warm, friendly face that was perpetually wreathed in a smile.

He left his seat when she approached, thanked the hostess, then held out his hand. “I’m Michael.”

“Celeste. It’s nice to meet you.”

His face smiled more broadly. “The pleasure is mine.” He saw her comfortably seated before he returned to his own chair.

“Have you been waiting long?”

“No. I’m compulsively early.” He made a tsking sound. “But I shouldn’t use that word, now, should I, when I’m trying to impress someone new.” His accent was mild and quite pleasant.

“Compulsive?”

“It isn’t a positive trait, or so my children say, and they’re usually right.”

He respected his children. That was sweet. “How old are they?”

“Twenty-nine, twenty-five, and eighteen. And you? Do you have children, or was the ‘second life’ you mentioned in your ad to do with a marriage that has ended?”

“My marriage ended when my daughter was one. She’s eighteen now, too, and in college.”

His face beamed. “Really? Well, we have that in common, although my eighteen-year-old is a boy. He and I are quite close. His leaving home has hit me hard.”

“How long ago did your wife die?”

“Five years. It was very sudden. I don’t know what I’d have done without my children. They have been hugely supportive. My oldest, a girl, is married with two children. She lives in Bloomfield. That’s twenty minutes from Hartford, where I live. My middle is a boy. He works with me.”

Lovely. “What kind of work do you do?”

“I make nuts and bolts—or my workers do. I sit at a desk beside a large window that overlooks the plant. Jay—that’s my son—has his own apartment. I have to confess that there have been times in the last few weeks when I would have liked him living back home.”

Celeste couldn’t imagine that. She couldn’t imagine anyone welcoming the work, the responsibility, the dissention that a child at home entailed. She had breathed a sigh of relief when fall break had ended.

“My children and I grew close after my wife died,” Michael said. “I needed them as much as they needed me. Ahh, here’s our waitress. I took the liberty of ordering a bottle of wine. It’s a rather interesting Chardonnay. Is that all right?”

His preordering almost made up for the great relationship he had with his kids. “Chardonnay is my favorite,” she said with a smile as he poured.

“That’s what my youngest always says. Of course, he’s underage, so I’m not terribly impressed. For you, it’s fine.” He raised his glass. “To a lovely lady bearing a rose.”

She touched her glass to his. He was either as chivalrous as he had said, or corny as hell. She wasn’t sure which.

“I take it you’ve eaten here before?” he asked.

“Several times.”

“Do you have any recommendations?”

“The chicken Caesar is good, although I always love the quiche. It may be more of a luncheon dish, but I think people pay far too much heed to conventions like that. Your stomach doesn’t know what time of day it is. I’ve read articles calling pizza a perfectly appropriate breakfast.”

The marathoner would have died. Michael merely chuckled. “My kids have been eating pizza for breakfast for years. Even the two oldest, when they were living at home, before their mother died. She never believed that it was worth a fight, and while I much prefer the great British breakfast, I don’t believe in fighting, either.”

“What is the great British breakfast?” Celeste asked before he could return to the subject of kids.

“Eggs, kippers and sausage, broiled tomatoes and mushrooms and toast. It’s quite large. I can’t eat like that anymore, of course. My doctor says
I
’m too large, and besides, I’m not the best of cooks at any time, much less first thing in the morning. So a tradition has arisen in my house. Special occasions are marked by the children coming over and cooking me the great British breakfast. Not that it’s often, mind you. But it is fun.”

For just a moment, Celeste wondered what it would be like to be part of a large and congenial family. Then she pushed the thought aside. Large families meant more food to cook, more clothes to wash, more misdeeds to monitor. She didn’t wish it for the world.

“Have you decided?” Michael asked when the waitress returned.

Celeste ordered the quiche. During the time it took him to order the chicken Caesar, she noted that his hair was vaguely shaggy, as were his clothes, clean but shaggy. He had a distinctly broken-in look.

Once the waitress left, he asked her if she was having the same trouble adjusting to being without children at home that he was. She couldn’t lie. To his credit, he didn’t look shocked.

“It must be different for a woman to shoulder the responsibility of parenthood alone, than for a man,” he said and proceeded to talk about the years since his wife had died as they related to his children.

At one point, Celeste tried to bring the discussion around to what he did in his own time for fun, but his own time appeared to be family time. If he wasn’t visiting his grandchildren, he was taking his older son to Whalers’ games, or attending parents’ weekend at the younger one’s school. He took one vacation a year, with both sons, his daughter and son-in-law, and grandchildren.

Celeste was
not
ready for grandchildren.

By the time their food had come and gone, she realized that she wasn’t ready for Michael, either. She was tired of hearing about his kids. She was still too close to parenthood to want to talk about it all the time. Granted, he sounded like a great father. But she wasn’t looking for a father.

Then again, as she bid him goodbye, she felt a twinge of regret. There was something endearing about his smily face. It wasn’t an inspiring face, or a pensive one. But it was kind.

Not that he was in serious contention as a suitor, she decided as she drove home to Grannick. There wasn’t any chemistry between them, and chemistry was important.

She might find it with the veterinarian. He had a lovely, deep voice that was definitely a turn-on. Unfortunately he had left to go to a conference the day after she called. They were meeting at the Sunflower the following week.

So there was that to look forward to.

And the doctor, though she had certain qualms about that one. Arranging a date with him had been as complex an ordeal as reading his résumé had been. In response to her note suggesting the Sunflower, he had sent his telephone number. The first challenge, then, had been to reach
him
, rather than his answering service. The second challenge had been to find a suitably accessible meeting place. He was from Baltimore and had no business, whatsoever, he claimed, in Springfield. So they were meeting in Boston, where he had meetings the following week.

He had sounded almost begrudging, as though she was one more appointment to be squeezed into an already overbooked schedule. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t hung up on him. Maybe because doctors earned a bundle. More probably because she had just returned from striking out with the marathoner. She might yet call and cancel.

Then, sigh, there was the architect. As she had done with the others, she had sent him a note suggesting a meeting at the Sunflower. Unfortunately, since she had to write through the magazine post office box, it had taken him longer to respond. The wait had been worth it.

“Dear GC403, I loved your note. Supper at the Sunflower sounds perfect, though I actually had another thought. One of my clients, an artist, is having a showing of her work at a gallery in Cambridge. A large open house is planned for the last Sunday in October. If you were to come, you would not only see a sample of my work, but hers, as well. There will be many interesting people there, including artists and authors from the area, so that even if you think me a total bore and never want to see my face again, the afternoon won’t be a waste. On the chance that you find me as interesting, if not more so, than some of those others, there is a wonderful coffeehouse nearby where we can go for drinks and entertainment, before I put you in your car and send you home.”