Chapter Three
Roby

I've always loved watching people's reactions the first time they see where I live. I don't mean my house specifically. I mean everything—the town, the ocean, the woods. I love seeing their faces as they walk or drive through Port Gordon. It's an unmistakable look they get, all wonderment and delight and awe that such a groovy place still exists in this less-than-delightful day and age. The expressions are priceless, that first time they catch sight of the fishing boats tied up at the wharf, bobbing and thumping against the docks with each small wave washing in from the bay. I love observing their joy as they take in the Colonial vibe of Main Street and the brick-paved sidewalks; in the unmatched taste of a fresh lobster roll, or the first time they hear the muted, mournful call of the lighthouse at Cameron's Isle. And yeah, I've always loved newcomers' reactions to Aunt Bert's house—my house. It's always been something of a haven for those who've lived there, if only on a temporary basis. From that standpoint, it's aptly named.

Sanctuary.


"The road about a half-mile ahead, you're gonna want to turn left," I directed. "My house'll be at the very end of the lane."

Michael raised a curious eyebrow, but kept his eyes fixed firmly on the unfamiliar, rain-slicked road. "Far be it for me to be critical, but it seems as if we're going in circles, Roby. This is the third left turn you've directed me to take. Are you certain you're all right?"

Sigh. Typical. "Are you asking if this knock on my head has made me forget where I live and I'm driving us in circles in some futile attempt to try to remember which street is mine?"

"What? Of course not." But that slightly guilty expression—that "Oh, crap, I've been caught in a fib" look that's universal amongst little boys (and most big ones) everywhere—gave him away. Not to mention that move where he was pulling at the collar of his sweater, as if it had suddenly gotten just a tad snug,

"Oh, all right," he grumbled, that gorgeous voice only hinting at exasperation. "Yes, it's true. I was beginning to wonder if there wasn't something you weren't admitting. I may not know you well, Roby, but in our limited acquaintance, you’ve come across as a bit of a stubborn sort."

Ouch. Well he figured me out in a hurry. Did I have a neon sign on my forehead that flashed "Mule" at highly inappropriate times? Bleah. No time to worry about it though. Our turn was coming up and I had to reassure my kindly chauffeur that I did indeed have my faculties about me. At least enough to get home.

"You're not wrong, you know. It very nearly is a circle. By the time we get to my house, we're going to be less than two miles from town, as the crow flies."

"Then why the scenic route?" He waved circles in the air with an elegant-as-hell hand.

"Because there happens to be one of those enormously large, tax-supported expanses of greenery and vegetation known as a state park between my house and town. There is a road that cuts through the center of the park, but this time of year, it's closed down for weather reasons thereby necessitating," I waved my hand around, copying his gesture, "the scenic route."

"Makes sense."

He chanced a look over, sparing me a quick smile that flashed those devastating dimples, (down girl) before turning his concentration back to making the sharp left onto Summerhouse. There. My active participation was no longer required. I'd gotten us off Main, onto the state highway, and navigated the turn onto the lane. We were good to go. Relaxing back against the headrest as the car climbed the granite rise of Arrowhead Point, I let Michael absorb our surroundings in relative silence, our only accompaniment the rhythmic schk schk schk of the windshield wipers and Dusty Springfield's smoky vocals.

I mean, color me surprised when he turned the car on and the wonderfully bombastic, overwrought chorus of "You Don't Have to Say You Love Me" came blasting out of the speakers. Wait—check that. Color me surprised and a skosch nauseous since it was really loud, and I still did have the remnants of that Mother of All Headaches thing going on.

"Jes-us, Michael, what've you got that thing turned to, eleven?"

"Oh bugger. Sorry, I forgot. Sorry." Fumbling around with the obviously unfamiliar controls he'd finally managed to turn it down to less than deafening levels. Turning to me, he'd offered a Class A, sheepish grin. "Spinal Tap, right?"

Wow. He'd gotten it. Not even a test and he'd gotten it. Damn. "Yeah."

"Brilliant flick."

"Yeah." Less than sparkling repartee, but cut me some slack, 'kay? My ears were still ringing and my head had started with that nasty throbbing action again.
We'd sat there for a few moments, presumably recovery time, then— "My favorite bit was the tiny Stonehenge and dancing midgets."

Good thing I hadn't been drinking anything, because I would have wound up snorting it up my nose.

Fifteen minutes later and I was still grinning—ah, the power of a good visual. Michael's low whistles as he caught glimpses of some of the houses through the bare-limbed trees only serving to increase my smile to Joker-like proportions. True to the street's name, the majority of the houses were one-time summer residences dating from Port Gordon's heyday as a playground for the rich and richer still. As such, they were these gorgeously gaudy old broads, all gingerbread and turrets and wraparound porches. Many had actually been winterized for year-round use, some were still maintained solely as summer getaways or seasonal rentals, and a only couple, the ones closest to the highway, actually, were still waiting for that special someone—or at least that special someone with a pocket full of shekels—to come along and rescue them.

Truthfully, I had no doubt they would be bought. People were always looking for that next "new" hotspot, be it for a vacation or for one of those more permanent Return to Old-Fashioned Values Great Place to Raise a Family moves that were so popular amongst the Boomers currently fleeing the urban jungles. Compared to places like Boothbay, Bar Harbor, and Kennebunkport, our property prices were still pretty affordable. Relatively speaking, that is. Yep, Port Gordon was definitely in line for a boom. We just had to take care it wouldn't ruin what made this place so special.

"These are fantastic."

"Ain't they, though?"

"And you live in one of these?" His voice had the appropriate note of awe, given that some of these houses were absolute monsters.

"Um, sort of." I wasn't trying to be vague, but my house was definitely not cut from the same cloth as the Victorian ladies we were cruising past.

"Sort of?"

"It's kinda tough to explain. But you'll see what I mean in just a sec." One additional gentle curve and the road narrowed down to become my driveway. Not that you could necessarily tell, since it was shielded on either side by thick stands of pine trees. About the only sign that the asphalt didn't just dribble off into nowhere was the mailbox with "Stevenson" stenciled on the side standing sentry at the foot of the driveway. "Just a warning, the driveway gets a little steep."

Forewarned, Michael slowed down as we eased into the dark tunnel created by the pine trees' overhanging limbs. It lent this surreal, Alice-down-the-rabbit-hole quality to the final approach, a dramatic contrast to the glorious, Technicolor tableau that greeted us the instant we broke free of the driveway and into the clearing.

"Fuck me." The car rolled to slow stop.

"Why Michael, we've only just met." His response seriously jazzed me, though—that kind of response gives me a little thrill every single time.

"Roby, this is… It's—" Not only had he totally not heard my teasing commentary, or if he had, he'd just ignored it, but words seemed to flat-out fail him. And judging by that bemused expression, this was not an everyday occurrence.

"I know what you mean, Michael. Trust me, I know." As usual, when bringing someone new up to my place, I tried to visualize it through their eyes, imagining what they saw. It was hard to get past that amazing view, which I knew had to be a total shocker after the near-claustrophobic dark of the driveway. Hell, it still got me from time to time, and I'd been navigating that particular stretch of pavement for the better part of my life. Sitting in a clearing at the top of Arrowhead Point, we were overlooking the postcard-worthy tableau of Matthew's Bay, with its small islands dotting the water here and there, before it merged with the huge gray-green expanse of the Atlantic. My Craftsman bungalow sprawled to one side, something of a mutt compared to some of showstoppers we'd passed, but with its own remarkable history. Aunt Bert had always described it as a sturdy guardian. As usual, the old girl had been right, both literally and metaphorically.

By letting this come as a complete surprise rather than tell him what to expect, I hoped that it made up a little for the trouble he'd gone to, having to schlep me home, and all. Although, as he'd already reiterated— several times, in fact—if it wasn't for him, I wouldn't have needed any schlepping in the first place. Okay, true. But still, he'd sure gone out of his way to make up for it. This, I gave in return.

"Come on in. You can catch more from there."

"More?" He blinked, turning to gawk at me. Only slight gawkage going on, mind you and he made even that look good, damn him. "How could there possibly be more?"
I shrugged in what I hoped was a slightly enigmatic fashion and smiled. "Come on and find out for yourself. No doubt the troops have heard all about you by now as well and I'm going to have to present you for petting and praise or suffer the consequences."

Oh shit. I stifled a groan. First Pam, now me? What did the man have? Some highly rare strain of that lesser-known communicable disease: acute-onset flirtitis? Nope, nope, nope. Not gonna happen. Not to me. My flirting days were long over. I'd learned my lesson, thankyouverymuch and I wasn't about to do something boneheaded. I physically shook myself, as if trying to dispel any lingering compulsion I might have to bat any eyelashes, toss come-hither looks, or God forbid, pout sexily.

Oh please. You couldn't even pout sexily back in the day.

Fortunately, Michael mistook the shaking for a sign that I was cold or otherwise not feeling well. Considerate soul that he was, he was out of the car, hurrying around to my side, and helping me up the porch steps quicker than Speedy Gonzalez could say "¡Arriba, arriba!"

"Up we go, that’s the ticket."

True to my perverse nature, I had to fight the urge to slap my Good Samaritan for treating me like I was some fragile piece of glass. However, as I'd predicted what seemed a lifetime ago, the temperature had started dropping. What had been rain was rapidly turning to sleet, leaving the granite steps slippery, dangerous, and—if you had my track record—one misstep away from Dr. Don's clinic nursing a broken ankle. So I accepted the arm he gallantly offered, leaning against him—just a little—for that extra support. Not because I was flirting or anything. Really.

At the door, I automatically started to dig for my keys, remembering, too late, that Pamela was still holding them hostage.

"Shit, shit, shit."

"What?"

Muttering under my breath, I fumbled through my pockets once more, hoping against hope that maybe Pam had slipped them back in once she realized I was going to let Michael bring me home. No such luck. "Fuck a duck sideways."

"Cara--watch your language.—the bambinos will hear."

Immediately chastened, I mumbled a contrite, "Sorry, Zia."

I'd been so busy cursing Pam's high-handedness, that I didn't even realize the door had swung open, revealing my outraged, yet visibly concerned, aunt. But concussion or no, the last thing I wanted to do was set a bad example.

"Well, I suppose it's understandable, under the circumstances. Come on, bella, let's get inside and get some soup in you before we put you to bed. You too, young man."

Michael tried to protest. Operative word: tried. "Thank you, but I ought to be go—"

"Basta!" She physically hauled Michael through the doorway, stripping his coat off in one smooth, practiced move, five feet of bustling, scolding, kick-ass, Italian efficiency. Poor man was going to think that this town consisted primarily of bossy women. "Neither of you needs to be out there catching pneumonia and God only knows what else. And it can't hurt for you to have a hot meal in you before you leave, eh?"

She hustled us both down the hall and into the kitchen, towards the heavenly smells of Italian-style split pea soup and fresh bread. In that bright, warm space I found the equally heavenly sight of Emily and Patrick sitting at the table, their own bowls of Zia Francesca's favorite winter cure-all in front of them. When they saw me though, they dropped their spoons and did their best imitation of a defensive blitz.

"Mom!"

"Mommy!"

"Oooph." I somehow managed to hug two squirming bundles of energy while simultaneously shedding my parka, oblivious to everything else.
"Are you going to be all right? Zia said this was a good one."

I looked down into Patrick's serious brown eyes. Far too serious for a seven year-old. "I'm going to be fine, baby. It's just a big bump and a nasty headache." I hugged him close, my fierce protector. I felt a tug on my sleeve.

"Mommy?"

"What, Em?"

"Does it hurt?"

A chubby finger reached out to touch the Technicolor Bump From Hell, but I snagged her hand before it made contact, bringing it to my mouth and kissing it instead. "Yes, it does, dollbaby, a whole lot, which means don't touch, 'kay?" Both of them nodded and proceeded to give me more therapeutic hugs and kisses, which I soaked up until my aunt's exasperated voice cut through the euphoria.

"Roby."

I turned back to the kitchen door, where Michael still hovered, a wary expression on his face. Zia stood just behind him, barely visible, but I did manage to catch a glimpse of her fierce glare down towards the floor and the primary obstacle keeping them from crossing the threshold. One hundred ten pounds of immobile, white fur, alert brown eyes darting up and down the only sign of movement. Oh, good God.

"Walter. It's a friend."

At the "F" word, my big goofball of a Kuvasz dropped to his haunches and the menacing expression gave way to an absurdly huge doggie grin, lolling tongue and all, although the expression in his eyes was still a tad wary.

Can't say as I blame you, pal—first time I saw Michael I was tempted to let my tongue hang out too.

Since the enormous smile he received in return was clearly an invitation, Walter did his best "Stop, Drop, and Roll," presenting his belly with an ecstatic doggy sigh. With an equally happy sigh, Michael crossed the threshold and dropped to a knee, rubbing and murmuring as Zia stepped around the two of them, muttering in rapid-fire Italian under her breath. Nevertheless, she gave Walter's backside a good-natured nudge with her foot as she passed by the two new bestest friends on her way to the stove.

"Ingrate. You'd show a thief where the good silver is for a tummy rub, wouldn't you?"

The threat of imminent danger and home invasion alleviated, and all of his itches properly scratched, Walter rolled back to his feet and after a thorough shake, came over to greet me, all wagging tail and apologetic kisses.

"Oh, sure. Come over and say hello, now, will you?" Oh man, that pitiful expression and accompanying whimper were my undoing, as always. I relented, giving him his favorite under-the-chin skritchels.

"Don't be too hard on him, Roby. He was clearly protecting his domain."

"Some protector," I snorted. "He dropped like a two-dollar—" I caught myself just in time, but the quirk at the corner of that wide mouth made it clear Michael knew what I meant.

"Still, had me nervous there, for a mo. Maybe he didn’t growl or show fangs, but he's bloody enormous. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a dog quite like him."

I grinned. So not the first time I'd heard this one. "Well, Walter's pretty singular, but you're right there aren't too many Kuvaszok around—they're a Hungarian breed. Kinda dog you tend to only see when you catch Westminster or Crufts on the tube."

"He looks more ferocious than some pampered show dog—I'd hate to be an intruder with less-than-friendly intent."

"Well, that's about as fearsome as he gets, I think. Although, I'll admit I have no clue what might happen if anyone tried to do real harm. Luckily, around here, we never have any reason to test that theory."

I smiled over at Michael and noticed that he still hadn't moved from the doorway. Since Walter was no longer the issue, I followed his gaze to see if I could figure out what was holding him back from fully entering the kitchen. That's when I noticed a different kind of standoff was now going on.

Emily and Patrick were still next to me, but their curious stares were fixed on this new person who'd invaded their space. Reading their expressions, I realized that I could not even begin to remember the last time these kids had seen a man in this house who wasn't a relative or friend they'd known, well, pretty much, forever. There they were, staring down poor Michael as if he were the second coming of Barney the Dinosaur, or something equally vile. Obviously, mommy-vention time.

"Guys, I'd like you to meet someone. This is Mr. MacLaren and he was nice enough to bring me home after Doctor Don said I couldn't drive and Aunt Pam stole my keys. Come say hello." Em took my proffered hand and walked with me towards Michael, but Patrick stayed put, a suspicious frown on his face.

"But you're the clumsy tourist who clunked my mom on the head, aren't you?"

"Patrick." Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I could feel the heat shooting up my face.

"Well, that's what Zia said when she was talking on the phone."

He stood his ground, the defiant little rugrat. Equal parts proud and mortified, I couldn't decide whether he deserved a smack upside the head for being rude, or praise for not backing down. My aunt on the other hand—she definitely deserved a smack.

"Zia, I cannot believe you."

Not bothering to look up from her stirring, my aunt shrugged, unconcerned and not the least bit embarrassed. Without missing a beat, she called over her shoulder, "Michael?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Are you a tourist?"

"Yes, I believe I am."

"Were you clumsy?"

"Without a doubt."

"I rest my case, cara." She winked at me and turned her attention back to the stovetop. Judging by the myriad pots and pans on the stove she must have been as worried as Pam. When Zia Francesca was worried she cooked. When cooking while worried, she usually ended up making enough food for the Roman army. I was either going to have to invite a few people—like half the town's worth—over, or risk weighing two hundred pounds, but I'd deal with that later. At the moment, there were some manners issues that needed serious attending to.

"Patrick Taylor Stevenson, over here. Now."

The old Full Name Tactic spoken in the Voice of Doom worked, just like the charm mothers the world over know it to be. Patrick scurried his tush back to my side from the safe, out-of reach-distance he'd skulked to while Zia and Michael had been doing their impromptu Laurel and Hardy number.

"Okay, here's the deal. Mr. MacLaren may have admitted that he's a clumsy tourist, but he's also a guest in our home. Besides—he didn't clunk me on the head. He pushed a door into my back and the sidewalk clunked me on the head. It's all in the details, kiddo. Now, don't embarrass me by acting like a total cave boy, all right?"

His expression only slightly mutinous (read: I'll do what you want now, but I might just get you back when you least expect it.) he nodded his head and slipped his hand into mine. I leaned down and whispered in his ear, "And we'll talk about the rules and etiquette of effective eavesdropping later." That got me a grin and a far more willing participant in the Let's Meet the Guy Who Brained Mommy game.

I turned back to Michael, who hadn't yet moved from his position in the doorway except to lean a shoulder up against the jamb. At our approach, he straightened, projecting an appropriately solemn 'tude, though if I looked closely, I could see suppressed laughter lurking in those eyes.

"Michael, I'd like you to meet my daughter, Emily." I tugged Em out from where she'd ducked behind me, while Michael, bless him, dropped down to a knee. Add more "nice guy" points to the scads he already had for realizing that at eye level, he wouldn't appear quite so towering and possibly intimidating.

"It's my great pleasure to meet you, Miss Emily."

He extended his hand and at my prodding, she put her much smaller one in his. Rather than shake it though, he brought it to his lips and kissed the back, making her giggle and proclaim, "You're scratchy."

Rubbing his free hand across some definite—not to mention definitely attractive—five o'clock shadow he grinned back. "I do apologize Emily. It is rather uncouth for a gentleman to appear so unkempt in the presence of such a lovely lady. I promise to be properly turned out next time."

Even as I laughed along with my daughter at his grandiose proclamation, I was also shocked to feel a pang of regret—regret there most likely wouldn't be a "next time." Damn, I didn't know what it was about this guy—I hadn't felt this kind of immediate connection with anyone in far too long. All right, I give. Maybe it was finally time to listen to Mary Ellen and Taylor. Maybe, just maybe, I needed to take myself out of cold storage. Gawds, would they ever be hell to deal with after I 'fessed up.

"And the young man, Roby?"

I turned my attention to Patrick, still trying to make with the big stoic, although I could definitely read a glimmer of curiosity in his expression.
"This is Patrick, the man of my house. Patrick, this is Mr. MacLaren."

Puffing up a little at being introduced as the "man of the house," Patrick stuck out his arm, stiff as a board. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. MacLaren," he muttered in a solemn monotone. "Thank you for taking care of my mom, even though it's your fault she has a con- con- conscussion."

"Patrick…"

"No, Roby." Michael rose to his feet before shaking Patrick's outstretched hand. Wow. It was almost as if he instinctively knew that it would mean to more to my boy to be met "man to man," as it were. "The lad's right. Whilst I might not have hit you directly, it was my fault, there's no amount of whitewashing that will make it prettier."

Oh, man. Patrick's eyes widened at the concept of a big, adult-like person admitting to—gasp—a mistake. Never mind that I admitted to them on a daily basis— hell, I was just Mom. At any rate, tally up ever more points. I couldn't help but wonder if he had kids of his own. He sure did have a knack with the little ruggers.

"Well, now that we've done the meet n'greet, why don't the two of you get back to your suppers before they get frosty? We'll join you in a jif—there's just one thing I want to show Mr. MacLaren." I swatted Emily lightly on her bottom, making her giggle and skitter off back towards her abandoned meal. Patrick moved more slowly, obviously not convinced he could trust in this unfamiliar sitch, but a cross-eyed stare and a stuck-out tongue from me made him relax and crack a small smile before he, too, returned to his seat at the table.

"Come on, Michael. I did promise you this. Close your eyes."

His eyes closed obediently, even as he asked, "Promised me what?"

I grabbed his arm and tugged him towards the far side of the kitchen. Hmmm… It was flat-out sad how often I had to keep reminding myself that I was most likely never gonna see this man again. And never mind that I knew absolutely nothing about him, except he’d knocked me on my ass, was deeply apologetic for it, seemed to be a really stellar guy, was good with kids, and there was still something über--familiar about him. But every time I tried to zero in on what it was, the headache made a return appearance. Okay, Roby, once more with feeling, this is just not the time to dwell. Later—in my comfortable cave of a room—I'd relive this entire nutty day and maybe I could begin to make sense of things.

"Okay, open."

His eyes opened, then widened, much in the way that Patrick's had just a second ago, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. "Fu- uu- or goodness' sake."
A swift jab to the ribs cut him off mid-Really Bad Word. I did have to admire the decent recovery, even amidst the choking noises coming from the direction of the stove—indication that Zia had overheard and was desperately trying not to laugh.

"And here I thought the view from the driveway was fantastic. I know you said there was more, but this is bloody amazing, Roby."

"I know, and that's considering that today is so gray. But honestly, the weather, the season, it doesn't really matter. It's always a tremendous view. Unless of course, it's foggy and you can't see squat past the windows. Then, it might as well be any old yard."

What Michael was seeing, that he hadn't been able to from the driveway, was the broad expanse of lawn rolling down away from the house before ending abruptly in a sheer drop-off bordered by a wrought iron fence. Standing at the window, you had the uncanny sensation that the bay was hovering just beyond reach. And you know what? Even in the dead of winter, all misty and drippy, it was heaven. Cheesy and sappy sounding as all hell, I know, but there's nowhere else I want to be. I'd done my time away. I'd experienced the world and grown as a person and tried to find myself, and all that poetic crap. This was where I belonged.

"Where does that go?"

My gaze followed to where Michael was pointing at an iron gate off to one side. "Oh, those are some granite steps that lead down to the beach. You just can't see them so well from this angle."

His eyes widened in disbelief. "A beach, as well? My God, Roby, you really do have it all, don’t you?"

"I like to think so," I smiled.

"I think, too, I understand your enigmatic answer earlier. Your house is fairly different from the others on the street."

"There's actually a really interesting story behind that. At least, I think it is." I led us away from the windows and over to the sink so we could wash our hands before eating. "Once upon a long time ago, my family owned that last big house we passed on the lane before we came up this driveway. All of this was just a part of the property for that house."

"Really?"

"Mm hm."

I dried my hands and passed the towel over for him to do the same, while I filled a couple of bowls with soup and continued the story. "When war broke out in Europe in '39, we didn't really think much of it, since arrogant Americans that we were, we couldn't begin to imagine an altercation an ocean away having anything to do with us. The government, of course, knew way more than they were letting on to us mere civilian peons. A military rep contacted my great-great-uncle, who was the owner at the time, and arranged to buy the portion of the property that encompassed the tip of Arrowhead Point.

"Within a few weeks, here sat this house— this same house, more or less. The Navy used it as a lookout station, along with the lighthouse, to keep an eye out for German subs or U-boats that might be trolling the coastal waters. They'd chosen a kit house from a catalog since they wanted it to 'blend in' and look like it was merely another residential house on casual observation. Never mind that there weren't exactly a plethora of Craftsman houses in this neighborhood—as far as the Navy was concerned, that was beside the point. For them, the important thing was, it came cheap."

I was getting good and worked up, since we were in the part of the story that had always fascinated me. I gestured Michael to a seat at the table, setting our bowls down, while Zia, Patrick, and Emily continued to eat, pretty much ignoring me, since they'd heard me go on about this topic oh, I dunno… a time or fourteen too many. They were probably grateful I had a new victim.

"So your family then regained their property after the war?"

He accepted a slice of bread from the basket Zia offered, absently murmuring his thanks, but looking at me expectantly. Wow. He honestly seemed interested—that was enough to give me a cheap thrill—and go on with the extended version of the story.

"Not exactly." I swallowed a spoonful of soup before continuing. "The Navy actually found it pretty advantageous to have such a prime lookout spot, especially as the Cold War revved into high gear. It wasn't until the early eighties that they finally vacated and it was at that point my Great-aunt Bert made arrangements to buy the property back from the government. But instead of tearing this house down and reclaiming the land, she decided to sell the big house and move into this one—after a little bit of remodeling of course."
I chuckled at the memories of that chaotic time. "It was right about then I came to live with Aunt Bert full time and gawds, do I have some memories of her driving the contractors utterly wiggy. I mean, forget decorating, simple updating hadn't exactly been front and center of the Navy agenda in the forty or so years they'd been in residence, so there was a good bit here that was completely original. But even as she expanded and modernized and spiffied, Bert was obsessed with keeping the original framework of the house as intact as possible."

I shook my head as I pictured my tall, spare, pure Maine auntie. "She was somethin', that one. She knew what we had in this house, even before anyone else did, in terms of future historical value and took no prisoners to insure it was maintained. You can definitely point the finger at that experience and her enthusiasm as my main influence."
"Influence?"

Michael's question complete with "huh?" stare caught me off-guard. Oh boy. Guess I'd been snagged by the "too familiar" bug again forgetting that he’d have no freakin' clue what I did for a living.

"I'm an interior designer by vocation and a historic preservationist by avocation," I clarified.

His expression cleared. "Ah, I see. So then, is this house an example of your work?" His gaze encompassed the kitchen before coming back to rest on my face with a look that was all admiration and made me feel all a’twitter.

I managed to beat down the a’twitter enough to answer, "Partially."

"It's brilliant—really."

Oh man, here we went again—blush central. I've never been good at the taking compliments thing, no matter how many I receive. Never really felt as if I deserved them, especially for doing something that I loved so much and that came so naturally. But… okay, the egotist in me chose to believe that he obviously had good taste if he liked my kitchen.

"Thanks. The bones of it are truly all Aunt Bert, but some of the little things, the wall colors, the tchotchkes, those are mine."

"Why do you insist on being so modest, cara?" Zia scolded from her end of the table. She addressed her next comment to Michael, gesturing with her spoon as she did. "All of the painting, she did herself. Not to mention, the fabric and the artwork, much of the furniture, all the details that make it molto bellisimo." Just to add that little bit of extra oomph, she concluded with that most Italian of gestures, kissing her fingertips.

"Grazie, Zia," I muttered weakly. I couldn't look at Michael, certain that he was laughing again, and I was starting to feel just fragile enough that I wasn't quite up to being the brunt of all things humorous. Instead, I concentrated on my soup, tearing pieces of crusty bread and dipping them into the steaming liquid. At that point, the rest of the table followed my lead and for the next several moments, there was relative quiet, if you didn't count the slurping and clinking that went part and parcel with good soup. I might've predicted though, that my aunt couldn't keep still for long. We'd always joked that it was two parts native culture, three parts upbringing, with a spicy dash of her own nature thrown in for good measure. At least she decided to spare me and put Michael on the spot instead.

"So, Michael—what part of Scotland are you from?"

Man, had Zia ever hit a bull's eye judging by that shocked expression. Eyes wide, mouth hanging open—the works.

"How on earth did you know I was from Scotland?"

"Oh, it's obvious."

His eyebrows were so far up his forehead they were in danger of having to apply for a marriage license with his hairline. "Obvious, indeed. It's been years and many thousands of pounds worth of work with a dialect coach since anyone's been able to tell I was from Scotland. How'd you do it?"

My aunt sat there, all Mona Lisa, getting her sadistic little jollies from the parlor trick I'd seen her perform a thousand times. It still got me, how good she was. Stifling a laugh, I took pity on him and let him in on the joke:

"Zia Francesca used to work as a translator and tour guide when she lived in Italy. She speaks several languages and has a fantastic ear—can identify most accents at twenty paces, but this is a pretty impressive score. How did you know, Zia?"

"It's the way he occasionally rolls his r's and a particular cadence to the speech, bella, especially when speaking to the little ones… and Walter." She shot an affectionate look at the mutt, sitting oh-so-politely by the table, lying in wait for the first available morsel to fall anywhere in his zip code, the hoover.

"Remarkable. Professor Higgins couldn't have done any better."

"Feh." My aunt flicked her hand in an "it was nothing" sort of way, while Walter, thinking that some bounty was being tossed his direction, scrambled across the pine floor.

"Oh Walter, that’s so sad." I laughed along with everyone else, while Walter made a feeble attempt at gathering his shredded dignity, lying down and sulking in his own unique fashion. Michael was the first to take pity on him, Zia, the kids and I being more immune. Slightly.

"Come here, old boy. Oh, you're just a lover, aren't you?"

Walter, needing next to no excuse to be a love-mutt came immediately, propping his head on Michael's knee and making ecstatic doggy noises deep in his throat as his chest was vigorously scratched. Lord, what a slut.

"Roby, may I?" Michael held up a crust of bread with a bit of soup on it.

I sighed in mock exasperation. "Oh go ahead. If I don't let him have it he'll give me the cold shoulder for a week." Even though it’s against every dog training rule known to man. I wasn’t sure who I didn’t want to disappoint—the dog, or the man.

Michael chuckled at the imploring look Walter gave him after inhaling the treat. "Nope, don't think so, mate. I have a feeling your mum there would have my hide."

Oh, the look that dog gave me. Staring down his nose at me in so superior fashion appearing for all the world to be saying, "As if." before turning away and regally accepting the petting and scratches that were his just rewards.

"My, but it's good to be petting a proper dog again. And you are proper aren't you, Walter? No poncy knitted jumpers or booties for your feet."

"Who would put booties on a dog's feet?" Patrick asked, curiosity getting the better of his general suspicion of Michael. In truth, Patrick's frigid 'tude seemed have moved a good bit away from "deep freeze" throughout dinner. Zia's cooking has a way of doing that to people.

"My wife does, with her dog. But then, that thing can hardly be called a dog. It's one of those absurd Chinese Crested creatures; little more than a rodent—no hair except for some silly tufts on its head and paws. And she's got it so spoilt that just about all it does is sit there and quiver nervously, poor animal."

Everyone else was chiming in with their opinions of what constituted a decent dog, but I couldn't hear any of it, because all I could hear, over and over in my mind were two words: "my wife." Wife. I felt totally sucker punched.

"My wife," as in, he's married.

You know, I should have guessed. I am such an ass. And it was clear, considering how hard those two stupid words hit me, that no matter how many times I'd reminded myself this afternoon I'd never be seeing Michael MacLaren again, somewhere, deep, deep in the most secret, hidden behind a trapdoor, corner of my brain, I'd harbored some hope that I just might get the opportunity.

Fat chance.

All of a sudden, I was beyond tired. It'd been a helluva day. I rose from my seat, taking my bowl to the sink and rinsing it out. Staring down into the murky gloop created by the water/soup mixture, I steeled myself for the final encounter. My best bright smile pasted on, I turned to face the assemblage.

"All right, gang. I think it's curtains for me. Given that Doctor Don has some sort of super-secret M.D. radar that lets him know if I'm not following his instructions, I'd best get myself up to bed. I'm so not up for another lecture regarding the folly of not following doctor's orders."

Ooh, I must have sounded disturbingly chirpy, since Zia was frowning at me in that "Okay, who are you and what have you done with my niece?" way. Michael of course, didn't know any better, so he just acted like any normal person who's had a seriously surreal afternoon experience. He smiled politely and stood—presumably to say his goodbyes as well.

"Roby."

"Michael." Okay, the awkward "it's time to say goodbye forever but not quite sure how to do it" pause. He broke the ice, moving towards me and engulfing me in a completely unexpected hug. Oh, God… it was nice. It was really, really nice. It was an old-fashioned bear hug, but not the kind where you're being held so tight you're gasping for air. It was just warm and comfortable and extremely safe. Even though I should have known way better, I wrapped my arms around him and allowed myself a teensy bit of back rubbing action.

Oh my. I felt the tinglies in areas that hadn't tingled in longer than I could remember. Yeah, I know it was stupid. I was just making it all sorts of harder for myself, wasn't I?

"Would it be ungracious of me to say that I'm not at all upset about our unfortunate encounter?" His breath tickled warm against my ear. Pulling back a bit, he looked down at me and touched my goose egg, a feathery brush along the skin. "Although I am terribly sorry about the actual circumstances and its result."

My voice chose right then to pull a no-show. Clearing my throat a couple of times, it finally returned to normal programming.

"No, it wouldn't be ungracious. Kinda feelin' the same way m'self. I can honestly say I've never been quite so happy to have gotten a shiner in my life."

We laughed together—for the last time, I thought—before we hugged again, briefly and broke apart. "Goodbye, Michael."

"Goodbye, Roby."

I kissed the kids and Zia, then made my way up the stairs, Walter following behind as if sensing I needed some unconditional love and company. Once in my room, I changed into my t-shirt and thermals and brushed my teeth, flinching only slightly when I heard the slam of a car door followed by the engine's soft rumble. And even though one of my windows overlooked the driveway, I refused to go look, though I could see the trail of his headlights cutting through the early evening dusk.

Wandering back into my shadowed bedroom, I lay down, but just couldn't relax. My mind wouldn't let go, reliving everything that had happened today and trying to figure out what the hell had happened today. What had happened to me? Why was it that the first man I'd been attracted to in well over five years had to be first off, not living anywhere nearby and perhaps more importantly, married? What deity had I pissed off?

There was no way I was going to get to sleep just lying here. I needed something to help me settle down. Something that could take my mind somewhere else—take me somewhere else in that Calgon sort of way.

I needed music.

Nothing harsh or headbanging—I needed soothing, restful, calm-your-soul, music. I sat up, riffling through the pile of CDs I kept hidden in a drawer of my bedside table. My "geek music" as Taylor calls it. Like he should talk) This was stuff that I wouldn't let see the light of day in the public stereo down in the library. Vocalists, movie soundtracks, musicals—okay, yeah, geek music. My private stash.

Suddenly, I froze, holding one particular disc. My brain pretty much played freeze-tag as well, but one thought did break free: What’s Michael doing on a compact disc?

It wasn't until the rest of the discs hit the floor with a crash that I came to. I finally realized why Michael had seemed so familiar from the moment I heard his voice. The answer was right here in my hand, staring up at me from a cast recording of South Pacific. We'd gone to see the revival in London on our honeymoon, Jack and I. I'd had to do some major arm-twisting, but so worth it. The production had been just unreal, appealing to every artistic inclination in me, from the set design and the costumes, to the music. Michael had finished his run with the show by that time, so I didn't actually see him perform, but at intermission, I sprinted out to the lobby and bought a copy of the cast recording, which did include him. That I was holding. That I've listened to God knows how many times. And let me tell you, my CDs? They were among the few things of my own I really made a point of taking with me when I left Chicago.

Almost on autopilot, I removed the disc from its case and slipped it into the bedside stereo. Couldn’t have stopped myself if I’d tried. Made me wonder if I had some seriously deep-seated, masochistic tendencies. And you want self-flagellation as an art form? I even fast-forwarded to "Carefully Taught", his showcase number before lying back against my pillows, clutching another one for comfort.

You'd think that listening to his voice would have kept me awake, all moony-eyed and quite possibly drooling. But music, pretty much any music, served up at bedtime has what one might call a narcotic effect on me. Before he even made it to the second verse, I was gone.

**

A few days later, just after breakfast, a package showed up via special messenger with a Portland hotel logo as the return address. Curious, I ripped it open and upended it onto the table. Out came a solo CD of Michael's I didn't even know existed, a program with his face smiling up from the cover, and four tickets enclosed inside a folded, hand-written note.

Roby,

I hope you'll forgive my impertinence, but I have a tremendous favour to ask of you. Shortly, I'm to begin my first-ever tour in the States as a solo artist in support of the enclosed disc. It's a tremendous venture and bloody nerve-wracking, to say the least. So, if it wouldn't be too much of an imposition, would you consider attending the inaugural concert in Portland? It would be a vast relief knowing that there's at least one friendly face in the crowd.

It would be my honour to have you and your family there as my guests. Please consider it yet another apology for my clumsiness.

Yours,
Michael

Oh no. Nope. No way. I had put away the South Pacific CD. I had resigned myself to the fact that I was never going to see this guy, this famous guy, this famous, married, guy, ever again. Nope. Not gonna happen.

Yeah. Right.

Who was I trying to kid?