Late For Your Life

Adiós Adult sequel- CH 1

2007-01-13T20:08:22Z

So... erm, real life has sort of gotten in the way. But I'm going to continue posting chapters of Late For Your Life. Hopefully, I'll put one up tomorrow, if more RL doesn't interfere. In the meantime, however, I've been asked about a sequel to my YA, Adiós to My Old Life. I do have an idea for a sequel-- as an adult romantic women's fiction. Characters just would not leave me alone.

So here's the first chapter. The story is tentatively titled Second Verse.

BarbaraFerrer
copyright 2007

It's For You

Life is the most bizarre series of "what ifs," and anyone who tries to tell me otherwise will get an earful. Because a better example of what ifs I'd like to see. Actually, a lot of it boils down to one, huge, big, fat, "what if?"

What if I hadn't auditioned for Oye Mi Canto?

Well…

I wouldn't have met a fairy godfather producer and my equally fairy godfatherish manager.

I wouldn't have moved to New York just shy of eighteen and started on what's been an incredibly rewarding and successful music career.

I wouldn't have met the love of my life.

And I probably wouldn't be a widow at twenty-seven.

"Ali."

I didn't look away from the casket. Open. Because the injuries had all been internal. Not so much as a scratch on the outside. Which, dammit, made it almost impossible to believe. Made it seem like all he was doing was catching a nap in a really unlikely location.

The better part of the last ten years we'd spent together and of all the different ways I'd seen him, that had been my favorite—watching him sleep, his face calm and with that unbearably sweet expression. The only way I was convinced he wasn't just sleeping and playing some elaborate joke on all of us, was that the corners of his mouth were set in a straight line. When he slept, those corners had always turned up in a little smile, like he was having the world's best dreams. And when I'd ask him what he was dreaming, he'd always say, "Nothing, mi vida. Who needs dreams? I'm just happy."

Such a poet.

"Alegría."

"Yeah, Papi?"

"There's a ton of paparazzi and press outside. Do you want them to bring the car around to the back?"

"They'll probably be back there too."

"It's not as open though—you can probably get in the car with less fuss."

"I don’t care."

"Ali, please." Funny. His voice was full of all the pain my wasn't. I was just flat. Atonal.
"It just doesn't matter."

"Sure it does, mi'ja." Elaine, my stepmother—my friend—put her arm around me from the other side. "Do you want a measure of peace and quiet or not?"

Snorting softly, I finally looked away from my husband and into her eyes. "You really think sneaking out a back alley is really going to make a damned bit of difference?"

A sad smile crossed her features and darkened her eyes. "No… no, I suppose it really won't. But still, your call."

Sighing, I pushed against the pew's smooth wooden seat and stood. "Let's give them their shots. Maybe they'll leave us more or less alone at the gravesite that way."

Yeah, right. And Papi knew it too. As naïve as we'd both once been about the entertainment industry, these days we both knew more than enough to recognize that statement was nothing more than pure fantasy. But being a good father, he let me have it, simply saying, "Okay, mi'ja." Pulling my head towards his shoulder, he kissed the top like he used to when I was little.

As we stepped into the center aisle of the massive cathedral, I asked, "Can I have just a second?" My voice was cracking as I made the request. I'd been going back and forth on this during the entire Mass, trying to decide… what should I do, what was the right thing? Now it seemed like the only thing to do, but I had to do it by myself.

"Sí, seguro, mi vida. We'll wait for you by the doors."

I stood by the pews and watched as Papi and Elaine walked arm-in-arm towards the doors. Thank God they'd opted to leave Daniel in Miami. He was only eight. This had been rough enough on him already— as much as he'd loved his "hermano."

Finally, I turned and walked towards the dais with the casket and the kneeler set right alongside, which was where I settled myself.

"Hi." I reached out and brushed back the stray lock of hair that always insisted on falling into his eyes. Even now. As endearing as it was, I'd always hated anything that obscured his beautiful eyes. Of course, those eyes were closed now, but that was irrelevant. The hair was there; if for some reason this was all some horrible, massive joke or nightmare, the hair would be in his eyes when he opened them and I didn't want that.

But it wasn't. A joke, that is. Nightmare. Yes. Of big, horrifying proportions. Which pissed me off. I hated nightmares.

"This isn't fair, you know. You weren't supposed to do this. You were supposed to stay safe. You were supposed to stay with me. You always promised you would." My lips were trembling, the words hard to form, but at least my voice wasn't dead anymore. It just hurt. Hurt to speak. Every word bathed in pain and loss. "Although I suppose I can't really blame you."

The backs of my hands were damp which I didn't notice until I reached out with one of them to touch his face again, follow the line of his jaw, run my thumb across his full lower lip. I wasn't even bothered by how cool his skin felt against mine. It was still him and I needed to touch him this one last time.

"Goes without saying how much I'm going to miss you, right?" Sniffing and choking between words, I finally got them out. "I thought about keeping these, but they need to be with you." I turned his left hand over and put my wedding and engagement rings in his palm, curling the fingers over them and turning his hand back over, his gold band looking like a liquid shimmer of color in the sunlight pouring through the enormous stained glass window above us.

My stomach clenched and knotted, I whispered, "I love you so much, mi querido. I'll always love you."

Leaning over the edge of the casket, I placed a gentle kiss on his lips, my own wet and salty. That was it. Couldn't take anymore. I wanted nothing more than to crawl in there with him and die. How the hell was I going to get through the next hour, the next week, the next whatever?

Hadn't had a thought or a moment in nearly ten years that hadn't been touched in some way by him and now he was gone and I was supposed to just… go on? Resume my life? Act normal?

Fuck God.

I'd always done what was expected of me, for the most part.

I'd always been a good girl, tried to be a good woman, a good daughter, a good wife, and this was what I got in return?

Fuck God and the horse he rode in on.

Only pure, ingrained habit had me crossing myself as I stood and headed towards the cathedral's entrance where Papi and Elaine were waiting.

"You ready?" he asked.

"Not really."

"I know, Ali." Again, just like he used to when I was a little girl, he took his handkerchief and wiped my face, tears in his own eyes as he repeated, "Cómo yo lo sé, mi'ja."

Anyone else it was a line of bullshit, but not from Papi. He did know. Even more than I did. He'd been younger than me and with a two year-old daughter to boot. And he'd dealt. Amazingly well. So I guess I shouldn't bitch too much about a few photographers.

I let out a long breath. "Let's go." With Papi flanking one side, Elaine the other, we pushed through the giant wooden doors and out into the brilliant, summer sunshine which was almost eclipsed by the blinding glare from hundreds of flashes going off simultaneously. Followed almost immediately by the barrage of questions, hammering at me in English and Spanish.

"Ali, what are your plans?"

"Will you be returning to Miami or New York?"

"Any word on the police investigation?"

"Will you resume work on your album soon?"

"Did he leave any remaining recordings?"

"Any plans to remain in Argentina for an extended stay?"

"Señora Correas, el carro te espera."

"Gracias."

Ignoring all but the last statement, I hurried down the steps with Papi and Elaine, gratefully ducking into the back of the limousine. As the car began slowly pulling away, I stared out the dark tinted window, not seeing the continued flash of the cameras as the paparazzi ran alongside and hung onto the car, trying to get yet another shot of the grieving widow. The grieving, pissed off, brokenhearted, widow. Rather, what I saw were my husband's eyes, as blue and beautiful as the ocean his hometown overlooked.

"Good question," I whispered to the ocean as we drove past. "Tell me, what are my plans supposed to be now? How am I supposed to go on without you, Guillermo?"

Chapter Thirteen

2006-09-26T18:30:54Z

Michael

Drifting.

Falling.

Completely and inescapably lost.

How was it then, I was able to find my way?

I found her at the kitchen table, her head bent, one hand curled around a mug, the other tracing an invisible pattern on the wood surface. Unable to see her face, I could nevertheless read the worry etched in every line of her body. Bollocks, it was all my fault. I was the one who brought that worry to her—brought it into her home. I should never have come. I very nearly hadn’t. I had no idea how long I’d stood in her driveway, debating whether I should take the final steps up to the door or just get back in the car and leave her to get on with her life.

I should probably leave—right now.

But I didn't want to. Under the bright lights of the bathroom, facing myself square on for the first time in days and not at all liking what I saw, I'd debated the wisdom that had brought me here. But now that I was, I couldn't imagine being anywhere else. Her dark green gaze, steady and reassuring as it met mine, only served to reinforce that belief.

"Hey, you look better." She rose from the table, waving me towards a seat. "Come on and sit down, I've got your tea ready. And a sandwich, which you have to promise to take a stab at."

I approached the table and took the chair she indicated, across from hers.

"Fifth step from the bottom squeaks. Wouldn't want it to surprise you in case of any late night rambling." Her smile was gentle as she placed a twin to her mug in front of me along with a plate loaded with a sandwich and a bowl of neon bright Jell-O.

"I wasn't certain what your stomach would be able to tolerate, so I made the sandwich mild, just roasted chicken and mild Cheddar, and I offer the Jell-O as a sacrificial 'just in case.'"

"Thank you." My voice still felt rusty, but far better than it had earlier. All in all, I felt better than I had earlier. Being clean more than likely had something to do with that. I tried to recall when I last bathed. Was it Baltimore? That town in North Carolina? For that matter, I couldn't really remember when I'd last eaten anything substantial. The growling of my stomach informed me had it been far too long, as did the mingled aromas of toasted bread, melting cheese, and hot tea. For the first time in recent memory, food seemed appetizing, making me realize I actually wanted to eat.

It could be considered progress.

Resuming her seat, she warned, "If it's been awhile, take it easy at first. You don't want to go getting sick." She paused. "After all, I just mopped the floors today."
Her gallows humor made me smile in spite of myself. Taking her advice to heart, I took small bites and sipped slowly, allowing my stomach to reacquaint itself with real food of the non-petrol station variety.

While I ate, she drank her tea quietly and scratched Walter's back with her foot, looking as if she had all the time in the world to wait for me. Yet when I happened to catch her gaze, I could read the deep worry and impatience in their depths giving lie to her calm demeanor. But she didn't probe or press, just rhythmically stroked the dog's back over and over.

After half a sandwich, my stomach signaled it had had enough, at least for the time being, of solid food, although the tea continued to be palatable. Seeing I was done, Roby took the plate away, covering it with cling-film and retuning to the table armed with the teapot. Good woman. When she held it up in silent question, I nodded yes, watching mesmerized, as the steaming amber liquid filled the mug.

"I'd offer a shot of 'liquid therapy' as accompaniment, but somehow, I'm getting a pretty strong vibe you've had more than your fair share lately."

I stirred sugar and milk into the mug with a short laugh. "Yes, it's amazing how terribly ineffectual it becomes once you get past a certain amount."

"Hm. That convenient, industrial-size jug not doin' it for you anymore?"

"You could say that."

We sipped silently for a few moments, Roby having resumed scratching the dog's back. At the rate she was going, the poor creature would have a bald spot running down the center of his rather considerable back. "Aren't you going to ask?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I trust you'll tell me when you can."

"How? How can you trust me so readily? You don't even really know me."

Too late, I realized how cruel that had sounded, a feeling substantiated by the wounded look she failed to mask quickly enough. Nevertheless her voice remained steady as she shot back, "Is that so? I was under the impression I knew you reasonably well. Well enough to let you into my home in the middle of the night. And if that's the case, then what the hell are you doing here, Michael, since you don't even really know me? How can you trust me so readily that it's here you've come when you're obviously in trouble?"

Touché. The lass gave as good as she got. Maybe I hadn't recognized it as such, but this had to be at least one reason why I'd come here. I was bloody tired of wallowing—I just wasn't sure how to stop.

"Fuck, I'm sorry, Roby. Too many days skirting the edges of civilization and I seem to have forgotten the basics."

She took a deep breath, seeming to consider my words. "Forget it," she finally said. "Civilization and its conventions are pretty overrated when life is high on the suck-o-meter."

Simple. Just like that she accepted my crap apology, accepted that there had to be a perfectly valid reason for my returning her unquestioning hospitality and generosity with ill-temper and ugly words.

"I'll be right back." I pushed back my chair and went into the hallway.

"Where are you going?"

The fear in her voice drew me up short. "It's all right, Roby," I reassured her. "I'm not about to disappear. Just need to retrieve something I left outside."

Opening the front door, I could see it, sitting on the porch swing, just where I'd left it, thankfully well out of the rain. I had no real memory of having chosen a safe spot on purpose, but there again, you have the power of the subconscious, fully illustrated. God only knows I couldn't have depended on conscious, rational thought for anything recently.
Back in the kitchen, I joined Roby on the large window seat where she'd relocated, sinking gratefully into the soft, inviting cushions. Setting my rucksack on the floor, I reached in and retrieved Liv's purse, which I handed to Roby who stared, a puzzled frown creasing her brow.

"Go ahead, open it." I hadn't opened it since that day in the hospital, but then again, I really had no need. Give or take the positions in a few pictures, I could probably recite the exact contents of the bag. I stared out the window, looking past my reflection and the bits of ice clinging to the glass, into the ink-black night beyond.

Just below the music playing quietly in the background, I could hear the snap of the purse flap being opened, the rustle of papers, the shuffling sound as the pictures slid from their envelope. Softer still were Roby's sharp intakes of breath and the occasional muffled oath.

Warm as the kitchen was, my hands had somehow still gone ice-cold, a fact which escaped me until I felt Roby take them in hers. Apparently, I also had them clenched tightly into fists, another fact of which I had been completely unaware until I felt Roby patiently uncurling the fingers. One by one, she unfolded them, lacing them with hers in a gentle grasp. Flexing my fingers slightly, I could feel the warmth from her skin flowing into mine.

"What happened?" I must have looked shocked at the question since she clarified, "Not the prelude, since you've provided that info in glorious Technicolor." She nodded down at the purse she'd set back atop my rucksack. "How'd you get—"

"Olivia was in an accident. The purse was recovered at the scene and given to me at the hospital."

"My God."

In a dull monotone, I quickly filled Roby in on all the details from the time I'd received Stu's phone call, to my escape from the hospital in order to evade the paparazzi—and my anger. How I'd found myself at the airport with no idea of where I was going to go, just the certainty that I had to get out of Zurich—immediately.

"First non-stop flight out was to Atlanta. Didn't matter to me—could have been Calcutta for all I cared. I just bought the bloody ticket and took off."

"What then?"

"By the time we landed, my body had finally given itself up, so I checked into a hotel room near the airport where I proceeded to spend the next two—no, three— days alternately drinking myself shitfaced, and sleeping or passing out. Either term applies, I suppose."

"Michael," she interrupted. "Forgive me for asking what might be a stupid question, but when, exactly, was this?"

"What's today?"

The look in her eyes clearly conveyed she thought I might be pulling her leg, but after a long, searching gaze and understanding I was dead serious, she responded, "It's Sunday, the twenty-eighth."

"Olivia's accident was the seventeenth."

I could see her doing the mental calculations. "So… what have you been doing for the last week?"

"Driving."

"Driving?"

"Driving." I shrugged. "After I got tired of my soused view of planes endlessly taking off and landing, I sobered up enough to rent a car and avail myself of the lovely free maps." I looked down, studying our intertwined hands. Her fingers were short and slender, unadorned but for a simple sapphire and diamond band on her right hand.

"I didn't know where I was going, what I was going to do, I just knew I couldn't go back to London just yet and I sure as hell wasn't about to go back to Switzerland. I'd drive for hours until I simply couldn't go any longer, then I'd check into the nearest available motel with a fresh bottle of anything soothing. Tremendous, really, how in this country, the seedier the lodgings, the more convenient the liquor shops seem to be."

"Hm, yeah… weird how that works."

Releasing her hands, I leaned back against the cushions, looking out the windows again. It had finally ceased raining, I noticed. Once again, we fell into an easy silence, the type that had characterized our somewhat odd friendship from that very first encounter in Pamela's office. When I chanced a glance over in her direction, I noticed her posture mirrored mine at the opposite end of the seat: leaning back against the cushions and staring out the windows. I wondered if my expression was as unreadable as hers.

"When I thought about it, if I even did, I imagined I was simply revisiting the tour. That was the happiest I think I've ever been." I resumed my story, anxious to explain, even though she hadn't asked. "I passed through many of the same cities, stayed in a few. But mostly, I just drove…"

I drew my leg up and propped an elbow on my knee. "At some point, I think I made a conscious decision I wanted to come here."

She turned away from the window, eyebrow raised slightly. "Here?"

"To Port Gordon." My voice dropped slightly. "To you."

The eyebrow rose higher. "Why?"

"I don't know, exactly."

"Curiouser and curiouser." She pulled her legs into a cross-legged position, leaning forward slightly. "So what now?"

"Fucked if I know, Roby. Except—" I took a deep breath.

"Yes?" she prompted.

"I still don't want to go back to London. Not just yet. I'm just not ready to deal with the papers and the questions and the 'what did you know' and 'when did you know it' crap that would no doubt await me. If that makes me a coward, then so be it."

"I don't think it necessarily makes you a coward. It sounds nightmarish to me."

"It can be, although luckily, I've mostly floated under the radar of the gossip-mongers throughout my career—I'm just too bloody boring, I guess. Which makes this all the more deliciously wicked for them, I suppose."

"More entertaining since it's coming from a formerly pristine source?"

"Exactly. And that's without the pictures being public knowledge, so far as I know. If those get out…" Tired of sitting, I reached down into the rucksack and retrieved the cigarettes and lighter I had stashed there. Going to the back door, I opened it a crack, relishing the cold against my now overheated face. Bending my head, I touched flame to cigarette and inhaled deeply, holding the acrid smoke in my lungs for a long moment before blowing it out in a slow, steady stream. I watched the silver-gray smoke curl and wind around, dissipating into the damp air.

"And here I assumed the nasty smoke smell came from crummy bars and airport lounges."

She was next to me, offering a cut-glass ashtray, which I accepted with a small smile.

"No, afraid not. Just a return to a vile habit from when I was much younger and I thought, far stupider. Amazing how everything you think is hard-earned wisdom can turn out to be such a fucking lie." I tapped a column of ash into the glass dish, studying the newly exposed glowing tip dispassionately. "And how do you happen to have this on hand? Secret vice?"

"Aunt Bert smoked like a freakin' chimney. Her one weakness. Didn't quit until I came home, Patrick in tow and pregnant with Emily." A sad smile crossed her face. "By then it was too late." She leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed. "After she died, I tossed out everything goddamned thing to do with smoking except for that," nodding at the ashtray I held.

"Why?"

She shrugged. "I dunno. It was her favorite. You'd think it would've been the first to go."

"Perhaps." We stood, each of us lost in thought, as I smoked the cigarette down to the filter and lit a second from its embers. Halfway through that one, however, I lost what little taste I initially had for it. Abruptly crushing it out, I closed the door and leaving the ashtray by the sink, returned to the window seat where Roby had resumed her earlier cross-legged position.

"May I stay?"

She looked up, clearly surprised I'd even asked. "Of course. As long as you like." Softer, she added, "as long as you need."

I closed my eyes and exhaled wearily, feeling as if an enormous weight I wasn't even aware of carrying had been lifted.

"Thank you."

"Let's get you set up in the guest room. You look like you're about to pass out where you're standing."

Hurting everywhere, inside and out, and so bloody exhausted… I wasn't certain how I made it up the stairs, but somehow, I did, Walter providing the occasional helpful nudge to the backs of my legs. In the bedroom, Roby snapped on a small bedside lamp and turned the covers down on the large bed. Pushing gently on my shoulders, she guided me down to the mattress and drew the sheets and blankets up, smoothing them over my chest. Feather-light and comforting, her touch made me want… something.

"Don't go, yet." I followed her gaze to where I grasped her wrist, almost as if I didn't, she'd disappear, a figment of whisky-soaked dreams. "Stay with me, for just a bit?"

She gently disengaged herself and turned off the lamp. Disappointed, I listened as she moved away from the bed, only to be shocked a moment later as I felt the mattress beside me give way. Sliding as close as her position on top of the bedclothes would allow, she slid her arm around me and drew my head to the hollow of her shoulder.
Instinctively, I turned into her warmth, my arm falling naturally across her waist. As my eyes drifted closed, I could hear her soft voice, floating just above me.

"I was getting worried about you. You never answered the last email I sent."

"Wha' was it 'bout?" I mumbled, already sliding into sleep as she stroked my shoulder.

"Shhh… nothing much. Just something about my ex."

Her ex? Instinct told me I should sit up—inquire further, but my eyelids were so terribly heavy and refused to cooperate. And if I sat up, she'd stop holding me, stop taking care of me. It had been so long since someone had offered such simple, unconditional care; I didn't want to jeopardize that.

As it was, with the steady, reassuring throb of her heartbeat beneath my ear, lulling me further into sleep, I very nearly missed her whispered, "It's okay. You're going to be fine."

**

Waking alone the next morning, I might have sworn the entire last part of the evening was nothing more than a dream brought on by stress, sleep deprivation, and too much alcohol consumed over too short a period of time. However, there was the unmistakable scent of cinnamon and bergamot lingering on the air—a scent that even in our limited acquaintence, I'd come to associate solely with Roby—and when I turned my head, I saw the pillow next to mine bore the impression of someone whose head had rested there at least part of the night.

Lying there, I watched as dust motes drifted lazily in the bars of sunlight shining through the shuttered windows and felt something I hadn't felt for a very long time.

Peace.

I felt peaceful.

Even before this mess with Olivia had shredded my world, I hadn't felt anywhere near that. Excited, even happy, perhaps. Lately, I'd had my fair share of elated, harried, frustrated, jubilant, or uncertain, each in turn, or sometimes all at the same time. I'd also felt more than my fair share of rage and humiliation, but the quiet certainty that came only when one was truly peaceful? No… that had evaded me for… years, I think.

Those shifting, fractured shafts of light painting the floor drew me out of bed and to the window where I pulled open the shutters. Bloody good thing I wasn't hung over, I thought as I squinted against the fierce sunlight flooding the room. After my eyes adjusted, I allowed myself a contented sigh. I well remembered the view Roby had so proudly showed me that overcast day—the day we first met. And as much of this country as I'd been fortunate to see and as stunning as some of those vistas had been, very little compared to the view spread out before me.

Misty and fog-shrouded, it had been striking. With the sun shining full on in a cloudless sky and blue-gray waters crashing up against imposing cliffs, it went beyond striking— it was dazzling. And brought with it an unexpected pang of longing for home. Not London. Scotland. Like Maine, it had cliffs and crashing waves, but it also had rolling green fields dotted with the vibrant patches of heather that were so distinctly Scotland.

It's been far too long. As soon as I get my head together, I'll go back.

Bracing my arms on the windowsill, I watched a lone seagull make a lazy circle over the bay and swoop down out of sight towards where Roby said the beach was. I could easily have stayed here the entire day—provided I hadn't slept it all away.

A quick glance at the bedside clock revealed the time to be near eleven in the morning—I'd heard nothing as I slept the sleep of the near-dead, but surely Emily and Patrick were up and in school by now, seeing as it was… Monday? Yes, since last night Roby had said it was Sunday. So it was the beginning of the work week, unless there was a holiday or break going on. Was Roby at work already? Had she gone to work? Shamefully, I realized I had no idea to what effect I might be disrupting her life by dropping in, unannounced and an emotional train wreck, to boot.

Jesus, and what if she was still seeing that chap she'd told me about? How was he going to feel about some transient git landing on his girl's doorstep and making himself at bloody home? I knew how I'd feel.

Felt.

Heeding the call of nature, I made my way into the loo where I relieved myself then blearily faced my countenance in the mirror. Honestly, not as totally fucked as I'd imagined. Definitely far too much beard. I probably hadn't gone this long without shaving since I'd first discovered I could sprout hair on my chin. The pictures of myself with a scraggly, half-grown goatee and thinking I looked entirely too cool have been thankfully relegated to the back pages of some (please, God, let it be long-lost) photo album. My eyes were still red-rimmed and gummed with sleep, and a few new wrinkles creased their corners, but overall, I looked far more settled than I probably had any right to. I'd even lost a fair bit of weight, if the hollows beneath eyes and cheekbones were any indication. Olivia would have been so pleased, I thought with a flash of black humor.

Splashing my face with cold water, I lifted it, still dripping, to look in the mirror once more.

All things considered, you're a fortunate bastard, you know that? You could just as easily have ended up dead in a ditch somewhere.

"Right."

I noticed that Roby had been busy in here at some point this morning. The filthy clothes I'd shown up in had disappeared and on the counter next to the basin were basic toiletries: a toothbrush and toothpaste, deodorant, a disposable razor, and shaving cream. A piece of paper sat anchored by the can of shaving cream. Picking it up, I saw that it was a note, written in an elegant, distinctive script.

I generally keep this stuff around for Taylor. Lucky for you, I just restocked. You've got some work to do—Emily doesn't like you scratchy and you did promise you'd be "properly turned out" next time you saw her. Given the state of your face, you might have to shave twice—or take the hedge trimmer to it.
In case you didn't notice, I also left some fresh clothes on the armchair.

Filling the basin with hot water, I smiled, remembering Emily's giggle as I'd made that promise to her. Despite the circumstances that had brought me here, I was looking forward to seeing her and Patrick again. They'd remained very vivid in my mind, especially with the pictures Roby had sent with her last email. Email? I frowned into the mirror as I lathered up and began shaving. There was something about an email that was niggling at the back of my mind, but I was damned if I could remember what, exactly. It seemed as if had to do with something rather important… something Roby had said.

What was it?

Even in the time it took to shower and change into the clothes Roby had left out, I couldn't recall what it might be. You could always ask, you pillock, I thought, as I followed the intoxicating aroma of fresh-brewed coffee down the stairs. The sound of Roby's voice drifted up towards me.

"You don't think you should come over?"

Silence. Clearly she was on the phone. Just as I was debating whether or not to intrude, I saw her face peek around the kitchen doorway, a tentative smile on her face. She wasn't sure how I was going to be this morning. Again, I was beset by a vague sense of guilt for having caused her to worry.

"No, no… he's up." Gesturing I should come into the kitchen, she pointed towards the counter where a clean mug sat in front of the coffee maker.

"I think he's okay." She raised a questioning eyebrow in my direction to which I nodded and smiled faintly. A second later, just as I'd begun pouring coffee, I felt a cool touch at the back of my neck, making me start and splash the hot liquid over my hand.

"Shit."

Roby wet a paper towel and put it over my hand maintaining her end of the conversation without missing a beat. "No, Tay, no evidence of fever—eyes clear and skin temp's normal. Second-degree burns on the other hand… Joking—I'm joking. I just made him spill coffee on himself is all."

She rolled her eyes in my direction, making me smile as I stirred cream and sugar into my brew. "Yes, Doctor, I've already put a cold compress on it. I think he'll live. Listen, I've already told your Mom, but feel free to pass the word quietly—if anyone comes nosing around, tell folks to go ahead and put on that whole 'Reserved Yankee' act. There are times regional stereotypes can come in handy, even if they're a load of bullshit for the most part."

I took my coffee over to the window seat, content to admire the spectacular view as she continued to converse with her cousin.

"I don't know, but hey, it's the Information Age, Tay. You can find pretty much anything you want with a few clicks of a mouse. Don't you think he could be tracked down if someone really set their mind to it?"

Did I give a holy rat's arse she was talking about me? No. I could tell by her side of the conversation she was continuing to take care of me. Such a novel sensation, not to mention, rather comforting. I knew already, she'd be there, good day or bad. While I might have woken up this morning feeling heaps better, don't think I was fooled for a single instant into thinking it was a permanent state of affairs. However, for the moment, I was going to reach out, grab it, and savor it wholeheartedly.

"Okay… yeah, I'll see if he's up to visitors. Go ahead and ask Kurt, too—I don't know if Michael will remember him, but still, it's someone else who knows him and having the local minister watchin' your back can't hurt—on a lotta levels. Bye, sweetie, I'll call you later."

Clicking the unit off, she replaced it on its wall-mounted cradle and joined me on the window seat.

"Good morning."

"Surprisingly so, at that."

"How're you feeling?"

"Aside from the burn?"

She grimaced, her face flushing pink. "Sorry about that. I guess I should've warned you."

"It's all right." Lifting the compress, I saw the redness had subsided considerably as had the initial sting. I extended my hand towards her. "Can barely even tell it's there."
She grasped my hand, her head bending down to inspect the damage.

"Yep, you're okay. At least your hand is. What about the rest of you?"

Snapping back to reality, I met Roby's questioning gaze.

"From what standpoint?"

She didn't answer immediately, choosing instead to take my empty cup and go over to the counter, pouring each of us a fresh cup. When she handed mine back to me, I sipped appreciatively, pleased it was fixed just as I liked. A little detail perhaps, but one that touched me immensely.

Roby chose to remain standing, drinking her coffee quietly and refusing to clarify a question we both knew I understood perfectly. I was just stalling since I was enjoying this illusion of normalcy; to think about how I was, meant thinking about what had brought me here—and there the illusion would disappear.

"I'm probably better than I should be, all things considered. Physically I'm fine, aside from feeling a bit hungry, I suppose." I put a hand to my stomach, already beginning to protest the onslaught of coffee on its empty depths.

"That's a good sign. I'll fix you something shortly. Still has to be on the mild and easily digestible end of the scale, Doctor Taylor's orders."

"You don't have to fetch and carry for me, Roby," I protested.

"Shut up, Michael."

My jaw snapped shut. She actually sounded angry—looked it too, the red staining her cheeks matching her flannel shirt. "Erm, Roby, have I done anything?" Other than show up out of the blue and disrupt your life completely? How could I blame her for being ticked?

"No, but dammit, you appeared on my doorstep looking like the creature from the Black Lagoon on a bad day, because you were in trouble. You will not all of a sudden backtrack and get all stiff-upper lippy and 'no, no, don't go to any trouble on my account' on me just because you're conscious enough to be embarrassed or anything equally stupid."

Duly chastened, I murmured, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry." Her rigid posture relaxed a bit. "Just work on doing what you need to do to get better." She sat down next to me, leaning her elbows back against the wide windowsill and stretching her jeans-clad legs in front of her . "So physically you're better. This is good. Now how about…" her voice drifted off.

"Emotionally?" I finished. She nodded.

"Well, there, I'm basically fucked." I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to sort through my feelings, which tended to ebb and flow in no apparent reasonable manner. "I don't know, Roby. It's as if one moment, I'm so angry, I could put my fist through walls, yet this morning I wake up and I'm as close to happy as I remember being recently. I go from wanting to throttle Liv to being grateful that it was something tangible she did that blew this apart. And why would that be? Could I actually be happy my marriage fell to shit?"

"Of course you're not. If you were, you would've just gone back home and filed divorce papers instead of hightailing it out of Zurich on the first non-stop. My nutty shrink would have said you're going all bipolar because on the one hand, you were subconsciously already prepared for it to end, for whatever reason, yet on the other, weren't prepared to accept it—especially given how the news was delivered."

"Really?" Now that thought hadn't occurred to me.

"Yeah. Now I'm not saying I actually believe him, however, I'm willing to concede that out of all the high-priced crap he spewed, that particular bit might have actually been worth the price of admission." She paused, her eyes scrutinizing my face. "Are you certain it's over?"

"It's done." My voice came out flat and hard. There was no reconsidering. "If it had been just the one indiscretion, I might have tried to work through it with her, Roby, although it would have been bloody hard, I can't lie about that. But we had over fifteen years together and you don't just throw that in the dustbin—at least, I don't. However, it wasn't just one or two or three indiscretions. Clearly, she's had a very active sex life that didn't include me.

"Then there was the fait accompli of the divorce. If she'd actually had an opportunity to file the papers, at that point it would have been out of my hands. I could protest it, but why would I want to stay married to someone who so obviously doesn't want to remain married to me?"

"Been there, done that, got the commemorative t-shirt. Although in my case, I was the one on the delivery end of the fait accompli."

Her tone was light, but the hurt was evident in her eyes, turning them an even darker green. Good show, old man. You've not only turned her life askew, you've renewed all the memories of her own failed marriage. You're just firing on all cylinders aren't you?

"Hey Michael?"

"Yeah?"

"Look, feel free to tell me to mind my own business, but something you said about Olivia's, um, indiscretions…" Her voice drifted off, as if unsure how to continue.

"What about them?"

Roby, flushed scarlet and looking caught between uncomfortable and determined, stammered, "D'you think she played safe?"

"Played safe?" For a split-second, I was completely blank then all of a sudden, the meaning behind Roby's question became patently clear.

"Jesus, I hadn't even considered that. I have no idea—I mean we never used—she preferred taking care of… I never used anythin'. Oh, God." I dropped my head and rubbed my rapidly tensing neck wearily, my earlier sense of wellbeing now completely vanished. I felt my hand pushed aside and replaced by Roby's, her touch cool as she massaged gently. Where earlier that same touch had startled me, it now had the exact opposite effect, the rhythmic strokes serving to calm and dissolve the hard knot of muscle just below the base of my skull.

"Do you want me to have Taylor schedule an exam?"

"I suppose," I sighed. "On the bright side, if it can be considered one, I can't recall her doctors having said anything about any abnormal blood work results and I receive regular screenings for insurance purposes. What with the tour and having been contracted for Camelot, my last one wasn't all that long ago and of course, came back clean."
"Well, that sounds relatively positive, at least."

She fell silent although she remained behind me, continuing to rub not only my neck but expanding her ministrations to include my shoulders and even, ever so delicately, up under my ears and jaw. It was deliciously relaxing, allowing me to release at least a bit of the stress surrounding this new horrid possibility. Why then, did I have the sneaking suspicion of being the calf fattened for the feast?

"There's something you're not saying, Roby."

She sighed and dropped her hands to my shoulders, where they rested lightly. Turning my head, I looked up into her face, trying to read her expression. What I saw there was mixed: part concern, part sorrow, and unless I was sorely mistaken, part anger. Now what had I done?

"We might as well get this over with." She headed out of the kitchen and across the hall towards a room I'd not yet seen. Following her, I was surprised to find myself in a library. Two walls were nothing but floor-to-ceiling shelves, another wall was used as a gallery on which hung a combination of artwork and family pictures and the fourth wall was nothing more than a series of French doors, allowing in masses of light which kept the heavy woodwork from feeling oppressive.

In the center of the sizeable room two sofas were set facing each other with a low wood table in between and off in one corner stood an elegant old upright piano, the mahogany gleaming in the sunlight. Past the sofas, towards the glass wall was a large desk where Roby sat, waiting for me.

"I decided to do a little online investigating this morning to see what's been going on since you went AWOL. Figured you might want to know what's been goin' on in your corner of the world."

Going around the desk, I peered over Roby's shoulder at the computer screen. She had several windows pulled up, the first of which was a U.S. news site with a small article about Evan's involvement in an accident. Barely mentioned Olivia. Crikey, but that was bound to piss her off if she were ever to get wind of it. She'd so hoped that being in this movie would raise her profile overseas.

Pity.

Yes, it's small of me and I should be beyond such petty nonsense. Bugger that.

"I hadn't even heard about Evan's accident, let alone that Olivia was involved," Roby said, shrugging apologetically. "But then again, I've been so busy, I've barely had time to keep up with the local gossip, let alone the Hollyweird variety."

"Nothing to apologize for." Leaning down, I took the mouse and navigated through the other windows. They were primarily for UK newspapers and gossip rags, filled with breathless accounts of the accident and the seriousness of Olivia's condition. (Sorry chaps, not as bad as you like to make it out—no aneurysms, no near amputations, no alien visitations—at least, none that I knew of.)

Since Roby had the windows arranged sequentially by date, it took a couple of clicks before I saw references alluding to a potential involvement between Evan and Liv, and another couple before I saw an article wondering why I wasn't keeping vigil by my wife's side like the dutiful husband I'd always been. Stu, bless him, had provided the media with a obliquely veiled statement: "Michael's understandably upset by the accident and surrounding allegations. He's currently in seclusion at an undisclosed location and shall remain so for the immediate future."

I snorted. "Undisclosed location" indeed. I continued clicking through the windows, which revealed progressively sensational headlines.

AMERICAN AMOUR? (Badly cropped photos of Evan and Liv, making them appear as if they were side by side)

WAS LIV IN LUST? (Paparazzi photo of a sultry, oil-slicked Liv in a skimpy bathing suit on our Portuguese holiday last summer.)

WHERE'S MICHAEL? (Lovely. Liv gets a bathing suit shot worthy of a Page 3 pin up; I get a recreation of the "Where's Waldo?" illustrations with a photo of my head, a red and white cap superimposed on it and stuck in amongst a crowd scene.)

Before I could click that window closed and move on to the next one, I felt Roby's hand on my wrist, stopping me. "I think you'd better read that article, Michael."

Perplexed, I did as she requested, scrolling quickly through the article which appeared to be nothing more than a rehashing of the accident followed by even more innuendo and supposition regarding Liv and Evan's involvement and where I'd disappeared to after early reports had me at the hospital.

"His poor parents are besides themselves wondering where their wee laddie's gone off to. I know for a fact they've not heard from him since before this tragedy occurred," said close family acquaintance, Mrs. Minerva Campbell.

"Close family acquaintance my arse." My outraged voice echoed through the large room. "Who does the old biddy think she's kidding? She rings up the groceries at the village store and drives Mum utterly mad by always trying to pry information from her, for fuck's sake."

"Every small town's got 'em, Michael." Roby's voice was soothing as she pried the mouse from my death grip. "But does she have anything resembling a point?"

"What?"

"Have you talked to your parents since any of this happened?" Turning in her chair to face me, she pronounced each word slowly and distinctly as if speaking to the village idiot. Which was more or less precisely how I was beginning to feel.

"Erm…"

"Didn't think so." She pushed back the chair and stood, glaring up at me. "Look, I can't blame you for having gone undercover—you've had a massive load of shit to deal with and if anyone deserved some deep end time, it was you. But at the same time, I'm a mom. I know how I'd feel if my son disappeared for nearly two weeks without a word."

"Oh Christ."

"Phone's right there." Roby pointed at the desk and added in a dry tone. "Feel free to call direct, okay?"

"She's going to kill me."

"Probably. Right after she assures herself you're safe and tells you how much she loves you." She patted my cheek gently and moved towards the door. "I'll go make us something to eat and leave you to it."

I watched her leave the room with a sense of foreboding. It would have been nice to have her stay for moral support while I faced up to my parents. Lifting the receiver I dialed the long-distance operator and waited for the connection to go through, taking a deep breath as I heard a phone three thousand miles away being lifted from its cradle.

"Hello, Mum? It's me. No… no, Mum, I'm really okay. Please don't cry."

Chapter Twelve

2006-09-18T17:52:52Z

Roby

You ever notice how just when you think life is going great guns, something happens to blow that illusion straight outta the water? It doesn't even have to be anything earth-shattering or jarring. If fact, most of the time, it's something so ordinary, so commonplace, you never even give it a second thought. That is, until you go back and try to pinpoint just when it was your life took that proverbial left turn to Albuquerque and you say "A-ha! So that's when it happened."

A-ha… so that's when it happened.

March 28

Rain, rain, go away,
Come again some other day.

I never really got that rhyme, you know? I love rain. In the summer, walks on the beach, in the rain… feeling soft, cool rivulets of water streaming though your hair and down your neck. Leaves you all shivery and goosebump-y, like having a lover running their fingertips along your skin. Oh my god, you just can't top that. (If memory serves, that is.) And don't tell anyone, but one of my deepest held fantasies, you know… the little late-night jobbers that come to you just when you're on the verge of sleep and make your body throb and ache? Well, mine has to do with making love in the rain. Never happened. Probably never will. But this is why it's a fantasy, right?

In the winter, the tenor of the rain changes going from soft to much sharper, harder. Yet the staccato tattoo of those raindrops that are just shy of becoming ice brings with it a particular desire nevertheless. That's when, rather than being outside and enveloped in the beauty of the storm, it's far more desireable to be inside, safe and warm, tucked away from the elements. (Unless you're nuttier than a hatter, but that's a different story altogether.)

Tonight was one of latter, I thought, as I sipped tea and relaxed back against the window seat's cushions, George Michael's silky vocals wrapping themselves around me. End of March and as the old wives' tale has it, it's supposed to have come in like a lion and go out like a lamb. Right now, I was thinkin' that the lion scarfed the lamb for lunch and was heading into April in search of more.

The phone rang somewhere near me. Fumbling through cushions, an abandoned novel, and the blanket I had draped across my legs, I finally located it wedged under Walter's ass. His sleepy-eyed look was only mildly indignant as he rearranged himself at the opposite end of the seat and went back to the all-important task of dozing.

"Hey you."

"How'd you know it was me?"

I laughed. "Didn't say I did, now did I? Might have been any random 'you' I could've been speaking to."

"You mean you answer your phone like that all the time?"

"Only for sexy real estate guys."

"Oh? And just how many of those do you know?" Sam demanded teasingly.

I smiled into the phone. "Um… two. But one is taken. And if I answered the phone like that when he called, M.E. would beat me up."

"Uh-huh. So then I'm surmising the magic of Caller I.D. is the only thing saving you from an ass whuppin'."

"Pretty much."

We laughed together then he asked, "So what are you up to?"

"Nothing much. Savoring one of those increasingly rare evenings where I don't have to work on more sketch revisions for Mrs. Winchester. I think I finally have her pegged down to a final draft, thank God. And speaking of the Big Man, I had Taylor and the new minister over for dinner earlier tonight, but the weather was getting so rough, they didn't hang too terribly long." I stretched languorously, extending my legs along the seat until I could rub Walter's back with my feet. "So I'm enjoying being a lady of leisure with my cuppa tea, my blankie, some good music, and a book that I may or may not decide to read."

"Sounds cozy."

"Oh, believe me, it is."

His voice dropped. "Wish I was there."

"Kinda wish you were too." I felt a twinge of guilt as I replied. Mostly because it was more "kinda" than really wishing he was here. It'd been nearly two weeks since I'd seen Sam, and I did miss him, don't get me wrong. But it had also been nearly that long since I'd been alone with myself where I wasn't totally exhausted by this point at night, falling into bed, practically in a stupor. For the time being, phone calls had been more than sufficient. Especially since the man's phone voice was sexy as hell, sounding like it had been dipped in rich smooth milk chocolate—a verbal Hershey's Kiss, if you will.

"On second thought, no you don't."

I nearly dropped the phone in shock. Had he been able to pick up on the reluctant vibes? "What do you mean, Sam? Of course I wish you were here." Of course I did, I scolded silently.

"Nah… I think I'm coming down with a nasty spring cold. Change of season, allergy onset sort of stuff. It's bound to be ugly by tomorrow. My mother may have taught me to play nice and share, but somehow, I'm not seeing you be real grateful for this level of sharing."

I breathed a sigh of relief. "Good point. And props to you for realizing there are some things you just don't want to be too generous with."

"I knew you'd understand." I could hear the smile in his voice. "Unfortunately, this probably means that the one date we've managed to schedule is probably off, unless you want to play nursemaid?" he asked, somewhat hopefully.

"Sorry, babe," I giggled. "My nursemaid skills have thus far proved to be better suited to small fry. It seems the larger the patient, the lower my tolerance level."

"Ouch."

"At least I'm honest about it, right?"

"I'll try to console myself with your honesty when I'm heating the chicken and stars soup in the microwave."

Another twinge of guilt thrummed through me, but in this case, I really was being honest. "Hey, how about I strong arm Mary Ellen into making you some chicken soup from her mom's recipe? The Scotch bonnet peppers'll clear your sinuses out, trust me."

"You'd do that for me?" There was an unmistakable hint of sarcasm in his tone, which I was willing to let slide, under the circumstances.

"I'll call her right now and tell her to make sure she has the ingredients."

He sighed. "Well if that's the best I can hope for."

"Yeah." I kept my smile deliberately gentle, even though I knew he couldn't see it. "'Fraid so."

"All right then. I suppose I'll talk to you tomorrow then, provided I still have a voice."

"Send smoke signals if you don't."

"How 'bout I stick to an email instead?"

"Sounds good. Night, Sam."

"Sweet dreams, Roby."

Sighing, I hung up the phone. I really am a demented individual. The guy was totally wonderful and I was probably thisclose to completely falling for him, but for some reason, I just kept holding back. I couldn't help but wonder if it had anything to do with having been on my own for so long. Maybe, having struggled so hard to achieve this level of freedom and independence, I just couldn't see myself giving it up any time soon… or like, ever.

But I wasn't Casual Relationship Girl either—for one thing, I had kids I had to set an example for, and unless one is a Celebrity and lives in the more tolerant environs those folks inhabit, the sex for sex's sake thing is kind of hard to pull off. Which left the semi-long term relationship option. Because I sure as shit wasn't about to become a nun. Maybe I'd done that abstinence thing as much out of choice as out of necessity, but if there was one thing dating Sam had taught me, it was that my body was definitely operational and primed for action of the non-solo variety.

I sighed again and plodded to the sink with my empty mug. On the way back to the window seat, I paused long enough to push another log into the woodstove. It wasn't strictly necessary— the central heat system made the old workhorse all but obsolete—but there was something so soothing, so (please forgive me for I am about to go Granola) organic about the smell of wood and hot iron, the crackle and hiss of the logs as they burned in the old stove. It might sound weird, but more than anything else about the house, that woodstove somehow allowed me to feel a sense of connectedness to Aunt Bert that was comforting. Times like this, when I was confused, trying to figure out what the hell I was doing, I really missed the old battleaxe.

She would have had no patience for my dithering about with this Sam situation. I could practically see her, sitting ramrod straight in one of the maple chairs pulled up to the table, placidly flipping cards over in one of her seemingly neverending games of solitaire. "Roberta Louise, if you got an itch, y'take care of it, child, one way or another. You don't wait until it's spread all over your body 'til you don't even know where to start scratchin'."

I slammed the door to the stove shut and plopped back onto the window seat with a grunt. Walter lifted his head and spared me a placid glance before yawning and scooting forward to place his head in my lap.

"Big baby. Just an oversized lap dog aren't you?" I scratched his ears, and stroked his soft, white fur, laughing as he reached around to lick my hand. Looking out the window I noticed icy shards sticking to the wavy glass panes, which were also beginning to rattle in their frames as the wind picked up and started to gust with a vengeance. I wondered if we'd turn to full snow or just stay at sleet—not that it mattered. No matter how you sliced it, it was ick weather, perfect for staying inside. "Not fit for man or beast tonight, is it, Walter"

My dear, sweet dog looked up at me, clearly in agreement, for Walter is no one's dummy. And wouldn't you know it—just then, a knock sounded at the front door.
"Huh?" For a second, I wondered if I'd even heard it—it could just as easily have been a flying tree branch hitting against the front of the house. And if someone was at the door why would they knock instead of using the doorbell? But no, I hadn't imagined it—there it was again—three rapid, urgent strikes.

"Figures," I grumbled, gathering the blanket around myself. "No sooner do I say it's no kind of night to be outside, than some lunatic comes a'knockin' at my door." I trudged down the hall, multicolored blanket trailing behind me along with Walter, who was emitting a few experimental growls, just in case. "So help me, if it's Taylor, coming to dish about the evening, I will kick his ass to Thursday."

I squinted through the peephole, feeling my breath catch in my throat. No, no, no… there was just no way—it wasn't possible. Drawing back, I blinked rapidly several times then looked through the peephole once more.

"Oh my God…" Suddenly nerveless fingers fumbled with the locks. I swung the door open, revealing the soaked figure standing on the threshold, the glow from the porch light throwing him into eerie silhouette against the heavy sheet of rain.

"Michael?"
"Roby…" Blue-tinged lips struggled to form the word through the violent chattering of teeth.

"What? Why—? Oh, hell… never mind." I put the brakes on my rapidly escalating curiosity and grabbed his arm, dragging his unresisting form across the threshold. Slamming the door shut to keep more cold air from blasting in, I refastened the locks and turned to him. "Screw 'what' and 'why'. We can get to that later. Right now, it looks like we need to get you warmed up."

No response. Nothing. He just stood where I'd left him, streams of water running from matted hair and soaked clothes, forming a muddy puddle around his battered boots. With a quick tug, I stripped the sodden overcoat off, flinching only slightly as I was assailed by a rancid wave of cigarettes, liquor, and cheap motel rooms. The heavy, damp warmth of the hallway also aggravated the stale, unwashed scent of a person long past caring about hygiene—or much of anything else.

Taking the blanket I had wrapped around myself I draped it over his shoulders, even though it felt sort of like putting a sandbag in the face of a tsunami, but I had to do something. "Dear God, Michael. What's happened?" Not that I really expected an answer, which was a good thing, since it seemed as if just uttering my name the one time had taxed his reserves to their limit.

"C'mon, baby. Let's get you upstairs and in the shower, huh? Walter, stay." With an arm around his waist, I guided Michael up the stairs, feeling like I was dealing with an unpredictable horse—the kind that appears docile then at the merest provocation bolts for parts unknown.

I took him straight through the guest room and into the adjoining bathroom, easing him down onto the closed toilet. A few seconds later, wisps of steam rose from the water as it cascaded full bore, from the ridiculously wide designer showerhead. Not wanting to waste time or hot water, I turned back to Michael, still mute, although the blue had faded from his lips and the violent shivers seemed to have quieted down to the occasional quake as he sat, hands limp in his lap. In fact, his entire posture: the hands, the slump of his shoulders, the downward curve of his neck… it was all so weary, so defeated. Whatever had happened had all kinds of bad spelled across it. But now was definitely not the time for a grilling under the bright lights.

"Michael?" I kept my voice gentle, but put a little "Mom" firmness into it. "Listen to me. We need to get you into the shower. Do you want me to help you?"

Nothing. Dammit, at this rate, I was going to have to drag him into the shower clothes and all. Ignoring the heavy stubble that scratched against my skin, I cupped his chin and tilted his head up, swallowing hard as I looked fully into his eyes for the first time since he'd appeared on my doorstep.

Oh God.

Those eyes, those beautiful, startling blue eyes that had been the first part of him I'd ever seen were swollen and webbed with spidery red veins, gazing up at me with an expression that bordered somewhere between utterly vacant and heart-wrenchingly lost. I felt tears prick along my bottom lashes.

"Sweetie, I have no idea what's happened to you, but I'm afraid of what might happen if we don't get you out of those clothes and into this shower. Let me help, please?"
I'm not at all certain he even registered the actual words, but something of the intent must have penetrated, because when I reached for the hem of his sweater, he lifted his arms to help out. Taking advantage, I stripped his turtleneck off at the same time, tossing the damp, lived-in garments aside. Kneeling on the tile floor, I quickly unlaced and yanked off boots and socks, giving each chilled foot a brisk, hard rub to encourage circulation. I could hear Taylor's voice in my head directing, "Extremities first, Cuz. Work in from the outside." A couple of seconds and I could already feel his feet warming beneath my hands.

It was only when I reached for his belt buckle that he finally showed the first real spark of life since he'd appeared on my doorstep, putting his hand over mine.

"I can do it." His normally mellifluous voice was raw and edgy—as if he hadn't used it for days… or maybe used it too much?

"Are you sure?"

He nodded, although kept his face turned slightly away, not meeting my gaze, and his hand trembled as it rested on mine.

"God, Michael, please do not let this be about some misdirected sense of modesty since this hardly seems to be the time. Naked men are no mystery to me and if you need help—"

"I can do it."

I withdrew my hand from beneath his and stood, frowning down at him. "I'm going to see if I can dig up some spare clothes for you. But if you need me,"

"I know."

Biting my lip, I edged towards the door, reluctant, no, afraid as hell to leave him alone, although some part of me sensed the reason he'd come here was to be safe. "There are plenty of extra towels in the closet over there and I'll leave you clothes on the bed in there."

Good, Roby, keep blathering and stalling and wasting the damned hot water. I sighed and turned to leave.

"Roby."

I paused, my hand curled around the door's edge. "Yeah?"

"I'll be down in a few minutes." A step past the door I heard, softer, "I promise."

It was that "I promise" that allowed me to breathe easy for the first time since he'd shown up. He didn't throw those words around very easily, I'd learned during the course of our email correspondences. The man had an inherent sense of honor that coupled with his inborn Scottish bullheadedness, didn't allow him to make a promise if he didn't intend to hold to it, no matter what.

"Twenty minutes." I turned and glared at him. "In the kitchen, hot tea and solid food, since it doesn't look as if you've eaten anywhere near as much as you've drunk. You're not there and I'll come up and drag your ass down myself, regardless of your state of dress, understood?"

"Understood." The facial expression didn't change, but his eyes flared brighter for a brief second.

"Good."

I shut the door and leaned back against it, rubbing my forehead wearily. After a few seconds I pushed myself away and went to rummage through the dresser where I knew Tay kept some extra clothes, or as he'd dubbed it, "The Movie Marathon Stash." Whenever we made a night of pizza and movie watching, he inevitably ended up staying the night, so he'd made it a point to leave clothes. Luckily, the two of them were of similar heights, although Taylor had that disgustingly lean runner's build that would normally make his clothes too small through the waist for someone as big-boned as Michael.

But thank goodness for the forgiving nature of sweats, I thought as I pulled a pair out along with a long sleeved t-shirt and a thick pair of wool socks. What I tried not to think of was how haggard and gaunt Michael had seemed when I pulled off his sweater. Never having seen him in anything more revealing than a dress shirt, I had no real way to judge, but the memory of how solid he'd seemed those times I'd hugged him or held his arm had remained pretty vivid.

As I set the clothes on the bed and turned to leave, an odd noise drew me back towards the bathroom. Leaning my ear against the wood, at first all I could hear was the steady splashing of water; a second later a harsh, ragged, cry cut through the sounds of the shower and straight into my solar plexus, making me gasp. My hand was on the knob and turning before I stopped myself.

"He promised, Roby," I admonished. "He promised, so just let him be."

Before I could change my mind, I left the bedroom, gently closing the door, but even down in the kitchen, puttering around with sandwich makings and waiting for the kettle to come to a boil, I couldn't banish the sounds of Michael's sobs from my mind.

I knew that kind of crying all too well.

Chapter Eleven

2006-09-14T21:58:59Z

Taylor

Home where my thought’s escaping,
Home where my music’s playing,
Home where my love lies waiting

Well, okay. Maybe not where my love lies waiting, but otherwise, those lyrics ring seriously true. I was back home in Port Gordon. Where I belonged, where I could be part of life, where I could be part of my family again.

At least, that was the plan.

March 22

Oy gestalt, (as M.E. was fond of saying) is moving a bitch and three-quarters. Considering I don't have so much as a stick of furniture to my name, I know you're thinking I'm just being a big drama queen about it. But really, even without furniture, it's a major undertaking. Especially when you take into account two computers, various other bits of electronica, books numbering in the many, including lots of obscenely thick medical tomes of the Very Important variety, and more CDs than any one human ought to possess (unless of course, you're Roby, whose collection dwarfs even mine). A few nice pieces of framed art and that pretty much topped off the U-Haul trailer. Thank God I'm not a clotheshorse, or I'd be in deep doo doo, but honestly, between med school and residency in the Maine backwoods, I haven't had much call for designer threads. Which Roby and M.E. were all too willing to point out as they helped me unload, unpack, and generally made pains of themselves as I made my temporary move back into my childhood room.

"Jesus, Tay. Do you own anything that's not scrubs, sweats, sweaters, shorts, or anyother item of clothing that doesn't begin with an 'S'?" Roby was poking through one of my duffels, pulling out the stuff I'd haphazardly tossed in, refolding and hanging neatly. (This from the woman who's proud if the laundry is clean and in a basket.)

"Oooh, lookee here, Ro. Here's something that doesn't begin with 'S' unless you think 'sex-y'!" Mary Ellen gleefully twirled a black satin thong an old boyfriend had given me as a gag gift one Valentine's.

"Oh, my God. Check that out."

"Dammit, M.E., gimme." I snatched the ridiculous scrap of fabric from her and stuffed it in my back pocket. "Good lord, woman, the kids are all wandering around the house. What if they'd seen you with that thing? What would you have done then?" I demanded, my cheeks feeling as if they were on fire.

M.E. shrugged. "Woulda just told them it was a fancy slingshot and to go have fun with it."

I ignored Roby's hysterical giggling as I commented, "Nice example you're setting, M.E., really. Great way to show how adult you are."

The very objects of our discussion chose that moment to pop up in the doorway, each carting something from the overstuffed trailer sitting in my parents' driveway. "Taylor, Zia said since you were taking so long we should help by bringing you this stuff. Where do you want us to put it?"

I wanted to die. Right then and there, I just wanted the floor to open up underneath my feet and swallow me whole. Patrick, who'd spoken, was holding an anatomically correct model of the female reproductive system, while Amira, M.E.'s oldest, held the male counterpart, and Emily and Lily held between them the most benign of the three, a skeleton whom I'd affectionately dubbed "Harry."

While my ears burned, and Roby and M.E. burst into renewed howls of laughter, I took the models from the kids, setting them on my dresser.

"Uh, thanks guys. Listen, will you go tell Zia that we're all getting hungry and could stand a snack?" Gads, anything to keep my mother from "helping" any more than she already was. God only knew what she'd find, although I'd tried to cull the more questionable items before the move.

"But we just had lunch."

"Well, unpacking's a chore, isn't it, big man? Works up a real appetite, like for… chocolate chip cookies?"

Yeah, it was low. But I knew Mom had baked up a batch that she'd planned on saving for after we finished unloading the trailer. But if she was going to play dirty, so could I.

"Cookies? Yeah!"

They turned, en masse and thundered down the stairs, yelling, "Zia, we want cookies!"

I turned back to find Roby and M.E. collapsed on the floor by my bed, wiping tears from their faces.

"Forget what I said about your adult behavior or lack thereof. Clearly, the two of you have been tutored by a master."

"Oh, God…" Roby struggled up to perch on the edge of the bed. "Did you see Amira with that big boy?" She pointed at the model, resting innocuously next to the stereo.

"Tell me about it." M.E. hauled herself up next to Ro. "There's a sight I don't ever want to see again with respect to my daughter."

Dissolving into another fit of giggles, they slid off the bed and landed back on the floor in a tangled heap. Disgusted, I stepped over them and resumed where I'd left off reassembling the desktop computer. I was perfectly content leaving the majority of my stuff packed up for the time being, but not knowing how long I was going to be in residence with the parentals, I had to make certain I had a few staples requisite for the care and maintenance of my sanity. Chief amongst those: the computer. Thank goodness for the Mac, because between it, and the ridiculous surround-sound speaker system I'd splurged on, I didn't even need to unpack either the stereo or the television.

"Oh, M.E., can you imagine what Tom's reaction would've been to seeing his baby girl holding that?"

"Oh…. he's so not ready for that."

"Not ready for what?"

I looked up to see Tom in the doorway, munching on a cookie. "Thank God. Tom, save me, wouldja?" I begged.

Tom shot me a "You've got to be kidding" look, but at least the heartless bitch gave up a cookie. "What am I not ready for?" he repeated.

Crunching into my own cookie I replied, "My mother sent the bambinos up with those." I nodded over at the models.

Jet-black eyebrows headed north. "Let me guess—Amira was brandishing 'Long John'?"

Whether the eye rollage was more at my nod or at the fact that the two biddies behind me were still big with the cackling I wasn't totally sure, but all in all his response was surprisingly mild. Especially considering his first-born had been hauling around what more or less amounted to a dildo.

"No wonder your mom sent me down to the basement with that wicked heavy box of books. Dude, you're going to have to pay me double for this gig next time." Cultured real estate broker with a Stanford degree to boot, but Tom was still a SoCal-bred boy and it came out in his speech from time to time.

"I'd love to be paying you a commission, Tom. Find me a place to live, quick."

Snuffling and gasping, Roby got to her feet, pulling M.E. up behind her.

"You know, Tay, this wouldn't be such a big deal if you'd just moved in with me."

"Not again, Miss Thing."

"Why not?" She was all with the indignant, not that I cared. We’d been through this a time or twelve already.

"Let's recap, for the memory-impaired, how it wouldn't be a whole helluva lot different from living here." While I spoke, I plugged a power strip into the wall socket and started up the computer for a test run.

"Yes, let's." She crossed her arms. "Especially since I'm still not convinced."

I ticked them off on my fingers. "One, it's not like it would be total open season at your house. Discretion is a major watchword when there are highly impressionable young minds about. Especially those attached to genetically inherited big mouths which might prone to repeating delicate info at inconvenient moments."

"It would still be more open than being here, wouldn't it?"

"Not by a whole lot, sweets. Which brings us to Number Two, which is, considering that little danger, it would make overnight guests a bit taboo, wouldn't you say?"

"But at least at my place, you won't have to play Twenty Questions if you stay out all night," she countered, sinking down into the desk chair and opening programs on the computer. "Not like it's been an issue, one way or another, of late."

"Harsh, Ro." Obviously unconcerned, she merely shrugged and opened iTunes, scanning the new music lists I'd created since the last time we'd seen each other. I could tell she was only making a show of ignoring me, though, so I went on. "Anyhow, since overnighters are verboten, that leaves Number Three, which is my mother would be crushed if she didn't have this opportunity to fatten me up. You wouldn't deny an Italian mama that pleasure would you?"

"I'd be scared to deny your Italian mama," muttered Tom, bowing and grinning at the chorus of snickers he was receiving from the peanut gallery.

Roby tilted her head up to face me. "Okay, okay. You make a decent argument, especially the part about your mom. The rest? Eh, doesn't hold much water, but whatever floats your dinghy sweetheart."

She was conceding too easily. Waaaay too easily. Which meant she was thinking up new and potentially painful forms of abuse. I'm sorry if she was offended and it wasn't that I didn't want to bunk with her—in all probability I'd probably be over there as much as here, (love my folks, but there's only so much a guy can take). Truthfully, what I really needed was my own place.

I know. What I really needed was to come clean—or out—as it were, to my folks. I guess, down in my gut, I wanted to savor the last real peaceful time I was bound to have with them before I did.

"Hey, Tay, good stuff here. I'm gonna want you to burn some more mixes for me… oooh, especially this one."

Shit. Just as she hit 'play' I remembered something I'd meant to delete from the music program. I'd downloaded it in a moment of weakness and trust Roby to hone in on it like a freakin' guided missile.

"ABBA?" Mary Ellen's voice was incredulous as the strains of "Dancing Queen" floated from the speakers. Those ridiculous, rich, full-sounding, surround sound speakers that Ro kept turning the volume up on, the bitch.

"Dude, you downloaded ABBA? That is so cliché."

"Yeah, well, I was watching Muriel's Wedding and the music infected me. Just wouldn't leave my head. I totally caved." I made the shameful admission even as I laughed at the sight of Roby and Mary Ellen improvising a disco routine. Despite some half-hearted struggling, they managed to drag Tom and me into the chaos, Tom doing a fairly credible air guitar while I mimed keyboards and we all moved in sync to the music.

"So much for the theory that you're all grown up." Still moving in tandem, we looked up to find my parents standing in the doorway, shaking their heads.

"As long as the four of them can get together, Frannie, there's little chance of that happenin'."

"Well, when the performance is over, there are more cookies for you little angels down in the kitchen. Then it's back to work, subito. There's snow on the way and we still have half the trailer to go. And no dinner until you're done, eh?"

"Yes ma'am, Sergeant ma'am." The others followed my lead, saluting our fearless leader. We couldn't stop laughing, even as Mom threw up her hands up in typically Italian disgust and stalked off muttering dark curses in our general direction. I couldn't quite catch all of it, but I was pretty sure it was something along the lines we should only live long enough so our children and our children's children and their children after them could torture us unmercifully.

Dad lagged behind, probably so she wouldn't smack him for laughing right along with us. "Good to have you home, son."

"Good to be home, Dad."

Roby and I exchanged glances as we followed him down the stairs. She got it.

Cool.

**

A few days later, I was about done settling into my new office down at the clinic. My new office. How cool is that, huh? I've wanted to say that since the first time Don let me play with his stethoscope. And if people want to think I lack ambition for desiring nothing more than to settle back in my hometown, well, all I've got to say to that is, they don't understand squat about true ambition. 'Cause there ain't a whole lot in this world that's more difficult than coming back to the town where you grew up and requiring the people who knew you as a snot-nosed kid to see you as the responsible adult and professional you've hopefully evolved into.

I won't lie—it wass gonna be a bit of a haul. Take the first appointment to come in this morning: the Garrity twins. It's suspected that Belinda and Eudalia have been around since the town's incorporation, (circa 1708, FYI). At least, there's not a soul around here who doesn't remember them as fixtures of our little society. Anyhow, Don took Belinda in one exam room while I took Miss Eudalia into the other for their annual physicals. When I got in the room, she was wearing the paper gown as instructed… with her triple-ply Woorich cardigan on over it. When I tried to gently slide it down her arms so I could listen to her breathing, the old bat hauled off and nailed me with her purse, which she'd had sitting primly in her lap. Have you ever seen a typical old lady purse? Well lemme tell you, they're every bit as heavy as they are big. Trust me. I had the bruises to prove it.

Ultimately, I was forced to snake my stethoscope up under the cardigan and listen to her breathing with my head cocked so far to the right, I could have practically performed a colonoscopy at the same time. And yes, that particular sight was every bit as frightening as it sounds.

But still, for every incident like that, there are the moments that balance it all out. All of the people who've just dropped by the office to schedule appointments or just to say "hi" or "welcome back." Usually accompanied by a plate of cookies or fudge, or an invitation to come over for dinner. This is why I came home. You don't get this kind of reception when you join a big, impersonal, twenty-doctor practice or a hospital staff. There, it's more like you're just another cog in the wheel. Here, I feel as if my presence matters, as if I can make a real difference. So I'll never drive a Lexus SC convertible. Who cares? They're cute, but can't navigate the December roads around here worth shit.
However, I do get the benefit of taking my breaks at the Pink Elephant, conveniently located a mere block away.

"Well, look who's finally found time in his busy schedule to make it over."

I found myself enveloped in a powerful hug. When I started breathing again, I replied, "Have mercy, Pam. I had to examine Miss Eudalia this morning."

"She up and hit you with her handbag didn't she?"

I grimaced. "Yeah. How could you tell?"

Pam touched my cheek. "You've got the imprint of a duck's ass on your face."

"Groovy." I gingerly rubbed at the still-tender spot. "Just the look I want for my first week out."

She laughed, blue eyes as merry as ever, and tousled my hair as if I were still eight years old, rather than twenty-eight. "Think of it as your baptism by fire, child. And there's nowhere to go but up, right?"

"I'll let you know after tomorrow."

"What's tomorrow?"

"I get to examine Saul—his knee's givin' him hell again."

It was Pam's turn to roll her eyes. "Let me guess, my stubborn little brother's only comin' in because Grover said somethin' to Carrie about it and she's gonna truss him up and drag him in, right?"

I licked my finger, drew an imaginary number "1" in the air and grinned. "Score one for the lovely lady."

"Well thank goodness she's got some influence over him because God knows, I sure don't."

You'll get tired of my saying it, but you've gotta love small towns and the way the lives of friends and neighbors and relatives all weave together into this fabric that makes up our community. It's almost incestuous, but in a good way, if that makes any sense. Take Saul, for example. When he and Grover retired from lobster fishing at around the same time, they didn't want to get too far from the livelihood that had supported them, so they did the next best thing: they opened a lobster shack/tavern. Those two old goats make an absolute killing during the summer, the tourists scarfing down their lobster rolls and fried clams while sitting outside and watching the boats come in.

Because Saul never went, as he puts it, the "ball and chain route," he became part of Grover and Carrie's family by virtue of proximity—and choice. But the downside to that (if you ask Saul) is that if he has so much as a splinter, Carrie's on him like white on rice.

"Pam, I don’t think it's so much influence as it is pure fear." I grinned. "I happen to know that Carrie keeps some extra long needles prominently displayed in strategic locations. She threatens Saul that that's what she's gonna to use for his next flu shot if he doesn't cooperate."

"Hmmm." Pam's face assumed a thoughtful expression. "Not a bad idea."

No way I was going to ask for what. I might be young, but I ain't stupid, baby. Anyhow, I didn't really need to ask. Instinct told me that things between her and Don hadn't been going so well lately, given that he'd been tighter than a Sphinx when I casually asked how she was doing. Carrie had also confided that she suspected they'd been seeing somewhat less of each other. How you can see less of each other in a town that during the winter has fewer than twelve hundred people is beyond me, but then again, if you really want to avoid someone, I suppose it's doable.

"So, you gonna tell me what's new around here or am I gonna have to grovel some more for failing to show up earlier?"

"Come on back—your usual should be ready. We can sit a bit and I'll catch you up."

I followed her, my mouth hanging open. "My usual should be ready? How'd you know I was coming? Who are you, Madame Cleo?"

"Pfft. Although I can fake a bad island accent with the best of them." Her grin broadened, clearly delighting in the fact she'd managed to surprise (stun, shock the hell out of) me. "Don't call the National Enquirer just yet. I haven't had a sudden onset of divination abilities. Don just called and told me you'd be on your way over."

We slid into the booth opposite each other where, as promised, our usuals awaited us on the table. Tea for Pam, and for me, a double latté, extra cinnamon, and a huge chocolate cream-cheese muffin. I dove into that bad boy with no hesitation and very little in the way of manners. My mother would be appalled. But ahhh… the power of carbs. Forget Atkins and South Beach—the diet, not the destination—given that I'm half Italian, expecting me to subsist without my pasta and minestrone and oh Lord, a good cannoli, is just fundamentally wrong.

"Now, I know your mama's feedin' you, so just slow down and don't act like you were raised by wolves, boy."

"Thorry," I mumbled. "But iths jus' tho good." I swallowed and took a sip of coffee. "Man, I've missed this, Pam."

"Nice to know you've missed the place, Taylor." Her tone was dry.

"And you, of course."

"Sure, now you say it." But her eyes smiled at me over the rim of her cup.

I polished off the rest of the muffin in short order and sat back with my coffee, ready for the sweet lowdown on Port Gordon. "Okay, so what's the what around here?"
Pam set her cup back in the saucer. "Well… I know you know Jennie Maguire's expectin' and her not even twenty yet. She's not sayin' who the father is but she's going to go ahead and have it. So she left Bowdoin and is back livin' with her mother while she goes to classes up at the community college."

"Yeah, Don filled me in since I'm going to be taking over her prenatal care." Which meant I actually knew who the father was, but I sure as shit wasn't telling. That tidbit fell under Doctor/Patient privilege as opposed to your garden variety town gossip.

Pam nodded. "Let's see, Fred Carpenter passed away a couple of months back and his kids are bickerin' over the estate, what there is of it. Of course none of them actually want to move back to town and live in the old house. They're just trying to figure out how to divvy everything since the old fool up and died without a will."

She took another sip of tea and continued. "Now, what else? Oh, there are a few new business goin' in around the Square—should be open by Easter. A custom jeweler, a gallery, and a boutique."

"Think they'll make it?" It was always a bit of a concern when new shops went in. Not because we were snobs or anything, but tourist taste could be fickle and it was primarily their money most merchants depended on to make it through any given year.

"I think the jeweler and the gallery will be okay. We're starting to get more and more of a reputation as an arts area, so that keeps the folks from Portland and Boston trottin' up here, well into the fall and even through the winter. The boutique might have the hardest time, but the girl who owns it is a smart cookie."

Pam rose and selected a cookie from the loaded trolley situated nearby. Resuming her seat she went on, "I guess the only other big thing that's goin' on is construction on the new Unitarian church is finally done and a minister's been hired, although it's not been without its moments."

"Moments? Come on, Pam. You know that's just code for 'All hell nearly broke loose.' What gives?"

"Oh, you know how it is." Pam nibbled her cookie thoughtfully. "Some of the old timers were grumbling that he's just a young pup, practically out of Divinity School, but at least he's more or less a local, as he's a Portland boy." She paused, seeming to weigh her next words with care. "And he's gay, which has more than a few people sayin' they're not goin' to step foot in the church."

See, if this were a movie, I would have been in the middle of taking a sip of coffee when Pam said "he's gay," which I would have then spit all over the table or choked on in a very obvious outburst, thus alerting the viewer to the fact that this was in some way relevant. However, this isn't a movie, so I was able to keep it to a subtle clearing of the throat and asking, "What do you think?"

Pam looked at me as if I'd just asked the dumbest question ever. "What do I think? I think some folks need to grow up and realize it’s the twenty-first century. What do I care what his sexual preferences are, provided they don't involve kids or farm animals? As long as he's discreet, which is nothing less than I'd demand of anyone in a leadership position in this town, and he's not conductin' sermons in a feather boa and four-inch heels, since that would simply be tacky regardless of who was wearing it. In other words, I could care less." She fixed me with what appeared to be the most meaningful stare in the world.

Mental sigh of relief time. I figured any woman whose favorite show was Queer Eye would be cool with a gay minister, but still… never hurts to have those gut feelings substantiated.

"Besides, most folks who meet him absolutely love him. He's just as sweet as can be and bless him, he's like Donovan in that he comes in every day at about the same time to have a coffee and talk to folks. It won't take long before he's won some of these old blowhards over. You know he even went out on one of the fishing boats last week?"

"Wow. That's impressive. A gay minister trying to win over the doubting members of his flock and he voluntarily goes out into open water where any manner of 'accidents' could take place?"

Pam grinned. "Yep, he's brave, that one. But not stupid. He told Billy ahead of time he was goin' out with the fishermen."

I burst into laughter. "Making sure the Sheriff knows where you are. That's rich."

"He's wonderful, Taylor. I can't wait for you to meet him. I think the two of you will get along great."

Some of my wariness returned. "Why's that?"

Again Pam stared me down like I was the stupidest creature since evolution. "Because he's smart, witty, about the same age as you, seems to share a lot of the same interests from what I've learned of him since he moved here. Why else?"

"No reason," I mumbled, slouching down in the booth, my cheeks burning.

"Taylor, you know we're fine. No matter what." Her voice and gaze had gentled.

"Yeah, Pam. I know. And thanks."

"Thank me later."

I saw her nod and smile at something or someone behind me. "For what?" I asked suspiciously. Twisting in my seat I felt my heart stop in shock. There's just no way… was there?

Pam rose from the table to greet the new arrival. "Hello, Kurt. How are you today?"

Oh man oh man oh man…

"Hey, Pam. I'm fine and yourself?"

Oh yeah, it was him. No mistaking it, even though he was dressed in khakis and an Irish fisherman's sweater rather than an usher's uniform. Didn't matter. Those light, spring-green eyes were unmistakable—and unforgettable. I watched, stunned, as he hugged Pam then briefly turned to greet a few other people at nearby tables, shaking hands and conversing genially until Pam recaptured his attention.

"Kurt. I've got someone I've been dying for you to meet. This is Taylor Stevenson—oops—Doctor," she corrected herself, "Taylor Stevenson. That's going to take some getting used to. Taylor, this is Reverend Kurt Anderson."

Dazed, I rose from my seat and offered my hand. "We've met."

"You have?" Pam looked from me to Kurt, clearly surprised—and curious. "I know you must have seen his pictures in my office, Kurt. Why didn't you say anything?"
He laughed, every bit the composed minister with just a touch of the flirtatious usher I'd first met. "I wasn't sure Taylor would remember and didn't want to put him in the embarrassing position of having to pretend he recalled an all-too-brief meeting." He shook my proffered hand, his gaze locking with mine. "I'm flattered he didn't forget." The look in his eyes made it clear he hadn't forgotten either.

"Where was this?"

"Kurt was ushering at the Merrill the night Roby and I went to see Michael MacLaren perform. He was the one who took us backstage after the performance."
"What a coincidence. I didn't know you ushered there, Kurt."

Again with that easy, confident laugh. "It was my part-time job during high school and college. I figured it was as good a way as any to put some extra money in the bank while I waited for the church's construction to be completed. It was pretty convenient too, since most of the events were at night, it didn't interfere with the interim work I was doing with the congregation in Portland."

"Well, that's just wonderful. It's great you two already know each other." Pam's glance flickered over to me only briefly, but I caught the question loud and clear. I shook my head ever so slightly. Nope, don't know each other that well, Pam. Damned if she didn't look a little disappointed.

"Why don't you two sit and catch up and I'll bring you some drinks." Pam practically shoved me back into the booth when I might have tried to make a graceful getaway. Jesus, this was starting to take the definition of "surreal" to epic proportions. Someone who's known me since I was in diapers trying to set me up with the gay minister? How freaky.

Kurt slid into the seat Pam had formerly occupied. "And how is your cousin, by the way? I feel awful I haven't seen her yet, but every time I've been by her office, she's out."
"Yeah, Ro's got a new client down in Kennebunk who of course, had to have her house done right away, so she's been onsite a lot the past couple of weeks. But I know she's planning to park it in the office for the next several days, so I'm sure you'll be able to catch her." I laughed. "Actually, what she said was, 'there's no way in hell I'm trotting back down there just to supervise the guy who's been laying tile longer than I've been alive.'"

Kurt smiled and baby, what a nice smile. I shifted a little, grateful for the table's shelter.

"I guess her clients can be just as difficult as some of mine." He winked. "I should ask her advice dealing with them."

"I believe gnashing of teeth and copious amounts of cursing are involved. Out of earshot, of course," I added at his questioning expression. "In person or when she's on the phone with 'em, you'd never how they sometimes tempt her to go up in the clock tower and just wait."

"I know the feeling."

"Yeah, so do I." I gingerly touched my still-tender cheek, remembering just what I'd wanted to do when Miss Eudalia smacked me. But I'd settled for gently loosening the purse from her death grip and putting it within her sight, but well out of reach.

Pam chose that moment to return drinks in hand. "You boys have a good time—I need to get back to work on the afternoon batches." She winked at me as she turned to leave, can you believe her? I was beginning to think she had visions of herself as the gay man's Dolly Levi.

I blew on my latté, cooling it off while Kurt stirred cream and sugar into his coffee.

"You never called."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I mean, if you weren't interested."

Not interested? God was he ever off the mark on that one. I hadn't stopped thinking about him since that night. "It's not that, Kurt. It's just… things are a little complicated for me right now."

"Someone else?"

I shook my head, sipping coffee to buy myself some time. How could I tell someone so obviously comfortable with his own sexuality that he didn't let it define or limit what he could do, that I was such a huge coward? Luckily, for the chickenshit that I was, I didn't have to.

"You're not out, are you?"

I paused, clearly long enough for him to nod his head as if I'd already answered. Which, of course, made me rush right on in to correct his assumption. "Sort of yes and sort of no."

"Are all your diagnoses this precise, Doctor?"

I was about to snap back with something in the way of a scathing retort (don't ask me what, I hadn't gotten that far yet) when I noticed the suppressed laughter in his eyes. He was teasing me. Ass.

"Hardy har har."

"Just trying to lighten the atmosphere a little," he shrugged. "Tell me." No teasing now. His hands were loosely cupped around his mug and his face didn't read as overly serious or judgmental, just open and gentle. I could see where he was probably very, very good at ministering.

"I'm sure you can tell there are people who do know."

He nodded. "It's pretty obvious Roby knows and Pam, I'm assuming, does as well?"

"Yeah," I rolled my head in a slow circle, trying to relax the tension I felt building in my neck. "Although my realizing that Pam knows is a pretty recent development. My medical partner knows as well, and rumor has it my mother suspects."

"Which leaves your dad, and I'm guessing he's the one who's got your leathers chapped."

"How'd you guess? Oh," I answered my own question. "You've been by the shop. You must've met him."

Kurt's smile was slightly reserved, compared to the others I'd seen from him. "Yeah, I have. He's one of those who's been cool towards me. Not rude," he added thoughtfully, "just a little reserved and not too forthcoming with the approval. Sort of 'I'll go my way, you go yours.'"

I slowly exhaled. "Well, that's milder than I would have expected, but then again, you're not his only son."

"Good point. So there are only a select few who are aware, then?"

"Ayuh."

"I'll keep that in mind."

I nodded my thanks. We lapsed into a surprisingly comfortable silence, given what our topic of conversation had just been. When he winked, I realized I must have been staring at him like some lovestruck teenager. My ears burning, I tried to focus on something, anything else. I checked out the new decor (Shabby Chic alá Maine), noted the music, (Joni Mitchell… gotta love Joni) and primarily, studied the people who were drifting in and out, coming in for their cappuccinos and pots of tea and pasties and sandwiches-to-go. Most of these were folks I'd known most of my life. In return, I noticed that the two of us were the subject of our own share of curious glances. Generally speaking, they were friendly, people waving or nodding, calling out the occasional greeting. To the casual observer, we might have just appeared to be two of the town's young professionals, getting acquainted over a cup of coffee.

Maybe I was just being paranoid, but I couldn't help but notice a few suspicious or questioning glances. And I could just tell old Mr. Blyleven was giving us the evil eye as he sat a few tables away, shoveling in forkfuls of the shepherd's pie lunch special.

Admittedly, for every dark look, there were probably a half dozen that were pleasant, innocuous, even. This was the Elephant though—casual, but pretty civilized by most standards. You had to wonder what the reception would be to this very scene if it were taking place say, in Rosie's Bar down by the docks, or The Lobster Shack, both the favored hangouts for fishermen, steelworkers, cops, and all manner of "manly men."

Somehow, I couldn't see the proportion of friendly glances being appreciably higher… or even close to equal for that matter.

"Pam's sure got eclectic taste in music, doesn't she?"

"Hm?" I snapped from my reverie to find Kurt staring off into the distance, his head cocked ever so slightly. "I'm sorry."

"No prob. I was just saying that Pam seems to have a varied taste in music, since I don't think I've ever heard the same thing twice any of the times I've been here. Not to mention, we just went from Joni Mitchell to… something country?"

I listened for a second, nodding. "The Mavericks. Yeah, Pam's kind of all over the place musically. A lot of it is because she and her husband traveled so much while he was still alive—a lot's because she's eternally young. She's just as likely to follow this up with Afro Celt Sound System , Lenny Kravitz, or Avril Lavigne."

I chuckled at the astonished look on Kurt's face. "No, really. I mean, true, it must be heard to be believed, but she's got wild taste. She's probably this town's single greatest influence on the CD collections of citizens and tourists alike."

"Sounds like she missed her calling. Maybe she should have owned a music store."

"Nah. She's always said you get better dirt over a cup of coffee any day." I swallowed the last of my own. Man, two double lattés in less than an hour. I could only hope no one came in needing stitches for the next three hours or so.

"Too true. My mom, bless her, is a big believer in the 'food as bribery' concept."

"Your mother…" I hesitated, worried that I might be dangerously close to crossing some invisible line. "She knows—"

"That I'm gay?" he finished for me. "Yeah, sure. Whole family does. But then again, my situation is a little different than yours. Grew up in a much bigger town, with a pretty active gay/lesbian community. Plus, my dad's got a gay cousin who did a lot in terms of paving the way within the family, as it were." Kurt finished the rest of his coffee and stood to leave. "Please don't misunderstand, Taylor. I'm not suggesting you go running down the street waving a rainbow flag. But I tend to think if you give most people half a chance, they'll surprise you."

"Now that sounds like your profession speaking."

"Maybe, maybe not." Again, I was struck by how gentle his voice—his entire demeanor—was. "Don't make the mistake of thinking that just because I had a more inherently tolerant environment that it came any more easily for me."

Well, hell. What could I say to that? Especially after I swallowed the yeah, right, which was trying to fight its way out. Luckily, I didn't have to say anything.

"So, will I be seeing you around?" Are you going to avoid me now?

"Yeah, of course. Around here, it takes effort not to see someone. Besides, not too many singles around here who are legal, yet not to the point of receiving Social Security." No. I may pay for it later, but I want to get to know you.

"Cool." Good, because I'd like to get to know you too.

"I'll call Roby and we'll all get together, all right?" Safety in numbers to begin with, though.

"That'd be great. Tell her I'll be by to see her in the next couple of days." Understood.

I watched Kurt climb into his Subaru with the (you guessed it) rainbow flag bumper sticker and drive off, my stomach clenching in a combination of anticipation and pure fear. Checking my watch, I realized I had just enough time to run a quick errand before I had to be back at the clinic for my next round of appointments.

Five minutes later, I was closing the door to Roby's office behind myself. "Do you know who the new UU minister is?"

Roby looked up from the sketch she was working on. "No. Should I?"

"My father hasn't said anything about him?" I pressed.

"I've hardly seen him lately since I've been down in Kennebunk and he's been out at some house, working on built-ins. However…" Setting aside her sketchbook, she rummaged through the papers on her desk until she found a piece of notebook paper with Dad's unmistakable scrawl on it. "Yeah, here it is. Note saying the new minister had come by a couple of times to say hi and would try to catch me some other time."

"That's all? Man, I can't believe it."

"Taylor, my love. You know I adore you, but you're making no sense and I'm aging here. I need to finish these sketch revisions and get them out in the afternoon mail, so spit it out, already. Who the hell's this new minister and why has it got your panties in such a twist?"

"It's Kurt."

It took her a second. Not surprising, really. It had been weeks since we talked about him and since then she's had to deal with blind dates, insane clients, and an ex-husband showing up for no apparent reason, but finally, the light bulb flickered on, her eyes widening.

"Kurt? Kurt, as in Sunshine Kurt, cute usher at the Merrill who flirted shamelessly with you, gave you his email and who would have ridden you twelve ways to heaven if only you'd called, Kurt?"

I scowled. "Other than that last, rather crude, part, yes, that Kurt."

"He's the new minister?"

"Yes."

"And is he out?"

"Yes."

"Holy shit."

"Apropos choice of words."

"Wow, Cuz." Carefully, she set her pencil down, chewing her lip pensively. "So what are you going to do about it?"

"Invite him to dinner at your place?" I pleaded.

She rolled her eyes and picked up her soda. "If you require a chaperone, dear."

"It's just safer, Ro. Besides, I'm not up for another round of Pam playing matchmaker."

I pounded on Roby's back to help the Diet Coke get going back in the right direction. "Please tell me you're kidding," she managed to choke out.

"Hell no, baby. I kept waiting for her to break out into 'Just Leave Everything to Me'."

"Oh, now you have to tell me everything. And don't skip a damned detail."

I looked down at my watch. "I only have a few minutes."

"Talk fast."

Chapter Ten

2006-09-11T00:13:26Z

Michael

Life is just a series of events that mark and shape us
.
Yes, I know. Right about now, you're thinking, "Why yes, you stupid pillock, and most of us figured that out quite some time ago." Too right. But how many people honestly recognize the marked difference in the types of events that can define our lives? There are the ones that are planned for, that don't necessarily take one by surprise; then there are the ones that just come and kick you straight up the arse. Generally speaking, I've found that one often ties into the other.

For example: falling in love can certainly take you by surprise, happening when you least expect it, yet something that results from falling in love—living with someone or marriage—those are life-changing events that can be planned.

Winning the lottery can be a surprise (especially if you don't recall having bought the bleedin' ticket) but using your financial windfall for long-term investments with a high yield can be planned.

You see what I'm getting at here?

Y'know, there's also, a third type of life-changing event. One that doesn't get talked about a lot, but believe me, it's there. Takes the "straight up the arse" event and ups the ante to include a harsh kick to the bollocks. It leaves you gasping for breath and unsure of anything other than you are absolutely fucked.

It's a mad bitch of an experience.

March 17
Why does everyone assume that because I've spent the majority of my professional life in musical theatre that I must be a) as bent as a nine bob note and/or b) wander about listening to nothing but show tunes? And occasionally breaking into them on some rain-slicked street, backed by an exuberant, if unseen, orchestra?

Okay, admittedly, there are quite a few erm, colorful types within the industry, but there are probably an equal number of normal, everyday, even boring, folk, gay and straight both. Trust me, eccentricity within the theatre community is definitely not restricted by one's sexual orientation.

You see? These are the kinds of thoughts that rattle through my brain when I'm left alone for too long a period of time slogging through some particularly onerous task. Like three months worth of accumulated mail. Not the bills though, thank God. For that, I'd arranged for Stuart's assistant to drop round the house every week or so, sort through the post and extract what needed paying. If I hadn't done so, I might well have come back to a house with no power and smelling of whatever remnants might have petrified in the fridge, while Liv would have ensconced herself and Pierre in her favorite hotel.

Liv's a fantastically talented performer, but like many artistic types, is a bit flighty when it comes to the practical aspects of everyday life. She's not completely at fault, given that she literally grew up in the industry. As a successful child actress she had absolutely everything done for her. Likewise, she had no reason to believe the status quo would change as she segued into adulthood.

With the expectations I had of going into the business world, it was natural for me to take on the care and maintenance of those pesky details. (Liv's words, not mine.) Most of the time, I rather enjoy it, actually. Taking care of such mundane, yet necessary tasks makes me feel more grounded and normal (there's that word again) in marked contrast to the slightly surreal nature of my life the rest of the time.

It had taken the better part of the past week, but I was finally done sorting through the lot of it; there remained only one thick manila envelope for me to deal with. I knew very well what was in the package—it was rather benign really and could be dispatched with in a matter of minutes. Nevertheless, I approached the task with the same distaste as if I'd been requested to shovel through cow shit. I had no idea why on earth I was so reluctant to deal with the stupid thing.

Sighing, I rose from my desk. I needed something stronger than tea and The Beach Boys. At the bar in the corner of the room, I poured myself a generous measure of whisky carrying it back to the desk. Picking up the stereo remote, I forwarded through several discs until I found the one I wanted: Level 42. Mark King's throbbing, intricate bass work always proved a great antidote to crap tasks. Had been since my university days when I first began listening to them. Spent hard-earned money to see them in concert. Twice.

Surprised? Don't know why anyone would be. I'm as much a music fan as the next chap—hell, I almost lost my command of the English language when I was introduced to Sting at some charity function or another. Tam still hasn't quite forgiven me for not getting her an autograph or picture, but Christ. How naff would that have been?

All right, all this tripping down memory lane was a sure sign I was stalling. Ripping open the envelope, I upended it, spilling some two dozen eight-by-tens over the desk's surface. Some were full color, some, black and whites; full body, head shots, smiling, serious—the gamut of human emotion as seen by an overeager photographer and captured on film. Jesus, but he'd annoyed the living shite out of me.

It was now my job to sort through these and pick the half dozen least offensive for the graphic designer to choose between for inclusion in the Camelot show program. As I fanned them out, one in particular caught my eye. Not because it was a fabulous shot or anything. As a general rule, I hate pictures of myself. No, there was just something about this shot—its composition, the lighting, whatever you will—that made me pick it up and stare at it.

A common enough shot, done in a studio that could be one of a thousand, anywhere in the world--New York, in this case. But something about the image staring back at me didn't jibe with the one I faced every morning whilst shaving. Much as I hate to admit it, the little nutter was extremely talented, the composition and layout of the picture belying what at first had seemed a rather plebian approach. He'd used all of the shades of gray inherent in black and white film, playing light and dark against each other brilliantly. The rather commonplace black turtleneck we'd argued over had turned out to be a fantastic choice, since it made the contrast between hair, eyes, and skin all the more striking against the ebony fabric.

My eyes, I noted, were particularly vivid. Strange given that this was a black and white shot. Usually it's the color most people comment on and which, in this case happened to be least evident. Leeched of their color, they appeared almost transluscent, however, it wasn't the color or lack thereof that caught my attention. Rather, it was the expression in them. I was smiling right at the camera, just as I'd been directed—

Enigmatically though, darling. Keep a sense of mystery. Don't let them see everything.

Even so, I could see that my eyes had been staring past the lens, almost as if I were… searching, yearning for something, perhaps. But for what? What could I, of all people, be yearning for?

Nothing, that's what. I sighed, dismissing what was surely nothing more than an early onset midlife crisis. Ultimately, it was nothing more or less than a good photo and would serve perfectly well for the program. I quickly sorted through the rest of the shots selecting several that would be suitable. As I was sliding my choices into a fresh envelope, the phone rang.

"Hullo?"

"Michael."

"Stuart, you bastard." Once upon a time, it wouldn't have been unheard of for Stu to ring me up of an evening and we'd go out for drinks or dinner since we were as much friends as manager and client. However, since the advent of Miranda, the Trophy Wife, things had changed considerably and it had been a dog's age since I'd spent any time with him that wasn't business related. However, I couldn't complain much. Okay, so in the beginning I honestly thought Stuart mad as a hatter and that Miranda was simply out for money or fame by association, but having spent time with them on the tour, I had to admit they were oddly perfect for each other despite their twenty-four year age difference. He adored her and she doted on him, making certain he took vitamins and wore a scarf against the chill even as she pinched his arse in lustful glee. Yes, I know. Made me shudder a bit too. However, you can't help but think there's hope for all of us, eh?

"What's up, mate? Miranda finally come to her senses and seen you for the boring old sod you are?" I teased.

"Michael," he repeated. The tone of his voice made the hairs on my arms stand at uneasy attention. "I've just had a phone call."

"Is it Miranda? Has something happened?" Stupid. I knew it wasn't Miranda. Stuart wouldn't be sounding deadly calm if it were. But it was easier to imagine it was that, rather than—

"No, Randa's fine. It was from David Cunningham."

Liv's manager? Why would her manager call Stu?

"There's no easy way to say this, Mikey. She's been in an accident."

I couldn't breathe. I slumped in my chair, an iron band grabbing at my chest, squeezing tighter and tighter. The blood was rushing so loudly in my ears I couldn't hear all of what Stu was saying, catching only fragmented snatches.

"Miranda's calling… flight… go with you…be by in about an hour… get to airport…"

I wasn't hearing what I wanted to hear, what I needed to hear, but I couldn't speak with that fucking band moving up to clutch at my throat.

"Is she alive?" I choked out. Once begun, it got easier. "Stuart, she's alive, isn't she? Tell me!"

"Mike, I know this can't be easy, but you've got to calm down. Yes, she's alive. Seriously hurt, from what I've been told, but she'll live. I don't know much more, but of that I was assured." I released my grip on the armrest and was greeted by the sound of metal hitting wood. I'd pulled the arm of the chair completely off the frame. I stared at it, detached. Cheap piece of shit.

"Fuck. I knew I should have come over straight away, but Miranda thought it better to have the travel plans in place so we could go right to the airport. Will you be all right for a bit? Just hang on 'til we get there?"

The band was loosening a bit… just the merest fraction. Enough for me to muster a very slim, very fragile thread of self-control.

"Yeah, Stu. I'll get a bag together and be ready when you get here." A soft whine caught my attention. I looked down to see Pierre lying at my feet, looking up with what I swore was a worried expression. Poor little bugger, he'd been missing her so.

"Stu?"

"Yeah, mate?"

"D'you think Miranda could keep Pierre at your place while we're gone?" I scooped his tiny form into my lap and stroked the ridiculous tuft of fur on his head, his habitual quaking echoing what was going on in my gut. "I know Liv would hate the thought of him in some boarding kennel. I don't even know if we could get him in one on such short notice." I was babbling, trying to hold on, but the slim thread of control was stretching back out to the breaking point. Would she really be okay?

"Michael." Again, Stu's voice was dead calm but held a note of reassurance. "Of course she'll take care of Pierre. Don't worry about it. Don't worry about anythin'. We'll be there fast as we can."

"Right." I closed my eyes and tried to breathe as deeply as I could around the fear gripping me. The fear I knew wouldn't dissipate until I saw Olivia for myself and could be certain that she'd be fine.

"Okay then."

"Stu?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For… for—" For what? For telling me my wife's in a hospital in a strange country and I don't even know what the fuck's going on? Inexplicably, I was angry. But why? And at who? Stuart? Liv? Myself? Was I angry I hadn't been there to protect her? Keep her from harm? Yeah, Superman, like you could have kept her from being in an accident.

"It's okay, Michael. Just sit tight."

The phone clicked in my ear. I dropped the receiver on the floor and closed my eyes.

Liv. Hang on, Liv. I'll be there soon.

**
Chrome.

Glass.

Intermittent beeps and rings.

The sharp, clean smell of antiseptic.

Silent footsteps and hushed whispers.

I couldn't focus on anything greater than the smallest, most finite details around me. If you up and dropped me squarely in the middle of that same hospital today, I'd most likely swear I'd never set foot in it before. And don't even bother asking about the trip over. I have absolutely no memory of it past Miranda's dropping Stu and I off at Heathrow. Yet I have a very clear memory of the woman I'd so often dismissed as nothing more than a flighty bint giving me the most heartfelt, most sympathetic smile I'd ever seen before hugging me, then Stu, tightly, and wishing us godspeed and safe travel. After she'd driven off, I discovered a small flask in my coat pocket that she most likely slipped in when she hugged me. However, that bastard Stuart confiscated it, only allowed me a wee dram, just enough to calm the nerves, he said. Something about wanting to keep my wits about me.

I knew he was right, but at the same time, I desperately wanted the oblivion that pure, stinking drunkenness could bring—if only because that way, I might be able to imagine this to be nothing more than some horrific, alcohol-fueled nightmare.

Instead, I was stone-cold sober, listening to a man who seemed too impossibly young to be a physician, much less an orthopedic specialist, describe in soft, German-accented English, the extent of Olivia's injuries. Once again, I allowed myself a brief respite from worry, as the doctor began by assuring me Liv would make a full recovery. However, that was before he went into detail.

A fractured pelvis. Metal plates and screws. Lengthy rehabilitation. It wasn't until he began explaining how fitting the pieces of Liv's pelvis and hip back together had been somewhat like a assembling a jigsaw puzzle, that I felt dazed… and just a bit sick. I swear, the git was lost in his own little world, gleefully going into gruesome detail about how he'd found a missing sliver of bone floating and was able to properly fit it back into place.

Luckily, I succeeded in holding back both my gorge and the undeniable urge to punch him senseless.

"What I don't understand is what the hell she was doing out driving on unfamiliar roads at all. Why didn't she just take a taxi?"

Exhausted and half out of my head with fear as I was, I still managed to catch the look of confusion that crossed the doctor's face and the slight shake of the head Stuart sent his direction.

"What?" My gaze shifted between the doctor, who looked increasingly uncomfortable, and Stuart, who merely looked resigned.

"Thank you, Doctor." Stu took me off to the small waiting area nearby while the doctor gratefully retreated, probably to have a glass of warm milk before being tucked into bed by his nanny. I really needed to get Liv back to London.

"What's going on, Stu?"

"She wasn't the driver, Michael."

My heart stopped. I swear it did. "What are you talking about? You didn't say anything about this before. The other person didn't—" I paused, swallowing hard.

"No, Mikey, they—he—didn't die."

"Who was it?"

For the first time in our nearly seventeen years of friendship, Stuart was less than forthcoming, choosing instead to ask a question of his own. "Does the name Evan Marlowe mean anything to you?"

Confused, I stared. "Yeah, of course. It's the young American chap who's starring in the film."

"Right." Sweat was beading along Stu's hairline. He shed his topcoat, dropping it onto a chair. "He was the driver, but wasn't seriously hurt. Broken wrist. He was treated and released before we even arrived."

"Okay." Why the hell was Stu so bloody nervous? Had the bastard been drunk or high? If he had… Anger, hot and thick, clogged my throat. "Stu, what aren't you telling me?"

"Shit, I don't know." He ran an agitated hand through his short, thinning brown hair, leaving it standing straight up in the riotous cock's comb that had never before failed to make me smile. Until now.

"What the fuck are you going on about?" My voice was loud, shattering the curious stillness to which all hospitals seem prone in the wee hours.

He reached up to put a comforting hand on my shoulder. I shook it off, impatient to have him get on with it.

"I'll be honest, Michael, there's something about all of this that's bothering the hell out of me and I don't know exactly what it is. However, I suspect it has something to do with this."

He reached into his ever-present soft side briefcase, extracting a flat, black bag I immediately recognized. Olivia's favorite Prada clutch. She was so bloody proud of that stupid purse, although for the life of me, I couldn't tell it from the thousands of other black purses I'd ever seen.

"It was recovered at the scene. They went through it in Casualty, looking for contact information. Since the first thing they found was a local number for the film crew, that's who they rang first. Afterwards, they sent the bag up to the nursing station here to be held until her next of kin arrived." He paused again, as if weighing his next words. "Michael, I gathered from what little the nurse told me, that there are some items of a, erm… delicate nature in here. And before you ask," he held up a hand, "no, I haven't looked and I haven't the faintest fucking clue what it could be. As it was, I practically had to scrawl my signature in blood before that Hun of a head nurse would hand it over and that was only under the condition that I pass it to you and only you."

I was momentarily distracted by watching Stu's nervous glance over his shoulder to the nurse's station where I fully expected to see nothing less than a virtual Amazon. Instead, there stood a tiny, black-haired nurse, arms crossed and fierce gaze trained squarely in our direction. Any other time, the situation would have appealed to my sense of the absurd. However, right at this moment, it was somewhat overshadowed by my total and utter confusion. "Stu, if it was all so bloody cloak-and-dagger, why didn't they just give it directly to me when I was over there signing all the forms and the like?"

"I dunno, mate. All Frau Brunhilde over there said to me was that it would be best if you received it from a friend, rather than a virtual stranger."

He gingerly handed the bag to me as if it were filled with a live charge. I started to lift the flap but stopped. I couldn't do this yet. I needed to see Liv first—needed to be with her, even if she wasn't conscious.

"I want to see her—when the fuck are they going to let me see her?" It had been hours since we'd arrived, but as Young Frankestein had taken such care in describing, the surgery had been a delicate, lengthy process.

As if summoned by some invisible nurse's radar, the tiny head nurse appeared by my side murmuring, "Your wife has just been moved to her room, Herr MacLaren. If you will follow me…"

"Go on, Mikey." Stuart patted my shoulder. "I'll be here."

I followed the nurse's brisk steps down the hall to the private room I had made certain Liv would be moved to. I wanted her to be as comfortable as possible when she woke up. I knew my wife—a stranger in the next bed would definitely not make her comfortable.

Stepping through the doorway, I was struck by how… normal she looked. At a casual glance, Liv merely appeared to be sleeping peacefully. However, the monitors, beeping quietly away and the various tubes and wires connecting her to them gave quick lie to the image. As did the deathly pallor of her skin; deathly, at least until I walked around to the opposite side of the bed and got my first glimpse of the livid splotches covering the side of her face from brow to chin, marring her perfect complexion.

Dazed, I sank into the bedside chair as the nurse moved quietly around, efficiently checking monitors and statistics, and making notations on a chart. Tapping my shoulder, she indicated a button by the head of the bed.

"Ring zis if you need anysing."

I nodded and she slipped from the room, silently closing the door behind herself.

Setting Liv's purse on the bedside table, I carefully reached in amongst the tubes and wires to take her hand. Stroking it gently I whispered, "You're going to be all right, Liv. The physicians here are really fantastic, even if your surgeon looks more like Doogie Howser than a proper doctor."

I've heard that even when people are unconscious, they can still hear and comprehend, if not actual words, at least tone and meaning. So I made an effort to keep my nerves at bay as I continued speaking to her.

"I have to tell you darling, you've given me quite the fright. At first, I was so bloody angry with you—but that doesn't do either of us a damned bit of good, does it? And to top it all off, now there's all this mystery surrounding the contents of your purse. People are going about acting as if there's a bomb ready to go off in the wretched thing. I'm sure everyone's just overreacting—"

My gaze shifted from the still planes of her face to the purse, sitting dormant, like a cobra waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. I shook my head, trying to clear it of the sinister imagery. It had to be, as I'd said to Stu, simply all of the cloak and dagger bullshit making me feel vaguely paranoid about what I might find in the bag.

"Dammit, Liv. I don't really want to look, but other people have seen what's in it. If I'm to protect you, take care of you… I need to know what's in there. But not right this minute." I carefully scooted my chair in close enough to where I could lay my head on the mattress. "Right now, I just want to be with you." I kissed her fingertips, a feathery caress I swore she could feel, as her fingers twitched against mine and her eyelids fluttered just a bit.

"There's a good girl, Liv. We'll both just take a bit of a rest." I closed my eyes but much as I wanted to drift off into the oblivion that sleep offered, my mind was saying "No go, mate." Thoughts, images, ideas, possibilities, each more far-fetched than the next—Liv was on drugs and young Evan was her dealer; she was the drug dealer and Evan was threatening to expose her; the film was a front for a white-slavery ring she'd been trying to escape—these and other equally absurd scenarios all invaded my brain, crowding in, one on top of the other, jostling for prominence, until I finally sat up with a disgusted sigh. Obviously, I wasn't going to get any rest until I dealt with the issue rather than avoiding it.

That realization left me ashamed. I'd never been one to run away from difficult situations. Whatever was in that stupid bag couldn’t possibly be as bad as what I was imagining, right?

Wrong.

It was worse.

Much, much worse.

At the small table by the window I cracked the blinds, opting for watery, gray dawn as a light source rather than the potentially harsher glare of a lamp. I realized with an eerie sense of detachment, that what was spread before me on the table was something of a reenactment of the scene at my desk—had it really been less than twelve hours ago?

Pictures—dozens of them—lay before me. Pictures of Liv: clothed, partially clothed, fully nude, and in many of them, accompanied by a man—obviously, not me. Of Liv, in all sorts of poses: coy, flirtatious, come-hither seductress. Liv—engaging in any number of acts by herself and with this man—who wasn't me. Who was unmistakably, her young co-star, Evan Marlowe, as I gathered from one particularly explicit image of the two of them, facing the camera, obviously in the throes of an enormous, all-consuming passion. Or put more bluntly, shagging their goddamned brains out.

I could also clearly see in this particular photo, as in others, that Liv was wearing the diamond necklace I'd given her. How very touching of her to be thinking of me at such a time.

Bolting into the adjoining loo, I dropped to my knees in front of the toilet. Since I'd eaten basically nothing since lunch the day before, there wasn't a whole lot solid coming up, just bitter, acid bile tainted with the faint bite of brandy, burning its way up my throat before the dry-heaves set in.

Resting my head on the seat's edge, I gasped for breath, feeling my stomach cramp painfully, as if preparing to have another go. Screw that—I didn't have time for this. I had, no—needed—to see what else was in that bag. With a concerted effort, I steadied my breathing, restoring a sense of equilibrium, momentary though it might prove to be. I rinsed my mouth and splashed water on my face, patting it dry with the thin, hospital-issue towel. Gripping the sides of the sink, I leveled a hard stare at myself in the mirror.

Strange. I didn't look very different than I had the day before, outside of a day's worth of stubble and eyes red-rimmed from shock and lack of sleep. You'd imagine having one's life shattered would perhaps show a bit more, wouldn't you?

I walked back into the room, barely sparing a glance at Liv, lying quietly in the bed. I couldn't look at her, you see. If I did, I might lose what little control I'd regained. That anger, the all-consuming, raging temper that my father had warned me against so many years ago, was back and chafing against the restraints I'd so painfully learned to put on it, dangerously close to breaking the surface. If I looked too closely at her—at the monitors and the bruises, those direct results of her betrayal—I… well, I just couldn't.

At the table I gathered the scattered photos into a neat pile, placing them back in the envelope in which I'd found them. Reaching into her bag, I pulled out a second envelope, thick with what, I didn't know, plus a loose, folded sheet of paper. I looked at the paper first, unfolding it and reading the neatly typed lines. The logo at the top of the sheet showed it to be a memo from the film company and was, in fact, the shooting schedule. Which was set to commence in a week's time.

Jesus God. She wasn't even supposed to have been here for nearly another week. I shook my head, bemused, recalling her "sudden" departure that last afternoon. What a stupid fuck I'd been. A stupid, besotted, trusting arse. I'd never even thought to question her. But then, I'd never felt I had reason to.

Or, the thought suddenly occurred to me, could I have just not cared enough? With all of our increasing disagreements over starting a family, was it possible that subconsciously, I was just as happy to have her off on her own adventure? Having a taste of her own success? Off somewhere far away where we couldn't argue?
Dully, I reached into the second envelope, pulling out a folded sheaf of papers. By this point, I wasn't even surprised to note they were from a solicitor; a lengthy letter outlining what Liv needed to do in order to ensure a smooth "transition period" for the divorce to take place on her terms. One of the interesting bits of advice: take special care to keep evidence of the infidelities under wraps. Infidelities… as in young Evan had obviously not been the first.

I rummaged through the purse, checking to see if I'd missed anything. Ah yes, of course. The necklace—that lovely, elegant, damnable necklace I'd bought with such love and care, envisioning her joy and how beautiful she'd look wearing it. And she did look beautiful—just a vision of loveliness whilst fucking her young boy. Because that's what he was. A boy, nearly ten years her junior.

For the first time since I'd seen the pictures I looked directly at her. "Why, Liv?"

With a sudden decisive motion, I pushed open the window, flinging diamonds and platinum out with a single, sharp flick of my wrist. As luck would have it, there happened to be a small pond just below the window. I watched with a vicious sense of satisfaction as the necklace, sparkling even in the faint morning sunlight, skidded across the ice and into the small unfrozen circle where a family of ducks paddled peacefully, never noticing the small plop as it hit the water and sank.

God, I wished I had a wedding ring to fling in after it, but Liv and I had never exchanged them. She claimed we didn't need such arbitrary, bourgeois symbols to prove we were married. We'd had the ceremony, we were together, wasn't that enough?

Probably didn't want it to cramp her style, I thought bitterly.

I stuffed pictures, papers, everything that had been instrumental in destroying the illusion I'd been living for the last fifteen years back in the bag. Dropping it into my rucksack, I slung it over my shoulder and exited the room without a backward glance.

Stu was waiting for me, just where I'd left him. The only evidence he'd moved at all was the large cardboard cup of coffee he was calmly sipping from. He offered me a cup identical to his, to which I shook my head.

"Did you know?"

"I suspected." He carefully set the second cup on the chair next to his. "Especially with the fuss over her bag, figured there was somethin' incriminating in it, but I didn't know for sure until I saw your face just now. Was it the boy?"

"Yeah." I sank down into another chair. "There's pictures, the likes of which you've never seen outside a skin flick, Stu. Plus, divorce papers, the whole lot. She was preparing to fuck me seven ways to Sunday and trust me, it wasn't going to be anywhere near as enjoyable as what I saw her doing with that little shit."

"God, I'm sorry, mate."

I suddenly recalled Miranda's face at the airport. "Did Miranda suspect too?"

If he was surprised by the question, he didn't allow it to show. "Yeah, Mikey. In fact, she's thought so for some time."

"Christ, I'm an idiot. Everyone saw it but me."

"No, you're not." Stu's voice was quiet but forceful. "And no, everyone didn't see. I would never have noticed a damned thing if Randa hadn't said something and even then, I doubted her, until all of this shit with the accident and the bloody purse."

I stared down at the nubby, blue-gray carpet. Such a soothing, restful color. Probably why it was chosen. Yes, let's have the all-important soothing carpet while people wait to see if loved ones live or die. Or to provide peacefulness underfoot while their lives go completely to shit.

"I've got to get out of here, Stu. I can't breathe."

Again, a startling lack of surprise, merely nodding as it if were the most logical thing I could have said.

"You're going to want to go out a back or side entrance. I already spotted some nosey little pricks sniffing about the front and at Casualty, no doubt paparazzi chaps who've caught wind of the accident. Won't be long before someone slips and mentions that Olivia wasn't by herself, provided it's not already public knowledge. One way or another, all hell's bound to break loose if they catch sight of you tryin' to leave."

"Jesus. The fucking paparazzi." They hadn't even occurred to me. Once presented with such a salacious bit, they'd gnaw at it until every dirty, nasty little detail was exposed. Then they'd go to work.

"Come with me." Startled I looked up to find the tiny head nurse standing next to me, her expression inscrutable. Stu and I exchanged glances. He shrugged, obviously as confused as I, however, we were neither of us about to argue with her. We followed her diminutive form down the hall, away from the nursing station and Liv's room. I chanced a single glance back, but of course, there was nothing to see, save the movement and bustle of the hospital waking up and easing into its morning routines.

We took what was obviously a service elevator down to the basement, following our guide silently through the mechanical guts of the hospital. Deep into the bowels of the building we went, no sounds other than the hissing and buzzing and clanging of the machines going about their work. Just as it seemed there was nowhere else to go, we took an abrupt left around a large electrical unit, behind which was a door. The nurse nodded at a maintenance man, who was clearly expecting us. The beeping of keys being pressed on a wall-mounted pad was followed by a click and a sudden flood of light that illuminated the basement as the door swung open, revealing a narrow alley.
Our nurse/guide turned to us with a smile, which transformed her stern face into that of the relatively young woman I realized with some surprise she actually was.

"Zis is, how you say, an emergency exit for ze people who work down here." She took my arm and pulled me out into the chilly morning air, pointing down the alley. "You will be able to find a taxi on that street to take you wherever you need to go."

The woman either had ears like a bat or was the most intuitive individual I'd ever met. How she knew precisely what I needed was a mystery but not one I was inclined to ponder too deeply at the mo. I was just grateful for her intervention.

I took her hand. "Danke."

"You're welcome, Herr MacLaren and… I'm sorry." She stepped away to give Stu and I a moment alone.

"You'll stay here until she's stable and someone else comes to be with her?" I was still unbelievably angry—angrier than I'd ever been with another human being in my entire life, but she was still my wife and we'd shared fifteen years of our lives together. I couldn't just abandon her, even if I couldn't be the one to stay.

"Course mate. I talked to David. He told me her parents were already on their way from Australia. I'll stay until they get here."

"Thanks." I shifted my rucksack higher on my shoulder and turned to leave. Stu's voice stopped me before I'd gone a half-dozen steps.

"Any idea where you're off to?"

I stared down at the worn cobblestones. "Not a fucking clue."

"Hm. Thought as much. Well, try to keep in touch. Randa'll have my arse in a sling if she imagines anything's happened to you. She's rather fond of your sorry hide, for reasons that utterly escape me."

I laughed, the sound harsh and bitter as it ricocheted off the narrow alley walls. "Me too."

"Please take care, Mikey."

"Can't make any promises, but I'll try." I headed down the alley and merged with the pedestrians, those lucky souls who were going about their everyday lives, to jobs and schools and running errands. I wondered if they even realized how lucky they were? For a few minutes, I wanted to be a part of them, wanted to just be, so I simply walked, letting the cold, fresh air blow away the smells of antiseptic and stale coffee and the bitter stench of betrayal. The sun shone blindingly bright on this late winter's morning, making me reach for my sunglasses and allowing me to add another layer of anonymity. After I'd walked awhile, I raised my arm, flagging down a passing taxi.

"Airport, bitte."

Chapter Nine

2006-09-07T15:35:15Z

*Note-- I will try to be much better about updating on a regular basis.

Roby

Have I ever mentioned how much I relish being my own boss? Especially considering it's doing something I love. I mean, yeah, I'll have the occasional dippy client who wants white upholstery in a beach house or Hemingway's Key West bungalow look for their New England cape (I made it work, dammit.). I tend to regard those as… challenges. And they're more than offset by the clients with whom I can work in an equal partnership. Sometimes they'll have the perfect vision for what they want their home to look like—sometimes they have no clue and they're looking for me to lead the way, but once I've given them a gentle push, they start coming up with these great ideas that will make their home their own. Regardless of the type of client, there's no better feeling than leaving them with a finished product I know they'll love. It's taken a lot of work, but I'm doing pretty well, if I do say so myself.

Then there's the other half of my professional life—when I'll be called in to consult on a preservation. It's like putting together a puzzle— envisioning what a building's original purpose might have been, the thrill of unearthing some clue that sends me in a new direction. Maybe it's a chip of paint or hidden bit of wainscoting—it doesn't take much for me to begin the hunt and do my Sherlock Holmes thing. It satisfies not only my creative urges, but in saving something that's a piece of a collective history, I become part of something bigger, more enduring. How amazing is that?

Cool too, is being able to share my workspace with Uncle Hugh. Not that he ever says much—he's the epitome of New England reserve, all the more noticeable against Zia's vibrancy. They make an odd couple, but a perfect one, y'know? Very Yin and Yang. But it's good to know he's there, usually in the back of the building where his workshop is, while I man the showroom. Walter, the true boss of us all, wanders back and forth as he pleases, because another one of those pleasures of being your own boss is that you can bring your dog with you. And play your favorite music. And sometimes, just sit back and take it all in—that this is something I built.

If my home is my sanctuary, then my business is my domain.

March 17

A woman's only human
You should understand
She's not just a plaything
She's flesh and blood
Just like her man
If you want a do right all day woman
You gotta be a do right all night man

Nothing like Aretha to chase away the blahs on a gray March day I thought as I studied fabric samples in my office. Girlfriend's voice was like a warm spring breeze chasing away the iciest chill. Britney, Christina, Mariah… divas? Feh. As far as I was concerned, Aretha was IT. Taylor had sent me a new batch of CDs he'd burned and the sixties mix was just the thing to get my groove on this morning. But listening to some of the songs, like Do Right Woman, for example, I had to wonder if the little twerp wasn't trying to hit me with subliminal messages embedded within the lyrics.

"My, but you're in a good mood."

I looked up to see Mary Ellen standing in the doorway, a "cat's slugged all the cream in the fridge" grin on her face.

"Hey. I didn't hear you come in."

"Came in through the back." She entered the office and after pouring herself some coffee, sank onto the loveseat. "Talked to Hugh for a few minutes—Tom needs some new chairs for his office. Figured it was just easier to have Hugh build him what he wants than to go on an endless search that'll just bring us back here anyway."

I got up to shelve the sample books I'd been skimming through. "Anything I can help with?"

"Not this time. Tom just wants some plain Windsor armchairs, but you know how picky he is. 'Plain' does not necessarily translate to 'simple.' Better to just have them made to his specs. Saves a lot of pain and torment—especially for me."

I laughed, all too familiar with Tom's precise nature. For him, perfection was all in the small details. He and I got along very well when it came to decorating sensibilities—it was Mary Ellen whom it drove insane.

"So?"

"So… what?"

"My, but you're in a good mood," she repeated, wearing the same shit-eating grin. "I wonder why that is?"

"It's Tuesday," I snarked back. "Ground round was on sale yesterday. There's a new Gilmore Girls on tonight. Does there have to be a specific reason?"

"No, no… of course not." She tried to sound casual, but that stupid grin would not leave her face.

"What? Geez, M.E., attempted subtle is so not a good look on you. Wouldja just spit it out, already?"

I could guess what she was all worked up about, but damned if I was going to add more boost to her ego. She was already way too flush with success on this score.

"Sam was in a similarly good mood when I saw him at the office this morning. Whistling, even."

"Your powers of observation never cease to amaze," I returned dryly. Nope, not giving an inch. I refuse.

She finally caved, dropping the coy façade. "C'mon, Roby. Give a little would ya?" Leaning forward, she asked, "Did you see him last night?"

"Why didn't you ask Sam?"

"I did. He told me to ask you."

I giggled at the frustrated look on her face. She was about to explode from curiosity, poor thing, but to her credit, she was trying to hold back… a little, so I relented.
"Okay, okay… Not like there's that much to share. He happened to be over this way showing some property and he called. Zia offered to watch the kids for awhile, so we ducked out for quick bite to eat."

"That's it?"

Oh my God, the sudden droop of her features was enough to send me into another fit of giggles. "Yeah, that's it," I managed to choke out. "I told you there wasn't much."

She sagged back against the loveseat's cushions. "Damn."

"What were you expecting, that we'd had a wild and wooly fuckfest in the backseat of his car?"

"No, that's not what I was thinking—okay, yes maybe it was."

"God bless, M.E., I would've never taken you for a closet voyeur."

While yes, I was laughing at her, I can't say as I blamed her. After all, it wasn't like the thought hadn't crossed my mind while Sam and I had been in the midst of another heated kissing session last night. Yet… thinking back on it this morning, I realized it had been more from a clinical "Wonder what it would be like" sort of standpoint, as opposed to a total "swept away by overwhelming passion" feeling. It was like I'd been reassured my body was still operational—up to a certain point—I just wanted to see if it could carry through the rest of the way.

That realization left me feeling vaguely guilty, as if I were only using Sam as some sort of sexual guinea pig. But that wasn't true—I genuinely liked Sam—liked spending time with him. If he'd just been a sex experiment, I probably would have just boinked him and we would've gone our separate ways that first night. The fact that I hadn't—that I wanted to continue to see him, meant something, didn't it?

"Cut me some slack and let me live vicariously, okay?" M.E.'s voice cut through my reverie. "When you've been married as long as I have, vicarious thrills are about all that spice up the everyday routines."

"Hey, don't knock the everyday routines." I propped my feet up on my desk, sipping at my coffee. "There's definitely something to be said for them. Besides, you lucky thing, most people's everyday routines don't include flowers on a regular basis from their husband."

Every few days. Just because. Men like Tom made me wonder how close scientists were on that human cloning process.

Propping her feet similarly on the coffee table in front of her, M.E. sighed, "Yeah, I know, and believe me, I'm grateful. It's just that every now and again, I miss the thrill that only comes with a new relationship. You know what I mean, don't you? Where any given moment has the potential to uncover something new?"

"Yeah, I know what you mean. Just remember that the something new you uncover might not always be of the good variety. At least after so many years with Tom, you can be reasonably certain there are no nasties on the horizon."

Mary Ellen looked over, gaze filled with understanding. "I hear ya, babe. But I take it, no nasty surprises from Sam, right?"

"Sam?" I shook my head. "Nah. He's as open as the day is long. Nothing but good stuff from him." Which was true. My honed-by-painful experience bullshit detector hadn't registered so much as a blip in Sam's presence.

"But?" she questioned.

"But?" I repeated.

"What's the deal? We know he's not an axe murderer, so that's not it. But come on, Ro. I can tell there's something you're not saying. What is it, no fireworks? Which I would find hard to believe given both your moods today, but stranger things have been known to happen."

Damn woman's known me way too long.

"Hey, if you don't want to talk about it now, it's cool. Just know I'm here."

And would miracles never cease?

"No, no… it's okay." I paused, not exactly sure how to say it. "The fireworks are there. It's just…" I paused again, meditatively chewing on a fingernail.

"What, Ro?" Mary Ellen's voice was gentle.

"Well, this is kind of a crappy analogy, but in keeping with the whole fireworks theme—it's not Roman candles but rather more like… sparklers."

M.E.'s face lit with understanding. "Tingly, bright, and lasts only as long as the sucker burns, as opposed to blinding lights and an earth-shattering kaboom that you can feel all the way through to your bones, long after it's gone off?"

"Exactly."

"Hm."

A definite benefit to having shared everything growing up—implicit understanding.

"Don't get me wrong, M.E. Sparklers might not be so bad. After all, I had what I thought were earth-shattering kabooms with Jack and look where that got me."

Hello, waiter? I'll take a side of bitter with that regret.
M.E.'s feet dropped to the floor with a thump. "Oh please, girl. You were too damned wet behind the ears when you met Jack. Not to mention, naïve, overly sentimental, and probably more than a little in love with the whole 'this is something that only happens in the movies' feel of your first meeting.

"Probably," I agreed. "I suppose the idea that you can just randomly bump into someone who'll become the love of your life is pretty silly, isn't it?"

Shit.

Too late, I realized just how wistful that last had come out sounding. Just as too late, I realized that it also hadn't escaped Mary Ellen's notice.

"You're still thinking of him." It wasn't a question or even, surprisingly enough, an accusation. Just a simple statement of fact.

I shrugged. What else was there to say?

"I wish I understood."

"Well then, that would make two of us." My tone was drier than a James Bond martini, two olives.

Even as long as we've known each other, Mary Ellen still has the capacity to surprise. For the first time, someone close to me, who knew the entirety of this whole insane situation, asked the simplest, most basic of all questions. "What is it about him?"

I reclined my chair all the way back, staring at the ceiling. Somehow it was easier to talk about Michael facing the polished oak of the fan blades than the concerned face of my best friend.

"I dunno, M.E. In my rational mind, I know I shouldn't think anything more of him than he's a nice guy I happened to spend a few hours with. But… something just clicked, I guess. At least on my part—and I suppose, to a certain extent on his, otherwise, why would he have even emailed me in the first place?"

I laughed softly. "God, if I could only count the hours I've spent mulling this whole situation over. It's just so different from anything else I've ever encountered before. He's so different from anyone else. Michael wants to know little things about my life… what the kids are up to, what I'm up to, what sorts of everyday things are going on around here. It's nice. He makes me feel special in a way I never really have before, if that makes any sense?"

I snuck a sideways glance at M.E. who was nodding slowly. I continued speaking, my mind's eye conjuring up blue, blue eyes and dimples for days. Damn. "He shares stuff about himself that makes him so real to me. Tells me all of these stories about being on the tour—talks about his family and his wife." Really, Ro, just let your voice stumble a little more over that last word—but I managed to keep going. "You know, outside of actually seeing him in the concert, and the brief Googling which preceded it," I grinned, "I've never had this sense of him as this larger-than-life famous person. He's just Michael—this slightly goofy, cute guy with a dirty sense of humor, who enjoys spicy food and loves music." I sat up straight and faced M.E.

"Thing is… I'm thinking of cutting back—off—our email correspondence."

Again, Mary Ellen managed to surprise me.

"Why?"

No "Good," or "It's about damned time," or any variations thereof. Just a simple "Why?" I tried to keep my answer simple as well, but let's face it—there hadn't been anything simple about this whole mess from the get go.

"Because the more I get to know him… the more I—" I faltered, not certain how to put it into words. "The more I'm afraid I'm going to say something I really have no logical reason or business saying, you know?"

"Oy. I wondered if you were that far gone."

"'Fraid so," I sighed. "I don't know. Maybe the fascination's so strong because he's not physically here, 'cause he's out of reach. However, I'm sure you'll be pleased to know I've at least been making an effort, feeble though it might be, to wean myself off the emails for awhile now. Ever since I started seeing Sam. It's weird, but I can't help feeling like I'm being unfaithful—to both of them, no less. Sam, because I've kept quiet about Michael, and Michael— Well, not like I have any actual reason to feel unfaithful to him, but let's just call it one more of those fucked up emotions I have about the man.

"But every time I tell myself that this is the last email, or I'm going to wait at least a couple of days before writing back instead of a couple of hours, ping. I get a new email and inevitably, it's something I can't ignore."

"Like what?" Now, M.E. was starting to sound impatient. "Roby, I'm not discounting the importance of how he makes you feel, but dammit, you're bearing the emotional burden here and because you won't say anything, you'll continue to do so. And doesn't he have friends of his own, anyway?"

I chuckled, not because what she'd said was so funny, but because Michael himself, had said more or less the same thing in his most recent email.

I know you say that your advice can't count for much, but you're really rather wrong there. However, while your suggestion is a sound one, one that I considered seriously, I'm afraid I really don't have anyone I can talk to about this. In fact, when I put some thought into it, I was quite alarmed to realize just how many people there are who I consider to be friendly acquaintances, yet there's not a one of them I'd share such intimate details of my life with. Stu's undoubtedly my closest friend and maybe once upon a time I might have gone to him, but he's so blasted happy being a newlywed—well, I'm sure you can imagine what trying to talk to someone like that would be like.
Most anyone else I might say something to would no doubt tell me to "Buck up, old man. You can't very well blame her for wanting the same measure of recognition you've gained." Because in this business, that's more or less the bottom line, I suppose.

You're quite right of course, that I should be able to at least speak to my family—they're absolute pillars—the very best. But shamefully, I don't feel as if I can go to them.
How can I put this? My parents have been married for forty-two years, not all of them blissful, you understand, but they've always managed to find their way back to a common ground through which to work it out. Knowing that, what am I supposed to say? "Mum, Dad, I think Olivia's jealous." Sounds rather paltry next to whatever they've had to overcome.

Which is, no doubt, why I turn to you. And please understand I don't mean that as cavalierly as it must sound—

"Earth to Roby, come in, Roby."

"Hm?" I blinked, the room coming back into focus around me. Whoa. In that brief moment, I would have sworn he was right here—sitting across from me. I could practically hear him, the lilting rise and fall of his resonant voice wrapping around me like a warm blanket.

"You were a million miles away. Or at the very least, three thousand."

I didn't say anything. I couldn't deny it, but I didn't have to acknowledge it either.

She sighed, resigned, at least for now, to letting this go. "Never mind."

"I know you're concerned M.E., but really, it'll be okay. I got over Sting, didn't I?"

Dropping her head into her hands, she groaned, "You're hopeless."

"But you love me."

"I put up with you."

"Suit yourself."

She pulled herself up off the loveseat and swung her purse over her shoulder. "Well, dearie, much as I'd love to stay and see what other forms of madness you've been indulging in, I've got dough that's a risin' and needs some punching down."

"Ooh, unfettered violence," I laughed.

"My favorite kind," she grinned back. "No, really, it's a fabulous stress reliever."

"I'll take your word for it." I cook well enough, but baking was so much more M.E.'s forte. Good thing, given her choice of profession. Would kinda suck having a dessert caterer who couldn't bake, y'know?

"Come on, I'll walk you out."

"Hello, Roby."

My head whipped around so fast it felt like the room's perimeter kept on rotating even after I'd stopped.

No, it wasn't my imagination—or a Stephen King-caliber nightmare. There, in the doorway to my office, stood the man I'd loved for the better part of ten years. Whom I'd married with all the dreams and expectations of any joyful bride and who'd methodically torn all of those dreams and expectations to confetti. Right along with the majority of my self-esteem, confidence, and belief in myself, the shit.

"Jack?"

He looked a little older, a bit more worn around the edges, but other than that, he looked exactly the same, damn him. Tousled blonde hair, deep brown, almost black eyes, and an easy smile that was so disarming, it wasn't until much later you'd realize it rarely made it up to those obsidian eyes. In spite of the surrealness of the moment, my kaleidoscope brain managed to summon a couple of quick mental comparisons: to Sam, whose amber eyes were perpetually merry. Or Michael, whose smile came not just from mouth and eyes, but seemingly, his whole being.

Not an overly tall man, Jack had put on a little weight since I'd last seen him, but was still impeccably turned out, carrying himself with the confidence and authority--arrogance, even--of the old-money attorney he was. Although, I noted with a pleasurably bitchy twinge, he still seemed utterly incapable of keeping his tie knotted.

"Yeah, it's me." He shrugged, a gesture made casually elegant by three thousand dollar worsted wool. "Bet I'm the last person you expected to see."

"Expected's not exactly the word that first comes to mind."

"Hello, Mary Ellen. Nice to see you haven't changed."

M.E. grumbled under her breath but didn't say anything else. She just stared, arms crossed, like he was something particularly vile that she wanted to scrape off the bottom of her Steve Madden boots. Realizing that was all he was going to get out of her, Jack turned back to me.

"So."

"So." Sparkling repartee, Ro. Really. Impress him with how far you've come.

"Why are you here, Jack?" Fuck sparkling repartee. He always hated coming to Maine when we were supposedly happily married—got out of trips here with every excuse in the book. So why the hell was he here now?

"What? We're so uncivilized that we can't at least exchange hellos?" Another one of those charming smiles that in some remote, detached part of my brain I was pleased to note no longer held any charm for me.

"No, Jack. We're not so uncivilized. And what I meant was, why are you here, in Maine? You hate it here."

He laughed. "Well now, I believe that falls squarely under the definition of 'irony'." Entering the office, he looked around, lifting the occasional item from the shelves and peering at the pictures I had on the walls. "The firm sent me here—well, not here, specifically, but Portland, to deal with a new client. Has interests all over the country, several of them in Chicago, but is based out of Maine for some inexplicable reason, wouldn't you know."

I bristled at his contemptuous tone, but held my tongue. Bit the hell out of it, actually. Stung like a mother.

"Anyhow, my first meeting with him isn't until this afternoon, so I thought I'd take the opportunity to drive over this way, see if you were still around these parts."

These parts. Jesus H. Christ. To hear him say it, you'd think Port Gordon was a leper's colony or something. And he was really starting to piss me off, how familiarly he was wandering around my office… touching my things… like he had every right to be there. But unfortunately, while his smile no longer affected me the way it once had, his mere presence still seemed to result in the same old reaction. I could feel myself freezing up the way I always had, even as my temper simmered just below the surface. God, I hated feeling this way. I thought I'd gotten way past this.

Guess again, genius.

Jack, true to self-centered form, didn't seem to notice anything, finishing his tour around the office and resuming his initial position by the doorway.

"I see you've made quite the little place for yourself here, Roby. Not bad."

My tongue felt stuck to the roof of my mouth, but I managed to croak out, "Thanks."

Thanks? What the hell for? I didn't need his validation and hadn't for a long time now. I told myself (sternly) that I was just being polite. And count on Jack to be oblivious. Or if he noticed that I had suddenly turned into Monosyllabic Girl, he didn't let on.

Or maybe it just wasn't that big a difference to him. How often had I really taken the lead in any conversation with him? Or offered up more than a token answer? After all, one of his first criticisms of me, even before we were married, was that I was entirely too opinionated and tended to dominate conversations.

I don't mean to hurt your feelings, Roby, but sweetheart, no one really cares about the original Wright stained glass that you got to study today.

But they seem interested, Jack.

They're just being polite, can't you tell? Why don't you save the wonk talk for your art school buddies, okay?

"So, are you living in your old house?"

I looked at him, confused. "Where else?"

Again with a casual shrug. "I just wondered. Property like yours seems to be at such a premium it wouldn't have been unheard of for you to sell it and start over with something a little more manageable."

Just a bit of a pause, followed by a slight stress on that final word—enough to let me know that he'd obviously thought I wouldn't be able to handle Sanctuary's upkeep. A small trickle of anger bubbled over the lid I'd kept on it as I answered shortly, "It's my home," putting my own emphasis on the final word.

Jack held his hands up in mock-defensiveness, the corners of his mouth twitching up ever so slightly. "Hey now. Of course it's your home. I'm just saying no one would have blamed you if you'd found it to be too much hassle."

"Roby, didn't you tell me that Jack once forgot to make a mortgage payment on your brownstone in Chicago?"

I turned to Mary Ellen, fighting down a bubble of hysterical laughter. Trust her to come up with the perfect response, even if I couldn't.

"Why yes," I managed with a straight face. "I do believe you're right."

I turned back just in time to see a furious shadow pass over Jack's face, gone so quickly, I may well have imagined it. Especially given how uncharacteristically mild his response was.

"Everyone's allowed a mistake or two, wouldn't you say?"

You ain't kiddin'. Then there were those of us who executed our mistakes on a grand scale. Exhibit A was standing right in front of me.

Jack looked at his watch. "Well, I hate to make this so brief, but it looks as if I need to be shoving off. I still have a few notes to go over before my dinner meeting. I'm assuming the kids are in school, yes?"

Numb, I nodded. The kids? Why did he care?

"It's a shame I won't have a chance to see them on this trip. Perhaps next time, since it looks like I'll be traveling to Portland quite a bit in the coming months. It'd be nice to see them again," he continued on blithely, totally unaware that he'd finally, finally, pushed my one hot button.

I balled my hands into fists. "Next time? Again? No, Jack, I'm afraid you're quite wrong there. There will be no 'next time' and as far as 'again', you've never even seen Emily, unless you've taken a gander at the pictures I very dutifully send to your parents at the holidays. For which, I might add, I receive only a very proper, politely worded 'Thank You' on one of your mom's custom Caspari note cards."

Jack threw up his hands, "Look Roby, I won't deny that I've been crap as a father, but would you really deny me the opportunity to get to know my kids if I've had a change of heart?"

"Change of heart?" I echoed stupidly, my voice reverberating off the old-fashioned high ceilings. "Do you really think it's as simple as a 'change of heart?' My God, Jack, I would never have kept you from getting to know your kids, if I thought you wanted to be a part of their lives, even peripherally. If you gave even the least little bit of a shit. However," I stressed the word, "your lawyer made it exceedingly clear that you valued your family's finances above involvement in your children's lives. That not giving a shit was precisely how you wanted it."

My voice kept rising. "You can't just up and change your mind whenever you feel like it, Jack. Parenthood doesn't work that way, you egotistical ass." All of a sudden I became aware of a hard pressure on my wrist. Looking down, I discovered Mary Ellen's hand pinning it to my desk, presumably to keep me from using the large pinking shears I hadn't even been aware I was gripping.

"You'd best go now, son."

All of us looked to the doorway, where Uncle Hugh stood, Walter beside him, growling deep in his throat.

Jack smiled amiably enough, although I did notice him casting a nervous eye in Walter's direction. "I was just leaving anyway." And being Jack, he couldn't leave well enough alone, calling back over his shoulder. "We can revisit this at a later time, perhaps when you're feeling a tad more rational."

Again with the pause and slight emphasis on the final word. God, what an annoying habit. Had he always done that? Mary Ellen's death grip on my wrist tightened as she said, "Dude, if you value your spleen, I'd leave without another word."

Jack's eyes widened as he looked back and noticed for the first time what I was clutching in my sweaty little palm. Silently, he pushed past Uncle Hugh and out of the office. It wasn't until we heard the slam of the door, signaling he was safely out of the building, that we finally relaxed, the tension in the room dissipating with a an almost audible whoosh.

"Oh God." My head began spinning and my knees turned to water. M.E. let go of my wrist and helped me down into my chair, pushing my head between my legs.

"C'mon, Roby. Breathe, honey."

I fought her, pushing her hand away and sitting up even though my head was all with the Tilt-a-Whirl sensations and I felt like I was going to lose my breakfast. "I've got to call the school. Make sure he doesn't go by there." I scrabbled for the phone, knocking the receiver off the cradle as I tried to grab hold of it. "I don't want him going near them."

Uncle Hugh picked up the receiver and replaced it. "I'll do it from the other line, Roby. Call Frannie too, give 'er the head's up. You just take a minute and pull yourself together." Uncle Hugh left the office, stopping by the front door just long enough to lock it and flip the sign over to "Closed."

Mary Ellen shook her head in wonderment. "The man is a rock. There's just nothing that throws him." Reaching into my mini-fridge, she pulled out a bottle of water, unscrewing the cap and handing it to me. "Don't say a word, just drink."

Knowing that Uncle Hugh was taking care of that one phone call had already done wonders to settle my seriously frayed nerves, but not enough to keep my hand from shaking so much I spilled as much as I swallowed.

"Here." Once again, M.E. put her hand on my wrist, this time, steadying rather than restraining. "Do you want me to call Don so he can prescribe something soothing?" she asked, handing me a paper towel.

I shook my head, swabbing at the front of my sweater. "No. I wanna keep what few wits I possess about me. Last thing I need to is be doped up like a racehorse."

"Okay, good by me. Do you want to call Billy so he can give Jack something not-so-soothing?"

Worried, my gaze met M.E.'s "Do you think I should?"

She shrugged in response. "Totally your call. Right now, I'm questioning the fleeting wisdom that led me to keep you from disemboweling him. I can only attribute my restraint to the fact that orange jumpsuits are so not a good look for you."

I couldn't help but smile. Feeble, no doubt, but a smile, nevertheless.

"What do you want to do, Roby?"

I sighed, staring out the window onto Main. The early gray cloudiness of the day had dissipated, the sun highlighting the distinctive Colonial lines of the business district, throwing the buildings into crisp relief against the bright blue of the sky. It was an almost obscene contrast to the murky confusion swirling through me. "I don't know, M.E. I honestly don't know."

"Let me ask you—do you buy this whole 'Just wanna see how you're doing, love to see the kids' line he was trying to feed you?"

"Not a chance," I snorted. Contemplatively I added, "There was just something about this whole visit, outside of the fact that it even happened, that just feels genuinely wrong, but I can't quite put my finger on it."

Granted, these days, she might be more about the Linzer tortes as opposed to the legal kind, but M.E. didn't graduate top of her class for nothing. Girl's got a steel-trap mind. "He's after something, you realize that."

I spun my chair to face her. "Yeah, but what? I've never had anything he wanted."

"Jack's not exactly subtle, Ro. By and large, only two subjects came up in the course of your blessedly short conversation: the kids and your house."

"Fat chance of getting to either."

"True." M.E. leaned against the wall, crossing one booted foot over the other. "However, what's to stop him from trying and in the process, having the joy of making your life hell once again?"

"To what purpose?"

"Well, there you've got me. To quote the inimitable Geoffrey Rush, 'it's a mystery.'"

"No shit." I ran my hands through my hair, impatiently yanking off the elastic holding it back in a ponytail. "From a legal standpoint, is there anything I can do? I mean, it's not like he threatened me, or the kids; no doubt to a judge, it looks good in Jack's favor. A long-absent father reaching out to his flesh and blood, blah, blah, blah."

"Look, I won't bullshit you. The chances for something like a restraining order are probably slim to none. Jack's modus operandi has always been the emotional abuse, never physical, and since you chose to go with the always-handy 'irreconcilable differences' in your divorce petition, abuse of any sort never became a matter of public record. Additionally, the fact that this is the first contact between the two of you in over five years—seemingly innocuous contact—and there's not much you can do."

"So where does that leave me?"

She crossed her arms and narrowed her hazel eyes in thought. "All joking aside here," she started, her expression dead serious, "at the very least, I'd call Billy. Have him make a note of this, start a file, whatever. That way, you've got something in writing."

I reached for the phone. "Sounds good to me, Counselor."

**

Less than ten minutes after I called, Billy was at my office, all shiny badge and polished shoes. After (off-the-record) asking more or less the same thing M.E. had, did I want him to trail Jack and have a little "chat" with him, and being politely turned down, we segued to "on the record." M.E. and I filled him in on Jack's impromptu visit, complete with a few details of what life with Jack had been like, pre-divorce, and Billy dutifully wrote it all down, managing to keep the seething down to a low simmer. He might be a proper, upstanding Sheriff-type these days, but there's more than a little of the small-town boy left in Officer Pakipsky—the kind of boy who raised all kinds of hell, but who'll also defend his turf by any means necessary until he's well into his nineties. The kind of boy who chafes at the thought of an outsider coming in and messin' with his people.

Afterwards, I practically had to shove M.E. out the door, reminding her about bread dough that needed punching down and wouldn't this be the perfect time to take care of it and no, I didn't need any company, I was a big girl, thankyouverymuch.

But I couldn't just stay put in my office. Alone with my thoughts, who knew what insane impulses I might give in to? So packing up sketchpad, notes, and a couple of sample books, I took myself off to the Elephant, where I whiled away the afternoon in a booth, alone, but not, if you know what I mean. I could tell by the glances, word had already made it around that my ex had paid an unexpected visit, but by and large, I was left alone, except for the usual "hellos" and "how're things?" greetings from the regulars. But I knew what rested beneath the veneer of normalcy. And they knew I knew.

It's all right. We know you can take care of yourself, but we're here when and if you need us.

Damn, but if that's not comforting. All of it— Billy's concern, Uncle Hugh's calm, Mary Ellen's righteous indignation, and all the other support left unspoken but nevertheless, very much in evidence.

Give me an afternoon immersed in sketches, textiles, and double-shot lattes, and I'll give you a woman ready to resume her role as Unshakeable Wonder Mom (albeit, just a little on the caffeinated side). Collecting Walter from the office and the kids from their afternoon play dates, we headed on home. Never had the name Sanctuary held more meaning for me I thought, as I turned up the driveway and allowed myself to breathe deeply for what seemed like the first time in hours.

Unfortunately, that settled feeling didn't last long. After serving Walter his kibble, I wandered desultorily from pantry to refrigerator, wondering what food item bearing some nutritional value I was going to manage to scrounge for dinner. In addition to disrupting my emotional equilibrium, my ass of an ex had completely scrambled my brain, making me totally forget until I'd pulled into the garage that I had intended to go grocery shopping. As things currently stood, I was perilously close to having to redistribute the dog's dinner. However, just as I was flipping a coin between Cheesy Mac with a dubious "sell by" date, and tuna salad, the doorbell rang, revealing Zia, Uncle Hugh, and an enormous pan of lasagna. Fresh lasagna versus mac and cheese? Oh please. Even though I knew its appearance was part of an obvious "we're checking up on you" ploy, I wasn't about to argue.

Thankfully, talk at dinner focused on everything but that which had brought my well-meaning relatives over. Taylor's residency winding down and his move back home, both scheduled to happen in the next few weeks, gave us more than enough fodder to last us through dinner and on into dessert. But it didn't escape my attention that before they left, Uncle Hugh excused himself and disappeared for several minutes. I knew what he was up to, and he so didn't need to bother. I'd gone around the house and checked all of the locks on the doors and windows the minute I'd gotten home. Twice.

After they left, things reverted more or less back to a normal weeknight routine. Patrick and Emily did homework, told me about their day, and took baths, after which I got them safely tucked in bed, my goodnight kisses and hugs perhaps a little more, um, intense than usual, but they didn't seem to notice.

Downstairs, I poured myself the last cup of decaf from the after-dinner pot, staring down into the swirling depths of the khaki-colored liquid, as I stirred in cream and sugar. Hesitating only momentarily I made a beeline for the dining room and the collection of bottles neatly arranged on the sideboard. I didn't even pause to debate which was to be my libation of choice. Why should I? It was a no-brainer.

Adding a generous slug of whisky to my mug, I sipped, choking only a little as the unmixed combo burned its way down my throat. Single malt Scotch—even his preferred brand—ya gotta love it. At the time of purchase, I hadn't given it any conscious thought—simply justified it as needing to stock up the bar.

Yeah right, which is why you made that poor little clerk climb to precarious heights to retrieve a bottle of Glenmorangie, Madeira Wood Finish.

Yup, I'm sure my former shrink would've had a field day with that tidbit, obsessed with the subconscious and its influences as he'd been, the oily little twerp.

In my bedroom, I sat at my desk, sipping coffee and staring out the window into the infinite dark of the night sky. Through the glass, I could hear the muffled gongs of the buoys out in the bay; by the rate of their intermittent melodic tones, I could tell the water was mostly calm tonight, with only the barest hint of chop. If those same buoys were used to gauge my emotions, they would have been clanging at hurricane force levels.

Go on. Do it. It's what you've been wanting since the minute Jack left. Had to physically leave the office to keep from doing it and that's the honest truth, you spineless twit.

No, no, no. I wasn't going to succumb to the inner voice, regardless of the validity of its statements. Moving away from the desk, I paced around the room impatiently. One turn around the vast space, stopping just long enough to flip through my "to be read" book pile—and why'd I buy these again? A couple of more trips around the room later and I was rifling through my CDs looking for some music to listen to. If I was going to pace, I wanted musical accompaniment—something violently, darkly classical. Not slit my wrists dark—more like emotional, just-this-side-of-slamming-my-fist-through-the-wall dark. In other words, something that would fit my mood perfectly. Oh, yes—
Elgar's Cello Concerto in E minor.

Oh, no.

The second those first, anguished notes left the speakers I knew I was a goner. The Elgar was dark and dramatic, but it also radiated an almost painful sensuality that I just couldn't ignore. Maybe I could tune out the voice of my subconscious, but when it spoke to me via music; when that became its weapon of choice… well, that was just dirty pool.

Dear Michael,

Oh God, I don't know what to do. Jack showed up today. It was the first time I've seen him since I left Chicago. He wants something… I just don't know what. Mary Ellen seems to think it has something to do with the kids or the house and I'll be damned if I allow the schmuck near either.

But why now? More than five years of silence—five years of letting me know through a complete lack of contact, just how little he cares. I wonder if he ever did, actually. And if that's the case, how stupid was I to have ever believed otherwise? How unbelievably naïve and adolescent of me to be so in love that I completely missed the fact that I wasn't loved back. And you wonder why it's taken me this long for me to consider getting involved with anyone again. *rolleyes* Clearly, my judgment can't be trusted.

Michael, I don't dare say this to anyone else—I'm not even sure anyone would believe me—but I'm scared. Not of Jack. If there was anything I realized today, it was that while he might still have the power to affect me on some emotional level, I'm no longer afraid of him like I once was. Could it be the simple act of leaving freed me of more than just a bad marriage? At any rate… what I'm scared of is what I'm capable of doing. Today, I had a pair of scissors in my hand, and if Mary Ellen hadn't been there… I just don't know. And I'm not sure I like where this might be heading.

And once again, I'm dumping on you. Why is that? I promised myself after our dinner I wouldn't do this—that I didn't need to do this. After all, I've been on my own for a long time. *sigh* I'd love think it's all your fault because you're very easy to talk to.

Ah hell, I don't even know what I'm feeling. Outside of scared. And numb. And very, very angry. Maybe I should have some more of the "liquid therapy" I allowed myself to indulge in this evening. If ever it was deserved…

I'd better sign off and go to bed before I do anything more damaging than give myself a hangover.

Thanks for listening.

Ro.

I hit "send" and turned the computer off. Later on, lying in bed and listening to the soulful clang of the buoys, it was hard for me to decide whether I had left more unsaid than said in that email.

Chapter Eight

2006-08-18T14:25:58Z

Michael

A pub crawl with the lads should result in nothing more than a nasty hangover complete with indigestion from the dodgy curry you were daft (or pissed) enough to think was a good idea at midnight. However, it was just such a night more than sixteen years ago that landed me in a career I never expected or planned for.

We'd been celebrating our last weekend of freedom before the start of term. I was beginning work on a MBA—two more years of life in London, then back to Gullane to work with Dad at the club—modernize it and the like. I was ready for it—had been my whole life. But on the path between Pubs Two and Three, we stumbled past a door—open, no doubt due to the unseasonably warm September weather—through which we heard bits of what sounded like a rapidly escalating argument. Of course we eavesdropped. We were twenty-two and full of the shameless gall and cockiness exclusive to young, inebriated males. Plus, we really had nothing better to do.

What we heard apparently had something to do with a lack of quality in singing ability. Actually, I believe the exact words were, "This lot was utter rubbish! Is there not a singer in the whole of London who can carry a fucking tune?"

That was when Bernie, my flat mate and all round bastard teased that I should barge in and give it a go—teased nothing—bugger flat-out dared me after mocking me in front of the rest of our mates.

"After all, you lot don't have to hear him warbling in the shower, morning after morning, like he's Elton bloody John. Go on then, Mikey—go in and dazzle them."

Of course, the rest of the chaps had to join in despite the fact they'd never even heard me sing so much as a note. It was merely a diversion, an unexpected break in an otherwise uneventful Saturday night. They were just rat arsed enough to egg me on and I was just rat arsed enough to take them up on it. In a lager-fueled haze, I pushed my way past the cheeky shits and through the door boldly proclaiming I was the answer to their wishes. Amazing I didn't get tossed straight back out into the street on my cocky bum, but I think they were just as grateful for the diversion as we'd been.

Once over the shock that his audition had been unceremoniously crashed, Trevor, the director, beckoned me over to the piano. Turned out, the open doorway led to a small studio where auditions were being held for a new, not-quite-West End musical.

"What can you sing, boy?"

I love music. Even back then, I probably knew hundreds of songs, from church hymns to the Beatles to George Michael's latest. Thanks to Bernie, however, the only thing I could ever remember having sung was—you guessed it—Elton John. So after giving it what little thought I could, I gave my suggestion to the accompanist, who as I recall, struggled not to laugh. He simply turned to the keyboard and launched into the intro for "Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word." I didn't have time to be nervous about it—didn't have anything to be nervous about, really. What did this matter to me?

A great deal as it would turn out. About halfway through the song, Trevor cut me off. Thinking he was finally bored with me, I waved my thanks and turned to leave.

He didn't let me.

I never finished that MBA.

March 13

A woman's body is a wondrous thing, it really is. Lying next to Olivia, sweat-soaked and satiated, I idly traced circles around one of her breasts for the simple pleasure of watching the nipple bead up tight as I moved in close, then relax into softness when I moved away. Being apart for long periods of time was miserable, but I can't deny it made reunions nothing short of spectacular.

The feel of her body moving against mine, enveloping me in its heat, drawing me back in even as I moved away. Over and over, lazily at first, as we found our way back into sync, rhythm gradually escalating, growing more frantic until finally—it culminated in the indescribable sensation of a long-awaited climax.

Makes me sound like some sort of sex-crazed fiend, doesn't it? I won't lie. I like sex—love it, in fact—but not so much so that I've ever been tempted to do anything daft. Don't get me wrong—I'm no prude. I was quite the Jack the Lad, mostly at uni. But once Liv and I got together, that was the end of that. I just wasn't raised that way and in this day and age, an impulse fuck on what generally amounts to nothing more than momentary attraction borders on total stupidity. Besides, the adage of absence making the heart (and in a bloke's case, cock) grow fonder holds absolutely true. After being away for long periods, the first time back is like nothing else. Even after nearly fifteen years together.

"That was fab, darling." Liv stroked my hair, fingers playing through the curls that I knew were on the brink of unruliness after three months without a proper cut.

"Mmm-hm…" That was the extent of coherent speech I was good for after the bout of lovemaking we'd just indulged in. Arriving home in the wee hours of the morning, I'd been so knackered all I was capable of was stripping and falling into bed next to her. This morning—or was it afternoon, I couldn't even be certain—I'd awakened to the feel of Liv's tongue tracing a line around my ear, along my jaw, to my chest, and other more pleasurable places beyond. When she took me in her mouth, it had been all I could do to not explode straight away like some overeager schoolboy. Even now, flush with exhaustion, the memory made me twitch with renewed anticipation. Something that obviously didn't escape Liv's notice. Laughing, she patted me gently before sliding out from under my arm and reaching for her robe.

"Down, boy. There'll be plenty more time for that later."

I rolled onto my back, propping my head on my arms, content to watch her putter about the room. "Will there? What's your schedule to be like on this film?"

A small frown marred porcelain features. "Well, I'm due in Zurich in a few day's time to begin location shooting."

"So, not that much time, really," I sighed.

"I know darling, I'm disappointed too." She came and sat next to me on the bed, resting her hand on my chest. "It's only four weeks, Michael. Much less time than you were away." Stroking my chest with a light touch she added, "And after all, it's not like Switzerland is as far away as America. Surely you'll be able to pop over for a short visit between rehearsals for the new show?"

Ouch. If a barb had been intended, she'd certainly hit her mark. Hot on the heels of the most satisfying success of my professional career and rather than exultation at sharing it with my wife—my partner—I felt guilty. Bollocks it all.

"Liv, I'm so sorry you weren't able to come over. I suppose the timing was just bad all round." I captured her hand and brought it to my mouth, kissing the palm. "I missed you terribly, love."

"I know, Michael. I missed you too." She smiled down at me. "All I meant was that hopefully, we won't have to go three months without seeing each other, even though you're set for a six-month run in the show."

"Don't remind me." I dropped her hand and fell back against the pillows with a groan. "Whose brilliant idea was it anyway for me to jump right into six weeks' worth of rehearsals a mere week after returning from an overseas tour?"

"Yours or Stuart's I would surmise," Liv laughed.

I couldn't believe the saucy bitch was laughing at me. Here I was, barely able to fathom having to jump back into rehearsals, at least, right at this moment, and she was laughing at my predicament.

"Incurable workaholics, the pair of you. Scheduling this tour so you missed Christmas and New Year's. And when was the last time you and I had a more than a weekend's holiday, hm?"

"You're a mean one, Mrs. MacLaren." I pulled her down on top of me so we were nose to nose. "What will it take to apologize for the fact that Stuart added that extra fortnight of dates to the tour?"

"Gifts are good," she quipped.

"Your wish…" I rolled her down to the mattress and stood, crossing to where I'd left my luggage the night before. Rummaging through my rucksack, I pulled out the elegantly wrapped parcel I'd been toting about since Las Vegas. The casinos might have been so crass as to have slot machines in the loos, but were also elegant enough to have some very posh shops.

"Here, darling. A Welcome Home, Sorry I've Been Gone So Long gift."

"Ooooh." Sitting up, Liv clapped her hands and smiled, enthusiastic as a child on her birthday. "What is it, what is it?" Taking the package from me, she set to undoing the bow and ripping paper with a gleeful ferocity that had Pierre, her dog, darting beneath the chaise lounge and cringing in fear.

"Oh, Michael, it's lovely." From layers of crushed tissue, she lifted the silk robe I'd chosen for her on one of my forays through the casino shops. Immediately, she stood, shedding her dressing gown and slipping the new one on.

Christ, she was a goddess. The shell pink robe looked nothing short of spectacular on her, matching as it did, her luminous English Rose skin and setting off pale blonde hair, kept as fair as the day we met with, as she put it, the occasional visit to a "color expert." Whatever. She was every bit as lovely at thirty-five as she'd been at twenty. From time to time, she made noises about aging and wrinkles and other such rubbish, and what she was going to have to do with respect to maintenance, but I didn't see what she was so concerned over. Standing in front of the full-length cheval mirror in the corner, turning this way and that to view every angle, she was stunning. And she was mine.

"You missed something, darling." I lifted the smaller box that had been hidden between layers of tissue and came up behind her. Her eyes lit up as I handed her the distinctive robin's egg-blue box.

"Oh! More pretties—and from Tiffany's. You lovely man, you." Untying the ribbon, she removed the lid and lifted out a narrow velvet box. "Michael, what have you gone and done?"

"Nothing less than what you deserve for being so patient with me whilst I've been off on this mad adventure." Reaching over her shoulder, I raised the hinged lid of the velvet box and lifted out the delicate confection that had caught my eye when I'd been browsing for a special gift to bring home to Liv. It was special all right—platinum and diamonds and stupidly expensive. But sod a dog—what was the use of earning such ridiculous amounts of money if I couldn't spend at least some of it on my wife, right?

But even that logic hadn't stopped my innate Scottish thriftiness from cringing just a bit when the saleswoman had (ever so discreetly) flipped the necklace's tag, skeptical eyebrow raised, as if expecting me to bolt in terror once the price was revealed. Not that I ever had any doubt I'd be purchasing the necklace—from when I'd first seen it on display in the shop's window, I'd been convinced it was meant for the long, perfect column of Liv's neck. Nevertheless, my credit card was probably still smoking a bit round the edges.

"Help me, please," she demanded. Bending her head forward, Liv lifted her hair so I could more easily fasten the clasp. Straightening, she studied her reflection, long pale fingers playing along the dual platinum strands. Slowly, her fingers trailed down the necklace to the pair of graduated diamond sunbursts that lay, one above the other, before the whole of it culminated in a large, tear-shaped pearl. Just as I'd envisioned, the pearl rested in the shadowy cleavage between her breasts, luminous against her skin.

"I don't know what to say…" Her voice was hushed. "It's an amazingly lovely thing."

"For an amazingly beautiful woman." I brushed her hair aside and kissed the side of her neck where the necklace rested. The platinum tasted cool and faintly bitter in contrast to skin warm and scented with our lovemaking and the almond oil she used religiously. Sliding my hands around her waist and untying the robe's sash, I parted the fabric, cupping and fondling the perfect curves of her breasts.

Instantly hard, my erection nudged against the firm, toned globes of her bottom, the thin barrier of silk between us providing a pleasurable friction that made my breath catch. I stroked from her breasts to the smooth, flat planes of her stomach, my fingertips just grazing the edges of the neatly trimmed patch of hair between her legs, making Liv sigh and arch her back like an elegant cat.

"They had matching earrings, too."

"Oh, did they?" Her words came out breathy, hands reaching back to caress my thighs.

"Mmm-hm. Perhaps I'll get them to celebrate the birth of our firstborn."

Liv stiffened ever so slightly, pulling away. Not much, but enough so that my hands fell away from her body and to my sides. Fuck.

Retying her robe, Liv brushed past me without a word and into the en-suite. A moment later, I could hear the faint squeak of the taps spinning followed by the sound of water splashing into the tub, suggesting that Liv wasn't about to come back anytime soon. Briefly debating whether I should follow or just let her be, I opted for the former, nevertheless going only as far as the doorway. Leaning against the jamb I silently watched her brush her shoulder-length hair and pin it up in preparation for the bath.

"Are we ever going to talk about this?"

Her features were set in the stubborn expression that from experience I knew was a sure sign of a row if I persisted. In the mirror, I could see her gaze flicker over towards me, then back to her reflection, a flinty blue glance. "We have talked about it, Michael. What more is there to say?"

"We said we'd revisit this at an appropriate time."

"And you think this is it?" Her voice rose just a bit, disbelief clear in her tone. "With you about to begin six weeks' worth of rehearsals followed by a six-month commitment to a show?"

I struggled not to raise my own voice. "Yes, and you about to leave for Switzerland for a month, plus God only knows how much more time for the studio shoot and publicity and the like."

"Exactly. And have you failed to consider what might be in store for you after you finish with this show? Is it to be another show?" She smiled, but it lacked humor. "Another album? Perhaps… another tour? Somehow I don't think you're going to be content to leave it at just this one experience, Michael. You enjoyed the success too much."

She had me there— I had enjoyed it. Everything involved with the album's creation and its subsequent success. Artistically and fiscally, it was the first time ever that my success had been defined primarily by own efforts and not as part of a larger whole. It had all fallen into place, the end result leaving me more energized that I'd been in years. Stuart was already making noises about a second album, touring in the UK, returning to America. His instincts were excellent which when doubled with his bulldog-like tenacity, was what made him such an excellent manager.

I'd never deny Liv the opportunity to feel the same measure of success—but why did family have to be continually sacrificed?

"You say that as if it's a bad thing. Pursuing a new dream—achieving success on one's own terms and being able to fully call the shots. Aren't you trying to do the same by establishing yourself in film?"

"Of course." She stood and went to turn the water off. Sitting at the edge of the tub, she looked directly at me for the first time since walking off in the bedroom. "I make no bones about the fact that I want to move into film but— time is fast running out for me to do so. There are too many bloody actresses in my age group who are getting the few truly choice roles. Nicole, Catherine, even Renee bloody Zellweger. Cheek of the tart, learning a British accent so well. It's a bloody good thing Madonna has the acting range of a plank and can speak the Queen's English about as well as a charlady. However, Madge notwithstanding, you know there are loads of others to compete with." The slight huff accompanying her outburst might have been amusing under any other circumstance, but her stony-faced glare quelled any impulse I might have had to laugh.

"I know and you're right." I tried to make my voice as soothing and reasonable as I could. "But Catherine and Nicole and loads of others have children and still manage both family and film careers, darling."

She rolled her eyes with an exasperated snort. "God, Michael, are you really as naïve as all that?"

Perhaps I was because I hadn't a fucking clue why this had to be so difficult.

Clearly, Liv could see I was failing to make the connection—with another roll of her eyes she filled me in. "All of those lovely women were established to a certain degree before they started popping out the sprogs, or in Nicole's case, adopting them." She paced agitatedly around the bathroom, continuing, "Not just that, they had the security that comes with being the wives of powerful men. Not that you're not successful in your own right, love, but you're not exactly Michael Douglas in terms of wealth or power, are you?"

"I'd like to think that we've established ourselves rather positively within the firmament of the British theatre community. We've certainly worked regularly enough and earned more than our fair share of respect—no small feat in this business." I kept my voice mild but a thread of worry began creeping its way through my mind. The level of fame of those actresses she'd mentioned—was that what she really wanted? It was so… so overwhelming.

"But the theatre community is a microcosm in terms of the entertainment world. I'm more than ready to move beyond it and so are you, if I were to guess." She raised a questioning eyebrow.

Nodding slowly, I had to agree. "I'll admit I am tired of the eight-shows per week grind." Slowly, I verbalized what I hadn't realized until just now must have been simmering in the back of my mind. "I think that once my commitment in Camelot is complete… it may well be the last show I do for some time." If ever, my inner voice added. However, I kept that last bit to myself.

"You see?" Liv's expression softened a bit. "It's precisely how I felt at the end of this last show I did and how I feel about this film. It's a new beginning for me, just as your recording career is for you, and I just don't think that now is the time to go mucking about with pregnancies and midnight feedings and shitty nappies."

"I can see your point, Liv. But when, then? If neither of us is taking on stage roles, you'd think we could manage to find some time in our schedules." I moved from the door to pull her up into my arms, stroking wisps of hair back from her face. "It's been just us for fifteen years. Don't you think it's time to expand on that?"

Her hands slowly lifted to my shoulders, stroking my upper arms soothingly. "Can we make a deal to hold off discussing this further at least until after I've finished with this film? Please?"

"I suppose," I sighed. "Not that I really have much choice in the matter anyhow, seeing as I'm putty in your very talented hands." I closed my eyes as those hands trailed down my torso to my buttocks, kneading, stroking, and ever-so-delicately tracing a finger along the cleft, making my knees feel decidedly watery.

Cupping the back of her head with my hand, I captured her mouth in a hard kiss, my tongue sweeping in, then out to trace along the edges of her lips. My other arm tightened about her waist, bringing her in as close as possible.

"I do love you, Liv," I whispered against her mouth.

"Me too," she whispered back. We shared a few more lingering kisses, before she stepped away, stripping off her robe. "Here," she said, handing it to me. "Could you hang this up for me?" My bathwater's getting cold."

"Where would you prefer I hang it?" I joked with a rueful glance down at my crotch.

Giggling, Liv eased herself into the bath. Wisps of steam from the still-hot water rose around her and made errant tendrils of hair cling damply to her cheeks. "You're such a joker."

"And you're a cruel tease," I groaned. "Getting me all excited—again. Then leaving me out in the cold. Heartless wench."

A throaty laugh escaped her. "You're just jealous of the self-control women possess and that you lot," waving at me, "will never have."

"You do have a valid point," I conceded, hanging her robe on the door. Although an equally valid case could have been made that there were all manners of self-control where sex was concerned and at one time or another, I had employed them. I'm faithful—but I'm human. Only a eunuch, or a complete poof could have resisted having a physical reaction to some of the women I'd shared the stage with over the years. Thick though I might be, however, I was well aware that now was perhaps not the time to present that particular argument. Choose your battles, eh?

I resumed my earlier position in the doorway, watching her squeeze gel onto a bath puff, working it into a lather, and running it over her shoulders, her arms, across her breasts.

"Come do my back?"

Sitting on the edge of the tub, I took the puff she held out and drew it across the backs of her shoulders and down the perfect curve of her spine, the fingers of my free hand lightly outlining each vertebra through the foamy lather.

"Ummm… that's lovely."

I gently soaped the length of her back, careful not to scrub too hard. Setting the puff aside, I cupped my hands together and scooped up handfuls of warm water, releasing them over Liv's shoulders. Over and over, I repeated the action until her back was rinsed free of lather. Finished, I returned the puff and stood, drying my hands on a towel.

"You have such a lovely body darling, and at the risk of making you angry, I can't wait to see what it will look like when you finally do get pregnant."

The bath having obviously relaxed her, she merely tilted her head and smiled. "Well, I fully intend to 'do' my pregnancy like Victoria Beckham did. An adorable little football in front and nothing more. Then pop over to the hospital for a Cesarean and be done with it."

I could feel myself scowling. The mental images I'd had of Liv's tall, angular body filling out, the sharper edges softening, breasts and belly growing round and lush, were replaced with the rather frightening tabloid shots I recalled seeing of the former Posh Spice.

"Yes, because anorexic chic and pregnancy mix so well." I snorted disbelievingly. "Come on, Liv. I can't believe you'd look up to that talentless stick as the model of ideal pregnancy. And that nancy-boy husband of hers—had to run off to the warmer, kinder climes of Spain to ply his trade. Little more than overpaid, spoilt children."

"The same could be said for us," she replied mildly, releasing the drain and standing.

"Well, we're not exactly in the same league financially and," I added emphatically, "we're not wandering about the countryside having lavish weddings and building faux castles as if we expect the bloody Queen to pop round for tea."

Stepping from the tub and toweling herself dry, Liv commented, "You wouldn't happen to be jealous now, would you?"

"Of what?"

"Oh, I don't know. The immense pots of money they earn, despite the lack of any discernible talent on her part. Or perhaps," she paused, looking me up and down with a speculative gaze that made me feel as if she were truly looking at me for the first time since my return. "You wouldn't happen to be a touch envious of young Mr. Beckham's dishy bod?" Perfect eyebrows rose questioningly.

"What the fuck are you going on about?"

"Well darling, you are getting dangerously close to forty and you know as well as I how important diet and exercise are. Especially for middle-aged men."

"I work out. I even worked out while I was on the road," I argued.

"Hm. Of course." She reached past me for her robe and turned to the mirror, letting down her hair and fluffing it with her fingers. "Still, it wouldn't hurt you to schedule an appointment or two with Anton."

"Him? I think not. He has all the personality of a dead fish," I complained.

"Maybe so, but he gets results and gets them quickly."

She spared me a quick glance through the mirror, again, appearing to size me up. "I hate to say it, darling, but you've gone just a tiny bit squidgey round the middle. Not that it's not adorable on you, but still… wouldn't want it to go any further, would we?"

Sweeping past me with a kiss on the cheek, she murmured, "Think about it, please? I'm sure it'll make a world of difference."

Closing the door behind her, I turned to inspect myself in the mirror. Was it really as bad as all that? Tall and big-boned as I was, weight had never been much of an issue for me, (sturdy Scottish stock, understand) especially when combined with the stress and sheer ball-busting effort of performing several shows a week for the better part of the last decade and a half. Admittedly, while on the tour, things had been a little more lax from a physical standpoint—not as many shows, food available any time, day or night, and lots of time spent loitering about on buses and in hotel rooms.

Peering closely, I could see what Olivia was talking about—the faintest beginnings of a spare tire had appeared round my waist and the abdominals weren't quite as firm as usual. Right then. Back to working out it was. But I'd be damned if it would be with that sadistic German. Better to go down to the boxing club and schedule some proper training and sparring sessions.

Satisfied, I turned on the shower, emerging several minutes later with a renewed burst of energy. At the sink, I shaved off the two days' worth of stubble, whistling softly, and grinning at myself in the mirror when I realized which tune it was: "More Than That." One might have thought I'd be thoroughly sick and tired of the tour songs—that one in particular given its genesis— but on the contrary, I felt a pang at the thought I had no concert to prepare for. Later on tonight I would probably be grateful since jet lag would no doubt set in with a vengeance, but until then… I'd see if Olivia wanted to go out to eat or to the cinema or perhaps for a walk. Just any of those silly, everyday things I'd longed to do with her while we'd been separated.

Knotting a towel around my hips, I opened the bathroom door, calling out, "Darling, d'you want to catch a film or somethi—" I stopped short at the sight of Liv zipping a suitcase shut. "What's going on?"

"God, I'm sorry, Michael. They called while you were in the shower. Start of production on the movie's been moved up and we're all to report immediately."
I noticed then she was dressed for travel, in jeans, boots, a turtleneck, and her favorite leather jacket.

"I see." We faced each other silently. Water dripped into my eyes from my hair, making me blink hard. Shaking my head furiously, I sent water droplets flying, making Liv jump back, a furious expression on her face.

"Be careful, would you?"

"Sorry." I followed her back into the bathroom where she was hurriedly throwing makeup and toiletries into a bag.

"I am too, Michael. I really am."

"Can't you call them back? Explain that I just got back and ask for a day's grace?"

She paused in her frantic search through the drawers facing me with an incredulous expression. "Are you kidding me?"

"No. Why would I be?"

"Do you have any idea how many actresses tried out for this role? Yet I won it? I'm a nobody in the film world right now—I call up looking for special favors and they might easily replace me sooner than you can say Jack Sprat."

"I doubt it. After all, in the time it would take to decide on who they would want and make arrangements for them to get to Switzerland, you could have your day. Besides, as you said, they chose you. It's you they want."

I could no longer see her face, but the stiff curve of her back absolutely radiated tension as she resumed rummaging through the drawer as if I hadn't even spoken. "Where the fuck is that fucking moisturizer? Never mind. I'm sure I can buy something over there. It's bloody Switzerland, after all." Shoving past me, she charged back into the bedroom.
"Be that as it may, I'm just not willing to take that risk. Some of us don't have the security of being a solo act and coming and going as we please." She tossed the toiletries bag into a second suitcase and zipped it shut. Straightening, she looked at me with an expression that seemed torn between apology and impatience. "I'll make it up to you, I promise."

A honk sounded from below the street-facing window.

"The car's here, I have to go." She lifted one of the suitcases off the bed and set it on its wheels.

"Let me help." I shucked the towel and threw on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. Lifting the second suitcase from the bed, I followed her down to the front door where the driver politely waited to take the bags from us and store them in the boot of the limo.

"They're doing quite right by you, darling," I joked, looking out at the sleek limo.

"Isn't it a lovely perk?"

"Yeah." I took her hand in mine, and brought it to my lips, kissing the fingertips. "Behave yourself, all right?"

"When have you ever known me to do otherwise?"

"New Year's, 1992. I still have the pictures."

"Wicked man." She lifted our joined hands to her mouth, kissing my palm.

"It's what you love best."

"Good-bye, Michael."

"Bye, Liv. Be safe." Leaning forward, I kissed her gently.

At the foot of the outside steps she turned for a final wave, before disappearing into the back of the car.

Closing the door against the early evening chill, I wandered aimlessly through the quiet rooms. In the kitchen, I called for some Thai takeaway after realizing it had been going on twenty-four hours since I'd last eaten and combined with my typical post-shag appetite, I was absolutely famished. So often I'd come down here and scrounge about for food with Liv laughing that she couldn't understand how on earth I could possibly have the energy or desire to eat.

Restless and not content to simply wait around for the food to arrive, I poured myself a glass of wine and made my way to the study. There was a small mountain of correspondence for me to look through, but that wasn't what I'd come in here for. Turning on my desktop computer, I opened the email program and skimmed messages. Nothing of any pressing import, but then again, I hadn't really expected there to be, nor was it really what I was interested in.

Dear Roby,

Here I am, as promised, letting you know of my safe arrival. A very late, (early?) but safe, arrival. In fact, I got home so bloody late, that I slept straight through until this afternoon. Admittedly, I enjoy sleeping in, but I don't think I've slept quite this long since I was at uni, usually after nights spent consuming entirely too much alcohol. Actually, forget I said that—the less recalled about my university days the better for all involved, I think! *g*

It was wonderful to see Olivia again, but altogether too short. The film people called her up late this afternoon, requiring her to report in days earlier than expected. Ah, such is the life of the working actor—unless you're a top-notch star, you are little more than a commodity at somebody else's beck and call. What was worse about our limited time together was that we ended up having a hell of a row over the baby issue. She's still not ready to consider motherhood, feels as if she gives it a go, she might risk her burgeoning movie career. This film role is a huge step for her. There's a lot of buzz circulating over it here—top-notch director and lots of talented actors, including some young stud from your side of the pond—Evan Marlowe. Have you heard of him? He's supposed to be quite popular with the girls. Sort of like an American Orlando Bloom. Anyhow, I digress—
It's just… Well, Liv and I aren't getting any younger and despite all of the advances in medicine, as far as I'm aware, it's still considered a bit of a risky undertaking for a woman to be having a first child after thirty-five.

But I refuse to rain on her parade. We've been a partnership since the day we first met. Always planned our careers together, made our moves so they complemented each other…except for recently. I think she was thrown for a bit of a loop when I was approached about making this album and I also think she was a little stunned by its success. Not because of any lack of faith in me, you understand. She was the one who encouraged me to go ahead with it. It's just—well, as you've pointed out before, my style of music can hardly be considered mainstream. Who knew the "Granny Brigade" would prove to be so influential on the sales? :-)

But Roby… I'm worried. I hate to even entertain the thought, but a part of me is undeniably concerned that Olivia might be jealous and it's why she's so bound and determined to establish herself firmly within the film community before committing herself to any other life-altering changes. Like a baby.

Ah well, I've blathered on quite enough— Pierre, (the rodent/dog) is licking at my toes, presumably demanding his evening serving of specialised diet and my takeaway should be here shortly. Thai tonight. Do you like Thai food? It can be rather spicy and I figured as much as you like Mexican food, you like spicy, although Thai is a somewhat different kind of spicy.

Do write soon—I want to hear what the children are up to and how things are going with Sam. Up to a third date already? He must be a very nice bloke.

Yours,

Michael

Chapter Seven

2006-08-03T19:58:42Z

Roby

Dating and I have never had what you would call a cordial relationship. Screw that—we've never had much of a relationship at all. My first boyfriend? Think classic childhood enemies turned buddies turned… well, let your imagination take flight. There was never any real "dating" in the conventional sense of the word. One day Billy and I were hanging with the gang, going to the movies, the next, we were finding excuses to ditch them. But even though there was genuine caring and affection and oh-so-romantic teenage declarations of love, in truth, there were never any illusions about it being a forever kind of thing. After high school he went to community college and the police academy in Portland and I traipsed off to the Art Institute in Chicago. Our relationship died its natural death and it wasn't even painful.

In college my M.O. was similar, but with a twist. Jack Maier was a buddy of my roommate's big brother who I met the very day I moved into the res hall. My first impression was of this ungodly gorgeous pair of legs appearing to support an enormous box that was in turn, attempting to fit through the doorway of my room. I've always been a sucker for a good pair of muscular man-legs, so that was almost enough to send me over the edge, right there. The rest of him coulda been Quasimodo and I probably wouldn't have noticed. That the box eventually revealed a blonde, attractively sweat-soaked cutie with big, brown eyes attached to those gorgeous legs? Well, that was like getting a bonus spin on Wheel of Fortune and hitting BIG, baby. After the proper "hellos and pleased to meetchas," I also had to check off suave on the Attractive Traits list. Add that whole older, more experienced vibe, plus believe it or not, the fact that he had absolutely nothing in common with me, at least outwardly, and I was a goner.

You wanna know how different we were? I was studying Interior Design, while Jack was a law student; a night at the book store and a good meal qualify as a great time for me, he preferred poker night with the guys; he's attractive in a polished, elegant sort of way, I'm what people term "cute" or "perky". I really hate those terms—makes me think of fluffy ducks or bunnies. However, I can't deny that these differences were, in some immeasurable way, fascinating—exotic, even—and yes, every bit as stupid as it sounds.

But we met and I fell. Hard. Figuratively, for once, as opposed to literally, and that was all she wrote as far as any collegiate dating experience. Which is to say, I had none. Zip. Zilch. Zero. Because as unlikely as it seemed, (and still does, but for different reasons), he apparently fell just as hard. Jack and I started going out exclusively about two minutes after being introduced and with the exception of a brief period, remained together throughout my college years, getting married right after I graduated.
After our divorce I can assure you I wanted nothing to do with any man who wasn't related, under the age of twelve, or providing some sort of service, like cleaning the gutters. Having your soul destroyed tends to have that effect.

Which now brings us to this insane blind date that in a moment of supreme weakness I allowed Mary Ellen to bludgeon me into. Technically, my first date.

As in, ever.

Joy.

March 7

"Are you guys sure you're okay with this?"

"We're fine, Mommy."

"Yeah, Mom. We're okay. Why do you keep asking?"

Yeah, really. Why do I keep asking? Was it because I was reduced to hoping that my children would be so devastated by the idea of Mommy going out on a date that I'd feel compelled to call the whole thing off? Nice, Ro, good going there. You'd prefer your children were traumatized rather than go out on a stupid date. I crossed my eyes and stuck my tongue out at my reflection.

"Aunt Mary Ellen, she's doing it again."

"Ro, quit it." M.E. poked her head out from my bathroom with an exasperated huff of breath. She'd dropped her kids off at her parents' and come over to my house, ostensibly so we could get ready together, "just like old times," but I knew the truth: she just wanted to make certain I didn't come up with some lame-ass excuse to duck out on this date. Trust the wily bitch to have all the bases covered too—Tom and Sam were driving in from Cape Elizabeth together, M.E. was going to drive us in her car as soon as Zia got here to watch the kids, and we'd all meet up at the restaurant in Brunswick. No chance for anyone to make a break for it. Damn her. Outside of a sudden, life-threatening fever or measurable blood loss, there was just no escape.

"You know, if someone comes up and slaps you on the back, your face will freeze just like that."

"So you've been threatening since we were six and it still hasn’t happened. I'm beginning to not believe you."

She sidled up behind where I sat at my vanity and tapped the mirror. "Oh? So, pray tell, is it simply worrying about my idle threats that's contributing to those lovely crevices between your eyebrows, dear?"

"Nope. It's the worrying about the threat that you did carry through on that's created those." I propped my chin in my hand with a disgusted sigh. "Probably also contributed to the early stages of crow's feet I discovered the other day."

"Oh would you listen to yourself." In the mirror, I had a close up view of her expressive hazel eyes in full rolling mode. "It's a date, for chrissakes—you're not being led to the Coliseum to become Lion Chow."

"No, I just resemble something that the lion sampled and spit back up."

"Shoppers, there's a Blue Light Special on pity parties, aisle four. Do we have to do the mantra? Okay now, repeat after me." I grinned at our combined reflections as Mary Ellen assumed a mock yoga pose and started intoning, "I am smart and talented and gorgeous— "

"Whoa. Stop right there, since you know that last part is generous, to say the least. You," I spun around on my seat and pointed, "are the gorgeous one. I'm the 'cute one', remember?" A comparison, no doubt, undeniably linked to our differences in size and build, but one that's held since we outgrew the horrors of puberty.

Nearly six feet tall and whippet-thin, even after two kids, she is a walking, talking, kick in the ass dispute to any of Hitler's crackpot "racial purity" theories. With a café au lait complexion and glossy, black corkscrew curls that put to shame the most expensive spiral perm, she makes even Vanessa Williams look like ground chuck.

I, as I may have mentioned before, am short—and not in any pixie sprite, anorexic gymnast sort of way. The boobs and hips keep that from ever being a reality, not that I'm bemoaning the reality of them. They're really quite handy and I've always been grateful to Botticelli and Ruebens for assistance on the old self-esteem front. (I mean, have you seen the asses on the chicks who modeled for them? Really.)

Luckily, Mary Ellen's also a really good, fantastic, grounded person, or I might've had to kill her long ago. Although given what I'm about to go through because of her, I may have still have to kill her. Just on principle, you understand.

"I think you're cute, Mommy."

Damn if but coming from my little angel, it didn't make that cursed word sound a whole lot better than it ever had.

"Thanks, sweetheart. Remind me to pay you later." I blew a kiss towards my bed, where Em and Patrick lay sprawled watching cartoons on the TV, while I struggled through final preparations.

Standing, I executed a slow three-sixty for M.E. "Well, Madame Date Arbiter, will I do?"

With a wave of her hand, she indicated I should turn around again, which I did, but not without grumbling. "Come on, M.E., I feel like I'm on the turntable at FAO Schwarz with that infernal song playing over and over."

She ignored me. Okay, maybe not ignored, but her only response was some unintelligible, deep-throated noise, accompanied by a tilted head and a slow nod. "Yes… you'll definitely do. I wasn't initially sure about the outfit, since I've never seen you in this color combination, but I do believe it works."

Admittedly this get-up was a stretch for me. I'd spotted the lime green tunic and navy pants on the sale rack at Macy's the week before. Time after time, we would pass the rack it was hanging on and there was just something about the striking color combination… Thing practically shouted at me to at least try it. When I finally caved, the heavy, textured raw silk had slid against my skin with such a delicious, sensual feeling, that my mind was virtually made up without any conscious effort on my part. Sad, ain't it, that I get my jollies off of being felt up by quality fabric, but there you have it. And there's nothing like a sale to justify taking a fashion risk, right? But I still worried.

"Are you sure?" I asked anxiously. "Not too gaudy for a first date?"

"Oh please, sweetie—gaudy isn't even a word in your vocabulary. However…" She walked around behind me, making those damned noises again.

"What?" I twisted myself around into a pretzel trying to look down my back. "I've got something on me, don't I? Sat in some makeup, maybe? Darn, and here I don't have anything else I can wear—"

"Not getting off the hook so easy, Kemo Sabe." Mary Ellen took me by the shoulders and steered me back to my vanity chair. "You don't have anything on you, and you have a closet full of clothes. Now, hush up and sit." She unceremoniously shoved me down into the chair.

"What's the problem?"

"The problem is," she said, lifting up the mass of my hair and glaring at me in the mirror, "this."

I glared back. "What's the matter with my hair?"

She removed the barrette I'd used to hold my hair back off my face and tossed it to the table with a haughty sniff. "There's nothing wrong with your hair if you're going for that Catholic schoolgirl look." Picking up my Mason Pearson brush she drew it through my hair with a few brisk strokes then began deftly weaving it into a French braid. "I mean, if that's the image you want, you just should've told me, I would've brought my plaid miniskirt and patent leather platform Mary Janes."

Looking thoughtful, she finished off my braid and fastened it with a navy-blue beaded elastic that she dug up from one of the vanity's drawers. "On second thought, maybe not. That outfit tends to really turn Tom on." She grinned and waggled her eyebrows, ala Groucho.

"Okay, first off, ew. So an image I didn't need. And second, any miniskirt of yours is bound to go past my knees provided it even makes it over my hips, so it's totally a non-issue." I surveyed her handiwork in the mirror, grudgingly agreeing that she'd had a point about the hair. The sophisticated braid was a better fit with the clean lines of the outfit than masses of unruly hair.

"Much as I hate to inflate your ego, you did good." I inspected a few different lipsticks before selecting one and carefully applying it. While I was blotting and putting on a second coat, I happened to look up and catch Mary Ellen watching me in the mirror. "I'm sorry I've been a butt about this whole date thing, M.E."

"Do you really want to bail?"

I spun around to face her. "You give me that option now? After I've put on lipstick? You're an evil woman, you know that?"

She shrugged. "Not the first time I've heard it, babe. So, what's it going to be? Mexican at the cost of a date or are you just gonna stick with frozen Stouffer's and Friends reruns on the tube?"

I grinned, knowing that this was her way of giving me permission to back out and she wouldn't hold it against me. "Since when have you ever known me to pass up Rosita's enchiladas?"

"I lay all my nefarious plans with care, you know that." She reached out and cupped my chin. "Ro, I know it's cliché and corny, but I just want you to grab a little happiness."
I put my hand over hers. "You know, you get less and less cynical every year you stay married."

"Yeah, pity, ain't it?"

We laughed together and I turned away to put on the finishing touches. Large gold hoop earrings, a spritz of perfume, and I was as ready as I was gonna get. I stood up and presented myself for final inspection. "Well, troops? How do I look?"

Patrick and Emily managed to tear themselves away from Bugs long enough to give me a cursory once over.

"You look pretty, Mommy."

"Yeah, you look okay."

"Gee, thanks for the ringing endorsement." Rummaging in my closet, I dug up a small purse, and tried to figure out what essentials from my everyday carry-on luggage would fit. Lipstick and powder: check. Credit card and license: check. Cell phone: check. Cash, in case this date turned out to be a dud and I needed to sneak out and cab it back home: absolutely. Keys: check, check, and check again.

"Mom?"

"Hm?" I replied distractedly, engrossed in trying to calculate if fifty bucks was enough for a cab, or if a hundred would be a safer bet. Best to take a hundred.

"What about Michael?"

Ohhh-kay. That got my attention.

"What about him, Patrick?"

"I thought you liked him." The expression in his eyes was confused, yet totally earnest.

"I do like him."

"Then why don't you go on a date with him?"

Geez, talk about coming out of nowhere. I crossed the room and sat on the bed next to him.

"It's not that easy, babe."

"Why?"

Gads. How to explain this? Mary Ellen and I exchanged glances and she shrugged. Start simple, she seemed to be saying.

"Well, sweetie, for one thing, he doesn't live in Port Gordon."

"Neither does this man you're going out with tonight, right?"

"Um… yeah, I guess you're right about that." Talk about out of the mouths of babes. "But honey, Michael lives really far away. He lives in England. He's just been visiting in the United States."

"But the people you were watching on that dumb Wedding Story show yesterday lived really far away from each other before they got married, didn't they?"

Great. The one time the kids actually pay attention to The Learning Channel, it's a long distance love affair on Wedding Story. Lucky me.

"Patrick, remember when Michael said his wife had a dog?"

"Ayuh—one of them funny Chinese hairless things."

"One of those," I corrected automatically. "But the word of the day there, baby, is 'wife'. Michael's married, honey, and people who are married don't go out on dates with other people." Mary Ellen's amused snort prompted me to add, "Generally speaking."

I turned back to Patrick who looked slightly crestfallen. "What's up, little man? Why this interest in Michael, all of a sudden?"

"Well…" He stared down at my quilt, tracing the Mariner's Star pattern with a finger. "It's just that, well, he liked Walter, an' Walter liked him."

Hearing his name, the mutt, who'd been dozing on his own bed, rolled over and presented his belly. Absent-mindedly, I scratched him with the toe of my shoe as I studied my son, trying to discern just what might be going through his mind. "Is there anything else, sweetie?"

"It's… it's just—" He shrugged, gaze never straying from the blue and green patches of fabric he continued to trace. "You're just really happy every time you get an email from him. I like it."

Struck dumb by Patrick's admission (and how hard is that?) I exchanged a startled glance with Mary Ellen. Once again, she shrugged and again, the message was clear. See? I'm not the only one who noticed.

Oh man, oh man, oh man. This was not good—and needed to be nipped in the bud immediately. But whose bud needed to be nipped more? Mine, or Patrick's? "Baby, he's a friend and hearing from a friend always makes me happy. Think about it, when I get a phone call from Aunt Mary Ellen, doesn't that make me happy?"

"Not like this," he reiterated.

Stubborn little twerp. A mixture of love and exasperation filled me as I stared down at him. The firm set of his jaw was an indicator of the man that he'd one day become, the vulnerable curve of neck and back revealed him as the boy he still was, and in those big brown eyes, when he raised them to me, I could still see my baby.

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"You're not mad, are you?"

"Why?"

"Because you've been ticked off at Aunt Mary Ellen for bugging you about Michael. I was worried you'd be mad at me."

"Sweetheart, the difference is, Aunt Mary Ellen is an incurable buttinsky who exists solely to torment me."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. No, I'm not mad." I hugged him close, whispering against hair, "Don't ever be afraid to ask me about anything you're worried about, 'kay?"

"Okay."

His arms wrapped around my middle, squeezing hard. I felt another pair of arms around my neck and Emily's voice whispering in my ear, "Me too, Mommy." I had the distinct impression she didn't have a clue what she was agreeing to, seeing as she'd been deeply absorbed in Pepe LePew's amorous exploits the entire time Patrick and I had been talking. She just didn't want to be left out.

"I'm glad, doll baby."

"All right, gang." M.E.'s voice broke though the warm and fuzzies. "Much as I hate to interrupt this wicked cute Hallmark moment, I just saw Francesca's car pull up. We really need to boogie."

Dropping kisses onto each tousled head, I gave them a gentle push off the bed. "You guys go open the door for Zia. Aunt Mary Ellen and I will be right behind."

"Yes, Mommy."

"All right, Mom."

After they left the room, Mary Ellen and I looked at each other—one of those "a single glance saying more than a thousand words" kind of moment. Didn't mean she wouldn't try to use words, but I was just so not in the mood.

"Do not say a word."

"Who me? I am a paragon of discretion."

"Bullshit." I eyed her with a knowing gaze. "You're practically quivering, you're so anxious to make with the 'I told you so's'."

"Well?"

Crossed arms, tilted head, accusatory glare. Maybe she wasn't saying it, but the body language was practically screaming.

"Mary Ellen," I warned, slipping into my black cashmere coat. Not that any kind of warning ever worked on her. They never had.

"Look, all I'm saying is that if a seven-year-old boy, generally a creature that is notoriously self-absorbed and oblivious to most anything but immediate surroundings, television, and food, can note a recent change to Mommy's demeanor, shouldn't that set the Spidey-sense all a'tingle? You know I'm cool with the unrequited lust thing—note my longtime fascination with Johnny Depp, however—" she paused, seeming to choose her next words with care. "I've never actually had contact with the man, y'know? Much less exchange chatty emails with him. There's a helluva gap between fantasy and… whatever."

I tried. I really, really tried. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I hardly ever genuinely lose my temper anymore, but dammit, what the hell was up with everyone on this Michael thing? What the hell was up with me?

"Jesus, do you think I want to be feeling like this? You think I like this?" I struggled to keep my voice down, but it still came out sounding harsh and ragged. "Unrequited lust is one thing, can make your stomach hurt and prompt you to act all sorts of stupid especially when you're, say, fifteen, but allow me to let you in on a little secret— Unrequited whatever," I mocked her own choice of words. "That fucking sucks beyond all telling. Especially at thirty-three. Because what's my excuse then, huh? It's no longer cute and adolescent. It's just sad."

Even after all her years of bearing witness to my temper, M.E. seemed stunned by this outburst. Come to think of it, so was I, judging by the tears prickling against my eyelids. And here I thought I'd processed through all of this.

"Gads, Ro…"

"I told you not to say anything, didn't I?" I somehow managed a half-hearted grin as I handed M.E. her cape and picked up my gloves and purse. "What? You think I hadn't considered all of this? Didn't Taylor fill you in on our disturbingly similar conversation from last week? He's losing his touch." I tugged on my gloves, pulling the snug, black leather over fingers that felt numb. "Admittedly, Patrick's little commentary threw me for a loop. Didn't realize I was being quite so transparent."

Tossing winter-white wool around her shoulders with a casual élan at odds with her serious expression, she asked, "So what are you going to do about it, Missy?"

"Aside from be grateful that Michael's at a respectably safe distance from my lust-crazed clutches?" I joked weakly. "I'm going on this godforsaken date, aren't I?" I slipped my purse over my shoulder. "And if this one doesn't work out, I'm sure I can skim through your black book archives for the next victim."

"Oh, no more books, I'm afraid."

"No?"

A mischievous grin transformed her features from model-perfect to naughty child. "Nope. I've had them all transferred to CD-ROM."

"My, how very efficient and twenty-first century of you."

"Yes, quite."

Peace and goodwill restored, until the next time. And there would be a next time—there always was. Thing about Taylor, and M.E. and myself: we fight hard, but make up easy. It's all part and parcel of the unshakable knowledge that no matter what it's always dictated by love and all its attendant crap.

I sighed. "All right, let's go. Can't be late for meeting the potential man of my dreams."

Mercifully, she let it drop, just nodding and heading out of the bedroom. Following, I was about to close the door behind me when I heard my laptop chime its "new mail" tone. I thought about waiting until I came back from dinner, but it's sort of like a ringing phone—it just can't be ignored.

Crossing to my desk, I checked the program. Wouldn't you know it. Not totally a surprise, since I'd emailed him just last night, telling him how stressed I was about this goofy date sitch. But still, the timing was impeccable.

Dear Roby,

Break a leg, darling and buck up—It's sure to be a lovely evening. Behave yourself, no mad dancing on the tables, and give me a quick rundown when you get a chance, eh? As for me, it's Las Vegas tonight and tomorrow. Sin City and no one to sin with. I do wish Liv had managed to come over for the last leg of the tour. Aren't I a pitiful git? Just pining away like some besotted teenager. However, the chances that she'll get this film role are excellent so I understand why she needs to stay in London. Oh well. Perhaps I'll bury my misery at the slots. Would you believe they have them in the bloody public loo?

Michael

"Roby!" M.E. bellowed from downstairs. "Get a move on, girl. Time to meet the man of your dreams."

I glanced back at the screen. With a deep breath, I squared my shoulders and turned out the lights.

"Coming."

**

"This was fun."

"Yeah, it was, actually."

"You sound surprised."

Sam shifted into park and turned to face me. "Aren't you?"

Didn't even require major thought. Color me stunned this had turned out as well as it had. It would probably go down in the annals of history as the first non-sucky blind date, ever. I mean, what wasn't to like? Good food, good conversation, discovering the commonalities, debating the differences, all totally pleasant as long as I ignored the occasional self-satisfied smirk coming from my lunatic best friend across the table. A smirk that no amount of kicking under the table could eradicate. A smirk which had only broadened at Sam's insistence on driving me home, even though it made no sense, what with him having to go back in the opposite direction to Cape Elizabeth, while Mary Ellen and Tom were heading back to Port Gordon anyway to spend the night at her parents'.

Hmm… Cute guy driving me home versus gloating, full-of-herself, pain in the ass best friend? It was pretty much a no-brainer. After a ladies room confab where Mary Ellen assured me that no, he really wasn't an axe murderer, I was good with it.

So here we were, in the driveway of my house, engine running so we'd have heat, music playing softly in the background—Garth Brooks instead of Dusty Springfield, but otherwise, altogether too eerily reminiscent of that day Michael had driven me home. I shoved that thought firmly to the back of my mind, concentrating on the flesh-and-blood (and available, don't forget available) man sitting across from me.

"Oh, yeah," I admitted. "I'm surprised, especially since Mary Ellen had to do some serious browbeating for me to go on this date. No reflection on you," I added hastily.
He laughed and pushed back the sheaf of ash-brown hair that had fallen into his eyes. "No offense taken." Merry brown eyes the exact amber shade of brandy shone in the dim light coming from the porch. Oh my. I was definitely not immune to their potential swoon-worthiness.

Shaking his head he added, "She practically had to hogtie me to say yes, but I haven't quite yet figured out how to refuse the woman and have her actually believe me."

I snorted. "Best approach I've found is to stick your fingers in your ears and go 'Lalalala, I am not listening to Mary Ellen, I am not listening to Mary Ellen! Not that it works, but at least you're drowning her out for a few." Doing my best Eddie Murphy as Axel Foley earned me another laugh. A warm glow began snaking its way up from somewhere in the vicinity of my toes. I was still getting used to the idea that I could be a goof around a guy and he wouldn't go all sour, and not get the joke. Hopefully, Sam wasn't just being polite.

Somehow, I didn't think so. During the course of dinner, I'd found Sam Hansen to be forthright in a boyish yet rugged Mark Harmon sort of way I couldn't help but find mighty appealing. A broker in the real estate firm Mary Ellen's husband owned, he, too, was a survivor of the divorce wars and had been, according to him, every bit as wary as I when it came to dipping the toes back in the dating pool.

"This house looks great, Roby, even in the dark." He leaned forward, peering through the windshield. "Wish I could see more." His glance back at me was friendly, interested, but not at all pushy. Which was comforting.

"Thanks. You'll have to come back—in the daytime, even, so you can get the nickel tour."

"I get to come back?"

I ducked my head, suddenly shy. "If you like."

His hand brushed my shoulder with a light touch, enough to make me look up.

"I'd like." His smile was slightly crooked, shy in its own way. I know he'd said he was leery of dating again, but was it possible he was as nervous as I was? "Now, tell me again, all those loopy connections that brought you here?"

I giggled uncontrollably. "I told you, Sam. We need flow charts and graphics to keep track of all of that." As was inevitable whenever M.E. and I got together, conversation would turn to shared people, places, and experiences, and it was difficult, to put it mildly, for the uninitiated to keep up. Even Tom, who'd been married to Mary Ellen for over ten years, still had trouble with some of the more obscure connections.

"Try. I've got a nearly full tank of gas—we're good for awhile."

"Short version only. I do have to get inside before my aunt expires from sheer curiosity." I waved at the window where the curtain immediately fluttered shut, covering the exposed sliver of window that had given away Zia's lurking. "Next thing you know, she'll be flicking the porch lights to signal that it's time to come in."

Again with that warm, throaty chuckle. Was there any quip I could make that this guy wouldn’t respond to? This was truly novel. Only Michael … Sigh. There I go again.
But Sam's voice snapped me back.

"Start with your aunt. She's really your aunt?"

I settled back against the seat. "Yes, she is, by marriage. She's married to my Uncle Hugh, who's my father's brother, hence the shared surname."

"And she's Italian."

"Again, yes, born and bred, and it's due to her diligent efforts that Mary Ellen, my cousin, Taylor, and I all speak passably fluent Italian, for all the good it does us here in Maine." I chuckled remembering all the times in high school when M.E. and I would wander the halls, chattering in Italian, just to infuriate the Beautiful People clique. Usually it was about nothing more innocuous than what was on the lunch menu, but they didn't know that.

"Actually, it did do us some good, since it got us out of the foreign language requirement in high school."

"Always handy. I had to take Spanish and I can't remember a whole hell of a lot more than Hola, yo me llamo Sam."

I cringed. "Sam, that is truly awful. I can't believe they let you graduate from Cambridge Latin with that crummy accent."

An impish grin crossed his face. "They were happy to get rid of me. I was a hell-raiser extraordinaire." He stretched his arm across the back of the seat. Tilting his head, his expression shifted from imp to reflective. "I can't believe you were going to go to Cambridge Latin too. Talk about your coincidences. You would have been an innocent freshie and I could have been the suave and dashing upperclassman who swept you off your feet."

"Nice try, Romeo," I snickered. "But I doubt it."

"Why? Not good enough for you?" His indignant tone made me giggle again.

"Well, barring the fact that no high-school senior is ever suave and dashing, I so wouldn't have been your type. You were a jock, I bet. Lacrosse? Maybe sailing or crew?
"Yeah." The word was loaded with suspicion. "Lacrosse and swimming, actually. How'd you guess?"

"Instinct. Plus you have that build that suggests a lot of upper body strength." Dammit, dammit, dammit. I could feel myself blushing furiously. Why don't you just shout it out, Roby? Yes, I was checking out your bod. Thank God for the dark interior of the car.

Either Sam didn't notice me blushing or he was too nice to say anything about it because the only thing he did say was, "Astute observation."

"Too many art classes," I muttered. "But thanks anyway."

"Okay, so we've established I was your typical hell-raising jock. You got something against them?"

"Other way around, Sparky. Typical hell-raising jocks didn't go for bookish, smart-assed nerds with glasses, splotchy faces, and braces who spent all of their time with a sketchpad and charcoal-smudged fingers. Just not done, dontcha know?"

Shuddering inwardly, I recalled the utter hell of freshman year. I'd been grateful to have M.E. as we'd suffered through the tortures of adolescence together. She'd been just as funny looking and taller than everyone else to boot.

"You couldn't have been that bad."

"Oh yeah?" I snorted. "Remind me to show you one of the few pictures I didn't burn. I keep them to show my clients that no remodel is ever hopeless." We laughed easily together then fell quiet, letting the night envelop us.

"So how'd you wind up in Port Gordon instead of Cambridge?"

"Well, my mom had died partway through seventh grade and my dad just wasn't up to dealing with the creature that is a girl on the verge of puberty. He was happier in his lab where he didn't have to think about anything except what was on the slide under the microscope." I shrugged casually, but I couldn't keep the hurt tone out of my voice. "So when Aunt Bert came down and told him, in no uncertain terms, that she was bringing me back up here to live with her full-time, he was in no position to argue. He was just grateful." My voice dropped to just above a whisper. "And so was I. Within a few years, he'd pretty much worked himself to death, which he probably would have done whether I was there or not."

Sam didn't press further, opting instead to ask, "So explain Aunt Bert's position on the family tree?"

I smiled. "She was married to my grandfather's brother. They never had kids, which was a shame, because if anyone should have had kids, it was Aunt Bert. She was great with me and Taylor and M.E., and to hear Uncle Hugh tell it, she was a second mom to him and my dad as well. She's who I'm named for and that," I added, "is that when it comes to my wacko family tree—at least for now. I really need to get in."

Opening the door, I stepped out of the car onto the driveway. It was wicked cold, but clear, the stars brilliant against the dense blue-black night sky and the moon a gleaming, low-hanging orb giving off so much light it made the driveway lights a superfluous afterthought. I closed my eyes and inhaled, savoring the sharp, sea-scented air as I listened to the comforting sound of waves slapping against the rocks several feet below.

"Hey."

I turned, having very nearly forgotten Sam. "Hey."

"You really love it here, don't you?"

Perhaps I should have been embarrassed at having been caught out in my open adoration of my home, but I wasn't. It meant too much. "Yeah, I really, really do. I meant it when I said you should come back during the day."

Sam reached out and took my hand. "Is that because you want to show off your house or you'd like to see me again?"

I tightened my fingers around his. "Both."

"D'you have a preference?"

Laughing I asked, "What are you, insecure, or something?"

He grinned, that crooked smile that I noticed now, revealed a slight chip in a front tooth, which somehow made it all the more endearing. "Just a little, so humor me, okay?"

"I'd like to see you again."

"Good."

When had he leaned in quite so close? I didn't have time to figure it out because about half a second later, his lips were on mine, firm, but not so much so that it felt as if I were kissing a wood block. The question of just how much garlic had been in the enchiladas briefly crossed my mind before I thought, screw it, and lost myself in the delicious wonder of a first kiss.

God, it had been so long since I'd done this, but it's sort of like playing the piano, even when total fear seizes your mind, muscle memory takes over. My free hand came up and rested on Sam's cheek as I leaned into the kiss, relishing the feel of light stubble scratching against my skin as his mouth moved with mine, shifting, experimenting, trying to see how best we fit together. Hoo boy, good thing we were outside and it was getting colder by the minute, because who knows how much further things might have progressed otherwise?

We broke apart, our laughing gasps making huge clouds of breath that couldn't totally obscure the slightly cocky, pleased expression Sam wore. Once a jock, always a jock, I suppose. But how could I complain when I could feel the same stupid, cocky grin on my own face?

"I guess you need to—"

"Yeah, I really should be—" I gestured towards the front door, even managed to take a few steps away, before I was pulled back into Sam's embrace.

"I really need to get inside," I whispered against his mouth some time later.

"I know," he whispered back. But he kept peppering those small kisses along my jaw and towards my ear, making me shiver—and not with the cold. And somehow my coat had come partially unbuttoned and his hands, inexplicably warm despite the temperature, had found their way around to my back where they stroked the length of it, heating the silk of my blouse until it felt fluid and sensuous against my skin.

"You're not making this easy."

"I know."

"You're bad," I admonished with a laugh.

"Never said I wasn't."

"Sam."

"Okay, okay."

With a final, lingering kiss, I stepped away and was up the steps and on the porch before I could change my mind. The urge to go diving headfirst with him into his car and winding up in some deeply compromising positions was a near-overwhelming thing. Hey what can I say? It had been a while and my body was letting me know it, in a big way.

"Roby?"

Pausing with my hand on the doorknob, I looked back at him.

"I'll call you tomorrow?"

"That'd be nice."

"Night."

"G'night, Sam."

I slipped inside the door, dropping coat and purse on the hall bench before heading on into the kitchen where I found Zia sitting at the table, Walter dozing at her feet. She sipped at a steaming mug of tea, every line of her body suggesting total absorption in the book she held, but I knew better. Still, I decided to let her stew a bit—punishment for that spying out the window stunt. Crossing to the Aga, I poured myself a cup of freshly brewed tea from the ceramic pot resting on the simmering plate, adding milk and sugar. Sitting down at the table, I helped myself to one of the fresh lemon ginger cookies heaped on a plate.

With a happy sigh, I kicked off my shoes and rested my feet on Walter's back, scratching along his spine with my toes, satisfied to sit in silence as I crunched into the fragrant cookie.

"I would have thought you got your fill of dessert already, cara." Zia's gaze remained resolutely focused on her book, but her lips quirked ever so slightly as she spoke.

I grinned, having won this particular showdown. "How much did you see?"

"Nothing. But you were out there long enough." Finally giving up the pretense of reading, she set her book aside and looked at me. "I was tempted to bring out hot chocolate," she teased.

"Didn't need it," I teased back.

Her expression turned serious. "You could have brought him in, Roby. It is your home."

My smile faded. "No. Too soon for that."

"I see. Well, I can't say that I'm disappointed with that decision, cara, but I know we sometimes tend to forget that you and Taylor and Mary Ellen aren't fourteen anymore and are capable of making your own choices."

"I know, Zia. Sometimes it's hard for me to remember that too."

"Frankly, I'm glad none of you are fourteen anymore." she quipped before turning semi-serious again. "But you liked him?"

"I liked him."

"Good. You'll have to bring him to a dinner."

I recoiled in mock-horror. "God, Zia, let me have at least a few more dates before we go running him off with a family dinner."
Zia waved her hand dismissively "He already knows Mary Ellen. How much more traumatic can it get?"

"Um, M.E. plus everyone else?"

"Eh, you worry too much." She rose from the table, carrying her mug to the sink, rinsing it out and placing it in the dishwasher before crossing back to retrieve her book. Following her out to the hall, I waited for her to put on her parka and gloves before giving her a hug.

"Thanks for watching the kids. I really appreciate it."

"Anytime, bellissima." Returning my hug, she pulled back enough to look into my face. "I know this situation with Michael has been confusing and not easy for you to deal with, but at the same time, I'm glad for it. I was worried that you were going to realize too late you were letting life pass you by."

"Life's a scary bitch, Zia."

"Yes, and you can be a scarier one. Don't forget that."

"If you say so."

"I do." With a final kiss on the cheek, she let herself out, turning to wave before climbing into her car.

I smiled and waved back, then closed and locked the door. Collecting my stuff from the bench, I climbed the stairs and headed for my room. Crossing the threshold my gaze immediately darted over to rest briefly on the laptop which was quiet now in "Sleep" mode, making it a little easier to ignore as I changed out of my date finery and into thermals and a t-shirt. A quick face cleaning, then off to check on the kids, again ignoring the computer and its subtle hum; that occasional taunting blink that let me know all I needed to do was touch a key and it would immediately spring to life. What did I think anyway? That there was another message? Oh please. Could I get any more pathetic? I'd just had a fantastic date and I was worried about email from Mr. Unattainable. It had to be because Zia had mentioned him, because I'd actually managed to make it through several hours without a single thought of Michael crossing my addled little brain.

Pushing open the door to Patrick's room, I wasn't surprised to find him sprawled at an alarming angle, head practically hanging off the bed, looking as if he was going to tumble off at any second. He never had, but it didn't stop me from hauling him back to a safer position in the middle of his bed. And he wondered why I wouldn't buy him bunk beds.

By contrast, Emily, when I checked on her, was curled into an adorable little ball, clutching the stuffed pig Taylor had given her when she was born. With a light finger, I traced the arc of her impossibly long eyelashes and brushed her bangs back away from her forehead.

"How was your date, Mommy?" Her eyes remained closed, the words coming out in a sleepy, little girl mumble. I wasn't surprised. Em had had a penchant for talking in her sleep since she could form complete sentences.

"It was fine, sweetheart." I smiled down at her, even though she couldn't see me. "Go back to sleep now."

"'kay. I'm glad it was good. I like Michael."

" Shhh… His name's Sam, remember?"

She frowned, furrowing her brow. "No, Michael," she stubbornly repeated.

There was no point in trying to correct her—she'd never remember this in the morning anyhow. My "Okay, baby," was apparently enough, her features relaxing into sleep once again. "Sleep well." I leaned down and kissed her cheek, briefly nuzzling the baby-soft skin.

Back in the kitchen, I let Walter out for his nightly constitutional while I drank a second cup of tea, musing over the slightly surreal evening. I had to hand it to Mary Ellen—she'd picked a good one. Sam was wonderful, no doubt about it. It would be interesting to see where a second date would take us. A second date. How novel.

After Walter whined at the door to be let in, I turned out the lights and made my way back to my room. This time, I didn't ignore the computer, sitting down at my desk and touching the keyboard. When the monitor lit up, I opened a new window and began:

Dear Michael,

Well, you were right. It was a lovely evening—Mexican food and wicked strong Margaritas, sans any mad table dancing. (Get that disappointed look off your face.) His name is Sam, and he's really nice—I think you'd like him, provided you ever actually met him. Kind of sad that it's unlikely to ever happen, given that it would require a hauling of your ass back to these parts—or mine over there. You know, one of these days we're going to have to talk about what the hairy heck you were doing in these parts anyhow—I just realized you never told me how you came to be in P.G. that day. At any rate, I guess I'll be seeing him again… No, I know I'm going to see him again, and soon, probably.

But this is really scary for me—I don't think that anyone else in the family even realizes how terrifying this is. Apparently, they've all done the secret handshake and been in agreement I should be getting on with my life, even though I'm perfectly happy with where it's been. Interfering bunch. Yet, I can't deny that they have a point. It's not like I set out to lock myself up and throw away the key, but… I've felt this euphoria before and look where it landed me. Of course, with Jack it was this explosive, overwhelming entity and I was just so young. This is different—kind of comforting, but not, at the same time. Does that make sense? Probably not. However… I'd like to think I've learned something in the intervening years, but who knows? I know that at times tonight, I didn't feel like I was an experienced adult. Honestly, I felt more like "seventeen and never been kissed," (SO not tattling on that front, so just don't even ask.) Ah well… I'm babbling, I'm sure, but then, you have said you like my rambling notes. Good thing. Because some of the stuff I tell you, I can't even tell Taylor, but that'll be our little secret, okay?

I'm really sorry that Liv wasn't able to make it over. I know you'd really hoped to have her join you. I'll keep my fingers crossed on the film role though—if she can't be with you let some good at least come of it.

Well, it's been a hell of day and I'm wiped. I'll sign off now, but you'll have to tell me about the slots in the bathroom. How unbelievably tacky is that?

Later,

Ro.</i>

Chapter Six

2006-07-18T15:37:53Z

Taylor

You know that old saying? "Home is where the heart is." There's also a slightly lesser known saying: "Home is where the heartburn is," and I'm a firm believer in the validity of both. Hometowns can be both a blessing and big ol' pain in the ass, but there's just something about them that tends to draw us back, regardless. (Or make you run screaming—depends, I suppose.)

For me, home has always been and always will be Port Gordon. Regardless of the various places I've visited or lived, not a one has ever pulled at my heart the way that this absurd little town does. It's like Roby once said after some annual shindig or other that had brought out the local crazies and then some, "This town, it's like the illegitimate love-child of 'Northern Exposure' and L.L. Bean."

Truer words were never spoken.

I'm not saying that there aren't any other places equally as… colorful. Gads, far from it. Just look at any film set in the American South for example. If that whole "truth is stranger than fiction" axiom is to be believed, then it can be safely assumed that some pretty weird shit goes down south of the Mason-Dixon line.

Or simply walk down the street in L.A. or New York. What the locals there matter-of-factly accept as "normal" takes colorful to a whole 'nother level for the rest of us mere mortals, capisce?

I guess that's part of what I'm getting at. What's colorful to others is merely another day at the office when it's what you're accustomed to. What you want. Despite its inherent weirdnesses, all I'd ever dreamt about was being part of "normal" life in P.G.

Making it happen? Think rocks and hard places.

February 27

Port Gordon City Limits

Port Gordon CITY limits? Were they fucking kidding? Since when had P.G. been a city? Village, yes. Township—stretching things just a wee and suburb? Bite your tongue. City, however… Saying Port Gordon's a city is like Britney and that whole virginity thing or Dad saying he still wore a thirty-four waist. Blatant LIE. Last time he mentioned it, I couldn't help asking if that nose extension thing was painful. He was not amused. Especially since Ro and I were practically laughing ourselves sick, gasping for breath and singing snatches of "When You Wish Upon a Star." Even Mom couldn't help but crack a smile for all that she was scolding us. She had to threaten us with not letting us open our Christmas presents before we managed to settle down. Which would have been tragic, because then I wouldn't have had my cute little iPod that was currently blaring tunage through my speakers.

And was it coincidence that "Virtual Insanity" was the song playing as I turned onto Main? I think not. I zipped into a parking space in front of the clinic, singing along loud and proud, albeit having to drop an octave for some of those stratosphere notes. (Hey, I'm gay, not a castrato—) Yanking up the parking brake, I finished the song with a flourish and shut off the Jeep. As I grabbed my backpack and prepared to head into my home away from home, I could feel my Port Gordon mask slipping on, that slightly imperceptible shift that comes over me whenever I was within the village, excuse me, city limits. Nothing as severe as Jeckyll and Hyde, you understand—more like Mr. Rogers exchanging his tennies for leather loafers.

I pushed the door open, inhaling the co-mingled smells of antiseptic and coffee—scents that for me, were inextricable, one unable to exist without immediately bringing to mind the other. Yeah, weird I know. It makes going into Starbucks a strangely empty experience. Good coffee, but missing that special… I dunno, something.

It's been that way for me since I was three years old—my first memory of a visit to the Port Gordon Memorial Clinic. Of course I'd visited many a time before that, given that Doctor Don had been my doctor since, well, since before I'd been born, but that was the first visit I actually remembered. Don let me shine the otoscope in his ear, giving me a tongue depressor of my own to hold while he peered down my throat, and taking the scaries out of shots by letting me administer one to him using an empty syringe.

I also had tons of opportunities to observe him "in action" as it were, thanks to Roby's many animal escapades. So, all in all, I spent more than my fair share of time in this building growing up and was going to be spending a whole lot more time here. At least, that was the game plan.

"So, you gonna stand there breathin' deep and lookin' goofy or are you planning on comin' all the way in any time soon? It's colder than a witch's booby in a brass brassiere and there you go, lettin' all the heat out."

"Carrie, love of my life." I dropped my backpack on the nearest chair and grabbed up Don's longtime nurse in an enormous bear hug, planting a kiss on her coffee-colored cheek.

"Oof. Now boy, let go before you squeeze the life straight outta me!"

"Oh, honey, as if I could." I bent her back over my arm in a slight dip before dropping her into her chair and setting her spinning. "You've got more life in you than any twenty men and no doubt, you'll outlast us all."

She managed to grab hold of the desk's edge, bringing herself to a halt. "Child, you talk more nonsense than Grover and Lord knows, that man can spout as much nonsense as the day is long—" But her brown eyes were merry and her full lips, though compressed, were still twitching and turning up at the corners.

"But you love me."

"You know I do, though heaven only knows why. Nothing but a trial and tribulation. Bad as one of my own."

Carrie Bennett and her husband Grover, weren't native Mainers, but they might as well have been, for as long as they'd been here. Originally from Texas, they'd left after Grover had been laid off from his refinery job. It being the beginning of the summer, they took it as a sign and packed their car with kids, cat, and Carrie's newly earned nursing degree, stuffed as many of their personal belongings as would fit into a U-Haul trailer and took off for parts unknown.
They'd traveled all that summer, staying with relatives along the way, but with fall approaching, knew they had to put some roots down somewhere. At that point, they happened to be in Maine and figuring it was as good a place as any, they settled down in Port Gordon, where Grover began learning a new trade on the lobster boats. As for Carrie, well, she marched into Don's office one day and announced that he needed a nurse since no man could be trusted to run an office on his own. She's been a fixture here ever since. Everybody loves her, except maybe the fishermen— they have a healthy fear of her given that she hunts them down every year to make certain they get their flu shots.

"Is Don in the back?"

"Where else would he be?" she demanded.

"The Elephant, natch. Seeing as it's about that time," I added, tapping my watch meaningfully.

Carrie glanced up at the clock. "Not quite yet. Besides, he's been waitin' on you. Your mama called yesterday and said you were comin' down for the weekend."

I clapped my hand to my chest in mock-amazement. "He's waiting for moi when he could be over at Pam's? Gasp and shock."

"Don't know as why you're so surprised," came the dry comment from behind me. Don leaned against the wall, clearly having been witness to the majority of my shenanigans with Carrie.

"Woman's barely paid me any mind in the last fifteen-odd years, another fifteen minutes won't matter one whit."

From behind me, Carrie snorted. "He's all yours." Not sure which one of us she was directing that comment at, but it didn't matter—it was clear the two of us had been dismissed.

"Come on back, son. Let's allow Her Highness get back to work."

"Least one of us will be gettin' some work done around here."

"Where would we be without you, Carrie?" I asked, picking up my backpack.

"Likely floatin' in a sea of paper, which might well still be the case if the pair of you don't get out of my hair. Now git."

I mock saluted. "Yes ma'am, Sergeant ma'am." Laughing, I ducked the ball of paper she threw at me as I followed Don into his office.

"Well, there'll be no lack of hilarity 'round here with the two of you going at it day in, day out."

I dropped into the chair opposite Don's and grinned at him. "Oh come on, Don. We're not that bad, are we?"

Don regarded me from across the desk's expanse. "No…" he pretended to muse. "I suppose you're not that bad, except I've never heard Carrie ever threaten to take anyone else over her knee and paddle them senseless."

"Hmm… no, I suppose you're right. Threatening to twist ears or apply kicks to the posterior, I've heard her throw around plenty, but the paddling threat she's always saved for me."

"Should tell you something, especially given what hellions her boys were back in the day."

"Yeah, but she browbeat them into respectability. Speaking of which, how are they?" While we spoke, I reached into my bag and pulled out my white coat, shaking it to disperse the wrinkles, and my stethoscope, both of which I draped across the unoccupied chair next to mine.

"They're fine, far as I know." Don leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on his desk. "Jeremiah's movin' on up the corporate ladder at that software company down in Austin, and Dante's getting ready for Spring Training."

"Yeah? Any chance that he'll get to the show this year?" Carrie's youngest was a shortstop in the Indians farm system—a hell of a player and the town's current pride and joy in terms of the famous and nearly there.

"Likely 'cause of the surgery he'll start down at Double-A and stay there through at least the All-Star break, which makes Carrie happy to no end, since that means he'll be over in Portland at least once, and she'll get to check up on him."

I chuckled. "Leave it to Carrie to be happy that Dante's progress is just slow enough to give her a weekend in which to smother, I mean, mother him." I sobered slightly thinking of what Don had just mentioned. "How did the surgery go, by the way? Is the knee really all right?"

"He'll do," Don replied with his typical Yankee understatement.

"Is that your professional diagnosis?" I rolled my eyes at Don, who remained completely unfazed, par usual.

"You can ask him yourself. He's not leavin' for Florida until Monday, so I'm sure you'll run into him at some point."

"Cool." Restless after having been in the car for the past few hours, I stood and stretched. "So, what's on the agenda for today?"

"Nothing right now other than a coupla runny noses I need to look at this afternoon."

"You want I should take those and you take the rest of the day off?" I was already reaching for my coat but a wave of Don's hand had me pausing.

"No, Taylor. I know you've been working your butt off. Why don't you take today for yourself, visit with the family?"

My hand resting on the white cotton I asked, "You sure? I don't mind."

"Yes, but your mama will. She's looking forward to seeing you." He dropped his feet off the desk and leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. "Besides, we'll be plenty busy tomorrow. The kids tryin' out for baseball and softball will all be by for their physicals, so we'll have enough to keep us outta mischief."

"All right, if you're sure." I went and hung my jacket and stethoscope on the coat rack in the corner of the office. Zipping my backpack closed, I looked over at Don. "So, you off to the Elephant, then? I'm guessing that Pam will notice if you're not there soon."

"Taylor…"

"Okay, okay." I grinned and held my hands up in surrender. "I'll lay off." I propped myself against the windowsill and regarded this man who’d been friend, mentor, and as much a dad to me as my own, over the years. "I don't get it, Don. You guys have been together forever. Why hasn't it ever gone any further?"

Calm gray eyes regarded me over steepled fingertips. "I think that you of all people would understand how difficult it is to bare your soul when you're not at all certain how the confession will be received."

I felt myself flush hot, then cold, then hot again. Oh God… did he mean… A long silence hung between us, the only sound, at least for me, the deafening rush of blood in my ears.

"I don't know what you… what are you trying to say…"

"Taylor." This time the tone was more gentle rebuke than warning. Oh Jesus, he did know.

Wet noodles. I no longer had legs; I had squishy, way past al dente wet noodles. I sagged against the sill, welcoming the shock of the icy window against my back. I looked at Don through new eyes: the short, gray hair, the narrow face, reminiscent of his Puritan ancestry and those wise, wise, gray eyes. All familiar—yet not—since I was seeing for the first time full acknowledgement—and acceptance—of who I really was.

"How long have you known?" My voice sounded hollow and tinny—but there was no point denying we were both aware of what Don meant. We were way the fuck past that.

"Probably since you were about sixteen or so. That summer my niece came to visit."

"Stephanie?" God, I remembered her— a total sweetheart. We'd hung together all summer, united by a mutual love of tennis, watching Wimbledon and the U.S. Open. Both of us had openly admired the male tennis players, even though on my part it was ostensibly their style of play, as opposed to how great their legs looked coming out of those white shorts. We'd go out to the community courts, copying our favorite players and reliving every match. But what the hell did that have to do with Don knowing I was gay?

I must have had a big ol' cartoon thought bubble over my head because Don answered, "That girl tried to get all over you like white on rice and you never noticed. Not that that alone was enough to convince me, but I did start to wonder. Then you went off to college and med school and you've not once mentioned a girlfriend or brought one home to meet your parents. I pretty much quit wonderin' a while back, now."

"Jesus." I didn't know what to say. What the hell was there to say?

"Do my parents know?" Okay, that's not what I expected to say, but what the hell. It had to be asked.

From where I sat, Don's expression was inscrutable, face half-obscured as it was by his hands. Finally, he lowered them to his lap and continued to study me, the quiet stretching out once again, but feeling comforting, rather than alarming as it had a few moments earlier. The sweet sounds of Otis Redding coming from Carrie's radio drifted through the closed door and the icicles outside the window provided the occasional crackle and plop as the sun hit that side of the building. Other than that, quiet reigned in the office. I found myself wondering if there was any room left on old Otis' dock.
"I haven't said anything to them."

I let out the breath I'd been holding, but my relief was only momentary,

"I do think your mother knows though—or at least strongly suspects."

Shit. And now for the sixty-four K question.

"And Dad?"

Once more, Don studied me for a long, hard moment before he answered.

"I don't think so."

I closed my eyes and breathed deep, trying really, really hard to get to that "calm, happy place" my Yoga DVDs were always extolling the virtues of. I generally thought it was a crock of shit, but at this moment, I'd take whatever had a shot of working.

"You done hyperventilating?"

The acerbic question was enough to snap my equilibrium back to something approaching normal levels. "They're deep, cleansing breaths, dammit." I glared, but managed to settle down to something approaching regular measured breathing. "You've basically just destroyed any illusion I might've had that my private life is actually private. I need to do something, here."

"By all means."

I dropped heavily into the chair I'd occupied earlier, rubbing my temples.

"Taylor, you're like my own son, you know that." Don's voice was gentle. "Nothing's going to change the way I feel. I just told you I'm pretty certain your mama knows and she doesn't treat you any differently than she ever has. Why don't you give your dad the same benefit of the doubt?"

I looked Don straight in the eye. "Because you know how he is. All ex-military, believing in Mom, the flag, and apple pie, pretty much in that order. Nowhere in that list do I see room for his only son to have turned out a flaming queen."

"I hardly think you're ready to be the health guru on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy," came the mild rejoinder.

"How do you know about Queer Eye?" I demanded.

"It's Pam's favorite show," he sighed. "Woman never misses an episode and makes sure I don't either. She even suggested I start moisturizing during the winter months."

Shaking my head, I smiled at the thought of the two sixty-somethings snuggling in front of the tube watching five queens take on some hapless straight guy on a weekly basis. And although I'd been momentarily distracted from my own trauma, it didn't escape me that he hadn't disagreed with me about Dad's attitudes.

"He's the only reason I haven't come out before this, you know," I admitted. "I think that somewhere deep down I knew that Mom'd be okay with it and you would, and of course, Roby's known forever… but Dad's always been the sticking point."

I looked back toward the window at the way the sunlight played off the icicles, meditating on the dizzyingly bright shafts of light, the way they created shifting, mutating patterns on the mellow wood floor of the office. Eerie how that fragmented maelstrom of light seemed to mimic my internal thought process. "The way you think of me as a son… you know I think of you as a second father. But Dad… well, he is my father and I just can't bear the thought of disappointing him. And I sure as hell couldn't live here with the knowledge that I'd let him down."

"But how are you going to be able to live here with the knowledge that you can't tell him? With such an integral part of you sublimated and forced into near nonexistence? Do you truly want to live like that? You know as well as I do, that it's unhealthy, not to mention, lonely."

I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up to see that Don had moved around from his chair and was standing behind me. His next words shook me like nothing else could've.

"Take it from someone who knows—and don't make the same mistakes."

**

Talk about your emotional wringer. Hours later and I was still a touch wobbly, but it never ceased to amaze what one of Pam's cappuccinos could do for the soul—and the energy levels. She said she didn't, but I swear, the woman must have put three shots of espresso in mine, because I was as wired and twitchy as any coke addict. So much so, that after I left the Elephant, I ducked back into Don's office long enough to change into some sweats and went for a run in the oh-so-balmy twenty-five degree weather. At least the sun was shining, enough that I worked up a healthy sweat, even as my lungs burned with each knife-cold inhalation. Running along the side streets off of Main, I let my mind wander although I tried to steer away from the topic du jour. Fat chance. As in, totally unavoidable. I mean, how could I not think about it? Coming back here had everything to do with coming out.

Jesus please-us. I thought I'd been so discreet, with the exception of the occasional campy comment, but obviously, not so much that it was a complete secret. I knew Don was right and I'd have to come clean—or out—with everyone, but to hear him tell it, he thought I would be better off doing it sooner, rather than later. And here I'd been hoping it could be put off for a while… like until my retirement? Again with the fat chance.

My caffeine-fueled energy finally gave out just about the time I found myself outside Dad and Roby's storefront, bent over and panting out huge, gusty clouds. Straightening up, I walked around in small circles, trying to cool down gradually.

"Hey gorgeous, you're steaming up the windows with all that heavy breathing. You know it's not necessary—I've been yours forever. Not that you'd have me, you heartless bastard."

I grinned at the caustic commentary. "Mary Ellen, you beautiful thing. I didn't know you were in town."

"What? You didn't see the gigantic banner stretched across the street, announcing my appearance?" She stepped out onto the sidewalk and peered down Main. Crossing her arms, she tapped her foot in mock impatience. "My people are really falling down on the job if they can't even arrange for a simple, four-color, silk-screened banner to be hung between the light poles. Slackers." She wrinkled her nose and reaching out, pulled me in for a fierce hug.

"Oh, sweetie, don't. I'm gross."

"Ooh baby, turn me on more." Her clinch tightened. "You know I love my men all sweaty and oozing testosterone." She cupped my ass in a playful squeeze before pulling me in through the door.

"M.E., you haven't changed a damned bit, you outrageous bitch. Marriage and motherhood still can't slow you down."

"Ah, ah, ahhh. Don't forget successful entrepreneurship as well, darling. I've turned multi-tasking into an art form even Martha Stewart would get hot over." She flicked the tip of my nose with a manicured fingertip, then turned and sashayed through the showroom towards Roby's office. She was the only non-drag queen I'd ever known who could actually pull off a sashay—on four-inch Jimmy Choos, no less. Actually, some of those girls could take lessons from M.E. on how to camp it up. Chick's always had a unique sense of style—it's almost a prerequisite with the half Jamaican, half Russian Jewish parentage. Not so easy to fade into the background, especially as flat-out gorgeous as she is. And if that wasn't enough, girl up and married herself a Japanese-American. That family is the epitome of melting pot.

She and Roby are a total Mutt and Jeff, appearance-wise, but outside of that they're too alike for words. They've been tight ever since they were six or so, when Roby was just a summer baby visiting relatives and M.E. was the new, and very different, kid in town. Not merely because her ethnic background set her just this side of apart. Nope, on top of that, she was a big-city girl as well. Milly and Ben, her parents, had voluntarily left lucrative, if high stress, careers as New York investment bankers to open a B&B in Maine—Boomer trailblazers, if you will. They set a standard for individuality and dream-chasing that Mary Ellen followed with a gleeful, "I don't give a shit" attitude which continues to this day. After Ro came to live in P.G. full-time, she had a more-than-willing partner in crime. 'Tis a minor miracle the town still stands. Trust me, I saw them in action enough during my formative years.

Shaking my head, I followed her into Roby's office, where I found Herself on the phone. She was able to spare me a quick glance and air kiss hello, but the majority of her attention was focused on dealing with a—by all indications and trying to say this tactfully— pissy client. So what if it was only February? Some of the summerfolk would already be thinking of how best to spruce up their houses for the season. For normal people, this generally means a good cleaning and perhaps slapping on a fresh coat of paint, but for some of the more Fifi of the summer crowd, it's nothing less than a complete redo, stem to stern, even if they'd just had everything done a season or two before. Eh, who was I to criticize? Those were the people who kept Dad and Ro comfortably solvent.

"Yes, Mrs. Winchester. Yes… yes—I understand, ma'am, that you truly love the cream silk brocade, I'm just not at all certain you'd be happy with it on rattan and wicker furniture—"

Mary Ellen and I rolled our eyes at each other in mutual disbelief. Cream silk brocade on wicker? Gads. I caught the bottle of water that M.E. tossed me from Roby's mini-fridge and flopped down onto the deliciously poofy loveseat. Bless Ro, for she is nothing if not dedicated to comfort, as well as style.
"Yes, I do understand that you're going for the whole light and airy, bringing the sands of the beach inside feel, but I assure you, there are other ways— No… no ma'am, I really don't think you'd be entirely comfortable with plastic on the sofa, come midsummer."

That brilliant idea dismissed, the squawking on the other end of the line only grew progressively louder and strident. Poor Ro. Yet not an ounce of frazzle came through in her voice. Her expression on the other hand—I've seen first year residents look less strung out.

"Look, Mrs. Winchester, I have an idea. Why don't you let me send you some gorgeous new Brunschwig and Fils samples that I got in just this week? They're cotton and chintz, very lush, yet light and fresh, totally suitable for a beach house—and since they're brand new, you have very first crack at them. We'll see if we can't make a selection for the big pieces from there, then we can have my seamstresses piece you together some fabulous throw pillows using a combination of whatever fabrics you choose along with some of the silk brocade. And maybe we'll find a way to incorporate it into the window treatments as well."

Another pause as the clearly taste-challenged Mrs. Winchester attempted to compute Roby's suggestion. Ah, success. A smile crossed Roby's face as she jotted down some information.

"Yes. Ayuh—I will. I'll send them out Overnight Mail first thing tomorrow. Yes ma'am. Look forward to hearing from you soon." The sound of the phone dropping into the cradle was followed closely by the sound of Roby's head hitting her desk.

I winced in sympathy. "Ouch, darling. That's got to hurt." I wasn't just referring to the head on the desk, either.

"AUGH. Lord deliver me from the nouveau-riche."

"Don't forget tacky," offered M.E.

"Or thoroughly lacking in good taste," I added.

Ro turned her head so her cheek rested against the desktop. "Remind me again why I do this?"

Mary Ellen and I stared at each other. Your turn, I mouthed silently.

"Because my dear, dear friend, despite bitching and moaning to the contrary, you love it. You even love dealing with the garish, inelegant Mrs. Winchesters of the world because you happen to be terribly fond of those little luxuries in life, like clothes, food, and a good Merlot. But for now," Mary Ellen perched on the edge of the desk and tapped Roby on the head with a fresh bottle of water. "This will have to do."

"God, after the day I've had, there'd better be an entire bottle of booze with my name on it."

I cringed as she savagely unscrewed the cap off the bottle as if wishing it were the hapless Mrs. Winchester's head instead. Therapy time. Hauling myself off the sofa, I slipped in behind Roby's chair and began rubbing her rock-hard shoulders. Her head fell to her desk again, this time with a groan of ecstasy as I worked out the kinks and knots. I winked at M.E. and dug in harder, feeling the tension seep out, bit by bit.

"Ohhhh, that feels sooo good, Taylor. Whatever you do, don't stop."

"And that, ladies and gents, is the closest Roberta Stevenson has gotten to making ecstatic noises in, how long has it been again, dear?" Mary Ellen asked with pseudo-concern.

"This subject is not open for discussion, M.E." Roby's hunched-over position muffled her voice but her shoulders had tensed right back up.

"It should be," Mary Ellen retorted. "You keep going at this rate, your uterus is bound to dry up and shrivel away."

"Mary Ellen Traber Okino—zip it."

My, my, my… It would seem "this subject" had perhaps been a topic of discussion at some point before my arrival. See? This is one of the reasons I wanted to return to P.G. full time. I mean there is such a thing as fashionably late, but not if you hope to get any decent family gossip. You come late to that party and risk being two crises behind. Time to play catch up.

"Do tell, M.E. What's got our dear Roby wound tighter than Paris Hilton's publicist?"

Mary Ellen didn't answer directly. Rather, she pointed at Roby's computer monitor with a "look for yourself" expression.

A look down at the screen revealed that Ro had her email program running. On closer examination, it was clear that she was in the process of composing a return message with the extremely curious opening of "Hey, hey, MadMikeyM!" WTF? She apparently hadn't gotten any further than the salutation before being interrupted, which meant that the original email was still visible in the open frame.

Dear Roby,

I pity you those Arctic temperatures and howling winds you're suffering through. Okay, not really, I only said it to be polite. I just know it will make you feel heaps better to learn I spent the better part of the afternoon basking in the Miami Beach sunshine amidst the natives. *evil grin* However, I wouldn't go feeling too envious since comparatively speaking, I rather resemble the underside of a fish. What passes for fashionably pale in London is nothing more than pasty and washed out over here—

I'm sorry to hear about Patrick's being teased at school—the little buggers can be such beastly shits, can't they? I just wish I

The screen went insta-black, bringing my cyber-eavesdropping to an abrupt end. I snapped out my trance to see Roby glaring up at me.

"What the fuck is the matter with you people? Don't you have any passing familiarity with the concept of privacy?"

Mary Ellen shrugged, totally blasé. You're allowed that kind of personal freedom when you've been in someone's business since the sandbox. As for me—

"Oh puh-leeze, Missy." I held up a warning finger. "You so do not want to go there with me right now. I no sooner pull into town than I get slammed with the info that Don has known I'm gay forever which no doubt means Pam also knows. Apparently, Mom suspects, however, by the grace of some God that I'm going to have to send a very elaborate fruit basket to, my father appears to still be in the dark."

That brought the Roby Fury Express to a screeching halt. "What?" Both she and M.E. wore identical expressions. Shock. Dismay. Something approaching horror. Pretty much how I'd felt a few hours earlier. And I could see where this was going to go if I didn't slam the brakes on in a hurry.

"Uh-uh. You are not getting off the hook by glomming onto my personal drama." I braced my hands against the arms of Roby's chair, effectively preventing any escape attempts. "I will explain all later, I promise. But you first. Who in the name of Harvey Fierstein is 'MadMikeyM'?" Okay, so I'm slow on the uptake, but a few key words from my shameless email eavesdropping flashed in my mind and putting two and two together, I came up with six-foot-two and eyes of blue.

"Oh my God. You've gone from Googling to emailing, haven't you? You'd better tell me all you naughty bitch and do not leave out a single word."

"What? There's nothing to tell. Yes, Michael and I are exchanging the occasional email."

M.E. choked on the sip of water she'd just taken.

"Occasional? I see." I raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I'm getting the impression from our esteemed colleague over there that your definition of 'occasional' is a bit broader than Mrs. Marcus' ass, but we'll let that slide for now. How about something a little more concrete, like since when?"

Roby was scowling all kinds of fierce, arms crossed, eyebrows drawn together. Hello, calling Defensive Central. This was going to be tougher than I thought, but M.E. obliged, offering, "Since she had dinner with him."

"Not true." Roby striaghtened, adding indignant to defensive. "It was nearly two weeks after that I got the first email. Fuck!" She clapped her hand over mouth, obviously having revealed more than intended.

"Which makes it what, six weeks that you've been cyber pen pals? Damn, Roby. Why haven't you said anything?"

"Why? So you could give me shit? I've got her for that," indicating M.E., "and she's been performing rather admirably, so don't feel like you've missed out or anything. And that's considering she didn't even meet him." If ever an arched eyebrow could be loaded with meaning, I was staring at it.

"Hey, wait a minute." Holding my hands up, I backed away. "I never said I didn't like the guy."

"Didn't have to, Taylor. You're not exactly subtle sometimes."

Now, I was getting pissed. "Would you listen to yourself? God, if you'd pull your head from where it's firmly wedged up your ass, you'd realize you don't have a freakin' clue." I advanced towards Roby again, leaning down and getting in her face. "Just so that we're real clear on this, cousin—if I hadn't liked him at least enough to feel he could be trusted, there's no way in hell I would have just up and left you there."

"Left me there? Left me?" She lunged out of her chair, shoving me backwards and repeatedly jabbing her finger into my chest. "What? Like I didn't have any choice in the matter. I'm too addlebrained for my judgment to be relied on? Poor little Roby has to be protected from the big, bad world out there—friends and family feel free to interfere at the drop of a hat. What am I, four?"

"If the age fits, darling." I grabbed hold of her wrist, effectively cutting off her woodpecker imitation.

"Children."

"What?" we chorused, our heads whipping around in tandem to glare at Mary Ellen.

She grinned at us, thoroughly unimpressed with the fireworks. "Much as I adore being front and center for one of your always entertaining knock-down-drag-outs, might I point out that a)," she began ticking items off on her fingers one by one. "You're not accomplishing anything, b) perhaps the best way to accomplish anything would be a calm, rational discussion over a glass of wine, and c) I'm sure we'll be able to score said glass of wine over dinner with the extended famiglia, which, if we don't get our asses in gear and get a move on, we're going to be late for, and you know how the moms hate that."

Ro and I stared at M.E. for a few seconds, then at each other, then back at M.E. Roby took it upon herself to ask the question uppermost on both our minds: "What's for dinner?"

**

Oh my God, my mother loves me. How else would you explain the giant batch of bagna cauda? Now, I'm sure most people wouldn't consider a pureé of olive oil, garlic, and anchovies to be proof of love, but mix that mess together with artery-clogging amounts of melted butter, and served steaming hot, with veggies and good Italian bread—no greater evidence of a mother's love is necessary. But the osso buco, all tender, garlicky, and melt-in-your-mouth, didn't hurt either. And if that weren't enough, Mary Ellen's mother had brought along a batch of her terrific spicy-sweet jerk chicken, redolent with still more garlic. (Good thing we've all known each other for years, y'know?) The lot of it was accompanied by several bottles of good Chianti—rich, mellow, and just the thing to take the edge off the spice. Of both the food and the attitude, capisce?

When followed by the potent and almost disgustingly rich Grand Marnier cheesecake that M.E. had concocted and strong Sumatra coffee that Pam brewed, let's just say that it was more than enough to soothe any savage beast that might have the nerve to churn within. Well, sort of. With all of us together, there was always potential for high drama, even with the most mundane of topics. Careers. Kids. Love lives. A big shoe sale at Macy's. All those important things.

"You know, Daddy and I still go through this, Mary Ellen. Never mind that we've been innkeepers for more years than we were bankers, come tax time, everyone still asks us to cook their books."

"Yeah, Ma, but you have to admit, it's nowhere near as bad as being asked if I can defend one of my catering client's wayward nephews on that pesky possession with intent to sell charge that might throw a roadblock into his Yale Law plans. The fact that I no longer practice and, when I did, was a tax attorney doesn't seem to matter."

"Zia, Pam, did you guys get the Macy's sales flier? I want to go into Portland on Sunday. You game?"

"Ben, did you catch the the game the other night? What the devil d'you think that coach was thinkin'?"

"How best to lose the game, I guess."

"Mommy! Aunt Mary Ellen! Amira and Patrick are ganging up on Lily an' me and not letting us have our turn to pick which video to watch."

"Okay, Emily—Amira Milly Okino, you let Emily and your little sister have a turn or I will confiscate your entire Barbie collection and not give them back until they're old enough to be collector's items."

"Tattletales!"

"Bullies!"

"All of you guys knock it off, or I'll let Uncle Hugh choose the next video."

"Hot damn. How about some Babe Winkelman's Fishing Secrets?"

"EWWWW."

"Basta, Hugh. Stop teasing. You don't even like to fish."

Ah family. You gotta love it. Or hate it. Luckily, in my case, I mostly loved it. Everyone had divvied up into little post-dinner conversational clusters around the table, while muffled shrieks and giggles from the kids drifted up the stairs from the basement playroom. Mary Ellen and Roby had pushed aside their plates and had their heads bent over fabric samples trying to pick just the right thing for good ol' Mrs. Winchester. God, please tell me that horrible duck print Roby was holding up was her idea of a joke. I can't imagine she'd send something so cliché to a woman who had wanted cream silk brocade.

I just sat back and soaked in the delicious familiarity of it all. We'd been getting together like this, every couple of weeks, ever since I could remember and it was one of the things I was most looking forward to having as part of my life again. Including the catching up rituals. Which is where I had some unfinished business.

"So Ro, give me the lowdown on this email sitch with Michael."

It was a great conversation starter. Or stopper, given that all the other chatter immediately died away. Admittedly, it was a childish and immature stunt, putting her on the spot like that, and if I wanted to be a real wuss, I could even blame it on the two—no, three glasses of Chianti I'd had.

"Dammit, Taylor."

"What?" I feigned innocence as I drained the last of glass #3. "On the way over you told me everyone here knew about this cyber tête-à-tête you've had going with our enigmatic Mr. MacLaren. Except me."

Well, would you just listen to me sounding like a hurt adolescent. You have to understand—it had to have been at least since my adolescence that Roby hadn't shared something this important. However, I clearly wasn't the only one she wasn't playing the sharing game with. Even if they didn't physically do it, the general impression of every person sitting at the table was that of leaning forward, anxiously awaiting her answer. They might have known of it, but they didn't know much and were every bit as curious as I was.

"This is seriously uncool, Taylor." Roby's lips had compressed into a thin line while her cheeks blazed red.

"It's all right, bella, you don't have to say anything if you don't want to." Mom, ever the peacemaker, intervened, patting Roby's shoulder. Walking around the table, filling coffee cups, she paused long enough to fix me with a patented "Don't screw around with me" mom-stare. "Not everything in a person's life should be up for public dissection, unless they wish it to be, non pensate?"

Maybe it was because my earlier discussion with Don had me thinking this way, but man—talk about hitting a bullseye. Nevertheless, regardless of any potential double meaning, Mom's admonishment had its intended effect. I was immediately ashamed I could be behaving like such a complete asshole, not only to my best friend but in front of God and everyone, to boot. Roby was right. It was seriously uncool.

"Ro, I'm sorry. You're right. It's none of my business."

Strangely enough, that seemed to be just what she needed to hear in order to loosen up and start talking.

"You all are so hot to know what this is? Honestly, it's nothing more than emails between friends. He's a genuinely nice guy and he's been more or less alone on this tour." She paused as she registered the collective "yeah, right" expressions.

"Look, I know what you're thinking. Yes, he's got a lot of support people around him and he's making fans everywhere he goes. But you know what? Sometimes, when you're surrounded by tons of people, it's when you feel totally and utterly alone."

Jesus. The faraway look in her eyes as she spoke made the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Clearly, my girl there was talking from experience—question was, was it past or current?

"Anyhow, because of his schedule, his wife's schedule, the time differences, he's had a hard time catching up with her. I think he just reached out to someone he could talk to."

Okay, I could buy that, but… so sue me if I couldn't shake the feeling that there had to be something more. I mean, I was the only one who'd observed them together in non-concussion induced action and it seemed an awful lot like more than making a connection on a "friends only" level. Or was I reading too much into this? Maybe—maybe not.

"It's serendipity, chile,"

"Huh?"

In her warm voice, with its trace Jamaican accent, Mary Ellen's mom explained, "You came along at a time when he needed a friend and you needed… illumination."

"Come again, Ma?"

"He met Roby just before he started on this tour and made a friend, albeit by unconventional means."

"Yeah, yeah, Ma—we got that part. What did you mean about Roby's needing illumination?"

One thing about Milly Traber: do not try to rush that woman into anything. She took a leisurely bite of cheesecake, washing it down with a sip of coffee. "The new recipe's good, Mary Ellen. I'll be wantin' a couple for next week's order."

"Ma. We're aging here."

"Fine." Milly set her coffee cup down and took Roby's hand in hers. "Roby, darlin', this is the first man you've been involved with, in any way, since you divorced that pissant you had the misfortune of marryin'. It's a sign. Michael's at a distance, physically and emotionally—in other words, he's safe. So he's your way of testin' the waters, so to speak."

Roby dropped her gaze to the table, her free hand fiddling with her dessert fork. "Oh, I don't know."

"Yes, chile, you do. And it's time."

Roby relented—a little. Looking back up with a small smile, she said, "Ohhh-kay, maybe I have been thinking I should reconsider this whole dating thing. Maybe. And just thinking."

"Hallelujah!" Mary Ellen whooped, slapping her hand on the table. "Have I got just the guy to set you up with. He's one of the commercial brokers in Tom's firm, he's fantastic, wicked cute, divorced, but his marriage crashed and burned really fast and he hardly ever dates. I think that's only because he's been working so hard at establishing his career, not 'cause he's a closet queen or anything like that. See, I've talked to some of the other women in the office and they said—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down, girl, you're gonna break something. I said I would consider it. Emphasis on the consider."

M.E. shot Roby an incredulous look from across the table. "Bite me. Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting for this? God, I wish Tom hadn't had that client meeting tonight. I'm going to call him right now though and tell him to let Sam know that you've finally come around."

Geez, was M.E. off and running. Literally. She dashed from the table, presumably in search of her cell phone while Roby sat there, looking like she'd been run over by a stampeding herd of wildebeests.

"Finally come around? Oh my God, what have I just done?"

"Just begun to live again, cara." Mom kissed the top of Roby's head and began clearing dishes from the table. All of a sudden, there was a general exodus from the table, Pam and Milly getting up to help Mom with kitchen duty, Dad, Don, and Ben drifting into the family room to catch the end of the Celtics game on the tube, and Mary Ellen off phoning her cohort, AKA her husband, to plot Roby's downfall. Which left Roby and me by ourselves.

"Hey, I'm—"

Her upraised hand stopped me. "He's married, Taylor. Nothing would have ever happened and I can't believe you could honestly think otherwise. I mean, what the hell were you imagining? That I was going to run off to meet him for an illicit weekend tryst full of hot monkey sex?" She faced me head on. "Yes, I'm incredibly attracted to him. On a lot of different levels. I recognized it from the very start—I'd have had to have been dead not to. He's smart, funny, and come on, you saw him—he's wicked hot."

We grinned at each other, camaraderie somewhat restored.

"And I'll admit, it's something that's continued to grow as we've gotten to know each other better. Even as I acknowledge it's a no-win sitch for me, on too many levels to go into here, and for a score of different reasons, not the least of which is, let's repeat it again? He's married—as in, hap-pi-ly so. Secret trysts and hot sex have never been an option. Although… I'll grant you it does make for a nice fantasy on a cold night." She raised one shoulder in a sheepish shrug as a light blush washed across her cheekbones.

My smile faded. God, but I was an idiot. I was so fucking busy being a combo of worried, hurt, and left out, I totally lost sight of the fact that she was more than smart enough to have recognized and processed through all of this.

"What I'm guessing you're not going to get though, is I'm glad it happened. Every bit of it. That stupid concussion, dinner, the emails, the whole shebang. I've gained a new friend, an interesting, cultured, flat-out nice friend. Plus, there have been a few unexpected bonuses."

"Such as?" Because I really couldn't see too many right now.

"I can feel, Tay."

The words were quiet but carried the impact of a sonic boom.

"Do you understand how important that is? I was worried that after Jack, I was never going to be able get beyond the superficial with anyone new. Especially with any man. But apparently, the emotional circuitry is still operational. As for timing and choice of man? Let's just say that happened to be a bit inconvenient." Her voice broke slightly on the last word.

Inconvenient? Ya think? But I couldn't say that out loud. Not facing her, watching a lone tear streak a path down her cheek. Ah shit. With the exception of Emily's birth, I hadn't seen Roby cry in years.

"Oh, baby, c'mere." I pulled her in close. Lord, I suck. There's just no other way around it. I couldn’t let her work through this on her own. Noooo, I had to butt in and make her deal with it—publicly, no less—before she was ready because I was being nosy. Yep, I suck.

Roby pulled back, sniffling. "Nope, so not gonna make with the weepies. Sorry."

"Hey now, I'm the one who should be saying that, don’t you think?" I handed her a napkin.

She blew her nose with a shaky laugh. "Yeah, I suppose. But I've got my own method of payback."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. How's Kurt?"

"Shh." I looked around to see if anyone was lurking nearby.

"Relax, nobody's around. You never emailed or called, did you?"

Ouch. The accusation in her voice was so obvious it had neon overtones.

"To what purpose? Some exercise in futility?"

"Why not? You see what wonders futility has worked for me," she quipped.

"Oh, please. Probably only wanted a quickie anyway."

Roby laughed. "Honey, I hate to break it to you, but tasty as you are, there are those other proverbial fish in the sea. If he slipped you his phone number and email, it's quite possible it wasn't simply because he wanted to slip you the big one in a This Night Only appearance."

I groaned. "Nice, Ro. Real subtle. It's not that easy and you know it."

"It can be."

"There's too much going on right now for me to be thinking about potential relationships."

"Such as?"

"Oh, come on, don't play deaf, dumb, and blind girl. I have to wrap up my residency, not to mention the whole moving here, getting set up in the practice and—" I didn't have to finish. We both knew what the kicker was.

"Excuses, excuses. Come on, sweetie, wouldn't all of that be so much easier if you had someone to share it with?"

Dammit. I hated when she made sense. Not that that ever stopped me from trying to get her to see things my way.

"Well, just because I got an email address doesn't mean he's ready for Happily Ever After in some seaside burg."

Standing up, she smiled and pressed a kiss to the top of my head. "And maybe it does. Won't know until you try, will you now?" She left me sitting there with a final parting shot. "If I gotta brave the big, bad dating world, you do too."

Oh no I don't.

Chapter Five

2006-07-07T20:57:53Z

Michael

Whatever possessed me to ask her to supper that evening is one of those Great Mysteries perhaps better left unanswered. It's another of those "What if?" scenarios with which a person could drive oneself mad if allowed to sit and contemplate the alternatives for too long a time. Needless to say, I did ask her, she, with the rather surprising intervention of her cousin, accepted, and that, as they say, was that.

Thank goodness.

"Is this suitable or would you prefer something else?"

Roby rolled her eyes. Uh-oh.

"For the forty-third time, Michael, this is fine. This is better than fine, as a matter of fact. You do realize that Taylor wasn't exaggerating when he said that it's been far too long since I stepped foot in a restaurant lacking balloons, crayons, or college students dressed up as oversized rodents? Compared to that, this is like Fantasy Island, you know?"

I didn't, but the expression on her face made it clear the hotel restaurant was definitely a cut above what she was generally accustomed to, and if I valued my health, I'd not say another word on the subject.

"Point made." Actually, I'd found The Armory to be quite on par with the finer restaurants I'd dined in and seeing as it was located in the hotel where I was staying, it was certainly convenient. The hostess, recognizing me from earlier forays, led us to a secluded booth in the corner, surmising, quite correctly, that we, or at least I, would prefer the relative privacy. If I'd given it thought, I would probably have dealt with any potential interruptions that might have materialized as a result of sitting at a more visible table, rather than risk any image of impropriety, more for Roby's sake than my own. However, after the evening's frenzy, I couldn't deny the enormous appeal that a private booth held, just in case any fans had discovered where I was staying. Perhaps it sounds a bit big-headed of me, but it wouldn't have been the first time it happened—just the first time it happened here in the States.

We settled onto the curved, cushioned bench, accepting menus and giving drink orders; settling napkins in our laps and the like. Finally left alone to look over the menus, I found myself staring at the heavy, cream pages, barely registering what it read. What the fuck did I care about pan-seared scallops when I could be finding out what the fan on the street thought of my performance? Tell the truth, pillock—what Roby thought of your performance.

"Roby?"

"Hm?"

Her distracted tone indicated that she, at least, was actually interested in food-related decisions. Nevertheless, I pressed ahead. "I have a question."

She peered over the top of her leather-bound menu. "Yeah?"

Now that I actually had her attention, I found it difficult to form the words, a new sensation. First off, not exactly shy, here—you can't be and be in the profession I'm in. However, I'd also never lacked for people to tell me how I was doing, good, bad, or indifferent, so it was an altogether unusual sensation to go seeking someone's opinion. And Roby's was an opinion that mattered greatly—buggered if I knew why though.

"Michael?"

"Erm, well… I was just wondering, what you thought of the concert tonight?" The last five words whooshed out on one big breath, sounding to my ears like some combined, mangled form of Scots/Cornish dialect. Judging by her confused expression, it had sounded every bit as garbled to her. I tried again, consciously slowing down my speech the way my dialect coach had taught me, so many years ago. "I was trying to ask what you thought of the concert?"

"Oh, God, Michael, you know I thought it was fab." She reached into the basket of fresh bread and pulled out a still-steaming roll. "Ow—shit! Sorry." Dropping it onto her bread plate, she leveled a frank, assessing stare at me. "You honestly want to know what I thought?"

Oh, God. Still, I had asked. "Roby, I've been dissected, celebrated, and reviled by British theatre critics, often within the context of the same review. I think I can take it." At least, that was my story. Let's see if I actually had the balls to stick to it when she was shredding me to bits. She wouldn’t though… would she? All I could do was sit back and wait. And wait I did, as she took her time about answering, splitting and buttering her roll, tearing off a small piece, and chewing with a contemplative expression.

I resisted the urge to reach across the table and shake the answer out of her, concentrating instead on our surroundings, focusing in on the little things: the intricate wood carvings framing the high curved sides of the booth, the jazz playing in the background, the warm glow of the candles on our table. A good deal more elegant, yet on a visceral level reminding me greatly of our first meal together in Pamela's homely, homey office. I marveled at the ability of something as simple as food and drink (not to mention, a good clock on the head) to bring people together despite a lack of outward commonalities.

While I sat mulling over that fact, our waiter reappeared, bearing the bottle of '96 Cristal I'd ordered. Truthfully, I wasn't much of a drinker, though good Scottish boy that I was, a daily shot of single malt, neat, kept the doctor at bay and was a tonic for the constitution, or so I'd been raised. However, this occasion called for something a bit more extravagant. I'd also arranged for a bottle to be sent to Liv, half hoping that despite the time difference, we'd be able to share a celebratory drink even separated as we were. However, there’d been no answer when I'd rung the house, which meant that she had either unhooked the phone so she could sleep in, or more likely, was staying at a hotel near her current theatre. She often did just that when I was out of town, since she hated being by herself in the house, despite the stupidly expensive security system I'd had installed at her behest. So I had to settle for leaving a message on her mobile and found myself sharing the occasion of my first solo concert with a near stranger. Admittedly, it was a near stranger with whom I somehow felt more kinship than people I'd known for years. In that respect, at least, it hardly felt as if I were "settling."

"May I take your orders?" The waiter stood, pencil poised over his pad. Thank God this wasn't one of those establishments that insisted their staff attempt to memorize the patrons' orders, guaranteeing that something would be bollocksed up in the process.

"Roby, please go ahead, I'm still trying to decide." Trying to decide? Nice try, mate. Hadn't so much as glanced at the bloody menu since that initial, pseudo-perusal when we were first seated, opting instead to fret over whether or not she'd enjoyed the concert. I was behaving like a pathetic git, moreover, I couldn't seem to stop myself. Shades of our first meeting.

"You sure?"

I nodded. "Yes, do go on."

Did she ever.

"I'll have the Smoked Salmon appetizer and the Angus strip, medium-rare, please, with the Maytag Blue dressing on the salad. And leave the butter and sour cream for the baked potato on the side, please?"

Stunned. That was the only word to describe it. You must understand I'm accustomed to dining with women for whom eating is a necessary evil, required only to maintain basic biological functions. Even Olivia, whom I considered to have a very healthy appetite for an actress, would never dream of ordering both a first and main course. One or the other, perhaps, but never both—and she never completely cleared her plate either. She'd confided once, long ago, that if she ever felt herself getting full, she stopped immediately, because to her, full meant fat. As I recalled, however, on the prior occasions I'd shared meals with Roby, she'd consumed generous helpings, clearly enjoying herself, yet she was far from fat. Just more rounded than the women I was accustomed to, outside of my mum and sister. She was…

Lush.

Yes, that was the word I was looking for. It was evident in the way the velvet dress clung to her waist and hips, and in the shadowy cleavage revealed by her neckline. This was not a woman who needed one of those WonderBra things to enhance her assets.

"Sir?"

Startled, I looked up to find the waiter observing me with an amused smile. Oh Jesus, had I been that obvious? Clearly, since his gaze slid over in the same direction mine had been fixed before looking back at me, his smile bordering on a leer. Horny pervert. But then, was I any better? Fighting the urge to slap both the waiter and myself, I hurriedly glanced down at the menu and ordered the first thing that caught my eye.

"Yes, I'll have the crab cakes and the stuffed chicken breast, vinaigrette for the salad." Was it my imagination or did the man stifle a laugh as I uttered "breast"?

"Very good, sir. Excellent choice. Your appetizers should be out shortly. Will there be anything else?"

Roby, blessedly oblivious to this exchange and the reason behind it, answered for us. "No, we're good. But stick close, I'm going to be shaking his confidence and we might need something a little stronger than champagne to revive him."

"Will do." The man responded to her playful comment with a wink and a smile. She winked in return, her natural warmth reaching out to include a stranger in on the joke, even if he didn't know what the joke was. After he left, she turned to me, her eyes a dark, unfathomable green, revealing nothing. Taking a sip from her glass, she set it down and folded her hands on the table, every move careful, deliberate, even. An uneasy shiver skittered up my spine at her solemn expression.

"Oh, don't look so worried—it's really not that bad."

"Then why have you taken so long to answer? And why do you look like a magistrate about to hand down a particularly wretched sentence?"

"Because… I have this nasty habit of shooting my mouth and saying things I'm later sorry I said. It’s the last thing I want to do with you, since your performance really was all that and a bag of pitas, honest."

I burst out laughing, in relief as much as at her turn of phrase. "Okay then, so I was pita and presumably some decent hummus at the very least. Where's the fly in the ointment?"

"Some of your material sucked."

Well, then. When she got down to it, she certainly didn't mince words.

"My material? But we spent months choosing every song on that list, trying to appeal to a multi-generational cross-section." Even as the words left my mouth, I could hear how crass, how blatantly Marketing Guru they sounded. Roby was obviously thinking the same thing.

"Bleah. Look, are you comfortable performing every single song on that list?"

I thought back on the twenty-odd songs I'd performed that night. Admittedly, there were a couple I felt uncomfortable, if not downright silly, singing. The show's choreographer had even tried to teach me some, as he put it, "fly dance moves" that I had flatly refused to do. Justin Timberlake, I wasn't.

"No," I admitted. "Not all of them."

"Do you see any common ground among them?"

At that moment, our first course arrived, allowing me an opportunity to consider. We ate quietly for a bit, Roby not pressing for an answer. Finally, I put my fork down.

"They were among the more uptempo numbers."

She nodded, her mouth too full of salmon and toast points to respond otherwise.

"Are you saying I can't perform uptempo music?" God, that would be depressing, not to mention, bloody boring, if that were the case.

She shook her head, an emphatic "no," her dangling pearl earrings swinging and drawing my attention to the smooth column of her neck and the long, wavy tendrils of hair that had escaped from her elegant 'do and drifted down about her shoulders.

"Not at all, Michael. Don't miss the forest for the trees, babe."

The affectionate term, dropped so naturally and without thought, nevertheless sent a warm flush through me. Daft fool.

"It's not so much that they're uptempo. Songs like 'No More Blues' and 'Ain’t That a Kick in the Head' came out crisp and witty and you sound like you were born to sing those. Which made the uptempo pop songs sound schlocky and foreign by contrast. Sorta like Pat Boone singing Metallica. Your warbling 'I Want It That Way' just isn't right on so many levels, y'know?"

Oddly enough, I did. What she was saying not only made perfect sense, it also served to reinforce the few doubts remaining in my mind about the concert's content.

"You're not angry, are you?"

"Angry?" I was amazed she'd be concerned after how frank she'd been, but there she was, twisting her napkin and biting her lip anxiously. "God, no, love, I'm not angry. I did ask, after all." I rescued the napkin from certain strangulation and draped it back across her lap, one of the happy benefits of the corner booth being it allowed for side-by-side access we wouldn’t have had seated at a more conventional table. It also allowed me to pick up her hand and brush a discreet kiss of thanks across the knuckles. A completely innocent gesture, but why provide fodder for any potential prying eyes, right? And if it was so innocent, why did I suddenly find myself shifting just a bit uncomfortably on the bench? Wanker.

I patted her hand and returned to my crab cakes, which, now that I was able to actually taste them, had to confess were excellent. It wasn't until those plates were cleared away and we were digging into our salads that I felt the need to say anything further.

"I really hate that song."

Roby snorted around a mouthful of lettuce. "Tell you the truth, it was kind of obvious."

I winced at the memory of the cheesy horn arrangements that were all wrong, but that my arranger had assured me would make it mine, darling. Well, he could sod off. I didn't want it that way.

"I suppose it's back to the drawing board. Stuart, my manager," I clarified, "is going to flip when I tell him I want to cut that song. He's bound and determined on having something to draw in the 'younger set' as he so quaintly phrased it."

A doubtful eyebrow shot up. "And he thinks a Backstreet Boys cover is your best shot? I mean, no offense, but they're so five years ago."

"Yeah, but it's better than the Marc Anthony and Enrique Iglesias charts he tossed out at our first brainstorming sessions."

"Gag." She wrinkled her nose. "Not that those guys aren't good at what they do, well, at least, Marc Anthony is, but still, the 'Latin Lover' image? So not you. And again with the no offense, and I do realize you and Bowie, that British commonality and all, but if you're going to the trouble of cutting stuff, I'd take a look at slicing and dicing 'Changes.'"

There she went, biting her lip again. "That is, if you don't mind my saying so."

That edge of doubt again, both in gesture and tone. Seemed completely at odds with her normally confident nature. It made me rather curious as to its origins. And no doubt, governed the instinct keeping my tone gentle when I answered.

"No, I don't mind, Roby. I've been looking for an honest assessment of the set list for weeks. Something didn't feel quite right, but I couldn't quite put my finger on what and no one would say one way or another."

I sighed, exasperated. "Too many people going about saying 'right boss,' and agreeing blindly with any damned thing the talent says. Normally, I would count on Stuart to be straight up, but I do believe his new child bride has him thinking from his prick." Too aggravated at having been manipulated, I wasn’t even embarrassed by the blunt speech I normally only used around those I was most familiar with.

"Miranda's a fan of the Boys and thought it would be 'just brill' if I included something of theirs. The Bowie, I regret, was my idea, since I'm a huge fan, but you're right—it just doesn't fit." I pushed my salad plate aside. "No worries. It'll all get sorted out in the next few days. That's what these early dates are for, after all. Smoothing out the rough patches."

Some patches, more so than others. I was just glad Miranda, the trophy wife, was tucked away in England, preferring not to meet up with the tour until we got to a "real" city. New York was more than six stops away. Plenty of time to fix the cock-up.

Nearly an hour later we sat in comfortable silence sipping whisky-spiked coffee and tasting from the dessert sampler presented to us, with management's congratulations on the concert's success. Lovely perk, that.

"Ohhh, I'm so gonna pay in the next few days, but I can't help myself." Roby bit into the miniature éclair with a blissful sigh. Fascinated, I watched her tongue lick away a stray blob of custard from the corner of her mouth. "Double sessions of yoga and the scale is off limits for at least a week."

Comfortably stuffed, I leaned back into the soft cushions, content to not move for at least a week. "Surely you don't worry about your weight?"

Her expression dimmed and she carefully set the uneaten half of pastry back onto her plate. "You mean since I eat so much I can't possibly care?"

"God, no." I couldn't have stopped my next words if I'd made a conscious effort. "You worried that you made me angry by offering an opinion. Now you seem think I imagine you fat because you enjoyed a meal without restraint. What could make you think such dreadful things?" I leaned forward, wanting to put my hand over hers, but sensing it would be a bad idea. So I settled for asking, "Roby, do I frighten you?"

Her face was pale, almost as pale as when we'd first met. An uncomfortable silence settled over the table broken only by her hushed, "No." But forgive me if the expression on her face was far from convincing.

"You know, it's funny. In Port Gordon—my own environment—I'm okay, I'm good. Ask me anything, I'll tell you what I think. Hell, don't ask me, I'll still tell you what I think."

I watched her fingers play along the rim of her coffee cup then grasp the handle, tightening until her knuckles whitened.

"It's because I feel safe, you see, which is just another way of saying I'm a coward."

"I find that hard to believe."

She smiled, a sad, heartbreaking smile. "That's because you don't really know me, Michael. I'm an unbelievable chickenshit. The only brave thing I ever did in my life was leave, and that wasn't even for me—it was for the kids."

"Leave what?"

"My marriage."

I knew she wasn't married—or at the very least I'd surmised as much. Other than Donovan and Taylor, I'd not seen any evidence of a man in Roby's life. No ring on her finger, no reference to a "Dad" by her kids during our brief meeting. Now, it seemed, I was about to find out why. I stayed silent, content to let her say as much or as little as she desired.

"Jack's okay, I guess. He just had certain, um… expectations I could never seem to live up to. His family's wealthy and well connected and moves pretty high up in Chicago society. As a whole, they were fine, but Jack… well, let's just say I could never be thin enough or stylish enough, and my natural klutziness didn't exactly do wonders for our relationship either."

"Roby, did he ever— " I couldn’t even finish the sentence.

"Hit me?" Clearly, she had no such reservations, bluntly stating what I couldn't bring myself to say.

"Nah, not his style. In fact, I'm sure there are people who still wonder why on earth I left such a great guy. Because Jack is a great guy—in public at least." Her shoulder lifted in a small shrug, her sleeve slipping enough to leave the skin bare. "He's everyone's best friend, has a great word for everyone, would agree with all the compliments I was given, be it for my work, or my appearance or whatever. It was back at home that I'd find out what he really thought."

My blood ran cold at the bitter tone of her voice, but I remained silent. It was as if all of this had been bottled up, just waiting for an opportunity to burst free.

"He made sure I knew people were only saying those things to be nice because of who his family was, who he was, not because of anything I did. I was clumsy, made far too many social faux pas—little things.... like eating." Her gaze flickered down to her half-eaten pastry, then away, focusing somewhere past me and seeing something that obviously wasn't the expensive artwork adorning the walls.

"It was never all at one time, mind you—the comments were subtle, just slipped into regular conversation, but after awhile, the message was clear. No matter what I tried, it was never good enough—I should watch him because he was better." She sighed. "It got to where the idea of going out for any occasion was nothing short of pure hell. I knew he’d be watching to see how I fucked up—which of course, led to more incidents.

"But still," she glanced at me briefly then stared down into her cup, as if searching for answers to questions long since asked. "I was willing to stick it out, try as hard as I could to learn to please him, because I loved him. Or thought I did."

"What changed?"

"Nothing actually changed—at least not with Jack. But one night, he lit into Patrick for knocking over a glass of milk at the table. Patrick was barely two and it was a cup with a lid. I realized nothing was ever going to change." Her gaze met mine squarely and I could see in her eyes a deep streak of protectiveness.

"I left the next day. It wasn't until after I got to Port Gordon that I found out I was pregnant with Emily. I let Jack know, of course, but I never heard from him directly, just through his lawyer. I got full custody so long as I relinquished any claim to his family's money on my or the children's behalf."

Bastard.

Her lips twitched in small smile. "A little time, a lotta distance, and hopefully some clarity later, I realized the only way Jack might be happy with a child is if he could self-replicate—have his own little Mini-Me just as fabulous as he is."

"Jesus." I couldn't think of anything to say. What could I say? The only thing I could think was how grateful I was for my relationship with Olivia. Despite the dodgier moments that all couples went through, we had a pretty good thing—certainly nothing like what Roby was describing. Some of what I was thinking must have been evident on my face though.

"Please don't feel sorry for me."

"What?"

"You had a 'poor Roby' look going on and it's not necessary. I've got it really, really good, compared to a lot of people. I had my home and my family to come back to—that alone gave me far more security than a lot of women in my position. Believe me, I never take it for granted. And anyhow, I'm the one who should be sorry."
She should be sorry? The woman was truly mad. "Why?"

"I shouldn't have laid all of that on you. A year of very expensive counseling under my belt and I've said more to you than I ever did to the therapist." She grinned down into her cup. "Must be the liquor. Maybe I should have taken up drinking during my sessions."

She was trying to lighten the moment and I decided to let her. "Maybe." I tilted the bottle of whisky over her cup. "Want more therapy?"

"Why the hell not? I'm not driving and the only thing you have to remember is what room you're in." Her smile, full on, caught me unguarded yet again. What a lovely, lovely woman. A mystery that she hadn't yet been snapped up by some bloke. But then again, given her background, it was possible she didn't want to be snapped up. Another pity.

"Michael?"

"Yes?"

"Your wife's a lucky lady."

I reached out and carefully pushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. "Thanks."

"My pleasure."

**
Two weeks later I was in Washington, D.C. and at a bit of a loose end. All right—all right, I was bored out of my goddamned skull. After much finagling, things concert-wise had finally, finally settled down. Stuart and I compromised on the Backstreet Boys dilemma by choosing the slightly more down-tempo and romantic "More Than That," after a marathon listening session—hours which I will never get back. Nevertheless, both of us were reasonably content since this song fit the overall show concept a bit better and I promised him the first show Miranda attended, I'd make certain to pass along a suitably romantic message along the lines of Stuart's having chosen the song specifically for her, blah, blah, blah. I would simply have to practice not rolling my eyes as I said it. The change had also necessitated the hiring of some back-up singers to fill out the harmonies, but as it was something we'd already considered doing for other songs, it was achieved with a minimum of pain. A few rehearsals together and we'd all meshed beautifully.

The concerts since had been even more successful than our inaugural outing in Portland and the company had settled into what would hopefully become the pattern for the rest of the tour: travel, light dress rehearsal/sound check, performance, repeat action as necessary with the occasional day off so as not to wear out the voices. So far, Providence, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Cincinnati, and Baltimore had gone off beautifully. D.C. was scheduled for tomorrow night, so this was one of those days off with which to do as I pleased. My initial plan was to go to the Smithsonian, but looking out my hotel window I was confronted with a blanket of snow, which I'd gathered was rather unusual for this area of the country. Unfortunately, when it did happen, it had a tendency to bring the entire city to a standstill. Yet I’d been assured by the disturbingly perky blonde on the telly the temperatures tomorrow would rise into the 50s, so tomorrow's concert wouldn't be adversely affected. However, I was left with nothing to do at the mo.

I tried ringing Liv, who'd been fucking difficult to get hold of lately. Not really a surprise, what with the eight shows a week grind, something I did not miss in the slightest. And apparently, when she wasn’t actually on stage, she was busy doing the film audition rounds, looking, as I had, for a break from the incessant theatre grind.

"I've just been missing you so much darling." This came during one of our rare phone chats just after the tour had gotten underway. I could see her in my mind's eye as she spoke, lower lip pouting just a touch for emphasis. "You know I like to keep busy, Michael, and it does help the time pass faster. I'm sorry that we do seem unable to catch each other at the same time."

After that conversation, we'd tried to set up a prescribed calling time, but the first couple of times I'd tried to reach her, all I'd got was the answer machine, which in truth, didn't surprise me. Liv had a notoriously bad memory for anything that wasn't dialogue and refused to keep notes or a diary, complaining that it would make her look as mad as her granny, scraps of paper scattered about with random dates and numbers written on them.

I picked up the phone and dialed first the house, then her mobile, getting nothing but the machine and her voice mail—again. Sighing, I replaced the phone back in its cradle and flopped back on the bed with the television remote. A quick flip through the channels provided ample proof the world was out to bore me to tears today. I absolutely refused to watch Harry and his band of merry moppets cavort through the Chamber of Secrets for the umpteenth time, and Sex and the City held very little interest for me since I wasn't a woman obsessed with either shoes or sex with random men. One of my backup singers on the other hand… judging by her behavior and mode of dress, she's quite the dedicated fan. She'd been less than subtle in informing me of her availability for… whatever. I'd been even less so letting her know I wasn't. Luckily, it hadn't become an issue; she'd moved right along to the tour drummer. She's a nice kid, gorgeous and talented, but then, I knew a lot of those. After awhile, you tended to develop an immunity.

Ah… there we were. I leaned forward eagerly. Football—proper footie—with a round ball. But sod it all. It was Mexican league, on a Spanish language station. I was nearly twenty years on from university Spanish and the only thing I could pick out amidst the rapid-fire patter was an ear-splitting "GOOOOOAAAAAAAALLLLL!!!"
I tried though. Stuck with it for about twenty minutes—ten with the sound on, ten with it muted after the effort of trying to understand something other than "GOOOOOAAAAAAAALLLLL!!!" began giving me a headache. It was hopeless. Normally it wouldn’t bother that I wasn't familiar with the teams or didn't know any of the players, but for whatever reason, today it did. Hell, might as well’ve been watching EastEnders with Tamara for all I cared.

Thoroughly bored now, I snapped the telly off and tossed the remote aside. I was so desperate, I almost considered going into the shopping center adjacent to the hotel, if for nothing more than to search out a bookstore, but even that held little appeal.

My gaze swept around the room and finally landed on my rucksack. My ancient, tatty, uni rucksack that never failed to cause Olivia unending shame when I insisted on toting it publicly. The very same rucksack holding my laptop. Well, when all else failed, there was always the Internet. At the very least, I could check my email and see if, by some miracle, Liv had left me a message.

Pulling it out, I waited for it to go through the process of starting up, then hooking up to the hotel's high speed Internet provider. Downloading my email, I found several messages forwarded by Stuart's office from fans and a message from Mum and Dad asking how the tour was going so far verifying their plans to come for the New York show. Then there was the one from Tam, calling me a prat for not having sent an email for more than two weeks. Forgive me, little sister, I've been a touch busy trying to keep my manager from turning me into the sixth Backstreet Boy. Nothing from Liv, really not altogether surprising. I sent replies to my parents and to Tam, updating them on all the latest. To Tam's message, I added a bit about having shared dinner with Roby, post-concert, but nothing more than that—certainly nothing about the particulars of our conversation that night.

Back when Tamara had rung to let me know that Shira's doll had made it intact across the Atlantic in time for her to open it Christmas Day, I'd found myself telling her the whole ridiculous story behind its purchase. Tam being Tam, had teased that it was definitely a unique way to go about picking up a woman, and one of our infamous verbal spats had ensued. She did say I did right by Roby in driving her home, high praise from my hypercritical sister, but added that another gentlemanly gesture wouldn't be totally uncalled for either. Mark your calendars, it doesn’t happen often, but I'd been thinking that very thing, hence the tickets and CD.

Finished with email, I opened a web browser and began checking some of my favorite sites. I perused my usual news, business, and sports sites then checked to see how the disc was doing on the charts back home. (Oh, don't be surprised—I do have an ego.) Hmm… behind Robbie Williams, yet well ahead of the latest Pop Idol winner, thank God. I could live with that.

Done, I started to quit then paused. Typing "Port Gordon, Maine" into the search engine, I hit "return." Why? I suppose I was feeling nostalgic for the one place in the States in which I'd spent more than just a passing moment. Perhaps I wanted, in some small way, to recall the camaraderie I'd felt in those few brief hours.

Opening the community home page, my screen was immediately taken over by a winter tableau of the Village Green and Main Street. Underneath the image was a bar, giving the local time and temperature, (bloody cold) and to the left, a column with sponsoring businesses.

The Pink Elephant, Henry's Toys, The Port Gordon Memorial Clinic, Saul's Lobster Shack. Funny how I could envision something related to each of those names: Pamela's scones, Don's kindness, even the story of Roby's lobster attack and subsequent rescue by Saul. (Had to be the same bloke—how many Sauls could there possibly be in one small town?) Down near the bottom of the business column, I spotted a listing for Stevenson's Custom Furniture & Maine Design. Dragging the cursor over the name, I realized it was a link. Clicking on it opened a new window, which turned out to be the shared site for Roby's interior design firm and her uncle's custom furniture business.

I discovered that Hugh Stevenson restored furniture as well as built it, with several of his pieces being commissioned for various historical buildings across the state. Moving on to Roby, I first studied her portrait, a smiling, relaxed pose in what appeared to be her office. Skimming her bio, I was suitably impressed. Look at that, a Master's degree in Historic Preservation—smart and pretty. She also had to her credit numerous awards and citations for her designs and preservation work, a rather impressive looking list for anyone, let alone someone so young. At the bottom of the page were phone numbers and emails where they could each be contacted. I hesitated for a moment then went ahead and clicked on Roby's address, bringing up an email window.

To: RobyS@MaineDesign.net
From: MEM214@bt.co.uk
Subject: From the Sixth Backstreet Boy

Dear Roby,

Surprise— I expect I'm the last person you thought to hear from. Assuming of course, that you don't immediately dispose of this as some sort of porn SPAM. I was bored and puttering about the Port Gordon homesite and stumbled across your business page. I saw all those awards and commendations you've received—pretty impressive! I'm hardly fit company for such a personage. ☺

However, I also saw your email and thought you might enjoy an update as to the set list issue. Yes, it was finally resolved after much weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth, mostly on my part after I had to spend hours listening to every SINGLE Backstreet Boys song ever recorded, demos included. The new song works rather well (he says reluctantly), and thankfully, the choreographer is safely in London and unable to inflict any more torture on me. "Changes" is sadly gone, as per our discussion, but we filled its slot with "So In Love" from Kiss Me Kate. Don't ask me why I thought it would be any less intimidating to replace Bowie with Cole Porter—and a song immortalized by some chap named Sinatra and a vocal goddess named Ella, no less. Just can't make it easy on myself, can I? However, it seems to be getting quite the warm reception, so I can't be mucking it up all that badly.
Anyhow, we’re in your nation's capital and I'm completely shut in, due to a snowstorm that I'm reasonably certain the natives of your state would scoff at as a mere dusting. The concert's tomorrow, then off to Nashville and the home of the Grand Old Opry. You wouldn't happen to know anything about a food called "chitlins" would you? My American band members swear it's a native delicacy and I must try some.

I don't trust them.

Best,

Michael.

I hit "send" then closed the laptop with a smile. I didn't actually expect to hear back from her any time soon, if at all, but it was amazing how the simple act of composing the email had lifted my spirits. Realizing that I was feeling far more energized than I'd felt an hour before, I decided to get out for a bit, knowing now what I wanted to do. After a quick change of clothes, I grabbed my key card and wallet, and made my way down to the hotel's gym.

As it had been weeks since I'd laced up a pair of boxing gloves I declined the trainer's offer to spar, preferring instead to go at it by myself. Aside from being a hell of a workout, boxing was a fantastic stress reliever and surprisingly, a good place to think. The speed bag was perfect for the latter, since once a steady rhythm was established, it was very easy to just let the mind wander wherever it wished or simply… go blank.

On the other hand, the heavy bag was the place to release tensions. I spent an enjoyable half hour punching away at the bag, ignoring the sweat dripping down my face and sliding, stinging, into my eyes. I took turns envisioning first Stuart, then that flighty bird, Miranda, grunting as my punches increased in both speed and intensity, sending near-painful jolts up my arms and making my shoulders throb. Not that I'd ever actually hit a woman, you understand—though that's how I'd started boxing. Once, in the heat of some stupid childhood screaming match, I hit Tam and our Dad lit into me in a manner the likes of which I never want to see again.

After the lecture that a real man never, ever hit a woman and the ensuing belt tanning that left my arse purple for a week, he'd marched me straight up the road to the local gym and begun giving me boxing lessons. I was gobsmacked. I'd no idea that my mild-mannered Dad even knew how to box, let alone that he was so proficient. He told me it was the best way he knew to control his temper and that clearly, it was a skill I'd also have to learn. Temper? What temper? At age eleven I wasn't completely certain what he meant, but I've since learned.

Back in my room, I headed straight for the shower, not wanting the muscles to tighten up and leave me hobbled indefinitely. After all, gimping about the stage would do very little to add to the whole romantic, jazz club feel of the show, would it now? Toweling myself dry twenty minutes later, I was definitely feeling a new man. Enough so that I was even willing to give the idiot box another try. Flipping the television back on, I was chuffed to discover Casablanca playing on one of those classic movie channels that seemed to abound in this country. Tuning the volume to slightly louder than background music, I settled myself back on the bed with the laptop to see if I'd received any return emails. Predictably, Tam had responded, saying she was glad that I had a) sent the tickets to "that nice American girl" and b) dropped "Changes" from the set, and I was never to sully another Bowie song ever again. How supportive of her. No response yet from my parents, and still nothing from Liv, but there was something from Roby.

To: MEM214@bt.co.uk
From: RobyLS@MaineDesign.net
Subject: RE: From the Sixth Backstreet Boy

Hey!

Sixth Backstreet Boy, huh? So what do we call you? Mad Mikey M? You'll have to tell me which song you ended up choosing, because now I'm curious. It can't be too bad… can it?

About the chitlins—unless you're a huge fan of haggis (and being that you're Scottish, you may well be) I'd stay the hell away from the stuff. Even if you ARE a fan of haggis, I'd suggest staying away from the chitlins. As I understand it, at best, they're an acquired taste. At worst… well, I'm not sure you want to know what "at worst" is, but rumor has it, it ain't good. Your band members are out to get you, but good. Go for some barbeque, though. It's wicked good.

Those mid-Atlantic wusses down in D.C. wouldn't know a snowstorm if it up and bit them on the ass! I checked the weather channel after I got your email and had to laugh at the site of the politicos all bundled up and slip sliding down the street. Feh— it's nothing that a good four-wheel drive (not to mention, a good driver) can't handle.

I really am glad to hear from you— it's certainly a pleasant surprise, especially since I was sure you were convinced I was manic and quit possibly dangerous after our dinner. This time, I hope it's not me who's being too forward by saying that I hope it's not the last time I hear from you. Emotional spillage notwithstanding, it was one of the most enjoyable conversations and evenings out I've had in a long, long time. Just in case, make sure to note the slight difference in my email address. The extra initial differentiates it as personal, rather than business, address and I'm more likely to look at it quickly. I'm also going to assume that the address you used is your private one—rest assured, it goes no further than me.

Take care,

Ro.

P.S. I'm going to ignore that comment about the awards and personages. :-P

Once again, I found myself grinning like a fool. Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Chapter Four

2006-07-05T15:21:02Z

Taylor

She's my best friend. Honestly, I think we'd still be best friends even if she weren't my cousin. Hell, maybe we're best friends in spite of that fact. Sure, we've had our differences—show me a family that doesn't and I guarantee it's a family whose members haven't spoken to each other for generations.
True, she didn't exactly dig when I used to redo the hairstyles on her Barbies and heaven help us if I managed to snag some of my mom's discarded makeup—Makeover Central on the dollies—and Max Factor I wasn't.

Roby got over it… eventually. Something I wish she'd make more of a habit of, seeing as there are a few other things I want the girl to get over. Herself, for one, dammit. She needs to get over the idea that what happened with Jack was in some way her fault. I was starting to think that pigs might take to the friendly skies before that event ever happened, but I did a bit of a mental one-eighty after The Call. When she told me she had tickets to a concert and would I please go with her, I could tell there was more afoot than a casual trip to Portland to catch some tunes. After all, we'd done that a million times and it never qualified for this kind of excitement. This was a seriously high octane, juiced to the max excitement. Normally reserved only for the exploits of the rugrats. Once I finally met Michael, I understood the fascination. I also understood that the interest was definitely mutual. I also understood that it scared the hell out of me. Should have scared them too—and it might’ve, had either of them really been aware of it.

December 30

"New dress, Cuz? And not even a Bean special? My, my… he must be something."

"Zip it, Tay. Or you might not live to see your twenty-ninth birthday, you little pisher."

I deliberately kept my return smile bland as I opened up the Jeep's door, my grin widening only after I made sure it was shut tight behind her and I'd turned away where she couldn't see me. However, while on the surface I might have been teasing, I was dead serious. I don't think Roby even looked this good on her wedding day, although I wasn't about to point that out to her. Far as I was concerned, the less said about Jack Maier and that particular period in her life, the better. I'd love to pretend the bastard never even existed in my cousin's life, although I will grudgingly admit it appears that any decent genetic material he might possess got passed on to the munchkins. Or it's an argument for nurture versus nature. Either way you slice it, they're good kids and it's all due to Roby. And for the last six years it's been all about the kids, and the family, and her friends, and the dog, and her clients, and anybody else but her.

Don't get me wrong. I understood where it was coming from, better than most people, even. Some things just hurt too damned much. It's like a wound that's long healed over, but the scar is still so sensitive to the touch, it's as if it were still fresh. But enough was enough. She was more than due.

I slid behind the wheel and started the car, backing out of my parent's driveway where Roby and I had met up. I'd had dinner with the folks while Ro had apparently been indulging in some serious Girl Time judging by the overall appearance. There was the dress, of course, burgundy velvet and clinging in all the right places, if you catch my drift. As for the rest—well, like I already said, I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen her so… radiant, I guess would be the best word.

"You look beautiful, Roby, Honest Injun'. The dress, the makeup—everything. And you haven't worn your hair like that in years."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her gingerly touch her hair, as if making certain the loose chignon with the pearls woven through it wasn't about to come crashing down around her shoulders in an unruly mess.

"Thanks. It was an adventure to get it to stay, but thanks to enough hair care products to take a decent chunk outta the ozone, I don't think it’s going anywhere. However, going bald seems a likely possibility. And I know what you're thinking," she added, "and no, this is not for anyone's benefit except my own, Taylor."

Damn if she couldn't read my mind, the wench.

"I'm glad it's for you, sweetie. And I'm glad this Michael MacLaren guy is hot enough to propel you off your ass to make the eff- Ow!" I rubbed the back of my head where she'd smacked it. Obviously, I was flirting with the danger of ending up in little pieces at the bottom of Casco Bay. Prudence suggested that I best leave this topic alone… at least for a while. Time enough to revisit it after I saw the mysterious and Extremely Polite singer my mother had raved about.

The rest of the ride into Portland was spent discussing whatever current goings on that we hadn't covered over Christmas dinner the week before. She gave me a quick 411 on a potentially difficult new client after which I told her about some of the post-Santa cases that had come into the clinic.

"You know, it's a never ending source of amazement to me just how many morons feel the need to go out and play 'Me versus Mother Nature' without proper training or supervision. It's fortunate that we don't see more out and out fatalities."

"Poor Taylor," she sympathized. "Think about how much worse the load would be if you were at a city hospital instead of a rural clinic though."

"It's small comfort, Ro." I clenched and unclenched my hands around the steering wheel. "It's hard enough to trying to take care of the local folks without worrying about dumb-ass tourists having freak accidents with their Christmas gift skis, boards, and snowshoes. And at least at a city hospital they've got access to decent technology. We've got the portable X-ray and not much else. Thank God for Life Flight or we'd be totally screwed."

"This is what you wanted," she chided. "You said this training would be the best route for you if you were going to come back to P.G. and go into practice with Don. It's only a few more months, sweetie."

"I know, I know. But in some ways, it's such a different sitch. Port Gordon may be small and it may be somewhat rural, but comparatively speaking, it's a freakin' Mecca with much easier access to larger towns and the technology that goes with." I sighed and finally admitted what had really been bothering me the last few days. "It's not that I feel like it's this interminable sentence. On the contrary, it's more me feeling like when my residency is up, I'm going to be deserting them."

Even through the dark enveloping us, I could feel Roby bristling. Uh-oh.

"You know, for such a smart man, you can be the biggest friggin' idiot, you know that? Not to mention, an egomaniacal twit." Since I have this little thing about keeping my eyes on the road, I could sense rather than see her shifting to face me.

"You're not deserting them, you moron. You're hardly the first resident UMass has sent there and you're not gonna be the last, not by a long shot. While I love you dearly and think you're a kick-ass doctor, I hardly think you're a savior of irreplaceable proportions, babe. There will be others to follow in your rather impressive footsteps. Plus, Doctor Don's not getting any younger. When he finally decides to retire, which of course, might not be until he's ninety, who do you think the folks in town would rather have as their doctor? Some guy to whom a small town practice is little better than a prison sentence, or someone who actually wants to be there and is one of their own?"

Roby strikes again. I couldn't help but laugh. Only she could cut me down to size and boost my ego, all in one breath. "Touché, cousin. It has its benefits no doubt about it, and is what I've always wanted. But it also has a downside of Godzilla proportions. I mean, what happens when—" She cut me off before I could finish.

"That'll take care of itself. When you're ready. And I think you don't give them enough credit."

"Who? The town? My parents?"

"All of them."

How the hell to reply to that? Luckily, I was spared, seeing as we were coming up on our exit. Down Franklin, a right on Congress and there we were: Merrill Auditorium. I noticed that Roby had gotten seriously quiet the closer we got to the auditorium, but when it came to big stuff, it was often easier to get more from her through observation than interrogation, so I kept my big yap shut. I also happened to like my testicles precisely where they were. Thing with Roby, depending on her mood… well, you catch my drift. After parking and locking up the Jeep, we walked in companionable silence to the auditorium's entrance. Suddenly, she turned and grabbed my coat sleeve.

"Listen, we really don't have to go if you don't want to. We can just go get coffee and hang at one of the bookstores or clubs that might be having an open mike night or something."

There was a definite note of panic in her voice, which, coupled with the slightly wild-eyed expression on her face, added up to a Roby I was totally unfamiliar with. Ro never gets rattled. Scatter-brained, yes; klutzy, shyeah, I could still see the remnants of her shiner, even under her make-up; determined, when she needs to be. But rattled? This was a new one in my experience. No way in hell I was gonna miss this, now.

"Don't be an ass, Ro. The guy was nice enough to send the tickets and you're gonna repay him by being a no-show? No doubt, they're choice seats too- c'mon, you said he's got a to-die-for voice. Don't make me have to hurt you."

She snorted. "As if you could." Sighing, she pulled open the heavy doors and led the way into the theatre.

**

Nearly two hours later and I could understand—at least in part—what had had Roby in that manic combination of rapture and panic. The seats were amazing: Center Orchestra, fourth row, on the aisle with an awesome view of the stage and the insanely elaborate pipes of the Kotzschmar Organ that normally dominated the landscape. Not tonight though. Nope— Tall, Hunky, and Too Talented for Words was making everyone in the audience forget that there was anything or anybody on stage besides him. God, but he was good. And let me tell you, it wasn't just Roby who sat there all mesmerized into slack-jawed zombie status. Last time I saw so many grannies looking like they wanted to pitch their panties onto a stage, I was stuck watching a Tom Jones concert on TV with my mom, who shushed me frantically every time he opened up the Golden Throat. (As I recall, Dad and I finally gave up and went down to the Pink Elephant, filled with other such refugees.)

Roby wasn't quite at panty-pitching point, but she was staring up at Michael with this intent gaze, almost as if she were trying to burn the image of the man into her brain. There was something about that expression that made me sad. No one should have to rely solely on memories to keep them warm during long nights, yet—that was the distinct impression I was getting from her. During a break between songs, I tried to lighten the mood a little.

"Man, you've got it bad. Last time I saw you like this was ‘86 and you were swearing to Mary Ellen that Sting had sung 'Moon Over Bourbon Street' in your general direction."

"Putz." She pinched my arm lightly. "That was a phone conversation you had no business eavesdropping on."

"Yeah, well maybe if you hadn't been squealing loud enough to be heard down the hall." I mimicked sing-song adolescent tones, "'I swear, M.E., he was looking right at me, or at least in my general direction, and I just know he was singing it to me. He's just the coolest. And I want a pair of parachute pants, just like his!'"

"Oh puh-leeze, I never once said I wanted a pair of parachute pants."

I hit my forehead in mock-dismay. "Oh, yeah. That was me. Still, you were seriously ga-ga over the guy."

"I have never been 'ga-ga', as you so charmingly put it, over any performer in my life."

"Sure… says the woman who bought every teen 'zine with his picture, joined the fan club, and claimed that for her life's ambition, wanted to follow Sting around on tour and be a bona-fide groupie, ala Pamela Des Barres. By the way, what did you ever do with all of that research on Tantric sex?" Yessir, there went the tell-tale blush, straight up from the deep 'V' of her neckline, all the way up to her hairline. Even in the limited light from the stage, it was competing pretty impressively with the hue of the 'Exit' signs.

"Shush, now. I want to hear this song."

Oh, brother—echoes of Mom and Tom Jones. Still, I couldn't resist one last jibe. As the orchestra swelled into the lush intro of the next song, I leaned in and whispered, "Gotta give you props, though, Cuz. If you were going to go all googly over a guy, at least you picked a major hottie."

She raised an eyebrow. "I thought you preferred blondes, dearest."

"Shush, I thought you wanted to hear this song."

"Ass."

"Why yes, I've been told it's rather cute."

"Pfft." Roby shifted and pointedly returned her attention to the stage where Michael sat on a stool, eyes closed, waiting for the orchestra to fade away and the pianist who was sharing the stage to break into his opening riff.

Had to hand it to the guy. He was nothing if not a showman. With the auditorium thrown into full dark and a single narrow spot focused just on him and the pianist, the ambience was more jazz club than cavernous theatre. I could almost see wisps of smoke from imaginary cigarettes and hear the clinking of ice in cocktails as he sang the melancholy lyrics to "One For My Baby."

*It's quarter to three, there's no one in the place except you and me
So, set 'em up, Joe, I got a little story you oughta know
We're drinkin', my friend, to the end of a brief episode
Make it one for my baby and one more for the road*

The little hairs on the back of my neck were standing at attention as that velvet voice wound its way through the building. You could have heard a pin drop—or a soft wistful sigh. Looking over at Roby, I noticed goosebumps peppering her arms, an eerie mimic of my own reaction. I put my arm around her shoulders and rubbed, whispering, "He is fantastic."

"Um hmm…"

Glancing back up to the stage, I was smacked full force by those baby blues, startlingly intense even from a distance. I was also smacked by the odd sensation that he was staring right at me—or more precisely, right at Roby. Then that intent stare slid my way and I got the distinct impression that I was being measured, evaluated, and everything else but weighed. Veddy, veddy interesting.

"Ro?" I whispered.

"Hm?"

"You did say this guy was married, right?"

Given that she was much more tuned-in to the performance than to my inane ramblings, all I got was a distracted, "Yeah."

Anything I was going to follow up with was going to have to wait, because approximately two seconds later an usher (a really cute, blonde usher, but that's not important—not really) tapped Roby on the shoulder, making her jump like a startled rabbit.

"Excuse me, are you Roby Stevenson?" he asked, keeping his tone low in deference to the nearby audience members.

"Yes, I am. Is everything all right?"

"Could you follow me, please?"

Ro looked back at me questioningly. I shrugged and indicated that she should follow. Once in the lobby, Cutie turned to us saying apologetically, "I’m sorry for pulling you out of the performance, ma'am, but Mr. MacLaren asked that I come get you before the end of the show. There's going to be a small reception post-performance in the rehearsal hall and he'd like very much for you to be there—and your guest of course," he added with a quick sidelong glance.

Yeah, sure, Sunshine, but kudos on the swift recovery. I so doubted Mikey-boy wanted me there if the onstage stare I got slapped with was any indication. But if you think I was gonna miss this opportunity… If he was married and trying to put the moves on my cousin, I was going to be putting the kibosh on this dude in a hurry. Last thing Roby needed was some lonely tourist looking for a little slip 'n slide action this side of the pond—I don’t care how hot he was. I didn't doubt he'd get it if he wanted it—it just wasn't going to be with Roby.

Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking. Roby's a grown-up and she had every damned right to choose what she wanted to do and with whom, but jeez, the girl was vulnerable. Anybody with half a brain could see that, even if she refused to.

"So, we goin'?"

"Sure. It's very thoughtful of him."

"Goody, a backstage party. I feel so damned chi-chi and cosmopolitan. Sex and the City-like, even."

"Tay-lor…" Her voice held that long-familiar warning note. Gads, I loved gettin' her goat. "Behave yourself, please?"

I went all drama queen on her, putting my hand over my heart and intoning, "Oh, if I must, I shall, dear cousin."

"Jesus. Don't mind him," she advised the usher who was waiting to lead us through the lobby and into the backstage warren. "He was dropped at birth."

Sunshine winked and grinned. "It's cool. I've got two little brothers—I know how it is. Ready?"

We nodded and followed him just as a spate of rapturous applause exploded behind the closed doors to the auditorium.

"I'm betting three encore numbers, wanna put a fiver on it?"

That expressive eyebrow went up again, indicating her disbelief. "Three? Bold prediction cousin. I say two, and you're on." Then she sighed, "But we'll have no way of knowing."
"Oh, sure you will," Sunshine broke in. "There are monitors in the rehearsal hall with a live feed that's being recorded. They're planning on replaying the concert during the party."

"Trés subtle," I muttered. Not sotto enough, though, as Roby's sharp jab to the ribs let me know. Painfully.

"I doubt it's his idea, Taylor," she admonished.

"Whatever."

That stopped her dead in her tracks. "Hold on." She tapped our friendly usher-cum-guide on the shoulder. "Could you excuse us for just a moment, um—"

"Kurt," he offered with a brilliant smile. Out-of-work actor smile. Had to be.

"Okay, Kurt. Give us a sec, please?"

He nodded and moved a discreet twenty or so feet ahead of us, giving us a scant bit of privacy. Enough at least, for Roby to skewer me with one of her patented glares.
"Okay, what the hell's the matter with you? I thought you were all high on going to the chi-chi backstage party." She tossed my words back at me in a tone that made me feel stupid for even having thought them, let alone said them out loud.

"I am—was—am…" I shoved my hands in my pants and leaned against the wall, assessing Roby's appearance again. Outfit: gorgeous; shoes: perfect; hair: amazing; makeup: flawless. But overwhelming even the sum total of that was her demeanor. She was lit up like a freakin' Christmas tree, and it was making me inexplicably nervous. On the other hand, I felt like a total Grinch. Who the hell was I to yank away this little bit of fantasy? She's a smart, practical woman—if anyone understood the limitations of this…whatever, she did. For all I knew, this guy was just making with the nice and totaling out whatever it was he thought he still owed Roby for braining her. All I was going on was gut reaction, and honestly, when it came down to it, I wasn't her babysitter and I sure didn't qualify for knight in shining armor status, no matter what my gut insisted. All I could do was be what I'd always been. Time for repair work.

"I'm sorry, Ro. I think I'm just tired and you know how it is—when Taylor gets the tireds, he turns into Cynic-boy."

"More like Captain Crankypants, if you ask me," she snapped, then gentled her tone. "Seriously though, do you want to duck out? I'm sure Michael would understand, if he even notices we're not there."

I won't lie, it was tempting to take the out she'd just given me. You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch.

"No, sweetie," I shook my head. "I'm sure he'd notice if you weren't there. Besides, you know you really want to go to this."

Roby and I have a promise: we never lie to each other—about anything. She nodded her assent, biting her lip just a bit sheepishly. "Yeah, I do. Even if it's only to say thanks for the tickets and the invite, and all. It's been fun."

"Yeah, kinda cool to play at being an adult every now and again, isn't it?"

"Kinda cool to play at being an adult with few responsibilities." She grinned that impish grin that made her look about twelve years old. "But even the high life would get boring after awhile, dontcha think?"

"Yeah, right. Maybe on Planet You're Crazy. Remember, you're talking to the guy for whom 'roughing it' means they don't leave a little chocolate on the hotel pillow." I threaded her arm through mine and called out to our patient usher. "Come on, Sunsh- I mean, Kurt. Lead the way."

"I saw him checking out your ass," she mentioned, sotto voce, as we resumed walking.

"You don't say?"

"I do."

"Hmm… might have to do something about that, if I get a mind to."

"Remember, you have to drive me home."

"Killjoy."

"Says one who knows."

"Hey, did I kill your joy?"

"Came damned close."

"But thought better of it."

"Yep. Better for your health."

I sighed. "I could change my mind, you know. There's an exit right over there." I pointed down the hall.

"Too late." She indicated a set of doors right in front of us. "We're here."

"Zoinks. Foiled again."

Clearly Sunshine had picked up my uneasy vibe, if not the reason for it, because he made a point of reassuring me as I passed by with, "Don't worry, you'll have a great time. Open bar and a gorgeous spread that's to die for." His grin brought to mind a different to-die-for spread, but alas, now was not the time.

"You don't say?" I winked and followed Roby into the vast hall that had been transformed from drab rehearsal space to festive party venue. A DJ was fiddling around with a soundboard, ready to make with the background music, while various folks scurried around, tending to last-minute details. The monitors Kurt had mentioned were indeed set up, but all I could see on them were shots of the ecstatic audience, clapping themselves into sheer delirium. Honest to God, I even saw a disturbingly large, hot pink thong fly through the air and loop around the microphone stand. All that clapping was in vain, however, because the object of their affection had just stepped through a different set of doors, undoing the top buttons of his sweat-soaked shirt beneath an already loosened tie and mopping at his face with a towel.

Yowza. This close I could totally see what had Roby enthralled, although she'd not yet noticed his arrival, having drifted over to drool over the slab of smoked salmon arranged on one of the long tables. Good. This gave me a sliver of time to just observe with both parties unawares.

And what, exactly, did I notice? Well, I noticed that after one last swipe with the towel, Michael asked one of the passing waiters to dispose of it, when he could have just as easily left it draped over one of the many chairs scattered around the room. This was clearly the polite guy my mom had raved over—so no big surprise there. What followed next, however, truly shook me. Since he was still completely unaware that he was being observed, I was privy to the unguarded expressions that passed across his face when he noticed Roby. Recognition first, followed by undisguised joy, then a slight dimming, all in the span of two, maybe three seconds, max. Then, as if she could sense him behind her, Roby turned and I'll be damned if I didn't see the exact same range of expressions cross her face.

"Roby, you made it."

"As if I'd miss your debut, especially when the tickets were a comp." She laughed and they crossed the floor towards each other, meeting in a mutual hug. Even in three-and-a-half inch heels she was completely dwarfed by the man. The sight might have been amusing, except it brought that whole vulnerable image back to mind, which prompted me to sidle closer.

"You were wonderful, Michael, but of course, you must know that." Roby nodded at the nearby monitor where the hoards were only just starting to break up and drift into the aisles. Any minute now, and this room would be filled with the well-wishers and wannabes who would want their piece of Michael. Good.

"Yes, well, it was wonderfully successful for an opening night." He started smoothly before shaking his head with a self-deprecating laugh. "Oh who the hell am I kidding? It was bloody fantastic and easily the most frightening thing I've ever done. I'm chuffed to bits I'm still standing upright and not in a corner whimpering pathetically."

My turn to cut in on this dance. "Ro's right, though. You were great. Congratulations." I draped a casual arm over Roby's shoulders watching carefully for any reaction. Outwardly, nothing, but there… there it was. A slight narrowing of the eyes as his gaze zeroed in on the familiar hold I had on her. Reaaaal similar to the look I'd read earlier. He was gracious as hell though—gotta give him credit on those classy Brit manners.

"Thank you so much. And you are…"

"Oh, I'm sorry Michael. This is Taylor."

"Taylor?"

"Stevenson," I supplied, offering my hand. Amazing what you can tell from a man's handshake. Nice firm grip, with only the slightest bit of extra pressure, suggesting healthy self-confidence with a dash of "and who the fuck are you?"

"Pleasure’s mine, Mr. Stevenson."

"It's actually Doctor Stevenson," Roby broke in. "The whole family lives to say it, except for him, the dork."

"Family?"

"Roby's cousin." I answered the question, watching his reaction.

Bingo. The ice in those baby blues thawed ever so imperceptibly. Damn, I'm good. Guy might be married, but there was definitely something there for my cousin. To be fair to the man, though, I don't think he even realized it. He was just acting on the same thing I tended to go on: gut reaction. I could respect that, even if I didn't like it much. Please God, just let this cat get the hell outta Dodge before anything had a chance to happen.

Roby chuckled and nudged me with her shoulder.

"My favorite dipshit," Roby teased, nudging me with her shoulder.

"Nice Roby. I swear, if my mother heard you using language like that, she'd pull out that nasty-ass olive oil soap she orders from the Old Country, and wash your mouth out."

"Oh, like yours is so much better."

Michael broke up our bickering by asking, "Francesca’s your mum then, Taylor?"

"One and the same."

"She's a lovely lady—quite formidable."

I grinned in spite of my suspicions of the man. "Formidable would be one of the more socially acceptable terms."

We all laughed companionably together for a moment before the doors to the rehearsal hall burst open, the party guests streaming in and zeroing in on their target like a mass of heat-seeking missiles. Almost immediately, we were engulfed by an enthusiastic throng, all of them positive that what they had to say to Michael was the Most Important Thing since the announcement of cold fusion. Amidst the jostling elbows and shuffling feet, I managed to grab Roby and pull her clear of the crowd.

"Whew." Roby patted at her hair, ascertaining that the frenzy hadn't sent it cock-eyed.

"You're not kidding." I snagged two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter's tray and handed her one, lifting mine in a toast.

"To chi-chi parties."

"Hear, hear."

We sipped quietly for a while, content to watch from a distance as Michael dealt with his first taste of solo success.

"I doubt he'll be Sting big, the appeal just isn't that universal. Perhaps with some luck and good timing, he might get to be Harry Connick, big. One way or another, I'll wager he's going to be successful."

"He already is—at least in England. They're nuts for him over there, on the West End. What?"

"Hm? Oh, nothing." I tried to hide my smile behind my champagne flute as I took another sip.

"You've got that look." She glared accusingly over the rim of her flute.

"What look?" I tried to reassemble my features into something resembling innocence. Not so easy to do when you're not even aware of what expression you might be wearing.
"It's the same superior-assed look you had when you were teasing me about Sting."

"Is not," I protested, trying not to laugh.

"Yeah, it is, and you know what? It's okay." She turned away with a slightly haughty sniff, but not before I caught sight of Guilty Face.

"You Googled him, didn't you?"

Busted. She turned back, expression resigned. "Yes," she confessed, "I Googled. I was curious, all right? Those tickets and all came so out of the blue and surprised the hell out of me." She shrugged a nearly bare shoulder. "Besides, it's fascinating what a simple search can turn up."

"Yeah?"

Wicked smile time. "Yeah."

"Didja find nekkid pictures?"

"Taylor."

I was laughing so hard at her outraged and very red-faced expression, I nearly missed the discreet tap on my shoulder. Turning, I found Sunshine Kurt standing behind me, the grin on his face suggesting he'd overheard the whole exchange.

"Hello again, Kurt. What's up?" I was feeling pretty mellow, the champagne having done its bit to loosen my inhibitions. (It's EEEE-vil stuff, that overpriced French grape juice. Makes me act stupid—and that's the good reaction.)

"Can you two follow me, please?"

"Again? Not that I'm against it, but why? We gettin' tossed for excessive giddiness?" I grabbed Roby's hand, which she tried to pull free, still in the midst of Indignant-Girl snit. Tightening my grip, I pulled her along behind Kurt, who was leading us to yet another set of doors.

"Giddy? Are you kidding? Compared to that mob?" Kurt gestured towards the rest of the partygoers, clustered around the monitors where the concert replay had begun. With all the cheering and applause going on, you'd have thought they hadn't just seen the exact same thing less than two hours ago.

"Good gravy, would you get a load?" Color me mystified. "Look at them goin' on like that when they've got the real thing right here, in the flesh."

"You sure about that?" Kurt pushed open one of the doors just enough for us to slide through. We entered a small dressing room where we found an exhausted-looking Michael, slumped in a chair. However, he brightened up at our—okay, Roby's—entrance, smiling up at us and flashing the dimples that had made Mom fan herself as she described them.

"Oh, good, I see Kurt found you. I was afraid you'd left."

"Nope. Not yet, although we were thinking about it. You were so busy with the adoring flock and it’s been a long night and all."

We were? News to me, but I wasn't about to argue—I was feeling pretty wiped and had plans to leave bright and early in the morn so I could get back to the clinic in time for my shift. Leaving soon sounded pretty darn good. Stifling a yawn, I propped myself up against the wall, waiting for Michael and Roby to say their goodbyes so we could hit the road.

"Yes, they were a bit overwhelming. I hope no one thinks me too rude, but I'm absolutely knackered, so I staged my own escape. Although I'm disappointed to hear you're leaving. I was hoping you'd join me for a late supper. Is there any way I can convince you to stay, at the very least for a nightcap?"

His quick glance indicated that he was including me in the invite, but it was Roby he looked to for final answer. Come on Roby, don't let me down, girl.

"I, uh— gosh, Michael, I'd love to—" She looked back at me, the desire to keep the fantasy going warring with doing what she felt was the responsible thing written all across those expressive features. Responsibility won. "I'd really love to, but we need to get home soon. Tay's got to get back upstate in time for his shift which means an early start for him tomorrow morning."

"Oh."

Seeing the obvious disappointment on Michael's face almost made me feel bad for the guy—that was, until he opened his mouth again.

"Look, I have a bit of a mad idea. Since Taylor has to be on his way, would you object to my arranging for a car and driver to take you home, Roby? We could have a quick supper and then get you on your way."

"Oh, I hate to be any trouble and I probably should be going—and you’ve got other people I’m sure…"

Dammit. Roby's words were saying "no" but her tone was shouting, "yes, yes, YES."

"Actually, if we don’t have dinner together, I’ll probably just go back and order room service. Not in the mood for a crowd scene tonight. As far as it being any trouble, it wouldn’t be—the hotel's staff has been most accommodating."

I'll bet they had. Okay, totally unfair, not to mention uncalled for, but I was getting crazy-frustrated. I was already certain that Michael had a thing for Ro, and vice-versa, even if they didn't consciously realize it, the morons. His insistence on wanting to prolong the torture that was their parting only served to reinforce my feelings, since it was totally above and beyond the settling of any scores. Sigh. All I could do was sit here and repeat my "Roby's a grown-up" mantra silently while I waited to see what she'd do.

"Gosh, Michael, I don't know what to say."

I could tell she was going to say "no." Even though she really didn't want to, she was going to refuse because she knew how I felt and because it was the responsible thing to do and all of that self-sacrificing grown-up crap.

I was going to hate myself for this in the morning. Hell, I hated myself for it now, but I never could bear seeing that kicked puppy look of disappointment on Roby's face. I pushed myself away from the wall and approached her.

"Say yes." She turned in surprise at my endorsement. "After all, remember that whole 'playing at being a grown-up' thing? When was the last time you got to have dinner anywhere they didn't hand you paper placemats and crayons the minute you walked in the door?"

"You sure?"

Looking at me, her face wore an expression that for some reason made me want to weep. When had things changed so much that it went from my childhood desire of wanting Roby's approval, to her wanting mine?

"Yeah, doll. Go ahead and stay." I leaned over and kissed her, adding in a joking tone, "and remember your curfew, young lady."

She pushed at me playfully. "I never missed curfew."

"That's that age-onset memory loss kicking in again, I suppose." I spun away from the more serious smack she was trying to deliver and found myself face-to-face with Michael, who held out his hand.

"Thanks, mate. It's been a pleasure."

"Likewise." We shook hands, his grip a bit more companionable this time around.

"Listen," It was my turn to tighten my grip. "You take care. With the rest of your tour—and all." I was trying to be subtle, for Roby's sake.

"Thank you. I will." The tone was warm, but the dawning look of understanding in his eyes told me he realized exactly what I was implying. Good. Somebody around here needed to buy a clue. A slight nod and he released my hand, turning to Roby and asking, "So, what type of cuisine d’you fancy?"

Roby waved as I let myself out of the dressing room and headed back towards the lobby where I found Kurt hanging out, chatting with the coat check girls.

"You leaving alone?"

"Looks that way." I exchanged a ticket for my parka, shrugging into it while Kurt looked me over with a frankly assessing stare. "Could you make sure Roby gets hers?" I handed Kurt the ticket for Roby’s cashmere coat, instinctively trusting he’d take care of it.

Nodding, he handed the ticket back to one of the girls, his gaze remaining on my face. "He's a good guy."

I wasn't even going to guess how he knew. "I hope so."

Green eyes narrowed speculatively. "He calls his wife a couple of times a day—tries to, at any rate. Before the concert, he was making arrangements to have flowers delivered every few days. The man's as devoted as it gets without appearing completely suspicious."

My turn to stare. "How the hell do you know all this?"

"Backstage crew." He shrugged. "Have to find some way to kill the time."

I grunted something unintelligible and started making my way towards the front doors, Kurt tagging alongside.

"Listen, since you're on your own, d'you want to meet up for a drink or something?"

Or something. Oh, I could just imagine what that would entail and God, was it tempting. Tempting to lose myself in someone else's body, someone else's life, for just a little while—and Kurt carried with him an added charge of attraction I hadn’t felt in forever, it seemed. But the champagne had already worn off and with it, any lack of inhibition. One-night stands had never been my thing and anyway, it didn't seem fair to burden him with my current shitty mood, worried, however unreasonably, as I was over this Roby and Michael sitch. Kurt stood by, patient and maybe, just a little hopeful.

"Sorry." There was genuine regret in my voice. "Wish I could, but I have an early start in the morning, so I gotta jet."

"Oh well. Maybe some other time."

"Yeah, maybe." As if. When would I next have the chance? Shame, too. But my life was just a little too complicated right now.

"See you around, Taylor."

"Bye, Kurt."

A few minutes later, I stood by my car rooting around for my ever-elusive keys. As I pulled them out, a small piece of folded paper fluttered to my feet, immediately getting stained by stray bits of muddy parking lot slush. Snatching it up before it got completely soaked, I unfolded it and found Kurt's name, phone number and his email address, written on what appeared to be page from a Playbill program. Nothing fey or cutsie like little smiley faces or hearts dotting the "i's" either, just simple, bold handwriting.

I climbed in the Jeep, slamming the door with a decisive motion. I sat there for a moment replaying and absorbing this evening's events before banging my head against the steering wheel with an equally decisive, if somewhat gentler motion.

Roby.

Michael.

Roby and Michael.

Kurt.

Fuck.

Chapter Three

2006-06-28T22:31:53Z

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?

Chapter Two

2006-06-22T14:03:19Z

Michael

Oh, bollocks. Filthy as hell word, I know, but that was pretty much my first thought during our initial encounter. Not because of any major deficiency on her part mind, even though she's a stubborn bint and can be frighteningly negligent when it comes to her own well-being. But of course at that particular moment, I had no way of knowing that. I also had no way of knowing that she'd be the most extraordinary thing to happen to me—especially since, had you asked, I would’ve told you I'd most likely used up my given allotment of extraordinary things and then some. I'd been such a lucky bastard and pretty much still considered myself to be one, then she came crashing along. However, that's getting rather ahead of myself.

"So, it would seem that you have quite the history of getting yourself into various scrapes."

I was being "Mother," pouring the tea into mismatched porcelain cups and placing warm scones onto equally mismatched plates. As I served, I continued my inspection of this fantastic space, silently commending Pamela for the good sense she showed in properly furnishing her office. Too often these days, offices were either unimaginative sterile cubes, with industrial furniture, or hideously expensive illustrations in experimental design that oddly enough, appeared pretty much as sterile as their institutional counterparts. By contrast, this room, stuffed as it was with furniture, pictures, and souvenirs, had the ambience of a cluttered parlor. An image furthered by the mellow jazz drifting from the small stereo in the corner and the comforting sound of the rain steadily thrumming overhead.

Reminded me of home.

I have to say, though I've been in my share of fine hotels and restaurants around the world, I could easily rank this place among those in terms of comfort. Actually, if it not for the distinctive New England accent and typically American forthrightness, I could easily have mistaken Pamela for a typical British pub landlady. Quite frankly, I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt so utterly relaxed, the situation that brought me here, notwithstanding.

"Oh, don't tell me you actually believed everything they said?"

I looked up as Roby emerged from the bathroom. She'd excused herself a few moments earlier, taking the time to freshen up and pull her hair back into a braided ponytail. What a shame. Wish she hadn’t done that. For one, it emphasized that wretched lump on her temple, which to my overactive imagination, seemed to be growing larger by the moment. Yes, I knew it was probably as big as it was going to get, Dr. Phillips assured us of that, but I couldn't help it—it was a nasty thing, especially highlighted as it was by those vivid green and purple splotches streaking against her olive skin. I was stunned to realize there were colors like that to be found in nature.

As for the other reason I was sorry she pulled her hair back, well, that caught me quite unawares. You know, I couldn't recall ever having seen anything quite like Roby's hair in my entire life, and honestly, that was saying something. Falling well past her waist, it was a gorgeous, wavy reddish-brown mass I only got to see fully in the few seconds it took for her to cross the office to the loo.

Now, would you listen t’yourself, Mike? I must be going daft in my old age. It's hair, I'd seen hair before, and I hardly had any business mooning over anyone's hair like some adolescent prat, even if it did smell like vanilla. Yet, would you believe I could barely keep myself from touching it as she'd brushed by? Very odd.

She slipped into the chair opposite mine and accepted the cup I held out to her, smiling her thanks even as she bent her head to inhale the distinctive bergamot fragrance of the tea, a blissful expression written across her features. I couldn't blame her—maybe it was naff in some circles, but Earl Gray was my favorite tea as well, screw the critics. Nothing else compared, far as I was concerned. Especially properly brewed and steeped. Helping Pamela while Don had examined Roby, I'd been gobsmacked to see her spooning loose leaves into the pot before pouring the hot water over. I must’ve looked a right fool, since she'd reached out, and with a playful grin, tapped her finger on the underside of my chin, making me shut my mouth with an audible snap.

"No other way to make tea, is there?"

"N-no, certainly not," I'd managed to stutter out. "I'm sorry, it's just a bit unexpected."

"Oh, I know." Quirking an eyebrow up in obvious amusement as she left the tea to steep, she added, "I do keep some bags around if the tourists ask for 'em, but the regulars, they know the score."

See? Sensible.

While Roby spooned sugar and poured milk into her tea, I split open a scone and spread a spoonful of clotted cream across the bumpy surface, happily inhaling the comforting aroma. Returning to our conversation, I commented, "Well, you must admit, Pam and Don presented a great deal of evidence to support their claims."

"They exaggerated," she complained, but the smile was a dead giveaway. Clearly, nothing but a great deal of affection for those two. She shook a few tablets from the bottle of Advil Pamela had left her, washed them back with a sip of water, then set about dressing her scone with lavish swirls of cream and jam, reminding me of my niece, right down to the tip of her tongue sticking out in concentration, trying to get the concoction just so.

"Um hm. Yes, well, what about the time you fell from the roof and broke your arm?" I bit into my scone, savoring the unexpected taste of the blueberries scattered throughout. Umm, not bad. Perhaps the Yanks were onto something.

"Oh, I was ten, for God's sake and I was rescuing a cat."

"From the roof of the fire station, Roby." I took a sip of tea and set the delicate cup back in its saucer. All right, I knew the woman was injured, but I couldn't help but tease her a little. The situation as described to me was so damned absurd it just demanded it. "And did it never once occur to you that the firemen might have had, oh, I don't know, a ladder?"

It was wicked. I'll admit it freely, but it was so bloody amusing to see that bright, telling flush of color creep up Roby's cheeks for what seemed like the umpteenth time in our short acquaintance. But she had some starch to her, I could tell. She was slouching in her chair, turning all shades of pink imaginable, but somehow, still defiant. I could easily see the ten-year old she'd once been, hidden in the body of the adult Roby.

"You really must’ve been quite a hellion."

Well-defined eyebrows shot up. "Me? Oh, good grief, no." Having dispatched with her first scone in short order, she reached across the table for another, breaking it open and slathering it with cream. "I was the quintessential good girl. Boring, even."

"Not according to Pamela and Dr. Phillips, unless they were merely making up all of those other tales they shared in a remarkably short period of time."

It really had been funny as hell—while Dr. Phillips administered a quick but thorough exam, and Pamela and I set up the tea, they had taken an unholy glee in regaling me with no fewer than a half dozen stories, all featuring Roby as the star in a series of childhood mishaps. And every time Roby had tried to speak in her defense, Don, as the older man had insisted I call him, would shush her, scolding that the more she talked, the longer the exam would take. The end result was Roby, helpless and fuming, whilst more than once I'd had to turn away to keep from laughing outright at her furious expression. An only slightly less severe version of which was currently gracing her features.

"Okay, I give," she mumbled around a mouthful of scone. Draining her cup, she set it down and sighed, "I'll admit, I did suffer my share of injuries as a kid, but there actually was a recurring theme, besides my needing to up my stock holdings in Blue Cross." She paused, holding the teapot over my cup. I nodded yes, as much for the fresh tea as for her to continue.

"Animals."

Animals? What the bloody hell was she talking about? Now I was really curious, although for the life of me, I couldn't have told you why. I didn't know this woman, would most likely never see her again. What did I care about her past mishaps? But I did. If I were to buy into that New Age bullshit my sister ascribes to, (which, I don't you understand, but if I did) it would be as if this incident was a rare moment in time allowing us to dispense with the usual constraints that normally bound our day-to-day dealings with strangers. An opportunity to really get to know someone, if you will. And as Tam was so fond of reminding me, I was but a mere insect on this earth, with no business questioning karmic interference. "Remember Mikey, Karma has a way of coming back to bite you on the arse tenfold." So my kindness to this stranger could conceivably come back as something positive in my life. Or it was as simple as I just liked her. Either one worked for me. So I sat back and relaxed, while Roby refreshed our cups.

"In every instance those two tattletales gave you, I was involved in trying to help animals in some way." She paused stirring long enough to hold up her hand and tick them off one by one. "Broken arm, the cat; sprained ankle, rescuing homeless bunnies from a muddy ditch. Torn Achilles, that was helping Mr. Darrow train his stallion, Lucifer and you'd think the man would have really known better than to name a black stallion Lucifer, of all things. Might as well have named him Beelzebub."

I choked on a bite of scone at both the scope of her injuries, and the sheer half-arsedness of someone deliberately naming a black stallion Lucifer. However, Roby didn't notice. She was too busy rattling off still more injuries.

"Um, let's see, the dislocated shoulder—another cat— this one in a tree that'd blown halfway over Sutter's Pond. Sprained ankle number two, fetching a litter of puppies out from an abandoned cellar, and finally, a split chin trying to put a fallen bird's nest back in the rafters of my best friend, Mary Ellen’s, barn. See? All good reasons." Leaning back in her chair, she graced me with a brilliant smile.

I suddenly felt somewhat warm all over. Tea must have been too hot. Of course, that didn't stop me from draining my cup in one gulp in a hugely stupid attempt to distract myself. Which of course, resulted in a scalded tongue, as befitting a total idiot. Bugger it. Several healthy swallows from my water glass took care of the burning, while Roby, apparently oblivious to my distress, split another scone and sat placidly, content that she'd proven her point—yes, she may have suffered more than her fair share of injuries, but it was always in the defense of helpless creatures.

Not quite. She may have had enough animal adventures to compete with Steve Irwin, but there was one in particular that I knew she'd neglected to mention. I knew because Pamela had specifically suggested I ask about it, confiding in an amused whisper that "Roby'll defend her injuries and how she got 'em but there's one she doesn't tend to mention. It's a beaut of a story though, so make sure you ask." Well fine. I would. Consider it payment for the burned tongue. Even though it wasn't her fault. It was mine. But she distracted me, so it sort of was her fault.

Oh, fuck, just ask the bloody question already.

"What about the stitches?"

"Uh, what stitches?"

Bingo. The self-assured lass of a moment ago dissolved. In her place, a fidgety Roby who avoided my gaze by developing a sudden, intense interest in the plate topography of crumbs, pushing them into small hills and drawing swirls through them. Just as well. I did want her hand available—evidence, you understand.

"Pamela said I should ask you about one injury in particular that required something along the lines of seventeen stitches and left quite the lovely memento, right there." I reached out and touched a fingertip to the edge of the faded pink scar that I'd noted on the outside of the hand that'd been fiddling with the crumbs. To my vast amusement, she snatched it back, an instant too late, and dropped it into her lap, out of sight.

"So," I leaned back, not bothering to hide my smile. "What creature inflicted that injury?"

She fell silent for several moments then when she finally responded, it came out so softly, I wasn't even certain she'd said anything at all. So I tried again, leaning toward her a bit.

"Excuse me?"

Once again, she mumbled something totally unintelligible. What the hell? Maybe that knock on the head was finally catching up to her. Or, more likely, it really was as good as Pam had hinted. I scooted my chair around the small table until it was right alongside hers and leaned in again. No chance of missing what she said now.

"Come on now, Roby," I urged. "Honestly, how bad can it possibly be? What was it?"

"A lobster, okay? It was a lobster."

"A lobster?"

"A lobster," she sighed, obviously resigned to telling the story. "I am so gonna get Pam for this," she muttered under her breath. "Yankee reserve, my foot." Having got that out of her system, she shifted in her chair, the better to face me head on.

Again, give the girl credit—she had gumption to share a story that was clearly a source of some embarrassment. Most likely on par with having one's parents trot out the nude baby on a sheepskin rug piccies. (Yes, I have them, and yes, they have. It's an unending source of shame—let us never discuss it again.)

"Okay," she began, "the summer I was fifteen, my best friend, Mary Ellen, and I decided in our full-blown, adolescent righteousness that eating of living creatures was barbaric and we were going to be vegetarians. Not only that, but anyone who chose to make their living from capturing innocent creatures and promoting said barbaric lifestyle was heinous in the extreme and we, as responsible children of Mother Earth, would totally not allow such a thing to take place anywhere in our vicinity."

I snorted slightly, guessing the direction this was headed. This earned me a sharp, reproving glare from Roby and a tart, "You wanna hear this, or not?"

"Do go on," I encouraged, trying desperately not to laugh at the dark looks she was shooting at me.

"Anyhow, as I was saying" she stressed, her accent far less pronounced than Pam's but with a still unique inflection, "there was no way we were going to allow this to continue. We were going to make a Grand Statement, capitalized, and prove to the town how right and just we were."

Her sense of humor about herself was as refreshing as it was unexpected. Is it wrong of me to confess how much I enjoyed watching the edges of her full lips quirk and the corners of her eyes crinkle as she fought back a smile? It was so incredibly rare to find someone unafraid to take the piss out of themselves—at least in my line of work it was a rarity. Shame too. I leaned forward a bit, eager to hear the rest of the adventure.

"For weeks, we staked out the harbor, getting familiar with the schedules for the lobster boats and the buyer's van. Then one day, bada bing, the buyer was a little late getting to the pier—we'd gotten wicked lucky, or so we thought. We took the opportunity to be all "Mission Impossible meets Charlie's Angels" about it, keeping hidden, sending secret signals and in general, behaving like a complete pair of asses." This time, she laughed with me—obviously, she was well aware of how ridiculous the image she was painting was.

"We guessed that with the buyer being late, the fishermen would take the chance to have a quick coffee in the warehouse. That's when we made our big move where we were going to set the lobsters free so they could make their way back to the ocean's loving embrace." An unmistakable note of irony crept into her voice as she concluded, "It turned out the critters were more than just a little ticked about the whole 'been trapped, then unceremoniously dumped into a box' thing, so the first one let loose kinda bit the hand that freed him."

"Which was yours, of course," I offered.

"Of course."

"So what then?"

"What then?" She shook her head ruefully, recalling, "Well, after I shrieked loud enough to raise the dead, Saul, one of the fishermen," she explained for my benefit, "disengaged the lobster from my hand, laughing hysterically the whole time. He then carted me into town where Dr. Don stitched me up, after which," she concluded with a mad giggle, "I sat down to a very tasty lobster dinner and there endeth my experiment with vegetarianism."

Silence. I mean, total and complete silence reigned between us, so resonant it almost obscured the mellow Guaraldi playing in the background. In that overwhelming stillness, Roby and I stared at each other and an instant later, burst into simultaneous peals of laughter that seemed to go on forever. I struggled to get myself under control long enough to ask one more pertinent question.

"One more thing?"

"Oh what the hell, I've completely humiliated myself already, what's a little more? Shoot."

Wiping at my streaming eyes, I assured her, "No humiliation, I promise, at least not for you. Just—well—was your dinner that same unfortunate lobster?"

Her raised eyebrow and dry "Who else?" set me off again, which in turn, triggered a fresh wave of giggles from her, and left us both gasping for breath and clutching our sides. What a fabulous laugh she had. Reminded me of a young girl, and not in some pervy dirty old man sort of way but rather in a way that made me long to be young again. Oh, I know, thirty-eight's hardly old these days, but lately I'd been feeling in such a rut. That's part of what I'd been thinking this trip to the States was going to be—rejuvenation, a new beginning of sorts—but this was turning out to be one hell of an unexpected detour.

Detours can be good though, mate.

More or less regaining some semblance of control, we sat back in our chairs, trying to bring our breathing down to a level approaching normal oxygen intake.
"So there you have it, the condensed history of 'Roby, the Clod with the Insanely Soft Spot for All Creatures, Lobsters Excluded.' However," she added with a wide smile, "might I point out one key item with respect to today's fiasco?"

I found myself grinning back. "But of course." When was the last time I'd laughed so hard or smiled so damned much? I honestly couldn't remember. Not that I’m an Uncle Scrooge sourpuss or anything, I have as healthy a sense of humor as the next bloke, but it's just—well, this easy laughter. It seemed as if being around Roby drew it out in spades. I wondered if it was the same for others? It probably was—she just seemed to be that kind of person. "You were saying?"

"There were absolutely no animals involved in today's little mishap, unless you count the stuffed Babar I bought Emily. My daughter," she clarified. "That's got to be some kind of first. So far as I know, this was simply a case of some fool just up and openin' the door into my back without so much as a 'by your leave.'" Roby swiped at her still-damp cheek with her napkin, leaving a streak of clotted cream, unnoticed, in its wake.

"Yes, I'm aware of that." Without even thinking, I reached for my own napkin and dipped it into the remnants of her glass of water. Cupping Roby's chin with one hand, I held her face still; with the other, I wiped away the cream, mindful to stay well clear of the bruises.

"You are? Duh, of course you are," she answered her own question. "Kind of right there, weren't you? In all the chaos and making sure my head was still attached and everything, no one's said anything about who it was. Didja happen to see?"

She reached up to rub her cheek, her hand brushing against the one I still had around her chin. Well, then. Static in the carpet. That was the logical explanation for the tingling sensation. I pulled my hand away and forced myself to concentrate on her question.

"Um, no, I didn't see, exactly what happened."

"Well, that's a shame, I was hoping you'd be able to tell me, but I'm sure Henry or Pamela knows something."

"I didn't say I didn't know, Roby. Just that I didn't see what happened." I stared at her intently, hoping that she'd understand what it was that I hadn't yet said. What I'd been trying to work up the courage to confess for the last half-hour, a task at which, I might add, I'd failed at spectacularly. Remember when I said I was a bastard? Add gutless wonder to the list.

However, I wasn't going to back down this time—it was now or never, so I maintained steady eye contact with her, trying to do my best Yoda telepathic signals impersonation. It must have worked, because an instant later, her eyes—dark green, I noted somewhat irrationally—widened in comprehension and her jaw dropped ever so slightly.
You?" It came out on a soft sigh. "Michael, it was you?"

Christ, I'm a miserable git. I'd knocked the woman out cold and not only could I could not even say it out properly, all I could do as she made the connection was nod my head in oh-so-feeble agreement.

"Well then. That is somethin', isn't it?"

We both fell silent then, each lost in our own thoughts, I suppose. No doubt, hers consisted of ways to maim me, though you'd never guess from that calm countenance. She simply reached for the teapot and refreshed our cups yet again. The spoon clinked in gentle rhythm against the china as she stirred, staring meditatively into the cloudy depths. At one point, she reached up to rub gingerly at the goose-egg reminder of our initial encounter, wincing slightly. Ouch. I could almost feel the throbbing ache in my own temple.

Right then, time to be a man— "Roby, I'm–"

She held up her hand, effectively cutting me off. "What happened?" Cradling her cup, she leaned back in her chair, waiting.

"What happened?" My voice didn't even sound like my own, seeing as it had risen about an octave. This- this woman, sitting next to me—what was it with her? She was supposed to be upset, and calling me names, perhaps even throwing a right cross or two, none of which I would have blamed her for, not one tiny bit. The one thing I'd not expected was this reasonable acceptance, her tone so bloody casual, she might have been asking if it were still raining outside. I was so confused.

"Yeah. What happened? You can keep it to the Reader's Digest version. I just want to have some clue how we got from you putting a door in my back, to us sharing tea."

Fine. She wanted to know what happened. I took a deep breath, trying to remember exactly what had happened in those few hectic moments. "I was at the toy store doing the same thing you were, I suppose. I'd just finished buying an obscenely large porcelain doll to send back home to my niece and was on my way to the village post. The box was so unwieldy, I couldn't hold it and still manage to walk through the door going directly forward, y'see?"

She nodded, as much in understanding, I imagined, as encouraging me to go on.

" I somehow managed to turn the knob just enough to nudge it open, intending to shoulder my way through sideways, or backwards, or whichever way the damned box would go. I felt a bit of resistance, but assumed it was just the door sticking, so I shoved and next thing I knew, I heard this unholy screech." I paused, recalling the noise. "Rather like someone had trod on a cat's tail."

Shit, there was that raised eyebrow again. I suppose the cat comparison was not dreadfully complimentary, but she still didn't say anything.

"A-anyway, I dropped my box, pushed myself the rest of the way out the door and there you were, splayed out and well, knocked out." Involuntarily, I glanced up at her bruised and swollen temple, wincing both in sympathy and at the thought that I'd been the cause. "The rest you more or less know." I couldn't look at her anymore, I didn't want to see the easy camaraderie we'd shared dissolve away. Instead, I stared down at my hands, the fingers laced and dangling between my knees.

"Don't."

Surprised, I looked up. "Don’t what?"

"Don't go feeling all guilty and tortured over this. So not worth it."

"But—"

"Oh no, no buts. It was an accident right? You didn't glance out the window, see me standing there and mutter to yourself, 'Ah, now there looks like a primo local rube to knock out with this door that just has to be sticking?'"

In spite of myself, I laughed at the absurd image of my nefariously plotting her downfall. "No, of course not. It really was just a stupid, clumsy accident."

"Then no harm, no foul. The bump'll go away. The bruise'll fade—though I'll admit, it's gonna take time. It's a hell of a shiner." She grinned impishly. "I haven't had one this good since seventh grade when Billy Pakipsky tried to, ahem, borrow my English homework."

"Poor Billy Pakipsky," I murmured. Why did I suspect if she'd had a shiner, then that other poor chap most likely ended up in traction. "You're an odd duck, Roby."

Silently, I heaved a sigh of relief at her obviously genuine acceptance of the apology she wasn't allowing me to verbalize. So many women, something like this happened, they would’ve been furious, wanting a man to crawl across metaphorical hot coals, (some harpies of my acquaintance would probably even demand the real thing). I didn't know why it was so important that Roby not be angry with me—again, what was the likelihood that I'd ever see her after today? Realistically speaking, probably not good—and for some reason that I couldn't quite put a finger on, that saddened me. Maybe it was simply because, despite the circumstances, I had the strangest feeling I'd made a friend and I didn't want to lose that feeling.

"Cat, duck," she complained without any real heat. "I'm being compared to a virtual menagerie here. What's up with that?"

"You're the one with the animal fixation." Laughing, we didn't notice the office door had opened, until Pamela spoke.

"Well, they say as how laughter's supposed to be the best medicine, Roby-girl. If that's the case, you should be just about healed, judging by what we've heard coming from in here."

We both turned at the sound of her voice. Pam's sharp gaze honed in on me.

"You tell her?"

It was my turn to pull a Roby. I could feel the heat rising as I suffered through what had to be my first serious blush since—oh, since I was a pimple-faced thirteen-year-old with an unreliable voice asking Fiona Lyons to the Christmas dance. Hell, even my ears felt hot. I might have confessed all to Roby, but it didn't completely lessen the guilt.

"Yes, I did. And you were right. She wouldn't let me apologize."

I watched as Roby turned a curious stare to her lifelong friend. "You knew?"

Pamela waved her hand dismissively. "'Course I knew, child. I saw it all happen through the window. And even if I hadn't, I would have known in short order, seeing as Michael, here, was apologizing the whole time he was carryin' you in from the rain." She turned her attention back to me. "I told you, Roby's not one to hold a grudge—much."

Hello? That was more than a bit enigmatic, I thought. I started to wonder what that was all about but it was about then my subconscious chimed in with a snide, how about none of your business, old man. But I couldn't help it—it was yet another thing that intrigued me about Roby.

The soft clink of metal against metal roused me from my thoughts. Looking in the direction of the sound, I saw Pamela removing a set of keys from Roby's parka and in return, Roby was rapidly losing her good humor, if the expression on her face was any indication. I could have intervened, I suppose, but long practice in staying out of the battles my mum and sister used to wage, plus a strong streak of self-preservation, instinctively warned that it would be a bad idea of tremendous proportions. All I could do was stare in horrified fascination as the two women had at it.

"Give them back, Pam."

"Don't you take that tone with me, Roberta Louise. Before he left, Donovan gave me some very explicit directions and said if you put up a fuss, to call him and he'd get the boys at EMS to take you up to the hospital. D'you really want him checkin' you in for overnight observation?"

"But—"

"No, Roby. He said that you more'n likely have a concussion, extremely mild, mind you, but you need to be watched and you can't drive. Now I've already phoned Frannie—I figured she was watchin' the kids for you this afternoon while you shopped. She's goin' to go ahead and stay with you tonight, since she's already there anyhow and Hugh'll come get your car later. In the meantime, you have to get home, and you can't do it yourself."

Standing, Roby shoved her chair back, the wicker scraping against the wood floor with an angry screech. "Pam, I am perfectly capable of—" she began, but her words stopped short as she blanched, then teetered alarmingly.

Oh, Christ. In a split second, I was also standing and had an arm around her waist, holding her upright.

"You were sayin'?" Pam's voice was dry, but the concern was clear in the older woman's eyes.

Roby sighed and winced simultaneously, giving in to the inevitable. "Fine. Are you going to drive me?"

"Can't. Afternoon crush is still heavy with people doin' holiday shopping and I'm short a couple people with this flu that's been goin' around." She eyed me speculatively. "You have a car? And if you do, d'you have the sense God gave a goat to drive on the correct side of the road here?"

I'd been prepared for the question, had been ready to offer, even if Pam hadn't asked. And I wasn't in the slightest bit offended that she questioned my knowledge of American driving laws. After all, she wasn't about to put Roby in a car with someone who could conceivably get her involved in a head-on collision—especially if it was the same someone responsible for her current inability to drive in the first place.

"Yes, on both counts. If Roby can give me directions, I'm quite certain I'll be fine."

"You really don't have to. I'm sure someone's around who can give me a lift. We've taken so much of your time already."

"It’s my day off." I looked down at her—she was such a small thing, relatively speaking, but not in the least bit fragile seeming. Still… her eyes did seem wide and stark in her face, which was paling further even as we stood there. "Roby, let me. It's the very least I could do."

She swayed, unsteady on her feet and leaning against me for support. "Okay," she murmured, so quietly that I had to bend down close to hear her. Warm, blueberry scented breath tickled my ear. "I'm just too tired to argue, not that it would do any good," she finished with a final burst of sharpness, glaring up at Pamela, who shrugged, utterly unimpressed.

"I'll help you to the car."

Chapter One

2006-06-19T20:29:43Z

**
"There she is… C'mon now, love, give a sign you can hear us."

Oh, mama, what a voice! Soft, accented, it penetrated straight through the thick, gray haze that was fuzzing my brain like some out of control angora sweater. Fuzz or no, I just had to see who that voice was attached to. Oh hell, not a good idea. I blinked, almost instantly regretting the action, as the bright lights I registered in that split second sent insanely sharp knives of pain slicing through the brain woolies.

"Ugh." Mindful of the dull ache now throbbing deep in the recesses of my skull, I resolutely kept my eyes closed as I attempted to assess the situation. Rain. There was rain—lots and lots of rain. Also… psyching myself up for the mad dash from the toy store to my car. Except—said dash never happened. Instead, it seemed I'd gotten up close and personal with the sidewalk, courtesy of a door smack-dab in the spine.

Well then, I reasoned blearily. This explains the gremlins tap dancing in my head and down my back. On the other hand, why am I not soaking wet and freezing my ass off?

As I lay there, wherever there was, I was cognizant enough to recognize that I was indeed, pretty dry, if you didn't count the legs of my jeans. Even those were only damp, nowhere near as wet as they should've been given that by all rights, I should've been laid out like a landed trout. And instead of a brick pillow, my head was laying on something warm and comfortably solid. Mmmmm, warm… whoever was rubbing my forehead had the nicest, warmest hands. That gentle massage would have been more than enough to send me back to La-La land, that is, until my cobwebby brain happened to hit on the fact that I had no earthly clue who was making with the head rubbing.

Call me picky, but when someone's rubbing me so intimately I kinda have a thing about wanting to know who it is. (And if you don't think a simple forehead rub can be intimate, try it out—then we'll talk.) With a resigned groan, I carefully eased my eyes open, squinting slightly against the harsh glare of fluorescent lights. Struggling to focus, I found myself staring up into an unfamiliar, but seriously killer, pair of light blue eyes. The accented voice I'd heard as I came to washed over me again.

"Decided to rejoin us, have you?"

"Blueberry scones."

"Sorry?" The blue eyes blinked down at me, perplexed, then glanced uneasily away, as if not certain what to do with me. Even if I'd been completely lucid, that reaction wouldn't have really bothered me—it was one I'd been receiving most of my life, primarily from bemused friends and family. Groggy as I was, it barely registered as a blip on the radar screen. I did, however, register that lovely voice as he asked, "Are you certain we shouldn't ring for a doctor?"

Clearly, this second question was being directed at someone else and required no effort at a response on my part. Good thing.

"Never you mind. That there's the best sign that she's goin' to be just fine. Roby’s always had a taste for my scones, ever since she was a little bit. No doubt she's gotten a whiff of the batch in the oven." A soft face, framed by a halo of short, silver hair, floated into my field of vision, a wry grin wreathing those blessedly familiar features. "Y'know, there's easier ways t'get a free scone, girl, than smackin' your head on the walkway."

"Pam."

I allowed myself a faint, answering grin before deciding that it required way too much effort to flex my facial muscles. Actually, it almost required too much effort to breathe. Okay, maybe not that bad, but all in all, it was still the mother of all headaches at the moment, comparable only to my one and only collegiate hangover. So not a good thing to be recalling at the moment given that my stomach had decided join in on the fun with its version of the mambo.

Quickly banishing thoughts of that misbegotten escapade, I grasped the hand Pam held out and eased into a sitting position, swallowing back a slight wave of nausea as my body rebelled against being forced upright. Right then, I would have been very happy to sag back into prone mode and ask Pam to let me just lie there and whimper for a while. However, the hands supporting my back were thwarting my best attempts at self-pity. Given that Pam was neither a contortionist, nor had she recently grown a second pair of arms, this served as an effective reminder of the blue-eyed stranger's presence. Whoever he was, he was being super nice. I turned, slowly, seeing as I didn't want to repay his kindness by upchucking in his lap, and started to thank him, but before I could even begin to form the words, Pamela broke in.

"D'you know where you are, Roby?"

Ooh, I knew this one. "Yeah, of course. I'm in the Elephant's belly." I felt the cushions behind me shift suddenly, making me clutch the sofa's arm for support. Belatedly, I realized that was a really bizarre-sounding answer. Careful of my still-aching head and roiling stomach, I turned just far enough to meet his wary blue stare.

"You're quite sure?" Those unsettling eyes stayed locked with mine, as if terrified if he looked away I might just pass out again, or get naked and do the mashed potato or something, but the question was obviously meant for Pam.

"Don’t fret now. I guess in all the commotion, you didn’t have time to notice the tearoom’s name is The Pink Elephant. Joke around town is that the office back here is the belly of the beast, as it were."

"Oh. I see." All right, so the tone of voice could be best described as "doubtful," suggesting that he wasn't at all certain he did see, however, he seemed smart enough to realize he wasn't about to get a clearer answer anytime soon. I sensed his body relaxing slightly, though his eyes never left my face. Trying to reassure him that I was still somewhat in control of my faculties, I offered up a bit of unsolicited commentary.

"Best scones this side of the Atlantic." Sighing, I leaned back against the sofa cushions, stuffing a throw pillow under my head, hoping the extra cush factor would help ease the grip of the Throbbing Band of Pain. My eyes started to drift shut, but before they closed completely, I glanced hopefully up at Pamela through my lashes. "Speaking of which, Pam…?"

She laughed and reached down to brush a lock of hair off my forehead. The same lock I'd blown out of my face what seemed like an age ago, I wondered? Pam's voice dragged me back. "You haven't changed a bit, child. Not one bit. Earl Gray and blueberry?"

"With a side of clotted cream and a bottle of Advil, please." This time, I let my eyes close fully. Ohhh, darkness good… soothing, even.

"And for you, Mr. –?"

I felt the sofa cushions pitch and shift only slightly as Killer Eyes stood up. Give the man props for being considerate of my delicate condition and not just lurching off the sofa.
"I'm sorry, you must think me terribly rude. MacLaren. Michael MacLaren."

Boy howdy. Michael MacLaren's voice was almost as to die for as his eyes were. Soft as it was, it still resonated through the room, making me feel as if I were front row at the Old Vic, instead of collapsed on the sofa in Pam's small office. (The Vic—there's a theatre for you. Stir in a little Patrick Stewart or Kenneth Branagh—you have an experience that is just not to be believed.) But that name, that name… I could swear I knew the name Michael MacLaren from somewhere, but where? I drew my eyebrows together, trying to dredge up the info, wincing at the slight pain brought on by even that small movement. Can we say exercise in futility boys and girls? There was no way I was going to figure this out right now. I couldn't possibly be expected to think that hard until after I fortified myself properly with tea, scones, and copious amounts of ibuprofen, not necessarily in that order. So I filed it away in the "Sometime After the Anvil Chorus Quits Resonating Though My Skull" folder in my mind and settled back into miserable, achy, and all-purpose pathetic mode.

"Well Michael MacLaren, the last thing I think you are is rude. After all, you brought our girl here, in from the rain. So, what can I get for you?"

"Oh, erm, I suppose the same thing that Roby—is it—is having, sans Advil. The scones smell lovely."

"Hm. You ask me, you're the lovely one."

My head snapped forward and my eyes popped open, pain be damned. Was Pamela Rodgers, widowed, sixty-something tea shop owner, independent in that "I am woman, hear me roar" kinda way, and darned-tootin' proud of it, actually flirting with this Michael MacLaren guy? At that moment, I had to have been a top qualifier for World’s Stupidest Expression, but cut me some slack, here. I'd known Pam all my life and I'd never seen her pull this act before—those flirting muscles had to have been so rusty, it should've taken an entire can of WD-40 to loosen them up. But nooo, there she was, cocking her head and flashing her dimples like some damned Miss America contestant. Halle Berry, eat your heart out.

Pam deigned to flash a smile and wink in my direction before she turned to go out the door. Oh God, I really, really needed that tea and ibuprofen now. I even wondered if she still had that "special" bottle she used to keep handy for medicinal purposes.

"Roby?"

"Yeah?"

"Donovan should be here shortly for his afternoon coffee. I'll send him back directly to make sure you're really fine."

Wonderful. As efficient as ever, Pam had managed to read my mind, except she extrapolated "medicinal" and skipped right past the "special bottle" part.

"Oh, Pam, please don’t bug him."

"You want that scone or not, girl?"

Uh-oh, I knew that tone. It had that really stern, "don't screw with me," note in it that wasn't gonna take an argument, no matter how creatively it was presented. Same voice she used to use on me when I'd be struggling with algebra and trig. Former math teacher that she was, she'd insist that yes, I could do this, and if I wasn't going to even try, well, no tea, no scones, and by the way Roby, you just earned yourself an extra shift washing dishes. I went through high school with dishpan hands, but damned if I didn't get A's in all of my math courses. I didn't harbor a single doubt in my addled little mind that if I tried to put up a fuss now, Pam was every bit as likely to hold back on the scones and quite possibly send me back to the kitchen for a dish washing shift, headache or no headache.

Lower lip sticking out (just a little) I mumbled an acquiescent "Yes'm," that sounded only slightly bratty before leaning my head back against my handy pillow. I might be stubborn, but I ain't dumb. On the one hand, there was comfy office with soft couch and intriguing stranger with a yummy voice and killer eyes, all I had to do was agree to a medical check-up. If I refused, there would be no scones, no ibuprofen, and no doubt, the dishes. It was a no-brainer.

"May I help you in any way, Pamela?"

Holy shit. The still inconceivable sight of Pam flexing those long unused flirting skills was truly mind-boggling. Her cheeks got all pink and rosy, and I'll be a monkey's uncle if she didn't smile in a way that could only be described as "coquettish."

"Best way to help is keep an eye on Roby, make certain that she stays put until Dr. Phillips come by, which," she reiterated, sparing a quick glance up at the wall-mounted clock, "should be any time now." The coquette fell away and a more familiar expression came across her face. She was worried. Damn. I hate making people worry. For a long time there, it was all I seemed to do, through my own aforementioned stubbornness. Sometimes, I just don't know when to give up, you know? It was amazing that I still had people who were willing to care so much about me. Never mind amazing. It was a freakin' gift. But poor Pam. Her voice had that concerned edge that I had hoped I'd never hear again with respect to me.

"I know she wasn't out long, but my mind'll rest easier once she's checked out."

"It's my pleasure. It does seem wise for her to be examined properly."

Okay, concern is one thing, but I was still sitting right there and last time I checked, still capable of coherent speech. Sort of.

"Um, hello?" I struggled back to a more upright sitting position and waved at the busybodies to get their attention. "Still here, you know? I'm not dead, rendered temporarily deaf, mute, or anything else keeping me from speaking in my own defense."

You know how frustrating it is when one of your oldest friends just rolls their eyes at you and gives you The Look? You know which one I mean, right? That "yeah, I've heard that line before and I'm still going to ignore you." That was precisely the look Pam shot my direction before she made her getaway, the door shutting behind her with a quiet click that only served to mock me, somehow.

I could practically feel the steam rising from my scalp. Honestly, I was so aggravated at being treated like some recalcitrant toddler being denied a lollipop that I could hardly see straight. At the same time, I was eminently grateful for this amazing little town I lived in. Such emotional duality can be pretty taxing, but it's no contest as to which side ends up coming out ahead. I mean, there was no question in my mind that if this same exact incident had occurred when I still lived in Chicago, not only would I still be on the sidewalk, but the bags of toys, my purse, and if a thief were really on top of things, my car, would most likely have been serious history by now. Which reminded me—
"What happened to my bags, anyway?"

"Hm?" Michael turned away from the wall of photographs he'd been studying for the last couple of minutes. Probably didn't want to get too close to the combustible female in the corner—can't say as I blame him. At that moment, I didn't want to be too close to me, either. Anyway, once those pictures snag your attention, they’re kinda hard to turn away from. There’re tons of ‘em, black and white, and color, of Pam and her late husband, Gary, on the exotic vacations taken during summer breaks from school. They used to joke it was the main reason they'd both become teachers—so they'd have enough time to get a good travel fix in. It's funny. Not only did Pam teach me math, I learned more geography from those pictures and the World Atlas on the bookshelf in this office, than I did in school.

Scattered among all of the travel pics were other photographs: former students made good, relatives, friends— even a picture of yours truly, home from the hospital the day after Emily was born, she and Patrick snuggled in a big chair with me. Not a bad picture, really, all things considered. That was the picture Michael was standing in front of when I asked about my bags.

"Your bags?"

"Yeah. Four of them. Big. Full of Christmas loot."

"Oh, right, of course." The confusion cleared away from his face. "The owner of the toy shop, Henry, I think? He collected them and said to tell you he'd hold them until you could return for them."

"Cool." Well, that was a relief. I knew that Henry would take care of them. Crusty as he was, he still had a soft spot gooier than Marshmallow Fluff for little kids. I pulled the elastic from my now seriously cock-eyed ponytail and ran my fingers through my hair. Ouch – there was one hell of a goose egg near my right ear. I felt gingerly around the area, exploring the extent of the damage. It felt like a pretty sizeable lump, but at least the skin didn't appear to be broken.

"How long was I out, anyway?"

I looked up at Michael, who echoed my gesture, pushing his hand through his hair as he recalled, "No more than a minute, I would imagine, but I'm not entirely certain. It seemed as if quite a lot occurred in an incredibly short amount of time. Henry was out there instantly, as was Pamela, who'd noticed the commotion through the windows. A few other people gathered about, but she shooed them off and ordered me to carry you in here."

Carried me in here? Oy. I tried to recall just how many of those rum balls I'd had at Mary Ellen's annual Christmas orgy last weekend while simultaneously attempting to peer down at my hips in some sort of discreet manner. If memory served, too many, regardless of what my hips looked like, but hey, it's the holidays. Sue me. Still, my cheeks got hot in an uncomfortable, "I so wish the floor would open up and swallow me" kind of way.

"So, you, um, carried me in here?" I stammered, trying to will my face not to flame up. Looking up at Michael, it was clear he was fighting a smile, if the corners of his mouth twitching that way were any indication. My cheeks got hotter still. Dammit, where was that hole?

"Did you think you managed it on your own?"

Duh. Score one for tall, dark, and smart-ass. "Well, no. I- I didn't think I had but— I guess I thought…" Oh doing splendidly, Ro. Let’s impress him with your grace under pressure. "Ah hell, I don't know what I thought. I've got Mt. Katahdin sprouting behind my ear, I'm allowed to not be completely lucid, okay?"

No question this time—a full-blown chuckle escaped the guy before he had time to stifle it. Nice to know I was so amusing in my befuddled state.

"Rest assured," he soothed. "Your packages are safe and I'm not suffering any ill-effects from carrying you in here."

Ohh-kay. Guess I wasn't as discreet as I thought. Okey doke, then. Time to steer the subject back to something more innocuous, methinks.

"Good to know that the packages aren't any the worse for wear, and it's awfully sweet of Henry to take care of them."

"That it is." Michael smiled and leaned back against the edge of Pam's well-worn maple desk, crossing his ankles. "Pamela's concern for your well-being, Henry's care of your belongings, the people who clustered about, asking after your condition… You seem to inspire a great deal of fealty, Miss Roby." His voice had this totally charming lilt to it suggesting a healthy sense of humor, an opinion further reinforced by his teasing, "Let me guess, you’re the local feudal lord."

I snorted back a laugh, wincing a little at the throbbing. "Not hardly. I've just lived here off and on most of my life and it's not like it's that big a town. We look out for each other."

"So I gathered."

Whoa. Maybe he was still smiling, but there was something in his voice— something wistful? I guess. Whatever it was, it was enough to make me take my first really good look at this guy who'd been every bit as helpful as any local. Tell you what, those eyes were still the first feature that jumped out at me. Maybe because they were the first thing I'd seen when I came to, or because of their amazing color, I couldn't tell you, but there's no denying they were— sigh—remarkable. Bright, pale blue, and fringed with dark, dark lashes of the type that J-Lo tends to rob off of small woodland creatures and apply for special occasions, they slanted slightly downward at the outside corners, giving him this mellow, relaxed air that was in marked contrast to the intensity of the color.

His hair wasn't quite as dark as his lashes, more a mahogany color, but it still served as a wicked nice foil for those eyes. Also obviously cut by, as Mary Ellen, fashion plate that she was, would say, "someone who knows what they're doin', girl, and probably charges accordingly." At the moment it was short and comfortably messy, but miss that every six weeks appointment, he'd have that Mike Brady, The Later Years, look on his hands. Not a good look then, or now, y'know?

The rest of the face also measured up pretty well too: nice symmetrical features like broad, high cheekbones and a wide mouth that seemed perpetually curved at the corners. On another guy it might have looked like an arrogant smirk, but somehow on him, it just seemed as if he were smiling at a private joke that he was just dying to let you in on. The pretty features were thankfully counter-balanced by evidence of some real-life usage, like the laugh lines creasing the corners of his eyes and the slight bump ruining what otherwise might’ve been a too-perfect nose—probably the result of some long-ago playground brawl. It all added to the impression of a good-natured kid, although honestly, he looked to be a few years older than my thirty-three.

Oh, and lest I forget, seriously deep dimples. I had to restrain myself from audibly sighing as I completed my mental sketch, but I couldn't help it, I'm a total sucker for dimples and Michael had a choice set. They cut such deep crescents into his cheeks that you could still see faint impressions of them, even when he wasn't smiling. Which, as it so happened, he actually was—smiling, that is. At me—and talking. Presumably at me. Which I wasn't really hearing because I was too busy staring.

"Roby? Roby."

"Huh?"

"Are you all right? You're staring."

Whoops. Busted. Been awhile since I’ve been caught out like that.

"I'm staring?" I'm staring. Not my best comeback. He narrowed his eyes and the smile morphed into a suspicious frown.

"Yes, staring. Rather intently as a matter of fact. Are you feeling faint or ill?"

Still acutely aware that sudden movement just might make me ill, I shook my head gently. "Nope, none of the above, as long as I stay reasonably still." I added a half-hearted smile for emphasis, even as I clenched my teeth against the mild nausea.

Clearly not convinced, he fixed me with a stare of his own, causing me to squirm a bit. I mentally groped around for something, anything, to distract that intent gaze from me. I had this uneasy feeling that if he looked long enough, he'd be able to see everything that I'd been thinking. Not something I'm real comfortable with, you understand. Just a long-standing habit. I tried to recall what we'd been discussing just before I went all mini-trance over blue eyes and dimples.

"I– I was just thinking that this—" I waved my arm around in a gesture that was meant to encompass not just the office but the whole of Port Gordon," must be pretty different from what you're accustomed to, judging by your reaction."

Kind of lame, I'll admit, but it seemed to do the trick. His gaze shifted away from my face and he looked away, kind of off into some distance only he could see. He chuckled again, but it wasn't the light teasing one from a few minutes ago; this one was clipped, harsher. Ugh. Perhaps not the best tactic, Roby-girl. Michael looked back at me and I noticed that his eyes had dulled a bit, even though he was smiling again.

"Yes and no. The wanting to assist someone I'm well accustomed to. Difference is, the reasons people choose to do so."

Interesting tone. So completely at odds with the easygoing good nature I'd already gotten used to in our limited acquaintance, it just threw me for a loop. Since I have a tendency towards the nosy, (one of those unfortunate side-effects of living in a mega-tiny town where gossip qualifies as an Olympic sport), I might have asked him to clarify what sounded like a seriously disenchanted statement. Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately, take your pick—the door opened right then, revealing Pam. The drool-inducing smell of fresh blueberry scones flooded the room as she backed in, pulling the creaking, loaded-to-the-gills teacart in after herself. And right behind the cart came Donovan Phillips, our official local doc and unofficial town historian.

You want to know anything about Port Gordon? Dr. Don's your man. But make sure you have plenty of time because he totally contradicts that bogus image of the taciturn New Englander. Translation: he'll talk your ear off if you give him half a chance, but he is absolutely the dearest man I know, in addition to being one of the smartest, so it's not a hardship.

As soon as Pam had fully maneuvered into the office, Michael pushed himself away from the desk and set about helping her with the tea. A tactful move on his part, if only to give Dr. Don some space to examine and/or chastise me as the spirit moved. And if he was as smart as he was cute, taking the opportunity to snitch one of those still-warm scones. I sneaked another quick glance over at him as Don dropped his lean frame onto the sofa.

Oh he was tall, too. Hadn't had the chance to really notice that before. Granted, tall's a relative thing for me, since at 5'1", the whole world pretty much seems tall, but this was the real thing—Pam's a healthy 5'9" and he topped her by at least a half a head.

Ogle-time was abruptly cut off when Dr. Don turned my head (slowly, thank goodness) to face him and started probing with his gentle doctor's touch at the ever-expanding lump above my ear. He stared me down with calm gray eyes that had seen me through every major scrape, bump, bruise, burn, and broken bone in my lifetime. Well, most of them at any rate. When I was a kid, he used to eye me with this look of mild exasperation tempered with affection. Now that I was an adult with kids of my own, his expression was that of, well, mild exasperation tempered with affection, two emotions that came through clearly as he asked, "Roberta Louise, explain to me what manner of mess you've managed to get into this time, that would keep me from my mocha latté?"

Begin at the beginning-

2006-06-18T15:51:41Z

Roby

I hadn't been expecting it. Then again, neither had he. Both of us settled, set in our ways, pretty much content with what we'd made of our lives then WHAM. It smacked us both straight upside the head, him figuratively, me, a bit more literally, wouldn't you know?

Anyway, what happened was the sort of thing that I thought only happened between the covers – of books, people. You know the ones I mean, though. Those books you can read straight through on those nights that sleep's just some elusive entity. A mug of something soothing, seriously torchy music on the stereo, and then, when the book loses its allure, black night outside my window, a blank palette on which to draw hopes and dreams. But truth was, I had more than any reasonable, sane person could hope for. I'd done okay for myself, found my place in the world. No relationship on the horizon, but I was good with that—wasn't looking for one, didn't particularly want one. I was totally and completely comfortable. And if anything, his life was more together than mine.

Which just serves to prove… Fate has a very twisted sense of humor, not to mention, a helluva sense of timing.

December 19

Rain.

Wouldn't you just know it? I blew a strand of hair that had worked its way loose from my ponytail from my face with an exasperated huff and glared up at the leaden clouds hovering over Main Street. Really, I didn't know what staring at the big gray blobs was going to accomplish. What did I expect, that they were gonna magically animate themselves and explain why the hell they had the nerve to dump rain instead of snow at this, of all times of year? Knowing my luck, I'd get struck by lightning instead. But I mean, come on.

Granted, the weather in Port Gordon could be unpredictable, at best. It’s just one of those hazards of living on the coast of Maine; one the natives love to grumble about, yet generally accepted with that vaunted Yankee fortitude, but still… I mean, I feel the love for rain, it's a totally groovy element, but the week before Christmas? It was utterly unthinkable—not to mention downright ridiculous if you wanted my honest opinion. There should’ve been drifts and mounds of fluffy snow blanketing the landscape. Little bitty crystalline bits carving their designs on the frozen shop windows and sparkling in the light of the converted glass lamps lining the sidewalks—all of that poetic seasonal stuff.

"This rots."

Right then, Mother Nature decided to flip me the finger, dripping icy rain straight into my eyes, the bitch. I yanked my head back under Henry's awning, rubbing my eyes and blinking furiously. When my vision cleared, the fanciful images my mind's eye had conjured had dissolved, replaced by the soggy tableau that comprised my current reality. Oh goody. I had to admit, though, even soaking wet, Port Gordon was the absolute epitome of what a quintessential New England village should be. A writer from one of those impossibly upscale travel magazines even profiled us a few years back as being "more New England than New England." Whatever that meant.

Eh, to be fair, I knew exactly what he meant. We have this fabulous town square with a broad expanse of green lawn dotted with these huge, ancient trees, and at least a dozen wrought iron benches that appear frail, but are really pretty sturdy. They'd have to be, seeing as they've survived season after season of—how can I put this delicately—hefty tourists as they sit and enjoy their "more New England than New England" experience while scarfing towering cones from the Marble Slab. Look, I know the Slab's ice cream is divoon, but man alive, moderation, folks. Keep it to one scoop, instead of three, and walk, while you eat? Just a thought.

We even have this honest-to-goodness lacy, gingerbread gazebo that during the summer hosts concerts, potlucks, and at least one wedding a week. However, I will reiterate that this time of year, the trees, the benches, the gazebo, the brick sidewalks—they all demanded "Winter Wonderland," not "Singin' in the Rain."

I sighed again and tried to console myself with the knowledge that the midday forecast and Saul's bum knee, which was actually the more reliable indicator, had both called for falling temperatures throughout the rest of the day. With any luck, I would have some serious Currier and Ives postcard action outside my kitchen window by morning. In the meantime, there was still the mini-monsoon to deal with.

Shifting my bags as I yanked the hood of my parka over my head, I eyed my blue SUV a block away. I wondered what my chances of reaching it without achieving complete drowned rat status were? Probably not good, especially when you factored in the not-so-insignificant matter of keeping all the bags I carried reasonably dry. Bags filled with the goodies that Patrick and Emily had meticulously noted in their letter to Santa, via their personal scribe, AKA, me. Mom. In spite of the crappy weather and the dim prospects of making it to my car unscathed, I couldn't help but smile when I thought of the rugrats. What can I say? I could care less if I ended up soaked to the skin, so long as their gifts remained intact.

Well, I was going to have to make my move soon, or else spend the rest of the afternoon loitering in front of Kreiger's Toy and Hobby like some displaced member of the Sharks or the Jets. Generous as he was, I couldn’t imagine Henry would dig my hanging out on his stoop and warbling "Cool" or "When You're a Jet" to the random passers-by. And let's face it, the ambience left a little something to be desired—no cigarette behind my ear, no leather jacket, no barrio streets to dance down. It just sort of lost something in the translation when one was wearing gum-soles as opposed to biker boots, you know? However, if nothing else, the image amused me and I couldn't help but hum a snatch of Bernstein's score as I folded over the tops of the shopping bags to better shield them from the rain.

Maybe it was because I was so focused on my ultimate goal. Maybe I was humming a little too loud. Frankly, the cause really didn't matter. In the end, I never heard the tinkling bell behind me. And because I didn't hear that brassy little chime, a split-second later I was unceremoniously shoved forward by the shop door opening into my back.

Next thing I knew, I heard this really horrible sound: somewhere between a cat getting its tail stepped on, and nails scraping down a blackboard. I later realized, to my eternal shame, that the wretched sound was coming from me, but at the time, I couldn't exactly worry about it, because after that cry came a nasty, dull thud that I did recognize: the sound of my head meeting the brick sidewalk.

Then poof—world go black.

Late For Your Life: The Set Up

2006-06-18T15:32:11Z

Late For Your Life

A contemporary romantic novel set in small town Maine that explores an unlikely friendship initially forged over head trauma, tea, and scones between two people who outwardly share little in common.

It's a shame, too, since Michael's the first man for whom Roby's felt anything since her divorce.

While Michael won't deny he feels an attraction as well, there's no way he'd ever allow it to go any further. After all, his work, his home, and perhaps most importantly-- his wife-- are all back in London.

But they can still be friends, right?

That's what they think.

Call it Northern Exposure meets L.L. Bean with a dash of Richard Curtis thrown in for good measure.

An exercise in ego... maybe

2006-06-18T15:29:53Z

I've been thinking about doing this for some time now-- I love this story and hate seeing it consigned to the metaphorical "under the bed." Unlike a lot of writers, I actually still like my first full novel. By no means do I consider it perfect-- it's far too long, for one thing and I'm sure there are some things that were awkward or clumsy, writing-wise. But the end result is, I still like it and would enjoy sharing it. Hence, this journal, created specifically for the serialization of Late For Your Life.

If you like it, feel free to let me know-- if you don't? Well, just remember it was my first novel and I was still learning. And no matter what, it's still nerve-wracking to put your work out there for people to read.