Читать книгу The Best Of Both Worlds - Elissa Ambrose - Страница 10

“N ow you’ve done it,” Becky said. “You didn’t have to yell at her. Christina is sobbing in the storeroom, and all because of you. Sometimes you’re as sensitive as a steamroller.”

The round-faced, fuzzy-eyebrowed owner of Merlin’s Fine Diner glared at her from behind the counter. “Christina got the order wrong again,” he snarled. “The customer’s always right.”

“In this case the customer was wrong. He ordered a BLT without the bacon, tomato on the side, and that’s exactly what he got!”

“Yeah, right. Who orders a BLT without the bacon?”

“Me, for one,” Becky answered. “Not that I’ve ever been inclined to eat in this dive.” These days, however, just seeing all that grease sizzling in the kitchen, never mind the smell, was enough to send her stomach reeling. “I’d better check on Christina,” she mumbled, fighting back a fresh wave of nausea.

“You people are all alike,” Merlin said. “Trouble-makers, everyone of you.”

Becky whirled around. “You people? What is that supposed to mean?”

“You vegetarians. It’s as if you all belong to the same secret club. It’s un-American, I tell you. Downright subversive. Now get back to work.”

“Work, shmirk. You heartless clod! Christina is in the back room, crying her eyes out, and all you can think about is work? What kind of person are you?”

He waved a finger in her face. “I’ll tell you what kind of person. Someone who plans on staying in business. Someone who doesn’t need back talk from the help. I’ve had it, Rebecca. If I’d wanted a cook with a mouth, I would have hired my wife. You’re fired. From now on I’m doing all the cooking myself, just like when I first opened.”

Another fine mess, Becky thought after saying goodbye to Christina. Another job down the drain. Fired again, and for what?

Little silver bells jingled as she pulled open the door to the diner, a blast of cold air assaulting her face. She pulled her scarf up over her chin and stepped onto the sidewalk.

It wasn’t her fault she couldn’t hold down a job. She just hadn’t found her niche in the world. But she wasn’t thinking about her sudden unemployed state, and she wasn’t thinking about the weather as she bundled her jacket close to her body and made her way down the street. She was thinking about it. The problem. The predicament she planned to dump on her family at dinner.

No use putting it off. They’d find out sooner or later. Might as well let the cat out of the bag when the whole family—the whole mishpokhe as Bubbe liked to say—was gathered around the table.

For as long as Becky could remember, no one in the family had ever been excused from Friday-night dinner at Ma’s. To be excused, you had to have been run over by a truck or be in the process of having a baby. When Becky was married and living in New York, she’d taken the train back to Middlewood every Friday evening. But she’d always traveled alone. Her husband, Jordan, had been excused. He was almost a doctor, and doctors, according to her mother, made their own rules.

Becky could just imagine the scene that evening when she broke the news. In the center of the polished oak table would be her mother’s favorite crystal vase, filled with an arrangement from the florist. Her father would complain that nothing could equal the prize roses he grew every summer in his garden, and her mother would roll her eyes.

“Pass the knishes, please,” Becky might say to her brother, David. “Guess what, Ma? I lost my job today. Oh, by the way, I’m three months pregnant.”

“Again you got fired?” Becky’s mother might answer. As usual, Gertie Roth would hear only what she expected to hear, and the last thing she’d expect to hear was that her divorced daughter was pregnant. Refusing to do the math, the last thing she’d want to hear was that Jordan Steinberg, her ex-son-in-law the doctor, wasn’t the father.

On second thought maybe I shouldn’t tell them right away, Becky debated, imagining the mayhem that would follow. Her mother, once understanding set in, would hold her hand over her heart and feign an attack. Gertie Roth—who, barring mild hypertension, was as healthy as a horse—was convinced she was going to die young. “It’s too late for that,” Becky’s father liked to tease her, only now he’d be in no mood for jokes. He’d insist that Becky get a second opinion, all the while lamenting, “Where did we go wrong?” And Bubbe would nod her head sadly, in the way that grandmothers did, while thanking God that Chaim, Becky’s grandfather, had already passed on, because if he hadn’t, the news would probably kill him.

No, Becky decided, she wouldn’t tell them tonight. She couldn’t drop a bomb like this between the chicken soup and gefilte fish—which, being a vegetarian, she’d never get to eat—and not expect a fallout. She considered not telling any of them, ever. She could blame her weight gain on her depression, and when the time came she could…she could what? Give her baby up for adoption? No way, she told herself, just as terminating the pregnancy hadn’t been an option when, just hours ago, she had hidden in the ladies’ room at the back of the diner, waiting for the results of the home pregnancy test.

Positive.

Bracing herself against the wind, she rounded the corner at the end of the block, and, like Dorothy after she had landed over the rainbow, found herself in another world. Here, in the older part of town, the houses were different from the contemporary split-level bungalows in Becky’s neighborhood. In striking contrast, they were large and stately in the Colonial style of days long ago. Here was where Carter had grown up.

She turned another corner and stopped outside a bed and breakfast. Set against a woodsy landscape, the old home was a picture of old-fashioned charm. The posts on the corners of the house were ornamentally molded, the chamfered beams under the overhang embellished with large teardrop shapes. On a sign in the window, Vacancy was written next to Starr’s Bed & Breakfast, underneath that, Assistant Cook Wanted. On sudden impulse she walked up the stone pathway. She reached for the large brass knocker, then hesitated.

In the yard stood a large Douglas fir, silver streamers and multicolored lights woven through its branches. Since Thanksgiving, Christmas decorations had sprouted everywhere, candles in windows, wreaths on front doors, Santa with reindeer on snow-covered lawns.

She pulled her hand away. Not my world, she thought, and headed back to the street.

The job in Phoenix had taken ten months to complete, but it was nothing compared to what lay ahead, the project that would ensure him a full partnership with Sullivan and Walters, Middlewood’s prestigious architectural firm. Joe Sullivan had called him on his cell phone only moments ago, informing him that the New Zealand job had been approved.

At the moment, though, New Zealand was the farthest thing from Carter’s mind.

He sat in the booth, examining the stained checkerboard oilcloth that covered the table. Bored with that, he turned his gaze to the torn red vinyl of the seat. He’d never been here before and now he knew why. A Meal You’ll Never Forget, the sign outside boasted. If the coffee was any indication of what the food was like, never forget was right. Your stomach wouldn’t let you.

The day had been long, starting with a five-hour flight from Phoenix to LaGuardia, followed by another hour’s trek by car service to Middlewood, Connecticut. All he’d wanted was to stay home and unwind, but he knew his mother was expecting him. After dropping off his bags at his apartment, he headed straight for the garage to get his car and was on the road again.

And then he’d seen the sign. He’d made a U-turn and headed for the diner.

No time like the present.

Becky hadn’t returned any of his calls, and he was tired of her ice-queen attitude. The sooner they got it out in the open, the sooner they could get on with their lives. They were adults, weren’t they? This kind of thing happened all the time, didn’t it?

So why did he feel like a heel?

Three months ago, after seven uninterrupted months on-site, he’d flown back from Phoenix to be the best man at David’s wedding, intending to return to the job the following morning. After the reception Mrs. Roth had invited the guests to take home anything they wanted. Although she’d been referring to the sweet-table and flowers, Carter had taken home the groom’s younger sister.

“The decor doesn’t do much to whet the appetite, does it?” Armed with a pot of coffee, a fresh-faced young woman no older than eighteen, her long blond hair in a ponytail, stood by the table. “The diner’s only saving grace is that it’s across the street from the bookstore. More coffee?”

“Sure, why not?” If the first cup hadn’t killed him, nothing would. He read her nametag and asked, “Christina, can you tell me when Becky will be back from her break?”

She frowned. “Sorry, mister, Rebecca left just before you got here. She was let go. I guess she went home.” A worried expression crossed her face. “I hope she’s okay. That storm out there is pretty nasty. She was on foot.”

“Christina!” a large, beefy man called from behind the counter. “How many times do I have to tell you not to fraternize with the customers! Get back to work!”

“I’m not fraternizing, I’m working!” She took out her order pad and pretended to write. “I feel pretty bad about the whole thing,” she said quietly. “She was fired because of me.”

“I doubt that,” Carter replied. “Becky’s made a career of getting fired. She’s perfected the technique all on her own, without any help from anyone.” He had to give her credit, though, for sticking it out this long. Who would have thought someone as pampered as Becky would work in a rattrap like this in the first place? He dropped a five-dollar bill onto the table and stood up. “Thanks for the refill, but I think I’ll skip it. Maybe I can catch up with her.”

“Coffee’s only a buck-fifty. What about your change?”

“Keep it. Working for someone like him—” he motioned to the man behind the counter, who was scowling in their direction “—I’d say you’ve more than earned it.”

By the time he reached the car, it was already buried in snow. Grumbling, he proceeded to clear the windshield with his bare hands. Dammit, it was only the first week in December, too early for a major storm. He should have remembered his gloves. In seconds his hands were stinging with the cold.

This is what happens when you don’t plan ahead, he thought.

Like Becky, for instance. He should never have let it happen.

As kids they had flirted innocently. She’d been cute and funny and charming—and spoiled worse than an overripe peach. A princess-in-training, her brother used to call her. She was also five years younger. But as she grew into womanhood, the age difference began to fall away, and cute gave way to radiant, funny to endearing, charming to devastating. Ringlets of long sable-brown hair tumbled freely down her back, as though daring someone to tame it. Her large brown eyes were unfathomable, and her mouth, which seemed to curl in a perpetual half smile, half pout, was sinfully tantalizing. She was, however, from a different world. Without ever having to say a word, his family had made sure he knew the boundaries.

Not pursuing a relationship was a mistake he’d regretted for years. And three months ago, on the night of David’s wedding, he’d made another one.

Since then sleep had evaded him. He’d lain awake in his hotel room, trying—without success—to drive the memory of that night from his mind. As much as he hated to admit it, she’d gotten under his skin.

But he wasn’t going to do anything about it. Except apologize.

What had he been thinking, letting her come back with him to his apartment? He no longer felt that the difference in their backgrounds was a barrier, but these days, thanks to a failed marriage and a fast-paced lifestyle, any kind of involvement was at the bottom of his wish list. Becky was the kind of woman who needed a husband. She wasn’t the type who would settle for an affair.

That devil-may-care, free-spirit act didn’t fool him for a minute. She might look like a temptress, might act like a temptress, but he knew the truth. Becky Roth was as homegrown as apple pie, or in her case, apple kugel.

Of course, if the truth were told, she had seduced him.

And that’s why he felt like a heel. He should have turned her down.

Three teenagers, bundled in coats and scarves and gloves, ran out of a large saltbox-style house. A boy around sixteen stopped to roll a snowball, then shot it at the girl, who appeared to be a few years younger. The girl squealed and the two boys laughed.

“Oh, you think you’re so macho!” the girl shouted, retaliating with a bull’s-eye shot to the taller boy’s shoulder.

“I think I’m going to defect to the other side,” the taller boy called to his friend. “With a windup like that, your sister could pitch for the pros.”

For a brief moment Becky was that young girl, and the taller boy was Carter, her teenage crush, her brother’s best friend. She closed her eyes, trying to conjure up memories of her youth, a carefree time when life wasn’t encumbered with complications. Back then there weren’t as many choices, she thought. You did what was expected of you.

Without warning a snowball smashed against her forehead, causing her to lose her balance. Her legs slipped out from beneath her, and a moment later she was down on the sidewalk. “Oh, no,” she said, noticing the rip in her panty hose. Along her shin was a nasty red patch. At first she felt nothing but the cold, but then the pain took over. She wasn’t bleeding, but her skin felt as if she’d been whipped with steel wool.

“Are you all right?” the taller boy asked, concern written across his brow. “Gee, I’m sorry, ma’am. With all this snow, I didn’t see you. I didn’t mean to clobber you.”

Ma’am? Did he just call her ma’am? Just when she thought the day couldn’t get any worse, some kid has to come by, practically knock her unconscious and then call her ma’am.

“He meant to clobber me,” the girl by his side said. “Randy, you moron, don’t just stand there. Help her up.”

Becky squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to squeeze out the pain. It was a trick she’d learned when Jordan left, and it had worked. She hadn’t cried, and afterward she had gone about her life as though nothing had changed. And nothing had, really. All that had happened was that she’d moved out of her husband’s domain back to her parents, where she’d been living in limbo these past nine months.

Nisht ahir un nish aher, Bubbe would say. Neither here nor there.

A tear rolled down Becky’s cheek. The trick wasn’t working. “My leg,” she moaned. “It hurts.”

“I’ll take care of her,” she heard someone say. It was a man’s voice, deep and resonant. She opened her eyes and winced, but not because of the pain. Carter. Above her stood Carter Prescott, III, her brother’s best friend, her teenage crush. Carter Prescott, III, father of her unborn child.

She felt her head spinning, and it wasn’t because of the fall. His massive shoulders, his lean, trim waist and his muscular, perfectly proportioned frame were only part of the reason. With smoky-gray eyes a dramatic contrast against his fair hair and skin, his ruggedly handsome face had always sent her head reeling, but it was more than his appearance that made her pulse fly off the charts. It had something to do with the way he carried himself, tall and proud, as though the world had been created for him to command.

She’d always been a sucker for a take-charge kind of guy, and Carter Prescott, III, was no exception. As a teenager she’d flirted with him innocently, but she’d been David’s kid sister, five years younger. Too young for Carter.

So what did the jerk go and do? He married someone older than he was. All right, so the bride was only two years his senior, not exactly a Mrs. Robinson. But she was the hoity-toity Wendy St. Claire. Wendy Wasp, Becky had called her behind his back. If her blood were any bluer, it would be ink.

“Take my hand,” he was saying now. “Let me help you, Becky.”

Maybe she’d always been a sucker for a take-charge kind of guy, but all that was about to change. Over her dead body would she let him touch her. Never again. She pushed away his hand and stumbled to her feet. “Ouch!” Another wave of pain surged though her leg and she fell against him, cursing.

“Such language from a nice Jewish girl,” he said, catching her in the circle of his arms. “Your mother would be shocked.”

If all it took were a few choice words to throw her mother into a tailspin, Gertie Roth would probably lapse into a coma after what Becky had to tell her. “Let go of me,” she demanded. “I’m better now.” She took a step forward, trying not to let the pain register on her face. “There, you see? It’s just a scratch. Nothing broken. Not even sprained.”

The teenagers looked at each other with relief. “You lucked out,” the girl said to the boy named Randy. “She could have sued you. If she’s smart she’ll still sue you, for assault and battery.”

“I’ll show you assault and battery!” Randy said, laughing. He picked up a handful of snow and threw it at the girl, who ran off squealing with mock indignation.

“Have a nice day, ma’am!” the other boy called as the three of them disappeared around the corner, their laughter ringing in the air like sleigh bells.

Have a nice day? Too late for that. She turned to Carter and sighed. “Was I ever that young?”

“Tell you what, old lady,” he said, wrapping his arm around her waist. “Pretend I’m a Boy Scout and I’ll help you cross the street. My car is parked on the other side.”

Suddenly very tired with the whole situation and too drained to argue, she answered, “All right, I’ll let you drive me home. But I can walk to your car on my own.” She moved out of his reach. “I thought you were off somewhere in the ruchas, playing with your building blocks. What are you doing here, anyway?”

“A little cranky, are we? For your information, Phoenix isn’t the sticks, and building a resort hotel isn’t what I’d call playing with blocks.”

Becky knew darn well where Carter had been and what he had been building. Her brother, who had remained in contact with him the whole time he’d been away, had felt the need to give her a detailed account of his friend’s activities. Nevertheless, there was no way she’d admit to Carter she’d been paying attention.

“I meant, what are you doing here out on the streets?” she asked, limping by his side. “Were you following me?”

“Following you! Now that’s what I call nerve. Just because you walked out on me that night, then refused to take my calls, you think you’ve driven me to the brink of despair? Sorry to deflate your ego, princess, but I’m no stalker. I was on my way to my mother’s when I decided to swing by the diner, but Chrissy told me you’d been fired. So I left. I saw you fall, and like any Good Samaritan I came to your rescue.”

Chrissy? Did he mean Christina? Becky assumed that Carter had just met her, but here he was, calling her by a nickname. She should have known he’d get friendly right away. Christina—Chrissy—was female, wasn’t she? And she was blond. Carter always did have a penchant for tall, full-bosomed blondes.

“I wasn’t fired,” she said tersely. “I quit.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, so I didn’t quit. Let’s just say the owner and I had a parting of the ways.”

“Right. He wouldn’t do something your way, so you parted.” He opened the car door and eased her inside. “You must be freezing in those stockings. I don’t know why you chose to walk in the first place.”

“Maybe it has something to do with my not being able to afford a car,” she snapped. “That and the fact that Middlewood isn’t famous for its public transportation. Besides, the diner is only a mile from home, and it wasn’t snowing this morning when I left for work.”

He removed his jacket and draped it over her legs, his hand brushing against the red patch of skin where she’d torn her panty hose. “I’m sorry,” he said when she flinched. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

She felt the color rise in her cheeks. It wasn’t pain that had caused her to draw back. It was the heat she’d felt when his chilly fingers had made contact with her leg. Heat that could melt the snow off the North Pole, if she let it. But she had no intention of allowing another meltdown, ever again. The consequences of that mistake would last a lifetime.

“You didn’t hurt me. I told you, it feels much better.”

“In that case it must be revulsion that made you recoil. Let me put your mind at rest. I can honestly say that no woman has ever died from my touch. But don’t worry, I won’t touch you again.” Then, as if echoing her thoughts, he added, “That’s one mistake I won’t repeat.”

She waited until he was in the driver’s seat before she responded. “I believe your exact words were ‘I hope you don’t think this means anything.’ As far as lines are concerned, that one’s a gem. Not mean anything! Who do you think you are?”

“Look, I admit it was a pretty callous thing to say, and I apologize. I would have apologized sooner, but you never gave me the chance. You’re the one who ran out in the middle of the night. You’re the one who refused to talk about it.”

And you’re the one who left me alone and pregnant, she thought. She leaned back in her seat and sulked. She knew she wasn’t being fair. He’d told her he’d be returning to Phoenix. He also had no idea she was pregnant. But the way he was sitting there, so smug, so collected, trying to exonerate himself by making her feel guilty, infuriated her. “First you lure me to your apartment, then you seduce me, then you dismiss me as though I’m some little harem girl, and now you accuse me of abandoning you?”

“What are you talking about? You practically tore off my clothes right there in the elevator! We didn’t even make it to the bedroom.” He sighed. “I didn’t come after you today to pick a fight. I was hoping we could talk this out like adults, calmly and rationally. I already told you I was sorry for my crude remark. I know how it must have made you feel, but I do have an explanation.”

“Why is it men always start singing the old commitment blues after they have their way with us? Well, I have news for you. I’ve heard that song before. If it’s understanding you want, I’m the wrong audience.”

He grumbled something unintelligible and slammed the car into gear. An uncomfortable silence fell over them as they drove down the snow-bordered road. “Tell me something,” he said finally, as he flicked on the signal and turned onto her street. “Why do women think they’re the only ones allowed a moment of weakness? I know you were vulnerable that night, and I know I shouldn’t have taken you up on your offer, but—”

“My offer! Why you egotistical, self-centered, conceited—”

“You’re being redundant.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Redundant. As in superfluous. Repetitive. Pleonastic.”

Enough already! What was he, a thesaurus? “You bet I was vulnerable. You knew how I was feeling that night, and you took advantage of it. I thought you were offering consolation, not an invitation to do the horizontal bop! Before we left for your apartment, I made it clear I wasn’t going to sleep with you.”

Amusement shone in his eyes. “Your memory is faulty. As I recall, princess, you said that the only way you’d ever sleep with me was if we were driving in the middle of a blizzard, and we were forced to stop. The only shelter around for miles would be an old barn. It would be cold and desolate inside, and we’d have to huddle for warmth. Outside the storm would continue to rage, turning the landscape into a frozen wasteland. It wouldn’t just be a blizzard, it would be a disaster. Certain we’d never live to see another sunrise, we’d give in to our basic need and allow our passion to take over.”

It was obvious he was enjoying this. “Don’t mock me, Carter. I was in a highly sensitive state that night.”

“Sensitive? Tipsy would be a more apt description. I have just two questions,” he pressed on mirthlessly. “Number one, where exactly is this hypothetical barn?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere. What difference does it make?”

“It makes a lot of difference. For instance, if there’s a barn, there’s a farmhouse nearby, and a farmer who feels sorry for us and offers us lodging. Number two, why are we out in a blizzard?”

“Maybe we’re coming back from a business trip. I don’t see what—”

“What business could we have together? You’re too busy getting fired, and the last time I checked, I was still an architect.”

“You said you had two questions. That’s three. Why do you always do that? Why do you always go on and on? All I meant by the story was—”

“Oh, I know what you meant. All that talk about huddling and need and passion—the truth is, you seduced me. But I’ll admit to my part of the blame. I should never have let it happen. Now all I want is for us to get past it. I wouldn’t want anything to jeopardize my friendship with David.”

David. So this was what it was all about. She should have known. What was it about men? They made fun of women for going to the powder room in twos, yet they lived by the Eleventh Commandment, “Thou shalt not let a woman divide a man from his buddies.”

Jerk. Carter Prescott, III, still had the power to knock her socks off—and a lot more than her socks—but he was still the same jerk.

He was right about one thing, though. He shouldn’t have let it happen. But it had happened. The child she was carrying was proof.

“I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it,” she said as they pulled into her driveway. “It’s not as if my brother would come after you with a shotgun.”

Carter grimaced. “No, but your father might.”

She almost laughed out loud. She could just imagine her meek, mild-mannered father, prodding Carter down the aisle with the business end of a rifle. Well, here’s a news flash, she thought. It would take more than a rifle to make her marry Carter. Or anyone else, for that matter. Marriage was an experience she had no desire to repeat.

She regarded his profile and sighed. No matter which path she chose, nothing could change the fact that Carter was the father of her child, and as much as she was determined to raise the baby alone, he had a right to know.

A shock like this would serve him right for being such a jerk.

She drew in a breath. “I have something to tell you.”

“Apology accepted.”

“No, you don’t understand—”

The front door to her house opened, and David appeared on the porch. Carter rolled down the window. “Hey, Roth!” he called. “How’s it going?”

David sprinted through the snow to the driver’s side of the car. “Pres, you old son of a gun, when did you get back? Come in for a glass of wine—and stay for dinner. It’s been a while since you’ve had one of my grandmother’s feasts. Either you’re traipsing across the country or you’re out on a date. Bubbe’s cooked up a storm, chicken soup, roast brisket and potato knishes—and you can’t say no to her gefilte fish.”

Becky’s stomach turned over.

“Thanks, but I’ll have to take a rain check,” Carter said. “I’m off to my mother’s. If I don’t show up tonight for dinner, she’ll probably stay awake all night, figuring out new, inventive ways to make me crazy.”

Mothers will do that, Becky thought, opening the car door.

Gertie stepped onto the porch, wearing her lamb’s wool coat. “David!” she called, waving frantically. “Put on a jacket! It’s cold out here!”

Becky turned to Carter. “Thanks for the lift. I can manage from here.”

“Stay put. I’ll help you to the door.”

“I told you, I can manage.” She glanced over at her brother, who hadn’t even acknowledged her presence. What, was she invisible? “God forbid I should come between you and your buddy.” Before Carter could protest, she was out of the car, hobbling up the front pathway.

“Where are your boots?” Gertie scolded. “In this terrible storm you don’t wear boots? And why aren’t you wearing a hat? Get in here before you catch pneumonia. What’s the matter with you, can’t you see it’s snowing? It’s not a blizzard, it’s a disaster!”

Becky followed her mother into the house. You don’t know the half of it, she thought. If she hadn’t felt so miserable, she might have laughed.