Читать книгу Surprise Me... - Isabel Sharpe - Страница 9

TRICIA HAWTHORNE SAT in the kitchen she grew up in. Even remodeled, it retained the flavor of her parents, Edith and Edwin Hawthorne. She could remember her mother baking cookies, her father hovering around, eagerly waiting for them to cool. She could remember family dinners around the old table. And she could remember tiptoeing out at midnight on her way to getting drunk. Tiptoeing home drunk at four in the morning, praying neither of her parents would hear her. Sneaking here, sneaking there, doing this, doing that, nothing they ever approved of, behavior that had bewildered and hurt them. Yet they’d loved her, supported her, picked up after her, believing she’d grow out of her wild behavior and settle down.

That only took her until the age of fifty. Good thing her parents were both alive to know their long wait was at an end.

The coffeemaker sputtered out its final drops. Four in the morning… She’d slept only a few hours, finally giving in and resignedly getting up. Tricia had never been a good sleeper, but too many nights were like this now. She’d tried herbal remedies, hypnosis, hot baths, meditation, tapes, relaxation exercises, and finally decided that insomnia was her punishment for a life poorly lived, and that it was just going to be that way until she settled her emotional debts and found inner peace.

She poured her coffee and added skim milk, wishing her waistline and cholesterol count would allow her the luxury of cream. Or one of the enormous bakery blueberry muffins in a plastic container on the counter. She and Melanie were supposed to have breakfast this morning before Melanie went to work, but she hadn’t come home last night. Now it was Tricia’s turn to worry about her daughter, as her parents and Melanie’s older sister, Alana, had been doing for far too long.

Coffee ready, muffins successfully avoided, she sat down on a stool and leaned her elbows on the fancy cream tile counter.

Breakfast with Melanie this morning seemed unlikely to happen now, but Tricia could visit Alana later on, maybe help her unpack boxes. Alana had moved out of this house and in with her boyfriend, Sawyer, the day after they committed to each other—which was also, not coincidentally, Tricia suspected, the day after Tricia had shown up unannounced in Milwaukee. Not that she blamed Alana for holding a grudge. The burden of Tricia’s squandered responsibility had fallen on Alana’s shoulders until age ten, when Edith and Edwin had taken the girls in, giving up on Tricia’s ability to mother them.

Pretty much from the second Alana was born, Tricia had been overwhelmed by what she now understood was practically nonexistent self-esteem due to years of rejecting everything sensible her parents stood for, and instead embracing users and idiots. She’d also been wallowing in the gradual dissolution of her unhealthy relationship with the girls’ father, Tom, who had left for good when she was pregnant with Melanie. Reeling from the pain, Tricia had continued to drown herself in alcohol, drugs and other men, telling herself the girls were okay, or, even worse, not considering them at all. She had wanted her next fix, her next sexual high, always the next thing. Any good that had developed in either daughter was thanks to their grandparents. All Tricia had contributed was damage.

Last year, after she’d been living in California more or less permanently with her men and her art, the death of a close friend’s daughter due to a drug overdose on the day Tricia turned fifty had shot home the obvious truth that she wasn’t going to have forever to get to know her own kids.

Depression followed, then therapy, various withdrawals, more depression, in the process driving away the latest man she’d shacked up with. Tricia had moved in with a friend—Dahlia, who deserved sainthood for putting up with her—and slowly and surely she’d pulled herself out of the muck of clueless oblivion, limb by limb washed herself with honesty, put on clean dry clothes of self-acceptance, sold everything she couldn’t fit in a suitcase except her art supplies, and bought a one-way ticket to Milwaukee.

Now she’d vowed, however long it took, to make amends, to be worthy of forgiveness. She was sober, drug-free, dateless, and determined for the first time in her adult life to be an adult. To live a life she and her daughters and her parents could be proud of. A huge and often terrifying goal.

One step at a time. One day at a time.

A key jiggled the back-door lock. The familiar sound catapulted Tricia back to memories of guilty predawn homecomings. The handle turning with a slight rattle. The door opening… Careful! The hinges squeaked if pushed too fast.

Soft footsteps, a hand carrying shoes, door closing, shh, don’t let Mom and Dad hear….

Except in this case, there was only Mom, no Dad; the mom was Tricia, while the child sneaking in was her twenty-six-year-old daughter. “Hi, Melanie.”

Melanie gasped; her hand flew to her chest, luckily not the one holding her strappy black high-heeled sandals or they would have flown up and smacked her in the head. “Mom. Oh, my gosh, you scared me. What are you doing up at this hour?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Oh.” She arranged her features into Cautious Liar Mode. Tricia nearly chuckled. Nothing Melanie could pull would be new to her. “I was out late with a girlfriend and—”

“How about the truth?” Tricia sipped her coffee, apparently unconcerned, inside probably ten times more nervous than Melanie. She was never comfortable with authority, and it had been years since she’d had to be a parent. “Saves time for both of us.”

Melanie blinked. Frowned. Thumped her shoes onto the floor and sidled up to the counter. “Any more coffee?’

Tricia jerked her head back toward the machine. “Help yourself.”

She did, this amazing beautiful woman Tricia knew so little about. Melanie had been a remarkably peaceful baby, a relief after Alana, who had screamed at anything and everything. Tricia had been living with their father for three years before he’d announced he was too young for a family. Instead of marrying her, he was going off to find himself in India.

Lose himself, more likely. She’d never heard from him again.

“Well.” Melanie perched on the stool opposite her mother at the counter. Her lips were swollen, chin pink from stubble burn, hair messed, eyes glowing. She could say whatever she wanted, but Tricia knew where she’d been. “Actually, I was with a guy.”

“No kidding.”

“What?” She touched her face. “How can you tell?”

“A mother always knows.” She got through the words with the appropriate deadpan expression, then couldn’t help it, let out a snort of laughter.

Melanie’s eyes grew rounder, if that were possible. “You do that just like Alana.”

“What?”

“That funny laugh.”

“Yeah?” She wouldn’t let on how it touched her, tortured her, too. How many of their shared family traits had she missed out on discovering? At least it wasn’t too late for that. “Is this a guy you’ve…been with before?”

“First time. He’s…amazing.” She sighed; her eyes softened. She might as well have had hearts popping out the top of her head.

Tricia’s chest ached. Oh, Melanie. The pain she’d continue to go through if she didn’t stop making men the keepers of her happiness. The latest entry on the long list of ways Tricia had let her daughters down, a list that would inevitably lengthen as she caught up on the years she hadn’t been around.

But she was ready. Primed. Strong. Focused. She’d do whatever it took. “If he was that amazing, why did you leave? You could have rescheduled breakfast with me. You know I would have understood.”

“Oh.” Melanie blushed, looked down at her bright pink mug, decorated with angels and hearts. A Valentine’s Day present? From whom? Tricia had missed so much. “I didn’t want to skip breakfast with you.”

Not entirely true. “And.?”

Her daughter’s head jerked up. “And?”

“Melanie. You can’t shock me. You have no reason to hide anything from me. There’s some other reason you’re not telling the truth.”

Melanie met her eyes, hers blue like her father’s, only gentler. It had been a lot of years since Tricia had looked into them with a clear head. “Mom, are you psychic? Seriously?”

Tricia shrugged. She was, sort of, but enough people had made fun of her that she didn’t bother claiming the title anymore. “Call it women’s intuition. Now tell me. Why did you leave an amazing guy in the middle of a wonderful night?”

Melanie twisted her mouth, the same way she had when she was small and something confused her. Amazing how little had changed—and how much. “I went to sleep next to him completely blissed out, then I woke up and realized I had to meet you for breakfast, but also…that in the morning, it would be, uh…”

“Morning.” Tricia spoke without sarcasm. She understood. “Everything that was safe and mysterious and beautiful in the dark, blurred by alcohol, would be stark and over-lit and real. And hard. And I’m not talking about the guy’s you-know-what.”

Melanie interrupted her shocked look with a giggle. “Yes. Yes, that’s it. How did you know?”

Tricia answered by lifting her eyebrow. Think, Melanie.

Her face fell. “Oh, right. You’re the expert.”

“Was. I’m not proud of it.”

Melanie lifted her chin, again a stubborn three-year-old. “I’m not ashamed of what I do.”

“I’m not asking you to be. I wish I’d lived my life differently. That has nothing to do with you or how you live yours.”

“True.” She took another sip of coffee.

“What’s his name?”

“Stoner.” Said defensively. “He’s the brother of…a good friend and coworker. Edgar. Edgar Raymond.”

“Stoner, huh?” Tricia watched her daughter curiously. No problem talking about Stoner. But Edgar… “You seeing him again?”

Melanie shrugged, eyes on the counter. “He was asleep when I left.”

“I’m sure he knows how to find you.” Tricia finished her coffee in silence. She had a lot more to say about all this, but she wasn’t good at motherhood yet, maybe she never would be, and she wanted to think things over before stumbling into any blunders when her reconciliation with her daughters was still so raw and new. “I’m going to shower. Then we can go out later on.”

“How about Ted’s on Sixty-second Street? It’s a great greasy spoon.”

“Hey, I’m a native, too.” Tricia smiled, slighted even though she didn’t blame her daughter for forgetting. “I know Ted’s.”

“Right.” Melanie nodded, looking embarrassed and so beautiful Tricia wanted to hug her and kiss her smooth cheek, so different from the plump baby one she’d kissed so often—there were some redeeming memories. But she didn’t know how Melanie would react, and she wasn’t going to risk affection this early into their reunion.

“See you soon.” She put her cup in the sink, went down the narrow hallway and climbed the stairs, thinking that after her shower she’d take a few minutes to meditate over the problem with Melanie, see if the collective unconscious had any advice to offer.

Alana’s path through life didn’t worry her too much. But Melanie’s…Melanie needed maternal intervention.

And though it was ironic, given that Tricia was exactly the type of mother who’d caused Melanie to have this problem in the first place, she was also exactly the type of mother who could help her daughter change her life for the better.

EDGAR WOKE UP KNOWING something was wrong. No, not wrong, something had happened. Something huge, something—

Melanie.

He opened his eyes. The space next to him in bed was empty. No Melanie.

Damn it. He’d dreamed about spending a night with her many times—plenty while he was awake. This time he’d swear their being together had really happened. Hadn’t it?

He rubbed his forehead, trying to clear his fuzzy brain. On the one hand nothing could be less likely. He’d known Melanie two years and been in love with her for both of them. In all that time she’d never given him more than a sisterly glance. So for her to jump into his bed out of the blue and seduce him made about as much sense as conservatives voting for huge tax hikes.

Except…last week sitting with Melanie on the couch in this apartment, right before Stoner had walked in and made Melanie’s jaw go slack, just before that, she’d been saying something about wanting to date a different type of guy, giving Edgar real hope for the first time.

Maybe he wasn’t crazy?

He had to be crazy.

He blinked, struggled up, then on impulse leaned down to inhale over the pillow she’d used to see if traces of her scent lingered.

Yes. Oh, my God, yes. He was instantly hard again. She’d really been here. His most potent sexual fantasy and his deepest emotional fantasy—both came true in one mind-blowing unexpected night.

But how? Why?

Maybe she was still here? Eating breakfast? Using the bathroom? Watching TV? He got out of bed, stepped into a pair of gray boxers and walked through the apartment. Stoner hadn’t come home. What a gratifying non-surprise. Last night Edgar had dutifully been getting ready to bunk down in the sofa bed when he’d realized that if Stoner followed his usual pattern after a night out with his band, he wouldn’t be back until morning. Damned if Edgar would spend another lumpy, restless night while his comfortable queen-size bed lay empty.

He finished his rounds. No Melanie, not that he really expected she’d still be here. But also no note. No messages. No “Thanks for last night, it was the best time of my entire life. Call me ASAP. I love you. Melanie.”

Right.

His heart sank. The queen of the one-nighters had bolted.

Except she had to know by now how he felt about her. He’d dropped plenty of hints, even made up a girlfriend, Emma, so Melanie would feel more at ease with him. Amazing how close a skittish woman would let a guy get when there was no threat of a relationship developing. And amazing what that guy could get away with saying to said skittish woman when he was supposedly safely attached. Edgar had said it all.

She had to know. Especially once she found out Emma wasn’t real. She’d have put it together. And there was no way Melanie would mess with his head so extremely by showing up in his bed, then ditching him. She was neither that cold nor that desperate.

The real Emma, his black cat, jumped gracefully down from the bookcase and fixed him with a feed-me-or-die stare.

He fed her, glancing at the clock. Early still. He could work out now in case Melanie wanted to go out after work.

Adrenaline burned through his system, bliss and torture in equal measures. He’d been patient so far. Knowing Melanie, he’d have to be even more patient now, when he was the most eager for a continuation of what they’d started last night.

If they had started anything last night.

Had they?

He wasn’t the kind of guy she usually went for, which was the understatement of the millennium. That fact could work in his favor now. Because he didn’t fit any of her hot-guy criteria, maybe she’d been after more than a quick lay. Maybe she was even open to that most terrifying of all things as far as Melanie was concerned—A Relationship.

Down, boy. He couldn’t get ahead of himself like this; he’d only drive himself crazy with tantalizing hope, and in the process set himself up for a huge and potentially castrating fall. He needed to prepare to hear from Melanie that last night was a nutty aberration, both a beginning and an end.

Or she could come through the office door with a special secret smile meant only for him.

God, he was going to have to jerk off if he thought about that any more.

He went into the spare room where he kept his treadmill and weights, and spent an hour trying to calm himself down with exhaustion. It didn’t work. He could have spent the rest of the day lifting and running and still have enough nervous energy left over to power a rocketship.

Out of the shower, he made himself eggs, whole-grain toast and a banana yogurt shake, sat at the breakfast nook and could barely eat.

Damn. He was a wreck. A geeky pathetic wreck in love with a woman who went through men like doctors went through latex gloves.

But he was also a geeky pathetic wreck in love with a woman who’d slipped into his bed and allowed him to show her every bit of that love, who’d responded, trembled in his arms, climaxed twice, and gone to sleep calmer and more relaxed than he’d ever known her to be, as if she understood as clearly as he did that she’d come home.

If only she’d stayed.

The apartment door burst open, making him jump, but for once he was glad Stoner forgot to lock up when he left, or Melanie wouldn’t have been able to get in last night and surprise him, practically to the point of cardiac arrest.

“Hey.” His brother looked like hell, cheeks stubbled, skin pale, eyes ringed dark.

“G’morning. Good time last night?”

“The best, man.” He high-fived Edgar on his way to the refrigerator. “I’m parched this morning, though. Parched.”

“There’s more juice in the cupboard if you want it.”

“Thanks. How was your evening?”

“The usual.” If he’d been with anyone but Melanie, he would have given in to his pride and told his brother what really happened, maybe gotten up for a manly, growling chest bump or two.

But no one would know what went on with Melanie until he was damn sure all of it would happen again. Repeatedly.

“You gotta come hear me play, dude.” Stoner finished the carton of OJ and belched impressively.

“I’ll come to a rehearsal. I’m not into the club scene. Crowds, smoke, noise. It’s not my thing.”

“Geez, Eddie, you gotta live.”

Edgar didn’t bother mentioning that living the way Stoner did would make him feel half-dead most of the time. “I live. Just not your way.”

“More like Pater and Mater.”

“If you mean cleaning happens, yeah. If you mean I’d rather hear a symphony or jazz band than garage-band rock, again yeah. If you mean I live only to impress other people with my possessions and my good taste, then no.”

“Boom, you got ‘em. Don’t know how they stand the charade.”

Edgar shrugged. “They’re surrounded by it in that town. Hard to escape.”

“No kidding. It’s like a science dish. Petri. Swarming with obscenely rich bacteria.”

Edgar chuckled. “Stoner, that was sheer poetry.”

“Yeah?” He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “There’s a song in there. Gotta think about that one later.”

“You been in touch with Mom and Dad lately?” Edgar asked casually, but he knew they both worried when they didn’t hear.

“I mean to. I just forget.” He tossed the juice carton into the trash. “Hey, I saw your friend Melanie last night at The Wicked Hop.”

“Yeah?” Edgar managed not to look smug. “She goes there a lot after work.”

“She told me. Hot chick. Great ass.”

“Huh.” He ate toast to avoid talking about her, uh, finer points with Stoner.

“I was going to see if she and I could hook up later, but then I got all into the party where I was.” He shoved a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster. “Tell her I said hey, and sorry last night didn’t work out.”

“Sure.” Edgar stacked his plates, hiding a smirk. As far as he was concerned, last night had definitely worked out. “I’ll tell her.”

“So what’s the plan today, bro?”

Edgar set his plates and cup in the dishwasher. “I work, remember? Every day? Big office? Cubicles? Paychecks?”

“Right, right. Have fun with that.”

“I’m sure I will.”

He brushed his teeth, gathered a few disks and files he’d need at the office, and glanced at the clock. Early, but he couldn’t wait to get to work and see how Melanie would react to him, whether she’d acknowledge their intense connection of the night before or whether she’d balk. Either way, she couldn’t erase what they’d shared, which gave him a better chance than ever of winning her.

Winning Melanie. He wanted to break into a crazed dance at the mere thought.

He pictured her waking up this morning craving more of him the same way he’d woken up craving more of her, wishing she’d conquered her fears in the middle of the night and stayed with him.

It could happen. Miracles did.

And if that was the case, then why not order up another, so he could be with her again tonight?