Читать книгу Never Too Late for Love - Marie Ferrarella, Marie Ferrarella - Страница 11

Chapter Three

The car with Lance and Melanie in it pulled slowly away from the curb. The sound of the engine was drowned out by the cheers and raised voices, all attempting to outshout one another as they tried to make their own best wishes heard above the rest.

The din seemed to swirl around Margo like leaves caught up in the rush of a breeze, chasing one another in an eternally forward-moving circle.

Margo drew away from the edge of the crowd. She felt oddly removed from what was going on, a spectator who had just happened upon a scene and had yet to become a part of it. There was no denying that her heart was full to overflowing with happiness for her daughter, but at the same time, there was a downside to that joy. A sense of exclusion embraced her, making her feel strangely alone. More alone than she’d felt since she’d walked out of her father’s house all those years ago.

Annoyed with herself, with these emotions that insisted on roller-coastering through her, Margo struggled to regain control.

Oblivious to the people around her, she didn’t realize at first that the handkerchief at her elbow was being silently offered to her. When she did, she raised her eyes to look at the owner. It didn’t really surprise her that it was Bruce.

“Thought you might need this.” When she didn’t attempt to accept the handkerchief, he added, “It’s clean.”

Her mouth curved. “I’m sure your practice of hygiene is beyond reproach, Bruce, but I really don’t need a handkerchief.”

Yeah, you do, he thought, but rather than press the point, he pocketed the offering. Maybe she needed to deny her need more than she needed to wipe away the tears shimmering in her eyes.

“My mistake,” he allowed gallantly. With adroit ability that came from implementing compromises at business meetings, he nudged the conversation along a different path. “That was a very nice thing you did for them, sending Melanie and Lance off on an all-expense-paid honeymoon.”

She merely lifted a shoulder in mute response, then let it drop, her eyes straining to retain sight of the disappearing car until the last possible moment. It was only money, thankfully the least of her concerns these days.

“I tried to do the same thing,” he confessed, a wouldbe contender sharing a mutual, though unattained, goal, “but got turned down. Lance has this thing about being his own man. I can see where it’d be harder for him to refuse you. I mean—”

He didn’t want Margo to think that he meant he thought she was pushy. And when he played the fragment over again in his head, this time it sounded suspiciously like a come-on line. Hell, but he really was out of practice talking to women.

He smiled ruefully when she looked at him, a patient question in her eyes. “Do you always make men feel as if their tongues have gotten too big for their mouths?”

She laughed then, a deep throaty laugh that he thought had a touch of relief to it.

Margo felt relieved that she could still laugh, despite the hollow feeling taking root.

“No, not usually.”

Bruce could only shake his head. It was just as he thought. “Must be me, then.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. Maybe he was the one who was being pushy, but in his estimation, it was for a worthy cause. “I don’t usually do this, but, urn, would you like to go somewhere for a cup of coffee or something?”

Was he trying to ask her out? Amusement began to nudge away the sadness. Margo looked down at the dress she was wearing, then raised her eyes to take in his tuxedo. “I think we might be just a little overdressed for a coffee shop.”

She had a point. Looking at her addled his brain a little. He’d spent half the reception dancing with her and could honestly say he didn’t remember when he’d had a better time in recent years.

“A drink, then.” Bruce turned, nodding toward the building behind them where the reception had been held. All around them, people were breaking up into groups and couples, bound for the parking lot and home, or perhaps to continue the celebration with an evening on the town. “At the lounge downstairs,” he prompted. “You look like you might need a little company.” Before she got any wrong ideas about his motives, he quickly added, “Strictly platonic, of course. In-law to in-law.”

He was like a fish out of water, Margo thought. A very cute, cuddly fish. Why hadn’t he been snapped up by one of the women in his circle yet?

“Platonic, eh?” She snapped her fingers like someone who had just missed an opportunity. “I guess there go all my plans of having my way with you.”

The sound of her laughter slipped under his skin, arousing him before he could steel himself. He banked down the reaction that had no place within the good deed he was trying to accomplish.

“Not that I’m averse to stimulating conversation, or stimulating anything,” she put in, her eyes beginning to reclaim their sparkle, “but what makes you say that I need company?”

Instead of answering, Bruce cupped her chin in his hand and raised it slightly. Taking out his handkerchief again, he lightly dabbed at the corner of her eye where one renegade tear had refused to obey and remain confined.

For one very long moment, as he touched her, her eyes held his. Something warm slipped around her, like a protective embrace. But the next moment, it was gone. Embarrassed, Margo drew back her head.

“Just a hunch.” With a shrug, his eyes still on hers, Bruce tucked the handkerchief back info his pocket. “Maybe it’s me who needs the company.”

He was attempting to be gallant. When was the last time a man had been nothing more than gallant to her? So long, she wasn’t quite sure if she remembered.

Her smile was light, teasing, as she slipped her arm through his. “Well, far be it from me to deny a handsome man his platonic request.”

She made it sound as if she was given to fielding platonic requests all the time. Bruce sincerely doubted, as they walked back into the Renaissance Building, that Margo McCloud met very many men who desired only a platonic relationship with her. Not once they heard her lusty laughter.

She should have had twelve children, all girls, Margo thought with a pang that bordered on longing as she hung up the telephone.

Better yet, she should have had Melanie cloned as a little girl. That way she’d be assured of revisiting this wonderful feeling periodically.

Since business was slow at Dreams of Yesterday, where she’d been working every day now for two weeks, helping out until Melanie returned, Margo took a moment to reflect. It was a silly thought, but not without its merits or its reasons. Her life had grown tremendously since she’d left that small Texas town with one suitcase, a swollen belly and a blank future before her. When she had ridden the bus out of Hemp, she’d been an unwed, pregnant teenage dropout, hitting the lowest point of her young life.

But even though she’d been frightened and emotionally battered, she hadn’t surrendered to defeat. Hadn’t allowed herself to become just another statistic in a world that held on to its losers as tightly as it did to its winners. She’d gotten her diploma, and then a degree in languages. Now she traveled the world, teaching languages to Americans who found themselves working in foreign countries. She had friends on all the major continents and could literally get along anywhere.

But all her accomplishments paled beside the triumph she’d reached in having Melanie. In keeping Melanie rather than giving her up. The very best part of her life had always revolved around Melanie, around raising her and making the promise within a newborn become a very positive reality.

God, but she fervently wished she could do it all over again.

Joyce came up behind her, placing the stack of newly acquired autographed celebrity stills on the counter beside the telephone. In the foreground, a very satisfied customer made her way out of the shop Joyce and Melanie partnered in Bedford.

“Good news?” she asked hesitantly, peering at Margo’s expression.

With a self-deprecating smile, Margo turned to her daughter’s best friend, a young woman she’d known since before Joy had said her first word.

“Yes, as a matter of fact it is.” Joy was looking at her oddly. “Why?”

Joyce made a noncommittal sound as she shrugged self-consciously. “You had a very strange look on your face when I walked up.”

That would be the nostalgia, Margo thought. “Mothers do that when they suddenly realize that they have fully grown daughters who have lives of their own.” She rallied before she could slip back into that wistful mood again. “Speaking of whom, that was Melanie on the phone. She and Lance are coming back tomorrow.” Her voice began to pick up speed, reflecting her heightened energy as she simultaneously made plans and talked. “That means I’ll be out of your hair soon.” Which studio was Jason Riveria working for these days, Margo wondered, distracted. He’d have a lock on those harem props she needed, she was sure of it.

“Margo, I wouldn’t have known what to do if you hadn’t been here to help out.” If Joyce had her way, Melanie and Margo would handle all the sales while she buried herself in the back with the accounting details. “I’m not very good with people.”

Roused by the distress she heard, Margo looked at the young woman. She placed her arm around Joy’s shoulder, drawing her closer. The trouble with Joy was she had a poor self-image, and that was all her mother’s doing. Or lack of doing, she amended.

“Yes, you are, you’re just quieter than I am. But then, most people are.” She winked, as if that was a secret instead of a given. “You know, I’ve been thinking...”

Joyce didn’t know whether to be wary or let herself go along with whatever was coming. Probably the latter. Not that she had much of a choice if Margo’s idea involved her. To her knowledge, no one had ever been able to stop Melanie’s mother when she got rolling.

Joyce’s grin had a touch of nervousness to it. “Is this where I say, uh-oh?”

Margo laughed, giving Joy an affectionate squeeze. “No, but Lance might when he realizes what sort of a family he married into.”

The sound of her laughter was the first thing he heard as Bruce entered the shop.

It seemed fitting. It was that sound, flittering in and out of his brain these past two weeks, that had brought him here this afternoon. He’d come here on his day off rather than getting to the myriad of things that he’d been letting pile up in his personal life.

The fact that he had, that he caught himself thinking about Margo at unlikely moments, surprised him. If he didn’t count that incredibly annoying woman he’d been forced to deal with at the local courthouse the one time he’d gotten a traffic ticket, no woman had ever intruded into his thoughts beyond the moment. The only one who had ever occupied his mind for more than a fleeting moment was Ellen.

Margo was nothing like Ellen.

Maybe that was the reason.

The reason he was here, he insisted silently, was just to see how she was doing. When he’d dropped her off here after the reception, she’d told him that she was fine. He would have taken her at her word, but the moonlight had played along her skin, urging him to take one last, lingering look. When he did, there’d been something about her, something in her eyes, that had made him doubt the validity of her assertion.

He just wanted to make sure she was all right, he told himself again. After all, she was Lance’s mother-in-law, and although there was no legal term for the bond that he now shared with her, that didn’t mean there wasn’t one. Like it or not they were family, and his was small enough for him to take a personal interest in each member, now that he had his priorities straight and had lived through his period of atonement.

Margo turned toward the doorway, alerted by the musical chimes that someone had entered the store.

If she was surprised to see Bruce walking in, she didn’t show it. Instead, she came around the small counter, her hands outstretched in a warm greeting, a smile unfurling on her lips like a flag at first light.

The man had a gift, she thought, for appearing just at the right moment. She gave him a quick, enthusiastic hug. “Just the man I need.”

He didn’t know whether to be flattered or braced. He suspected that a great many people felt that way in her presence. Finding himself disengaged from a hug he was just beginning to enjoy, he looked down at Margo and raised one eyebrow in silent query. “Oh?”

“Yes.” The single word was fueled with an incredible amount of feeling. Had Melanie been there, she would have told him he was in for trouble. Taking a step back, she looked him over quickly, like a tailor wondering if the suit he’d made would fit his customer. “Tell me, Bruce, do you have a strong back?”

“My back?” he echoed uncertainly. It wasn’t a question he expected to be asked. Just what was it this woman had in mind?

“Yes.” The casual clothes he had on strongly reinforced the impression she’d gotten at the reception when she’d danced with him. The man looked to be made of solid muscle. But not all shortcomings were evident to the eye. “No old football injuries or anything?”

He turned, watching her as she circled him. “I never played football.”

That was hard to believe. Margo came full circle to face him again. “How about baseball?”

“A little.” She was making him uneasy. It was time to find out where she was headed with this conversation. “Margo, what are you getting at, and should we be having this conversation in front of people?” He glanced toward Joyce who looked about as lost as to Margo’s meaning as he felt.

Joy was far too slight to be of any use to her at the moment. “Joyce isn’t people, she’s like another daughter.” Her smile was wicked as she read his thoughts. “And besides, I’m only trying to find out if you’re up to moving some furniture for me, not any acrobatics in bed.”

“Furniture?” Was that it? Relief reared its head, but there were questions on its heels. One question brought with it interest sharp enough to give him pause. “Are you moving back to the area?”

Her mind busy with logistics and phone calls she had yet to make, it took Margo a second to regroup and assimilate the direction his question was going. “Oh, no, I never take furniture with me. It ties you down too much.” Her attachments were to places, to friends, not to anything that could be stored in a building or a box. “Whatever I own is right upstairs.” She raised her eyes toward the ceiling. “I lived with Aunt Elaine while Melanie was growing up. When my career began to take me to different places, I just left everything behind. It’s much easier that way.”