Читать книгу My Way Back to You - Pamela Hearon - Страница 12

CHAPTER THREE

MIXING LIQUOR AND the emotional roller coaster she was on today had been a major mistake. Maggie regretted her words as soon as they left her mouth.

“Did the bastard abuse you?” Jeff’s grip on his wineglass visibly tightened.

“No.” She rubbed the area over her right eyebrow where a rhythmic throb pulsated. Why had she brought this up now? “Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“But you did.” His mouth and eyes narrowed with insistence. “Now you have to finish.”

“I’ve never told anyone. Not even Mom.”

“I don’t know what this deep, dark secret is.” Jeff reached across the table, and this time he didn’t just lay his hand on top of hers. He grasped it and held on firmly. “My son was in that environment. I have a right to know what went on.”

“It wasn’t anything that ever happened around Russ.” She tried for an assuring tone, but his touch caused the breath she’d almost gotten under control to quiver erratically again. “You surely can’t believe I would ever allow anyone to lay a hand on him.”

“For God’s sake, Mags, tell me what we’re discussing here.” His grip became a near-squeeze.

If she’d used her napkin as a gag, which she now wished she had, her mouth couldn’t have gone any drier. A sip of water helped lubricate the passage of the words she’d swallowed so many times. “The last week Zeke was alive...two days before he went into the coma...he told me he’d been having an affair for quite some time. Five of the six years we’d been married.”

Sympathy softened Jeff’s stern look, but his shoulders sagged in obvious relief that this didn’t involve Russ. “Wow, that must have been staggering for you.”

She nodded. “He told me he was deeply in love with her and had planned to ask me for a divorce. But then the brain tumor was diagnosed, and it seemed foolish to put everyone through that additional heartbreak.”

“So why tell you at all?”

Maggie sipped some more water, giving herself time to decide if she could get through this. “He wanted to see her.”

Jeff released his hold and leaned back as if he needed to view her from a wider angle. “You didn’t...”

“Yeah, I did.” The lead brick that had pressed on her heart for three years began to crumble as she finally shared the horrific details she’d kept bottled up. “I called and told her he was asking for her. She took more than a little convincing...seemed bent on the idea that I was luring her down there to make a spectacle of confronting her in front of people. But she finally came, and I gave them several hours alone to say their goodbyes. I put a no-visitors sign on the door so they wouldn’t be interrupted.”

Jeff closed his eyes, and when he opened them he pinned her with a look that was a mixture of incredulity and disbelief. “Why?”

“Why not?”

“He was unfaithful and you rewarded him?”

“He was dying. I would hardly call that a reward.”

“But for you to be civil to her... Kind, even.”

She shrugged. It was difficult to explain why she had handled things the way she did. “Something was never right between Zeke and me. We got along. Had a good time together. He was good to Russ. But I think I married him more out of loneliness than love.” She stopped short of admitting there had never been the rush of adrenaline for Zeke the way there had been for him—even her reaction at seeing him today. The surge of primal pleasure that time and emotional pain could not erase. She paused for breath and shook some propriety back into her logic center. “I shouldn’t be discussing this with you. It’s too personal. You and I are practically strangers now.”

“We’ll never be strangers, Mags.”

“Well, maybe not strangers,” she acquiesced. “But thirteen years without face-to-face contact is a long time.”

His mouth rose slightly on one end. “Too long.” His tone brought a flutter to her stomach that she attempted to stymie with a gulp of wine. “So why didn’t you tell anyone? I mean, the sorrow and grief must’ve been unbearable. It might’ve helped to talk to somebody.”

“I considered talking to Mom, but that felt like a knee-jerk reaction, and it would only upset her. I thought about counseling, but, with him gone, the affair seemed like more of a testimony against me than him. It was hard to admit to myself, much less somebody else, that I’d made such a huge mistake. Again.” Her voice broke on the last word.

Jeff glanced away, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. She knew that mannerism. It was what he did when he was upset or displeased, and she felt the weight of that displeasure in her stomach.

Yeah, I failed at my second marriage, too. She didn’t have to say the words. She knew what he was thinking.

No longer hungry, she pushed her plate back and dabbed her mouth with her napkin.

“Do you want dessert?” Sure enough, Jeff’s normally rich tone was flat.

“No. I’m tired. I really just want to go back to the room and relax.” She tried not to show how disappointed she was with the turn things had taken. The pleasant night of catching up and easy banter had morphed into a queasy stomach and a brain that now felt like a tympani being pounded by dueling mallets.

The only relief came when Jeff paid the bill and she was able to escape into the open air. “Thanks for dinner. The food was delicious,” she said as they crossed the intersection by Oak Street Beach. The balmy breeze coming off Lake Michigan soothed her frayed nerves. Normally she would have wanted to linger but not tonight. Tonight she’d exposed too much, left herself vulnerable.

“You’re welcome,” he answered. “But what’s your hurry?”

She hadn’t realized how fast she’d been walking, not allowing her platform stilettos to hinder her determined gait. She slowed her pace, letting him keep up, not wanting to give the impression she was running from him. But when he drew close enough that their arms brushed, she sped up again—her body’s involuntary reaction to a dangerous stimulus.

The hotel doorman saw them coming and welcomed them again into the vast lobby.

“Do you want to have a nightcap?” Jeff indicated the lounge where a few dancers swayed to the beat of the slow, sultry tune crooned by a smoky-voiced singer.

Emphatically no, Maggie thought. Not with escape so close. But she managed a smile and a “no, thanks.”

Jeff shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “Well, I think I hear a drink begging to be savored.”

The ding of the elevator provided the perfect opening for a quick good-night. “Have a nice night, then. I’ll meet you here in the morning at eight-fifteen.” Maggie backed away toward the waiting car. “Thanks again for dinner.”

Jeff nodded but stayed where he was, his dark eyes trained on her until the doors closed.

It wasn’t until he was completely cut off from her sight that the breath she’d been holding since she’d first glimpsed him ten hours earlier finally made a slow exit from her lungs.

* * *

“MACALLAN 25. STRAIGHT.” The bartender placed the cut-glass crystal on the bar. The low lighting caught in the ornate design, twinkling like captured stars.

Jeff lifted the heavy glass and swirled the dark amber liquid, hesitating long enough to enjoy the smoky essence before the burn hit his lips, then his tongue and his throat. He usually went for the less expensive Scotch, but he needed something to help get the night back to the perfection it had started with. It had disintegrated quickly with the first mention of Zeke.

The bastard. Putting Mags through that kind of hell in addition to everything else she was going through at the time.

She’d shown remarkable fortitude. Admirable. And to never have told anyone—not even her mother—showed how much she’d changed since they’d split up...how little he knew about her now. It seemed odd now he thought about it, but he and his son rarely discussed the boy’s mother.

There was a time when Mags went straight to her mother with everything, which was convenient as her parents lived right next door. The arrangement had continually made him feel ganged up on. Whenever he and Mags argued, she always sought out her parents to support her side. And they never failed to take it.

“You get the prize for having the best taste.”

Jeff turned to the voice beside him. A guy, vaguely familiar and big enough to have been a linebacker for the Chargers, settled on the bar stool beside him.

“Nothing quite like The Macallan,” Jeff agreed, and held the glass up to admire the color again.

“Crown Royal on the rocks,” his companion said to the bartender and then turned back to Jeff with a sly grin. “I’m sure the Scotch is good, but I was referring to your wife. She wasn’t just the best-looking mom at the meeting today, she was also the youngest. Must’ve had your son when she was fifteen.”

“Nineteen,” Jeff corrected him. “And she’s not my wife. We’ve been divorced a long time.”

“Even better.”

The next sip burned Jeff’s mouth for an exceptionally long time.

“Spike Grainger.” The newcomer held out his hand. “My son Matt’s a freshman on the team, too.”

Jeff shook his hand. “Jeff Wells, Russ’s dad.”

The bartender set Spike’s drink in front of him, and he reached for it with his left hand. No wedding band.

A trickle squeezed through Jeff’s constricted throat muscles.

“Yeah, Russ’s mom—what’s her name?”

“Maggie.”

“Cute. The way she kept blushing when her stomach was growling.” Spike gave a hearty chuckle. “I saw you guys coming in together a few minutes ago. I assumed you’d been to dinner.”

The reminder of dinner sent Jeff’s mood further south. “We had.” He was being curt, but he already didn’t like Spike, whose presence was flavoring his Scotch in an unpleasant way.

“Been divorced a long time, yet you’re here together, making it work for Russ.” Spike took a gulp and smacked his lips in appreciation. “Good for you.”

“You divorced?” Jeff changed tactics and tried to shift the attention away from him and Mags.

“Three weeks. Married for twenty-four years. She’s on her honeymoon.”

Spike became as transparent then as the crystal in Jeff’s hand. The man was trolling—and Mags was in his sights. Hell, he’d been there himself. That giddy feeling of freedom came edged with loneliness and even a sense of desperation. For the first couple of years, he’d swung from woman to woman like a monkey making its way through the jungle.

Had Mags done that, too?

He shouldn’t care, but the idea pricked at his heart just the same. She was, after all, the mother of his son. He didn’t know much about her and those first two or three years. They’d talked every day, but her reports were always simply that—reports on Russ. They never just chatted about what was going on in their lives. He’d found out a little more, but not much, about Mags through Russ once their son had gotten old enough to make the daily calls himself. He was a talker, that one.

A sudden image of the drive from the airport flashed in his mind—Russ keeping up the constant chatter and Mags with her white-knuckle hold on the steering wheel. And her tearful confession at dinner.

She may be a grown woman, but, in a myriad of ways, she was still that small-town girl he’d known...and loved.

A long-dormant protective instinct kicked in as he swallowed the rest of his Macallan in one gulp and set the glass down on the bar. “Nice meeting you,” he lied as he pulled enough bills from his wallet to take care of his bill and a hefty tip.

“See you tomorrow.” Spike saluted him with his drink.

The irony of the situation struck Jeff full force as he walked to the elevator. He was here in Chicago to move his eighteen-year-old son into the thick of the metropolis. Russ had spent the past thirteen summers of his life in San Diego, along with various other times such as spring and Christmas breaks. The kid took to city life like a native, never the least bit fazed by the crowds or the traffic. Jeff had no qualms whatsoever about Russ’s being here.

Mags, on the other hand, was a different matter completely.

* * *

ROSEMARY COUNTED SILENTLY. Twenty-nine elephant, thirty elephant, thirty-one elepha—

Eli gave a gasp and started breathing again, falling quickly into his deep, rhythmic, room-shaking snore.

She closed the book she’d been reading and rubbed her tired eyes. Well, actually, she hadn’t been reading. She’d been turning pages for two hours, but the progression of the story hadn’t imprinted on her memory. Eli’s long periods without a breath had consumed her attention. The snoring wasn’t so bad. She’d gotten used to that forty years ago. But the snorting and the gasping, and the long periods of silence freaked her out. She was aware of the dangers of sleep apnea—had read on the internet how it could lead to all kinds of nasty stuff, including heart disease and stroke. Coupled with the high blood pressure her husband already took medication for, he was a heart attack waiting to happen.

And she wasn’t prepared for widowhood.

She saw what it had done to her daughter.

Poor Maggie. Her chest tightened at the thought of how much her daughter had already been through.

And now Russ had gone away to college—another reason to worry. And, of course, there was the Maggie/Jeff dinner that had niggled at the back of Rosemary’s brain all night.

She’d hoped Maggie would call back and tell her what had transpired, but she didn’t, and Rosemary wasn’t surprised, although it hurt a little.

She tossed the extra pillow onto the love seat and turned out the light, sliding down in the bed to get comfortable. Maggie used to talk about everything with her. But her daughter had become so withdrawn since Zeke’s death that she didn’t recognize her at times. Closing herself off from the world, grieving for Zeke in such a vastly different way than she had for Jeff. When Jeff left, she’d cried for days on end. Refused to leave the bedroom. Refused to eat. Talked about him incessantly—so positive he would come back, and they would start again.

She’d kept up that nonsense for years.

But losing Zeke affected her differently. She’d quickly sold their beautiful home on Kentucky Lake, and rather than moving back to Taylor’s Grove, she’d bought the old Morris farmhouse outside of town. She would talk about Zeke only if someone brought up his name—and then reluctantly. She never brought him into the conversation on her own.

She had seemed angry, which Rosemary knew was one of the stages of grief. She’d read that on the internet, too. But it certainly had gone on for a long time now. Too long. Maggie didn’t date. Didn’t do much of anything except work and spend time with Russ.

What would she do now that he was gone?

Eli’s breathing stopped again, and Rosemary began her ritualistic counting. She wasn’t sure why she counted. He was never impressed with the numbers she spouted the next morning. Tomorrow, over coffee, she would report to him that he’d held his breath for almost thirty-five seconds. He’d shrug and say, “So which do you want—snoring or silence? Because you complain either way.”

Her retort would be that she wanted him healthy.

What would she do without him? The previous question echoed in her mind. Maggie was young—could easily start over. But she herself was sixty-one and had been with the same man for forty years. She had no desire to start over. She could never love another man the way she did Eli. Could never love again, period. The thought made her shudder.

Was it her imagination that Eli’s color was off?

She slipped her phone from the bedside table and turned on the flashlight app, shining it down on his face—the man could sleep through a rock concert once he got horizontal. He looked so peaceful and relaxed but definitely a little grayish in pallor.

One eye winked open and glared at her. “What are you doing, Rosie? Checking me for fleas?”

“You’ve been holding your breath.”

“And you’re getting back at me by shining a light into my eyes? You trying to make me think a train is coming through our bedroom?”

“I wanted to check your color. You look kind of gray.”

“You’d be gray, too, if you had to live with you. Now turn off the damn searchlight.”

She turned it off and placed the phone back on the table, but not because he told her to do it. She was finished looking... Definitely gray. They would resume this conversation in the morning. She settled under the covers again.

“Rosie.” Eli’s tender whisper shimmied through the darkness. “Slide back over here, and I’ll make you hold your breath.”

She laughed and did as he asked, snuggling into the crook of his arm. He kissed her sweetly a few times then with more purpose, and her tiredness got tangled among the sheets as their excitement rose and the pace of their movements accelerated.

They didn’t take long. After forty years, there was no experimentation and nothing new. The new had been sorted through years ago. What worked was kept and had now become part of the routine. What didn’t work had been lost with no remorse. What remained was the best of the best, carefully chosen, deeply intimate and immensely satisfying.

Their sighs mingled as they held each other in the afterglow, and soon the familiar rumble that would become Eli’s snore began to take form.

Rosemary changed her tactic and began counting the breaths rather than the non-breaths. It made more sense to pay attention to what gave life to this man she adored.

She’d only gotten to seventeen when drowsiness caused her to lose interest. With his body spooning her back and his arm across her front, she felt warm and complete.

Life without Eli?

The thought induced another shiver.

She snuggled closer against him.