Loe raamatut: «Bachelor Mom»

One

Gwen Stanford didn’t drink. Sobriety was no cause with her. She had nothing against alcohol; she just never had time to take up the vice—or any other vices, for that matter.

Tonight it was going to be a real different story.

standing on her kitchen counter, she groped blindly at the back of her tallest cupboard for the shape of the rum bottle. It had to be there. Every Christmas she made the traditional family recipe for rum cake. Personally, she hated the taste of that rum cake with a passion, but her sisters loved it, and tradition was tradition. More to the immediate point, though, that bottle represented her entire liquor supply. It was rum or nothing.

There. Her fingers connected with the shape of the dusty bottle. She hooked her hand around it, risked her life leaping down from the counter, then filched a Lion King water glass from the shelf.

Clean dishes were waiting to be emptied from the dishwasher. Bills needed to be opened and paid. Her sons had scattered schoolbooks and toys, and the kitchen table still had some uncleaned-up crumbs. The wash was calling to her from the laundry room, and with two half-pint-size boys, letting wash pile up was begging for disaster.

Still, when a woman was determined to be wicked, no chore was too huge to be ignored.

Filled with resolve, she carried her drinking supplies and a small wrapped package, tied with a red bow, through the Florida room and out the glass doors. The package was a birthday present from her youngest sister, Paige, but so far she hadn’t had a second free all day to open it. She could barely catch a free moment to breathe—but that was about to change.

Outside, the sun had just dropped below the horizon, and the sky was painted with dusky blues and scarlets. Typical of St. Augustine in September, the night was warm, redolent with the mixed smells of tangy ocean air and late-blooming flowers. House lights were popping on all over the neighborhood, but her backyard was as quiet as peace.

Exactly what she wanted. Barefoot, she flopped in the chaise longue on the patio, poured a wallop of a drink and slugged down a sip. It burned like liquid smoke all the way down her throat and tasted worse than cough syrup. Stubbornly she gulped down another couple of slugs. Maybe it was extremely doubtful that rum was ever going to be her vice of choice, but she was determined to give it a lion’s try.

She reached for Paige’s present and pulled at the red bow, trying to fathom the strange, unsettling dissatisfaction that had hounded her like a shadow all day. She’d been as restless as a wet cat, and had the stupidest inclination to cry. She’d never been restless, and the whole world knew that Gwen Stanford was no whiner or crier.

Nothing had even gone wrong. Josh and Jacob, thank heavens, were tucked in bed and sleeping harder than tired puppies. Jacob’s first day in school had been a landmark, but the rest of the day had been pretty status quo. She’d carpooled, done accounting all morning, somehow got talked into mothering a den of Cub Scouts, made cookies for the church bake sale, shopped, took the kids out to dinner for her birthday and survived their sugar high after overdosing on cake and ice cream. The day started and ended at a hundred miles an hour, but that was like saying the Pope was Catholic. Hardly headline news.

As she opened the package from Paige, though, her heart stopped racing like an overheated engine. Strangely, her pulse started chugging in slow time. Real slow time. One look at the gift put a thick, heavy lump in her throat.

Days before, her oldest sister Abby had sent a dress for her birthday—ivory Chinese silk, as simple and elegant in style as it was sexy. Maybe the arrival of that dress had been the pinpoint moment in time when this pervasive, stupid moodiness had begun. She loved her sisters. The three women had always been impossibly different in nature and temperament, but they were unbeatably close. And Abby had unerringly chosen a dress that fit Gwen perfectly, a dress she loved and yearned to wear—yet doubted she ever would. A working bachelor mom with two young, rambunctious sons just had no time or occasion to dress up in silk.

The gift from Paige was equally personal and equally unsettling, but in an entirely different way.

Slowly Owen lifted the cameo from the velvet box, tilting it this way and that in the fading sunset light. Paige was a cameo maker, so the choice of gift from her younger sister wasn’t in itself a surprise, and Paige was an incredibly fine artist.

But this was beyond fine.

The cameo had been carved in two shades of coral. The woman in profile had short, cropped curly hair-actually, almost identical to Gwen’s own hairstyle-and her arms were raised as if to joyfully embrace life. Turn the cameo just so in the light, though, and there appeared to be a sober-faced woman trapped in the darker shade of coral. The effect was subtle, but there appeared to be two women in the profile—one a shadow of the other.

Gwen reached blindly for the glass again and rapidly gulped another hefty slug of the warm rum. It burned her throat as hot as the last one did... as hot and stinging as this whole day had burned on her heart.

Her younger sister knew her. Too well. Damned well. Painfully well. The cameo was exquisite and could not have been a more personal present. At this particular moment, though, it hit her like a swift, sharp bullet.

Her entire life, she’d felt like a shadow.

This dissatisfied malaise wasn’t really birthday caused, Gwen recognized. For some time, the nagging, lost feeling had been there. Sometimes she wondered exactly whose life she was living. Her life-style was more straight-laced than a saint’s, with certainly no goof-off time built in. There never had been. But heaven knew, she’d never planned to be this good. Growing up, she’d never once aspired to be a saint. Where her two sisters had always had huge, identifiable life goals, though, Gwen had really only wanted one thing. Ron. From the day she met him in first grade, she’d fallen for him like a princess in a fairy tale.

Gwen lifted the rum glass, discovered it was empty and generously poured herself another splash. She squeezed her eyes closed, as if it would make swallowing the medicine a little easier.

Her divorce from Ron was two years old now. Ancient history. Yet his influence on her life certainly wasn’t. With a flash of rum insight, she recognized morosely that she had always lived in Ron’s shadow. She had become a bookkeeper, because that was a career she could pursue at home with the kids—and because it paid Ron’s medical school bills. They lived in St. Augustine, because that was where Ron originally wanted to set up his medical practice. She’d never pursued dreams of her own, because Ron’s career was so much more important than anything she wanted.

No one had ever twisted her arm to make those choices. All through those years, she’d never thought of herself as being a doormat. She’d thought she was being loving and supportive.

Somehow that looked different on her thirtieth birthday. Somehow—with the help of another gulp of rum—it occurred to her that she’d turned into a dependent, boring mouse. She didn’t have a clue who Gwen Stanford even was anymore.

She’d been a wife, but she couldn’t really remember being a woman. Of all the female roles she’d assumed—mom, wife, now ex-wife, bookkeeper, sister, daughter—she had no memory of setting a single goal that hadn’t been to please or appease other people.

With two young sons—and God knew, Jacob and Josh were her life—she certainly couldn’t take up a life-style dancing naked on tabletops. But it ached, like the stab of a knife, that not once in her entire life had she ever done anything reckless....

“Gwen? Are you alive and awake over there?”

Gwen startled at the sudden deep voice, but then realized it was just Spence.

Her vision seemed oddly blurred, and real dusk had fallen now. The sky was no longer ruby and purple, but washed in a hushed royal blue. Even if it were pitch black, though, she would never mistake anyone else for Spence McKenna. His backyard bordered hers. They shared a fence—and two six-year-olds. His April had just endured the same landmark day in first grade, in the same class as her Jacob.

If she’d thought about it, she might have guessed he’d stop by for a few minutes to share parenting notes. She hadn’t thought about it, and at the moment, seemed incapable of thinking about anything clearly. For some reason her tongue seemed thicker than molasses. It was a mighty struggle to sound normal. “I’m awake. Just buried in a few dark thoughts for a minute there. Come on over. Did April survive her first day with Mrs. Cox?”

“She did, but I don’t know about me,” Spence admitted. “I don’t know what I was expecting with Mrs. Cox, but I thought she’d be older, wiser, warmer. Instead she looked younger than a teenager and seemed meaner than a drill sergeant. I figured I’d ask for your perspective, since your Josh survived her last year.”

“Well, Josh survived her, but I have to admit not being thrilled with her, either. We’ve had some runins. I just think she’s too tough for the little ones. Jacob came home announcing that school was stupid.”

“So it wasn’t just my April. Hell. Deserting her in the door of that classroom was tougher than chewing nails. There are parts of this single parenting business that I sure wish came with a manual.”

Gwen chuckled. “I take it your angel’s now safely in bed and you’re headed straight for the fortitude?” Even with her blurred vision, she could see he was carrying a glass as he unlatched the fence gate and ambled toward her.

“Yeah. Full-strength iced tea.” She caught a flash of white teeth when he noticed the bottle at her side. “That looks more like what the doctor ordered. Somehow I’d never have guessed you were a dark rum fan.”

“I wasn’t—until about an hour ago. Help yourself if you want some.” Any second now, Gwen expected him to look a little less fuzzy. Not that it particularly made any difference. Even fuzzy and blurred at the edges, her neighbor was downright dazzling.

Spence sank into the webbed lawn chair across from her and stretched out his long legs. Suit and tie were typical workday attire for him, but at some point he’d jettisoned the suit jacket and tie. He was still wearing formal, navy suit pants, though, and his white shirt was opened at his sun-bronzed throat.

The first time Gwen had met him, her hormones had a heart attack. Still did. Spence was a six-foot-one-inch depth charge of virility, built lean and elegant, with dark hair as thick as a mink’s and chocolate brown eyes. Energy and drive seemed to seep from his pores. Lots of character and intelligence were written in the character lines on his face, but to heck with that, he had the slowest, sexiest smile on a man that she’d ever seen. He owned a marketing firm. Gwen had no trouble picturing him as an unstoppable dynamo in business—or with women.

If he’d been any less intimidating, Owen doubted they’d ever have made friends. And they weren’t precisely friends, more good neighbors and cosufferers in the single parent life. She knew little about his ex-wife, beyond that her name was May and she’d literally dropped the baby in Spence’s lap and taken off on him. He’d moved here a couple years ago, motivated to find a house in a good school system and a neighborhood with kids. Chicken pox had initiated their first conversation—his April came down with it at the same time as her Josh. Spence had been beside himself and had come knocking on her door for advice.

Gwen curled up her legs, well aware that her hair was an unbrushed mop and her feet were bare. Her ex had been an overwhelming hunk—Ron had dominated every room he walked into—but Spence made her ex look like an untried boy. These days Gwen usually had the good sense to plaster herself against the nearest wallpaper anywhere near that type of intimidating man.

With Spence, that maestro intimidating factor iconically made him comfortable to be with. He’d seen her patchwork skirt and pink T-shirt before. He’d seen her looking like she’d been through a daylong train wreck before. Talking to him had always been easy, simply because she’d never suffered an ounce of nerves that he could conceivably be personally interested in her. A dazzling panther was hardly likely to notice a cookie maker and a born den mother. He could be a feast for her housewife eyes without a kernel of risk. He already knew she was a mouse. There was nothing to hide, nothing to worry about.

It wasn’t the first evening he’d sprawled in her lawn chair to waste a few minutes relaxing. “So... you looked lost in serious thoughts when I walked up. Were those dark thoughts all for Mrs. Cox?”

“Nope. To be honest, I was thinking about being rsckless.”

“Reckless, huh?” Spence’s smile was lazy, easy, but there seemed a sudden flash of something in his eyes. When he saw her reaching for an empty glass, he leaned over and swiftly poured her another splash of rum. “Did I hear right from the kids that it’s your birthday today?”

“Yup. Three-oh.”

“Uh-oh. I just passed thirty-four a few months ago. That was bad enough, but those birthdays that end in zeros are always killers. Big soul-searching time, hmm?”

“’Fraid so. In fact, it was just occurring to me that I’ve made a total mess of my life.” She frowned, unsure how that had just slipped out. Sharing chicken pox and carpooling dilemmas came a lot more naturally with Spence than anything seriously personal. She lifted her rum glass and then uneasily clunked it back down. Temporarily there seemed to be three full moons in the sky, two sets of swing sets in the backyard, and the expression in Spence’s eyes seemed deep and caring and... intimate. Almost sexily intimate.

There seemed to be a teensy bundle of evidence mounting up that she’d passed her tolerance limit for rum—about two glasses ago.

Spence settled back in the shadows, but she could still feel his gaze on her face. “Now what’s this about making a total mess of your life? The last I noticed, you had two damned terrific kids—”

“Yeah, I do. And I couldn’t adore my monsters more. But they’re about the only thing in my life that I’ve done right.” For some unknown reason, her skirt had hiked up to her thighs. She leaned forward to push the material down. A terrible mistake. Even that slight movement made her head swim. The way Spence was looking at her made her blood sluice through her veins faster than a sled in the luge. She was, of course, imagining that look. For dead sure, she had fully intended to level part of that rum bottle, felt no guilt at all about it. But who’d have guessed a little liquor could addle her brain this fast and this foolishly?

“What is it you think you’ve done so wrong?” he asked gently.

“Everything.”

“Like what?”

It was like a genie had opened the trapdoor on her tongue. A demon genie. Gwen was positive she never meant to answer, yet all this stupid nonsense bubbled out. “I make a living as a bookkeeper. It’s a good living. Only I hate working with numbers and have always hated working with numbers. I come from Vermont, but I’m living in St. Augustine in a house my ex-husband built. It’s a great house, and I love the whole area as far as raising kids. But I never chose that, either. He did. I can’t think of one thing I ever chose to do—or be—on my own. Even in my family. I have two fantastic sisters. The older one’s a powerhouse in business, the younger one is an incredible artist. And then there’s me. The mouse.”

“Gwen,” Spence said quietly, “you are not a mouse.”

“Yeah, I am,” she said stubbornly. The words were slurring; so were the thousand thoughts catapulting through her mind. But none of that dizziness seemed to soften the truth. “I’ve spent thirty years letting things happen to me. Instead of standing up for myself, I just followed in the back of someone else’s line. I can’t even remember if or when I had any dreams or goals of my own. There just never seemed the time to figure them out. The best I can say is that I’ve aced the course in responsibility.”

“You’ve had a mountain to handle alone, Gwen. And the last I noticed, being responsible was a hell of a fine quality.”

“Maybe. But it’s tedious and boring. I feel boring.” She pushed a hand through her spring-loaded curls. “Even trying to talk about this is pretty ridiculous. I don’t have any choices right now. My kids are everything to me, so it’s not like I could suddenly run off and join the circus. I don’t want to join some silly circus, but darn it, Spence, I’ve never done one reckless thing in my entire life.”

Undoubtedly it was more of her runaway imagination, but Spence suddenly seemed immobile, sitting there utterly still. “What kind of...reckless...are you thinking about?”

“I don’t know. Just foolish stuff. I’ve never tasted caviar. Never danced in the moonlight. Never done anything so wantonly indulgent as having a manicure or a massage. Never taken off on a motorcycle and just ridden with the wind on my face, not giving a damn where I was going. And men. I’ve never once...”

“Never what?” Spence prompted the instant her voice trailed off.

But no amount of that demon, sweet rum could have dulled her brain into completing that thought aloud. It was in her heart, though, an itchy, unsettling awareness that she’d never known any other man but Ron, and they’d been childhood sweethearts. She’d never flirted, never been hunted and chased and romanced, never played with a grown man—and for damn sure, never felt a yearning that brought her to her knees. She doubted that feeling existed outside her dreams—and her dreams had been dominated by less-than-reputable fantasies lately. Embarrassing fantasies. Nothing like real life, nothing she would ever really do, and positively nothing she could ever voice aloud to a man—and especially never to Spence.

Clearly, rum or no rum, she needed to get her act together. She shook her head with a little nervous laugh. “Good grief, it’s almost pitch-black. I didn’t realize how late it was getting. It’s way past time to head in. I owe you a big one, Spence. You came over for a little neighborly conversation, and instead I’ve been ranting on like a real fruitcake. I’m real sorry—”

“I was glad to listen. And there’s nothing to be sorry about.”

“Just forget everything I said, okay? A little case of the birthday doldrums seemed to get the best of me. I didn’t really mean anything...” Something was wrong with the chaise longue. It didn’t want to let her out of it. Then she remembered she needed to put her feet on the ground before she tried to stand up.

Spence lurched to his feet with a chuckle.

“Okay, I might as well admit it. I’m probably one of the hardest core drinkers you’ve ever met,” she told him.

“I had the feeling you don’t indulge too often.”

“If you don’t promise to forget I’m making such an idiot of myself, I’m gonna die. It was just one of those power-stress days. And I was feeling crabby. And it seemed like a drink would be a good way to relax.” Once she managed to stand up, she added wryly, “My knees feet like noodles. Somehow I never expected to end up quite this relaxed.”

“I think you’re going to sleep well tonight. But before you go in...”

“Yes?” Just as she turned toward the door, she remembered the exquisite cameo gift from her sister. Carefully she scooped up the velvet box and slipped it safely in her skirt pocket.

“It is your birthday...”

She tilted her head, unsure what Spence was trying to say, unsure why he was suddenly so close. The patio cement was freezing on her bare feet, undoubtedly the reason a sudden shiver whispered up her spine. She was thinking that she needed to check on the boys, lock up, lay out clothes for tomorrow, just put this whole awful day behind her. She wasn’t thinking about kissing. In a thousand million years, she would never have guessed Spence ever planned to kiss her.

“I think it’s a rule—no birthday should pass without a birthday kiss,” he murmured.

He was teasing, she thought. Any second now she’d think of an appropriate comeback. Only in the next second, his arms had reached over. Long, strong fingers buried in her curls, holding her head tilted up to his.

His lips touched hers, softer than honey. She could smell the warmth of his skin, taste the mint iced tea on his breath. His dark eyes caught the shimmering silver of the full moon. He was just teasing, she mentally repeated to herself. He just meant a neighbor’s kiss. A gesture of affection. A kindness. If she just stood still for a second, it’d be over.

But for some strange reason, he seemed in no hurry.

Another shiver hummed up her spine, this one not caused by the icy patio cement on her bare feet. This particular shiver was as warm as a heat wave. Spence lifted his head after that first, brief taste of a kiss. His eyes were open for that moment, studying her, considering her. She saw the faintest smile on his lips, but it disappeared faster than the wink of an eye. And then he closed his eyes and came back for a real kiss.

Nothing burned like hot sugar. His mouth rubbed against hers slowly, evocatively, alluringly taking his time. She’d been married. She’d loved her husband. But no one had ever kissed her like this. All day, she’d been trying to figure out who Gwen Stanford really was. The question reared its painful head again, because God knew, she didn’t know who she was at that moment.

He hadn’t even touched her body, yet every nerve ending in her body seemed suddenly electrified. Her pulse was frantic, her nerves thrumming to intimate, wicked blues. He took her mouth like she was fiercely desired, like he couldn’t wait another instant before touching her, like there were no swing sets and sandboxes and neighbors a few yards away, like there was nothing but her in his universe.

She’d never had such a foolish response to a man in her entire life. Family tradition or no family tradition, she abruptly resolved never to make rum cake again, to pour every ounce of that demon drink straight down the drain.

Still...

She knew, really knew, that her response to him was unforgivably silly. The hormones singing in her head had a reason. Too much rum. And the allure of a man who positively knew how to kiss a woman, who’d probably known millions and millions of women. She knew. Yet yearning still swept through her like a storm, so heady and wild that her knees wanted to buckle. She felt young and reckless. She felt brand-new, on the brink of all the excitement in life, back in that time when she really believed in fairy tales and the unconquerable power of love....

Slowly Spence stepped back from her. Slowly he traced the line of her jaw with the edge of his thumb. “Happy birthday, Gwen,” he murmured.