Ashleigh Unplugged

by

Carrie Alexander

Chapter One
 

Kicked to the curb.

Ashleigh Griffith hugged the satchel that contained her laptop as she watched Kirk's Lexus zip into the street and speed away. Incredible! She'd actually been kicked to the curb. Or so that was the spin she imagined Kirk would put on their breakup when he returned to his wife, full of hollow apologies and false promises.

A brisk autumn wind swirled leaves along the curb and caught at Ashleigh's hair, lashing it across her face. Tears welled in her eyes. She stood tall, hardening her heart as she blinked the wetness away. Only days ago, she'd learned that Kirk Etheridge, her supposed boyfriend, was married. Not divorced, as he'd claimed. Not even separated. Married.

With children.

Her stomach lurched. The thought that she'd been the other woman, responsible for putting a family in jeopardy, made her want to puke her guts out right there on the sidewalk. That Kirk had lied to her all along was no excuse. All those surreptitious phone calls and sudden business emergencies — she should have suspected.

In a weak moment, Ashleigh had agreed to listen to his pleas. "Aw, babe, please let me explain," he'd said when he'd met her outside the Chronicle offices with a huge bouquet of roses and the offer of a ride to her creative writing class. He'd sworn that he was getting a divorce, but this time she'd seen the way he couldn't look her in the eye. She'd recognized his oily smile and avoided his coaxing kisses. Her blinders were off: Kirk was a lying, cheating snake.

And he'd made her one, too.

A sob rose up inside her. She gritted her teeth to keep it down and swiveled on her heel, thinking of the comfort she'd find among her friends in the classroom — if she'd let them see her pain.

Ashleigh nearly ran into a man who'd just bounded down the steps. He managed to avoid a collision by grabbing her shoulders and halting her forward motion. "S-sorry," she said, appalled to hear her voice tremble. She'd always envisioned herself as cool and in control. She would not be the kind of woman who wept over a breakup. In public, least of all.

"No need to apologize — I've got you." The stranger paused and took a closer look at her expression behind the windblown hair. "Excuse me, miss, but are you okay?"

Ashleigh blinked again, trying to focus on the man's face. His voice was deep, soft and kind, almost fatherly. His appearance was the opposite. Successful businessman, through and through. Clipped black hair threaded with silver at the temples. Ice blue eyes. Beneath a light wool topcoat, he wore an expensive tailored suit with a silk tie. Well groomed, well spoken. Even, it seemed, well meaning.

Well, well, well. Ashleigh's interest was piqued in spite of the emotional upheaval of the past few days.

She shook her head. Was she crazy? The very last thing she needed was to rebound with another smooth-talking man.

"I am fine," she said, each word precise. "Now will you please let me go."

He removed his hands. "Certainly."

She whipped her hair out of her eyes. "Again, I apologize."

"Accepted."

"I'm late for class." She stepped to one side, and so did he, causing her to walk into his broad chest. He was so solid, she bounced off, stumbling a little in her high-heeled ankle boots.

He caught her, this time by the elbows, and with a firm hand, moved her to his right while he stepped aside. "I'd try a dip or a twirl," he said, "but you're so brittle I'm afraid you'd break."

Ashleigh inhaled. What a presumptuous comment! She was not brittle — she was…she was…strong. Determined. Focused. Kirk was a bad mistake, granted. One she wouldn't make again. Her next escort would have to produce a divorce decree before she keyed him into her Palm handheld.

"Brittle?" She tossed her head. "I have a spine of steel."

"Ah. And brass…" The man's gaze skimmed over her from head to toe and settled on her hands clenched around the satchel. "Brass knuckles, I suppose?"

The admiring perusal caused a hint of warmth to creep into her cold, numbed body. She had to smile. "No, but there is my iron will and that pesky steel plate in my head."

He laughed. "You must be fun in the airport."

"I've been known to set off a few alarms."

His pale eyes glinted. "That I can believe."

A blush seeped into Ashleigh's cheeks. She blinked furiously, battling the leftover sign of her old shyness. While the small city of New Hope wasn't as sophisticated as Paris or as exciting as New York, she had moved well beyond the quiet, studious girl who'd dreamed of fortune and fame while stuck back home in Parkersburg, West Virginia.

She slung the strap of her briefbag across her chest, then straightened her black leather Anna Sui skirt. "I really must go. They've probably started the class without me."

"Want to cut? We could have a drink at the wine bar across the street."

For an instant, she was tempted. She'd completed her theme assignment, but she knew her writing wasn't nearly as skilled as it would have to be for her to make it into the New York literary circles that were her aspiration. And there was no doubt this handsome, compelling stranger could distract her from the residual repulsion over Kirk's lies.

But no. She had to keep her professional goals in mind. She'd had plenty of experience — well, some — with suave businessmen and their charming pickup lines. This guy was probably no different than Kirk.

"I'm sorry. I can't." She brushed by him and hurried up the steps.

"At least tell me your name," he said, watching from below with the most endearing dimples framing a lopsided grin.

"Ashleigh."

He lifted a hand, gave a short wave. "Thank you for the dance, Ashleigh."

"You're welcome," she said, blushing so hotly she had to turn so he wouldn't see and think she was no more than a naive schoolgirl. At twenty-three and on her first job post-college, she was aware that her inexperience and youthfulness were not a career advantage. She needed to project a smart, savvy air. Fortunately, her natural inclination for mature men coincided with the chosen image.

When they weren't revealed to be lying, cheating scum.

Ashleigh glanced over her shoulder as she pushed open the doors. The stranger had disappeared, but there was a sleek black Porsche pulling out of a parking space not far away. Her hollow stomach fluttered. He was so her type….

Better to be feeling sexual chemistry than nausea over a betrayal, she decided. Although there was no time for either as she hurried to the classroom. She paused with her hand on the knob, trying to calm her heartbeat and cool her cheeks before entering.

All heads turned when she opened the door, interrupting the lecture of the creative writing teacher, Niall Killian. He gave her a nod, smoothly continuing his discourse while she slipped into her customary seat in the front row, stepping over the sprawled legs of Roger Derks, the unkempt "artiste" who sat across from her. He grumbled a complaint.

Abby Lancaster leaned forward to whisper, "Something wrong?"

Ashleigh started to say no. With her other friends, the older women of her critique group whom she hoped to impress, she might have kept up the front. Abby was different. Since meeting in the first class, they'd developed a surprising kinship, founded despite vastly dissimilar lifestyles. Only eighteen, Abby was a single mother who worked as a waitress to support herself and the baby. It was a hard life. Ashleigh was impressed by her classmate's spunk and determination to improve herself, but she was also glad that she'd escaped a similar fate. Babies didn't fit in briefcases.

"Tell you at break." Ashleigh flipped open her laptop, a slender silver Sony VAIO she'd splurged on when she'd first been hired as a reporter for the New Hope Chronicle. She opened her class notes document and focused on Mr. Killian — Niall. Dark hair, glasses, with a lean body clad in faded jeans and a black turtleneck.

Abby had a little crush on him, and Ashleigh suspected that there were other students in the same predicament. Niall was too boho-intellectual for her, though. She admired his writing career and hoped to pick his brain regarding publication with The New Yorker, but that was all. Ultimately, she needed to feel safe and cared for with a man.

Apparently Roger had just finished reading his assignment to the class. His way to prove that he didn't care much about their opinions was to slump on his tailbone and paste a bored expression on his face beneath his shaggy mop of hair.

"Your theme needn't be so overt," Niall said, picking up the evaluation of Roger's work. "In the scene where your protagonist confronts the arms dealer, you go over the top by having him notice and comment on the scar shaped like a pitchfork. The reader will pick up on the significance on their own."

Roger snorted. Niall addressed the class. "Do you have suggestions for Roger on another way to enforce his good-versus-evil theme to the reader?"

Several hands went up. Niall nodded at Catherine Matusik, a fiftyish silvered blonde who was in Ashleigh's critique group. Catherine aimed a comforting smile at Roger before answering. "Symbolism. He's already doing it. The scar is good as an example, but it'll work even better if the shape is a less obvious representation of evil."

Behind his glasses, Niall's eyes shone with a special warmth. "Exactly. Thank you, Catherine." He walked to the blackboard behind his desk at the front of the room and picked up a piece of chalk. "Symbolism and theme — they go hand in hand."

Ashleigh pecked at her keyboard. She wasn't into the class tonight. Her thoughts drifted first to the final argument with Kirk, resolving to have nothing more to do with him, and then to the man she'd met on the sidewalk. Would she ever see him again? He'd seemed to be leaving the community college building. Perhaps he was taking a class, although he didn't seem the type. Could he be teaching? She hadn't even asked his name.

Niall had asked for literary examples of theme and symbolism. A husky voice from the far side of the room engaged Ashleigh's attention. "There are many examples of symbolism in Beloved by Toni Morrison," said Marsha Cowen. Ashleigh had been lucky enough to be assigned to the well-known TV journalist's critique group. If she played her cards right, the woman might become a mentor.

"Excellent choice," Niall said. "Who can name one of Morrison's symbols?"

Ashleigh's hand shot up. She entered the discussion without waiting to be called on. "The house number — one twenty-four," she said. "It represented Sethe's four children, the third being dead." She was pleased when Marsha validated the answer with a thoughtful nod.

Niall also approved. "Any other examples?"

"The green light in The Great Gatsby," said one student. "It represented the wants and longings that Gatsby could never reach." Another cited several examples from Lord of the Flies — standard high school stuff, in Ashleigh's opinion.

Faith Lewellyn, another critique partner, raised an eager hand. When the class had first begun several weeks ago, Faith had seemed like a mousy, frumpy housewife with a head filled with frivolous romantic fantasies. Since then, she'd gained confidence as a woman and a writer. At their last class, she'd announced that she'd finished her novel. Having read — no, devoured — the absorbing, highly moving book, Ashleigh was ashamed of her quick rush to judgment. Faith had real talent.

"Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter," Faith said. She pushed back a strand of blond hair with her pen. "Although I'm not sure that qualifies as subtle."

"Can't get much more obvious than a big red letter A sewn to the front of your dress," Nancy Beckman, a recent divorcee, contributed in her usual dry tones. Her mouth twisted. "Too bad the courts have abandoned the practice." Several classmates snickered.

Guilt and humiliation burned in Ashleigh. She knew that Nancy referred to her own cheating ex-husband, but the embittered woman hadn't exactly been silent on the subject of Ashleigh's older male friend. Ashleigh had always acted as though Nancy's disapproval was of no consequence to a woman as hip and cynical about dating as herself, but now she wished that she'd put Kirk under a stronger microscope. Miserable, she hunched over her laptop, opened an email and began to type.

Subject: screwed again

dear tad: i haven't written in a while. i guess because i thought my life was totally under control and i didn't need u as a sounding board. but here i am, screwed again. kirk seemed perfect, u know? he was everything i wanted — handsome, successful, over and done with the marriage thing (or so I thought). old enough to be wise, young enough not to need depends. haha. joke was on me. a colleague at work stopped by my desk last week with a smug grin on her face and informed me that she'd run into kirk and his WIFE at the city symphony — on saturday night, when he was supposed to take ME to the movies and had sent me a text msg to cancel. not even a phone call. a crappy text msg!!!

so it's over. he didn't even have a good excuse when i called him on his lies. just the standard "she doesn't understand me, we're getting a divorce when the kids are old enough" crap. blah blah blah. i wanted to cry, or even better to pop him one, but i couldn't let him see how much he'd hurt me. the thing is that my feelings don't really matter. i've been hurt before and i'll get over him. i already am. it's the kids i can't get out of my mind. KIDS. who love their dad, no matter what a dickhead he is, the way kids are supposed to.

if they have a dad.

Ashleigh

Chapter Two

After class, the women of Ashleigh's critique group decided to head over to the wine bar across the street. They were celebrating because Faith had recently mailed her manuscript to a New York publisher, and now they were also commiserating with Ashleigh. During the coffee break, Faith's motherly instinct to comfort had been roused when she'd overheard Ashleigh telling Abby about being dumped at the curb. Even though the group had already known the relationship had ended, this time they wouldn't let Ashleigh brush them off as if it didn't matter. Abby had been invited, but she'd had to rush home to relieve her baby-sitter.

"To Faith and Ashleigh," Marsha said, lifting her glass for a toast. "One very good manuscript and one no-good man — out the door."

"May neither of them come back to you." Nancy clinked their glasses and took a large swallow of wine. She wagged her head at Ashleigh. "Now, little Miss Innocent, tell us. Was he married?"

"Nancy," Catherine warned.

Ashleigh felt as though the scarlet A was emblazoned on her chest. She put on a blank expression. "I'd rather talk about Faith's book. How long before you hear?"

"She's unagented," said Marsha, who was most familiar with the ins and outs of the world of media and publishing. "Could be a long wait."

"I don't even want to think about that yet." Faith traced a finger over the bowl of her wine glass. "The idea of an actual editor reading my pages is enough to give me nightmares."

"It will be all right." Catherine laid a manicured hand on Faith's arm. "Niall was impressed. He's a professional."

"There's a big difference between a community college teacher and a New York editor."

"Pah," Nancy said. "Editors put their panty hose on one leg at a time, just like us."

"Wait until you're ready to submit," Faith said. "Then you'll find out."

Nancy shrugged. "My writing's only a hobby." She had produced a few pages of a mystery with a mouthy female detective not unlike herself, but she was as dismissive about her work as she was about everything else except her children. Ashleigh recognized a bit of herself in the chic brunette. Nancy's irreverence covered a lot of inner pain.

Ashleigh sipped her wine. She'd skipped dinner again and the Beaujolais was giving her a fierce headache. She pressed a knuckle to her temple. A tiny whimper slipped out before she could clamp her lips shut.

"Ashleigh? How are you doing?" Faith inclined her head. When she saw Ashleigh's face, she slung an arm around the younger woman's shoulders and gave her a hug. "It's going to be okay, sweetie."

"Trust me," Nancy said, tipping her glass toward Ashleigh, "you're better off without him. As a species, men are one level above pond scum."

"That's rather harsh," Catherine said quietly. She was married, but rarely spoke of her husband, who was ill and confined to an institution.

"I've come across all types," Marsha said. "All around the world. Men are responsible for a lot of the tragedy and horror I've seen, but also much of the goodness. As a species — " she sent Nancy a wry grin "— they're not all that different from us."

"Huh. Then why are their actions so incomprehensible?"

The women looked at each other. Ashleigh broke the momentary silence with one word: "Testosterone."

Marsha nodded sagely. "There is that."

"And they think we have the Curse." Nancy grinned at them over the lip of her glass before emptying it.

They laughed and moved on to another topic, discussing their latest assignment to write a scene illustrating theme with symbolism. Without saying a word, Faith reached for the platter of hors d'oeuvres they'd ordered and arranged a snack plate of grapes, cheese and crackers and set it before Ashleigh.

She nibbled a crisp wheat cracker, feeling lucky to be among the diverse group of women. At first she hadn't expected to fit in with them, as the youngest and least settled. Slowly she was becoming more comfortable even though Faith, Catherine and Nancy were all, or had been, married with children. They lived in expensive homes and had no money worries, while Ashleigh kept to a strict budget so she could afford the fashions and electronic gadgets she loved.

It was Marsha who was Ashleigh's model for success. The TV journalist had traveled the world, from palace balls to war zones. Her approach to life was brisk and unsentimental, yet she still had heart, as evidenced by the touching pieces she'd written for class assignments. Marsha's life was proof that Ashleigh had been right to choose either career or family, not both.

Unlike her mother, who'd bought into the popular notion that a woman wasn't complete without a child. At age forty-two, Nora Griffith had gone to a sperm bank for insemination. She'd been certain that she could be a superwoman and raise a child alone while maintaining her active banking career. Though she'd managed, Ashleigh had grown up knowing that superwoman's boots were not made in her size.

She would do it differently. Like Marsha.

"Need a ride?" Marsha asked, pulling Ashleigh from her reflections. She looked around the table and realized that the other women were getting ready to leave.

"Yes, thanks." Ashleigh's secondhand car had died a couple of weeks ago. She wasn't sure when she could manage the payments for a replacement. "I've been, um, car shopping, but no luck yet."

Catherine chimed in. "Going my way?" Her luxury condo and Marsha's high-rise apartment were both in the ritzy riverside district. Ashleigh lived downtown, in a more humble, eclectic neighborhood. "My car's in the shop. I had my brother-in-law drop me off for class."

"No problem," Marsha said. "We can take Ashleigh home first."

Ashleigh's hopes sank. She'd been looking for an opportunity to spend a few minutes alone with Marsha, to get advice about breaking into the tight New York job market.

"We should schedule our next critique session," she said, pulling out the handheld organizer that contained their contact info.

"It's my turn," Faith said.

Ashleigh made sure the other women had Faith's address. "Saturday afternoon, as usual?" she said, stylus poised.

"Actually, can we switch to an earlier time?" Nancy's face scrunched in concentration. "I'm pretty certain that my daughter, Brin, has a ballet recital Saturday afternoon."

"But I work out every Saturday morning," Ashleigh blurted.

The women looked at her with some amusement, assuming she'd have no problem with skipping or rearranging the workout. "Goodness," Faith said. "You're already so slender."

Nancy was dismissive. "So what, you eat one less cracker on Saturday."

Ashleigh held her tongue instead of arguing. They were probably right. She could be less rigid. But she liked her schedules and lists. They gave her a familiar sense of order.

The other women were gathering their notebooks and purses. Ashleigh reached for her wallet to pay her share, but Nancy waved her off and plunked down a credit card. "My treat." She tipped the bottle over her glass to drain the remaining wine. "No sense letting it go to waste." Faith exchanged a look with the other woman and discreetly offered Nancy a lift as they left the bar.

Ashleigh took the backseat of Marsha's practical Volvo, trying not to feel like a child riding with her parents. When the conversation turned to the new tires being put on Catherine's car, she settled back and slipped her cell phone from its pocket in her satchel, checking for voice mail messages.

Kirk had called. "Don't be mad, kitten. You know I love you."

That's not love, Ashleigh thought, erasing him with a press of a button. She wasn't exactly sure what love was, but she knew what it wasn't.

Time to get rid of Kirk. With a few taps of the keys, she deleted his number from her cell, then took out her Palm and removed all traces of him there, too, making sharp stabs with the stylus that felt strangely satisfying. There, and there, and there.

Take that, Kirk Etheridge. You're deleted from my life.

The satisfaction carried her through the ride home. Only when she unlocked the door to her quiet, practically empty apartment did she let down and feel the hollow inside. Was she missing Kirk…or was there something else she needed to fill the emptiness in her life?

Chapter Three

Subject: moving on

dear tad: forgot to tell u about the guy i met. ran into him on the sidewalk outside of class. there was something about him…something special. i mean, maybe on the outside he looks like all my other boyfriends, but I think you'd understand if u could meet him. his eyes, his smile — with only a few words, he was able to boost my spirits from their absolute low. now i can't even focus because my thoughts keep returning to him. stupid, i know, considering the disaster with kirk. i so don't want to be one of those women who always has to have a boyfriend. and I KNOW u would think he's too old for me. too bad. u have no say in what i do with my life —

Ashleigh quickly closed the email when she saw her boss striding through the newsroom. Gregor Thompson was in his fifties, a tall, imposing man with a fit body and thinning hair. He never ranted, nor even raised his voice. In fact, Ashleigh frequently found herself straining to hear him. She suspected he'd read an art of management book that said a quiet, even voice commanded more authority than a bellow. The reporters in the newsroom called him the News Whisperer behind his back, but they also hushed in his presence.

She sat up straighter and tucked her hair behind her ears as Gregor approached her desk. His lips moved. "Ashleigh Griffith."

She tilted forward. "Yes, sir?"

"You're finished with the zoning board report." An assumption, not a question. He didn't wait for her response. "I have another assignment for you."

She tapped at her laptop, calling up her notes on a story she hoped to pitch. No time like the present. "I was thinking I could look into that water contamination report the city issued on the New Hope River. I have a tip about illegal dumping upriver, in the next county —"

Gregor lifted one finger to cut her off. "Well and good. Look into it on your own time. If you find anything promising, submit your notes and I'll assign an investigative reporter."

"But —"

"I need you on this." Gregor laid a fax sheet on her desk. Her shoulders drooped when she saw it was a standard press release. "Groundbreaking ceremony for another condo development. Take a quick trip out there with a photographer, get a quote from the big cheese. You know the drill."

"Yes, I know the drill."

"Good girl," he said, and turned on his heel. Across the room, a features reporter tried to duck into the hallway, and he stopped her with an upraised brow. "Ms. Mangioni, a word."

Good girl, Ashleigh mimicked inside her head, working to maintain her composure. She wouldn't whine, even though Gregor might as well have said "Leave the important reporting to the big boys."

The press release crumpled in her fist. She was going nowhere fast in this job. Her scintillating zoning reports would not gain the attention of big city editors. She needed a real story.

"Don't even," called a woman from one of the office cubicles that bordered the open space of the newsroom. Felicia Cruz, the flamboyant, forty-something brunette who doubled as travel and lifestyles editor. Her cubicle looked as if she was holding a perpetual fiesta — an explosion of color and fripperies like bobble-head dolls, incense sticks and birthday cupcakes. Newsroom gossip had it that Gregor tolerated the disorder because he and Felicia had once been an item.

"Pardon?" Ashleigh blinked as Felicia sauntered to the cubicle opening. She'd come to work in bright orange capri pants and white patent-leather hooker boots.

"Don't give him your notes. Like he said, he'll only hand the story off to one of his favorites." Felicia put her hands on her hips. "Don't breathe a word until you have the entire story, then write it yourself and present it as a fait accompli. It's the only way."

Ashleigh looked dubious. She'd feel better about taking Felicia's advice if the woman was less…out there. "If you say so."

Felicia laughed. "I wasn't always the Carmen Miranda of the newsroom. I was a hard-nosed police reporter once upon a time. But I finally realized that junkets to Barbados were a lot more fun than hanging around the station hoping for a murder." She snapped her fingers. "You've gotta live a little, chica."

"My work is my life," Ashleigh said, knowing she sounded prissy.

Felicia flipped a hand. "To each her own."

"But thanks for the advice — about the story." Ashleigh picked up the phone to dial the photo department, then set it down. "Can we have lunch next week?"

Felicia looked surprised. "Sure. Have you reconsidered my offer?" She'd recruited Ashleigh for the lifestyle section early on, but Ashleigh had declined. Hard news was where it's at — even if she had to start at the bottom with Gregor Thompson's scut jobs.

"Actually, there's someone I want you to meet. Marsha Cowen. She's interested in submitting a travel article."

"The Marsha Cowen?" Felicia's kohl-ringed eyes widened when Ashleigh nodded. "I had no idea you were so well connected."

For a moment or two, Ashleigh basked in the reflection of greatness before confessing. "I'm not, really. We met in a creative writing class."

"Why would Marsha Cowen be taking creative writing?"

"I'm not entirely sure. She seems to be on a leave from work and wants to try something new, like travel writing." Marsha had been circumspect on the subject.

Felicia nodded. "Burnout." She pointed a long red fingernail at Ashleigh. "See what I mean? All work and no play makes for a very dull life."

Ashleigh smiled noncommittally and placed her call. After arranging to meet a photographer in the lobby in five minutes, she gathered her gear and said a pleasant goodbye to Felicia. But she thought about their conversation all the way to the construction site, and finally decided that she was worrying needlessly. Felicia's idea of a good time involved margaritas and tiki torches. Ashleigh preferred quiet candlelight dinners. She was just…different. Not a stiff.

And Marsha Cowen was only on a break.

"We're here," said Stevo, the young, good-natured photographer Ashleigh was often paired with. He had a girlfriend, so she'd been spared the awkwardness of explaining that she didn't date colleagues.

Ashleigh gazed past the windshield. They were parked in a makeshift lot overlooking the vast site of the Rivertowne development. Familiar red-and-white signage and flags signified the builders — Tripletree Developments, which was a subsidiary of Tri-Thorn Investment Company. Broad swaths of grass and underbrush had already been ripped out and the land leveled. Several earthmovers were lined up behind the knot of people gathering for the groundbreaking ceremony.

"Give me five minutes." Ashleigh unzipped her laptop carrier. She should have been researching on the drive over instead of fretting over Felicia's comments. She'd downloaded Tri-Thorn's annual report after covering a city board meeting where the company had pushed through a rezoning plan despite the protests of a citizen group.

Stevo had already grabbed his equipment from the backseat. "See ya there."

Minutes later, Ashleigh was working her way to the front of the onlookers as one of Tri-Thorn's major investors dug a spade into the dirt. The mayor of New Hope posed with one low-heeled pump resting on her spade. There was a smattering of applause. Cameras clicked.

A question was poised on Ashleigh's lips, but a face in the lineup behind the bigwigs stopped her. Dark hair, blue eyes, the lopsided grin that made her heart flip. Yes, it was him. The stranger from the sidewalk.

The Tri-Thorn honcho was introducing his team. Ashleigh tore her gaze off the only man who truly interested her and tapped feverishly at the screen of her PDA, trying to catch the others' names and jobs.

Her sidewalk Romeo received the final introduction. "From Kleinman, Scott and Torrance, the project architect, Mark Torrance." To polite applause, Mark stepped forward and nodded.

Mark Torrance. Ashleigh didn't have to graffiti that one into her Palm. She wasn't going to forget. "Get a picture," she told Stevo. "Of the Tri-Thorn team."

The ceremony finished quickly and most of the crowd disbanded. Ashleigh approached Mark Torrance, holding out her hand. "Ashleigh Griffith. I'm with the Chronicle."

"I know you." His dimples appeared. "Care to dance?"

Returning the smile, she indicated the construction site. "Concrete works better than dirt for dancing, I'm afraid." Hey, girl. You're not here to flirt. She cleared her throat. "I have a few questions about your work with Tripletree Developments. Do you mind?"

"Not at all. Want to get out of here? We can talk over coffee."

Ashleigh agreed with a flush of pleasure and waved for Stevo. He looked skeptical when she told him she was going for coffee with the architect, Mark Torrance, but she put the photographer out of her mind. This was an interview, not a date.

At least not yet.

Mark escorted her to the parking area. She scanned for the black Porsche. Fruitlessly.

He stopped beside a silver BMW SUV and beeped open the door. She glanced inside, saw crumbs and a crumpled page from a coloring book on the floor mat. Mark grabbed a floppy doll off the passenger seat and tossed it to the backseat, amongst a jumble that included a Kim Possible lunch box, a baseball mitt, assorted children's clothing and a couple of crushed juice boxes.

Ashleigh looked at the family of smiling faces evident in the photos pinned to the visor. The blood drained from her face.

She whipped around to stare daggers at Mark Torrance. "Don't you dare lie to me. I have to know. Are you married?"

Chapter Four

Ashleigh and Mark squared off. She looked ready to take him down for the count. The thought would have been amusing, as she was so petite, but apparently she was deadly serious.

"Are you married?" she demanded.

"No," he said at once. "I'm not married." Not anymore.

She pulled in a deep breath. There was a wariness in her eyes that made him think someone had hurt her. "Separated counts as married in my book."

"Mine, too. I'm divorced. Got the final decree months ago." First time that he was glad to say so. He inclined his head to the SUV. The door still hung open. "Are you willing to go for coffee with a divorced man?"

"I suppose. For an interview, anyway." She swung her satchel in first and then climbed into the vehicle, cute as a button in a pinstripe trouser suit. He'd been attracted from the start by her enticing mixture of intensity, shyness and beauty. But of course she was too young for him.

"You're sure you're divorced," she said when he got behind the wheel.

"I wouldn't deceive you about that. Divorce isn't a joke. A year after the fact my kids are still dealing with the upheaval." He pointed to the photos on the visor. He'd seen her notice them. "This is Logan and that's Violet. He's ten and she's three and a half. You might as well know up front, I'm a devoted father. They come first for me, always."

"Even before your job?"

"Absolutely."

"What about your ex-wife?"

He tried a grin. "Since the divorce went through, she's further down the list."

Ashleigh frowned. "I mean, what happened? Do you see her often? Who has custody? Is there any chance you'll get back together?"

"How about we hold off on the rapid-fire questions until I get some caffeine in my system?" Ashleigh winced and fell silent until he got her chatting about her job — she'd been a staff reporter at the Chronicle for about a year — and his firm's lucrative contract with Tripletree Developments. She asked about the town house project, sniffing for a story. Although there were critical rumblings about Tri-Thorn trying to take over New Hope, he was proud of his work for them.

He brought Ashleigh to his favorite hangout near the office, Café Noir on Third Avenue, a locally owned coffeehouse with retro tables and stools and quilted steel on the walls, industrial kitchen-style. She asked for an espresso. "How about a muffin?" he prompted. "Maybe a scone? A brownie? You look like you could use the calories."

She refused with a polite but frosty air.

"I'm sorry," he said as they settled at a small round table. "That was rude of me. I wouldn't comment if you needed to lose a few pounds."

The apology relaxed her. She made a wrinkle-nosed grin. "Exactly. I'm always being told I'm too skinny. And rigid about my workout regimen. And superorganized, and single-minded." Awkward laugh. "That's all true, but even so…"

"It's not anyone else's place to point it out." He wondered why control was so important to her.

"I don't see any reason to change, even if I could." She shrugged. "I like setting goals and having a direction."

"Ambition is admirable." He studied her face. Full, soft lips, fresh skin, magnetic blue eyes set off by black lashes and finely arched brows. Young, but not naive. She was too driven and sharp for that. "What is yours?"

"To move to New York City within a year. I want to work at one of the large newspapers or magazines and see one of my short stories published in The New Yorker. After that, a novel or a screenplay, maybe a Pulitzer."

"How about an Oscar and the Nobel Prize for Literature?" She was young. Too young to know that life threw curve balls.

Ashleigh picked up the espresso, inhaling the strongly-scented steam. "You think I'm silly."

"No, just very young and optimistic."

"My age has nothing to do with it. I was born a perfectionist."

"Born? You were this way even as a child?"

"Yes. My mother worked long hours, and I don't have a father, so I grew up to be very responsible. I've always been mature for my age." She looked at him over the rim of her cup, then dropped her lids and took a sip. Daintily, she set the cup down and picked up a napkin to dab at her lips. Her red lipstick left a faint mark on the linen, like the imprint of a kiss.

"Divorced parents?" he asked.

She shook her head, not volunteering any more information. "Tell me about you."

He grinned. "Suddenly I'm feeling like a slacker. When I was your age, I was only interested in earning lots of money and having a good time."

She blinked. "Really?"

"Yes, really. I was something of a playboy."

"What happened?"

"My girlfriend got pregnant. I was twenty-six and Natalie was two years older. I wasn't ready for marriage, but she was, and the baby settled the deal. Logan's arrival changed my life. I did a complete 180, from carefree bachelor to dedicated father." Mark smiled at the memories. His life had once been black and white. The kids had colored him a rainbow.

"Natalie's family set a good example for me. They're close and extremely devoted. Always there for one another." Especially now, he thought, when troubles had come with his and Natalie's divorce and an illness in the family. Although Mark was technically no longer connected, they treated him as if he were still part of the family. He suspected that Natalie's sister held out hope they'd reunite.

"In that case, I'm surprised you were divorced." Ashleigh was looking suspicious again.

"People change," he said, though it was Natalie who'd changed. One day, she'd decided that she'd had enough of being a housewife and had announced she was leaving him to enter law school. He'd been willing to carry on with the marriage, but in the end they had agreed that they'd never been as much in love as they ought to have been. "Some marriages break with a snap," he said, "and others simply divide and grow apart."

"I'm sorry," Ashleigh said. "Especially for your children…"

Mark took a swallow of his latte. "They're adjusting. They'd like to see their mother more often, but I do the best that I can."

Ashleigh gave her head a little shake. "You mean that you have custody? Most divorced guys are satisfied to be Saturday dads."

He wondered how many she'd known. Her own father, perhaps? "My ex-wife is in law school. She has the kids on weekends."

"Whew." Ashleigh rolled her bottom lip as she stared at him. "You're so not what I expected."

"That doesn't sound like a compliment."

"It's —" She slid back on the stool, folding her hands into her lap. "It's not a choice between good and bad. We're just very different. Children aren't in my future at all."

"You say that now…"

"I know what I'm talking about. I was brought up by a single mother who tried to do it all — career and family. It's impossible. One or the other gets short shrift — maybe both — and I'm too ambitious for that."

"Well. You do sound very certain."

Ashleigh folded her arms. "Believe me. I am."

"Shame," Mark said, "because I would have liked to get to know you better. But I come with kids, and there's no way around that."
 

* * *

Subject: future perfect

dear tad: i know u of all people understand my reasoning. u r the very epitome of clear-cut, bloodless, uncomplicated decisions. no messy emotion or squid-like commitments with their tangled tentacles squirming into every part of your existence, searching, searching for your heart, only to squeeze the life right out of it, all in the name of love —

Stop it, Ashleigh!

Subject: future perfect

dear tad: i know i'm right. my choice is set. mark has young kids who are the major force in his life, ergo he's wrong for me. just because it felt so right with him and we talked easily and he charmed me with his good looks and his total honesty (kirk looks like such a loser slimeball now; i can't imagine what i was thinking), doesn't mean that we should date. he wanted to ask me and, yes, for a minute there, i really, really wanted to forget about my plans for the perfect life and just go for it with him. for the short term anyhow. he indicated no desire whatsoever that he was looking for a new wife and mother, so it's not as if —

Ashleigh's cell phone chirped. She set the laptop on the bed beside her and reached into the leather briefbag on the floor. "Hello?"

"Ashleigh. It's Mark."

"Mark? I — uh — I —" Jeepers creepers. His voice alone gave her the shivers.

"I know," he said. "At first I thought I'd think up an excuse for calling, like to give you the inside story on Tripletree —"

"Is there an inside story?"

He laughed. "No. Not like you're hoping for." He stopped and breathed as if he'd been running. She knew the feeling. Her pulse was doing a 10K.

"I'm calling for a date," he said.

She pulled her legs, clad in loose cotton pajama pants, up to her chest. Hugged them, smiling. Almost giddy. "But I thought we decided not to do that."

"I've been listing the reasons not to in my head. And they don't matter. All I know is that I want to see you again. Dinner…tomorrow night? What do you say?"

"Yes." She was barely able to contain her delight. "I say yes."

Chapter Five

Faith put on a full brunch spread for the group's Saturday critique session. The other women exclaimed over the food as they filled their plates at the dining room buffet. Faith brushed off the compliments by explaining that she was making up for cooking the bare minimum during the weeks she'd been on fire to finish her book.

Ashleigh helped herself to scrambled eggs, skipped the breads and meat, then chose from a selection of cut fruit. She sat and looked around at the beautifully appointed room. Faith's home was gracious and elegant. As a girl, Ashleigh had longed for such a life. Now, of course, she understood why her mother had kept to a contemporary condo in a complex populated by professionals and retirees — low maintenance and convenient location. It just hadn't been the best place to raise children.

As they ate, the women returned to the discussion of their rough draft assignments. Faith had revised a scene from her book to enrich the "love heals" theme. Catherine's piece was a memoir of a trip to Italy with her husband. Her motif was endings. She'd interwoven images of a golden sunset, crumbling brick, a lonely street sweeper.

"Ashleigh," said Faith, "you didn't read."

Nancy nibbled a sausage. "All she's done is sit there and smile like an idiot. What's up with that?"

"I couldn't concentrate on the assignment." Another goofy grin spread across Ashleigh's face. Her cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

"Aha." Marsha nodded. "A new man. I recognize the signs."

"Another one?" Catherine said, over Faith's incredulous, "Already?"

"I met him outside of our class last week." The words bubbled out before Ashleigh could stop them. "He's wonderful. Smart and handsome and mature. He's even helping me with background for an investigative piece for the paper."

"Older, I take it?" asked caustic Nancy, sending an "I told you so" look around the table.

Catherine leaned over and murmured with Faith, then said, "Excuse me," to the rest of them as the two left the table to go to the kitchen.

"Be careful," cautioned Marsha, after watching Catherine's exit with a worried frown. "He'll expect something in return."

"Mark's not like that! We have the most amazing connection. He took me to dinner last night, and we could have talked all night —" Ashleigh heard how ardent she sounded and tried to dial the enthusiasm back a few notches. "But it was just one date. Nothing serious. He has kids, and I am not the mothering type."

"How do you know?" Faith asked as she returned with a coffee pot. She refilled Marsha's cup. "Do you have any experience with children, Ashleigh? You may make an excellent mother."

"The girl's twenty-three." Nancy stirred her Bloody Mary with a stalk of celery. "Don't rush her into motherhood. Let her enjoy herself." With a crunch, Nancy bit off the end of the dripping stalk. "With kids her own age, preferably."

The last comment stung. Ashleigh had always been out of place with her peers. Too shy, too studious, too serious.

"Not every woman needs to have children," Marsha put in with her usual quiet assurance. She'd confided to the group that her marriage had broken up in part because of her decision against motherhood.

"Certainly not," Faith quickly responded. "I only meant that Ashleigh should make an informed decision."

Nancy let out a raucous laugh. "I smell a babysitter! Come on over to my house some weekend, Ash. Brin and Scott will introduce you to the joys of motherhood."

Faith clapped with delight. "I'll bring my three over, too."

"Let's not go overboard," Marsha said. She studied Ashleigh, absently fingering the collar of her white silk shirt. Her thick red ponytail was anchored by a beaded band. "I hate to say it, but they might be right. Concentrating on your career is all well and good, especially at your age. But don't rule out your options too soon."

Doubts? Ashleigh wondered. Surely not Marsha!

"If you really want to, you can do both," Marsha said. Faith agreed.

Resolutely, Ashleigh shook her head. "I've made up my mind. It's going to be either/or for me."

"O, sweet youth." Nancy sighed. "Life is so clean-cut when you're twenty."

The three women looked at Ashleigh with doting smiles. She fumed, silently standing by her decision. She wasn't naive or uninformed. All her life she'd seen her mother torn between motherhood and career. That was too hard. Ashleigh wouldn't do that to her own children.

But Mark was, she suddenly realized. And by all accounts he managed nicely. The past night, over drinks and appetizers, he'd gone on and on about his children. Ashleigh had found herself fascinated by his clear love and dedication. She'd never known a father who was so devoted.

Yet he did have a career — a busy one. Nonetheless, he claimed his children came first, even though it had sounded like their mother was little help except on weekends. How was that possible?

A nanny and housekeeper. Ashleigh nodded to herself. She'd ask. Mark was lucky if he could afford full-time help, she supposed. Funny how it took two paid positions to fill a mother's shoes. Ha. Add an outside job to the mix and it was no wonder that contemporary women were so exhausted.

Not me, Ashleigh vowed. I have big plans.

Mark's animated face returned to her mind's eye. Their evening truly had been remarkable. If she'd dared to own up to her feelings, she'd have had to admit that she was already a little bit in love with him, children and all. She'd been coasting on endorphins for the past forty-eight hours, and only a concerted effort kept her on a somewhat even keel.

Catherine returned to the table. Faith put a hand out to stroke the blonde's shoulder reassuringly. "How is he?"

Catherine's face was sad. "As well as can be expected."

Faith explained to the group. "You already know that Catherine's husband, Graham, is ill and under full-time care. I'm afraid he had an especially bad night. The situation's not critical, but Catherine wanted to call to check on him."

Nancy gasped. "Of course you did, honey." She got up and stood behind Catherine's chair, encircling her in a hug. "I'm so sorry."

"Oh, Catherine." Marsha's husky voice cracked with emotion. "That's rough. If there's ever anything I can do…"

Ashleigh murmured sympathetically before rising from the table with her plate. She rushed into the kitchen and scraped the contents into the trash can, blinking hard. She felt so selfish.

"Ashleigh?" Faith came into the kitchen. "Are you okay?"

"Sure." She moved to the sink and set her plate beside it on the granite countertop, careful not to chip the fine china. "I'm not good with big emotional scenes." Especially those concerning husbands and fathers. "I never have the right words."

"Words aren't important."

"Hey." Ashleigh tried to grin and wound up having to knuckle away an escaping tear. She sniffed. "You're a writer. You're not supposed to say that."

Faith gave Ashleigh a comforting hug. "Don't tell Niall."

Although she wanted to stay in the motherly embrace, Ashleigh broke away. She zeroed in on the family photos magnetized to the stainless steel refrigerator. "Are these your kids?"

"Yes. And my husband, Ben." Faith indicated a close-up of a handsome, well-built man with curly brown hair.

"Nice." Ashleigh gazed longingly at the shots of family frivolity — beach vacations, birthday parties, casual times at home.

Faith was looking at her with a knowing, bemused expression. "But of course you're a full-time mom," Ashleigh pointed out.

"Not so much the past month when my book was taking over my brain."

"What will you do if you get a publishing contract? Maybe a real writing career?"

"I'll juggle," Faith said with confidence. "Ben has always been a great dad, and he's promised to do his share." She chuckled. "We'll see. It's not as if I'm counting on an acceptance anytime soon."

"I think it will happen." Ashleigh was no connoisseur of romance fiction; she'd always assumed love stories were too sentimental and unrealistic for a cutting-edge girl like her. But Faith's book had changed her mind.

And Ashleigh wasn't known for changing her mind.

Chapter Six

On Tuesday, Ashleigh met Marsha and Felicia Cruz for lunch. She felt very important, and had selected the restaurant carefully, going for a chic, casual contemporary feel. An early reservation had earmarked a good table by the windows overlooking the downtown business district.

Marsha and Felicia hit it off over tortilla chips and guacamole dip. Soon the editor was offering Marsha a regular travel feature, even though she'd only glanced at the copy Marsha had brought along — a previous class assignment she'd written about biking in India. Ashleigh was thrilled at the prospect of counting the TV journalist as her colleague, but Marsha remained aloof. Not disinterested, exactly. Reserved.

While she ate her Cobb salad, Ashleigh thought of the work Marsha had read in their critique sessions. "You should show Felicia your other writing. She'd snap them up for feature pieces." Ashleigh turned to the editor. "There was one essay about starving children in Bangladesh, and one —"

Marsha interrupted. "I'm not sure I'm ready to go public with those. Thanks anyway, Ashleigh."

"Oh. Sorry. It's just that — well, they're so good. With your name, you could even have them published as a collection."

Felicia's dark eyes gleamed with interest, though she said nothing, only smiled to herself as she took a bite of her salmon. Marsha's business card was safely tucked away in her purse.

"I'd rather keep to travel articles for now." Marsha shrugged. "Change of pace."

"Change of lifestyle for me," Felicia said. "There came a time when chasing down leads and massaging informants got old. I decided life behind a desk wasn't so bad after all." She smiled at Ashleigh's expression. "Our girl here has the fire in her belly."

"Good for her." Marsha's flinty tone hinted at the dogged reporter she'd been.

"But I'm getting nowhere fast," Ashleigh said. "I thought there might be a story in Tri-Thorn Investments. A company that big and that powerful is probably up to something. So far, all I've found is one disgruntled carpenter who claimed they're using substandard materials." She shook her head. "And a project architect who says they're not."

Marsha's eyes narrowed. "Which do you believe?"

"The architect, without a doubt." Granted, Ashleigh had been wrong in the past about men. But she was ninety-nine percent certain of Mark's honesty, both professionally and personally.

"Get the guided tour of one of the project sites from the company's PR man," Marsha said.

"Waste of time. They'll only show me what they want me to see."

"And you see all of it. Then drop by the same site unexpectedly. They'll hustle you off, of course. But there's no telling what you might learn."

Ashleigh picked through her salad. "I have an inside track with the architect, Mark Torrance." She glanced at Marsha. "I told you about him at Faith's…."

"That could get complicated."

"I won't let it." But Ashleigh wondered what Mark would say if she told him that for her, career came first. He should respect her choice as much as she respected his. Yes, that was perfectly sensible.

The women had finished their meal and were getting ready to leave when Ashleigh glanced out the window and saw a strange sight. Mark was rushing toward the bistro with a child in his arms — a chubby little girl in a pair of pink bib overalls. Strawberry blond ringlets framed her dimpled cheeks and big blue eyes.

Ashleigh quickly signed the receipt the waitress had delivered and tossed her credit card into her purse. She tucked the clutch under her arm — for once, she'd gone out without her fully equipped brief-bag. "Excuse me for a minute," she said to her lunch mates. "I see someone I know."

Both Felicia and Marsha turned to watch as Ashleigh hurried to the front of the restaurant. Mark burst through the door. "Ashleigh!" he said. "Thank God. Can you take Violet to the ladies' room?"

"Uh — I — ah, I guess so…?"

"It's an emergency." He thrust the redheaded girl into Ashleigh's arms.

She staggered under the weight, catching Violet at the armpits so that she could hold the child away from her gray linen skirt. She half expected body fluids to spout from one end or the other, but all that came were a few tears as Violet's face scrunched into worried pink creases. Mark made reassuring sounds over Ashleigh's shoulder as she rushed the girl into the ladies' room.

Ashleigh put Violet down in a stall. "What do I do now?" she called to Mark, who was hovering near the door, making apologies as a woman exited with an alarmed hmmph.

"Get the overalls down as fast as you can. She had a carton of whole milk at her preschool and it doesn't agree with her."

Violet made a face. "Tummy hurts."

"Good grief." Ashleigh peeled the clothing off the girl and plopped her onto the toilet. She slowly backed away, raising her voice for Mark's benefit. "Okay, I've done it. She's, uh, all set. What's next?" Violet hunched, balancing on the porcelain with her overalls hanging inside-out over her shoes. "Do I have to hold her? Will she fall in? Does she know how to…" Ashleigh dropped her voice "…wipe?"

"Um, well…" came Mark's voice. In one of the closed stalls, a woman chuckled. Her feet went up on their heels, as if she expected a puddle to encroach her cubicle.

Ashleigh set her clutch purse on the long vanity with multiple sinks, keeping one eye on Violet while trying to make it appear she wasn't watching too closely. Even a three-year-old deserved some privacy, right?

After a minute, Ashleigh darted into the entryway, where Mark waited by the half-open door. "I think she's going."

"Whew." He grinned. "Thanks. You saved my upholstery. I'm double-parked in a fire lane."

"Want to go and move your car? I think I can handle this."

"No, I might as well wait now that we're here. It's just as quick."

Ashleigh left to check on Violet. The little girl had hopped down and was fumbling with her inside-out overalls. Ashleigh gritted her teeth and entered the stall, reaching for the toilet paper. With her face averted, she took care of business and got Violet reclothed. "See the sinks? I'll bet you're a big girl who always remembers to wash her hands."

"Okay," Violet said in a whispery voice. She ran to the sinks and was just able to reach the tap with a chubby little hand.

Ashleigh stopped to flush the toilet. Struggling to get more paper from the dispenser to wipe up the dribbles, she checked on Mark's daughter over her shoulder. She was flushing again when her cell phone rang.

"Phone," Violet said. "Answer the phone."

Ashleigh came out of the stall as the girl reached into her purse. "That's all right, Violet, let it ring —"

"Phone!" Violet ran toward Ashleigh on stubby legs, the slim cell phone clutched in one wet hand, the purse dangling from the other, spilling its contents on the tile floor. Credit card, wallet, lipstick, condom.

Eek! Ashleigh knelt and opened her arms to catch the girl. Violet ran straight to her, all right, but she also reared back and tossed the chirping cell phone into the air with a gurgle of delight. A distinctly wet plop told Ashleigh where it had landed.

Mark called out worriedly. "What's going on in there? Having troubles?"

Ashleigh was exasperated, but the feel of Violet's sturdy little body in her arms and the child's innocent chortles at her achievement were strangely mollifying. Even sweet.

"We're doing fine," she said to Mark. "Just dumping my current calling plan."

Chapter Seven

"How can I make it up to you?"

"Really, Mark, there's nothing to make up! I'm fine. I survived. It was just my cell phone that didn't." Ashleigh smiled to herself. Admittedly she'd been flustered by the ladies' room incident, but strangely the loss of her cell phone hadn't bothered her as much as it should have. "No big deal."

"I'll take you shopping, then. Buy you a new phone."

"I already did that." She'd gone an entire day without one, then had caved and rushed out on her lunch hour to the nearest electronics store, where they knew her by name. "What do you think I'm talking to you on?"

"Oh," he said. "Right. But you'll let me pay for it."

"That's okay. I needed to update to the new model anyway."

He sighed. "I wanted you to meet my kids — eventually. Didn't expect it to happen under those circumstances. I've got to tell you, though, that was typical. Life with Logan and Violet is never dull. I've learned to roll with the punches." He chuckled. "You rolled very well yourself."

"I was all thumbs."

"You were fantastic. I'll never forget your face when I shoved Violet at you."

Ashleigh giggled. "I was glad to help." She lifted a hand to acknowledge her friends as they walked past. Faith pointed to the classroom. The break was ending. Other students drifted by. Ashleigh leaned against the wall. She didn't want to hang up yet.

"But, seriously," Mark said, returning to the same refrain. "If I can't pay damages, there must be something else I can do for you."

Love me. She cupped the cell phone to her cheek as a sweet rush of longing swept through her. Mark was everything she wanted, except for one complication — his children.

Kind of a gigantic complication.

Ashleigh straightened. She had to be smart and hard, not soft and sentimental. "You could give me a guided tour of a Tripletree construction project."

"Sure. But that's professional." His voice dropped. "What can I do for you after hours?"

She put her mouth closer to the phone and purred, "I'm free Saturday night."

"Natalie will have the kids. Want to come over to my place for a romantic dinner? Candlelight, privacy, no bathroom emergencies to break the mood..."

Ashleigh laughed softly. "Sounds wonderful." This could work if I only see him when the kids are away, Ashleigh thought to herself. I never wanted a boyfriend who demanded too much of my time anyway. Nor one who wanted all of me.

Great plan. Perfect. Exactly what I want.

Then why wasn't she satisfied?

Frowning at her unaccustomed confusion, Ashleigh ended the call with Mark and hurried to the classroom. The other students were still getting settled. Niall hadn't returned yet — he was late.

Abby leaned forward to nudge Ashleigh's arm. "Call the new boyfriend?"

She turned and nodded. "We have a date for Saturday night."

"I'm jealous. The only guys I meet are so —" Abby rolled her eyes at Roger's caveman hair "— inappropriate." She perked up when Niall walked into the room, then wilted again when she saw that Catherine was with him. "Speaking of inappropriate..."

Ashleigh's mouth tightened. She dug into her satchel and pulled out a hardcover book. "Before I forget, here's that copy of Story I promised to lend you. I finished it last week. You should get a lot out of it." Abby had confessed that in her fantasies, she sold a million-dollar romantic-comedy screenplay to Hollywood and was swept away from her humdrum existence forever.

"Thanks." Abby took the book. She glanced at Ashleigh and mouthed, "Sorry."

Ashleigh shrugged. It wasn't any of her business if Niall had an interest in Catherine, or vice versa, whatever their age difference. But it was a little weird to realize how she must appear to others, with her similar attraction to older men.

She jerked back to awareness when Niall spoke her name. "Ashleigh." He took off his glasses and fixed her with his gaze. She was pinned like a butterfly. "You haven't read yet."

She made a face, having hoped that they'd move on to a discussion of the next assignment after the break. "Do I have to?"

"No. But you won't get as much out of the class if you don't."

"All right." Ashleigh dragged her pages out of a leather folder, took a deep breath and read as fast as she could. She'd set her scene at a trendy Manhattan cocktail party. Her idea of one. The theme was the disenfranchisement of individuals. She'd illustrated it with symbols of space and coldness — the echo of footsteps in a minimalist loft, the clatter of ice cubes in a glass. Not particularly original, but she'd polished the vignette until not a word was out of place.

The classroom was silent when she finished. Niall rubbed his stubbly chin. "Any comments?"

Roger raised his hand. "It's antiseptic."

"That's what I was going for," Ashleigh said. She glanced at Roger, sprawled halfway into the row between desks again, and pulled her elbows into her body.

Roger's lip lifted into a sneer. "Then you achieved it spectacularly."

A middle-aged lady who usually wrote about her pets lifted a tentative hand. "The piece did set a certain tone, but it wasn't the kind of tone the average reader enjoys. Don't people want to be entertained and involved? Ashleigh's story was so dry I didn't care for a single one of the characters."

"You have a point," Niall said. "But let's focus on the symbolism." He looked over the students. "Marsha?"

"The symbolism was effective. That's easy to tell from our reactions."

Ashleigh felt a little better. Then Marsha's mouth puckered in thought. "But I wonder how Ashleigh would have managed if she'd chosen a theme and symbols less common to her. You know, stretched a little."

Abby waved her hand. "But we're supposed to write what we know."

"I'm writing a mystery and I don't know murder," Nancy said. She gave an evil chuckle. "Except in my fantasies about doing in the ex and his bimbo."

Niall smiled at the scattered laughter before getting them back on track. "How do you feel, Ashleigh? Were you writing what you know?"

Ashleigh worried at her lip. "Not really, I guess."

Roger snorted. "You mean you're not an ice princess?"

"No personal comments, please." Niall tilted his head at Ashleigh. "You make me wonder why you've used a similar setting and theme in all your assignments. Is that a conscious choice?"

"I suppose." Being the focus of attention made Ashleigh quiver inside, but outwardly she remained a cool cucumber. "I want my stories to be intelligent and witty. I don't particularly care about pop entertainment."

"What about emotion?" Niall went around the desk and picked up a piece of chalk. He paused for a moment, gathering himself, and then began writing at the top left corner, continuing without stopping until the entire board was filled. Ashleigh's eyes sped through the dense paragraph — a jumble of words and thoughts that formed a peephole into Niall's mind.

He turned to face the class, dusting off his hands. "Stream of consciousness. Your next assignment." He nodded at Ashleigh. "This one's especially important for you, Ashleigh. While your writing is skilled, it's also much too careful and self-aware. I want you — all of you — to turn off the internal editor that inhibits your work and write from the heart and soul, not the brain."

Ashleigh's fingertips crashed down on the keys of her laptop, producing a garbled line of type. She wiggled uncomfortably in the desk chair as she deleted the garbage. Oh, please! Turn off the brain — turn on the heart? I might as well take my F now, because I'll never be able to do that. Never!
 

* * *

Subject: matters of the brain

dear tad: i'm starting to wonder if my life is veering out of control. on the surface, it's all smooth-going. i'm setting up the tripletree tour with mark and i don't even have to be sneaky about it. he knows i'm looking for a story, but he's so sure of the company's honest intentions that he's willing to prove he's right. so maybe i'm chasing my tail there.

chasing tail...bwahaha. good segue, you think? truthfully, i'm not so sure about the date with mark either. it would be crazy to let myself fall in love, considering his circumstances. violet was cute and all — really, really adorable, even with the wiping-the-bottom and drowning-the-cell complications — but i barely managed five minutes with her. five disastrous minutes. and mark is absolutely the type of guy who'd expect me to lovelovelove his kids. before we go any further, i'll have to talk to him about that. but whenever we speak, all my doubts vanish and i get all gooey inside —

see what I mean? way out of control. the only upside to that is that maybe i'll be able to do my class assignment after all. :-(

btw, how's life in the deep freeze?

Ashleigh

Chapter Eight

"I'm sorry if my whining was a bore," Ashleigh told Marsha the following Saturday afternoon. She was sacked out on the Italian leather sofa in the living room of Marsha's chic apartment. The decor was similar to Ashleigh's, except for the funky appeal of ethnic artifacts. "I'm afraid I'll never get the knack of that stream of consciousness thing."

The other members of the critique group had just left. Marsha surveyed the used glasses and plates, the messy pile of papers gathered on the steel-and-glass coffee table. With a wry smile, she smoothed her wavy red hair behind her ears. The October sunshine flooding the floor-to-ceiling windows highlighted the strands of silver and the fine lines around her eyes and mouth.

"You gave it a good try." Marsha collected two glasses and put them with the others on the table, then gave up and threw her lean, athletic body onto the sofa. "If it had been twenty years ago, I'd have passed out weed instead of wine and you might have relaxed more and really learned to go with the flow."

As a group, the women had really loosened up, even gotten a little wild and wacky as they slurped red wine and experimented with their stream of consciousness assignment. Marsha had supplied colored markers and large sheets of paper. They'd scribbled, doodled, written long, jumbled paragraphs, told secrets and jokes. Most of all, they had laughed uproariously.

And still Ashleigh was blocked.

"It's hopeless." She shoved her hands into the pouch pocket of her hoodie. "I'm hopeless."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Marsha smiled, crinkling her eyes even more. "I sense a modicum of mellow. You're even wearing jeans and sneakers instead of a business suit."

"I skipped my workout too. Well, sort of. I did go for a five-mile run along the river before coming here."

Marsha pulled an African batik pillow into her lap. "Hm. How come you skipped?"

"Laziness." That wasn't the entire truth. Ashleigh had been up late, chatting with Mark via instant messages on her computer. She'd slept so well and had such nice dreams, this morning she hadn't wanted to get out of bed.

"Got the love bug," Marsha observed.

Ashleigh grinned bashfully. "I know the other women think I'm falling for the wrong guy again. Even I thought that, at first. But it's different with Mark."

"Why?"

"It feels real. Deep. Not superficial. On the surface, he seems like my perfect type and that's probably what first attracted me. But the thing is that he's not slick like Kirk. He has this real life that he wants to share with me and I'm actually considering it, even though it might include the kids." Ashleigh stopped for a breath. Whoa. She was spilling her guts — and Marsha was listening and nodding. Not like a mentor. Like a friend.

"Would that be a mistake? I can't give up my career. But Mark… Ashleigh closed her eyes for a moment. "If only I could have both."

Marsha had turned her face to gaze out the window. "It's a hard decision."

"Do you regret yours?"

"Not exactly. There are times I wonder what might have been."

"Everyone has those thoughts," Ashleigh said. "Some people act on them. That was why my mother had me — she was afraid of getting old and regretting that she'd never had a child."

Marsha looked interested. "You sound as though you think she made the wrong choice."

"Of course I'm glad to be alive." Ashleigh slid deeper into the sofa cushion, digging her chin into her chest. "But I've always wished I had a dad."

"Yours wasn't involved?"

"My so-called father was so uninvolved they never even met." Ashleigh glanced at Marsha and swallowed nervously. "He was a depositor at a sperm bank."

"Ahh. That explains a lot."

Ashleigh disliked being psychoanalyzed, so she covered with a light joking tone. "With her career in banking, Mom took a lot of teasing about making that sort of withdrawal. For the first few years of my life, I was known as Mommy's little dividend."

She changed the direction of the conversation by saying, "I noticed you have family photos." An evenly spaced row of them in the hallway, all black-and-whites, with wide mats and sleek silver frames. She'd been drawn to them with the same interest she'd shown when examining Faith's photos.

"My brother's family," Marsha said. "We're close. I'm the fun aunt who drops in from exotic places, distributes trinkets, tells stories and takes the kids out to eat."

Ashleigh sighed enviously. "That's so smart. I wish I could snap my fingers and have your life."

Marsha's throaty laugh was knowing. "How ironic. We could switch places and then I'd finally have the chance to find out if whether or not I'd make the same choices if I had to do it all again."
 

* * *

Mark raced around his house, flinging toys into a laundry basket. Though Ashleigh was skittish about his children, he wasn't about to erase their presence. Order would be nice, however. She appreciated order.

He shoved the basket into the coat closet and ran to the kitchen. The skinless chicken breasts were roasting. Asparagus — ready to steam. He took a bag of cut lettuce out of the fridge and dumped it in a big wooden bowl. The kitchen was fully stocked with implements, pots and pans — everything. His ex-wife had left everything but her personal items. She'd said that was so the children would be less disrupted; he thought she was also glad to get away from the clutter and responsibility of their daily lives.

Considering how they'd begun, it was strange that he'd been the one who'd taken so readily to family life. Then why was he getting involved with another woman who couldn't see that even the duties were a joy?

He didn't know. When it came to Ashleigh, he simply couldn't stop his feelings. The surge of love was that pure and strong.

The doorbell rang. His heart jumped.

On the way to answer it, he took a lighter from his pocket and flicked the flame over the candles on the dining room table. He turned the lights low and opened the door.

Ashleigh smiled at him, gorgeous in a simple black dress with a silver buckle at the waist. Her long dark hair fell loose, skimming her bare shoulders and arms like silk. She held a white cashmere sweater in her hands. He took it and she said, "I should have brought wine, but I was so excited in the cab over here I forgot to stop."

"We don't need wine to get buzzed." Mark bent to kiss her cheek. She turned her face and their lips touched instead. "Mmm. We might not need dinner either. You taste wonderful."

She laughed and slipped away. "Oh, no, you don't. I've been looking forward to this. It's not often a man cooks for me."

"I kept the menu simple and light. I know how health-conscious you are."

"That was thoughtful." She stage-whispered behind her hand, "But, you know, I'm not perfect. I keep a stash of Ben & Jerry's in my freezer."

He caught her by the waist and gave her a laughing hug. "Ashleigh Griffith — imperfect? I think not."

They kissed again. Mark's blood began to heat. In the weeks he'd known her, they'd managed to talk a lot and share many intimate thoughts, but their physical contact had been fairly limited. They'd held hands and kissed after their first date, and that was about it. In his younger days, he'd rushed into sex. His married love life had been comfortable.

With Ashleigh, everything was different. He was as excited as a teenager and yet immensely pleased that his first pleasures with her had been grounded in the emotional connection. When they reached the next level, it would be truly intimate.

"Why are you smiling like that?" she whispered, stroking her fingers along the side of his jaw.

"Because I'm falling in love," he said.

Chapter Nine

They talked about Logan and Violet over dinner. Mark was so sweet about them, telling cute stories, like about the time that Logan the science whiz concocted a stink bomb that sent them to Grandma’s house for the weekend. Ashleigh was a millimeter away from being won over. Only when they left the table and went to the living room for coffee and dessert did she have enough space to attempt to clear her head.

No luck. Mark’s earlier announcement that he was falling in love with her crowded out every other thought. But she wasn’t supposed to get sidetracked by love and female nesting instincts. She’d intended to control those urges and stay focused on her goal: a bigger, better job in New York within a year. Nothing was supposed to hold her back.

Who was she kidding? She’d gotten nowhere on her investigation into Tri-Thorn, even though she’d been working the phone and computer all week, hunting up and questioning suppliers, subcontractors, inspectors.

There was still the site tour Mark had arranged. If that yielded no clues, she was ready to give up. It’ll be different in New York, where the action is. I can make it there. I know I can.

But the prospect of leaving New Hope was no longer so easy or attractive. Not only because of Mark. She’d made good friends these past few months — women she didn’t want to lose touch with.

Mark entered with a tray. He sat beside Ashleigh on the cushy couch and passed her a dessert plate. "Baked pear with caramel sauce."

"Wow. I’m impressed. I was halfway expecting that dinner would be takeout." It might have been if they’d dined at her apartment. She looked over the living room of Mark’s restored arts-and-crafts bungalow. Oak floors and built-in bookcases, a green-tiled fireplace, overstuffed furniture that had seen a lot of wear, and a well-stocked entertainment center. A cheerful, cozy room. Very different from her own minimalist decor.

"This house is suspiciously clean," she teased. "I thought you had kids? Or was this the maid’s day on?"

"No maid. No takeout." Mark rubbed his knuckles on his chest. "I’m a domestic god. Just don’t try to open the closet."

Ashleigh sliced into her pear, amused that a man who looked like Mark, who had a thriving career, would boast about his housekeeping prowess. "You’ll make a lucky woman a very good husband."

He cocked his head, the ice-blue eyes lighting up.

She swallowed. "I mean, someday. Not now, of course. You already tried marriage. I’m sure you don’t want to make a second mistake. When — if — you find —"

She clenched her teeth to make herself stop babbling.

"What happens if I think I’ve found her where I least expected?"

Ashleigh plunked down her plate. Her heart was in her mouth and she couldn’t speak.

Mark stroked her hair, brushing it back from her face. "You know, usually when I tell a woman I’m falling in love with her, I get a response."

"I didn’t know what to say," she whispered.

"You don’t have to sign a commitment. Just tell me if I have a chance."

"Mark! Of course you do."

He swept her into his arms. Kissed her, slowly, thoroughly, at first holding her tight and then gradually sliding his hands along her bare skin so she prickled with wonder and emotion and sensation, until finally he was cupping her face and licking soft, sweet kisses from her lips. She closed her eyes and swooned into the desire, trusting him. Instinctively.

Her heart had overruled her head.

They reclined on the couch in a full-body embrace. She worked the tail of his shirt from his pants and slid her hands beneath it, finding his warm satiny skin. He unzipped the back of her dress so it gaped, almost falling off her shoulders. She’d worn no bra. He discovered that with a soft grunt of appreciation.

He reached inside her loosened dress and caressed her breasts with feathery strokes. Nice. A humming pleasure vibrated in her throat as she circled her shoulders. His hand closed over her breast, squeezing. She angled her head and found his lips again. Their kisses deepened until they were on the threshold of decision. Continue …or stop now.

"I meant to talk to you before we started, mmm …this …." Ashleigh squirmed pleasantly as his leg pressed between her thighs.

His mouth opened on her throat, nipping, licking, sucking. "We’ve talked plenty."

"About Logan and Violet." She panted. "They can’t — I can’t be, you know, involved."

"Don’t worry. This is one area I keep separate. Too confusing for the children to be privy to my love life."

"But you said you wanted me to meet them."

"Only if …"

If we last, Ashleigh thought. She was dismayed, and then frustrated with herself for being so impulsive and emotional. She should have been glad that Mark was waiting to see if what they had was short term. White-hot passion burned out. Reality set in. Everyone knew that.

Mark kissed her. "Only if you’re ready."

"Oh. How am I supposed to know if I’m ready?"

He got to his feet and scooped her up beside him. "Same way you’ll know that you love me." She was liquid and loose-jointed, but his arms held her steady. His body was a rock.

And that is? She considered asking, but he was leading her to the bedroom with a burning promise in his eyes, and suddenly she didn’t want to speak or think. She only wanted to feel.
 

* * *

Subject: matters of the heart

dear tad: seems kind of strange writing to u about this, but it’s not like you’ll ever read my letters, right? i must say u have been very disappointing that way. among others, hahaha.

hold on while i get an evian.

b/k. my mouth is so dry. sixteen straight hours of hot sex is terribly dehydrating. i got out of mark’s house only an hour before his ex was dropping off the kids. he didn’t ask me to stay, thank heaven. that would have been too weird for words.

so, yeah. i did it with mark. and did it and did it. fantastic, mind-bending, rock-my-world sex. which means i’m in a big fix, taddie. mark is going to have expectations, even tho he kept reassuring me that i was in charge, i could make the decision about what happens tomorrow and next week and next month and that he would always understand, no matter what i choose.

but i don’t feel in control. i just feel happy.

Ashleigh

Chapter Ten

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times," Ashleigh said, standing on the sidewalk outside of the Chronicle building. After checking her schedule for next week on her Palm handheld, she slipped the PDA into its place in her satchel, then patted the adjacent cell pocket. All accounted for. She was ready, set, go for her weekend away with Mark.

Ashleigh tossed her braid over her shoulder and zipped up her jacket. If she’d made a graph of her week, the zigzag would have dipped and soared wildly before going off the charts altogether. Lows had been Gregor Thompson assigning her to cover another sewage board meeting, and the Wednesday evening creative writing class, when Niall had spoken to her after class about why she hadn’t handed in the assignment. She’d begged for another week, saying she was on the verge of a breakthrough. A lie, but not a hopeless one. If ever she was to loosen up and let go, it was now. With Mark.

Every one of the week’s highs had been him. They’d met for lunch on Monday and she’d been late returning to the newsroom and hadn’t even cared. Wednesday, he’d asked a neighbor to watch his kids for a half hour so he could drive Ashleigh to class. She’d been late arriving there, too, because she and Mark had been making out in his SUV like a couple of teenagers. The entire class had smiled at her when she’d walked in with her lipstick smeared and her blouse askew.

On Thursday Mark had taken her on a tour of three of Tripletree’s construction projects — the raw beginnings of the Rivertowne condos, a nearly completed office building and an apartment complex that was in the midst of construction. She’d asked questions, made notes, even snapped photos for reference, but the only article she could foresee was a puff piece praising the company for its good business practices. There was no obvious, or even surreptitious, skimping. Hell, the company even recycled.

When Mark had suggested they take off for his place in the mountains for the weekend, leaving directly from work so they could get there by nightfall, Ashleigh had been more than ready. She’d cleared her schedule, including making apologies to her critique group.

She was checking the busy street for the hundredth time when Felicia Cruz exited the office building. "Hey, Ashleigh." She looked at the gym tote that had joined the brief-bag at her colleague’s feet. "Going away for the weekend?"

"Yes. To the mountains. With my boyfriend, Mark." Saying that out loud made her smile.

"So that’s why you left on time for once." Felicia slipped on a pair of designer sunglasses. "I was looking for you." She stepped closer. "Don’t get angry with me, but I did something bad. When you were fussing around with your creative writing assignment the other day, I took a peek."

Ashleigh’s face got hot. Even though, aside from a few stops and starts, there hadn’t been any stream of consciousness to read. "Took a peek at what?"

"The laptop. You went to the bathroom and left a file open. What can I say? I was curious, the way you were moaning and groaning over it. I skimmed a piece you’d written — the one about a young career woman?"

"Oh, that. Just something I wrote for my class."

"Well, I liked it. At the last editorial meeting, Gregor was talking about how the lifestyle section needed to jump on the youth bandwagon —" Felicia wrinkled her nose before continuing "— and that got me thinking —"

"Can we finish this later?" Ashleigh interrupted, after a toot had drawn her attention to the curb. "There’s my ride." She waved at Mark to stay in the vehicle, then grabbed her gear and hurried over to join him.

"Sure. I’ll speak to you on Monday." Felicia waved. "Have a good time."
 

* * *

Mark watched as Ashleigh sat stiffly in the front seat of his SUV, pretending to be studying the road although her eyes were continually darting to the rearview mirror. Logan and Violet were ensconced in the backseat. Ashleigh seemed to think they were alien beings who might sprout wings or antennae if she didn’t keep an eye on them.

"Sorry," he said as they reached the highway that led out of town, leaving the worst of the traffic behind. The cabin was ninety minutes away.

"You can stop saying that. I’m not mad. It wasn’t your fault."

Natalie had called at the last minute to announce that she had a legal brief due and couldn’t take the kids. Since it wasn’t the first time she’d pulled a stunt like that, he’d started to insist, but she’d played her trump card — struggling with an illness in the family, she said her sister needed her, too. Mark had given in.

He hadn’t intended to spring the kids on Ashleigh without warning, but there’d been no time to call — he was already overdue to pick her up. When she’d seen his passengers, her eyes had gotten as big as saucers. He’d offered to cancel the weekend, but she’d looked at the kids’ expectant faces and said no.

And so their romantic weekend getaway had become a family affair.

Ashleigh leaned closer to whisper. Her shoulder harness pulled taut. "Will they be traumatized to see you with a girlfriend?"

He chuckled. "No. But it would be better if we didn’t share a bedroom."

"What are you whispering about, Dad?" Logan said from the backseat. Mark had thought his son was absorbed in his book.

"Nothing special," he answered. Ashleigh winced and withdrew, pressing her narrow shoulders into the seat. She stared out the window as the suburbs became countryside, chewing at her thumbnail. He felt guilty about putting her into this situation before she was ready. If only she was as sure of herself as he was sure of her.

He reached across and squeezed her leg. She smiled gratefully, then cut her gaze to Logan. Mark returned his hand to the wheel. It was going to be a long weekend.

The kids were good travelers, but after an hour on the road they became restless. Violet was hungry; Logan was hungry, thirsty and bored. They made a quick pit stop at a convenience station and, without asking, Ashleigh took Violet by the hand and brought her to the ladies’ room.

A big white truck pulled out just in front of them, blocking the two-lane road. Mark muttered a complaint. "Don’t get road rage, Dad," Logan said. "You’ll have a myocardial infarction."

Ashleigh giggled. "Do you have a heart condition I should know about?"

Mark winked. "Just lovesickness."

She colored a delicate shade of pink and went back to studying the truck in front of them. "Isn’t that the same recycling company that Tripletree uses? Why would they be all the way out here?"

"No construction sites nearby that I know of," he said. "Maybe they have a warehouse up here."

"So far from New Hope?" Ashleigh took out her laptop. "I looked the company up online, just out of curiosity. Let me see what info I saved." She flipped up the screen and powered-on her sleek silver computer.

"Wow, a top-of-the-line Sony Vaio," Logan said. "That’s a killer computer. Sweet!"

"Sweet!" Violet repeated from her car seat. "I want anibal crackers."

Mark instructed Logan to dole out a few of the cookies. "I stuck a box of them in the tote bag."

"Rainbow Recycling," Ashleigh said. "It’s a private company. I couldn’t find a connection to Tri-Thorn. They have offices downtown and a recycling plant outside of New Hope, but that’s forty miles in the other direction. Strange."

"You’re grasping at straws. The truck’s probably out here to make a pickup."

"Probably." Ashleigh settled back, but she kept a skeptical eye on the truck, which was setting a steady pace at the speed limit.

"I’m bored," Logan announced ten minutes later, after kicking the back of Mark’s seat a few times and being reprimanded. "Miss Griffith, can I please see your computer? I promise not to break it."

Ashleigh looked alarmed. "I don’t think so," Mark said. "We’ll be at the cabin soon. Read your book."

"I finished it."

"Do you play Tetris?" Logan responded enthusiastically, so Ashleigh passed him her PDA, with only a brief furrow of her brow.

"Six miles to go," Mark announced a little while later. The kids cheered; they loved weekends at their cabin in the woods. The recycling truck had slowed, changing gears as the incline steepened. The road was too narrow and twisty for them to pass.

"This is beautiful country." Ashleigh admired the autumn colors. Many of the trees were sparsely garbed, but the aspen were a golden blaze and the carpet of fallen leaves was thick and multicolored. "You’re lucky to have a mountain retreat."

"If you hadn’t told me otherwise, I’d have thought you were a city girl through and through."

"I try not to show my country roots." She dropped her head forward. "Look — the truck is signaling for a turn."

"Finally," Mark said cheerfully. He almost had to bring his vehicle to a stop as the unwieldy truck lumbered into its turn onto a dirt track that disappeared into the thick woods. "Wherever they’re going, it must be a waterfront site. The New Hope River runs right along here. My cabin is only a few miles upriver, past the waterfall."

"This is very odd." Ashleigh craned her neck after the truck.

"Could be someone’s building a fancy retreat and they’re picking up construction leftovers. Want me to follow?"

"No, keep driving. We can’t follow without being seen and, well —" she glanced into the backseat "— we have kids in the car. I’ll come back later." She exchanged a look with Mark, seeing his skepticism. "Just to check. I have a feeling something fishy is going on."

Chapter Eleven

Mark's cabin was a welcoming mixture of rusticity and elegance. There was electricity and basic plumbing, simple furnishings and a spectacular view of water and woods. A modern glass wall had been inset into the rough-hewn logs, with doors that opened to a deck overhanging the river. Tall pines loomed above and below the rapids rushed over large granite stones. In the distance were rolling mountains covered in trees colored in brown and gold and rusty red.

Mark brought a mug of hot coffee out to Ashleigh on the deck. After the children had settled down from the excitement of their arrival, they'd had a simple supper at the farmhouse table. "Logan and Violet are upstairs getting into their pajamas." Mark gripped the deck railing and breathed deeply. "I finally have a few free minutes to enjoy the sunset with you."

She nodded, but her mind wasn't on the darkening sky.

He knew how to read her. "Still thinking about the truck?"

She nodded. "I wish my cell phone worked here." She'd tried it as soon as they'd arrived, but the mountains interfered with her signal. The cabin had no phone.

Mark put his arm around her. "You can't do anything until tomorrow, so why not put it out of your mind." He lowered his mouth near her ear and puffed a ticklish breath into it. "There are more pressing concerns."

"Like sleeping arrangements?"

"You can have the master bedroom. Logan and Violet's room has twin beds. I'll be on the living room couch."

It was an old couch with sagging cushions. "Violet could sleep with me," Ashleigh said, surprising herself. "Then you can have a real bed."

"I have to warn you — Violet has the occasional accident in the night."

"Accident? Like falling out of —" Ashleigh blinked. "Oh — that kind of accident."

"Too much for you?"

She gulped. "I guess I can handle it. I'll just make sure to keep my electronic gadgets out of her reach this time." So far, Logan was treating Ashleigh with a healthy dose of wariness, ameliorated by his enthusiasm for her electronics. Violet had been shy, but sweet and trusting. She'd even asked if Ashleigh was going to read her a bedtime story.

"Logan's still playing games on your Palm. He discovered the screen lights up. You might have to pry him loose from that thing."

"He's a smart boy." Logan was quiet and thoughtful, but his mind was always busy. He had dark brown hair and light eyes like Mark. "He told me he wants to be a nuclear physicist."

"Last month it was a neuropathic surgeon. He'd found an old physiology college text of mine."

Ashleigh laughed and leaned her head on Mark's shoulder. "Did they ask any questions about me?"

"I told them you're an undercover reporter on assignment." He gave her a squeeze to let her know he was teasing.

She moved away. "We probably shouldn't let them see us getting too cozy." So she didn't have to look at Mark, she turned toward the view again, lifting the coffee mug with both hands. "Your children are adorable. I don't want to…disappoint them."

"Why do you think you would?"

"If I don't, you know…" She cleared her throat. "Stick around."

"Yes, that would be bad," Mark said with a grave voice. "Especially for me."

Ashleigh's insides twinged, but before she could reply, Logan interrupted by stepping onto the deck in pajamas and bare feet. His hair had wet comb tracks and his eyes were big and round behind his glasses. He held two batteries in one hand and the Palm in the other. The screen was blank.

Logan's lower lip quivered. "I think I broke it."
 

* * *

Ashleigh woke early the next morning. At first she was confused by the weight in her arms and she started to pull away. A breathy sigh stopped her.

Violet. Ashleigh raised her head, blinking at the soft sunlight filtered by matchstick blinds. Violet was cuddled up close beside her. The little girl's face rested on Ashleigh's pillow. Her round cheeks were warm and mottled pink. The rosebud mouth puckered. Long red lashes framed nearly translucent lids, quivering slightly with sleep.

Ashleigh's heart melted. Oh, boy. I'm in trouble.

Still, she couldn't resist touching her lips to Violet's forehead and breathing in the little girl's scent before carefully easing her arms away. She tucked the blankets around the child, gathered a few clothing items and tiptoed out of the room.

No one else was up. Ashleigh took a quick shower and got dressed, then crept downstairs in her stocking feet. She started a pot of coffee in an electric percolator, then went to retrieve her laptop and the Palm. Logan hadn't broken it, but he'd lost all of her stored information when he'd taken the batteries out to change them. The Palm was set up with a nine second leeway for battery changes, but of course Logan hadn't realized that. Luckily, what might have been a catastrophe was no big deal. She was diligent about keeping her Palm synched with her laptop. She could download the content and be right back up to speed.

It was a little strange, though, being without the cell and the Palm at the same time. Good thing Mark had told Logan to stay away from her laptop. She slipped it from her bag, intending to use the momentary quiet time to go over her Tri-Thorn research, looking for connections to the recycling company.

A great big yawning sound came from upstairs. She looked up and saw Mark, dressed only in a pair of loose boxer shorts. He scratched his bare chest and rubbed his hands back and forth through his hair until it stood on end. She thought he looked like a bear waking from hibernation, and that made her smile. He wasn't the man she'd assumed, back when all she'd seen was the tailored suit and the fancy car.

He was far, far better.

"Morning, sleepyhead," she called softly.

"Hey, sexy." He smiled, showing his teeth. "What's for breakfast?"

"I usually have yogurt or granola."

"That won't do with so many hungry mouths to feed, woman."

"I can make passable French toast." She left the laptop to go to the kitchen, determined that she would make him proud. The past night, before they'd gone to their separate beds, he'd expressed his concerns yet again about foisting the children on her. That was starting to annoy her. She might not be an experienced homemaker, but how difficult could it be?

Pretty difficult, she allowed twenty minutes later, when she'd overcooked the bacon into hard brown strips that crumbled at the touch. The French toast had turned out okay, as long as Mark was willing to eat the overdone pieces. She set the platters of food on a tray, then gathered syrup and glasses of orange juice.

Mark and the kids had stayed in the great room, as directed. She called, "Breakfast," as she lifted the tray high and carried it to the table where their places had been set by Logan. She spied her laptop, shoved over to the center of the table. Better get that out of the way before we eat.

Violet's face illuminated when she saw Ashleigh walk into the room. She slid off the couch, said "Ashleigh!" and started running, her chubby legs churning as fast as they could go.

Mark grabbed her. "Whoa, there, little girl. Where do you think you're going?"

Ashleigh relaxed her death grip on the tray. She'd been sure Violet would barrel right into her and cause another disaster.

"I wanna say mornin' to Ashleigh." Violet pulled away from Mark and threw her arms around Ashleigh's knees, hugging them with such fervor Ashleigh was thrown slightly off balance as she lowered the tray to the table.

For one instant, she thought she'd caught it in time. Plates rattled as the tray plunked onto the table. In what seemed like slow motion, Ashleigh watched as a glass of juice tipped over. A small glass. But enough to send a wave of sticky orange liquid splashing across the keyboard of her laptop.

Ashleigh's eyes bulged. She let out a shriek. "Oh, no!"

"Oopsie." Violet stuffed her fist into her mouth.

Mark grabbed a napkin and starting sopping up the juice. "Damn. I'm sorry. This doesn't look good."

Logan surveyed the damage with his chin resting on the back of a chair. "I think you'll be needing a new computer."

Tears sprang to Ashleigh's eyes. "This can't be happening. All my stuff. And the Palm. I'll lose everything. I can't —" She started to raise her hands, but they were shaking so badly she dropped them. Her brain was frozen. It couldn't absorb the horror —

Violet tugged at Ashleigh's hand. "Don't cry."

She took a deep breath. "Yes, you're right. Nothing to cry about. Just a little spilled juice." How fortunate that she was also an inveterate backer-upper. She had almost everything on disk.

Mark wasn't fooled by her brave face, but he carried on with breakfast, covering for her shell-shock. Afterward, he sent the children outdoors to the deck. He took Ashleigh by the hand and led her into the kitchen, where they had some privacy. "God, I'm so sorry, honey. Want can I do to make it up to you?"

"It was my own fault," she said. "I left the laptop on the table. Guess I'm not accustomed to having children around. And even then, it was me who spilled the juice."

"Yeah, but —"

She hushed him. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't even want to think about it. Let's not let this ruin our weekend, okay?"

He was surprised. "I can't imagine you without your gadgets right at hand. They're such a part of the Ashleigh Griffith I love."

She laughed, surprising herself too. "Looks like we're going to find out what I'm like without them — for a couple of days, anyway. This weekend will be an experiment. Here on out, you can call me Ashleigh Unplugged."

Chapter Twelve

Later that afternoon, Ashleigh brought the laptop to the kitchen. Even though Mark had swabbed the juice off the keyboard, it had dried sticky. She took a damp cloth and a handful of Q-Tips and cleaned every crevice. She had little hope that the workings weren’t fried, but set the laptop tenderly in the top of a cabinet to dry.

Cell phone not working. Palm Pilot blank. Laptop in the emergency ward.

Surprisingly, instead of feeling abandoned, she felt unencumbered. They’d all gone for a short hike in the woods earlier, and her spirits had been so high she felt lighter than air. Maybe it was a result of seeing the worst happen, and then finding out that it wasn’t the worst after all.

Mark had taken the kids to a roadside stand for apples, so the house was quiet for a change. She got out her folder with the hard copies of her writing and went out to the deck to enjoy the crisp fall air. Briefly she thought of her plan to investigate the recycling truck, but in the light of a new day that seemed like a desperate reach. Besides, she wanted to write. In longhand. She gazed at the view for a few minutes, clearing her head, and then picked up a pen.

Subject: Future Imperfect

Dear Tad: I’ve never written to you like this — with pen in hand. Isn’t that strange? I’ve spoken to you in my head, I’ve tapped at the computer like a loony woman when I’ve been all hyped up over something, but never have I written your name on paper. Or said it out loud. Tad. Taddie. Tadpole.

My father.

I’m supposed to be doing this stream-of-consciousness writing, but every time I try my brain gets knotted up and I can’t think what to say. I spill my guts to you, Tad, but that’s probably only because you’re safe. You’re not even a person, just a few million tadpoles in a specimen cup. I probably must seem like a complete head case for writing to you like this, for all these years, with nowhere to send the emails, but…having you has helped. Especially today, when I have so much to work out in my head that I can’t contain it all.

I wonder what you’d think of me now. I’ve been turned on end and shaken until there’s nothing left in my pockets. And guess what? I like it. I’m free. And at the same time, I’m not — I have Mark, who loves me, and Abby from class and the women of my critique group. And even Logan and Violet. All of them, making a chain, a circle of friendship and love.

Wow. I just looked at those words on the page and…wow. Does this mean I’ve given up on my career goals? Hell, no! But maybe there’s a way —

Mark honked from the driveway. He stuck his head out the open window. "Ashleigh! Get on out here — hurry! I just saw another of the Rainbow Recycling trucks with barrels in the back."

She jumped up, spinning her wheels for a few seconds when the habit of reaching for her satchel hit and she remembered there was nothing to grab. She took the pen and a few sheets of paper instead and shoved them in her jeans pocket. The letter to her father caught on the breeze and lifted off the deck, floating high like a kite for a few seconds before it wafted downward, landing silently on the rushing water. She watched as the paper was swept downstream.

Her hand lifted to wave. "Goodbye, Tad. Dad." She laughed a little at her drama, then hurried over to join Mark. And Logan. And Violet. All of them so real and imperfect she could be real and imperfect, too.
 

* * *

Ashleigh was grinning when she arrived at the classroom the next Wednesday evening. She’d had several busy days, starting when she, Mark and the kids had trailed the Rainbow Recycling truck to an illegal dump site on the river. They’d backed out without being spotted and had gone to find the closest phone. She’d called Stevo at the Chronicle to come out and take photos.

From there, the story had broken wide open. Police and a team from the hazardous waste commission were called in. Ashleigh had been buried in work to get the story ready for newspaper deadlines, but Mark had understood. He was only glad that as the investigation deepened she’d uncovered no illegalities by Tri-Thorn or its subsidiaries — they, apparently, had used the recycling company only for construction waste.

A team of reporters was working on the story now, as the continuing investigation would be featured all week long. But it was Ashleigh’s byline that had been on the front page under a headline that read Reporter Discovers Chemical Dumping in New Hope River.

At Ashleigh’s entrance, Nancy, Faith and Catherine started to applaud. Marsha stood with her hands on her hips for a moment, then let out a hearty "Congratulations!" and gripped Ashleigh in a big hug. Abby was bopping about, chattering about how Ashleigh was sure to get job offers in New York now.

"Will you go?" Marsha asked as more of the students gathered around to congratulate Ashleigh on her big story.

"I don’t think so," she said, shaking hands with the undertaker who said they needed to talk about some of the illegalities he’d seen at the funeral home. "Other options have opened up."

Abby squealed. "You’re getting married!"

"Good God, no." Ashleigh laughed. But she also blushed. "At least, not yet."

"Then what is it?" asked Faith.

"Felicia Cruz, the travel and lifestyles editor, has offered me a regular column in her section. She read one of my stories and says I’d be perfect for a hip, single-woman-in-the-city kind of column. I’m considering it. Especially because that’s making the news editor realize how much he wants me. He’s throwing plum assignments at me left and right to tempt me to stay."

"You could do both," Marsha urged. As she had before.

Superwoman syndrome, Ashleigh thought. Except now she understood that she wouldn’t have to do it all, the way her mother had. Having a dependable partner like Mark made a big difference.

Niall walked into the room and the students began taking their seats. Faith stopped to squeeze Ashleigh’s hand before moving down the aisle. "If the column’s a hit, you might get syndicated."

"Maybe." Ashleigh slipped into her desk chair. Suddenly her future was filled with possibilities.

She placed her leather folder on the desktop and laid her hands on it. Aside from a couple of necessary items stuffed in her jacket pocket, the folder was her only accoutrement. She’d replace her laptop eventually, and probably reload her Palm, but she was in no rush. After relying on her electronic tethers for so long, she was enjoying her liberation.

In the next row, Roger scowled. "What happed to the computer?"

"It’s a long story," whispered Ashleigh. An idea sparked. She could make "Ashleigh Unplugged" her first column for Felicia!

Niall clapped for attention. "Good evening, class. I want to begin tonight’s session by returning your stream-of-consciousness assignments." He lifted a thick wad of paper off the top of the pile and dropped it on Roger’s desk. "You’ve got a very busy mind, Roger."

"Thanks."

Ashleigh raised her hand. "Niall, I realize I’m late, but I finally completed the assignment."

"You did?" The teacher stopped passing out the papers. He returned to the front of the room and sat on the edge of his desk, looking at Ashleigh with surprised interest. "Is it anything you’d care to share with the class?"

Ashleigh exchanged a nervous glance with Abby, then sought Marsha’s eyes. The redhead nodded encouragement.

"Yes, I think I would like to read aloud." Ashleigh opened her folder and removed a couple of handwritten pages. She stood. "I’m not sure if I’ve done the stream of consciousness the way you wanted, but…" She swallowed, trying to calm her jittery voice. "Mine came to me in the form of a letter to my father."

"Go ahead," Niall said, his expression especially intent. Perhaps because he recognized the enormity of her breakthrough.

Ashleigh took a deep breath and began to read. "Dear Tad…"
 

The End