The phone rang at midnight.
Marsha Cowen's heart skipped a beat as she set aside her battered, leather-bound planner and reached for the phone on her bedside table. It was the first of November, and she knew who it was without bothering to check her caller ID.
Jon called once a year, and always at midnight, if she happened to be back in the States. And as always, his deep chuckle vibrated through the receiver. "Happy birthday, Micki. Hope it was happy."
Even after over five years apart, that familiar, smoky baritone still echoed through her thoughts. And the memories…oh, the memories.
Both good and bad, they caught her unaware sometimes, and still had the power to make her wonder what might have been. But second thoughts were a waste of time.
She took a deep, calming breath, and found her most nonchalant tone. "Hi, Jon. You realize, of course, that no one has called me 'Micki' since fifth grade? It's…cute. Like Bambi. Or Missy."
"And you don't think it fits?"
In her mind's eye she could see his sensual mouth lifted in a teasing grin, and that familiar, devilish twinkle in his eyes. There couldn't be a less appropriate nickname for her now, and he knew that more than most.
Tough, hard-as-nails television journalist Marsha Cowen was never, ever cute, or coy…and she was almost never fun. "Even my brother quit calling me that years ago."
"The name takes me back to better times, I guess." He fell silent for a long moment, undoubtedly calling up the same memories as she. "Maybe we can meet for coffee sometime."
Despite the list of birthday resolutions she had just written in her planner, she scrambled to find an excuse. "I…don't think I'll be free. Things are hectic here. Catching up on assignments…getting things in order. Maybe next time I come back?"
Another silence. "Sure. Just give me a call."
I should just hang up. She gripped the receiver a little tighter. "I… How did you know I was back?"
"Your brother. I run into Allan now and then down at the courthouse. He said you were here on a leave of absence, but he hasn't heard from you since you stopped by for a few minutes last month." Jon hesitated. "Are you okay?"
"Of course," she shot back, out of sheer habit. Her list of resolutions, visible in the open planner at her side, mocked her as she softened her voice. "Perfectly fine."
In the old days of their marriage, they'd fought over her job, her travel. The dangers she faced day after day in third world countries or on the front lines of yet another military action in some country with a name most Americans couldn't pronounce, much less remember.
Since childhood a career in journalism had meant everything to her, yet after their marriage, he'd wanted her to stay home and have babies and be there to cook him supper every night. As if he'd forgotten those years back in high school and college, when they'd shared their deepest dreams.
But that was all over. Done. It didn't matter what he thought. Not anymore.
She'd chosen her career. He'd chosen an affair. And both of them had destroyed a marriage that should have lasted forever.
He cleared his throat. "Enjoy your time at home then. Take care."
She held the receiver long after he'd hung up — as if it were still a connection to the man she'd once foolishly loved with all her heart.
Then she cradled the receiver, slid out of bed and strode to the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows in her living room.
And looked out into the dark and empty night.
* * *
The moment Marsha stepped into the Fourth Avenue Bookstore the next morning, she sensed an all-too-familiar air of startled awareness from several patrons near the cash register. Damn.
Behind her, Ashleigh Griffith sucked in a sharp breath as her stride faltered. "They know you," she whispered in awe.
"Not really. Let’s go — the others are waiting."
From the corner of her eye, Marsha caught the openmouthed look of wonder on the man’s face, and the surreptitious dig of his elbow against his companion’s side. Heads bowed together, they whispered rapidly to each other, then the woman shot a quick glance at Marsha, her eyes wide.
Tightening her grip on her planner, Marsha kept walking toward the meeting room at the back.
But not fast enough.
"Excuse me," the woman called out, loud enough that heads turned throughout the store. "Aren’t you that reporter — that woman we see on TV?"
Marsha had given up everything to pursue her dream. She'd done well. But she’d never done it for the fame or glory. And she’d never cared for the fawning adoration that sometimes blindsided her in the least likely places when she was back in the United States.
The grocery store.
City streets.
And heaven help her, even the ladies’ room at a gas station in Topeka.
Forcing a faint smile, she nodded at the woman who was already pulling a pen and scrap of paper from her suitcase-size purse.
"Can I have your autograph? My husband and I think you are the best. I don’t know how you do it — going to those dangerous places. Seeing all those awful things." She shook her head in wonder. "No other reporter comes close to your style — you're so…so…all business, so cool and detached."
Oh, yes. Cool and detached. Death and dying didn’t bother her at all. Not until she was alone at night, in yet another hotel room.
Tucking her long, dark hair behind her ears, Ashleigh grinned broadly as Marsha scrawled her name on the back of an envelope and handed it back to the woman. "Awesome," she whispered, after the woman scurried excitedly back to her companion. "I’ll bet people recognize you everywhere you go!"
Marsha could hear the wistfulness and hunger in the younger woman’s voice.
At twenty-three, Ashleigh worked as a fledgling journalist for the New Hope Chronicle. She’d talked often about her plan to forego marriage and kids in order to follow her dreams of writing for a big New York magazine, but now she thought she was in love with a handsome father of two here in New Hope. Petite and energetic, she seemed so very young, yet she was facing the same decision Marsha had faced a lifetime ago.
Grabbing the girl's arm, Marsha lengthened her stride and strode to the back of the store.
"It's not as awesome as you might think."
Usually, their Saturday morning writers' critique group met in a member's home. Today was Catherine Matusik’s turn to host, but she’d invited everyone to the place where she worked part-time. A perfect choice, really. At the door of the meeting room, Marsha paused and turned back to glanced around the store.
Comfy overstuffed chairs were strewn throughout the store, paired with an eclectic assortment of Victorian and rustic end tables topped by stained-glass lamps. Dark oak bookshelves, charming displays of delicate tea pots, and jewel-toned floor pillows in the children’s area were accented by a forest of lush ferns and blooming violets. The aromas of apricot tea and espresso blended with the cozy, comforting scent of books.
If heaven could be whatever Marsha wanted, it would be a place like this. An endless supply of good books, and an eternity to enjoy them.
At the touch of a hand on her sleeve, she stiffened, ready for another stranger wanting recognition.
But it was gentle Faith Lewellyn — another member of the critique group — who met her gaze. Quiet, a bit unsure of herself, Faith had surprised Marsha with her sheer talent and perseverance. There were many aspiring authors who talked about "wanting to be a writer" yet never finished a manuscript, but Faith was already working on her second.
"Sorry if I startled you," she murmured anxiously. "I didn't —"
"Did you see that?" Ashleigh broke in, her eyes alight with excitement. "There were people out there who asked for Marsha's autograph! Just think — one of these days you'll be a famous romance novelist and people will want yours!"
"I doubt that." Faith ducked her head shyly. "I haven't heard anything from the editor who has my first manuscript, and maybe never will. But how about you? People will read your bylines from coast to coast someday."
"Yeah, right." Ashleigh's smile wobbled as she turned back to Marsha. "You already have it all. A great career. Money. A beautiful home. Strangers admire you, and —"
Marsha edged away, uncomfortable with her blatant adulation. "It was hard work, and it took a lot of sacrifice."
"But doing what you love — how much better could it be? You're so incredibly lucky." Ashleigh darted a look toward the meeting room. "Oops — I guess everyone is here. We'd better get started!"
Marsha lingered in the doorway, watching the other women banter with each other as they took their places around a round oak table in the center of the room. Catherine reached over to give Ashleigh a hug. Faith touched Nancy's hand in an expression of concern. All of them were so comfortable with each other — a friendly openness Marsha had never been able to achieve.
Oh, yes…I'm so very lucky.
Then she sighed heavily and walked into the room to join them.
Choosing to go first, Catherine read her work to the other four women in the critique group — first, the exercise in writing a scene from third-person point of view, as used in most novels. "Okay…now here's the first-person version. It was harder to write everything through the eyes of just one character, so tell me if I got it right," she said. After clearing her voice, she began, "My momma died today…"
Marsha doodled on a page in her planner as a distraction, but the poignancy of the older woman's piece on a child's grief still washed through her. God, not another sad one. But Catherine, for all her tendency to dwell on melancholy topics, at least had completed the assignment.
Marsha hadn't been able to finish.
The class met Wednesday nights at the college, but the twenty-odd students had also been divided into smaller critique groups that met on Saturday mornings to give each other feedback and encouragement. She settled back in her chair to study her group — all so different in personality and background, yet all bound by a common interest in writing. She'd registered as personal therapy — hoping the classes would help her focus on something totally different from the hard-hitting news she'd covered for nearly twenty years. Travel writing, for instance. It sounded so simple. Innocuous. Cheerful, even.
But writing this exercise on changing point of view had felt too…intimate. Too soul-baring. Especially since the nice little travel article she'd started on Cancun had morphed into a portrayal of the poverty and desperation she'd seen in a small, hurricane-ravaged village a thousand miles from there…
Other dark images swept through her thoughts, from other places, other times. Children dying of AIDS in an African village. Of starvation in Botswana. The empty, hopeless expression in their eyes. The soul-shattering feeling of holding these children, trying to give them comfort…knowing any breath might be their last…
Fighting off the memories, she tuned out Catherine's voice and began jotting down notes for a different travel article she intended to write. Caracas. Or Sicily, maybe. I could do Afghanistan better, but it probably wouldn't be a vacation destination right now. Okay, Sicily. Maybe a one-week tour. Off season…
Silence fell.
She looked up and found the other four women staring expectantly at her, clearly waiting for her comments on Catherine's work. Had anyone else spoken yet? Embarrassed, she dredged up a cool smile and gathered her thoughts. "On the plus side, Catherine is a very…evocative writer. Wonderful use of the senses. I see a lot of growth in her work since our first day. Ways to improve…I don't know. It's…very good."
A lame response, and she caught a flash of disappointment in Ashleigh's eyes. Ashleigh, who'd put her up on a pedestal from the first day.
"Thanks, Marsha," Catherine said, closing her notebook. "And everyone else, too. I appreciate your comments. Who wants to be next? Marsha, how about you?"
Fingering the "Goals" tab in her planner, she hesitated. She didn't need to look at her list to remember every one of her goals. The problem was trying to achieve them — especially the first four — when her first inclination was to stay in bed night and day.
Certain things were best left buried. The anguish she'd ultimately written about for this assignment wasn't something she could share with anyone, and when she got home this afternoon, she wasn't going to finish writing it. Those pages were going straight into the fireplace.
"I think I'll pass," she said.
"But even if it's not polished, we could —"
"No. I'm just not…ready this time. Isn't it time for a coffee break?"
* * *
"Well, what do you think — are we all signing up for Niall's next series of writing classes?" Ashleigh asked as they settled back into their chairs after a quick break.
Marsha looked up from her planner, where she'd started jotting down notes for later in the day.
I need to call Allan.
She'd stopped by his house briefly when she got back from overseas, and now she'd been back — three months, already? It was definitely time to call her brother.
I need to stop by the dry cleaners.
I need a new life.
Right. Like that was going to happen by just making a list. She shut the planner and zipped it closed. With three months left of her leave of absence, she would need to do more than make lists.
Across the table, Nancy Beckman sipped at her double mocha latte, then gave Ashleigh a bored flip of her hand. "I'll take the next class after this one's over. Someone needs to keep an eye on you, sweetheart."
Ashleigh shot a dark look in her direction. "Things are going very well between Mark and me."
"And Mark's rugrats — how are they?" Nancy snorted as her gaze dipped pointedly to the dark stain on the knee of Ashleigh's taupe slacks. "Things going well in that regard?"
"Fine." Ashleigh shifted in her chair to cross her other leg, effectively hiding what appeared to be a grape-jelly stain. "Just fine."
"Of course, those kids are closer to your age than he is, right?" Nancy arched a dark brow behind her sophisticated, black-framed sunglasses.
"It’s true that until I met Mark I never planned on marriage and family. But now, I'm totally in love with him, and I've fallen for his kids, too." Ashleigh shrugged. "The thought of parenting is still a little scary, but I'm learning."
"Children raising children," Nancy said with a brittle laugh. "How very interesting. Lost any of your own toys lately?"
Despite Nancy's tone, Ashleigh merely smiled. "Not since my laptop and my PDA. Oh, and that little incident with my cell phone in the toilet. Accidents, just accidents."
At the younger woman's blithe dismissal of the inadvertent damage caused by Mark's children several weeks ago, Nancy opened her mouth, and then snapped it shut.
"Of course," Ashleigh added, "I'm learning to be more careful."
One point for you, my dear, Marsha thought.
Nancy kept her dark hair ultra-short, very European, and she wore elegant, understated clothing that had surely come from Bergdorf's or some of the other expensive 5th Avenue shops in New York. But today, her hair wasn't as perfectly styled as usual, and she hadn't taken her usual care with her makeup. There were even wrinkles in her winter-white linen slacks and matching jacket.
She'd been through a bitter divorce, and her veneer of sophistication and hard-edged wit masked a definite struggle with inner demons. Alcohol was one of them, and given her irritability this morning, she'd probably had a bad night.
Ever a peacekeeper, Faith anxiously leaned forward. "I'm signing up for sure. Niall is an excellent teacher, and his class has been a huge help. These extra critique sessions have made a lot of difference for me."
"I think so, too," Ashleigh chimed in. She rolled her eyes. "I even got our new assignment done, and you all know how much I love writing this inner-revelation stuff." After everyone chuckled, she added, "Anyway, how could I give up the chance to meet with you all every week?" she smiled. "What do the rest of you think? Catherine? Marsha?"
Uncomfortable with anything even close to the realm of touchy-feely revelations, Marsha gave a brief nod. The class neatly fit her top three goals, after all — greater involvement, finding a different career and the establishment of friendships. "I'm game."
"This group means a lot to me. It's more than just the writing, though I do love the opportunity to improve." Catherine, a silvery blonde in her early fifties with a natural air of quiet grace, gave them all a tired smile. "Talking to Niall after class each week has helped me a great deal. He lost his wife to cancer a few years ago, so he understands what I'm going through with Graham."
"I'll bet that's why Niall started drinking," Ashleigh murmured. "Poor guy."
"True, but he stays away from alcohol now," Catherine said. "He says his drunk-driving conviction really turned his life around."
Faith's brow furrowed. "How's your husband doing?"
"The same." Catherine's voice trembled. "Nearly, anyway…he had another light stroke this week."
"Bad news," Nancy murmured.
"He doesn't call any of us by name anymore. We wonder if he even remembers. He's not walking anymore either, even with his walker."
"Oh, my." Faith leaned over and gave her a long hug, then sat back in her own chair. "It must be so hard for all of you."
"He's comfortable…he has good care. Maybe he'll even get better, but one of us has been with him day and night during the past week, and this morning I just needed a break so badly…just for an hour or two." Catherine swallowed hard and touched the cell phone lying by her notebook on the table. "At least we still have him with us. I…just don't know how long that will be if he has another stroke. I'm so afraid that I'll be away from the hospital, and my phone will ring."
Poor thing. A lifetime of love, then the heartbreak of separation. Marsha held back a grim smile as the realization struck her. I'll have it easy when I'm older, because I have no one. No one at all.
The thought didn't cheer her at all.
The dreams were back.
Marsha paced the confines of her luxury high-rise apartment — an area she'd once thought far too spacious for her needs, given where she'd spent most of her adult life — and felt the walls close in on her. Inch by inch by inch.
Through the windows in the living room, she could see the faint blush of early morning light. The glittering headlights of cars, stretching up into the distant hills like a diamond tennis bracelet as they traveled into town on Highway 12. Even on Saturday mornings the traffic was heavy, thanks to the trendy flea markets, antique fairs and tourist events held in New Hope almost every weekend.
She hugged herself against a sudden, bone-deep chill and stared at the twinkling headlights, wondering what it might be like to be one of those innocent, oblivious people who left their tidy little homes in suburbia each morning and commuted to nice, tidy little jobs in town.
Who expected that life would follow an orderly path.
Who were sure they'd make it home tonight.
Who didn't expect their best friend to die at their feet.
People like the four women who would be knocking on her door three hours from now, breezy and confident and looking forward to their weekly critique group meeting. Friends, she corrected herself. Four friends.
The band of tension around her heart eased a little at the thought.
They had no idea how truly horrific the world was. How insane and cruel people could be. At first, she'd found their naiveté appalling, their aspirations simplistic. Their chatter about their daily events had rubbed like sandpaper across her raw nerves. But now…
She stared at her reflection in the glass, wondering when she'd grown so cold, so hard. Wondered when the joy and laughter of everyday events had slipped out of her life, leaving an automaton who wrote hard-hitting news, who could stand in front of a camera and talk with cool detachment about pain and death and suffering that never seemed to end.
Unfolding her arms, she absently rubbed her shoulder, working out the stiffness that still dogged her day and night, then she propped her hands on her hips and gave herself a long, hard look.
Three months ago, she'd stepped off a curb in Afghanistan with the only close friend she had — the fifty-year old cameraman she'd worked with for years. A week later, she'd awakened in a hospital to painkillers that made her mind spin and bandages from her shoulder to her waist.
Mitch hadn’t been so lucky.
"You're here to heal, and you're here to make changes in your life. So far you haven't done very well," she whispered to her ravaged reflection in the window. She glanced at the blinking answering machine and the digital number "5" on its screen. "Today, you're going to start."
* * *
Three hours later, Marsha took a deep breath on her way to answer her door, feeling oddly scattered and uneasy.
Her brother's cryptic phone messages — all four — had been vague, but Jon's was nearly incomprehensible. An emergency, but nothing to worry about. We'll stop by Sunday afternoon.
What kind of emergency could wait twenty-four hours?
She'd carefully avoided seeing Jon for years, and he'd never been particularly close to Allan. Why would each of them allude to some sort of catastrophe and plan to show up at the same time tomorrow? If not for the critique group meeting scheduled to start in a few minutes, she would have called them both to demand an explanation.
But this morning, she'd decided to make some changes in her life, starting with her décor. Dealing with an ex-husband and semihysterical brother regarding a nonemergency would simply have to wait.
Catherine stepped inside Marsha's apartment with a notebook in her arms and a smile on her lovely, classic face, but her smile faltered as her gaze swept Marsha from head to toe. "What's wrong, dear — are you all right?" She reached out and laid a hand on Marsha's arm. "You look a bit pale. If you're not up to having company…"
"The timing is perfect, believe me." Marsha gave her a determined smile and waved her into the living room. "I need this more than you can imagine."
Catherine had the quiet grace and charm of a Southern belle, coupled with the warm, nurturing manner of an experienced mother. Even now, Marsha could sense the woman's concern as she glanced around the apartment. "You've done something different here," she murmured. "How nice."
"Is it?" Feeling unusually self-conscious, Marsha bit her lip and considered the pots of bright fuchsia impatiens. The planters filled with pink, miniature roses. The elegant, four-foot peace lily by the balcony, the one plant in the room that truly did give her a sense of peace. She tried for a breezy smile. "Guess I…I'm trying to get in touch with my feminine side."
And the whole process — the bright flowers, her own coral shell and black silk slacks, a more feminine wristwatch than she usually wore — was making her feel as nervous as she ever had when under mortar fire.
Catherine brushed a gentle hand over the shiny satin leaves of the lily and turned back to face her. "You look lovely in that color. And these flowers certainly add a warm touch." She waved her hand toward the empty place above the fireplace, where primitive masks had hung. "What will you do there?"
"I'm thinking about an airy piece of sculpture. Or possibly a Monet print." Marsha managed a brittle laugh. "I sent the masks to my young nephews, because they love anything that borders on the macabre. They say I'm their 'coolest auntie' because I bring that sort of stuff back when I travel."
"I'll bet you have wonderful tales to tell, too."
Catherine strolled through the living room, her brow furrowed as she ran a hand over the back of the Italian leather sofa piled with African batik pillows. She came to a stop in front of the black marble fireplace, where a huge Buddha sculpture was now flanked by a pair of bright red azaleas, delivered with all of the other plants just minutes before, thanks to a quick trip through the phone book and a Visa card.
"Very festive," she murmured.
"Not that I could ever achieve what you've done with your condo. It's so welcoming. Warm. You must be so happy there, surrounded with such beautiful things."
At the sudden flash of sadness in Catherine's eyes, Marsha realized her mistake and drew in a sharp breath.
"It's all right," Catherine quickly assured her. "I…can't spend much time there these days, but the furniture I brought from our old home holds many dear memories for me."
"Has there been any change in your husband?"
"He had another MRI this past week, and the radiologist said that there didn't seem to be any new damage. Graham is even eating better now, which shows he's on the right track. If there was anything in life he truly enjoyed, it was good food." Her voice turned wistful. "Niall says his hospital trays probably made him appreciate meals at the care center a bit more."
"Speaking of food…" Marsha retrieved a couple of wine coolers and a pitcher of black-currant iced tea from the refrigerator, and brought them out to the ebony-and-glass sideboard in the formal dining area. She went back to the kitchen, peeled back the plastic wrap from a tray of pastries she'd picked up at a bakery a few blocks away and slid them onto a silver serving tray.
"Would you rather have coffee?" she called out as she backed through the swinging door of the kitchen.
"The tea will be fine." Catherine picked up a blackberry scone and a napkin. She nibbled an edge of the scone. "These are delicious. Mine have never turned out this good."
"I've never even tried," Marsha admitted with a laugh. "My culinary repertoire is limited to choosing the right delicatessens, take-out restaurants and bakeries, and then becoming a loyal customer. Even when I was married, I was a disaster in the kitchen."
"But you were a career woman," Catherine said staunchly. "Of course you didn't have time to bustle around a kitchen all day. I was a stay-at-home mom. For the most part, anyway. Graham liked me to do volunteer work, so I did a good share of that. But I never had to travel like you did."
An unexpected wave of sadness swept through Marsha as she turned away to slice a loaf of pumpkin spice bread. The warm, homey aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg filled the air, reminding her of Christmas and Thanksgiving holidays back home. Her mother had done it all — the decorations, the sewing, the Sunday school play rehearsals, the endless baking. She and her brother had been so blessed.
"I knew I couldn't be superwoman," she said at last. "I didn't even try. And now…"
"Now, you have a beautiful home and a successful career. The sky's the limit for your future, whatever you decide to do." Catherine savored another bite of her scone, then waved a hand expansively. "Someone with your talent and drive will always succeed."
"I wonder." Marsha set the knife aside and flattened her palms on the sideboard. "I once knew exactly where I was going, and worked my tail off to make sure it happened. Now I have no idea."
"Maybe that's a good thing. How many people wish they had a chance for new beginnings?"
It took her a moment to find the right words. "Not the ones who are truly happy."
She'd never discussed her experiences overseas with anyone back home, and she'd never, ever been comfortable with discussing her feelings. Family and friends had all accused her of having a tough shell, and said she pushed people away too often. They were probably right — it was far easier to lock it all away and keep everything to herself. But talking to Catherine, with the scents of scones and tea and pumpkin bread filling the air, gave her an unexpected sense of peace.
She'd made a good start, finding this place. Finding the writing class, and the critique group, too.
Soon, her nightmares were going to be a thing of the past.
"I know you weren't too interested a few weeks ago, when I mentioned a job at the newspaper, but I think this is such a cool opportunity. Gregor said he called you — and you're gonna come in tomorrow morning!"
"I'm not promising anything," Marsha cautioned into the phone. For the past three weeks, Ashleigh had been encouraging her to make an appointment at the Chronicle with either Gregor Thompson, the senior editor, or Felicia Cruz, the travel and lifestyles editor. She'd finally agreed to go in on Monday morning.
"Believe me — you'll blow their socks off."
"I do want a change. Something on a much smaller scale. Possibly with a newspaper. But I don't really know if I'm ready to work again."
"But —"
"Not just yet anyway," Marsha clarified.
"But you'll still keep the appointment? Talk to them, at least?"
"I —" In the background Marsha heard the sound of children arguing, followed by a loud wail. The sound was abruptly muffled — probably by Ashleigh's hand over the receiver.
"Sorry. I need to hang up — I've got to stop World War Three from escalating here. You know the address? And how to get there?"
"Got it," Marsha said dryly, glancing at the Sunday issue of the New Hope Chronicle lying on her kitchen table. "And I will go. Good luck with the kiddies."
"Mark just had a quick errand to run, so he dropped them off for a few minutes. We're doing just fi —"
Through the receiver, Marsha heard something shatter.
"Oops. Just a vase. Gotta run!"
Bemused, Marsha hung up and reached for the paper, and this time gave it a long assessment. For a town of twenty-thousand it was a good effort.
Not the New York Times, certainly. Not the London Times or the Le Monde in France. But the layout was clean, with strong editing. And unlike the hard news she'd covered for nearly twenty years, this paper was filled with warm human-interest stories that had strong local flavor.
Flipping back to the front page, she scanned the local news, and found it surprisingly unbiased. The editor clearly could have set his sights a little higher than the Chronicle, if he'd chosen to. Intrigued, she folded it and tossed it aside. She wasn't looking for a job. Not really. But the first steps of her personal reclamation project were to extend herself more. Get involved. Try to nurture friendships.
And since this meant so much to Ashleigh, she'd at least go check it out.
After she had that talk with Jon and her brother.
* * *
"Hey, sis!" Allan enveloped her in a huge bear hug and rocked back and forth with her, holding her tight. "It's been waaay too long!"
Marsha awkwardly hugged him back, then stepped away. With his curly brown hair and soulful eyes, he'd always reminded her of a sweet puppy as a child. "Did the kids like the masks I sent over?"
"You bet. Cindy isn't exactly sure where to hang them, but the boys are totally thrilled. They wanted to wear them for Halloween, but I figured they were probably valuable, so I said no. When are you coming over again?"
"Soon."
There was a hint of accusation in his voice, but his broad smile was pure, exuberant Allan, no different than when he'd been thrilled over a new bike at the age of ten or his first car at seventeen. Maybe it was that endlessly cheerful demeanor that made it difficult for her to see him very often — or for very long.
"They can't wait to see you."
"I'll be over really soon, I promise." She frowned. "So what's up?"
From down the hall came the ding of the elevator, then the sound of footsteps. Familiar footsteps, with a long, easy stride she knew all too well.
Despite the resolutions she'd made during the few hours since church, her pulse skittered and her stomach coiled into a tight knot.
And then Jon was standing in the doorway, too, as tall and broad-shouldered as ever, his dark, chiseled features etched with worry.
She stared at him, surprised and saddened by the hint of silver at his temples and the laugh lines now fanning from the corners of his deep brown eyes. Surprised too, by the shiver of awareness that skipped down her spine at seeing him face-to-face.
"I —" An unearthly howl split the air, and she dropped her gaze to the hand lowered at his side. A cage? "Good heavens, what's in there?"
"An inmate from Death Row." Jon shook his head sadly. "It was a now-or-never deal."
She folded her arms firmly in front of her chest to still her shaking hands. "And you brought it here because…"
Allan beamed. "Because Jon can't keep it at his place right now. Carpet fumes."
"Carpet fumes?"
The cat howled again, louder this time. Marsha bent down to peer into the cage. This was no fluffy little kitten. The beast inside had slitted yellow eyes, an array of bared, stiletto-sharp teeth, and was roughly the size of a coyote.
"I just recarpeted my entire house, not expecting I'd suddenly have Chester. He's apparently allergic to the chemical compounds in new carpet."
"The carpet will air out in a few days — five at the most," Allan assured her. "The vet says Chester can go back then."
"And you want to leave him here?" Marsha bent down again and gave the cat a horrified glance. "You and Cindy can take him. Or a vet clinic. Or surely you must know someone else!"
"Cindy's allergic to cats."
"And he doesn't do well in a stressful environment," Jon added. "With all the other caged animals at the shelter, he was a nervous wreck. He pulled his hair out, and now he's got bald spots and even some sores. He just needs a quiet place to stay for a few days, and Allan suggested yours."
Over the past few years, occasionally an errant thought flitted through her mind about what it might be like to see him again. She'd never, ever imagined him appearing at her door with a moth-eaten, possibly rabid cat, and her brother.
Marsha straightened and narrowed her eyes at Jon. "You don't have friends who could take him?"
"He…um…doesn't like kids much. That rules out most of them. The others took one look at him and said no. Can you believe it? Because of people like that, the shelter was on the verge of euthanizing him."
She considered her immaculate, almost sterile apartment. Took another look at the cat. "Two days?"
Jon pursed his lips. "Maybe five."
"Three?"
Setting the cage in the doorway, he scooted it forward with the toe of his loafer, then thrust out his hand to shake hers. "Four. Thanks, Micki. I knew you'd help."
Allan reached behind him and lifted a large, bulging shopping bag from the floor. A kitty-litter pan protruded from the top. "Here are some supplies — litter, food, his jingle ball."
"But —"
"Thanks, sis." He winked at her. "Might be nice having a little company, don't you think?"
And in a flash, both men were gone.
Still reeling, she gingerly transferred the cat carrier and the supplies into the kitchen, set up the litter box in the corner and opened the cage door.
In a flurry of airborne hair, the cat exploded out of the cage. Ricocheted off the cupboards. Launched itself onto the kitchen table, sending a vase of silk roses crashing toward the floor.
Catching the arrangement just in time, Marsha blinked.
Then looked up to find the beast on top of the refrigerator, its tail twitching and eyes glowing like embers.
Jon's description of the cat's condition had been more than kind.
Black, with clownlike tufts of white hair flaring from either side of its scarred face, it was missing most of one ear. The tip of the other hung at half-mast. Its body was a crazy quilt of long hair interspersed with nearly bald patches that were sprouting a few millimeters of downy fur.
Its expression was pure malevolence…or was that a touch of fear?
"Well, Chester, I guess it's just you and me."
A low rumble — not at all friendly — vibrated from the top of the refrigerator. "And," she added darkly, "I think this was a very, very big mistake."
After taking one last trip through her apartment to secure any breakable items, Marsha shook a finger at Chester — who was now sitting imperiously in the middle of her polished rosewood dining room table. "Be good. Promise."
Slanting her a bored look, he lifted a paw and began washing himself, clearly disinterested in making promises of any kind.
So far, he'd clawed her silk comforter. Knocked over the peace lily. Hunted for some sort of invisible prey in a pot of impatiens. Spent last night enjoying the trash after managing to slip open the under-sink cupboard door with one crafty paw.
Less than twenty-four hours of Chester, and her apartment was a shambles.
He'd also managed to claw his way into a corner of her heart with his rakish, Rhett Butler air of irreverent charm. He wouldn't let her pet him. But he'd stretched out in full view on the Turkish rug in front of the fireplace, and he'd curled up on top of the television, his tail swinging back and forth in front of the Nightly News. I'm here, and I'm staying, he seemed to say, when he gave an occasional yawn in her direction.
She wavered — then gathered her purse and jacket. Surely he couldn't get into too much trouble. Not in an hour or so. She'd promised Ashleigh that she would go through with the appointment at the newspaper and at least consider what the editor had to say.
By the time she parked her car in front of the Chronicle's modest, two-storey brick building downtown, she wasn't so sure about the idea. When the receptionist waved her to a row of old wooden chairs lining a cramped corridor, she was convinced.
"Time to go," she muttered under her breath after watching the old clock on the wall for ten full minutes and imagining what the Feline from Hell had done to her apartment.
She was nearly to the steps leading down to the entrance when a deep voice called her name. It was tempting to just keep walking. But when he called her name again and added please, she just couldn't ignore him without appearing rude. With a sigh, she turned back, an excuse ready. My parking meter. A dentist appointment. I need to…save my home from total destruction.
The man striding down the hall grinned and extended his hand. "Sorry to keep you waiting, Ms. Cowen. I'm Gregor Thompson."
He was tall — a good six-three to her five-eight — with an athletic build and a strong handshake for someone with thinning, silvery hair.
He looked, she realized, rather like a sixty-something Gregory Peck in glasses.
"No problem. I just ran out of time." She glanced at her watch. "I'll call you. Tomorrow, maybe."
"Please — give me just a couple minutes." He pivoted, pushed a door wide open, then stepped aside. "This is our conference room. Won't you come in?"
She hesitated, feeling in her bones that this appointment was a mistake, but Ashleigh had been so eager and had mentioned it many times. It would be a feather in the girl's cap if she lured a seasoned journalist to the Chronicle, even for just an interview. This one's for you, Ashleigh.
Marsha walked into the dark-paneled room and nearly sighed with pleasure at the old, familiar scents of a small-town newspaper where the layout and printing were done on site — the musty shelves of books, the smells of ink and newsprint. From down the hall came the sounds of people bustling about, phones ringing and the whir of a copy machine.
"These are my roots," she said as she settled into one of the club chairs circling a long oval table. "My first job was the obits column for a paper with a circulation of thirty-thousand."
Gregor dropped into a chair across from her and folded his hands on the table. "The Benton Herald. You were being sent out on the hot runs within six months. Murders…major accidents. Fires. You sent a demo tape to WKN cable news in its early days, and from then on you skyrocketed."
Surprised, she studied him more closely. "You've done your homework…though I wouldn't exactly say I did any skyrocketing."
He gave a deep, rumbling chuckle. "I believe in researching the facts." Without glancing at the folder he'd put down on the table, he fired off a summary of her entire career, including the major stories she'd done for CNN in the past two years. In detail.
More than just surprised, now she was stunned. "Well. I'm not quite sure what to say."
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowed. "I figure you're burned out. Need something different for a while. Why else would you move back here and take that little writing class with Ashleigh? God knows you could teach at the graduate level."
Marsha shrugged.
"So I figure you might enjoy writing for us for a while. Take an old horse out of harness, and he isn't going to do so well just sitting around." He gestured expansively. "It would get you out and about in the community without much pressure. The town of New Hope might do you some good, and your byline sure as hell could boost our circulation numbers. On the other hand, maybe it's been too many years since you've done this sort of thing. What do you think?"
What she could think of saying was better left unsaid. He'd demeaned a good writing class, a supportive group of women. He'd essentially called her a has-been, and was oblivious to those slights.
But there was a challenge in his words, too. She hadn't signed her new contract last month, so there were no fine-print clauses to prevent her from this little venture. She'd resolved to open herself up to new opportunities.
Maybe it would be good for her to revisit her past by covering this sort of news. Her plan to write travel articles wasn't going very well, and local events would be a lot easier on her soul than going back to the horrors of war in the Middle East.
"I'll let you know in a few days," she said flatly. "But if I say yes, there'll be some stipulations."
Jon called that evening. "I…um…forgot Chester's medicine. Are you going to be home?"
Her flash of pleasure at the sound of his deep voice dissipated as his words registered. "Please tell me he doesn't have fleas." She gave a wary glance at the cat, who was lying across the back of her Italian leather sofa, all four legs up in the air. "Or worms…he doesn't have worms, does he?"
"The shelter treated him for both. It's his skin…condition. Nothing you can catch," Jon added quickly at her indrawn breath. "He apparently has some sort of allergies. Dermatitis, I think it was. "
As if to prove it, Chester abruptly slid off the back of the sofa, corkscrewed his body into an upright position and began scratching furiously behind his left ear.
"Please, yes — bring it right over." Chester shifted gears and began clawing at his other ear, with the opposite back foot. "Or you could call a courier service, if that would be quicker."
"I'm just leaving the office right now. Twenty minutes, tops." There was a brief pause. "Have you eaten? I could bring some takeout."
She'd never kept tabs on him. Still, it had been five years and she'd assumed that he'd settled into a nice relationship. Married, even. After all, he'd wanted children more than he'd ever wanted her.
Then again, he'd had an affair during their marriage, so he probably would have little compunction about dropping in on an ex-wife.
"You don't need to go home?"
"No. I'll be at your place in twenty, and I'll bring almond chicken and crab rangoons."
Anger flickered through her. The medicine drop-off would take a few seconds. Supper implied something far more — the last thing in the world she wanted. The pain of his betrayal was still too fresh, too raw, to ever think of renewing any sort of friendship…or more.
"I don't think that's a good idea…"
"But it is." And then he hung up.
Marsha reined in the temptation to change into something elegant and understated. She refused to freshen her makeup or race around the apartment, straightening things up before Jon's arrival. I'm not trying to impress him or anyone else, she told herself sternly. Especially not him.
That didn't quell the nervous flutter in her stomach or the dampness of her palms when she answered her door and found Jon standing there. Tall, dark and masculine, with chiseled features and beautiful silver-blue eyes, he greeted her with a boyish grin and an armful of shopping bags.
"Medicine's in my pocket," he managed, as he awkwardly shifted one of the bags in his arms. "The rest of this — I got to Chin Lee's and couldn't remember exactly what you liked. Sure hope you're hungry."
She'd planned to be cool, indifferent, and stop him at the door with a firm farewell. Then one of the bags slipped and she automatically grabbed for it, and made the mistake of breathing in the wonderful aromas rising from the takeout cartons inside. There was nothing anywhere on the planet that came close to Chin Lee's. It had been their favorite haunt in the old days.
"Whatever this is, it's fantastic," she murmured, closing her eyes briefly as she steeped herself in sheer pleasure. "Do you go there often?"
A corner of Jon's mouth quirked up, just a little, but no humor reached his eyes. "Not anymore."
"Why not? This has to be as good as it ever…" Her voice trailed off as she gave him a closer look.
His smile turned wry as he met her gaze. "Just didn't seem the same."
"Different cooks, maybe," she retorted briskly as she headed for the kitchen table and began setting out the still-warm cartons.
"Maybe." Behind her, Jon opened several cupboard doors before finding the plates and withdrawing two.
"Silver is in the drawer left of the sink. Glasses above." Chester, abandoning all pretense at dignity, wound around her ankles and purred like a rusty lawn mower, his eyes fixed on the food cartons. "I think I'd better stay over here and guard the loot. This cat has the fastest paws this side of the Mississippi."
Laughing, Jon withdrew a couple of bottled waters from the fridge and settled down at the table. "He knows the score. I think he must have been an alley cat in his previous life."
"Exactly how previous was that?" Memories from their marriage swept through her as she sat down across the table from Jon, but she firmly ignored them.
"I understand he was a stray lurking around in the downtown area, and the shelter had to trap him. Understandably, people looking for a pet weren't too impressed by his manners. The staff kept him for a couple weeks — long enough to litter-train and calm him down a tad. By the time I arrived, they'd given up on his adoption."
Chester jumped up on the chair next to Marsha's and gave her a beseeching look. As threadbare as a well-loved teddy bear but without the charm, he certainly wouldn’t have appealed to many people, based on his appearance. "What does…um…your significant other think about him?"
Jon studied the morsel of sesame chicken on his fork with frank appreciation, then ate it. Slowly. "That I couldn't say," he said finally.
"You didn’t ask?" She didn't ever try
to temper the incredulity in her voice. "That
was kind of a big step, wasn't it?"
"There wasn't anyone to ask," he said, reaching for the carton of Three Delight Chicken.
Her forkful of beef broccoli stalled halfway to her mouth. "So what happened to your little cheerleader?"
"Elina? She was my office manager, Micki. Now she's living somewhere in Florida with her new husband — at least, as far as I know."
The woman had been more than his office manager — and he'd never denied it. And even now, her name had the power to twist Marsha's stomach into a tight knot. "How unfortunate."
"Unfortunate? She stole from me — something priceless."
"Was it insured?"
"No, and I soon discovered there was no way for me to get it back." His sensual mouth quirked into a grin, but there was no humor in his eyes. "Funny, isn't it? Sometimes, you don’t realize the value of something until it's too late."
* * *
Everyone in the Wednesday evening creative writing class at the community college was seated by the time Marsha arrived. Niall was already at the front of the room, sitting on the edge of a table. Dressed in his usual black turtleneck and faded jeans, he'd added a gray tweed jacket in deference to the chilly November air.
"Someone here has an announcement," he said with a smile. He scanned the twenty adults scattered around the room, then his gaze landed on Faith. "Anyone want to share?"
High color rose in her cheeks. "I got a letter," she said. "Apparently an outside reader at the publishing house liked my story, so now it's been sent up to an editor."
Applause and cheers erupted — except from Roger Derks, of course. He harbored a negative attitude toward most of the other students and seemed to relish every opportunity to dampen their enthusiasm. Marsha looked up from her planner, where she was writing a list of what she needed to accomplish today, and held her breath.
"The editor could still totally reject it," Roger said in a tone of utter boredom. "This isn't any guarantee. And who are these outside readers anyway? Someone off the street?"
Faith's expression changed from joyous to stricken in a heartbeat. "O-of course. No guarantee at all. But I just hoped…"
Nancy glared at Roger. "That manuscript could have been flat-out rejected, but now she's got a chance. You don't think that's better? I'd like to see an editor's view on your epic novel — that is, if you ever plan to send it out."
"This is wonderful news, Faith!" Catherine said quickly. "Think of how many manuscripts never make it that far. We all knew yours was truly special. Does anyone know how long this next step can take?"
After glancing between themselves, everyone shifted their attention to Niall.
"Many publishers do use outside readers, because they receive such an avalanche of unsolicited submissions every year," he said. "An outside reader will review the work and write an evaluation. Depending on the house, the editors may go ahead and review that submission anyway, just to make sure the right decision is made."
"So this little bit of news isn't all that great, then," Roger sneered.
A muscle ticked in Niall's jaw as his gaze landed briefly on the man before he turned to Faith. "Tell them what else the letter said."
"It's…um…just a short note, but it says that the reader really enjoyed the story."
"Which is a very good sign," Niall said to the group. "Now an editor will read her manuscript. That could take weeks or even months, because editors are extremely busy. They have any number of authors to work with, who have turned in proposals or completed manuscripts. They have to handle the editing and copyediting stages that each book goes through."
"But if this editor likes it?" Faith asked, her hands knotted on her desk. "What then?"
"The editor might reject it or she might request revisions." Niall gave a shrug. "Or she might send it up to her senior editor with a recommendation to buy. Depending on the publisher, there could be stages beyond that."
Faith's shoulders slumped. "It's so
discouraging."
"Just think how much further along you are now than you were three months ago." He smiled. "Go to the bookstore tonight and find some books by brand-new authors to read. These are people just like you who made it, Faith. It is possible. And with talent like yours, time will tell."
"Maybe…"
"No one ever achieved anything great — or held on to something truly worthwhile — without determination and hard work. You can do it, if you hold on to your dreams."
#7. Determination and hard work, Marsha doodled onto the page in front of her, below #6 on her list: Get Chester some more toys.
She'd used determination, hard work and absolute faith in herself to rise from a small newspaper to a fledgling cable news program to working for one of the top news agencies in the world. No matter how tired, how hot, how cold or how hungry she'd been, she'd never given up on getting the right story, and it had paid off.
But where it should have counted most — her marriage — she'd simply thrown in the towel and moved on. She'd blamed Jon all these years, for his impossible demands and his infidelity. But maybe…just maybe…some of the blame was hers.
She'd never had a pet before. Her mother hadn't approved of anything with fur or feathers, and during all of her adult years, Marsha had traveled too often to even consider the complications of boarding and long separations.
Now, faced with walking into her dark, sterile apartment after the writing class on Tuesday night, she breathed a sigh of relief as she remembered that the apartment wouldn't be empty after all. Chester, for all his little quirks and ragtag appearance, would be there waiting for her. Eager, she supposed, for his Meow Mix and a bit of human companionship.
"He must have been good today," she murmured to herself as she unlocked the door and flipped on the entryway light.
No furry creature appeared around the corner of the kitchen entry. Or from the back of the sofa or the mantel…or the chandelier. Wary now, she stepped farther inside and flipped on the recessed lighting in the living area. Pristine.
No dirt clods on the white carpeting at the base of the impatiens today. No sofa pillows scattered onto the floor from any wild races through the house, during which he always managed to sound as loud as a rampaging buffalo.
Worried now, she searched the two bedrooms and the bath, then circled back to the kitchen. And took a sharp breath.
She'd emptied the trash on her way out — always a good precaution, whenever Chester was going to be alone for more than a few minutes. But this time, he'd found better quarry than the plastic — the refrigerator. The door was wide-open, and from the looks of things, he'd had a good time shopping.
White paper deli wrappers, chewed and torn, were scattered under the kitchen table. A half-gallon milk container had upended on the floor, along with a dozen eggs, and he'd obviously crossed the puddle numerous times, given the damp paw prints tracked back and forth through the kitchen like a maze. A gnawed block of provolone and a pound of butter were propped under the edge of the cupboards by the sink. He'd apparently played cat-hockey with a bar of white chocolate, for it was clear across the room, with one corner chewed away.
"Chester!" she called out, exasperated. "Where the —"
And then she saw the tip of his scruffy tail just around the corner. His motionless tail.
"Oh, no." Sidestepping the mess, she hurried to him, her heart racing.
His eyes half-closed, his breathing so shallow that his rib cage barely moved, he was obviously on death's door. Occasional tremors vibrated through him. She knelt beside him and ran a gentle hand over his scruffy fur, regretting every bad thing she'd ever said about him while cleaning up the latest disaster in her house.
What if he stopped breathing? Could a person do CPR on a cat? Did vets make house calls? Did they even answer their phones at night?
Reaching for the phone book, she flipped through the business directory until she found some vet clinics. Aarsen…Anderson…Beadle…Carlson…
Carlson's clinic was close by — just a few blocks away. With shaking fingers she dialed the number. A bored answering service operator contacted him, then instructed Marsha to arrive at the clinic as soon as possible. In minutes she was on her way, with Chester on a folded towel in his carrier. Wishing she'd written down Jon's phone numbers, she grabbed her cell phone from the kitchen table and speed-dialed her brother.
"Do you see?" she moaned into the receiver as she put the carrier on the backseat of her car. "You keep asking when I'm going to settle down. Why I don't have a family. I can't even keep a cat alive for a week. I'm a failure."
Allan gave a short laugh. "Not at all. I'll track down Jon and have him meet you at that clinic. Things will be fine."
"No. I don't need him there. I'm just telling you that this was a huge mistake, entrusting me with anything. I'm not good at this domestic stuff. I wasn't cut out for it."
But ten minutes later at the clinic, just as the vet’s assistant came out to usher her back to an exam room, Jon flew in the front door, his full-length black wool coat unbuttoned, his dark hair windblown.
Allan, obviously, hadn't listened to a word she’d said.
"How is he?" Jon asked as he followed her into the exam room.
She always kept her distance from people by maintaining a cool, impersonal attitude. It's what she did so well in every aspect of her life. But now, watching the vet and his assistant lift the trembling cat out of the cage and lay him out on the stainless-steel table, it was all she could do to stop herself from turning into Jon's arms. "I — I don't know. I came home tonight and the kitchen was a mess. He'd gotten into the refrigerator somehow."
Dr. Carlson, a lanky Abe Lincoln type with snowy white hair, raised one bushy brow as he examined the cat with a stethoscope. "I need to know what he might have eaten. Plants? Do you have any plants he might have chewed?"
"No…he digs in the flowerpots, and he knocks them over, but I haven't seen him eating anything." She wrapped her arms around her middle. "And I haven't seen ragged edges on any leaves."
The vet looked up from examining Chester's ears and mouth, and nodded toward a brochure rack on the wall. His assistant handed Marsha a booklet titled "Toxic Plants and Your Pet." "Big problem with cats," he said. "Especially during the holidays — poinsettias, lilies. What did he get out of the fridge?"
"Milk. Eggs. Cheese. Chocolate."
"Chocolate?" The vet's hands stilled. "That accounts for his rapid heartbeat, the panting and his tremors. What kind did he eat?"
"White chocolate. He had maybe…" she tried to envision the chewed end of the bar. "Maybe a tablespoon?"
The man's shoulders visibly relaxed.
"Chocolate is extremely toxic to cats and dogs.
But he's had the white kind, which has far less
theobromine."
"Is…is he going to die?" Jon came up behind her and rested his large, warm hands on her shoulders, and she leaned against his chest, suddenly thankful that he was with her. "Is there anything you can do?"
"There isn't an antidote. But yes, there's certainly supportive treatment. We'll empty his stomach and give him some activated charcoal. We can give him a little diazepam to control the tremors and any chance of seizures, and we can give him something to slow down his heart rate. We'll probably also start him on some fluids."
"Oh," she said faintly.
The vet's gaze sharpened. "You don't want to help him?"
She felt warmth flood up her cheeks. "Of course I do. Absolutely. It's just that I feel so awful about letting this happen. I left him for just a few hours, and now he's deathly ill."
Jon's arms curved around her shoulders and he held her tight. "Chester got into the refrigerator himself. That wasn't your fault."
Dr. Carlson gave a nod of approval. "Good, then. Tracy can help you fill out some paperwork at the front desk. Be sure to leave us all the phone numbers where you can be reached, and check back with us tomorrow morning."
The paperwork took just a few minutes. After one last look at Chester, Marsha picked up her purse. "Thanks so much for everything, Dr. Carlson. Do whatever it takes for him, okay?"
She'd been horrified at finding Chester so ill. Anxiety had thrummed through her as she’d driven through the dark streets to find this clinic. Guilt had snaked its way through her, as well, and now, as Jon walked her to her car, she felt totally drained yet too unsettled to even think of going home to sleep. The apartment would seem so empty now.
And despite all her reservations about resuming even so much as a friendship with Jon, she halted at the door of her car, turned back and looked up into his face. "I don't suppose you'd like to stop somewhere? For just a sandwich and coffee? Or something?"
Light snowflakes danced and swirled through the light of the security lamp overhead, dusting his hair and the broad shoulders of his coat. His eyes grew darker, more intense as he slanted her an easy grin. "’Or something’ sounds intriguing, but coffee sounds fine. Follow me — I know just the place."
Was this a mistake? Maybe…but the thought of sharing a table in some cozy café on this wintry night warmed her more than the heater in her car as she drove slowly through the snowy streets. After all, one of the goals in her planner was #4. Get over the past.
She was trying to get over the horrors she'd seen overseas.
She was working on finding a different career.
Maybe it was time to deal with other aspects of her past, too. And closure over her disastrous marriage might be a good place to start.
Marsha had craved a little companionship after leaving the vet's office. She'd decided she could also use the opportunity to achieve some closure over their failed marriage. But from the moment they stepped into the small, candlelit café overlooking Hollyhock Park, it was pretty clear that Jon didn't have closure on his agenda.
His voice resonated, deep and low, across the intimate table set in the shadows near one of the windows as he talked about the situation in the Middle East. The weather. His sister Kelly, who was expecting her first child. Marsha held back a smile, remembering how his intelligence and wit had charmed her so completely back in school.
Outside, clear Christmas tree lights sparkled in the barren oaks and maples, and strings of gaily colored Chinese lanterns swooped from one tree to the next, creating a whimsical fairyland. Inside, the hushed voices of other customers and the quiet, efficient service of the waiters made Marsha feel as if they were nearly alone.
"This place still has outside dining in the summer," he said lifting his water glass. "On Saturday nights, they vary between live salsa, zydeco and blues bands."
"Back in our day, they had string quartets," Marsha said, suddenly awash in the memories of coming here for the wonderful French and Cajun food. The times she and Jon had danced under the stars and the twinkling lights. "Seems like a lifetime ago, doesn't it? So many things have changed in this town."
Jon braced one elbow on the table and rested his chin on his hand. "How are things going for you, Micki? Really."
"Fine." She gave a disinterested shrug. "How's your carpet?"
He threw his head back and laughed. "Well, you haven't changed. Ask a personal question, hit a stone wall."
"You sent Chester to my place because of your new carpet," she said patiently. "Fumes, or something."
The laughter in his eyes faded. "That's right."
"And tomorrow will be day four."
"Yes." He leaned back in his chair. "So when Chester is released from intensive care, I take it that you look forward to getting rid of him. I suppose it's a drag having commitments that hold you back."
His assessment stung. "I'm not quite as cold as that. Actually, I don’t know how long he'll be at the vet's, but he's welcome to come back to my place. That is, if he needs to. Because of the carpet, I mean." Oh, God. I'm forty-one years old and babbling like a high-schooler. She took a steadying breath.
"You know what? I think you actually like the old guy."
"Well, he's…company." All of his escapades flitted through her thoughts, as well as the monumental amount of cleanup she'd had to do. But in the end, he was more than just a difficult, cantankerous creature. "I'll miss him when he's gone. Believe me, there's never a dull minute with him around."
"Remember the day I talked about getting a puppy?" Jon chuckled sadly. "You thought it would be too much bother. I suppose you were right."
"I traveled. You worked in the city. We were never home."
"The story of our lives, wasn't it? Too busy, too involved in other things. You were right, back then. Kids and dogs would have been impossible for us."
Marsha took a long swallow of her amaretto coffee, gathering her thoughts. "I'm still surprised you aren’t married with three kids by now. Any possibilities on the horizon?"
He gave a noncommittal wave of his hand. "Maybe."
That one word sent a wave of inexplicable regret through her. Of course, he would find someone else. Someone right for him. "And the next time, it will be the whole 'til death do you part, forsaking all others sort of deal?"
If she hadn't glanced at him that moment, she wouldn’t have seen the brief flash of pain in his eyes. "It's what I've always believed," he said quietly.
But beliefs and actions weren't always the same. He taught her that lesson all too well.
She slid a quick glance at her wristwatch, then reached into her purse and put a twenty on the table. "It's late, I'd better run."
"But your sandwich hasn’t come yet — aren't you hungry?"
She shook her head. "The coffee did the trick, I guess. Tell them to put it in a doggy bag so you can take it home."
"And Chester?"
"You work and I don't, so I can call the clinic tomorrow and take him home if he's ready to go. Just let me know what you decide, okay?" Giving Jon a wave with the tips of her fingers, she rose and headed for the door, hoping he wouldn't follow.
She'd wanted company. She'd thought she could seek closure. But all she'd done was confirm her greatest mistake.
* * *
"I just don't know what to say!" Faith breathed, her eyes shining. She opened her hands expansively to encompass the other four members of the critique group who had gathered at the restaurant to surprise her. "You're all just so sweet to do this. When my husband said he wanted to go out for coffee I just never suspected he was up to anything."
At the front of the restaurant, her husband waved to her and then he left. He was beaming proudly, Marsha noticed — a nice change from the early days when he'd been upset by Faith's desire to become a writer.
"We had to do something," Ashleigh giggled. "You're our new star!"
"Not yet, but I can dream." She waved a manila folder, then handed it to Catherine, who was to her left. "Ben said to bring this so we could talk about it over dinner. I didn't think I'd get to show it to all of you until Saturday!"
"What does it say? How much do they want you to do?" Ashleigh grinned at her. "I've seen plenty of revision notes on my articles, but never anything on a whole book before."
"It's actually rather daunting. The editor wrote a two-page revision letter, saying how she feels the heroine and hero need to change. She thought their conflict was weak, and that the hero needed a stronger motivation."
"That's it?"
Faith shook her head. "She listed dozens of page numbers where I need to clarify or expand on things. I hardly know where to start. For instance, she says I need to work on the emotional development of the romance. What does that mean? I thought I already showed them falling in love."
"I can't think of a single man in my life who ever showed any 'emotional development,’" Nancy retorted bitterly. "Self-centered, egotistical — they're all a big waste of time." She beckoned to a waitress and lifted her wineglass. "Another round for everyone, on me. We were all here early so we'd be ready when you showed up, Faith, so you're one behind. What would you like? Margarita? Wine, maybe? We're here to celebrate."
"Oh, no. Just iced tea, please. But the rest of you, please, go ahead."
"Diet soda for me," Catherine murmured, glancing at the waitress over the top of the folder in her hands.
"Same here," Ashleigh said.
Nancy frowned as she turned toward Marsha. "Well, surely you'll have another."
Marsha glanced at the others. "I'll have to pass. I need to drive home after this."
"Whatever," Nancy snapped. "As if one or two make much difference."
Ashleigh shot a nervous glance at Nancy, then turned to Faith, obviously wanting to change the subject. "What sort of things can we help you with?"
Faith's smile faded as she flopped back in her chair. "Actually, I wasn't kidding a few minutes ago. I'm thrilled about this chance to prove myself, but a lot of pages will need to be completely rewritten. A couple of characters need more depth, and she wants a whole new last chapter. What if I fix one thing and six others go wrong at the same time? What if I'm just not good enough to do this right?"
Catherine bent to search through the satchel at her feet, then withdrew a wrapped package and passed it to Faith. "Here's something that might help. The store manager highly recommended it as a resource for anyone wanting to write romance."
"Oh, Catherine, thank you," Faith breathed as she tore away the silvery wrapping paper and held up Writing the Romance Novel by Leigh Michaels. "She's one of my favorite authors, too!"
"Then this is a chance to learn from the best. That editor noticed your talent, so maybe with just a little help and some hard work, your dreams will come true."
"I agree. An editor wouldn't ask for revisions if she didn't see a great deal of potential in you," Marsha said. "You'll learn more with every story you finish, and with every set of revisions, you'll grow as a writer. This is just the next phase of a long and fascinating journey, Faith."
"Like yours with newscasting, right?" Ashleigh interjected. "I'd just love to hear some stories about the cool things you've done. Like, what was the most dangerous piece you ever did? Were you ever close to physical harm?"
An image of Mitch slammed through her thoughts. Mitch, who'd laughed and teased her through the heartbreak of her divorce. Who'd carried photos of his wife and children, and proudly regaled her with stories of their accomplishments. The best cameraman she'd ever worked with, he'd also been a warm and caring human being who deserved better than to die on the street in a hail of gunfire.
Her stomach suddenly queasy, she fumbled at the side of her chair for her purse, and gave a vague nod to the others at the table. "I'm sorry…I need to go."
She'd almost made it to her car when she heard hurried footsteps on the pavement behind her.
"Wait," Catherine called out. "Please — wait."
Damn. Her eyes burning, Marsha slowed to a halt and waited for the older woman to catch up, then she took a deep breath and turned to face her. "I'm sorry, did I forget something?"
Catherine drew close and peered at her in the dim light of a streetlamp overhead. "You rushed off. We're worried about you."
"And you were elected?"
"I was the one with the lowest heels." Smiling, Catherine looped her arm through the crook of Marsha's elbow. "Though I'll have to admit that I would've made faster time in my tennies."
Uncomfortable, Marsha started to pull away, but Catherine tightened her grip and tipped her head toward the parking lot behind the restaurant. "At least let me walk you to your car, okay?"
"Thanks, but it isn't really necessary. You'll ruin your shoes."
Catherine laughed. "Some things are more important than a pair of shoes, don’t you think?"
Unable to think of a single response and wary of what Catherine might say, Marsha walked in silence down the sidewalk, then stopped at the entrance of the parking lot. "Really, they haven't done a very good job of plowing here. At least I have boots."
The older woman released her elbow and took Marsha's gloved hands in her own. "It hasn't been easy for you. All the things you've seen and done. All the travel, all the lonely times so far from home. Probably none of us can even come close to imagining what your life has been like."
Marsha stiffened. "It was my choice. My career, and I was damn good at it."
"I know." Catherine's eyes filled with compassion. "But that doesn't mean you had it easy…or that you don't carry a few scars. I just want you to know that we care about you, Marsha. Ashleigh doesn't mean to dredge up painful memories for you — she's just enthralled with all the possibilities in this world and wants to reach for the stars. Nancy — well, I know that inside, she's still a warm, caring person who got hurt by trusting too much. And Faith would do anything for you, as I would. If you ever need anyone, just to listen…or just need company…"
"I don't do well with heart-to-heart stuff. I never have. But —" Marsha closed her eyes, holding back the rush of words that threatened to pour out of her. "I will keep that in mind. Thanks."
"Yes…please do. That's what friends are for, right?" Catherine smiled. "The good Lord knows I never could have made it through all of Graham's illnesses without the support of people who care." Catherine gave Marsha's hands a squeeze, then released them. "Without a very special, new friend of my own, I'd be having a hard time right now."
"Your Graham is a very lucky man," Marsha said. "Despite everything, his wife stayed with him. Most marriages fail under much less stress."
"Would you like to meet him? I could pick you up tomorrow. It wouldn't be long — it's just a twenty-minute drive, and we'd only stay a short while. I think you'll see that I'm the one who was truly blessed."
"I don't think I can…." But why not? Marsha chided herself. What else do I have worth doing tomorrow, or the next day after that?
Jon had left a message on her answering machine that morning while she was out jogging, saying that Chester was ready to come home, and so he'd decided to go pick up the cat and take him back to his own house. No "I'll see you later" or "I'll give you a call'…just a terse, businesslike message.
Afterward, she'd called Allan's house and received no answer, then called his law office and found that he and his family were out of town for the next week.
There was no reason to go home, and there was no reason to stay there. And there was no one, beyond her new circle of friends, who seemed to even care.
* * *
The care center, set back on a lovely, wooded lot on the north side of town, was a rambling brick affair, with wings spreading in all directions from the central, pillared entrance.
Marsha braced herself as she followed Catherine inside, but instead of the pervasive smell of urine and disinfectant she'd expected, the air was fresh. A spacious front room offered comfortable upholstered chairs, a vast, well-kept aquarium, and an aviary that extended across an entire wall. Planters tucked under each window overflowed with greenery.
"This is nothing like the place where my grandmother stayed years ago," she said as Catherine led her toward a distinguished, silver-haired man sitting in a wheelchair by the fireplace. "This place is lovely."
"It's very well kept, but what I appreciate most is the nursing staff. There's little turnover here, and the nurses and aides are just so caring and considerate. I hear they've had excellent inspection ratings and that skin problems in the residents are almost nonexistent."
Marsha thought about some of the filthy, tumbledown orphanages she'd toured. Places where the children had been dressed in rags, and were thin and ill, with soul-wrenching hopelessness in their dark, sad eyes. "These people are very lucky."
Catherine gave her a knowing look. "We're stopping for lunch after this. You and I really do need to talk. But now —" She stopped, and pulled up a chair in front of the dozing man in the wheelchair, then took one of his hands in both of hers. "Honey, it's Cathy. How are you today?"
His eyes fluttered open. Beautiful, warm brown eyes that focused on her, then filled with confusion. Even now, despite his stooped shoulders and gaunt frame, it was clear that he'd been a big, broad-shouldered man at one time, handsome in a rugged, outdoorsy way. The lines and planes of his face were strong, and his slowly widening smile carved deep dimples in his sallow cheeks.
"H-hello," he whispered, his voice rusty and low.
Catherine tipped her head toward Marsha, her eyes sparkling. "He's starting to talk to us again. We're so thankful!" She turned back to her husband. "This is Marsha, one of my friends. I was hoping you'd get a chance to meet her someday."
His gaze lifted and his brow furrowed, as if he were struggling with thought, then he glanced pointedly at the wide-screen TV across the room.
"Yes, you're right!" Catherine exclaimed, leaning over to give him a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. "You've seen her on the news. She's Marsha Cowen, and she has been a foreign correspondent."
Marsha leaned over and gave his hand a brief, gentle clasp. "I'm so glad to meet you, sir. Catherine has said so many wonderful things about you."
His mouth worked. "Nice…to meet you."
"Graham was a professor in the school of law," Catherine said, her voice tinged with pride. "During the last ten years of his career, he was the dean of that college within the university."
So he'd been highly intelligent, highly motivated and well respected, Marsha guessed. And now…what was it like for him now? She could imagine facing endless days in a swirl of confusion, dependent on staff members for every need.
Catherine bustled around, adjusting the pillow at his back, brushing his hair. Her light, loving hands drifted over him patting and touching as she talked to him about their children, and the house, and the things she had to do later that day.
"I'll be back in just a minute," she said finally, after a quick glance at her watch. "I need to ask the nurses about his new medication."
Left alone with him, Marsha's heart filled with pity as she slipped into the chair Catherine had used, and wondered what she could possibly say to a confused man she didn't know. With all of his wife's loving attention, in these pleasant surroundings, he was already well tended. But what kind of life did he have? He couldn't even express his needs, really.
But he obviously wasn't interested in chitchat anyway, because his gaze was glued on his wife's retreating back, and when she disappeared around a corner, his hands shook and his eyes filled with tears.
And Marsha realized that he didn’t really need her pity at all, because he had something she'd never possessed…a deep love for someone who loved him right back with all her heart.
Catherine took a sip of her apricot-scented tea, then cradled the cup in both hands and gave Marsha an encouraging smile. "You've been back here, what…over three months now? Tell me what your goals were when you came back to town."
Marsha glanced around the tearoom, taking in the profusion of lace, ferns and busy little curios crowding every shelf and display area. The array, mostly in mauves, pinks and violets, was too sweet for her taste, yet the overall ambience was cheery and welcoming. The Friday afternoon crowd consisted of well-dressed businesswomen sitting alone, doing business on cell phones and PDAs, and comfortably dressed moms meeting friends.
"This atmosphere," she said with a wave of her hand, "is so foreign to the life I've led. I came home wanting to start over, but sometimes things here are a bit overwhelming."
"I know you want to do some travel writing. How is that coming?"
Even a few weeks ago, Marsha would have felt impatient and edgy if faced with any sort of small talk. But now that she knew Catherine better, she realized just how honest and open the woman was. She didn't just make idle chitchat — she was truly interested and concerned.
"It isn't coming along, really. I start one article after another and find myself either stalled, or going in a completely unexpected direction…usually something totally depressing. I don't want to write that stuff. I'm trying to leave it behind, and it is just always there. Like a bad cold that won't go away."
Catherine's mouth quirked up at one corner. "Have you ever wondered why?"
"It's what I covered for all those years. War. Violence. Misery. I guess I just can't escape it."
"Just a thought…have you ever considered playing to your strengths?"
"What — continue wallowing in the past on purpose?" Marsha gave a short laugh.
"Perhaps it would be a form of catharsis." Catherine tipped her head, considering. "I know if I were in your shoes, I'd be having nightmares. I wouldn't be able to set all of those feelings and experiences aside ever. But think of the compelling human interest stories you could write. Stories that would awaken people here to what is going on in those countries. You could make a real difference."
Marsha gave her a closer look. "Have you been talking to Ashleigh?"
"About you? No. Why?"
"She and her editor friend Felicia thought it would be a great idea for me to do that very thing. Ashleigh brings it up at least once a week, and a few months ago, the topic came up when I had lunch with those two."
Catherine clasped her hands on the table. "Interesting…three people, the same thought. What would you have to lose? And more to the point — what would you have to gain? The travel writing isn't working for you right now. Maybe it would, in time, if you gave yourself a chance to get this other material out first. I've found that the more I try to hold in something, the harder it is to move on."
"You? You seem like the most calm, balanced person on the planet."
Catherine smiled sadly. "Hardly."
"You obviously love your husband, and seem to be handling his illness better than I ever could. I don't know how you manage so well."
"Do I? Sometimes…" she sighed heavily. "I'm alone, dear. Graham and I had such plans. Such wonderful plans. He would retire early, we'd sell our home and travel the world, just the two of us. We'd planned our adventures for years. We never thought about Alzheimer's or strokes or nursing homes. Not at this age."
The impulse to reach across the table to take her hand took Marsha by surprise. "I'm so sorry."
"I think we just try to go along and deal with whatever comes in this life. But sometimes, when I'm home alone through yet another lonely night, I wish so much that…" Her voice caught, as if she was wishing for something with such longing that it hurt. "But Graham will never leave the nursing home, and I know that if the situation was reversed, he'd be just as faithful and true to me. Till death do us part."
"I said those words once," Marsha said dryly. "Didn't work for me."
"It's not a magical incantation. It's a commitment to hard work. And not to point out the obvious, but I understand that neither of you have ever remarried. Why is that, do you think?"
"My cameraman was happily married, and he was the only person I ever saw often enough to know well. As for Jon? High expectations, I suppose. Don't they all want young, gorgeous, brilliant and fertile?"
Catherine raised a brow. "Really. Shallow as that."
"Yes…no. It doesn't really matter. He didn't like my career. I didn't like his office manager — who was more than willing to take care of more than just his office."
"You're sure?"
"Of course." Marsha gave a disgusted wave of her hand. "I found lingerie in his car. He didn't deny anything. And now he tells me he believes in complete commitment. Nice change of heart, in time for the next Mrs. Cowen."
"Oh, my."
"Sorry — I don't mean to sound bitter. It was my fault, too, and the divorce was all for the best, really." She ran a hand over the planner she'd placed next to her coffee cup. "You know, since I came back to the States, I've carried this with me everywhere, as if it's a lifeline. I write endless lists of things to do in it, and all my goals. But the funny thing is, I really haven't accomplished much."
"So tell me, then. What's at the top?"
Marsha flipped open the planner and scanned the list, then ripped it out of the planner and crumpled it into a ball. She slid a pen out of the loop on the side and hesitated, then began a new list.
1. Accept that job.
She thought about what Catherine had said, and knew it was true. Catharsis had to be infinitely better than denial of all those memories. She added another goal:
2. Start outlining a memoir.
She thought about her empty apartment, where her voice echoed in the stillness and every last little curio was exactly in place. If that state of order continued much longer, she would go absolutely mad. The obvious solution was…
3. Negotiate for Chester.
"Well?" Catherine prompted.
"I've been drifting until now, but I'm going to go back to the paper on Monday. If they still want me, I'm going to take that job — but only if I can retain all rights to my articles." She gave a self-conscious laugh. "It took three people telling me and some time to mull it over, but I think you're right. I should try writing about what I've done these past twenty years and see where it leads me. If I do a series of feature articles, maybe I can compile them into a book later on."
"Good for you!" Catherine hesitated. "And what about Jon?"
Marsha held the pen above the paper. Jon. The love of her life, and its greatest heartbreak. "I'm not sure what you mean. He and I were finished long ago."
"Are you sure?"
Marsha waved her bare left hand. "I've got the legal documents to prove it."
"Maybe so." Catherine gave her a small, sad smile. "But tell me — what's really in your heart?"
Marsha thought about Catherine's words on the way back to her car. What's really in my heart?
By the time she arrived home, she knew. But by the time she arrived at Ashleigh's apartment the next day for the Saturday morning critique meeting, she still wasn't sure what to do about it.
Nancy was already there, leaning a hip nonchalantly against the kitchen counter as she mixed a Bloody Mary. "Need an eye-opener?" she asked. "I can make one for you, too."
"Thanks, but no. Where's everyone else?"
Nancy gestured toward the Spartan living room with a stalk of celery she'd just cut for her drink. "Catherine's running late. Faith is at home because her daughter is running a fever. Ashleigh's in the other room, repairing the wreckage from having a sleepover here last night. God, I don't see what a kid like her could see in an older guy with two kids, can you?"
Ashleigh walked into the cramped kitchen area with an armful of popcorn bowls and soda cans. "I guess you could say that he's a wonderful man. Thoughtful. Charming. Handsome as sin, and that I'm the luckiest woman in the world." She gave Nancy a beatific smile. "If you had to say anything at all, that is."
Dressed in sleek taupe slacks and a clingy black turtleneck, she looked every inch the confident woman on her way up in the world — except for the giant silver turkeys hanging from her ears.
"Nice jewelry," Marsha murmured.
Ashleigh grinned. "From Mark's kids. They thought I should get in the mood for Thanksgiving. Fortunately, it's only a couple weeks away."
"You think it's all fun and games, but believe me — you'll have a rude awakening when you marry that guy," Nancy scoffed. "He wanted young and fresh, so he got you. You'll give up your dreams to wait on him, and then what happens in ten years? Some perky little thing will waltz off with him and leave you in the dust."
Marsha glared at her. "Nancy —"
Ashleigh held up her hand. "It's okay." She put the dishes in the sink, and then gave Nancy a patient smile. "I understand, Nancy. Your husband was a real jerk for running off with his dental assistant. You and your kids deserved better. But Mark was divorced long before he met me, and his wife wasn't all that nice. I didn't break up that marriage. And as far as my career, we're going to compromise in any way that can help promote my career and still keep us together."
"I'm only pointing out the obvious," Nancy retorted archly.
Ashleigh rolled her eyes. "I need to go clean up the bathroom before anyone uses it. The kids…um…got a bit creative with the bathtub crayons last night. I'll be back in a second."
Marsha waited until she was gone, then turned to Nancy. "That really wasn't called for, you know. She's young and in love, and it's nobody's business but hers."
A touch of color crept into Nancy's pale cheeks. "I'm only trying to help."
"Perhaps you just need to back off a little." Marsha glanced pointedly at the nearly empty glass in Nancy's hand. "How many have you had this morning? Two? Three?"
"One, but that's hardly your affair," she snapped. "Only one."
Marsha gave her a dubious glance. "We're all just a little concerned about you."
"I don't need your concern, or your interference. I'm here for writing critique, not amateur psychoanalysis. If you need to talk to anyone, talk to Ashleigh — she's the one who's totally messed up, not me."
* * *
When she walked back into her own apartment a few hours later, Marsha tried calling Jon. About Chester, of course. Just about him. When the answering machine clicked on, she hung up. She tried calling again at five o'clock.
Six.
Seven.
At eight, she started to dial and then tossed the phone onto her bed in disgust. It was a sign — one she'd do well to heed. Maybe she could send a letter. No — a fax. To Jon's office, requesting custody of Chester with reasonable remuneration in return. What was a bedraggled alley cat worth on today's market, anyway?
But the truth was that she wasn't only after Chester.
Talking to Catherine yesterday had made her think. Today, hearing Ashleigh talk about combining her love for Mark and her career goals had brought into focus Marsha's own mistakes. Ashleigh was willing to compromise to win both the love of her life and the successful career she wanted. Given her talent and enthusiasm, she would do it, too.
Marsha wandered through her apartment, then moved out onto the balcony and stared down at the city. When did I ever compromise? It was always just all about me. My career. What I refused to give up.
Seeing Nancy hiding her emotional pain beneath a tough, sarcastic shell had driven the point home. I've always driven people away, too. It was safer that way. But how many people did I hurt? What did I lose?
Jon had his own life now. She couldn't turn back the clock and start over. But perhaps they could finally talk — really talk — and become friends once again. That, at least, would be something. A partial repair of everything she'd messed up in her life. And maybe…who knew? Maybe, there could be something more.
She wandered back into the kitchen and peered into the refrigerator. Empty except for sparkling water, a shriveled apple and a foil-covered cat-food tin.
The cat-food tin made her smile.
Grabbing her keys and jacket, she headed for the door. Tonight, she'd go to Chin Lee's for some takeout to bring back home to celebrate, because tomorrow was going to be a day of new beginnings.
* * *
Lazy snow drifted down from the dark sky above as Marsha hurried down the sidewalk toward Chin Lee's. Couples walked hand in hand in front of her. In the large, lace-swathed window of Antoinette's, she could see other couples seated at candlelit tables, bending close to hear each other over the music that poured out of the front door, while a group of laughing twenty-somethings crowded at the entrance of a popular bar across the street.
Friday night…a time for lovers, she thought as she stood at the next corner and waited for the light to change. A half-block down, Chin Lee's bright green, pink and yellow neon sign spilled rainbow colors across the glittering snow like a welcoming beacon.
She smiled to herself, remembering the first time she and Jon had gone there — one of their first dates. They'd both fumbled with the chopsticks and ended up feeding each other until they'd been nearly hysterical with laughter.
At the door, she stamped the snow from her boots and stepped into the steamy warmth of the tiny takeout area, where a half-dozen people were already waiting in line, and others were waiting on the hard wooden benches lining the wall.
At the unexpected sound of Jon's deep, familiar laugh, she started to turn, ready to greet him, her pulse leaping in her wrists.
She froze.
Jon stood lounging against the wall, but facing the opposite direction so he hadn't seen her. In front of him was a gorgeous redhead with creamy skin and big green eyes. She leaned closer and brushed something form his lapel, then she laughed lightly.
Suddenly feeling completely awkward and out of place, Marsha spun around to leave — and came face-to-chest with a burly guy who reached out and grabbed her shoulders.
"Easy, miss — not so fast," he boomed. "Don't you want your place in line?"
Heads turned. Across the narrow space, she saw Jon turn, his eyes widening in recognition.
"Excuse me, please — I need to leave." Bumping through the crowd, she finally made her way out to the sidewalk and then started walking rapidly toward home, her head bowed beneath the driving snow.
How pathetic she must have looked, coming for takeout alone on Friday night. And how foolish she'd been, thinking that she could try to make amends and maybe renew her friendship — or more — with her ex-husband.
He was obviously doing very well without her.
At midnight, her phone rang. Marsha studied her computer screen, hit Save, then set the laptop next to her on the sofa and reached for the receiver.
"There's a gentleman here, miss. He wants to speak with you." The doorman's voice held a hint of reproach. "He's got something in a cage, miss — and it isn’t very happy."
"Is it a cat?"
After a brief pause, he returned to the phone. "I believe it is. A rather disreputable one, at that."
"Send him on up. Please." She dropped the receiver in its cradle and shouldered on her robe, then strode to the entryway. She'd already resolved that there really wasn't anything left to say as far as Jon was concerned — he obviously didn't need any further resolution with her, and he'd done very well on his own. But Chester.
When the elevator bell dinged, she flung the door open and stood in the doorway.
Jon sauntered up to her, his shoulders dusted with snow and a plastic carrier in one hand. "Can I come in?"
"I'm not sure why you're here," she murmured. The cage bounced and swayed in his hand as the cat howled and clawed at the mesh gate. "It doesn't look like Chester wanted to come."
"Oh, but he did." Jon stepped past her into the living room and put the cage on the floor.
"Oh?"
"He's been telling me so nonstop since I picked him up at the vet's place. He says that this is where he wants to live. Because," Jon added, turning to meet her gaze with a solemn one of his own, "you are the best thing that ever happened to him. He didn't realize it until he…um…ate the chocolate. Something for which he is very sorry."
"Really."
"So now the question is — are you willing to take back a slightly used, lonely old guy who misses you?"
Marsha hid a smile. "If we're talking about Chester, the answer is yes."
He leaned down and flipped open the latch of the cage, and Chester burst out just as he had the first time, ricocheting off the sofa, a wall and the huge ebony Buddha in front of the fireplace before he leaped up onto a windowsill.
"He doesn't seem to care about me all that much," she observed wryly.
"He has a bit of a problem in that regard." Jon latched the cage and set it out of the way, then came to stand in front of her, his gaze never leaving her face. "It's a personality flaw. In that breed of cat. None of them ever seems to say the right thing, at the right time, and then the moment is lost."
"I've been in that very situation."
Jon reached out and brushed his fingertips against her cheek, then jammed his hands in his back pockets and moved to the bank of windows facing out into the night. "I saw you at Chin Lee's earlier tonight."
"I was there, briefly…then changed my mind. It was so crowded."
"The woman with me wasn't a girlfriend, Marsha."
"It doesn't really matter, does it? You're free to do whatever you want."
"But it does matter. That was my new law partner's wife, and he was standing just a few feet away." He turned to face her, his face haggard. "Since you've been back in town, I haven't seen anyone else. Even when you were away for all that time, I could never find the right person — the one I knew I could spend the rest of my life with."
He gave a short laugh. "Funny, isn’t it? You wanted your career above all else and I wanted a family. Now here we are, and neither of us ever really found what we wanted…until now."
Her heart stumbled. "Until now?"
"I was so unfair. You never changed your goals. I did. You were always honest about wanting your career more than anything, yet when I started thinking about having kids, I was angry because you didn't agree. Now I've realized that what matters most of all is having you."
She moved to the window and rested her hands on his chest. "But I was only thinking about myself. How fair was that?"
"Maybe we've both grown up a little."
"Maybe."
He brushed a kiss against her brow, then wrapped his arms around her and held her so close that she could feel his warmth and the steady beat of his heart.
"What would you think of giving us one more chance?" he whispered against her ear.
A deep rush of emotion swept through her. Of coming home. Of peace and love. "I'd say that it sounds like a pretty good idea."
"I swear I won’t give you any more grief about you being out of the country."
She pulled back in his arms and smiled up at him. "That's good, but I probably won’t be much farther than the boundaries of this county."
"There's one other thing. I know you probably won't believe it, but I swear to you that I never had an affair when we were married. Never."
"But that girl in your office —"
"I'd recently fired her. I figure she retaliated by spreading a rumor and then planting that underwear in my car."
"The night we had dinner, you said she stole something priceless."
He gently traced her lips with his thumb. "When you believed that I could've had an affair, I figured there was no point in even trying to defend myself. If we didn't have trust, we had nothing. What she stole from me was you."
Marsha's heart melted, even as sorrow rushed through her over all the years they'd lost. "Believing made it easier to walk away," she admitted. "It gave me permission to go away and focus solely on my own dreams. Now I wish I'd stayed and fought harder to make our marriage work."
"You achieved everything you ever wanted, though. A high-powered career. Success. Fame. I'm proud of you, Micki."
"But along the way, I discovered that it wasn't everything, after all."
He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her until she felt dizzy and disorientated, and her knees went weak.
"One last thing…" she managed, when he finally released her. "About Chester. What possessed you to adopt him?"
"You." Jon laughed, then kissed the tip of her nose. "You've avoided seeing me for years, so I needed a reason to come to see you, and a reason to keep coming back. Your brother suggested finding a likely coconspirator at the humane society."
"Allan?"
"He's been worried about you for a long time, Micki. He only wanted you to be happy."
"You can't send Chester back!"
"Never. I adopted him, after all. But more than that, I owe him more than I could ever repay. He helped make my life complete."
"Mine, too," Marsha murmured as she sank into Jon’s embrace. "Mine, too."
The End