“Have a good trip,” Brett said. He proffered his cheek for a good-bye kiss, exactly the way he had every morning for the last twenty-nine years. “Call me when you get there.”
Sandra gave him a peck on that soft place above his now almost-white beard. After all these years, she was the one going on a business trip. Brett’s turn to be left to an empty house.
Her stomach lurched and her heart skipped. Travel nerves, she told herself, but a sense of freedom rose within her on the cab ride to the airport.
Three days away from her friends, her family, anyone who knew her. She forced herself to concentrate on the reason for the trip—to sit down face-to-face and iron out all those details that telephone calls and emails wouldn’t permit. Put the first edition of the new journal to bed.
“I need you here, where we can do it in real time,” Jim had said. “Fly out for a couple of days, and we can probably get the whole thing finished. You can stay at my place—it’ll be more convenient than a hotel. Everything’s in my home office.”
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” she’d replied. “Your wife doesn’t need a houseguest.”
“No problem. Katie will be in Brazil, so it’s not an imposition. And it’ll save a lot of commuting time.”
She’d agreed, both out of a need to get the job done, and an unexplainable desire to work side by side with this man she knew only from e-mails and phone calls. Even when those e-mails and phone calls wandered into the personal arena, even with the occasional flirtation, underneath, it had always been about the work.
Brett thought nothing of her staying at Jim’s, and that unnerved her. Why hadn’t she told him Jim’s wife would be out of the country? Would he care? Make a fuss? Insist she stay at a hotel? Maybe she’d been afraid he wouldn’t have reacted. That he figured nobody else would find her the least bit appealing, and she wasn’t sure her ego was ready to deal with that.
She tried reviewing her notes, gave up, and picked up the in-flight travel magazine, which did little to hold her attention. She forked over the bucks for the movie, adjusted the headphones and stared at the blurred screen. Shortly after the final credits rolled, they’d landed in Albuquerque.
She un-clicked her seatbelt and reached into the overhead for her carryon.
“Let me help you, ma’am,” came a voice from behind her.
Sandra turned and stared into the eyes of a man she pegged as mid-thirties. Ma’am? “Thanks,” she mumbled. Bad enough AARP was bombarding her with premature membership appeals, but ma’am?
Navigating the airport, following signs to ground transportation, she heard nothing but her luggage wheels clacking out an annoying rhythm. Over the hill, over the hill, over the hill.
The cab driver approached. “This your bag, ma’am?” he asked, and she snapped back to reality. The driver put her case in the trunk of the cab and opened the rear door for her. From the cabbie, the ma’am didn’t rankle quite as much. That was his job, after all. Besides, he couldn’t be more than twenty.
Would Jim take her bag as if she was too feeble to manage it on her own? She gave the cabbie Jim’s address and punched Brett’s office number into her cell phone. Why was she glad to get his voice mail?
“Hi. I’m here. Safe and sound and on the way to Jim’s.” She ended the call and wondered
How long before Brett remembered to check his messages? Business trips were routine for him. He rarely called from the road anymore. Why should he expect it to be different for her?
She watched as they exited the airport, identical to almost every airport she’d ever been in. From the warm confines of the cab, only the naked trees, their branches beseeching the heavens to bring forth their spring finery, told her this wasn’t Miami. Well, that and the culvert with the icicle waterfall. Funny, she hadn’t thought about Albuquerque this way. Her images were always of a hot, dry desert filled with shades of reds and browns. The stark blue sky and white snow caught her unawares. She watched as the cab left the highway and followed winding mountain roads into old neighborhoods where the houses weren’t cheek by jowl with their neighbors. Definitely not convenient to a hotel.
Jim took over her thoughts. Damn. In twenty-nine years, not once had she felt the slightest desire to stray from her marriage vows. Okay, there were those fantasy flings with Harrison Ford and Tom Selleck. But somehow, in them, she always imagined herself a widow. Never a divorcee. And, absolutely never an extramarital affair. Faithful to the end.
Finally, she stood at Jim’s two-story adobe. There was a note tacked to the front door. Be right back. Door’s open. Your room is upstairs on the left. Make yourself comfortable.
Comfortable, hell. Tell that to her butterflies. Sandra lugged her small bag to the top of the stairs and found the guestroom. A box of chocolates and a single rose lay on the pillow! She’d worked with Jim for three years. He was a friend. Someone she could talk to about anything. In fact, had he not been male, he’d have been her best girlfriend. Sitting on the bed, twirling the rose in her fingers, she tried to think of anything she might have said to make him think this was more than a business meeting.
Damn. Was he just being hospitable or laying the foundation for more? When was the last time Brett had given her chocolate?
And he’d never put a rose on her pillow. She heard the front door open.
“Sandra?”
“Upstairs,” she called, and hurried to close the bedroom door. The voice echoing up the stairwell matched the one on the phone, deep and warm. But about twenty degrees warmer in person. Just like her face at the moment. She couldn’t let him see her blushing. Would she be able to read his face? Worse, would he read hers?
Busying herself with unzipping her suitcase, she realized she’d been holding her breath.
A tap on the door. “How was your flight? Sorry I couldn’t meet you at the airport.”
She spoke through the closed door. “Fine. No problem.”
She arranged her face into what she hoped was a friendly but professional smile and imagined Brett’s face from the company website. Taking a deep breath, she eased the door open, speaking to a spot above his head. “Do you want to get started? I thought of a few more things on the plane.” She lowered her gaze. A little older than his photo, and no beard. And a smile as bewitching as his voice.
She turned back and dug through her briefcase, as if searching for something of vital importance.
“You’re probably tired.” His voice dripped like honey, smooth and sweet. She closed her eyes and let his mellifluous tones flow over her. “Why don’t you unwind, change, whatever. Bathroom’s around the corner. I’ll fix us some drinks.”
“I’ll be down in a few minutes.” She flashed a quick smile in his general direction and dove back to her briefcase. His footsteps retreated down the hall, then down the stairs. After closing the bedroom door, Sandra traded her travel blouse for a green turtleneck sweater.
All those ma’ams reverberated through her head. She checked her reflection in the bedroom’s full-length mirror. In decent shape, thanks to the four trips a week to the gym, but was it really so wonderful to pass for forty-four instead of forty-nine?
She snatched the pouch containing her toiletries and went into the bathroom. A quick brush of her teeth, and a glance in the mirror did nothing to calm her. Dammit, she was almost fifty, and roses on the pillow or not, happily married. Or had it become comfortably married?
She stared at the creases under her eyes, imagining them creeping farther toward her cheeks almost as she watched, and reached for her compact. She patted on more foundation. This was nonsense. Two mature individuals could get a job done under one roof. A quick dab of lipstick. Unwinding with a drink after a long day—what was wrong with that? She was making a big deal out of nothing.
Jim stood at the foot of the stairs, drinks in hand. “Gin and tonic okay?” His eyes moved up and down her body. Of course they would. He’d never seen her in the flesh, either.
She lifted her chin, straightened her spi
ne. Smiled. “Fine, thanks.”
He extended a glass. “Tough flight?”
She took the drink, careful to avoid touching his fingers. “Not really. A little turbulence over the mountains.” Why had she agreed to stay here? Then again, the temptation of an impersonal hotel room might have been worse. Surely he wouldn’t betray his wife in their home. Betrayal? What was she thinking?
She glanced around the room, saw all the pictures of him, of Katie, of the two of them. Smiling for the camera. Happy. Good. She exhaled audibly and took a sip of her drink. “Mmm. A little strong.”
“Good gin makes the difference. Have a seat.” He motioned to two wingback chairs in front of the fireplace.
Sandra smiled and settled into one. It was winter. Of course he’d have a fire going. A good host, that was all. Nothing romantic about it. Talk about work.
“The journal layout is great,” she said. “That new logo makes all the difference, don’t you think? And if we merge the three databases and do a search for duplicates and discrepancies—”
“It’ll be fine. We can go over everything tomorrow. After that, I thought we’d drive out to Santa Fe for dinner.”
“Sounds good.”
“Speaking of dinner, I’m cooking tonight. I hope you like pasta.”
“I do. Can I help?”
“You can join me in the kitchen. It’s all prepped. I figured you’d be hungry with the time change and all.”
“Not to mention the amazing dearth of food on airplanes these days.” She glanced at her watch, still set to Florida time. Eight-thirty.
In Brett’s spacious kitchen, Sandra sat on a stool at a large butcher block. Everything was laid out on the counter. Tomatoes, anchovies, olives … Oh God. Pasta puttanesca. Hooker pasta. He was making her hooker pasta? He wouldn’t talk about the origin of the dish, would he?
Was he sending seduction signals? Would she even recognize them after all these years? She hoped the heat in her face was from the fire.
He opened a bottle of Chianti and poured two glasses. “Can’t cook without wine.”
“I think I’ll wait for dinner. This G-and-T on an empty stomach is plenty.”
“No problem. Hand me the capers.”
She passed the jar and tried to decide if he drew his fingers along hers longer than necessary. And why it felt so good when he did. If she ever suspected her husband of thinking what she was thinking now, she’d have removed essential parts of his anatomy and shoved them down his throat. She trusted Brett when he was away, and she knew he trusted her.
“Umm … what’s Katie doing in Brazil?”
“Working on an article about deforestation. Should be in National Geographic next year.”
What was that look on his face now? Longing for his wife? Or looking for immediate companionship? How could you read the expression of someone you knew exclusively by phone?
He picked up a remote and pointed it at a CD player on a baker’s rack. “We need music. Almost as important as the wine for cooking.”
She waited. Classical and romantic? Please, God, no. Upbeat? Upbeat. She prayed for upbeat. Rock and roll. That’s what she needed. The Beatles. A Hard Day’s Night. The only song Brett would dance to. Then she heard a guitar intro segue into Peaceful Easy Feeling. She braved a look at Jim.
He tasted the sauce, adjusted the burners and turned to her, his hand outstretched and an inviting smile on his lips. “May I have this dance?”
“I’m afraid I’m not much of a dancer.”
“It’s just a two-step. Come on.”
What the hell. She put down her glass and took his hand. He led her to the living room, put one hand at her back and held his other up at shoulder level. She placed hers against it. The iced drink wasn’t the only reason her hands were cold. If Jim noticed, he didn’t say anything.
“Relax,” he said. “Two steps to your right, one to your left.” As she fell into the gentle rhythm, she felt his right hand exerting gentle pressure as he changed direction and turned her. “You’re a natural.”
“I haven’t done much dancing since college, and that was all folk dancing. Rock and roll is all Brett will tolerate, and it’s like pulling teeth to get him on the floor.”
“I’ll have to have a talk with that man.” The song ended, and he released her.
She felt her face grow hot again, and she lowered her eyes. “How’s the pasta coming along?”
“Should be done. Take a seat.” He motioned to the dining room, the table set with cream-colored dinnerware on Bargello print placemats. Matching napkins, rolled in silver rings, lay atop both plates. Three deep blue candles and a box of matches sat in the center.
She contemplated lighting the candles. No, he could do that. She was not going to make any first moves. Hell, she still didn’t know if he was making moves or just being himself. They’d always enjoyed lighthearted flirtation and innuendo on the phone. He couldn’t think she expected something more than business? Or could he?
Jim carried most of the dinner conversation, and she hoped he didn’t notice how she couldn’t keep up her end. He regaled her with trips to New Zealand, to Russia, to exotic places she only dreamed of visiting. She lost herself in his voice, the hint of a British accent still lingering despite all his years in the States. His eyes twinkled in the candlelight. “Dessert?”
“I shouldn’t.”
He nodded toward the living room. “Go sit by the fire. I’ll bring you a tiny bowl of ice cream and a taste of port.”
The alcohol she’d already had gave everything a pleasant glow, and she took her seat in the living room. “I think you need to revisit the definition of tiny,” she said when she took the bowl he offered.
He grinned at her. “I’ve heard it’s good for preventing jet lag.”
She savored the creamy vanilla and the chocolate crunch. On the third bite, she realized the chocolate bits swirled through the dessert were heart-shaped. Good grief, what was wrong with plain old generic chocolate chip?
She looked at Jim, but he was busy eating his own dessert. She swallowed. “I meant to thank you for the chocolate in my room. And the rose.”
“You’re welcome. Anyone who knows you at all knows you’re a chocoholic. Try the port.”
She set down the bowl and picked up the long-stemmed liqueur glass. The ruby red liquid reflected in the glow of the firelight, and she took a tentative sip. “Don’t tell me. You brought this back from Portugal, right?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. You like it?”
His smile was casual, but something inside her wobbled. Too much to drink, she told herself. Time for a polite retreat. She smiled back. “It’s good, but it’s late, and I think I need to get some sleep. It may be just a two hour time shift, but I’m feeling it.”
He took the glass from her hand and sat on the hearth in front of her. “Talk to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re uncomfortable. What’s bothering you?”
She hid behind closed eyes, and it became another telephone conversation. No strings, no guilt, no warm flesh and blood inches from her. “I’ve been married twenty-nine years.”
“Twenty-three for me. But you’re not talking about an anniversary, are you? Problems?”
She sighed. “No. I’m comfortable. But I’m wondering if comfortable might be turning into boring. For Brett.”
“I don’t see how that’s possible. You’re an amazing woman. Smart, funny, and damn good to look at.”
“Finish the sentence.”
“What do you mean?”
“For a woman your age. Even when you don’t say it, I hear it. Not just from you. From everyone.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’re a beautiful woman, age be damned.”
“Yeah, right.” She felt his hand on her knee and opened her eyes. “I think I’d better go upstairs.” When she stood, the room shifted, and his hand was on her elbow. “I think that port put me over my limit.”
“I’ll wal
k you up.”
“Jim, really—” but by then they were halfway up the stairs. He reached around her and opened the door to her room, and she turned and looked into his eyes. Amber. She hadn’t noticed that before. His lips touched hers, warm and gentle. A touch, nothing more. All she could hear was blood pounding in her ears. She pulled away. “Jim … I … I’ve never …”
He took her hands in his. “Neither have I.”
She forced herself to keep her gaze steady although her heart threatened to leap out of her ribcage. “Please. We have something special … the way we are.”
He ran one finger along her cheek. “Sleep well. My room is downstairs off the living room. If you need anything ….”
Like an extra blanket? Or something else? Somehow, she managed to speak. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. Dinner was great. Good night.”
“I’ll see you in the morning.” He pressed her fingers to his lips.
Jim stepped back toward the stairs and she closed the bedroom door. Sinking to the bed, she blew out a deep breath and pressed a button on her cell phone.
“Hello?” Brett’s voice was thick with sleep.
Sandra’s fingers traced her cheek where Jim had touched her. “Hi, honey. Sorry I woke you. Just wanted to say, I love you.”
“I love you, too. It’s different, being alone in our bed. It’s empty without you. I’ll pick you up from the airport, and we can go to the Mason Jar, okay?”
Maison and Jardin? They hadn’t been there since their tenth anniversary. “Can you get reservations there? They’re always booked.”
“I made them already. Eight o’clock. A window table.”
“I miss you, too.” She pulled on flannel pajamas and crawled into bed, cell phone tucked under her ear. “Talk to me while I fall asleep, okay?”
Second Chance Rose
Rose has had her chance at her one true love. Widowed, her home destroyed by a hurricane, she relocates across the country and discovers the special garden of the bedtime stories her mother told her as a child. When she meets Richard there, friendship blooms. But can there be second chances for true love?
♥ ♥ ♥