Bachelor Mom

Two

An hour later, Gwen had locked up, picked up and switched off all the lights. She dialed the telephone in her bedroom to call Vermont. Her sister should still be up, and she wanted to thank Paige for the cameo.

As the telephone rang at the other end, her gaze pounced from the lemon yellow print comforter to the wicker love seat in the corner. She’d redecorated the bedroom right after the divorce. Ron favored dark, rich expensive woods. Actually, his taste pretty predictably ran to anything that cost the moon. She’d sold the oppressive stuff, painted and redid everything in sunny yellows and white wicker. It was her private haven now. Walking into her bedroom was like walking into her own sanctuary.

Not tonight. Listening to the phone ring, she squeezed her eyes closed. If her sister wasn’t home, heaven knew what she was going to do—maybe take a marathon jog around St. Augustine. She was not only feeling climb-the-walls wide awake, but sober as a judge.

That kiss from Spence could sober anyone up... although she was trying her her damnedest to work up a good case of denial. Surely it never really happened. Surely it was her imagination that he’d knocked her knickers off with that kiss. Surely it was her rum-clouded memory that made her think she’d responded to him like a wild cat.

She couldn’t conceivably have responded to Spence with abandon. He was her neighbor. A good neighbor. He was also an experienced, sophisticated hunk. She was tuna noodle casserole and he was lobster. There was nothing wrong with being tuna noodle casserole, but man, to have him think she was sexually attracted to him was beyond mortifying. She’d never doubted that Spence ran across his share of female movers and shakers in his business life. He was probably dying of embarrassment that she’d responded to him like...well, like some sad stereotype of a sex-starved divorcee.

She hoped he’d forget it.

If he couldn’t forget it, she hoped she’d explained enough times about her inexperience with rum.

Actually, she desperately hoped that if she just kept mentally denying it, maybe she could convince herself it never happened.

“Gwen! I tried to call you earlier, but you were out—I hope partying big-time. How’d the big three-oh birthday go?”

There. Her sister finally answered, and Paige’s familiar alto soothed her nerves like balm for a sore. “The day’s been fine, and oh, Paige, the cameo is just breathtaking. I couldn’t love it more. Thank you so much!”

Paige let out a breathy sigh. “Whew. So glad you liked it. I wanted it right ... not just some pretty piece of artwork, but something personal between you and me.”

Sitting Indian-style on the bed, the phone cupped to her ear, Gwen touched the cameo pendant with soft fingers. “It was personal. More than personal. The look of the woman in the profile almost gave me the shivers... she almost seemed to look like me”

“I thought so, too. But I’ve told you before how sculpting works—any similarity like that is accidental. There’s a kind of truth in any piece of raw material. The artist’s job is to carve away what isn’t the truth, but she can’t build in a picture that isn’t there. I had no way to know ahead of time that the woman was going to end up looking like you.” Paige hesitated, then added deliberately, “But I wanted her to be beautiful. You’re beautiful, sis. And you seem to be the only one in the entire world who isn’t aware of it.”

“Talk about bias.” Gwen’s voice was purposefully light. Maybe her sister never saw what she did. It was the shadow woman in the cameo that put a lump in her throat, not the beautiful lady who was so exuberantly embracing life. Carefully she snapped the lid closed on the velvet box. “I’ll be beautiful the same day cats fly. You’ve just got blinders on because you’re my sister.”

“Hey, you’re talking to the brat who put shaving cream in your bra. Short-sheeted your bed. Froze all your underpants next to Mom’s jam in the freezer. Sisters don’t have to do or say nice things.”

Gwen chuckled. “Come to think of it, I’d forgotten what a brat you were. Abby was the nice sister.”

“And what’d Abby send you for your birthday?”

“A silk dress. Ivory. Kind of swirly and soft and sexy.” Maybe it was studying that cameo that made her suddenly feel restless and uneasy again, but she bounced off the bed and started pacing the room with the phone cradled against her ear. “Maybe in the year 2010, I’ll find a place to wear it.”

“Abby keeps trying to reform my taste in clothes, too. She should know by now it’s hopeless. And how come she got all the good taste in the family?”

“I dunno. You want to short-sheet her bed the next time we see her?”

They both chuckled and wasted a few minutes creating diabolical plans for Abby and recalling all the sick practical jokes they’d pulled on each other as kids. Then Paige filled in her own family news—she’d never felt healthier in her whole life, but her new husband Stefan was miserable, suffering morning sickness big-time. As Paige embellished the details, both sisters’ chuckles spilled into laughter...until Paige suddenly paused and turned serious. “Boy, I haven’t heard a good belly laugh from you in forever, kiddo. I’ve really worried how you were doing these past few months. And you haven’t said one word about the bastard.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call him that. He’s really not, Paige. Ron’s a good dad to the boys. And he didn’t suddenly turn into a creep just because the marriage failed.”

“I think we’ve had this exact same conversation before—you know I have a different opinion on that—but okay, okay. I’ll try to remember not to call him a manipulative, arrogant son of a seadog in your presence, sweets. But I wish you’d try to believe it. He’s well out of your life. You seeing anyone?”

“You have to be kidding. I’m not sure I’ve even caught sight of an adult man in six months, between being chained to the computer most of the day and den-mothering a passel of boys in my free time,” Owen said wryly. From nowhere, though, a mental picture of Spence suddenly embedded itself in her mind as if glued there.

“You’ve got to quit hiding in that house.”

“This is my youngest sister talking? The one who hid in the art studio for years and was never going to get married as long as she lived?”

“That was before I met Stefan. Now I know what I was missing. And you, too. Just listen to me-now that I know everything,” Paige teased, but again, her voice turned serious. “I know it’s got to be scary to get your feet wet in the dating pool again, but everyone isn’t like Ron, sis. You just have to steer clear of those high-powered, steamroller types.”

“I know, I know. Believe me.” Again, Spence’s face flashed in her brain. He was ten times more dynamite than Ron had ever been, a clear study of a man motivated by drive and ambition and overloaded with dynamic, virile male energy. Lord, how could she have kissed him like that? Being a concentrated dynamo was no crime, but for her, Spence might as well have a Danger sign tattooed on his forehead. Abruptly, though, that whole thought train disappeared from her mind. “Oops...Paige, I have to go. A pint-size interruption just showed up in the doorway.”

Paige chuckled just before hanging up. “Give my favorite hellion nephews a giant hug from Aunt Paige, okay?”

As it happened, only one of her hellions was standing in the door. Jacob. Tousled and barefoot and wearing his favorite cartoon pj’s. He was the spitting image of his dad with his white-blond hair and woman-killer blue eyes and beyond-adorable grin. “He’s back, Mom,” Jacob said.

Gwen heard the quaver in his voice, and there was sure no grin on his face now. Jacob could manage to get dirty in a bathtub; he had more energy than an entire football team, and there were times he could test her patience like nobody’s business. But not when he was scared. Never when he was scared.

Swiftly she reached out her arms. “Shoot. Don’t tell me that blasted monster showed up again?”

“Yup. The green one. With the big bulging eyes and the claws like scissors.”

“Darn. I thought we got rid of him permanently the last time.”

“Nope.” Another quaver, as he shot across the room and burrowed his face into her stomach. “I just came in to protect you. I wasn’t scared or anything, but you’re a girl and all. I figured I better sleep with you.”

“Well, when one of us is afraid, I think it’s a good idea to protect each other,” Gwen said gravely. “But let’s take care of this monster together first, okay?”

She took his hand and together they walked down the hall to his room. “Where’d he come from this time?”

“The bathroom. And then he slinked in. And then he hid by the desk.”

“Ah.” She switched on the big overhead light and then slowly took her time, studiously searching around the desk, bending down to look under the bed, then poking in the corners of the closet. “You see anything?” she asked her son.

“Nope.”

“Any other place you think he could be hiding?”

“Aw, Mom. You don’t have to keep doing this. I know it’s just a dream. It’s just such a real dream that I can’t always make it go away.”

“Honest, I understand. When I was six, I had pink and orange alligators under my bed. Just for the record, though...they all went away by the time I was seven. Never came back.”

“Boy, were you silly. Everybody knows that alligators don’t come in orange.”

She made him giggle, but he still wasn’t sure about leaving her alone—“unprotected”—so she curled up on the twin bed with him. It didn’t take long for him to fall asleep, never did. But he didn’t let her cuddle him too often, now that he was a big grown-up six-year-old, and it felt good, the warm body, the scent of her son, the cowlick tufts of his blond hair tickling her chin.

This was her life, she thought. Loving her kids. Being there for them when the monsters came.

She simply had to shake this strange, lost, dissatisfied feeling that had haunted her lately. And she simply had to put that wild, dangerous kiss from Spence out of her mind.

Before she fell asleep, she hoped fiercely that he’d just done her a kindness and forgotten all about it.

“Maybe I should sleep with you tonight.”

“You think so?” Spence bent down to kiss the blue-eyed blond beauty. The love of his life had the long eyelashes of a seductress and the cajoling ways of a Lorelei. He knew—and she knew even better—that he could be had. He’d been suckered by a single milk-breath kiss before.

“There aren’t any monsters in your bed, Dad. And just in case one comes, then I won’t have to walk all the way down the hall to your room. It’s dark and scary in the hall.”

He gave April another kiss and then tucked the stuffed two-foot-high yellow rabbit under the covers with her. “There’s a night light in the hall now, remember? It’s not dark anymore. And I’m pretty sure we killed off all the monsters a couple nights ago. Haven’t seen one since.”

“But what if one comes?”

“Then you yell at the top of your lungs for Dad.” He illustrated, mimicking her child’s soprano in such a campy fashion that she started giggling. “I’ll come running lickety-split and we’ll save each other. But right now I want you to close your eyes and think about marshmallows.”

“Marshmallows?”

“Yup. Close your eyes, lovebug, and concentrate real, real hard on marshmallows.” It was the newest theory he was trying. So far he hadn’t found a sure cure for night terrors, no matter how many child-rearing books he’d read. Instead of picturing monsters just before she went to sleep, he was trying to get her to think about something safe and soft and fun.

So far, it worked some of the time. The chances were about “even-steven” he’d wake up in the morning with a six-year-old hogging the covers. Early in the night, though, April’s sleep patterns were as predictable as the sunrise. If he could just get her to close her eyes, she’d be snoozing deep and heavy twenty minutes from now.

For the next twenty minutes he stood in the kitchen, sipping an iced tea, staring out the west window at the sweep of lawn that bordered his place and Gwen’s.

Mary Margaret, his housekeeper, made fine iced tea. She was addicted to Pine Sol, though. Seemed there was no limit to the gallons she could go through, and the smell pervaded the kitchen. So did the chicken cacciatore she’d made for dinner. Mary Margaret was chunky, built like a barrel, with long, wiry gray hair always pulled back in the same merciless bun. She broke something once a week, covered up any experimental cooking with an overdose of cayenne, and she looked tougher than old nails ... but she’d about die for his daughter. Spence never cared about the rest.

He’d been a little uneasy about dads and daughters and whether it was okay for April to climb in bed with him in the middle of the night. Mary Margaret, in typical tactful fashion, told him he was being stupid. When a child was scared, you did whatever you had to do to help them get unscared. She also told him to burn all the silly child-rearing books and listen to her. She’d raised five children. She knew everything.

Should he ever fail to obey her sage advice, the threat of habanero-and-cayenne-laced chicken cacciatore was always there.

The only terrorizing females he’d allowed in his life in several years now were April and Mary Margaret.

But he was considering adding another.

Across the yard, past the shadow-dipped fence and moonlit swing set, a light went out in one of the back rooms. Gwen was putting her sons to bed. Like him, she probably couldn’t really rest and relax for a few minutes yet, not until she knew for sure the kids were asleep.

Light glowed from the jalousie window in her bathroom, then flicked off again. After that she headed for the kitchen. Living across the way from her for the past two years, he knew her patterns fairly well by now. She flew around the kitchen doing little cleanups right after the boys went to bed. A few minutes later she’d check on them. She didn’t let down her hair—so to speak—until she was sure her sons were asleep. Then, often enough, she’d slip off her shoes and wander outside barefoot for a few minutes, closing her eyes, breathing in the night.

It was her way of letting out the day’s stresses, Spence guessed. But he’d seen her lift her face, seen the moonlight wash over her delicate profile and soft skin. Sometimes a night breeze would pucker off the ocean, cupping the blouse fabric intimately to her high, full breasts, fingering light and shine into her cap of nutmeg brown curls. Sometimes she’d sway in the breeze as if she were hearing music, not dancing, but as if there were a song or dream in her head that she couldn’t stop thinking about.

During the day, it was almost impossible to catch Gwen when she wasn’t herding kids—hers and half the neighborhood’s. She always had a smile. Was always dressed in practical cotton or denim. Always had time to give a neighbor a helping hand or a listening ear—including him—but he’d never seen any guy around the place except for her good-looking, cold-eyed ex.

If Spence hadn’t seen her, all those moonlit nights, he would never have guessed there was more to the package than the practical single mom and commonsense neighbor. But he’d seen the sensual beauty in Gwen, the dreamer side to her... and the loneliness.

From the beginning she’d never given him more than the friendly time of day. Spence sensed she needed healing time to get over her divorce. He understood that. He had scars left over from the breakup of his marriage to May, and there was no fast recovery from certain kinds of emotional wounds.

Two years had passed, though. Two years of watching her and thinking about her and using their mutual single-parent problems to naturally create excuses to talk with her. Spence had never tried a serious move. It pushed his black humor buttons, though, that an embarrassing number of women in his business life seemed willing to chase him, given no encouragement at all, yet Gwen had never given him the first sign that she noticed he was a male human being. Maybe she didn’t like brown hair and brown eyes. Maybe tall men didn’t turn her on. Maybe she liked big brawny guys instead of lean. Spence had a sister who’d never treated him as sisterly as Gwen did.

She hadn’t kissed him last night like a sister, though.

With his gaze still on the window view, Spence set his iced tea glass in the sink. He considered whether he was up for a knife-in-the-gut rejection. He considered how many clear no-touch signals she’d given him over the past two years. He considered that he hadn’t taken a serious risk with a woman since May, and having his heart torn out had been as much fun to recover from as a ballet wound.

Spence rubbed the back of his neck, then abruptly pivoted around. He checked first on April, to make sure she was dead-to-the-world asleep, then inhaled a lungful of courage and strode determinedly for the back door.

The problem—the really nasty, unsolvable problem—was that the only way to figure out what Gwen Stanford. felt—or could feel for him—was to go over there and find out.

But taking the risk sure felt like diving into the ocean with no life buoy or rescue raft in sight.

Three

“You give me fever... when you kiss me ...” It was tough to belt out rock and roll when you couldn’t carry a tune to save your life and had to whisper because the boys were sleeping—but brownie making wouldn’t be the same without a song. Gwen cracked two eggs and plopped them in the bowl.

“I know you’re gonna treat me ri-i-i-ight...” She checked the recipe for the amount of sugar. One cup. That struck her as a little stingy, so she heaped in some extra. “Louie, Louie...” Oops, she was pretty sure those were lyrics to some other oldie, but no matter. There was still a hip-swinging beat to that one, too. Only drat, she’d forgotten to preheat the oven.

Holding a wooden spoon dripping sugar and chocolate, she swiftly pivoted around ... and almost had a heart attack when she saw Spence in her screen doorway. “Eek,” she said weakly.

Even in the muzzy darkness beyond the screen, she could see his effort to control a smile. “Sorry, I really didn’t mean to scare you. I was just about to knock—but then I decided you looked too busy for company and maybe I’d better head back home.”

It took a second to gather her scattered wits...but then she grinned. “Now tell the truth. My singing just terrfied you speechless, didn’t it? Come in, come in. I promise I’ll quit. I’ll even pour you a glass of lemonade...” She glanced at her hands, spattered with chocolate and flour. “Well, maybe you’d better pour your own lemonade.”

“You do look busy—”

“I am. The brownies are for Ms. Peter’s class tomorrow—she’s Josh’s second-grade teacher, and I caught wind it was her birthday. Figured it was a good idea to start the school year by buttering her up. There’s nothing more boring than making brownies by yourself, though, so I couldn’t be happier to have some company. What’s up? April isn’t sick, is she?”

“No, she’s fine, sleeping like a log.” Spence stepped inside. Even in casual khakis and old sandals, he made her pulse rate accelerate to zoom speed. “She came home from school—it’s only the second day, mind you—and tells me she now knows how to read. Nothing to it.”

Owen chuckled, then motioned where he could find the glasses. “There’s fresh-squeezed lemonade on the first shelf in the fridge...and April’s so bright, I wouldn’t doubt she moved past Dick and Jane in the first fifteen minutes. What a darling she is.”

“I think so, too, but actually, I heard she poured several handfuls of sand down Jacob’s shirt this afternoon. I figured I’d better find out if the McKennas were in hot water at your house.”

So that’s why he’d stopped over? Head down, she started ladling brownie batter into the baking pan. “No problem. I found the sand when I threw Jacob in the bathtub tonight, but believe me, dirt and Jacob isn’t any news to our septic system. And what’s a little sand between friends? Apparently Jacob paid her the ultimate compliment by telling her she played as well as a boy. No offense meant to your gender, but I bopped him with a towel. I swear my two came out of the womb thinking sexist... do you want to lick the bowl?”

“Lick the bowl?”

Gwen had long suspected that the whole world treated Spence like a hotshot—because he was. She always meant to kowtow the same way and treat him like the intimidating business tycoon he was, only she’d never mastered how to do it. “Hey, it’s fine with me if you’re too grown-up to get your hands sticky. Personally I don’t think anything beats brownie batter, but—”

“I’ll take the bowl off your hands.”

She chuckled. “You’re gonna do me a favor, huh? But maybe this is a bad idea. You’ve got a white shirt on, and Mary Margaret’ll skin you alive if she has to get chocolate stains out of it—”

“I’ll handle Mary Margaret. I haven’t had brownie batter in a dozen years.”

“Well, you poor baby...” He hovered like a four-year-old until she had the batter poured in the pan-then promptly and greedily absconded with the bowl—and the wooden spoon. Sheesh, who’d have dreamed this would go so easily, she mused. Last night she’d been mortified at the thought of having to face him again, when obviously she only had one choice. To be herself and to act like normal.

She grabbed a soapy sponge. Something about making brownies always took out her whole kitchen. There were drips of chocolate on the pecan cupboards and a dusting of flour everywhere on the coral Formica counters. Working around Spence at the island bar, she swiped and scrubbed with the sponge. She was conscious that her feet were bare, her face as scrubbed as a kid’s, and he’d probably been around women all day dressed in elegant business suits. Her oversize brown T-shirt and red shorts were ancient and looked it—but he’d seen her look worse.