Pamela Hearon - My Way Back to You

“Why not?”

“He was unfaithful and you rewarded him?”

“He was dying. I would hardly call that a reward.”

“But for you to be civil to her... Kind, even.”

She shrugged. It was difficult to explain why she had handled things the way she did. “Something was never right between Zeke and me. We got along. Had a good time together. He was good to Russ. But I think I married him more out of loneliness than love.” She stopped short of admitting there had never been the rush of adrenaline for Zeke the way there had been for him—even her reaction at seeing him today. The surge of primal pleasure that time and emotional pain could not erase. She paused for breath and shook some propriety back into her logic center. “I shouldn’t be discussing this with you. It’s too personal. You and I are practically strangers now.”

“We’ll never be strangers, Mags.”

“Well, maybe not strangers,” she acquiesced. “But thirteen years without face-to-face contact is a long time.”

His mouth rose slightly on one end. “Too long.” His tone brought a flutter to her stomach that she attempted to stymie with a gulp of wine. “So why didn’t you tell anyone? I mean, the sorrow and grief must’ve been unbearable. It might’ve helped to talk to somebody.”

“I considered talking to Mom, but that felt like a knee-jerk reaction, and it would only upset her. I thought about counseling, but, with him gone, the affair seemed like more of a testimony against me than him. It was hard to admit to myself, much less somebody else, that I’d made such a huge mistake. Again.” Her voice broke on the last word.

Jeff glanced away, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. She knew that mannerism. It was what he did when he was upset or displeased, and she felt the weight of that displeasure in her stomach.

Yeah, I failed at my second marriage, too. She didn’t have to say the words. She knew what he was thinking.

No longer hungry, she pushed her plate back and dabbed her mouth with her napkin.

“Do you want dessert?” Sure enough, Jeff’s normally rich tone was flat.

“No. I’m tired. I really just want to go back to the room and relax.” She tried not to show how disappointed she was with the turn things had taken. The pleasant night of catching up and easy banter had morphed into a queasy stomach and a brain that now felt like a tympani being pounded by dueling mallets.

The only relief came when Jeff paid the bill and she was able to escape into the open air. “Thanks for dinner. The food was delicious,” she said as they crossed the intersection by Oak Street Beach. The balmy breeze coming off Lake Michigan soothed her frayed nerves. Normally she would have wanted to linger but not tonight. Tonight she’d exposed too much, left herself vulnerable.

“You’re welcome,” he answered. “But what’s your hurry?”

She hadn’t realized how fast she’d been walking, not allowing her platform stilettos to hinder her determined gait. She slowed her pace, letting him keep up, not wanting to give the impression she was running from him. But when he drew close enough that their arms brushed, she sped up again—her body’s involuntary reaction to a dangerous stimulus.

The hotel doorman saw them coming and welcomed them again into the vast lobby.

“Do you want to have a nightcap?” Jeff indicated the lounge where a few dancers swayed to the beat of the slow, sultry tune crooned by a smoky-voiced singer.

Emphatically no , Maggie thought. Not with escape so close. But she managed a smile and a “no, thanks.”

Jeff shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “Well, I think I hear a drink begging to be savored.”

The ding of the elevator provided the perfect opening for a quick good-night. “Have a nice night, then. I’ll meet you here in the morning at eight-fifteen.” Maggie backed away toward the waiting car. “Thanks again for dinner.”

Jeff nodded but stayed where he was, his dark eyes trained on her until the doors closed.

It wasn’t until he was completely cut off from her sight that the breath she’d been holding since she’d first glimpsed him ten hours earlier finally made a slow exit from her lungs.

* * *

“MACALLAN 25. STRAIGHT.” The bartender placed the cut-glass crystal on the bar. The low lighting caught in the ornate design, twinkling like captured stars.

Jeff lifted the heavy glass and swirled the dark amber liquid, hesitating long enough to enjoy the smoky essence before the burn hit his lips, then his tongue and his throat. He usually went for the less expensive Scotch, but he needed something to help get the night back to the perfection it had started with. It had disintegrated quickly with the first mention of Zeke.

The bastard. Putting Mags through that kind of hell in addition to everything else she was going through at the time.

She’d shown remarkable fortitude. Admirable. And to never have told anyone—not even her mother—showed how much she’d changed since they’d split up...how little he knew about her now. It seemed odd now he thought about it, but he and his son rarely discussed the boy’s mother.

There was a time when Mags went straight to her mother with everything, which was convenient as her parents lived right next door. The arrangement had continually made him feel ganged up on. Whenever he and Mags argued, she always sought out her parents to support her side. And they never failed to take it.

“You get the prize for having the best taste.”

Jeff turned to the voice beside him. A guy, vaguely familiar and big enough to have been a linebacker for the Chargers, settled on the bar stool beside him.

“Nothing quite like The Macallan,” Jeff agreed, and held the glass up to admire the color again.

“Crown Royal on the rocks,” his companion said to the bartender and then turned back to Jeff with a sly grin. “I’m sure the Scotch is good, but I was referring to your wife. She wasn’t just the best-looking mom at the meeting today, she was also the youngest. Must’ve had your son when she was fifteen.”

“Nineteen,” Jeff corrected him. “And she’s not my wife. We’ve been divorced a long time.”

“Even better.”

The next sip burned Jeff’s mouth for an exceptionally long time.

“Spike Grainger.” The newcomer held out his hand. “My son Matt’s a freshman on the team, too.”

Jeff shook his hand. “Jeff Wells, Russ’s dad.”

The bartender set Spike’s drink in front of him, and he reached for it with his left hand. No wedding band.

A trickle squeezed through Jeff’s constricted throat muscles.

“Yeah, Russ’s mom—what’s her name?”

“Maggie.”

“Cute. The way she kept blushing when her stomach was growling.” Spike gave a hearty chuckle. “I saw you guys coming in together a few minutes ago. I assumed you’d been to dinner.”

The reminder of dinner sent Jeff’s mood further south. “We had.” He was being curt, but he already didn’t like Spike, whose presence was flavoring his Scotch in an unpleasant way.

“Been divorced a long time, yet you’re here together, making it work for Russ.” Spike took a gulp and smacked his lips in appreciation. “Good for you.”

“You divorced?” Jeff changed tactics and tried to shift the attention away from him and Mags.

“Three weeks. Married for twenty-four years. She’s on her honeymoon.”

Spike became as transparent then as the crystal in Jeff’s hand. The man was trolling—and Mags was in his sights. Hell, he’d been there himself. That giddy feeling of freedom came edged with loneliness and even a sense of desperation. For the first couple of years, he’d swung from woman to woman like a monkey making its way through the jungle.