Carolyn McSparren - If Wishes Were Horses

When they’d sent him to prep school at age twelve, he’d never had a moment’s homesickness. Probably because he’d never felt at home with them. Even as a small boy, he’d often wondered whether he should introduce himself to his parents at breakfast. They never seemed to know quite who he was or what he was doing in their cloistered lives.

Wiping her hands on a linen towel, Mrs. Hannaford came in from the kitchen. “Enough. Time for bed, young lady.”

“No. It’s too early.” Pat’s statement was flat. “Did I tell you...”

“Tomorrow comes early.”

“I’m too keyed up to sleep. I’ll just lie there and toss and turn until daylight.”

“So look at the ceiling and think about tomorrow,” Mike said. “Mrs. H. is right. Take your bath and go to bed. Now.”

“Daddy, I’ve had one bath this evening. I do not intend to take another, thank you very much.”

“Point taken. So brush your teeth and things.”

Pat stalked off toward her bedroom with her head high. She could usually get around her father except when it came to her health. Bedtimes were not negotiable. At the door she paused and turned to say dramatically, “I can hardly wait to get to college and away from here. I plan to drink, smoke pot and date the entire football team.”

“You do and I’ll lock you up in a dungeon until you’re ninety,” Mike answered.

“I’m already locked in a dungeon.” She slammed the door behind her.

“Just like you.” Mrs. Hannaford’s voice was gruff with affection.

“I drink very little, I don’t smoke pot or anything else, and I have never ever dated anybody’s football team.”

“You might consider dating the girls’ volleyball team.”

Mike laughed. “They’re about six years older than Pat. Besides, at my age all that sex would kill me.”

Mrs. Hannaford gave him a cool appraisal. “I doubt that. You going out tonight?”

“No, I’m going to bed. Rachelle is at some real-estate dinner thing.”

“Oh, really.”

At the housekeeper’s tone, Mike raised his head from the back of his chair. “I don’t know why you dislike Rachelle. She’s beautiful, has a great career of her own so she’s not after me for my money—her alimony has left her a wealthy woman—and she and Pat are even civil to each other most of the time. In one year Pat will be thirteen. She needs a mother to—oh, teach her how to shave her legs.”

“I have already taught her that.”

“You have?” Surprised, Mike pulled himself out of the chair and walked over to Mrs. Hannaford.

“Mrs. Hannaford, I don’t know what we’d do without you. Promise me that even if I do marry again, you’ll always be with us.”

She turned away and casually flicked her linen towel at an imaginary dust mote on the polished glass dining-room table. “A new wife will want to do things her way.”

“Not negotiable. You’re family.”

“And who says I’d want to stay under those circumstances? I could always get another job.” She began to polish harder, making tight little whorls on the glass.

Mike felt a jolt. Melba Hannaford had only been with them for a little over two years, but from the beginning he’d never thought of her as an employee. She’d seen too much of their lives, been too much a part of the bad times. He cleared his throat and moved to the window. His hands worked at his sides. When he spoke, his voice sounded colder than it had before. “No doubt you could. You are extremely competent.”

“That nonsense won’t work with me,” she said. “I know you too well. But sooner or later Pat is not going to need either of us, you know.”

“That won’t happen for years.” He felt much more relief than he would admit. “And I don’t plan to marry anyone until I am absolutely positive that it will be the right thing for all of us.”

“I would never presume to tell you who to many,” she said. “But you should not remain celibate for the rest of your life.”

“Who says I’m celibate? And how would you know?” He smiled as he turned and saw the color rise in her cheeks.

“I did not say chaste, Mr. Whitten. Look up celibate in the dictionary. It merely means unmarried, whatever you young people think. All I’m saying is that once Pat goes off to college and starts making a life for herself, you are going to find yourself very much alone.”

He walked over to the cabinet in the corner and pulled a bottle of light beer out of the small refrigerator. He leaned against the closed door, popped the top and took a deep swig. “The wrong woman would be a hell of a lot worse for Pat than celibacy.”

“So find the right one. For both of you.” Mrs. Hannaford sat on the black leather chair and propped her feet in their shining white tennis shoes on the glass-topped coffee table. “Oh, that feels good.”

Mike sat across from her and propped his Top-Siders on the other side. “You don’t think Rachelle is the right one?”

“You’re the one who’s got to live with her if you marry her.”

“True enough.” He took another long swig of his beer, then dropped his head back and closed his eyes. Pat’s exuberance wore him out.

“Hmmph.” Mrs. Hannaford pulled herself to her feet and stalked off to the kitchen.

“One more thing,” Mrs. Hannaford spoke from the kitchen doorway. “What on earth did you do to that blue suit you were wearing?”

Mike laughed. “You do not want to know.”

“Indeed.” Mrs. Hannaford slammed the door behind her.

All his women seemed to be slamming doors on him tonight.

Mike was alone with his thoughts. He tried to conjure up Rachelle’s elegant face. Instead, he found himself staring at a vision of Liz Matthews, dirty face, freckles, wild hair and all. He blinked and sat up.

She was the last woman in the world for him. She was so different from Sandi. He turned so that he could see the vibrant portrait above the fireplace. The woman whose eyes met his was darkly sleek, almost fiercely beautiful. Even in a big blow on Puget Sound in their sailboat, she’d always managed to stay neat. Until that final afternoon. He sighed and closed his eyes against that terrible image.

Every woman he’d ever dated since Sandi’s death had possessed that same elegance.

So why should Liz Matthews with her crooked nose and her grubby jeans attract him? She was so damned sure of herself, so career oriented. She crashed into his life like a freight train.

He set the empty beer bottle down on the coffee table as the realization hit him. Damn. All those qualities were exactly like Sandi. She’d spend all weekend designing one of her fancy Puget Sound houses and forget to eat or sleep. She dragged him to art galleries and theater and ballet and the opera—and taught him to love all of it. She’d exploded his miserable life like a rotten melon.

Four years out of Yale he’d been bored with making money, fed up with the ruthless negotiation and cliffhanger days when ten minutes might make the difference between a million lost and a million won. He’d needed something—or someone—new in his life.

He remembered the night he first saw her. He’d been alone, as usual, propping up the wall of the office reception room while a cocktail party raged around him, waiting until he could go home without seeming too rude.

She wore a loose red silk dress and the highest heels he’d ever seen outside of a topless bar. She stood out like a peony among all those navy and gray suits. Her long black hair was pulled back tight in a heavy bun on the back of her head. She caught him gaping at her, worked her way through the crowd until she was close enough to lay her hand on his arm. She said, “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

He stammered, “I do now.”