Pamela Hearon – My Way Back to You (страница 6)
* * *
“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.
Had Mags done that, too?
He shouldn’t care, but the idea pricked at his heart just the same. She was, after all, the mother of his son. He didn’t know much about her and those first two or three years. They’d talked every day, but her reports were always simply that—reports on Russ. They never just chatted about what was going on in their lives. He’d found out a little more, but not much, about Mags through Russ once their son had gotten old enough to make the daily calls himself. He was a talker, that one.
A sudden image of the drive from the airport flashed in his mind—Russ keeping up the constant chatter and Mags with her white-knuckle hold on the steering wheel. And her tearful confession at dinner.
She may be a grown woman, but, in a myriad of ways, she was still that small-town girl he’d known...and loved.
A long-dormant protective instinct kicked in as he swallowed the rest of his Macallan in one gulp and set the glass down on the bar. “Nice meeting you,” he lied as he pulled enough bills from his wallet to take care of his bill and a hefty tip.
“See you tomorrow.” Spike saluted him with his drink.
The irony of the situation struck Jeff full force as he walked to the elevator. He was here in Chicago to move his eighteen-year-old son into the thick of the metropolis. Russ had spent the past thirteen summers of his life in San Diego, along with various other times such as spring and Christmas breaks. The kid took to city life like a native, never the least bit fazed by the crowds or the traffic. Jeff had no qualms whatsoever about Russ’s being here.
Mags, on the other hand, was a different matter completely.
* * *
ROSEMARY COUNTED SILENTLY.
Eli gave a gasp and started breathing again, falling quickly into his deep, rhythmic, room-shaking snore.
She closed the book she’d been reading and rubbed her tired eyes. Well, actually, she hadn’t been reading. She’d been turning pages for two hours, but the progression of the story hadn’t imprinted on her memory. Eli’s long periods without a breath had consumed her attention. The snoring wasn’t so bad. She’d gotten used to that forty years ago. But the snorting and the gasping, and the long periods of silence freaked her out. She was aware of the dangers of sleep apnea—had read on the internet how it could lead to all kinds of nasty stuff, including heart disease and stroke. Coupled with the high blood pressure her husband already took medication for, he was a heart attack waiting to happen.
And she wasn’t prepared for widowhood.
She saw what it had done to her daughter.
And now Russ had gone away to college—another reason to worry. And, of course, there was the Maggie/Jeff dinner that had niggled at the back of Rosemary’s brain all night.
She’d hoped Maggie would call back and tell her what had transpired, but she didn’t, and Rosemary wasn’t surprised, although it hurt a little.
She tossed the extra pillow onto the love seat and turned out the light, sliding down in the bed to get comfortable. Maggie used to talk about everything with her. But her daughter had become so withdrawn since Zeke’s death that she didn’t recognize her at times. Closing herself off from the world, grieving for Zeke in such a vastly different way than she had for Jeff. When Jeff left, she’d cried for days on end. Refused to leave the bedroom. Refused to eat. Talked about him incessantly—so positive he would come back, and they would start again.
She’d kept up that nonsense for years.
But losing Zeke affected her differently. She’d quickly sold their beautiful home on Kentucky Lake, and rather than moving back to Taylor’s Grove, she’d bought the old Morris farmhouse outside of town. She would talk about Zeke only if someone brought up his name—and then reluctantly. She never brought him into the conversation on her own.
She had seemed angry, which Rosemary knew was one of the stages of grief. She’d read that on the internet, too. But it certainly had gone on for a long time now. Too long. Maggie didn’t date. Didn’t do much of anything except work and spend time with Russ.
What would she do now that he was gone?
Eli’s breathing stopped again, and Rosemary began her ritualistic counting. She wasn’t sure why she counted. He was never impressed with the numbers she spouted the next morning. Tomorrow, over coffee, she would report to him that he’d held his breath for almost thirty-five seconds. He’d shrug and say, “So which do you want—snoring or silence? Because you complain either way.”
Her retort would be that she wanted him healthy.
What would she do without him? The previous question echoed in her mind. Maggie was young—could easily start over. But she herself was sixty-one and had been with the same man for forty years. She had no desire to start over. She could never love another man the way she did Eli. Could never love again, period. The thought made her shudder.
Was it her imagination that Eli’s color was off?
She slipped her phone from the bedside table and turned on the flashlight app, shining it down on his face—the man could sleep through a rock concert once he got horizontal. He looked so peaceful and relaxed but definitely a little grayish in pallor.
One eye winked open and glared at her. “What are you doing, Rosie? Checking me for fleas?”
“You’ve been holding your breath.”
“And you’re getting back at me by shining a light into my eyes? You trying to make me think a train is coming through our bedroom?”
“I wanted to check your color. You look kind of gray.”
“You’d be gray, too, if you had to live with you. Now turn off the damn searchlight.”