A Mother's Heart (10 page)

T
HE LAST TIME
—eleven years earlier—Maggie had been anywhere Grant lived, she’d been invited into the tiny apartment he shared with his single mother. Elena Conroy had been flattened by the recent desertion of Grant’s father, who hadn’t been the best provider and role model even when he’d bothered to be around. Maggie had walked into the cluttered dingy living room, prepared to be her most polite and charming self, to find Mrs. Conroy slumped on the couch in clothes Maggie’s mom wouldn’t wear to do yardwork.

Jane and Michael Chesterton wouldn’t dream of receiving anyone without a perfect house and plenty of food and drink to offer, nor would they dream of letting Grant escape at least five minutes of welcoming conversation on each visit. The first time they met him, even though they hadn’t been thrilled with her choice—to put it mildly—they’d made a special point of greeting him warmly, and the get-to-know-you conversation over tea and cookies had lasted a good hour.

Grant’s mother had nodded brusquely to Maggie from where she lay watching TV and picked a fight with her son, who had sullenly argued back, using language Maggie couldn’t imagine using in front of her parents, even now. She’d been shocked, repulsed and fascinated
aware suddenly of her life of privilege in a way she never had been when immersed in it.

Hadn’t she pledged right then to reject everything Princeton stood for, and to dedicate herself to helping others? Hadn’t she planned to be a social worker? Sure she had. And a world-famous sculptor. The big dreams of youth.

Grant had scoffed, saying dreams were the stuff of that same privilege she’d been forced to acknowledge so directly. He’d seemed proud not to have any. A place to live, a car and a little extra for beer and cigarettes, that was all he claimed to want from life. She’d never been sure if he was serious or sticking it to her. Or maybe protecting himself from fear of failure.

Look at him now. No sign of failure whatsoever. The house, a beige Colonial, had been lovingly updated. Hardwood was newly refinished, and walls knocked out to create larger spaces. Those remaining had been painted tasteful rich shades of blue, green, ochre and rust, so the flow seemed to evoke sky, sea and land.

“This is gorgeous.” It was the type of place she’d love to live. Her own condo seemed soulless and lacking warmth in comparison. She wandered through the soft blue dining room, trailed her hand over the beautifully finished Shaker farm table. “You must love living here.”

“The upstairs isn’t finished yet. It’s hard to find time.”

“
You
did this?” Astonishment froze her.

He nodded, hands on his hips, watching her quietly but not able to conceal all his pride. He was so different, so polished, so…restrained. She couldn’t quite get used to this new version of Grant.

“I’m even more impressed now. How did you learn?”

“After you left, I was—”

“You mean after you dumped me.” The hurt still showed through the teasing remark.

“Yes, but you
left
for college.”

“Okay, yes. I did. Go on.”

“After our paths no longer crossed…” He made a face and she found herself laughing harder than the joke warranted. “The courts finally pinned Dad down, and Mom got enough money to buy a fixer-upper outside Trenton.”

“And you did the fixer-upping?”

“We had a retired neighbor who’d been a cabinet-maker and a lifelong do-it-yourselfer. He taught me a lot. The rest I figured out on my own.”

“Wow. I’m amazed. You’ve really…” She wasn’t sure how to ask what inspired him to achieve so much. “You’ve put a lot into this. Into your life. I mean you’ve changed. A lot. Which is good. I mean not that you were…uh…”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Need rescuing?”

“Please.” She exhaled her relief. “I have no idea how to put this.”

“No problem.” He walked into the kitchen. “Want some coffee? Tea? Brandy?”

Maggie followed, feeling queasy. It was so odd being with someone she once knew so well, and now…didn’t. “I hope I didn’t offend you.”

“Not at all.” He turned from the sink where he was filling the coffeepot and smiled. “I need something to help digest Clara’s dinner. Maybe you do, too?”

“A very good idea, yes.”

“Then we can sit and talk. If you’d like that.”

“I would. A lot. Yes.” She closed her mouth before she kept up the string of affirmations. Totally. Completely. For sure. Abso—

“Are you staying with Clara?”

“No, I’m at the Nassau Inn.”

“What, the hourly rate motel was full?” He made a face to show he was kidding.

She laughed, glad he didn’t seem to see the differences between them as so threatening anymore. Not that there really
were
any differences anymore. And why did that make her feel so oddly vulnerable? “I’ll have decaf if you’re making it.”

“Decaf it is.” He ground fresh beans and set the machine going. “Grapes? Cookies? Chocolate? Nothing overcooked, burned or otherwise massacred, I promise.”

“No. Thank you, though.” She hid her smile. Grant Conroy, the perfect host. It was very nice…and a little disconcerting. Where was her wild rebel? Could people change that much? She certainly hadn’t.

“So you wanted to know how I became a functioning member of society.” He gestured her to one of the blond wood chairs at his kitchen table.

“I wouldn’t have phrased it quite that way.”

“I was being flip. It’s a natural question.” He lowered himself across from her, and the atmosphere changed, she couldn’t tell why. Maybe it was the intimate domesticity of sitting together at a kitchen table.

“I loved fixing up the house, and loved even more that I was good at something besides screwing up. But I was still pretty wild. Still drinking too much, smoking, partying harder than was healthy or smart. Or legal.” He laughed humorlessly and shook his head. “Typical angry kid. Typical chip on a pretty typical shoulder. Meanwhile, of course, I was thinking I was something really unique in a cookie-cutter world.”

“You were unique.” The emotion in her voice startled her.

“Among the crowd at PDS? Yeah, probably.”

No, that wasn’t what she meant. But she didn’t know how else to put it without betraying how much she had adored him and how much he hurt her.

“Then Mom had a car accident.” He stared down at
the table. “She was in really bad shape. Touch and go for a while.”

“Oh, Grant.” She was helplessly drawn into tenderness for what he must have gone through. His relationship with his mom might not have been destined for a greeting card commercial, but they were all each other had. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was horrible. But suddenly I was responsible for someone else’s life instead of just for ruining my own.” He shrugged. “So I grew up.”

The coffee machine made a rude gurgling noise into the silence, which saved her from bursting into tears.

“Is your mom okay now?”

“Completely recovered, yes.” He got up, and took down a pair of navy mugs from one of the beautiful maple cabinets. The masculine grace of his body was familiar, but so little else about him was. “Still take it black?”

“Still.” She was pleased he remembered. “Where does she live?”

“In a development just north of town, in Kingston.” He poured their coffee—he still took his black, too. “She works in a bank on Nassau Street. I see her at least once a week.”

“Devoted son.” She let her admiration show in her eyes.

“The accident changed our relationship for the better. You don’t ever want to catch yourself being glad someone you love had to go through something like that, but…a lot of good came out of it.” He put the steaming mugs on the table and sat, curling his long fingers around his. “So now your turn.”

“For what?”

“Why have
you
changed so much?”

“Me?”

He pretended to scan the room. “Anyone else around? Nope. Must be you, then.”

“I haven’t changed at all.”

“Yes.” He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “You’re different, too.”

“How?”

“Well…” He narrowed his eyes, thoughtfully, tipped his head one way and the other as if she were a work of art he was trying to decipher.

She laughed, but the sound was nervous. “If it’s so obvious, why can’t you say it?”

“You’re tougher. Wound up. On edge.” His hand landed over her fingers, which she hadn’t been aware were drumming the table next to her mug. “Unable to sit still.”

“Oh. Well. I…It’s been…I’m…” She made the mistake of looking into his eyes, and registering how warm his hand felt over hers. Her mouth closed. She had nothing to say in the first place, and this sudden connection took whatever remained of her brain activity and stilled it as effectively as he’d stilled her fingers.

“Maybe it’s just the stress of meeting Clara.” He moved his hand over hers in a light caress. “But I don’t think so. You wear it like a habit.”

She made a huge effort and jumpstarted her mind. “Nun’s?”

“Never. Not you.”

Even that much innuendo undid her. She took her hand away with the pretense of needing another sip of coffee. “I have a high-pressure job. It’s creative, which I enjoy, but…there’s a lot going on, and deadlines all the time, sometimes conflicting, and projects to juggle, and staff to manage, and—”

“Shhh.” He put his finger across her lips and she realized she’d been speaking faster and faster and her voice had been rising. “You’re making me tired just listening.”

“Oh, come on.” She backed away from his finger. “Your job has long hours, too, I’m sure. And responsibility. And pressure.”

“Yes, it does.” He got up and brought the coffee back to the table. “A little more?”

“Sure, thank you.”

He topped off their mugs and put the pot back on the machine to keep warm. “Remember figuring out how much coffee we’d need to drink to offset all the shots we did on prom night?”

She giggled. “As if
that
would work.”

“You’re only young and stupid once.” He sat down again, grinning. “If you’re smart, you don’t end up old and stupid, too. What do you do to relax?”

His question startled her. He had this odd way of backing off subjects, then zooming in again when she thought she was off the hook. “Oh. Well, I read for half an hour before bed, and I exercise every day for an hour before work, and once a week I—”

“This sounds like a schedule, not relaxing.”

“Ah.” She sent him a look. “Sorry it doesn’t meet with your approval.”

He put his mug down, leaned forward across the table. “Everything else about you does. That hasn’t changed.”

Maggie took in a long breath.
Then why did you break up with me?
But that was a road she didn’t want to drive down tonight. The day had already been too complicated. “Thank you, Grant.”

“You’re welcome.”

She stared into her mug, feeling awkward and out of place in the second house today, a feeling she wasn’t used to. He’d spoken matter-of-factly, but her emotional response…maybe it had just been too long since a man complimented her. “So how did you meet Clara?”

“Ah.” He straightened again and she felt easier breathing. “Typical Clara story. I was at McCarter Theater one night for a play. My date didn’t show and I was about to give up and go in, when Clara comes rushing up, in a panic. She managed to make it on time but forgot her purse.”

Maggie laughed. “Somehow I can picture that.”

“I offered her my extra ticket and we sat together. At one point I mentioned I was looking to buy a house and she said the one next to her had just gone on sale for a good price.”

“And the rest is history. How does she live? I mean if she doesn’t sell her paintings?” Maggie asked.

“She inherited plenty from her parents. Let me show you upstairs. You can bring your coffee.”

“I will.” She pushed back from the table, both relieved and disappointed to be released from the conversation. “Lead on.”

The second floor was a work in progress, the bathroom dingy with cracked hideously pink tile. Two empty bedrooms were just that—empty.

But the master bedroom…

The room had beautiful flooring he’d salvaged from homes slated for destruction. Each plank was a slightly different shade, some pinker, some tinged more yellow, others a soft tan. The effect was rich and pleasantly varied. A beautiful cherry bed stood opposite the window, with a matching nightstand, industrial-style lamp and deep brown leather chair with ottoman. The wall behind the bed had been textured and done in a muted deep blue. The adjoining walls he’d painted a warm orange-brown with a bold red stripe at eye level. The bed was made simply with a striped comforter in muted earth colors that picked up the shades in the paint and tied them together.

Good taste, appealing colors and definitely mascu
line. “Forget graphics, you should have been an interior designer.”

“Clara helped. I would not have had the nerve to try out the colors on these walls.”

The phone rang and he strode over to the cordless on his night table. She studied his broad shoulder and newly—to her—adult body until she realized that study was leading her to thoughts she didn’t want to be having. Not now, anyway.

“Sure. Yes, I have them. They’re downstairs, hang on.” He walked toward the door.

“Clara needs more eggs?”

“I wish.” He rolled his eyes. “Drawings for work. I said I’d bring them tomorrow, but one of my co-workers wants them now.”

“Oooh. Tsk-tsk. Sounds like someone is
working too hard.
”

“I’ll be right back.” He grinned the wide grin that had always undone her.

Guess what? It still did.

Oh boy. To distract herself, Maggie wandered over to examine a print of several women, heavily painted in bright colors. His bookcase was dense with nonfiction and literary books, graphic design books and reference books. A work table sat in the light from a dormer window, papers scattered across its surface, books piled at its legs, the only space not ordered.

The room fit the man he had become. She was almost wistful for the boy she’d known, giving authority the finger, riding his own ride his own way as recklessly as possible. What good little girl wouldn’t be drawn to such a joyous expression of unsuppressed living? Had he lost something along the way in his transition to respectability?