Coming Home (66 page)
Casey wrapped her arms around him. “Oh, Flash,” she said, “I have
missed you so much.”
“Good. I’d hate to think I was miserable alone.”
“Insufferable jackass Irishman.” She wondered why the words came
out sounding like an endearment.
“Shut up, Fiore, and kiss me.”
Her pulse began a slow thrumming. “Rob,” she said, “your mother’s
watching. I can feel her eyes on us.”
“Good. I want to make sure she knows Mary Frances O’Reilly’s out
of luck.”
They kissed fiercely, a heated kiss filled with passion and
promise, a kiss that left her shuddering and dissolved her very bones.
Pressing her face to his chest, she listened to the steady beating of his
heart. This was where she belonged. She had finally come home to this man’s
arms. If anything at all in this crazy world made sense, it was that she and
Rob MacKenzie belonged together. They were coming together as two flawed
individuals, but together they would forge a new and perfect whole.
The kitchen window whooshed open. “If you two could possibly find
time,” Mary said cheerfully, “dinner’s ready.” And she closed the window with
a bang.
He rubbed his cheek against hers. “If we don’t go in,” he said,
“she’ll have us tarred and feathered.”
“I can’t possibly eat,” she said. “My stomach’s all tied up in
knots. It isn’t every day you ask the man you love to marry you.”
He tilted her chin upward, kissed the slender column of her
throat. “Fake it,” he whispered.
She tightened her arms around him. “They’ll see right through
me.”
He worked his mouth deep into the vee at the collar of her shirt.
“Is Mom still watching?”
“Are you kidding? She’s probably already addressing the wedding
invitations.”
He looped an arm around her shoulders, and together they began
walking toward the house. “After we eat,” he said, “we can sit down together
and look at my baby pictures.”
“I can’t think of a more romantic way to celebrate an engagement,”
she said. “Is there some special reason why I’d want to look at your baby
pictures?”
His smile illuminated the world as he held open the kitchen door
for her. “I just thought you’d like some idea,” he said, “of what our kids
will look like.”
THE END
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Summer, 1990
Jackson Falls,
Maine
Damn, but she hated weddings.
Rose MacKenzie Kenneally edged closer to the buffet table and
plucked a cocktail shrimp from a heaping platter. Nibbling at it, she leaned
against the table and critically surveyed the circus that was her brother’s
wedding. The ambiance surrounding this little shing-ding had improved
dramatically since Uncle Seamus had spiked the punch, effectively lubricating
the starch out of this dour band of Down East Yankees her new sister-in-law
called relatives.
Casey and Rob should have known better than to think they were
going to have a quiet, tasteful little wedding. Rob had spent thirty-six years
as a MacKenzie, long enough to know that, wedding or wake, if the MacKenzies
had an excuse to party, they were determined to do it up right.
Not that either of the principals in this little domestic drama
had even noticed that their carefully planned wedding had deteriorated into a
free-for-all. The bride and groom were in their own little world, oblivious to
everything but each other as they danced cheek to cheek on the makeshift dance
floor that had been built on the back lawn of Casey’s New England farmhouse.
Somebody nudged her elbow, and Rose looked up to find her older
brother Pat standing beside her. At forty, his sandy hair was beginning to
recede, but beneath that high forehead sat the twinkling green eyes that were
the MacKenzie family trademark. In a lilting Irish brogue, he said, “Such a
fine institution, marriage,” raised his bottle of Sam Adams to his mouth, and
upended it.
Irritated, Rose folded her arms across her chest. “Fine it may
be,” she said, “but who the hell wants to live in an institution?”
He cupped his hand over his mouth to hold back a small belch. “A
little jealous, are we, Rose?”
“Dream on. This broad has seen more than enough of marriage for
one lifetime, thank you. I burned my bra the day I gave Eddie Kenneally the
boot, and it didn’t take me more than five minutes to figure out that the ratio
of frogs to princes is radically skewed in favor of the frogs. End of story.”
Pat slung a heavy arm around her shoulder. Watching the bride and
groom, he said philosophically, “Don’t use Eddie as a yardstick. Not all guys
are determined to test drive every female from here to Baltimore.”
“And what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. Spare me. I’ve
already heard it.”
“Your bitterness is showing, Rose. Be happy for Rob. He deserves
it.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he was already gone. She
was
happy for her brother. But truth was truth: some people were cut out for marriage,
while others weren’t. And Rose had been taught by a superb teacher that she
belonged in the latter category.
Across the lawn, Uncle Seamus was pontificating, no doubt on some
obscure point, with his arms gesticulating wildly as he waved his flask of
Irish whiskey for emphasis. His victim stood listening politely, his weight
thrown on one leg, his hands tucked into his pockets, but even from this
distance, Rose could see the glassy glaze in his eyes. Tall and lean, with
chiseled cheekbones above dark hollows that rendered his face a study in light
and shadow, he was immaculately dressed in a dove-gray suit. Neatly trimmed
hair the color of moonbeams touched the starched white collar of his shirt.
She uttered a small snort of derision.
Moonbeams, for the love
of Mike. Time to have your head examined.
But she could think of no other
word that fit, no other word to describe hair so blond it was silver.
He looked up and met her gaze, and something went hot inside her.
Celibacy
, she told herself as she tried to slow the sudden hammering of
her pulse.
Too damn much celibacy.
It made a woman crazy after a
while. In a split-second decision, she began marching resolutely across the
grass to rescue him from the clutches of her uncle.
He watched her coming, his dark eyes openly following the sway of
her body in the green jersey dress
.
With hair that color, his eyes should have
been the blue of his Norse ancestors, but as she drew nearer, she realized with
a sudden shock that they were a deep, liquid black. And right now, they were
warm with a combination of humor and masculine appreciation.
“Excuse me,” she said to him, and tapped her uncle on the
shoulder. “Uncle Seamus, I think maybe you’ve had a little too much joy
juice.”
Her uncle wheeled and flung his arms wide in delight. “Rosie,
darlin’ of me heart, when d’ye think we’ll be dancing at
your
wedding?”
The lilt of the emerald isle always grew thicker in his voice when
he was in his cups. Rose reached for the flask before he could dump it on her,
turned her face away from the breath that could knock a longshoreman on his
keister, and flashed a quick grin of apology to the stud muffin. “Better make
a run for it while you can.” She capped the flask, tucked it into her uncle’s
pocket, and steered the old man in the direction of the coffee urn.
But Seamus had other ideas. “Since we can’t dance at your
wedding, me dear, we’ll dance at Robbie’s instead.”
As she tried to keep the heels of her dyed-to-match shoes from
sinking into the sod and sending her tumbling, he hauled her toward the dance
floor. And with the grace of a man half his age and nowhere near as drunk, he
whirled her around in an elegant two-step that had her laughing aloud in
delight.
Together they spun around and around, until she was breathless and
giddy. The band slowed to a waltz, and the old gentleman wheezed in her ear,
“Ah, Rosie, happy it makes me to see the bloom back in your cheeks. Now this
old man needs a rest, and you, me girl, need to find a more suitable partner.”
With a steady gait that belied his inebriated condition, he
trotted off affably to whisper some naughtiness in the ear of the bride, most
likely sage advice regarding the wedding night. Rose watched him go with a
smile on her face. She turned to exit the dance floor, and suddenly forgot to
breathe as she saw the Viking god striding steadily, determinedly, in her
direction.
For an instant, she was accosted by the bewildering sensation that
this moment was somehow of utmost significance. But that was absurd. She was
thirty-six years old, and hard experience had taught her that if something
appeared too good to be true, it probably was. She didn’t even know his name.
Didn’t know if he was married or single. He could be an ax murderer, for all
she knew.
Breathe, idiot!
she commanded herself.
Breathe, or you’ll pass out at his
feet and make a complete fool of yourself!
But her stubborn lungs refused
to function.
Then he was standing in front of her, and even with the three-inch
heels, she still had to lean halfway to China to meet those bottomless dark
eyes.
“Would you like to dance?” he said.
She must have answered him. She had no memory of speaking, but
she must have answered him because a moment later she was in his arms, and the
musky scent of his aftershave, released by the heat of their bodies pressed so
close together, hit her with almost physical force. Rose slowly, tentatively,
rested her cheek against his crisp white shirt. Beneath her cheek, his heart
beat strong and steady, and she prayed he couldn’t hear the erratic racing of
hers.
He danced divinely, his steps simple and easy to follow. Rose
closed her eyes and forgot to tuck in the tummy that wasn’t as flat as it used
to be, forgot that the humidity was frizzing her tangled red mane, forgot everything
but the feel of this man and the delirious pleasure of following his lead as
they swayed together in time to the music.
She would have been content to go on dancing forever, but as
usual, the gods declined to smile upon her. When the waltz gave way to a Bob
Seger baby boomer classic, she realized she was still standing there in his
arms. Reality washed over her, bringing her common sense rushing back.
Jesus,
Mary and Joseph.
Here she was, thirty-six years old and hyperventilating
over some man she didn’t even know. Uncle Seamus obviously wasn’t the only one
who’d overdone the sauce. What she needed was a cup of black coffee. A big
one. Or maybe a cold shower. Something, anything, to whip her overheated
hormones back into submission.
She stepped out of his arms. Discreetly peeled her dress away
from her sticky body. And gave him a quirky grin. With forced lightness, she
said, “Thanks for the dance.”
And without another word, she walked away from the best thing
she’d seen in thirty-six years.