Crossed Hearts (Matchmaker Trilogy) (16 page)

“The divorce?”

That, too. “Yes.”

“Does she work?”

“Like a dog. She has five kids under the age of eight.”

“Whew. She isn’t a single mother, is she?”

“No, and her husband’s as lovely as she is. They live in Port Washington. I’ve been to their home several times. She barbecues a mean hot dog.”

He grinned. “You like hot dogs?”

“Yeah, but y’know which ones I like best?”

“No. Which ones?”

“You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“Which ones?”

“The ones you buy at the stands on the edge of Central Park. There’s something about the atmosphere—”

“Diesel fumes, horse dung and pigeon shit.”

She jabbed at his chest with a playful fist. “You’re polluting the image! Think gorgeous spring day when the leaves are just coming into bloom, or hot summer day when the park is an oasis in the middle of the city. Brisk fall day when the leaves flutter to the ground. There’s something about visiting the park on days like those and eating a hot dog that may very well kill you that’s … that’s sybaritic.”

“Sybaritic?”

“Well, maybe not sybaritic. How about frivolous?”

“I can live with that.” He could also come close to duplicating a sybaritic kind of atmosphere for her here on the mountain. “What else do you like about New York?”

“The anonymity. I feel threatened by large groups that know me and expect certain things that I may or may not be able to deliver. I don’t like to have to conform to other people’s standards.”

He knew that what she was voicing related in part to the shyness she’d mentioned, but that it was a legacy of her marriage to Richard, as well. He was also stunned because the threat was one he himself felt.

“I’m a total unknown on the streets of New York,” she went on. “I can pick and choose my friends and do my own thing without being censured. I think I’d die in a small suburban community. I don’t want to have to keep up with the Joneses.”

“If anyone’s doing the keeping up, it should be the Joneses with you.”

“God forbid. I don’t want any
part
of people who compete their way through life.”

“Amen,” he said softly, then, “What else?”

“What else, what?”

“What else do you like about New York?”

She didn’t have to think long. “The cultural opportunities. And the courses. I love taking courses, learning new things. Victoria said that there was an artists’ community not far from here where I’d be able to learn to weave.”

“I know just the one. You want to weave?”

“The process fascinates me. I’d like to be able to create my own patterns and make scarves and rugs and beautiful wall hangings.” She lowered suddenly sheepish eyes to her fingers, which toyed idly with the cables on his sweater. “At least, I’d like to try.”

“You’ll do it.” He’d build her a loom himself. The thought of seeing her working it, of listening to the rhythmic shift of harnesses, filled him with a mellowness that spelled home.

Home. Surprising. He hadn’t spent much time thinking of having a home. What he’d known as a child had been far from ideal, and when he’d gone off to put his name up in lights, he hadn’t had the time to think of it. His world had been the public eye. His interests had revolved around things that would make him more famous. A home didn’t do those things. A home was personal, private. It was something for a man and his family.

“Garrick?” Leah whispered.

He blinked, only then realizing that his eyes had grown moist.

“What is it?” Her voice was laden with concern, her eyes with fear. During moments like these, when he looked so sad and faraway, she felt her bubble begin to quiver. He had a past, and for whatever his reasons, he wasn’t telling her about it. She didn’t have the courage to ask.

He forced a tremulous smile, then drew her in and held her close. “I get to dreaming sometimes,” he murmured into her hair. “It’s scary.”

“Can you share the dream?”

“Not yet.”

“Maybe someday soon?”

“Maybe.”

They sat that way for a while, holding each other quietly. When the fire gave a loud crack and hiss, they both looked around, startled.

“Is it trying to tell us something?” Leah whispered.

“Nah. It’s just being insolent.”

“Maybe we’d better feed it.”

“I have a better idea. Why don’t we get dressed and go out?”

Her eyes lit up. “Me, too?”

“You, too.” He tipped his head. “Going stir-crazy being inside?”

“No. I just don’t want you going out alone. I want to be with you.”

“God, you have all the right answers,” he breathed.

Her voice held a touch of sadness. “No. Not yet. Maybe soon.”

S
O THEY WENT OUT IN THE RAIN
, which, mercifully, was more like a drizzle. Garrick led her up the mountain, pointing out various signs of wildlife along the way. The going was sloppy, but in broad daylight and with as indulgent a guide as he was, Leah managed remarkably well. She wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but the mountain that had seemed so hostile to her once was now, even in the wet mist, a place of fascination. Garrick belonged, and she was his welcome guest; it was almost as though the landscape had accepted her presence.

After they’d returned to the lower altitude, they trekked to Leah’s car and came back carrying more of her things, which he enthusiastically made room for in the cabin and helped her stow.

Later in the day, they succumbed to their urges and made long, sweet love before the fire. In its aftermath, wrapped in each other and a quilt, Leah smiled. “I wonder if Victoria has ESP.”

“If so, no doubt she’s happy.”

“Are you?”

“Very.”

She tipped up her face and whispered, “I love you, Garrick.”

His eyes went soft and moist. Taking a tremulous breath, he tightened his arms around her. “I love you, too. I’ve never said that to another living soul, but I do love you, Leah. God, do I love you!” His lips took hers with a fierceness that had never been there before, but Leah didn’t mind, because she shared the feeling behind them. The love that flooded her was so powerful that it demanded no less ardent a release.

I
N THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED
, their love grew even stronger. They spent every minute together, and never once did they tire of each other’s company. There was always something to say, usually in soft, intimate tones, but there were times when they were silent, communicating simply with a look, a touch or a smile.

Garrick showed her his shed and the whittled figures that sat on a long shelf. Not only did he carve them, she found, but many he painted in colors that were true to life. She particularly adored a pair of Canada geese and cajoled him into letting her take them back to the cabin.

He also showed her the toothpick models he built, explaining how he’d started making them for his own amusement. But one of his fur buyers had mentioned them to a couple from Boston, who then wanted a model made of their own stately home. The commission had launched Garrick into a leisurely business.

Leah thought his models were exquisite, particularly those dramatic designs he’d made for himself, on which he’d let his imagination go wild. “You could be an architect,” she said, awed by the scope of that imagination and the detail he’d achieved with as unlikely materials as toothpicks.

He was pleased with her comment, but said nothing. He couldn’t be an architect. He didn’t have the training, for one thing, and for another, to get either that training or employment, he’d have to return to the city. The city—any city—was a threat to him. He’d be recognized. He’d be approached. He’d be tempted.

But he didn’t tell Leah that. The words wouldn’t seem to come. She loved him for who and what he was right now. He didn’t want to disillusion her. He didn’t want her to know what a mess he’d made of his earlier life. He feared that she’d think less of him, and the thought of losing her respect or, worse, her love, was more terrifying than anything.

But it bothered him that he didn’t tell her the truth. Oh, he’d never lied. He’d simply ignored those seventeen years of his life as though they’d never been. That Leah hadn’t asked puzzled him in some ways. They shared so many other thoughts and feelings. He suspected that she knew he harbored a dark secret and that she was afraid to ask for the same reason he was afraid to reveal it.

Perhaps because of that, neither spoke of the future. They took life one day at a time, treating their love as a precious gift that neither of them had expected to receive.

With her dictionary and thesauruses, an atlas and a world almanac on hand, Leah began to work. The peaceful setting was conducive to production, even in spite of the spate of questions Garrick bombarded her with at first.

“Where do you start?”

“On a puzzle? Wherever I want. If it’s a theme puzzle—”

“Define theme puzzle.”

“One in which the longer entries have to do with a specific topic.”

“Like phrases depicting madness—having bats in one’s belfry, etc.?”

She grinned, remembering that particular inspiration as he did. “Or names of baseball teams, or automobile models, or parts of the body.”

“Oh?”

“Nothing naughty, of course. Once I did a puzzle using phrases like ‘keep an eye on the ball,’ ‘put one’s best foot forward,’ ‘give a hand to a friend’—that of type thing would be part of a theme puzzle.”

“So you start with the theme?”

“Uh-huh, and I work from there.”

He sat for a few minutes, silently watching her add words to her puzzle before he spoke again. “Do you follow a special formula regarding numbers of black and white spaces?”

She shook her head. “It can vary. The same holds true for checked and unchecked letters.”

“Checked and unchecked?”

“Checked letters are ones that contribute to both an across and a down word, unchecked to only one or the other. In the earliest puzzles every letter was checked. If you got all the across clues, you had the puzzle completed.”

“Too easy.”

“Right. Nowadays, as a general rule of thumb, only fifty-five to seventy-five percent of the letters should be checked.”

He digested that, then a bit later asked, “How about clues? Do you spend a lot of time finding them and revising them?”

“You bet. Again times have changed. It used to be that primary definitions were used. For example, the clue for ‘nest’ would be ‘a bird’s home.’ In recent years, I’ve seen clues ranging from ‘a place to feather’ to ‘grackle shack.’ Actually,” she added sheepishly, “my editor is a wonder when it comes to clever clues. I have no problem with her revisions.”

“Do you ever have problems with deadlines?” Garrick asked, somewhat sheepish himself now. “I’m not letting you get much work done.”

“I don’t mind,” she said, and meant every word.

In truth, as the days passed, Leah wondered if she was dreaming. Garrick was everything she’d ever wanted in a man. He was patient when she was working, attentive when she wasn’t. He was interesting, always ready to discuss whatever topic crossed either of their minds. Even in cases of disagreement, the discussion was intelligent and ended with smiles. He was perceptive, suggesting they go out or make dinner or play checkers with the set he’d carved, just when she needed a break. He was positively gorgeous, tall and rangy, rugged with his full head of hair and his trimmed beard, compelling with his hazel-and-silver eyes. And he was sexy. So sexy. He turned her on with a look, a word, a move, and made love to her with passion, sometimes gently, sometimes fiercely, always with devotion.

The only thing to mar her happiness was the frown that crossed his face at odd moments, moments that became more frequent as the days passed.

Five days became a week, then ten days, twelve, two weeks. Garrick knew he had to tell her who he was. His fear remained, but the need for confession grew greater. He wanted her to know everything and to love him anyway. He wanted her to respect him for the way he’d rebuilt his life. He wanted—needed—to share past pain and present fear, wanted her understanding and support and strength.

Once, when the rain had stopped, he took her for a walk, intending to bare his soul while they were on the mountain. Then they caught sight of a doe and her fawn, and he didn’t have the heart to spoil the scene.

Another time he led her off the mountain and they hitched a ride into town. He planned to confess all while they were splurging on lunch at the small restaurant there, but Leah was so enchanted by the charm of the place that he lost his nerve.

And then she insisted on calling Victoria. “I told her I’d give her a ring when I was settled. She may be worrying.”

“Yeah, about whether you’ll speak to her again after what she did.”

“It didn’t end up so terribly, did it?”

He grinned. “Nope. But maybe we ought to keep Victoria in suspense.”

That was exactly what Leah did. From a pay phone inside the small general store, she dialed Victoria’s number.

A very proper maid answered. “Lesser residence.”

“This is Leah Gates. Is Mrs. Lesser in?”

“Please hold the phone.”

Leah covered the mouthpiece and grinned at Garrick, who was practically on top of her, boxing her into the booth. “Can’t you just picture Victoria? She’s probably wearing an oversize work shirt and jeans, looking like a waif as she breezes round and about her elegant furnishings to reach the phone. I wonder what she’s been doing. Playing the lute? Preparing sushi?” She removed her hand from the mouthpiece when Victoria’s excited voice came on the other end.

“Where have you been?”

“Hi, Victoria.”

“Leah Gates! I’ve been worried sick!”

Leah’s eyes sparkled toward Garrick. “You shouldn’t have worried. I told you I wouldn’t have any problem. The cabin is wonderful. I can understand why Arthur loved it up here.”

“Leah …”

“It’s been a little rainy. That’s why I didn’t get around to calling sooner. My car is still mud-bound.”

There was a pause. “Where are you calling from?”

“The general store.”

Another pause. “How did you get there if your car is mud bound?”

“Hitched a ride.”