Driven to Distraction (Silhouette Desire S.) (14 page)

Halfway to the parking lot she saw Ben drop his bags and turn back toward the house. Without even thinking, she headed outside, across the porch and down the steps.

They met halfway. For one long moment they simply looked at each other. Ben said, “I'll call you.”

No you won't, Maggie thought. But she nodded, unable to think of a single thing to say that wouldn't betray her true feelings.

“Maggie, about yesterday…”

The worst actress in the world, she tipped back her
head and laughed. “You mean the food poisoning? What a mess! Thank goodness we ate in town.”

Through the studio windows they could hear Perry speaking in triplicate again. Something about “Values, values, values!”

“Write down your phone number for me,” he said. “Got a pencil?” She shook her head, so he patted his pockets down and came up with a stubby drawing pencil. “Here's my number. I always have my cell phone with me.” He handed her the scrap of paper—a gas station receipt.

“I rarely carry mine,” she said, just to be contrary. If she thought he might actually call her, she would sleep with the thing. Bathe with it. But she told him her number and he wrote that down on a card from his billfold.

In whisky-clear eyes, she should have been able to read all sorts of hidden messages. The books always talked about things like that—how a woman could read a man's true thoughts in his eyes.

Maggie couldn't read a blessed thing, maybe because her own eyes were burning with unshed tears. She blurted the first thing she could think of. “You were right—about the forgery, I mean. Ann was signing his name on all those pictures because of his wrist.”

Ben nodded.

“That makes it even worse, I guess. I mean…”

“I know what you mean, Maggie.” It was as if they were both speaking a foreign language that bore no relation to what was in their minds. At least, none to what Maggie was thinking.

Ben turned to go, then reversed once more. When
he swept her into his arms, her feet actually left the ground. The kiss, as sweet as it was, held more than a touch of desperation. It ended far too quickly.

“Later,” he said gruffly, and turned away once again. This time he didn't come back. Maggie watched him all the way to the pickup, watched him open the door and swing himself inside.

Long-legged men, she thought wistfully. Long, lean, strong, graceful—all the beautiful things a man could be. There ought to be a law against them. At the very least, the federal meat inspectors should stamp a warning in purple ink on their sides.

When his dust died away—there wasn't much of it on account of yesterday's rain—she went back inside and actually considered joining the class. Before she did anything else, though, she was going to retrieve her cell phone, in case he thought of something else he wanted to say.

“You're pathetic, you know that?” she muttered.

Just as she reached the room, she heard the quiet buzz of the cell phone she'd left on the dresser. Startled, she stopped dead for an instant, then she nearly broke her neck lunging across the room.

“Hello?” Oh, God, please let him have changed his mind about leaving.

She hadn't even bothered to check the numbers when she heard a familiar voice. “Maggie, where in the world have you been, I've been trying to call you since forever! You'll never guess what's happened!” There was a pause while Maggie tried to swallow her disappointment. And then, “Mag, it's me, Mary Rose. Say something!”

Without waiting, her friend rushed on. “Guess
what, I've lost seven pounds—I know, I know, it's mostly water weight so far, but my waistband's are getting loose, and I'm getting a really terrific tan. There's this new lotion—I'll tell you about it when I get home. Look, do you think you could make me an appointment with Zelle for a cut and maybe some color for two weeks from now? Because, wait'll you hear—I've met this really neat man…”

Two minutes later Maggie was still holding the tiny instrument in her hand, staring dumbly at the wall. “She met this really neat man,” she repeated softly. “Well, shoot!”

 

All the way back to Miss Emma's neat frame house in Mocksville, Ben thought about his options and the situation he'd got himself involved in. He'd called his grandmother last night, letting her know he'd be stopping by before catching a late evening flight from Greensboro International.

Maybe he should have explained to Maggie why he had to leave, but then he'd have had to tell her about the ugly mess he'd left behind. Dammit all to hell and back, why couldn't someone else have uncovered the truth and turned over the evidence to I.A.? The thing that worried him most was that Mercy—the man who had saved his butt when he'd been a street-smart kid headed down a dead-end road—Mercy had gone along with it. Maybe he hadn't been involved personally, but he'd known. He had to have known. Hell, he'd admitted to just wanting to hang in there 'til he retired to secure his benefits package.

Ben knew he could've told Maggie simply that he
had to go back and testify in a court case, but that he'd be back as soon as the trial was over in case she wanted to pick up where they'd left off, but—

That's where he pulled up short. Even if Maggie was willing, how far down that particular road did he want to go? As far as he was concerned, it was unexplored territory. And while he wasn't a coward, he never liked to go into any situation unprepared.

How the hell did a man prepare for falling in love?

P
urely because she hated to admit defeat, Maggie stayed to the bitter end. She helped Ann matte the new shipment of reproductions—she called them that deliberately. Soon Ann was calling them that, too. Several would go on display at the end-of-the-workshop exhibit along with two of his originals.

Evidently Ben had spread the word before he left, because she heard Georgia telling one of the librarians that she intended to buy a copy of
Stone Mill in Winter
to hang over the bookcase in her dining room—because she liked it, not because she considered it an investment. Janie entered the conversations, and the print versus original thing was openly discussed.

Ann winked at Maggie and whispered, “I'm glad they know. I couldn't say anything because Aunt Iola, Perry's mama, lent my brother a down payment on his house, and Brother hasn't paid her back yet.”

There would be other workshops, other exhibits, and probably other people talked into buying reproductions as an investment. Ben had done all he could, but Maggie hadn't. She still had a column to write.

Ben had left his paints behind, including all his awful attempts at landscape painting. Maggie matted what she considered his best attempt for the exhibit and put the rest of his gear with her own. After tonight's festive “opening” she would load her car and get an early start tomorrow.

The celebration was dismal. Not even the wine helped. Charlie claimed he never drank screw-top wines as they gave him headaches. He and Janie were openly holding hands now. Maggie warmed to the thought that they'd been able to put the past behind them and look forward to a new future.

Don't waste time, she wanted to urge. Follow your heart!

But then, who was she to advise anyone? Just because she wrote an advice column…

Faugh, as Perry would say.

The next morning she hugged them all goodbye, even those she hadn't got to know very well. Even Perry. For all his faults, he was probably a competent painter and an excellent teacher. Not that he'd been able to teach her to paint, but at least she knew now that being an artist involved a lot more than splashing paint on a blank piece of paper and calling it art.

 

Home was just as she'd left it. The lawn needed mowing, the gutters still needed cleaning and there was a sinkful of dirty dishes, despite the fact that they
had a dishwasher. Sooner or later she would get around to everything.

Her father wasn't home yet, but then he often worked on Sundays when he could have the office to himself. Maggie checked his room, collected the clothes that needed laundering, stripped his bed and remade it after opening several windows to air out the cigar smoke.

Her own room was just as she'd left it, too. She set up the laptop computer she hadn't bothered to open back at Peddler's Knob, already thinking about the column she would write as soon as she got something cooking for supper.

Her mind still free-ranging over possibilities, she sorted through the mail to see if there was anything for Miss Maggie. Only a single letter from a man wanting to know if a wife was obligated to do all the housework even if she had an outside job.

That one she would definitely answer. She might even invent a few more letters along the same lines to get her point across. As long as both partners were working outside the home, she thought, mentally phrasing her response while she scrubbed sweet potatoes, wrapped them in foil, and shoved them in the oven, then both partners should share equally in household chores.

 

She was catching up on the news on television later that night when her cell phone buzzed softly from the kitchen where she'd left it. She hurried to answer it before it could wake her father, who had fallen asleep reading the
Journal.

The minute she heard that familiar gravelly drawl
she stopped breathing. “Maggie? Are you there? Hello?”

“Ben,” she exclaimed when she could finally harness her brain to her tongue. “Did you make it home all right? Well, of course you didn't—it's too soon. How long does it take to get there, anyway?”

She forced herself to relax and take a deep breath.

Ignoring her questions, he said, “I wanted to tell you when I'll be back.”

“Back as in…?” Her heart knocked out an extra beat.

“Back as in North Carolina. As in a few miles from where you live.”

Some five minutes later she punched off and laid her phone aside, still dazed. He was coming back. Not only to see his grandmother, who apparently had discovered eBay and was turning into something of an art dealer, but to see her—Maggie.

Ben had said Miss Emma was making only enough profit to cover the cost of shipping and insurance, but Maggie could tell how proud he was. Not that he'd ever said much about his family, but she had a feeling his early life had been vastly different from her own. Even after her mother had left, she'd had her father, two aunts, an uncle and half a dozen cousins. All Ben had was the woman he called Miss Emma.

“And me,” she whispered. “He's coming back, he's coming back,” she sang, clasping her arms around herself.

Don't get your hopes up too high, a small voice warned.

In the lounge chair across the living room, her father snored softly. Maggie wondered how he would
get along if she left home and moved to Texas. Could she do it?

Too many questions, too few answers. Not even Miss Maggie could predict the future.

 

It was almost three weeks later when a familiar dark green pickup pulled into the driveway. Maggie was on a ladder dodging oak branches while she cleaned out the gutters. They hadn't been cleaned since last fall. Already small oak trees were sprouting there.

There were a thousand green trucks on the highway, she told herself. A million. Nevertheless, she nearly broke her neck scrambling down the ladder.

“Wait!” Ben yelled, jogging the last few steps. “Don't move!”

Halfway down she froze, but only for a moment. That was all the time it took for him to reach up and grab her around the waist and swing her down into his arms.

“God, I missed you,” he said fervently. “Your shoestring's untied.”

Ben had taken time only to stop by his grandmother's house, leave his bags and get directions to Maggie's house. Miss Emma said she had a bridge date that night, but she'd leave a casserole in the oven in case he made it back.

Food was the last thing on his mind.

“Ah, Maggie, Maggie, you'll never believe how much I missed you,” he growled. Wrapped around him like a honeysuckle vine, her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, she was either laugh
ing or sobbing, he couldn't tell which. Didn't much care as long as she let him hold her.

“Put me down and kiss me,” she ordered.

“The two are not mutually exclusive,” he told her, and then he proved it.

A long time later, Maggie told him he might as well stay and meet her father, who had remained downtown for a Chamber of Commerce meeting.

“You need to meet Miss Emma, too. You'll like her. You two are a whole lot alike in some ways.”

“Are you going to be here long?” The hesitancy in her voice made him ache.

“Like I told you, I've finished my business in Dry Creek. I'm ready to make a move.” He'd ended up having only to give one more written deposition. Several other witnesses had been found and were ready to testify. Chief Mercer had cut a deal, so the case was pretty much in the bag.

It was a lousy ending to some good years in his life—the best years, so far. But he had a strong feeling that was about to change.

“And?” Maggie asked the leading question, sounding half-hopeful, half-fearful. He hadn't come right out and said the words, but she had to know how he felt. Hell, he was here, wasn't he? He'd left his truck in long-term parking at the airport in Greensboro, knowing he would be back. That was a testament to something, wasn't it?

Nearly an hour later, lying on his back with one arm around Maggie, the other propped under his head, Ben studied the smears of green, gray and purple that had been framed and hung where it could be seen
from the bed. Frowning, he said, “That looks kind of familiar. Almost like…”

“Your last masterpiece? It is. The genuine thing, too, and not just a copy. Actually, it's kind of nice, once you stop thinking that it's supposed to look like something.”

If Ben had been in any doubt about what love felt like, that was no longer the case. Lust would carry a man only so far. Love was what carried him the rest of the way.

“The best of both worlds,” he murmured, burying his face in her hair.

“Is that the title?”

“Yeah,” he said with a satisfied smile. “That's the title.”