Jingle Bell Rock (14 page)

She was such a coward.

The place was closing up before they left their booth, and there was still so much left to say. Laura tried to look at this meeting as a single step in a long journey. Maybe tomorrow, or in a couple of days, she’d tell Michael about Megan.

They walked toward the hotel slowly, arm in arm, close but never close enough. How had she survived without this, without the touch, the closeness, the knowledge that Michael lived inside her heart and always would? She could see the hotel just a little more than a block away, and she slowed her step. Late as it was, scared as she was of what came next, she wasn’t ready to leave him.

As if he read her mind, he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and faced her. He wrapped his arms around her, slowly, as if he were afraid she’d object, then tighter when she answered by wrapping her arms around his waist.

“It’s still good, isn’t it?” he whispered.

She shuddered from the top of her head to her toes. Good? It was magic, exquisite, perfect. Well, almost perfect. There was one tiny untruth that stood between them and perfection. “Yes,” she answered.

“Tomorrow, I want to meet Megan,” he said, and Laura nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Tomorrow?” she squeaked,

“For lunch,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the café where we had coffee tonight. We can—”

“Not lunch!” Laura interrupted.

“Why not?”

She sighed. Well, he would have to know sooner or later, wouldn’t he? “Megan is a little warrior, and food and drink are her weapons of choice.”

He laughed, loud and long. That was not the reaction she expected.

“It isn’t funny,” she insisted. “You want an example? I haven’t dated much in the past... well, in a while.” Michael’s smile faded away, but he continued to hold her tight. “There was this one man, an accountant I work with, and he was sitting on the couch waiting for me to get ready, and Megan attacked him with grape juice.”

The smile came back. “How do you attack someone with grape juice?”

“It was one of those box drinks with a bendable straw. She just very calmly and innocently aimed and squeezed. A stream of grape juice hit the poor man square in the face, squirted all over his glasses, and then Megan aimed at his shirt—his
white
shirt, I might add—and what was left ended up in his lap.” Michael’s smile had always tugged at her heart; it was so warm and real. It was the hint of dimples, she supposed, or maybe the way his expressive eyes lit up. He wasn’t just smiling now, he was laughing. “I’ll have to thank her.”

“It isn’t that funny,” Laura said, but she found herself smiling, too. “And you should see what she can do with a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich. One poor unsuspecting man, a blind date no less, ended up with a slice of bread on either knee, gooey side down.”

Michael laughed.

“It was a new suit,” Laura added.

“You don’t usually date the same man more than once, do you?” Michael asked as his laughter died.

“Never,” Laura admitted. “As a matter of fact, I finally just... gave up.”

He was going to kiss her again. She saw it coming, in the tilt of his head, in a slight change in the pressure of his arms, and heaven help her, she could hardly wait. When his lips hovered over hers he whispered again. “In that case I’m really going to have to thank Megan.”

When Michael kissed her she forgot the mistakes she’d made. She forgot that she should have told him everything before it had gone this far, forgot that she was here for Megan, not for herself.

He reluctantly pulled his lips away, and with a shake of his head turned her about and they resumed their journey toward the hotel. “Lunch,” he said huskily. “Tomorrow at noon.”

Chapter Three

A thousand things could go wrong. Megan could decide she didn’t like Michael, and he’d end up with ketchup on his face or a french fry up his nose. She could be a real brat, as she sometimes was, and Michael would hate Megan before he even knew she was his daughter. And then again Michael might look into green eyes so much like his own and instantly know the truth. Would he forgive her for not telling him? Five years ago, last night, anytime in between...

With nervous fingers, Laura brushed Megan’s bangs away from her eyes. Sometimes she looked at this little girl and her heart nearly stopped. Megan was a brat sometimes, sure, but she was also beautiful and bright. And hers. She’d never known what possessiveness was until she’d held her baby. The protective instincts hadn’t faded with time, but had grown.

“Remember what I said,” she said gently. “I want you to be on your best behavior today.”

Megan answered with a wide-eyed and innocent nod of her head. “I’ll be good, Mommy.”

Laura returned to the bathroom to finish with her hair and makeup, leaving the door open so she could keep an eye on Megan. Jennifer was still sleeping. She’d awakened just long enough to insist, in a groggy voice, that she’d skip lunch with Megan and Laura and Laura’s old friend. Just as well. If Jennifer mentioned the nonexistent client Laura had invented to explain away these days in Memphis, there would be a lot more explaining to do.

Megan seemed to be in a particularly good mood this morning, and she was especially darling in her green jumper and white tights and black patent-leather Mary Janes. If they could just survive this lunch, everything would be fine. Laura repeated that assurance to herself again and again as she darkened her eyelashes and tried to decide which lipstick to wear.

She applied a little Misty Mauve before the mirror, and when she was finished she looked herself squarely in the eye. “Michael,” she whispered. “Do you remember how I always said I wanted kids...?” Her voice trailed off into nothing. No, that wasn’t quite right, either. “And speaking of sex, we were always so careful, except for that one night...” Laura sighed as her voice died. How pathetic.

Megan’s voice was soft, but she was definitely carrying on a conversation. Jennifer had been up late watching a movie and wanted to sleep a while longer, so she certainly wouldn’t be happy about having a chatty four-year-old at her side. Laura went to the door to shush her daughter, and found that Jennifer wasn’t on the receiving end of this monologue after all. Megan faced the red velvet chair by the window. She was talking softly, using her hands for emphasis as she always did.

Laura sighed. It seemed Princess Babbette was back. She’d just recently convinced Megan to send this imaginary friend back to her imaginary castle. Princess Babbette was the one who colored on the walls, and spilled drinks on the carpet, and encouraged Megan to do things she would never think of on her own. Like squirting Bill with grape juice.

“Megan,” Laura said as she stepped from the bathroom. “I thought we agreed that there wouldn’t be any more imaginary friends.”

Megan spun around as though she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Her eyes were wide, her hands were clasped unnaturally behind her back, and she rotated one toe of her Mary Janes against the faded carpet. “But he’s not ‘maginary.”

“Megan Michelle Marlow, you’re talking to a chair.” Why couldn’t Megan be sensible, like her mother, rather than an idealistic dreamer like her father? Why couldn’t she be content to play quietly with dolls that didn’t talk back?

“The King isn’t ‘maginary. Sometimes he’s inbisible, but he’s real.”

“The king?” Laura leaned, defeated already, against the doorjamb. She recognized the sparkle in Megan’s eyes, and knew this was a losing battle and had been from the start. “Princess Babbette’s father, I assume. Don’t tell me. Babbette came home with all sorts of bad habits, and the king’s here to meet the young lady who taught his little girl to squirt juice boxes at people and use carrot sticks as swords.”

Megan covered her mouth and giggled, and then she glanced over her shoulder. The King had evidently decided to stand, and he was also evidently quite tall. “Yes,” she said to a spot high above her head. “My mommy
is
funny.”

She supposed it was all too much for Megan: the holidays, the weird hotel, the sudden craving for a father.

“He’s not Babbette’s daddy,” Megan corrected. “He’s a different kind of king.”

“What kind of king is he?” Laura asked wearily.

Megan spun around on the soles of her new shoes and pointed to the Elvis on velvet above the television. “He’s that kind of king.”

“Elvis.” Laura sighed, dismayed.

“Elbis Pwesley,” Megan said as she faced her mother again. “
The
King.”

She could rant and rave, which never did any good, or she could continue to play along. “Young Elvis or old Elvis?”

Megan pursed her lips and thought about the question for a moment before she answered. “Old Elbis.”

Laura looked at the blank wall behind Megan. “Too bad.”

“He has to be pretty old,” Megan clarified, “because he said he has a little girl, and he’s bery tall, much taller than me.” She leaned forward slightly and lowered her voice. “And he’s bery pwetty. I wouldn’t squirt any juice at him, Mommy, I pwomise.”

“Young Elvis,” Laura muttered.

Once the subject had been broached, Megan had no further reservations about sharing her knowledge. “He sang me to sleep last night. Oh, he has the pwettiest voice I eber heard.” She glanced over her shoulder and looked up again, so that her fine coppery ponytail danced down her back. “You’re
welcome
bery much,” she said seriously.

Laura stifled a groan. “What did he sing?”

“A song about a teddy bear, and a Christmas song, and the pwettiest song, I ever heard.” She looked up again. “What was that last song?” She waited a moment, and then looked at Laura once again. “Amazing Gwace.”

Laura wondered if it was too late to cancel lunch with Michael. Of course it was. Would he be terribly disappointed if she showed up without Megan? Ah, but Megan was the reason she was here. She was turning into such a coward. “Tell Elvis good-bye. We have a lunch date to keep.”

***

There was a different crowd on Beale Street by day, a crowd Michael rarely saw. Tourists mostly, mingling with shop owners and a few locals. The sun was shining and it was dreadfully bright out. The street before him bordered on ordinary, the neon signs waiting dormant for sundown. By daylight you could tell how old the buildings were, how badly in need of repair some of them were.

He’d be at the coffee shop ten minutes early walking at this rate—the safe, ordinary café where no one knew him. Unless Laura agreed right quick to stay and they got everything out and into the open, they were going to see an awful lot of that cafe.

A familiar face appeared in the doorway of a popular restaurant, Jackie’s Place. It was Jackie himself who stepped onto the sidewalk, his bald head gleaming, his coffee dark face with its squinting eyes and grimace showing his displeasure, probably thanks to a small infraction by one of his many employees. The look changed when he saw Michael, a wide smile blooming on his face.

“What on earth has happened,” Jackie asked as he intercepted Michael, “to get Michael Arnett out of bed before the crack of three?”

Jackie was one to talk. A more than passable saxophone player, the successful restaurateur had spent many nights in Forever Blue, jamming until the sun came up.

“A date,” Michael revealed in a lowered voice.

“Ahhhh,” Jackie rumbled, “A new woman.”

“An old woman.”

Jackie raised his eyebrows, wrinkling his forehead.

“Not an old woman,” Michael said quickly. “An old girlfriend. I hadn’t seen her in five years, until last night.”

“Ahhhh.” The satisfied sound rumbled from his chest again. “I see. She’s come back to snare the newly successful songwriter with more money than he knows what to do with. I’ll bet she knows what to do with all that money.” Jackie was unfailingly pessimistic where women were concerned.

“Laura’s not like that,” Michael insisted. “She doesn’t even know what’s happened to me since she left.”

“Right,” was the drawled and disbelieving answer.

If she’d known she would have said something. Laura had never been one for playing games. “It’s the truth, and I don’t want her to know. Not yet.” The plan that suddenly came to him was brilliant. Well, maybe not brilliant, but since he hadn’t had a plan at all until that point... “You could really help me out, pal.”

“Why should I waste my time helping a skinny rich white boy?”

Michael flashed a smile to match Jackie’s own. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“I don’t see how—”

Michael lowered his voice.’ “I’ll let you touch my Bosendorfer.”

Jackie raised a ham of a hand with surprisingly elegant fingers to his heart. “You can’t mean it. You would allow a lowly saxophone player who only dreams of playing piano half as well as you do to touch your baby? The grand piano you personally dust and wax and tune so no one else will lay a finger on her?” There was more than a touch of sarcasm in Jackie’s voice, but then there usually was, “I can’t wait to meet this old woman.”

***

So far, so good. Megan hadn’t mentioned speaking to Elvis in their hotel room, and she hadn’t tossed any of her lunch in Michael’s direction. Yet. Still, she was eyeing what was left of her fries as if she had great plans for them.

It would be simplest, the coward’s way out, if Michael would look at Megan and see some of himself in her, the way Laura always did. Megan had Arnett eyes; the color was a soft green, and the corners, where Michael was showing the beginnings of very sexy laugh lines, were slightly turned down.

Ha! She should be so lucky. Michael was as charming with Megan as he was with her, smiling and laughing and including her in the conversation, but if he had even an inkling that she was his he didn’t show it, darn his hide.

They had talked about work, school, and Christmas, and so far there had been no disasters. Megan picked up a long french fry and studied it carefully before dipping the end in the small pool of ketchup on her plate. “I wonder if Elbis likes fwench fwies. I could take him some of mine.”

That got a slight eyebrow rise out of Michael. “Elvis?”

Megan nodded and popped the end of the fry into her mouth.