Mail-Order Millionaire (14 page)

He smelled victory. “Seriously, you can give me some syrup.”

She sighed. “If I gave it all to you, it still wouldn’t be enough. This is the second time you’ve bailed me out today. There must be something you want, something I could give you.”

Restless, he stood and leaned against the Formica counter and thought about it. There was so much she had to give and so much he wanted to take. But it was not for him to say. He thought about carrying her up the stairs to bed again. He’d have to leave her on the bed without touching her, or else he couldn’t stay here. She was looking at him, waiting for his answer. He dredged his mind and came up blank. He couldn’t remember the question.

“Something I want?” he said at last. “Not really. I’ve got everything I need. Completely self-sufficient.” It sounded smug, but it was true.  He had his uncle’s money invested. He didn’t need it. His job was the most important thing in his life and as long as he had it he didn’t need or want anything else.

She propped her elbows on the table, cupped her chin in her palm and regarded him out of her luminous dark eyes. “I envy you. I wish I could be more like that.”

He shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. “You shouldn’t envy anyone. You’ve got a house to come home to, and not just any house, one that’s been in your family for years.” He looked around at the open cupboards, the hand-painted design on the molding. “You’ve got friends and family who all care about you          .” The more he said the worse he felt, thinking of everything she had and he didn’t. He stopped and gave her a rueful smile. “Well, now that we have that settled, it’s past your bedtime.”

She looked up at him under heavy eyelids, too tired to protest. He crossed the room in two steps and swept her up. He felt her arms go around his neck, her hand tangle in his hair and his knees almost gave way on the first step. He thought he could do it, but he hadn’t counted on the faint smell of flowers that clung to her hair, or the touch of her fingers on the back of his neck. He inhaled deeply and, with a rush of adrenaline, took the stairs two at a time. He set her on the edge of her bed and quickly left the room, closing the door behind him. There was only so much a man could take.

The week ahead tested his resolve every day in every way. Before he drove her to work every morning he was forced to see how she looked before she’d had her coffee, before she’d applied any makeup or combed her hair. He saw her at her worst and he couldn’t tear his eyes away. And at night, after they’d sat in front of the fire talking, he’d run into her on her way out of the bath, her skin moist and dewy, her hair pinned up, hanging in damp tendrils around her face, and he had to go into his room—her grandparents’ room—throw himself on the bed and grind his teeth in frustration.

He tried not to look at her. But he couldn’t stop imagining how it would feel if she were next to him in that four-poster on cold winter nights such as these. But he’d promised her it wouldn’t happen, and as long as he was under her roof, it wouldn’t. That didn’t stop him from dreaming, though, at night and during the day. He dreamed of getting into the deep, claw-foot tub with her, he dreamed of taking that nightgown off or putting it on her and that was the kind of thing that kept him awake at night.

It was almost a relief when the week came to an end. Miranda’s foot was almost healed, the sap had almost stopped running and he had almost run out of self-control. He’d processed hundreds of bottles of syrup and on the last run on Sunday afternoon, he and Miranda had each ridden one of the horses back to the barn for a well-earned rest. He arrived first, lowered himself from the broad back of Hans, the larger of the two plodding draft horses, and waited by the barn for Miranda to come in from the field on Gretel. Mud from the horse’s hooves spattered onto his jeans as she pulled up in front of him. He held out his arms to help her down and she slid into them as easily as warm maple syrup flowed from a pitcher.

For just a moment she stayed there, in the circle of his arms, her eyes full of questions he couldn’t answer. She knew, they both knew it was over, this week of living together, of playing house. What they didn’t know was what came next. Was it really over, this intimate sharing of their lives? Or was this only the beginning of something deeper and more meaningful? Whatever happened next, they both knew things would never be the same.

Instead of gathering her in his arms and telling her what he wanted, which was impossible because he didn’t know what he wanted, he dropped his arms abruptly and said goodbye.

The color drained from her face for a moment, then she recovered. “I thought you were staying for dinner.”

He shook his head, feeling remorse clog his throat. “Can’t do it, not tonight. Some other time. I’ve got to get back.”

It was a lame excuse and she knew it. Her lips trembled and she turned toward her horse to hide her face. “Of course. Well, don’t forget to take the syrup I owe you.”

“I won’t.” Why was he doing this, walking out on her after the most incredible week of his life? Because he was scared, so scared his hands shook as he slapped the horse on its flank. Scared of hurting her and of getting hurt. Scared of getting involved and of involving her. “Miranda?”

She looked over her shoulder. “Yes?”

“I’ll get my stuff from the house. Take care.”

Her eyes were suspiciously bright. “Thanks... for everything.”

He walked in the back door, picked up his bag from the bedroom upstairs and hurried down the stairs and out the front door. He got into his car and pulled away from the old house before he changed his mind and broke his promise to her and to himself.

     Miranda sat on the couch in front of the fireplace staring at the ashes that lay there, cold and lifeless, from other nights and other fires. When Max had been there. Outside the wind was blowing and the temperature was falling. She ought to build a fire. She ought to make dinner. But what was the point? She had no one to eat with, no one to sit with in front of the fire and talk with about everything and nothing.

She told herself to stop wallowing in self-pity. She told herself to snap out of it. But she might as well have been talking to the wall. She would wallow to her heart’s content tonight and tomorrow she’d be her old self, full of hope and optimism and independence. She just needed a short period of adjustment, to adjust from having someone around to having no one. Not that she needed someone. Not Miranda Morrison who ran a farm with one hand and handled complaints at a mail-order company with the other.

She stretched her feet out in front of her toward the cold brick hearth and wiggled her toes. If it hadn’t been for her accident, she would have bottled all that syrup herself and never missed having a helper, a partner, a... a friend. But she had torn her ligaments and she’d had the most thoughtful, most desirable man with the bluest eyes, the broadest shoulders, and the strongest arms.    

Not that she’d noticed how first thing in the morning his blond hair would be standing on end, the shadow of a beard grazing his jaw. And she’d almost forgotten what he looked like on his way to the bathroom without a shirt, wearing only sweatpants, the cord around his waist knotted low on his flat stomach. Sitting there alone in the living room she felt her pulse race just remembering. It was only natural to feel something after a week of living together. Evan if it was only relief. Yes, that’s what it was, relief to have him gone, to have the house to herself again. Not to have to pick up his wet towel from the bathroom floor. Not to have to eat his Southern-fried chicken, or the grits he made for breakfast on a cold winter morning with sausage and country gravy.

It was back to canned soup for dinner and a cup of coffee in the morning. It was all over, the sapping season, the sharing and the caring. That was obvious from the way he’d said goodbye. As if he could hardly wait to get away. She couldn’t blame him. He’d worked hard, taken care of the farm and her, too. Why? What did he get out of it? He’d even forgotten the few jars of syrup she’d promised him. There were times during the week when she’d caught him glancing at her, a quizzical look in his eyes, as if he, too, wondered what he was doing there.

And then there was that night, the first night he’d carried her up to bed when she’d thought, had even hoped he wouldn’t leave her. But he had, he always did. Why shouldn’t he? This wasn’t his farm or his life. His life was hundreds of miles away, thousands of feet in the sky, watching the clouds and measuring the snowfall.

She shivered as night fell around the farm, unwilling to turn up the heat or turn on the lights. Why bother if it was just for her? Why bother doing anything? After a while she climbed the stairs and went to bed.

It was better at work. In the days that followed she had to forget about herself and think of others, like the lady whose angora polo pullover shrunk when she put it in the dryer. Miranda sent her another one and cautioned her to read the instructions on the label. She gossiped with the other women and went to lunch with her sister. Ariel was surprised she hadn’t heard from Max, but noting the expression on Miranda’s face, she let it drop and changed the subject.

Miranda wasn’t surprised she hadn’t heard from him as the weeks passed. Why would he call her? What would he say? Still she found herself wondering if the missing boots had ever turned up. She couldn’t call and ask him, not if he didn’t call her. But she could call and ask the post office in the town of Mount Henry if they’d arrived.

“Packages for Mr. Carter are held for pickup,” the postmistress informed her primly.

“Why is that?”

“You’ll have to ask Mr. Carter, since he’s the one who requested it. In writing.”

“How long ago was that?” Miranda asked.

“I really can’t say. I’m new here. I was just transferred from Crawford Notch. And the notice isn’t dated.”

Miranda frowned. “Are there any packages being held right now?”

“Just a moment, I’ll check.” There was a long silence while Miranda fidgeted with the buttons on her camel-hair cardigan. “Yes, ma’am,” she answered at last.

“Could you tell me, are any of them from Green Mountain Merchants?”

“All of them.”

“How late are you open?”

“Until five.”

Miranda grabbed her fleece-lined jacket, striped wool hat and gloves, and headed for the door, leaving Mavis and Lianne and Donna and Penny staring after her with their mouths hanging open in surprise.

“Cover for me, will you?” she called over her shoulder and they looked at each other in bewilderment.

“There she goes again,” Donna murmured.

“Hasn’t been herself lately,” Mavis noted.

“Something’s got into her,” Lianne agreed.

At three o’clock on a Friday afternoon there wasn’t much traffic on the road that crossed New Hampshire from Northern Vermont to the White Mountains of New Hampshire. But Miranda wouldn’t have noticed if there had been. She had her eyes on the cloud-shrouded mountains in the distance and her mind on the two packages of boots in the Mount Henry Post Office. It was clear her duty to Max was to deliver the boots he’d paid for without delay. How she would do that she had no idea. She couldn’t hope to borrow the tractor again.

She arrived at the small post office in the tiny hamlet of Mount Henry at precisely 4:55 and stood in line for the next ten minutes while customers bought stamps and mailed packages, none of which was as important as her mission. After an eternity she reached the window just in time to present her case. “I’m the one who called... about the packages for Mr. Carter?”

“They can’t be released until Mr. Carter comes to pick them up.”

“It’s okay, he wants the packages. I know he does.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What if he called and said it was all right?”

“He hasn’t.” She put her hand on the glass partition and Miranda was afraid she’d close it on her fingers.

“It’s a mistake, I know it is.  I’ll call and ask him.”

The postmistress sighed. “We’re closing in a few minutes.”

Miranda took her phone from her bag and paused. “I don’t suppose you know the number at the observatory?”