Sleeping Alone (5 page)

“Idiot,” she murmured as she hung up the phone. He hadn’t even come close to flirting with her the other day. All he’d done was tell her that her roof leaked. Still, that brief exchange had been enough to remind her how it was between men and women, that unspoken acknowledgment that yes, the sexes were different, and thank God for it.

She filled the teakettle with tap water, then set it on the stove. The burner clicked twice but refused to light. She waved her hand briskly to dissipate the smell of gas, then lit a fat kitchen match and held it near the jet. The flame was unenthusiastic but viable, and she congratulated herself on another domestic victory.

She’d bought the house in “as is” condition, with all of the furniture and household goods included. Some of the appliances had seen better days, but they still worked, and that was all that was important. She was also the proud owner of a Formica kitchen table with four chairs, each of which was covered in a different shade of Day-Glo vinyl fabric, a sofa and matching chair that had been past its prime when
I Love Lucy
was cutting-edge television, a dark pine coffee table, two standing lamps with built-in mosaic tile ashtrays, and an oak bedroom suite that she’d actually grown quite fond of. The kitchen boasted a double sink, a window that overlooked the backyard, and everything she could possibly need in the way of chipped dishes and well-worn pots and pans.

And it was all hers. Every rusty nail, warped floorboard, leaky ceiling. If John Gallagher didn’t show up, then she’d claim the old pajama-clad man asleep in front of her television, too.

Outside the wind picked up and rattled the windows in their frames. The sound was eerie, like keening almost. In her old life, she’d been insulated—both from the weather and from sounds like rattling windows and creaking floors. She didn’t want to be insulated any longer. She wanted to feel the rain on her face, taste the tang of sea air on her tongue, fall asleep to the sound of the ocean crashing against the marina.

A draft ruffled the back-door curtains and made the flame under the teakettle waver, as if it were deciding whether or not to give up the ghost.

“Don’t you dare,” she warned the burner, shielding it from the breeze with her body. The poor man was half frozen out there. She’d covered him with a granny square afghan and a crazy quilt she’d found in the attic crawl space, but he needed to be warmed up from the inside out.

Besides, Eddie Gallagher was her first guest, and that alone was cause for celebration.

* * *

It was getting so John could do it in his sleep. He yanked on his jeans and sweatshirt, then stumbled out of the house with Bailey hard on his heels. She was young and energetic, and sometimes her enthusiasm made him feel a hundred years old. A bitter blast of wind knocked him back, but it only invigorated Bailey. She let out a series of three quick barks, then pawed at the door of his truck, leaving muddy paw prints everywhere she touched.

The old-timers called this good sleeping weather, the kind of weather that made you burrow deeper under the covers and snuggle closer to the one you loved. It figured they’d like it; most of them still had someone to sleep with. Lately the only one willing to sleep with John was Bailey.

He wondered who Alex Curry spent her nights with. He’d noticed the white mark where a wedding ring used to be. Dee was convinced she was a divorcee on the run. “Prima facie evidence,” she’d said about the missing ring. When John suggested she might have left her ring on the kitchen counter, Dee had told him that her cat Newt had a better romantic imagination than John had, and Newt had been fixed three years ago.

She was right. He had no romantic imagination. If he had he would be wondering about the sad look in Alex Curry’s eyes or the way she carried herself like a queen without a country. And he sure as hell would be wondering how it would be to wake up with a woman like that in his arms.

But Dee knew what she was talking about. His romantic imagination had died three years ago with Libby and the boys.

He turned the key in the ignition, but nothing happened. He tried again and was rewarded with an ominous grinding sound. “God damn it,” he muttered. He thought about his brother Brian with the weekday Saab and weekend Porsche. The SOB probably hired someone to start them on winter mornings.

“Don’t count on me to be there,” Brian had said the last time they talked about Eddie. “I can’t be running down the Shore every time he’s got a problem. I’ve got a life, baby brother. You might want to try it sometime.”

Tried it,
John thought as the engine finally turned over. Tried it and ruined three lives.

* * *

Eddie woke up to find a strange woman standing over him. She wore a floor-length white gown with lacy trim at the neck and sleeves, and her hair flowed over her shoulders and down her back like Rita Hayworth’s did in
Gilda.
Okay, so Rita was a redhead, and this woman had hair the color of gold coins. Eddie never worried much about details. This woman was gorgeous same as Rita and she was smiling down at him like they were old friends.

He should be so lucky.

“Am I dead?” Eddie asked.

“Dead?” She started to laugh. “Why would you think that?”

“I don’t wake up with angels very often.”

She sat down on the arm of the sofa opposite him. “Oh, I think you kissed the Blarney stone a time or two in your day, Mr. Gallagher.”

She had a sense of humor, Eddie thought. That meant he probably wasn’t dead. He’d never read anything about angels having a sense of humor.

She extended a white mug of something hot. “I thought you might like a cup of tea. I put milk and sugar in it. If you don’t like it, I can make you a cup of coffee.”

Eddie wrapped his fingers around the mug. His hands had been aching a lot lately, and the warmth felt good. “Much obliged, miss.”

“Call me Alex,” she said, sitting down on the sofa opposite him. “Alexandra, really, but I prefer Alex.”

“Call me Eddie.”

“Did you have a good nap?”

“Fair to middling,” he said. “Sorry to barge in on you like this.”

“You didn’t barge in on me at all,” she said, taking a sip of her own tea. “You were sitting on my front porch, and I came out and asked if you were cold.”

“I was on your front porch?”

“That you were.”

She didn’t seem upset, and he supposed that was a good sign. How bad off could he be if a woman like this still smiled at him? He looked down to see what he was wearing. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he muttered. “I’m in my damn pajamas.” At least they were his good blue ones and not the red plaid with the frayed seams and missing button.

She patted his forearm, and the gentle gesture brought tears to his eyes. No one had touched him that way since his wife died, and he missed it. “I think you were sleepwalking.”

He drew his fist across his eyes and hoped she didn’t notice. “That’s what Johnny and Doc Benino say, but I don’t believe them.”

“Why don’t you believe them?” she asked. “Your son wouldn’t lie about something like that.”

What she said made sense, but there was a part of Eddie that couldn’t let go of the suspicion that there was something else going on.

“This place looks familiar,” he said, glancing around at the prints in their supermarket frames and the threadbare furniture.

“The Winslow house,” she said, a wide smile spreading across her face. “I moved in on Saturday.”

He jumped as a drop of rainwater landed in the middle of his bald spot. “The Winslow house?” He shook his head sadly. “You got your work cut out for you.”

“I know,” she said happily. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

Bits and pieces of conversation came back to him, but he couldn’t quite grab hold of their meaning. “How did you know Johnny was my son?” Hell, how did she know his name was Gallagher? He didn’t walk around with ID pinned to his pajamas, although if he kept on sleepwalking like this he might have to start.

“We met at the diner the other day, Mr. Gallagher.” She paused for a moment. “When I came in to apply for the waitress job.”

He forced a hearty laugh. “Must be getting old,” he said, smacking his head with the heel of his hand. “Never used to forget meeting a pretty girl.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, smiling easily. “I’m not all that memorable.”

And I’m not that old,
he thought as he sipped the hot tea. Not old enough to explain what was happening to him.

* * *

Lights blazed from every window at the Winslow place as John turned into the driveway. The wind-driven rain whipped the bare trees into grotesque shapes that made the bungalow look more like a miniature haunted house than usual. It didn’t help that it was set off by itself at the end of the block, closer to the marina than to any of its neighbors. When he was a kid, he was convinced ghosts lived there with Marge, huge malevolent ghosts that gobbled up troublemaking little boys like popcorn.

John pulled into the dirt driveway behind a VW that looked more like a toasted marshmallow than a car. It had to be at least twenty years old. The car probably had more mileage on it than the space shuttle. Everything about Alex Curry screamed money and privilege, but here she was living in Marge Winslow’s firetrap and driving a VW wagon a high school sophomore would sneer at.

Bailey yelped with excitement as John turned off the engine. “Sorry, girl,” he said, scratching the dog under her chin. “You stay here.” There was a limit to how many uninvited Gallaghers you could expect a woman to put up with.

He skidded his way across a path of wet leaves and mud to the front door. If the thermometer dipped any lower, the front yard would be a skating pond. Marge used to keep a sack of halite on her top step. He had the feeling Alex Curry didn’t know about things like rock salt and calcium chloride. She’d better learn, he thought, or her homeowner’s insurance would get a hell of a workout before the winter was over.

He rapped on the front door, but he knew they probably couldn’t hear him over the blare of the television. Leave it to his old man to make himself at home. He rapped again, waited, then tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. Didn’t she know that dead bolt was there for a reason? He pushed the door open and stepped across the threshold.

The sight in front of him was straight out of a Fellini movie. Alex Curry was standing on his old man’s back like a performer in a circus act, a very weird circus act where the star performer wore a white nightgown instead of sequins and tights. She was doing something to the exposed ceiling beam with a flashlight and a bright blue plastic bucket.

He was about to ask what the hell was going on when he heard a noise behind him. Bailey bounded through the door and headed straight for Eddie.

“Bailey!” he roared, grabbing for the sixty-pound guided missile. “No!”

Too late. Bailey slammed into Eddie.

Eddie tipped over.

And Alex Curry came tumbling down.

Alex wasn’t sure how he managed it, but John Gallagher caught her just before she hit the ground. One second she was falling through the air and the next she was pressed up against his chest like a wet T-shirt.

His enormous hands gripped her by the hips, and she was acutely aware of the fact that her cotton nightgown was all that kept those hands from encountering her naked body. The thought was so electrifying that she had to remind herself to breathe or she was sure she’d die right there on the spot. He smelled like the storm outside, an unforgettable mix of the sea and the rain and a thousand dark fantasies. The wild urge to plunge her fingers into his wet, curling hair came over her, and it took all of her willpower to keep from giving in to it. She didn’t do things like that. She didn’t even
think
things like that.

She cleared her throat. “You can put me down now.”

He had a crescent-shaped scar at the outer corner of his left eye. She wanted to trace the pale line with her tongue. A terrible, wonderful heat blossomed between her legs, and a slow smile spread across his face, as if he knew what she was thinking.

“Put me down,” she said again, more softly. If he didn’t put her down soon she might spontaneously combust.

Another man might have slid her down the length of his body and enjoyed the ride. She couldn’t have stopped him if he had tried. John Gallagher, however, was a better man than that. His grip moved from her hips to her waist, and he lowered her to the ground with a minimum of body contact.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Her nightgown settled around her ankles where it belonged. “I should be asking you that. I don’t know how you managed to catch me, but thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he said. He didn’t leer or put a sexual spin on the words, but the sense of awareness, of appreciation, was there just the same.

Another wave of warmth spiraled its way across her midsection. She barely knew John Gallagher, and yet already he had touched her with more real affection than her husband had shown her in the last five years of their marriage.

He gestured toward his father. “Thanks for bringing him inside. Not everyone would have bothered.”

“Does this sort of thing happen often?”

“Let’s just say it’s been a hell of a bad week.”

He looked so tired and worried that her heart went out to him. “Let me make you some coffee.” She turned toward the kitchen and saw Eddie sitting on the floor, cleaning muddy paws with a roll of paper toweling. “There’s a dog in here!”

“That’s Bailey,” John said. “I told her to stay in the car but—”

“Is she yours?”

“Muddy paws and all. If she wrecked anything, the bill’s mine.”

She waved away his words. “I love dogs. She’s welcome here any time.” What a stupid, idiotic thing to say. As if the dog would come calling without the owner.

“Don’t let Bailey hear that. She’ll take you at your word.”

“Hey, Bailey.” She held out her hand to the dog, then grinned at Eddie. “Guess my idea wasn’t so terrific after all.”

“What idea?” John asked.

“It’s like somebody opened a faucet up there,” Eddie said. “Alex was going to hang a bucket from the beam. I told her it wouldn’t work, but she wanted to try.”

“It worked in theory,” Alex said as John took in the army of pans positioned strategically across the living-room floor. “I figured if I could stem the major leak I could finesse my way around the smaller ones.”

“Is there anyplace that isn’t leaking?”

“Every house has problems.” She felt like a new mother defending her ugly child. “I’ll take care of it.”

He followed the trail of pans, pots, and bowls to the middle of the room. “So where’s your ceiling?”

“What a ridiculous question. It’s where a ceiling is supposed to be.”

“The hell it is.”

“The broker told me exposed beams are an asset.” An architectural extra she should be pleased to have.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean ceilings are optional, Alex.”

She liked hearing him say her name. She would have liked a ceiling more, but still it was something. “I guess I should have brought in someone to check things out but I couldn’t afford it.”

“I’m surprised the bank didn’t send an engineer over.”

“There was no bank,” she said. “I paid cash.”

He looked at her as if she’d announced she was here on a mission to find Elvis.

“You paid cash?”

“Is that really such an alien concept?” she countered.

“Around here it sure as hell is. Most people have trouble swinging a down payment.” He looked at her with open curiosity. “The crew at the diner said you paid cash, but I didn’t believe them. The Sea Gate grapevine is better than I thought.”

“I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

He grinned at her. “You’re not going to tell me how you managed it, are you?”

She smiled back. “Not on your life.”

“Secrets don’t stay secret long around here.”

“I’m not worried about it,” she said. Which wasn’t entirely true. The fact that the whole town knew she’d paid cash for the Winslow house was highly unnerving. She opted to change the subject. “I promised you a cup of coffee. Why don’t I put on a pot for all of us?”

* * *

John wanted to follow Alex into the kitchen, but the guarded look in her eyes held him back. It wasn’t a warning exactly—she was too sophisticated for that. He had the sensation that for a few moments her defenses had been lowered and she needed time to get them back in place. He didn’t blame her for that. He’d built himself a pretty good defense mechanism over the last four years, only to find it was suddenly in danger of crumbling.

Something had happened between them, something unexpected and powerful, and now he knew that she’d felt it, too. Her smell, the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of the nightgown, the gentle silhouette of her legs—he felt as if he’d been branded. It hadn’t been that way with Libby. The buildup with his late wife had been slow and gentle; the gradual shift from friendship to love had seemed as natural as breathing.

Bailey nudged his leg, and he scratched her head absently. He’d been without a woman too damn long, that’s what the problem was. He’d forgotten how it felt when the hormones kicked in and the brain shut down. For all he knew Alex Curry was a married woman with a husband and three kids asleep in the other room.

Not even that thought was enough to cool his heat.

His old man would have a field day with this. Eddie had been trying to push him in Dee’s direction, but some friendships weren’t meant to be anything else. Alex, however, was another story entirely. He turned, expecting to field some major razzing, but Eddie was asleep in the chair facing the television. His father’s breathing was slow and regular, and John tried not to notice how fragile Eddie looked in his blue pajamas and worn slippers.

I’m not ready to lose you yet, Pop,
he thought, then brushed the notion aside as too ridiculous to contemplate. There was nothing wrong with Eddie Gallagher that a good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure.

John paced the room, his gaze sliding over old-fashioned lamps with pull chains and frilly shades, frayed avocado green curtains, and enough weird knickknacks to fill Giants Stadium. A trio of pictures clipped from a magazine hung on the wall behind the couch. The frames were obviously garage sale rejects.

He’d stake his life on the fact that everything in the room had belonged to Marge Winslow. He didn’t claim to be an expert on women or interior decorating, but he’d thought most women couldn’t wait to put their own touch on a place. China pitchers in the shape of Elsie the Cow didn’t exactly seem Alex’s style. No, he’d bet his last dime that she was Wedgwood and Steuben all the way.

There were no family photos propped up on the end tables. No kids’ toys sticking out from under the couch. No men’s shoes or jockstraps draped over the back of a chair. Not even a magazine or book left open on the coffee table. If she had a personal life of any kind, you’d never know it by her home.

Maybe he wasn’t being fair. She’d only been there a couple of days. Hell, when he and Libby moved into their first house, they’d lived out of boxes for weeks while they tried to figure out what went where. That would explain it. As soon as she unpacked, she’d replace Marge’s eclectic mix with her own things. He glanced around again. He even went so far as to peer into the narrow hallway that led to the bedrooms. So where were the boxes? Where were the floor-to-ceiling stacks of stuff waiting to be unpacked? All he saw were two very expensive leather suitcases propped up in front of one of the bedroom doors.

The pieces didn’t fit. She carried herself like a woman who’d never wanted for anything in her life. The kind of woman who’d known only the best life had to offer. A woman who’d rather die than live in Marge Winslow’s old house or wait tables at the Starlight.

He told himself it was none of his business, that people were entitled to their secrets, but he was lying. When it came to Alex Curry, he wanted to know everything.

* * *

If Alex hid out in the kitchen much longer, John Gallagher would think she’d gone to Seattle for the coffee.

She placed the cups and sugar bowl and milk pitcher on a metal tray, then frowned. The array looked a little skimpy, so she opened a box of cookies and arranged them as best she could on a dinner plate. She used to love arranging tea for Griffin and their guests, taking time to make sure each aspect of the ritual was as perfect as she could possibly make it. For a moment she missed her silver tea service, the china plates so translucent you could see your hand reflected through them, the linen napkins imported from Ireland. Those things were wonderful, but they belonged to her old life and she was better off without them.

She’d thought that escaping to the kitchen would help her regain her equilibrium, but she felt as dizzy and disoriented as she had in Gallagher’s arms.
Get over it,
she told herself sternly. This was her problem, not his. She wasn’t blind. She’d picked up on the chemistry between him and Dee at the diner. For all she knew they were having a torrid affair. Maybe they were even married to each other. Anything was possible. These people were strangers to her. She didn’t know the first thing about them, and they didn’t know the first thing about her, which was exactly the way she wanted it.

She took the plate of cookies off the tray, then carried the coffee into the living room.

“Sorry I took so long,” she said, placing the tray on the table in front of the sofa. “I’m still not used to that stove.”

“What’s wrong with it?” John asked. He was standing by the window.

“It’s a little fluky but—”

“I’ll take a look at it.” He started toward the kitchen.

“No!” The word sounded angry, but she wasn’t angry at all. She simply didn’t want anyone getting any closer. Especially not him. She tried to soften her outburst with a smile. “I mean, that’s not necessary. I’m sure the stove and I will reach an accommodation.”

“Johnny’s good with his hands,” Eddie said from the chair in front of the TV. “He can fix anything.”

Another wave of heat flooded her chest as she remembered exactly how good those hands had felt as they’d held her. “Really,” she said. “I’m not going to impose on either one of you. If I need something done, I’ll hire a professional.”

“Tell her, Johnny,” Eddie persisted. “He rebuilt the carburetor on—”

“Drop it, Pop,” John broke in. “You heard her. She said she’ll take care of it.”

“That’s right,” she said, vaguely annoyed. “It’s my responsibility.”

“I think we’d better shove off,” John said to his father. He was acting as if she weren’t even there.

“I could use that cup of coffee,” Eddie said.

“Pop.” John aimed a thumb toward the door. “Let’s go.”

“What’s the rush?” his father complained. “I’ve never seen you turn down a cup of joe.”

“Feel free to leave,” Alex said to John in a sharp tone of voice. This was her home. Nobody was going to make her feel invisible within her own four walls. “I’ll make sure Mr. Gallagher gets home safely.”

John looked at Eddie. Eddie looked at Bailey. Bailey looked at the pot of coffee. At least someone appreciated her effort.

“You know what?” Alex bent down and picked up a mug. “I don’t care if either one of you drinks my coffee.” She took a long sip. “It’s delicious, by the way.” The two men were staring at her as if she’d lost her mind. Let them stare, she thought. She could do what she wanted in her own home.

Eddie hesitated, then grabbed a mug for himself. “You’re right,” he said to Alex. “This is damn fine coffee.”

His son shrugged and claimed the last cup. He took a sip, then nodded. “Not bad.”

She inclined her head. “Thank you. Maybe I can take over coffee-making duties at the Starlight.”

“You got the job?” Eddie asked her.

She nodded, her good spirits returning as quickly as they had vanished. “I got the job.”

“How the hell did Dee get hold of Nick so fast?” Eddie wondered out loud. “I thought he was away on some kind of vacation.”

John looked uncomfortable. “Hey, Pop, let Dee worry about running the diner.”