The Other Side of Us (Harlequin Superromance) (26 page)

EPILOGUE

Two years later

T
HE
SCREEN
DOOR
SLAMMED
behind Mackenzie as she let herself into the house. She
could hear music playing in the kitchen and she hastened her step, buzzing with
anticipation. She couldn’t wait to show Oliver what she had in her purse.

The dogs must have heard the door because she was barely
halfway down the long hall when they came running to greet her, Tinkerbell
leading the charge. To be fair, neither Mr. Smith nor Strudel had much of a
chance to beat her, Tinkerbell’s long legs giving her a distinct advantage. That
was what came of having a Doberman for a father.

As always, Mackenzie found herself grinning like a loon as
Tinkerbell butted her big, black head into Mackenzie’s belly, demanding an ear
scratch. For as long as she lived, Mackenzie would never forget the day Strudel
had given birth to Tinkerbell and her three siblings, all of whom had long since
found good homes. She could still recall in vivid detail how stunned both she
and Oliver had been when they inspected Strudel’s offspring and discovered that
instead of long, thin dachshund bodies, courtesy of Mr. Smith, they had huge
feet and pure black fur.

Oliver had been very quiet for a few minutes before admitting
that before he packed up his wagon and drove south to Flinders, Strudel had been
hanging out with Brutus, the Doberman who lived two streets over. Mackenzie had
waited until the vet had confirmed their observation that Strudel had, indeed,
produced four good-size Doberman-Schnauzer cross puppies before suggesting that
Oliver might owe Mr. Smith an apology. A really big one.

To his credit, Oliver hadn’t hesitated, but every now and then
Mackenzie liked to remind him of the many lectures he’d visited upon poor Mr.
Smith leading up to Strudel whelping. In part because Oliver always came up with
new and novel and hilarious ways to express his regret.

Dogs hard on her heels, Mackenzie entered the vast living area
at the rear of their new home to find Oliver busy making dinner. Even though she
was eager to share her news, she paused for a moment to appreciate the scene—her
big, bad man, elbow-deep in spices and herbs, poring over a recipe book as
though it held the key to life itself. He wore his hair a little shorter these
days, but he hadn’t lost one iota of the appeal of the man who had knocked on
her door two years ago. In fact, he’d only grown more appealing.

Once the divorce had been finalized eighteen months ago, he’d
lost the tight look around his mouth, and the crease between his eyebrows had
eased. The laugh lines in his face had taken over, and the inherent warmth and
goodness and humor in him was now evident in every smile, every glance, every
gesture.

God, she was lucky.

Never in a million years did she think she would say that about
herself. Not after the accident. She’d counted herself supremely
unlucky
to have suffered that terrible year of pain
and uncertainty. But without the crash and recovery, she wouldn’t have met
Oliver, she wouldn’t have been ready for him, and she certainly wouldn’t have
appreciated him. She wouldn’t have rediscovered Mary and her own passion for
documentaries, either, or developed a growing appreciation for simply stopping
and enjoying her life instead of sprinting toward the next finishing line.

Oliver glanced up, one finger remaining in the book to mark his
place in the recipe. “Hey.” A slow, sexy smile curved his mouth.

A delicious warmth unfurled in her belly and chest at the sight
of that smile.

Yeah, she was lucky. The luckiest woman alive.

“How was your day?” he asked as she moved to his side and
lifted her face for his kiss.

His arms came around her, pulling her against his chest. She
inhaled his familiar smell and made a “more, please” sound when he started to
lift his head. After a moment she pulled away. He was in the middle of cooking
dinner, after all, and they were no longer in the honeymoon stage of their
relationship. She would give him another five minutes, ten tops, before she
dragged him off to the bedroom to have her wicked way with him.

“My day was good. It’s better now, of course.”

“Naturally.”

She gave him a gentle nudge with her elbow in response to his
teasing. “What are you cooking?”

“I’m attempting to make a marinade for the chicken I bought for
dinner.”

“Yum.”

He cocked his head a little. “Why are you looking so
bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?”

She pushed her hair behind her ear. It wasn’t quite back to its
former swishy glory, but it was nearly to her shoulders now. Oddly, it had grown
back with a pronounced wave in it since the accident. She was still trying to
decide if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

Before she could say anything, Oliver’s smile became knowing.
“You finished the edit, didn’t you?”

“We finished the edit,” she confirmed.

He reached for the tea towel hanging on the oven handle and
dried his hands. “Let’s go, baby. Show me what you got.”

She loved that he was as excited about this film as she was.
Loved that he understood without her asking that she wanted to share this moment
with him. The disc in her handbag was the culmination of years of work. It was
the first thing she’d created that was entirely hers, born of her vision. And
she couldn’t have done any of it without him by her side.

“I love you,” she said.

As always, the expression in his eyes grew soft as he looked at
her. “I love you, too, sweetheart.”

It hadn’t been easy for them to get to this place. There had
been times over the past two years when things had been tense and unhappy. She’d
uprooted her life in Melbourne to come to Sydney, and they’d weathered what had
turned out to be a messy divorce, thanks to Edie’s ever-changing demands and
priorities.

But Mackenzie and Oliver had made it. They’d purged the last of
his past when they sold the house he’d shared with Edie, and three months ago
they’d moved into this bigger, brighter house by the water in Rose Bay.

In short, life was good. And it was only going to get better
with this man by her side.

Taking her hand, he led her into the living room. She slid the
disc into the DVD player and they sat side by side on the couch as the screen
filled with the credits for her Mary De Garis documentary. Clever, intricate
guitar music accompanied the images flashing across the screen, underpinning the
moody, slightly edgy vibe the production designer had created.

Oliver’s music, of course. It had taken her four whole months
to convince him that she wasn’t “throwing him a bone,” as he called it,
commissioning him to create original music for the documentary. It was only when
she played him some of the alternative compositions she was considering and he
understood how very wrong they all were for the project that he’d given in.

The result, everyone agreed, was wonderful. Subtle, unassuming
music that worked with the themes the documentary explored rather than declaring
itself and demanding the spotlight. He’d helped give her project heart, plucking
at emotion when the narrative needed it, drumming with bravado when Mary was on
the warpath, filling the blanks in the story with wordless emotion.

Mackenzie slid her hand into his as the narrator’s voice rose
above the music, accompanied by a series of images of turn-of-the-century
Melbourne. A thrill raced down her spine as she watched the way it all
effortlessly flowed together.

After a few minutes, Oliver lifted her hand to his lips and
pressed a kiss to her knuckles. She glanced at him.

“It’s really good,” he said.

“God, I hope so. I hope I’m not completely deluded after months
of staring at this footage in the edit suite.”

“You’re not deluded. You’re clever and talented and passionate
and committed. And you did it, sweetheart. You did it.”

Tears filled her eyes. “Because of you. Everything is because
of you, Oliver.”

Because he believed in her. Because he loved her. Because he
rubbed her shoulder and hips when they were sore and made sure she ate properly
and forced her to sleep when she needed it. Because he was a true life partner,
someone who was in the trenches with her, fighting at her side.

Because he was Oliver.

He didn’t say anything, simply pulled her into his arms. They
rested their cheeks together, arms tight around each other. For a moment, her
love for him was an ache in her chest, a tangible thing.

“Once upon a time, I used to think I was happy,” Oliver said
after a moment of perfect silence.

She drew back a little so she could look into his eyes. “And
now?”

“Now I
know.
Beyond the shadow of a
doubt.”

She took a slow, deep breath, savoring the moment. There would
be many others like this, she knew. But this one was still precious, and she was
going to treasure it. She was in the right place at the right time with the
right man, and it was
good.

Best of all, they’d done enough miles and weathered enough
storms to know it. It didn’t get much better than that.

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt from
Within
Reach
by Sarah Mayberry, available as an ebook.

Within Reach

Sarah Mayberry

PROLOGUE

A
NGELA BARTLETT STRODE
up the path toward her best friend’s house, very aware she was running late. It was a warm October day and only the screen door barred her way when she arrived on the front porch.

She rang the doorbell, then leaned close to the screen. “It’s me. Sorry I’m so late,” she called into the house.

“So you should be.” The voice echoed up the hallway, followed by the sound of footsteps.

A petite, pretty woman with pixie-cut blond hair appeared, a baby balanced on one hip. She was dressed in hot-pink capri pants, an aqua T-shirt and bright yellow sneakers with hot-pink laces.

She sounded grumpy, but her brown eyes were smiling and Angie knew she wasn’t really in trouble. They’d been friends long enough that Billie could easily forgive a few minutes’ tardiness.

“Happy birthday, sweetie,” Angie said, dropping a kiss onto her friend’s cheek as she opened the door. The baby stared at her with big, liquid eyes and she dropped a kiss onto his forehead, too. “Hello, Charlie-boy.”

“Shh. We’re pretending it’s any old party so one of us doesn’t get all maudlin about getting old,” Billie said.

“Thirty-two is not old,” Angie said, as they walked into the spacious country-style kitchen.

Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows that opened onto a deck. The adjacent open-plan living room was also flooded with light, the brightness accentuating the brilliant jewel tones of the furnishings. Like Billie herself, this was a house full of color and life and vibrancy.

“Where’s Michael?” Angie asked when there was no sign of Billie’s husband.

“Where do you think?”

Which Angie guessed meant he was in his study. An architect, Michael often brought work home with him, something Angie knew Billie sometimes resented.

“Auntie Angie.” A small body launched itself at Angie and Billie’s five-year-old daughter wrapped her skinny arms around Angie’s hips.

“Hi, Eva.”

Eva looked up at her, adoringly. “I thought you were never going to come.”

Angie sank onto a crouch. “I was late. Sorry about that.” She hugged her goddaughter close, breathing in the smell of berry shampoo and Barbie perfume.

“Don’t let it happen again,” Eva said mock-sternly. She was a cheeky little thing, funny and smart as a whip.

“I will make a concerted effort, I promise,” Angie said solemnly.

“Okay, time to get this party started,” Billie said, crossing to the sound system and hitting a button. James Brown’s “Get On Up” blasted through the house. Billie started dancing, holding Charlie out from her body and shaking her backside as only she could.

Angie smiled at her friend’s antics. “Here’s an idea—you could just ask Michael to come out of the study like a normal person,” she yelled over the music.

Billie simply grinned and kept dancing.

Eva giggled, thrilled to be part of the conspiracy to flush out her hardworking father. Angie grabbed her hands and they joined Billie, doing their best to match Billie’s moves.

A minute later, a tall, broad-shouldered figure appeared in the doorway. Michael Robinson’s dark, curly hair was ruffled. His feet were bare, his jeans old and faded, his white T-shirt well washed. He crossed his arms over his chest, the expression in his gray-green eyes equal parts amused and frustrated.

Billie sidled up to her husband and passed him their son before starting to dance in earnest, her small body moving smoothly to the beat. She shook her booty, jiggled her small breasts and wiggled her hips until Michael lost the battle and his mouth curved into an all-out grin.

“Okay, message received. No more work. What needs doing before everyone arrives?”

A flurry of activity ensued. Billie took Angie on a whirlwind tour of her birthday present from Michael, the small wooden studio in the backyard designed to give Billie the space to pursue her current passion for all things ceramic. They had barely returned to the house when a couple of neighbors arrived, along with a few other friends. Michael entertained them on the deck while Angie helped Billie put the finishing touches on the food in the kitchen.

“So… How are things with the hot Greek guy?” Billie asked as she mixed oil and vinegar for the salad dressing.

“Nonexistent,” Angie said.

“Don’t tell me it’s over already?”

“It’s over.”

“Angie, I swear. What are we going to do with you?”

Angie frowned, irritated by the despairing note in her friend’s voice. “Being single is not a disease. I love my life.”

“I want you to be happy.”

“I
am
happy. A man does not happiness make. Sometimes, in fact, he makes unhappiness.”

Billie opened her mouth to say something, then obviously thought better of it. Angie was glad, since she suspected her friend had been about to say something about Finn, and that would have really pissed her off. They had talked Finn to death years ago. There was nothing new to be said, no new conclusions to come to. He was firmly in the past.

Where he belonged.

“I’m not giving up on you,” Billie said after a short silence. “There’s a new guy at Michael’s office. I haven’t convinced Michael to find out if he’s single or not yet, but if he is, I want you to meet him.”

Common sense told Angie to let the comment slide—Billie was like a runaway freight train when she got an idea in her head—but her own stubbornness demanded a response.

“Let me get this straight. You don’t know this man at all, haven’t even set eyes on him, I’m betting. Yet you want me to go out with him?”

“I’m only thinking of you.”

“I’m curious. What, exactly, is his qualification for being a good prospect for poor old Angie? Having a pulse? Walking upright?” She put down the knife she’d been using to focus all her attention on her misguided friend.

In the loaded silence after her speech Billie slid the knife out of Angie’s reach. “Just in case,” she said, poker-faced.

Angie laughed. Billie was too damn irreverent and likable and her heart was so obviously in the right place. “You are hopeless.”

“So are you.”

They took the salads outside and the next few hours drifted by in a haze of sunshine and white wine and laughter. Angie kicked off her shoes and sat back and listened to the others talk around her, occasionally pitching in a comment of her own, but mostly happy to watch Billie do what she did best—shine and sparkle and glow.

When it came time for dessert, Michael produced a white box sporting the logo of Billie’s favorite bakery and they all oohed and ahhed over the giant chocolate-and-coffee mousse cake inside.

Angie fished a small box from her handbag and handed it to her friend with a smile. “Something for your collection.”

“You spoil me, but I’m not going to say no,” Billie said.

Angie watched as Billie lifted the lid to reveal a delicate black-pearl necklace, the pearls suspended on hand-beaten gold wire that had been curved into delicate, impossible spirals. As always when she first revealed a new piece, there was a little stab of nervousness in the pit of her stomach. After nearly ten years of being a professional jewelry designer, she’d resigned herself to the fact that that small moment of self-doubt would probably never go away.

Perhaps, in some way, it was essential to her craft.

“Oh, Angie.” Billie pressed a hand to her chest, her gaze glued to the necklace. “It’s so beautiful… I don’t have the words. You’ve outdone yourself. My God.”

Angie smiled, pleased, and accepted her friend’s hug when Billie shot to her feet and rounded the table to embrace her.

“I love you, sweetie. Happy birthday,” Angie said, speaking quietly so only her friend could hear.

“I love you, too, String Bean. You talented hussy. I will treasure it always, I swear.”

Angie could see all the memories they shared reflected in Billie’s eyes as her friend drew back from their hug—the years at boarding school, the mistakes they had made, the highs, the lows. Unexpected sentimental tears burned at the back of her eyes and she blinked rapidly.

Billie sniffed, too.

“Do I need to go get the tissues?” Michael asked drily.

“We’re having an intense moment of womance here, do you mind?” Billie said.

Everyone laughed and the moment was gone. Angie helped clear the table while Billie played a game of tag with the children, running around the backyard until they were all breathless. Angie loaded the dishwasher and smiled to herself as she listened to Billie complaining about how she would have to retire from playing tag now that she was an old lady of thirty-two. Angie was rinsing out a salad bowl when Billie entered the house, red-faced, hands on her hips as she labored to catch her breath.

“Wow, you really are winded, you tragic fossil,” Angie said as her friend walked to the cupboard and reached for a glass.

“Don’t laugh. Your birthday is coming up soon,” Billie said.

She was genuinely out of breath and the smile faded from Angie’s lips. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Just need some water.” But Billie’s hand trembled as she held her glass under the water.

“Maybe you should sit down.”

She waved an impatient hand, already walking away with her drink. “I’m fine.”

Angie shrugged and resumed rinsing the salad bowl. The sound of glass shattering had her spinning around. She was in time to see Billie press her hands to her chest before collapsing to her knees, the sound of bone hitting wood a loud, resonant thunk.

“It hurts,”
Billie gasped, fingers pressing into her chest.

Then she hit the floor, unconscious, her body loose and lifeless.

Angie let the salad bowl crash into the sink.

“Michael!”
she screamed. She rounded the counter, her bare feet slipping on the floor. She fell to her knees beside Billie’s pale, still body as Michael appeared in the doorway.

“What happened?” he asked, his face a stark, terrified white as he took in his wife’s body on the floor.

“I don’t know. I don’t know.
Call an ambulance.
”