An Accidental Kiss (Dearly Beloved) (4 page)

****

Four days later, Frank hung Doc’s leash on the hook and sighed deeply. His dog looked at him, wide-eyed and sympathetic. Frank wished his dog could talk so he could ask for advice.

It was a Wednesday morning and he had work to do, but instead of switching on the computer, he climbed the stairs to the spare bedroom and slowly opened the door. There weren’t a lot of odds and ends in his life, but he kept extra chairs in here for company he rarely had, and the wooden desk he’d inherited from his grandfather but which was too small to hold his computer.

When Katie died, Frank had behaved like a sensible, bereaved spouse, putting his grief aside to go through his wife’s stuff then dispose of it in the appropriate manner. His sister had helped. Katie had helped too, by writing out detailed instructions before her death. He realized he was holding his breath as he opened the closet door and knelt to draw out the small wooden chest tucked beneath a pile of old blankets.

The hinges of the chest creaked as Frank opened the lid. It had been over a year since he’d gone through the contents, although once it had been many times a week. The chest contained all he had left of Katie. He drew out a soft, pink scarf she’d loved to wind around her neck, lifting it to his nose and inhaling, longing for a whiff of her perfume. There was nothing. Photographs of her smiled at him and he smiled back, remembering his dazzling, gorgeous wife and best friend. Katie’s journal was in the chest too, and he touched the cover lightly, knowing she’d poured her grief out onto the pages when she couldn’t get pregnant.

“I’ll always love you.”

The words were true. And yet, now Marcy had come along. Somehow, she’d managed to thaw out the frozen lump his heart had become. She’d turned his life upside-down, shown him the way back to laughter and love, and it was far too late to worry about her getting under his skin. But giving Marcy a permanent place in his heart was a whole other matter.

Frank didn’t know if he could do it. Any number of things could happen if he allowed Marcy into his life. Neither of them were kids anymore, and she just might plain not want to readjust her whole life to make room for a man, especially with Justine to consider. And of course he was moving; to a house three hours away from Denver, a house that Marcy had no idea even existed. She might hate the idea of a log house in a small town, miles from anywhere. He thought of sharing his life with a woman again and was terrified. On the other hand, he didn’t see how he could live without her. Frank sighed, bowing his head. What if she got sick, the way Katie had?

Whatever happened, for whatever reason, he was risking a fall back into a hole of grief so deep and black he might never make his way out again.

****

July

“Good morning.”

Frank reached out to her and Marcy instantly melted. They made love lazily, knowing and understanding each other’s bodies, but thrilled at the responses they could evoke from one another. Afterward, Marcy smiled against his chest. It just seemed to get better and better. She was going to stop worrying about the future, and just enjoy this.

“Hmm, you know what I feel like?” Frank said.

“What?”

“Donuts,” he announced. “A big chocolate one, with sprinkles on top.”

Marcy shook her head. He could be so silly at times. “Okay, go get some and I’ll start coffee.”

“Frank?” she said as he reached the door.

He turned. “Hmm?”

I love you,
she wanted to say, but didn’t. “Don’t be long.”

As she heard the front door close behind him and his car start up, Marcy sighed happily and pulled on her robe. Downstairs, she fed Doc before filling the coffee pot, utterly content. With sunshine streaming through the windows she felt warm and safe. The phone suddenly rang but she ignored it—it wasn’t her place to answer Frank’s phone—and continued pulling plates and mugs out of the cupboard. The machine picked up, and suddenly a man’s booming, decisive voice filled the room.

“Hi, Frank, Mitchell Tucker, from Tucker Realty. I’ve been out of the office so just got your message, wanted to let you know I am ready, willing and able to help in the selling of your home. Give me a call if you would at your earliest possible convenience. I’m looking forward to talking to you. Bye.”

Marcy frowned.

Could it have been a wrong number?
No, the man had called Frank by name. But Frank wasn’t selling the house, he’d have told her. Confused, she wondered over to the cluttered desk in the family room and gazed at the phone, as if Mitchell Tucker’s voice might issue forth once again, this time with an explanation. Her eyes fell on a thick folder, illustrated with a photograph of a sumptuous log house nestled amongst pine trees, mountains soaring around it. Below the photograph a few lines of elaborate script informed her that this was the “residence of Mr. Frank Anderson” and the address that followed his name was hundreds of miles away, a small, remote town nestled in the Rocky Mountains.

Numb, Marcy opened the folder. She looked at a floor plan, then photographs of luxurious bedrooms, a room with enormous windows, decks that led off the rooms so that you could sit outside with the trees.

How could Frank be planning all this without telling me?

The front door opened.

“Woman! Is the coffee you promised me ready?”

Clutching a large box of donuts, he stepped into the family room, a big grin on his face. The smile faded as he saw the folder in Marcy’s hands. She stared at him, suddenly unsure she knew this man as well as she’d thought.

“You...you had a message. From a realtor. I went to your desk and found this.” She glanced down at the folder, then back into his eyes. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you moving? Selling this house?”

“I started making these plans a long time ago—”

“Are you moving?” she repeated.

He nodded.

Tears sprang into her eyes. “Were you planning on telling me anytime soon?”

He dumped the donuts on the kitchen counter and came toward her. “Of course I was.”

Marcy held up her hand like a traffic cop to keep him away. “All the things we’ve shared and talked about over the past months. Did this just slip your mind?”

“These were plans I made before you were in the picture,” he said. “I couldn’t undo them because the new place was already built. And I’ve been putting off selling this house because I didn’t know how to tell you...”

Pain sliced through her. She wished she could retain some dignity, but could feel her body trembling like a leaf in the wind. Hot tears scalded her face. She swiped at them furiously as she brushed past him and thudded up the stairs.

He was right behind her. “Marcy, please. You’re completely overreacting—”

“You know what, Frank? I think you’re right.” She charged into the bedroom and grabbed up her clothes. “I
am
overreacting! So what if you’ve been planning on leaving the whole time we’ve been together? It’s not like there was ever going to be anything permanent between us.”

An expression Marcy couldn’t read flickered across his face, and then his mouth tightened grimly. “Is that so?”

“Of course.” She tossed the words at him. “I have no plans on ever settling down again with anyone.”

“Then why all this fuss?”

“I guess I would have appreciated a little honesty from you, but it really doesn’t matter anymore.”

She turned away from him and began to drag her underwear on as quickly as possible, and then her jeans and sweater. When she turned around, Frank was gone.
Fine,
she thought savagely.

He didn’t reappear to apologize or beg her to stay as she descended the stairs, but Doc was there, a confused look on his face as he snuffled at her.

“It’s okay, boy,” she muttered softly. “It’s okay.”

Marcy opened the door, then glanced back, marveling at how life could change in an instant. She’d trusted him with all her heart, been absolutely rocked by the love she’d felt for him. It had all been an illusion, a silly dream spun by a lonely, middle-aged woman. And while her head had been full of wedding plans and a shared future, all Frank had been planning on was kissing her goodbye. He’d never said he loved her, never mentioned a shared future, and now she knew why. She’d just been a bit of fun for him—nothing more.

Quietly, she closed the door behind her and walked purposefully toward her car. She felt so strange and disoriented, as if she was acting out a part in a nightmare, and her heart was thudding. Over, over, over, it seemed to be saying. Marcy started up her car and drove away, out of Frank’s life.

And just like that, it was over.

****

September

Over her head came a threatening rumble of thunder. Ignoring it, Marcy walked on with no clear idea of where she was going, almost blinded by tears. It was almost midnight, and it occurred to her she probably shouldn’t be out roaming the streets alone, but with the mood she was in Jack the Ripper could spring out at her and not make her feel any worse than she already did.

Rain splatted in great heavy drops that soaked her jacket and jeans and plastered her hair to her head. She just continued on, letting the rain mingle with her salty tears. It had been two months since she’d walked out of Frank’s life. Two months of feeling frozen and numb inside, of presenting a fake smile to the world, of telling herself she’d get over this. Trusting him had been the worst and most stupid mistake of her life, she realized that now. He’d called her several weeks ago, wanting to talk, but she’d told him she thought it was for the best if they didn’t see each other again. The words had almost killed her. Frank wasn’t a bad man. He’d never lied to her, never said he loved her. He’d probably never stopped loving his wife.

Tonight she’d made popcorn and settled on the couch to watch a movie. Justine had offered to join her, no doubt feeling sorry for her pathetic, unlucky-in-love mother.

Throughout the movie, Marcy heard her daughter’s laughter, and she’d forced sounds of amusement from her own dry throat. The truth was, she had no idea what the movie was about. The only story in her head these days was hers and Frank’s, and it played over and over, tormenting her. She’d remember the moment he walked through the doors of the Jade Wok, the gravity of his voice when he’d told her she was beautiful, their first, accidental kiss. She’d attempted to relive every moment they’d spent together, the lovemaking that had brought her body to life, arguing over what to cook for dinner, the long talks by the fire. She wondered now if she’d only imagined the love she could have sworn she’d seen in his eyes every time he’d looked at her.

The movie had ended. Marcy sighed, relieved she could now escape to bed and be alone with her misery. Then Justine gave a little gasp of shock. Marcy opened her eyes and stiffened.

Frank was on the television as a female presenter gushed about “local author Frank Anderson.” His best-selling novel,
Texas Drifter
, had been adapted into a movie which had premiered last week in LA. Tonight it opened in Denver. Marcy’s heart skipped at the sight of Frank in a dark tuxedo, his expression serious, almost severe. It took her a few moments to notice the woman standing proudly by his side, petite, dark-haired, stunning. They weren’t holding hands but she posed close to Frank for a photograph, glancing up at him with love and admiration.

Marcy had thought the pain couldn’t get any worse, but now it pierced though her as she tried to smother a sob.

Justine turned to her. “Mom, are you okay?”

She managed to nod as she stood. “Honey, I—I’m going up to bed.”

Sleep refused to come. Hurt poured through her as she lay in the dark. It certainly hadn’t taken him long to find someone to replace her, which just went to show she’d done the right thing. Marcy squeezed her eyes shut, trying to shut out the image of Frank with another woman, but she couldn’t. Finally, she threw off the covers and pulled on some clothes, desperate to get out of the house and clear her head. She didn’t care how late it was.

Hours later, here she was, walking nowhere in particular, drenched and feeling no better, and wondering what the hell she was going to do. Frank had obviously decided to move on with his life, and she had to do the same.

If only moving on was that simple.

****

It should have been one of the most exciting nights of his life. His idea, his novel, had been made into a movie. He’d been interviewed and photographed tonight and the film had received rave reviews. Frank knew his smiles and responses to questions had been wooden, knew he came across as way too serious. He didn’t give a shit. He just wanted to go home.

“Oh, Frank, I’m never going to forget tonight,” Lillian said as he dropped her off at her hotel. “My little brother is a celebrity I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, Lily. Now get some sleep. It’s just a few hours until your flight.”

“You didn’t, did you? Enjoy yourself?”

Frank didn’t answer.

“That new house of yours is lovely, but it’s way too big for one person.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, wanting to get away. “Bye.”

“Give her a call—I’ll bet she’s hurting as badly as you.”

“Bye, Lillian,” he repeated, then turned and walked quickly away.

He loved his sister but wished she would just mind her own business. And he wished to God she’d never given him Marcy Garrett’s number in the first place.

Why the hell did people have to constantly interfere?
He’d been fine before Marcy came along. Okay, not great perhaps, but making it through each day, functioning, moving forward with his writing. And then she’d come along and he’d stupidly allowed himself to become involved, knowing it was probably a mistake but falling deeper and deeper in love.

In love.

The thought jolted him as he headed home along the dark highway. He’d never told Marcy he loved her, never felt ready to say those words. Yet now he realized the truth, and pain surged through him as his hands tightened on the wheel. He loved her. And now she was gone.

Three hours later, Doc barked in greeting as Frank entered the house, not quite used to the brand newness of his surroundings. He glanced around, unimpressed by the great curving staircase that led up to his office and three enormous bedrooms. So what? he thought. A home wasn’t made of rooms, or staircases, or fancy kitchens.