Life Happens Page 2

  With a flourish, Suzette took a sheaf of papers from her oversize purse. “I put that question to my second graders this morning. Claire, did you ask your class?”

  “That was an assignment gone wrong. Trust me, you don’t want to hear the results.”

  Suzette nodded. “My students’ answers were problematic, too.”

  Now Mya was curious. “What did they say?”

  “Nobody believes in true love anymore. Not even eight-year-olds.”

  “Maybe they’re too young to make a decision,” Claire said.

  New lease or not, Mya gave her the finger.

  Waving as if at a bothersome insect, Suzette said, “I asked my students how they would decide who to marry. The smartest girl in the class said you wait until you’re old, at least twenty, and you go on a date, and if you believe half his lies, you go on another, and at the end of the summer you get married.”

  Mya smiled.

  Suzette didn’t. “Her best friend said you don’t decide. God does. You have to wait until you’re grown up and see who you’re stuck with. The boy who sits next to her stood up and declared that no age is a good age to get married. You got to be a fool to get married.”

  “Nine will get you ten he’ll be sitting in the back of my class ten years from now,” Claire said. “If he’s still in school then.”

  “That’s awfully judgmental!” Suzette admonished.

  “You say judgmental, I say realistic. Potato, po-tah-to.”

  It was like watching a tennis match. Times like these, Mya understood why she’d started watching Dr. Phil’s program every chance she had.

  “Are you bringing more chips?” Millie called from the next room.

  Suzette dashed toward the door with the bag of chips, practically tripping over one of Jeffrey’s cats. When the door stopped swinging, Claire said, “And that’s another thing, Mya. You’re a dog person. You don’t even like cats.”

  Mya scooped two of the oversize fur balls off the kitchen counter before they sampled the crab dip. Depositing them, none too ceremoniously, in the back room, she closed the door and brushed at the cat hair they’d left on her green silk blouse. “You have it all wrong. Those sneaky, obese, flea-ridden creatures don’t like me.”

  “What’s not to like?”

  Back in control, Mya let that go.

  Claire looked worried, but she said, “Listen. It sounds like Jeffrey’s here. We’d better get out there and save him from Suzette.”

  Right behind her, Mya said, “You mean from my mother.”

  Oh, sure. Now Claire laughed.

  “You’re positive you don’t want something to drink?” Mya held up the bottle of wine.

  Jeffrey put it back on the coffee table where she’d gotten it. “Booze and E.R. duty don’t mix.”

  The man was just about perfect, no doubt about it. “You’re not hungry?” Mya asked. “Not even for apple slices dipped in honey?”

  Everyone had gone, and Mya was trying to put things away. Uninterested in putting anything away, Jeff put his arms around her. “I’d rather have a different kind of honey.”

  Claire was right. Jeff was so nice he was corny. Corny wasn’t all. Thirty-two years old, Jeffrey Anderson stood six feet three inches tall, had linebacker shoulders, a wash-board stomach, hands and feet like a Labrador puppy and the sex drive of a seventeen-year-old. The thought burned through Mya’s mind before sliding away to a place she didn’t go anymore.

  Nuzzling her neck, Jeff said, “I have to be back at the hospital in thirty-eight minutes. We can spend the next half hour doing anything you want, anywhere you want.”

  Now what kind of woman could complain about that? He knew all the moves, and she would have to be a fool to waste them. And yet she always had the feeling he was asking for permission. Jeff was a gentleman. There was nothing wrong with that. Still, sometimes she wished he would just take her, devour her, infuse her with passion and delight until she writhed in ecstasy.

  He turned her gently into his arms and kissed her again. Holding her to him, molding and kneading until she groaned, he eased her backward toward the sofa, where they’d last made love. She’d had a crick in her neck for two days.

  “I think what you have in mind is best suited to a bed, Doctor.”

  His face lit up as she reached for his hand. He’d lit up this way when he’d first laid eyes on her earlier tonight, too, although he still hadn’t said anything about her hair. He would either say something nice, or he wouldn’t say anything at all, of that she was certain. Jeff was a nice guy. Mya’s relationship with him was the most calm and rational one in her life. Until recently, she and her mother had rarely missed an opportunity to argue. Claire was of the opinion that the Donahue women weren’t happy unless they were miserable. Claire should talk. She could learn a great deal from Dr. Phil, if only she would tune in.

  There was no reason in the world to be thinking about this, especially when a virile, nearly naked man was undressing her, caressing her, kissing her. Where was her blouse, anyway? Jeff peeled away her bra and covered her breasts with his big hands. Pleasure surged through her.

  Mya was five-four-and-a-half, and at times Jeff seemed as big as a house. He was her safe place in the storm of life. She’d discovered it that night in the emergency room. It was the first time she’d set foot inside a hospital in years. She wouldn’t have then if she’d had a choice. She’d managed to remain stoic through the harrowing drive to the hospital, Suzette whimpering in the seat next to her. And then she’d managed to get Suzette into a wheelchair and through the automatic doors. She’d given the night nurse all the pertinent information. After they’d wheeled Suzette away, and Mya was alone in the cold, austere hospital, panic had set in. She’d shaken with the effort to hold herself together. And there was Jeffrey coming off duty, bringing her a cup of steaming coffee and the offer of a broad shoulder to cry on.

  Jeffrey Anderson was just about the nicest, kindest man she’d ever met, and she’d found herself wondering if she’d been holding the wrong kind of man at bay. He’d asked for her phone number. And she’d given it to him. She was sure he wouldn’t call, even more sure she wouldn’t go out with him if he did. She was wrong on both counts.

  He’d called, and it had felt good to talk with him over dinner. And later, it had felt good to kiss him. After a few dates, it had felt good to make love with him. What was so wrong with feeling good? He didn’t curl her toes. So what?

  The wind howled and rain ran in sheets down her bedroom window. The room was shadowy and drafty. Goose bumps rose on her skin as he lowered her to the bed and eased down next to her. Heat emanated from him, drawing her closer.

  The mattress shifted and their breaths mingled. She was tangling her legs with his when she glanced at the foot of the bed. Two cats sat nearby in the oblong patch of light spilling from the hall. A third had stopped in the doorway. All three were watching.

  “Jeffrey. The cats.”

  He groaned when she stopped doing what she’d been doing and removed her hand, but he heaved himself away from her and gathered up his cats. “I swear you guys do this on purpose.” Shooing them all into the hall, he closed the door. “Now, where were you?”

  She laughed, and it almost sounded wicked. It had been a long time since she’d been wicked. He returned to her, and she enjoyed it so much she couldn’t help laughing again. He kissed her, stroked her, caressed her, until a deep feeling of peace entered her being. She spoke his name on a whisper, and he came to her, the joining of man to woman pure and pleasurable. Those first delightful tremors were just beginning when one of the cats yowled in the hall. The other two took up the cry.

  Feeling her stiffen, Jeff said, “Pretend we’re in the jungle.”

  Mya laughed, and he smoothed one fingertip along her cheek, down the length of her neck, skimming the outer swell of her breast, her waist, until he found what he was after. He was an ardent lover, mindful of her needs, and vocal about his. And yet she was distracted. Who wou
ldn’t be distracted with three cats yowling outside the closed bedroom door?

  A memory came, unbidden. Hazy and as if from a great distance, she glimpsed for but a moment, two lovers too young to know what they were doing, and a passion so consuming nothing could have kept them from doing it. She stopped the thought, her mind suddenly blank, her body and soul empty.

  “I love your hair.”

  Mya started. “What?”

  “Your hair. I like it. Very sassy.”

  He’d waited until it was pitch-dark to tell her. But it made her smile, and it brought her to him once again.

  She moaned softly.

  “Do you like that?” he asked, his voice low.

  “I think you should do it again, just so I can be sure.”

  This time he chuckled, but he acquiesced, and yes, she liked it. Maybe it wasn’t ecstasy. Accepting the weight of him, and the warmth of him, it was enough.

  Ecstasy was overrated, anyway.

  “I love you,” Jeff said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” He sauntered to the foyer, bending to pet each cat on his way. He looked back at her from the door. Giving her a smile, he was gone, sated and content.

  She envied him that contentment.

  Where had that thought come from? Turning, she found all three cats staring at her, as if Jeff’s leaving was somehow her fault. Jeff worked long hours. And when he wasn’t working, he was at her place. It made sense that his cats were better off here.

  “What? He has his house. I have mine.”

  The white cat jumped onto the back of the sofa. The yellow two continued to stare at her from the easy chair.

  “You heard him. He’ll call tomorrow.” And then, because she couldn’t be cold or cruel, even if she wasn’t a cat person, she added, “Don’t worry, he’ll be back.”

  No swish of their tails. No meows. No purring. Nothing.

  Why anybody bothered talking to cats, she didn’t know. Cinching the sash of her long silk robe, she padded to the kitchen. The moment she started the electric can opener, all three cats came running.

  She doled out the bribe, and watched them enjoy it. The white one even let her pet him, and she had to admit, his fur was soft and warm. Leaving them to their late-night snack, she wandered through her little house. It was nearing the witching hour, and it had been an eventful day. Her hairstyle had been salvaged, she was learning to coexist with Jeff’s cats, and she’d avoided a blowup with her mother. Maybe she’d finally grown up—perish the thought—but she was thirty-six.

  She looked out the kitchen window. The rain had let up and the wind had died down. Dark, damp and cold, it was a good night to brood. It was what the old Mya would have done. What good had it ever done? What good would it do tonight?

  She did an about-face. Instead of brooding, she was going to leave this mess for tomorrow and go to bed. She hadn’t taken three steps when a knock sounded on her door. She paused at the lamp she’d just turned off. Her neighbors never stayed up this late. Jeff had a key, so it couldn’t be him. Maybe Claire or Suzette had returned for some reason. She doubted it was her mother.

  The knock came again.

  Turning the lamp back on, she went to the door and peered through the peephole. The room pitched, and one hand flew to her mouth.

  A girl wearing faded blue jeans and no jacket stood on the porch. Mya felt frozen in time and in place, and yet she opened the door, a wild gust of wind hitting her in the face.

  After looking Mya up and down, eyes the same brown as her own narrowed. “I would have knocked sooner but I was waiting for the Minute Man to leave.” With a snide curl of her lip, the girl said, “Hey, Mom. Long time no see.”

  CHAPTER 2

  M ya moved only enough to force a deep breath.

  All these years she’d wondered what her child looked like. Here she was, technically no longer a child. Her pale blond hair was shorter than Mya’s, even after today’s fiasco. Brown eyes cold with fury, she was the spitting image of Mya at that age, anger, belligerence, bitterness and all.

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to faint.”

  Still holding perfectly still, Mya said, “I’ve never fainted in my life.”

  “Lucky you.”

  Although she’d tried not to, sometimes Mya had imagined a mother-daughter reunion. Some of the scenarios had been tearful, others awkward. None had depicted a nineteen-year-old girl skinny enough to be blown away on the ocean wind, glaring at Mya with eyes as cold as stone.

  Mya glanced at her watch. “It’s after midnight.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Happy birthday.”

  Elle Fletcher clamped her mouth shut. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it sure as hell wasn’t the emotion burning her eyes and throat. Other than the funky hairstyle and the whisker burn on her neck, the woman looked pretty normal. It was disturbing, how much the brown eyes reminded Elle of her own, right down to the tears brimming in them.

  The hell with that! This woman wanted to cry, let her. Elle wasn’t about to do the same.

  She’d been parked down the street long enough to see two women get in a four-by-four and drive away. Not long after, an older woman had climbed behind the wheel of a red boat on wheels and left, too. The man stayed the longest, which wasn’t saying a lot, but he’d finally cleared out, too.

  That left her.

  Her name was Mya Donahue. She was single and thirty-six, and she owned this house as well as a clothing store called Brynn’s over on Market Street. Some of the information had been in the file at the adoption agency. Most of it had required a little digging to uncover. The rest would have to come from Mya, herself, if Elle decided to continue. She didn’t want to. She wanted to turn tail and run as far away as she could get.

  It was as if Mya knew. Her expression still and serious, she took a backward step, and opened the door farther.

  If she’d voiced the invitation, Elle wouldn’t have taken it. As it was, she glanced over her shoulder, torn. The night was dark, the street empty except for her rusty Mazda.

  She’d come this far. Might as well see if any of it had been worth it. Drawing herself up, she went in.

  Not about to allow her relief to show when she closed the door against the damp and the cold, she glanced around the small room, taking in the eclectic mix of furniture and color. There was a throw over the back of the sofa, the usual magazines and junk mail on the end tables, a pair of shoes on the floor next to an assortment of feather toys. “You have a cat?”

  “They’re my fiancé’s.”

  Elle snorted, then went and got caught looking at the open bag of potato chips and a plate of cheese. Her guard back up where it belonged, she glared at Mya, silently challenging her to make something of it.

  “Would you like to sit down?”

  Elle shook her head. And the woman, her birth mother—Elle welcomed back her anger—seemed to accept that.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Eleanor. If you want me to answer, call me Elle.”

  “Hello, Elle. You’re shivering.”

  “That’s my problem. You gave up all rights to my problems when you signed on the dotted line, didn’t you?”

  Mya’s smile held a touch of sadness. Glancing away, Elle felt a wretchedness of mind she hadn’t planned to feel. Her stomach growled. Gritting her teeth, she would be damned if she would be embarrassed about being hungry.

  “Could I get you something?”

  “What? You wanna brew some sweetened tea and maybe make some toast for me?”

  “And have you throw it in my face? Is that what you want to do?”

  Elle hadn’t expected that. It was almost as if Mya knew her, or worse, understood her. Impossible.

  “I didn’t come here to eat.”

  It must have taken a lot to refrain from asking why the hell she did come then. Elle stifled the thread of respect trying to worm past her defenses. Mya Donahue hadn’t earned any respect. She was nothing to Elle, or almost nothing.


  As nonchalantly as possible, Elle glanced out the window toward the street where her car sat, undisturbed. “I have to go.” She could feel Mya watching her, could sense the questions she wanted to ask. “What?” Elle asked, and dammit, she couldn’t keep her lip from curling snidely.

  Mya shook her head. “Do what you have to do, but you’re welcome to come back.”

  Elle took flight before she did something embarrassing, like sink to the sofa and rest her head for a minute, or worse, blurt out the reason she was here. She ran to her car and unlocked it. Mya didn’t follow her or call to her. But she stood in the open door in the cold damp wind. The sight burned the backs of Elle’s eyes.

  Nobody said this would be easy, but the fact that it was this hard still ticked her off. The anger was fuel, and she used it to get the hell out of there. She drove carefully, though, for it wasn’t anger that had brought her to Maine. She was pretty sure Mya had picked up on that fact. Pulling into a parking space in the cheapest motel she’d found, Elle swallowed hard. When she was certain it was safe, she leaned over the backseat, unfastened the safety belt, and took the best thing she’d ever done into her arms. Ten-month-old Kaylie sighed in her sleep, comfortable and secure.

  Her daughter’s warmth and weight girded Elle’s resolve and renewed her courage to do what she had to do. It was possible that all the courage in the world wouldn’t be enough.

  “Geez, Mya, long time no see.”

  Mya gasped at Claire’s terminology. She didn’t remember the drive to her friend’s loft on the waterfront, but Claire had been waiting for her, so she must have called ahead. Vaguely, Mya recalled pulling on the clothes she’d worn all day. Even Claire might have been put off if Mya had shown up in her bathrobe.

  Claire said no more until Mya came to a stop at the huge windows overlooking island-studded Casco Bay. “What’s happened?”

  Mya wasn’t certain how to answer. She wasn’t certain of anything. Had she come here to confide in Claire? Or did she need to see the lights dotting the ocean, the tanker on the horizon and the scattering of islands between here and there?