Embers (46 page)

"Yes, you're right," he said with a shaky laugh. "It'd be an abuse of the Rockefeller hospitality."

Meg put herself back together and he helped her to her feet, his heart light with longing for her. He wanted to make love to her somewhere in the deep grasses of the meadow. He'd never made love in a meadow. He gathered up their lunch boxes and walked alongside her to their bikes, scanning the meadow beyond for a place well hidden.

He stuffed the cardboard boxes into his bike basket, then turned to Meg and put his hands on her waist and looked deeply, almost wistfully, into her hazel eyes, wanting to see desire there.

But he saw only pain.

"We can't do this, Tom," she said, sending his expectations into a nose dive.

"Sure we can," he whispered coaxingly, all too familiar with what was coming next.

"Allie
—"

"No," he said, this time putting his hand over her mouth. "No Allie. Not in
Acadia
."

"But she is here," Meg said softly. "And here," she added, taking his hand and laying it over her heart. "What can I do?"

He stared at her uncomprehendingly. Automatically he pulled his hand away from between hers and used it to rake through his hair. "What can you do? It's obvious, Meg," he said, his voice thick with impatience. "You can let her grow up! You can grow up! Jesus!" he said, whacking the rail behind him with a fist.

"We've been all through this, Meg," he said, forcing himself to speak in a slightly calmer voice. "You're not doing her any favors protecting her emotionally all the time. I don't know why in hell Allie has taken such a shine to me; but I do not want your sister! Call me crazy
—
but it's you I want, Meg. And you know you want me."

"Just because two people want each other doesn't mean
—"

"Listen to me! You're not married! I'm not married. This is not immoral!" he said, beside himself with frustration.

Her mouth set in a line of determination he knew well. "I think we have to leave," she said quietly. She untangled her bike from his and swung one leg over the seat.

"I don't think so," he said harshly. "You go ahead. I'll find my own way back." He was hopping mad; testosterone was running amok through his system. He needed time to work it off.

"Are you sure?" Meg asked in a small, apologetic voice.

"
Go."

Hours later, Wyler was in his cabin and still fuming. Who the hell did she think she was? Didn't she have any idea what had happened between them? Of course she did! How could she just turn herself off that way?
Damn
her!

What exactly were you supposed to do when a woman looked and acted
...
oh, God. Like that. He remembered her face when he had her in his arms and fell into a mood so black with hunger that it left him weak-kneed. Filled with self- pity, he lay back on his lumpy mattress and picked up his Grisham novel.

Aagh!

He flung the book across the room and began stalking back and forth again.

So what the hell was he supposed to do now? Sit in this dreary cabin and rot? He'd lied through his teeth when he'd put on a happy face at the picnic and raved about the cabin, about how rustic it was and — what, charming, did he say? Shit. It was nothing like his room at the Elm Tree Inn.
That
was rustic and charming. This was a log cabin with bare furnishings, a balky hot water heater, and no screens, which— considering that flies in
Maine
were the size of hummingbirds and mosquitoes in
Maine
were the size of flies — struck him as a pretty dumb oversight.

He had to ask himself again: Why, exactly, was he staying on?

The answer, again, was: He didn't know. He was staying on because he didn't
know
why he was staying on, and he wanted to find out.

It couldn't be for the sex. For one thing, the possibility of making love to Meg Hazard was looking remote. For another, sex was something available anytime, anywhere. Why knock himself out trying with this one woman? There was the standard reason — a man always wants what he can't have — but somehow Wyler wasn't happy with that answer.

He sat back down on the edge of the bed and dropped his head in his hands. Had he fallen in love with her?

He didn't know. He'd only fallen in love once before in his life, and that hadn't felt anything like the way he was feeling now. With
Lydia
it had all been so straightforward. They hit it off, he made a move, she welcomed it, they dated for a few months, they got engaged, they got married, they had a baby.

There were no major impediments to overcome — none that they could see at the time, anyway. But with Meg there were all kinds of obstacles. There was Allie. Her grandmother's ghost. An alleged crime. Geography. Family. Loyalty. Duty. A stupid dollhouse, for God's sake.

He heard a knock at the door without having heard a car pull up. His first triumphant thought was,
She's come by bike to say she's sorry.

Heart pounding maniacally in his breast, he swung open the door to: Allie Atwells.

This he hadn't expected. She was a day early, dressed in a white-and-yellow jumpsuit with an interesting neckline that would've looked hokey on Meg but looked undeniably sensational on her. In general, he decided, Allie looked radiant. He'd forgotten how stunning a woman she was.

Her first words were, "I
love
your toddlin' town!"

"Welcome back," he said, his spirits hauled forcibly out of the ditch by hers. "Where's your car?" he asked, glancing over her shoulder.

"Back at the road," she answered. "Your drive's too potholed," she added, bouncing past him into the living area. She took a seat on the couch, the only decent piece of furniture in the place, and crossed her legs in a Buddha pose. It was a mystery to him how she could combine such poise and such childish glee in one simple contortion.

She came straight to the point. Or points. "I got an offer!" she said elatedly. "At
least
one, the one as assistant manager at the Castle Inn on Halsted. The manager told me that as soon as he rolled my videotape, he knew that I was the one. He said experience isn't nearly as important as the fact that I'm obviously not afraid to work long hours —"

With a startled laugh he said, "Excuse me?"

"Wait; that's not the best part. In the bigger hotels you'd have to be prepared to move every couple of years, but the Castle Inn is
it;
it's not a chain."

"Isn't that a bit of a dead end for you, then?"

Puzzled, she said, "But it's on
Halsted.
It's close to where
you
work."

"What about the one at the Westin?" he urged. "Wouldn't that be better for your career?"

"My career?" she repeated, as if he'd just spoken to her in Russian. "The Westin is a lower-level job
—
desk clerk
—
and it's not at all convenient to where you are
...
."

"But it's a Westin," he insisted. "You told me yourself that the best hotels promote from within. Shouldn't you have that in mind when you start somewhere?"

Impatiently she said, "Well, you never know. I might get an offer. But I'm really not interested. The Castle Inn is just so
close,"
she said enthusiastically.

Her eyes were bright with what he could only call willingness. It was obvious that she was waiting for him to show her just how great he thought the offer was. He wasn't able to do that. So he jumped up from the couch and said, "Coke, cider, seltzer — what'll you have?"

She looked surprised by his manic leap, but she answered, "Coke's fine."

She went back to the Castle Inn. "Think how
close
we'd be.

We wouldn't even have to fight rush-hour traffic — which I have to admit, is a real horror story out there — to meet at  club or for lunch or dancing or
...
or whatever!"

He filled two glasses with ice and thought,
Too far, it's gone way too far already. How do I jam a stick in her wheel without sending her flying over the handlebars?
"Yeah, well, my screwy hours
...
" he mumbled, trailing off.

"Thomas Wyler," she said in a low voice very close to his ear. "What is the
matter
with you?"

He turned and there she was: ready, willing, and willing. It was so obvious from the flush in her face; from the pouting expression on her lips; from the way she held herself for the embrace she was expecting to come. Dammit, why
wouldn't
she be expecting him to take her in his arms? He'd done it before, hadn't he? Hell, why not? God knows there were no obstacles standing in their way.

Except one.

"There's nothing wrong with me, Allie," he said as he filled the glasses. "There's something wrong with
us."
He took a deep breath, then let it out. Hoo-ee. Give him a patch of seaweed any time. "C'mon, kiddo," he said softly. "Sit down. We've got to talk."

He left the Cokes and took her by her arm and she let herself be led, stiffly, back to the couch. Suddenly the talk seemed superfluous; clearly she knew what was coming. All he could do now was try to let her down easy. He blushed even to think of himself having to do something like that with someone like her.

"Allie," he said, taking her hands in his. "You know I'm nuts about you. You're the prettiest woman I guess I've ever met. You've done more for my ego than any woman I know. You're fun
...
you're fearless
...
you have the energy of an Olympic skater.

"But
...
that's just it. You're
too
pretty. You're
too
energetic. You're so far beyond me that I can't — I'll never be able to — keep up, no matter how hard I try."

Her eyes opened wide. "You're not good enough for me, is that what this is?" she asked in a voice that seesawed between contempt and hope.

He shrugged. "We want different things. You want to set the world on fire, whereas at this point I'm just hoping the whole place doesn't burn down."

"'At this point'? You're talking like some old guy in a rest home."

"Because I
am
an old guy."

"Forty is not old."

"Forty is relative. I'm an old forty, just like you're a young twenty-five."

"I'm not a child; don't treat me like one. You're just like Meg." She pulled her hands angrily out of his.

She was right, on both counts. Allie Atwells had
just
grown up in thirty-five seconds, right before his eyes. Nothing aged a person like rejection. He knew the lesson only too well: He'd been forced to learn it when he was four years old, on the day his mother abandoned him in a Sears Roebuck store on the northwest side.

"If you take the job in
Chicago
, Allie, take it because it's the best job you can find. Don't take it because it's a short commute to my office; that'd be the dumbest thing you could do."

She still didn't seem to — quite — want to accept it. "It's just not there, Allie," he said finally.

What "it" was, he had no idea. But he had an inkling that he'd found it in
Acadia
.

"Thank you," she said evenly, "for being so honest."

This time she got it. He could see it in her eyes. She'd pulled up the drawbridge, lowered the portcullis, heated the oil, and tossed a few snakes in the moat for good measure. Her invitation, in short, had been withdrawn.

Somewhere he read that no woman ever hates a man for being in love with her, but many a woman hates a man for being a friend to her. Whoever he was, the guy knew his stuff.

Allie stood up with a togetherness that reminded him uncannily of Meg, and then she walked over to the sink where the ice-filled glasses of Coke still stood. The ice was hardly melted; all things considered, his brush-off had been ruthlessly efficient.

She picked up one of the glasses and poured it down the drain. "I won't be needing
that
anymore," she said calmly, and walked out of his cabin.

He wondered exactly how she meant that.

****

When Allie arrived, dragging her heavy suitcase behind her, Meg was hunched over in the attic with an ice pick. Lloyd and a roofing contractor were there, too, also with ice picks, looking for rot. Their search was turning out to be a blinding success: the initial estimate for replacing some of the sheathing, a few rafters, and a new roof came to over ten thousand dollars.

"Ayeh. The day of the patch is over," the contractor was telling Meg. "Y'got three layers a' roofin' in some spots already. Water's working through 'em all, who knows from where. You try and add a fourth, yer only makin' a bad situation worse. You'll get more a'
this,"
he said, plunging the ice pick up to its hilt into a
rotted
rafter.