The Kitchen Witch (32 page)

Melody had rolled up her sleeves and was rubbing her red-cold arms. Her sob rose from nowhere.

Logan hauled her into his arms and opened his mouth over hers, his kiss hungry, rushed. "Come on." He took her hand.

"Don't even think about it."

He stopped at the stairs and turned to her. "I'll never stop thinking about it.
About you."

He saw the fight go out of her. He'd said the magic words. She would be his, if he asked. He wouldn't ask.

He hauled her to the top of the stairs, sat, and urged her down beside him. "We can hear Shane from here," he said, "while we say our own personal good-byes. I needed… I… just kiss me, damn it."

Her tears salted their kiss, compelled them to avarice, to grasp everything they could.

"Let me hold you, just for a while," Logan said when they came up for air, and they calmed, held on, kissed some more, and took to savoring. "Tell me this is just physical," he said, kissing her sad, puffy eyes, her red nose.

"It's physical," Melody repeated, grazing his jaw with her lips, weaving the hair at his nape between her fingers, which he adored. "It really is. We're oil and water, you and I. Pinstripes and polka dots. Wacky Witch and—"

Logan took her mouth again. He didn't want to hear anymore; he needed another taste.

The taste lasted, and lasted, until… now he wanted to take her to bed.

"You said no commitments," Logan whispered against her lips, as an antidote to his lust.
"Because?"

"Stability," Melody said. "Shane needs it, and I don't have it to give. I'd hate it, if I had it, and I'd hate me, if I failed him."

Logan reared back, his face warm. "Who told you? Are you being sarcastic?"

"Sarcastic? What are you talking about? Who told me what?"

"Nothing."
Logan found her echo of his sentiments harsh. It made his reasoning seem flawed and somewhat ludicrous, off-kilter, coming as it did from
her own
lips.

"He does need stability," Logan said, for his own benefit.

"That's what I said. Besides, I'm not the marrying kind any more than my mother was." Melody slipped her hands beneath Logan's shirt. "I've told you that before."

"Right," he said on a groan, following her example, undoing her bra clasp, beneath her blouse, and freeing her breasts into his hands. His touch
budded
her nipples; his lips ached to do the same.

She whimpered when he took his hands away to undo her blouse, but when she saw what he was doing, she went for his zipper.

"This is crazy," she said. "Someone could open the door, step onto the landing, and look up."

"Or we could fall down the stairs."

She freed him and he groaned. "Get on my lap," he said, helping her. "If we fall, we'll fall together."

"This really is nuts," she said as she straddled him and he slipped inside her, but she ended with a contradictory whimper of satisfaction.

"Nuts… according to the wacky witch of the east." Being inside her felt so damned good, Logan had to fight coming too soon.

"This makes you as wacky as me, pal. What's wrong with us, do you think?
Besides the fact that we seem to have this kinky 'thing' for sex in dangerous places."

"We're… horny?"

"Oh yeah," she said, sliding herself along his length. "But only for each other. What's up with that?"

"I know," Logan said, glad she'd brought it into the open. "How soon can you come to Chicago?"

Melody stilled and sat back so she could see his face. "Come to Chicago?
For what, an affair?
That would give Shane some big-time stability."

"I could get a sitter; we could go to a hotel." Logan knew before he finished that he'd gone too far. He saw the color leave her face. "Sorry," he said.
"Other brain talking."

"I want more than that," Melody said.

"You want nothing," he said. "No commitments, remember?"

"Right."
Melody rose awkwardly, turned, and made her silent way downstairs. At her door, she looked up, censure and disappointment in her expression.

"You don't know what you want," Logan said, a bitter echo of Jessie.

"Like I'm the only one?" She went in, and for the second time since he'd known her, he heard the click of her deadbolt.

MELODY drove them to the airport in Logan's Volvo the next morning, under the threat of dark snow-filled clouds.

"I'm glad I'm not going to drive all the way to Chicago in this weather," Logan said. "Flying will be faster and easier." Each of them got lost in their own thoughts after that while Shane went back to sleep in his car seat.

"I know you asked Jess to sell the car for you," Melody said in an attempt to break the tension. "Would you have a problem selling it to me? I'm finally at a point where I can afford a good used car, and I like this one. I know you've taken care of it."

"Beats the hell out of a leaky pink beetle with 'flower-power' fading on the hood."

Melody smiled. "I'm having the bug restored," she said, "by the guy who did Jessie's first hearse. In hot pink.
Without the flowers."

Logan chuckled. "Only you could amuse me at a time like this."

"Only I could make you mad at a time like this. Listen, I'm
sor
—"

"Sorry about last night," Logan said, unwittingly interrupting her apology.

"But not about the sex," Melody cautioned.

"No," he said.
"Never about that."

"Easier to say good-bye when you're mad, though, isn't it?"

He shook his head. "Wreaks havoc on a night's sleep, though."

"Tell me about it."

After helping Logan check his bags, because Shane was still sleeping in one of his arms, Melody walked him as far as security would allow. The urgency in Logan's kiss spoke of longing, need,
sorrow
. Melody knew hers did the same.

"See you on TV," he said, his voice soft, shaky.

Melody stepped from the embrace. "I'll borrow copies of your documentaries from Jess or your mother," she said, her heart racing, her hands fisted so she wouldn't grab him and beg him to stay.

"Do that," Logan said and carried Shane through security. He turned before grabbing his briefcase off the belt on the other side. "Have Woody make you some copies of your own."

" 'Kay
," Melody said through the lump in her throat, raising a heavy hand in a half-wave. She stood rooted, an unseen hoard buzzing around her, as she watched Logan head for the gate. Her heart seemed to slow in proportion to the distance growing between them, until he hesitated, and it fluttered back to life.

He stopped, turned, made eye contact. So near yet so far. Melody raised her hand higher. The wash of tears and the rush of panic came as one. Pain filled her. Logan raised his briefcase, turned, and walked from her sight.

She didn't wait to watch the plane take off; that would be torture. Driving home, she kept tissues handy, so she could see the road more clearly. When she finished crying, because she'd never said good-bye to Shane, she was relieved he'd slept through their departure. She would not have remained dry-eyed so long, otherwise. She had fallen in love with him first, after all.

Chapter Twenty-Five

MELODY finished feeling sorry for
herself
about the time she pulled into her driveway. After a minute of watching Shane's swing-set languish, she went next door.

Jess gave her a cup of tea, copies of Logan's documentaries, an obscene deal on his Volvo, a bit of sympathy, and a lot of encouragement on the idea that had come to Melody earlier in the week. At that time, taking matters into
her own
hands had only been a passing fancy, but the notion had taken root and simmered to a boil on her drive home from the airport.

"You're right," Jessie said, after Melody explained what she wanted to do. "Logan needs to get beyond his past, but he needs a good nudge. Go for it, Mel. I think you're the one who can make it happen."

After hugging Jess, Melody felt better, though she knew that missing Logan and Shane would get harder before it got easier. For a short while, she had hoped deep down that she'd found the love of her life and the child fate meant for her. She'd barely had a chance to come to terms with that frightening seed of hope before Logan and Shane were gone. Now she hurt as if she bore a raw, gaping wound where they'd been cut away.

So much for feeling better.

Even though she had requested the day off, Melody went to the station to put her idea—set to simmering by Logan's parting words—into motion.

She found Woody and offered to pay him for his time and the supplies he used, if he would make her a couple dozen copies of Logan's documentaries. Then she went to see
Nikky
in Human Resources and shamelessly begged for a copy of Logan's resume and cover letter.

By the end of the day, she had retyped the letter, altering it to reflect Logan's new address and his cell phone number, and she had added his interest in independent filmmaking and Peabody's recommendation, also compliments of
Nikky
. When Woody finished copying the documentaries, after work, Melody packaged sets of them, including copies of her Thanksgiving show, with her version of his cover letter and resume for each of the networks in New England.

She left the station with a great sense of accomplishment that night, and a new realization of her success. Somehow, she had managed not only to keep her job but to turn
The Kitchen Witch
into a winning program. She wasn't a ditz, as her father had always said. She was pretty smart actually, smart enough to win and succeed at a difficult job.
Amazing.

She remembered exactly when she would normally have given up, however, and the way Logan had talked her out of it, as if she would be doing him a favor.

Well, maybe she could turn the tables. She wouldn't lie about her motives, even to herself, so of course she hoped that if Logan could have the career he wanted, he might come home to pursue it. But whether he did or not, her efforts would be worthwhile, even if all she did was give him the confidence to do something he liked. She would not fool herself into believing he and Shane might come back. She would instead learn to go on without them, however difficult that might be.

LOGAN left the station in a rush, worried about his son. Shane had been moody and listless for the two-plus weeks since they'd come to Chicago. He didn't want to go to day care, but preferred staying with Celia, his housekeeper-sitter, who said "the boy" never went out to play.

She had called Logan a half hour before, raging about an emergency, and property damage, and how it wasn't her fault. All she did, she said, was go downstairs for ten minutes to put laundry in the washing machine.

It took Logan forty minutes to get to the suburbs from the city, and by the time he arrived, he was tense and ready to give his son a good talking to, until he pulled into the driveway and saw the damage firsthand.

Logan sighed. He had bought them a painted-lady style Victorian with teal, turquoise, and gold gingerbread trim and a backyard big enough for a little boy to play. Obviously, Shane's afternoon play had consisted of getting into the shed where the painters left the touch-up paint, because their teal front door now sported five and a half drippy gold stars.

Logan slammed the steering wheel, guilt riding him, not for the first time since they'd come to Chicago. Shane's message couldn't be any clearer if he'd painted "I miss Melody" on the door.

In the living room, Logan found his son on the sofa watching TV, but the program stopped Logan dead. Melody, dressed as a pilgrim, laughing, leaning over an open hearth, a close-up of her tasting Indian pudding and rolling her eyes in ecstasy. Logan sat down and hauled Shane onto his lap. "You miss her, huh, sport?"

Shane's eyes filled, and he nodded as they continued to watch, mesmerized.

"This is an odd time for the show to be on," Logan said.

Shane shook his head. "
Gramma
sent me some shows, 'cause I cried on the phone the other day."

"Why did you cry on the phone?"

"Cause Mel wasn't home when I called her."

"How did
Gramma
know?"

"Celia helped me call her to see if Mel was there, '
cuz
Gramma
married Mel's dad, remember?"

"I see." His mother had not mentioned the incident
nor
sending the shows. "What say we call Mel right now?"

Logan got an approving "Whoopee!" and called Melody at the station. Between him and Shane, they talked to her for nearly an hour, each of them going from laughter to sadness in turn. Logan hung up while Shane put another
Kitchen Witch
show on to watch. Talking to her was like riding an emotional roller coaster, Logan thought, both enervating and depressing, and he didn't think it was any easier on her.

Celia, a wiry sixty-year-old, brought them a bowl of fruit for a snack.

"Celia," Logan said. "Call the painters will you, to fix that door, and see if they've got somebody who can paint some gold stars on it." He turned to Shane. "Okay, sport?"

"Okay!" Shane watched Celia go. "She's no fun, Dad."

Logan chuckled. "Don't tell her that."

"It's just… Mel made me smile."

Me, too
, Logan thought. He was beginning to believe that Melody imbued life with joy, not turmoil, and with love—lots of love.

"Which show is this?" Logan asked as Shane finished putting another disc in the DVD player.

"It's a new one where Mel doesn't put the cover on the blender good and cranberry goop shoots all over her and a lot 'a yelling people." Shane chuckled, jumped up, and demonstrated how Melody jumped out of the way, too late, and Logan realized he hadn't seen his son this animated since they'd left Salem.

He wondered which of them was in worse shape.

"She used my signs again, too," Shane added. "I already watched it once, but I
wanna
see it again."