Authors: Debbie Macomber
Maryanne had grown accustomed to falling asleep most nights to the sound of Nolan’s typing. She found herself listening for it when she climbed into bed. But she didn’t hear it that night or the two nights that followed.
“How’s Nolan?” Barbara asked her on Friday afternoon.
“I don’t know.” Maryanne hadn’t seen him in days, but then, she rarely did.
“He must have got a really bad bug.”
Maryanne hated the way her heart lurched. She’d tried not to think about him. Not that she’d been successful…
“His column hasn’t been in the paper all week. The
Sun
’s been running some of his old ones—Nolan’s Classics. Did you read the one last night?” Barbara asked, laughing. “It was about how old-fashioned friendly service has disappeared from restaurants today.” She grinned. “He said there were a few exceptions, and you know who he was talking about.”
As a matter of fact, Maryanne had read the piece and been highly amused—and flattered, even though the column had been written long before she’d even come to Seattle, let alone worked at Mom’s Place. As always she’d been impressed with Nolan’s dry wit. They often disagreed—Nolan was too much of a pes
simist to suit her—but she couldn’t help admiring his skill with words.
Since the afternoon he’d found her at Mom’s, Nolan hadn’t eaten there again. Maryanne didn’t consider that so strange. He went to great lengths to ensure that they didn’t run into each other. She did feel mildly guilty that he’d decided to stay away from his favorite diner, but it
was
his choice, after all.
During the rest of her shift, Maryanne had to struggle to keep Nolan out of her mind. His apartment had been unusually quiet for the past few days, but she hadn’t been concerned about it. Now she was.
“Do you think he’s all right?” she asked Barbara some time later.
“He’s a big boy,” the older woman was quick to remind her. “He can take care of himself.”
Maryanne wasn’t so sure. After work, she hurried home, convinced she’d find Nolan hovering near death, too ill to call for help. She didn’t even stop at her own apartment, but went directly to his.
She knocked politely, anticipating all kinds of disasters when there was no response.
“Nolan?” She pounded on his door and yelled his name, battling down a rising sense of panic. She envisioned him lying on his bed, suffering—or worse. “Nolan, please answer the door,” she pleaded, wondering if there was someone in the building with a passkey.
She’d waited hours, it seemed, before he yanked open the door.
“Are you all right?” she demanded, so relieved to see him she could hardly keep from hurling herself into his arms. Relieved, that was, until she got a good look at him.
“I was feeling just great,” he told her gruffly, “until I had to get out of bed to answer the stupid door. Which, incidentally, woke me up.”
Maryanne pressed her fingers over her mouth to hide her hysterical laughter. If Nolan felt anywhere near as bad as he looked, then she should seriously consider phoning for an ambulance. He wore grey sweatpants and a faded plaid robe, one she would guess had been moth fodder for years. His choice of clothes was the least of her concerns, however. He resembled someone who’d just surfaced from a four-day drunk. His eyes were red and his face ashen. He scowled at her and it was clear the moment he spoke that his disposition was as cheery as his appearance.
“I take it there’s a reason for this uninvited visit?” he growled, then sneezed fiercely.
“Yes…” Maryanne hedged, not knowing exactly what to do now. “I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”
“Okay, you’ve seen me. I’m going to live, so you can leave in good conscience.” He would have closed the door, but Maryanne stepped forward and boldly forced her way into his apartment.
In the weeks they’d lived next door to each other, she’d never seen his home. The muted earth colors, the rich leather furniture and polished wood floors appealed to her immediately. Despite her worry about his condition, she smiled; this room reminded her of Nolan, with papers and books littering every available space. His apartment seemed at least twice the size of hers. He’d once mentioned that it was larger, but after becoming accustomed to her own small rooms, she found the spaciousness of his a pleasant shock.
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m in no mood for company,” he informed her in a surly voice.
“Have you been to a doctor?”
“No.”
“Do you need anything?”
“Peace and quiet,” he muttered.
“You could have bronchitis or pneumonia or something.”
“I’m perfectly fine. At least, I was until you arrived.” He walked across the carpet—a dark green-and-gold Persian, Maryanne noted automatically—and slumped onto an overstuffed sofa piled with blankets and pillows. The television was on, its volume turned very low.
“Then why haven’t you been at work?”
“I’m on vacation.”
“Personally, I would’ve chosen a tropical island over a sofa in my own apartment.” She advanced purposefully into his kitchen and stopped short when she
caught sight of the dirty dishes stacked a foot high in the stainless-steel sink. She was amazed he could cram so much into such a tight space.
“This place is a mess!” she declared, hands on her hips.
“Go ahead and call the health department if you’re so concerned.”
“I probably should.” Instead, she walked straight to the sink, rolled up her sleeves and started stacking the dishes on the counter.
“What are you doing now?” Nolan shouted from the living room.
“Cleaning up.”
He muttered something she couldn’t hear, which was probably for the best.
“Go lie down, Nolan,” she instructed. “When I’m done here, I’ll heat you some soup. You’ve got to get your strength back in order to suffer properly.”
At first he let that comment pass. Then, as if she was taxing him to the limit of his endurance, he called out, “The way you care is truly touching.”
“I was hoping you’d notice.” For someone who’d been outraged at the sight of her dishpan hands a week earlier, he seemed oddly unconcerned that she was washing his dirty dishes. Not that Maryanne minded. It made her feel good to be doing something for him.
She soon found herself humming as she rinsed the dishes and set them in his dishwasher.
Fifteen minutes passed without their exchanging a word. When Maryanne had finished, she looked in the living room and wasn’t surprised to find him sound asleep on the sofa. A curious feeling tugged at her heart as she gazed down at him. He lay on his back with his left hand flung across his forehead. His features were relaxed, but there was nothing remotely angelic about him. Not about the way his thick dark lashes brushed the arch of his cheek—or about the slow hoarse breaths that whispered through his half-open mouth.
Maryanne felt a strong urge to brush the hair from his forehead, to touch him, but she resisted. She was afraid he’d wake up. And she was even more afraid she wouldn’t want to stop touching him.
Moving about the living room, she turned off the television, picked up things here and there and straightened a few piles of magazines. She should leave now; she knew that. Nolan wouldn’t welcome her staying. She eyed the door regretfully, looking for an excuse to linger. She closed her eyes and listened to the sound of Nolan’s raspy breathing.
More by chance than design, Maryanne found herself standing next to his typewriter. Feeling brave, and more than a little foolish, she looked down at the stack of paper resting beside it. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure he was still asleep, Maryanne carefully turned over the top page and quickly read the last couple of paragraphs on Chapter Seventeen. The story
wasn’t finished, but she could tell he’d stopped during a cliff-hanger scene.
Nolan had been so secretive about his project that she dared not invade his privacy any more than she already had. She turned the single sheet back over, taking care to place it exactly as she’d found it.
Once again, she reminded herself that she should go back to her own apartment, but she felt strangely reluctant to end these moments with Nolan. Even a sleeping Nolan who would certainly be cranky when he woke up.
Seeking some way to occupy herself, she moved down the hall and into the bathroom, picking up several soiled towels on the way. His bed was unmade. She would’ve been surprised to find it in any other condition. The sheets and blankets were sagging onto the floor, and two or three sets of clothing were scattered all about.
Without questioning the wisdom of her actions, she bundled up the dirty laundry to take to the coin-operated machine in the basement. She loaded it into a large garbage bag, then set about vigorously cleaning the apartment. Scrubbing, scouring and sweeping were skills she’d perfected in her Rent-A-Maid days. If nothing else, she’d had lots of practice cleaning up after messy bachelors.
Studying the contents of his refrigerator, more than an hour later, proved to be a humorous adventure. She found an unopened bottle of wine, a carton of broken
egg shells and one limp strand of celery. Concocting anything edible from that would be impossible, so she searched the apartment until she found his keys. Then, with his garbage bag full of laundry in her arms, she let herself out the door, closing it softly.
She returned a half-hour later, clutching two bags of groceries bought with her tip money. Then she went down to put his laundry in the dryer. To her relief, Nolan was still asleep. She smiled down at him indulgently before she began preparing his dinner. After another forty-five minutes she retrieved his clean clothes and put them neatly away.
She was in the kitchen peeling potatoes when she heard Nolan get up. She continued her task, knowing he’d discover she was there soon enough. He stopped cold when he did.
“What are you doing here?”
“Making your dinner.”
“I’m not hungry,” he snapped with no evidence of appreciation for her efforts.
His eyes widened as he glanced around. “What happened here? Oh, you’ve cleaned the place up.”
“I didn’t think you’d notice,” she answered sweetly, popping a small piece of raw potato in her mouth. “I’ll get soup to the boiling stage before I leave you to your…peace of mind. It should only take another ten or fifteen minutes. Can you endure me that much longer?”
He made another of his typical grumbling replies
before disappearing. No more than two seconds had passed before he let out a bellow loud enough to shake the roof tiles.
“What did you do to my bed?” he demanded as he stormed into the kitchen.
“I made it.”
“What else have you been up to? Damn it, a man isn’t safe in his own home with you around.”
“Don’t look so put out, Nolan. All I did was straighten up the place a bit. It was a mess.”
“I happen to like messes. I thrive in messes. The last thing I want or need is some neat-freak invading my home, organizing my life.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” Maryanne said serenely, as she added a pile of diced carrots to the simmering broth. “All I did was pick up a few things here and there and run a load of laundry.”
“You did my laundry, too?” he exploded, jerking both hands through his hair. Heaven only knew, she thought, what would happen if he learned she’d read a single word of his precious manuscript.
“Everything’s been folded and put away, so you needn’t worry.”
Nolan abruptly left the kitchen, only to return a couple of moments later. He circled the table slowly and precisely, then took several deep breaths.
“Listen, Annie,” he began carefully, “it isn’t that I don’t appreciate what you’ve done, but I don’t need a nurse. Or a housekeeper.”
She looked up, meeting his eyes, her own large and guileless. “I quite agree,” she answered.
“You do?” Some of the stiffness left his shoulders. “Then you aren’t going to take offence?”
“No, why should I?”
“No reason,” he answered, eyeing her suspiciously.
“I was thinking that what you really need,” she said, smiling at him gently, “is a wife.”
“A
wife,” Nolan echoed. His dark eyes widened in undisguised horror. It was as if Maryanne had suggested he climb to the roof of the apartment building and leap off.
“Don’t get so excited. I wasn’t volunteering for the position.”
With his index finger pointing at her like the barrel of a shotgun, Nolan walked around the kitchen table again, his journey made in shuffling impatient steps. He circled the table twice before he spoke.
“You cleaned my home, washed my clothes and now you’re cooking my dinner.” Each word came at her like an accusation.
“Yes?”
“You can’t possibly look at me with those baby-blues of yours and expect me to believe—”
“Believe what?”
“That you’re not applying for the job. From the
moment we met, you’ve been doing all these…these sweet
girlie
things to entice me.”
“Sweet girlie things?” Maryanne repeated, struggling to contain her amusement. “I don’t think I understand.”
“I don’t expect you to admit it.”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.”
“You know,” he accused her with an angry shrug.
“Obviously I don’t. What could I possibly have done to make you think I’m trying to
entice
you?”
“Sweet girlie things,” he said again, but without the same conviction. He chewed on his bottom lip for a moment while he mulled the matter over. “All right, I’ll give you an example—that perfume you’re always wearing.”
“Windchime? It’s a light fragrance.”
“I don’t know the name of it. But it hangs around for an hour or so after you’ve left the room. You know that, and yet you wear it every time we’re together.”
“I’ve worn Windchime for years.”
“That’s not all,” he continued quickly. “It’s the way I catch you looking at me sometimes.”
“
Looking
at you?” She folded her arms at her waist and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.
“Yes,” he said, sounding even more peevish. He pressed his hand to his hip, cocked his chin at a regal angle and fluttered his eyelashes like fans.
Despite her effort to hold in her amusement,
Maryanne laughed. “I can only assume that you’re joking.”
Nolan dropped his hand from his hip. “I’m not. You get this innocent look and your lips pout just so…Why, a man—any man—couldn’t keep from wanting to kiss you.”
“That’s preposterous.” But Maryanne instinctively pinched her lips together and closed her eyes.
Nolan’s arm shot out. “That’s another thing.”
“What now?”
“The way you get this helpless flustered look and it’s all a simpleminded male can do not to rush in and offer to take care of whatever’s bothering you.”
“By this time you should know I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” Maryanne felt obliged to remind him.
“You’re a lamb among wolves,” Nolan said. “I don’t know how long you intend to play out this silly charade, but personally I think you’ve overdone it. This isn’t your world, and the sooner you go back where you belong, the better.”
“Better for whom?”
“Me!” he cried vehemently. “And for you,” he added with less fervor, as though it was an afterthought. He coughed a couple of times and reached for a package of cough drops in the pocket of his plaid robe. Shaking one out, he popped it in his mouth with barely a pause.
“I don’t think it’s doing you any good to get so ex
cited,” Maryanne said with unruffled patience. “I was merely making an observation and it still stands. I believe you need a wife.”
“Go observe someone else’s life,” he suggested, sucking madly on the cough drop.
“Aha!” she cried, waving her index finger at him. “How does it feel to have someone interfering in
your
life?”
Nolan frowned and Maryanne turned back to the stove. She lifted the lid from the soup to stir it briskly. Then she lowered the burner. When she was through, she saw with a glimmer of fun that Nolan was standing as far away from her as humanly possible, while still remaining in the same room.
“That’s something else!” he cried. “You give the impression that you’re in total agreement with whatever I’m saying and then you go about doing exactly as you damn well please. I’ve never met a more frustrating woman in my entire life.”
“That’s not true,” Maryanne argued. “I quit my job at Rent-A-Maid because you insisted.” It had worked out for the best, since she had more time for her writing now, but this wasn’t the moment to mention that.
“Oh, right, bring
that
up. It’s the only thing you’ve ever done that I wanted. I practically had to get down on my knees and beg you to leave that crazy job before you injured yourself.”
“You didn’t!”
“Trust me, it was a humbling experience and not one I intend to repeat. I’ve known you how long? A month?” He paused to gaze at the ceiling. “It seems like an eternity.”
“You’re trying to make me feel guilty. It isn’t going to work.”
“Why should you feel anything of the sort? Just because living next door to you is enough to drive a man to drink.”
“You’re the one who found me this place. If you don’t like living next door to me, then I’m not the one to blame!”
“Don’t remind me,” he muttered.
The comment about Nolan finding himself a wife had been made in jest, but he’d certainly taken it seriously. In fact, he seemed to have strong feelings about the entire issue. Realizing her welcome had worn extremely thin, Maryanne headed for his apartment door. “Everything’s under control here.”
“Does that mean you’re leaving?”
She hated the enthusiastic lift in his voice, as if he couldn’t wait to be rid of her. Although he wasn’t admitting it, she’d done him a good turn. Fair exchange, she supposed; Nolan had been generous enough to her over the past month.
“Yes, I’m leaving.”
“Good.” He didn’t bother to disguise his delight.
“But I still think you’d do well to consider what I said.” Maryanne had the irresistible urge to heap coals
on the fires of his indignation. “A wife could be a great help to you.”
Nolan frowned heavily, drawing his eyebrows into a deep V. “I think the modern woman would find your suggestion downright insulting.”
“What? That you marry?”
“Exactly. Haven’t you heard? A woman’s place isn’t in the home anymore. It’s out there in the world, forging a career for herself. Living a fuller life, and all that. It’s not doing the mundane tasks you’re talking about.”
“I wasn’t suggesting you marry for the convenience of gaining a live-in housekeeper.”
His brown eyes narrowed. “Then what
were
you saying?”
“That you’re a capable talented man,” she explained. She glanced surreptitiously at his manuscript, still tidily stacked by the typewriter. “But unfortunately, that doesn’t mean a whole lot if you don’t have someone close—a friend, a companion, a…wife—to share it with.”
“Don’t you worry about me, Little Miss Muffet. I’ve lived my own life from the time I was thirteen. You may think I need someone, but let me assure you, I don’t.”
“You’re probably right,” she said reluctantly. She opened his door, then hesitated. “You’ll call if you want anything?”
“No.”
She released a short sigh of frustration. “That’s what I thought. The soup should be done in about thirty minutes.”
He nodded, then, looking a bit chagrined, added, “I suppose I should thank you.”
“I suppose you should, too, but it isn’t necessary.”
“What about the money you spent on groceries? You can’t afford acts of charity, you know. Wait a minute and I’ll—”
“Forget it,” she snapped. “I can spend my money on whatever I damn well please. I’m my own person, remember? You can just owe me. Buy me dinner sometime.” She left before he could say anything else.
Maryanne’s own apartment felt bleak and lonely after Nolan’s. The first thing she did was walk around turning on all the lights. No sooner had she finished when there was a loud knock at her door. She opened it to find Nolan standing there in his disreputable moth-eaten robe, glaring.
“Yes?” she inquired sweetly.
“You read my manuscript, didn’t you?” he boomed in a voice that echoed like thunder off the apartment walls.
“I most certainly did not,” she denied vehemently. She straightened her back as if to suggest she found the very question insulting.
Without waiting for an invitation, Nolan stalked into her living room, then whirled around to face her. “Admit it!”
Making each word as clear and distinct as possible, Maryanne said, “I did not read your precious manuscript. How could I possibly have cleaned up, done the laundry, prepared a big kettle of homemade soup, and still had time to read Chapter Seventeen of manuscript?”
“How did you know it was Chapter Seventeen?” Sparks of reproach shot from his eyes.
“Ah—” she swallowed uncomfortably “—it was a guess, and from the looks of it, a good one.”
“It wasn’t any guess.”
He marched toward her and for every step he took, she retreated two. “All right,” she admitted guiltily, “I did look at it, but I swear I didn’t read more than a few lines. I was straightening up the living room and…it was there, so I turned over the last page and read a couple of paragraphs.”
“Aha! Finally, the truth!” Nolan pointed directly at her “You did read it!”
“Just a few lines,” she repeated in a tiny voice, feeling completely wretched.
“And?” His eyes softened.
“And what?”
“What did you think?” He looked at her expectantly, then frowned. “Never mind, I shouldn’t have asked.”
Rubbing her palms together, Maryanne took one step forward. “Nolan, it was wonderful. Witty and terribly suspenseful and…I would have given anything
to read more. But I knew I didn’t dare because, well, because I was invading your privacy…which I didn’t want to do, but I did and I really didn’t want…that.”
“It is good, isn’t it?” he asked almost smugly, then his expression sobered as quickly as it had before.
She grinned, nodding enthusiastically. “Tell me about it.”
He seemed undecided, then launched excitedly into his idea. “It’s about a Seattle newspaperman, Leo, who stumbles on a murder case. Actually, I’m developing a series with him as the main character. This one’s not quite finished yet—as I’m sure you know.”
“Is there a woman in Leo’s life?”
“You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
Maryanne wasn’t. The few paragraphs she’d read had mentioned a Maddie who was apparently in danger. Leo had been frantic to save her.
“You had no business going anywhere near that manuscript,” Nolan reminded her.
“I know, but the temptation was so strong. I shouldn’t have peeked, I realize that, but I couldn’t help myself. Nolan, I’m not lying when I say how good the writing was. Do you have a publisher in mind? Because if you don’t, I have several New York editor friends I could recommend and I know—”
“I’m not using you or any influence you may have in New York. I don’t want anything to do with your father’s publishing company. Understand?”
“Of course, but you’re overreacting.” He seemed to
be doing a lot of that lately. “My father wouldn’t stay in business long if he ordered the editors to purchase my friends’ manuscripts, would he? Believe me, it would all be on the up and up, and if you’ve got an idea for a series using Leo—”
“I said no.”
“But—”
“I mean it, Annie. This is my book and I’ll submit it myself without any help from you.”
“If that’s what you want,” she concurred meekly.
“That’s the way it’s going to be.” The stern un-yielding look slipped back into place. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ll quietly go back to my messy little world, sans wife and countless interruptions from a certain neighbor.”
“I’ll try not to bother you again,” Maryanne said sarcastically, since he was the one who’d invaded
her
home this time.
“It would be appreciated,” he said, apparently ignoring her tone.
“Your apartment is yours and mine is mine, and I’ll uphold your privacy with the utmost respect,” she continued, her voice still faintly mocking. She buried her hands in her pockets and her fingers closed around something cold and metallic.
“Good.” Nolan was nodding. “Privacy, that’s what we need.”
“Um, Nolan…” She paused. “This is somewhat embarrassing, but it seems I have…” She hesitated
again, then resolutely squared her shoulders. “I suppose you’d appreciate it if I returned your keys, right?”
“My keys?” Nolan exploded.
“I just found them. They were in my pocket. You see, all you had in your refrigerator was one limp strand of celery and I couldn’t very well make soup out of that, so I had to go to the store and I didn’t want to leave your door unlocked and—”
“You have my keys?”
“Yes.”