The Admirer's Secret (5 page)

“What about you? Do you have a dream?”
she asked.

“Yes, but not this. I’m still waiting for some lightning bolt to strike me with some revelation of when to go after it. But
this IT stuff pays the bills for now.”

“So you like working on computers and sneaking peeks at strangers’ personal lives!”

“Oh yeah, I love it. Give me five minutes with your PC and I’ll tell you things about yourself you never knew. Though some things I’d rather not know, I’ve found out over the years.” He leaned back in the chair, arms crossed, and looked up at her slyly grinning. “Though, I wouldn’t mind knowing more about you, Haley.”

Wow, that was forward
. Oddly, his assertiveness didn’t feel intrusive.

“Thank you,” Haley mumbled, averting her eyes downward, then she noticed blue fuzzy slippers adorning her feet. She unexpectedly grew self-conscious of her appearance.
Having changed into a vintage t-shirt and cut-off sweatpants, she could have been mistaken for one of the residents of the local shelter. Moreover, she didn’t remember taking a shower yet today because of her morning rush, adding to the homeless effect.
Of course I would be looking and smelling my worst,
she agonized.

Turning back to the computer in response to Haley’s bland reply, Marc began the process of shutting it down. He didn’t see her face turn every shade of red.

Color flowed into the room through a narrow window, creating tiny prisms on the corner of the glass desk. The deep reds and yellows illuminated Marc’s handsome profile, casting an almost heavenly glow. Scruff peeked out from under his chiseled jaw. As Haley examined him, entranced, Marc turned toward her. Their eyes met. She shied away.

“Well, I really appreciate all you’ve done. So what exactly did you do?”

“It looks like the cable somehow got unplugged from the hard drive. But it’s up and working now.”

“Wow, you’re a genius. So, what do I owe you?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. It’s on me.” 

“That’s so nice of you, Marc. Really.” She didn’t want to end the conversation, but she was fumbling for something more to say. Nothing came to mind.

Her captivation left her speechless, and she noticed Marc’s faltering steps toward the door. The conversation took a clumsy turn, and they both stood frozen, as if time was put on pause, waiting for someone to press the “resume” button. Haley sized Marc up while he stood before her in silent confidence. Her gut told her that perhaps her presence was stripping him of that, rendering him more tongue-tied by the second.

“Well, I guess I better get going now,” he said with his back half facing her.

One last try.
Say something
. Butterflies swarmed her stomach and she realized she lost him to the silence. Walking downstairs, he turned around at the bottom step and held out his hand.

“It was nice seeing you again, Haley. I hope to see you around.” As their hands met, she felt him hold on slightly longer than a formal good-bye would warrant. Her hand was warm in his; it fit perfectly.

“I’ll be sure to keep plenty of water on tap in case I have another computer failure.”

She caught a sneaking grin part his lips. She had made him smile.
That was a good way to end the evening, right?

As she opened the door and led him out, she felt her throat tighten with disappointment. She watched him walk further and further from the house, realizing that her chance of seeing him again dwindled
with every step.

Not if she could help it. They would see each other again. Somehow she knew that a greater force was orchestrating this, and she was prepared to go along with whatever it had in store.

Chapter 9

H
aley filled rest of the evening with a couple hours of work, jotting down sticky-note reminders to pay late bills, and picking at leftover spaghetti her mom sent her home with the night before. The sky was pitch-black with hundreds of stars twinkling above when Haley returned to her office desk to tidy up some stray papers before heading to bed. Something out of place caught her eye, something tucked under the corner of the keyboard. A piece of pink paper with a note scribbled on it. She pulled it out from its hiding place.

Haley,

It was a pleasure seeing you today. I hope to see you again in the near future. 

Marc

Her eyes widened with pleasure—a memento. The handwriting looked oddly familiar. Could it be? Bolting across the hall with the note in hand, Haley ran for her bedroom and hastily grabbed the pile of anonymous letters. Placing Marc’s letter next to the others, she rifled through the stack, comparing the script side by side. Sure enough, the similarities were striking. The curl at the end of the Ls, the roundness of the As. It couldn’t be… could it?

**

She flipped her eyes to the clock on her bedside table. Four hours and thirteen minutes had passed since seeing Marc. Haley lay wide-awake in bed waiting for sleep to take her. Tonight it wasn’t her usual sleepless state that buzzed her brain alert with a swarm of anxious thoughts. No, it wasn’t anxiety. It was something completely different.

Obsession.

A mental accounting of every detail of the evening. She couldn’t get Marc out of her mind. She knew it was crazy. She knew this had to be a case of utter desperation. But the letters, and now this note… this was fate. It had to be. The handwriting similarities were too coincidental. She wondered if Marc was thinking about her right now. 

Turning over for the umpteenth time, Haley settled on a view of the window where the moon hovered bright against a clear night sky, its luminous beams squeezing out the lurking darkness. It was well after two o’clock, giving her a mere five hours of sleep before work the next day. Just enough to function.

Reaching under her pillow, Haley fluffed it up and sank into its downy comfort. Her thoughts unwound each tight concern—until she settled on the most prominent concern of the moment. Her mom. Her mom finding that letter.

Haley wondered if she was still awake. The woman barely slept, usually busying herself with house cleaning and baking into the wee hours of the morning. Haley always suspected that it was her way of coping with life as a widow. Haley needed to talk to her about everything that had been happening, but what would she say? That she’d been corresponding with a total stranger for the past two weeks via unmarked letters and now she suspected—with no real proof—that
her secret admirer was the local computer guy? No, her mom would probably commit her.

Please fall asleep
, she commanded herself.

It didn’t work.  

Haley despised her thoughts. It was her thoughts that kept her awake tonight. Her mind bulged with anxiety about her empty love life, her approaching birthday that ticked away another year. Ticked away a chance at finding love, at having kids, at having hope for a fairy tale future. Not that she believed in fairy tales. Though sometimes she dreamt them. No, she’d decided on a career, so why was this running through her head again? 

In a way, she didn’t want to feel hope. Because with hope came heartbreak. And she couldn’t survive falling in love and getting hurt. Not again.
Her mind flipped through the pages of loss and settled on Jake—the epitome of her hurt. But that was the past, she had to remind herself, and she shouldn’t dwell on it. Besides, she sure liked the giddiness that a crush reaped. Seeing Marc was certainly the day’s highlight, and a smile snuck up on her lips as she envisioned him next to her. Letting the image ferment in her mind, the longer she permitted herself internal revelry, the more her fear festered. What if Marc’s interest was a mere figment of her imagination and would never surface into a lasting relationship? He hadn’t asked for her number, hadn’t asked for a date. If he was so interested, why hadn’t he made a move? But the note… that was his move. If they were playing checkers, it would be her move next… right?

As her mind churned, doubt poured from her heart as she reflected on what was going on inside her. Tonight she was
being honest with herself, something she didn’t do often: She was also afraid. Afraid to never find true love yet equally afraid of love itself. And she was afraid that she would have to choose between the dream of becoming a serious screenplay writer and the dream of pursuing a relationship.

Most of all, she was afraid to find out that her heart had misled her once again.

Cha
pter 10

S
weet Mrs. Ellsworth. She had bid Allen good night over four hours ago before turning in. He couldn’t help but grin at how the landlady’s soft wrinkles caressed her raisined lips. Nice ladies like Mrs. Ellsworth seemed a dime a dozen in this town, ambling down every block and standing at every street corner offering genuine smiles and kind words to all who cross their path. Yes, Allen had come to the right place. The most unsuspecting town in the nation.

As Allen sat cross-legged in the cushioned armchair sidling
against his bed, with notebook in hand, he dribbled words across the college-ruled lines. Nothing in particular inspired him at the moment, except the image that had haunted him all evening. Haley Montgomery.
Haley Michaels
. Ah, the name certainly had a ring to it.

He stood up from his chair and tossed his notebook on the bed. A walk seemed the only solution for clearing his head tonight. Perhaps the chill of fresh air would spur his creative juices. He grabbed his coat, stuffed his cell phone in his pocket, and carefully peeled the door open. The joints of the house and original maple flooring groaned more than a woman in labor. With stealthy steps he descended the massive stairway and slipped out the front door. The shock of negative temperatures would make this a short walk.

Allen lumbered down the sidewalk, following its broken path where the roots of a large bare tree jutted up from under the concrete. He considered all of the feet that had once trod this footpath, imagined all of the lives that crossed this ground. Unnoticed lives, unnoticed footsteps. A contrast to 2,500 miles west, on Hollywood Boulevard in Grauman’s Chinese Forecourt, where tourists mill about paying homage to the footprints of the stars immortalized in the legendary cement. All his adult life he had worked for the fame that those concrete blocks represented, but there was something serenely beautiful about the anonymity of unnoticed steps here in this small town tonight.

The sidewalk turned a sharp corner, heading further into the cozy neighborhood of two-story homes safeguarding children nestled into their beds, snug and warm against the night.
Protected against men like me lurking in the shadows, wandering these vacant streets.

His
was a lonely existence. It always had been for Allen. Wrapped in idyllic seclusion, he spent most of his time hibernating behind a laptop screen punching away at the keyboard. This trait left him with many isolated nights, though loneliness rarely bothered him. Childhood had forced him to get used to it when his father disappeared from their Denver, Colorado, home. His father’s selfish search for the next big business opportunity lured him from his family and left his two children with an ill-equipped mother and a mountain of unpaid bills behind. An abusive stepfather succeeded the absent father figure and beat Allen into isolation until his bedroom became his only source of comfort. Every waking moment was spent fighting for his and his younger sister’s lives, though she miraculously escaped their stepfather’s iron fist.

Growing up awkward and introverted, Allen spent increased time in his studies, and soon his intellect brought him academic success. Regardless, it didn’t take long for
traditional education to leave him bored, so he decided fame and fortune were the next best things. After dropping out during his sophomore year of college, he picked up and moved to the only place he knew of where everyone had a shot at the limelight: Hollywood, California.

He immediately began networking, though time proved it was easier said than done. Dabbling here and there in the movie industry, he jubilated over his promotion from “assistant coffee boy” to “head coffee man.” Though it wasn’t an ideal position, it was the foot in the door that he needed.

His career sprouted after being sidetracked by the “right” woman—one of Hollywood’s spotlight figureheads. He wooed her, she fell for him, they used each other to climb the industry ladder of success, and the rest was history. Their marriage eventually dissolved into the typical Hollywood relationship, but what more could one expect when the foundation of marriage was built on deception and image? Thus, Allen blotted out the successive years of arguments or silence, followed by a bitter separation, until a red-eye brought him some relief in Westfield.

Though it was a humble little town, his gut told him it would open a door to the chance of a lifetime.

Chapter 11

T
he next few days ticked down to another Friday, just like weekdays always did. As he peered out from the covers, he could see dark clouds scudding across the sky through his window. He groaned. Another gray day. He moved his leg and gently nudged at the sleeping form next to him. During the night she’d stolen his covers. Again. He could chase her from his bed, but he hadn’t the heart. How could he resist those big, brown puppy-dog eyes? Not Marc Vincetti.

Marc
rolled out of bed and stared at his chow-chow shepherd mix. Her curled tail began to wiggle. It wasn’t quite long enough to wag.

“Time to get up,” he said, patting her rear. The dog lazily jumped down
and followed him as he led her through a maze of yesterday’s clothes and shoes scattered over the braided area rug. Neatness wasn’t his strong suit. But that was the luxury of being a bachelor. He got to do what he wanted, when he wanted, and no one could tell him otherwise. That’s how he liked to keep his life now: under
his
control.

Marc’s
stomach grumbled as he made his way through the loft bedroom, down the open stairwell that overlooked his first-story layout, and past his sparsely furnished living room. He halted his trek to the kitchen to flip through the junk mail piled on the dining room table. His mailman had a tendency to hide important bills within the multi-paged ads—losing him any chance at a Christmas thankyou from Marc—and on more than one occasion Marc unknowingly threw the pile—bills and flyers—into the garbage.

His ex had been the more organized of the two and took care of his accounting for him since they
dated in college. But since their break-up, when he’d make a late payment or bounce a check, he couldn’t help but blame her for incapacitating him. During all those years of her coddling him, he had never expected to have to do it on his own. Considering she left him for a big-time CPA, he could bitterly joke now that they were a perfect fit.

Marc, not unlike his ex, found an accountant of his own. The only difference was that Marc kept it
professional. Since starting his own IT business, it was necessary to hire someone who could at least balance a checkbook—the checkbook that hadn’t been updated for a couple of weeks, he realized as he flipped through its empty pages. He stared at the balance that he had scribbled in; he was glad that at least he wasn’t hurting for money anymore. Once the billable hours piled up and the business took off, he actually had extra to put into savings.

Pressing his fingers against his temple, a headache persisted
, triggered by the past week’s craziness. Work consumed more than seventy hours a week, which he assumed was common for the first year of startup. Every year he told himself it’d get easier; that was three years ago and the long hours were still killing him.

It was more or less the nights and weekends that killed him. However, his business had finally made it in the black, so for now he willingly suffered through the extended hours.
I have nothing better to do with my time
, he figured, until he glanced outside and saw the overgrown yard waiting for his attention. But at least his home was habitable. It was a miracle he even finished building the house when he did, only six months later than estimated.

When he laid out the building plans for the contemporary loft house, he decided on simplicity. Minimal décor and all natural. His creation represented who he was—unpretentious and manly. The complete opposite of
what his ex tried to mold him into.

Marc fondly remembered picking out the wood for his floors with his father, a contractor by hobby, not by trade. Glancing down at the deep, rich, and textured wood floors beneath his bare feet, he remembered that excruciating summer of sanding, staining, and applying polyurethane until they glowed lustrous in the sunlight. Though, as he proudly absorbed the interior of his home, he knew
the sweat was worth it all.

The high ceilings showcased matching knotted beams with recessed lighting that was hardly ever used, for the picture windows on every wall permitted more than enough light. His favorite touch to the house was the open fireplace purposefully positioned between the living room and kitchen, with multicolored stone facing on both sides, adding simultaneous warmth and atmosphere to both rooms. He even mounted a fixture to the kitchen’s side of the hearth in case he lost power and needed to cook using the fire. Heck, sometimes he’d cook over a flame just
to experience good old-fashioned rustic living. Nothing beat the taste of smoked meat.

He dropped the stack of mail
on the mantel and turned the corner to the kitchen. Stepping onto cold ceramic tile, his body trembled and a chill ran up his spine. His toned biceps flexed slightly as he opened the fridge. His brown eyes didn’t need to scan more than a second to see it was empty.

“Looks like som
eone has to go grocery shopping…” his voice trailed off as he looked down at his furry sidekick. His fingers rubbed the stubble on his chin, an abrasive reminder that he’d have to shave before going out in public. “What have you been doing all week, huh, girl? All you do is sit around getting waited on hand and foot.” Sheba looked up at him with a curious stare.

He rubbed her perked ears, chuckling as if she understood his every word. Before
Sheba, he wasn’t much of a dog lover. Yet it all changed the day that this stray showed up on his doorstep out of the blue, and he instantly adopted her. It took him two weeks to pick apart the labyrinth of knots and tangles in her long coat. It was then that he found out the hard way how much she disliked baths. He never realized how slippery a wet dog could be.

As he moved to close the fridge,
Sheba moved with him. It certainly didn’t take long for her to get comfortable with him; she rarely left his side. If he was in the kitchen, she was there. In bed, she was there. In the shower, well, the bath thing wasn’t a hit the first time around, so she waited at the base of the tub.

Most days
he felt guilty when he headed off to work and caught a glimpse of her intently watching his departure from the window as he pulled away. Ten to twelve hours later, when his Ford F-150 rumbled up the driveway, she’d be planted exactly where he left her, wiggling her twisted, fluffy tail. He could barely get a moment’s peace, but he liked it. She was his and he was hers. Such loyalty was hard to find nowadays.

Marc checked the pantry, with
Sheba a nose-length behind whining tirelessly. He ignored her, rummaging through boxed dinners until he retrieved a dusty canister of oatmeal.

The whining continued.

“You gotta pee, girl?”

She barked.

Food would have to wait—not that oatmeal was really food.

He shrugged on a coat over his bare chest, stepped into his boots, and headed outside to the back porch.
Sheba took off for the woods.

Now
he
had to go. “When nature calls…” This was what he loved about being a guy—the conveniences.

Every time he stepped foot on his porch he was dolefully reminded of his acquisition of the property. Being the last of kin, Marc had inherited seventeen acres from the untimely death of his great-uncle when Marc was still a disinterested teenager.
The land sat vacant for a number of years while he pursued a college degree and ran off to the big city of Buffalo, New York, to hunt down a career in computer science and chase love with the woman of his dreams. Well, not exactly the woman of his dreams, but close enough. She was gorgeous and ambitious, the perfect trophy wife for most guys, but now he knew she wasn’t his “true love.”

Though it was far in the past, the memory
of that loss still ached. Back then Marc had blindly thought he was in love with the woman he now referred to as “the ex,” but he knew the reality. True love wasn’t skin deep. It was knowing the other person’s heart and connecting with more than a kiss. Anyone could kiss another person and get high off the rush of excitement. But love—love didn’t need physical touch. Not that he didn’t like that aspect as well. But love was deeper, purer, and all things good. Love was knowing the person, and still adoring them, despite their flaws. True love was his high school sweetheart. Though it had been years, her name rolled off his tongue easily: “Julie Carter.”

He relished the good ol’ days. He had met Julie in the beginning of their sophomore year of high school. But when he mustered the courage to actually talk to her, it was a month into the school year. They had been sitting next to each other in their math class since the end of August, but oddly they didn’t exchange a single word.
Julie was always the studious type
, he chuckled to himself.
And I was the slacker
. She always got As and he got solid Cs. Julie was smart, pretty, popular—everything Marc wasn’t at the time. In short, she was out of his league. So he ignored her. Until she made it nearly impossible to do so. When their teacher passed out their graded quizzes and Julie glanced over at Marc’s big fat red
D
, she offered to tutor him—after she made several jokes at his expense. For once his bad grades got him something more than a parental scolding and weeklong grounding. 

He remembered when they first hit it off as friends, but soon Marc found himself walking Julie to classes, eating lunch with her at school, and sitting with her at church. On April first—at a fancy dinner out, compl
iments of his dad’s credit card—Marc asked Julie to be his girlfriend. He shook his head as he remembered her response:
“Is this an April Fool’s joke?”

She made him want to be a better person. And then he changed.

As he stood inhaling the lakefront air, he forced himself to dredge back the ancient history. Even as young as he was he would have married her in a heartbeat had she stuck around. But the summer after their junior year of high school, Julie was shipped off to Florida to live with her father following her parents’ messy divorce. His strong emotions never left, even after she did. The day of her departure was what Marc considered the absolute worst day of his life. Allowing himself to venture further into that awful day—something he rarely permitted himself to do—he could still hear the loudspeaker announce her section to board the plane that would take her away. A four-hour flight away, or a thirty-plus-hour drive for a broke teenage boy.

While Julie walked the ramp to
ward another life, Marc remembered standing all alone with a dozen red roses that she couldn’t take with her since they didn’t fit in her purse or carryon. They kept in touch for several months by phone and letters, but when homecoming and prom came and went without Julie there to accompany him, Marc eventually felt it was best to move on.

He assumed he moved on when he met his ex-fiancé, though he kept those dried red roses and his favorite picture of Julie in his dresser drawer for years.

Marc wondered if he was truly in love with Julie or merely caught in teenage infatuation.
True love wouldn’t fade, would it?
But just like those paled, crisp roses, he decided to file her away in the back of his mind; he’d save those memories for a rainy day. Or a sunny day like this morning.

Regret visited him this morning as he scraped the remaining oatmeal from around the edges and licked his spoon clean. He should have never let himself fall for another woman so quickly
, on the rebound as he was. Julie was history—in his mind, though not his heart—a year after her move, and his interests transformed. And they did so before his heart was prepared. Much like he felt now. His heart hesitated to fall in love again, rejecting the vulnerability it would require. Hadn’t he learned anything from his past mistakes?

Yes, his ex was one big ugly mistake.

A disaster that still bared its teeth at him.

It
had been a crisp autumn afternoon, after the leaves had fallen to the ground, when a tall, sexy blonde approached him in Humanities 101 during his freshman year at college, and it was lust at first sight. Four years later, they were still an item, and the next step was expected: engagement. Together the inseparable duo planted roots in Buffalo, but Marc’s roots never quite took to the urban soil. Fast-paced life rushed him into a high-salaried position that sucked every free moment. His heart was set on spending time with his fiancé rather than wading knee deep in software development and traveling to meet potential clients. But his ex pushed him to advance, and so he did. Eventually meetings, deadlines, and projects became an obsession if he wanted to provide a decent life for his future family. Whatever “decent” meant. Until one day he woke up from his never-ending work nightmare.
Thank God for that wake-up call.

H
omesickness beckoned him back to Westfield. Though he had adapted to his new on-the-run lifestyle, his heart wasn’t at peace. Something was missing. The big bucks couldn’t compare to the friendly faces, relaxed atmosphere, and simple pleasures of home. So he left the big city. And she stayed behind with Marc’s promise that he’d return for her soon. His plan was flawless. She’d continue working while he set up shop in Westfield and found a home for after their wedding. It never occurred to him that she was all too eager about his departure.