Blossom Street (Books 1-10). Debbie Macomber
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the Linus Project, and kept herself busy with that while she waited for the next sock-knitting class.
Binding off the patch, she was about to reach for the remote control when her stomach growled. Those snacks she’d mentioned—a few carrots and celery sticks from the veggie tray and a small piece of cheese—had long since disappeared. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, she was famished.
As if this message had somehow been telegraphed to Maverick, he chose that precise moment to knock at her bedroom door. Once she’d called out, he opened it.
“I was hoping I could get you to change your mind. It’s no fun eating alone.”
The scents emerging from the kitchen, fresh basil and oregano blended with the enticing aromas of garlic and tomatoes, were her undoing. “I suppose I could manage to eat a bit.” This was fair warning to keep food in her room for future emergencies, she told herself.
“You won’t be sorry,” Maverick promised gleefully. He led her into the dining room, and it was as if he’d planned this meal just for her. Fresh white daisies adorned the center of the table. There were two place settings, opposite each other, and he’d used Aurora’s loveliest china and crystal. He’d already poured the wine. A merlot, she suspected, remembering his preferences. Although it’d been years since they’d dined like this, she remembered his every like and dislike. Elise recalled, too, that Maverick had cooked for her the night he proposed. Not lasagna that time but linguine with a shrimp and crab cream sauce. Oh, this was ridiculous! Why was she still thinking about a meal she’d had decades ago?
Maverick pulled out the chair to seat her. “You were very confident, weren’t you?” she said stiffly, looking at her filled wineglass.
“I was more confident about the scent of my cooking.”
She didn’t want to be with him like this and yet she did—and it was more than the empty sensation in her stomach. Spending this kind of time with him was dangerous. Well, she knew that, but she was here now, and hungry, and she might as well have dinner.
Maverick brought a Caesar salad, redolent with garlic, into the dining room. When he was seated again, he lifted his wineglass. “I’d like to propose a toast,” he said.
“That isn’t necessary,” she said and heard the tremor in her voice. “This is thoughtful of you, but it’s dinner and nothing more. There’s no romance between us, and one meal isn’t going to resurrect long-dead feelings.”
Maverick arched his eyebrows. “Long-dead?”
“We’ve been divorced more years than I care to think about,” she felt obliged to remind him. If he wasn’t counting, she was.
“A toast,” he continued, ignoring her outburst. “To Elise, the love of my life.”
She pushed back the chair, ready to walk away. “Don’t,” she warned him. Her throat thickened with resentment. How dared he say such a thing to her!
He lowered his wineglass as if nothing was amiss, and reached for his fork. Since—apparently—he intended to behave himself, she reached for her own. Although the lump in her throat made it difficult to chew and swallow, the effort was worth it. Maverick possessed many talents but he excelled in the kitchen. He could have been a noteworthy chef had he followed that path. Instead he’d chased after a pot of gold, collecting nothing except dust and false dreams along the way.
When they’d finished their salad, he removed the plates and served the lasagna. It tasted as heavenly as it smelled, and Elise savored every bite, eating far more than she normally did.
They ate in silence until he finally spoke. “There’s something we should discuss.”
“I can’t imagine what,” she replied primly.
To her astonishment, he relaxed in his chair and broke into a smile.
“What’s so amusing?” she demanded.
“I used to love it when you got all uppity.”
“I beg your pardon?” She already regretted agreeing to dinner. Would she never learn?
“You used to do that,” he said, motioning toward her with his hand, “when we were married.”
“Do what?”
“You’d get that haughty look on your face—the same look you have right now.” He grinned triumphantly. “I loved it. Still do.”
She scraped up the last forkful of noodle, sauce and melted cheese, not deigning to respond. In another minute, she’d retreat to her room….
“I used to time myself—see how long it would take me to get you to smile.”
“Damn it,” she sputtered, outraged by his remark. Everything, everything, was a challenge to him. A game.
“Don’t you remember,” he teased, his eyes sparkling. “I used to wrap my arms around you from behind and kiss you till—”
“You did no such thing.” She remembered all too well, but chose to push those memories away. During their marriage, Maverick always got what he wanted—always won his little games—by using her love for him. Taking advantage of it, of her.
“Oh, you remember,” he whispered. “You do.”
“I’ve done my best to forget,” she said without emotion. “You might not believe this, but living with you had very little to recommend it.”
His smile faded and he sobered. “No one is more aware of that than I am.”
“Nothing’s changed,” she said. “You might claim you’ve given up gambling but you can’t do it. The allure is still there.”
“Not true.”
“Not true? You can’t stay away from the cards.”
“I can play,” he said calmly. “I don’t need to gamble.”
Elise shook her head. “That’s like an alcoholic claiming he can go into a tavern and not be tempted.” Considering that he was teaching their grandsons poker, he was being more than a little unrealistic about his ability to control his gambling.
“I mean it, Elise. It’s over. I refuse to squander the rest of my life on a roll of the dice or the luck of the draw. I want my family and I want you.”
Shocked by his words, Elise nearly spewed wine across the tablecloth. With a supreme effort she swallowed. “You’re too late,” she told him. “Thirty-seven years too late.”
“I think,” he said as he saluted her with his wineglass, “that I’m just in time.”
19
CHAPTER
BETHANNE HAMLIN
Bethanne turned off the vacuum cleaner and listened. Sure enough, the phone was ringing. She debated letting the answering machine pick up, but she’d left job applications at a number of businesses and didn’t want to miss a call from a prospective employer.
Hurrying into the kitchen, she drew in a calming breath and grabbed the receiver. “This is Bethanne Hamlin,” she said in her most professional voice.
“We need to talk.”
Deflated, Bethanne leaned against the kitchen wall. She didn’t want to deal with her ex-husband again. Their last meeting, at the café on Blossom Street, had left her reeling with resentment and anger. “Hello, Grant, how unpleasant to hear from you,” she murmured sweetly.
“I’m coming over.”
She bit back the words to tell him she would choose the time and place of their next meeting, but it would do little good. After twenty years of marriage she knew Grant’s moods. She could tell from his tone that he was furious and wouldn’t be put off.
“Fine,”