Tall, Dark And Difficult. Patricia Coughlin
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to go on living a giant yawning hole of a life, go right ahead.”
“Thanks, I will.” Rose raised her plastic cup as if to toast the prospect.
“But, as my gramma Viola, God rest her soul, always said, ‘God works in mysterious ways.’”
She gave that time to sink into Rose’s resistant skull before continuing. “One of these days, that door will open—” She aimed one glossy crimson fingertip at the front door. “And in will walk the one man who can fill all that emptiness inside you.”
“Let me guess…his name will be Right. Mr. Richard Right.”
“Go ahead and laugh. As my gramma was also fond of saying…” She shifted effortlessly into broken English. “Justa you wait and see, Miss Smarty-Pants.”
“I will. But if you don’t mind, I won’t hold my breath, because the entire concept of Mr. Right—that is, one specific person out of hundreds of millions who is destined to be the soul mate of another specific person—is a myth.”
Maryann planted her fists on hips that Raquel Welch in her prime would have envied, and rolled her eyes. “Like you would know?”
“I’ve read Cosmo, too, Maryann. Not to mention having a degree in sociology.”
“Phooey. What does sociology have to do with true love?”
“Plenty.” It was the best Rose could do on the spur of the moment, especially considering she was a little rusty in both areas. About all she remembered from what she had once thought would be her life’s work with the Department of Social Services was the people. She remembered families without homes, babies without mothers, men and women who’d grown old and given up. She remembered those she had struggled to help, and all the ones she couldn’t, no matter how hard she fought, how many hours she logged, how many rules she bent.
“Such as?”
Her friend’s challenge interrupted her musing. She decided to wing it. “Such as establishing the fact that a given individual’s number of potentially satisfying mates is not limited to one. Studies show there are any number of suitable candidates—a category, in other words—a societal subset of similar Homo sapiens—a particular sort of personality—a character type, if you will.” She paused to breathe. “And I assure you, no matter what delusions Edie Blanchard has about the man, Hollis Griffin is most definitely not my type.”
The bell over the door sounded.
Lisa whimpered and lost her pacifier.
Griff walked in.
Maryann looked at him, then turned to face Rose and mouthed, Pierce Brosnan.
Rose had two silent words of her own. Why me?
She was suddenly sorry she had ever mentioned Griff to Maryann, and seeing the gleam in her friend’s eye as he approached, she had a feeling she was about to be even sorrier.
Stopping beside Maryann, he looked directly at Rose. “I need to talk to you.”
She eyed him reproachfully. “Forgive my lapse into good manners, but Maryann, this is Hollis Griffin. Hollis,” she continued, imbuing the name with just the barest hint of mockery, “this is my friend, Maryann McShane, and her daughter, Lisa.”
He turned his head, nodding at Maryann and flicking his gaze over the baby, who was winding up for a good cry. “Pleased to meet you, Maryann. Beautiful baby.”
“Hello, Hollis,” Maryann replied with a little smile and a nod of her own. “And thank you. I think she’s beautiful, too.”
“The name’s Griff,” he told her.
“Griff,” she repeated.
Rose observed the brief exchange, as she had observed dozens of other men the first time they laid eyes on Maryann—all five feet, eight gorgeous inches of her. But for once, the instant she was watching for never came, the instant when the man’s eyes glazed over and he struggled to keep his jaw from dropping. Instead, Griff turned his attention back to Rose.
“Can we talk now?”
“I’m afraid—” Rose began.
Maryann cut her off. “I’m leaving.”
“That’s really not necessary,” Rose insisted, her look shorthand for Don’t you dare leave me here alone.
“Oh, but it is,” replied Maryann, declining to decipher the code as she wheeled the stroller around to face the door. “I want to get home before Lisa realizes she’s hungry for more than that pacifier.”
“But we haven’t finished our discussion,” Rose persisted.
“Oh, we will. Most definitely. For now,” she said, doggedly ignoring the silent distress signals Rose was sending, “hold this thought. From my mouth to God’s ear, and in record time.” She grinned and glanced upward. “Thank you, Gramma Viola.”
Then she was gone.
Griff glanced around, frowning. “Who’s Gramma Viola?’
Rose shook her head. “It’s…complicated.”
He nodded.
She stood there.
Alone. With Hollis Griffin. Just where she did not want to be. Devora’s nephew or no, the man was insufferable, unfriendly and tasteless. And she hadn’t been able to get him off her mind for the past two days, eight hours and sixteen minutes. Give or take a few hours of sleep here and there.
And not, it pained her to admit, simply because he had stolen her hydrangeas. Some inner sense warned that nothing would ever be simple with Griffin, and simple was how she liked things.
So why couldn’t she stop thinking about the man?
It was ridiculous. And aggravating.
“So,” she said, folding her arms across her chest for much the same reason medieval warriors raised drawbridges: to protect against invaders. He might be wearing khaki slacks and a white shirt, sleeves rolled and neck open, but Rose saw battle armor. “Talk.”
Yeah, Griff, talk, he ordered himself. That’s why you finally broke down and came here, isn’t it? Isn’t it?
Yes, he assured himself firmly. He was here because he needed the woman’s help. Period. Nothing more or less. He was, well, in a word, desperate.
“Look,” he began, shoving one hand in his pocket, then taking it out again. “About the other day…the way I left…I’m not usually that…”
“Sensitive?” she suggested, green eyes full of enjoyment.
“Exactly.” He presented her with a smile that was both grudging and self-derisive. “I realize I was way out of line, especially after you went out of your way to be friendly and make me feel welcome and all. And I just want to say I’m…”
“Sorry?” she helped out again.
He nodded, relieved. “Right. I’m sorry.”
“No problem.” Her mouth curved into a teasing smile. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t trying to offend you. I just call ’em like I see ’em.”
“Yeah. Right,” Griff muttered, preferring not to explore it any further.
“Of course, even I can be wrong.”
“What does that mean? That now you don’t think I’m sensitive?”
“What I think is that I should keep what I think about you to myself from now on.”
“Fine with me. So…truce?”
“Truce. Is that what you wanted to talk about?”
“More or less,” he hedged. He cleared his throat. “But not exactly. I also came to see you because I…” In spite