Loved Me Once (Love, Romance and Business) Page 8

  Against her will, she found herself recalling the face of Dr. Sherrill five years earlier as he'd given her the diagnosis of her mother's condition, naming the dreaded name, admitting its seriousness, but expressing relief that at least Mrs. McLaurin could remain in her home. "It makes all the difference," he'd said. "She's holding her own now. If you institutionalize her, I'd anticipate that within a year she won't even recognize you, and it'll be a distressing year for her." That certainly wasn't what her father had meant when he asked her to look after her mother.

  She felt like crying or screaming or something. What she didn't feel like any longer was lying here and having her skin rejuvenated by the lightfingered Mindy. It was too bizarre. She knew that in a resort like Lake View Lodge this service was costing Bill Holmes, well WHT, at least $150. She should relax and enjoy it, but the contrast was too great, to be here in this luxurious place, with that kind of money being spent on something not strictly necessary, when she ought to be in her room, plotting her next move. She squirmed involuntarily, and Mindy jerked her hands away.

  "Are you uncomfortable?" she asked anxiously. "Did I hurt you?"

  "No, no, I just remembered something, that's all. Something I need to do."

  "No point in that," Mindy said sensibly, resuming the deft strokes. "This facial takes seventy-five minutes. We're only twenty minutes into it. That leaves fifty-five minutes. The time's not going to get any longer or shorter. So you might as well just relax and take a nap, 'cause you can't do anything while you're lying here. And there's no point in obsessing on what you can't be doing. That's like paying interest on money you haven't borrowed, as one of my teachers used to say."

  For some reason, in spite of everything, the homily — though undoubtedly true — struck Maggie as humorous, and she giggled.

  "That's better," Mindy said. "You just lie there and think about something pleasant and let Mindy's fingers take all that strain out of your face. You're too pretty to look as stressed out as you do right now."

  It was, Maggie knew, just the kind of comment that a professional expecting a good gratuity would offer. Still, at least it was positive, and she could use as much positive as she could get. As for thinking about something pleasant, there was the dinner with Miles to look forward to. But should she? She reviewed, yet again, the reasons not to: lousy track record with men, at least romantically; risk of losing Miles' friendship, which had come to matter to her; and a personal complication she didn't need now on top of everything else. But why had seeing him affected her in the way that it had? She'd felt like a kid with a crush. But Miles, now? It was as if the setting had been changed on a pair of binoculars and she was looking at him with newly focused eyes. But why? Most especially, why now? She supposed she would at least go to dinner. No harm in that. No harm at all . . .

  And then, amazingly, she did fall into a kind of nap, of which she became aware only when Mindy gently tapped her shoulder at the end of the treatment.

  The hand-and-foot-care facility was at the end of the corridor. Mindy opened the door, explaining that Edna would be waiting for her. Edna was, but she wasn't alone. A petite, but bosomy, thirtyish woman was berating the red-faced manicurist.

  "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard, and if you think I'm paying for a job half done, you are mistaken."

  "But Miss Broad, it's exactly what you asked for, at least to the extent possible. I explained at the beginning that there wouldn't be time to do the Louboutin finish."

  The well-groomed client sighed heavily as she theatrically held out the crimson-tipped fingers of her hands and examined the underside of the nails. "I should have known better than to expect what I'm accustomed to here." Her tone was deliberately offensive, the words drawn out in an odd accent that sounded Northeastern overlaid with some softer pronunciation. Maggie looked at her more closely. Well-dressed in a casual corporate style, well-coiffed, with immaculate makeup, she was a type Maggie had often encountered professionally — East Coast tough combined with West Coast entitlement. "I am not happy." Her glare shifted from her hands to the unfortunate Edna, who capitulated.

  "Well, if you'd like to make a follow-up appointment, I'll see what I can do," Edna said, "but Miss McLaurin is waiting for me now."

  The complainer cast an irritated look at Maggie, then turned back to Edna.

  "I don't know how long we'll be here. Anyway, I haven't time to discuss this further now. Just don't expect a tip from me."

  She strode out, anger in the set of her shoulders. Mindy, who had lingered, probably to see if assistance were needed in placating the angry client, looked at Edna, who shrugged. Then the two of them grinned. Realizing that Maggie had noticed their inappropriate reaction, Mindy explained.

  "A 20 percent gratuity is automatically added to every bill, so she's tipping anyway, whatever she thinks. They would have explained it to her at the time the booking was made, but she probably didn't listen. The tip will show up on her bill."

  "On her boss's bill," Edna said. "She made sure to let me know that she flew in with him."

  The two spa employees exchanged another look, then Mindy excused herself and Edna set to work on Maggie.

  Forty minutes later, skin glowing, nails gleaming a brilliant shade of red, Maggie stopped at the desk. "Do you need anything else from me? Also, I understand about the automatically added gratuity, and I want to make sure that both Mindy and Edna will receive the usual amount."

  "You're good to go," the spa desk clerk told her. "The usual gratuities will be added to the accounts that booked the service, which I see are WHT and Mr. Beverly's house account. All I need from you is a confirmation that the appointment for the other service that WHT booked is acceptable. It's for Friday at 1 p.m. — you're to get a hot stone massage."

  "I'll have to check my seminar schedule," Maggie told her, "but it sounds fine. I'll call you if it isn't."

  "Two gift services," The desk clerk said approvingly. "Someone at WHT must be a fan of yours."

  "Yes, well . . . " Maggie let her voice trail away as she turned and went out the door.

  Back in her room, she quickly unpacked her bag. She'd done seminars so much that she essentially brought a series of uniforms: two pant suits with two shirts or blouses for each; low-key dinner dress with just enough shape and décolletage to keep it from looking too institutional; jeans and a blazer; and a couple of extra pairs of shoes, one for the dress, one for the jeans. She walked to the full-length mirror and held up the dress — it was simple, but at least she'd brought the black velvet, which was slightly more festive. Leaving the dress on the hanger, she carried it into the bathroom, closed the door, and hung it on the robe hook so it could steam while she showered. Ordinarily, she would have called downstairs before she went to the spa and asked for it to be pressed, but she'd been too distracted by the events of the day and now there wasn't time.

  She turned the shower nozzle to the hardest spray, the temperature so hot that the air began to steam almost immediately, and stood under the blistering flow, letting it cascade over her head and body. Done, she toweled her hair, then dried it at the maximum temperature on the high-wattage hand-held she carried with her. Her hair was so long and thick that using the standard models provided by most hotels took forever. Her dress had a sewn-in slip, so lingerie, never a particular interest of hers, was minimal — the special bra that the dress required and a pair of cobweb-patterned tights with built-in lacy thong. Her makeup was even more minimal — touch of shadow around her eyes, bright red lip, touch of blush on the high cheekbones.

  Then she slipped the velvet sheath over her head, zipped, and stood before the mirror. It was acceptable, probably not as au courant as what would have been worn in similar circumstances by the demanding Miss Broad who'd so irritated Edna at the spa, but okay. She slipped on the basic black suede slingbacks and looked again. Better.

  Not too shabby for someone whose world was trying to come to an end, she thought, or for someone about to do something pos
sibly very stupid. Or not, it suddenly struck her. For almost two years Miles Brewster had followed her around like a lovesick puppy, and that was how she had treated him when she was in the mood to let him hang around and buy her lunches and dinners. At best, she'd seen him as the dopey kid brother of a friend, someone she liked but could never take seriously. It had been obvious that he wanted something more from her, but he'd never actually articulated it. So why did she think he would behave any differently tonight, at least unless she made it very clear that her attitude toward him had undergone a rather puzzling change, and now she, too, was reasonably sure she would like something more?

  She sat down on the end of the bed, suddenly almost dizzy. Why couldn't she just call him up and say, "I know what you want and now I want it too" – that would get the whole thing out in the open. But she knew she could never do that. She didn't disapprove of women who could (in fact, she rather envied them), but she lacked the courage or perhaps simply the experience. She stood up and made a face in the mirror. She was a gutless wonder; and, because of that, they would have yet another of the pleasant meals, make yet more pleasant small talk, he would look at her longingly then give her a brief kiss on the cheek, and they would each go their separate ways, she to her seminar and Miles to whatever it was that he was really doing here. In the years, or months, or weeks, ahead he would continue to show up in unexpected places — always impeccable in manner, dress and conversation — until one day she would realize he hadn't shown for a while, and that would be that, and she would never know for sure what might have happened if she had been more confident or braver or whatever it was that she needed to be.

  She sighed and removed the black clutch that normally stayed inside her briefcase, checked to make sure she had her key card, and walked toward the elevator, her heart pounding. It occurred to her that Miss Broad, of the elevated nail-care expectations, would almost certainly know how to handle this.

  Miles And His Unsuspected Talents

  She saw Miles before he was aware of her. He was standing next to the reception desk, talking earnestly to a hotel employee. He'd changed, as had she, and she stood quietly for a moment, admiring his sartorial splendor: the single-breasted dinner jacket of a black wool so soft in appearance that she suspected it might be cashmere, the white linen shirt, the deep-red paisley waistcoat, the bow tie of black grosgrain . . . That was as far as she got when she realized that he'd seen her and was coming toward her. "Sorry to keep you waiting," he said, his expression more serious than usual. "You're looking lovely."

  "You're looking lovelier," she assured him. "This is my working evening uniform. You definitely outshine me."

  "That's unlikely, but thanks," he said shortly. "I understand they're ready for us, so shall we go?"

  de rigueurfor any room at Lake View Lodge that was larger than a closet — in which a fire burned nicely. A handsome garland of varicolored poinsettias and evergreens draped the mantel. The candles in the pair of multi-armed candelabra on the linen-hung table were lit. The only surprising thing was the table itself. Instead of the table settings, wine cooler, and other eating accoutrements that would normally be found in such a place, there were only two pads, each with a pen neatly atop it, laid before chairs that directly faced each other across the narrow part of the table. It was a game, Maggie thought. Miles had devised some sort of game that he thought would amuse her, so she said nothing when he held out the nearer of the chairs for her, then went around to the other side and sat down.

  He looked at her for a long moment, head slightly tilted. He seemed increasingly serious, his mood anything but playful.

  "Is something wrong?" she finally asked.

  "In a way," he said. "How long have we known each other?"

  "A couple of years," she said.

  "One year, ten months, fourteen days," he corrected her. "In all that time, have you ever looked at me?"

  "Well, of course, I have," she protested. "We've spent hours together. We must have had dozens of meals, and you've taken me to . . . "

  "What I mean is have you ever really looked at me? At me, not just a potential client of your firm or a restaurant scout or a useful male to have around? You seem to be laughing at me most of the time. Is that how you really feel?"

  "What on earth are you talking about?" She was beginning to get nervous. He looked so different, almost grim.

  "Let me put it another way. The entire time I've known you, I've done everything to get your attention short of throwing my body across the nearest puddle and inviting you to use me as a footbridge."

  "But you do that with all the girls, women, you meet, don't you? Your reputation is . . . I mean . . . "

  "No, I don't do that with all the girls," he jumped up and began to pace around as if he had to do something physical or explode. "I certainly don't follow other women around from city to city, trying to find diversions to entertain them. I don't send them flowers on every possible occasion. I don't worry about them when they look as if they've had a hard day, and I don't get jealous if they look happy and I think it might have something to do with someone other than me, and if you think I do . . . " His voice trailed away, and he looked at her helplessly.

  She didn't know what to say, and so said nothing.

  He sat down again, and leaned across the table. "Hell, I may as well just put it out there, and I don't want you to say anything until I'm done. I am in love with you. I think I have been in love with you since the first minute I laid eyes on you. When I'm with you, I can't think of anything else. When, I'm not with you, I can't think of anything else. I go to sleep thinking of you. I wake up thinking of you." He stopped and shook his head, waiting for a reaction she wasn't sure she knew how to give.

  "I can't go on like this," he continued finally. "Even though I thought it was the only way to get close to you, the indirect approach doesn't seem to have made any progress, so I've decided to go at it in the most-direct way I know. We're going to put this in your terms, and have a seminar – call it a relationship seminar. I'm going to tell you why I think we should get married, then you can tell me why you think we shouldn't, then we can negotiate a compromise. The pads are in case anyone feels the need to take notes."

  "But . . . "

  "Me first. We should get married because: (1) I adore you; (2) I will take care of you and cherish you and see that no harm comes to you that I can fight off; (3) you're the only person I've ever wanted to slay dragons for; (4) I value you; I not only think you're the most-beautiful woman in the room — any idiot can see that — but also that you're usually the smartest and always the nicest; (5) I can't imagine a future that could be happy without you in it; (6) I adore you; and (7) if you give me a chance, I can make you happy — I know I can, I feel it in my bones. As for my personal qualifications, I'm honest, good-natured, and reasonably clever. I have a B.A. in economics from Penn and an MBA from Wharton. I enjoy my work in the family business — although I'll admit that my following you around has seriously interfered with it. I have one sister and one brother, both happily married, and an assortment of various nieces and nephews. My mother — who approves of what I've told her about you, incidentally — says I have a good sense of humor. I don't have any significant personal baggage — no failed relationships of a serious nature, no arrest record, no problems with controlled or uncontrolled substances, nothing in short that would give a sensible woman pause for thought. Your turn."

  He finished so abruptly that Maggie, whose face felt frozen with shock, was thrown off balance. She'd been ready to confess that she was now interested in him, but this was totally unexpected.

  "Your turn," he repeated, and she threw caution to the winds, letting herself take the assignment literally.

  "We shouldn't get married because I'm older than you, so if children matter to you . . . "

  "I know exactly how old you are. I don't care. I have plenty of nieces and nephews, and my mother has plenty of grandchildren," he said dismissively. "If children are in the car
ds, fine. If not, I'm fine with that too."

  "I've never had a successful personal relationship," she said. "They all seem to end badly. I'm not sure I'm capable of a good relationship."

  "That's because you've never been in love," he said confidently.

  "Well, actually, I was," she admitted, "a long time ago. I was just a girl, and I was clueless."

  "What happened?" he asked abruptly, eyes narrowing.

  "He broke my heart. He dumped me," she said bluntly. "He was a little older, and I guess I wasn't interesting enough once the fun and games got old."

  "Unlikely," Miles said succinctly. "He must have been an idiot. How long did it take you to get over it?"