A Man for Megan Page 8

  One moment, one man, and her life had changed, been altered forever. She walked to the door and opened it, all the while, giving thanks, silent and strong.

  GINO SWUNG FORWARD and back, side to side. He was trying to shake off the ladybug tickling him as she made her way up his left lacy frond. He was also trying to get a better view of Megan seated below on the wicker couch. There she was. She looked spectacular. She leaned toward the coffee table, and his view was blocked by Elliot sitting beside her. He hoped she wasn’t going to peek beneath her cocktail napkin again. He twisted to the left to get a better view. Some water from the bottom of the plastic planter sloshed out over the side.

  Elliot’s mother patted the tight bulge of her French twist. “Are we supposed to get rain this afternoon?”

  Elliot turned to his mother, then looked beyond her to the cloudless summer sky showing through the screened porch walls. Past the jut of Elliot’s Adam’s apple, Gino saw Megan holding high her glass, peering up through its bottom.

  “I don’t think the weatherman called for rain?” Elliot said. “Do you, Megan?”

  Megan looked at Elliot and his mother from behind the amber filter of her glass now two inches from her nose. She quickly set her drink down. “Anything’s possible.”

  “Is there something wrong with your iced tea?” Elliot’s mother asked.

  “No, not at all.” Megan took a large gulp. “Mmm, delicious. Is this freshly brewed?”

  Get a grip, girl, Gino thought. The macramé hanger holding the plastic planter slowly turned him away from Megan. He heard Elliot’s mother say, “Of course. Is it strong enough or, perhaps, you prefer something stronger?”

  “Something stronger?” Megan sounded confused.

  The planter completed its revolution until Gino faced Megan once more. She was shredding her cocktail napkin.

  “I’ve got wine,” Elliot’s mother said, “and I think there’s still a bottle of whiskey around here somewhere that Mr. Barford, God rest his soul, liked to take a nip from now and again when he thought I wasn’t looking.”

  Living with this broad, I bet Mr. Barford took a lot of nips, Gino thought as the planter started to turn again.

  “I don’t drink, Dolores.”

  “No? You’re not just saying that for my benefit, are you, dear?”

  Hello, Elliot, did you go to sleep? I don’t care if she did give birth to your hairless butt, your mother is crucifying our gal here. And will you stop that? Gino snarled up at the beaded, macramé hanger as it twisted to the left. I’m getting dizzy.

  The plant hanger stopped moving. And Elliot, as if he’d also heard Gino’s thoughts, said, “The Breathalyzer test Megan took was completely negative.”

  Gino set the plant hanger back in motion, spinning until Elliot came back into sight. Elliot’s mother and Megan were also staring at the man in stupefaction.

  “Breathalyzer test?” Dolores questioned. Her gaze moved to Megan.

  She’s going to marry this pork chop? Gino wondered. His fronds shook with disbelief.

  Megan’s features were frozen like an animal caught in the headlights. “It’s really quite amusing,” she said.

  “Amuse me then,” Dolores said. Her face had a shiny, brittle look.

  “It’s not like it sounds,” Elliot explained. “Megan was coming home late last night—”

  “From work,” Megan quickly added.

  Elliot nodded. “Right. From work, and she ran off the road, nothing serious, thank goodness, my girl here is still all in one piece,” he said in one big breath. He patted Megan’s hand, which was clenching the shredded napkin. She gave him a halfhearted smile. “And the police gave Megan a Breathalyzer test.”

  Between tight lips, Dolores uttered one word: “Why?”

  Now Elliot had the frozen-fear look on his face. He turned to Megan. “Why?” he said, his tone indicating the question hadn’t occurred to him before.

  Oh, my Megan, I mean, my master. Gino quickly corrected himself. The pot moved in a sympathetic sway. He had never gotten personally involved with his masters. In his line, it would only complicate matters, and frankly, he’d never been drawn that way toward the others. Maybe he was getting sentimental in his old age; maybe it was because Megan was his last master. Maybe it was the way her hands, knotted in her lap, looked so small and delicate. Maybe it was all those things and more that made him want to transform into human shape and take her by those tiny hands away from Elliot and his hideous mother.

  But it wouldn’t be the right thing—not for Megan, not for him. He was already too involved, and as he knew from his father’s example, a partnership between humans and his kind only brought pain. He could give Megan two more wishes. And nothing else.

  So, he stayed in vegetation shape. The pot swung slowly side to side, and Gino waited, like Elliot and his mother, for Megan’s answer.

  “I’m sure it’s standard procedure.” Megan took a sip of her iced tea. When she swallowed, she made a short, strangled sound.

  “Standard?” Dolores interrogated. “To accuse someone of drunk driving? There must have been a reason.”

  “It was Saturday night,” Elliot rationalized.

  “Yes, and I’d been weaving down the road for…” Megan’s voice went low as she listened to her words. “About a mile,” she finished saying quietly. “I was very tired.”

  Elliot’s mother stared at her, unconvinced.

  “I’d worked three shifts in two days.”

  “That damn factory,” Elliot muttered. “It’ll kill us all.”

  “It provided a roof over our heads and food on the table for seventeen years,” his mother noted.

  “Until it sent Pop to an early grave.”

  “No, until you got out of the army and took your father’s place on the floor. Crelco’s been good to this family. Already you’re a manager,” Elliot’s mother said pointedly.

  “No, Mom, I’m in waste management. It’s not quite the same. But don’t worry. I’m not going to end up like Pop, dead at forty-three from working sixty-five hours a week. And what about you? Thirty-two years of service at the garment mill.”

  “O’Reilly’s treated me well.”

  “Until the arthritis you got from sewing their damn stretch pants prevented you from keeping up. Then what’d you get? A cake, six months unemployment and two hands that hurt you so bad, you can’t tie your apron on in the morning.”

  Elliot let go of Megan’s hand and reached for his mother’s, gently pulling them out from beneath the folds of her dress where she always hid them.

  He took the curled, misshapen fingers in his. “That’s not going to happen to me… or my wife. We’ll all live here, at first, but it won’t be long, I promise. We’ll all move to a bigger house, a Colonial with real brick steps and maybe one of those little huts you always talked about, what were they called, Mom?”

  Elliot’s mom indulged him with a smile. “A gazebo.”

  Elliot released his mother’s hands and sat back against the couch cushions, his arms spread like wings along its pillowed back. “A gazebo,” he said to the air, the word sounding like an incantation as it rolled off his tongue.

  Dolores stood up, her hands returning to the soft pleats of her skirt. “I’d better check the roast. Elliot hates it well-done,” she confided to Megan. She patted her son’s head as she passed him.

  “What would you like in your house, Megan?” Elliot smiled, still caught in the spirit of his imagination. “A marble fireplace in the bedroom? A walk-in closet? A bathroom with a whirlpool tub and one of those separate French toilets?”

  Megan wriggled a smile, but she didn’t speak until after the back door closed and Dolores went into the house.

  “Elliot?”

  “Mmm?” he answered from somewhere in his fantasy.

  She put her hand on his arm, trying to get his attention. “Your mother? She’s going to live with us?”

  The back door opened, and Dolores sailed into the small, screened roo
m. “Won’t be but a few minutes longer. I was able to save the roast. No small feat, considering how late you were.” She looked at Megan with direct disapproval.

  From above, Gino rustled his leaves indignantly. He’d slain two-headed beasts, brought one-eyed giants to their knees, wrestled with fire-breathing gargoyles and emerged the victor. But how did one deal with a sharp-tongued mother-in-law?

  “Elliot,” his mother said as she reached up to Gino’s pot. “Did I tell you Harriet’s daughter is back for a visit?” She poked her fingers into Gino’s soil.

  Hey, lady, you don’t know me that well.

  “No, you didn’t mention it, Mom.”

  “She just completed her residency at Mount Sinai. Such a brilliant girl. She asked about you, of course.” The older woman pulled off several yellowed leaves.

  Watch it! Those are still attached, you know.

  Dolores turned away from the fern. “She was crushed when I told her you were engaged.”

  She started to sit down, but not before Gino shifted his weight, tilting the pot so a stream of water fell, forming a small pool onto the seat cushion. Dolores sat down, then shot up.

  “Mom, what’s wrong?” Elliot stood up, immediately at her side.

  “This seat!” She turned around and looked down. “It’s soaked.”

  “Are you sure it’s not still damp from the night air?” Elliot felt the cushion. “Did it rain early this morning? Maybe we have a leak in the roof. Take my seat.”

  Dolores settled in next to Megan who was intently checking out each corner of the ceiling.

  “I better take a quick look at the roof.” Elliot started toward the side door.

  “It’s almost time to eat,” his mother protested.

  “It’ll only take a minute.” He was gone.

  Megan’s gaze dropped from the ceiling to Elliot’s mother. She fashioned a smile.

  Dolores half smiled back. Megan folded her hands in her lap. Dolores’s were knotted beneath the folds of her dress.

  “Kimberly, Harriet’s daughter, was Elliot’s girlfriend for years and years, but then, he probably told you all about that.”

  Megan kept smiling that silly smile.

  “You probably even know her. Tall girl with long, blond hair, homecoming queen, class president, class valedictorian. Wait a minute. I have her and Elliot’s picture when they were crowned the royal couple at the senior prom.”

  The overly bright smile stayed on Megan’s face until Dolores left the room. Then, Gino saw it slip away, leaving only sadness on his master’s face. His carefully reasoned objectivity fell away just as quickly.

  “Here it is.” Dolores came back into the room, carrying a gilt-framed photo. “Aren’t they a beautiful couple? Everyone thought they’d be married,” she was saying when there was a knock at the front door.

  Dolores looked up. “Who could that be? Here, hold this.” She handed Megan the picture as she stood up.

  Megan stared at the attractive couple in her hands—Elliot, his handsomeness tempered with the softness of youth; Kimberly, as delicately bloomed as a white magnolia. They smiled forever, rhinestone crowns perched on their heads, wholly the center of their own universe.

  Megan had left school at sixteen to support herself. She’d earned her general equivalency diploma nights at the community college. There’d been no proms, no homecomings, no senior skip days, no such lovely foolishness. But she had worn a dress like this once, and she had stood with a man and looked as blissfully, invulnerably happy. It had been just this afternoon in her very own bedroom with Gino by her side.

  From inside the house, came a shriek, followed by the theme from the “Phantom of the Opera.” Megan rushed into the house, leaving Elliot and Kimberly behind.

  From the front hall, she heard Elliot’s mother ask, “What’re you doing? Stop that!” The overture was reaching its height of power.

  Megan rounded the staircase, first only seeing the back of Dolores as she stood in the foyer, still holding the front door open. “You can’t do that in here, young man,” she was saying.

  Megan maneuvered a few steps closer until she could see over Dolores’s tall shoulder. In the past twenty-four hours, she’d thought nothing could surprise her anymore.

  She was wrong.

  In the middle of the living room’s red shag rug, a man stood, now shimmying, now bumping and grinding in a full-length black satin cape and white half-mask. And almost nothing else.

  Megan moved past Dolores until she stood in front of her. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  The man winked at her with his one unmasked eye. The music quieted, rendering the room a restful interlude. The cape slipped from the man’s shoulders, and like the music, the women became quiet.

  He came toward them, pure physical form unfettered. Pride carried the strong, sculpted line of his shoulders, the rise of his rib cage, the lean length of his torso. Strength was in each step of his muscled thighs, each pulsing curve of his calves. He passed Megan, so close his ambergris air washed over her, barely touching her before moving on, making her yearn for more of his sweet scent.

  She wanted to fill her every sense with him, gaze on his physical form until her eyes watered with the pure unreal beauty of him. She ached to touch the smooth, brown length of his skin, to know where it stretched firm over muscle, where it loosened and became soft and vulnerable.

  She could almost taste him now, a mixture of rich, exotic flavors, spicy on the tongue so the taste lingered. Hours later, she would only have to lick her lips to feel his full flavor inside her.

  She tried to close her eyes as he passed, afraid her need would be naked in her eyes, but the darkness, coupled with the erotic perfume of him, made her dizzy. She opened her eyes.

  This was desire. It had destroyed men, brought countries to war, toppled thrones.

  And now Megan knew why.

  The half-masked man took Dolores’s hand from beneath its cover of cloth and led her to the center of the room. A tango began on the portable stereo in the corner. He uncovered her other hand and swung her into his arms, pulling her tight against his body and bringing his cheek to hers.

  They began to dance, Elliot’s mother, at first, stiff, awkward, reluctant; the man, soothing, patient, staring into her eyes until her steps matched his and her body stayed tight against his even when he loosened his hold.

  “What the hell is going on here?”

  Both women had completely forgotten about Elliot until now. He stood behind Megan, his face a mottled red color. His mother and Megan turned to him. The music stopped.

  “Who the hell is that? Where the hell did he go?”

  Megan and Dolores turned back to see that Elliot was right. The man had disappeared.

  “Elliot, stop swearing,” his mother said, her cheeks still a young girl’s pink. “It was just some sort of singing telegram, I believe.” She looked at Megan for confirmation. “He must have run out the back. You probably scared the pants off him.”

  “His pants were already off him, Mom.”

  Dolores sat down in a vinyl La-Z-Boy and fanned her face with her hands. “It was obviously a prank. The girls in my bridge club must have put him up to it. Or maybe he was at the wrong house.” Her head fell back against the swell of the chair. She smiled up at the ceiling. “Who knows?”

  “Mom?”

  “What, Elliot?” She was becoming annoyed.

  “Your hands,” he answered in amazement.

  He walked toward her. She looked down and wriggled fingers, once gnarled and twisted, now completely flexible. She squeezed them into fast little knots, then stretched them until the lines across the palm pulled tight. Her hands took Elliot’s and held them tight.

  “The pain’s gone. It’s a miracle.”

  “Who was that man?” Elliot looked at his mother.

  But it was Megan who knew the answer.

  ELLIOT COULD NOT STOP talking about the incident. By the time they reached Megan’s house, the he
adache she had originally invented to explain her quietness had become real.

  She waited until Elliot had pulled out of the driveway, and his car was out of sight before she walked to her own car and started the engine. She pulled smoothly out of the driveway, not even veering an inch when Gino appeared beside her and said, “Rather interesting afternoon. I haven’t had that much fun since the chorus girls’ convention in Vegas.”

  Megan checked right and left before pulling out into the street.

  “The tango I learned from Bobby Duvall, but I thought the phantom mask was a nice touch.”

  Megan stared straight ahead, concentrating on the road.

  “Not talking to me, I see. You’re mad, aren’t you?”

  Megan didn’t look at him, didn’t speak to him.

  “Well, could you, at least, tell me where we’re going?”

  Megan finally turned and looked at him. “To find the crock pot.”

  Chapter Six

  Neither driver nor rider spoke for three miles. Gino reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a wadded paper.

  “What do you know? The old gal slipped me her phone number.”

  Megan glanced at the wrinkled napkin on his lap. She saw it was blank. Her lips wanted to smile. She forced them into a sigh. “What exactly did you think you were doing back there? Did that little show have a point or do you just have an uncontrollable need for exhibition?”

  “An out-of-control exhibitionist? Mo?”

  “I’m serious, Gino.”

  “Was it that bad?”

  “You pranced into Elliot’s mother’s house in thong underwear and tangoed like some sort of demented Latin lover.”

  “That broad can take a pretty deep dip.” He was actually smiling. “Who’d ever thunk it?”

  She stepped down on the accelerator.

  “Do you always drive too fast?” he asked.

  “Not until I met you,” she answered between clamped teeth.

  “I’m a bad influence?”

  She sighed again. “I don’t know what you are. But I do know I can’t have you flaunting your, your…” She stuttered for a suitable word. “Charms all over Connecticut.”