She didn’t even know Crash owned a car. It was a sturdy Lincoln, not at all the kind of car she’d have pictured him having. It was the kind of car a man with a wife and four children would use, the kind of car that would go to church and PTA meetings and library lectures. Not that any of that mattered. She was glad she didn’t have to ride home on the back of the Harley. She was grateful for the spacious front seat that allowed her to hug the door on her side without having so much as the hem of her skirt touch him.
It was a silent drive home, and all the way she prayed Maxie wouldn’t be waiting up for her. She prayed that she’d be able to hold back her tears until she could gain the safety of the narrow bed in the guest bedroom.
Then she planned to cry till next Tuesday. Or maybe longer. Maybe she’d never stop.
The only time Crash spoke to her was to ask directions.
“Maxwell Street,” she said. “The yellow house.”
He parked out front, then came around to open her door. He didn’t offer his hand, and she didn’t touch him. They didn’t even say good-bye.
It was just as well. If she’d had to tell him good-bye, she’d have cried right there on the street, right in front of Crash and the neighbors and God and everybody.
A lamp burned in the den, and Maxie sat curled in her pink chair, sewing glasses on the end of her nose and a piece of needlepoint in her lap. She glanced up from her sewing when B. J. came through the door.
“What in the world? You look like you’ve been run over by a Mack truck or worse.”
“Worse.” B. J. took off her shoes and walked toward her bedroom in stocking feet. “‘Night, Maxie.”
“Wait a minute. You can’t just go to bed and leave me hanging. Where did you go? I saw Crash follow you out. Were you with him?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Maxie had a sixth sense that told her when not to argue. She picked up her needlework and started stitching with a fury.
B. J. looked at her sister curled in the plush chair like a doll somebody had forgotten to put to bed. When they were little, B. J. was the one who had tucked her in. Maxie wouldn’t go to sleep without telling everything that had happened to her that day. She had a knack for making each event seem like the most fascinating adventure or the most horrible crisis in the world.
After she’d finished a recital of her day, she would cock her head to one side, look at B. J. with her big blue eyes and say, “Now, tell your day.”
They had held nothing back from each other. But they were no longer children. Life was no longer simple.
Her stockings made a swishing sound on the carpet, the bedroom seemed a million miles away, and suddenly B. J. needed the comfort and security of a familiar routine.
“Maxie.”
Maxie took one look at her, then raced out of the chair to embrace B. J.
“Come over here.” Maxie led her to the sofa, then sat down beside her and caressed her hair as if she were a child. “It’s going to be all right.”
B. J. leaned into her sister. “I want to tell my day,” she whispered.
The sisters looked at each other, then Maxie grinned.
“Is this going to be a long story?”
“A very long story.”
“I’ll make tea.”
Tears pushed their way to the surface, and B. J. didn’t even try to stop them. Maxie came back with two cups of tea and a box of tissues. B. J. sobbed through the entire first cup.
Maxie refilled their cups, then sat in her pink chair and took up her needlepoint.
“Talk whenever you’re ready,” she said.
“What are you making?” B. J. asked.
Maxie held up the needlework. Take the risk and the angels come was stitched in bright pink, and around the slogan danced fairies and elves in leaf hats, cats and dogs in tutus, elephants and zebras in garlands and crowns, all in vivid, glow-in-the-dark colors. It had all the hallmarks of a Maxie original.
“For you,” she said. “For the nursery.”
B. J. pressed the tissue over her mouth to stifle a sob, then blew her nose and took a long sip of tea.
“There’s not going to be a nursery—not now, not ever.”
“Things can’t be that bad.”
“I’ve made a complete mess of my life. I’ve lost everything that was important to me.”
“You’re probably overreacting. I know you’re older and wiser and smarter than I am, but you do tend to overreact, B. J.”
“If you’re going to sit there and pass judgment, I’m going to bed where I can wallow in my misery in peace.”
B. J. slammed the cup into the saucer with the intent of stalking off, then broke out in a fresh gale of weeping.
“Good grief.” Maxie went to the kitchen and came back with another box of tissues and a plate of brownies.
“Here, chocolate always makes me feel better.” Maxie passed the plate, and B. J. took two. “I’m going to horsewhip that man. What did he do to you, B. J.?”
“That’s just the problem. He didn’t do anything.”
“Nothing?”
“Not what I wanted, at least.”
Maxie completely lost interest in her brownie. “No, you didn’t. Don’t tell me you decided to use Crash as the father of your baby.”
“It was horrible, absolutely horrible.”
“Was he that bad?”
“No! He was magnificent.”
“Magnificent?”
“Oh, Maxie.” Her sister’s name came out as a wail.
“What in the world happened?”
B. J. blew her nose. It was time to face the truth.
“I tried to use the man I love,” she whispered.
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Are we talking about the same man? The one you met in the mountains? The one you scathingly refer to as Tarzan on a Harley?”
She remembered how he’d first looked on his Harley, like a magnificent beast in need of taming. Was that the moment she fell in love with him? Or was it the night she’d wallowed on him naked then stood in the rain with him cuddling a frazzled little puppy? Or was it when he’d kissed her in his judicial robe? Surely it was before tonight, for the moment he’d touched her she knew, knew without a shadow of a doubt that only one man could possibly feel so perfect—the man she loved. He hadn’t merely penetrated her body; he’d penetrated her heart and soul. And she’d wanted him as she’d never wanted another man. True, she’d begged for him, but not merely because she’d wanted a baby. Too late she’d realized she wanted to be a part of him, wanted him to be a part of her.
Because of love. Only because of love.
“He’s magical, Maxie,” she whispered. “And I never knew I loved him until it was too late.”
“It’s never too late, B. J.”
“Yes, it is.”
Maxie passed the plate once more.
“Have another brownie. If you really love him, we’ll think of a way to get him back. Tomorrow we’ll come up with a plan.”
Looking down at her outrageous red dress and sexy shoes, B. J. felt like a woman waking from a bad dream. First she’d tried to turn herself into an outdoors type and then she’d tried to turn herself into a vamp.
“I’m through with plans, Maxie. I’m through playing games. From now on, I’m going to be myself.”