“Dune Girl” is now free beach read

Ah, it’s summer! If you haven’t made it to the beach — yet — here’s a free read/beach reach/clean read from a point in my writing career at which I was experimenting with romance novels.

Here are the first 10 chapters, with more to follow in the next three days. 🙂

Dune Girl

copyright 2018

by Nora Edinger

This “first fruit” of fiction is for the One who made the dunes and brought a Dune Boy there to enjoy them with me.

Dear Reader,

Thank you for joining me in this book. The Indiana Dunes are a special place to me – the place where my husband of nearly 31 years and I fell in love. The Old Testament romance of Ruth and Boaz is also a special story, a classic. I hope you enjoy reading my combination of the two as much as I enjoyed writing it.

A business note: Some of the places mentioned in Dune Girl are real; some are entirely fictional; some are thinly disguised versions of real places. One real place, Mt. Baldy, is depicted as it delightfully was before life-threatening sinkholes caused the site to be closed to the public. The plot and the characters of Dune Girl, while loosely based on a biblical story, are products of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons or events is purely coincidental.

A couple of literary notes: If you are committed to “clean reads,” I can assure you that Dune Girl is one. Bear in mind, however, that the story of Ruth and Boaz is one of redemption. I’m asking that you give me the grace and time as a writer to get the character Maggie to that place in the story line. Along that line, all scripture references are from the King James Version of the Bible.

Joyful reading!

Nora

Dune Girl

Chapter 1

The first indication that Maggie Brady’s life was no longer in sync with The Plan came the moment Rosa’s baby bump entered her field of vision.

Just seconds prior, Maggie was a happy bride, giving her dress a last-minute check for rumpling and exchanging anxious looks with her dad. They waited for the music that would cue their entry to the sanctuary, differing from the generations of fathers and daughters that had come before them only by the handful of TV and newspaper cameras pointed their way. Fame – even the strange thing that is political fame — had its price.

Once past the doors, however, there was also the baby bump. That was certainly different. That, in fact, was enough to make Maggie stop dead near the back pew where a woman she knew only as Rosa stood quietly waiting. Waiting for Maggie, it seemed.

Waiting, lurking or whatever it was that this Rosa intended, Maggie obliged. She remained still, her eyes fastened on the young woman’s swollen middle. Weirdly, the laws of time and physics seemed to stop with her. It took a slice of eternity for Maggie’s eyes to travel up, up, up to the unspoken plea in the other woman’s chocolaty eyes, oddly puffy and red-rimmed just now. It took a few decades more to figure out what it all meant.

Words and images tumbled through Maggie’s brain. Top billing went to the clinch she had found Stephen and Rosa in at his office a few months ago. “It was a clear case of inappropriate conduct. I had to get rid of her,” Stephen had told Maggie when he “dismissed” Rosa — one of a fleet of paralegals employed in the Cook County Office of the Prosecuting Attorney — soon after.

He’d given Maggie jewelry the same afternoon as the clinch, somehow dismissing her suspicions. His great-great-grandmother’s pearls, he explained in a moment that had almost been like a TV commercial. He’d fiddled with the clasp, kissing the back of her neck gently in celebration when he’d finally gotten it secured. That is where the almost ended.

Stephen had pretty much spoiled the moment by recapping Maggie’s notorious history of losing various items – going all the way back to the flip phone that had wound up in the bottom of Lake Michigan one day when she had tagged along with her brother Ronan to go sailing with Stephen’s family. When she was 12.

“I don’t want these returning to the sea on your watch,” Stephen had laughed, kissing her on the lips this time. “Of course, you’re all grown up now.”

Of course.

That scene faded to black.

There was another. Strangely enough, it was an image of herself as a little girl. Maggie was looking up from the floor as her Grammy Kate read the Bible. “Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife … ” her grandmother read from the tattered volume whose words were so old-fashioned they fascinated Maggie, budding book worm that she was.

Leave.

Cleave

Wife…

This mish-mash of thoughts somehow led to a conclusion. And, it was such a doozy of one that Maggie swayed slightly as the truth began to settle around her. There was just the one, simple question left to ask. So, she did. “Stephen?” Maggie mouthed the word silently, now touching the pearls at her own neck and staring at an oddly similar set wrapped around Rosa’s throat.

Rosa nodded. It wasn’t a deceitful nod, or even a triumphant nod. It was a sad-but-true acknowledgement. A veteran of both a family that was steeped in Chicago politics and her own TV journalism career, Maggie was well equipped to tell the difference.

Hoo, boy.

Whatever had held the last few moments in slow motion abruptly fled. Her breath came in so quickly it nearly made her choke. Maggie looked down the aisle toward the front of the church. The man waiting there for her was clearly not the white-hatted good guy that she and everyone else had supposed him to be. She could no longer move. The deep breath still sustained her. That was a good thing. She couldn’t seem to take in any air, either.

A quiet, questioning murmur rose among the wedding guests who were nearest.

“What are you doing?” Maggie’s dad whispered in her ear, urging her forward by his grip on her elbow. “Keep moving.”

Maggie didn’t budge. Again, she looked past Rosa to the altar and saw that Stephen L. McCutcheon III, prosecutor par excellence, was headed swiftly her way. Her dream-like shock gave way to fury just as quickly.

You. Lying. Cheat.

Sure. Sure, he had “dismissed” Rosa. Sure, what Maggie had seen was an “unwanted advance” on Rosa’s part. It was all so clear now. Rosa might look like death warmed over at the moment for some reason, but she more often resembled Selena Gomez. “Unwanted advance?” Please.

How could I have ever been so stupid? And, what is this woman even doing at our wedding? Seated on the groom’s side?

“Maggie,” Stephen whispered sharply in her ear as he reached the three of them – or four of them to be more accurate. “This isn’t what you think.”

“I think it’s your baby, Stephen,” Maggie responded with equal sharpness and somewhat higher volume. Her green eyes flashed fire. “What do you think it is?”

“Hush.” Stephen hissed the word through his teeth, all the while smiling broadly at the guests around them. Maggie had seen her dad work many a room during his two terms as mayor of Chicago. But, she had never seen anything quite like this.

She watched Stephen in amazement. He was in full campaign mode. He patted her dad on the arm and shook another man’s hand. “Just some wedding jitters, folks,” he said to the crowd at large. He winked at a couple Maggie didn’t recognize. Then, back to her again, with a smile that would melt steel. “Come, my love. We’ll walk the aisle together,” he continued, once again at crowd-reaching volume.

She got it. He was being a McCutcheon and he expected her to be a Brady – to swallow her shock, to maintain their public personas, to launch The Plan. He knew what to do. She knew what to do. Yet, she couldn’t move. 

Go!

The sudden impulse vibrated through her very bones. But, Maggie still couldn’t move. She just looked at Stephen until his smile slowly disappeared like some kind of Chesire cat. With his volume at near zero, he leaned close to her ear. “Don’t make a scene out of this, darling. This … this is nothing.” With a nod to her dad, Stephen took Maggie by the other elbow and, finally acknowledging Rosa, motioned that woman back into the pew from which she’d strayed with his other hand. This, as Stephen had so blithely put it, was now sniffling back tears. And, that did it!

Plan schman.

Go!

The impulse, the command, the whatever it was came again. And, this time, Maggie heard and obeyed. She yanked her arms away from both Stephen and her dad. Then, she wheeled around to glare up into Stephen’s eyes and did the very thing he had just told her not to do.

“Don’t you ‘darling’ me, you, you….!” She couldn’t finish the sentence, although several quite colorful words came to mind. This was a church sanctuary, after all. Her grandmother had taught her better.

Maggie touched her pearls again. They were somehow choking her now, burning a ring right onto her skin like a cattle brand. The impulse came yet again.

Off!

So, Maggie took them off. The really fast way, although another slow-motion episode hit as the yank was completed.

Somehow, pearls were arcing gracefully through the air, bouncing off the suits and lacy dresses of wedding guests and onto the hard tile floor with the oddest little sounds. Plink, plink, plink. Stephen was reaching out. Was he trying to grab her? And, then, even more oddly, Maggie’s massive bouquet was high in the air and Stephen was slipping — tipping back, back, back, in fact. His arms were waving and white rose petals and stephanotis were showering them all in sleepy, snow-globe fashion.

Maggie’s brain returned to normal speed again, maybe even fast-forward speed, just as Stephen hit the floor with a startled, “oommmppphhh.”

Go!

“Maaaaggggggie,” he might have called as she hitched up several yards of the best couture Chicago had to offer, threw the trailing length over one arm and sprinted out the sanctuary door. Maggie wasn’t sure. His voice suddenly sounded like one of the adults in a Peanuts cartoon. “Whaa-whaa whaa, whaa whaaa.” Who knew what he was actually saying? Who cared?

“Maggie Brady,” reprimanded her dad as she all but flew down the church steps and into the street. “Come back here.” His voice was oddly clear in comparison to Stephen’s, but Maggie wasn’t listening.

Go!

OK. She was listening to that. She did go — as fast as her legs could carry her. Thank God for ballet flats. Maggie hated heels even though, at five-foot-four, she was petite in any kind of footwear compared to the standard of Stephen’s lanky frame. Strong legs. Blessedly flat shoes. She could really move in spite of the cling of the dress.

Of course, so could Stephen, who religiously ran exactly 45 minutes on a treadmill each morning. And, surprisingly, so could her dad. She caught a glimpse of both of their dark gray tuxes closing in on her as she darted around a corner, frantically looking for a way of escape.

If she were in her native Chicago, she would have known exactly where that way might be. As it was, Maggie was in a small Indiana beach town chosen for the wedding at the McCutcheons’ insistence – a surprise to her whole family given Stephen’s obvious political ambitions within the city and in the state of Illinois.

It was a heritage thing, Stephen had explained when her dad questioned the political wisdom of the decision. The McCutcheon’s triple-great-grandparent generation had somehow emigrated straight from Ireland to tiny Waverly Shores before the family’s meteoric rise as railroad industrialists eventually led them into the city. Chicago was home. But, there was still a family estate on the outskirts of Waverly Shores and that is where all – all — festivities took place. She imagined the caterer was there right about now, putting the finishing touches on the reception tables.

Not that she cared much about lobster this and beef that at the moment.

Go!

It was time to run, not think. And, she did. Down one street, then another. Through a library, nearly tripping on the snout of a book bag shaped like a teddy bear when she sprinted through a childrens’ story time. “Soooorrrrry,” Maggie called as mothers pulled their toddlers onto their laps and made what could only be called clucking sounds at her.

She ran out the back door. She ran into an alley. There, she hit a snag. Maggie looked straight ahead into the narrow passage just outside the door. Nothing. She looked right. Nothing. But, to the left, a light in a shop window caught her attention.

Go!

She went, jerking open the door and sending the cord of brass bells hanging there into a frenzy. And, that would be the moment that she — Maggie Brady, political royalty, television newscaster and Chicago A-lister for social events of every kind — came completely unhinged.

“Please hide me!” she cried to the man standing behind a large table rimmed with fierce-looking metal clamps. “Please!”

He was doing something to the wood laying there. The pale yellow chips that dotted his faded flannel shirt gave testament to that. Now, there was such a classic deer-in-the-headlights expression on his face Maggie almost laughed at how desperate and desperately out of place she must look. She didn’t laugh, however. There was nothing left inside of her but the cackle of a mad woman. She could feel it bubbling up in her chest even now.

The Plan, as she privately called her current starring role in her parents’ political agenda, was clearly out the window.

Chapter 2

Go!

The impulse was so strong it seemed to leap the divide between the two of them like a spark. Michael literally jerked out of his frozen state. He shoved the woman behind an armoire the size of a Buick about a half second before a young man in full wedding regalia exploded into the room.

“Have you seen a woman in a wedding dress?” the tuxedoed man demanded.

“Please,” the woman whispered.

Michael, one hand still on her shoulder, turned to stare at the man but didn’t answer. He wasn’t going to lie. But, he had no intention of revealing the woman behind the cabinet, God help her. He could feel her uncontrolled shivering as he extended his fingers to nudge her deeper into the hiding place. She got it. She moved swiftly and silently, yanking all but the last few inches of her gown’s train out of sight in the process. He shifted slightly to stand on the fabric that was still visible, successfully covering most of it with his work boots.

There was no need for a lie, or even his fancy footwork, as it turned out. Another man, gray-haired and not so fit as the first flung open the door.

“She’s down the alley,” the older man said after a short pause in which he bent forward to catch his breath, resting his hands on his thighs. “I saw a flash of white going around the corner.” The men left as quickly as they came, sending the bells into yet another wild dance.

Michael stood statue still until their ringing stopped. He looked at the woman again. She remained pressed tightly behind the armoire, her back to him in a way that reminded him of how his sister played hide-and-seek in their youngest days. If Jo-Jo’s face was hidden to the point she couldn’t see out, he remembered, she was always convinced no one could see her.

Yet, he could see this woman quite clearly. She was tiny – but curvy and soft in a way that most women weren’t these days. Her small waist even flared into honest-to-goodness hips. One strand of light-red hair hung loose from an elaborate twist on the back of her head, somehow making him think of one of the fairy-tale princesses his youngest cousins raved over at Christmas. He knew she was beautiful even though he had only seen her face for a moment.

Michael shook his head to make himself stop staring.

“They’re gone,” he whispered, somehow afraid to speak in a normal volume.

She didn’t move. She didn’t make sound. But, in addition to the shivering, her shoulders and back suddenly began a jerky up-down motion that he instantly recognized. He certainly remembered plenty of that from life with a very dramatic baby sister, but it didn’t provide any reference as to what he should do now.

“Do you want me to lock the door in case they come back?” he finally asked.

He thought she was nodding. It was hard to tell. He looked at her again for some sign of protest as he flipped the door sign to “closed” and twisted the lock. Nothing. Then, he pulled tight several shutters to block his workroom from view, something he normally did only if he happened to be working in the glare of the late-afternoon sun. Still nothing.

Michael’s question and those kind of noises associated with a strange man should have been enough make most women start screaming. But, when he looked at her yet again, this woman was still silently sobbing. He wondered if she even remembered he was there. He hesitated. Then he went to her and did what any good brother would do. He touched the soft silk that covered her back with his fingertips and was not the least surprised when she whipped around to bury her face in his chest.

How could he not hold her like he would never let her go?

*****

She’s slowing down. Michael smoothed the woman’s hair with one hand as her crying slowed to a sniffle. Hairpins rained onto the scarred wooden floor at their feet. That tiny, clinking noise seemed to bring her back from wherever she’d been. He relaxed his hold when she stiffened, but didn’t let her go.

The woman looked down into the small space that was now between them and gasped. Michael looked, too, astounded by even the little he could see given their proximity. They were a mess. Her face and her dress were coated with woodchips and sawdust; his shirt was soaked with her tears and smeared with her mascara. “I am so sorry,” she said, still looking at the floor.

OK. Now seemed like a good time to let her go.

“Michael Alton,” he said, backing up a step and extending a hand. He resurrected his long-unused CEO voice, proper and calm enough to announce a mediocre third quarter, not that there had been such a thing during his tenure. The situation suddenly felt too potentially explosive for anything less formal.

She took his hand, but didn’t otherwise respond. Michael wondered if she was in shock. So, in spite of the strangeness of it all, he scrunched down low enough to look straight into her face. “It’s OK,” he said gently. “You. Are. OK.”

There was a flicker of panic in the deep-green depths of her eyes before her gaze dropped quickly to his chin. “No,” she finally said, shaking her head rapidly. “Nothing is OK.”

More tears. Michael briefly considered pulling her back into his arms, but didn’t, all too aware after holding her so long that this woman was absolutely not his sister. Instead, he did the only other thing he could think of. He lifted both of her hands into his own and began to pray. “Lord Jesus, I don’t know what happened here, but Miss Brady needs your …”

“What are you doing?” she demanded before he could go any further.

Her wide eyes expressed a shock that, bizarrely, made Michael want to laugh. He had locked this woman into a room with him. He had touched her more than some women he’d actually dated. And, it was his prayer that alarmed her? On second thought, maybe it was just that he said her name. Either way, he couldn’t hold it back. Michael was surprised by the wave of calm that swept over him as he let the laugh go. He looked down at her face again and suspected she somehow felt the sudden peace, too.

 “I’m trying to pray for you, Maggie Brady.” Not particularly well, apparently. But, I’m trying.

“How do you know my name?” she said, taking a step back from him and smacking her head smartly on the armoire. He pulled her out of the cramped space where they’d been standing and into the open floor.

“Well, Waverly Shores is a small town,” he said slowly. “The wedding of a mayor’s daughter to a U.S. senator’s son is pretty hard to miss. Even for a carpenter. Plus, I’ve seen you on the news.”

This woman, this Maggie Brady, clearly didn’t know what to say to that. She just looked at him so intently that Michael couldn’t help but wonder what she saw.

Women generally considered him handsome. It wasn’t something he thought about much, but he knew it. They liked the blue eyes, the tan, the wavy brown hair that always seemed to be a little longer and wilder than it really should be. Elena used to call him her surfer dude – right before she sent him to the barber. That was then, though. He wasn’t as young as he used to be. Lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes, that kind of thing. Still handsome? He guessed he probably was. But, he wasn’t kidding himself. Thirty-nine is 39.

Maggie kept looking, though, particularly at his hair. He felt her hands, which were still clasped in his, tighten a bit and then pull free. Then, she turned her head swiftly away from him to look at his workshop. Michael looked, too, almost as if he was seeing it for the first time. His well-worn work table dominated the space. A door panel lay in its middle, the chisel he had been using to carve a chain of oak leaves into it still on top — right where he had dropped it.

Her gaze fell to the floor once more. “There isn’t going to be a wedding,” she said. “No wedding.” Maggie’s voice sounded small and childlike. It was nothing like the voice of the flickering TV woman he’d heard so many late nights, the one who reported on dirty politics and even dirtier crime. That woman was bold, maybe even brash.

Whatever or whoever they sounded like, her words seemed to echo around the room. No wedding, no wedding, no wedding…

“I kind of figured as much,” Michael agreed, running his hands through his hair, making it even wilder than before. Maggie watched his motions with eyes that now held a touch of wild themselves. Then, mysteriously, she began to sway.

“No wedding,” she said once more, her eyes suddenly rolling back like a scene from a horror movie. “Oh…”

Michael couldn’t quite stop a slight wince at the remainder of her sentence, but didn’t have time to otherwise respond. He simply caught her before she hit the floor.

*****

“Well, Mama would pay good money to see this.”

Michael stood at the top of his steep workshop stairs, catching his breath before he carried the bride the final few feet between the door of his over-the-shop apartment and the soft leather couch that was just inside. He deposited her there and stepped back to wait for her to recover.

Is she going to freak out on me? Involuntarily, he took another step back. She was peaceful enough at the moment at least. The soft glow of her hair and skin reminded him so much of a ripe peach he almost enjoyed seeing her there on his couch in spite of the circumstances.

Almost enjoyed. That was the part about this little drama he knew mama would truly delight in if she knew about it – not that she ever would. “It’s about time,” he could imagine her saying. He had been feeling the heat from his surviving parent regarding romance and re-marriage. Since Elena died five years ago, he’d been so busy breaking away from the family business and forming his own that anything else long term hadn’t even been on the radar. Long term? Hah, as mama and his sister would say if anyone asked. Michael didn’t date. Period. It still hurt too much.

The woman’s eyelids fluttered open. Michael took yet another step back. What on earth am I going to do with her?

Chapter 3

“What happened?” Maggie looked around the unfamiliar room in alarm. Michael was standing in front of her, looking worried.

“You fainted,” he said. His voiced sounded as worried as he looked. That made her a bit worried. “I carried you upstairs to my apartment.”

Fainted? Maggie thought in astonishment. Who faints? Didn’t fainting go the way of corsets and hoop skirts? Then, another darker thought swam to the surface and she sat bolt upright, trying to check the intactness of her clothing without being obvious. Everything was where it was supposed to be, but she had been unconscious and alone in a strange man’s home. All that Maggie knew about the world screamed of the danger of such a situation. Yet, once the initial surprise wore off, she realized that, oddly, she was not afraid.

She was almost in slow motion again instead of a panic, in fact. She looked around in almost leisure. Even the room seemed gentle and pleasant. There were deep red rugs, a brown leather couch and chairs, some disorderly stacks of books and a couple of cabinets so extraordinary that she noticed them even in her muddled state. There was even an aged quilt on one wall. It was clearly a guy’s room, but it was cozy.

How different than Stephen’s sleek, downtown apartment. That was all gray and silver and white. There isn’t a comfortable place to sit in that entire place. I hate Stephen’s apartment. Maggie was startled at her own thoughts. Was it true? Should Stephen’s horrid furniture alone have told her there were fault lines in The Plan?

Michael interrupted her prolonged examination of his home with a clearing of his throat. “Um, Maggie, have you eaten anything today?” he asked gently. “That might be why you fainted. I could make some omelets … or something.”

Until that very moment, Maggie had felt more like throwing up rather than eating. Now, her stomach actually growled at his mention of food. She looked up, embarrassed, and saw that Michael was trying not to grin. When had she eaten? She had been so nervous before the wedding, she’d had nothing to eat since the rehearsal dinner. Was that just last night? She didn’t even eat much of that meal, now that she thought about it. Stephen had insisted on steak for the entree. Imagine that. I hate steak.

But, she’d had enough of the whole damsel-in-distress thing. She didn’t need this stranger cooking for her on top of everything else. I need to get out of here. That’s what I need.

“I’m fine,” she lied.

Michael apparently didn’t buy it. He moved into his kitchen, which, given the spareness of his dwelling, involved nothing more than walking behind a large island. He didn’t say another word, but even before he could get all the eggs cracked, she gave up her mild protest and settled back into the softness of the couch. She watched him whisk eggs enthusiastically and grate some cheese. Maggie could only imagine what he was thinking, however. Feed the nut job and send her on her way, would probably sum it up.

What he eventually said was rather more polite, however. “Dinner’s no problem — just remember that omelets are pretty much it. We eat a lot of takeout around here.”

“We?” Maggie asked in unconcealed horror, instantly ascribing other thoughts to him more along the lines of: Get out of here, crazy woman! She shot a frantic look at his left hand. No ring. But, that was no guarantee that a wife or girlfriend wouldn’t be arriving home any minute. Would the humiliation never end? Not many women would appreciate finding a disheveled bride sprawled on the family couch.

“ ‘We’ is just my dog Max and I,” Michael replied with a grin that let her know just how obvious her thoughts were. Lovely.

“Max?” she said quickly, trying to cover her embarrassment.

As if to confirm his identity, a larger-than-life dog rose up from the floor on the other side of the island where Michael was cooking. The beast peered steadily at Maggie from around its corner and she realized she had probably been locked in his sights the entire time she’d been in the apartment. She wondered why the dog hadn’t already barked like a lunatic or at least have given her a customary sniff of greeting like the pack of wild things that roamed her family home.

Perhaps Michael’s dog has better manners. Max rounded the workspace and put his cinderblock-sized head and snout too near her face. He sniffed deeply, then showed his appreciation for the hints of Michael, wood and medium-rare steak he detected with a kiss that covered her cheek, chin and one corner of her mouth. Or, perhaps not.

Maggie grimaced in surprise and pressed her spine even more deeply into the couch. Her “eeeeewwwwww” barely breached the level of a whisper, but Michael must have heard it.

“Down, Max,” he said sharply and the brindled giant dropped at her feet with a soft snort. “Sorry about that. He still thinks he can fit on laps.”

“What is he?” Maggie tentatively patted Max on the head now that he wasn’t so tall.

“Your guess is as good as mine. I figure there’s some wolf hound in there somewhere.” Michael’s busy hands stopped for a moment and he looked carefully at Maggie. “You know, you look really uncomfortable in that get up. Do you want to change clothes before we eat? My sister Jo-Jo flies into Chicago on business pretty often and she leaves some beach clothes here. She’s a little taller than you are, but I think you’re about the same size. They’re folded up inside the closet in the bathroom. Feel free if you like.”

*****

Bizarrely enough, she did like. This stranger had carried her to his apartment, where he was now preparing her dinner. Why balk at a change of clothes?

Inside the cocoon of the bathroom – the bathroom she safely locked with one of those old-fashioned hook-and-eye closures — Maggie dropped her gown into an untidy heap on the tiled floor and gave it a kick with her bare toes. She dug through the small stack of clothes Michael had mentioned and picked a gauzy tie-dyed skirt that ran from deep pink at the thankfully stretchy waist to apricot at the hem. Michael’s sister was more than a little taller. Even with the waistband pulled up to the bottom edge of Maggie’s bra, it still fell nearly to her ankles.

A top was tougher. Michael’s sister was obviously also of a more slender build. Maggie decided the rose T-shirt was the only one within the realm of decency. It had a high enough neckline, but it still Betty Booped her curves more than anything else she would normally wear. She slipped into the too-big flip flops that were in the pile, as well.

After some horrified mirror staring, she was thinking that locking the door was an unnecessary precaution. There was nothing about her smeary make-up, puffy face and collapsed hair-do that would invite attention, unwanted or otherwise, from anyone. She was surprised even that the dog wanted to kiss her.

Finger combing the tangles from her over-sprayed hair was easier than she thought it would be, though. Eventually, it fell down her back in the loose waves she normally took great pains to suppress. She cleaned her face as well as she could with the bar of guy soap she found lying in a small puddle in the shower and checked the mirror one more time. This was as good as it was going to get.

All dressed up. But, where will I go and what will I do? She wasn’t even sure she wanted to go as far as Michael’s living room at the moment. Maggie stood shyly in the bathroom doorway until he looked up and beckoned her to the tiny table that sat in front a room-wide bay of windows.

“Dinner’s on,” he said simply.

Michael, whom she noticed was now wearing a clean T-shirt, seemed to be trying not to stare at her. He wasn’t succeeding. Maggie looked down at her borrowed clothes and realized she probably did look really different than the woman who went into the bathroom a few minutes ago. Certainly, she looked completely unlike the highly-processed reporter he would have seen on TV. She felt suddenly very young and very vulnerable without her customary armor. She didn’t like it.

“Wow, you did all this so fast. Thank you,” Maggie said in a quick attempt to divert his attention. She was the one whose eyes were now fixed, however. She was instantly all about the pottery plate he sat in front of her. It looked incredibly appetizing, loaded as it was with an omelet, fresh strawberries and several thick slices of buttery toast. “How could I possibly be this hungry at a time like this? Rats. I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He smiled as he sat down at the other side of the table. “Just remember, omelets are pretty much it. Well, that and pancakes.”

Michael took her hand and offered a quick prayer of thanks for their food. Maggie didn’t realize she was now staring at him instead of the plate until he opened his eyes and looked back at her in surprise. She recovered quickly and took a first bite of the omelet, letting the warmth and sharpness of the cheddar cheese inside linger in her mouth for a long moment. It was somehow so wonderful, so comforting that her eyes drifted shut as she swallowed.

“Mmmm. Maybe omelets are enough,” she sighed, eyes still closed. This time, Michael was the one staring when she opened them. Good grief. It’s like a hot volley streak at Wimbledon. Yep. Feed the nut job and send her on her way. That’s exactly what he’s thinking.

She wasn’t surprised that neither one of them looked at the other as they quickly polished off the meal. Nor that their silence remained unbroken even when Michael refilled the coffee in their heavy, blue-glazed mugs. The small dish of dark chocolate pieces he brought to her side did draw a small smile, however.

“Ah, the way to a woman’s heart,” Michael said, taking a bite of the chocolate for himself as he began to clear the table. At the mention of the word “heart,” Maggie turned her face to the window and stared into the leafy branches just beyond it. He set the stack of dishes he had been carrying back onto the table. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t the smartest thing to say.”

“It’s OK,” she said, still not looking at him. “I’m just not having a great day to say the least.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Michael said after a long pause.

Maggie hesitated, feeling as uncertain as he sounded when he asked the question. The sensible thing would be to opt for a Brit-like stiff upper lip and go. She wasn’t feeling the least bit sensible, unfortunately.

“Well, there’s probably not much that won’t be on the news by tonight,” she sighed, leaning her chin onto one palm in sheer weariness. “There were a couple of reporters there at the wedding, one from my TV station and another from The Chicago Sentinel.”

Michael said nothing. He just sat back down and looked at her. The rest of her story came out in a rush.

“When I came into the sanctuary, one of Stephen’s paralegals was standing there. She’s, um, expecting. It’s a long story, but he, well, it’s his baby and that was the first I’d known of it. I didn’t even think. I just ran for it. I think I might have knocked him down first.”

Michael blew out the breath she hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He took her hand in his again and spoke one simple word. “Wow.”

Profound, no. But, the word somehow carried sufficient sympathy that it was enough. “Yeah. Wow.” Maggie sighed again.

“What are you going to do?”

“I have no idea. I don’t have to be at work for two weeks,” she said. “I had taken that much time off for our honeymoon.”

“Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?”

Maggie glared at him with a mix of shock and disappointment before jerking her hand away. Great. Just great. Is there not a decent man left on the face of the entire earth? “I’m not staying here, if that’s what you’re asking,” is what she said out loud. She knew she sounded like a Victorian school marm, or someone straight from the worthy pages of Pride and Prejudice. She didn’t care in the least.  

Michael must have, however. He actually blushed.

Fainting. Blushing. It is “Pride and Prejudice!”

“Um, that’s not what I’m asking,” he said in a hurry, cutting off her thoughts. “I have some beach properties that I rent. There’s a small cottage that’s empty right now and you’re welcome to use it for a few days if you need a place to think things through … or whatever.”

Now Maggie was pink.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be safe there,” Michael said quickly.

Now, he looked out the window as yet another bizarrely comfortable silence began. The evening breeze off the lake was setting the branches in motion. He finally turned to her and spoke words that were quite odd coming from a man whose sole goal surely must be to get her out the door.

“You’re safe here, too, you know.”

Maggie met his look with embarrassment and offered the best apology she could with her eyes. She just wasn’t up to a verbal, “I’m sorry,” at the moment. Michael seemed to accept it, and did so with equal silence. He took the stack of dishes back to the kitchen area and worked there with his back to her as she thought about his offer.

She had already moved into Stephen’s apartment. She certainly couldn’t go there. And, she didn’t want to go to her parents’ house or that of any other family members or friends right now. She just couldn’t face the questions. Maggie frowned. It was this man’s cottage or a hotel where someone would probably recognize her. She’d trusted him – well, for the most part — this far. Why not go for it?

“Michael?” He turned to look at her. “Thank you. I would very much like to stay at your cottage. I don’t think anyone would find me if I stay here in Waverly Shores for a few days. I could use a bit of quiet just now.”

“You’re probably right – at least about no one finding you here. Waverly Shores is farther away from Chicago in spirit than it is in miles.”

“There’s just one problem,” she continued. “I don’t have my purse. I have no money, no phone, no clothes — nothing. I left all of it inside a small carry-on bag at the church. The rest of my luggage was in the limo.”

“Do you think your bag with the purse in it is still at the church? I could go get it.”

“I wouldn’t think so. I think my mom would probably have picked it up.”

“I’ll check with the pastor,” Michael said, retrieving a phone from his jean pocket. He punched one key and was soon talking to someone she assumed was Father Tim, St. Matthew’s young leader.

What kind of guy has a pastor on speed dial?

“It’s still there,” Michael said with another broad grin that spread into the crinkles around his eyes. This man smiled with his whole face. “I’ll run over and get it in case anyone is still looking for you.”

He was out the door with remarkable speed and Maggie was struck with a sudden wave of agitation and loneliness as soon as he left. Unable to sit still, she got up and started finishing the dishes in the tiny sink, just like she might have done when she was still at home with her family. Her mom, Kat Brady, wasn’t much for household help in spite of the substantial size of their home. All the kids learned to cook and clean with the best of them.

Michael must have, too, she decided, looking out at his home as she washed what was left of their dinner dishes and a couple other meals’ worth. It was kind of cool that a guy could get used to living in such small quarters and keep them basically tidy. Stephen’s apartment was practically antiseptic. But, he had a cleaning lady. She’d be willing to bet Michael didn’t.

The last dish slid into place in one of those folding French drying racks Maggie had always admired just as Michael returned. He looked a little startled to see her in his kitchen, but didn’t seem displeased. She dried her hands on the somewhat tattered towel hanging from the refrigerator handle, feeling grateful to see her bag in his hand.

“Stephen and your family are gone. I’m not sure where your luggage is, but your mom left this bag with the pastor.” Michael said, handing it to her. “He said she figured you would have no choice but to come back to get it at some point since your purse was in it.”

Thank you, mom. One tear escaped her eye at this small mercy.

“Will you be ready to go in a couple of minutes?” Michael asked, busy in the kitchen again for some reason.

Am I ready to go? That had been all she had wanted since the moment she woke up in a stranger’s homebut, now, she wasn’t so sure. Maggie followed him out the door a few minutes later anyway.

Chapter 4

Maggie saw the sunset before she saw the cottage. It stretched across Lake Michigan in a broad sweep of orange and a glowing pink not unlike the colors of her borrowed skirt. Beach clothes, indeed.

Far across the water to the west, she could see the shadowy outline of downtown Chicago. If she squinted, she could see the skyscraper that housed her TV studio. Stephen was out there somewhere in those shadows. Rosa was there somewhere, too, she supposed — as were all her family and friends. But, Maggie was not. Her 24 years of life there suddenly seemed oddly far away — like an imaginary world.

“This is it,” Michael said, interrupting her thoughts by pulling up to the curb outside the cottage. Maggie took a quick look. It was sited with one side facing the lake and its front facing a small road where patches of beige sand lay drifted here and there.

“It’s adorable,” she sighed in spite of her bone-deep weariness. And, it was.

The white stucco building was roofed in gray-green slate. A red cottage door with a bulls-eye window was accented with a small grapevine wreath. There were working black shutters on each white-curtained window and deep flower boxes were overflowing with red and yellow blooms that Maggie knew she probably wouldn’t recognize even if she had full daylight. Giant terra cotta pots filled with red geraniums stood on each side of the door.

“It looks like a fairy princess should live here,” she continued.

Michael gave her a surprised look and laughed. “So it does.”

The inside of the cottage was even better than the earthy, male vibe of Michael’s apartment. Beyond the small, tiled entryway where they were standing, a spacious living room was sparsely furnished with a cushy couch and two deep chairs. They were all slip-covered in off-white cotton. Walls of dove-gray were framed in white-painted woodwork.

Gleaming hardwood floors the color of amber stretched off to the left into a spacious all-white kitchen and dining area and, to the back, to a small hallway. Maggie investigated and discovered that passage led to a petite bath and a laundry room, both also all in white, and a large bedroom whose French doors opened onto a deck.

It was a blank slate. A blank slate that was somehow already totally lovely. Michael sure knew how to decorate for a carpenter. Hmmm. Maybe that’s why I feel so safe with him. He must be gay. She turned to look up at him curiously, not realizing they were standing only inches apart until she did so.

Or maybe not.

The sunset streaming through the bay window at their side was dazzling. So dazzling, she felt the intensity of his gaze more than she could actually see it. Maggie watched the golden light play across Michael’s face, unable to read his expression until a shadow passed. There. But, what was it? Dismay? Confusion? Interest? Whatever Michael was feeling as he watched her, the expression disappeared as instantly as the shadow. Michael took a quick step back from her and dropped a ring of keys into her hand.

I really must be going crazy.

He was suddenly talking so quickly her numbed brain couldn’t quite keep up with him. “I put some granola and milk in the kitchen for your breakfast since you don’t have a car. There are towels and bedding in the bedroom closet. Your … ah, dress. It’s in the garbage bag. I couldn’t find anything else big enough to put it in.”

Michael said all this while swiftly backing up toward the front door. He tripped over the corner of one of the living room chairs in the process, catching himself from falling like some sort of tennis pro.

What he said slowly filtered through her brain fog as she watched his exit. Granola. Check. Milk. Check. Wedding dress in a garbage bag. How poetic, but check to that one, as well. That explained the flurry of activity Michael had engaged in before they left his apartment. Maggie’s mind had been too distracted then for what he was doing to fully register.

“I can come over tomorrow afternoon if you want to go to the store,” he continued, one hand already on the door knob. “I can take you to a car rental place, too, if you like.”

This guy thinks of everything. Maggie was struck by how much this stranger had done for her in the last few hours and her eyes suddenly welled with tears — again. This is ridiculous. Maggie Brady, news reporter, doesn’t cry.

“Thank you … Michael,” she managed to croak.

She had never felt so small and forlorn as she did standing there, Michael still looking at her like she was some kind of newly discovered species. It was such an odd moment, that, somehow she wasn’t surprised at all when he bent in a gesture straight from the era of knights and fair maidens and kissed the tips of her fingers.

Michael seemed surprised enough for both of them, however.He dropped her hand as if it had suddenly become radioactive and actually backed right into the door with a thunk. “Goodnight, Miss Maggie,” he said quickly. Then, he was gone.

Maggie forgot to respond. Then, she pretty much forgot he had even been there, pressing her forehead against the door as soon as it closed behind him. There was no cackle left inside her now. Just a sigh was there, and releasing it took all that she had left.

Chapter 5

Maggie thought she was awake. Sleep couldn’t possibly feel this wild, this painfully alive. Bits and pieces of the wedding, her flight from it, her time spent with Michael collided in her mind like bumper cars. She felt every jolt, but there was no forward movement. Then, the phone rang and she realized with a sudden jerk that she was dreaming.

Out of sheer habit, she answered the phone immediately, in spite of the early hour and an overall lack of sleep that was in no way imagined. Maybe she shouldn’t have. Kat Brady was close to hysterics and, for a moment, Maggie had no idea where she was or what her mother was talking about.

A few words eventually began to register. “Wedding.” “Running away.” “Crazy behavior.” Ah, yes. The dream pieces began to assemble into an actual shape. The Plan. It was kaput. Maggie rolled onto her back and did her best to prop up her head with the single pillow she had found in the linen closet the previous night.

“Have you seen the news!” Kat demanded several times, furious and full of disbelief that Maggie hadn’t. Maggie looked around the room, still disoriented. She knew enough to realize there was no TV in the cottage. There wouldn’t likely be a newspaper on the doorstep, either. She sank back into the pillow. She certainly had no desire to surf her smart-phone, which she had for some reason turned back on in the middle of the night. Why would she possibly want to? She was pretty sure she knew what was there.

 “You’re on the front of half the papers in the country! There’s a huge picture of you knocking Stephen down in the Sentinel. They’re calling you ‘Bridezilla’ and ‘Run-away Bride’ in all the headlines! The TV stations are even worse. They have film of you running down the street in your gown and Daddy and Stephen chasing after you!”

So much for inviting the media to one’s nuptials.

No amount of “I’m sorries,” got through. Not even a brief explanation of why she had fled the wedding or how she came to still be in Waverly Shores seemed to carry any weight.

“What is going on with you, Mary Magdela? Why would you possibly think it’s his baby?” Kat shrieked. Maggie held the phone several inches away from her ear, but could still hear her mother quite clearly. “That is utterly ridiculous. Stephen McCutcheon is a senator’s son and a senator’s grandson. He’s one of the most promising young men in Chicago. He’s not out playing around with some secretary.”

“She’s a paralegal, actually,” Maggie said after cautiously returning the phone to a more comfortable position.

“I don’t care if she’s a parakeet. This woman is of no importance,” Kat continued, her pitch and volume going even higher. “And, who are you to talk? Here you are accusing Stephen of being unfaithful – before you were even married, I might add. And, you! You’re staying with some man you don’t even know. How do you think that looks?”

“I’m not staying with him, mom.” Maggie remembered last night’s confusion over that very issue and blushed again. “I’m staying in a rental cottage that he owns.”

“That may be just as well,” Kat sniffed. “There are reporters all over the street in front of the house looking for you. Maybe it’s better if you just stay away from the city for a while.”

Maggie frowned. She’d spent her entire life in the close orbit of home. There was near daily contact with parents and her brothers and their own families. They were all in the same city, doing the same Brady kinds of things in the same Brady kinds of ways. Was her mother actually trying to fling her out of it all? Did The Plan really matter that very, very much? Did The Plan matter more to them than she did?

Maybe it did, she concluded by the time Sean Brady wrested control of the phone and conversation away from his wife. A veteran mayor of a major city, he wasn’t too worked up about the bad press. He was in no way pleased about the state of The Plan, however.

“Red, I don’t know what you’re thinking right now, but I’m not sure we can work this out,” he said with a sigh that carried a rare hint of resignation. Maggie could hear it in his voice. He knew the hyper-publicized union of two of Chicago’s elite political families was quickly slipping away. “The McCutcheons are already spinning this as a sign of emotional instability on your part. You’ll survive. You may keep your job – but it’s not going to be pretty. Stephen has a lot at stake here.”

And I don’t? “Do you really think I might be fired, Daddy?” Maggie asked in alarm. That possibility hadn’t even occurred to her.

“I don’t know, Red,” he said before signing off. “The McCutcheons’ reach is deep. It’s a possibility. If you and Stephen don’t talk this out and get back on track, they’re going to want to bury you deep. We need to do some damage control before this whole thing rolls right over me – I mean you.”

Maggie let her father’s unwelcome ownership of her crisis slide. She ignored his directive, as well, signing off with only a non-committal “bye.” Talking to Stephen was the last thing she wanted to do. She didn’t even want to think about Stephen.

Stephen obviously didn’t feel the same way, however, she realized when she checked her phone a few seconds later. Her once-intended had left multiple voice messages and texts the previous afternoon and evening – all while her bag sat unattended at the church. Maggie deleted each one without checking any of them.

She sank as deeply into her flat, little pillow as she could and tried not to think. At all. The questions of the moment kept pounding through her head, however. What am I going to do? Where am I going to go?

*****

Maggie expected the knock at the door just before noon to be Michael. It wasn’t. It was an older woman – almost ethereal looking in her yellow cotton dress. Her long, white hair was clipped up in a messy, cloud-like bun that seemed to shift in the breeze.

An old-fashioned red bicycle with a white basket on the front stood parked at her back in the small front yard. The basket actually had little plastic daisies scattered across its front. Maggie checked to see if there was also one of those bells with the little lever to make it go “bbbbrrrriiiiingggg.” And, there it was. Right on the handle bar like it should be. Whoever this lady was, she was so retro-cool it was ridiculous.

“Naomi Alton Tillwell,” the woman said in a soft Southern accent, extending a hand. Must be a family tradition, Maggie thought, before offering her own hand and welcoming the woman in. Maggie guessed she must be at least 70, maybe even a great-looking 80.

“I am Michael’s great-aunt. You may call me Miss Naomi,” the woman said, sweeping into the kitchen and dropping the bundle of newspapers she had retrieved from the bike basket onto a counter. “He needed to check on Max after church. But, I thought you might like to see what you’re dealing with as soon as possible. I brought coffee, too. Michael said you liked it and I thought you might need it.”

In spite of Maggie’s better judgment, she flattened the papers onto one end of the farm-style table and stood over them. She began with page 1A of The Chicago Sentinel, the only paper that had a photographer at the wedding. The images in other papers would be more of the same, she knew, secured only by the sharing network most papers have through the Associated Press.

Oh, no!

Maggie let out a slow breath. No wonder her mom had been so bent out of shape. It was even worse than she’d imagined. She had knocked Stephen down! One photo – the largest – captured her with her bouquet raised in full swing and Stephen tipping back with an alarmed look on his face. A number of guests were in the background – Rosa not among them, thank God. They all looked stunned. Several of their mouths were pursed in “O’s.”

The other photo must be a taste of the TV footage. Sean Brady’s back was in the foreground. A white blur, turning a corner in the distance, was all that could be seen of the bride.

Maggie sat down with an actual thud.

“They aren’t very flattering,” Miss Naomi said, pouring steaming coffee from a Thermos into two blue mugs she had pulled from a cabinet. The mugs were just like those at Michael’s apartment, Maggie noticed. Maybe he bought them in bulk. “But, I doubt you are surprised,” Miss Naomi continued.

Slowly sipping her coffee before answering, Maggie met her guest’s shrewd gaze. It was true. As a veteran mayor’s daughter and a journalist herself, bad press was no shocker. “No, I’m not surprised.”

“Well, I dare say you’ll survive. But, it may not be pretty.”

A knot formed in Maggie’s stomach. “That’s what my dad said this morning.”

“It’s none of my business, but my suggestion would be that you stay here in Waverly Shores until this blows over. This is a small, sleepy town. The people here aren’t all that fond of Chicagoans – all that litter they leave on the beaches and the summer parking. No one here will say a word about you to anyone in the city press or to you about your personal business. If you keep a low profile, it should give you enough breathing room to figure out your next move.”

“And, that would be basically what my mother said,” Maggie said with a long sigh. It seemed pretty much everyone wanted her out of sight right now.

“This cottage is fully furnished,” Miss Naomi continued, ignoring Maggie’s comment. She swept her hand toward the living room. “Michael keeps it just for short-term rentals. All you really need are some clothes, food and toiletries – and there are some small shops here where you can get all of that — in privacy.”

Michael apparently wasn’t the only Alton who could handle every detail.

“You seem to have thought this through,” Maggie said, finishing what was left in her mug with a grimace. How could she not have noticed until now that the cream and sugar she normally loaded her coffee with weren’t there? Did I drink coffee like this last night at Michael’s? Aaack … bitter.

“I’ve lived it through, baby,” Miss Naomi said with a sigh. “When I was about your age, I did something very similar. A month before my wedding to Southern royalty so to speak, I eloped with the local potter. The hullabaloo lasted so long we wound up moving here just to get away from all the nonsense.”

“Did that work?” Maggie asked, suddenly curious about this woman, who was still beautiful in an aged way, like a fine piece of antique silver. She must have been stunning in her youth. Maggie would have been willing to bet her “local potter” was quite the hottie back in the day.

“It worked as well as anything in this life does,” Miss Naomi said, absentmindedly twisting a beautiful band of hammered gold that might have been a wedding ring, yet was on her right hand. “Daniel, my late husband, loved living here. The beach is so wonderful, so peaceful and private. But, the Chicago market is still close and it was very good to him as an artist. We did well. That’s one of his mugs you’re drinking from.”

Maggie looked at her mug more closely. It was rounded at the base and tapered in near the top before fluting out into a smooth, remarkably thin lip for pottery. Its weight felt good in her hand. It looked good, too. The glaze was subtle, yet it blended a wide range of blues that, at the bottom, pooled into something between indigo and a rich purple.

It isn’t just like Michael’s, Maggie realized. The mugs at his apartment were bigger and heavier and were a darker blue throughout. “It’s very pretty,” she said, marveling that Michael would put dishes that were so obviously valuable in a rental unit.

“Yes, it is pretty. And, so was our life together,” Miss Naomi said. “It just took a while to get there. But, I have a feeling you’ll get there, too, Maggie, at least with God’s help.”

Maggie wasn’t sure what to make of Miss Naomi’s statement. Judging by her conversation with her parents, she doubted anyone, let alone God, was going to help her do anything. But, she was saved from needing to respond. Her cell, resting on the table next to her mug, chose that moment to ring. A quick check revealed it was her TV station.

“Excuse me a moment,” Maggie said, moving into the relative privacy of the living room. “It’s my boss. I need to take this.”

*****

“How are you doing, Mags?” Bob Carson asked as soon as she answered.

“I’ve been better.”

“Tell me about it,” her boss continued. “We’re spinning the story like crazy to make you look like a free spirit. But you’re pretty much getting trashed everywhere else. McCutcheon is really doing a number. He issued a press release this morning saying the two of you have decided to cancel your marriage plans. He’s requesting the media respect both of your families’ privacy during this quote-unquote difficult time.”

“He did?” Maggie had no intention of continuing a relationship with Stephen – but could he not have tried to win her back? Or at least waited 24 hours to “dismiss” her? She wondered what all the phone calls and texts she had deleted were about if he was already issuing reports of their demise to the media. Perhaps, she fumed, he had already packed up her clothes and whatnot and just wanted to know where to send them.

“That’s not all,” Bob continued. “He used the words quote-unquote recovery process in a way that suggests you’re going into a treatment center. Is that true, Mags? Are you bi-polar or hooked on an opioid, or something? Hey, the station can get you some help if you are. You could even do a first-person feature while you go through rehab. You could get an Emmy out of this.”

Maggie was not a red-haired Irishwoman for nothing. She was boiling.

“Thank you for the offer, Bob, but I am not going to a treatment center. I am not an addict, nor am I having a mental breakdown of any kind. I walked out of that church yesterday because I had a good reason.”

“And, that would be?”

She could hear the unconcealed curiosity in his voice. Bob liked her as well as he liked any of his reporters – which, frankly, wasn’t all that much. But, a story was a story. She was instantly glad he’d been working yesterday. If he’d been at the wedding, he wouldn’t need to ask the question. He would have ferreted out the answer before she’d left the building.

“That would be none of your business, Bob.” Still boiling, yes. But, she had no intention of trotting Stephen’s unfaithfulness and Rosa’s pregnancy out into the public arena, particularly with Miss Naomi just feet away. A woman’s got a bit of pride. Sheesh.

“This is between Stephen and me. You — and the viewing public for that matter — don’t need to know anything. Anything!”

“You can get off your high horse, Mags,” Bob said. She could tell he was now as angry as she was. Not that it took much. Bob was the kind of guy who was halfway to that point nearly all the time — journalistic fire in the belly and all. “You’re a reporter. You’ve made plenty of money butting your nose into everybody else’s business for the last three years. The Bradys and McCutcheons lead very public lives. Enquiring minds just want to know.”

“Well, they’re not going to this time,” Maggie said firmly.

“That’s too bad, Mags. You’ve got to say something or do something soon or this isn’t going to go well for you.” His voice suddenly softened, almost as if he really cared. Nah. His next words nixed that notion. “Management is already insisting that you take the rest of the summer off. They don’t want someone reporting the news who looks this … well, unstable.”

Maggie squelched a sudden urge to show him unstable. “Bob Carson, are you trying to fire me? I have a contract that runs to the end of the year.”

“No. You’re not fired. But, I’m telling you things are not going well for you. And, that contract may not be as great as you think – although you’ll still be paid until it runs out, whether you’re on the air, or not. Think about what I said, Mags. And, stay out of the office in the meantime. I’ll be in touch.”

Then, unbelievably, her boss hung up on her.

For several minutes, Maggie stared numbly out the living room windows at the lake. It was almost blue-green, totally different than the deep, dark blue of last evening. Her eyes filled with tears — again. This crying thing was becoming an annoying habit.

Her thoughts were clear enough now. No wedding. No family. No home. And, quite possibly, no job. Things weren’t looking too good in Maggie Brady land these days. God, she whimpered, although she had no idea why. She hadn’t prayed in years, but as soon as she said the word, she somehow knew exactly what she was going to do — if she could.

 “Miss Naomi,” Maggie said, willing herself back to calmness and re-entering the kitchen, where she knew the older woman had heard every word. “If Michael doesn’t mind if I stay, I think I’ll take your advice and rent this cottage. Waverly Shores sounds like a great place to wait this out.”

“We can find out right now,” Naomi said, gesturing toward the front door. There, through the bulls-eye window, they both could see Michael standing, his hand poised to knock.

Chapter 6

“Do you want her to stay?” Aunt Naomi asked before Michael was even through the door.

He stared at his aunt a moment in confusion, then looked at Maggie, who’d flushed nearly crimson and was looking at the floor again. He was somewhat relieved to know he wasn’t the only one.

“Ma’am?” he cautiously responded, looking only at his aunt.           

Maggie spoke before Aunt Naomi could say anything else. Or anything worse, as Michael suspected the case very well could be. “What Miss Naomi means is will you let me rent this cottage for at least two or three months? It turns out I’m taking a leave of absence from my job and I don’t really want to be back in the city right now.”

She sounded calm, but Michael instantly knew something was very, very wrong. He could sense it in the tight line of her eyebrows and the way she was holding her hands. She’d like to tear something into tiny pieces. What else could have happened since last night? Why isn’t she going back to Chicago? He noticed the newspapers strewn across the kitchen table and frowned, realizing they probably had something to do with whatever had stirred the pot.

“OK,” Michael said slowly. He was sympathetic, but already suspecting that being Maggie Brady’s landlord wasn’t really that great of an idea as soon as he said it. “As long as you don’t mind it if I make a few repairs while you’re staying here. There were a couple things I planned on taking care of before I rented this unit again.”

Maggie wanted to talk rent and leases then and there. Michael did not. She insisted. He remained unmovable on the no-lease part, but finally threw out a rent number that was about one-fourth what he usually charged for this particular cottage. He could only hope Maggie did not see the surprise on Aunt Naomi’s face or the quick frown he sent the woman in response. He didn’t think she did.

“That’s a perfectly reasonable rate. It’s a small cottage,” Michael said when Maggie challenged him on it anyway. Perfectly reasonable if the cottage’s owner, which would be him, didn’t care if there was any profit – or even an actual meeting of expenses for that matter.

“This isn’t Chicago,” he continued. It also was not the middle of a thousand acres of field corn, which is where the cottage would have to be to realistically be rented for such a price. Of course, he wasn’t going to say that.

“I’ll take it!” Maggie looked so happy, Michael opted for happy, too. He could be his normal cautious self some other day.

“Great,” he said. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a place at the beach.” He gave her his best smile and remembered he had come here to make sure Maggie had some lunch. “Now, what would you ladies think about a picnic out there on the beach?”

Aunt Naomi’s eyebrows were up again. Michael gave a shrug that could have been measured in millimeters. It was instantly caught by his aunt.

“I’m not much for sitting on the sand at my age, but you two have fun,” she said. He was tempted to hug her or give her a thumbs up or something equally ridiculous. Tempted, but he didn’t.

“Maggie, if you want to, Michael can drop you off at my house later and I’ll take you shopping this afternoon,” Miss Naomi added as she rose to go.

“Yes, to both of you,” Maggie said with a giggling laugh that reminded Michael of a tumbling brook. He smiled on the outside. Oh, yeah. This is going to be trouble, he couldn’t help but think on the inside.

*****

Michael was already pulling a slightly tattered L.L. Bean blanket and a white paper bag from the front seat of his SUV before Aunt Naomi set off on her bicycle. A sideways peek at Maggie, with her hair in a beachy tumble of waves, made him instantly glad he was wearing something better than last night’s jeans and a T-shirt. Well, at least his church clothes — a button down, khakis and brown leather sandals — were somewhat better. For a guy who didn’t even own a tie anymore.

Max was less concerned about appearances. When Michael released the back hatch, the dog leapt out with a bound to immediately charge over and place his now sandy front paws on Maggie’s shoulders. He sniffed deeply. Aunt Naomi. Coffee. Granola. Beach. All good. Well worth another sloppy kiss.

“Get down,” Michael yelled, instantly mortified. “I don’t know what has gotten into this dog. I’d never seen him do anything like that before last night.”

Maggie was startled but didn’t seem terribly alarmed this time. “It’s OK,” she said, letting the giant sniff politely at her fingers instead. “My family has always had a multitude of dogs under foot – just never one that could stand face to face with me.”

The dog’s attention drifted elsewhere, fortunately, once they walked the short distance to the shore and spread the blanket out in the shade of a cottonwood tree. Max chased the waves back and forth, biting ferociously at the crests if they dared to near his belly.

“I gather he’s not a swimmer,” Maggie laughed, still watching Max play as she finished the last bite of a delicious turkey-and-Swiss on rye. Michael had also brought some kettle chips, more fresh strawberries and a bottle of fizzy water for her, a plain bottle of Coke for himself. He’d only purchased enough for the two of them. Aunt Naomi never did like eating on the beach. Too much sand, she said.

“Max is just a wader — always has been,” Michael said. “I’m pretty sure there’s not any lab in him at least.” He rose up from the blanket where they were sitting and called the dog to his side. “How about a walk?”

His canine was so delighted with the idea — bouncing around in tight circles like a circus poodle — Maggie probably wouldn’t have declined even if she had wanted to. And, she didn’t seem like she wanted to. She rose onto her knees and crumpled the remains of their lunch back into the bag. Michael playfully grabbed it from her hands and did a three-pointer into a nearby garbage can.

He instantly felt ridiculous, but she responded with a quick smile and a, “nice shot.” He folded the blanket and left it and their shoes in a patch of marram grass near the tree to cover his embarrassment at his boyish antics. “No one will bother them here,” he said, his Southern decorum back in place.

With equal chivalry, he took her hand to help her up from the shifting sand. He didn’t let go until they were well down the beach, headed away from Chicago’s skyline this time. Max ran ahead in the shallows, stopping for an occasional drink or to sniff a beached fish. Dogs! Gross!

“This beach is private, Maggie,” Michael said, trying to bring her thoughts back to the beauty of the place. “From the road your cottage is on to the post where that catamaran is tied up way down there. Anyone can be on the water, in the water or walking along the water’s edge. But, only neighborhood residents can sit down or do anything else here.”

“Other people can’t sit down?” This made Maggie laugh.

“It does sound funny for the Great Lakes. But, that’s just how it is,” Michael agreed. “At any rate, it means you are unlikely to have problems if you are on this stretch of beach. No one who lives here will bother you. And, no outsider should be trying to photograph you or anything else. If you wear a hat, no one should even recognize you for that matter.”

Michael could see it on her face that she realized he knew how ugly the news coverage was. But, that knowledge wasn’t enough to prepare him for her sudden decision to tell him about her conversation with her boss. He took in a slow breath as she wrapped up the story. OK. So, that’s what she was so worked up about.

He stopped walking and reached for both of her hands, turning her to face him. The sheer vulnerability there was so heart wrenching, what little was left of his natural caution instantly dissolved. She was so unlike the high-polished hardness of the woman he’d seen so often on TV that this Maggie could be another person.

“Are you OK?” he asked.

Michael followed her eyes down to their feet, watching her tiny white toes peek in and out of view beneath the foamy edges of the waves. They had somehow gotten too close to the surf. The chilly water was creeping up his pant legs and tugging at the hem of her skirt. She didn’t seem to care. He certainly didn’t.   

“I don’t know,” Maggie said. “I enjoy my work. It’s probably the biggest part of my life – outside of family and planning the wedding these last few months. But, I’m not really sad to take a break. It seems like I should be, though, doesn’t it? Shouldn’t I be angry that the TV station isn’t going to battle for me?”

He could almost hear the words she didn’t speak. “Shouldn’t I be angry that Stephen isn’t, either?” That somehow made him angry.

“Should you? Should you really?” he demanded. Apparently surprised at the change in his tone, she lifted her eyes to his again. And, he could see, actually see her pain. Michael hadn’t wanted to punch a guy so badly since Rick Mason stole his best baseball glove in seventh grade. Instead, he said something he knew he absolutely shouldn’t have said. 

“What are you going to do if they won’t take you back?”    

Maggie flinched and Michael had the sudden notion he could hear her mind respond to his question with more questions — questions that practically shouted in the space between them. What if no one wants me – not the TV station, not Stephen, not even my family? What will I do? Where will I go? Will anyone even care? By some unspoken agreement, they gave such questions the space and silence they deserved. The answer they both clearly heard, therefore, came as a complete surprise.

I care, the soft voice said. Michael and Maggie just looked at each other, neither admitting to hearing such words nor acknowledging that each knew full well the other had not spoken them.

Instead, Michael berated himself. “What are you going to do if they won’t take you back?” How could you ask such a thing? How could she possibly answer that – right now?

Yet, she did.

“God knows,” Maggie finally said.

However she meant the statement, Michael looked at her in astonishment and took a long moment before speaking. “Yes, He does, Miss Maggie. He certainly does.” She looked back at him, but didn’t argue. He dropped one of her hands and turned them back toward her cottage and his car. He did not let go of her other hand until Maggie was tucked safely into his passenger seat.

Chapter 7

Maggie wasn’t sure who was more delighted to be shopping. She was just desperate to get into something that felt and fit better than what she was wearing, not to mention desperate to get away from the strange moments with Michael when it somehow felt that they were reading each other’s mind. Miss Naomi was ready to storm the retail front, however.

 “The Station Shoppe is my favorite store,” Miss Naomi enthused as they pulled up in front of a low brick building roofed with terra cotta tiles and trimmed in copper gutters that had aged to a woodsy green.

“It was built in the 1920s to serve as the Duneland’s main connection to the South Shore Line that runs between Chicago and South Bend. It was empty for a few years when they built the new station near the state park. Then, that darling Hannah Maxwell came out from Chicago and turned it into this magnificent place.”

Miss Naomi wasn’t exaggerating, Maggie discovered as soon as they got inside. The Station Shoppe had everything — china and stoneware painted with delicate botanicals, water colors, gourmet coffees, lollipops that looked like stained-glass windows, furniture, linens for every room of the house. And clothes. Lots and lots of the most imaginative clothes she had ever seen.

Being on camera and otherwise on display as much as she always had been, Maggie was used to rotating through an endless parade of uncomfortable pencil skirts and tightly fitted jackets. It felt like she was preparing for a Caribbean cruise to browse these racks – a warm, beachy calm enveloped her.

With Miss Naomi’s infectious enthusiasm egging her on, Maggie bought soft, swishy skirts in a rainbow of actual colors. She bought capri pants made of feather-weight linen. She bought gauzy tops with deep V-necks and a stack of camisoles and T-shirts made of lace and cotton so soft they felt like silk. She bought beaded clips and long scarves to control her hair.

Forget the high heels that stood like rows of soldiers in her closet at Stephen’s apartment. Maggie bought sandals and soft canvas espadrilles with woven soles that were as bendy as her bare feet.

Bare feet! Take that, Stephen McCutcheon. I have a beach cottage!

She bought running shoes, exercise clothing, another tall stack of pretty underthings and nighties, and the kind of wetsuit-style swimwear she always wore to protect her ruddy skin.

It was probably way more than she would need, but Maggie didn’t care. She’d worked hard. She could afford it. Everything in her was insisting she be ready for anything the summer could possibly bring. Each article of clothing, each sandal felt like a tangible expression of hope.

Hannah, The Station Shoppe’s petite blonde proprietress, smiled with obvious pleasure at Maggie’s new-customer joy. No wonder, Maggie thought, mentally tallying up her purchases. But, she noticed Hannah’s face looked like it smiled a lot regardless. Layers of wispy, pale-blonde hair swished around the young woman’s heart-shaped face as she folded Maggie’s things into large sage-colored bags emblazoned with the business’s name and a line drawing of the building. 

“I think you’ll feel right at home in the Duneland,” Hannah said. “At least for the summer. You already know how the beach changes in the winter.”

Realizing Hannah knew she was familiar with Chicago’s harsh winters, Maggie suspected Miss Naomi had forewarned the woman of their visit in order to avoid any unwanted attention. That’s OK, Maggie decided, warming to the idea of Miss Naomi’s – and Michael’s – concern for her. Nobody else seemed to share such a feeling these days. She’d take all the concern she could get.

Hannah’s next words removed all doubt that Miss Naomi had intervened.

“Waverly Shores is a good place, Miss Brady,” Hannah said, her face warming into another glowing smile. Maggie guessed Hannah was about 30 — a very pretty 30. “You never know what kind of adventure is waiting for you around the next corner. I found Jesus here. I found work here that I love and a husband I love even more.”

Maggie couldn’t help but bristle at the mention of a husband and love and felt a stab of jealousy at the obvious contentment in Hannah’s eyes. She immediately suppressed it, however. This was too good of a day to waste wallowing in self pity.

“It’s just ‘Maggie.’ And, I all I’m looking for is some peace and quiet, myself,” Maggie said calmly, the remark reminding her of Michael’s comment about privacy at the beach. She smiled, lest Hannah take her comments as a rebuke. “Well, some warm sun and sand would be nice, too.”

On that note, she topped off her purchases with a floppy hat woven from a pale golden straw and striped with deep brown. It would completely shield her face from view if she wore the brim down. Given her hair and complexion, she knew she would need it to protect her for that reason, too. Maggie made a mental note to pick up sun block when they hit the grocery store, their next stop.

*****

“Thank you, Miss Naomi. I think that was the most fun shopping I’ve ever done,” Maggie said a couple of hours later with a happy sigh. She was sunk deep into her very own beach-house couch and had a glass of sparkling pink lemonade in her hand.

Oddly, her statement was absolutely true. Today had been even more fun than shopping with her work friends while she prepared for her European honeymoon with Stephen. How could that be? That honeymoon was supposed to be the start of forever with the man she was supposed to love. The beach clothes were for a couple of months at the most.

Miss Naomi was talking again and Maggie wondered, once more, if the Altons could read minds. “Maybe Hannah’s right. Maybe you are a dune girl at heart,” Miss Naomi suggested. “Sometimes people live in the city, but it just isn’t who they are in their heart.”

“I might like being a dune girl,” Maggie said wistfully. She leaned back and felt the warm sun streaming through the living room windows to reach the top of her head. The windows were flung wide open to capture a beachy breeze, as well.

A beach cottage. Pink lemonade. A closet now stuffed with the softest, prettiest clothes she could imagine. How absolutely, outrageously not Chicago, not Brady and certainly not McCutcheon. Maggie wanted to throw her head back and laugh. She might not have a single answer to a single question that mattered – her conversation with Michael had surely revealed that. But, she was suddenly ready. Ready to embrace whatever her summer in the dunes had to offer.

Chapter 8

Whatever spirit of adventure Maggie had the previous day evaporated the moment she answered the phone just after 6 the next morning, however. It was Stephen. Had she not been asleep when he called, she would never have answered the designated ring tone that once caused a ripple of excitement in her each time she heard it. She had been ignoring his calls since the weekend, in fact, deleting any messages left behind as soon as he disconnected.

“Where. Are. You?” Stephen practically spat.

Maggie knew his ferocity in court well, having sat in the gallery many times to see him in action as the hot-shot prosecutor that he was. It was shocking to have the anger he could display there now focused on her. She could feel it in just those three words. 

“I have been calling you for two days!”

Before she could answer him, Stephen launched into a tirade – one liberally sprinkled with the “F” bomb and inventive combinations of other red-hot words Maggie had always disliked and that she’d never heard him use before. Rosa and profanity. I wonder what else Stephen does that I don’t know about. Play the ponies? Steal candy from small children?

The problem, he explained at great length, was her lack of dedication to him, her willingness to humiliate his family, her “utter disregard” for his political future. He had planned to take the McCutcheons and the Bradys all the way to the White House. And, she had messed that all up in her moment of insanity.

My moment of insanity?

Maggie was drowsy from a night spent not sleeping, but flipping aimlessly and irritably through home-decorating magazines she picked up on the grocery store run yesterday afternoon. She put this new flare of temper on simmer and let him rant until he wound down enough to notice the quiet.

“Are you even listening to me?” he suddenly shouted.

“You better believe I’m listening, Stephen McCutcheon,” Maggie snapped back in a burst of full-boil anger of her own. “I think I’m hearing you loud and clear for the first time, in fact.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

There were so, so many things she could say, but Maggie’s thoughts were in too much of a roil to form a coherent sentence. The intensity of it all suddenly overwhelmed her sleep-deprived brain and she changed the mood and the subject, surprised at the tremble in her voice.

“Did you ever love me, Stephen?”

There was a long silence. Well. That can’t be good.

“Come on, Maggie!” His voice was the very definition of exasperation. “Of course, I love you. I’ve actually been looking forward to being married to you. But, I’ve known you practically my whole life. There’s never been a time when I didn’t know there’d be a marriage, but, sometimes, you feel like you’re as much my kid sister as you are Ronan’s. That gets to me now and then. That’s all this was about. Nothing more.”

Actually looking forward? How astonishing. And, having a baby with another woman is just your way of dealing with “brotherly” angst? Thanks a lot, Stephen.

He wasn’t done.

“Not that what happened this weekend has anything to do with love. You’re a Brady. I’m a McCutcheon. You should understand this without me having to spell it out.”

“Should I?” She hated the cringing note in her voice.

“You and I as a married couple is business,” he elaborated as if she suffered a mix of deafness and dimness. “You know that. It’s good politics. Make that great politics. Win some elections. Make some beautiful heirs. That’s a pretty good deal, with or without love.”

“Is Rosa a ‘good deal,’ too, Stephen?” Maggie countered, truly wanting to hear the answer. “Or, do you actually love her?”

For the longest time, there was no answer. It was so quiet she thought she could hear him breathing, maybe even thinking.

“Maggie…” he finally sighed, and she had her answer. She flinched. Rosa wasn’t about politics. She wasn’t about business. Stephen loved this woman.

“How long?” Maggie demanded.

“What?”

“How long have you been … together?”

“Maggie,” he sighed again.

“I want to know, Stephen. I deserve at least that.”

“OK. OK. Maybe three years.”

Three years! Rosa’s not the other woman. I’m the other woman.

Stephen’s admission cut so deeply Maggie actually cringed. God! The soft whimper escaped her lips again and, suddenly and rather bizarrely, his words about their own relationship being good business struck her as funny. So funny, Maggie laughed out loud and, for a moment, she imagined she could feel Stephen’s anger at that response leaping at her through the phone. That made her angry once more.

“You and I aren’t good business, Stephen. We’re out of business. Don’t you ever call me again as long as we live!”

Maggie ended the call with the hardest button pressing she could manage. Oh, for the days of real phones like Grammy Kate always had in her room. Her hand really, really wanted to slam down a receiver. Deprived of that possibility, she did the next best thing. She ripped off her engagement ring – yet another McCutcheon heirloom — and whipped it right out the bedroom door and into the hallway, where it plinked, not unlike the pearls had, against the wall and then the floor.

How could she have ever loved this man and been so convinced he loved her? How could she have ever made herself so vulnerable to him only to have him throw her away – and all on the front page of the news? It was all so very, very wrong.

I have been an absolute fool.

He probably wouldn’t call back, but Maggie turned off her phone just in case. They weren’t gentle tears that came as she pressed the off button. It was a despairing, body-wrenching weeping that left her so empty she fell into a deep sleep that lasted until late in the morning.

Chapter 9

She’s been crying again. She’s smiling right now. She’s asking if my visiting her is interfering with my work. But, she’s been crying.

“That’s one of the perks of working for yourself,” Michael eventually said of his visit’s mid-afternoon timing.

Michael wasn’t usually a huggy type of guy, but their bizarre introduction had somehow broken down the physical barriers that usually exist between near strangers. He went so far as to give her a sideways kind of hug on his way into the cottage. She truly looked like she needed it.

“Aunt Naomi runs the showroom and handles my on-line sales just like she did for my Uncle Daniel,” he said. “I run the workshop according to my own schedule unless a customer wants to meet with me. I’ve actually been at it for nine hours…”

Michael trailed off when he noticed Maggie’s attention was wondering. Her eyes were riveted on his lower face. His fingers rubbed at the day’s worth of light-brown stubble that coated his usually bare chin and cheeks and her eyes went even wider. Now, he was staring, too. He wondered if she’d ever even seen a man anything short of clean shaven up close. Politicians and TV news personalities weren’t big on beards that he’d ever seen.

Lifting her fingers to his face and letting her explore actually crossed his mind. Rubbing his cheek against hers did, as well. What on earth is wrong with me? I’m 39, not 19.

“I didn’t realize you had a showroom,” she said out of nowhere.

OK. Maybe it was his attention that was wandering. She’d totally lost him.

“We weren’t in a showroom that day.”

He was still puzzled.

“The day we met.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah,” he said as their thoughts finally connected. “The part of my shop you were in is my workshop. It fronts the alley. The showroom is on the other side of the workshop’s back wall. It fronts Main Street.

“I’ll have to take you there sometime, but, today, I realized you have to get a car soon or you are pretty much trapped out here at the beach. There’s an old bike like Aunt Naomi’s in the shed out back. It’s fine for tooling around the neighborhood, but it won’t get you any farther than that. It weighs a ton.”

A flash of dismay crossed her face. Ah, city girl.

“Miss Maggie, do you know how to drive?”

“No,” Maggie reluctantly admitted. Then, she began to babble. “I’ve lived downtown all my life. There’s the subway, trains, buses, taxis and about a million miles of sidewalk. There hasn’t been any need. And, at work, I was always in a news van. The camera guys do the driving. Always.”

Michael threw up his hands in surrender. “I grew up around Raleigh, Maggie. And, I lived in Boston for a while. I know about public transportation. But, you’re going to have to learn to drive for yourself if you want to live here. There’s no way around it.”

“Well,” she said, “I can drive a golf cart. When my dad left office, I spent a bunch of days that next summer just hanging out at the golf course with him. That was back when I was in college though.”

“It’s a start, I guess.” Michael laughed, rubbing his beard again. He noticed Maggie’s hands suddenly ball into fists. Surely, she’s not that nervous about driving. “I’m thinking you might not want to be buying a car in this case. I wonder if Aunt Naomi would let you borrow one of her cars while you’re here.”

“She has more than one?” Maggie asked with might have been more dismay.

“Yes, ma’am. She drives Uncle Daniel’s old boat of a sedan, but she also has a practically new Mini Cooper sitting in the garage. I try to fire it up on the highway now and then to keep it running. It could do with more regular use anyway.”

*****

Miss Naomi was agreeable to the plan, they found out after a brief phone call. Just minutes later, they were sitting in that lady’s garage with Maggie in the driver’s seat of a ridiculously cute, powder-blue vehicle. Michael, too big to even be in such an automobile, had somehow managed to pretzel himself into the passenger seat.

He showed her all the critical parts of the car – ignition, gear shift, turn signals and the like. Maggie was growing more panicked by the second. “I don’t think I can do this, Michael,” she blurted out.

“Sure you can, Miss Maggie,” he said, touching her hand reassuringly. Then, he pointed to the gear shift and gave her a look that said “get on with it.” “Just put it into reverse and press the accelerator — slowly.”

Maggie’s teeth were literally clenched. Michael watched warily as she kept her foot on the brake like he said to do, carefully moved the gear shift so that the little orange mark lined up with the “R,” and slowly pressed the accelerator. But, not slowly enough. The car shot backward into the short driveway and they both lurched forward against taut seatbelts as she – thank you, Sweet Jesus — slammed her foot back onto the brake.

“I am so sorry,” Maggie gasped when breath re-entered her body.

Michael, a tad white under his tan, pressed his lips together briefly and swallowed. His voice was calm enough when he finally spoke. “You’ll get it. Try again.”

Gliding down Lakeshore Drive a half an hour and several more lurches later, Maggie was smiling like she actually might “get it.” He was just greatly relieved she was driving on the Duneland version of the road instead of the wildly trafficked one in downtown Chicago. That would have to wait for another day. Perhaps another century.

Michael guided her onto the side streets that connected the beach neighborhood to downtown Waverly Shores so she could practice stopping and starting smoothly and using the turn signals.

“Just remember, there’s a lot of marshland here behind the dunes,” he said after she had thoroughly criss-crossed the area. “If there’s been much rain, there can be enough standing water to destroy a low-slung car like this on these roads. Sometimes there will be barriers up. Sometimes there won’t be, if the water has just come up. It’s your job to look. And, stay off small roads like these if you’re driving in the dark.”

Maggie laughed. “As if.”

He ignored that, but he didn’t particularly want to see her doing nighttime driving anytime soon, either. “What do you think about driving us to Michigan City and I’ll treat you to dinner for a job well done?”

Evidently buoyed by her recent success, Maggie actually agreed to the 20-minute trek. He directed her onto U.S. 12, a small, two-lane highway that he had heard ran coast to coast. He’d never bothered to check it on a map. Here, it just seemed like a main local road.

Maggie sort of listened as Michael pointed out landmarks like Mt. Baldy, the tallest live dune in the Indiana Lakeshore, along the way. She was so clearly intent on not killing the both of them she didn’t even bother to ask how a sand dune could be “alive” like most visitors did. She actually shuddered with sheer relief when she managed to squeeze into a parking space at La Casita without denting the adjacent cars. Michael suppressed a similar shudder of his own. How do driving instructors do stuff like this every day and not lose their minds?

“You did it!” Michael was at her door and helping her out of the car. This was a good thing. Maggie couldn’t seem to thaw her tension-frozen limbs out enough to make the move on her own.

“I did it,” she answered shakily and smiled broadly at him when he gave her hand a congratulatory squeeze.

Chapter 10

They would have to wait. Even on a Monday night, La Casita was hopping. Michael didn’t care. Maggie didn’t seem to, either. After the tension of the last few hours – not to mention the last few days, he hoped it was soothing for her to walk along the small canal that ran through the lakeside neighborhood where the restaurant was located. It must have been. She suddenly squealed in delight, pointing to a flotilla of ducks swimming under a small footbridge that connected one elegant home to the main road.

Michael watched her watching the mallards. He was surprised any woman these days – particularly a woman who had obviously led a big-city, big-money life — could be happy with something so simple. It hadn’t escaped his attention, either, that she was glowing peach again. She was wearing a floaty, apricot-colored dress type of thing that made her hair look more true red than the rose-gold cast it sometimes had.

“You look pretty.” OK. I didn’t mean to say that out loud. “I mean your clothes look good, not like you at all. I mean not like you look on TV – not that you don’t look good on TV.” Oh, man. This is pathetic. “Um, you can stop me anytime now.”

They both laughed and kept walking. But, he rolled his eyes in relief when the restaurant pager he was carrying buzzed, alerting them that a table was available. Smooth, Alton. Really smooth. He shook his head. It had been way too long since he had been on a date. Not that this was one, of course — even if he was holding her hand again for some reason.

*****

Cool. The waiter was leading them to exactly the kind of table Michael had requested – off to the side and shielded from view by one of the many giant palms that dotted the restaurant. Even in her beach clothes, Maggie was still recognizable. He noticed she managed to use their hand holding as a reason to stay close as they entered the dining room. She walked in behind him, her face tucked just behind his shoulder, rather than going in front of him as would be more traditional. He got it. Michael shifted his hand to intertwine his fingers with hers in silent support. I don’t want that kind of attention just now, either, Miss Maggie.

“You might regret this,” Maggie said, now enthusiastically scanning the menu. “My brothers say I eat like a linebacker when it comes to Mexican.”

“How many brothers do you have?” Michael pushed his menu aside. He didn’t need it. He always ordered the same combination plate whenever he was at La Casita, usually with Jo-Jo or with Hannah and her husband, Eli.

“Five – all older and all bossy as can be. I’m the only girl.”

“Well, I can sympathize. I just have the one sister, but she’s also as ‘bossy as can be.’ She’s actually seven years younger than I am, but she could probably run the military all by herself if she felt like it.”

“That’s the one that comes here to the beach?”

“That’s the one, although I shouldn’t complain. Jo Jo’s great. She even takes care of all the interiors for my rental properties — my apartment, too – just for the fun of it.”

“She’s an interior designer?” Maggie asked, sighing in what appeared to be relief.

What’s up with that? Michael wondered. “She was a designer. Now, she runs the family business. We have – well, the family has a small office in Chicago to oversee the Midwest region. That’s why she’s here fairly often.”

“What is the family business?”

Michael was a little embarrassed. In the South, no one who heard his last name would have to ask. Although, he shouldn’t have been surprised that she needed to. The lesser reach of the Alton empire to the Chicago region was one of its draws in locating his own business here – the others being its sheer distance from his life with Elena and his love for Aunt Naomi and Uncle Daniel.

“Furniture,” he said quietly. “Have you ever heard of Lewis-Alton Company?”

He could see the very moment when Maggie put his name together with the chain of boutique-style showrooms with on-site designers.

“Wow, you’re one of those Altons! I guess I never thought of Lewis or Alton as being real people.”

“It’s hard for me to think of the Alton half of that as real, myself.” Her excitement made him smile. “He was my four-times-great grandfather. I only know him as a painting in the hallway. I’m sure you know the type – very stern, very mustachey.”

Maggie laughed. “I’m afraid I don’t. My ancestors that far back were more along the lines of peasant farmers,” Maggie said, stretching out her fingers to show him a hand she claimed could span an octave on the piano. “Just look. My dad says the Brady hand is built just right for digging potatoes.”

Michael looked at her hands, now wrapped around a huge tumbler of iced tea. They were too soft and slender to dig potatoes.

They managed to move on from their careers to more family stuff and education – an Ivy League business school for him, Northwestern University School of Journalism for her – before their food arrived and they were both too distracted by it to continue talking at that level of earnestness.

“You know, we’ve pretty much gathered enough information on each other to do a short biography,” Maggie said, taking a break from something so cheesy that strands of the stuff came up for air with every forkful. “Are you sure you didn’t go to J school?

Michael just smiled. He was a listener. It had always surprised people in the business arena. CEOs more often hold the floor. He guessed it surprised Maggie, too.

“I think it’s really cool that you’re building a business on your own,” she continued, turning  the subject in that direction once more. “I haven’t really done that. It was ridiculously simple to land a TV job with my family connections. I kind of took the easy way out – I don’t even know if I ever really wanted to be a journalist or if that was all just my dad’s idea.”

Michael looked at her without speaking. This would probably be a good time to mention key facts such as his wife’s death and how that had been the instigation of all the changes he had made and his commitment to a simpler life.  

“Well, what you’ve done in the last few days is pretty gutsy,” was what he said instead. He reached across the table to again take her hand. “You had the courage to walk away from a mistake instead of walking into misery. You have a new place to live that has nothing to do with your family. And, you’re driving a car – without a learner’s permit I just realized.”

“Well, most of that has had as much to do with you as with me.” Maggie gave his hand a quick squeeze this time. “Thank you, again.”

“That’s what friends are for, Maggie. And, I think I’m going to enjoy being your friend.”

“Me, too.”

*****

“We’re home, Miss Maggie.”

She’d been dead asleep since the moment they’d left the restaurant parking lot. That made Michael doubly glad he was behind the wheel, although he wouldn’t have let her drive this time anyway. It was definitely too dark for a new driver to be on the road – even if she had a learner’s permit.

His words weren’t enough to wake her. So, he sat just watching her way longer than was respectable before trying again. She was even more beautiful asleep than awake if that was possible. A rosy spiral of hair lay across one cheek. Her lips were bare of the colorful lipstick he had noticed before their meal and were slightly parted. Michael hadn’t seen a woman in the vulnerability of sleep since Elena, and that had been more than five years ago now.

I want to be your friend. Hah. He’d known he was in trouble the very moment he’d spoken such words at dinner. This thing with Maggie Brady, whatever it was, was already out of hand.

“God, help me,” he whispered, turning away and drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in sheer frustration at how attracted he was to her. The prayer continued internally. I don’t think this woman even knows you and she’s only a couple of days out of a near marriage. She’s way too vulnerable and way, way too young. I can’t be feeling like this.

That’s what he prayed, yet when he tried again to wake her, he ran the back of one finger along her cheek and jaw as he spoke. “Maggie, you’re home.” She startled into wakefulness, capturing his hand with her own. His entire body tensed.

“Wow, I didn’t realize how exhausted I’ve been,” she said, immediately releasing him so that she could conceal a tiny yawn with her fingers.

“Not a problem.” Now that would be a total lie.

He escorted her to her door. Southern gentlemanly, yes. But, really, really not a good idea he realized as soon as she turned to look up at him. Her face was still soft with slumber. There was at least a hint of invitation there, too. It took every ounce of will Michael had to not follow her into the cottage for the coffee she’d suggested.

Whoa, Alton! In an odd mix of control and impulse, he instead pressed her fingers firmly to his lips and let her go.“Good night, Miss Maggie.”

“Good night, Michael,” she said, swallowing another yawn.

He could still feel the warmth of her skin on his mouth as he drove away. That response was enough to make the decision for him. Maggie Brady had a place to stay. She had car. She no doubt had plenty of money of her own. She didn’t need any more help from him. And, he did not need the kind of complication she was already bringing into his life. He was done.

I’m staying away from this woman. Far, far away.

*****

Michael had no way of knowing Maggie was doing her own bit of running away. Sleeping in her bed wasn’t nearly as easy as it had been in the car. Maggie was still annoyingly awake several hours later. She tried to prop herself up and re-read her magazine stash. Pillows, she thought in frustration before tossing the issues aside and snapping off the light. I need them.

You need me.

It was that voice again.

Maggie lay dead still in the dark. So still she could hear her own heartbeat. No one was in the house, she was quite certain. Yet, a shiver of not quite fear – it was something else she couldn’t quite identify — ran through her. Hearing voices. Wanting something from Stephen — maybe even from Michael — that neither man obviously wanted to give.

You need to get a grip, girl. You need to get a life of your own.