A Family Affair: The Return Page 9

  7

  Who’s the woman Max Ruhland’s hanging around with these days?

  Spotted them at Sal’s Market in the produce section.

  She’s nothing special…What’s he see in her?

  Maybe she’s a relative? Does he have a sister?

  He doesn’t have a sister, silly. He’s an only child.

  Isn’t he?

  I think she’s Frances Romano’s niece. Probably here about the will.

  Good, because she can’t be his girlfriend…can she?

  Of course not. That gorgeous hunk of man is not going after a Plain Jane like that.

  Agreed. I think I’d be a better choice.

  You? What about me?

  Giggle. Giggle. What about both of us?

  * * *

  Rumors swirled up and down Main Street, circled along the back roads to Boone’s Peak, found their way to the Heart Sent bed and breakfast, and boomeranged as far as Renova. Women had been after Max Ruhland for years, but he never landed long enough to get caught. At least that’s what they told each other when he flitted in and out of town, and they remained empty-handed. They called him a drifter, a nomad, and a wanderer who didn’t own much more than that darn car and the clothing on his delicious body. But that didn’t stop them from chasing after him in their short skirts and low tops, offering subtle and not so subtle invitations. He’d smiled and thanked them, but every single time, he said no.

  Now why was that?

  The townspeople speculated, some more than others. Did he have a wife in another town, maybe a child or two? It happened, sure did. Hadn’t it happened in their very own town with Charles Blacksworth and Miriam Desantro? Maybe Max Ruhland was hitched but liked to pretend he wasn’t. There was no wedding band on his finger, no tan line either. Some said marriage didn’t make the commitment. The commitment made the commitment! Maybe he had a woman somewhere, a beauty-queen type: tall, blonde, long legs, big bust, with a look and a smile that promised to deliver any fantasy her man wanted.

  It had to be a wife or a serious girlfriend that kept Max on the straight and narrow. The fact that he wasn’t a cheater made him darn near irresistible, and that made women want him even more. And now, some interloper had come to town and was ruining their opportunities to get Max’s attention—and show him just how much he was missing.

  These women never considered that Max might simply not be interested in them, that he preferred to keep his personal attachments personal, and that just maybe there was more to him than a vintage car and a toned body.

  And the woman he’d been escorting about town? Frances Romano’s niece? Well, if a person had eyes and knew how to use them for more than surface observations, then they’d know Max Ruhland was sweet on her. Not sugar-substitute sweet either, but caramel-corn-cotton-candy-maple-syrup sweet. Yup, no doubt about it. When Frances shared the story of the summer romance between Max and Grace that gutted the boy, Pop suspected there were still scars, the kind that didn’t heal well and left reminders that never faded. But when his friend came to him with her cancer diagnosis and her final wishes, ones that included giving Max and Grace one last chance, Pop sat up and read between what she said.

  Max isn’t going to like it when I tell him Grace is coming to Magdalena.

  He doesn’t know anything about her except that she’s a widow with two children. Frances had clasped her hands over her belly, sat back in her chair. Come to think of it, I don’t even think he knows the children are girls.

  Why do you think he’s never asked to see a picture of her? A Christmas card photo and letter arrive every year like clockwork, and not once has he asked. In fact, he avoids looking at any of my cards. What do you make of that, Angelo?

  Pop had rubbed his chin, considered this. Mighty strange, but I’m thinking there’s only one thing that makes a man get all skittish.

  Frances had stared at him, thin lips parted, eyes bright. He still cares about her, doesn’t he?

  If we were in Vegas, I’d put all my chips on that one. Yes, indeed I would.

  I won’t be here to watch this story unfold, but you will. She’d sat up straight, clutched the arms of the chair and said with the kind of passion she reserved for those Jane Austen books she loved, We need to find a way to force them to spend time together. If we can do that, maybe they’ll see they still care about each other. Max and Grace deserve that chance, Angelo, but I don’t know how to give it to them.

  I do. He’d conjured up the idea after watching Gone with the Wind for the umpteenth time this past winter. Get Rhett and Scarlett in the same room, force them to work together and complete a list. The working together in close quarters was the key, didn’t matter if they were fixing up Tara or staring out the same window; they’d have to talk, and while they were sure to throw a barb or two in the middle of every sentence, eventually, Rhett and Scarlett would remember why they fell in love.

  And with a list and a thirty-day-same-house living arrangement forcing them together, so would Max and Grace.

  On the morning of the sixth day after Grace’s return, Pop laced up his high tops, zipped his jogging suit jacket, and headed toward Frances Romano’s house. Bayberry Street, where the old house sat, was a solid two-and-a-half-mile trek with a hill or two and a three-house stretch of cracked sidewalk that needed repair. Of course, Pop knew Max bought the place a few years back, but he still thought of it as his friend’s home. Probably always would. Frances and Max wanted to keep their business private, and Pop had honored their wishes, though it had been dang hard a time or two when comments floated around about how it wasn’t right that Max Ruhland disappeared for weeks at a time and then showed up and sponged off Frances.

  As if that statement contained a pinch of truth. If they only knew who Maxwell Ruhland really was and what he’d done for Frances… Pop kicked up his pace and thought about all the apologies that boy would receive.

  But Max didn’t want people to know any of it, said a person worth having in his life was one who stayed because they wanted to be with him, not his possessions. Pop let out a sigh, headed downhill. That was easy to say and a whole lot harder to do. If things turned out between Max and Grace the way he thought they could, Max was going to have to confess a few truths—like how he owned a performance auto parts company and had enough real estate to be a small city, if he put it all in one place. Pop let out another sigh, spotted the gray and white Cape Cod on the left side of Bayberry Street.

  One step at a time.

  Max didn’t get to be thirty-nine years old, unattached, and wealthy without knowing a trick or two himself. Maybe he could flash that ten-dollar smile at Grace, study her with those blue eyes, and warm her up before he spilled the real story about how he built a mini-empire out of his love for cars. It was sure going to get interesting, but if those two would set stubbornness aside and let possibility take its place, they could make new memories that would last a lifetime.

  By the time he reached the Cape Cod, his left hip let him know he should have spent more time with warm-ups and his throat needed a cup of tea. He knocked on the front door, waited.

  Were they working on the list?

  How had they ranked the items?

  Easiest to most difficult?

  Least distasteful to impossible?

  Curiosity had him guessing, but it was more than that. If he could get an inkling as to what they considered easy, least distasteful, and impossible, then he’d know if they were making progress. He checked his watch, a gift from Anthony, and squinted at the tiny date on the face. Grace and Max had twenty-four days left to complete their list, and when it was done, they’d better be orbiting the same universe or their chances were doomed.

  * * *

  Max opened the door to find Angelo Benito standing on the other side, outfitted in a navy jogging suit, navy cap, and red high tops. No sign of a car. “Hey, Pop, how are you?”

  Pop peered at him from behind his large glasses and shook his head. “Sore.” He lifted one leg in a
high stretch, then the other. “Guess I should have done the stretches before the walk.”

  Max laughed. “I’ve done that a time or two myself. Why don’t you come in and I’ll get you something to drink?” He held the door for him, followed the old man into the small living room. Angelo Benito might have sore body parts, but he hadn’t come here to discuss them, and the knock on the door wasn’t unplanned. According to Frances, the man was crafty, cunning, and possessed more insight and wisdom than a panel of philosophers. That meant Pop didn’t just happen to end up on Max’s doorstep. Nope. He’d planned his walk with the intention of ending up here.

  Pop laid his cap beside him, said in a soft voice, “I could use a hot cup of tea.” He paused, worked up a smile. “Frances sure did love those teas you brought her. Cinnamon spice was her favorite, but mine was oolong.” He shot him a look. “Would you happen to have any oolong in your cupboard?”

  Max nodded. “If you give me a minute, I’ll fix you a cup.” He headed for the kitchen and wasn’t surprised when Pop followed him.

  “Why don’t we sit in here?” Pop pointed to the kitchen table. “Frances and I did some of our best plotting and planning at this table.”

  “Plotting and planning, huh?”

  Pop tapped a finger against the side of his head. “You’d be surprised what this brain can do.” He slid into a kitchen chair, folded his hands on the table. “Where’s Grace?”

  “Grace?” Now they were getting to the old man’s reason for the visit. He’d bet his Chevelle that Pop Benito had come to find out what was going on between Max and Grace, as in, was it getting personal? Well, he could poke around all he wanted; Max wasn’t saying anything. Not that there was anything to say, but too many times words were misinterpreted, actions insinuated, and emotions surmised. Not happening here. Pop could take what he saw at face value because that was all he was getting. “She went to the garden center to pick out bulbs or something for the flower bed in the backyard.”

  Pop laughed. “I see. ‘Plant perennials in the backyard garden.’ That was one of my favorites on the list.”

  “Frances showed you the list?” Max turned away from the stove, rested his hands on the counter behind him, and waited.

  “Showed me the list? Ha!” Pop slapped the kitchen table with his right hand. “I’m the one who helped her make the list. The garden was my idea.” He nodded, his weathered face splitting open with a big smile. “I’m darn proud of that one. You can’t ignore the beauty of flowers, and planting bulbs in the fall is like wrapping a gift to be opened months later. By the time you get to open it, you’re not real sure what’s inside. Was it a yellow tulip, or a yellow tulip with orange streaks? And what about the red ones? Dark red, double red, red with a yellow center?” His voice turned wistful. “My Lucy planted hundreds over the years: tulips, daffodils, hyacinth, crocus, snow-on-the-mountain…”

  “I’m not sure what she’s going to pick.” Max shrugged. “All I know is I’m supposed to get the bed weeded by tomorrow morning so she can plant.”

  “Ah.” Pop tapped a finger against his chin, eyed Max. “So, she’s giving you jobs to do, huh? Interesting. When Frances and I thought up the list, it was meant as a joint effort, meaning together.” He paused, those dark eyes turning darker. “Not splitting the job in two.”

  Max set Pop’s tea in front of him, slid into a chair. “I know, and we’ve been doing that.” He tried to ignore the heat creeping up his neck. “But there’re a lot of weeds in that bed, and I didn’t want Grace dealing with that.” Did he sound like an idiot for not wanting her to ruin her hands? “Some of them are pretty invasive, and she could end up with calluses or blisters. Of course, I knew she’d want to do her share, so I figured if I sent her to get the bulbs, I could clean up the bed and make it seem like we’d put in equal effort.” He shrugged, the heat swirling from his neck to his cheeks. “That way, we’re still in compliance with the rules of the list, and we’ll plant the bulbs together.”

  “I see.” Pop sipped his tea, let out a satisfied sigh. “Good stuff, Max. Mighty tasty, with just the right zing.” He took another sip. “Yup, some things are perfect the way they are. Like this tea. Doesn’t require sugar or milk, nothing but the natural ingredients and time to seep.” He paused, slid a look at Max. “Kind of like a relationship, don’t you think?”

  Oh, that was smooth. Angelo Benito knew how to use his words to do some serious fancy verbal footwork. The old man could pry without making it look like he cared whether you answered or not. Hell, he didn’t even make it look like the question was intended for you. But it was. Yes, it was, and Max saw right through the attempt. He sat back in his chair, crossed his arms over his belly, and smiled. “Sure, I guess it is.”

  “I think so, too.” More tea sipping, a lick of his lips. “This sure is good.”

  “I’ll send you home with a container.” Max waited for Pop to make one more play. It was coming, the only question was what would it look like?

  “Much obliged.” Pause. “You know, I can’t wait for you and Grace to see those bulbs next spring. Think on that when you bury them in the soil. Lucy used to say they were getting their beauty rest, and there were never truer words. Now don’t go worrying about planting them in perfect rows or patterns. I prefer willy-nilly; reminds me of nature.” He nodded, his eyes bright. “There’s nothing like it. You’ll see.”

  Max shifted in his chair, tried to avoid Pop’s gaze. Next spring? Pop wanted Max and Grace to see the flowers? That implied they’d be in this house, together, as in a couple. Bam! He knew the old man would throw a curve ball to try and force Max to state his intentions. Nobody could ever accuse the guy of losing his mental acuity; that was for damn sure. Pop thought he could get answers by planting subliminal messages? Max had spent years avoiding and delaying commentary tied to relationships, and he especially avoided the commentary that slipped through his defenses every now and again. He rubbed his jaw, worked up a smile. “You are one crafty man, I’ll give you that.”

  Pop raised his bushy brows, said in a voice that almost sounded confused, “Crafty? Not sure what you mean.”

  Max hadn’t missed the twitch of the old man’s lips when he spoke. “Right.” He laughed. “You and Frances are determined to play matchmaker, but you need to let it go.” This was the part he didn’t want to think about. If he started to believe he and Grace had a second chance, then he was opening himself up to a whole lot of heartache—and rejection. Again. Nope, not going to do it. If there was a shot with Grace—and with the boulders of unknowns between them it was hard to tell—then she’d be the one doing the asking, not him. But even as common sense laid out the rules, his damn heart thumped away like a seventeen-year-old. Will you really let pride and the fear of getting hurt stand in your way to happiness? She can make you happy; you know that, don’t you? That’s why you could never commit to anyone else. Because she’s the one.

  Pop eyed him three seconds too long, finished his tea, and grabbed his cap. “I’ve been walking this earth a long time, and I’ve seen my share of joy, but I’ve also seen my share of heartache.” He stood, fit the cap on his head. “You only get one life, Max, and it’s up to you how you live it. Frances didn’t want you and Grace to live with the regrets she had. She said it was never too late to try again, or get that second chance.” He shrugged, his dark eyes burrowing into Max’s soul, as if he could see the truth there, even if Max couldn’t. “We’ve given you the tools and the opportunity. That’s as far as we can go. Now, it’s up to you.” He paused, dug deeper. “But ask yourself if the doubt and fear you’re feeling right now are worth the risk. If the answer is yes, then you have your work cut out for you, but there’s a truckload of joy waiting with your name on it.”

  Max had intended to play it cool, but Pop’s last words got to him. He pushed back his chair, stood and let this one truth slip out. “You’re assuming I’m the only one making the decisions on whether to run or stay. It takes two.” Was that a smile inching ove
r Pop’s lips, or a smirk? Hard to tell, but it could be either one—or both.

  “Of course, it takes two, Max. And that’s why Frances and I set this little exercise up. Can you straight-faced tell me that not once these past days have you thought about what it might be like to be with Grace?”

  Oh, what the hell. Another truth slipped out. “I’m trying very hard not to think about it. She’s got a whole life I don’t know anything about, and so do I. She’s got kids. What do I know about kids? Girls, no less.” He sighed, the frustration building in his voice. “It would be a disaster.”

  “Ah.” Now the smile slid across Pop’s face. “So, you have thought about it. Sounds like you’ve wanted to do more than think about it, but your brain keeps shutting it down.”

  “Because it’s a ridiculous idea.” Max sighed. “Impossible. Foolish.”

  “Or maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s exactly what you’ve both been waiting for all these years, and it just needs a bit of polishing to find the shine. It’s the things we have to work for that are worth keeping.” He winked, patted his cap, and said in a matter-of-fact voice, “Now, about that tea you were going to give me…”

  8

  Max dug a hole in the flower bed he’d weeded yesterday and laid the soil aside. He peered into the hole, guessed at the six-inch requirement. “What do you think? Deep enough?”

  “Hmm. Not sure.”

  He glanced at Grace, who knelt beside him, a bag of tulips resting by her side. “Close enough. I’ll bet I’m plus or minus half an inch.”

  “Max, six inches is six inches. If we want these tulips to have the best chance of success, we have to follow the instructions.” She proceeded to pull out a measuring tape and stick it in the soil.