The amazing thing was, she didn’t want to cull through the possibilities in the bar and bring home a stranger.
She wanted . . .
Joe.
She stood at her car, looking down the street at his small cabin. Light glowed from the windows.
“No,” she said aloud. She shouldn’t do it, but she was walking anyway, crossing the street, and entering his yard, which smelled of honeysuckle and jasmine. At the door, she paused, wondering what in the hell she was doing.
Then she knocked. There was a long silence. No one answered.
She twisted the knob and went inside. The cabin was dark and quiet. A single lamp glowed with soft light, and a fire crackled in the hearth.
“Joe?” Cautiously, she stepped forward.
No answer.
A shiver crept along her spine. She sensed that he was here, close by, burrowed into the darkness like a wounded animal, watching her.
She was being ridiculous. He simply wasn’t home. And she shouldn’t be here.
She started to turn for the door when she s
aw the photographs. They were everywhere—on the coffee table, the end tables, the windowsills, the mantel.
Frowning, she walked from place to place looking at the pictures. They were all of the same woman, a lovely blond with a Grace Kelly kind of elegance. There was something familiar about her. Meghann picked one up, smoothed her finger across the cheap Plexiglas frame. In this photograph, the woman was clearly trying to make pie dough from scratch. There was flour everywhere. She wore an apron that read: Kiss the Cook. Her smile was infectious. Meghann couldn’t help smiling along with her.
“Do you always break into other people’s homes and paw through their things?”
Meghann jumped back. Her fingers went numb—just for a second, but it was time enough. The picture crashed to the floor. She turned around, looking for him. “Joe? It’s me, Meghann. ”
“I know it’s you. ”
He was slumped in the corner of the room, with one leg bent and the other stretched out. Firelight illuminated his silvery hair and half of his face. She didn’t know if it was the dim lighting, but she noticed the lines etched around his eyes. Sadness clung to him, made her wonder if he’d been crying.
“I shouldn’t have come in. Or come here, for that matter,” she said, uncomfortably. “I’m sorry. ” She turned and headed for the door.
“Have a drink with me. ”
She released a breath, realizing just then how much she’d wanted him to ask her to stay. Slowly, she faced him.
“What can I get you?”
“Martini?”
He laughed. It was a dry, rustling sound that bore no resemblance to the real thing. “I’ve got scotch. And scotch. ”
She sidled past the coffee table and sat down on the worn leather sofa. “I’ll have a scotch. ”
He got up, shuffled across the room. She saw now why he’d been so invisible; he had on worn black jeans and a black T-shirt.
She heard a splash of liquid, then a rattling of ice. As he poured her drink, she looked around the room. All those photographs of the Grace Kelly look-alike made her uncomfortable. These pictures weren’t decoration; they were obsession, naked and unashamed. She tried to figure out where she’d seen this woman but couldn’t.
“Here. ”
She looked up.
He stood in front of her. The top two buttons of his Levi’s were undone, and the T-shirt was ripped at the collar, revealing a dark patch of chest hair.