Carolina Girl (9 page)

Meg gaped at her mother. “Confident? Oh, please. If Sam were any more confident, he’d need a wheelbarrow to cart his ego around. He was the most popular guy in school.”

“Who said popularity had anything to do with confidence? Look at you.”

“Me? I was never popular. I was too busy.”

Tess smiled at Meg as if she’d said something insightful. “Exactly.”

Meg’s cell phone rang. “Sorry,” she said and reached to silence it.

“Do you need to get that?” Tess asked.

“No.” Derek never called during work hours. Usually Meg called him at night. And who else had her number? Only the career coach.

“It could be work,” Tess said.

No, it couldn’t. But Meg glanced at the display just in case. Her heart beat faster as she registered the familiar 917 cell phone area code.
Manhattan.
“Actually, Mom, I should probably . . .”

Tess nodded. “You go ahead.”

She took a deep breath and punched the green connect button. “Meg Fletcher.”

“Meg, it’s Bruce.” The head of financial client services at the outside PR firm she’d worked with for the past twelve years.

“Bruce.” Genuine pleasure warmed her voice. “How did you—”

“Kelly gave me your number. We were all really sorry to hear you were gone.”

Meg cupped her phone, praying her mother couldn’t hear. “Thank you.” She edged toward the door. Why was he calling? It wasn’t as if she could do anything for him anymore. “I appreciate that.”

“Well, we appreciate all the business you sent our way over the years. The partners want to know if we can offer you more than moral support.”

Meg closed the bedroom door, swallowing the lump that rose to her throat. No matter how touched she was by this unexpected morale boost, getting weepy would not help her professional image. “Not unless you have a job for me,” she joked.

“You don’t want to work for us, trust me. It’s different on the agency side.”

“You mean, at the beck and call of a bunch of corporate divas who expect you to work miracles at a moment’s notice?” she asked dryly.

Bruce chuckled. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. I had an internship at an agency when I was in college.”

“Did you, now.” A pause, while her hopes rose and her fingers curled tightly around the phone. “You know I can’t use you in my division,” he said at last. “It wouldn’t look good, having you in our financial services practice. Franklin is still our client.”

She swallowed another lump, of disappointment this time. “I understand.”

Maybe the worst part was, she did. She’d hired Bruce in part because of his integrity. The same integrity that wouldn’t let him hire her now.

She opened her lips to ask for names. Contacts.
Network, network
, the career coach had urged. But she wasn’t used to pleading for favors. The words stuck in her throat.

“We miss you, though,” Bruce added.

She fought to keep a positive spin on things, to keep the bitterness from her voice. “I’m sure Nicole is doing a great job.”
My job.

Bruce made a noncommittal hum. “Let’s just say we’re still learning to work together.”

Industry code for,
She’s incompetent and I don’t like her.
Meg stifled a stab of pleasure. “Everybody has their own way of doing things,” she said soothingly. “I’m sure you’ll work things out.”

“We’re trying,” Bruce said. “Derek took us all out to dinner to smooth things over, but . . .”

“Derek?” The word escaped before she could snatch it back. “Why would Derek be involved?”

“Nicole doesn’t get most of the financial details around the acquisition. We needed to bring Derek into the loop to back her up. She seems to need a lot of . . .” Bruce paused. “Hand-holding,” he said.

Hand-holding?

What did that mean? And who exactly was holding Nicole’s hand? Meg’s mind spun like the circle of doom on a frozen computer screen. Was Derek . . . ? Would Derek . . . ?

No.
She was not questioning her relationship with her boyfriend because of some casual comment from a colleague.

Bruce was still talking. Meg pulled herself together. “What? I mean, beg pardon?”

“I asked if you would be open to working on projects outside of financial services. A change of pace.”

“Actually, I . . .” She took a deep breath. “I’d be very open to it.”

“Good, good. I’ll talk to some of the other heads and give you a call tomorrow. There are a couple projects in the hopper you might be interested in. We’ve got to get you back to New York.”

Before it’s too late.

“My thoughts exactly,” Meg said.

She ended the call and went to check on her mother.

* * *

“I
HAD AN
interesting call from Bruce today,” Meg said to Derek’s voice mail.

She hesitated, sitting alone on the edge of her mattress. It was one thing to go straight to Derek with her suspicions, to give him an opportunity to explain. Something else entirely to leave an accusing message on his phone. Derek always said he admired her because she wasn’t needy. She didn’t cling. The last thing she wanted was for him to see her as one of those insecure females they both despised.

Sam’s caustic drawl echoed in her head.
What you deserve is a guy who will be there for you all the time, not just when it’s convenient for him.

But she and Derek had a history together. They had a condo. Six
years
of sharing late nights at the office and lazy Sunday mornings in bed. She’d been so certain she knew where they were going. So sure of herself.

And of him.

She wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

Meg stared at the pictures hanging on her bedroom wall, the bold, flat eyes of the pirate Mary Read, the confident smile in her Harvard graduation photo.

“Anyway, call me,” she said. Another pause. “I miss you.”

I miss our life together.

She ended the call and sat a moment longer, clutching the phone as if she could hold on to her former life, as if she were touching him. Her insides churned. Slowly, by default, her mind returned to the things she could control, the list of tasks she’d inherited from her mother. Dinner dishes, done. Breakfast service, set. Lightbulb in the William Kidd Room, replaced. She needed to refile the movie DVDs, call Bill at the bike shop to confirm this weekend’s rental bikes, play homework cop with Taylor.

“Meg!” Her father’s voice carried up the stairs, loud, urgent. “Get down here!”

Mom.

Adrenaline propelled Meg off the bed and down the stairs.

The door to the master suite stood open. She crossed the kitchen with quick, decisive steps, faltering on the threshold of her parents’ room.

Tess was propped up in bed, all smiles.

Meg stopped in the doorway, weak-kneed with relief.

Matt was there, his arm around Allison, who looked as fresh and pink as the roses in her arms. A welcome home bouquet? But Taylor held a bunch of daisies, too, gingerly, at arm’s length, as if they might give her cooties or a rash.

And there, sitting by her mother’s bed, looking lean and dark in the crowded room, was Sam.

He was so obviously not one of them—not blond, not a Fletcher—and just as clearly comfortable making himself at home.

He looked . . . good, Meg acknowledged. He’d obviously come from work. A meeting? His tie was loosened and pulled down, his Brooks Brothers shirt was rolled at the sleeves, revealing the column of his throat, his strong, square wrists, his forearms, dusted with hair. His tan glowed against the crisp cotton. His teeth looked very white.

Meg looked away, annoyed by the quick tattoo of her heart, stirred by the memory of his slow, hot, melting kiss. He’d been around for most of her adolescence, she reminded herself. His presence here didn’t mean anything.

And neither did his kisses.

Tom was pouring one of the bottles of champagne they kept on hand for the Romance Package into a row of flutes on the dresser. At Meg’s entrance, he glanced up, his weathered face cracking in a grin. “There you are. Grab yourself a glass, girl. Your brother’s getting married.”

Not a crisis, then, Meg thought. A celebration. Matt must have made his announcement.

She glanced again at Sam.
Matt loves Allison. And she loves him. Can’t you just be happy for him?

Her smile felt almost natural. “I heard.”

“Come on, shorty.” Josh nudged Taylor toward the door. “I’ll get you a soda.”

Meg flattened herself against the doorway to let them pass. Fezzik’s tail thumped her legs as the dog followed them from the room.

Tess was struggling to sit up, another, larger bouquet—sunflowers, red and orange roses, blue delphiniums—lying across her lap.

Meg started forward. “Here, Mom, let me get that.”

Tess beamed at her. “Sam brought me flowers.”

“Brought all of us flowers,” Allison said.

Taylor, too, Meg thought, remembering the daisies.
Slick.
Part of her appreciated his generous gesture, his innate good manners, his charm. The problem came when you took those gestures personally, when you mistook his knee-jerk courtesy for caring.

Sam met her gaze, a corner of his mouth quirking as if he could read her thoughts. “It’ll take a while for those rosebushes out back to recover from being transplanted. You all should have something to enjoy until they do.”

“So you bought out the flower shop.”

His grin flashed. “Just doing my part to support the local economy.” He reached down to the floor and then across the bed. “These are for you.”

A bold burst of deep-throated lilies, coral, crimson, fuchsia, gold, spilled their fragrance in the room. A wave of pleasure took her by the throat. The vivid colors, the creamy textures, invited her to touch. To smell. She squashed the urge to bury her face in them.

Derek bought her flowers, she thought defensively. For her birthday and Valentine’s Day, two dozen stiff red roses with a scattering of baby’s breath, the prescribed bouquet of florists and boyfriends everywhere. She wasn’t going to lose her head just because Sam had thought to buy her something different.

She sniffed, unable to resist the lilies’ perfume. “Pretty. Thanks. I hope Rowan gave you a discount.”

Meg had met the owner of The Secret Garden last week when she’d placed an order for the inn. Rowan Whitlock was single, successful, and earthily sexy. Sam’s gesture couldn’t buy Meg’s approval. But his extravagance would certainly have made an impression on the florist.

Sam’s eyes laughed at her. “She did. Let me help you get those in water.”

Meg jerked one shoulder in dismissal. “I’ve got it, thanks.”

She wasn’t trying to be rude. Okay, maybe she was, a little. She needed to establish some space. Distance. Perspective. Somehow Sam’s effortless courtesy to every female in the room made Derek’s lack of attention even more glaring. And painful.

Twelve bouquets in six years, she thought. Unvarying, interchangeable.

Not that she needed flowers to validate her relationship with her boyfriend.

But she needed . . . something. A phone call.

“I’ll just grab another wineglass,” she said and escaped.

In the kitchen, she checked her messages again. Nothing.

She stood on tiptoe to get two vases down from the cupboard.

Josh came up behind her, reaching over her head. “Here you go, Aunt Meg.”

She sighed. “Thanks, big guy. Taylor, do you want to get your flowers? We should put them in water.”

Taylor hitched a shoulder. “I don’t care. I don’t see why he gave me flowers. I’m just a kid.”

“Didn’t anybody ever bring you a present for no reason before?” Meg asked lightly.

Taylor’s face shuttered. “No.”

Something prickled at the back of Meg’s neck. She didn’t mind that her niece wasn’t bowled over by Sam’s charm. But surely the child’s reaction was a little unusual? Meg remembered the thrill of getting her first bouquet from her father, her first corsage in college. Maybe Taylor associated flowers with her mother’s funeral?

Maybe they should both stop looking for problems and picking at motives and just enjoy.

“Sam’s just being nice,” Meg said.

Taylor gave her a disbelieving look. Dawn had been a single mother, Meg recalled. Taylor barely knew her father, was just beginning to trust Matt. Her experience of nice guys and male attention was probably limited.

“Why don’t you get them while I take care of Grandma’s flowers?” Meg said.

She arranged the bouquet in a creamy Lenox vase and found a blue pitcher for Taylor’s daisies. Conversation drifted from the other room, the rumble of male voices, murmurs from Tess and Allison. Resisting the urge to linger over her lilies, Meg grabbed a glass and a handful of napkins. With brisk, businesslike movements, she assembled a plate from this evening’s leftover wine and cheese and the fruit she’d cut up for tomorrow’s breakfast buffet. Everything nicely arranged, everything under control.