Too Soon For Love (3 page)

He listened as the water began to flow into the cup, always aware of the heat and careful not to pour too fast.

The water reached his fingertip, scalding it.

Shit
.

He jerked it out of the cup, stuck it in his mouth and sucked it briefly. He should get some ice for the slight burn, but he wouldn’t. It was no big deal, just one of those things.

He lifted the kettle again and began to fill the second mug.

“Michael! Let me do that for you.”

His hand jerked. Boiling water sloshed onto the counter.

Jane hurried to his side and grabbed for the kettle. “What are you doing? You’re going to burn yourself. You should have called me.”

“I can pour a goddamn cup of tea, Janey.” He heard her pick up the kettle and fill the other cup before setting the kettle back on the stove.

“But why burn your fingers when I’m right here? Let me see your hand.” Without waiting she seized his hand and tsked over his scalded fingertip. “Let me get—”

“No.” Michael jerked his hand away. “It’s fine. Really. Jane, I’m not helpless. I can pour water for tea.”

She was silent for a long moment. When she spoke her tone held an edge of hurt, just enough to make him feel like a total dick. “I’m just trying to help you, Michael.”

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And a dick was just what he felt like. Damn, but he hated that quiet tone, resented it really, the way it got under his skin and forced him, through guilt, to let her do things he was perfectly capable of doing for himself. But still, he hadn’t meant to snap at her.

“I know.” He heard her footsteps as she moved toward the doorway. “Janey, wait.”

She stopped.

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. The scrape of beard reminded him he hadn’t shaved in … how long? Probably since the funeral nearly a week ago.

He went to her, slid an arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry.

I’m just … I don’t know. I’m just an asshole.”

She laughed, and he felt some of the tension slide out of her.

“Oh, Michael, you’re not. I guess I’m still sort of raw. You are too, God knows.” She blew out a breath. “I hate you being here by yourself with all this stuff that needs doing. It’s just …”

“You’re all helping me. Hell, there’s been someone here every day since the funeral, every day since Phillip died for that matter.”

And wasn’t that a big part of the problem? He hadn’t been alone, not really alone, since he’d made that first phone call with the news of Phillip’s death.

They had descended on him, all of them, Phillip’s large Italian-Catholic family, filling up the house, handling details of the burial, making calls, cooking food and making sure he ate it.

He thought it would only last until after the funeral. But that had been almost a week ago. And still they came, they hovered, they tended. If it wasn’t one of Phillip’s three sisters, it was one of two sisters-in-law or a niece or, God help him, Phillip’s grandmother who was eighty-five if she was a day, and spoke very little English. But that hadn’t stopped her from telling him what he needed to do and how to do it.

God save him!

It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate them trying to be supportive too soon FoR Love
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and be there for him, but enough was enough. He wanted his house back, his privacy. He wasn’t used to sharing the place with anyone besides Phillip.

And there it was, that ripping pain that came with the realization, still fresh every time he thought of it, that he would never again share anything with Phillip.

Jane touched his cheek. “Michael.”

“Don’t.” He caught her fingers, lowered the hand back to her side. He couldn’t stand it if she did or said anything right then.

He would break down and he was just so fucking tired of crying.

“Okay,” she said. “It’s okay, Michael.”

She was sweet, and he really was an asshole for not wanting her here. But when Jane had arrived that morning with the intention of helping him go through Phillip’s clothes, Michael had wanted nothing more than to slam the door, lock it and never see her or any of them again. Which of course he hadn’t done.

No. He loved Janey like she was his own sister, maybe as much as Phillip had loved her, so he had acquiesced and closed himself in his writing room while she went upstairs and began the task of sorting through Phillip’s clothes.

The stove timer beeped. The tea was ready. He didn’t even remember setting it.

“You take sugar, right?” Michael asked, moving to the counter and opening a drawer. He took out two teaspoons.

“Yes, but I’ll get it.”

He let her finish fixing the tea. It was easier than arguing.

She passed him a mug. He took it and warmed his chilly hands. Sipped. The tea was strong and tasted good, comforting.

He inhaled its aroma and briefly closed his eyes.

“I have two boxes ready to go to the thrift store,” Jane said.

“They’re mostly jackets and boots and stuff.” She sipped her tea.

“I have to go pick up the kids. They have half a day today, so I’ll come back tomorrow and—”

“Not tomorrow.” Michael leaned his butt against the counter.

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“Let’s make it another day, can we, Janey? I need a quiet day.”

She didn’t say anything for a minute and they drank their tea in silence. He heard her set her cup down.

“Michael, I hate thinking of you here all by yourself. It’s depressing. Have you given any more thought to what I said about having you move into the in-law suite? Since Ross’s mom passed—”

“I don’t want to move, Jane. I love this house. I don’t want to sell it.”

“You wouldn’t have to sell it. You could rent it out. And if you lived upstairs from our garage you’d be near me and the kids. You could eat dinner with us sometimes. I could help you with the mail and stuff like that. I could even have our cleaning woman do your place too.”

He had so hoped this wouldn’t come up again.

“Is that your subtle way of telling me I’m a slob?”

She laughed just as he’d hoped. “Of course not. I’m just trying to make things easier on you. We all are.”

“I know you are.” He set his mug on the counter. “But I’m not ready to make any big decisions right now.”

And he would never, ever, ever be ready to make that particular decision to move in across the driveway from Jane and Ross.
Just
shoot me now.

“But you’ll think about it?”

No.

“Sure. I just don’t want to do anything drastic while … you know.”

“Of course.” She hugged him, a quick impulsive squeeze and he felt like a jerk for lying to her. He just wasn’t up for the discussion about why this was such a great idea. The lie was just simpler.

Why tell the truth today if you could continue to lie well into the future?

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He walked with her to the front door. “Let me help you with the boxes.”

“I already put them in the car.” She opened the door and stopped. She made a small sound of distress. “Oh, damn, I was going to go through that stack of mail for you. Why don’t I just take it and—”

“No, that’s all right.” He was not having her take his mail. “We can do it another time. I’m sure there’s nothing pressing.”

She hesitated. “I could just glance through it real fast. See if there’s anything—”

“No, Janey, really, it’s fine.”

He stood in the open doorway listening as she started her car and turned around, stood there until the sound of the engine faded away.

Closing the door, he leaned back against it and shut his eyes.

Silence. Or not quite silence. It was the silence of an empty house. Boards creaked and settled. The refrigerator hummed.

The grandfather clock in the living room ticked, ticked, ticked.

He heard the click and whoosh of the furnace firing up. And suddenly he felt very, very alone.

Which was exactly what he wanted, right? His privacy. Well, now he had it.

Straightening Michael made his way back to the kitchen. He returned the cream-pitcher to the fridge, replaced the lid on the sugar bowl and washed the cups. As he wrung out the sponge to wipe the counter, the doorbell rang. Janey must have forgotten something. Dropping the sponge in the sink, he went to the door and opened it.

“Hello, Michael. It’s Alan Stuart. I’m sorry to bother you.”

Michael looked incredible. Dressed in faded jeans and gray flannel shirt, his hair was down and it was longer than Alan had thought, falling in dark glossy waves to just below his shoulders.

Several days of dark stubble graced his jaw and gave his angular
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face a scruffy, rock-star beauty. He wasn’t wearing his dark glasses either. Of course he’d seen Michael’s eyes on many occasions, too often they were ringed with dark circles or bright with tears.

Today they were neither.

Dark brown, possibly even black, the pupils were large, nearly swallowing up the irises. The fact that Michael’s eyes didn’t focus, took nothing away from their inherent beauty. Large and fringed with thick, long lashes, they lent an air of glamour to an already stunning face.

Involuntarily Alan’s fingers clenched on the glove he held.

“Alan,” Michael said and stepped back, opening the door wider.

“You dropped your glove in my car. I would have called but I didn’t have your number. I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

God, but he sounded stupid. It was a horrible idea, stopping in like this.

“No, not at all.” Michael nudged the door a bit wider. “Come in.”

Alan stepped in, held out Michael’s glove. “Here’s your glove.”

Michael took it. Their fingers brushed and a tingle of awareness sizzled up Alan’s arm.

“Thanks, Alan. I thought I lost it. Phillip gave me those gloves last Christmas so …” His words trailed off. He held the glove, running his fingertips over the supple leather as a flicker of pain crossed his features. It disappeared almost as quickly as it had come, but still it was hard to see, and it made Alan feel like some kind of intruder.

What the hell was he doing here, barging in on Michael’s most private grief? And why hadn’t he just dropped the glove in the mailbox… anything but this.

“Well, I’m glad I found it for you.” He took a step back. “I’ll just be going …”

“No, wait. I mean, would you like something to drink? Coffee or tea maybe? It’s pretty cold outside.”

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As if to underline the statement, a frigid wind swirled through the open doorway. On the table a pile of mail blew over, several pieces fluttering to the floor.

“Oops. Bad spot for the mail, I guess.” Michael bent and began to feel around the floor for the scattered envelopes.

“Let me get that for you.” Alan stepped inside and closed the door.

“I’ve got it.”

And indeed Michael had already gathered most of what had fallen. A stray catalogue and two envelopes that looked like bills lay some distance from where he knelt.

Alan leaned down and picked them up. “Here’s a couple you missed.”

“Thanks.” He took them.

“Maybe you should have a basket or something.”

Michael nodded and got to his feet. “That’s an idea.” He dumped the mail back on the table in exactly the same spot as before. “It doesn’t usually pile up like this.”

Silence fell between them, both knowing the reason the mail had piled up even if neither spoke it aloud.

“If you don’t mind me asking …”

Michael shrugged. “Ask away. If I don’t want to answer, then I won’t.”

Alan nearly swallowed the question back down. But then he figured, what the hell. Like he said, he would either answer or not.

“How do you deal with the mail?”

There was a pause, a long one, like Michael hadn’t really thought about it before. “I don’t know. I’ve never had to before.

I guess I’ll hire someone to read for me. That’s what I did in college if I couldn’t get a textbook on tape. No reason it wouldn’t work for the mail too.”

“A stranger? Looking at your bills and bank statements and
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all that?” He couldn’t quite keep the note of what … surprise, out of his voice. For some reason he’d thought … Well, he didn’t really know what he’d thought.

Another shrug. “You got to take what you can get. And to be honest, I’d probably rather have a stranger than someone from Phillip’s family knowing all my business. You know what I mean?”

He was way over stepping now and he knew it. Still, Alan couldn’t seem to stop the words.

“I could read for you, if you want.”

“You?” Surprise then thoughtfulness flickered across Michael’s face. “Why would you want to do that?”

Why indeed?

Alan shrugged. “I just … thought it would be better than a stranger or somebody in the family.”

“You’re not much more than a stranger.” Michael leaned a hand on the table. He picked up the glove that lay there and held it.

“I guess I’m not.” But oh, he wanted to be. Much more than a stranger. Alan felt a flush of embarrassment creeping into his cheeks and was glad Michael couldn’t see it. “Still, the offer stands.”

Michael twisted the glove between his hands. Even white teeth worried a full lower lip. “When do you think you could start?”

Alan’s heart began to pound way too hard and fast. He glanced once again at the stack of mail. “Whenever you want.”

“Now?”

Alan cursed silently. Damn it. But there was no way he could crap out on Guy and Rosalyn, not at this late date. And besides there was the dog.

“I’m actually on my way somewhere right now. To dinner …

at a friend’s. But I could come by tomorrow. How would that work for you?”

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Michael nodded. “Tomorrow would be good. After work then? Around seven?”

All the way to Guy and Rosalyn’s place Alan chewed over what he’d done. The drive took well over an hour so he had lots of time to question his motives. The answers he found were not entirely comforting.