Just Like Heaven Page 9

Maeve was silent for a long moment. “I was afraid this would happen.”

  “So was I,” Kate said. “I told him it’s a by-product of my heart attack, but he thinks it’s the real thing.”

  “Are you going to dinner with him tomorrow?” Maeve asked.

  “How do you know about that?” Even Kate had managed to forget the invitation.

  “He told me while you were out there saying good night to Mark.”

  “There was no polite way out of it,” Kate said. “Besides, he’s my best friend. He’ll snap out of it.”

  “Tread softly,” Maeve warned. “Our boy’s heart is a lot softer than he wants anyone to think.”

  Was it? Paul’s heart had seemed pretty resilient to Kate. He hadn’t spent a Saturday night alone since his divorce.

  “Did you really invite Father McDreamy to lunch?” Gwynn asked over her shoulder as she poked around the fridge for anything fattening and now forbidden. “I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.”

  “You weren’t even in the room.”

  “I was in the hallway.” She flashed Kate the same grin she’d flashed as a seven-year-old learning to ride a two-wheeler. “Eavesdropping.”

  That smile, those twinkling eyes, that impish grin. Where did the time go? A rush of love swelled up inside Kate’s chest, and for the tenth time in the last few hours she burst into tears which, of course, tipped her highly emotional daughter into tears and ultimately dragged her mother along for the ride.

  “I hate this,” Kate said, wiping her eyes with a paper towel. “If this is what I’ve been missing, I could do without it.”

  “This is good for you,” Maeve said, ripping off two pieces of paper towel for herself and for Gwynn. “You’ve always been so bottled up, so self-contained. It’s good to let your emotions flow through you. It’s healthy for body and soul.”

  “It doesn’t feel good,” Kate said as a new torrent of tears rolled down her cheeks. “I feel like I’m totally out of control.”

  Maeve and Gwynn exchanged looks.

  “I saw that,” Kate said, reaching for another square of paper towel. “And I saw the last three looks too.” She blew her nose and tossed the towel into the trash. “You’re wrong.”

  Gwynn looked as innocent as a five-year-old. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “We don’t have to say anything,” Maeve pointed out, “because she knows it’s true.”

  Kate rinsed her juice glass and set it in the dish drainer to dry. “We’re not having this discussion.”

  “Maybe you aren’t,” Maeve said, “but we’ve been having it since that gorgeous holy man showed up on the doorstep this afternoon. I have never seen chemistry like that between two people in my life.”

  “Gran is right,” Gwynn said. “I thought the two of you looked smokin’ hot out there.”

  Kate tried to think of something suitably funny and sarcastic to say in response, but unfortunately “Do you really think so?” was what came out.

  She could hear their delighted laughter all the way upstairs in her second-floor bedroom, where she had fled in horror. If Maeve and Gwynn had seen the sparks flying between her and the priest, then there were sparks. Maeve made a living analyzing, encouraging, and celebrating sexual attraction. And Gwynn was a born romantic, hopelessly enamored of anything that even hinted at a possible love story. Kate was the one who was tone deaf when it came to the music of love and always had been.

  But not this time. She had heard a symphony when their lips touched, complete with a choir of angels and Pavarotti in his prime. An entire opera of emotion was playing itself out inside her and all she could do was let it happen.

  She probably shouldn’t have invited him to lunch the way she did. She had put him on the spot in front of her family and Paul. What could he say but yes? Driving up to Coburn to have lunch with a woman he’d found facedown in a puddle of pickled ginger had to be the last thing he wanted to do on any given Tuesday. If she really wanted to thank him for saving her life, she would make a donation to the Episcopal Church and offer him an escape hatch.

  The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that this was the way to go. Nothing good could come of seeing him again. He was a man of the cloth and she hadn’t been near a church in a few decades. For all she knew he was a married man with a devoted wife and five kids and a golden retriever, and those sparks they had generated were a big fat occasion of sin they would both do well to avoid.

  Then again maybe Catholics were the only ones who viewed the world in terms of sinning possibilities. Most of her information about Episcopalians came from reading the Mitford books, and her priest didn’t look anything like Father Timothy. Since leaving St. Aloysius after high school she had kept religion, organized and otherwise, at a respectful distance.

  This was the kind of research job the computer was made for, but where to begin? She could start with an overview of the religion, its basic tenets, its liturgical calendar, or she could do what every red-blooded American woman in her position would do: Google Father McDreamy and find out if he was married.

  “Mark Kerry” was a popular name. There were thirty-two thousand six hundred twenty-one websites with mentions of Mark Kerry. She narrowed it down to Episcopalian Mark Kerrys with New Jersey ties and found three, two of whom were dead. The third was seventy-three.

  Okay. So maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. She had his telephone number. She could always call him and give him the opportunity to gracefully bow out of their Tuesday lunch.

  He has your number too, idiot. If he wants to back out, he can call or e-mail or instant-message. You gave him everything but your Social Security number.

  Then again, maybe he already had.

  She clicked over to Outlook Express and waited for the screen to populate.

  Downloading 273 messages . . .

  She hadn’t logged on since Monday morning, just before her life turned itself inside out.

  Get well soon.

  Get well soon.

  What the hell happened?? Fill me in

  I can’t believe you had a heart attack

  What about my Majolica vase

  WTF?????

  Did you find that Roseville urn we talked about

  Hope you feel better reeeeeally soon

  She skimmed the list of messages in her inbox but there was nothing from Mark Kerry. Not that she was expecting anything, but that didn’t stop her from sobbing like she had just lost her dog, her best friend, and her 401(k).

  “This is the twenty-first century,” she said to the screen as she wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “You’re a grown woman. If you have something to say to him, say it.”

  She reached for the piece of paper with his contact information taped to her mirror, then propped it up near her keyboard.

  TO: mark.kerry@mklj.net

  FROM: kate@frenchkiss.biz

  SUBJECT: Lunch

  Too defensive. It made her sound like one of those wishy-washy types she hated.

  Too businesslike.

  I can’t stop thinking about you. Something magical happened today, didn’t it? I mean, I’m not crazy. I may not have a lot of experience with magic but I know—

  Too honest.

  The thing to do was shut down the computer before she did something even more horrible than be caught wearing a red lace thong by a gorgeous Episcopal priest in a Grateful Dead T-shirt. Something she might actually regret a few weeks from now when she was feeling more like her normal, practical self.

  Sunday evening—The Old Grist Mill

  “Window seats,” Paul said as they followed the hostess to their table. “With a view of the stream.”

  The trees had been strung with tiny white fairy lights that illuminated the soft spring night with romance.

  This time last week she would have been oblivious to the twinkling lights and soft music, but tonight all she could think of was how wonderful this would be with the right man.

  And, to her regret, her dear f
riend would never be that man.

  The hostess went to pull out Kate’s chair for her, but Paul leaped into position and did the honors. Normally they would have jockeyed playfully for the best seat but here in bizarro world he was acting like a boyfriend instead of a best friend. Flowers. Compliments. She was afraid he might break into song at any moment.

  It was going to be a long evening.

  “I’ve always loved this place,” she said after the hostess hurried away to seat another customer. “If it weren’t in the back of beyond, I’d come here all the time.”

  “Best porterhouse steaks in the Northeast.”

  She winced. “I’m afraid it’s broiled haddock for me.”

  “Damn,” he said. “I should’ve taken you to Luigi’s for seafood.”

  “They have fish on the menu here. I’ll be fine.”

  She sneaked a glance at her watch. Two minutes and forty-three seconds had passed since the last time she looked. If she could keep the conversation firmly centered on her dietary restrictions and not on their future, alone or together, the night might not be a total disaster.

  John, their server, offered a wine list. Paul zeroed in on his favorite merlot, which Kate declined.

  “No wine?” He looked surprised.

  “I forgot to run it by Dr. Lombardi,” she said. “He has me on a few different meds and I’m not sure about interactions with alcohol.”

  Paul nodded. “Better safe than sorry.”

  “Isn’t this the kind of conversation our grandmothers had over pots of tea?”

  “We’re getting older, French,” he said. “Next stop is the AARP card.”

  So far, so good. This was the kind of thing they did best. No posing. No posturing. No trying to impress each other. Just two old friends, getting older by the day, out for dinner and friendship.

  Provided, of course, you could ignore the twinkling lights outside, the candlelight inside, and the fact that he suddenly couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her.

  “I owe you an apology,” he said after the busboy cleared away their salad plates and refilled Kate’s iced tea.

  “For eating those gorgeous shrimp in front of me?”

  “Okay,” he said with a smile, “so I owe you two apologies.”

  She shifted in her seat, wishing she could find a way to defuse this situation before he said something they would both regret. “You don’t owe me anything, Grantham.”

  “I shouldn’t have dropped everything on you yesterday.” He dragged his hand through his wavy hair, a gesture she knew very well. “Believe it or not, I had a plan.”

  “A plan?”

  “I was going to drop it on you tonight, somewhere between the salad course and dessert.”

  She glanced toward the exit some eighty feet away. “You’re lucky I’m wearing heels. Otherwise I’d make a run for it.”

  “I’m spilling my heart out to you and you’re making with the jokes.”

  “It’s what we do,” she reminded him. “It’s what friends do.”

  “Think about it,” he said. “No secrets. No drama. No bullshit. There would always be somebody at your back.”

  “Don’t we have that already?”

  “I want more.”

  “So do I.”

  She wasn’t sure which of them was more surprised. Suddenly she realized that she wanted the secrets, the drama, the flowers, the fireworks, the whole nine yards.

  Who knew?

  On the other side of the restaurant

  “I tried to get us a window seat,” Mark said as he followed Scott and Marcy into The Old Grist Mill, “but they were completely booked.” He had even played the clergy card, something he never did, but to no avail.

  “Same great steaks no matter where we’re sitting.” Scott placed a beefy hand at the small of his wife’s back as they waited for the hostess to seat them.

  “We would have been happy with Sizzler, Father Mark,” Marcy said. “This is way too fancy for us.”

  It was also Scott’s favorite place, which made it a no-brainer.

  He ordered a pitcher of iced tea for the table and settled back in his chair while Scott and Marcy debated sharing a Caesar salad or steamed clams and mussels. The restaurant bustled with conversation and laughter and music. A fire crackled in the stone hearth at the far end of the room, one of the last before the spring nights turned balmy and they opened the doors to the patio. He had been here twice as a guest and both times he had been shocked at the prices and impressed by the food and service. Not that he was an expert. Takeout Chinese, pizza, and frozen lasagna were more his speed.

  He hadn’t remembered The Old Grist Mill being a big date place, but tonight the restaurant overflowed with couples at various stages of courtship behavior. Young lovers whose dinners grew cold on the plate while they gazed into each other’s eyes. New parents out for the first time since the baby’s arrival, happy to be together but anxious to get home to their precious offspring. Empty nesters like Scott and Marcy in the rediscovery stage of marriage when, if you’re lucky, the old becomes new all over again.

  He had turned away from God after Suzanne’s death, unable to reconcile an all-loving Creator with the shocking end of a young woman’s life. He had lost his wife, his lover, his confidante, his future, and his faith the day she died.

  “Hey,” Scott said, after they placed their orders, “your redhead must be pretty special to rate this kind of thank-you.”

  Marcy gave her husband one of those wifely “shut up” looks that made Mark laugh out loud.

  “I was glad to get those papers back to their rightful owner.”

  “I’m not buying it,” Scott said, pressing hard.

  “Ignore him,” Marcy broke in. “There’s nothing worse than a retired detective. He’s always looking for the hidden story.” She turned toward her husband. “I left my cell in the car. Would you get it for me, please?”

  “It’s not in your purse?”

  “If it were in my purse, would I ask you to get it from the car?”

  Scott, grumbling but in a good-natured kind of way, set off to retrieve his wife’s cell phone. Marcy watched his progress to the exit with a look of love and bemusement on her face that brought a lump to Mark’s throat.

  “You like him,” he said when Marcy caught him smiling at her.

  “Him?” She laughed, but the affectionate look in her eyes was unmistakable. “I was just making sure he didn’t trip on his shoelaces.”

  Mark laughed with her but he knew love when he saw it.

  Eight

  Kate and Paul were halfway through their entrées when something across the room caught his attention.

  “You’re not going to believe who’s sitting at a corner table.” He had that cat-that-ate-the-canary look she remembered from high school when he scored higher on the math SATs than she did.

  “Maeve and Paul Newman.”

  “Not even close.”

  “Gwynn and an investment banker.”

  “You wish.”

  “I hate guessing games.”

  “Your Good Samaritan and his wife.”

  She spun around in her seat so fast she had to grab the edge of the table to keep from slipping off. “Oh my God!”

  “Nope,” said Paul, “but definitely one of the disciples.”

  The woman sitting opposite Mark was somewhere in her midforties, pleasant looking and conservatively dressed, exactly how Kate envisioned the perfect minister’s wife. She finally had something worth crying about and the tears were conspicuously absent. Go figure.

  “You didn’t know he was married?” Paul sounded gleeful.

  “I still don’t know he’s married.”

  “The only thing missing is the booster seat for their youngest.”

  She had to admit the signs pointed toward wedded bliss. The comfortable familiarity between Mark and the woman was obvious. They weren’t falling all over each other but there was an obvious connection between them. No sparks, not like yester
day, but—

  “He should be excommunicated,” she mumbled into her glass of iced tea. If Episcopalians didn’t currently excommunicate, they could test the waters with Mark Kerry. If she was going to burn in hell, she would rather it be for missing Sunday mass than for coveting another woman’s husband. That was just plain unforgivable.

  Scott and Marcy went out to grab a smoke while Mark took care of the bill. The server had forgotten to add in Scott’s medium-rare T-bone and had been pathetically grateful when Mark pointed it out to him.

  “You don’t know what it’s like around here,” the server said as he recalculated the bill. “They count every piece of dead cow back there and make us foot the difference.”

  “That image will stick with me a while.” He added the tip and signed the credit receipt. “Thanks.”

  “You have a good night.”

  He might have had at least a decent night if he hadn’t chosen that second to turn around for one last look at the old couple laughing over coffee near the stone hearth and seen Kate French and her friend approaching him.

  “Looks like The Old Grist Mill is the place to be,” Kate greeted him.

  She didn’t look surprised to see him. Her friend, the angry guy, shot him the kind of look usually confined to boxing rings and WWF conventions.

  “Good to see you.” He debated shaking her hand but decided against it.

  Besides, she didn’t offer.

  The angry guy made a show of looking around. “Where’d your wife and friend go?”

  He frowned. “My what?”

  “Your wife,” the angry guy persisted. “Nice-looking woman, light brown hair, probably answers to the name Mrs.”

  The thing about redheads was they couldn’t hide anything. If their tempers didn’t give them away, their skin did. Kate’s throat and cheeks flamed crimson.

  “You’re talking about my friends Scott and Marcy Reilly. Come on,” he said. “I’ll introduce you.”

  He had pretty much put one-upmanship to bed by the time he was old enough to vote, but tonight he couldn’t help himself. Watching the angry guy, aka Paul Grantham, deflate as he shook hands with Scott and Marcy was worth the price of a dozen steak dinners.