Mail-Order Millionaire (17 page)

“Come next Saturday or shortly before she’ll call me and say that something’s come up and she can’t go to Mount Henry after all, but the boys are so looking forward to it and counting on it, could I possibly take them?”

“And what will you say?” Max asked, taking his sunglasses out of his pocket.

“I’ll say no.”

“Because you don’t want to be manipulated or what?”

Impatiently she brushed the snow off the sleeves of her jacket. “You know why. We discussed this last night. After this weekend we’re not going to see each other again. I thought we’d agreed.”

“I didn’t agree,” he said, his lower lip jutting out stubbornly.

“You agree that you’ve got a job that takes precedence over anything else, don’t you? And you agree that I’ve got no end of financial problems I have to solve.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so and that’s why I’m going to tell her to stop meddling in my life, once and for all.” Miranda’s voice had risen. Without knowing it she’d worked herself into a frenzy.

Max pushed his sunglasses up his nose. Then he reached over and gently brushed off the snow that dusted the top of her head. “Lunchtime,” he announced. “Let’s go back to the lodge.”

She nodded, feeling foolish for going off on a tangent that way. She hoped it was the last time they’d ever have to talk about the situation. It was awkward and it was painful, for both of them.

In the afternoon they bundled into their terry-cloth robes and made their way to the spa behind the hotel, dramatically situated so that the hot steam rose against the snow banks. Max had brought his swimming suit and Miranda had borrowed a one-piece maillot from the hotel. Max watched her slip into the tiled hot tub, the maillot clinging to her as if it were a second skin. He forced himself to look at the sky and analyze the structure of the altocumulus clouds overhead. Then he reached for the knob to activate the jets that sent the water bubbling against their tired back muscles.

By tilting his head back, he could look at the mountains in the distance, anywhere but at her smooth shoulders and the deep V of the swimsuit where it plunged between her breasts. He’d thought the spa would be relaxing, but instead it was stimulating—much too stimulating for him.

They could have gone back on the trail, but she’d been dragging her feet before lunch, and he’d thought this would be good for her. Good for her, maybe, but not for him. He watched her rest her head on the tiles and close her eyes. Her legs were stretched out in front of her, so close he could reach out and massage her tired feet if she wanted him to. He wasn’t sure what she wanted. He heard what she said, but her eyes told him something else.

She was right about one thing. He had a job that was not compatible with any kind of serious entanglement. But he’d thought that maybe they could have a casual relationship, seeing each other on occasional weekends, like this. He let his gaze wander back in her direction, watching the way the water lapped at her breasts, knowing that there was nothing casual in the way he felt about her. And to be fair to her, he had to let it end this weekend.

He could do it, he thought, stretching his arms along the smooth tiles that edged the tub. He’d done it before, gone back to the mountain and buried himself in his work, and he could do it again. Only this time he’d just have a few more memories to push to the bottom of his subconscious. The picture of her sipping wine by candlelight and skiing through crisp new snow under the dazzling sun and now stretched out in front of him as if she were his and only his. By narrowing his eyes he could imagine her without the maillot, lying there just as she was, waiting... Oh Lord, what had he agreed to? What had he done?

The rest of the weekend passed in a blur of more images, each one etched in his memory whether he wanted them there or not. They went on the sleigh ride Saturday night. They took turns sitting next to the driver to avoid sitting next to each other, but on the way home somehow they ended up under the blanket in the back, her head on his shoulder, her silky hair against his cheek, so warm, so comfortable, so right together that it took forever to disentangle themselves when the sleigh stopped in front of the lodge. The horse puffed and snorted and the driver craned his neck to see if they’d fallen asleep.

Max got out first, held his arms out and she jumped into them. It wasn’t easy standing there, under the lights from the hotel, aching to hold her to him, to feel the soft curves of her body mesh with the hard planes of his, but he dropped his arms and they walked slowly back to their rooms, and said good-night in the hall.

Before brunch on Sunday they donned snowshoes and went for a walk through the snow-covered fir trees. Miranda ducked under a low-hanging branch and caught up with Max. “This is so beautiful. I’m sorry your friend didn’t get to come this weekend.”

“I’m not,” Max said, kicking clumps of snow out of his snowshoe. “I’m glad you came.”

Miranda rubbed her hands together. “I am, too. I’ve had a wonderful time. I haven’t had so much fun in the snow since I was a kid and we used to make angels in the snow.”

“How do you make angels?”

She unstrapped her snowshoes and flopped down on her back in a patch of fresh snow. Then she moved her arms and legs back and forth in the snow, making wide indentations. She got to her feet to admire the form of an angel. “See?”

What he saw was her blond hair making a halo around her head. He turned her around gently by the shoulders and began to brush the snow off her jacket and her pants.

His hands lingered, his touch became more of a caress than he’d intended. She looked like an angel but she felt like a woman, warm, soft and responsive. She turned slowly to face him and he waited for her rebuke, but none came. She just stared at him for a long moment, her dark eyes reflecting the dazzling sun and the snow. Then, without speaking, she bent over and put her snowshoes back on, hiding her face from him and the sun.

After brunch they headed back to Mount Henry, where she got into her truck and after several tries started the engine. He stood in the parking lot long after she’d driven away, until the cold crept into his bones and he wondered if he’d ever be warm again. He knew he’d never be happy again. Not without Miranda. But that was how it had to be.

Ariel wasn’t sitting on Miranda’s front porch waiting for her. The house stood alone and forlorn under a dull, darkening sky. From brilliant sun and blue skies Miranda had come home to a run-down farmhouse in a sea of mud. To take the chill off the air inside she turned on the gas heater in the living room and changed into sweatpants and a sweatshirt she’d bought at the year-end closeout of discontinued items last season. Then she called her sister.

“Where have you been?” Ariel demanded just as Miranda knew she would. “I’ve been trying to call you all weekend.”

“Skiing in New Hampshire.”

“I don’t believe it. You don’t know how to ski.”

Miranda propped her stocking-clad feet on the kitchen table. “I do now.”

“Who taught you?”

“Max.”

“Aha.”

“Don’t get excited. We had a nice time, but that’s it. Then we said goodbye. For good. So don’t get any ideas about throwing us together again. It’s over, finished and done.”

“Why?”

“Max loves his job. Period. There’s no room in his life for anything or anyone else.”

“How do you know?”

“He told me. Not in so many words, but I got the message. And I’m passing the message on to you. Now will you stop?”

“Of course.” Miranda recognized the same patient tone of voice her sister used when her boys were out of control, and she gritted her teeth. “I have some good news for you,” Ariel continued, changing the subject effortlessly. “Mr. Northwood told me he wants to make you an offer on the farm.”

“I already know that.”

“Not just an offer, a very generous offer. And I think you ought to listen to him this time.”

Miranda looked around the kitchen at the cracked linoleum and the old canisters on the drainboard containing flour,, sugar and oatmeal. “Doesn’t the farm mean anything to you? Don’t you care about your horses?”

“Of course I do,” Ariel answered, “but I’m thinking of you and what’s going to become of you stuck out there, pouring your money into a losing proposition. If you sold you could move to town and lead a normal life, have a normal social life.”

“I wonder what that is,” Miranda mused.

“See, you don’t even know. Just tell me you’ll listen to what Northwood has to say.”

“All right.”

After she hung up Miranda realized neither of them had mentioned Ariel’s trip to Mount Henry with the boys. Now that Ariel knew there was no hope in getting Max and Miranda together, maybe she’d cancel it. In any case it was no concern of Miranda’s whether they went or not.

She picked her way through the mud to feed the horses and wondered what it would be like to live in a tidy little house in town with a sidewalk out in front. She’d never be late to work because it would be just a short walk away. And on Tuesday nights she could play Bingo at the Elks Hall. She shuddered. Was that what Ariel meant by a normal social life? Restlessly she walked around the field in her rubber boots as night fell around her. In her mind she saw acres of fir trees, full and bushy, ready for harvest. Then she thought of planting the seedlings, one by one, and years later trucking them to a lot somewhere to sell. And she knew she couldn’t do it, not alone.

The next day at work Mr. Northwood called her into his office and just as Ariel had predicted, made her a generous offer for the farm.

“May I ask why you want the old place?” Miranda asked, standing in front of his desk, looking down at the old man in his flannel shirt and twill crew pants. She wondered if he’d stick to his story of wanting “a little place in the country.”

“Just good business, Miranda. We get our syrup from you, all you can harvest. If we own the farm, we can eliminate the middleperson—you.”

“I see,” she said, but she didn’t. It was such a small amount of syrup she produced that the Northwoods had to buy from farms all over the state to supply their customers. Why not buy up somebody else’s farm? She told him she’d have to think about it and went back to her cubicle.

At least it gave her something to think about besides Max. It was after work when thoughts of him came creeping back, making her feel restless, depressed and at loose ends. She should prune the apple trees, start on the Christmas tree project or buy a pair of goats and breed than, but what was the use if she wasn’t going to stay?

She couldn’t bring goats with her to town. She couldn’t bring the horses, either, they’d have to be boarded somewhere. These were only some of her worries, all of which were more important than never seeing Max again. Then why did she continue to think about him? Habit, just a bad habit she’d have to break.

The next day Ariel invited her to dinner. Rob had been hunting and she was cooking a roast duck. “One of Rob’s hunting buddies will be here, too,” she said.

Miranda felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. “How nice.”

“He is nice,” Ariel said defensively. “He’s not married, never has been and he has no hang-ups about his job being so all-important.”

“What is his job?” Miranda asked politely, propping her elbows on the counter in the retail store where Arid was arranging sweaters in an attractive display.

“He’s a taxidermist,” Arid said, fixing her sister with a challenging gaze.

Miranda swallowed hard to keep from saying anything critical. “What can I bring?”

“Just a positive attitude,” Ariel said, giving the last sweater a pat on the shoulder pad.

To Miranda’s surprise Rob’s friend was very nice, very nice and thirty pounds overweight. He and Rob talked about what a good hunting season it was. They asked Miranda about her experience cross-country skiing and she was able to describe it without mentioning Max at all. In fact, listening to her tell about it, one might have thought she had gone all by herself. Only Ariel knew what she was leaving out, and Miranda could tell by the gleam in her eye, that she was dying to know. The dinner party was a success and the subject of taxidermy never came up.