“Who misses his sweetheart?” Matt repeated, his voice closer.
Rex dove in with the grace and ease of one well accustomed to handling sticky situations. “Nobody in particular, Matt. Rosa was just telling us about some guy and his girlfriend.”
“Oh.” Sara heard the scrape of wood on tile. He was at the kitchen table. Sitting down. “Hi, Rosa.” He paused. “Hello, Sara.”
“Hello,” she breathed. How had he known she was here? Had he heard her talking?
“That lemon-orange scent tricks me every time. I'm never sure if what I'm smelling is you or the real thing,” he said.
“Kind of like a fruit salad, I guess,” she said, trying to sound cute. Stupid. That's what she'd sounded like. A fruit salad? Good God.
Rex chuckled.
Matt laughed, a rich, low timbre washing over her with its warmth. “Actually, it reminds me of your personality. Sometimes sweet. Sometimes tart. But always tangy.”
Sara blinked. Had he just complimented or insulted her? Or both? She wasn't sure. That was the problem with Matthew Brandon. She was never sure of anything with him.
Rex cleared his throat. “Coffee, Matt?” Thank God for Rex. He always seemed to know his way around an awkward situation. She guessed he'd had plenty of experience.
“Sounds great. But you sit still. I'll get it.”
“I'll get it for you,” Sara said, her words spilling out so fast she knew they must all be watching her—Matt more than the others. His blindness was no obstacle to his sight, not the sight that counted, the intuitive perceptive vision that gained entry into another person's thoughts, ideas, hopes. He seemed quite adept at crawling inside, making himself comfortable, dissecting words and emotions, one feeling at a time. Especially hers—and that made him very dangerous.
“Thank you.” There was an odd note to his voice. What was it? Hesitation?
She pulled another mug from the cupboard and lifted the pot. “Black, right?”
“Yes.” Pause. “Thank you.”
Rex cleared his throat. Again. Rosa started humming a squeaky rendition of
I Will Always Love You
. Sara would have a long talk with both of these instigators later. She picked up the cup, ignoring the wave of heat spreading across her face, and turned around. She'd taken no more than three steps when she forced herself to look at him. The mug crashed to the floor, sending hot coffee and splintering shards of white ceramic everywhere. She gasped. Her eyes remained fixed on the most arresting pair of silver eyes she'd ever seen.
“Are you all right?” Matt jumped up from his chair, inching forward, his arm outstretched to her.
She recovered from her initial shock. “Clumsy,” she murmured.
“Did you get burned?” There was real concern in his voice.
“No.” She shook her head, staring at him.
“I've got it,” Rex said, his big bulk pushing through the laundry room with a mop and bucket. When had he left? Sara remembered nothing but the startling shock of seeing Matt without his sunglasses.
Rosa
tsk tsked
behind her. “You no get burned for sure, Miss Sara?”
“I'm fine, Rosa. Just clumsy, I guess.”
“Give me your hand,” Matt said, holding his out to her.
She clasped his warm fingers, felt them close over hers and urge her toward him. He led her through the living room, pushed open the sliding glass door and stepped outside. Neither spoke as they made their way toward the patio. His footsteps were measured and even. Sara guessed he was counting his way. Adam had said he'd spent weeks calculating paces so he could move about with ease—like someone who wasn't blind.
Sara followed Matt onto the stone patio. He released her hand and said, “I'll get you a chair.” He moved several paces ahead of her and located a recliner with a green-and-white striped cushion. Pulling it toward his own, he said, “Go ahead and sit down.” He waited for her to settle in before taking his own seat, his tanned legs straddling either side.
“Thank you,” Sara managed, not sure if she was thanking him for showing her an unexpected gentleness or not commenting on her obvious clumsiness. She suspected a little of both.
He shrugged but said nothing.
“Matt,” she said, drawn to the silver depths of his gaze. “Your eyes…”
“What?” he asked, lifting his hand to his face. “Dammit, I forgot my glasses.” He started to rise, his mouth flattening into a straight line.
“Stay. Don't hide behind them anymore.”
His eyes narrowed. “I'm not hiding behind them. It's just that I'm more comfortable when I have them on,” he muttered, sitting straight up, as if he were preparing to bolt from the chair.
“Please, Matt. Don't.”
It was a simple request but the implications were more complicated than California driving during rush hour. If he conceded and honored her request, she'd take that as a sign of trust. If he chose to ignore her, then she'd know where she stood with him—nowhere. His brow was furrowed, his lips flattened, his jaw clenched. He blew out a long breath and sank into his chair.
“I like you without your glasses,” she admitted, anxious to make him feel more comfortable with his decision.
“Thanks.”
The sharpness in his voice told her he wasn’t one hundred percent okay with it. She pushed on. “I've never quite seen that shade of…silver.” She studied his eyes, her heart tugging at the blank stare in them. What would they look like filled with emotions like passion, anger, joy?
“They might be intriguing, but they're useless.” Matt lay back in the recliner, heaving a big sigh that sounded a lot like disgust and crossed his arms over his chest. “I'd settle for plain old brown ones any day if they came with sight.”
What could she say to that? He was right. No one in his or her right mind would choose beautiful over functional. Well, maybe that wasn't really a good analogy. People did that every day. Women crammed their feet into three-inch heels to slenderize their legs. Then they stuffed their bodies into super control-top panty hose to hide that extra tummy bulge. Why? To attain
The Look
. Beautiful? Perhaps. Functional? No. Men were no better. They tooled around in sports cars with no legroom and even fewer passenger accommodations. And some made a hobby of collecting gorgeous females whose only useful skill was looking beautiful.
It was a crazy world. But Matt's situation was different. He just wanted to see, no matter if the eyes were brown, green, or violet. The
swoosh
of the sliding glass door interrupted her thoughts on beauty and function. Rosa appeared with a tray full of coffee, mugs, toast, eggs, and fruit. And a big bottle of hot sauce.
“I bring you your breakfast,” Rosa said, smiling. She laid the tray on the glass table and started to arrange a plate. “Is your favorite, Mister Matt. Scrambled eggs with salsa. And I bring your hot sauce, too.”
“Ah, Rosa,” Matt teased, “you know they say ‘the way to a man's heart is through his stomach.’” He patted his own. “Well, I think you're about two-thirds of the way through my stomach lining.” He grinned. “I'd say you're almost there.”
Sara laughed and Rosa clucked her tongue at him. “I look for you this morning, Mister Matt. The bed is nice and neat.” She handed him a plate heaped with eggs, toast, and melon. “Eggs is two o'clock, toast is six, and melon is ten.” She wiped her hands on her cotton apron. “So, where you sleep last night?”
Matt took a bite of egg and said, “Weight room.”
She scooped a healthy serving of eggs onto Sara's plate. “Weight room?”
Matt shrugged. “I'm getting a gut.” He sunk his teeth into a piece of toast.
“Hah!” the older woman huffed. “You no fat. You perfect.” She cast a sly smile in Sara's direction. “Is he no perfect, Miss Sara?”
“Ah…” she stammered, dragging her gaze to Matt. He had a look on his face that said,
See if you can get out of this one
. Rosa would accept no less than full agreement. Matt's smile broadened as he waited for her to answer. “Ah…yes. Yes, he is…” She couldn't bring herself to utter the word
perfect,
not when he sat there, grinning at her and waiting.
Rosa smiled, satisfied with her answer. “So why you no sleep in your own bed?” she asked, handing Sara a plate. “Maybe something, say somebody on your mind and you no can sleep?” She winked at Sara.
Sara threw the troublesome matchmaker a warning look. She almost wished Rosa were still trying to oust her from the house. It would be less embarrassing. Rosa playing matchmaker was about as subtle as an elephant in tights.
Matt laughed, as if the very idea that a female would render him sleepless was outrageous. “No, nothing like that. Adam and I finished working out, had a few beers, and then I closed my eyes. The next thing I know, I'm waking up with a stiff neck and a bad case of tennis ball breath.” He popped a melon into his mouth. “And no glasses.” He turned his head toward Sara and smiled.
Oh, but he had a smile. And with those silver eyes, it was a killer combination.
“You hair no look so great either.” Rosa patted her plump fingers on his head and tried to smooth a few errant locks. “Is curly this way”—she pulled on a dark brown tuft—“and stick out that way.”
“So much for perfect. Just get my ball cap, Rosa. Works every time.”
Rosa shook her head. “You and your ball cap. Who knows where you leave it?”
“Just go in my closet. Top shelf. Ten of 'em. All Pittsburgh Pirates. Take your pick.”
“Okay, okay,” she said, waving her arms in the air.
“Why Pittsburgh Pirates?” Sara asked, munching on a piece of wheat toast. “I would have thought you'd be a Dodgers fan, seeing as they're practically in your backyard.”
“Are you serious? You're from Pittsburgh. How can you even ask that question?” The enthusiasm in his voice and on his face was obvious.
“I am from Pittsburgh and I have twelve Pirates caps in my closet because they're the greatest baseball team in the world.” She paused, then added, “With the most loyal fans.”
“Once a Pirates’ fan, always a Pirates’ fan.”
“Even all the way out here, with all the glitter and glamour of West Coast living?”
“It never leaves you,” he said, his tone dead serious. “I can still hear the crowd in Three Rivers Stadium, still feel the excitement roaring in the stands. Still see the expression on my father's face when they clinched the title back in seventy-seven.” He shook his head, a hint of a smile playing about his lips. “It’s stuck in my brain all these years.”
Rosa returned and plopped a cap on Matt’s head. “Is Pittsburgh Pirates. Black and yellow,” she said.
“Thanks, Rosa. Feel free to borrow one whenever you like.”
She pretended outrage. “If I no like you so much, I leave this place.”
“You can’t do that,” he said, adjusting the bill of his cap. “I’d be heartbroken.”
“Would be nice change to see you with the broken heart,” she quipped. “One never knows,” she said in the little singsong voice that Sara had come to recognize as her way of prophesying. “Now, I leave you two to talk.” She turned and winked at Sara as she bustled away.
Matt rubbed his stubbled jaw. “What’s with her?”
Just a little matchmaking. Guess who the lucky couple is?
“Oh, nothing.” She tried to keep her voice matter-of-fact. “I think she just likes to tease you.”
“So, when was the last time you went to a game?”
“A week before I came here. They were playing the Reds.”
“They lost two to one.”
“That's right,” she said, impressed with his memory.
“Where do you sit?”
“Usually upper deck, nosebleed section.” She studied him a minute. “I'll bet you're box seats, behind home plate.”
“Nope. Upper deck, left field.”
“Why?” The seats he mentioned were just average, nothing special. She pictured him in a loge or at least a box seat.
“Tradition. My father started taking me to see the Pirates when I was a kid. Three Rivers Stadium was brand new. Those were our seats. Upper deck, left field, anywhere in the first five rows. Every Sunday they played, we hopped in our beat-up Ford and headed to the stadium. Adam never liked the game and my kid sister was too small so it was just the two of us.” He leaned against the striped cushions and closed his eyes. “I can still see my old man shouting and cheering them on. It was the only time I think he was ever really alive. He worked in the steel mills forty-some years. Went to work every day, got paid, came home. Never said more than three words at a time.” He rubbed his jaw. “Unless he was at a ball game. Then you couldn't get him to shut up.”
“Is he still alive?”
Matt shook his head. “Died ten years ago. Two weeks after he retired.”
“And your mother?”
“Cancer,” he said. “Two years ago.”
“I'm sorry.” She knew the pain of losing a parent.
“Adam came here after she died and joined a law outfit in Irvine. Amy is the only one left back home. She's got two little rugrats who keep her going crazy most of the time.”
“Do you ever get back?” The thought of him in the same city, perhaps walking down the same street, did strange things to her stomach…
“Once a year. I schedule my visit around opening day and take Amy and the boys to the game.” He flashed her a smile. “I play the doting uncle. You know, cotton candy, hot dogs, peanuts. Real bellyache stuff. Amy says she doesn't know if she loves it or hates it when I come.”
“You like her children?” This was dangerous ground.
“I love her children. And I love being the uncle who spoils them rotten.”
“Have you…seen them since the accident?”
His jaw tensed. This was dangerous ground indeed—for both of them.
“No.”
Sara tiptoed. “Well, maybe you just need a little time.”
“They're used to me running and playing ball with them. Time isn't going to show me where to pitch the ball or how far out to throw the long bomb. I can't do any of those things with them anymore.”
“So, you're never going to visit them in person again? Or let them come here?” The idea was preposterous. “You're going to let those kids imagine all sorts of horrible things about their uncle?”
“It’s not that that simple.”
He was pulling away, she heard it in his voice. “Nothing is ever simple.” She reached out and touched his hand. He jerked but didn't move away. “Sometimes life throws us these incredibly horrible curve balls that hit us smack in the face, slamming us to the ground. And we're lying there, bloody and swollen, and it seems like no one can help us. Not even ourselves.” How many weeks had she spent wallowing in dirt, too heartbroken to see past her faithless husband and dead baby?
Matt was scared and alone in his own private hell, but she knew how to dig him out. “Let me help you,” she said. He didn’t speak, but placed his hand over hers. They sat in silence as the morning breeze wrapped them in their own intimate moment. Strange as it was, it felt right to be here. Sara closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun. She was beginning to think Matthew Brandon was much more than the handsome face and wads of cash associated with his name.
“I'll bet you're a great doctor.”
She smiled, eyes still closed, face tipped toward the morning rays. “I am. Why don’t you let me show you how good?”
He sighed and said, “I get the feeling you're analyzing and assessing everything I say anyway.”
Smart man
. “Against your will? Without your permission? Would I do that?”
“Damn right you would.”
“You're right,” she said. “I would.”
“You're not like the other doctors,” he said, rubbing his thumb in a distracted manner along her wrist. Sara's eyes shot open and fixated on his hand. What was he doing? She almost pulled away but didn't. She doubted he even realized what he was doing. She just wished she didn't feel every stroke. Wished even more it didn’t remind her of the other night in his bedroom…
“Sara? Were you daydreaming?”
“What? Oh. Yes. Daydreaming.”
About you
. “You caught me all right. I was daydreaming.”
Suffering from temporary insanity was more like it.
“You know, I've been wondering,” he began. There he was with that darned thumb again. Circling, circling. “Why is it that every other doctor who came here was asking about my books before he crossed the threshold?” He paused. “Oh, except the last one who was more interested in touching than talking. But you haven't asked me anything about them. Why?”
What should she say? The truth?
I don't like your Jack Steele character with his smart mouth and overabundant supply of buxom bimbos
. How could she tell him that? It was too brutal, so she opted for a half-truth instead. “I assumed you would talk about your writing when you were ready.” Not bad. Sounded plausible.
“Bullshit.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said bullshit, Sara Hamilton. From the second I met you, you've been pushing and pulling, prying into every part of my life except one of the most important ones. My writing.” He flipped his cap up, scratched his head and flipped it back down. “Why?”
What to say? “We have so many other issues to address.”
“That's not the reason.”
He was too darned perceptive. “I'd been forewarned that your writing was not open for discussion.” That part was true.
“Since when did that stop you from meddling?” he asked, tilting his head to one side.
She'd read somewhere that before he made it big with his Jack Steele Private Investigator series, Matt had been an investigative reporter—which would account for his questions and his persistence.
“Sara?”
How had he known she was stretching and reworking the truth?