The Reluctant Cinderella (12 page)

Not that Megan had a clue how she'd handle a family, be an attentive, loving wife
and
deal with all the demands of her growing business. But they'd work it out—well, that is, if it ever came to that: to marriage.

Wow. Talk about a big step. Getting married to Greg. Thinking about it caused a warm glow all through her. A happy, if somewhat nervous glow.

And really, she was getting way ahead of herself here. They weren't anywhere near the altar yet. Why, it had only been a little over two weeks since she'd walked into his office intending to make a purely professional proposal—and quickly discovered that her secret crush wasn't anywhere near as
over
as she'd thought.

Sixteen days since that first meeting. Nine days since their first kiss, in his empty house five blocks from Danbury Way. And four days since Saturday, when they'd made love for the first time—all night long.

Would he be a good husband? She had to face facts here. He'd failed at marriage once—not to mention that the ink was barely dry on his final divorce papers….

And what about her? Really, she was about as inexperienced with men as a twenty-first century girl could get. In her entire twenty-eight years, there'd been Seth Prankmier and now Greg and that was pretty much it….

“Aunt Megan, Aunt Megan!” Megan blinked away her day-dreaming haze. “Look.” Olivia, rolling
her eyes, pointed at Michael, who was trekking back and forth from one of the freezers, loading the cart with box after box of freezer pops.

“Michael.” Megan spoke firmly.

He dropped another box of pops into the cart. “I really like these.”

Megan shook her head and patiently explained that two boxes of freezer pops was more than enough, thank you very much. Michael stuck out his lower lip—but he did put the other six boxes of pops back in the freezer where they'd come from.

With Olivia pushing the cart, Michael skipping along beside her and Anthony trailing behind with his Game Boy, Megan turned into the produce aisle—and almost ran smack-dab into Irene Dare, who was blocking the way, chatting with another woman Megan didn't recognize.

“Oops.” Irene glanced over, smiling. But when she saw who it was, her eyes narrowed and her thin-lipped mouth drew tight. She nodded, the movement little more than a quick, dismissive jerk of her head. “Megan.”

“Hello, Irene.” Megan forced a smile—for Irene and for the woman she didn't know—and hurried the kids on by.

One of the best things about Rosewood Market was the demonstrations they always had going in the produce department. A nice lady with a microphone would chop things and make jokes and talk about how to prepare this or that….

Megan tried to enjoy the show the demonstration
lady put on. She helped Michael choose apples and bananas. She did her best to ignore Irene and her friend, who still stood at the corner near the freezers, their heads bent close together. Once, she made the mistake of glancing their way and caught Irene looking straight at her.

Megan knew damn well that Irene was talking about her, spreading stories about her right there in Rosewood Market. She knew it and she hated it. She also knew that Rhonda would be talking about her, too. The knowledge that there had to be gossip going around—featuring Megan as the evil, betraying “other woman”—knotted her stomach and made her heart pound in a heavy, hurtful way. She hustled the kids along and they left the market as quickly as she could manage with three children in tow.

By the time she reached the house, she was feeling a little bit better. The talk would die down. She just needed to give it time—and avoid giving people more to whisper about. Moments like the one Saturday morning, where Rhonda had run into Greg when he came to pick Megan up, had to be avoided at all costs.

It shouldn't be that difficult. As a rule, she and Greg would be meeting in the city, anyway. It wasn't as if they'd be rubbing everyone's noses in their relationship, or anything. For a while, until Rhonda and Irene found someone else to pick on, until Carly had time to accept the end of her marriage and move on, Megan and Greg could kind of keep it low-key, couldn't they? They could be more careful about being seen around town.

Yes. That should work. From now on, whenever possible,
she'd
go to
him.
They'd be together in Manhattan, where people minded their own business.

This evening, they could talk about it. She was certain that he'd understand.

 

When Greg arrived, about twenty minutes after Megan and the kids got home from the market, she'd managed to put aside her distress at the encounter with Irene. The doorbell rang and she rushed to let him in. She threw back the door and their eyes met and…

Pow. Magic, pure and simple.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hi.” She got out the word with a breathy sigh.

Since the kids were all upstairs, she figured it was safe to drag him into the foyer, shut the door and pretty much hurl herself into his waiting arms.

He laughed, the sound so rich and deep and warm, as he cradled her close. “Glad to see me, huh?”

“Ecstatic. Euphoric. Overjoyed. In seventh heaven…”

He put a finger to her lips. “A little less talk,” he whispered. “And a lot more kissing.”

Sounded like a fine idea to her. She lifted her mouth to him and the kissing commenced—a long, slow, lovely one. When they came up for air, she only pulled his head down again for another kiss that was every bit as pulse-pounding and toe-curling as the first one.

“Better watch it,” he advised as he lifted his head for a second time. “We don't want to get too crazy—I mean, with the kids in the house.”

“You are so right. Just one more…”

“Don't tempt me.”

“You know you love it.”

He grinned then. “You're right. I do.”

She was just pulling his head down to steal a third kiss when a bloodcurdling scream erupted from upstairs.

“M
y God. That sounds like Michael….” Megan whirled and raced for the stairs. She took them two at a time, Greg right behind her.

Olivia was waiting at the top, white as a sheet, eyes enormous with fright. “Aunt Megan, Michael's bleeding….”

Michael wailed again. And Anthony came running up the stairs. “What's going on? Is somebody screaming?”

Megan blinked. “I thought you were in your room with Michael.”

“Uh. No…”

Michael screamed again. Megan took off along the upper hall as fast as her suddenly shaky legs
would carry her. The door to the room the boys shared stood wide open.

“Michael? Michael, are you…?” Megan stopped in the doorway, words deserting her.

Michael sat on his bed, rocking, gripping his left hand with his right. Blood poured from between his fingers. There was blood on his cargo shorts, blood on his T-shirt, blood staining the blue bedspread patterned with a tumble of footballs, baseballs and soccer balls. His little face was pinched, dead-white with pure terror. “Aunt Megan, Aunt Megan, I cut my finger off!”

“Oh, honey.” She rushed to him. Greg and the kids piled into the doorway. “A towel,” she commanded. “Hurry….”

Greg was back in an instant with one of Angela's pretty green bathroom towels. Megan wrapped it around Michael's index finger, scooped him up and carried him to the bathroom.

He continued to wail as she rinsed the wound in the sink. At least, with some of the blood washed away, she could see the extent of the problem: not the whole finger, thank God. Only the top section, from the base of the nail up.

She got the big first aid kit from under the sink and wrapped his finger in gauze, took a clean towel and wrapped that around the gauze. Then she scooped him up into her arms again. “See if you can keep it raised up high, honey, until we get you to the doctor….”

Michael was beyond keeping anything high. He clutched his injured hand to his chest and went on sobbing.

Greg, who stood in the doorway, Olivia and Anthony on either side of him, had his cell phone to his ear. “I've got 911. They say they can reattach it. If we can find it.”

Michael wailed again and pulled away from Megan's embrace just enough to point with his good hand. “Little table…by my bed…” He burst into a fresh flood of frantic tears and collapsed against Megan once more.

Greg left the doorway. Within seconds, he returned, the phone still at his ear. “All right,” he said into it, “will do.” He flipped it shut and stuck it in a pocket. “It's there—I think,” he told Megan.

“You
think?
”

“It's so small—and there's blood all over it. It's next to an open pocketknife.”

Pocketknife?

Michael didn't have a pocketknife…but Anthony did. “Oh, God. Anthony.” She sent her other nephew a furious scowl.

He shook his head. “Uh-uh. My knife is locked up in the case like always. It's prob'ly the one that Dad gave him.”

“Your father gave Michael a
pocketknife?
” It was the first Megan had heard of such a thing—and she would bet Angela didn't know about it, either.

Now, Anthony was bobbing his head. “Every time we'd go with Dad, Michael kept asking him for one like mine. So finally, he got him one. Dad told him to put it away safe until he was older and—”

“Hey.” Greg interrupted, as Michael let out
another agonized wail. “Can we worry about the knife later?”

Megan gulped and nodded.

Greg added, “Right now, we need something to carry it in—a plastic bag, they told me. A plastic bag in another container with crushed ice and water.”

Megan turned to Olivia. “Honey, run downstairs and show Greg where the zip bags and plastic containers are.”

Olivia only stared—until Greg took her gently by the shoulders and knelt so they were eye to eye. “Olivia. Can you show me? Show me real quick?”

“Yes,” the little girl whispered. Greg let her go and she ran for the stairs. He followed.

“It hurts, it hurts, it hurts….” Michael sobbed and moaned. Megan lowered herself carefully to the edge of the tub and rocked him, promising him over and over that it would be all right. Anthony, solemn and wide-eyed, dared to enter the bathroom with them. He came close and patted Michael's shaking shoulder.

An endless couple of minutes later, Greg and Olivia reappeared with a plastic bowl half-filled with crushed ice and water, a lid, and a sandwich-size Baggie.

“We need gauze,” Greg said, “to wrap it in….”

Megan tipped her head toward the first-aid kit she'd left open on the counter. He took a couple of squares of gauze from it, went to the boys' bedroom and came back with the bit of finger, which he rinsed at the sink, wrapped in clean gauze and put in the Baggie. Olivia held out the plastic container. Greg took it, put the Baggie in it and snapped on the lid.

By then, Michael was chanting between sobs, “It hurts, it hurts, oh, it really hurts….”

Greg asked, “Want me to carry him down?”

“No. I can do it.”

“All right, then. I'll drive.” He turned to the other kids, who stared, white-faced. “Come on, you two.” He gestured with the covered plastic bowl. “We're all going to the hospital.”

Olivia nodded. Anthony gulped. Obedient as lambs, they turned to trail after Greg as he headed for the stairs.

Megan stroked Michael's clammy hair. “Honey, keep that towel around your finger. We're going to take you to the hospital now.”

“It hurts, it hurts. Aunt Megan, it hurts….”

“I know. The doctor will make it all better real soon.” She gathered him closer. Easing one hand under his legs and putting the other at his back, she stood. He clung to her, cowering close, sobbing and moaning.

“All better,” she promised. “Good as new, you'll see….”

 

Greg had brought his own car, a sporty, silver BMW. Olivia and Anthony scrambled over the seat to the back, leaving the passenger door wide for Megan and Michael.

It was all such a frantic, mad, scary rush that Megan didn't even notice Carly until she and Michael reached the car. Carly stood out in her front yard in a pink visor and gardening gloves, staring.
Even from three houses down, Megan could see the stark misery on her pretty face.

Megan looked away. Right then, there was no time to worry about how Carly Alderson was taking seeing Greg drive off with Megan and a carful of kids. She tried to get Michael to sit in the back seat, where he would be safest and have his own seat belt, but he clung to her and cried even harder. She gave in and let him sit in her lap, hooking the seat belt over both of them.

Greg passed Anthony the covered plastic bowl. “Take good care of this.”

“I will,” he vowed.

Greg gunned the powerful engine and they were out of there. As soon as they turned the corner, he handed Megan his cell phone. “Call your sister. They have to have her permission to treat Michael—and she needs to know what's going on, anyway.”

Megan had her sister's work number memorized. Luckily, she caught Angela at her desk. As calmly as she could, with Michael crying in her ear, she told her what was happening.

Angela wasted no time on freaking out. She got right to what needed doing. “I'll call Emergency at Rosewood Regional and tell them you're coming and that I'm on my way.”

Megan asked, “Do you want to talk to—”

Angela cut her off. “Bad idea. He'll only cry harder. Just tell him I'll be there to meet him at the hospital….”

 

At Emergency, Greg drove up under the circular porte cochere entrance and let Megan and Michael off. “I'll park and be in with the other kids in a minute.” He glanced over the seat. “Anthony?”

“Here.” The boy passed the plastic bowl to Greg, who got out, went around and held the car door for Megan. He handed her the container as she turned for the entrance.

Inside, the clerk at the entry desk was ready for them. “Michael Buffington, right? This little boy's mother already called.”

Michael only let out another pitiful sob and buried his head against Megan's shoulder. The clerk, unruffled, asked the pertinent questions and filled in the form for Megan, as Michael clutched his injured hand to his little chest and cried.

Angela came in with Greg and the kids.

“Mama!” Michael cried at the sight of her. “Mama! My finger…” Angela stepped up and Megan handed him over. A fresh flood of tears coursed down Michael's plump cheeks. “Mommy, I hurt. I hurt so bad….”

“I know you do, sweetheart. I know you do….” Angela rocked him, kissed his flushed little face and made more comforting noises as the inside doors swung open and a nurse came through with an empty wheelchair. Angela tried to settle Michael in the chair.

But he clutched her with his good hand and wailed in frantic pain and misery, “No, no. Mama, Mama…”

“I'll just carry him,” she said.

The nurse frowned. “It's procedure. He should be in the chair.”

“Forget procedure,” Greg said darkly. “The boy wants his mother and it won't hurt a thing if she carries him in.”

The nurse gave up. She took the plastic container from Megan and set it on the empty chair. “All right, then. Let's go.” She wheeled the chair through the doors. Angela, carrying the sobbing Michael, went through at her side.

With a low, hydraulic hiss, the doors swung shut behind them.

 

An hour later, Michael, calm now, but still looking small and lost in the grown-up wheelchair, emerged from behind the wide doors, his mom at his side. His little hand was encased in a thick, snowy mitt of white gauze. His eyes drooped from pain medication.

The doctor came out a moment later to give Angela a few more instructions. Since the boy was so young, he said, recovery should be quick. The finger was likely to heal without scarring or loss of sensation.

“He'll be good as new in a month or two,” the doctor promised. They were letting him go home for the night, but Angela should bring him in the next day, just to make sure that everything was okay.

Since they had two cars, Megan drove Michael and Angela in Angela's car. Greg took Anthony and Olivia in the BMW. Now that Michael was calm,
Angela put him in back, safely strapped in, and took the seat beside him.

By the time they got home, Michael was dead to the world. He didn't stir as Angela unhooked him from the seat belt and gathered him into her arms.

Inside, Megan hurried up the stairs ahead of mother and son, leading the way to the boys' room, where she rushed to strip off the bloody bedspread, wipe up the blood on the bed table and remove the offending pocketknife.

Angela saw the knife. She whispered, “Is that how he cut himself?”

Megan nodded. “I'll tell you all about it. Later…” Leaving Angela to put her injured little boy to bed, she carried the spread down to the laundry room and put it in the washer. Once she had the machine going, she went out to the kitchen, rinsed and dried the knife, folded it up and put it in a cabinet—high up, in the back—where it would be safe from small hands.

She turned to find Greg standing in the door from the dining room, watching her. “Oh!” She squeaked in surprise and put her hand to her chest.

“Sorry.” The warmth in his eyes said he wasn't
that
sorry. “Didn't mean to scare you. Just admiring the view.” He reported, “Anthony's in the living room hooked up to his Game Boy. And Olivia went upstairs, I think.”

Megan realized she'd yet to thank him for what a huge help he'd been. “You've been wonderful about all this.”

“It was no hardship, honestly. Men like to feel…useful.”

“Well, you were. Definitely—more than useful. Indispensable.”

He covered the distance between them and rested his hands to either side of her on the counter, trapping her in the middle. “Show me your gratitude.”

“Love to.” She kissed him, a chaste kiss, in consideration of the fact that they were in her sister's kitchen and likely to be interrupted at any time. “More later,” she whispered, when he lifted his head.

“Can't wait—and what else can we do to help out around here?”

 

As it turned out, there was still Michael's pain medication and antibiotics to pick up. Megan volunteered to run over to Wal-Mart, where the pharmacy would still be open. Greg insisted on driving her.

It took awhile for the pharmacist to fill the prescriptions. To pass the time, they wandered around the big store. As they strolled up and down the wide aisles, Megan found herself thinking of the way Irene had snubbed her at Rosewood Market, of the crushed look on Carly's face when she'd seen Megan getting into Greg's car….

Lots of people went to Wal-Mart. The chances of running into a mutual acquaintance were pretty good here. Megan dreaded that someone else from the neighborhood would see them together and judge them—and spread more rumors about them.

Greg must have picked up on her growing anxiety. In the home electronics section, as they browsed the racks of CDs, he asked her if something was bothering her.

It really didn't seem like the time or the place to talk about it, so she sent him a bright smile—and told a white lie. “No. Nothing. Just, you know, a little stressed out after all the excitement.”

He caught her arm in a gentle grip and turned her to face him. “Michael will be fine. If there was something to worry about, they'd have kept him at the hospital.”

She nodded—and eased away from his touch. “I know. Yes.”

He frowned at her reaction. But he let it go. They headed back to the pharmacy area, picked up the medications and returned to the house, where they found Angela in the kitchen whipping up some pasta with meat sauce to feed her hungry crew.

She turned from the stove with a wide smile for both of them as Megan set the prescriptions on the island counter. “Terrific. And Greg—I can't thank you enough. I'm so sorry that your first time here to see Megan had you heading straight for the hospital.”