Mirror, Mirror Read online

  Ben reached out a tentative hand and stroked Dash’s back. “He’s so smooth!”

  Jack, after eyeing Dash and seeing no danger, leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, looking like a Ralph Lauren model on a break.

  Even I, who am accustomed to being around good-looking men, find the way Jack carries himself with so much ease and grace enticing. A man at home in his own body and mind is very appealing. I spend too much time with models and aspiring actors who are always trying, because of the demands of their jobs, to be someone or something other than what they really are.

  “Nice dog.”

  “He is,” I agreed. “The best. We were out for a walk and ended up down the street.” I thrust a package of cookies into his hand. “Linda sent these.”

  “She’s taken us on board with her own family. We are very grateful. We’ve tried almost every bakery in the Cities and her cookies are still best. Would you like to come in? I know from experience that these are best served with cold milk.”

  Never let it be said I passed up a homemade cookie or, now that I’m here, a chance to visit with a charming man.

  I followed him into the house. Ben insisted that Dash come inside, as well. We settled at the kitchen table which, today, was flour-free. The volcano sat unfinished on the counter.

  Ben’s gaze traveled with mine toward the project. “It’s dry enough to put another coat on now, Dad says. We’re going to do it this afternoon.” He looked at me shyly through his eyelashes. “Could you help?”

  “Ben, that’s not why Ms. Hunter came—”

  “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

  Frankly, I dumbfounded myself with the answer.

  “Ben, she has her dog with her,” Jack said mildly, allowing me another chance to renege on my answer.

  “He can sit on the floor right by me, just like he’s doing now.” Ben pointed a finger at Dash who was poised like a statue at his feet. Dash looked frozen in time, like a drawing of the ancient Egyptians at the pyramids.

  Jack looked helplessly at me. “You don’t have to, you know.”

  “I know, but I will. I’m particularly fond of building volcanoes.”

  “Suit yourself.” He grinned and shook his head. “All I can guarantee you is a big mess.”

  He had that right.

  A half hour later I touched my gluey finger to what should be the crest of the mountain. “I think we need a little more height on this side.”

  “Here it comes.” Jack draped a layer of the papier mâché where I pointed and his palm brushed the top of my hand.

  A person wouldn’t think that two hands, couched in papier mâché, could even feel each other, but the pressure of Jack’s touch startled me. Although we’d shaken hands before, this felt different, oddly intimate, as we worked together for his son. His arm brushed mine as we navigated around the table and the encounter left me slightly shaken.

  It wasn’t until we were almost done positioning soggy paper onto the lump Ben fondly called a volcano that we realized that somewhere in the process Ben and Dash had escaped the kitchen. We could hear the murmur of the television in the other room. Suddenly Jack’s hand touched mine again in the slick wet goo and a tingle shot up my arm.

  “When did Ben and the dog sneak off?” Jack asked.

  “And why didn’t we notice it? Talk about adults being overinvolved in children’s projects.” My voice was a little shaky, but he didn’t seem to notice. “But it’s done. All Ben has to do now is wait for it to dry, paint and decorate it with stones.”

  Jack handed me a damp towel and I wiped my hands. Then he nodded at the doorway to the family room. Ben and Dash were sound asleep on the couch, entwined in a pretzellike configuration.

  “I hope you don’t mind animals on your furniture. Dash does it at home so I’m sure he thinks it’s okay here. I can get him off.”

  Jack stopped me as I stepped forward. “I think he was invited. Ben’s content and that’s what counts.”

  He washed his hands beneath the faucet. Nice, strong, firm and well-manicured hands that usually did not have glue under the nails. “How about I brew some coffee to go with the rest of those cookies?”

  “I shouldn’t…” Even though I wanted to.

  “Why not?” He looked at me, his eyes warm as melted chocolate and the smile lines at the corners crinkling agreeably.

  “I didn’t mean to intrude on your day.”

  “You aren’t. The volcano is done. The least I can do is give you a cup of coffee in payment.”

  Okay, so I’m weak-willed and a sucker for coffee and chocolate…chocolate-colored eyes.

  Chapter Ten

  Jack moved easily around the kitchen, trim hipped, wide-shouldered and oozing testosterone. I couldn’t help but stare. He expertly ground coffee beans, arranged Linda’s cookies on a plate and put it on a tray with coffee cups. Each time he turned my way, he would smile at me and a slash of something too masculine to be called dimples flashed in his cheeks.

  As I watched Jack brew coffee I realized that I was probably enjoying this too much. Can I help it that I like watching this man who obviously knows his way around a kitchen?

  Jack lifted the lid on a Crock-Pot and savory fumes wafted through the air. Beef bourguignonne. Could it be?

  “It smells wonderful. Do you cook a lot?”

  He looked sheepish. “I owe all my gourmet recipes to the Food Channel. It’s the closest thing I can find to having someone take me by the hand and show me how something is done.” He shuffled his feet and, for a split second, looked exactly like his ten-year-old son. “I tape shows so I can go back and rewatch them. It’s probably ridiculous sounding, but Ben and I eat better.”

  His face clouded. “Emily was a wonderful cook.”

  “Linda said your wife was a wonderful person. I’m sorry for your loss—and Ben’s.”

  Jack nodded bleakly. “We met in college through mutual friends, but it wasn’t until later that we started to date. We had a lot going on in our lives—grad school, travel, volunteer stuff. We both wanted to drink as deeply as we could of life, I guess. Looking back, I’m glad we got the opportunity to do so—especially Emily.”

  I could see him turning inward, viewing a private video taken years before.

  “Emily was a travel journalist. Sometimes I teased her that she was more comfortable on a plane than in our living room. That stopped when Ben came along. Everything lost its significance in comparison to him.”

  Jack set a creamer on the table and poured coffee into a cup. His fingers and mine touched as I took it.

  “Emily sounds like quite a woman. Tell me more about her.”

  I’m not the prying sort, but it seemed important to understand the woman my new student and his father had loved.

  Jack looked surprised but pleased. “I don’t want to bore you.”

  “You won’t.”

  “Em was beautiful. Ben got his blue eyes and dark gold hair from her. Little kids at kindergarten used to ask Ben if his mommy was a movie star.”

  I tried to imagine Ben’s eyes and hair on that of a beautiful woman. It wasn’t difficult.

  “Ben always told them no, she wasn’t a movie star but that she was better—she was a ‘Mommy Star.’” Jack turned his face away momentarily, as if he didn’t want me to see the pain there. “One of the first things Ben asked after Em died was ‘Is she really a Mommy Star now?’”

  I had invaded deeply private territory.

  “Emily had a very deep faith in God. I told Ben that whatever she’s doing now, she is happier than she’s ever been before. Ben’s okay with that and I am, too. We’re just lonesome for her, that’s all.” Then he shook himself like Dash does after being out in the rain. “But you don’t want to hear about this.”

  Oh, I don’t know about that. My curiosity was stirred. “What did she and Ben enjoy doing together?”

  He appeared surprised at the question but recovered quickly.

  “Cook, of course. Swim. Go f
ishing. She always thought of ways to keep him busy with things that he was capable of doing. They played games for hours on end and read books together. If Ben had said he wanted to take up stamp collecting or sky-diving, she would have made it happen.”

  “She sounds like fun.”

  “She was. Her laughter could fill an entire room….” Jack bowed his head.

  It took him some moments to recover, but when he lifted his head he was smiling ruefully. “I really gave you an earful, didn’t I? You should be more careful. I could have bored you to death. You are much too good a listener.”

  “I was never in danger, thank you very much. I’m in awe of that kind of love.”

  Jack poured himself coffee and came to sit across from me at the table. “Me, too. I never thought it would happen for me. That, more than anything, is why I’ll never marry again. I know I couldn’t be that lucky twice in my life.”

  I opened my mouth to speak and then snapped it shut.

  “I started with the best. There’s no way to improve on that.”

  He’s practically sanctified that woman. I hear Linda’s words in my head, ones she confided to me in our discussion about Jack.

  Linda had certainly pegged that right.

  Then some life came back into his features. “Emily left us a lot of wonderful gifts and memories, but the best gift of all she gave to Ben.”

  “What’s that?”

  “His spirit. Ben is all about laughter, about trust and about possibilities. In spite of his pain, he never gives in to it. He’s a fighter, determined as Napoleon Bonaparte in his march across Europe and relentless as an ocean tide. He just never quits.” Awe tinged Jack’s voice. “Remarkable.”

  “And that was his mother’s spirit, too?” No wonder Jack felt he’d never be quite whole again.

  “It was, but I believe Ben is even…more so. Of course, Ben had an added element in his equation. My wife had to come to grips with her own mortality. She had to surrender everything to God and trust Him to get her through what was ahead of her.”

  “And little Ben watched.”

  “Like a hawk. He wouldn’t leave her side when the pastor came from the church or when friends came to pray.

  “When she died, it was Ben who was the rock in the family. He was calm and confident, even peaceful. He kept reminding the rest of us that his mother was fine, that she was happy. ‘We’re just crying for ourselves, you know,’ he told his grandmother. ‘Mom wouldn’t like that. She never liked it when one of us was unhappy.’”

  My heart lodged itself in my throat.

  “When his grandmother asked him how he became so wise,” Jack recalled, “Ben grinned at her said, ‘Me and Mom talked to God about it. He promised and we believe Him.’”

  “So you see—” Jack looked at me with sharp, intelligent eyes “—I am motivated to do any-and everything I can for Ben. He’s my role model, my hero and—” there was a catch in his voice “—my terribly vulnerable little boy.”

  And Jack had entrusted me his precious jewel of a child to me.

  Lord, help me not to let this pair down!

  At that moment Ben and Dash entered the room. Ben had his hand on Dash’s collar. It was not necessary, of course. Dash would have followed him anywhere.

  “What are you doing, Dad?”

  “Quinn and I are having coffee.”

  “Can Dash and I have some of the cookies?”

  “You can. Dash has his own diet.”

  Ben eyed his father, then me. “Are you taking today off?”

  Odd question for a child.

  “I’m working at home today, Ben,” Jack said.

  Ben turned to me. “He works too much. Sometimes I worry about him.”

  I blinked, startled. He sounded more like Jack’s father than his son.

  Jack chuckled and ruffled Ben’s hair. “Go eat your cookies, old man. And remember, I’m the father, not you.”

  When they were gone, Jack sank into a chair with a sigh. “We’re a pair, aren’t we? I worry about him and he worries about me. We need more fun in our lives.”

  Although I protested, Jack insisted on driving me and Dash back to my place.

  “We managed to get here, there’ll be no trouble going home. Honestly.”

  “It’s the ‘you’ part of the equation that I’m concerned about. That dog of yours could run into tomorrow.”

  Dash, in the backseat, pricked his ears, sensing that he was the topic of conversation.

  “Well, I did lose some of my energy while I was sitting down.” I relaxed into the passenger seat. “I haven’t been running as regularly as I should.”

  “Besides,” Ben piped up from the back where he was strapped into a seat belt with Dash’s paws across his lap, “I want to see where you live.”

  “It’s nothing special. It’s a very old house, in fact. My grandparents lived there.”

  “Cool.” Ben stared out the window as Jack turned the car off France Avenue and he started to see the cozy stucco bungalows that signaled my neighborhood. Children played hopscotch on the sidewalk and a boy tossed a Frisbee to a black Lab that caught it midair. “It looks like a storybook house.”

  It does, actually. Maggie, skilled gardener that she is, works her heart out on our lawn and landscaping. There’s never a month in the summer that a new set of plants aren’t blooming as others fade back. The yard is always a riot of color. Between my birdbaths and feeders and her butterfly gardens and seed catalogue spending sprees, the only thing missing from the yard is Bambi sniffing a flower.

  “Look! There’s another Dash!” Ben pointed toward my front step and Dash scrambled up to see what was going on. His tail began to thump wildly.

  “Actually, that is Flash, my friend’s dog. We adopted Flash and Dash at the same time.”

  Jack pulled to a stop and when I opened the door, Dash scrambled past me for a giddy meeting with his friend.

  “Would you like to come in?” I wasn’t sure if I wanted Jack to say yes or no. I knew Pete would give him a once-over, if not the third degree.

  “I’d like a rain check.” Jack leaned forward. “And thanks for all the help.”

  “Call me anytime.” That sounded a little coy, but I doubt Jack heard me say it. Ben was too busy demanding to know when “another time” would be and if they could come back tomorrow.

  I watched them drive off with mixed emotions. Affection, respect, anticipation and strangely, a little sadness. I like Jack and respect the way he’s raising his son. Yet no matter how long we work together for Ben’s benefit, I already know that Jack Harmon will always be remote and inaccessible as anything more than a friend, living his life in the past with a woman who can’t love him back.

  Chapter Eleven

  I walked through the kitchen door to discover Maggie and Pete at the kitchen table sharing a pizza and a liter of diet soda. Dash and Flash were already at Pete’s side watching the pizza Pete was holding, as if it was a mechanical rabbit at the track.

  “You’re home!” I threw out my arms to hug Maggie. “How are you, sweetie?”

  She was wearing her favorite T-shirt, one Pete had given her during a previous dustup with her sisters. I Can’t Remember If I’m The Good Sister Or The Evil One. Her cheeks were a hint rounder than they had been when she left, even though she’d been at her mother’s only a few days. Maggie’s angular features were always softened by a couple extra pounds. Frankly, she looked fabulous.

  When I get upset, I go for comfort food. Mashed potatoes three times a day is good enough for me. When Maggie is distressed, however, she turns into a garbage disposal, downing everything that comes her way. That also explained the three-meat pizza with extra cheese.

  “I am so glad to see you!” I scrunched her cheeks between the palms of my hands. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Glad someone has.”

  “Hey, what about me?” Pete yelped through a mouthful of pepperoni. “I missed you, too!”

  Dash woofed in agreement.r />
  “Not feeling much better, huh?” I grabbed a slice of pizza and joined them at the table.

  “I thought I was. Then I walked into the house and saw the cashmere throw on the couch that Randy gave me. I went into the bathroom and what was on the counter? Euphoria. Randy’s favorite perfume. When I picked up my mail, there was a receipt for a pair of tickets I’d ordered so we could see the Birth of Broadway concert. He’s everywhere I turn.”

  Pete, being very guylike, volunteered. “I like the Minnesota Orchestra. I’ll go with you, Maggie.”

  “I don’t think that’s the problem.” I helped myself to soda. “You’re all wrong for the job.”

  “And Randy is all right? Ha!” He waved the pizza so little red pepper flakes scattered across the table.

  “Oh, I’ll be okay—someday,” Maggie said gloomily. “My mother keeps saying, there are other fish in the sea.” She stared into the bottom of her half-empty glass of soda. “Sad to say, most of them are carp.”

  “Fortunately we don’t have monkfish here.” I’d watched my mother prepare a monkfish once. It was so ugly that I’d dreamed about it living under the kitchen sink for months and refused to eat any seafood except fish sticks.

  “Speaking as a very handsome walleye or perhaps a rainbow trout,” Pete interjected, “I can guarantee there are more good fish in the sea than you might imagine. We’re just a little leery of being caught.”

  “Terrific. That leaves me with a choice of bottom-feeders, right?”

  “Not if you use the right bait.”

  Pete meant it playfully, but Maggie’s response was anything but. She burst into tears.

  “That’s the whole problem, isn’t it? I’m lousy bait!”

  We both stared at her as if she’d caught a fish hook in her brain. “What?”

  “There’s something wrong with me—otherwise Randy wouldn’t have left.”

  “You’ve broken up with guys, too, you know.”

  “Sure. Because there’s something about them I don’t like—they eat with their mouths open, are rude to waitresses or poor tippers…”

  “We’re swimming in shallow water here,” Pete muttered, casting the fish metaphor out far too long.