Mixed Messages. Linda Miller Lael

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      2

      Carly arrived at the Times offices at five minutes to seven, wearing an attractive blue crepe de chine jumpsuit she’d borrowed from Janet and feeling guilty about all the unread letters awaiting her at home.

      She stepped into the large lobby and looked around. She shouldn’t even be there, she thought to herself. When she’d left home, she’d had a plan for her life, and Mark Holbrook, attractive as he might be, wasn’t part of it.

      An elevator bell chimed, doors swished open, and Mark appeared, as if conjured by her thoughts. He carried a briefcase in one hand and wore the same clothes he’d had on earlier: jeans, a flannel shirt and a corduroy jacket.

      “This almost makes me wish I’d worn a tie,” he said, his warm brown eyes sweeping over her with admiration. Another of his lightning-charged grins flashed. “Then again, I’m glad I didn’t. You look wonderful, Ms. Congeniality.”

      Carly let the beauty-pageant vernacular slide by. Although she’d had a lot of experience talking to people, she felt strangely shy around Mark. “Thanks,” she said.

      They walked three blocks to Jake’s, an elegantly rustic restaurant-tavern that had been in business since 1892. When they walked in, the bartender called out a good-natured greeting to Mark, who answered with a thumbs-up sign, then proceeded to the reservations desk.

      Soon Mark and Carly were seated in a booth on wooden benches, the backs towering over their heads. A waiter promptly brought them menus and greeted Mark by name.

      Carly figured he probably brought a variety of women to the restaurant, and was inexplicably annoyed by the thought. She chose a Cajun plate, while Mark ordered a steak.

      “Making any progress with the letters?” he asked when they were alone again.

      Carly sighed. She’d probably be up until two or three in the morning, wading through them. “Let’s put it this way,” she answered, “I should be home working.”

      The wine arrived and Mark tasted the sample the steward poured, then nodded. The claret was poured and the steward walked away, leaving the bottle behind.

      Mark lifted his glass and touched it against Carly’s. “To workaholics everywhere,” he said.

      Carly took a sip of her wine and set the glass aside. The word “workaholic” had brought Reggie to mind, and she felt as though he were sitting at the table with them, an unwelcome third. “What’s the most important thing in your life?” she asked to distract herself.

      The waiter left their salads, then turned and walked away.

      “Things don’t mean much to me,” Mark responded, lifting his fork. “It’s people who matter. And the most important person in my life is my son, Nathan.”

      Even though she certainly wasn’t expecting anything to develop between herself and Mark, Carly was jarred by the mention of a child. “You’re not married, I hope,” she said, practically holding her breath.

      “No, I’m divorced, and Nathan lives in California, with his mother,” he said. There was, for just an instant, a look of pain in his eyes. This was quickly displaced by a mischievous sparkle. “Would it matter to you—if I were married, I mean?”

      Carly speared a cherry tomato somewhat vengefully. “Would it matter? Of course it would.”

      “A lot of women don’t care.”

      “I’m not a lot of women,” Carly responded, her tone resolute.

      He shrugged one shoulder. “There’s a shortage of marriageable men out there, I’m told. Aren’t you worried that your biological clock is ticking, and all that?”

      “Maybe in ten years I’ll be worried. Right now I’m interested in making some kind of life for myself.”

      “Which you couldn’t do in the Midwest?”

      “I wanted to do it here,” she said.

      Mark smiled. “Exactly what kind of life are you picturing?”

      Carly was beginning to feel as though she was being interviewed, but she didn’t mind. She understood how a reporter’s mind worked. “Mainly I want to write for a newspaper—not advice, but articles, like you do. And maybe I’ll buy myself a little house and a dog.”

      “Sounds fulfilling,” Mark replied.

      There was so little conviction in his voice that Carly peered across the table at him and demanded, “Just what did you mean by that?”

      He widened those guileless choirboy eyes of his and sat back on the bench as though he expected the salt shaker to detonate. “I was just thinking—well, it’s a shame that so few women want to have babies anymore.”

      “I didn’t say I didn’t want to have babies,” Carly pointed out. Her voice had risen, and she blushed to see that the people at the nearest table were looking at her. “I love babies,” she clarified in an angry whisper. “I plan to breast-feed and everything!”

      The waiter startled Carly by suddenly appearing at her elbow to deliver dinner, and СКАЧАТЬ