Chapter Eighteen


John kissed her, darn him, and she wanted him to, only this time, she tugged him close, holding him tightly to her, forgetting all about job descriptions, letting herself enjoy the man and the moment.
Before she knew it, they found themselves engaged in a much hotter embrace, one that led to passion against the kitchen counter and then the table and then, crazily, they fell over the sofa into the soft cushions, kissing hungrily. Marnie wasn't about to let John go. She tugged at his jeans. "I say we burn dinner."
His chuckle was husky. "I turned off the stove when I saw the bad-girl gleam in your eyes." He moved his fingers inside her waistband. "But I have to know that there are no maybe's in this."
"None." Marnie was nearly breathless from kissing John. Desire heated every cell of her body. "Of course if you're feeling a 'maybe' inside you—'
Flipping her over, he pinned her beneath him. "I've never been a maybe kind of guy." He lightly bit her neck and stripped off her jeans. "You're beautiful. Absolutely one of a kind. I just hope this condom isn't a maybe. It's about a year old."
She swallowed her worries about her after-pregnancy body before they could take shape in her mouth and focused on the fact that he had a nice erection—a positive development. Instead, she said, "Hurry," and so he did, and the next thing Marnie knew, she was lost in pleasure.
The consequences could come later.
* * *
John thought he'd died and gone to heaven. Never had he imagined making love with a woman would be so satisfying.
He had to keep Marnie. Somehow.
The condom had held, to the best of his knowledge. But he wanted to put any and all fears Marnie might have to rest. "Marnie," he said after he'd held her for at least an hour, "before Liza decides to ring the dinner bell, I want to tell you that if there should be, you know, a baby between us, I wouldn't leave you high and dry."
"Thank you," Marnie said, "but I'm wearing a ring." She was too lost in a happy glow to worry about anything outside the pleasure John had given her.
He swiftly checked her hands. There were no rings on either hand.
"Inside, John," she murmured. "I learned my lesson the first time."
"All right," he said, filing that information away for later when he could sort it out, "but I still want you to come home with me."
She sat up and pushed her hair away from her face to stare down at him. "What?"
"Come home with me. After you finish your doors and hang them in the Tulips Saloon."
Her eyes were so wide he could tell he'd shocked her. "I can't stay here forever," he said, "as nice and quaint as this town is."
Marnie didn't know what she'd been thinking. Of course he couldn't stay. His job, his family, his whole life was in another state. He'd lulled her into thinking his existence was fluid, with his Blackberry and his motorcycle and his laptop—but she'd seen only what she wanted to see. Secretly, she'd hoped that this man would want her enough to stay in her world.
It had been a subconscious test on her part, she realized with a sinking heart. "I can't, John," she said. "I just got here. I just bought my first house. Well, you made the initial payment, but—"
He laid a finger over her lips. "Stop saying that. It's your house."
Her heart was breaking. But she couldn't make any more changes in her life, not now. It had taken everything for her to start feeling settled in Tulips. "I can't move to West Virginia," she said. "I'm sorry."
John's heart slid into an empty space inside him. He'd known Marnie was putting down roots here she needed. It was too soon for her; he completely understood that.
Yet he'd fallen in love with her anyway, and like the doors he shattered, his broken heart couldn't be fixed.

Chapter Nineteen


Marnie finished the doors in three weeks, just as she thought she would, and together, she and John hung them in the Tulips Saloon. They were every bit as beautiful as she'd hoped they would be. The soft pinks and reds and occasional green of the leaves shone softly against the small-town setting of the old building.
Unfortunately, her relationship with John hadn't turned out as well. He'd been formal, politely reserved with her ever since they'd made love. For three weeks, he'd treated her home and her as if he were performing a service and she was the boss. Only when he was with Liza did he act like he was the happiest man on the planet.
"It's amazing," John said, looking at the doors with admiration. "The building looks completely different, and the doors give it a soul, a secret world one wants to enter just to experience that connection."
Marnie nodded. "That's what I love most about designing doors. I know it sounds crazy, but to me, they say 'Welcome. Come on in and be a part of good times.'"
Pulling out his cell phone, he took a couple of pictures. "I want to show my sister. She'll never believe this." He took an up-close picture of the tulips, too, knowing the blend of colors might not show as well but wanting to remember it forever. "So, that's that," he said when he was satisfied with the picture. He turned to Pansy and Helen who were holding Liza and watching the doors being hung with delight on their faces. "Ladies, behold the artist and her dream."
He could tell Pansy and Helen were seeing their vision transformed before them. He'd never seen two more rapturous faces. I'll miss that about Tulips. I'll miss the honesty and the joy in small things.
The ladies hugged Marnie. Smiling, he checked the straps tying his motorcycle down in the back of his truck and then turned to kiss Liza goodbye.
The two older women stared at him. He could hardly bear the stunned look in Marnie's hazel eyes, but it was time for him to go. "Thank you," he told her, "for some of the best memories in my life." He kissed her on the cheek, Liza on her soft fuzzy head—God, he was going to miss this baby—and Pansy and Helen on their doughy, wrinkled cheeks. "You ladies have given me a new lease on life." He took one more picture—the four of them standing together in front of the saloon doors before they could protest—and got in his truck. "Keep in touch," he said, knowing that none of them ever would.
Waving goodbye, he drove off toward West Virginia, glad he'd finally restored what he'd broken in the first place and ignoring the crack in his own heart.
"Did you know he was going to leave?" Pansy asked, looking as stunned as Marnie felt.
"Yes," she said. "We had discussed it." Still, the pain was intense.
"Oh," Helen said, "[محذوف][محذوف][محذوف][محذوف][محذوف][محذوف]s and tea. At once."
They went inside the Saloon together, sitting down on the mismatched velvet-covered antique chairs. "John seemed awfully fond of you," Pansy said. "At least he never stopped talking about you while he was staying at my house. I rather thought the two of you might have been developing a fondness for one another."
"Actually, I fell in love with him," Marnie said, much more casually than she felt.
The ladies gasped. "But you let him go!" Pansy exclaimed.
Marnie stood, fixing Liza into her stroller carefully. "There really wasn't a way for us to move our lives together. It's not like combining two houses into one in a magical renovation." She smiled at her friends sadly. "I'm glad you like your doors. Thank you for everything you've done for me." She kissed them both and left, feeling like she'd lost a big piece of her heart. "Let's go home, Liza," she whispered to her baby as she stepped out into the late twilight enveloping Tulips.
Pansy looked at Helen as Marnie left. "You didn't show her."
Helen shook her head. "There was no point. They made up their minds about what they could be to each other. This article wouldn't change anything."
She laid a piece of newspaper on the table Sheriff Duke had given her. Pansy couldn't read it all, of course, because of her developing macular degeneration. But Helen had read every word to her friend.
Billionaire investor, world traveler, generous philanthropist and famous architect John Colby has just completed plans for a new theater centre in West Virginia, a jewel he plans to set in the heart of America's rugged mining state.
"Funny how they both had that creating/building thing in their blood," Pansy said, and Helen nodded. But it had to be more. Love had to be about two perfectly suited pieces coming together to make one stunningly good whole. Marnie and John just hadn't been able to fit their lives together for that just-right, happily-ever-after.

Chapter Twenty


For the next few weeks, Marnie made patterns for the tiny windows and doors of Liza's dollhouse during her daughter's naps. She had enough glass left over from crafting the two doors for the Saloon. She also liked the idea of using the same glass on Liza's house that John had helped her with. It would be a keepsake for Liza and a happy memory for Marnie. It was when she began fitting the small pieces into the dollhouse that she stopped and re-read the tiny scrolled letters John had painted in the kitchen.
Even a big house is small and empty without love.
She hesitated, her gaze caught, her heart racing.
The thing was, even her small house felt empty and smaller these days. She had Liza. She had her glass. But she didn't have John.
She forced herself to look beyond the glass and the comfort of her craft, seeing her life without him. She had to find out what was beyond the doors she'd used to keep him out, instead of welcoming him in, the way doors were meant to do.
* * *
John had faced the fact that he and Marnie hadn't been soulmates, at least, she didn't believe he was hers. Part of him had taken the past month to nurse the realization that she didn't feel the same way about him that he felt about her. What hurt the most was that he was certain—and had been certain from the moment he'd first met her—that she was his missing better half. But he also knew Marnie was very independent, and she guarded that independence.
He missed her. In fact, he missed her so much he was dreaming her into walking up the curving lawn of his mansion, pushing little Liza in a stroller in front of her. But was that really her? She kept coming closer, and John stood still, his chest hammering, his eyes too afraid to believe.
She smiled and waved, and he forced himself not to hurdle the shrubs lining the porch to get to her. Easy, he told himself, let her come to you this time. "Hello, stranger," he said.
She put the brake on the stroller and made certain Liza wasn't in the direct sunlight. "Nice place."
He raised his brow. "Thanks." He thought she was adorable in an ankle-length dress and sandals. "Do you want a tour? To come in out of the heat?"
Slowly, she shook her head. "No. I already know it's fabulous." She took a deep breath. "I came to see only you."
"How did you find my house?"
She looked at him. "It's one of a kind. Except it's just like Liza's dollhouse. And you left some business cards in the kitchen."
"I'm surprised to see you."
She nodded. "I promise not to break your door. Those are the five-thousand-dollar doors?"
He grinned. "Yes. They wouldn't break easily." They were made of mahogany and wrought iron. "Built to withstand kids, family, dogs, you name it."
"About that family," she said, and he raised a brow. "I was wondering if you need a day wife. Not a housewife, exactly, because that wouldn't be me. More like an assistant."
He snapped his fingers. "You mean like a house husband, only in the feminine sense. The very feminine sense." He let his gaze roam over her appreciatively.
"I cook," Marnie said, "though not as well as you. I also have a guaranteed alarm." She pointed to Liza. "Maybe for a couple of weeks, we could take care of you so you can work."
He looked at her shrewdly. "You know how I feel about the word maybe."
She smiled. "We'd like to apply for the job."
He felt the tension which had resided in his chest since he'd left Tulips begin to subside. "To be honest, I'm not looking for an assistant for while I work."
"Oh."
She sounded so disappointed he had to grin. "I could consider you as a wife and lifemate, however. Will you marry me, Marnie McGovern?"
She jumped into his arms, surprising him, and delighting him with her joy. It was that joy in the small things that he'd discovered in Tulips, which he was now going to have forever.
"I love you," he told Marnie, "and Liza, too."
"That's good," Marnie said, kissing him on the lips, "because we love you, too. No maybe about that."
Marnie slipped out of his arms and he took Liza from the stroller, and together they walked into the mansion that was no longer empty, but very, very full of love.

The End


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