Page 181 of Homeport

“I gave it a shot. It didn’t work. I’ll make us some breakfast.”

He closed the door, watched her walk the short distance to the kitchen and open the undersized refrigerator. She took out eggs, bacon, a frying pan. She poured coffee into two thick blue mugs.

The early light played through the narrow windows, made patterns on the floor. The room smelled of coffee and carnations.

Her feet were bare.

She laid bacon in the black iron skillet and soon the room was full of its scent and sound. Solid, Sunday morning sounds, he thought. Easy homey scents.

“Annie.”

“Sit down, Andrew. You’re asleep on your feet.”

“Annie.” He took her by the shoulders, turned her around. “I needed to go with Elise tonight.”

“Of course you did.”

“Don’t interrupt. I needed to go, to make sure she was all right. She was my wife once, so I owed her that. I didn’t handle the marriage well, and handled the divorce less well. I thought about that while I was waiting for the doctor to come out and tell us how she was. I thought about that and what I might have done differently to make it work between us. The answer is nothing.”

He let out a short laugh, running his hands up and down her arms. “Nothing. It used to be realizing that made me feel like a failure. Now it just makes me understand the marriage failed. I didn’t, she didn’t. It did.”

Almost absently, he bent to kiss the top of her head. “I waited until I was sure she was going to be all right, then I came here because I had to tell you.”

“I know that, Andrew.” In support, and with mild impatience, she patted his arm. “The bacon’s going to burn.”

“I haven’t finished telling you. I haven’t started to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“My name is Andrew, and I’m an alcoholic.” He seemed to quiver once, then steady. “I’ve been sober for thirty days. I’m going to be sober for thirty-one. I sat in the hospital tonight and I thought about drinking. It just didn’t seem to be the answer. Then I thought about you. You’re the answer. I love you.”

Her eyes went damp, but she shook her head. “I’m not your answer, Andrew. I can’t be.” She pulled away, started to turn the bacon, but he reached over and snapped off the flame.

“I love you.” He cupped his hands over her face to hold her still. “Part of me always has. The rest of me had to grow up enough to see it. I know what I feel and I know what I want. If you don’t have those same feelings for me, and don’t want what I want, then you tell me. You tell me straight. It’s not going to send me out looking for a bottle. But I need to know.”

“What do you want me to say?” She rapped one frustrated fist against his chest. “You’re a Ph.D. I’m GED. You’re Andrew Jones of the Maine Joneses, and I’m Annie McLean from nowhere.” She put her hands over his, but couldn’t quite make herself draw his away from her face. “I run a bar, you run the Institute. Get a grip on yourself, Andrew.”

“I’m not interested in your snobbery right now.”

“Snobbery?” Her voice cracked with insult. “For God’s sake—”

“You didn’t answer my question.” He tugged until she was on her toes. “What do you feel for me, and what do you want?”

“I’m in love with you, and I want a miracle.”

His smile spread slowly, dimples deep in his cheeks. She was quivering under his hands, and his world had just gone rock steady. “I don’t know if it’ll qualify as a miracle. But I’ll do my best.” He picked her up.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking you to bed.”

Panic fluttered in her throat and curled all the way down to her toes. “I didn’t say I’d go to bed with you.”

“You didn’t say you wouldn’t. I’m taking a big chance here.”

She grabbed the doorjamb and clung for dear life. “Really? Is that so?”

“Damn right. You may not like my moves this time around. If not, you’ll probably turn me down when I ask you to marry me.”

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