“Goodbye,” he said after another uncertain silence.
Bailey was still gripping the receiver when she heard a soft click followed by the drone of the disconnected line. She’d been needlessly abrupt and standoffish—as if she was trying to prove something. Trying to convince herself that she wanted nothing more to do with Parker.
Play it safe, Bailey. Don’t involve your heart. You’ve learned your lesson. Her mind was constructing excuses for her tactless behavior, but her heart would accept none of it.
Bailey felt wretched. She went back to her chair and stared at the computer screen for a full five minutes, unable to concentrate.
He’s only trying to help, her heart told her.
Men aren’t to be trusted, her mind said. Haven’t you learned that yet? How many times does it take to teach you something?
Parker isn’t like the others, her heart insisted.
Her mind, however, refused to listen. All men are alike.
But if she’d done the right thing, why did she feel so rotten? Yet she knew that if she gave in to him now, she’d regret it. She was treading on thin ice with this relationship; she remembered how she’d felt when he kissed her. Was she willing to risk the pain, the heartache, all over again?
Bailey closed her eyes and shook her head. Her thoughts were hopelessly tangled. She’d done what she knew was necessary, but she didn’t feel good about it. In fact, she was miserable. Parker had gone out of his way to help her with this project, offering her his time and his advice. He’d given her valuable insights into the male point of view. And when he kissed her, he’d reminded her how it felt to be a desirable woman….
Bailey barely slept that night. On Tuesday morning she decided to look for Parker, even if it meant moving from one subway car to the next, something she rarely did. When she did run into him, she intended to apologize, crediting her ill mood to creative temperament.
“Morning,” Jo Ann said, meeting her on the station platform the way she did every morning.
“Hello,” Bailey murmured absently, scanning the windows of the train as it slowed to a stop, hoping to spot Parker. If Jo Ann noticed anything odd, she didn’t comment.
“I heard back from the agent I wrote to a couple of months back,” Jo Ann said, grinning broadly. Her eyes fairly sparkled.
“Irene Ingram?” Bailey momentarily forgot about Parker as she stared at her friend. Her sagging spirits lifted with the news. For weeks Jo Ann had been poring over the agent list, trying to decide whom to approach first. After much deliberation and thought, Jo Ann had decided to aim high. Many of the major publishers were no longer accepting non-agented material, and finding one willing to represent a beginner had been a serious concern. Irene was listed as one of the top romance-fiction agents in the industry. She represented a number of prominent names.
“And?” Bailey prompted, although she was fairly sure the news was positive.
“She’s read my book and—” Jo Ann tossed her hands in the air “—she’s crazy about it!”
“Does that mean she’s going to represent you?” They were both aware how unusual it was for an established New York agent to represent an unpublished author. It wasn’t unheard of, but it didn’t happen all that often.
“You know, we never got around to discussing that—I assume she is. I mean, she talked to me about doing some minor revisions, which shouldn’t take more than a week. Then we discussed possible markets. There’s an editor she knows who’s interested in historicals set in this time period. Irene wants to send it to her first, just as soon as I’ve finished with the revisions.”
“Jo Ann,” Bailey said, clasping her friend’s hands tightly, “this is fabulous news!”
“I’m still having trouble believing it. Apparently Irene phoned while I was still at work and my eight-year-old answered. When I got home there was this scribbled message that didn’t make any sense. All it said was that a lady with a weird name had phoned.”
“Leave it to Bobby.”
“He wasn’t even home for me to question.”
“He didn’t write down the phone number?” Bailey asked.
“No, but he told Irene I was at work and she phoned me at five-thirty, our time.”
“Weren’t you the one who told me that being a writer means always knowing what time it is in New York?”
“The very one,” Jo Ann teased. “Anyway, we spoke for almost an hour. It was crazy. Thank goodness Dan was home. I was standing in the kitchen with this stunned look on my face, frantically taking down notes. I didn’t have to explain anything. Dan started dinner and then raced over to the park to pick up Bobby from Little League practice. Sarah set the table, and by the time I was off the phone, dinner was ready.”
“I’m impressed.” Several of the women in their writers’ group had complained about their husbands’ attitudes toward their creative efforts. But Jo Ann was fortunate in that department. Dan believed in her talent as strongly as Jo Ann did herself.
Jo Ann’s dream was so close to being realized that Bailey could feel her own excitement rise. After three years of continuous effort, Jo Ann deserved a sale more than anyone she knew. She squeezed her writing in between dental appointments and Little League practices, between a full-time job and the demands of being a wife and mother. In addition, she was the driving force behind their writers’ group. Jo Ann Webster had paid her dues, and Bailey sincerely hoped that landing Irene Ingram as her agent would be the catalyst to her first sale.
“I refuse to get excited,” Jo Ann said matter-of-factly.
Bailey stared at her incredulously. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
“I suppose I am. It’s impossible not to be thrilled, but there’s a saying in the industry we both need to remember. Agents don’t sell books, good writing does. Plotting and characterization are what interest an editor. Agents negotiate contracts, but they don’t sell books.”
“You should’ve phoned and told me she called,” Bailey chastised.
“I meant to. Honest, I did, but when I’d finished the dinner dishes, put the kids to bed and reviewed my revision notes, it was too late. By the way, before I forget, did Parker call you?”
He was the last person Bailey wanted to discuss. If she admitted he had indeed phoned her, Jo Ann was bound to ask all kinds of questions Bailey preferred not to answer. Nor did she want to lie about it.
So she compromised. “He did, but I was writing at the time and he suggested I call him back later.”
“Did you?” Jo Ann asked expectantly.
“No,” Bailey said in a small miserable voice. “I should have, but…I didn’t.”
“He’s marvelous, you know.”
“Would it be okay if we didn’t discuss Parker?” Bailey asked. She’d intended to seek him out, but she decided against it, at least for now. “I’ve got so much on my mind and I…I need to clear away a few cobwebs.”
“Of course.” Jo Ann’s look was sympathetic. “Take your time, but don’t take too long. Men like Parker Davidson don’t come along often. Maybe once in a lifetime, if you’re lucky.”
This wasn’t what Bailey wanted to hear.
Max was curled up on Bailey’s printer later that same evening. She’d worked for an hour on the rewrite and wasn’t entirely pleased with the results. Her lack of satisfaction could be linked, however, to the number of times she’d inadvertently typed Parker’s name instead of Michael’s.
That mistake was simple enough to understand. She was tired. Parker had been in her thoughts most of the day. Good grief, when wasn’t he in her thoughts?
Then, when she decided to take a break and scan the evening paper, Parker’s name seemed to leap right off the page. For a couple of seconds, Bailey was convinced the typesetter had made a mistake, just as she herself had a few minutes earlier. Peering at the local-affairs page, she realized that yes, indeed, Parker was in the news.
She sat down on the kitchen stool and carefully read the brief article. Construction crews wer
e breaking ground for a high-rise bank in the financial district. Parker Davidson was the project’s architect.
Bailey read the item twice and experienced a swelling sense of pride and accomplishment.
She had to phone Parker. She owed him an explanation, an apology; she owed him her gratitude. She’d known it the moment she’d abruptly ended their conversation the night before. She’d known it that morning when she spoke with Jo Ann. She’d known it the first time she’d substituted Parker’s name for Michael’s. Even the afternoon paper was telling her what she already knew.
Something so necessary shouldn’t be so difficult, Bailey told herself, standing in front of her telephone. Her hand still on the receiver, she hesitated. What could she possibly say to him? Other than to apologize for her behavior and congratulate him on the project she’d read about, which amounted to about thirty seconds of conversation.
Max sauntered into the kitchen, no doubt expecting to be fed again.
“You know better,” she muttered, glaring down at him.
Pacing the kitchen didn’t lend her courage. Nor did examining the contents of her refrigerator. The only thing that did was excite Max, who seemed to think she’d changed her mind, after all.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered, furious with herself. She picked up the phone, punched out Parker’s home number—and waited. The phone rang once, twice, three times.
Parker was apparently out for the evening. Probably with some tall blond bombshell, celebrating his success. Every woman’s basic nightmare. Four rings. Well, what did she expect? He was handsome, appealing, generous, kind—
“Hello?”
He caught her completely off guard. “Parker?”
“Bailey?”
“Yes, it’s me,” she said brightly. “Hello.” The things she’d intended to say had unexpectedly disintegrated.
“Hello.” His voice softened a little.
“Am I calling at a bad time?” she asked, wrapping the telephone cord around her index finger, then her wrist and finally her elbow. “I could call back later if that’s more convenient.”
“Now is fine.”
“I saw your name in the paper and wanted to congratulate you. This project sounds impressive.”
He shrugged it off, as she knew he would. Silence fell between them, the kind of silence that needed to be filled or explained or quickly extinguished.
“I also wanted to apologize for the way I acted last night, when you phoned,” Bailey said, the cord so tightly drawn around her hand that her fingers had gone numb. She loosened it now, her movements almost frantic. “I was rude and tactless and you didn’t deserve it.”
“So you ran into a snag with your writing?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re having a problem with your novel.”
Bailey wondered how he knew that. “Uh…”
“I suggest it’s time to check out the male point of view again. Get my insights. Am I right or wrong?”
“Right or wrong? Neither. I called to apologize.”
“How’s the rewrite coming?”
“Not too well.” She sighed.
“Which tells me everything I need to know.”
Bailey was mystified. “If you’re implying that the only reason I’m calling is to ask for help with Forever Yours you couldn’t be more mistaken.”
“Then why did you call?”
“If you must know, it was to explain.”
“Go on, I’m listening.”
Now that she had his full attention, Bailey was beginning to feel foolish. “My mother always told me there’s no excuse for rudeness, so I wanted to tell you something—something that might help you understand.” Suddenly she couldn’t utter another word.
“I’m listening,” Parker repeated softly.
Bailey took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Uh, maybe you won’t understand, but you should know there’s…there’s a slightly used wedding dress hanging in my closet.”
Seven
Of all the explanations Bailey could have given, all the excuses she could have made to Parker, she had no idea why she’d mentioned the wedding dress. Sheer embarrassment dictated her next action.
She hung up the phone.
Immediately afterward it started ringing and she stared at it in stupefied horror. Placing her hands over her ears, she walked into the living room, sank into the overstuffed chair and tucked her knees under her chin.
Seventeen rings.
Parker let the phone ring so many times Bailey was convinced he was never going to give up. The silence that followed the last peal seemed to reverberate loudly through the small apartment.
She was just beginning to gather her thoughts when there was an impatient pounding on her door.
Max imperiously raised his head from his position on her printer as though to demand she do something. Obviously all the disruptions this evening were annoying him.
“Bailey, open this door,” Parker ordered in a tone even she couldn’t ignore.
Reluctantly she got up and pulled open the door, knowing intuitively that he would’ve gotten in one way or another. If she’d resisted, Parker would probably have had Mrs. Morgan outside her door with a key.
He stormed into her living room as though there was a raging fire inside that had to be extinguished. He stood in the center of the room and glanced around, running his hand through his hair. “What was that you said about a wedding dress?”
Bailey, who still clutched the doorknob, looked up at him and casually shrugged. “You forgot the slightly used part.”
“Slightly used?”
“That’s what I tried to explain earlier,” she returned, fighting the tendency to be flippant.
“Are you married?” he asked harshly.
The question surprised her, although she supposed it shouldn’t have. After all, they were talking about wedding dresses. “Heavens, no!”
“Then what the hell did you mean when you said it was slightly used?”
“I tried it on several times, paid for it, walked around in it. I even had my picture taken in it, but that dress has never, to the best of my knowledge, been inside a church.” She closed the door and briefly leaned against it.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
“Not particularly,” she said, joining him in the middle of the room. “I really don’t understand why I even brought it up. But now that you’re here, do you want a cup of coffee?” She didn’t wait for his response, but went into her kitchen and automatically took down a blue ceramic mug.
“What was his name?”
“Which time? The first time around it was Paul. Tom followed a few years later,” Bailey said with matter-of-fact sarcasm as she filled the mug and handed it to him. She poured a cup for herself.
“I take it you’ve had to cancel two weddings, then?”
“Yes,” she said leading the way back into her living area. She curled up on the couch, her feet tucked beneath her, leaving the large overstuffed chair for Parker. “This isn’t something I choose to broadcast, but I seem to have problems holding on to a man. To be accurate, I should explain I bought the dress for Tom’s and my wedding. He was the second fiancé. Paul and I hadn’t gotten around to the particulars before he…left.” The last word was barely audible.
“Why’d you keep the dress?” Parker asked, his dark eyes puzzled.
Bailey looked away. She didn’t want his pity any more than she needed his tenderness, she told herself. But if that was the case, why did she feel so cold and alone?
“Bailey?”
“It’s such a beautiful dress.” Chantilly lace over luxurious white silk. Pearls along the full length of the sleeves. A gently tapered bodice; a gracefully draped skirt. It was the kind of dress every woman dreamed she’d wear once in a lifetime. The kind of dress that signified love and romance…
Instead of leaving the wedding gown with her parents, Bailey had packed it up and transported it to San Franc
isco. Now Parker was asking her why. Bailey supposed there was some psychological reason behind her actions. Some hidden motive buried in her subconscious. A reminder, perhaps, that men were not to be trusted?
“You loved them?” Parker asked carefully.
“I thought I did,” she whispered, staring into her coffee. “To be honest, I…I don’t know anymore.”
“Tell me about Paul.”
“Paul,” she repeated in a daze. “We met our junior year of college.” That seemed like a lifetime ago now.
“And you fell in love,” he finished for her.
“Fairly quickly. He intended to go into law. He was bright and fun and opinionated. I could listen to him for hours. Paul seemed to know exactly what he wanted and how to get it.”
“He wanted you,” Parker inserted.
“At first.” Bailey hesitated, struggling against the pain before it could tighten around her heart the way it once had. “Then he met Valerie. I don’t think he intended to fall in love with her.” Bailey had to believe that. She knew Paul had tried to hold on to his love for her, but in the end it was Valerie he chose. “I dropped out of college afterward,” she added, her voice low and trembling. “I couldn’t bear to be there, on campus, seeing the two of them together.” It sounded cowardly now. Her parents had been disappointed, but she’d continued her studies at a business college, graduating as a paralegal a year later.
“I should’ve known Paul wasn’t a hero,” she said, glancing up at Parker and risking a smile.
“How’s that?”
“He drank blush wine.”
Parker stared at her a moment without blinking. “I beg your pardon?”
“You prefer straight Scotch, right?”
“Yes.” Parker was staring at her. “How’d you know?”
“You also get your hair cut by a real barber and not a hairdresser.”
He nodded.
“You wear well-made conservative clothes and prefer socks with your shoes.”
“That’s all true,” Parker agreed, as though he’d missed the punch line in a joke. “But how’d you know?” he asked again.