Page 7

Sundays were sacrosanct or at least her routine was.

It was the one day she had to unwind and relax -- which meant no work at all, except dealing with her gardening.

She would attend early morning services at the local Baptist church to refuel her spirituality.

She had been going to the chapel ever since she moved into the neighborhood and had invited Yvette once or twice.

Her friend was not exactly religious and would accompany her under duress.

Maxie had learned the error of her ways when her friend would sit on the padded seat and criticize everything, from the way the members were dressed down to the faded runner in the middle of the aisle.

And then she would tackle the sermon, declaring that the pastor was bigoted and narrow-minded.

So, she was enjoying her Sundays alone, something she much preferred.

It was much too cold to do any kind of gardening, and the weather forecast predicted rain.

After taking Brutus out for his usual run which had taken twenty minutes, she fed the dog and went upstairs to indulge in a long hot shower.

Deciding on a tropical theme -- it might be because of the restaurant she had been to last night, she suspected.

Digging around for the mango and coconut blend she had bought a few months ago, she poured liberally, stepping into the foaming water and sighing as it swirled around her, seeping into her skin.

Leaning her head against the padding, she allowed her mind to drift.

The date had not been so bad. Matthew was witty and sweet.

He had taken her home and simply kissed her hand, which she considered kind of old-fashioned.

He had not pressed her to come inside. She had been grateful for the fact that she did not have to disappoint him.

He had, however, requested a second date. And she had said yes.

Picking up her glass, she took a sip of the chilled Chardonnay thoughtfully.

There was no flame, no heat, no lightning from the sky with him.

She had been comfortable -- kind of like putting on a pair of old shoes.

But that's fine, she thought firmly. It's okay that she had never felt anything like that since. ..

Shaking her head, she refused to go there. Nothing was wrong with comfortable. She had experienced intensity -- impossible heat -- electrifying passion and it had almost destroyed her. Now, she was old enough to realize that was not a requirement.

She liked Matthew -- he was not a pusher, but a plodder and there was absolutely nothing wrong with that.

Setting the glass down, she picked up the sponge and ran it over her neck and arms. Yvette was right, she had to get back out there and move away from the damn past.

The rain began to patter softly against the bathroom window, a soothing rhythm that matched the calm she was trying to cultivate. Emerging from the shower, wrapped in a plush towel, she drifted into her bedroom where Brutus lay sprawled lazily on the rug, his eyes half-closed in contentment.

She ran a brush through her damp hair, staring at her reflection in the vanity mirror.

The face that looked back at her was familiar, but there was something different in her eyes -- a quiet determination, perhaps, or maybe just a willingness to let go.

She thought of Matthew again, his gentle smile as he had held the door open for her, his laughter over the shared dessert. It wasn't fire, but it was something.

Pulling on her favorite oversized sweater and a pair of leggings, she padded downstairs to the kitchen.

The house was quiet except for the occasional crackle of the heating system and the whisper of rain against the panes.

She poured herself another glass of Chardonnay and opened the book she'd been meaning to finish for weeks.

Yet, as the words blurred on the page, her mind wandered. What did she want? Was it truly enough to settle for comfort, for companionship without that spark of madness? Or was she clinging to an ideal that had already proven itself unsustainable?

Shaking her head, she put the book away and decided to get something to eat.

She might call up Yvette and see what she was doing.

Part of her usual routine would have been to go for dinner with her parents, but at this time of the year, they were traveling.

Deciding on a grilled cheese sandwich to go with her wine, she set about gathering the ingredients.

There were a million things he should be doing.

A trip to his club for one -- dinner with his mother or working on the piles of contracts on his desk at home.

Or making love to a completely willing woman.

But he had to admit it even to himself. Ever since he had seen her again, his soul was restless. He could not get her out of his mind.

He had to see her again. To talk-- explain -- explain what?

That he had left without saying goodbye, because he had been thinking of other things?

He had a feeling that was not going to swing it.

He sat in the car a few feet away from her gate.

The rain was coming down hard, which was a sign that he should head back to his place.

She would not welcome him with open arms; of that he was positive.

She would more or less be likely to boot him off her porch.

He liked the look of her place. It was a simple, yet lovely two-story structure with a generous amount of yard space.

Her garden was impressive, if soggy by the amount of water beating on the flower beds.

There was a shed a few feet from the main house and other than the leaves under the various trees, the place was as neat as a pin. Typical Maxie, he thought whimsically.

Funny, that they had spent almost a year together and he could recollect with sharp clarity her habits.

It bothered him that he had been with other women, too many to count and some of them he could not remember names.

With Maxie, he recalled every single detail of their time together.

Her fondness for mint chocolate chip ice cream.

Her focus whenever she was reading a book.

Her love for drawing and her determination to do something about it.

The way she tasted, moved and felt under him. He stirred on the seat, feeling the heat spearing him.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, the rhythmic drumming of the rain on his windshield both soothing and maddening in the quiet of the night.

Every second that passed seemed to weigh heavier on his chest, as though the air itself was conspiring against him.

Finally, with a low growl of frustration, he grabbed his umbrella from the passenger seat and stepped out into the downpour.

The rain was cold, sharp, and relentless, soaking through his shoes within moments.

He stood at her gate, hesitating, his heart pounding like it hadn't done in years.

If she slammed the door in his face, so be it.

At least he would have tried. But the thought of seeing that look in her eyes--a mix of hurt and disappointment--made him falter.

Would his reason for leaving ever be enough?

Maxie had just finished her grilled cheese, the satisfying mix of crunch and melted cheese making her feel a little less adrift.

The wine had taken some of the edge off her restlessness, but even as she rinsed the plate and wiped her hands, she couldn't shake the sense of anticipation that prickled under her skin.

Maybe it was the storm outside, the way the wind seemed to whisper secrets to the trees, or maybe it was just the wine messing with her head.

She was padding back toward the living room when the knock came.

It was hesitant, almost drowned out by the rain, but unmistakable.

Her brow furrowed, and she glanced toward the clock--it was late for visitors.

Brutus lifted his head from his spot on the rug, his tail thumping once in lazy acknowledgment.

Wrapping her sweater tighter around herself, she approached the door. Through the peephole, all she could see was a figure, barely distinguishable through the rain-smeared glass. Her stomach tightened. Something told her she already knew who it was.

When she opened the door, the sight of him standing there, rain-soaked and shivering slightly, sent a jolt through her.

For a moment, neither spoke. She crossed her arms, her expression unreadable as she took him in--the same strong jawline, the same piercing eyes that had once unraveled her with a single glance.

"What are you doing here?" she finally asked, her voice steady but edged with a wary undertone.

He hesitated, his umbrella hanging limply at his side, water dripping from his hair. "I--I needed to see you," he admitted, his voice softer than she remembered, almost vulnerable.

The rain continued to fall around them, a curtain of sound that seemed to block out the rest of the world. Maxie considered him for a long moment, her grip tightening on the doorframe. "You've got five minutes," she said, stepping aside to let him in.

He crossed the threshold, feeling her eyes on him, measuring, deciding. She didn't offer to take his overcoat, which he considered to be a bad sign. Shrugging it off, he hooked it on the coat tree and placed his dripping umbrella next to it. She was still standing by the door, another bad sign.

"Nice place."

"Thanks." Her voice was unyielding, and her arms folded at her chest. "What do you want?"

"A drink would be nice." His dark eyes were boring into hers with the usual intensity that was making her uncomfortable.

"I don't want you in my home. Say what you have to say and get out."

Tamping down the spurt of anger, he reminded himself that she was entitled to speak to him like that. No one ever dared before.