“No, nothing like that,” Sam said quickly before Meg reached over and grabbed her in an unsolicited bear hug. “I guess I’ve just been in…low spirits, that’s all.” As soon as the words were out, Sam realized her mistake. She’d given Meg the perfect opening to play mother hen.
And her stepmother did not hesitate to take the opportunity she’d been handed on a platter. “Oh, sweetie, what’s the matter?” With her stout arm she pushed the invoices to one side and the ledger paper to the other, clearing her desk as if preparing for a consultation with a client. The woman should have taken up psychology as a profession, the way she loved to listen to people’s woes and give advice. “Tell Meg all about it,” she crooned.
Sam sighed but she only shook her head. She wished she could share her dilemma with someone but she hadn’t told a soul, not even her mother, and she was not about to spill her guts to Meg. That was one sure way for a full and detailed report to get back to her father.
“So are you going to tell me or not?” Meg’s mouth was set in the beginning of a pout. She hated to be denied some juicy tidbit of information.
“Not.” Sam was not about to entertain her.
“Fine,” she said and settled back in her chair to stare over at Sam. She crossed her arms then gave a smug smile. “You don’t need to say a thing. I know exactly what your problem is.”
“Oh, really.” Sam rolled her eyes. Meg didn’t know a thing about her private life. She swiveled her chair and turned back to the computer screen. She might as well finish up her research on color palettes and then get out of there before her dad came back to the front office. He’d been known to gang up with Meg to try to influence her to do things against her will. Like talk. Well, not this time.
“It’s that man, isn’t it? That Jake McKoy fellow.”
Sam froze, her fingers hovering over the keyboard, then she turned to Meg. “How…” she bit her lip. She didn’t want to say anything to tip Meg off. Her stepmother could easily have guessed it had something to do with Jake. She’d known Sam had been out there several times for the decorating job but how had she known his name? She hadn’t written his full name on the work order, only J. McKoy. And then she remembered – his check. His signature had looked like chicken scratch but his name had been printed at the top, big and bold. Meg must have read his name from that.
Then Sam relaxed. What was she so uptight about? There was no way Meg could connect Jake to McKoy, the world renowned author. There was absolutely nothing to worry about.
Meg chuckled. “How, she asked. How did I know that your long face was because of him?” She tapped her temple with her finger. “Meg knows these things, Sam. You’re looking at a woman with a lot of experience in the world. And that’s how I know what your real problem is.” She paused as if to create suspense. Then, beaming with confidence, she said, “You really like the guy but he can’t make up his mind who he likes more – you or his dead wife.”
Sam almost fell out of her chair. How in the world had Meg guessed all that?
“Oh, don’t look so stricken.” Meg waved a hand at her. “It’s all over town that this eligible bachelor is living all by his lonesome self with a face so pale and drawn it can only mean he's grieving. He’s been into town a couple of times, the bank and such the like, and the old gossips say he never smiles.”
Well, so much for keeping things secret. Jake would be disappointed to know he was already the topic of conversation in town and those old girls were experts at digging up information. The FBI had nothing on them.
The only consolation was that they had no idea who he really was. Or did they? “What else did they say about him?” Sam narrowed her gaze as she watched Meg, trying to see if she was hiding anything.
Her stepmother shrugged. “That’s pretty much it. Just that he looks like he’s alone, it looks like he’s grieving, and he must be a widower. Oh, and one other thing.”
Sam’s heart jerked and she held her breath. That other thing – was that Jake’s greatest secret?
“They said they're working on a list of girls they're thinking of trotting out to introduce to him. They’re thinking of throwing some kind of barbecue at the park and inviting him.” Meg wagged a finger at Sam. “So if you have any designs on the man you’d better move fast, honey, 'cause if these old biddies have their way you’ll soon be in for a lot of competition. Get crackin’.”
Sam expelled her breath and Meg must have sensed her sadness because she rolled her chair forward and touched her hand. “I know, I know,” she whispered. “He’s resisting and it’s driving you crazy.”
Sam frowned. Had Meg been studying mind reading or something?
“I know people, Sam, and men? They're my specialty.” Meg patted her arm. “When a man is grieving it’s the hardest thing for him to talk about how he’s feeling. He’s got to be tough all the time.”
Sam nodded slowly. Meg was making sense. So far.
“The problem is, it makes things worse for him. With all that sadness bottled up inside he can’t heal. He can’t move on. I bet he hasn’t even said goodbye to his wife.”
“Said goodbye?” Sam was frowning again. Now this was where Meg’s line of reasoning began to break down. The man must have gone to his own wife’s funeral. Wouldn’t that have been enough of a goodbye?
“Sam, trust me on this,” Meg said. “If he’s still grieving that means he hasn’t really said goodbye. He may have been there when she was laid to rest but he never let go. Not really. There’s something holding him back. Isn’t there, Sam? You can tell me.”
“Why…yes, there is.”
Meg put up her hands. “I knew it. He feels guilty. Nine times out of ten that’s the reason they can’t let go. But let me tell you something,” she leaned forward as if sharing a dark secret, “if that man is ever going to love again he will have to say goodbye. And since he probably doesn’t know that, it’s going to fall on you to tell him.”