The Maine Man

By Ellen James

By the Year 2000: MARRIAGE

What have you resolved to do by the year 2000?

Ten years ago in their wild college days Meg Danley and her two best friends made a vow that they'd all be married and settled by the time the millennium rolled around.

Meg is settled. She has everything she needs: a great apartment, an exciting career. Or so she thinks until her friends arrive on her doorstep determined to fulfil the vow. A serious manhunt is what they're proposing. Then they spot Jack Elliot the attractive single man who's come to visit his mother and declare him perfect for Meg.

Even the fact that Jack plans to return to his life in Maine doesn't discourage them. And suddenly Meg's no longer arguing. Suddenly a wedding by 2000 with Jack as the bridegroom is a definite possibility.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781460859872

Ellen James

Ellen James has always relished a story about true love, and she was very fortunate to find her one and only true love when she moved to New Mexico several years ago. However, inexplicably cold feet almost prevented her from walking down the aisle. She balked at her wedding date not once, but twice, causing her future mother-in-law to throw up her hands in despair. Fortunately Ellen did muster up the courage to take her vows, and has been fabulously happy ever since. With her husband, Ellen shares a passion for history and the outdoors. The two of them can usually be found poking around ghost towns, as well as camping and hiking in the gorgeous mountains of the southwestern United States. And, of course, Ellen is also busy pursuing her dream career-writing Harlequin romances.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

THE MAN WAS TROUBLE.

Meg Danley arrived at this conclusion based on two facts. First, he had trespassed into her garden without so much as a by-your-leave. Second, he was far too attractive, with dark unruly hair, resolute features and a strong build evident in jeans and cambric shirt. In Meg’s experience, men who were too good-looking were always trouble. Arrogant, overbearing heartbreakers.

This man, however, seemed unaware of her critical perusal. Absorbed in his own thoughts, he knelt among the bearded iris. He held a spade, and he looked as if he was about to use it.

Excuse me, Meg said, but you must be in the wrong bed. She felt rather foolish as soon as the words were out. The man glanced up at her. He didn’t seem particularly surprised at the interruption. He didn’t seem particularly concerned, either. His gaze traveled over her.

"Wrong bed?"

You know what I mean, Meg said sternly. "You’re in my flower bed. Well, it’s not technically my flower bed. It belongs to Mrs. Elliott, but I’m tending it for her." Meg stepped forward on the rooftop. Her apartment was only on the seventh floor of this charming old New York high-rise, which meant she didn’t have gardening privileges in her own right. You had to reside in one of the exclusive penthouse suites in order to claim a portion of the rooftop garden. Sixty-three-year-old Helen Elliott was one such resident. However, as Helen was now laid up with a broken ankle, Meg had taken over gardening duties for her. -

The man’s gaze traveled over Meg once again. You must be the Meg who’s given up dating. I didn’t expect you to be so damn pretty.

Meg flushed, the blood tingling in her cheeks. How on earth—

The man grinned unapologetically. My mother talks about you all the time.

Oh. Meg paused. You’re Helen’s son... you’re Jack Elliott?

That’s me. He straightened. He was even taller and better built than she’d first realized. His eyes glimmered with amusement as he shook her hand. He was trouble, all right. Good-looking... selfassured to the point of cockiness... trouble.

What else has your mother told you about me? she asked dryly.

He put on a serious expression. Let’s see. She says you like caramel corn and old movies, you love your job so much you practically live at the hotel you manage...and you’ve given up dating. It’s the no-dating rule that sticks in the mind most—particularly since you’re so damn pretty.

She could feel her face tingling again, but she managed to remain deadpan. I certainly hope you haven’t lost any sleep over it—my not dating, and all.

He gave her yet another slow and appreciative appraisal. Then he shrugged his shoulders reluctantly. Matter of fact, he said, "I haven’t been sleeping all that well lately, but that’s another story entirely."

Meg nodded. Right. You’ve been working too hard with that construction firm of yours, and you won’t listen when the doctor tells you that you’re headed for an ulcer. But you know what I think the real problem is? Your girlfriend. Kendra, isn’t that her name? From what I hear, she’s a real handful. Your mom talks about you all the time, too.

He rewarded her with a sour glance. Ex-girlfriend, you mean. I suppose you know all about how she dumped me, right after telling me I was too old.

Meg couldn’t help being interested. Actually, your mother didn’t get that far. No kidding—Kendra said you were too old?

Another sour glance. Said I was over the hill.

Over the hill...not likely. What Meg saw was a man utterly in his prime.

Maybe Kendra’s too young, Meg suggested. Maybe that’s the problem right there.

Kendra’s thirty, he grumbled. She’s thirty. I’m thirty-nine. Never thought nine years qualified as a generation gap...until now.

You know what they say about age—it’s just a matter of perspective. Meg was beginning to enjoy the pleasant surroundings: the sky tinged pink from the rising sun, the flower and vegetable beds stretching across the roof, showing the vibrant greenery of spring. But then her gaze came back to Jack Elliott, and she made the mistake of looking into his eyes a bit too long. Blue eyes, a deep, intense blue...

Anyway, Meg said hastily, how’s your mom doing this morning?

Complaining, as usual, but not about her health. She thinks I should be married already and settled down. Wonders when she’s going to have a grandchild. The usual.

That sounded like Helen Elliott. A week ago she’d fallen and broken her ankle, and she’d been miserable ever since. The way Meg understood it, Jack Elliott, though he lived in Maine, had immediately arranged for his mother to have around-the-clock nursing care. The only problem was that Helen despised the idea of being nursed.

Helen says she tried to convince you not to come to New York, Meg said. All this fuss and bother over such a little thing, she calls it. I gather she doesn’t like you to see her in anything but perfect health.

that and she doesn’t want me to see how she’s driving the nurses up the wall. One of them already quit.

Meg took her own spade and knelt down to start digging in the soil. Well, Jack, hope you have a good visit in spite of all the chaos, she said, giving him a perfect opportunity to make an exit. She’d looked forward to some solitude before work, and this early in the morning there was usually no one else around. She hadn’t expected to run into anyone—particularly not someone like Jack Elliott, a man so handsome he was in danger of stealing a girl’s breath away.

Jack didn’t leave. Instead, he sat down on the edge of a brick planter and studied her all over again.

You really take this gardening stuff seriously, don’t you? he asked, the amusement back in his voice.

Very well, maybe she had overdone the gardening supplies. She’d brought along a basket that held her work gloves, her bedding fork, her seedling pots and a small bag of peat moss. For good measure, she also wore a gardener’s apron, its myriad pockets filled with seed packets, clippers, pruning shears, a weed puller and her lucky trowel.

I used to garden a lot back home, she said defensively. It’s something I’ve missed since moving to New York, and now it’s generous of your mother to let me have a go at it. She could have brought in a professional gardener instead.

Seems you’re the one helping her out, Jack said, and now he sounded a bit gruff. She’s told me about all the errands you’ve been running for her.

I like your mother, Meg said.

You just wish she didn’t talk so much about you.

Something like that. Meg had a suspicion he was going to bring up her no-dating rule again, so she quickly changed the conversation. If you want to garden, she said, don’t let me stop you.

We can share, he suggested. I only have a small amount of patience for this kind of thing—stands to reason I only need a small patch of dirt. He made gardening sound like an unavoidable annoyance.

Why do it at all, Meg asked, if you don’t enjoy it?

He frowned a little. Turns out I’m supposed to take up relaxing activities like gardening.

Of course, she said. "Doctor’s advice. The ulcer and all...bet you wish your mother didn’t talk so much about you."

Something like that.

She gestured with her spade. You know, I was thinking of putting some dianthus right about there. You might want to give your input, seeing as you’ve taken up gardening.

I’m already thinking about giving it up, he said. Plants don’t seem to inspire me.

Gardening does soothe the soul, she reminded him.

I’ll let you do it for now. What’s life without an ulcer?

Don’t ask me, she said.

Happy gardening, Meg. He went off across the rooftop, walking with a forceful, confident stride—certainly not the gait of a man willing to relax. Maybe you didn’t get to own one of the most prominent construction firms in Maine by relaxing. He disappeared through the door that led down to the penthouse suites, and Meg finally had her solitude. She surveyed the tulip beds, the rosebushes, the borders of yellow broom, Scotch flower and periwinkle.

She had to admit one thing. Welcoming as this rooftop garden was, it seemed a lot less lively without Jack Elliott around...all-too-gorgeous Jack Elliott.

NEW YORK, MEG, is just swimming in men.

Yes, Meg. This city is absolutely swimming in guys. And we’re here to take the plunge.

Meg settled deeper into her comfortable wing chair, feet tucked underneath her. She studied her two best friends in the entire world, and then she gave a groan of mock despair. Gee, she said, here I thought you’d come all the way from Oklahoma just to visit me and catch up on old times. But now you’re talking men.

Really, Meg, think about it, said best friend number one, Lena Patterson. Lena was as chic and distinctive as ever—the severity of her black miniskirt and shell top relieved by a necklace of bright fuchsia beads. She wore her red hair in yet another new style—a dramatic bob. Stretched out on the sofa, she gestured toward the window as if to include the entire city. According to the guidebook, there are approximately seven million, three hundred thousand people in New York. Say about half of those are men. And say at least half of those are single. If we assume half of those are eligible, and half of those good-looking...even if only half again are successful... let’s see, that’s still about two hundred and fifty thousand men. A quarter of a million rich, eligible hunks!

You always were good at math, Meg remarked.

If the phone rings, said best friend number two, Kathy Tyler, "and if it happens to be Gary begging me to come home—please tell him I’m not here. Please tell him I’m off having a wonderful time with some of those rich, eligible hunks." Kathy sat curled in an armchair beside the phone, and she stared at it as if willing it to ring. Despite her words, Meg saw the sadness in her eyes.

Oh, honey, Meg said. Is it bad?

Bad enough, Kathy replied tightly. She bent her head, and her long blond hair swung in front of her face. This evening she wore one of the vintage-style dresses she favored—fitted waist, flowing skirt in a soft shade of cameo rose—and it only seemed to add to her air of melancholy. I’ve finally figured out that Gary doesn’t love me, she said in a low voice. Maybe he never really did.

Gary, said Lena, examining the fuchsia polish on her toenails, is one of those guys who’s just never gonna propose.

"I proposed to him," Kathy muttered in a tone of disgust. "And what good did it do me? I mean, we’ve only been dating ten years. I’m sure he needs at least another decade or two to even get used to the idea of marriage. He is such a coward when it comes to commitment!"

Honestly, Meg, said Lena. If Gary calls, don’t you dare let Kathy talk to him. He’ll manage to convince her their relationship is going somewhere, after all. If we don’t watch it, she’ll end up on the first flight out of here.

I have more fortitude than that, Kathy objected. This time he’s not going to convince me of anything.

Sure, said Lena. Meg, how many times have we heard this before?

Meg didn’t answer. She just smiled and took a sip of her wine. This felt so much like the old days, when the three of them had sprawled about their college dorm room, talking and arguing and generally being friends. She’d missed all that more than she’d realized.

Meg’s tabby cat, Daisy, jumped into her lap and settled down for a good purr. A few years ago, Meg had found Daisy as a stray kitten in front of the hotel where she worked. Now, a warm cat in her lap, a glass of fine wine in her hand, her two best friends visiting from out of town... Meg couldn’t think of anything that would make her happier.

No more waiting around for Gary, Kathy said in a determined voice. She lifted her head, pushing her hair away from her face with an impatient gesture. Both Lena and I agree. We’ve been drifting far too long when it comes to romance—and that goes for you, too, Meg. It’s time to have something definite happen. Something permanent.

Besides, said Lena, don’t you remember the vow we made?

What vow? Meg asked.

You remember, Kathy told her. It was almost exactly ten years ago. Graduation night. We promised we’d all be married by the year 2000.

Oh, that, Meg said.

Meg, Lena said urgently. The year 1999 is ticking by even as we speak. Two thousand is right around the corner. And not one of us—I repeat, not one of us—is married yet.

Goodness, said Meg, to think we’re actually in our early thirties and not a husband among us. Time is certainly running out. We’d better nab some guys before it’s way too late.

You always do that, Kathy protested. "Whenever the subject of romance comes up, you get snide. Are you afraid to admit that maybe you’re lonely? I mean, heck, I’m not afraid to admit I’ve wasted way too much time on Gary. And Lena’s not afraid to admit she goes through boyfriends like so many tissues."

I don’t believe I phrased it quite that way, Lena remarked.

If I recall, said Kathy, you fully admitted your inability to commit. You said that as soon as you settle on one man, you start thinking about all the others you’re missing out on. It’s like you’re at a restaurant, and your plate’s already full, but you can’t take your eyes off the dessert cart as it rolls by—

Okay, Lena cut in. Enough already. We get the picture. The point is, none of us is getting any younger.

What is this obsession with age? Meg complained. Only this morning I met a man who thinks he’s over the hill because he’s all of thirty-nine.

A man? Lena asked, immediately alert. What man?

Meg could tell she’d made a mistake bringing it up. Just a man, she said.

Meg, said Lea, there’s something about your voice that says this isn’t ‘just a man.’ So, fess up. Who is he? What’s he like? What’s he do?

I’ll be sure to get you his dossier, Meg promised. But for now, can we just drop it?

If you don’t want to talk about him, said Kathy, he must be somebody special.

Meg gave another groan. I’d forgotten how relentless the two of you can be. Listen, this is a man I barely met. I’m not really interested in getting to know him better.

In that case, said Lena, how about passing him around?

For crying out loud, Meg objected, he’s not a plate of hors d’oeuvres. Forget about it, already. Besides, he’s too good-looking.

Lena shook her head. What a terrible crime. Let’s throw him in jail this instant.

I’ve had it with good-looking men, Meg said. You know about the last one I dated.

Right, right, said Lena. The blond, bronzed guy who looked like he’d just climbed down from Mount Olympus. Isn’t that how you described him?

Something to that effect, Meg admitted. But that’s my whole point—he was too damn good-looking. Thought he owned the world, me included.

It’s amazing, isn’t it, Kathy? Meg manages to go out with these incredibly stunning men, but somehow she ends up finding fault with every single one of them. I mean, every time a guy seems promising in the least, she backs off. She starts spending more and more time at work. She acts like managing that hotel is a sacred trust, and no man can possibly be allowed to interfere.

For your information, Meg said, all the men I’ve gone out with are hopeless. So these days I’m not dating, period. Cradling the cat in her arms, she stood and went to the window. Despite the shadows of dusk, she could see the trees flourishing in Central Park. Meg could never take in this view without marveling at her good fortune. An apartment on the Upper West Side, a career she loved. So what if she did have the occasional twinge of loneliness?

I’m happy, she said with conviction. I have everything I want. A man doesn’t have to be part of the equation.

Don’t you ever wonder, asked Lena, why every relationship you have ends up going nowhere?

Speak for yourself, Meg said as she set Daisy on the sill.

We’re talking about you, Lena said. You know what your problem is, Meg? Deep down you’re scared to death you’ll end up like your parents.

Meg rapped her knuckles against the window frame. Knock on wood, she said lightly, but Lena’s words had hit too close to the truth. Just the thought of her parents’ marriage still oppressed Meg. Her mother’s quiet yet bitter frustrations, her father’s stubborn refusal to acknowledge that anything was wrong. Growing up, Meg had looked for any escape from the tension. She’d tagged along after her two older brothers whenever possible. And she’d ended up spending more time at Kathy’s or Lena’s house than her own home. The divorce, in Meg’s junior year of high school, had come almost as a relief.

Now Kathy joined Meg at the window, linking arms with her. Look at it this way. I’ve invested too much in one man, Lena’s invested in too many guys, and you find fault before you’ve hardly invested at all. The three of us are equally pathetic.

This is supposed to cheer her up? Lena asked. She slid off the sofa and came to link arms on Meg’s other side. The point is, we can change. We don’t have to stay the same. A fresh start—that’s what we need.

Lena had always been a big believer in fresh starts. That was one of the things Meg liked most about her—her ebullience, her perpetual faith in new beginnings. On the other hand, one of the things she’d always liked most about Kathy was her steadiness, her desire that all things should endure. For Meg, the only problem with moving to New York had been leaving her friends behind. The three of them had grown up together in the small, picturesque town of Guthrie—just a spit away from Oklahoma City, as Lena liked to say. They’d gone to college together, too, at the University of Oklahoma. It was only after college that Meg’s intense focus on a career had taken her away from the friends she’d always counted on. Phone calls, letters and infrequent visits simply hadn’t done the job. Undeniably, she’d missed Kathy and Lena.

But, once again, her two best friends destroyed her nostalgic mood.

Kathy and I have decided we’re going to fulfill that vow, Lena said. We’re going to be married by the year 2000. And since Oklahoma hasn’t done the trick for us, we’re giving New York a shot.

We’re staying, Kathy agreed, until it’s a done deal.

Meg was starting to feel uneasy. You can’t be serious about this. You’re only here on vacation.

Extended vacation, Lena amended. "We’ve arranged everything so we can stay as