of his being wounded—he blamed his blabbermouth sisters—and had flown to Milwaukee to check up on him. Unmindful of the fact that her son was a full-grown, independent adult, Marie-Claire had landed on his doorstep with a suitcase full of pills, bandages, and ointments.
“Marguerite was so kind to me,” his mother said. “She even tried to speak French to me. She called me a croissant.”
“She called you a
croissant
?” Ben laughed. It sounded like something Mazie would say. “What did she mean?”
“Who knows?” Ben could picture his mother’s shrug. “She was very nervous. So eager to make a good impression, stumbling over words, but trying very hard.
Très charmante
.”
Charming
. It was the highest compliment his mother could give. Charm encompassed everything—concern for others, a sense of style, and some elusive quality that couldn’t be put into words but which his mother recognized when she saw it.
It was one of the few things Ben and his mother agreed on. Charm. Mazie had it.
The first time he’d laid eyes on Mazie Maguire had been at her murder trial. She’d been accused of murdering her husband, Kip Vonnerjohn, who was a major skirt-chaser and all-around tool who, as far as Ben was concerned, had deserved killing. Working for a cable news channel then, he’d covered the whole trial. He remembered the day the jury had pronounced herguilty. Pale and thin, Mazie had stood up to hear the verdict. She’d been wearing a blue dress that emphasized her beautiful blue eyes. Ben had been near the front of the courtroom, close enough to see that her hands were shaking. Yet she’d stood straight, shoulders back, chin up, as though facing a firing squad. Ben had felt something move inside his chest. A pang, an ache. The notion of love at first sight was ridiculous, an invention of poets—but in that moment he’d felt something that defied logic. Infatuation? Obsession?
Love?
The evidence against Mazie had been overwhelming, but Ben absolutely didn’t believe that she was capable of murder. He was certain she’d been unfairly convicted. There was nothing he could do about it, however. Four years had passed. He’d gotten on with his life and his career, but she’d always been there, in the back of his mind.
Then Mazie Maguire had broken out of prison and crashed back into his life, and since then nothing had been the same.
Chapter Nine
It rained for three days straight. Excellent moping weather. It fit Mazie’s mood to a T.
She felt Ben’s absence as a physical loss, as though part of her had been scooped out and she couldn’t take deep enough breaths. Her face felt frozen, and she felt it might crack if she attempted to smile. The rain clouds were redundant because it seemed as though every dumb decision she’d ever made, every stupid word she’d ever uttered, every embarrassing mistake she’d ever made had all glommed together into a smoglike cloud that enveloped her wherever she went. She didn’t feel like eating and actually lost a few unregretted pounds.
Mazie went to work, came home, halfheartedly threw together meals, and took Muffin for walks. Muffin didn’t mind walking in the rain. He would dash around trying to bite the raindrops—dumb dog—but he was small and short-legged, and halfway back home, his energy would flag and Mazie would end up carrying him back, slung over her shoulder, the smell of wet dog in her nostrils.
Sometimes, despite her best intentions, she found herself walking past Ben’s place. He lived in a second-floor walkup in back of the Oriental Theater only a few blocks from her own flat. He’d hidden her in that apartment when she’d escaped from prison. He’d helped her hunt down her husband’s murderer, even though doing so put him at risk of arrest himself. Outwitting the cops and eluding the bad guys—it had all been tremendously nerve-racking and exciting, a heady blend of adrenaline, nail-biting terror, and sexual chemistry, and she and
“Marguerite was so kind to me,” his mother said. “She even tried to speak French to me. She called me a croissant.”
“She called you a
croissant
?” Ben laughed. It sounded like something Mazie would say. “What did she mean?”
“Who knows?” Ben could picture his mother’s shrug. “She was very nervous. So eager to make a good impression, stumbling over words, but trying very hard.
Très charmante
.”
Charming
. It was the highest compliment his mother could give. Charm encompassed everything—concern for others, a sense of style, and some elusive quality that couldn’t be put into words but which his mother recognized when she saw it.
It was one of the few things Ben and his mother agreed on. Charm. Mazie had it.
The first time he’d laid eyes on Mazie Maguire had been at her murder trial. She’d been accused of murdering her husband, Kip Vonnerjohn, who was a major skirt-chaser and all-around tool who, as far as Ben was concerned, had deserved killing. Working for a cable news channel then, he’d covered the whole trial. He remembered the day the jury had pronounced herguilty. Pale and thin, Mazie had stood up to hear the verdict. She’d been wearing a blue dress that emphasized her beautiful blue eyes. Ben had been near the front of the courtroom, close enough to see that her hands were shaking. Yet she’d stood straight, shoulders back, chin up, as though facing a firing squad. Ben had felt something move inside his chest. A pang, an ache. The notion of love at first sight was ridiculous, an invention of poets—but in that moment he’d felt something that defied logic. Infatuation? Obsession?
Love?
The evidence against Mazie had been overwhelming, but Ben absolutely didn’t believe that she was capable of murder. He was certain she’d been unfairly convicted. There was nothing he could do about it, however. Four years had passed. He’d gotten on with his life and his career, but she’d always been there, in the back of his mind.
Then Mazie Maguire had broken out of prison and crashed back into his life, and since then nothing had been the same.
Chapter Nine
It rained for three days straight. Excellent moping weather. It fit Mazie’s mood to a T.
She felt Ben’s absence as a physical loss, as though part of her had been scooped out and she couldn’t take deep enough breaths. Her face felt frozen, and she felt it might crack if she attempted to smile. The rain clouds were redundant because it seemed as though every dumb decision she’d ever made, every stupid word she’d ever uttered, every embarrassing mistake she’d ever made had all glommed together into a smoglike cloud that enveloped her wherever she went. She didn’t feel like eating and actually lost a few unregretted pounds.
Mazie went to work, came home, halfheartedly threw together meals, and took Muffin for walks. Muffin didn’t mind walking in the rain. He would dash around trying to bite the raindrops—dumb dog—but he was small and short-legged, and halfway back home, his energy would flag and Mazie would end up carrying him back, slung over her shoulder, the smell of wet dog in her nostrils.
Sometimes, despite her best intentions, she found herself walking past Ben’s place. He lived in a second-floor walkup in back of the Oriental Theater only a few blocks from her own flat. He’d hidden her in that apartment when she’d escaped from prison. He’d helped her hunt down her husband’s murderer, even though doing so put him at risk of arrest himself. Outwitting the cops and eluding the bad guys—it had all been tremendously nerve-racking and exciting, a heady blend of adrenaline, nail-biting terror, and sexual chemistry, and she and
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