Double Trouble (43 page)

Marcia stubbed out her smoke, then took a step closer. “I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I’d like to try to be sisters the way other people are sisters.”

“I’d like that, too.”

You knew we had to hug. It’s the only way to end a scene like this. Although actually, it ended with the caterers shouting for the elevator and Lydia appearing with them and the mirror ball finally getting into gear.

And when I looked around five minutes later, Marcia was gone.

* * *

The question was, where was James?

Beside the fact that he hadn’t called me, even though he must have known that Marcia wasn’t really coming back—for which I could seriously bite him—where was he
tonight
? The people just kept on coming, all the Ariadne’s and a bunch of tech connections and the Morelli’s and the neighbors and some artists who Antonia must have found under a rock from the looks of them.

Whatever. Put your contribution in the bar and let’s dance.

The joint was jumping and I was glad to have industrial grade floors. The mirror ball made it look like it was snowing in there, the booze was flowing and the cabs were already lining up outside. Nothing like a couple of hot tips to the cab company switchboards to have them sniffing for business. The caterers had laid an awesome buffet, complete with some primo sushi. A friend of Tracy’s was playing DJ, the music was good and there was serious acreage for the dance floor.

And there was absolutely no sign of the guest I most wanted to see. I trusted him, I reminded myself, and went to adjudicate a fridge allocation dispute between the barkeep and the caterer.

I felt warm fingers on my back and knew, just knew, whose they were.

“Dance?” James murmured beside my ear.

I glanced back and pretended not to recognize him. I also pretended to not be thrilled to the bejabbers to see him. “Do I know you? You look vaguely familiar.”

He grinned. “The disappearing man, at your service.”

I poked his shoulder. It was as hard as a rock. “So are you real, or an illusion?”

“Come dance and find out.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Convince me.”

He raised his fist to his chest as the music changed to a slow romantic piece. “You’re breaking my heart here. After I bribed the DJ and brought you a present, too.”

“There are gifts involved?” I let myself perk up. “Why didn’t you say so?”

James laughed, not fooled in the least, and it was heaven to dance with him. He was wearing his tux, no slouch, this boy, it was custom and very sexy. Mmm. There was that cologne too. I took a deep appreciative breath and settled closer. The small adults darted by, overwhelmed by party and people and food... but mostly by hardware. I was surprisingly cool about this, but then they were well behaved.

“No questions?” James asked, his lips wonderfully close to my ear. “I’m surprised.”

“I’m trusting you, Coxwell, and it’s just about killing me. Don’t push your luck.”

“Time for presents, then. Look in my pocket.”

I flicked a glance to his face, but he wasn’t telling. I kept one hand on his shoulder and he continued to lead me around the floor. One suit pocket crinkled, so I reached in. There was something stiff folded there.

I was, just for record, disappointed. “This is my present?”

“No. It’s the first exhibit for the defense in the case of the disappearing man, O’Reilly vs. Coxwell.”

I smiled and unfolded what was clearly an official document. “It’s your divorce decree.” I stared up at him in awe. “How did you do this? Mine took a year!”

“I have a few connections.” James winked.

“This is what you were doing.” I read the damn thing, incredulous and touched as I did the math.

“I wanted to start fresh, Maralys. We’ve spent a lot of time cleaning things out, now it’s time for us.”

Well, that was encouraging. I gave him a smile and let him see how much this meant to me. “Thank you.”

James smiled and his thumb slid across the bare back of my waist. “I know that you’re an old-fashioned woman deep down inside, Maralys. It’s another thing we have in common. I had to see this all resolved, so that everything is in the clear.”

I felt my cheeks heat. “Thank you.”

He clicked his tongue and shook his head. “It’s not your present, because you don’t get to keep it. Fold it up and put it back.” I did what I was told, then met the laughter in his eyes. “Now, check the other pocket.”

I reached in to his other pocket on the outside of his jacket and found nothing. James smiled and danced, content to wait. I unfastened the button and checked his inside breast pocket. “People will think I’m feeling you up.”

“Let them worry about it.”

My fingers closed around a box and I met his gaze.

James smiled in a decidedly Cheshire fashion. “What’s keeping you?” he teased.

I pulled it out and discovered that it looked a whole lot like an antique jewelry box. It was the size made for a ring.

“I thought you were curious,” James whispered when I hesitated.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I hoped like hell it wasn’t a diamond. It probably was and I was going to have to love it, just because it came from him. But I hate diamonds. They’re so pale and yes, so pedestrian.

I flipped open the lid, realized I was wrong, and didn’t mind a bit. Nestled in the worn velvet lining was a gold ring, almost the entire depth of my knuckle. It was serious chunk of gold, thick, its surface beaded in a three-dimensional pattern of two lions facing each other. There was a blood red ruby between the fronts of the lions, a smooth cabochon pebble that had to be worth a fortune.

The color of the stone made me uncertain of his intent. I looked up, just as James leaned closer. “Do you like it?” He was anxious as I’d never seen him anxious.

“It’s gorgeous. It must be old.”

“It was my grandmother’s. My mother’s mother. She wore it all the time and I loved it when I was a kid. It’s a Byzantine piece, though it’s been reworked so many times over the centuries that no one’s sure how much of it is original. I was always catching heck for wanting to play with it in the sunlight.”

I smiled. “Once a classics minor, always a classics minor.”

He nodded and smiled too. “Bred in the bone, I guess. Technically, it’s a dinner ring, but when my mom offered it to me, I had a different idea.” James took my left hand in his, then gave me an enquiring glance. It was a novelty to see him looking somewhat uncertain of himself. “I thought it would look good, right there.” He touched my ring finger gently. “You have elegant hands, Maralys, and the personal style to wear such a piece.”

I gave him a skeptical look. “So, you’re offering it to me as a fashion statement?”

James smiled, shook his head. “Will you marry me, Maralys?”

My breath caught. “Depends on why you’re asking.”

“I told you already. I love you.”

“Even though I said such an awful thing to you?”

James shook his head. “You were telling me that you were afraid, and why. If love disappeared when we touched the fault-lines, it wouldn’t be worth much, would it?”

I shook my head, so very glad James was saying what he was saying.

“I love you, Maralys, and I don’t intend to stop.” His voice dropped and turned husky. “Marry me.”

I nodded, then put out my hand. He slid on the ring—it did look damn good—then caught me close. I touched his chin and looked into all the myriad hues in his eyes. “Because I love you too, with or without the Byzantine queen rock. I love you, James, and I don’t intend to stop either.”

“Works for me.” James kissed me in a most thorough manner.

I only realized when the hooting started that not only had the music stopped but that every single person there was watching.

“Gawkers!” I shouted and they laughed, all my friends and family. I held James’ hand tightly as people gave us their congrats and I knew in my heart that he had called it right.

This was the good stuff.

And I had the brass ring—well, the gold one—to show for it.

----

Subject
: error code

Dear Aunt Mary:

What does Error Code 403 mean?

Lost in the world wide web

----

Subject
: re: error code

Dear Lost:

403 means access forbidden to the site, because there are too many users already logged on. The line’s busy, essentially. Go wander the ’net and come back later.

Or, if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.
:-)

Aunt Mary

***

Uncertain? Confused? Ask Aunt Mary!

Your one stop shop for netiquette and advice:

http://www.ask-aunt-mary.com

----

T
hings were pretty hectic after that, and I won’t kid you that it was easy going. I gave up half of the loft, leaving just my biz there and renting the spare chunk to Antonia, while James gave up the better part of the master bedroom closet. I walked into Art sometimes, but at least didn’t wake up there.

The summer was a blur of swimming on Tuesday and karate on Wednesday and Beverly’s AA meeting on Thursday and soccer all the damn time. James coached Jimmy’s team that year and they made the play-offs.

Yes, it’s true. By virtue of the blended family, I became a soccer mom. Yikes. You have to believe that I made a sufficiently compelling fashion statement that the other S.M.’s were compelled to lift their games. And woe to the ref who makes an unfair call against one of my boys. They flinch when they see me coming.

Insert diabolical laughter here. He he he.

I did have to retreat once in a while to the loft in the first couple of months, just to catch my breath. All that intimacy and inter-dependency was a bit overwhelming for the uninitiated. Some days I watched the boys head out into the big, bad world, and my fear of what could happen to them out there nearly took me to my knees.

The encouraging thing was that they all knew that I would come back—they trusted me, all three of them, go figure—and that was the most heartening gift of all. I knew they wouldn’t starve to death or pine away to nothing in my absence. On the other hand, I knew that I had something to contribute.

After all, there has to be one lone female voice howling in the testosterone-infested wilderness of that household. I howl but good, in selfless service to all of my gender.

You all owe me, btw. Payment and/or offerings at the altar of Maralys can be rendered in shoes. 9B, please, and no cheap espadrilles.

Jimmy gradually lost his attitude, just in time to head into those dreaded teenage years and get a new one. He’s discovered girls. Be still, my heart. I teach him some code stuff and let him help with the beta testing—he has a taste for fancy technology now and needs the bucks to pay for it. He’s planning to get a doctorate in physics to better get into space.

Johnny started showing an interest in animation. Krystal hooked him on Japanese Anime flicks and Antonia takes him to shows sometimes. He’s also a hardware junkie. Those nimble little fingers are almost unbelievable. I let him change my drives and upgrade my memory when it has to be done.

James took to the other side of the courtroom like a fish to water, yet he doesn’t work nutty hours. Sure, there are times when he has to work late, but I have those times too. The trick is to not have them at the same time. And to work remotely when you can. All this technology has to be good for something in the lifestyle department.

I’ve got James hooked on an organizer that even a Luddite can move from desktop to palm. I use the same system and wrote a jazzy little routine that update each other’s calendars automatically whenever we log online. It keeps us in sync. Let the computers do the grunt work is what I say.

My father rages anew at injustices, real and perceived, large and small. His hip has healed so I send him out at regular intervals to terrorize the neighbors. Mrs. Carducci next door evidently does not know how to properly grow dahlias, and yet remarkably has survived to the age of eighty-three, growing spectacular dahlias, both she and they unaware of her lack of knowledge. I didn’t think my father knew anything about dahlias either, but he sees fit to enlighten her from time to time. I think she agrees with me.

Our own garden, btw, looks like junk. Maybe next year.

Beverly comes by for dinner once in a while, her battle against the booze getting easier as it goes on. She’s warming up a bit, though is still tart enough to make you pucker. I like her. And I like James’ sister Philippa and her husband Nick. Philippa makes me laugh with her jokes about being pregs.

My sister sent enough postcards from weird and wonderful places to cover the fridge, then settled down in New Mexico just before the holidays. She’s working as a fashion consultant in some big store in Scottsdale and having too much fun telling people what goes with what. And she’s taken up skydiving, which the boys at least think is way cool.

James has put a ban on them visiting her for the short term. He jokes it’s until her sanity returns, but those parachutes definitely make him nervous. Just the ones that don’t open, of course.

My rhythms have adjusted slightly—though I’ll never be a morning person, I do go running with James every day. It’s a precious time out of time for us, the only time each day that we’re alone together and conscious. Sometimes we don’t talk about anything. Sometimes we give the magpies a run for their money.

See, I have to do something resembling a nine-to-five business day, or at least be available during one, since my business started perking along so well. That client from last year was so pleased that they gave me some great references, and you know how it goes.

My father makes breakfast while we run and I hang out with him for part of the morning after the “men” head out to school and work. Then I go to work and stay at the loft into the evening, doing the java jam.

And yes, the clan can feed themselves, if need be. Miracles abound if you know where to look for them. They don’t even live on pizza. Praise be and hallelujah for barbeques. All four of them can cook some slab of meat dead, nuke potatoes and steam some veg.