Some Like It Perfect (A Temporary Engagement) (26 page)

She smiled, shaking her head. “The country would not survive.”

He sat on the bed, falling backwards with her on top, and he groaned. “Let’s go home. I’m not sure my back would recover from an afternoon on this bed.”

“You exaggerate.”

He wasn’t. The floor might be softer than this bed.

She crawled off him and he groaned again. “Delia.”

“Let’s go home. You’re too old for this bed.”

Jack closed his eyes and sighed, his chest loosening. “Let’s sublet this place, just like Gus– Summer suggested.” That way if Delia disappeared again, he would know where she was. And he would have a key and wouldn’t be locked out like today.

He opened his eyes to find her smiling down at him. She whispered, “Do you know what I like the most about you?”

And if he hadn’t already been sure she was still drunk, that would have proved it. He shook his head, and she lay down next to him, putting her head on his chest.

She said, “How much you love your sister. A man who loves his sister will love his woman.”

He squeezed her and she murmured, “God, this bed is hard.”

He smiled, cradling her against his chest. She slept, the sleep of an emotionally exhausted, drunk woman who was safe now. Safe and secure.

And yes, loved.

Jack’s mother returned from Oklahoma a week later. She’d stayed for the New Year and had come back when Summer’s school had started.

Jack picked her up from the airport. She’d sniffed when he asked her how Oklahoma was and said, “It’s windy.”

Luckily, Summer had called a few times telling him more than that or he would have been forced to fly out there to see for himself.

Catherine said, “I had suspected there was nothing in Oklahoma and now I am convinced. I expect Augusta Summer will come back to Boston, to us, eventually.”

Jack glanced at her and she caught his gaze. “My daughter has been Augusta since the day she was born. It will take me a little while to think of her as something else.”

“She appreciates you trying.”

“Does she?”

He nodded, merging onto the highway, and Catherine said, “And that’s why she rolls her eyes at me?”

He chuckled. “The eye roll is much easier to take over the phone, I’ve noticed.”

“And the long put-upon sigh?”

“Perhaps she’ll grow out of it. Perhaps we’ll become fond of it with a little distance.”

“Perhaps Oklahoma will blow it out of her. There must be something to the place; people do live there. They were quite cheerful.”

Jack thought it would be best if his mother never went back there.

He said, “She’ll come back to us. For the summer at least.”

“And you don’t think that is confusing? Summer will be home for the summer.”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s confusing. She doesn’t want to be Augusta, she wants to be Summer.”

Catherine murmured, “She wants to be happy. Why can’t she be happy as Augusta?”

Jack knew why. Augusta was a name filled with expectations. He’d lived his life under a mountain of expectations and now could see that it didn’t have to be that way. He was happy that his sister had found a way to climb out from under them, even if it meant she had to change her name. And move to Oklahoma.

His mother would never understand any of that, though, so he only said, “Summer has to be better than Gus.”

Catherine sighed. “Yes. It is better than Gus. And I suppose it is the price of motherhood to have one’s children hate what one has given them.”

He didn’t say anything to that and she said, “When, if, you have children, you’ll see. They love you and need you and cling to you, and then, when they finally get interesting, when they finally have something to say that doesn’t involve a toy, they leave you for a godforsaken prairie. They call you because it’s a duty, because they used to love you. Because they used to need you.”

And if Jack had been an eighteen-year-old girl, he would have rolled his eyes at his mother’s backhanded way of reminding him he’d forgotten to call her Sunday evening.

He said, “I apologize for missing our call. Something came up, but I should have at least sent you a text.”

“I was worried. Was it the painter?”

It had been the painter. They’d lain the day away in bed, talking and laughing and loving. They’d tried to make spaghetti for dinner and had failed miserably. Jack had gotten distracted when Delia had hopped up on the kitchen counter in one of his shirts and her skimpy underwear.

He’d forgotten all about calling his mother.

He said, “No. I tried to make dinner and the resulting mess occupied my attention.”

“You tried to make dinner?” She shook her head. “I’m sure the painter is a wonderful person. I don’t like her for you.”

“Let me guess. You’ve been talking to Diane.”

Cold silence greeted him and he turned to her in shock.

Anger burned in her eyes and she said, “Did you know?”

He whipped his head forward before he rear-ended the car in front of him and asked, still surprised, “How long have 
you
 known?”

“Augusta Summer told me when she said she was leaving. She told me that you would never want Diane. And she told me why.”

“I’m sorry, Mother.”

And that’s all he could say. He was sorry it was the truth. He was sorry she knew; he was sorry she hadn’t known sooner.

She said to the window, “And what do you know of loss? What do you know of losing a husband, twice?”

He said quietly, “I lost a father. I lost a mother when I needed her most. I lost a mother, twice.”

She sighed. “You didn’t lose me. I’ve been here. Perhaps not how you wanted me, not how you needed me. It is unfortunate that we can’t always be what someone else needs, even when that someone is your child.”

It was unfortunate. She hadn’t been what they’d needed, and Jack didn’t know if she hadn’t wanted to or simply couldn’t. And now, like she’d said, they didn’t need her.

He said, “Do you know what I want for you, Mother? To be happy. Right now, in this moment.”

She closed her eyes. “Why does everyone want so much to be happy? I’ve been happy. It doesn’t last. Happy gets taken from you by an icy road. Happy gets taken from you by a sweaty frat girl. Happy gets taken from you by a prairie. Happy gets taken from you by a painter.”

Jack took her hand, squeezing it. “I’m still here. No one has taken me from you.”

“You don’t think so? You’re forty years old, Jack. And for the first time in your life, I didn’t see or hear from you on a Sunday evening.”

“And I’ve told you, you can’t blame Delia for that.”

“I can and I do. You’ve changed, Jack, and I know it’s because of her.”

He had changed. He couldn’t argue with it. And he knew it was because of Delia, too. Knew it and was grateful for it.

Catherine said, “I’m only glad you aren’t really engaged.”

Jack remembered Delia’s voice, muffled through the door, telling him she wanted more of him than she could have. Him telling her she could have as much as she wanted.

She could have all of him. She already did.

How did one propose to a woman like Delia? Engagement ring in the bottom of a paint can?

He said, “The engagement announcement was premature. Now, it’s not.”

Catherine sucked in a breath. “Can’t you just. . .” She waved her hand in the air. “Get her a little apartment. I don’t know why it has to be marriage.”

“I’ve swept up the pieces for you, given nearly twenty years of my life to you. You’re my mother and I love you. But this I won’t give to you.”

“You want the painter that much?”

“Her name is Delia.”

“Why? Why her?”

“Because she makes me happy.” Because she laughed at him and he could laugh with her. Because when she was near, he couldn’t not smile.

Because she filled his empty place. And the cold and the bleak and the lifeless stood no chance against her.

He wouldn’t ever let her go. He wouldn’t let anything take her from him. Not an icy road, not a sweaty frat boy. Not a prairie, or even a painter.

Catherine said, “Happy.”

Jack said, “I didn’t know I needed to be happy until I met her.”

She pinched her lips and Jack said, “And I need something from you, Mother.”

She turned in her seat to look at him.

“For you to accept that I’ve chosen the woman who is right for me. I see how we can fit together. And I like it.”

Her chin tipped up slightly. “You want me to accept that the painter will make you a good wife.”

“That is what I need.”

He pulled off the highway, stopping at a red light, and looked at his mother. Looked at the woman who had lost her happy time after time, leaving him to take care of her responsibilities.

She could give him what he needed this one time.

Catherine Lowell Cabot Bradlee nodded and said, “Then I will give my son the thing he needs most.” She turned her head forward again, poised in her seat. “I’ll expect her for Sunday dinner.”

He and Delia hadn’t spoken again about Diane and her bid for first lady.

They’d gone back to laughing and loving and letting the fire have its fun. But Jack knew, Delia was waiting. Waiting for it to be over. She was living in the moment, refusing to look at a future with him.

And he was done living like that. It was time to get what he wanted.

He had spent the morning preparing, taking Delia out early for a three-dollar coffee to get her out of the condo, giving Ms. Charles time to organize.

He’d spent the rest of the morning in “meetings”. His arm was killing him but he’d known he’d needed something to give Delia, something that would last. Something wild and crazy to get her to see what he saw.

Because he saw them forever. Not just for now.

And he would fight dirty if he had to. No one ever said no to him.

Except Delia.

She climbed into the convertible, asking where they were going for lunch and raising her eyebrows when he said they were going back home.

“You know if we go home, we’ll never get back to work.”

“That is my plan.”

She closed her eyes, smiling and leaning her head against the headrest, letting her hair whip around her face.

It had been silly to buy a convertible at the end of autumn. He would guess most people waited for summer.

But neither of them seemed to care. The heater worked even with the top down.

They rode the elevator, his arm around her waist, and he said, “You have paint in your hair. Again.”

He hated it. He hated any of her wild hair covered, tamed with beige paint.

She whispered, “It’s ochre.”

He looked down at her in surprise and she said, “You had that look on your face. That ‘I hate beige’ look.”

“I do hate beige.”

“I know. But this is ochre.”

He kissed her, his heart trying to come out his throat. They were right, they fit. He would make her see that.

He opened the door to their home and said, “I thought about taking you to Maine but decided this would be better.”

“Better for what?”

He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and she laughed. “You’re right, this is better. It’s closer.”

He yanked one sleeve down and ripped off the bandage to show a freshly scrawled tattoo on his upper arm. He said, “Better for asking you to marry me.”

Her mouth fell open and she stared at her name inked into his skin.

She looked up into his eyes and he said, “I was going to put a heart around it, but that seemed cliché.”

She closed her mouth slowly, reaching out.

His eyes flinched but he held still and she traced the flames surrounding her name in the air above his arm.

He said softly, “It’s a wild fire. Out of control, unstoppable. Leaving everything in its wake reborn and stronger.”

Her bottom lip wobbled and she whispered, “That must have hurt.”

“Excuse my language but it hurts like a bitch. Still.”

She laughed and it was wet and teary. “Do you want me to kiss it and make it better?”

“No. I want you to kiss me and make me all better.”

She stepped in close, her body fitting into his just right.

He whispered, “Lizard brain wants what lizard brain wants. He’s made it this far, maybe he knows what he’s doing.”

She shook her head. “Lizard brain only knows how to survive.”

“He knows I need you to survive. I know I need you to thrive.”

“Oh, Jack.”

He could hear the no in her voice and he said, “Delia. I’m pulling out all the stops. You’re not leaving until you say yes.”

He edged her toward the bedroom and she said, “Oh, God. Are you going to torture it out of me?”

“Yes.”

She dug in her heels. “Even if I was going to get married again, even if I was selfish enough to let you marry me, I grew up in a commune. My parents are hippies. The last joint-smoking, free-lovin’ hippies. You can’t tie yourself to that, even if you don’t want to be president.”

“It’s no secret, Delia, that you and yours march to a different beat. But I do have a secret. One that guarantees I don’t ever want to be president. One that insures I couldn’t ever be.”

“I know. Your mother’s father isn’t her father. Who cares?”