The Art of Romance (8 page)

He cast a quick glance down the row to his left. Bobby Patterson, Zarah Mitchell, and Flannery McNeill all appeared to be concentrating as hard as they could—almost as if willing the speaker to say something pertinent or meaningful to them. But relief showed in Bobby’s profile when the man brought his talk to a close.

After the invitation and closing hymn—a brief affair, with no one going down to the front—and benediction, Dylan stood and stretched. He looked around the crowd of singles gathering around Bobby, Zarah, and Flannery. He tried to convince himself he wasn’t looking for a tall redhead to join them, but he couldn’t help it.

“Is Caylor meeting us for lunch?” Flannery asked Zarah as they moved past him.

His ears perked up.

“Does she ever? I think she said something about picking something up and trying to get her grading finished before we meet up for coffee this afternoon.” Zarah hooked her arm through Bobby’s and then smiled up at Dylan. “Are you going to join us for lunch, Dylan?”

If only he’d driven himself. “My family’s expecting me.”

“Have fun.” Zarah’s silver-flecked blue eyes twinkled at him. “Maybe next time.”

“Maybe.” Although he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to come back to this church. But where else would he go?

He said his good-byes and excused himself, spotting Perty and Gramps not far away. If it weren’t eight or nine miles, and too cold outside for his leather jacket, he’d consider walking back to Gramps and Perty’s house from here. Too bad Nashville didn’t have a good public transit system like Philadelphia.

Instead of heading for the back of the church and the parking lot, Gramps, Perty, and Sassy Evans headed for the front. In the wide, medieval cathedral–looking doorway, Perty turned and looked around until she saw him.

“Didn’t I tell you? We’re meeting them at Boscos for lunch.”

Ah. That made sense—the restaurant was just a block up Twenty-First Avenue from the church.

Across the street from Acklen Avenue Fellowship stood an equally large, white-pillared church. The sign on the corner of their lot was at such an angle he couldn’t read it from here, but that might be a church to check out one of these weeks.

The strong, cold wind penetrated his leather jacket and heavy wool sweater as if they were made of summer-weight cotton. Crossing the final side street, he jogged ahead to open the door of the restaurant for his grandparents and Mrs. Evans.

“Looks like Pax and your parents aren’t here yet,” Perty said, unwrapping her scarf from around her neck.

They waited a few minutes while the servers put two tables together for them, unbundling and discussing the cold and whether it would, indeed, snow by Christmas.

Dylan examined the flyers and announcements posted on the restaurant’s community board. One in particular caught his eye:

H
ILLSBORO
V
ILLAGE
A
RT
W
ALK
E
VERY
F
IRST
T
HURSDAY OF THE
M
ONTH
5–8
P.M
.

Reading the sign again, he had to smile. How many first Thursdays did they think each month had?

He’d missed it for December—it would have been last week. He’d have to look up the event online when he got home to find out what it was and, if it really was what he hoped it was, what he’d need to do to get involved next month. If he could start getting some showings and get his stuff into some of the local galleries, hopefully he could start generating some extra income selling paintings.

The hostess led them to their table. He and Gramps assisted Mrs. Evans and Perty with their chairs and coats then took the seats directly across from them, leaving the other end of the table open for Dylan’s parents and brother.

Speaking of his parents…

Through the restaurant came a tall, distinguished man with salt-and-pepper hair—more salt now than pepper—and a woman who didn’t look old enough to have four twentysomething sons, much less to have risen to the second-highest level of the state judicial system.

But there they were, his parents: Davis Bradley, the senior partner in the law firm Gramps had founded more than fifty years ago, and Grace Paxton-Bradley, the appellate court judge.

Dylan stood as they came around the table to greet him. His father shook his hand, and his mother gave him a tense hug and kissed his cheek. He held out the chair beside him for her as Dad helped her with her burgundy wool overcoat.

She reached over and rubbed Dylan’s sleeve as soon as they sat down. “That sweater looks good on you.”

A compliment? “Thanks, Mother.”

“Are you settling in okay?” Dad asked.

Dylan nodded. “Everything’s unpacked, and I’ve gotten some furniture.” He’d either thrown out or sold all of his college-era stuff when he moved in with Rhonda, so packing, moving, and unpacking hadn’t taken much effort—physically, anyway.

Mother reached into her purse and withdrew a business card, which she handed to Dylan. A business contact? Someone who might help him find a job? He looked down at it: S
uite
O
ne
S
alon
.

“That’s my stylist’s card, but you can set up an appointment with anyone there. They do a great job.” She grabbed a fistful of Dylan’s hair and gave it a playful tug. “If you’re going to find a job, you’re going to have to look professional.”

Of course. Nothing about him was ever good enough for Her Honor, not even his haircut. She’d probably flip when she found out he had tattoos on his arms that were visible when he wore short sleeves.

“It was good to see you at church this morning,” Dad, across the table from Mother, said from behind the Sunday brunch menu. “I know the singles division just went through some changes, and I understand that the new Young Professionals class has been highly successful, growing each week since they started it back at the beginning of October.”

“Dylan visited that class this morning.” Perty turned to him with raised brows. “How did you like it?”

He shrugged. “It was fine. The guy who leads it’s pretty good. But almost everyone in there is married.” Or a female who seemed starved for male attention and treated the class like a last-chance saloon. He hadn’t felt that uncomfortable since the meeting with the chancellor when he learned his employment was being terminated based on violation of the institute’s professional conduct policies.

“It’s a good place to meet quality people, Dylan.” The way Mother stressed
quality
, he wondered if she had anyone particular in mind, or if it was a veiled reference to the “unquality” people he’d known and been involved with in Philadelphia. As in
art
people—like him.

No. He had to stop jumping to conclusions and getting defensive—even if just inside his own head—whenever someone said something to him.

“I’m sort of hoping for a church a little smaller.” He pretended to read the menu, though he’d decided within moments of sitting down what he wanted. “Where does Pax go to church now?”

“West End United Methodist. It’s close to campus and his apartment. And he likes their Young Adult program,” Dad said.

Perty clucked her tongue and exchanged a glance with Mrs. Evans. “He still hasn’t found himself a girlfriend, though.”

“He’s only twenty-six, Mama.” Dad put his arm around Perty and gave her a squeeze. “Give him a chance to finish his doctorate and decide which of the jobs that he’s already been offered he’s going to take.”

Dylan wouldn’t take that as a jab at his jobless state. No. He wouldn’t.

Thankfully, the waitress appeared to take their drink orders. He ordered tea, thrilled at the prospect of its already being sweetened—with real sugar—and that he didn’t receive looks of confusion or ridicule for ordering
iced
tea when it was cold outside.

“You’re waiting on one more?” She looked at the extra menu at the place beside Dad.

“He should be here any moment. His church lets out a few minutes later, and he has to drive over and find a place to park,” Perty explained. “We’ll wait to order until he gets here.”

Dylan’s stomach gurgled its displeasure at having to wait longer for food. He should have had some doughnuts in Sunday school to augment the four Pop Tarts he’d eaten while waiting for Gramps and Perty to be ready to leave this morning.

The subject of the guest speaker came up once the menus went down. Even though not a one of them came out and said anything overtly negative, apparently none of them had been overly impressed with him either.

“There he is.”

Dylan looked up at his mom’s statement. Paxton raised his hand in response to their mother’s wave and wended through several tables to get to them. He came around the table and hugged Mother, then reached behind her and shook Dylan’s hand.

“I heard you were back in town.” Paxton sat on the other side of their mom. “Isn’t it a little early for classes to be out for the semester?”

Dylan wasn’t sure what was worse—assuming everyone in the family was talking about him behind his back or having to explain to them face-to-face why he was here.

“I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it later.” Gramps’s expression and tone brooked no opposition; obviously he was as uncomfortable with the thought of Dylan explaining himself as Dylan was.

The waitress returned, and everyone ordered while Pax read the menu.

Once she left, returned to refill their drinks, and left again, Dad leaned forward and looked down the table to make sure he had everyone’s attention. “Since this is as close as we’re going to get to having the whole family together—and we can’t wait until Christmas—Grace has an announcement she’d like to make.”

Mother’s brown eyes glittered with excitement. “I got a call this week from Senator Davidson. His eightieth birthday is in February, and he’s decided to retire. It hasn’t been officially announced yet, but there will be a special election later in the spring—and Senator Davidson has thrown his endorsement behind me. So”—she smiled a perfect photo-op smile—”I’ll be running for state senate over the next several months.”

Dylan leaned over and gave her a squeeze around the shoulders. “Congratulations.”

Once everyone else’s reactions had died down, Dad drew their attention once again. “Of course this means that the entire family is going to be under some scrutiny.” He pinned Dylan with his narrowed dark eyes for a brief moment before regaining his smile. “And there will be a few events and appearances at which we’ll need you boys to show up and support your mom.”

Pax leaned over and kissed her cheek again. “You know I’ll do whatever you need me to.”

“I’ll help out however I can, too,” Dylan added.

Dad looked like he had a comment about that offer, but fortunately, the waitress and a helper arrived with their food.

For the next fifteen or twenty minutes, Dylan focused on his blueberry Belgian waffle and bacon while everyone else around the table talked about all the stuff Mother needed to do to get ready for the campaign.

His attention pricked up at the mention of needing design work to be done for posters, flyers, ads, yard signs, letterhead, and other products. “I could do that for you, Mother.”

“Oh…well…” She rested her hand on his arm again. “Your father and I discussed it, and we think it’ll be better—more ethical—to hire an outside company to do things like that so that campaign funds aren’t going to family members.”

“I wouldn’t charge you for it.”

“I know you wouldn’t, dear, and that’s still a problem. You see, everything needs to be clean and legal and aboveboard. No cutting corners or doing anything that might draw undue media attention.” She patted his hand and returned to her egg-white omelet.

Like the mere presence of the black sheep of the family might draw undue attention? He accidentally caught Perty’s eye, and she gave him a sympathetic half smile.

For the remainder of the meal, Dylan kept his thoughts and ideas to himself. Luckily, it didn’t last too much longer. Mother needed to go home and work, and Pax needed to stop by his lab to check on an experiment.

Dylan withdrew his wallet to pay for his meal, but Gramps waved him off. “Sunday dinner’s my treat anytime you want to come with us.”

“Thanks, Gramps.”

Paying with cash meant they didn’t have to sit around waiting for a receipt to sign, so Dylan followed Perty’s lead and pushed his chair back and stood to put his jacket on.

“Dylan, a word.”

Nothing good ever followed those words from his father. Dylan sank back into the chair beside his mother, whose expression turned grim.

“We’ll get the car warmed up.” Gramps briefly rested his hand on Dylan’s shoulder.

“This won’t take long, sir.” Dad had never, in Dylan’s memory, called Gramps anything other than
sir
. Not
Dad
or
Pop
or even
Father
. Always formal. Always deferential. Possibly because he’d worked under him first as an intern, then as an associate, and then as a junior partner before Gramps became a judge and Dad took over the law firm. They’d had a professional relationship longer than they’d had a true father-son relationship.

As soon as everyone else was gone, Dad moved into the chair directly across from him, where Perty had been sitting.

“I don’t think we have to tell you how disappointed we are in you.”

Just like Dad. Straight to the point. No sugarcoating it. “No you don’t.”

“We haven’t told your brothers anything—only that you’ve moved back to Nashville. We don’t want you telling anyone else what happened. If someone from the opposition’s campaign gets wind of what you did, it could generate enough of a scandal to hurt your mother’s campaign.”

It was on the tip of Dylan’s tongue to remind them that they didn’t even have a clue about the work he’d done to put himself through college—but the waitress appeared to pick up the check folder and ask if they needed anything else. Dad got rid of her with a smile worthy of a politician himself and a polite, “Thank you, no.”

Dylan waited until she was out of earshot, grateful her presence had kept him from revealing something his parents should never know about. “Don’t worry. It’s not like I’m going around telling everyone why I lost my job.”