Until There Was You (4 page)

“James!” Kate called. “Hey, bud, can you run out to the car and see if I have any tampons?”

“Mom, no. I have boundaries. I’m fourteen. Get your own tampons.”

Jon snorted. “Kate. Be kind to your boy.”

“What? We’re very close, that’s all. Right, James?”

“Not that close.”

Brianna was wheezing with laughter, and James gave her a look, then smiled.

“So, guys, guess what?” Posey said, lowering her voice. “I’m having a talk with Dante tonight.”

This brought Jon back to the counter. “And what are we saying?”

“Are you gonna propose? Because that would so romantic? Oh, my gosh. Wow,” Elise said.

“No, no. No proposals. Just…you know. Time to take things to the next level.”

Jon and Kate exchanged a look. “Best of luck with that,” her brother-in-law said.

“What? You don’t like him?”

“How could I say? I’ve never met him, except when I ate there, and if you tell Stacia that Henry and I went, I’ll murder you in your sleep. No, Posey, it’s just…I think he’s using you, that’s all.”

“For sex. He’s using you for sex,” Kate clarified.

Posey glanced over at the kids, who were fortunately immersed in birth-family horror stories, snorting with laughter. “Oh, I don’t think so. It’s just early days, that’s all.”

“Well, if he only calls you after 9:00 p.m. and only wants you to come to his house for a shag, has never introduced you to his friends or family, has no interest in meeting yours, I’d say Kate’s spot on,” Jon said, raising an eyebrow.

“We have a date tonight,” Posey protested.

“What time and where?” Jon asked.

She hesitated. “Nine-thirty. His place.”

“Call me after,” Jon said. “I have to go. Believe it or not, home-ec teachers have papers to grade. Ciao,
bellissimas!
Oh, and Posey, just in case things don’t work out with Dante, I’m teaching a singles cooking class for the adult-ed program. You’re welcome, too, Kate.”

When she closed up shop later that day, Posey came upon James’s book about finding birth parents in the cushion of the sofa. She’d never looked for her birth family. Max and Stacia were her parents, the end. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Of course she’d wondered. Conjured the typical fantasies as a child. To say that Max and Stacia—especially Stacia—were overprotective was an understatement. Every time Posey wasn’t allowed to go to the public pool with her friends (“The pool? The
pool?
That’s where people get kidnapped!”) or was whisked to the E.R. to rule out concussion (“But she bumped her head, Doctor! She has a lump! You think it might be a tumor?”), she’d imagine more mellow parents, parents who didn’t view sauerkraut as a daily necessity for a healthy diet, parents who were—forgive her—cooler, younger, more hip.

But aside from that, no. Max and Stacia were wonderful, and she’d never been inspired to find her roots. She tucked the book in her backpack to make sure she got it back to James, then went home to get ready for her date. If it was a date. Jon and Kate had a point.

In eight weeks, she’d seen Dante six times. That seemed like dating…sort of. The truth was, Posey’s record with men was a little sporadic. Ron the Gay had been pretty great, the whole “we both like boys” thing aside. You’d think a woman with a gay brother would sense a tremor in the Force, but no. One night, as they were curled up in front of CNN, Posey had admitted to wanting just one hour alone and naked with Anderson Cooper. “Who wouldn’t?” Ron had murmured appreciatively. Then they’d looked at each other, realization dawning for both of them. Ron later wrote an article for
GQ
magazine: “How Anderson Cooper Helped Me Out of the Closet.” He still sent Posey Christmas cards.

Then there’d been Jake—perfectly nice, a carpenter she’d hired as a subcontractor for a job in Maine. It was his suggestion that she get breast implants that ended their thing. Kind of hard to overlook that. A few first dates here and there, sometimes a second or third date, once in a great while a fourth…but no. Posey hadn’t been in a real relationship for quite a while.

So Dante needed to pony up, Posey thought as she held the truck door for Shilo, who gazed at her beseechingly until she hefted him in. She wanted a real boyfriend. Even if she had a great dog and three cats. And especially—this was a little hard to admit—but especially because Liam Murphy was back in town. Having a boyfriend would just put him to rest, that was all. Make her feel a little safer.

To be honest, Dante Bellini’s interest had been a surprise. He was suave and urbane—not words she’d have pinned to herself, that was for sure. Extremely good-looking in that Mediterranean way. Extremely well off, too, which certainly didn’t hurt his appeal. He lived in Midnight Cove, a complex of gorgeous condos on the water. The ocean, not the river, which offered a much more working-class view. It might be a case of opposites attract, but clearly there was something there.

Yep. Time to shore up the defenses. Dante liked her. They’d slept together six times. She’d head home, put on pretty underwear and girl clothes, tell Dante how she felt, and he’d say yes. He probably wanted the same thing.

“Y
OU DON’T
?”

“It’s not that, Posey. I just don’t have the time right now. The restaurant. You understand, I’m sure.” Dante smiled, his white teeth glinting like a pirate’s against his swarthy skin. “But I really do enjoy spending the time with you, even though it’s not enough time.” He handed her a glass of wine and reached out to touch her neck.

“Um, right.” The fire crackled in the fireplace, and across the cove, the lights of other houses gleamed discreetly. Posey shifted on the leather couch. She kept sliding down, and it was irritating. “It’s just that we can’t stay at this level forever. I mean, I’m not asking for a ring and a date, Dante. But don’t you want to…move things forward a little? Do stuff together? Meet my parents?”

“God, no,” he said, then seemed to realize what he’d said. “I mean, I’m sure they’re nice people. It’s just that they hate me.”

“Well, they don’t hate you per se,” Posey murmured. “It’s more your restaurant.”

“Right. Even so.”

She took a deep breath. “Okay. Look. We’ve been, um, together for what…a few weeks?”
Eight weeks, Dante. Six times.
“But I’d like to go out to dinner once in a while. Catch a movie. Be able to…be seen with you, Dante. I like you. You’re fun. This isn’t really enough for me.”

“And you’re fun, too,” he said, smiling.

“So…it’s not like I’m naming our babies, I promise,” Posey said.

“I know. But Inferno needs every spare moment. This, though…this is perfect.” He picked up her hand and kissed it.

“Huh,” Posey said, slumping back against the couch and sliding down yet again. Dante took this as an invitation to kiss her neck. He smelled awfully good… Whatever shampoo he used, she was sure she couldn’t afford it. She sighed…not in rapture, either. Dante’s hand moved under her shirt. She grabbed it. “Okay, wait a sec.”

He raised his head, giving her that sleepy, sexy look that had first gotten her attention as she lugged in the statue of the martyred virgin St. Agnes of Rome. “Shall we move to the bedroom?”

Men.
“No, Dante. You just told me this is as good as it gets for the foreseeable future. It’s not good enough for me.”

“What are you saying?”

“Well…”
Time to take a stand, Posey, or be a booty call forever.
“Maybe we should put things on hold. For a while. See how we feel then.”

He blinked, opened his mouth, then closed it. “Well, fine. If that’s what you want.”

“No, I just told you what I want. More than coming over once a week. Because that feels like a booty call, and I’d like to be more than that.”

“Fine.” His voice was sharp. “I’m sorry I don’t have more time. I thought you, as a successful business owner, would understand that.”

“I do. I just… I’m sorry. But you know, why don’t we kind of reassess things in a month or so? Maybe a little time apart will…clarify things.”

“Fine.”

“Great.” Posey folded her arms across her chest. To think she’d put on a lace bra for this. It itched.

Dante stood up and ran a hand through his hair. “I have to say, Posey, I’m a little surprised. You don’t seem like the type.”

“What type is that?”

“The settling-down type. I thought you were… Well, I thought you were different.”

“Apparently not,” she muttered.

“It’s just that you seem very…untraditional.”

“Because I don’t wear skirts and high heels? Does that mean I don’t want a normal relationship somehow?”

“Well, in some ways, yes. It sends a message.” He looked her up and down. Her jaw clamped shut. Lace bra. For this. And this
was
her girly outfit. Jeans (made for a woman and everything). Flowered shirt. Flowers! On the shirt! A peachy-colored, itchy lace bra and matching panties, come on! What kind of message was that? A traditional one, that was what!

“Okay, I’ll be going now,” she said, standing up.

“I didn’t mean to insult you,” Dante said, cocking his head and giving her a sorrowful look.

“It’s fine.” She sighed. “So…a break? We’ll talk again?” A small spark of hope flared in her chest. Maybe this was what they needed. Or what he needed—time to see how great she was.

“Sure.” He leaned in and kissed her, and she let him. “Want to stay for a while?” he murmured, moving to her neck.

“No. Gotta go. Thanks, Dante.”

All the way home, she alternated between mild fuming and healthy insecurity. A message, huh? Just because she wasn’t built like J-Lo, just because she lacked the feminine skills that so many of her gender expressed without effort—the flirting, the hair and makeup, the softness—it didn’t mean that she didn’t want to settle down. Of course she did. How could she look at her parents and not want what they had, that effortless, seamless togetherness? Or Jon and Henry, together since college? Of course she wanted that.

She pulled into her driveway and went inside her home, seeing it through fresh eyes. She lived in a restored—well, a half-restored—church rich in cobwebs, creaky floors and character. Someday—about a hundred thousand dollars from now—this place would be on the tour of homes. For now, though, the roof needed to be replaced. The belfry might be a little dangerous, given that the mechanism that held the 800-pound iron bell was not only broken, but rusting, and rusting fast. Furnishings-wise, the place was a little cluttered with the things she couldn’t bear to part with, things that hadn’t sold at Irreplaceable. The Victorian birdcage. The statue of the elephant. The bishop’s chair.

Shilo, sensing his mistress needed some love, gave a bay of joy at the sight of her, and Jellybean, the largest of her triumvirate of cats, trotted over as well, as he seemed to be half dog. “Who are my good boys?” she said as Shilo head-butted her in the stomach and Jellybean pricked her with his claws (lovingly, of course). “You hungry? Want some Stouffers? Huh? Want some delicious French bread pizza? You do? So do I, pal.”

But even as she cranked the Neil Diamond (“Sweet Caroline,” because, come on, what else would you play in a bad mood?), the thought came to her that maybe ending her arrangement with Dante, flimsy though it was, might not have been the smartest move. Not because it was meaningful and special (not yet, though she’d thought they had potential), but because she’d just lost even a small barrier between her heart and Liam Murphy. Since the moment she’d laid eyes on him in Guten Tag’s kitchen, not an hour had passed without Liam crossing her mind.

And that was not good.

“L
IAM, YOU’RE SO
wonderful to do this. Really, dear! I didn’t know what I’d do!” Stacia Osterhagen beamed at Liam, her eyes scanning him up and down like a farmer assessing a stud bull at auction. He was almost surprised she didn’t circle around him and ask him to open his mouth so she could check his teeth.

“It’s no problem, Mrs. O,” he said. “Happy to help. So, what seems to be the matter?”

“Something’s stuck in the drain,” she said. She glanced at her watch, then at the door.

“Okay, I’ll take a look.”

He’d been at the garage when Mrs. O had called about ten minutes before, and from the way she kept looking at her watch, the door and his ass, Liam suspected she was waiting for someone…someone for him. The niece or cousin or whatever. Older women had the tendency to either proposition him or offer up a younger relative. Nevertheless, she’d asked for help, and he hadn’t forgotten how good the Osterhagens had been to him back then, so here he was. Better get to it. He knelt on the floor, opened his toolbox, took out a wrench and put a dishpan under the pipe he was about to take apart.

“A prince. That’s what you are. Oh, if only we had a son who could do this. Well, Henry
could,
of course, but he’s a surgeon, of course, and his hands! So special, Liam! They’re insured, did you ever hear of such a thing?”

“Can’t say that I have,” he said, lying under the sink and loosening the pipe fitting. Whatever liquid was in the pipe gushed out into the pan. Liam took a flashlight and shone it into the pipe—something metal, something white, and some string. He poked it with a screwdriver, but it was stuck tight, the metal thing wedged in there real good. Jammed, really. Felt like a fork…maybe some raw potato…

A rush of cold air wrapped around his legs as the back door opened.

“I might have to leave early,” said a rather deep feminine voice. “I have a cyst. You don’t want to know where.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” That was Cordelia, if he wasn’t mistaken. The offering, perhaps. He didn’t look up.

“It’s just below my left nipple.”

Women. Was there nothing they wouldn’t talk about? Honestly, every time Emma had had friends over, talk turned to gruesome tales of childbirth or periods.

Then someone kicked him in the leg; there was a thunk, a yelp, and the next thing he knew, something with a lot of sharp angles had sprawled on top of him.

Liam pulled his head from under the sink. Cordelia was half across his lap, wincing as she touched her jaw. Her knee was about two inches from making sure Nicole would stay an only child, but no real harm done. Her sweater had ridden up a few inches, giving him a glimpse of some very white skin. Pretty. Nice to see flesh that wasn’t perpetually tanned, the way everyone’s seemed to be in Southern California.

And nice to have a woman on his lap, regardless of how she got there. The unexpected jolt took Liam by surprise.

“Baby! Are you okay? Who’s the president?” Mrs. O leaped over, the floor shuddering under her impressive weight. “Should I touch you? Is your neck broken?”

“Dang it!” Cordelia wiggled her jaw and patted her mother’s outstretched hand. “I’m fine, Mom.”

“No, you’re not! How could you be?” The floor thudded again as she bounded away, pretty fast for an older lady.

Finally, Cordelia turned and looked to see what had tripped her. Her face froze. “Oh, hi, Liam,” she muttered, jerking her sweater back down where it belonged. “What are you doing here?”

“Being trampled on by you, Cordelia,” he said.

She answered with the Slitty Eyes of Death. “Maybe you shouldn’t be flopped down on restaurant floors, ever think of that?” She hauled herself off the floor and touched her jaw again.

“Well, well, well, the return of biker boy,” her companion said. “Heard you were back in town, hottie.”

This warranted sitting up. Liam smiled. “Nice to see you again. Katie Ellington, right?”

“Kate now. And likewise,” she said.

She’d been a jock during his two years at Bellsford, he remembered that. Baseball or rugby or something. As he continued to look at her, some pink crept into her cheeks. Cute. He’d always assumed she batted for the other team, but maybe not. Liam grinned. Kate’s blush deepened. Cordelia glared.

“Here, honey. Do you know who I am?” Mrs. Osterhagen returned with an industrial-size bag of peas and pressed them against Cordelia’s face.

“Thanks, Mom,” Cordelia said.

“What month it is?”

“It’s March. Still.” Cordelia sighed and tilted her head so Mrs. O could palpate her spine, and Liam chuckled. “Ma, I’m sure I’m fine. I wouldn’t be able to stand if my neck was broken.”

“You never know,” her mother said. Then, with another significant look at Liam, she added, “Your cousin, Posey? She got in this afternoon. Very disappointed you weren’t there to welcome her home. But—” another meaningful look at Liam, complete with raised eyebrow “—she should be here any minute. Stay. You can see her. I know you’ve missed her.”

Liam picked up his wrench once more. Women would keep talking no matter if you stuffed a sock in their mouths, so if he waited for the conversation to end, he’d be here all night. Besides, Kate Ellington was clearly thinking dirty thoughts about him, because her eyes were fixed on his groin. She licked her lips. Yep. Time to go back to the clog. He half listened as he wedged the screwdriver against the clog and wiggled. Man. Getting a fork
and
a knife
and
half a potato down a drain took some serious doing. Mrs. O had worked hard tonight.

“Well, I’d love to hang out, Mom, but I didn’t realize Gretchen was coming tonight, and Kate and I have plans. Right, Kate?” she said.

“What’s that?” Kate said.

“Our thing? Tonight?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, your brother’s in the operating room, so he can’t come, either. Liam, our son is a doctor. An orthopedic surgeon, just in case you break anything, dear.” Clearly, the son’s profession could not be stated often enough.

“Good to know,” Liam said. There. A chunk of potato fell out, nearly hitting him in the eye.

“Why is he here, Mom?” Cordelia whispered, the words easy to catch.

“He’s fixing the sink,” Mrs. O replied.

“He’s a mechanic, Mom.”

“So?” Stacia hissed. “He’s here, Gretchen’s single.”

Liam sighed. There. He got the knife free, then worked out the fork. Messy job, but not as bad as a carburetor, that was for sure.

Just then the back door opened, and Liam glanced up again. Ah. The niece. What was her television show? “The Naked Fraulein” or something? Naked would be A-okay. Wow. The woman. Was built. Kim Kardashian curves, long blond hair, blue eyes, ultra-white teeth, the same kind of perfection you saw in hordes in San Diego…but nicely done, by nature, it seemed, not a plastic surgeon.

“Posey!” she cried, beaming a thousand-watter, throwing her arms around Cordelia, her cleavage practically swallowing the smaller woman.

“Gretchen!” Cordelia echoed back, her voice muffled.

“Oh, it’s so good to see you! There’s nothing like
Verwandter!
”

“Sorry, what does that mean?” Cordelia asked, pulling back. “No one in our family’s spoken German since World War II.”

“Oh, you! It means
family
. Just look at you!” She pulled a face. “Have you lost weight?”

“No, I haven’t,” Cordelia returned. “Have you gained any?”

Ah. A cat fight had to be looming. He’d put his money on Cordelia—scrappy vs. soft. Still, better to get while the getting was good. He finished tightening the washer around the pipe and stood up. The niece’s eyes slid to him…slowly. “Hello there,” she said, her voice dropping. “I’m Gretchen Heidelberg.”

“Hi. Liam Murphy.” He turned on the water and started washing his hands, counting automatically.

The woman’s too-long-to-be-real eyelashes fluttered. “Do I know you?” she asked.

“I used to work here. A long time ago.”

“We must’ve met, then,” she murmured.

“Maybe,” he said, drying his hands.

“Of course, I’m pretty familiar with this kitchen myself,” she said, giving a slight wriggle, in case he missed the mighty rack. “I filmed my audition tape here.”

Danger, my son,
Liam told himself.
Maneater in the vicinity.
“Cool. You’re all set here, Mrs. O. Just a chunk of potato stuck in there and a few pieces of silverware.”

“I’m the Barefoot Fraulein,” the cousin went on. “Thursdays at five on the Cooking Network? Have you ever seen it?”

“Can’t say that I have,” he said, smiling to be polite. If he ignored her completely, she’d take it as a challenge, and God protect him from women who saw him as a challenge.

“Oh! Liam! You’re so clever! And so wonderful to help,” Stacia said. She glanced between Cordelia and Gretchen. “You girls should stay! You should all stay! I have some beautiful apple kuchen! Liam! Stay! Talk!”

“I’ll take a rain check on the cake, Mrs. O. My daughter’s home alone.” He turned to the cousin. “Nice meeting you. See you girls around,” he said to Cordelia and Kate, punching Kate lightly on the shoulder.

Then he got out of there, before Mrs. O tried to marry him off.

“W
HO
WAS
THAT
?” Gretchen said, actually licking her lips. Posey rolled her eyes. Gret should just smear him with sour cream and lick him off. It’d be more subtle.

“That’s Liam,” Stacia said. “He’s a widower. More than two years. I think enough time has passed, don’t you?”

“He touched me,” Kate said, her voice a little dazed.

“A widower, huh? Nice,” Gretchen said. She tilted herself back a little so that her cleavage heaved itself upward, the kind of trick Posey couldn’t have done without a couple of double-D implants and a gun to the back of her head.

“Gret, Mom, sorry we can’t stay, but Kate and I have plans,” she said. “Kate? Our plans?”

“Posey! What? We’ve hardly had time to catch up!” Gretchen fake protested.

“Well, we’re having dinner at my parents’ house on Sunday,” Posey said.

Gret pouted. “Don’t you want to hear about what the producers of
Top Chef
told me last week? I shouldn’t say anything, but I think they’re scoping me out as the new host of… Oops. Better not say anything till the contract’s signed.”

“I thought you were back to help Mom and Dad,” Posey said.

“Mmm-hmm. For a while, anyway.” She flashed another smile, practically blinding Posey with her glow-in-the-dark white teeth.

“Hi.” Kate stepped forward. “I’m Kate, Posey’s friend. We’ve met before, back in high school. I’m a big fan.”

Posey choked, and Kate gave her a guilty look.

“Oh, yes, of course! And
thank
you! You’re too nice!” Gretchen cooed.

“Kate?” Posey said. “The time?”

“Where are you two going?” Gretchen asked.

“Um…a class,” Posey said.

“A singles thing,” Kate added, and Posey closed her eyes. Her friend was pathologically honest.

“A singles thing?” Stacia asked, her mouth falling open in dismay. “Why not meet someone the old-fashioned way?”

“On a bender? Or in jail?” Posey asked, earning a glare from her mom.

“I’m just going to keep Posey company,” Kate stated. She picked up a piece of raw onion and ate it. “I’m not really looking.”

“A singles
thing?
What kind?” Gretchen asked. “I have to admit, I’m intrigued. I’ve never done anything like that. Then again, I meet a
lot
of people.” She smiled. “Well. You two have fun. Good luck meeting Mr. Right! Do they do background checks at these things? You have to wonder who signs up. Oh, my gosh, that sounded so snooty! I didn’t mean
you,
Posey.”

“You should come, Gret,” Posey said pointedly. “You’re not seeing anyone these days, are you?”

“As a matter of fact,” Gretchen said, smiling coyly, “I don’t want to name names, but I think we all know a certain blond Brit with a potty mouth, a chain of restaurants and a TV show…but I better not say any more, because he’s actually quite shy. And sweet! You wouldn’t believe it.”

“You’re dating Gordon
Ramsay?
” Kate barked.

“You didn’t hear that from me,” Gretchen said.

“Isn’t he married?” Posey asked.

“What about Emeril?” Kate said. “Do you know him? Is he short? He seems short.”

“
Know
him? He’s my mentor,” Gretchen said. “Not as short as you might think. He has a certain earthy charm, don’t you think?”

“Yes!” Kate exclaimed. “I do! When he says ‘Bam,’ I swear, my knees go weak.”

Posey grabbed Kate by the arm. “See you later,” she said. “Bye, Mom. Bye, Gret. Tell Gordon we said hello.” Dragging Kate behind her, she pushed open the back door. “You’re a big fan now? I thought you were my friend!”

“Well, you know how it is,” Kate stammered. “You meet a celebrity, you become an ass. I mean, I haven’t seen her since she lived with you guys in high school, you know? But I’ve watched her since that show started. I got caught up in the moment. Sue me.”

“I should beat you, that’s what I should do.”

“As if,” Kate said, slapping Posey on the back so hard she staggered. “Come on, now. On to meet your future husband. Though if you could find a way to dry-hump Liam’s leg, I’ll bet it’d be the best sex you’ve had in years.”

An hour later, Liam’s leg was looking better and better. It had looked pretty good in the restaurant, but here in the basement hallway of Christ Lutheran Church, the leg was taking on legendary appeal.

Note to self,
Posey thought.
Avoid singles events in church basements.
The AA meeting was just about to wrap up (though the Serenity Prayer could be applied to dating: God grant me the courage to date the men who aren’t idiots, the serenity to accept the fact that many men
are
idiots, and the wisdom to know the difference).