Wedding Series Boxed Set (3 Books in 1) (The Wedding Series) (11 page)

"Who's Cindi? No, never mind. I'll just get her confused with the two hundred other women you've dated this year whose names end in 'i.' " Paul leaned back in his wooden swivel chair and propped his feet on the edge of his desk. Maybe he wouldn't go sailing, but talking to Grady reminded Paul that some things in life don't change. "I'll bet you a pair of tickets to the Cubs' opener that Cindi spells her name with an 'i' on the end."

A slightly sheepish silence followed. "Yeah, she does. But it's no bet," Grady protested. "I didn't bet."

Paul grinned at a photograph of Grady, Michael, Tris and himself from their college days. "That's okay, Roberts. It was a sucker bet, anyway."

He hung up, feeling more like himself than he had all week.

THE SENSE OF
well-being lasted less than twenty-three hours.

He couldn't find anything to do.

He called Tris, but got his cousin's machine in D.C. Just as well, he decided as he paced his apartment. He didn't want her asking nosy questions. She'd read too much into his answers, or lack of answers. The same went for his parents. Grady was otherwise occupied. Michael . . . He'd go see Michael.

He didn't bother to give the idea a second thought, or to call ahead. He headed southwest to Springfield, whisking between cornfields that hinted at next summer's fertile crop even with last summer's reduced to brown stubble.

His mind followed its own track.

Unlike Grady, who often waged elaborate campaigns for his lady of the moment, Paul had always simply let relationships happen - or not happen - as the Fates decreed. And he'd always been honest about looking only to the moment. He made no promises, so none were broken. Obviously, he should follow that path with Bette and forget her.

He depressed the accelerator another five-miles-per-hour's worth.

The outside of Michael's Victorian house looked great, the scars of renovation nearly healed; inside was still under reconstruction. Michael came to the door with a paintbrush in hand. His slight frown metamorphosed into a grin when he saw who stood outside the leaded glass.

"Boy, am I glad to see you."

Paul groaned. "Don't you think you got enough free labor out of me? How many walls did I help you knock down? Thirty? Forty? I don't think I'll ever breathe right again after all that plaster dust."

"Free, maybe, but definitely unskilled labor."

"You complaining?"

"Absolutely not. In fact, I'm offering you a chance to hone those skills. Painting's very marketable these days. And I need to get this done while I still have the time."

"Is that your way of telling me Joan's running for the U.S. Senate?" With Michael on state senator Joan Bradon's staff, Paul had paid close attention to the rumors.

"I'm not telling you anything, Monroe. Read your morning paper."

"Real nice. And then you expect my help? Oh, what the hell, lead me to that paint bucket."

As he outfitted Paul for painting, Michael probed for the reason for this visit. Paul evaded and, though he felt the weight of Michael's wondering, the questions ceased.

Spreading paint across the patched, multicolored surface was definitely preferable to breathing plaster dust. Windows, open to disperse the fumes, brought in the spicy air of fall. He could hear drums from a marching band at a high school football game in the distance, and an occasional roar from the onlookers. His perfect swipes covered the wall in a clean expanse of color.

The drawback was that his mind, free to wander, returned to the topic he'd tried to drive away from Bette.

A sound reminded him of Michael, painting woodwork across the room. He could talk to Michael, tell him . . . tell him what? That he'd met a woman he found attractive. So? Big news flash.

He tried to divert his mind; the first topic he came up with was the woman Michael had been seeing for some months.

"So how's Laura these days?" He tossed the question over his shoulder, then turned for the answer. "How come you didn't rope
her
into this drudge work?"

The brush in Michael's hand went still. "I believe Laura's doing very well."

Paul pivoted to face him. "You believe?"

"She moved to California at the end of last month."

"Why?"

"She had an offer for a better position in a senator's office there. Joan gave her a great recommendation, so -"

"Don't give me that bull. What happened?"

At the rawness of the question, Michael rocked back on his haunches, turned his head. The surprise in his eyes quickly gave way to a delving, measuring look. That look had always bothered Paul, because he never knew what Michael Dickinson might pull out of him in such moments.

"We couldn't give each other what we both wanted." Michael spoke with measured reluctance.

"What was that?"

"Forever."

The word was like a spark to Paul's smoldering mood. "What's so almighty wonderful about forever? Settling down, getting married, having a family, is that what you're talking about? Why does everybody harp on that? What -"

He snapped the words off when the look in Michael's eyes hit home. He should have remembered that Michael's past had given him a different view of this subject.

"Paul, you take it for granted, and you shouldn't. Family and stability - that's pretty damn rare, you know."

"Stability," Paul repeated with disdain. "Yeah, so stable that at the age of twelve your life's mapped out for you. Just follow the step-by-step instructions and you'll turn out to be the perfect family clone."

"You haven't done so badly in the individualism department, Monroe."

Paul dropped the roller into the pan, not caring about the spatters on the drop cloth, and took a deep breath. "I'm not going to let my life be run by somebody else's rules, Michael. Not ever."

Michael said nothing. After a while, Paul heard him return to painting and Paul took up the roller, though he found less pleasure in it. The silence had changed.

"Who is she, Paul?"

"Who's who?" Michael didn't bother to answer that, and Paul felt foolish for the evasion. "Bette. Bette Wharton."

"And?" Michael prompted.

"And not much. Grand total of three dinners and a few kisses." He felt no guilt at the understatement. "We went out last Wednesday, Thursday and Sunday. Things seemed to click. Then she avoided me Monday and Tuesday, said no Wednesday and resumed avoiding me Thursday."

"What about Friday and today?"

"She wasn't around Friday and today."

"Ah."

"Ah what? What's 'ah' mean?" Irritation spurted sharp and hot.

"What do you do when a woman turns down a date?"

"Forget her, because . . ." He broke off the familiar words. He'd said them to Michael and Grady maybe two thousand times over the past fifteen years. Forget her, because there're plenty who'll say yes.

"Yet,
this
woman you keep asking. That's why 'ah.' "

Paul loaded paint on the roller and slapped it against the wall, then had to roll like crazy to remedy the drips, splotches and spatters. He was short on breath by the time he re-wetted the roller, this time more cautiously.

"You've got another session at the Smithsonian coming up, don't you?" Michael asked from behind him. From the sound of it, he'd continued painting, too.

"Yeah."

"Made any decision about taking up the offer to be a regular consultant?"

They were all after him about the damn museum - Jan, his father, Michael. Bette would join them if she found out about the opportunity. It was the sort of thing that would appeal to her plan-ahead mind. Probably tell him what a step forward this could he. If he were stupid enough to invite the lectures by telling her . . . if he ever had the opportunity to be that stupid, if he ever saw her again.

"No."

"All right, all right, don't bark at me. I'm not the one inconsiderate enough to give you a flattering offer."

"Shut up, Dickinson."

"All right."

That was one of the most annoying things about Michael - he shut up when you told him to shut up. By the time Michael spoke next, Paul had turned the corner to the next wall, and his mood had subsided to low-level hostility.

"So, you're leaving for D.C. a week from Wednesday and will be back the next Sunday?"

"Something like that. How'd you know?"

"The same way I ever know anything about your plans - I hear it from your mother, your sister or your assistant. This time it was Jan. I called her to congratulate her on the baby, and asked when you'd be around."

"Why'd you want to know? You want to come with me? I'm staying with Tris. I'm sure there'd be room for you, too."

He regretted the words instantly. To Paul's knowledge, Michael had never told anyone of his feelings for Tris. Maybe never even admitted them to himself. But Paul knew him very well, and the stillness betrayed him. "I was kidding, Dickinson. Why'd you want to know those dates?"

"I'll have to spend some time up in Chicago. I thought I'd make it coincide with you being in town if I could."

"Before Thanksgiving?" Since the first year of college, both Michael and Grady had spent most of their holidays with the Monroes.

"Yes. I've just decided to make it the first full week of November. Right after you get back from D.C."

Paul twisted around, but Michael remained bent over the woodwork and the back of his head revealed nothing.

"Why?"

Michael kept painting with even, steady strokes.

"I think I should meet this Bette Wharton."

THE REST OF
the weekend passed without another mention of Bette.

Paul wished his mind had been as cooperative.

Driving home Sunday night, he found himself on I-55 instead of his usual meandering back roads, almost as if he were in a hurry. When he swung north on the Tri-State, he justified it as trying a new way back to his apartment. That excuse held until he got off at the Elmhurst exit. In front of Bette's house, he was out of excuses.

Also out of luck, he thought wryly as he considered the dark windows. Either she wasn't home or she was in bed.

Bette in bed
. The image appeared instantly, hot and heady behind his eyes. The sheets cool and serene like her voice, but with that promise under them of smooth heat.

He shifted. Too abruptly. His right thigh jammed against the steering wheel. He closed his eyes against the thoughts, then opened them immediately. Closing his eyes made it worse.

She probably wasn't home. Common sense said ten o'clock on a Sunday night was a little early to go to bed, unless . . . unless you weren't alone.

Sense drowned in unfamiliar jealousy. A meeting with a client Thursday night. A Friday morning departure for an out-of-town trip. Could one have extended into the other? Could she be away with someone? Could she . . .?

No. Bette wouldn't have kissed him the way she had if she'd been involved with someone else. The certainty in his gut was stronger than common sense or jealousy. He relaxed.

So she wasn't home yet.

He could leave a note - and say, what?

A snatch of lyric from an old song entered his head, something about the singer's determination to get his girl, and his lips curved. Yup, that was exactly what he wanted to say. But some things were better left unsaid - and simply acted upon.

She might think she'd shaken him loose. She might think he'd forget the laughter and teasing, the kissing and the holding. She might think his ego would forget all that after a week's worth of refusals. She thought wrong.

He turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from the curb in front of Bette's house, still smiling and softly singing to himself.

BETTE PUSHED OPEN
her front door and automatically checked her watch. Nearly eleven o'clock, and she had to unpack and go through files she hadn't finished reviewing this weekend at her brother's house in Minneapolis.

It was a lovely house, and it had been wonderful to see the whole family, with her parents up from Arizona for two weeks to visit their new baby granddaughter - although Bette didn't envy her sister-in-law a fortnight of houseguests on top of a rambunctious two-year-old and a new baby. Still, Claire had seemed to greet the chaos with equanimity.

Bette frowned as she maneuvered her suitcase down the hall and around the corner to her bedroom. Perhaps there would have been less chaos if there'd been less equanimity. It only required some planning, some forethought. She knew that wasn't Claire's strong point, but surely Ron had learned that at home, as she had.

As it was, her decision to rent a car, despite his assurances he could drive her wherever she had to go, had been wise. Otherwise she never would have made the business appointments she'd set up.

She slipped off her coat and rubbed her forehead, pushing against muscles tightened by the frown. The odd thing was, her parents had seemed perfectly content to go with the flow, no matter how undirected. She didn't remember them being that relaxed when she'd been growing up.

She remembered them following the precepts her mother had learned from her own parents - selecting a goal, working toward it step by careful step and never wavering until you reached it. That made for a very organized life. That was how she'd always viewed her parents. Maybe they'd changed in the relaxed atmosphere of her father's early retirement.

She pressed her fingertips harder against the frown. Or could her memories be skewed?

Her hand went from her forehead to her mouth to cover a huge yawn. She should go to bed.

Instead, she returned to the front table where her neighbor had stacked her mail and newspapers. She flipped through quickly, checking each envelope but opening only those she couldn't immediately identify. Nothing. Nothing of interest, anyhow.

Hitting the play button on her answering machine, she listened to the neighbor who'd checked her mail ask her to care for her cat the following weekend. A longtime friend passing through the area called to say hello. Then came two real estate brokers confirming appointments she'd made to interview them. And Darla suggesting she take Monday morning off since her return flight was so late.