As Darkness Gathers (Dark Betrayals Book 2) (2 page)

“For starters, you would move into my house.”

“I like my apartment. You wouldn’t want to move in with me?”

He patted his lips with his napkin and folded it into a neat triangle before setting it on the table. “There’s no need for us to live in a tiny apartment when I have a house more than large enough for the both of us. We could even get a cat, perhaps.”

“I like dogs.” I wasn’t certain why the note of belligerence had crept into my voice, but his calm tone frustrated me.

“Then we’ll get a dog.”

“I’d like children one day.” I almost expected him to say,
I’m certain that can be arranged,
but he only nodded. Before I lost my nerve, I aimed for Julia’s bluntness and said, “Would we have sex more if we were married?”

His eyebrows shot up, and he glanced around, lowering his voice before answering. “We’re both very busy, Finch, but I’m sure we could coordinate a schedule.”

Coordinate a schedule?
I was starting to feel hysterical, and a laugh almost slipped out. “And when I have a baby, I’d like to quit working, if we could afford it.”

He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Why? You love your job.”

“I do, but I’ve always thought a mother should be home with her children, if she can. Especially when they’re young.”

“That’s an old-fashioned notion, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps.” I wasn’t budging, however, not even for him.

He studied me for several moments, the expression in his brown eyes unreadable, before he sat forward, placed his napkin back in his lap, and resumed eating his salad. “Is the soup not to your liking?”

I found myself wanting to dump the bowl of split pea over his obtuse head. “The soup is fine.” I hadn’t even tasted it, and I wouldn’t be able to with the knot growing in my stomach. “Have you listened to a word I’ve said?”

“Of course I have,” he said, his voice calm and patient. “I’m simply not certain what your point is.”

I wondered when we’d ceased conversing. Or had we ever conversed at all? Had one merely shared events of the day while the other acknowledged them and offered the appropriate response? There was no discourse, no mutual exchange of ideas. I had a sudden, clear picture of what our lives would be like if we married—the same placidity that had plagued us from the beginning of our relationship. I had thought it comfortable, but now, looking back, it appeared stagnant. I wasn’t happy with the image.
 

“I don’t think I can marry you, Jeremy.”

Aside from a flicker of his eyelids, his expression didn’t change. When he set his utensils down again, though, his knife clanked sharply against the plate. “You don’t need to take more time to think it over?”

“No.” My voice was a whisper, and my hand shook as I fumbled through my purse and pulled out the satin box that ensconced the beautiful diamond solitaire. I slid it across the table and touched Jeremy’s clenched fist. I cared for him and enjoyed his companionship, but it wouldn’t be fair to either of us to go into marriage with only that. “I’m sorry. So very sorry. I never meant to hurt you, but—”

“But you have.” His voice was low and tight, and he withdrew from my touch to stand and pull on his overcoat. “I trust you have good reasons for rejecting me.”

I swallowed. “Yes. But I don’t think you would understand them.”

His nod was tight, and after he pocketed the ring, he retrieved a hundred dollar bill from his money clip and tucked it under the edge of the candle. “I’ve lost my appetite, but that should cover the bill.” He bent to kiss my forehead, as was his custom, before he caught himself and straightened.
 

Hot moisture burned my eyes. “Jeremy—”
 

His long stride carried him quickly across the restaurant and out into the cold night.

The waiter hurried over when he saw Jeremy leave. “I trust everything is well, miss?”

“No,” I said, and my voice quavered. I dabbed my eyes with the linen napkin, wincing when I glanced at the cloth now smudged with mascara. “No, not right now.”

Rather than returning home to my apartment, I drove the forty-five minutes to my parents’ house. I parked in the driveway, but instead of knocking and entering the house I’d grown up in, I sat on the porch steps, huddled in my coat, and stared up at the night sky.

After several minutes, the front door opened. “Finch?”

“Hey, Daddy.”

“I thought I heard a car pull up.” The door closed, and the porch creaked as he joined me on the steps. “What are you doing out here in the cold, girl?”

“Just looking at the stars. They’re so bright tonight.” I pointed. “Look how clear Orion is.”

“I was reading the other day that they’re expecting Betelgeuse to supernova.”

“Really? Soon?”

“Within the next hundred thousand years.”

I glanced at my father to find him watching me.
 

He stood just under six feet, had a slight paunch but an otherwise wiry build, was completely bald, and had a laugh that could be heard two streets over. He was also perceptive, and I’d never been able to hide anything from him.

I leaned my head against his shoulder. “My evening was a brilliant explosion, so I feel Betelgeuse’s pain.”

He remained silent as I relayed the events of the evening. When I finished, he merely said, “I never liked that boy.”

I jostled him with my elbow. “You’ve never liked anyone I dated.”

“My prerogative as your father. Your mother gets to dislike your brother’s girlfriends. I get to dislike your boyfriends.”

I grinned. “How is Mom?”

“Same as when you were here last week. Menopause is a terrifying thing. She has two moods now. Mother Teresa and Genghis Khan.”

While we were laughing, the front door was thrown open and my parents’ three corgis—Athos, Porthos, and Aramis—bounded out, yapping and squirming over one another to climb into my lap.

“Jacob, what—Finch Lavinia Rhodes!”
 

I cringed at my mother’s use of my full name.
 

“You told me you weren’t coming over until tomorrow for lunch. If I’d known you were coming tonight, I would have made dinner.”

My father grumbled, his knees creaking as he stood. “All I got for dinner was a bowl of cereal.”

I rose and wove through the prancing dogs to hug my mother.
 

She was a petite woman who had only recently gained a plumpness to her usual slim build. Her pale hair was lightening to silver, and at the moment, her cheeks were rosy, though as she drew me inside I felt the chill blast of the air conditioner despite the cold temperatures outside.

“Hot flash,” my father mouthed when I glanced at him over her shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it, Mama. I’m not too hungry tonight.”

“What about a bowl of cereal? It’s been too hot to cook, and I’m really liking that cinnamon sugar children’s cereal lately.”

My father muttered under his breath and retreated into the living room.

“That actually sounds great.”

She wrapped an arm around my waist and led me into the kitchen, the dogs darting ahead of us. “While you eat, you can tell me why you look like you’ve been crying. Am I going to have to hide your father’s shotgun from him?”

A soft hum and a rhythmic pounding roused me from sleep.
 

I sat up, flipped on the bedside lamp, and gaped at my mother walking at a fast clip on the treadmill tucked in the corner. I rubbed my eyes and shoved my hair back from my face. “What on earth are you doing? It’s the middle of the night.”

Her arms pumped, and a sweatband held her hair back from her face. “Didn’t mean to wake you,” she said, huffing. “Try to go back to sleep.”

“I can’t go back to sleep with you doing that.”

“Won’t be much longer. Out of shape.”

I crawled from bed and wandered downstairs into the kitchen. I retrieved two bottles of water from the refrigerator and then climbed the stairs back to my room. The dogs woke as I passed their beds in the living room, and they waddled after me.
 

When I got back to my room, my mother had slowed her pace until she could talk without gasping for breath. She thanked me when I opened one of the bottles and handed it to her. I kept the other bottle for myself and took a long gulp as I sat on the edge of the bed and watched her wind down her power walk. The dogs sprawled on the floor at my feet.

“The treadmill is new.”

She drained the bottle of water and dragged the back of her wrist across her forehead. “So is this pooch.” She pointed to her stomach.

“You do not have a pooch, Mama.”

“My mirror says otherwise. And so does your father,” she muttered.

I choked on the water I was drinking. “He would never tell you that!”

“Not in so many words.” She slowed the treadmill to a halt. “But I think he finds me less and less attractive.” She stepped off the treadmill and bent at the waist, stretching, and I was stunned by the glint of tears in her eyes.
 

“Mama.”

She straightened and swiped a hand across her eyes. “I can’t even touch my damn toes anymore. It’s these hormones. I feel more like a bloated whale every day. An angry, bloated whale.”

I coughed to cover my laugh. “Well, I assure you, you look nothing like a whale.”
 

She lifted her bottle of water for another drink and glared at it when she realized it was empty. I handed her mine. “Thank you. I was keeping a weekly log of my weight, but it was depressing. It seems like my BMI is skyrocketing. Pretty soon, I’m going to be in the obese category.”

“You’re nowhere near obese, and I’m sure all of this is normal. Did you talk to your doctor?”

“Cynthia said it was common in women going through menopause. She just recommended watching what I eat and exercising more.”

“In the middle of the night?” A glance at the clock showed it was just past two.

Her smile was sheepish. “I didn’t mean to wake you, sweetheart. I couldn’t sleep, and your father bought me the treadmill after he realized I was going for walks outside when I had trouble sleeping.”

“That’s not safe!”

She waved away my concern. “I took my pepper spray and the boys.”

I looked at the dogs snoring on the floor. They wouldn’t deter anything more vicious than a bunny.
 

She was fanning her face with her hand, so I opened the window and let in a rush of winter chill. “You know Daddy loves you no matter what. And he’d be the first to tell you how beautiful you are.”

She sighed. “I know. But this isn’t the body of the woman he married all those years ago.”

“He’s not twenty-five anymore, either.”

“He’s also not battling hormones and sprouting hair where no woman should sprout hair.”

I winced and choked on a laugh. “You are not sprouting hair.”

“But I could. Tracy from my book club was telling me some horror stories the other day.”

“Stop listening to Tracy. She had a mustache long before she was menopausal.”