Blame It on Paris (17 page)

There was no household help on the weekends, never had been, so when the meal was over, he got up with his mom. It wasn't as if he liked dishes—who the hell liked dishes? But his sisters were happy to escape KP, so nobody interrupted them. He piled dishes into the dishwasher and watched as his mother wrapped up leftovers.

“You know that was the best dinner I had in four years, don't you?”

“In Paris? With all those French chefs?” She wiped down the counter. He started turning off lights. He knew how she liked her kitchen left, just the light over the stove as a night illumination. “Will…is there a girl?”

When it was just him and his mother, different things got said. “Yes. No guarantees it'll work out. But…yes.”

“I can see it in your face. That there was someone serious. Someone you really care about.”

Will nodded. “I do care.”

“She lives here? Or in France?”

“Here, Mom.”

He could see the relief in her smile. “Am I going to meet her?”

“Yes. Soon. I hope, anyway.”

Happy with that answer, she didn't push, just sneaked right into the subject she wanted to talk about. “He's tired, Will. Tired of the ninety-hour workweeks. You can see he's having trouble, from the way he walks, the way he moves. He wants to act like the thirty-five-year-old bull he once was. But he can't run everything at his age.”

“Has he been to a doctor?”

“Yes. But he won't tell me. I don't know the whole story. I know he's got the obvious—cholesterol, some arthritis. But the thing is, I want you to be gentle with him.” It was the only thing his mother really lifted her chin about. She wanted him to be good to his father. “It's past time you two got along.”

“That's the point, Mom. It takes two.”

“No. It's going to take you to be the better man. I'm asking you to try—for his sake. It's not as if he doesn't love you, Will. You're half his soul. And it's not as if he was ever a bad father. Be a bigger man than he is,” she whispered. “I know you're capable of it.”

Okay, Will thought. The first pressure gun had been fired. It wasn't as if he hadn't expected it, and as long as his mom didn't cry again, he could handle it.

It was one example, though, of what Kelly didn't understand when she blithely told him to get his butt in gear and fix it all. She seemed to think he had miraculous powers. That he was some kind of hero who could change anything with enough character and strength and all that crap.

Then, of course, came the second round of pressure. He had only disappeared for two seconds to take a leak, but Laurie and Liz were waiting for him when he emerged from the upstairs bathroom. He sensed a trap.

“We both have to head home, but just wanted to catch a few minutes alone with you,” Laurie said.

Laurie was always the ringleader, at least when Martha wasn't around. They herded him into his old room, which, naturally, his mom had long redone. But still there was the desk where he'd sat doing calc and physics…where Whiskey, their old Irish setter, had hung out at his feet…where a pile of football and sports and academic letters and trophies had hung on the far wall.

Liz caught him up on her life story. She'd graduated, finally, after six grisly years of trying to pin down a major and a potential career. “But now I know how much I love interior design. I want to move to Chicago, set up there. I mean, how much can I do in South Bend? I need a real city, a place where there's some serious action in my field.”

Will mentally translated. She needed money for a car, for an apartment, a stake in a business or in a partnership. A high-end stake.

Laurie had a different tune. She was just a year younger than he was, and the two of them had been thick as thieves as kids. If Laurie got in trouble, Will had always been at her back. When he warred with their dad, she was always there to listen.

“I've got a guy,” she said.

“A good one?”

“You'd like him. He's very nerdy. Smart. All A's all the way through high school and college.”

Will could have smelled the “but” from five miles away with his nostrils clamped shut. “So what does he do?”

“He's an artist. But don't be thinking he's the lazy, starving-artist kind…”

Five minutes later, Will knew the guy was a loser. His sister would be supporting the jerk, if they got married, which was what Laurie wanted to do. “I haven't told Dad and Mom yet,” she confided.

Naturally. Their dad would raise the roof over her marrying a lazy loafer, but after a bunch of protests, Aaron would come through with a big wedding, a house for a wedding present, and yeah, he'd set the guy up with his own studio or whatever. Because that's what his dad did. He coddled the girls.

On the surface, Aaron Maguire came across as the most generous man alive.

That's how Kelly would probably see him, too, Will thought morosely, as he made his way downstairs a few minutes later. Everybody thought Aaron was a god and a half—a generous, fabulous father, devoted to his family, hard worker, blah-blah-blah.

He found both of his parents in front of the theater screen, the volume on low, heated brandy snifters in front of them—and an extra poured for him.

His mom looked at him with hopeful eyes, then excused herself to go to the bathroom. She didn't come back.

That's when he knew the big-pressure gun was already cocked in his direction. Aaron flicked off the TiVo and motioned for him to sit down.

Aw, hell, Will thought.

“I can't tell you how happy I am that you're home, son, how much we've missed you. Tell me what you've been doing. I want to hear everything.”

It all sounded so good, Will thought. So nice. So fatherly. So loving. That's how Kelly would see it, too, he was positive. She'd take one look at Aaron and think he was a darling. Aaron would take to her like another daughter added to the fold.

Will hadn't been in the room with his dad three minutes before feeling strangled.

They made it five before voices were raised.

Seven before they were shouting at each other.

 

S
UNDAY MORNING
Kelly pulled into her driveway and spotted the lone figure sitting on her front porch step. She recognized Will in a second flat.

Her mood hopelessly, helplessly, lifted sky-high. But that didn't prevent her from immediately intuiting that something was wrong. Her first clue had been his failing to call for several days—not that that was a crime—but his showing up on a Sunday morning before ten without a check-in call first definitely indicated trouble.

The instant he heard her Saturn's engine, Will's head shot up and he was on his feet and striding toward her, giving a low, wicked whistle when he saw the legs, the swish of skirt and apricot top.

“You been out on an early date?” he demanded, with just enough jealousy in his tone to sound as if he meant it.

“You bet. By ten on Sunday, I've usually seduced a couple of guys and am ready for a break.”

He knew she'd been at church.

“Did you see your dad?”

“Sure did.”

“How'd it go?” She opened the door and immediately lowered her voice, knowing her roommate would still be sleeping. Will did the same.

“Went fine. No sweat.” He averted his eyes. “So what's your agenda for the day?”

Apparently she was going to have company today. “My original plan was to paint my room. Even if I'm only very temporarily living here, I can't stand that dirty gray color even a day longer.”

“You're not exactly dressed for painting,” he noticed.

“By the time you pour me a mug of coffee in the kitchen, I will be.”

Okay, so maybe it took a little longer to find her old paint shorts and Notre Dame tee, yank them on and clip up her hair. Still, she was a skilled hustler when she needed to be. Within twenty minutes they were hanging at the paint counter at Lowe's. At least, she was hanging. He was fidgeting, male style. That roll of his eyes communicated the intrepid male
are we going to be here all day?
look.

“I'm not being fussy,” she insisted. “I'm trying to pick a color that'll work for the tenant after me. The landlord'll subtract the cost of the paint from my rent. So I don't want to screw it up by picking something really off.”

“Hey. I don't object to painting. Good thing to do on a Sunday afternoon. But how about white?”

She laughed.

“What's so funny?”

“Men and white paint.” She murmured, “I'm thinking cinnamon. With vanilla trim.”

“That isn't paint. That's food. What's with the ex? Any more problems with Geronimo?”

“His name is Jason. And apparently he has left town. Decided to take a week's vacation without telling anyone.”

“Then how'd
you
know?”

She sighed as she handed him the three gallons of paint to juggle on the way back to the car. “Because his mother called me. Then his sister. Then his brother. Then my mother. First, because they had no idea where he was, and then, after someone contacted his boss and found out about the vacation, they all had to call me again. They seemed to feel I'd want to know that I was responsible for Jason's being so depressed that he had to leave town.”

“Hell. That doesn't sound like a depressed guy to me. It sounds like a coward, getting out of Dodge so you'd be stuck handling everything.”

“Well, I can't fault him for that. Since I'm the one who broke it off, I don't see why he should have to deal with the aftermath. I just have to admit, this hasn't been a real fun week.” She studied him when they climbed back in the car. Looked close and hard. Didn't kiss him, didn't touch him, just…looked.

“What? I have a bug on my nose?”

“No bug. It went that badly with your dad?” she asked gently.

“Hey, I told you. It went okay.”

Yeah, right. Back at her place, they went back to whispering. Will hadn't come dressed to paint, obviously, but he kept saying his T-shirt and old jeans didn't matter. Within minutes, they'd pushed furniture and boxes to the middle of the floor and had laid down tarps.

She did the trim; he did the rolling—a division of labor that she considered sexist and unfair. His response to that was a major “duh,” as if it would have been obvious to any man in the universe that guys didn't do trim. Still, clearly in an extreme effort to be accommodating, he offered to wrestle her for rights to the roller.

“You're going to be
such
hard work for any woman who thinks you're marriage material,” she said disgustedly.

“Hey. You like me. Warts and all.”

“I am able to tolerate you,” she corrected him. Of course, that was a complete lie. Even worried about whatever he was hiding from her, her mood was singing high just from being with him. Even if they both were taking ridiculous care not to accidentally touch. And teasing helped. “Part of the reason I'm able to tolerate you is because you're capable of being a hero when a girl gets mugged. It makes up for your being a royal pain in the keester the rest of the time.”

“Welllll…I'm not sure you should be giving me credit for being a hero. I mean, I don't do much unless there's a whole lot of incentive. Such as, say, outstanding sex.”

He was dreaming if he thought she'd let him get away with that one. “We weren't talking about sex. We were talking about how things went with your dad.”

“No, we weren't. But if you're determined to bring up fathers, what's the story with yours? Has there been any contact between you two since Paris? And have you confronted your mom?”

“Ouch. Neither of those are easy issues. I brought up the subject of my dad once to my mom. At the time, she was focused on the broken engagement, couldn't let that go. But now, she hasn't mentioned my dad again, and I can't seem to.” Just trying to talk about this made her feel flustered inside. “Darn it, Will. I need to understand. I'm hurt that she lied to me—not just that she wasn't married but about never telling me I had a father who was alive. I want to know why she lied. I want to understand…”

“Hey. You're clear enough about what you want to say. Why is it so hard to get it out on the table?”

“I don't know.” A drop of vanilla paint plopped onto her cheek. “I just can't start the conversation. I get too upset.”

Somehow he'd moved across the room and found a wet rag to swipe the paint off her cheek. She tensed up in strong sexual awareness with Will that close, but he didn't pounce. He just rubbed at the paint spot. And forced her to endure a combustible amount of chemistry that she was determined to ignore.

And then, of course, he took his rag and his rascal smile and moved back to rolling paint.

After the job was finally done they moved outside, to wash out their brushes and the roller pan with the hose. It took forever to get the stuff clean, and the hose water was freezing cold. Once most of the paint was cleaned off, they moved back inside to do a major hand and face wash in the bathroom—together. Kelly couldn't help noting that both of them were still carefully not touching.