Finding Mr. Right (6 page)

She nodded. “He wants me to go to his father’s home with him Friday night for dinner. I can’t believe he wants me to meet his father. We haven’t…I mean we just met two months ago. What if his father doesn’t like me?”

“Don’t make jokes. Whether he likes you is up to you. Every father wants his son to have a beautiful woman in his life. If she is a good match for his son in other ways, like intelligence and education, so much the better. But he’ll look at you for the kind of woman who’ll make his son want to stay home and curl up with her in front of a fire on a cold winter evening.”

“Byron said his dad would like me. I have no idea what to wear. If I was going to a restaurant, there’d be no problem.
But to dinner in a private home when I don’t know the people, that’s presents a problem.”

“Wear something that Byron likes, something soft, feminine and dressy. Doesn’t he like that melon-colored silk chiffon?”

“Oh, that’s a good idea. It’s figure flattering, but it doesn’t show too much cleavage.”

“That’s what you want. Let the old man see that his boy is getting something nice.”

“Maggie! Shame on you!”

“No point in sugarcoating it. That’s what it’s all about. Byron wants his dad to meet you ’cause he’s getting in deep, if he ain’t already there. And he wouldn’t mind knowing what his dad thinks of you.”

“He has a four-year-old son from his marriage—you know he’s a widower, don’t you—and I haven’t met his son yet. He’s more important to our relationship than Byron’s father.”

“Nobody asks a four-year-old to pass judgment on an adult, although some of them are pretty good at it. When you meet his son, you’ll know that he is committed to you. Now quit worrying about it. By the way, what about Byron’s mother?”

“She’s not in the picture. When Byron was seven, his father divorced her because she had an affair with another man. She lives with him now, or at least did, and has made no effort to contact Byron or his sister, who lives in Italy.”

“He got a stepmother?”

“No. His father raised the two children on his own, and it’s something that I gather Byron is very proud of.”

“And well he should be. If I were you, I’d wear my hair down Friday. Men like that.” She got up, braced her back with both hands and straightened up fully. “Don’t worry about Byron’s father. Just be yourself, and he’ll love you. I’m going to bed. Good night.”

“Good night, and thanks for listening.” She turned the
lights out in the rooms downstairs, left a light in the foyer, and climbed the stairs. What did she mean to him?

“You said you didn’t hurt yourself and that you don’t have any pain anywhere. So why are you crying, Andy?” He’d asked the question at least ten times, but the boy’s response invariably was to sob even louder. He decided to try a different tactic. “I’m going to bed. If you don’t tell me before I leave this room, you get no cherry-vanilla ice cream for one month, and you won’t be able to con Aunt Jonie into giving you some, because there won’t be any in this house. Now, what will it be?”

Andy sniffled several times and wouldn’t hold up his head. “I…uh didn’t want you to know I rolled off the bed.”

“Why, for goodness’ sake. I’m your father, and it’s my duty to take care of you.”

“But I’m four years old, and I’m not supposed to fall out of bed. I don’t want to have to sleep in a crib. That’s for babies.”

He didn’t want to laugh, because Andy’s distress was real. “I hope you’re joking, Andy. I wouldn’t make you sleep in a crib. You’re too big for that. And I certainly wouldn’t punish you for falling out of bed. Why would you think that?”

“In the story I read this afternoon, Bubble fell out of bed, and his nanny was ashamed of him and sent him to sleep in his crib.”

“That was Bubble’s nanny in a story. I’m your father. How did you fall out?” Andy’s arms tightened around Byron’s neck. “I was playing soccer. I mean I dreamed I was playing soccer, and when I kicked at the ball, I think that’s when I fell out.”

“All right. Give me a kiss, and go back to sleep.”

“Can I have cherry-vanilla ice cream tomorrow?”

“Yes, you may.” He tucked the covers around the child, adjusted the air conditioner and kissed Andy’s forehead. “Good night, son.”

“Good night, Daddy.”

He went to his room and sat in the dark for a minute and then got up and opened the blinds. The moonlight reminded him of the carriage ride with Tyra. He’d soaked up her sweetness like a sponge, and he doubted that he would ever get enough of her. Whenever he was with her, the world seemed so right. Whether she hugged him, kissed him or argued with him made no difference. She was there with him, a boundless joy.

It wouldn’t surprise him if Andy acted out with Tyra. The boy was not accustomed to sharing his father with anyone. Aunt Jonie kept a little distance between herself and Andy, for she didn’t want to assume a mother role with her nephew. He’d handle it when he got to it, and he knew he could count on Tyra to use good judgment in dealing with a child. She wouldn’t love him at first but, if Andy gave her a chance, she would learn to. Now, if he could get that suit settled and if things worked out Friday night, his world would once again be standing on its legs and not on its head.

He got home from work Friday evening, showered, shaved, went over Andy’s reading and arithmetic with him and fell across his bed, exhausted. They had settled the damage suit and although he knew his client would be satisfied, he’d given up more than he wanted to. He turned over on his back and put the lawsuit behind him.

“Daddy. Daddy. Wake up. Tyra wants to talk to you, Daddy. She wants to know if you’re all right. Here’s the phone, Daddy.”

He rolled over and sat up. “What time is it, Andy?”

“Wait a minute. Your watch says six twenty-seven. Here’s the phone.”

“Hello.” He barely recognized his gravelly voice. “Tyra? This is awful, sweetheart. I came home exhausted, checked Andy’s homework, showered and laid across the bed. I didn’t
intend to go to sleep. No, I don’t want you to meet me at my dad’s place. I’ll call him, and I’ll be at your place in half an hour. I’m sorry about this.”

He hung up, called his father and explained. “I was arguing a case for four solid hours today. See you at about seven-twenty.” He put on a gray pinstriped suit, a white shirt and a pink and gray paisley tie.

“Where’re you going, Daddy?”

“I’m going to your grandfather’s house, and I’m late.”

“Is Tyra going, too?”

“Yes, she is.”

“Tyra has a pretty voice. Where does she live, Daddy?”

“About fifteen miles from here, and I’d better hurry. I’ll answer the rest of your questions tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

Fortunately, Tyra didn’t live in Frederick, but in its suburbs just off Route 70. If there was no traffic, he’d make it by seven. His father lived closer to Frederick than to Baltimore, so he didn’t expect to get there too late.

Tyra opened the door and stared up at Byron. “You shouldn’t haven driven so fast. Please don’t speed like that.”

He picked her up, swung her around, set her on her feet and hugged her. “I don’t as a rule, but there was no traffic. You look beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. You always look great, but this dress is…something else.”

“I’m glad you like it. I didn’t want to wear anything too revealing.”

Both of his eyebrows shot up and then slowly returned to their normal positions. “I see what you mean. Where’s Maggie?”

“She and Darlene went to see a movie. I’m ready when you are.”

He glanced down at her feet. “Hmm. You’re taller tonight. Where’s your handbag?”

She handed him her key. “I don’t need one.”

“Thanks for your confidence, and thanks for calling and waking me up.”

“I was upset, because I didn’t know what happened to you. You’re never late. Andy is an exceptional four-year-old. He asked my name, and when I told him, he asked me how I spelled it. He already knows the alphabet?”

“Andy reads at second grade level, and he can manage some third grade books. He’s working on arithmetic. That’s his idea. I encourage, but I don’t push him. He loves to read, and he loves to learn.”

“That means you’ve spent a lot of quality time with him. I’m happy to hear it. Whatever constructive time you invest in a child pays rich dividends.”

“True.” He headed to Route 40 and a shortcut to his dad’s house. “Andy had questions about you, and he’ll have some more tomorrow. By the way, he thinks you have a ‘pretty voice.’”

“How sweet of him. I would expect your child to be smart. But if he didn’t have the voice of a small child, I could have mistaken him for a much older child. He said, ‘Dad’s asleep. You want to talk to him?’ I told him I did and he said, ‘Just a minute, please.’”

The closer they got to their destination, the more nervous she became. Finally, Byron said, “Look, baby, you have to stop twisting your hands. This is not going to be torture. My dad is a great guy.”

“I believe you, but my nerves don’t.”

“That’s the craziest thing I ever heard.” He turned into a narrow lane over which hung a trellis of brides’ bushes in full white bloom, and she gasped at the beauty of it as the dying sun rays peeped through.

“This is idyllic, Byron. How long has he lived here?”

“Since before I was born. He wouldn’t leave here for
anything. He has a large garden, a terrace and a swimming pool in the back of the house. It’s all well protected, and he’s happy here.” The big white brick house loomed in front of them.

“He lives in this huge house by himself?”

“Yes, but his housekeeper-cook comes every day except Sunday. He has a lot of friends, too.” The sensor in his car opened the gate, and he drove through and parked in front of the house.

“I’m surprised he has a locked fence.”

“I told him to install it when he put the swimming pool in, and he’s glad he did. Most of the properties out here are fenced.” He got out, opened her door and took her hand. “Dad may have invited a friend to join us. I’d better warn you women like him a lot.”

“Why are you telling me that?”

“So you’d stop being nervous. The devil made me do it.” He hugged her with one arm as he rang the bell.

The door opened and she looked into the face of a tall, svelte man in an off-white linen suit, white shirt and red tie. His face transformed itself into a warm grin that seemed to glow. Her nervousness gone, she stepped into the house and hugged Lewis Whitley.

“Now I know why he wanted me to meet you. He wanted to show off. Welcome, Tyra. I’m pleased that you agreed to come to dinner with Byron so that you and I could get to know each other.” She saw him look over her shoulder and give the thumbs-up sign to his son. “Come on in, son. She’s a lovely lady.” When they embraced, she could see that it was genuine and that they did it often.

As if he wouldn’t be outdone, Byron put an arm securely around her waist and said, “Dad, this is Tyra Cunningham. Tyra, I don’t have to tell you that this is my father, Lewis Whitley.”

“No,” she said, happier and more self-confident than she’d been in a week. “You’re the spitting image of him.”

“Come in, you two. Meet my neighbor. We’re friends. She’s not man-hunting.” Tyra stifled a gasp, looked up at Lewis and relaxed when she saw the twinkle in his eyes. He had a mischievous streak. But that shouldn’t have surprised her; so did Byron. They walked into the living room, and her gaze landed on the huge stone fireplace at one end and the enormous Persian carpet that covered the other half of the room near the fireplace where comfortable seating had been arranged. Good taste everywhere and evidence of the money with which to indulge it. At the other end of the room sat a Steinway grand, and a music stand facing a floor to ceiling picture window.

“Nora Smith, this is my son, Byron, and his friend, Tyra Cunningham.” They finished the introductions, and Lewis served drinks and snacks, sat down and made himself comfortable. “Tyra, this is the house in which Byron grew up. I hope you’ll spend a lot of time here.”

“Thank you, sir. Do you play the piano?”

“Yes, I do, and the violin, too. Next to my work, I get the most pleasure out of music.” He sat forward, his face bright and animated, already immersed in the subject. “I can play for hours and not realize the passing of time.”

“Does Byron play the piano with you when you’re playing the violin?”

“When he was a teenager, we did that all the time. I have more music for piano and violin than any other kind. We still play together occasionally. Do you play a musical instrument?”

“No, sir. When I was growing up, I didn’t have the opportunity to learn, but I’d give anything if I could play the piano.”

“Buy a piano, give me an hour—preferably two—of your time every week, and in one year, you’ll be playing, that is if you practice. How badly do you want to learn?”

She wanted to look at Byron for advice, but forced herself not to. “I want it badly enough to buy a piano, come here for
two hours every week and practice.” She turned to Byron. “What do you think of that plan, Byron?”

“He’s a wonderful teacher. Could you teach her on Monday evenings, Dad?”

Lewis leaned back in his chair and looked at his son. “I’m not sure your presence would be a help, but let’s try it that way. Let Byron know when you’re ready to start.”

“Thanks. I will. You can’t imagine what this means to me. Byron told me I should study, and I hadn’t made a move toward getting started.” Tyra looked at the other guest. “Do you play an instrument, Mrs. Smith?”

“Good heavens, no. I gave that up when I was ten. When it comes to music, my only talent is for listening.”

“Dinner’s ready, Mr. Whitley,” announced Mrs. Owens, the housekeeper.

Lewis introduced his housekeeper to his guest, said the grace, tasted the wild mushroom soup, looked at his housekeeper and gave her the thumbs-up. “Up to your usual high standard, Mrs. Owens.”

At the end of the elegant meal, Lewis told his housekeeper that she could leave, and called a taxi for her. “Tyra and I can make the coffee and serve it, you go on home”

“Thank you, sir. It’s been a long day. Good night, all.”

Tyra knew that Lewis had maneuvered it so that he could have a moment alone with her. “What kind of coffee are we making?” she asked him. “I expect Byron wants espresso. Can we make that?”