Not Quite Married (16 page)

Clara was just wrapping it up with Renée when she heard Dalton coming back down the stairs. She sat up a little taller against the pillows, aiming a smile of welcome his way as she heard his footsteps approaching down the side hall.

Her smile died a quick death when she saw his face. He stopped near the kitchen island and stared at her, one-eyed. Because his right eye was swollen shut.

And the shiner wasn’t all. He had a giant purpling bruise on the left side of his jaw, a mean-looking cut on his forehead that he’d doctored with those little bandage strips—and his lower lip was split.

She said into the phone, “Renée, I need to go.”

“Sure. We’re pretty much done anyway. Tomorrow, then?”

“Bye.” Clara hung up and swung her feet to the rug.

“Don’t get up.” He came for her.

Ignoring his command, she gained her feet, braced her belly with one hand and rounded the couch to meet him. “Oh, my God. What happened? Were you mugged?” Instinctively, she reached to touch the giant swollen bruise on his chin.

He caught her outstretched fingers and kissed them with his poor, battered lips. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?”
Her heart was beating much too fast and her stomach churned. “Wrong. My God, look at you. Is anything broken? We need to call an—”

“Clara, we don’t need to call anyone. Don’t get excited, okay?”

“I damn well
will
get excited.” She rubbed her belly in an effort to soothe both herself and the baby, and said furiously, “This is outrageous. We need to get you to the hospital. You could have a concussion, broken bones...”

“Shh...” He looked down at her fondly, with a twinkle in his good eye.

A
twinkle
? Somebody had just beaten the poor man to a pulp and he could stand there and
twinkle
at her? She said smartly, “Don’t you dare shush me. Not now. If someone’s attacked you, we need to—”

“No one’s attacked me.” He put his hands on her shoulders, turned her around and pointed her toward the sofa cushions. “Go on. Lie back down. Please.”

She shrugged off his hands and faced him again. “Tell me what is going on.”

That twinkle? Gone now. He looked suddenly somber. She peered at him more closely, frowning.

Wait a minute. Did he look just a little bit guilty?

She demanded, “Tell me. Now.”

He put his hand to his jaw and winced as he prodded at it.

She accused, “See? Your jaw is broken. I knew it.”

“My jaw is not broken,” he said wearily. “Please go back to the sofa.”

“Fine.” She reached around to rub that sore spot at the base of her spine. “I’ll sit down and put my feet up. And then
you
will tell me what happened and how.”

He didn’t look happy. But he did give her a reluctant nod. “All right. The sofa.”

So she marched back where she’d been, lowered her body with slow care and stretched out her legs across the cushions. “There. I’m on the sofa.” She made a space for him next to her and patted it invitingly. “Sit here.” He hesitated. And then, at last, looking a little like a condemned man on his way to the gallows, he trudged over and dropped down beside her. She patted his thigh. “Are you
sure
you don’t need medical attention?”

“Positive.”

“All right, then. Talk.”

Another hesitation. And then finally, “I went to see Ryan.”

In the space of an instant, her fear and worry vanished, to be replaced by a burst of sheer fury. “Wait. No. I don’t believe it.”

“Clara, I—”

She cut him off. “You got in a
fight
with Ryan, didn’t you?”

He put up both hands. “Now, Clara. Take it easy. It’s not good for you or the baby if you let yourself get worked up.”

“Answer the question.”

“Clara, I—”

“
Did
you get in a fight with Rye?”

He muttered a low curse. “Yes.”

She gaped at him, the hot ball of anger in the center of her chest gradually increasing in size. And intensity. “I don’t believe this. This isn’t happening. You’re a
banker
, for heaven’s sake. Bankers don’t get in brawls.”

“Look. I apologize. It shouldn’t have happened.”

She sputtered, “You...you
apologize
? You can’t see out of one eye, your lip’s split, your jaw is the color of a ripe eggplant—and all you’ve got is you’re sorry?”

“Clara, I—”

She didn’t even let him finish. “One thing I asked of you. One thing. To get along with Ryan...”

“Clara, come on...” He reached out a placating hand.

She batted it away. “How messed up is
he
?”

Dalton scowled through his bruises. “He’s fine. About the same as me.”

“The same as you?”

“Isn’t that what I just said?”

“The same as you is definitely not fine.”

“Damn it, Clara, I—”

She cut him off again. “Where is he now?”

He rubbed his sore jaw some more and muttered, “I left him at that bar he owns.”

As mad as she was at him, she still worried he needed to see a doctor. And should she trust him when he said that Rye was fine? She had to know for herself. So she grabbed her phone and autodialed his cell as Dalton protested, “Clara, come on. I said he’s all right...”

She sent him a fulminating glance and gestured sharply for silence.

Rye answered on the second ring. “How’s your boyfriend?” He actually dared to sound smug.

Oh, she was going to kill him—as soon as she finished murdering the man beside her. She glared at Dalton and muttered to Rye, “I take it you’re okay.”

Rye actually chuckled, causing Clara to feel as if the top of her head might pop off. “I’m not all that pretty at the moment. But neither is he, right?”

“I swear, Rye. If you were here, I’d beat you up myself. Did you
have
to get into it with him?”

“Good question. Let me think. Uh, yeah. Yeah, I did—and if you ask him, I’m betting his answer will be the same.”

“Men,” she grumbled to herself. And then she said to Rye, “I can’t talk to you now.”

“Hey.
You
called
me
.”

“Goodbye, Ryan.” Disconnecting before he could say another annoying word, she tossed the phone on the coffee table.

Dalton said, “See? He’s fine. We’re both fine.”

She folded her arms and rested them on the high swell of her stomach. “You could have broken a bone, gotten you head bashed in, ended up in the hospital breathing through a tube.”

“Now, Clara, come on. You know you’re overdramatizing.”

“Dear Lord, give me patience.”

“We just needed to get a few things straight, Ryan and me.”

“By beating the crap out of each other?”

He swore low—as if that was some kind of answer.

She sneered. “So, now do the two of you have it all worked out?”

“It’s a guy thing. I don’t expect you to understand.”

She seethed at him for a good count of five. And then she realized she couldn’t talk to him any more than she could to Ryan right now. “Get up, please.”

He frowned—or at least, she assumed it was a frown. Hard to tell with all the swelling. “Why?”

“I want to go to my room and you’re in my way.”

“Clara...”

“Get up.”

Looking all grim and put-upon—as though
she
were the problem and not two pigheaded, ridiculous men—he rose and moved away from the couch. “All right. Maybe it’s a good idea if you give yourself some time to cool off a little.”

She pressed her lips together, pushed herself to her feet, grabbed her laptop and phone and headed for the bedroom.

He called after her, “I’ll bring you some dinner. That chicken smells wonderful.”

She stopped just past the kitchen island and turned to him. “I’m not hungry, thank you. All I want is for you to leave me alone.” And then she turned on her heel and lumbered to her room.

When she got there, she couldn’t quite stop herself from slamming the door behind her.

* * *

Clara stayed in her room all that evening, only opening the door once at around seven when he knocked and insisted that she had to eat something. She took the tray from him and shut the door in his face.

The next day was Saturday. She ate breakfast sitting across the table from him, but she resisted his efforts to make peace. Once she’d eaten, she returned to her room.

She wasn’t really angry anymore by then. Just deeply disappointed both in Dalton
and
in her lifelong friend.

And of course, word spread quickly among her family and friends that Dalton and Rye had come to blows in the back of McKellan’s.

Elise and Tracy came by that afternoon. They made sympathetic noises at Dalton, whose face was a rainbow of colors, his jaw enormous, his right eye looking as if he would never be able to see out of it again. Clara took the two women to the back deck and gave them iced tea. They tittered and whispered that she ought to see Ryan.

“He’s at least as bad off as Dalton,” Tracy announced with something way too close to glee. “His nose looks like a giant tomato.”

Tracy sighed in an absurdly dreamy way. “A lot of people think it’s kind of romantic, the two of them fighting over you.”

“A lot of people are idiots,” Clara replied.

That snapped Tracy out of it. “Ahem, well, yes, Clara. They certainly are.”

“Dogs fight. Tomcats fight. Men should be better than that.”

“True,” intoned Elise. “Too true.” But Clara didn’t miss the look she shared with Tracy, or the way the two of them were trying so hard not to grin.

Aunt Agnes came by after church on Sunday. She took one look at Dalton, pressed her perfectly manicured hand to the giant turquoise necklace that draped halfway down her bony chest and let out a cry of dramatic distress. “Oh, you poor man. I heard about what happened. I’m so sorry you were attacked.”

Clara couldn’t let that stand. “He wasn’t attacked. It was a backroom brawl. And Dalton gave as good as he got.”

Agnes did a little tongue-clucking. And then she told Dalton, “Ryan McKellan was not properly brought up. Hasn’t Clara told you? His father deserted the family when he was only a baby. He and his brother, Walker, were raised by their mother and a bachelor uncle.” She turned accusing eyes on Clara. “Without the steadying hand of a father, children grow up wild and undisciplined, lacking in self-control.” Her gaze swung back to Dalton and she poured on the sugar. “I do hope Clara is taking good care of you.”

Clara couldn’t help remarking, “Actually, Aunt Agnes, I’m in no condition to take care of anybody. Dalton is supposedly here because
he
wanted to help take care of
me
.”

“Of course I remember that, dear. I’m not as young as I once was, but I’m far from senile. And a man and a woman should care for each
other
in difficult moments of life. Even if you can’t be up and around, you
can
be supportive in an emotional sense.”

Clara reminded herself that you could never win an argument with Aunt Agnes. She kept her peace.

Agnes gave Dalton a beatific smile. “I just hope you’re all right.”

Dalton said he was doing fine and then Agnes mentioned what a beautiful day it was and she would just
love
a little private time with Clara out on the deck.

Private time with Agnes was the last thing Clara needed right then. But her great-aunt insisted. So out they went. Dalton brought them cold drinks and left them alone.

At which point Agnes started in with one of her lectures. “You need to marry that man, dearest. You need to do it right away. He’s a good man from a fine family. With a man like that, you’ll never want for anything.”

“I’m not wanting for anything right now. I have plenty of my own money.”

“Money isn’t all of it. You know that very well. And you must face the fact that whatever happened to cause that altercation between him and Ryan McKellan had to have been greatly exacerbated by poor Dalton’s frustration that you keep dragging your heels about marrying him. You’ve driven him to distraction and violence with your shilly-shallying and you need to stop stalling and let him do right by you and the child.”

“I’m not stalling. And it is in no way my fault that he and Ryan behaved like a couple of yahoos and beat each other’s faces in. Plus, I’ve never said I would marry him.”

“Of course you will marry him.”

“Aunt Agnes. Stop. Please. Dalton and I are...working on this.” Or they had been, until he traded blows with Ryan and thoroughly pissed her off.

“Working on it? What does that mean?”

“Just what I said. We’re working on our relationship, trying to figure out if maybe we could make a life together, after all.”

“There is nothing to figure out.”

“I disagree.”

“The man is ready to marry you. And you’re hanging back, hesitating to make the right choice because of the emotional damage inflicted upon you by a father who refused to honor his marriage vows and broke your poor mother’s tender heart.”

“That’s your opinion.”

“An informed opinion that happens to be correct.”

“You need to let it go, Aunt Agnes. It’s not your decision to make.”

Agnes harrumphed. “Well, at least you’re finally admitting that you’re trying to work it out with him.” She heaved a giant, weary sigh, followed by, “I only hope you come to your senses and say yes before your baby grows up into another fatherless hooligan, brawling in bars and unable to hold a productive place in society.” There was more in the same vein. Finally, Agnes seemed to run out of steam.

She finished her lemonade and admired Clara’s xeriscape garden and got up to go, bending as she left to give Clara a kiss on the cheek. “I only want what’s best for you and the child.”

“I know, Aunt Agnes. And I love you.”

“I love you, too, dear—I’ll see myself out.”

Clara remained on the deck alone for a while, enjoying the May sunshine, and admitting to herself that some of what her overbearing great-aunt had said did make sense. Her mother’s longtime suffering over her father’s betrayal had gotten to her, made her warier than she might otherwise have been, made her more careful about giving her heart.