Out of the Shadows (9 page)

It took so little to please him that even if she’d been in the mood for something else, Patrice gladly would have shelved it in favor of his choice. “Okeydoke. You want to come with me to the grocery store to pick up what we need? Or would you rather I drop you off at home first?”

Chin out and lips pursed, he considered her question. “Maybe I’ll just tag along, see if I can talk you into some junk food.” He reached over the console, gave her shoulder an affectionate shove.

“Junk food, huh?”

“Well, sure. You can’t invite an eligible bachelor to dinner and not serve a decent dessert.”

Eligible bachelor.

“He doesn’t seem like the fussy type to me.”

“Bachelor of the Year, two years running?” Gus chuckled. “Ri-i-ight.”

“Bachelor of the Year?”

“I figured news like that was all over the hospital. I looked him up on the Internet. Seems Mr. Footloose and Fancy Free really gets around.”

“Gets around?”

“Y’know, like those auctions where rich gals bid on a guy and the money goes to charity? One article I read said that all by himself, Wade brought in something like ten grand.” He whistled through his teeth. “Think of it…some broad paid ten thousand bucks for
one date
with the guy!”

She ignored the admiring tone in his voice. “Dad,” Patrice said, “it’s not polite to say ‘broad’ these days.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not politically correct, that’s why.”

“Politically correct, my foot,” he said, harrumphing. “Why should any woman be offended? Don’t they know it’s a term of endearment?”

Grinning, she merely looked at him.

“No, really,” he said, and as if to prove his point, added, “In my day, the term was a compliment! Guys used it to describe a gal they
liked,
someone down-to-earth, who wasn’t all froufrou, who wasn’t into playin’ games.”

“Froufrou?”

“Y’know, a nose-in-the-air, I-know-what’s-best-for-you snob. Your mother was a broad, I’ll have you know, and proud of it, too.”

“Really.”

“Really. The woman was a saint, I tell you. She wasn’t afraid of hard work, wasn’t above getting dirty doin’ it, either. Sweetest, most loving, humblest human being I ever met, present company excluded. Person couldn’t help but love her.”

Patrice heard the sadness in Gus’s voice and prayed that God would steer the conversation to a happier subject.

Gus shrugged. “I give up. The feminists have ruined all the great words, if you ask me.”

Thank you, Lord,
she thought.

The conversation had definitely taken a turn, but experience had taught her it wasn’t necessarily for the better. “Nice weather we’re having, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, if you like cold wind and rain.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Okay, I give up. Why the change of subject?”

“I just think we ought to talk about something else.”

“Why?”

“Well, you just left church for one thing—it’d be a shame for all those blessings to go down the drain just because the subject of feminism came up.”

“You make a good point,” he agreed. “And my hat’s off to you, by the way.”

“Whatever for?”

He raised his hands in a gesture of helpless supplication.

“Okay, all right, I get it. The Mistress of Evasion, right?”

A chuckle was his only answer.

“How’s this for evasive. Why’d you look Wade up on the Internet?”

“You’re my only kid, let’s not forget. What kind of dad would I be if I
didn’t
check him out?”

“He’s a well-respected surgeon,” she pointed out. And giggling, she added, “What did you think you’d find—that he’s an ax murderer in his spare time?”

He shrugged yet again, than wagged a forefinger at her. “You can never be—”

“—too careful these days,” she finished with him.

“Yeah, well, that smile on your face tells me you agree.” He grinned.

“Maybe it means I think you’re a lovable old kook.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Hey, who you callin’
old?
”

Laughing, she wheeled the van into a handicapped space in front of the grocery store. “Well, here we are.”

He peered through the windshield and feigned surprise. “That we are, Miss E, that we are.” He unbuckled his seat belt and reached into the back seat. “Tell you what,” he said, grabbing the Sunday paper. “Think I’ll wait here while you shop.”

She opened the driver’s door. “What about the junk food?”

He slid the comics from the rest of the stack. “Guess I’ll just have to trust you to do the right thing.”

“Oh? And what would that be?”

He peeked out from behind the funnies. “Chocolate cake or apple pie, your decision.” Wiggling his eyebrows, he added with a smirk, “Just don’t forget the vanilla ice cream.”

Once dinner was ready for the oven, Patrice tidied the house, and herself. She’d worn an old favorite to church, and probably wouldn’t have changed it…if Wade wasn’t coming for dinner. Swapping the gray corduroy jumper and white blouse for blue jeans and a white turtleneck sent just the right message, she thought. Patrice McKenzie could be as casual and relaxed as anyone! Of course, she’d never admit—not even to Gus—that it had taken nearly an hour of frenzied searching to come up with the easygoing look.

When the doorbell rang at precisely one o’clock, she’d just looped a pair of stylish silver earrings through her earlobes. One last peek in the foyer mirror, one last pat to ensure her curls covered the scar. “Ready or not,” she whispered, a hand on the knob, “here he comes.”

He smiled when she opened the door. “Hi. Hope I’m not too early.”

His loose-fitting tan sweater brought out the gold in his hazel eyes—eyes that bored into hers with such an intensity it made her heart beat double time. Patrice hid her agitation by checking her wristwatch. “You’re right on time. C’mon in.”

Wade pointed at the bakery box balanced on his right
palm. “Cherry cobbler,” he announced, his grin broadening.

Another dessert…when she’d bought all the ingredients for home-baked chocolate cake at the grocery store earlier. Looked like Gus would be able to fill his junk food quota today! “Thanks,” she said, closing the door, then led him down the hall toward the kitchen. “Can I pour you a glass of iced tea or lemonade? There’s a pot of hot water on the stove, for tea or cocoa.”

“What’re you having?” he asked, putting the dessert box on the countertop.

She nodded toward the mug on the counter. “Tea.”

“Yep, that’s my girl,” her dad said, grinning as he rolled into the room, “predictable as sunrise and sunset.”

She felt like saying,
Thanks, Dad, that’s sure to charm the man!
Instead, Patrice went back to slicing vegetables for the salad and hoped that by the time Wade and Gus finished shaking hands, her blush would have faded.

“Good to see you again, sir,” Wade said. “I appreciate the invite to Sunday dinner.”

“Thank Patrice, not me.” He waved the thanks away. “She’s the chef in the family.” He patted his belt buckle. “And as you can see, she’s a little too good at it!”

“I get the impression there isn’t much your daughter
can’t
do, Mr. McKenzie.”

“You got that right.” He winked at Patrice. Then to Wade, he said, “But I thought we agreed you’d call me Gus. Mr. McKenzie was my dad’s name.” Facing his daughter once more, he added, “I’ll be in the family room, hunting up a good John Wayne movie on cable. When y’get a minute, I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea.”

She put down the paring knife and reached for the tea canister.

Wade grabbed it before she could pry off its lid. “Let me do it for him,” he said, nodding toward the salad fixings. “You’ve already got your hands full.”

Patrice hesitated for a second before saying, “The mugs are in the cabinet above the coffeemaker, and the spoons are there.” She indicated the drawer directly behind him.

Wade reminded himself that he’d spent most of the previous night tossing and turning, trying to make a list of reasons why he should stay away from this woman. He couldn’t explain what made him gently tuck a wayward curl behind her ear…but the action exposed her scar, and she quickly fluffed her hair back into place.

“Call me stubborn,” he said, pressing a hand to her cheek, “but it seems a cryin’ shame to hide a face this gorgeous.” He punctuated the comment by finger-combing her hair back. “There, much better.”

She was visibly uncomfortable, as evidenced by her tense stance, the taut set of her jaw. Her gaze darted around his face, as if searching out the sincerity of his words.

Words.

Not long before her death, he’d given his mother one of those blank-inside greeting cards. After reading what he’d written inside, she said, “Wade, I’ve never understood why you haven’t tried your hand at writing, because you’ve always been so good with words!” A few months after the funeral, he enrolled in a writing class, and quickly discovered he didn’t have what it took to draft the Great American Novel, but the cardinal rule of fiction stayed with him: Show, don’t tell.

Why not apply the lesson now?

The canister clunked against the countertop as he pulled her close. “I gotta tell you,” he whispered, gently tracing the scar, “I’m kinda glad you have this thing.”

She met his eyes, blinking, as if unable—or unwilling—to let herself believe him.

Fingertip following the permanent reminder of the car wreck, he added, “What other proof do I have that you’re human?”

She laughed at that and turned slightly, hiding the scar from view. “Oh, believe me, I’m human, all right.”

He raised his brows, shook his head. “I dunno… ’cause you sure have cast a spell over me.”

When she looked up at him with those
eyes
of hers and smiled, Wade felt as though the sun had burst through the gray skies. He wanted to kiss every inch of that delicate face, from the freckles sprinkled across her pert nose, to the cheeks that still glowed rosy red, to the full, slightly parted lips.

And so he did just that.

And to his delight, Patrice relaxed against him, returning his kisses with equal emotion. She felt so good, so
right
in his arms that he couldn’t for the life of him remember why he’d tried to talk himself out of this in the first place.

Then it came to him, as quickly as lightning slices through a stormy sky. But knowing everything he’d just said would seem phony if he admitted it now, he broke the warm, wonderful connection, gradually, all the while remembering his mother’s tired old line:
This hurts me more than it hurts you.

“I—I’d better take a peek at the pork chops,” she said, fingertips pressed to her lips.

Wade was barely aware that his arms were still wrapped around her as he responded with a flimsy
“Yeah, and your dad’s probably wondering what gives with his tea.”

One side of her mouth lifted in an adorable grin that started his pulse to pounding…again. Patrice probably had no idea what she was doing to him—what she’d already done to him. Her innocence, her sweetness, had wrapped around him like a warm blanket on a cold night, making him feel comfortable and cared for, making him think maybe the DNA stuff was just nonsense. Maybe he could risk getting involved…with
this
woman.

He pretended to busy himself, stuffing tea bags into mugs, adding boiling water. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Patrice’s hand shook slightly as she picked up the paring knife, trembled even more as it hovered over a slice of red bell pepper. Wade stirred sugar into the hot brew, the spoon clanking against the sides of the mug as he wondered what he could possibly say or do to calm her…and knowing at the same time that he was solely responsible for her jitters.

Her knife came down then, a little harder than she’d intended. “Oops,” she said, stuffing the finger into her mouth. “That one was too close for comfort.”

“Lemme see.”

“It’s nothing,” she mumbled around the fingertip, “just a teeny nick.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” He grabbed her hand and inspected the injury.

“So what’s the diagnosis, Doc?”

She’d been right—just a small cut. So why was his heart hammering? Why was he breathing as if he’d just run a four-minute mile?

“I think I’ll live.” And smiling, Patrice reclaimed her hand. “But just to be safe, I’ll go put something on it.”

“Good idea.”

“Y’better take the tea bag out of the mug,” she advised, “or you’re never gonna get that spoon out of the sludge.”

“Oh, right,” he said, remembering Gus’s teacup. “Right.”

Tearing a paper towel from the roll, she wrapped it around her finger, then patted his arm. “Right,” she echoed.

Even before she left to fetch a bandage, Wade knew the kitchen would feel cold and empty without her. Fact was, his
life
would seem cold and empty without her.
Should o’ thought of that before you went and got yourself all involved,
he told himself. He’d promised to keep a safe distance to protect
her;
if he’d realized his own heart would be so much on the line, too, maybe he would’ve demanded a little more self-control of himself.

Not much chance of getting a good night’s sleep tonight, either, he knew, with all this to mull over.

“Be right back,” she said from the hall.

He felt himself nodding dumbly, but couldn’t seem to muster a response. “Okay,” he muttered into the empty room. Suddenly, he was aware what he must have looked like—standing in the middle of the kitchen, arms hanging limp at his sides, staring at the doorway like a pup waiting for his mistress to return home, doggy treat in hand. No woman had ever made him feel more like a mindless clod—not starlets or fashion models or female politicians.

Not that they hadn’t tried.

And therein was the rub, he thought, dismissing how he’d messed up Shakespeare’s line. Patrice had accomplished what the others couldn’t, without even trying, which made her all the more desirable.

He sighed heavily and grabbed Gus’s mug.
Since
you’re behaving like a mindless idiot, anyway,
he told himself, heading for the family room,
you may as well perform a mindless chore.