Redemption (19 page)

She weighed her options. If he was willing to settle for a few visits and would agree that Tripper didn’t need to be told the truth, then perhaps she could go along. At least she would have time to figure out another plan.

Like moving to Antarctica.

“All right. You can see him. But under absolutely no circumstances are you to let him know of our relationship. He can’t even know we were acquainted once.”

“Wait a minute. You want me to lie to him?” He crossed his arms, pinning her with a stare.

“There’s no need to lie; he’ll never think to wonder if his mother is—was—involved with you, unless you tell him.”

He studied her for a moment, clearly not happy, but she held the trump card: She was Tripper’s mother, had single-handedly raised him until now. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—go against her wishes.

“All right. I won’t breathe a word to him. But we’ll have to arrange some reason for me to see him.”

She thought quickly. “You could come to our house. We’ll tell him it’s business.”

He shook his head. Then, with a wicked gleam in his eye, he suggested, “Why don’t we tell him I’ve got the hots for you and we’re dating?”

But Claire shook her head. “No. He’ll never believe that.”

“Why not?”

“He just…won’t,” she told him, not bothering to point out that for her, a date came around about as often as a lunar eclipse.

Matt just shrugged. “We’ll think of something. Most evenings I’m tied up, so we’ll have to make it this weekend. I’ll give you a call and let you know what time.”

Claire agreed, then returned to her office, not sure if she had won that round or not.

Chapter Twelve

T
RUE
T
O
H
IS
P
ROMISE
, Matt called the next day and arranged to join them for dinner on Sunday afternoon. Claire spent Saturday searching her repertoire for a suitable recipe.

She wanted to feed him arsenic; she settled for chicken.

Now, as the carrot she was attempting to julienne slipped from the knife yet again, she wondered if Martha Stewart was available for a consultation. Maybe she should have picked up Chinese instead. With only Tripper’s palate to please, her cooking skills had remained in the adequate range, though she did occasionally like to experiment.

After five attempts, the carrot finally cooperated, slivering into neat strips that would even make Martha proud. Claire held the knife aloft and smiled, triumphant. This was the best brand of knife Kaslow’s sold, and now she could attest to its effectiveness.

The doorbell rang, preceded by the quick thud of footsteps running to the door—Tripper must have been watching from the window. So much for his attempts to be “cool” about Matt’s impending arrival, she thought, her heart giving a funny little flip. If Matt ever disappointed him…she would slice him to ribbons, she told herself, whacking the next carrot with more force than was necessary.

The door to Claire’s house swung wide. As Tripper greeted him, Matt noticed the eager look on his face, a look he was clearly trying to hide. As the boy stood there, shyness battled with fascination, striking him dumb, and he could only stare up at Matt.

Matt was used to dealing with hero worshipping nine-year-olds, but the last thing he wanted was for this particular kid to see him as a celebrity. A tiny part of him did acknowledge, though, that he wouldn’t mind playing the role of hero to his son. “Hey, there, sport,” he said with a congratulatory look. “Heard you guys won your first practice game yesterday.”

Tripper’s face lit. “Yeah, we creamed ’em at the free-throw line. We have this guy Jamal; he’s, like, six feet tall and he’s only twelve.”

As he went on to recount the most exciting moment in sports history, at least in his young life, Matt relaxed. Not until he knocked on the door had he even been aware of the flicker of apprehension he felt. What if his son shared Claire’s opinion of him? It was possible her bitterness had rubbed off on the kid, without her knowledge perhaps, but still, winning over the mother was proving to be a hard enough task.

As Matt followed Tripper through the house, he took in the surroundings, curious. For the last few months, he’d thought of Claire as existing in the vacuum of her seventh floor office, a woman without a home. But this was where she lived, along with their son.

And they hadn’t exactly been living in poverty, he noted with relief. The smell of new construction still clung to the walls of the spacious interior. Off to one side of the entry hall, he could see a formal living room, seemingly reconstructed from the pages of
Metropolitan Home
. Rich garnet draperies framed the front window behind a spotless off-white sofa.

Not a couch a kid would want to kick back on with a glass of Kool-Aid. He mentally envisioned the words “Don’t touch” written all over it—just like its owner.

The hall opened up to a den, less formal than the living room, with a cozy fireplace on one wall. He could almost imagine Claire relaxing on the plaid couch, maybe even dropping that cool air of formality she wore like armor.

But he was here to get to know his son, not to critique Claire’s decorator.

He followed a still chattering Tripper into the kitchen, where Claire, a determined look on her face, expertly wielded a ten-inch knife.

He eyed it warily. “Have you got a license to carry that thing?”

The look she shot him started out exasperated, then changed to surprise as she caught sight of the flowers in his hand. Momentarily speechless, she finally managed to retort, “I should ask you the same thing. I hear some women consider flowers a lethal weapon.”

“Oh, I’ve got more lethal weapons than tulips, trust me.” He gave her a leer, because, heck, she deserved it.

The look she shot him could have frozen the Mohave.

She pointed the knife in his direction. “You’re not getting one more day of filming in Kaslow’s. Not even for tulips.”

He looked offended. “Did I say anything about filming? Besides, you saw the footage we shot. It’s great.” Still distracted by the knife, he added: “Maybe you should put that thing down—real slow, now, we don’t want any casualties.”

The knife clattered in the sink as Claire cast a sidelong glare at Matt. “Tripper, could you grab a vase from the china cabinet? And then why don’t you take Matt into the family room and…talk basketball or something, until I can get this on the table.”

She seemed intent on reminding him the reason he was here was to get to know his son, not to flirt with her. But flirting with Claire was more fun than he’d had since he was sixteen and feeling up Kassie Smith in her parents’ driveway.

During their meal, Claire figured she could have served braised shoe leather for all the attention the two males at the table gave the meal. She had already come to the conclusion that Matt would eat anything that didn’t flop around on his plate, and Tripper was so busy pumping Matt for information that he didn’t notice he was eating sticks of zucchini along with his carrots.

Matt described his ranch in Montana, which he claimed was the real thing, not like one of the outfits displaced Californians bought in a lame attempt to play cowboy by raising buffalo and llamas. His foreman saw to the day-to-day operation, while his sister-in-law kept an eye on the books—when she wasn’t busy raising four kids and working part time as a nurse at the county hospital. Supermom, the western version, Claire mentally dubbed her, silently resenting the woman sight unseen. His brother Mark, Matt added, coached the local high school football team.

“And my sister Carolyn is a bug doctor in Minneapolis,” he told them, helping himself to another serving of rice pilaf. “She and her husband both teach at the university there.”

“She’s a what?” Claire stared at him, not sure she had heard correctly.

“She’s an entomologist,” he explained. “She studies bugs. She’s always going off to South America, looking for some exotic species.”

Tripper’s eyes lit up. “Cool!”

“You have another sister, right?” Claire asked, remembering he had talked of his family at length ten years ago.

“Yeah, Sarah. She lives in Livingston, has two kids, and teaches second grade.”

“And your parents?”

“They’re right there in Great Falls. Dad retired from the feed store a couple of years ago and spends the day fiddling with Lionel trains in the garage.” He glanced at Claire over the platter of chicken, and she quickly lowered her gaze. She understood all too well the point he was making. He had just taken pains to “introduce” his family to them, for the express purpose, she supposed, of letting her know that Tripper had a complete set of relatives he had never met.

One more strike against her. It had never really occurred to her that by depriving her son of his father, she had also deprived him of aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents.

She tried to wipe the sick look off her face.

Matt pressed his advantage. “Listen, if your mom says it’s all right, I thought maybe we could catch a Sixers’ game one weekend. They play the Lakers in a couple of weeks. I’ve got a pal who’s getting me tickets.”

Tripper’s face lit up, and Claire suppressed the urge to kick Matt under the table. She settled for throwing him a look that promised further discussion and a noncommittal murmur in Tripper’s direction.

Then, smiling brightly, she changed the subject. “How about dessert? I made Tripper’s favorite—peanut butter pie.” If Matt wanted to play dirty, she decided she could too; after all, she did have a ten-year head start.

It turned out Matt loved peanut butter pie, too. After cleaning their plates, they both cast hopeful looks in her direction, twin sets of verdigris eyes turned innocently on her.

Claire’s heart lurched. The two of them were as alike as a pair of vases, molded from the same clay. Scooping up generous helpings of pie, she wished she
had
opted for Australia, rather than face Matt Grayson over chicken and pie and their son.

After lunch, Claire decided the male bonding had gone far enough for one day. A subtle hint to Tripper had him heading off to David’s to finish the snow fort they had begun earlier, but only after Matt had promised he would be back soon. Surprisingly, Tripper didn’t seem to find the idea of a return visit from Matt odd, though Claire expected he would pester her with questions later.

But right now, it was time to lay down ground rules.

She turned to him and said firmly, “Matt, you simply cannot make plans without consulting me.”

“If you’re talking about the basketball game, I did consult you—”

“Right in front of Tripper! And now I have to be the bad guy and tell him he can’t go.”

“Actually, I was sort of hoping you would say yes.”

“I can’t let him be seen in public with you! My God, the press would have a field day with that!”

He sighed. “I told you, I can handle the press—and it’s just a basketball game. People will be more interested in seeing Kobe Bryant sink a three-pointer than in watching to see who’s in the crowd.”

She gave him an exasperated look. “Matt! You attract cameras the way a loss leader attracts bargain hunters!”

His eyebrows shot up. “A loss leader? You’re comparing me to a loss leader?”

“It’s when—”

“I know what it is. I’m hurt, Claire, that you think of me as a discounted houseware.” The glint in his eyes wasn’t hurt, though. It was satisfied. Amused. He thought this was a game, but she wasn’t about to assist his three-point attempt.

“I can’t let you take him to a public event.” She gave him the same warning look that usually worked with Tripper.

“You’re being paranoid.” Amusement turned to annoyance. “No one would find it the least bit unusual that I’m escorting a beautiful woman and her son to a Lakers’ game.”

She crossed her arms in stony silence, refusing to acknowledge the compliment.

He shrugged. “It’s not for a couple of weeks. We’ll talk about it later.” Having planted the idea, Matt seemed to know when to retreat. He glanced at his watch. “I need to get back; I’ve got a meeting with the production staff in an hour.”

But as they reached the door, he offered another compliment, one Claire was much more touched to receive. Pausing, he gazed at her sincerely and, in his deep Western drawl, said, “Pretty smart kid you got there. I guess he gets that from you. At his age, I think the only three-syllable word I used regularly was ‘hamburger.’”

Her gaze dipped. She was more relieved that he was leaving than to hear the compliment, but then he continued. “Seriously, I was afraid…oh, hell, you know, growing up without a father around, he could have turned out…” His voice trailed off as he searched for the politically correct word.

She frowned. “You mean you thought I would have raised a sissy.”

A slow grin spread over his face. “Actually, now that I think about it, I guess that was pretty silly. There’s nothing at all sissy about you. In fact,” he added, a considerate look on his face, “I’d put your balls up against just about any guy I know.”

He tipped an imaginary hat, then walked out the door. “I’ll call you next week,” he promised, and Claire breathed a sigh of relief as the door shut behind him.