The Art of Romance (38 page)

The game started off slowly, but a couple of good fights broke out. Ems was at least as fanatical as the rest of the fans sitting this close to the ice—definitely more avid than Dylan. She seemed to take it personally when a call went against Nashville or she saw something she deemed unfair done by the other team. Dylan enjoyed the game, but he’d never get that wrapped up in it.

With only thirty seconds left in the first period—and the score still sitting at 0–0—play on the ice stopped for a penalty. All wound up from the infraction perpetuated on one of her beloved players, Ems pressed her forehead against Dylan’s shoulder.

“I don’t know if I can watch.” Belying her words, Ems hooked her arm over Dylan’s shoulder and pressed herself even closer to him.

Dylan’s arm, shoulder, and torso tingled—but not in a good way. When the player scored a goal, Ems leaped to her feet, ending the contact, and Dylan started breathing again.

The period ended, and he cheerfully jumped up to go get the requested popcorn and sodas. Standing in line, he could hear the voice of Ken that lived in his head coaching him on being assertive. If Emerson’s contact made him uncomfortable, he needed to speak up. Be kind but firm.

The second period brought more nail-biting moments for Ems when the other team scored, tying up the game again. During one particularly tense advance, Ems wrapped her arm through Dylan’s, once again pressing her side against him. Once the play ended with the other team regaining the puck, Dylan waited for her to remove her arm from his.

She didn’t.

“Be kind, but firm.”
He pulled her hand from around his upper arm and untwined her limb from his.

“I’m so sorry, Dylan. I didn’t even realize—I’m a very touchy-feely person, especially when I get worked up over a game. I should have warned you.” Ems smiled at him.

He smiled back. “I just didn’t want you getting the wrong message from me. I’m glad we’re getting to know each other, but there can never be anything but friendship between us.” Had he actually just said that? To a girl? To beautiful, perfect Emerson Bernard?

Why yes. Yes he had. A sense of accomplishment, of maturity, flooded through him.

“Oh—you don’t need to worry about that. I never thought of you as anything but a friend.” Her smile broadened.

The flood of good feelings ebbed a bit. Had she just insulted him?

Though Nashville ended up winning the game by one goal, the rest of the evening wasn’t as fun for Dylan as it had started out. And as he lay in bed later, reviewing everything that’d happened, he couldn’t help wondering if Caylor was still in New York or if she’d come back and would be at church tomorrow.

Caylor or no—he’d enjoyed the service at Providence Chapel last week, and for the first time since coming back home, he decided he’d return to a church for a second visit.

Dressing with care the next morning—he should have made the time to go get his hair cut this week—he reminded himself that he was supposed to be creating emotional distance with Caylor.

While the disappointment at not seeing her in the choir loft wasn’t crushing, it did put a damper on how much he enjoyed the worship service—though the pastor’s talk about doors and windows, and how God opened and closed them all the time, did remind Dylan a little too painfully of his own life.

During the benediction, Dylan prayed for guidance—visualizing the doors and windows and gateways opening onto darkness from the paintings he’d set aside for the auction. He was tired of all the doors he tried to go through being dark on the other side. Maybe that’s because he’d been letting someone else open them for him and following blindly through rather than opening his eyes and looking to see if what lay on the other side was from God or not. He promised himself, and God, that from now on he’d do his best to make sure he followed only God’s will for his life.

After service ended, he decided there was no better time than now to talk to the pastor and set up a meeting to discuss joining this church. But since the pastor stood at the back of the sanctuary shaking hands with everyone as they exited, Dylan waited until the crowd cleared.

Nearby, he recognized a head of blue-gray hair. “Good morning, Mrs. Morton.”

“Humph.” The elderly lady looked him up and down, raised her nose in the air, and turned away from him. The gaggle of women around him did the same thing.

What was
that
all about? Dylan watched, bemused, as the ladies walked away. He followed at a distance behind them until he was the last person to leave the sanctuary. He shook the pastor’s hand and introduced himself.

“I’m interested in talking to you about the church. I’m thinking about joining, but there are some things I want to talk to you about before I do.” Dylan stuffed his fists into his pockets, not wanting the pastor to see how nervous this made him.

“Call the office first thing tomorrow morning and set up an appointment with my secretary. I’m usually out of the office on Mondays—that’s my day off—and at the hospital and nursing homes visiting members on Wednesdays. But we’ll find a time this week to talk.” The pastor excused himself, and Dylan bounded down the front steps of the church, dashing to the SUV before the light sprinkle turned into a full-blown spring rain.

When he got to the restaurant, only Gramps, Perty, and Sassy Evans were already there—and Sassy gave him the same kind of look Mrs. Morton had.

The gravity in his grandparents’ expressions wiped out his excitement to tell them he was thinking about joining Providence Chapel. “What’s wrong?” He took the chair beside Gramps across from Perty and Sassy.

Perty handed him a folded piece of newspaper. “That was in the Style section this morning.”

Dylan looked down at the page—and his stomach sank. In color on the front page of the section was a picture of him with Emerson Bernard, her arm wrapped cozily through his.

But the caption was what nearly did him in: W
EDDING BELLS IN THE NEAR FUTURE FOR SON OF STATE SENATE CANDIDATE?
J
UDGE
G
RACE
P
AXTON
-B
RADLEY’S OLDEST SON ATTENDED LAST NIGHT’S HOCKEY GAME WITH MAIN SQUEEZE
E
MERSON
B
ERNARD, AND BOTH LOOKED QUITE COZY.

Oh, he might be sick. “It’s not true. She’s not my main squeeze. She’s Mother’s event planner. I’ve only been talking to her about the art auction. This is horrible.” He looked at the picture again. “Thank goodness Caylor is in New York.”

Sassy’s pale eyebrows shot up. “Yes? So she wouldn’t see that you’ve been stepping out on her?”

He wasn’t certain exactly what that meant in this context, since he and Caylor weren’t even dating. “No, that’s not what I meant.” He set the page down in the middle of the table. “I’m not seeing Emerson Bernard. She had gotten two free tickets to the game, knew how much I like hockey, and invited me.”

“Uh-huh.” Sassy folded her arms.

Dylan wasn’t sure what else to say. But his silence didn’t extend too long—because Mother and Dad arrived.

“Did you see it?” Mother beamed, her eyes sparkling. She saw the page on the table and snatched it up. “Do you know how many points a candidate can gain in the polls with even a rumor of a child getting engaged or married?”

Dylan stood so fast, his chair toppled over behind him, drawing the looks of the other diners. “You did this? You set this up? You set
me
up?”

“Please, do lower your voice.” She smiled at the other diners and leaned over to set his chair upright again.
“Set up
has such a negative connotation. I might have traded a few favors to get the tickets and mentioned to a reporter that my son would be at the hockey game Saturday night with a beautiful young woman.” Mother patted his cheek. “After the election this will all blow over. Ems fully understood the necessity of this, and she doesn’t expect anything from you. So there’s nothing to worry about.”

He backed away from her. “Nothing to worry about? Didn’t you even once consider the ramifications this kind of publicity stunt would have on my life? On my future happiness?”

Mother laughed, though her eyes shot fire at him. “Now you’re just being dramatic. Maybe you should have majored in theater instead of art.”

Dad stepped forward and wrapped his hand around Dylan’s upper arm. “Dylan, you’re making a scene. Sit down. There’s nothing to be so excited over.”

Dylan wrenched himself loose from his father’s grip. “Nothing to be…? How can you not understand? The woman I’m in love with could have seen this and been devastated by it.”

“In love again? So soon?” Mother’s voice came out almost as a sneer—and she seemed to have stopped worrying about the audience of other diners, now whispering behind their hands and menus. “Dylan, dear, just play along, and by the time the election is over, maybe you’ll have grown up a little bit and realized that love is not the be-all and end-all.”

Dad once again made a grab for Dylan’s arm—but was intercepted before he could touch his son. Dylan hadn’t even heard Gramps stand up, but there he was, holding Dad’s wrist.

“Over the years, I’ve privately questioned some of the decisions and choices you and Grace have made, Davis. However, I believed that you needed to strike out on your own. Make your own decisions. This time, you’ve gone too far. I should have stepped forward years ago when you refused to pay for Dylan to go to college because of his choice of major.” Gramps settled his free hand on Dylan’s shoulder. “And I truly regret that I didn’t.”

Dylan reached up and squeezed his grandfather’s hand in acknowledgment and acceptance of the apology.

“But I refuse to allow you to use your son, your own flesh and blood, as a pawn in this game of politics you’ve decided to play.” Gramps released Dad’s wrist but kept his hand on Dylan’s shoulder. “You should be proud of Dylan, of all he’s accomplished. Even if he hadn’t accomplished anything, you should still be proud of him. Because he’s your son. And you should love him unconditionally, just the way I do.”

Gramps looked across the table. Perty and Sassy stood. He turned back to his son. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I believe we’ve lost our appetites.”

Dylan allowed his grandparents to usher him out of the restaurant. But he couldn’t resist one glance back over his shoulder to see his parents standing in the middle of the restaurant and the other patrons watching them with bemused pity.

In the small chamber between inner and outer doors, Sassy turned and stopped Dylan, pressing her hand to the middle of his chest. He’d never noticed before how much taller she was than Perty.

“Did you mean what you said in there?”

“About what?” Though he was pretty sure he knew.

“About being in love.”

“I’m not supposed to be. It’s too soon.” He rubbed at the ache forming in the back of his neck. “But…yeah, I think I am in love.”

“With Caylor?”

He nodded. “With Caylor.”

Instead of looking happy or excited, Sassy’s expression turned shrewd. “Then we’ll have to see what we can do about that.”

He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, unwilling to mask his uncertainty. “Do about it?”

“Yes.” She nodded, and then her eyes sparkled. “And I know exactly how to start. You’re going to paint my portrait.”

“Um, okay.”

“Now, come on. I’ve been wanting to try that Five Guys Burgers place just around the corner, and I’m starving.”

Obediently, Dylan followed Caylor’s grandmother up the sidewalk. One thing was certain: if he did indeed have a future with Caylor, it wouldn’t be boring.

H
ow was New York?” Bridget puffed, out of breath from speed walking to catch up with Caylor—even though Caylor had stopped to wait for her.

“Cold. Slushy. Gray.” And depressing in more ways than just those. Caylor forced a smile. “We found the perfect dress for Zarah. And her mother-in-law finally convinced her to go with a black-and-white color scheme when we ran across the perfect black dress in a shop in the Fashion District. It’s the only color both Flannery and I can wear and look halfway decent. Plus, if the trend of evening wear continues at the faculty holiday party this year, I can wear it again.”

“Did you make it to any shows?”

Caylor shook her head. “We weren’t there long enough.”

Bridget twisted her mouth in comical disappointment—and then an odd gleam came into her eyes. “Hey, did you hear about Dylan Bradley?”

Caylor tripped over a shadow on the sidewalk. How could Bridget have learned about Rhonda Kramer—and more importantly, did she know more than Caylor had learned? “H–heard what?”

“Dr. Holtz offered him the assistant professor position. So it looks like he’ll be sticking around for quite a while longer.” She nudged Caylor with her elbow.

“Oh…really? That’s—that’s great for him.” But what about for her? If Dylan had been living with a woman as recently as Thanksgiving, he could easily be on the rebound from a bad breakup, and all the sparks she’d felt between them could be nothing more than his own subconscious need to feel he was still attractive to the opposite sex.

God, I want this to be real
.