Grady's Wedding Read online

  He’d tell her that, but not right now. Too early. And if there was one thing Grady knew about dealing with women it was timing.

  For now, he remained content to let their interaction fall into the familiar rhythm.

  But he’d barely settled back in his chair before she started plying him with questions about the house Paul and Bette had just bought.

  “I don’t know. It’s just a house. It’s in Evanston, just north of the city. It’s two stories, kind of big. Not too far from Lake Michigan.”

  “I don’t know,” he repeated to inquiries on neighborhood character, construction date and architectural style.

  “What’s the outside look like?”

  “I told you, two stories.”

  She shot him a look that might have been disgust.

  “How about the yard?”

  “It has big trees.” That was fairly safe. A lot of Evanston had big trees, especially that area. And then he remembered another tidbit. “Paul said something about the previous owner being elderly and very frail, so not much got done to the outside. He said he wouldn’t have to worry about getting a lawn mower because there’s no grass to mow—just dirt.”

  But that didn’t satisfy her, either.

  “Are they planning on renovating? Redecorating?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “They must be doing something. At least a room they’re going to make into a nursery for the baby.”

  “I don’t know.” What was the hurry? The baby wasn’t due until August.

  “But they must have talked about it. People getting a new house can’t help but talk about it.”

  “Yeah, I guess they did. I just didn’t pay much attention.”

  She took her elbows off the table and sat back, openly studying him. This was not part of the familiar rhythm.

  “Well then, how did you expect to buy them a gift?”

  What, was she crazy? “I expected to walk into a store, find something and pay for it.”

  “But how could you know if that something was right or not?”

  “Right?”

  “Appropriate for them. Something Paul and Bette could love. Something that would make them remember you every time they looked at it, and it would make them feel good.”

  He smiled at her. “Isn’t that an awful lot of burden to put on a present?”

  She didn’t smile back. “Not if the present buyer’s truly willing to give.”

  The trouble with hazel eyes was that they sort of snuck up on you. They seemed just like ordinary eyes one second and then the next they were boring right into you.

  He shifted in his chair and slanted his grin. “Hey, you’re the one who said that antique gong was too expensive. I was willing to give.”

  She flipped one hand dismissively. “Money. That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  What was she talking about? What was she doing?

  She removed her red knit jacket from the chair back and slid her purse strap over her shoulder. “Thank you for the wine, Grady. It’s nice seeing you. Hope your business goes well Monday, and have a good trip back to Chicago.”

  “But—but I don’t have a present yet.”

  “You’re not ready yet. You’ve got more thinking to do before you’ll know what to get them. And it wouldn’t hurt if you paid more attention to what they tell you about the house. Give them my best when you see them.”

  She stood.

  “Wait a minute. Please sit down.” She looked at him with polite inquiry, but did sit. This was definitely not going the way he’d planned. “I thought we’d go to dinner.”

  “Why?”

  He’d never been asked that before. Not in the more than half of his life he’d been dating. He’d had women say no before—a few—but he’d never had one ask “why.”

  Mildly annoyed, he said the first thing that came to mind. “To get something to eat.”

  “It’s only three-thirty in the afternoon and we just had something to eat.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t go now,” he said in exasperation, and for some reason that brought the spark of amusement back into her eyes. “I thought we’d go later, take the opportunity to get to know each other.

  “After all,” he went on quickly in case she had another “why” ready, “we’ll run into each other more when I’m in D.C., through Tris and Michael, and I know you’ve gotten to know Paul from his trips for the Smithsonian, and Bette when she comes along. But we don’t know each other very well. I’d like to get to know you better.”

  That was true, he realized with a bit of surprise.

  He reached across the glass tabletop and took Leslie’s hand in both of his. “I think you’re a very interesting woman, Leslie. And very lovely.”

  She detached her hand.

  “Thank you. And I’m sure we will get to know each other over time since, as you’ve said, we have so many friends in common. But for now . . .”

  She stood again. This time he stood, too.

  “But the gift— You said you’d help.”

  He started to cover the odd note in his voice with more talk, but stopped when he caught her expression. Something Tris had said about her friend’s propensity for mothering people shot to the surface of his memory.

  The one thing Leslie can’t resist is someone she thinks is a lost chick.

  It wasn’t a role he felt any affinity for, but any port in a storm . . .

  “I really could use your help, Leslie.”

  “But we don’t seem to be getting anywhere, Grady, so—”

  “But we will. Give it more time.” That’s what he needed, more time.

  “—there’s no sense—.”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute. I have an idea.”

  “An idea?”

  A stroke of genius, and one bound to keep them together for at least a couple more hours. And that would make it late enough that going on to dinner should be no problem. Then . . . who knows?

  “You said I need to think about Paul and Bette, and what they love. I know where to do that—the Smithsonian.”

  “The Smithsonian? Oh . . . you mean . . .”

  “Right, the exhibit Paul’s been working on isn’t ready yet, but he’d consulted for them even before he started this regular position last year, so there’ve got to be other displays with artifacts like the antique toys Paul appraises. Americana, that sort of thing.”

  “National Museum of American History,” she murmured. She was weakening.

  “Right, we’ll go there.” He tossed money on the table for their bill plus a generous tip, and took her arm. “That should give me lots of ideas. You can’t say no to that.”

  She couldn’t.

  * * * *

  They saw the Star-Spangled Banner that Francis Scott Key wrote a country’s anthem about. They watched the pendulum that swayed with the earth’s rotation knock off a few more increments of time. They studied Dorothy’s ruby slipper from The Wizard of Oz, Al Jolson’s sheet music, Mister Rogers’s sweater, Edith’s and Archie’s chairs from All in the Family and Fred Astaire’s top hat.

  She discovered his love of old movies.

  He found out that her grandmother had taught her to play the piano and had a saying for every occasion.

  They spent a very agreeable two hours. And when they walked out into the setting May sun and headed across the grassy Mall to where Grady had parked his rental car, he felt they had, in fact, gotten to know each other better.

  What he hadn’t done was come up with an idea for a present for Paul and Bette.

  “I guess you’re right,” he told her. “I am hopeless when it comes to buying gifts. My personal assistant does a lot of that for me, and the rest of it I usually get the first thing that hits my eye.”

  “I never said you were hopeless. You’ve just never been taught.”

  Maybe he’d always assumed that if it cost enough no one would notice the lack of thought. Discomfort at that notion was quickly edged away by the pleasure of
the moment. To his left the Capitol dome rose, bathed in sunlight. To his right the stark Washington Monument was etched against the blue sky and beyond it the solid serenity of the Lincoln Monument. And by his side walked a woman, a very nice woman.

  How often had he stopped to consider the “niceness” of the women he’d spent time with?

  “So today was first grade in the Leslie Craig School of Gift Giving?”

  She responded to his teasing straight-faced, but with her eyes giving her away. “Make that preschool, Grady.”

  He laughed and took her hand as they jogged across Jefferson Street ahead of a slow-moving car.

  “Oh, look, the roses are blooming.”

  Leslie started to move away, but he didn’t loosen his grip on her hand; instead he followed along where she led.

  Most of his experience with roses came in ordering them by the dozen from florists. But here, several beds entirely filled with rosebushes occupied a triangle of space between the original Smithsonian building—”Dubbed ‘the Castle,”’ Leslie said—and a building with Centennial 1876 Exhibition above double front doors. Colors tumbled over one another. Buds still encased in green nestled next to flowers opened so wide that gravity had drawn some petals to the dark earth below. And perfect blossoms regally posed for their moment of glory against velvet green leaves.

  “Aren’t they wonderful? Look at that one—Peace. That color . . .”

  Leslie moved from plant to plant. She slipped her hand out of his, but he went with her, observing her reaction more than the flowers. She breathed the scented air in deeply and let it out. Abruptly he remembered what it felt like to hold her while they danced, the feel of her back under his hand, the brush of her arm against his, the soft presence of her hand on his shoulder.

  “The first time Grandma Beatrice came to visit me in Washington, we came here and sat on these benches one whole afternoon, watching the people and feeding the squirrels. We come every year when she visits me.”

  Such a simple thing—some dirt, plants, a few flowers— and she got such pleasure out of it. Year after year, from what she said.

  “That’s it,” he said softly. Then louder, “Hot damn, that’s it.”

  She looked at him, a reminiscent smile still softening her mouth.

  “What’s it?”

  “The idea. The gift. I’ll give them this.”

  He gestured at the flowers around them. She looked around, then back at him, eyebrows raised in question.

  “A garden, Leslie. I’ll give them a garden,” he explained, and her puzzlement started to fade. “I mean, they can choose what they want and everything, but there’s a man I know—I helped sell his old business so he could do what he really loved—landscaping. And I know he’d be happy to do it. He can help Paul and Bette figure out what they want, and then he’ll landscape it for them.” His enthusiasm dipped for an instant. “That’s something they’ll like, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I think that’s something they’ll like very much. That’s a great idea, Grady.”

  The momentary dip smoothed before a renewed surge of certainty. “And they’ll remember it, like you said. And they’ll look at it for years and years and think about me giving it to them and they’ll smile. Hey, this gift giving can be pretty good stuff, can’t it?”

  Her smile changed, and he stared at her mouth.

  “It sure can."

  Pleased with the scent of roses, pleased with the sunshine, pleased with the idea, pleased with himself and pleased with Leslie, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to take her in his arms and kiss her.

  Chapter Two

  Grady’s mouth shifted on hers, changing the angle of the kiss from that first, exuberant meeting, taking advantage of her stunned stillness to carry this beyond an impulse.

  Move, Leslie. Move away. Her mind’s order faded to a mumble under the roaring in her ears.

  It felt so natural, instead, to match her movements to his. To meet his lips, to echo the exploration. To put her hands up to his neck when he slid his arms around her, to settle into his hold when he drew her nearer.

  So natural. And nature was a powerful force. A force to be reckoned with, a force to fear.

  Because there was also such a thing as a natural disaster.

  She put her hands on broad shoulders and leveraged herself three inches away from temptation. Because Grady Roberts had all the makings of a disaster for her, natural or otherwise.

  She’d heard the stories: Grady Roberts, the great ladies’ man; Grady Roberts, the smooth operator.

  Partially straightening her arms gained her a modicum of space, but still within the circle of his arms.

  Say something, Leslie. Say something.

  “A student with your aptitude should be able to skip several levels and graduate before you know it.”

  His gaze still rested on her mouth, and she felt the impact of that look like a shiver under her skin. Then he raised his blue, blue eyes to hers and she had to fight to keep from shivering in earnest.

  “I, uh, mean, uh, gift giving. In the Leslie Craig School of Gift Giving.” She laughed a little. It didn’t sound quite right, but the fact that she’d produced the sound at all steadied her enough to add, “If you get this enthusiastic about gift giving, you’ll be a real menace come Christmas, Grady.”

  Another laugh, still a little forced, but a laugh nonetheless.

  Grady’s eyes were less readable now, more like his usual expression.

  And while she was absorbing the realization of how little his usual expression did show of what was going on inside him, Grady released her. He made almost a caress of it, sliding his hands lightly along her back and arms, until she took a step back.

  He still said nothing.

  Lord, she’d like to bolt. Make up some flimsy excuse and get out of here, away from him, away from all that . . . that nature.

  But already she could feel her equilibrium returning. He’d taken her by surprise. That was all.

  And cutting the evening short would give the kiss more significance than it truly deserved. Why get so worked up, anyway? It was a kiss, just a kiss. Making a big deal of it could create awkwardness, since they would surely run into each other through their mutual friends. She didn’t want that.

  “So you ready for that dinner now? I know I am. Can’t have us starving right here in front of the Smithsonian and in full view of our national monuments. It wouldn’t seem right, now, would it?”

  “No, it wouldn’t. Dinner is definitely in order,” he said slowly, and relief that he’d followed her light lead shot through her.

  Or something shot through her.

  “Well, c’mon, then.”

  As they continued on toward his car and then back through the city to a tiny Italian restaurant up Connecticut Avenue, her spiel would have done a tour guide proud. She couldn’t remember a word of it later.

  She was no fool. She knew the men who found her attractive were the ones who liked a sense of humor, a sharp wit, a good listener, an undemanding presence in their social lives. And there wasn’t one she didn’t remain on friendly terms with after she let them know that was all it ever would be.

  Grady Roberts didn’t fit that mold. She knew from Tris and the others the kind of women he favored. She’d seen it herself with that redhead at Tris and Michael’s wedding. Her mirror told her she was attractive enough: decent figure, clear skin, regular features, shiny hair. Her face wouldn’t send small children crying for their mothers, but neither would it have strong men—especially outright handsome strong men like Grady—quaking in their boots.

  Besides, Grady related to women like a shooting star— brief, intense and no residuals once it had burned itself out.

  No thank you.

  So she ate with him and she talked with him and she laughed with him. But she insisted on paying for her dinner, so there’d be no mistaking this for anything resembling a date.

  And when he pulled up in front of her building, she
gave his shoulder a quick pat and threw a wave over her shoulder as she went inside, so there’d be no mistaking them for anything other than friends.

  * * * *

  And he let her.

  Twenty hours later he stared out his hotel room window at the embassy across the street flying some blue-and-white flag he didn’t recognize, and he shook his head. What had gotten into him?

  First, he rushed the first kiss. Then he’d stumbled through the evening like a sleepwalker, letting her rule the conversation with amusing anecdotes of her family’s history without once approaching anything close to personal. All right, he hadn’t expected a kiss quite that . . . quite that much of a kiss.

  But today, while sailing the Chesapeake with a business prospect, he’d gotten a better perspective.

  He could—he would—get things back on track. Because he did want to get to know her better.

  He dialed her home number.

  A machine with Leslie’s voice, the bit of drawl warming up the succinct message about the number he’d reached and the way to leave a message, answered.

  “Leslie, it’s Grady. I’d like to take you out for dinner tonight, but since you’re not there I’ll give you a call later, or you can give me a call at my hotel.” He left the number and time, then hung up with a strange reluctance.

  Restless, he walked toward Dupont Circle. The soft spring evening had brought people out, couples slipping past him two by two. In every conceivable combination of humanity they sat on front steps, lolled on park benches, perched on the sides of cars, laughed in front of ice-cream shops, shared a bicycle.

  Room service and a channel-hopping binge that finally located Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant whiled away the night. Twice more he reached Leslie’s machine.

  She wasn’t available at her office when he called late the next morning during a break from his appointments.

  With fifteen minutes until his five-thirty flight, he tried one last time from the airport. She was in a meeting, did he want to leave a message? No, no message.

  * * * *

  “And if we can get the coverage I’m hoping for in The Post—”

  Interrupted by her own office telephone, Leslie made an apologetic face at her two visitors and answered.