Prelude to a Wedding Read online

"How do you do, Mrs. Monroe. Mr. Monroe."

  She shook hands with them, and he glimpsed the poise she must bring to business dealings, at least ones that didn't involve him. He suspected he threw her off her usual stride.

  He liked that.

  "Bette's in the market to buy a house, and I thought she should see some of the other neighborhoods around, so we swung by here."

  He caught her dagger look of surprise and dismay. She probably wanted to tell him she certainly wasn't looking in this kind of neighborhood, because it was way out of her price bracket, but was constrained by his parents' presence. He'd remembered her comment Thursday about looking for a house and he'd spotted the real estate listings on her coffee table, but he hadn't known he'd make use of the observations until he'd spoken the spur-of-the-moment words.

  "A house is an excellent investment," said James Monroe with an approving nod. "I wish Paul would make that move so he'd build some equity in a property."

  Paul shrugged at the familiar refrain. He should have seen it coming. "I don't mind paying rent."

  "You must not, since you've been doing it so long, and now you have rent on your office as well as the apartment."

  "Property just ties you down." He worked to keep the words light. It was an old skirmish line between his father and him.

  "Perhaps it's time you were tied down. We had owned our first home for six years by the time I was your age."

  "You owned it?"

  Only the blink of his father's eyes showed that the arrow had gone home. They both knew Walter Mulholland had held the title on the Monroes' first house, as he had on this house until the day he died.

  "Well, I'm just glad you both came," smoothed Nancy Monroe. "I have a lovely roast in for dinner, and now we'll be saved from a week's worth of leftovers."

  "Oh, no, really. Thank you, but we can't drop in like this for dinner." Bette stopped abruptly, turning wide blue eyes on Paul, and for a moment he forgot everything else. "I mean, I . . . I really should . . ."

  He saw her floundering between not wanting to impose and not wanting to deprive his parents of having their son home for Sunday dinner. "We didn't mean to stay for dinner, Mom. We just thought we'd drop off some pumpkins and I'd show Bette around a little, then we'd be on our way."

  "Oh, but you must stay for dinner. There's plenty of time for you to show Bette, maybe take her to Beach Park, then we can have a nice meal and get to know each other. This is such a wonderful surprise, Bette. We don't get Paul home often enough as it is, and we always enjoy meeting his friends."

  Paul tried one more time against the force of his mother's beaming smile. "But we don't want to interrupt your afternoon, and—"

  "Nonsense. We were just discussing the arrangement of our spring bulb garden. It's so hard to remember where things were the spring before by the time you get around to planting in the fall."

  He knew staying for dinner was all but a certainty. Maybe he'd known it when he pulled into the driveway. He refused to consider whether he'd known it when he'd first thought about stopping by.

  He cocked an eyebrow at Bette and gave an infinitesimal shrug, indicating that if she didn't want to stay, he'd do his best, but . . . A smile edged into her eyes and he felt an easing of the muscles in her back where he was only half-surprised to realize his hand still rested. She'd come to the same conclusion and she didn't mind, at least not terribly.

  Paul's father took a more direct approach in trying to make the unexpected guest feel less awkward. "Bette, how long have you known our son?"

  Paul rubbed his free hand across his mouth to mask a smile. Ever the lawyer, his father had asked the question to set up some point he wanted to make. The flaming color he brought to Bette's cheeks was inadvertent, and the surprise her answer was about to administer to his parents came as a pure, unanticipated bonus from his point of view

  "Four days." Ah, another bonus. She'd been counting. Otherwise, she would have hesitated to total them or said "since Wednesday."

  Paul saw his mother blink, then take a closer look at Bette. When her gaze came to him, he looked away, suddenly not so enthralled with surprising his parents.

  James Monroe, however, nodded, as if he'd half expected the response to his question to be "four days," then took Bette by the elbow and started her toward the house.

  "I don't imagine in that time he's introduced you to any other relatives, has he? No? I didn't think so. So we can understand your being a bit taken aback by all this. We just hope you'll commiserate with us, since we've known him for thirty-two years last March, and he's never brought a young lady home to meet us before."

  * * * *

  "Is that true? You've never taken a woman home to meet your parents?"

  Paul gave Bette an extra beat to add the word before, but she didn't, and he felt a frown growing. The way she said it made it sound as if bringing her to the Lake Forest house today didn't count.

  "There really wasn't much need to," he finally said.

  He looked down the stretch of pebbly sand, then out beyond the huge, jumbled boulders that created shallow pools for summer-time beach-goers at the municipal park. This late in the year, with the sun rapidly fading, the beach and the boat ramp farther down the lake were deserted. Two distant fishermen on the pier beyond the ramp were their only companions. He narrowed his eyes as he considered the darkening eastern sky. The breeze had picked up, and if he didn't miss his guess, Indian summer's spell would soon be broken.

  After a soft drink at his parents' house, he'd brought Bette here by a roundabout route through town. He'd been telling her about youthful summers he'd spent divided between this beach and his home. "I think half my high school graduating class spent three days a week at our house, so everyone I dated was there all the time anyhow. Then in college we were too busy proving we were grownup by going into Chicago to bother coming home."

  "And since college?"

  His head jerked around in surprise, then he had to bite off a grin. He hadn't mistaken that note in her voice—she was more than mildly curious. But her eyes, darkening with storm warnings just like the lake behind her, told him the consequences if he dared to make anything of it.

  He knew a few people who'd be surprised to hear it, but he could be cautious.

  "Since college, there hasn't been anyone I thought my parents would enjoy meeting."

  Pleased with himself—he'd told the truth and paid her a compliment without tying himself to anything—he took her arm and headed toward the pier. They could walk the length of the beach before taking another path to where they'd left her car overlooking the water.

  He easily slipped into more tales of growing up, including one of a sailboat race when he'd had his younger sister as his crew, and had nearly thrown her overboard.

  "Do you sail, Bette?"

  "Not the kind you're talking about. Just Sunfish on small lakes."

  "You'd like it. I'll take you next—" He broke off. He'd been out to say "next spring." He'd always believed in keeping promises, which was why he didn't make them. But he'd been about to commit himself to something six months in the future. What had gotten into him?

  Bette didn't seem to notice anything amiss. She walked beside him, watching waves slip into shore.

  "Anyway, it was a great neighborhood to grow up in," he finished lamely.

  "I'm sure it was." She sounded as if her mind might be on another track. "It certainly doesn't look anything like the house you described."

  Contemplating the upward curve of her top lip and remembering how it had felt against his own, he almost missed what she said. "Oh, the house. Mom made a lot of changes. Actually, the same fall after I ran away. I started thinking some of the workmen were going to live with us permanently."

  Work had kept his father so occupied those months that James Monroe probably wouldn't have noticed if they'd blown up the house. His mother hadn't gone quite that far, but close. By the time her father had visited at Christmastime, light and color had replaced somb
er bulk.

  "It must have been quite a job."

  "Yeah. Turning a mausoleum into a home kicks up a lot of dust."

  Walter Mulholland had raged, but there was nothing he could do. Even at twelve, Paul had recognized the lesson. Walter Mulholland was beatable. All it took was determination and unbending resistance.

  "It really is a wonderful place now. This whole area . . ." Bette made an all-encompassing gesture, then seemed to remember a complaint. "But what possessed you to say I was looking at a house in this neighborhood? I can't afford this area. And even if I could—what are you smiling about?"

  "Nothing. Let's get going. I'm hungry and we have pumpkins to unload. I wonder if the neighbors need jack-o'-lanterns this year?"

  * * * *

  "Would you like more, Bette?"

  "No, thank you, Mrs. Monroe. This was wonderful, but I couldn't eat another bite."

  "Are you sure? I don't think you young people who live alone get enough to eat. I'd hate to think you'd be hungry later."

  Paul's chuckle spluttered into his glass of water. Bette thought she heard something resembling "told you so."

  Giving him a quelling look, she politely declined once more, then helped Mrs. Monroe clear the table. In the kitchen she put a few things away while her hostess prepared coffee and chatted of cooking, gardens, the symphony and family.

  ". . . I'll have to show you a portrait of my father after dinner. Paul looks so much like him at the same age."

  Bette wondered if Paul had ever heard that comparison. Considering his views on that relative, he wouldn't like it.

  In Nancy Monroe's mostly gray hair, Bette could see the vestiges of Paul's chestnut color. Although he shared a lot of mannerisms with his father, Bette saw that many of his features had come from his mother. Physical features, but also the ability to make people comfortable in an instant.

  Bette could admit to herself now that she'd been a bit awed. Not only by meeting Paul's parents so unexpectedly—so soon, she almost added, as if it were an occurrence she'd expected eventually, when that wasn't the case at all—but by the house, with its sweeping, dignified exterior, its views of Lake Michigan through multiple sets of French doors, its casually elegant furnishings.

  But Nancy Monroe melted away the awe. She was a very nice woman. In fact, Bette thought as she prepared to take the cream and sugar in to the dining room, they were a very nice family. Not so unlike her own.

  As she stepped into the dining room, she became aware that the Monroes were not unlike her own in other ways. She felt the tension immediately. Between her and her parents, the topic was her living alone. Between Paul and his father, it apparently concerned his business.

  "Contact with a prestigious museum like that can't help but enhance your reputation and that can only aid your business. It's the sort of opportunity you should cultivate." James Monroe took a breath, and Bette could tell he was repeating a question, more to drive home a point than to get an answer. "So, are you going out there to discuss this opportunity with them?"

  "I'm going out there." The coolness in Paul's voice surprised her.

  "But are you—"

  Paul caught sight of Bette. Rising to take the sugar and creamer as if they were too heavy for her, he cut off his father. "Ah, good. Now all we need is something to mix them with."

  Without the usual amusement lighting his face, the words fell flat. He seemed to realize that. As he returned to his chair, he went on immediately. "Did you know my dad was a heck of a shortstop thirty-five years ago? Reached the top of the minor league system. Would have made it to the majors, too, only—"

  Paul looked up as his mother came through the door with the coffee on a tray, and broke off.

  "Are you two talking about baseball again?" she asked with fond exasperation.

  "No," answered her husband. "I was trying to pin him down to make a decision, with as little success as ever. Or at least to find out if he's making a trip to D.C." He faced his son again, and his voice seemed to gentle. "And I was a borderline shortstop at best. My making the majors was extremely doubtful."

  Nancy Monroe looked from one man to the other. If she forced her smile, she did it very well. "Well, if you do go to Washington, Paul, be sure to give Tris our love, won't you?" She turned to Bette in explanation. "Tris is Paul's cousin. James's sister's girl. She and Paul were always close. When they were children . . ."

  Nancy Monroe went on, skillfully drawing Paul and his father into the newly directed conversation, and soon any lingering tension dissipated.

  Nearly an hour later, as they said their thank-yous and good-nights at the door, Bette thought James Monroe was about to question his son once more, but his wife touched him lightly on the sleeve, and he let it fade.

  As Paul pulled the car out of the drive, it was obvious he, too, had seen the interplay. "Parents trying to push their kids into making the same mistakes they did," he muttered.

  "I always thought parents tried to prevent their kids from making the same mistakes they did," she commented mildly.

  He frowned at her, but then seemed to relax. Before he turned back to the road, a quirk of humor lifted his mouth. "That's one of those lines all parents are taught to feed their kids, along with clean-up-your-plate, don't-play-with-that-or-you'll-poke-your-eye-out and someday-you'll-have-children-of-your-own-and-you'll-understand."

  "Ah, the famous 'School for parents' where they learn one thousand and one ways to say no."

  He laughed, and the sound warmed Bette. She'd brought him laughter. She'd changed his mood from bad to good. She couldn't remember ever having done that for someone before.

  Instinctively, she reached for him. But she let the gesture fall short, her hand dropping to the seat between them.

  "That's the one," he answered. Without taking his eyes off the road, he settled his right hand over hers where it lay on the seat.

  The rest of the drive was accomplished in easy silence.

  Easy was about all Bette felt capable of at the moment.

  Occasionally, the wheel demanded both of Paul's hands, but his right always returned to hers. Resting her head against the top of the seat, she watched the lights go by without bothering to focus. She felt surrounded by the scent of pumpkins, straw, dried leaves and Paul Monroe. She was replete with delicious food and the satisfaction of laughter.

  Languor seeped into her, until she wondered if she'd have control over as simple a movement as raising her arm. Did astronauts feel like this when they experienced weightlessness, when a twitch translated into some large, slow, ungovernable gesture and a step became a floating trip to unknown destinations?

  When they reached her house, Paul drove the car directly into the garage, turned off the engine, pressed the button to close the automatic door and shifted to face her. She tipped her head just enough to see him.

  "Bette?"

  His voice came, husky and near. He trailed the knuckles of his right hand down her neck, then pushed her hair back, behind her shoulder. Her cocoon of languor took on heat and sensation. She should be thinking ahead, considering what might come next. But she couldn't. She should be alert, prepared. But she wasn't. For once the present moment filled the screen of her mind so fully that there was no room to preview the future.

  "Bette."

  Slowly she shifted until she could see his features, strong and marked by lines of humor in the slash of artificial light slanting in through the garage window. She didn't believe she had enough energy to move, but somehow she must have had, because she felt the soft prickle of his stubbled jaw under her palm.

  Then she experienced all the energy in the world. It suffused her, pouring into her skin and bones and blood when he turned his head against her hand and inscribed a circle with his tongue.

  She thought again of the odd buoyancy of weightlessness as her arms rose, seemingly of their own accord, to his shoulders. He moved in front of her, so the light cut a path across his face, half-bright, half-dark. She could see nothing o
ther than his face before her. There was nothing else she wanted to see.

  He leaned into her, so she felt the weight of his body against hers.

  "You have the most amazing upper lip," he murmured as he took it between his own, pulling slightly, then testing it with his teeth.

  "Family trait," she finally got out when her lungs had produced enough oxygen to fuel the words.

  He shook his head slightly, and since he still had his mouth on hers, she felt it as a change of texture, a sliding and melding. "No. I think it's a sign of great hidden sensuality."

  He kissed her, not hard, not deeply, but thoroughly. A kiss that seemed to muffle every sound in the world except their breathing and their heartbeats, that seemed to stifle every thought in her head except the urge to get closer, to give more to him.

  Lifting his head at last on a low, quiet groan, he rested his forehead against hers.

  "That's something else," she told him when she could once again control the motor skills necessary to form the words.

  "Hmm?"

  "The sign of hidden sensuality—that's something else."

  He ran the back of his knuckles down her throat once more, this time beyond the hollow at its base, across the edge of her collarbone and softly along the rise of her breast. "It sure is."

  It took three deep breaths to regulate her lungs into some order, but when she did, she doggedly finished. "It's a gap between the two front teeth." For emphasis, she tapped her own closely spaced front teeth. "Like that old actor Terry-Thomas had. A gap—" another tap "—is supposed to be the sign of great sensuality." And another tap.

  She wouldn't have thought he could move so fast, but before she finished the final tap, he swooped in as if to kiss her and instead caught her finger in his mouth and pulled it gently in. Her eyes drifted closed. Her heartbeat skittered. Her breathing stopped.

  His tormenting mouth released her finger and she tried to straighten herself. "Paul, I—"

  He simply shifted his torment from her finger to her mouth, slipping his tongue through her parted lips, and drawing a moan that vibrated in her throat. His palm went to her neck, as if to absorb that vibration, then skimmed the sensitive skin, following the path his knuckles had traced.