27
AN INVITATION
Grace inspected a Deutsche Grammophon label on an
album, trying not to get her hopes up. According to her research,
the record was worth either two hundred dollars or twenty-five
cents, depending on how the tulip design looked. The trick was
deciphering whether she had a gold mine tulip or a dud
tulip.
The slight acceleration of her
heartbeat as she checked the details was saying gold
mine.
Her father hadn’t stopped pushing
choice items from his record collection on her—even as he deplored
her giving up her store and selling things on-line. Most days
started out with his bemoaning the fact that she was in Austin at
all. But she knew he wanted her here; anyway, it was a fait
accompli now. They had informed Darla Swinton her services would
not be needed. Grace was the live-in help.
The record she was inspecting was one
of Lou’s Telemann Viola Concertos. She wouldn’t have thought of
selling it, but he actually had two copies because Sam had bought
him a duplicate one year for Christmas. And she was beginning to
think that Sam was a genius, because this one seemed to be an
original stereo pressing, which could be worth quite a
bit.
Someone knocked at the door and she
braced herself, preparing for it to be her dad bugging her about
the album again. Once he’d handed it to her to sell, it was all he
could think about. After all the albums he’d lugged in for her to
look at—all of which she’d had to declare without value—he would be
gleeful.
Without turning, she announced, “You’re
sitting on a gold mine.”
Behind her, Steven said, “Glad to hear
it.”
“Oh—sorry. I thought you were Dad.” She
frowned. It was the middle of the day on a Thursday. “What are you
doing here?”
He took a seat on a folding chair. From
her desktop he grabbed a push puppet of a burro in a serape and
sombrero and started fidgeting with it. “I drove Muriel home, so I
decided to drop in.”
“Muriel Blainey?” That name, and the
formally casual tone of his voice, shot off a warning flare in her
mind.
He nodded, pulsating his thumb so that
the burro nodded too. “Turns out, we share a divorce
lawyer.”
The world’s longest business trip was
officially over, evidently.
“As Muriel pointed out, we’re both in
the same boat.” Steven’s expression was grave. “Of course, she’s
worse off than I am. I might have had to leave my old practice, but
she’s being forced out into the workplace, back to her old
profession.”
“You make it sound like she was selling
her body.”
He drew back. “She was a real estate
agent.”
“Oh, sorry, I was wrong. It was her
soul she was selling.” Grace laughed. “Real estate agent. It
fits.”
“I don’t see anything funny,” Steven
said. “The poor woman’s had her life turned upside
down.”
Poor woman?
“Oh, Steven, be careful.”
“Careful of what?”
“Can’t you see? She’s one of those
bulldozer women you always end up with.”
He sputtered. “That I—? What?”
“Sara . . . Denise . . .” She arched a
brow. “Now Muriel Blainey.”
He was not convinced. “It sounds to me
like you’re projecting. Ben jerked you around, so now you think the
same thing’s going to happen to me. But what’s Muriel done to make
you so suspicious?”
That was a good question. And the
answer was . . . nothing. Maybe she was
just projecting. But what was she supposed to do about that gnawing
queasiness in her stomach at the idea of Steven in Muriel’s
clutches? Even though, God knows, Steven was not without faults. He
wasn’t exactly Valentino, and he had a complete lack of
sentimentality.
For the first time, she noticed that he
had brought a bundle of letters in with him. “What’s this?” she
asked, picking it up off the desk.
“Your mail.”
Out of the stack she picked out a
cream-colored envelope that looked like an invitation.
“I got one of those, too,” he
said.
She eyed him questioningly, and when he
didn’t clue her in, she tore open the envelope. Inside was a
wedding invitation. You are cordially invited . .
.
To Truman and Peggy’s
wedding!
Steven shook his head. “I don’t know
why they just didn’t go to city hall months ago.”
There. No sentimentality.
“Because this is a big deal. Huge.”
Even though she had been irritated by their coupledom in the
beginning, even she could see the momentousness of their marriage.
“Uncle Truman giving up bachelorhood at eighty-two? Peggy throwing
off her spinster schoolteacher mantle at
seventy-four?”
“All the more reason for them to hurry
up and tie the knot without any fuss. At their spot on the
actuarial tables, time is of the essence.”
“They want to make it an occasion,”
Grace told him. “I can understand that. I just worry about
Dad.”
“Why would Dad care? He knows Truman’s
asked her.”
“But still. Peggy’s his old friend. His
companion.”
“Dad never was her companion,” Steven argued. “They were just
friends.”
“Bull. That’s just what Peggy’s saying
now.”
“You romanticized them, but you weren’t
around that often.”
It was so irritating. These first-wave
Olivers could always trump her with the you-weren’t-around
argument. “But when I was around, so was
Peggy.”
“Well, of course—because she liked you.
Naturally she’d want to come visit more often when you were
here.”
Grace had never considered that
possibility before.
“The wedding’s in three weeks,” Steven
told her. “Doesn’t give you long to rustle up a date.”
“You could be my date,” she
said.
He squirmed uncomfortably, and the
burro began flopping over again.
“Oh, no,” Grace breathed. “You didn’t
invite her.”
“Muriel had already received her
invitation. So naturally when the subject came up . .
.”
Grace groaned.
“What’s the matter? It’s just a small
family wedding.”
“Whose wedding?” Lou asked from the
doorway.
Steven and Grace both jumped. They
hadn’t heard him come in. He frowned, looking from one to the
other.
Grace took the invitation out of her
lap and handed it over. “We were talking about this. Truman and
Peggy’s wedding invitation.”
Lou took it and examined it. As he did,
Grace studied his rough hands. His fingernails were dirty and
jagged. Should she suggest a manicure? Nail care was one of the
many things she’d never considered for her dad—little day-to-day
things a person did that you took for granted until you realize
that suddenly they weren’t doing them at all.
He tossed the invitation on the desk.
“I knew about that. Truman told me.”
“You never mentioned it to me,” Grace
said.
“I don’t have to tell you everything
that happens, do I?”
“No, but—”
She was stopped by the expression on
her dad’s face, which was mottled red with anger. He had done a
double-take at something he’d seen on the desk. He picked up the
Telemann record.
“What are you doing with
this?”
“Oh!” She hadn’t told him yet. “Good
news! I think it’s worth around two hundred dollars.”
“Over my dead body, it is!” he shouted
at her. “Who gave you permission to go putting my things up for
sale?”
The blood drained from her face. “You
did.”
“Like hell, I did.”
She didn’t know what to say. Tears
jumped to her eyes, but she wasn’t about to let them fall. This
wasn’t about her, she told herself.
This wasn’t even really
him.
She sent an imploring look to Steven,
hoping he would intervene. He struggled for words. “Dad, Grace
wouldn’t—”
“Naturally you’d take her side,” his
father said, interrupting. He dismissed them both with a scowl and
a warning for Grace. “Stay out of my things.”
When he left, Grace and Steven lowered
themselves into their chairs again and looked into each other’s
eyes. Neither of them could find words.
Crawford showed up to help her after
school, and Lily filtered in and then back out when she failed to
capture Crawford’s attention. Dominic came in later to walk Iago
before it got dark, while Grace fixed dinner. She and her father
ate in silence, and then he sat down in the living room to watch an
old DVD of Columbo that she’d found at the
library. Since Christmas, he’d been watching DVDs more and reading
less.
Grace felt cooped up in the house and
went out to the backyard for air.
“Hey there,” a male voice said over the
fence.
She instinctively looked over toward
Ray’s house, even though she knew it was the wrong direction. Wrong
voice, wrong fence, wrong guy.
Since Thanksgiving, things had been
awkward between them. Ray was keeping his distance from her—maybe
he didn’t want to upset his children, and she certainly didn’t want
to add to his family tension. Or maybe she’d only been imagining—or
overestimating—the connection between them.
But she had also wanted to wall herself
off a bit from him. In no way did she want him or anyone else to
think her decision to stay with her dad had been influenced by the
fact that Ray was next door. The idea was preposterous, really. A
grieving widower with three kids and a communication problem? Not
exactly the bachelorette’s dream.
So they waved at each other
occasionally from their respective driveways and heard news about
each other from Lily and Dominic and left it at that. But she never
quite managed to banish him from her mind.
Grace pushed off the porch and strolled
toward Wyatt, who was grinning at her over the fence. “Care for a
martini?” he asked, waggling his brows with mock
seduction.
Or maybe that was actually his real
seduction technique. With Wyatt there was no telling.
She laughed. “Sure.”
What the hell. It had been a crappy
day. A martini couldn’t hurt.
By the time she made it around his
gate, he was already busy shaking up a batch on his patio. “Outdoor
living in the middle of February,” he said, pouring her a glass.
“This is why I love Texas.”
He handed her a drink and pointed her
toward one of two chaise longues.
She flopped down and looked up at the
sky through the limbs of a live oak. She’d expected Wyatt to take
the other chair, but he perched at the foot of hers instead. He was
wearing jeans and a tucked-in polo shirt, and smelled of cologne,
cigar, and alcohol. It appeared that happy hour had started a while
back.
She felt the first stirrings of
alarm.
“Where’s Pippa?” she
asked.
He laughed. “Pippa flew the
coop.”
She hadn’t heard that—and it seemed
like something Crawford would have told her. Not that she didn’t
believe Wyatt. It couldn’t be easy for a man to admit his fiancée
had dumped him.
She frowned. That afternoon, Crawford
had mentioned that he was going to a friend’s house tonight. “So
you’re all alone?” she asked.
He smiled. “Not anymore.”
She scooted up a little
straighter.
“What’s the matter?” he
asked.
“Nothing—I’m just not sure these chairs
were meant for two.”
“Oh, sure. They can withstand a lot of
action, if you know what I mean.” He chuckled and then sobered up
again in the next second. “Sorry. That’s not what I meant to say. I
meant to tell you . . . well, that I know what you’re going
through.”
“What I’m going through?” she repeated,
mystified.
“With your dad. My grandmom had
it.”
“What?”
“Alzheimer’s.”
Her mouth dropped open. “How . . .
?”
“I’ve picked things up from Crawford,”
he explained, “and other clues. Like the time he set your house on
fire. I put it together later. Mom was always having to watch my
grandmom.”
“I didn’t know.”
“It’s heartbreaking. It almost killed
my mother, taking care of her mom. She finally had to put her in a
home.”
Grace shuddered. “I couldn’t do
that.”
“But it’s hard staying with him all the
time, right?” he asked. “You gave up your business back in
Portland, Crawford said.”
She shrugged. “I’m just transferring it
on-line. The physical store was probably doomed anyway. This might
not make as much money, but it won’t be as much stress,
either.”
“Well, anyway,” Wyatt said, “I just
wanted you to know that there’s somebody nearby who knows what
you’re going through. You’re not alone.”
For a moment, she found it hard to
speak. She took a swig of her martini. “Thank you.”
Wyatt frowned and touched her chin with
his hand. “Hey.”
Impulsively, she blurted out, “Are you
busy March tenth?”
He drew back. “Why?”
“I was going to ask you on a date. I
mean, I know the last time didn’t work out so well . .
.”
“I thought you didn’t like me,” he
said.
“Actually, I thought you didn’t like
me, either.”
“That’s crazy.” He chuckled. “Well . .
. maybe not so crazy. But I can’t deny I’ve been curious about
something.”
The look in his eye caused her to
shiver, but whatever was in that martini had mellowed her nerves to
the point that she didn’t flee for her life. “What?”
“This.”
He lowered his lips to hers, and she
braced herself for the onslaught. Given her opinion of the man, she
was expecting his kiss to be all slaver and tongue. But it was
actually sort of . . . nice.
When he pulled back, she was left
blinking in surprise. He smiled at her, and she
blushed.
“So is that a yes?” she
asked.
“Yes to what?”
“To March tenth. Peggy is getting
married to my uncle Truman.”
“I know. Got my invitation yesterday.
Unfortunately, you’re too late to claim my services as escort. I’m
taking Pippa.”
Had she heard him correctly?
Pippa?
Fire surged into her cheeks, and she
straightened up as far as she could without kicking him out of the
way. “You said Pippa had flown the coop!”
“Well, yeah, for the evening. She had a
red-eye tonight.”
“Do you mean you’re still
engaged?”
“Of course.” He grinned. “Do you
mind?”
She gave him a hard thump on the arm.
“You jackass! What were you kissing me for?”
“I told you—I was
curious.”
“You’re not supposed to be curious.
You’re engaged!”
“But not married. The fat lady hasn’t
sung yet, baby.”
He leaned toward her and she put her
hand against his chest and shoved. As he went sprawling onto the
pavers, she scrambled off the low lounger as quickly and with as
much dignity as she could. Which wasn’t much.
Am I losing my
mind? She couldn’t imagine what lunacy had made her think
that a quiet moment with Wyatt would be a good idea. She was
obviously more screwed up by Ben dumping her than she had realized.
All her thoughts about Ray . . . and now this. Pining after the
impossible . . . hurling herself at the unspeakable.
“This day can’t end fast enough to suit
me,” she muttered as she fled back over the property line. The only
positive was that no one had been around to witness this
humiliating scene.