Нора Робертс - Happy Ever After

His laugh was quick. “Now, how many people can say that?”

“A number of Cabo San Lucans, I imagine. But to return to the car, it’s very smart.The idea of a driveable ad for your business.”

It did move, she thought. Hugging the curves of the road like a lizard hugged a rock. And like the bike, it spoke of power in subtle roars, smooth hums.

Not practical, of course, not in the least. Her sedan was practical. But . . .

“I’d love to drive it myself.”

“No.”

She angled her head, challenged by the absolute denial.“I have an excellent driving record.”

“Bet you do. Still no.What was your first car?”

“A little BMW convertible.”

“The 328i?”

“If you say so. It was silver. I loved it.What was yours?”

“An ’82 Camaro Z28, five speed, cross-fire fuel-injected V8. She moved, at least when I finished with her. She had seventy thousand hard miles on her when I got her off this guy in Stamford. Anyway.” He parked across from a popular chophouse. “I thought we’d eat.”

“All right.”

He took her hand as they crossed the street, which gave her, she told herself, a ridiculous little thrill.

“How old were you when you got the car?”

“Fifteen.”

“You weren’t even old enough to drive it.”

“Which is one of the many things my mother pointed out when she found out I’d blown a big chunk of the money I was supposed to be saving for college on a secondhand junker that looked ready for the crusher. She’d have kicked my ass and made me sell it again if Nappy hadn’t talked her out of it.”

“Nappy?”

He held up two fingers when they stood inside, got a nod and a wait-one-minute signal from the hostess. “He ran the garage back then, what’s mine now. I worked for him weekends and summers, and whenever I could skip out of school. He convinced her restoring the car would be educational, how I was learning a trade, and that it would keep me out of trouble, which I guess it did. Sometimes.”

As she walked with him in the hostess’s wake, she thought of her own teenage summers. She’d worked in the Brown Foundation, learning along with Del how to handle the responsibility, respect the legacy—but the bulk of her holidays had been spent in the Hamptons, by the pool of her own estate, with friends, with a week or two in Europe to top it off.

He ordered a beer, she a glass of red.

“I doubt your mother would’ve approved of the skipping school.”

“Not when she caught me, which was most of the time.”

“I ran into her yesterday.We had coffee.”

She saw what she’d seen rarely. Malcolm Kavanaugh completely taken by surprise. “You had . . . She didn’t mention it.”

“Oh, it was just one of those things.” Casually, Parker opened the menu. “You’re supposed to ask me to dinner.”

“We’re having dinner.”

“Sunday dinner.” She smiled. “Now who’s scared?”

“Scared’s a strong word. Consider yourself asked, and we’ll figure out when it’ll work. Have you eaten here before?”

“Mmm.They have baked potatoes the size of footballs. I think I’ll have one.” She set her menu aside.“Did you know your mother worked for mine occasionally—extra help at parties?”

“Yeah, I knew that.” His eyes narrowed on her face. “Do you think that’s a problem for me?”

“No. No, I don’t. I think it might be a problem for some people, but you’re not one of them. I didn’t mean it that way. It just struck me . . .”

“What?”

“That there’d been a connection there, back when we were kids.”

The waiter brought their drinks, took their order.

“I changed a tire for your mother once.”

She felt a little clutch in her heart. “Really?”

“The spring before I took off. I guess she was driving home from some deal at the country club or wherever.” Looking back, bringing it into his mind, he took a sip of his beer. “She had on this dress, the kind that floats and makes men hope winter never comes back. It had rosebuds, red rosebuds all over it.”

“I remember that dress,” Parker whispered. “I can see her in that dress.”

“She’d had the top down, and her hair was all windblown, and she wore these big sunglasses. I thought, Jesus, she looks like a movie star.Anyway, she didn’t have a blowout. She had a slow leak she didn’t notice until she did, and pulled over, called for service.

“I’d never seen anybody who looked like her. Anybody that beautiful. Until you. She talked to me the whole time.Where did I go to school, what did I like to do. And when she got that I was Kay Kavanaugh’s boy, she asked about her, how she was doing. She gave me ten dollars over the bill, and a pat on the cheek. And as I watched her drive away I thought, I remember thinking, that’s what beautiful is.What it really is.”

He lifted his beer again, caught the look on Parker’s face.

“I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

“You didn’t.” Though her eyes stung. “You gave me a little piece of her I didn’t have before. Sometimes I miss them so much, so painfully, it’s comforting to have those pieces, those little pictures. Now I can see her in her spring rosebud dress, talking to the boy changing her tire, a boy who was marking time until he could go to California. And dazzling him.”

She reached out, laid a hand over his on the table. “Tell me about California, about what you did when you got there.”

“It took me six months to get there.”

“Tell me about that.”

She learned he’d lived in his car a good portion of the time, picking up odd jobs to pay for gas, for food, for the occasional motel.

He made it sound funny, adventurous, and as they ate, she thought it had been both. But she also imagined how hard, how scary it would have been all too often for a boy that age, away from home, living on his wits and whatever he could pocket from work on the road.

He’d pumped gas in Pittsburgh, picked up some maintenance work in West Virginia, moved on to Illinois where he’d worked as a mechanic outside of Peoria. And so had worked his way cross-country, seeing parts of it Parker knew she had never seen, and was unlikely ever to see.

“Did you ever consider coming back? Just turning around and heading home?”

“No. I had to get where I was going, do what I was going to do.When you’re eighteen you can live off stubborn and pride for a long time. And I liked being on my own, without somebody watching and waiting to say I knew you wouldn’t make it, knew you were no good.”

“Your mother would never—”

“No, not Ma.”

“Ah.” His uncle, she thought, and said nothing more.

“That’s a long, ugly story. Let’s take a walk instead.”

On the busy main street they ran into people she knew, or people he knew. On both sides there was enough puzzlement and curiosity to amuse him.

“People wonder what you’re doing with me,” he commented, “or what I’m doing with you.”

“People should spend more time on their own business than speculating on other people’s.”

“In Greenwich everybody’s going to speculate about the Browns.They’re just going to be careful when it’s you.”

“Me?” Honestly surprised, Parker frowned at him. “Why?”

“In your business you get to know a lot of secrets. In mine, too.”

“How’s that?”

“People want their car detailed, for instance, and don’t always make sure everything’s out of it they don’t want other people to see.”

“Such as?”

“That would be telling.”

She elbowed him. “Not if I don’t know who left the what.”

“We have a running contest at the garage. Whoever finds the most women’s underwear in a month gets a six-pack.”

“Oh. Hmmm.”

“You asked.”

She considered a moment.“I can beat that,” she determined.“I can beat that.”

“Okay.”

“I once found a Chantelle demi-cut bra—black lace, thirty-six-C, hanging on a branch of a willow by the pond and the matching panties floating in the water.”

“Chantelle who?”

“That’s the lingerie designer.You know cars. I know fashion.”

“Something about cars and weddings,” he said as he opened the passenger door for her, “must make women want to take off their underwear.” He grinned as she slid in. “So feel free.”

“That’s so sweet of you.”

When she settled back in the car again, she considered it a successful evening. She’d enjoyed it, enjoyed him, learned a little more—even if she’d had to nudge, poke, and pry the more out of him.

And had only had to excuse herself twice to take calls from clients.

“Big wedding this weekend,” he commented.

“Two big, two medium, and a coed wedding shower Thursday evening, right after rehearsal. Plus two off-site events.”

“Busy.Why does a guy want to go to a wedding shower?”

She started to give him the diplomatic, professional response, then laughed. “Because their fiancee makes them. We set up a cigar bar on the terrace. It helps get them through.”

“Morphine wouldn’t do it for me.The wedding deal. I meant Carter’s sister.”

“Oh yeah. We’re all looking forward to that. Sherry’s been nothing but fun to work with.We don’t get many like her.You’re at table twelve.You’ll have a good time.”

“Planning on it.”

When he turned into the drive, she was as sorry to see the evening ending as she’d been skittish to have it begin.

“Summer’s done,” she said as she got out of the car into the crisp.“I love fall, the color of it, the smells, the change of the light. But I’m always sorry to say good-bye to the green and the summer flowers. I guess you’re sorry to say good-bye to your bike until next year.”

“I’ll get a few more runs in.Take a day off and we’ll have one together.”

“Tempting.”And it was.“But we’re packed for the next couple weeks.”

“I can wait. I’d rather not.” He stepped closer, and though he didn’t touch her, she felt the spike of excitement.“Why don’t you ask me in, Parker?”

She intended to say no, had intended to say no since she’d dressed for the evening.Too soon, too much, too risky.

She opened the door, held out her hand.“Come in, Malcolm.”

He took her hand, shoved the door closed behind him. His gaze stayed on hers, compelling, the only contact but palm to palm.

“Ask me upstairs. Ask me into your bed.”

She felt her heart beat, rapid kicks at the base of her throat. Be sensible, she ordered herself. Be careful.

Instead she moved into him this time, took for herself this time by laying her lips on his.

“Come upstairs, Malcolm. I want you in my bed.”

IT WAS A LONG WAY UP, HE THOUGHT, LONG ENOUGH FOR HIM TO sense her nerves. She was skilled at hiding them, but he’d learned how to read her. Especially now when he was aware of her every move, her every breath.

They climbed the graceful stairs to her wing where the quiet was so absolute he swore he could hear his own heartbeat. And hers.

She stepped into the bedroom—big, filled with quiet colors, art, photographs, the soft gleam of furniture he imagined had served generations.

She locked the door, caught his raised brow.

“Ah . . . it’s not usual, but Laurel or Del could . . . Anyway, I’ll take your jacket.”

“My jacket?”

“I’ll hang up your jacket.”

Of course she’d hang up his jacket. It was perfectly Parker. Quietly amused, he stripped it off and handed it to her.When she crossed to a door, went inside, curiosity had him following.

Closet wasn’t a big enough or fancy enough term. None of the closets he’d ever owned or seen held curvy little chairs, lamps, or an entire wall of shoes. In an alcove—and closets didn’t generally run to alcoves—a lighted mirror ranged above some sort of desk or kneehole cabinet where he assumed she fussed with her hair and face, but the only thing on it was a vase of little flowers.

“So is this everybody’s closet?”

“Just mine.” She tossed her hair as she glanced back. “I like clothes.”

As with closet, he didn’t think like was a big or fancy enough word for Parker Brown’s relationship with clothes. “You’ve got them color coordinated.” Fascinated, he skimmed a finger over a section of white tops. “Even, what do you call it, graduated, like a paint fan.”

“It’s more efficient. Don’t you keep your tools in order?”

“I thought I did.There’s a phone in here.”

“It’s a house phone.” She took her own out of the purse she set on a drawer-filled counter.