Нора Робертс - Happy Ever After

“She got nothing, and I can’t blame her. It must’ve happened at the peak of that quick squall, and she was busy trying to get control of her car. I’d say she did pretty well. Didn’t hit anything, didn’t even pop the airbag. She was shaken up, and she was pissed. And she was extra pissed thinking she’d be late for her meeting.”

“But not hurt,” Del said, mostly to himself. “Okay.Where?”

“About six miles out.”

“Were you out this way, on your bike?”

“No.” Damn third degree. “Look, Ma got the call, and she came out to tell me somebody ran Parker off the road, and she was stuck, so I rode out to check on her while Ma dispatched Bill.”

“I appreciate that, Mal.” He glanced over as Mrs. Grady walked out, then set a bowl of pub mix and a plate of olives on the table. “Sop up some of that beer. Here come your boyfriends,” she added, nodding across the lawn as the dusk light flickered on.

“You.” She poked Malcolm in the shoulder.“You can have one more beer, as we won’t be sitting down to dinner for another hour or more, then that’s it until you park that monster machine back at your own place.”

“You and me could go out dancing first.”

“Careful.” She twinkled at him. “I’ve got plenty of moves left in me.”

She strolled back into the house, leaving Malcolm grinning. “Bet she does.” He tipped his beer toward Jack and Carter in greeting.

“Here’s what the doctor ordered.” Jack Cooke, the golden-boy architect and Del’s college pal, opened a beer. The sturdy boots and jeans told Mal Jack had focused on site work rather than office work that day.

He made a contrast with Carter’s oxford shirt and khakis. Carter’s reading glasses poked out of his shirt pocket and had Malcolm imagining him sitting up in his new study grading papers with his Professor Maguire tweed jacket neatly hung in the closet.

He figured they made a motley crew—if he had the meaning right—with Del in his slick Italian suit, Jack and his work boots, Carter in his teacher’s khakis, and himself . . .

Well, hell, if he’d known he’d get invited to dinner, he’d have changed his pants.

Probably.

Jack grabbed a handful of pub mix. “What’s up?”

“Somebody ran Parker off the road. Mal came to the rescue.”

“Is she okay?” Carter set his beer down quickly without drinking. “Is she hurt?”

“She’s fine,” Malcolm said.“Couple shredded tires. No big.And I get a couple of beers and dinner out of it. Pretty good deal.”

“He talked Parker onto the bike.”

Jack snorted, glanced from Del to Mal. “You’re not kidding?”

“Lesser of two evils.” Amused now, Malcolm popped an olive.

“My bike or being late for her meeting. Anyway . . .” He popped another olive. “I think she liked it. I’ll have to take her on a real ride.”

“Right.” Del let out a half laugh. “Good luck with that.”

“You don’t think I can get her back on the bike?”

“Parker’s not what you’d call your Motorcycle Mama.”

“Careful what you say about my ma.” Mal considered as he sipped his beer.“I’ve got a hundred that says I can get her back on within two weeks for a solid hour.”

“If you throw away your money like that, I’ll have to keep buying your beer.”

“I’ll take your money,” Jack said, and dug into the pub mix. “I have no scruples about taking your money.”

“Bet.” Malcolm shook on it with Jack. “Still open to you,” he told Del.

“Fine.”As they shook, Del glanced at Carter.“Do you want in?”

“No, I don’t think . . . Well, actually, I guess I’ll put mine on Malcolm.”

Malcolm gave Carter a considering stare. “Maybe you are as smart as you look.”

IN MALCOLM’S EXPERIENCE, MOST PEOPLE DIDN’T SIT DOWN TO A meal of honey-glazed ham, roasted potatoes and baby carrots, and delicately grilled asparagus on your typical Tuesday. And they probably didn’t chow down with candlelight, flowers, and wine sparkling in crystal glasses.

Then again, the Brown household wasn’t most people.

He’d have skipped the fancy French wine even without Mrs. Grady’s baleful eye. He’d long ago grown out of the stage where he’d knock them back before climbing on his bike.

He’d had vague plans to go home, sweat off the long day with a workout, grab a shower, slap something between a couple slices of bread, pop a brew, and zone awhile in front of the tube.

He’d’ve been fine with that.

But he had to admit this was better.

Not just the food—though, Jesus, Mrs. Grady could cook— but the place, the whole ball of wax. Pretty women, men he liked, the amazing Mrs. Grady.

And, particularly, the always intriguing Parker Brown.

She had a face for candlelight, he supposed. Elegant but not cold, unless she wanted it to be. Sexy, but subtle, like a hint of lace under a starched shirt.

Then there was that voice—low register, a wisp of smoke, but changeable as the weather from brisk to prim from warm to ice. She got things done with those tones. Knew, he decided, just how to use them.

She’d had to relate the full story of her near miss, and used the casual notes with hints of temper. If he hadn’t seen her himself directly after the incident, he might have bought her pretense that she’d never been in any real danger, and was only annoyed with her own overreaction and the other driver’s carelessness.

Even with the act, the others smothered her with concern, peppered her with more questions, slung outrage at the other driver. And dumped gratitude on him until he felt buried in it.

He figured he and Parker hit about the same level of relief when the topic shifted.

He liked listening to them, all of them. Group—or he supposed more like family—dinner ran long, ran loud, and involved a whole hell of a lot of cross talk.That was fine with Mal. It meant he didn’t have to say much himself, and to his way of thinking you learned more about people when you let them take the wheel.

“What are you going to do with your pool table?” Jack asked Del.

“I haven’t decided.”

It stirred Malcolm enough to ask. “What’s wrong with the pool table?”

“Nothing.”

“Del’s selling his house and moving in here,” Carter told Mal.

“Selling it? When did that happen?”

“A very recent development.” Del arched his eyebrows at Mal as he buttered one of Mrs. Grady’s fancy crescent rolls.“You want to buy it?”

“What the hell would I do with it? It’s big enough for a family of ten and their grandparents from Iowa.” He considered as he cut another bite of ham. “Any way to just buy the game room?”

“Afraid not. But I’ve got a couple ideas on all that.”

“Let me know when you’re ready to sell the pinball machines.”

“Where are you going to put them?” Jack demanded. “You’ve barely got room to turn around in that place over your mother’s garage.”

“For the classics I’ll toss out my bed and sleep on the floor.”

“Boys and their toys.” Laurel rolled her eyes toward Del. “You can’t put yours in our bedroom. Line in the sand, Delaney. Indelible line.”

“I had a different location in mind.” Del glanced at Parker. “We’ll talk about it.”

“All right. I thought you might want to convert one of the attics,” Parker began, “but I took a look myself, and I don’t know that they’d safely hold all that weight. At least not if you wanted to keep the slate pool table.”

“I wasn’t thinking up. I was thinking down.”

“Down?” Parker repeated. “Where . . . Oh God, Del, not one of the basements.”

“How many attics and basements are in this place?” Mal whispered to Emma.

“Three attics, two—no, three basements if you count the scary boiler room where the demons who eat the flesh of young girls live.”

“Cool.”

“Sure, if you’re a young boy like Del was.” Emma narrowed her dark eyes as she glared across the table. “But if you’re a young girl playing Treasure Hunt, you could be scarred for life by a certain mean boy with a flashlight with a red bulb, a shambling walk, and a low, maniacal laugh.”

She picked up her wine, shuddered a little. “I still can’t go down there.”

He tuned back in while Parker and Del batted basements around, Laurel sat smiling into her wine, Jack grabbed another roll, and Mac whispered something in Carter’s ear that made the tip of that ear flush pink.

Interesting.

“Look,” Del said, “you use the west wing basement to store event supplies—extra tables, chairs, whatever.”

“We’re buying more. Investing in our own,” Parker pointed out. “So we snag the rental rather than subbing it out.”

“Which is good business. I’ve been down there too many times to count when I’ve pitched in with events.You have enough space for a showroom.”

“It’s not the space, Del, you can have the space.” Obviously weighing options, Parker frowned at her water glass, then at Del. “We could move the storage to the east side, but even then—”

“No, no!” Emma waved both hands. “It’s too close to the Hellmouth.”

“And he’s still there,” Del said darkly, “waiting for you.”

“I hate you, Delaney. Beat him up, Jack,” Emma demanded.“A whole lot.”

“Okay. Can I finish this roll first?”

“East, west,” Parker interrupted, “it’s still a basement. There’s next to no natural lighting, the ceilings are barely seven feet, concrete floors, parged walls, pipes everywhere.”

“All the better for a Man Cave. Besides, why do you think I keep him around?” he gestured at Jack. “He’s more than a pretty face.”

“Take a cavernous basement and remodel it into a MEA? That’s Manly Entertainment Area, to you civilians,” Jack explained as interest lit in his smoky eyes. “I can do that.”

“The walls are a foot thick,” Del went on,“so the space could be used even during events and nobody’d hear a thing.” He lifted his wineglass, swirled the last half inch of wine while he aimed his gaze at Emma. “Just like nobody hears the pitiful screams of girls being eaten alive by the demon with a single red eye.”

“You bastard.” Emma hunched her shoulders.

“Let’s go take a look.”

Parker stared at Del. “Now?”

“Sure.”

“I’m not going down there,” Emma muttered.

“Aw, baby.” Jack leaned over to wrap an arm around Emma. “I’ll protect you.”

She shook her head at Jack. “You say that now.”

“You guys go ahead.” Mac waved her wineglass. “Carter and I are just going to finish our wine, then we have . . . some things to do at home.”

“There’s peach pie yet,” Mrs. Grady announced.

“Well . . .” Mac smiled. “We have dessert at home, don’t we, Carter?”

His ears blushed again. “Apparently.”

“Come on, Mal,” Del invited. “We’ll give you a tour of the depths, work up an appetite for pie.”

“Sure.” He rose after they did, reached for his plate to clear it.

“Leave that for now.” Mrs. Grady wagged a finger at him.“Go on and explore first.”

“Okay. Best ham I ever ate.”

“I’ll wrap some up for you to take home.”

He bent down as he passed her.“I owe you a dance,” he whispered in her ear and made her laugh.

“What was that about?” Parker asked him.

“Private conversation.”

He tagged along, taking back stairs he imagined had once seen the scurry of servants and wondering why Parker still wore those skinny heels.

As Del hit switches, hard fluorescent lights flickered on to reveal a massive labyrinth.

He noted the low ceilings, unfinished walls, exposed pipes, and, as they turned into an open area, the utilitarian shelving, stacks of tables, chairs, stools.

A basement, no doubt, with just a pleasing edge of creepy and as ruthlessly clean as the kitchen of a five-star restaurant.

“What, do you have basement gnomes that come out and scrub at night?”

“Just because it’s storage and utility doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be clean,” Parker answered. “Del, it’s depressing down here.”

“Now.”

He moved into a passageway, ducked under more pipes with what Mal assumed was the grace of experience, and kept winding.

“Old boiler room.” Del jerked a thumb at a locked wooden door. “Where demons drool and sharpen their fangs on the bones of—”

“I didn’t fall for that when I was eight,” Laurel reminded him.

“It’s a damn shame.” He slung his arm around her shoulders; she wound hers around his waist.

Malcolm adjusted his stride so he walked beside Parker. “It’s a lot of space.”