Читать книгу What Family Means - Geri Krotow - Страница 13

Present Day

Buffalo, New York Debra

IT WASN’T EASY to keep from bursting into torrents of laughter at the shocked look on Angie’s face.

What, did she think her parents never had sex? Poor thing, with her morning sickness and all.

My sense of humor wasn’t always in tune with everyone else’s, and I was sure Angie found nothing funny about what I told her.

I kept my cool as I drove. I needed to get to the welcome nest of our home. Mine and Will’s.

I pulled into our long, wooded driveway and parked in front of the house. I’d teased Will mercilessly that he should just have built a tree house. It was what our place reminded me of.

It was built only twenty years ago, Will’s design, but looked as though it has been part of these woods forever. The cedar siding and A-frame structure blended perfectly with the trees.

The house cost us a fortune at the time. Will wanted to design the home we’d live in for the rest of our lives, and he wouldn’t settle for less.

I was glad he didn’t.

We came here when the kids were still young, Angie fourteen and the twins in grade school. I had so many joyous memories of raising those kids in this home.

Angie.

My daughter can be impetuous, and this latest stunt was no exception.

A baby! Without her husband….

I was going to be a grandmother. But not how I’d expected.

Since Blair and Stella had been trying to get pregnant, I hadn’t considered any other possibilities. Certainly not Angie….

The fact that she hadn’t told Jesse bothered me. He was working in the middle of a war zone, under stress, but to know he was going to be a father would boost his morale, wouldn’t it?

They’d been married for seven years. Angie didn’t discuss it, but I’d always thought they’d have kids at some point, when it was important enough to both of them.

I went inside and threw my knitting bag on the old cane chair from Will’s father’s old office.

The office where I met Will, all those years ago.

I looked around for our dog.

“Rose!”

The golden retriever was up in my room, no doubt, her ears pricked to my arrival but not wanting to leave her warm bed. Will loved that dog so much. Rose was spoiled more than the kids had ever been.

“C’mon, Rose! We’ve got to check on Vi.”

Rose came out and padded down the stairs. Her tail wagged at the mention of Vi. That dog was crazy about Vi, something that stumped me, as Vi was never very affectionate to her.

“Let’s go.”

We walked out the back kitchen door and I left Rose outside in the yard as I knocked, then entered Vi’s cottage. She never locked the door.

“Vi?” The kitchen light over the sink was on. I saw the back of Vi’s silver head on the other side of her cream sofa.

“Oh, hey.” She raised a thin hand as I circled the room and gave her a careful look.

“How are you doing? Did the meds help?”

“Yes. I’m sorry I bothered you when you were out having fun with the girls. How was your coffee with Angie?” Vi always made it sound as though my life was one big party.

“You didn’t bother me. Angie sends her love. How about some tea? Have you eaten lunch?” Judging by the lack of dishes in her sink, Vi hadn’t moved from the couch since I’d checked in on her before I went to the Koffee Klache.

“Yes, I made myself a sandwich.”

“Are you sure?” I nosed around the kitchen a bit. No sign of even a crumb. Ahh, there was the evidence—a butter knife with a mustard smear.

“Yes, I’m fine—resting now.”

I turned on the water and washed the knife for her. The cottage had a dishwasher but Vi wouldn’t use it—said it was “too much” for just her.

I made us both tea and took the cups into the sitting room.

“You can put your show back on, Vi.”

“No, no, that’s okay.” Liar. I knew she watched her soaps every day, and she knew I knew. I grabbed the remote and clicked on the television.

“Here, have some tea.”

“Thanks.” Vi was quiet as she sipped the tea and watched her program.

I sighed inwardly. I had so much to get ready for the art show, including the weaving that needed to be finished. But I couldn’t ask Vi to come over and stay at our place if I was only going to disappear into my studio.

And she needed company, whether she asked for it or not.

I needed to be in Will’s arms. Three days until he was back from Los Angeles. I’d have a pot roast on the table. And our king-size bed would be waiting for him….

How lucky was I that I still had a great sex life with the same man who’d taught me how to make love in Paris, almost forty years ago?

September 1972

Paris, France

THE THREE-HUNDRED-YEAR-OLD building triggered countless visions in Will’s mind. He saw the building architecturally—the ribs exposed, before the marble and plaster added their depth. His mind’s eye pictured each layer, one after another, until the interior looked as it did today.

The sound of his leather soles on the wide stairway comforted him. Will lived and breathed architecture.

He walked down the ornate hallway to a familiar classroom. Once a ballroom, it had been converted with utilitarian chairs and desks. The first architectural design class he’d taken this summer had been in this room. The days were long, sweaty and intellectually exhilarating.

Today was the start of his art in architecture class. He hoped the professor was more of a left-brain type so they’d study building structure more than actual artwork like paintings and sculpture. Either way, this was a required class for his graduate studies abroad, so he’d do whatever he had to do.

He wasn’t really into the Paris art scene; he had his sights set on becoming America’s foremost architect.

He slid into a seat toward the back. He was early and only two other students had shown up so far. He opened a notebook and flipped through it. He’d loved his class this summer, and his French had improved with each passing week. This class had the potential to be great, as well.

Or boring as hell.

As he perused his notebook, an unopened envelope fell out.

From Sarah.

He sighed. Hell-bent as he was on becoming a great architect, his mother and Sarah were equally hell-bent on his marrying Sarah.

Both from Western New York, they’d met on campus at Howard University. Sarah had moved back to Buffalo from Washington, D.C., after graduation. She worked as a legal researcher in downtown Buffalo.

The one time he’d taken her out, over spring break, she’d made it clear that she’d follow Will anywhere, even if it was “back here to little ol’ Buffalo.”

She’d had the same privileged upbringing he had. Money had buffered them from some of the effects of racism his poorer black friends had suffered.

They were a great match on paper. But he didn’t love Sarah. Not the way he thought he should.

Hell, what did he know?

He’d had his nose in books for the past five years. And he suspected that his mother was determined to win the marriage war, since his parents had lost their battle to send him to med school.

Long legs in fishnet stockings caught his eye.

A woman with a short plaid skirt and black knee-high boots moved quickly to the seat in front of him. Her figure was accentuated by her red mohair sweater, over which fell a riot of bright carrot-colored curls. His fingers knew how her curls would feel, how they’d spring back from his tug.

He’d known a woman with hair like this once. A girl. But she was in Buffalo, part of his past, and he’d never see her again.

Couldn’t.

The scent of the woman’s perfume made his blood run hot. So much so that he didn’t realize the professor had arrived and started taking attendance.

“Roman?”

“Ici.”

“Russert?”

“Ici.”

“Schaefer?”

“Oui, ici, madame.”

That voice.

“Debra?” he whispered, afraid he’d lost his mind.

The woman with the cloud of red hair turned around in her seat. Her green eyes glittered in the morning light shafting through the Murano glass windowpanes. The same freckles, the same tilt of her nose. But on a much more sophisticated face. Was that glossy lipstick on her naturally pink lips?

She didn’t recognize him for a heartbeat, but then recognition and incredulity lit up her expression.

“Will!” Her voice was huskier, sexier than he’d remembered.

And too loud for Professor Cleremont.

“This is a graduate-level course and very demanding, Mademoiselle Schaefer.”

Debra whirled back around in her chair.

“Oui, Madame Cleremont.” Her French was flawless. Will recalled that she’d taken French in high school, but when had she learned to speak like a native?

He sat behind her for the next hour and forty-five minutes, not hearing a single word of what Professor Cleremont said. His intense and constant awareness of Debra made him feel flushed. Distracted.

So his reaction to their one shared kiss at seventeen—when she was fifteen—hadn’t been a fluke. At least not for him.

The class finally ended and Will absently picked up the handouts as the fifteen students filed out the door. He saw only one.

Debra.

“When did you get here?” Without thought, he placed his hand on her elbow. She stopped and turned to face him. He had her full attention, all right.

“Last week. This is my junior year abroad with Mount Holyoke.”

“Mount Holyoke?”

She looked exasperated.

“Yes, Will. I’m a student. I attend university. I’m studying art history.”

“But Mount Holyoke’s Ivy League.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“There is such a thing as a scholarship, Will.”

“But…you’re still an undergrad—these are graduate courses.”

“Yes, and I’m earning my master’s at the same time as my bachelor’s.” Her face reflected boredom and a flash of…disappointment?

“I never knew—”

“You never bothered to ask, Will.”

Ouch. He hadn’t contacted her after their kiss that winter day so long ago. His mother had forbidden any contact with her, and frankly he didn’t want his mother on Debra’s case, either.

He’d felt the need to protect her, although—or perhaps because—they moved in different circles. The same high school but vastly different social groups. He couldn’t remember Debra ever being at a dance or after-school function. He’d missed her terribly but was more relieved than anything. He didn’t want his friends bothering her.

They’d never spoken again.

“Yeah. I guess we…drifted apart.”

“Call it whatever you want, Will. I have another class in half an hour, across the place.”

With that she stalked away from him and he just stood there, his breath gone. As though she’d punched him in the stomach, hard. But she hadn’t even touched him.

She’d given him that look—of contempt? Disapproval?—with her brilliant eyes. The eyes that used to radiate hero worship for him.

The eyes that glowed softly in the winter moonlight after he’d kissed her, his hands on either side of her face. He hadn’t felt the cold blustering around them.

Just the wonder of childhood companionship that had grown into something deeper.

And was cut off.

Will shivered in the autumn sunshine.

A moment earlier, her eyes had done the same thing to him. She’d cut him off.

September 1972

Paris, France

DEBRA HAD NO IDEA how she did it. She’d walked away from Will after missing him for all these years. His memory had spoiled the chances of every boyfriend since.

She liked boys. A lot, in fact.

But when it came to talking about things that mattered, they were dumb asses compared to Will. How could they be anything else? She and Will had shared a childhood friendship that could never be recaptured with anyone else.