Читать книгу Everything but a Husband - Karen Templeton - Страница 10

Del ordered pizza—extra cheese, black olives, pepperoni—then turned to the stack of dirty dishes patiently waiting for him on the counter beside the sink. God bless Pizza Hut. What with having to pick Galen up at the airport and all, he’d had no choice but to drag Wendy along on his last-minute check-ins. But all was finished, all was fixed, all was well, and now he had five whole days with nothing to do but rest, watch TV, and play with his daughter.

Notice, he did not include thinking about Galen Granata on that list.

He rinsed off the last Corelle bowl from breakfast, slowly set it in the drainer. Of course, trying not to think about the redhead was like trying to ignore a mosquito bite. The woman was, without a doubt, the strangest creature he’d ever encountered. Whatever was going on in that gal’s head, it was definitely scary. One second, she’s looking at him like a lost puppy; the next minute, like he’d just threatened to sue her. Or she, him.

Del dried his hands, rummaged in one of the cupboards for a couple of paper plates. Once back in the truck, Galen had sat with her hands tightly folded in her lap, staring straight ahead, that luscious mouth of hers pulled in a straight line. He made a few lame attempts at conversation, but lighting wet wood would’ve been easier. After three or four tries, he’d given up.

What bugged him, though, was why her uncommunicativeness should bother him so much. So what? He’d only been doing Cora a favor, after all. Wasn’t as if her houseguest was going to be around, someone he had to entertain or even put up with. And if Miss Caribbean Eyes had been actually rude, he probably wouldn’t even be thinking about her now. She’d just been…unwilling to talk. As if getting to know him, or letting him get to know her, somehow put her in danger. As if she was trying to prove something to herself.

He wondered about her husband.

He wondered why he was wondering about things that were none of his business.

The phone rang, interrupting pointless musings.

“Yo.”

His father, a successful developer, chuckled. “Real professional, Del. Good way to impress all those potential clients, you know?”

Del shrugged, sliding down onto a kitchen chair. “Hey—one, this is my personal number, and two, who the hell would be calling me about a job tonight?”

“Guess you have a point there.”

“Thank you.”

Hugh Farentino laughed again, making Del smile. Dad and he might have had their moments—still did—but he genuinely admired the man. Liked him, too. And he was glad his father, a widower for so many years, had found someone to make him happy. On the surface, Maureen Louden seemed no different than a hundred other well-heeled, Midwest born and bred, middle-aged lady Realtors—blonde and small and pretty and impeccably dressed, no matter what the occasion. But in the year-plus since his father’s remarriage, Maureen had proven that, yeah, she was strong willed, to be sure, but also determined to wring every drop of passion out of her life—and equally determined that everyone in her circle did the same.

It was also almost embarrassingly clear how much she loved Del’s father.

Del’s heart did this funny stuttering thing, making him frown. Was that a twinge of envy? For Dad and Maureen? Absurd.

“So. Cora told Maureen you hadn’t decided whether or not to come to Elizabeth’s,” his father said.

If he wanted privacy, he’d have to move elsewhere. Like to a hitherto unnamed planet. “I don’t know, Dad. Sounds like an awful lot of people…”

“Exactly. All those kids for Wendy to play with.”

Apprehension pulled tight in his chest, as it did a hundred times a day. Wendy hadn’t met most of these children, they wouldn’t know—

“Del,” Hugh said softly, interrupting his paranoia. “I know what you’re thinking. But you’ve got to let Wendy start stretching her wings.”

“She’s not even five yet, Dad—”

That got a laugh. Which Del returned, somewhat. “Okay, yeah, I know she’s a little advanced for her years—”

Hugh snorted.

“—but still. And she’s also very sensitive…”

“Which doesn’t have a damn thing to do with anything, and you know it. That’s just the way she is. You were, God knows. And it’s something she’s going to have to learn to deal with, sooner or later. It’ll be fine, Del. And Wendy will have a blast.”

Wendy wandered into the kitchen, squeaking a chair across the floor as she yanked it back, sank into it, her face caught in her palms. Bored, would be Del’s guess. Just the other day, in fact, she was begging to see Elizabeth’s and Guy’s kids, including their toddler daughter Chloe.

He was being silly. Wasn’t he?

“Okay,” Del said on a resigned sigh. “I guess we’ll be there.”

“Good. Give our girl a hug for us.”

Del no sooner hung up than the doorbell rang. Wendy jumped up, holding out her hands for the money, which he retrieved from his wallet and handed to her. He opened the door and took the pizza, letting Wendy pay—keeping an eye on the delivery kid to make sure they got the right change back—his chest swelling with pride when she said a very clear “Thank you” to the kid as he left.

Galen looked up from unpacking her few things from her bag, blinking in astonishment at Cora, enthroned in an armchair in front of the heavily draped guest-room window. Somehow, in all the thousands and thousands of words they’d already exchanged since her arrival, Cora had overlooked these. Just as Galen had not mentioned Del Farentino, other than to thank Cora for sending him. She was having enough trouble figuring out her bizarre reaction to the man without throwing her surrogate mother a bone to gnaw on.

“What do you mean, we’re going to somebody’s house for dinner on Thanksgiving?” The dog jumped up on Cora’s guest-room bed; Galen pushed her off before the beast’s sharp nails snagged the comforter’s ivory satin cover. Nonplussed, Baby pranced over to Cora, who scooped her up onto her broad lap. “What was all this about not wanting to spend the holiday alone?”

“And you believed me?”

Galen let out a weary sigh, then carried her sweaters over to the bureau drawer.

“See, Elizabeth and Maureen are doing the turkeys—”

Galen turned so fast she nearly put out her shoulder. “Turkeys? Plural?”

“Well, yeah, since one bird ain’t gonna feed fifty people—oh, close your mouth. It’ll be fun. And then everybody else is bringing the side dishes.” One maroon-nailed hand drifted up to toy with a processed wave artfully draped across a forehead smooth as the polished walnut headboard on the bed. “’Course, with Elizabeth, you can’t call it potluck, since she wouldn’t likely see the humor in a table full of twenty-five pumpkin pies and nothing else. So she assigned people food groups.”

With a smile, Galen turned back to the bed, fishing her underwear from the bag. She’d already heard a lot about this woman and her tendencies toward obsessive-compulsiveness. And how her marriage to Guy Sanford, a free spirit with three young children and no discernible fashion sense, had loosened her up quite a bit in the past couple of years. “And what did you get?”

“Green vegetables.” Clutching the dog to her impressive bosom, she tugged the hem of her loose red sweater back over her thighs. “’Cept when I suggested bringin’ a mess of greens, she kinda blanched. Oh, she’s too polite to say anything, but she sure did brighten up when I mentioned as how a green bean casserole might hold up better, you know? Oh, honey…”

Galen looked up. “What?”

“I see you didn’t get to buy yourself that new underwear after all.”

Galen glanced down at the white cotton undies in her hands. “Sure I did. See?” She waved a bra. “Still has the tag and everything.”

Cora heaved herself from the chair, canine in tow, and snatched the bra from Galen’s hand. Glowered at it. “You mean, you just inherited two hundred fifty thousand dollars, and you bought underwear from K mart?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Well, child, if you have to ask, there’s your answer right there.” Cora tossed the bra back like it was a snake, then hmmphed through her nose. “What are you now? Thirty-four, thirty-five? And still dressing like they just let you outta the convent. Girl, I would kill for that figure you got, and there you go, keeping it all covered up like it was some kinda sin to let the world see how gorgeous you are. And then have the nerve to wear that sorry stuff underneath.”

Galen felt her cheeks flame. “It’s cotton. I like it.”

It’s what good girls wear. Good women. The kind of woman I married, Galen.

Over another hmmph behind her, Galen added, “Besides, it’s not like I’ve got anyone to exactly, well…” To her chagrin, she blushed even more. “Wear it for,” she finally finished. And no, that was not Del Farentino’s hooded, appreciative gaze that just popped into her head.

And call it instinct, but somehow she had the feeling Del wouldn’t tell her only cheap women wore fancy, lacy underwear.

She also had the feeling she was losing it, hooking up Del and sexy underwear in the same sentence when she no earthly reason to be thinking about either of them at all.

“Who said anything about anybody else?” Cora was saying. “A woman wears pretty things next to her skin because they make her feel good. Like a woman, you hear what I’m saying? At least, that’s the first reason to wear ’em. Any other reason that might happen to come along’s just frosting on the cake.”

Her cheeks still burning, Galen quickly tucked the garments in the drawer, slamming it shut maybe a little harder than she meant to. Somehow, she knew what was coming.

“Anyway, you didn’t wear anything pretty for your husband?”

What the hell is this? If I’d wanted someone cheap, I would’ve married one of the Ruscetti girls. So you just take that stuff back to the store. If they give you a hard time, tell ’em your husband said he didn’t like it….

“They…all wore out.”

Cora plopped back down into the chair, laughing low in her throat. Her “uh-huh” laugh. Galen knew Cora didn’t mean her reaction to sting, but the truth was…

The truth was, Galen really didn’t feel like thinking about the past tonight. Or ever. Far as she was concerned, there was only the future, starting right this very minute. A future completely non-dependent on what kind of underwear she wore. The eighteen-year-old girl who’d only bought the pretty lingerie because she thought it might please her husband, the husband she loved more than she’d ever loved anyone in her life, didn’t exist anymore.

And the thirty-five-year-old woman who’d taken her place was perfectly happy with cotton.

Vinnie hadn’t been mean about it, really. Or even angry. In fact, something like amusement had flashed in his dark eyes when she’d come to him, shyly untying the deep green satin robe she’d bought to go with the matching satin bikini panties, the push-up bra. No, he’d just looked at her—briefly—as he might have a child who’d put her shoes on the wrong feet. Then he’d pulled the robe closed, kissed her on top of her head, and calmly told her to go change.

And take back the underwear. Which of course she couldn’t do because she’d worn it. If only for five minutes.

When she’d finally thrown it out, she didn’t fully understand, not then, why she felt like something’d been stolen from her.

“Okay.” Galen turned around, arms folded across her waist, mentally whapping at the heebie-jeebies. Wondering who she might have been, if she hadn’t made some of the choices she had. If she hadn’t let desperation cloud reason, all those years ago. How long, she wondered, could a seed remain dormant before it would no longer spring to life? Guess she was about to find out, huh? “You’re doing green beans. What can I do?”

“Do?” Cora leaned back, her features twisted. “Baby, unless I’m very mistaken, this is the closest thing you’ve had to a vacation in years. Nobody expects you to so much as lift a finger while you’re here.”

Galen squinted at her. “You’re forgetting. This is the woman who loves to cook, who hasn’t had a chance to strut her stuff for nearly five years. Invalids and old ladies aren’t very appreciative when it comes to anything fancier than custard and boiled chicken.” She grinned, several possibilities swirling around in her brain. “You wouldn’t have a pasta maker by any chance?”

Cora’s eyes went wide. “You make pasta?”

“It’s the only way.”

“Uh, no. The only way is to buy stuff in boxes, throw it in boiling water, ten minutes later you eat.”

“You’d make a lousy Italian, Cora.”

“Not something that keeps me awake at nights, believe me.” Cora stood again and tramped to the door, still hanging on to the moony-faced dog. “Besides, Miss Irish-Slovak Mutt, you weren’t exactly born singing ‘O Sole Mio’ yourself.”

“Minor point.”

Cora chuckled, then said on her way out the door, “But, as it happens, I do have a pasta maker.”

Galen followed, confused. “But you said—”

“Didn’t say I used it.” Cora started down the narrow stairs, one wide hand braced on what seemed to Galen to be a very flimsy banister. “Rod and Nancy—you’ll meet them tomorrow, friends of Elizabeth’s and Guy’s, she’s crazier than a loon but they’re both just the sweetest people you’d ever want to meet—anyway, they gave me one when I moved in here. He’s some sort of gourmet cook himself, you should see his kitchen, honey. Mm-mm. But back to what I was saying before…” Now at the bottom of the stairs, she turned back to Galen, brows drawn together. “You’re supposed to be taking it easy.”

Galen stopped, two steps from the bottom, hands tucked in her pockets. “For heaven’s sake, Cora. I’m on vacation, not convalescent. So where’s this pasta maker?”

“You don’t have to do this—”

“Hey—you want me to go to this thing? You let me bring something.”

“Oh, Lord.” Shaking her head, Cora pivoted on the bare wooden floor, her leather-soled flats tapping against the boards as she made her way to the kitchen. “Now I’m beginning to remember what you were like as a child. Like to give your mama fits, what with you always getting a bee in your bonnet about one thing or another.” She finally jettisoned the dog, then opened and closed several heavily enameled white kitchen cupboard doors before she found what she was looking for. She lugged the machine off the shelf, thunking it down onto a badly worn Formica counter in a hideous shade of aqua.

Galen oohed at the pasta maker for several seconds before Cora’s words sank in. She looked up, brow puckered. “What are you talking about?”

“Baby, you were a real piece of work when you were little. Stubborn? Hardheaded? Willful?” Cora laughed. “Take your pick.” She nodded toward the appliance. “That okay?”

“What? Oh, yeah.” Her brain spinning, Galen caressed the glistening surface of the appliance. “This is like the Rolls-Royce of pasta makers.”

“Yeah?” Cora looked at it the way those people did on the “Antiques Road-show” when the appraiser told them the piece of junk that had been sitting in their great-aunt’s attic for a thousand years was worth more than their house, then shrugged. “Still.” Then she took off for the living room, leaving Galen, once again, to follow. Which she only did because she wanted Cora to tell her what the heck she was talking about.

Cora grabbed the clicker from the coffee table, settled herself on one end of the nubby, striped sofa. “Now, I’m not saying you were a bad child. Nothing like that. You never sassed your mama, least not that I ever heard. And you were always so good with my girls, even though they were so much younger than you. But you sure were a determined little thing. When you wanted something, you’d either drive your mama nuts until she gave in, or figured out some way to get whatever it was you wanted on your own.” She angled her head, frowning. “You don’t remember that?”

With a sigh, Galen sank into the overstuffed cushions beside Cora, her arms knotted at her waist. “Vaguely. But somewhere along the line…” She stopped, trying to figure out how to put what she felt into words. The dog hopped up onto her lap, bestowing two tiny kisses on her knuckles. Galen smiled in spite of herself. “I guess my parents’ deaths shook me more than I even realized.”

“Knocked all the fight out of you, in other words.”

“Maybe. Yeah, I guess.”

“Well, honey—” Cora aimed the clicker at the TV, surfing through several channels until she lit on some sitcom Galen had watched once and vowed to never watch again “—ain’t nobody around to tell you what to do anymore, is there? You wanna make something for dinner, you go right ahead.” Without waiting for a reply, she waved at the TV. “You like this show?”

Galen reached around to finger a stray hair tickling the back of her neck. “Actually…” Cora pinned her with a look she’d seen a thousand times on her grandmother’s face. “Sure. It’s…one of my favorites.”

“Good. I was hoping you’d say that.”

Galen just sighed.

Even though the brilliant flush of high autumn was long past, Thanksgiving decided to be clear and bright and crisp, a day to do Norman Rockwell proud. Around two, Cora’s little Ford Probe slid in behind a conga line of minivans snaking around from the front of Elizabeth’s and Guy’s corner-lotted Victorian. They got out, carefully withdrawing the terry-blanketed casseroles from the floor behind the front seat: Cora’s green-bean casserole and a dish Galen had learned to make on the sly by watching Vinnie’s grandmother. Galen had dragged Cora all over creation for two hours yesterday before she found a store with the right kind of prosciutto ham, the Parmesan cheese—fresh, not the Kraft stuff—the ricotta. Then, this morning, she’d spent a couple more blissful hours in the kitchen, humming contentedly as she chopped and stirred and layered, while Cora made assorted “better you than me, baby” comments.

To tell the truth, Galen had often thought she preferred cooking to sex. A revelation she kept to herself, for obvious reasons. Sex had always left her feeling…what? Agitated, somehow. Like there should be more, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what the “more” should be. It wasn’t that Vinnie was bad in bed as much as he just didn’t seem all that interested.

So much for the passionate Italian lover theory.

Instead, she found incredible satisfaction in making even the most intricate, complicated dishes from scratch. When she was in the kitchen, rolling out pasta, chopping herbs, layering cheeses and meats in obscenely expensive pans, she was at peace. Since she’d been married to an Italian, she’d learned to cook Italian. Learned to cook it well.

Even if she rarely had the opportunity to show off her talents.

A gaggle of shrieking, laughing children swooped past them, tossing huge armfuls of curled, crinkly leaves in a hundred shades of brown at each other, as Galen and Cora waded through the arboreous debris up to the house, a dusty-blue-trimmed white Victorian with a wide wraparound porch on three sides. The house was set far back on a large lot over-flowing with lush evergreens and the graceful skeletons of a dozen or more deciduous trees, slashes of charcoal against the sharp blue sky; a few blocks to Galen’s left, she could see the glint of water sparkling at the end of what looked like a park. She inhaled deeply, delighting in the pungent-sweet scent of moldering leaves and fireplace smoke, even as a strange, inexplicable mixture of contentment, apprehension and regret swirled around her heart.

“Cora!”

A laughing woman’s voice cut through Galen’s thoughts. They’d just about reached the porch steps; she looked up to see a petite blonde standing in front of the open door. Slung on the woman’s trim hip was a toddler in pink overalls and flyaway blond hair, guzzling something in a Sippee cup. This was one classy lady, Galen decided at once, feeling downright dowdy in her brown sweater and slacks, her hair pulled back in its standard clip. A finely knit, obviously expensive, heathery blue turtleneck sweater hugged the woman’s slender figure, dipped into matching wool slacks. She wore her pale hair pulled into a neat twist at the back of her head, a few wisps floating around her delicately featured face. Simple pearl earrings glinted in her ears; her makeup was understated, perfectly applied. Her lightly glossed lips, however, were pulled up into a broad, welcoming smile. She held out her free hand…which is when Galen spotted the Popsicle stick turkey, enthusiastically and messily painted, pinned to one shoulder.

“You must be Galen,” she said, her handshake firm and warm. “Welcome to the funny farm. I’m Elizabeth, and this is Chloe, my daughter, and I’m not even gonna try to introduce you to everyone else! It’s each person for him-or herself today.”

Just then, a dark-haired man with the brightest blue eyes Galen had ever seen poked his head out the front door, a single gold stud gleaming in one ear. “There you are,” he said to the blonde. “Wondered where you went.”

“I escaped,” Elizabeth announced. “Between your mother, my mother and Rod, that kitchen is way too crowded. Galen…Granata, isn’t it?” Galen nodded, impressed she remembered. “My husband, Guy Sanford. Well, come on in,” she said, sidling through the door, the baby beating on her shoulder with the empty cup. “We’re still waiting on a few stragglers. In the meantime, we’re setting everything up on the dining table.”

The scent of roast turkey and spices and just-cleaned house washed over Galen as they walked through the high-ceilinged entry hall, the ivory walls splashed with splinters of sunlight from the cut-glass panes in the transom over the front door. Elizabeth glanced at Cora’s foil-covered dish. “Green beans?”

“Well, I guess you’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you, Miss Nosybody?” And with that, she tromped off, leaving Galen standing alone with Elizabeth, feeling abandoned and awkward. Guy had also disappeared; Elizabeth lowered the fussy toddler to the floor, who headed toward the living room, a warm, cluttered collection of leather furniture and antiques in shades of golds and dark reds. The baby was making fast tracks toward the largest, scruffiest dog Galen had ever seen.

“Chloe?” The baby pivoted around, her mouth tucked into a “who, me?” expression. “Be nice to Einstein, okay?”

Chloe babbled something completely unintelligible, then resumed the pursuit of her quarry, who seemed not the least bit concerned he was about to be attacked by twenty pounds of unbridled affection.

Elizabeth watched for a moment as the dog slowly rolled to his back so the little girl could pat his stomach, sighed, then turned her attention back to Galen. “I know he’s ten times bigger than she is, but those cute little hands of hers can be lethal. Come on back,” she said, her low-heeled pumps soundless on the Oriental-patterned runner leading back to the dining room, then glanced back at the dish in Galen’s hands. “More green beans?”

“Uh, no. Spinach and prosciutto pasta.”

Brows lifted, Elizabeth stopped in her tracks, lifted a corner of the foil covering the dish. “Ooooh…that smells absolutely wonderful.” She took the dish from Galen’s hands, carrying it over to the lace-covered dining room table herself. “Hey, you two!” she said to a pair of little boys, one blond, one dark-haired, black olives tipping all their fingers. “Go on, scoot! It’s not time yet—”

“Mama,” the darker-haired boy said, stuffing three olives in his mouth, then tugging on her sleeve. “Look what Micah did to the pumpkin pie—”

“I did not!” the blond kid shot back. “It was already like that!”

“Oh, yeah? Then how come your breath smells like pumpkin pie?”

“Boys?” They both looked up at their mother. “Go away.”

Exchanging half-hearted jabs, they did. Bracing Galen’s casserole against her hip, Elizabeth scanned the table, already smothered in assorted baskets and casseroles and plastic bowls. “Here—move those rolls over there—yeah, that’s right—and that bowl of…whatever it is, to the right of the Jell-O mold—” Galen smiled at the ill-concealed grimace “—there!” Elizabeth set the casserole down, clearly pleased with herself.

“Okay, where you want the ice?”

Galen whipped around to run smack into Del Farentino’s startled smile.

“Oh, great!” Elizabeth said. “There’s an ice chest…” She peeked around the corner of the table. “Ah. Right here. Just plop it on in there.” She looked up, then from one to the other. “Oh, uh…you two already met?”

Galen folded her arms against her ribs, quickly taking in Del’s unbuttoned, untucked plaid shirt casually framing a torso-hugging T-shirt disappearing into the waistband of a pair of worn jeans. “Del picked me up from the airport the other day,” she said, silently pleading for him not to say anything else.

“Oh, that’s right. Cora told me.” Elizabeth snatched an olive herself, then headed toward the swinging door which Galen assumed led to the kitchen. “Where’s Wendy?”

Del grinned. A little unsteadily, Galen thought. “God only knows. She saw the kids playing in the leaves, took off like a shot.” Galen saw his glance swerve toward the table, after which he let out a long, low whistle. “Man oh man, that’s a lot of food.”

“Nobody’ll leave here starving, that’s for sure,” Elizabeth agreed, then vanished through the door, leaving it swinging in her wake.

Leaving Galen alone with Del. She was gonna kill Cora when she saw her again. She laced her hands together, only to immediately unlace them. Then she turned to the table, fiddling with the pile of plastic flatware dumped on the corner. Ridiculous, the way her heart was pounding. Like she was interested or something. Jiminy Christmas.

“Wonder where everyone else is?” she said through a scratchy throat.

“Oh, that’s easy. Kids are all outside, men are all in the family room watching a game and the women are either in the kitchen or upstairs criticizing the decor.”

She smiled. But not at him.

He stepped closer, smelling of cold air and aftershave and some indefinable unique scent that made her want to smell more. That made her want to run away. She shut her eyes, reminding herself it was a trap, making men smell good. Nature’s way of derailing a woman, making her believe in things that weren’t real. Of making her miss the point. Not to mention the boat.

“Which one’s yours?” he asked, looming over the table, his hands braced on his hips. “And please don’t tell me it’s the Jell-O mold.”

Her own laugh surprised her. She’d really have to watch that. Letting him make her laugh. Because then, see, she might discover she really liked him. And even that was too great a risk. “No. It’s the one over there, by the cranberry sauce. Oh! What are you doing?”

Del had made an exaggerated show of peering over his shoulder before snitching one of the individually sliced rolls, holding it over the palm of his other hand as he munched. “Sampling,” he said around the bite, then groaned.

Galen shrugged, trying not to take it personally. “It’s not to everyone’s liking, I know—”

“Are you kidding?” Del stuffed another bite into his mouth, promptly speared another piece with a plastic fork. “You made this from scratch?”

She nodded, feeling a blush of pride sweep up her cheeks.

“God, I haven’t had anything this good since I was a kid at my grandmother’s house.” Then he gave her a smile, all goofy and wonderful and warm.

With a little cry, she ran from the room.