Читать книгу Everything but a Husband - Karen Templeton - Страница 11

What the hell?

Still chewing, Del stared in the direction Galen had fled. Great. Five minutes with the woman, she either throws up or runs away. Real boost for the old male ego.

Not that it mattered one way or the other what Galen Granata thought of him, especially since she was leaving in three days. Especially since he felt downright…unfinished next to her. No, she didn’t exude the studied perfection of Maureen or Elizabeth, or even the casual stylishness of Nancy Braden, Elizabeth’s best friend. But there was something about Galen’s naturalness, her quiet reticence, that just knocked him for a loop whenever he saw her. She was, quite simply, flawless.

Del was, equally simply, not.

“What was that all about?”

He hadn’t heard the kitchen door open, or seen Guy, armed with two cans of black olives, head in his direction. His head humming, Del turned to his step-brother-in-law. “Damned if I know. I complimented Galen on her contribution to the groaning board, and she lit out of here like I’d insulted her.”

“Huh.” Guy dumped the olives into the almost empty crystal dish, his layered, shoulder-length hair swishing over a bold, geometric-patterned sweater in shades of black, purple and bright blue. “Women are strange beasts, no doubt about it. Forget it, dog,” he said to Einstein, who’d wandered into the room on the off-chance someone had called him to dinner. With a groan, the shaggy beast slunk out again, head and tail hanging. Guy set down the empty cans on the corner of the table, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Good-looking woman,” he said, too casually.

Del shrugged, refusing to take the bait. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Bet she doesn’t think she is, either.”

“I couldn’t say.”

Silence.

Guy rubbed his index finger under his lower lip, surveying the spread. “So. What’d she bring?”

Del bit back a smile at the way Guy had just backed down. For the moment, at least. “I don’t know the real name. Pasta rolls, stuffed with cheese and ham. My grandmother used to make it when I was a kid. Go ahead—try one.”

Guy picked up a piece, opened his mouth. Shut it again, his brow wrinkled. “What’s the green stuff?”

“Spinach. Least, that’s the way my grandmother made it.”

Incredulous blue eyes met his. “And you liked it?”

“Hey—you ain’t tasted spinach until you’ve tasted what an Italian can do with spinach.”

Guy squinted. “I thought Cora said Granata was Galen’s married name.”

“Close enough.”

Still, Guy took a cautious bite, chewing slowly at first, then more quickly, his expression changing from skeptical to “wow” within three seconds.

“Was I right or what? Good stuff, huh?”

Guy shoved in another piece. “Any woman who can do this to spinach…” Still chewing, he grabbed the cans and went back into the kitchen, leaving Del to finish the sentence any old way he pleased.

Her heart pounding painfully inside her chest, Galen ducked outside, hoping maybe a few breaths of fresh air would clear her head. She strode across the porch, down the steps, sinking onto the bottom one, her head clamped between her hands.

This had to stop.

Too many thoughts were stampeding through her brain for her to sort them all out, to make enough sense, even, of them to get control. She felt dizzy, off-balance, as if someone had tilted the floor underneath her feet. For heaven’s sake, all Del had done was compliment her cooking and smile at her. Period. He wasn’t flirting, coming on to her, or otherwise threatening her in any way. He probably wasn’t even attracted to her. Not really. Not in the I’d-like-to-get-to-know-you-better sense, at least.

Heat seared her cheeks, again.

Okay, so it had been a while since a male-type person had even looked at her, let alone been nice to her. Other than the occasional bag boy at the Giant Eagle, maybe. And she was feeling a bit odd woman outish, in this house filled with people she didn’t know. Refined, classy people. Oh, sure, Elizabeth and Guy were friendly ‘n’ that, and it wasn’t like their house looked like a museum or anything. But even with four kids, from what she could tell, it still looked like something from one of those home decorating magazines. Like grown-ups lived there, too.

Galen hooked her hands around one knee, listening to the cacophony of children laughing and calling out to each other from the other side of the house. She knew she wasn’t stupid. It wasn’t that. But not having gone to college or pursued a career put her at a definite disadvantage. She simply didn’t fit in with these people.

As much as she ached to be like them.

She frowned, thinking about that. She’d never envied anyone before, not that she could remember. Not even when the other girls in her class got to date or wear makeup and she couldn’t. She guessed she’d always been one of those types who just accepted her lot in life. Her chin found its way into her palm as she let out a long, bewildered sigh. When had that changed? When had she changed? And what was it about the people inside that house she envied?

The answer came almost immediately: confidence.

She sat up straight, as if she’d been prodded. It wasn’t their clothes or education or the material trappings of their lives, but the self-confidence they all radiated. They knew who they were, what they were about, what their purpose was in life. And it didn’t matter, she realized, what that purpose was. Just that they had one. A purpose of their own choosing, whether it be family or career or whatever.

At that moment, Galen didn’t know whether it had been family interference or just plain old-fashioned circumstances that had robbed her of the drive and focus all those people inside that house had in spades. But without it, she was faceless, a non-entity.

With it, she’d never have to run from a man’s presence again, would she?

She got up from the steps, hugging herself as she walked toward the sound of the children’s voices. The wind snatched at her hair, tugging it out of its clasp; she pushed it back as she watched the impromptu game of tag in front of her. A couple of the older children, particularly a tall, spiked-haired blond girl of about eighteen, kept watch over the toddlers while the middle-aged children raced away from whoever was “it,” their voices shrill and clear. Galen recognized Elizabeth’s and Guy’s two boys in the pack, their shirts untucked from their pants, their faces flushed with cold and laughter. She folded her arms against her ribs, pushing back the pang of melancholy that still, no matter how hard she fought it, swept through her from time to time. She’d told herself, when Vinnie died, it was for the best they never had those babies they’d planned on.

But then, she’d at least have that purpose, wouldn’t she?

Someone—a gangly boy with glasses, maybe fifteen or so—yelled out to one of Elizabeth’s boys, blindly headed toward a little girl with white-blond hair, a doll of a child in a rust-colored jumper and white tights. Del’s daughter, Galen realized, only a second before she also realized the child, who’d bent down to scratch the huge dog, now lying in the leaves, couldn’t see that Elizabeth’s boy had lost his balance and was about to land right on top of her.

“Hey!” Galen shouted, wishing she could remember the child’s name. Leaves flew in all directions as she took off toward her, yelling “Watch out!” at the top of her lungs. She dove for the child, snatching her out of the way a split second before the boy tripped over the dog. Both of them tumbled into a pile of leaves, the little girl landing, her mouth open in shock, on top of Galen.

“Hey, sweetie,” she said, more winded than anything else. “You almost got creamed. Didn’t you hear us calling you?”

She noticed the child’s gaze, riveted to her lips. Gently, Galen brushed back the little girl’s wispy hair, revealing a large two-piece hearing aid wrapped around the tiny, delicate ear.

Del had seen what was about to happen from the side living room window, nearly going straight through the glass in his panic. How many times had he told her not to get so close to large groups of children when they were playing rough like that? She was so impossibly little, built like her mother…it wouldn’t take much for a heavier kid to flatten her like a bug. He hit the side yard just in time to see Galen take that flying tackle, sweeping his daughter out of harm’s way.

Seconds later, the child was in his arms. “You okay?” he signed, one-handed.

She nodded, that wicked grin pushing up her cheeks. “The lady caught me,” she signed. She brushed the first two fingers of her right hand against the tip of her nose, twice. “Funny.”

“Yeah.” Del let his butt drop to the ground. “Hilarious.” Wendy angled her head, not understanding. He echoed her “funny” sign, then scowled at her. “I thought I told to you to be careful playing around the other kids?”

She scowled back, pointing toward the far side of the yard. “They were over there,” she signed. “I was being careful—”

“Really,” Galen said, apparently picking up on the gist of Wendy’s protest, “she wasn’t in the thick of things.” Del glanced over, his breath catching at the earnest expression in those clear blue-green eyes. Then she smiled, pushing a floating strand of hair from her face. “The thick of things found her.”

“Yeah. They usually do,” he muttered, then pivoted Wendy around to face Galen, hands on her slender waist. She looked back. “This is Galen,” he said, finger spelling Galen’s name. “Say ‘thank you’.”

Wendy turned around, touched her lips with the fingertips of her right hand, then extended her hand outward. “Thang you,” she said slowly.

“You’re welcome,” Galen said, her eyes darting from Del to Wendy, then back again. She’d gotten to her knees, her sweater and hair—which had come loose from its clasp, twin sheets of copper against fair cheeks—embellished with bits of leaves. “What’s your name?” she asked, pointing to Wendy, an instinctive sign that got the desired response.

“Wen-dy Fah-wan-dino,” she said with a huge smile. She’d just learned to say her last name a couple of weeks ago, in fact, and the glow of accomplishment hadn’t yet faded. Then she turned back to Del, whacking leaves off her bottom. “Can I go back and play?” she signed.

Del looked out at the raucous gang of kids hurtling themselves at each other with great abandon, then felt Wendy tug at his loose shirt. He looked down, wincing at the devilment in her dark brown eyes.

“I’ll be careful,” she signed, then touched her right index finger to her lips, opening the hand to bump her wrist against the top of her other hand. “Promise.”

He let out a resigned sigh. “Hold on…” He reached up to check that both aids were securely seated, then sent her off with a pat on the behind.

“She’s absolutely adorable,” Galen said at his elbow. “And I bet Daddy’s already plotting on how to keep the boys at bay.”

For several seconds, all he could do was stare at Galen, unable to breathe, let alone move. His daughter’s handicap was perfectly obvious—the hearing aids, the signing, the denasalized, almost mechanical speech. Yet, the first words out of this woman’s mouth were to remark on how adorable his daughter was. But what had him momentarily unable to function was not so much the words—politeness, an unwillingness to hurt his feelings, could just as well have produced the comment—but the ingenuousness of her statement. The sincerity. Heaven knows, he and Wendy had met enough well-meaning people since her birth, people who’d say “What a pretty little girl” with that catch in their voice, smiling at Wendy with eyes full of pity. Or fear. Or embarrassed gratitude that their child wasn’t “like that.”

Not this time. He knew, as well as he knew his name, that Galen Granata had looked at his child and seen…a child. The child he loved. Not the child that made so many people uncomfortable or nervous.

“I had a deaf friend, growing up,” Galen said quietly, looking back over the yard. “And the one thing she most hated was the way everyone always saw her as deaf first, a person second.” She turned those impossibly turquoise eyes to him. “That stayed with me.”

Del got to his feet, held out a hand to help Galen up, which, not surprisingly, she refused. “Did you learn to sign, then?”

Hugging herself, Galen shook her head. “Her parents wouldn’t let her. She was being taught by the…Oral method, I think it was called. Actually, I think she picked up signing later, after she got out of school. But we lost touch soon after that. After I got married.”

For a long minute, they both stood with their arms crossed, watching the racing, shrieking children. And he saw the longing in her face. If he had any sense, he wouldn’t ask. Since he didn’t, he did.

“You…don’t have kids of your own?”

She flicked a glance in his direction, shook her head. “I can’t have them,” she said quietly. “Damaged goods and all that. Oh! Look—I think they’re telling us the food’s ready!”

She started toward the house; he grabbed her hand, twisting her back to him. “There’s nothing damaged about you, Galen Granata. You got that?” There went that scared-doe look again, intensified by the plain brownness of her outfit. Her hand was smooth, but strong. A hand that rolled out pasta, chopped ham. Brushed the hair from a little girl’s eyes.

He longed to do the same for her, to touch that soft, shimmering mass floating around her shoulders, firestruck in the shaft of late afternoon sunlight angling through the bare trees. “You got that?” he repeated.

He saw the tears gather in the corners of her eyes, but she nodded.

“Good.” He gave her hand a brief, gentle squeeze. “Thank you for coming to the rescue.”

She slipped her hand from his, tucking it, with the other one, against her waist. “It was nothing,” she murmured, then turned and walked quickly away.

Odd how, not a half-hour before, she’d been leery of being with so many people she didn’t know. Now she was grateful for the crowd, for being one of a herd, swarming around the feeding trough. Shyly, she introduced herself to various smiling middle-aged men in cabled pullovers and flannel shirts and the occasional sport jacket and turtleneck, as well as to their wool-skirted or denim-jumpered or designer-jeaned wives. Most of them were Sanfords, she realized, as were the vast majority of children. And other than Cora—and Del—she was the only unattached person over eighteen there.

This person or that tried to draw her into conversation, but since they all knew each other, talk quickly centered on what this or that kid was doing, who got a new car or house, who was expecting a new baby. They didn’t mean to leave her out, she knew. They just had a lot to catch up on. At one point, she searched out Cora, who looked up, waving her over to the handsome older couple at her side. The man’s sharply-honed features looked vaguely familiar, his hair that dark pewter when black hair goes gray; he stood possessively close to a small, fine-boned blonde who looked familiar, too. Galen shook her head “no,” however, indicating she’d meet up with her friend later. Actually, after twenty minutes of being buried in a dozen overlapping conversations, she’d had enough. Besides, cutting turkey with the side of a plastic fork, standing up, was the pits.

She slithered through a knot of laughing Sanfords, filched a plastic knife from the table, then slithered back out to the far less populated entryway, settling with her plate on the next-to-bottom tread of the wide, carpeted stairway hugging one wall. She carefully set her cider-filled plastic “glass” between her and the wall, letting out a long, heartfelt sigh.

“Yeah, that’s about my reaction, too.”

Her head snapped up at the low voice, as her heart simultaneously did an erratic pool-shot number in her chest. She jabbed at a small pile of green beans, trying for nonchalant. “Amazing, the way we keep running into each other.”

Balancing his own plate in one hand, Del awkwardly slid down onto the step beside her. But not too close, she noticed. Next to the banister. Leaving a good four feet between them. “And why do I get the feeling the phrase like a bad penny is in there somewhere?”

“That’s not what I—”

“Joke, honey. Just a joke,” Del said, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Oh. Yes.” She glanced around. “Where’s Wendy?”

“Couldn’t pry her away from the other kids.” He took a sip of the cider. Grimaced.

Galen couldn’t help but smile. “There’s beer out in the garage, I hear.”

“Ah. I wondered.”

He was watching her. She wished he wouldn’t. Was flattered that he was. Well, unless she had marshmallow on her nose or something. She casually lifted her hand to her face to check.

Nope.

On a soft sigh—of relief? terror?—she poked at a chunk of sweet potato, then looked out toward the still-swarming dining room. “So,” she managed over a suddenly trembling everything, “I’m here because of Cora. Obviously. From what I can tell, though, nearly everybody else is family. So how’d you wrangle an invitation?”

“Because I’m part of the everybody else.”

Puzzled, she shook her head, a sweet potato hovering six inches from her mouth.

“I’m family, too. Elizabeth’s mother married my father.”

The couple with Cora! No wonder they both looked familiar. Then, on a soft gasp: “You’re Elizabeth’s step-brother?”