Читать книгу Daddy By Design?: Daddy By Design? / Her Perfect Wife - Kate Thomas, Cheryl Porter Anne - Страница 13

FRESHLY BATHED and clad in her nightgown and robe, Cinda sat curled up on the sofa in the family room. The large-screen TV was turned off, and the built-in stereo system softly played jazz in the background. Cinda was tired but it was too early in the evening to go to bed. She’d already nursed and rocked Chelsi to sleep and this was Major Clovis’s and Marta’s night out. So Cinda essentially had the place to herself.

She loved moments like this. Yet she also hated them. They were too quiet, too ripe for reflection. Her mind insisted on wandering from the book she’d picked up, to center itself on Trey Cooper. She supposed it was only natural. After all, he’d been a major player in a really big moment in her life, the birth of her daughter. Oh, nice try, Cinda. It was more than that and you know it. Much more. Okay, so there had been attraction. She hadn’t imagined that. Something chemical had happened between them. He’d made quite the impression on her senses. A lingering impression.

Feeling all dreamy, like a lovesick teenager, Cinda allowed her hardcover mystery to flop onto her lap as she gave in to thoughts of Trey Cooper. Such a handsome, virile man. Cinda sat up, hearing herself and looking around guiltily. What am I thinking? Here I am a widow with a six-month-old baby acting as if I have my first crush. Now she was sounding like her mother-in-law. The woman would have a stroke if Cinda even thought of seeing someone, much less marrying anyone else. The Real Mrs. Cavanaugh, as Major Clovis called her because of her condescending airs, talked as if she believed Cinda should remain chaste in loving memory of Richard the Second.

Frowning, Cinda spared a moment for her complicated relationship with Ruth Cavanaugh. She supposed she loved the difficult woman, who could be over-bearing and opinionated. Okay, so she could be a battering ram. Most days, though, and on most issues, Cinda simply didn’t give in to her. In disagreements with Ruth, Cinda tried to remain firm but respectful. After all, Ruth was Chelsi’s grandmother, which meant she would always be a part of her life. And, Cinda knew Ruth had it hard. After all, she’d lost her only child.

Oh, Richard. Cinda’s eyes grew damp. She had loved him. Well, she’d tried to. But he wouldn’t allow it. He hadn’t wanted a wife, just a child, an heir. And now he was gone. But wasn’t life for the living? Cinda asked herself. She’d always heard that, and now she understood what it meant. She was alive. And so was Trey Cooper. In light of that, what was she supposed to do with all the hormones that still drove her, as well as the fifty or so years of life still ahead of her? Just sit here and vegetate? She didn’t think so.

So why didn’t she just get over it and call Trey Cooper? Where was the harm? Women called men all the time now. She had, before she’d met Richard. In fact, that was how she’d met Richard. She’d called him. Okay, so she’d been a reporter assigned to do a story on him. But still, she’d made the first move. And that had worked out well, hadn’t it? For a while, anyway. It had certainly worked out better for her than it had for Richard. Poor Richard. He got the yaks, and she got Chelsi.

Just then, the phone rang, shattering the silence. Nearly jumping out of her skin, Cinda tossed her book aside and scrambled up onto her knees. Reaching over the back of the sofa, she plucked up the cordless hand-set from atop the long narrow table that reposed there. A quick check of the caller ID had her groaning as she sank back onto the plush cushions. Speak of the devil. Her in-laws’ name and number graced the tiny glowing screen. So why couldn’t she just be “not at home” and let the machine get it? Tempting. But no. Ever dutiful, Cinda depressed the talk button and put the phone to her ear.

“Hello, Mother Cavanaugh,” she said in a pleasant voice.

“Sorry to disappoint you, sweetie, but this is Grandpa Rick.”

Cinda’s mood instantly lifted. Richard’s father. She loved this man. “Papa Rick! How are you?” He hardly ever called. Couldn’t wrest the phone from his wife’s hands, no doubt.

“The Dragon Lady fell asleep in her lair, so I snatched up the phone when it rang an hour or so ago. And it’s lucky for you I did.”

“For me? Why? Is something wrong?”

“Only if you don’t like the young man who called for you.”

Cinda sat bolt upright on the sofa. Her pulse picked up. Anticipation flitted through her, drying her mouth. “A young man called for me?”

“He did. And like I said, it was a good thing I answered and not Ruth.”

“No kidding.” She and Papa Rick were in this conspiracy together to survive the Dragon Lady. “But why would the, uh, young man call you? You’re in the Hamptons. And I certainly haven’t given anybody your number there. This doesn’t make sense.”

“Cinda, slow down. All I know is he sounded Southern.”

“S-Southern?” Cinda could have kicked herself for that stutter in her voice. Thank God, Papa Rick couldn’t know how her heart was leaping right now. Only two days ago she’d been wishing every call was Trey’s. And now, just maybe, here it was.

“So,” she said, trying to play it cool, “Who was he? What’d he say? What’d he want? Why did he call you?”

Okay, so she blew the cool part.

Rick Cavanaugh chuckled in her ear. “My, don’t you sound eager.”

Cinda took a deep breath. She wasn’t certain yet that she wanted to confide in Papa Rick, or if she even should. After all, Richard had been his son, too. “Eager? No. Just curious is all. Like I said, I can’t imagine why anyone would call you looking for me.”

“It wasn’t exactly your young man who called—”

“I don’t have a young man.” Immediately, Cinda grimaced, rapping her forehead with her knuckles. She’d been too quick to protest.

“Of course you don’t.” Papa Rick’s voice remained friendly and teasing. “You should have one, you know, honey.”

Cinda was pleasantly taken aback. Papa Rick thought she should have a young man? That was enlightening.

“At any rate,” her father-in-law was saying, “our Miss Reeves—oh, you remember our Miss Reeves, don’t you?”

Cinda gave an indelicate snort. He may as well have asked her if she remembered the axe-wielding monster she’d felt certain had resided in her bedroom closet when she’d been a child. “Yes. Tall. Big hair. Humorless. The saint and scourge of social secretaries. The one everyone is afraid of. Well, except Major Clovis, who isn’t afraid of anyone. You mean that Miss Reeves?”

“Yes. Well, our Miss Reeves was at your apartment earlier this evening, making her rounds, as it were, checking on things—”

“She was? Why?”

“The Dragon Lady thought it would be a good thing to do.”

“I see.” So The Real Mrs. Cavanaugh had her spy snooping around in Cinda’s absence. There wasn’t much Cinda could say about it. The penthouse was in the elder Cavanaughs’ names. “So what did she find?”

“A blinking phone message, actually. From two days ago.”

“Two days ago?”

“According to the date and time on your voice mail.”

“Oh, I can’t believe this. I have been so lax about checking it up there. Every time I did, it seemed like there were no messages. And then I got busy here and just stopped thinking about it. I figured by now everyone knew I was in Atlanta.”

“Well, not everyone, I’d say.”

Suddenly it all made sense. Her caller was Southern and last January she’d given Trey Cooper her New York number. Despite her excitement, Cinda wanted to groan. Trey probably believed that she had no intention of returning his call. What must he think? Putting that aside for the moment she concentrated on Papa Rick. “Hey, have I told you lately that I love you?”

“No. I don’t think you have.”

Cinda grinned at the mock hurt in his voice. “I love you.”

“That’s nice to know. I love you, too.”

“Then it’s mutual.” Though warmed by his affection, Cinda worked to get them back on track. “All right, so your Miss Reeves took down this phone message for me and called to tell the Drag—I mean Mother Cavanaugh about it, but got you instead. So, what did you tell her to do?”

“You know it doesn’t work like that. Our Miss Reeves instructed me to call you to see if you know this man. Do you?”

Well, obviously, it wasn’t only in her home where control over the staff had long since been ceded. “I don’t know, Papa Rick. You haven’t told me who called.”

“Well, that makes it hard then, doesn’t it? Let’s see. It was…Oh, for the love of Mike. Where did it get to? Hold on. I seem to have misplaced the note.”

He’d lost the note. Cinda pitched over onto the sofa’s cushions while she listened to sounds of fumbling and searching at the other end. Please, God, let him find the—

“Aha, here it is. Oh, wait a minute. Now I have to find my glasses.”

Cinda vaulted up to a sitting position and shoved her hair back from her too-warm face. “Papa Rick? Look in your shirt pocket. Your reading glasses are always in your shirt pocket.”

Silence. Then… “Well, I’ll be darned. What do you know? There they are. Now let me put them on.”

Cinda put her free hand to her aching forehead. God love Papa Rick, the big old bear of a man. It was a good thing this kind and sweet gentleman had inherited his vast wealth and hadn’t had to earn it because he would have ended up on the street.

“Okay, I think I’m ready now. Do you have something to write with, dear?”

Cinda gasped. She didn’t.

“I’ll give you his number. Oh, wait, how’s my beautiful granddaughter, the light of my life—after you, of course?”

“Thank you. She’s fine. Chubby. Happy. Healthy. She can sit up on her own now.” Cinda fumbled for paper and pen. Until this very moment, there had always been a pen and a notepad of paper on this end table. But not tonight. Cinda scurried around the room, looking. Opening cabinets. Searching through drawers. “I expect she’ll be crawling in a few months, if not heading up her own corporation.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful. I really miss seeing her.”

The wistful note in his voice caused Cinda to slow down. Her features crumpled into a sympathetic mask. “I know you miss her. I swear I’ll bring her up to see you.” She bit the bullet. “Or why don’t y’all come down here?”

“Ruth won’t cross the Mason-Dixon Line. You know that.”

“Then come without her.” As she listened to Papa Rick telling her all the reasons why he couldn’t come without his wife, Cinda rushed into her gourmet kitchen and snatched a paper towel off the roll. She next opened a drawer of the built-in desk and found a permanent laundry marker. “Oh, sure you can. Just tell your pilot where you want to go, and he’ll fly you here.”

“That’s true. I could do that.”

“See?” Using her teeth, and praying she didn’t get the indelible ink all over her face in the process—she could see a dermatologist having to sand that off—she bit down on the pen, spit the lid out, and said, “Okay, I’m ready. Go ahead.” She smoothed the paper towel atop the granite breakfast bar and waited. “Papa Rick?”

“Shh. Hold on. I think I hear Ruth coming downstairs.”

Dread swept through Cinda and had her gripping the phone tighter. It was like they were conspirators in the French Resistance. “Then hurry, Papa Rick. Give me the name and the number really quick, okay?”

Talking to this dear man was like trying to communicate with a cat—you could, but you had to do it carefully and patiently and with a lot of cajoling. Yet it still might not work, anyway.

“No. It wasn’t her. Must have been the dog.”

Cinda grimaced her distaste. Calling Ruth’s nasty-tempered little dust-mop of a yappy, biting lap ornament a “dog” was really using the term loosely. “So who was this Southern gentleman who called for me, Papa Rick?”

“I hate that dog. It bites my ankles and shreds all the hems in my pants—while I’m wearing them.”

“I know. I hate Empress, too. She’s got an attitude problem. Now, who was it you said phoned me?” Much more of this, Cinda knew, and it would be three days since Trey had called. If it had been Trey who had called at all.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I haven’t told you yet, have I? Okay, here it is. Let me see now. A Mr. Trey—now, that can’t be right. People in the South don’t name their children after parts of the silver service, do they?”

It was Trey. Dear God, it was Trey. Cinda feared she would burst into flames, she was so giddy with excitement. Still she managed to sound sane when she replied. “Yes. Down here they do. I know actual children named Cream and Sugar.” Of course it wasn’t true, but it was a shorter explanation—and one this blue-blooded, harmless Yankee would believe. “So…Trey who?” she added to maintain her air of innocence.

“Cooper is what I wrote down. And this next part is serious. Miss Reeves said to tell you that Mr. Cooper said his life needed to be saved. Does that mean anything to you?”

Cinda barely covered her gasp. Trey Cooper was calling in his favor. “Uh, maybe. Give me his number, and I’ll try him right now, okay?”

“That’s a good idea. I just hope it’s not too late. He could be dead by now. But anyway, here it is.” He finally read her the telephone number.

Maddeningly, Cinda’s fingers didn’t want to work in concert with her brain. She was too excited, too nervous. She had to ask Papa Rick three times to repeat the numbers to her, but finally she got them in the correct sequence. Relief coursed through her. Short-lived relief.

“Wait a minute,” Papa Rick said. “Trey Cooper. That name sounds familiar. This isn’t the nice young man who was stuck in the elevator with you last January, is it? The one you told us about?”

Oh sure, now his mind clears. “Yes. But don’t tell Mother Cavanaugh, all right? I don’t want her jumping to any conclusions that would have her taking to her bed for a week and making your life unbearable.”

“Oh. I see your point, although I can’t vouch for our Miss Reeves. No doubt, she’ll tattle. But anyway, good luck, dear. I’ll let you go so you can call your young man.”

“He’s not my young man.”

“Well, go see that he is. Goodbye. And kiss that baby for me.”

“I will. And I love you. Goodbye, Papa Rick.”

Cinda disconnected the call, then stared at the paper towel she held and on which she’d scrawled the phone number with the Atlanta area code. Her heart and her mind were singing. Trey Cooper had called her. And his life needed to be saved. Oh, happy day.

Then she sobered. Surely, he didn’t mean that literally. So this could only be a good thing, right? A social call, as in “how are you doing, I meant to call you before now.”

That had to be it. She eyed the phone still in her other hand…then the phone number. The phone…the number. Then the kitchen clock. It wasn’t even nine yet. She could call right now. Cinda took a deep breath for courage, swallowed her heart back down into her chest, and began dialing Trey Cooper’s number. Right then, she couldn’t have said if she wanted him to be home or not. After all, this could be a good thing—or it could be opening a Pandora’s box of emotions best left unexplored. She just didn’t know which.

Somehow, though, the number was dialed and the phone at the other end was ringing. Hearing it, Cinda was seized by a sudden spate of panic that shrieked at her to hang up. Her hand tightened on the phone—

STARTLED AWAKE, Trey grabbed his phone off the hook on the second ring and put it to his ear. “Hello?” No one said anything. “Hello?” He listened. “I can hear you breathing. I know you’re there. You might as well say something.”

“Oh. Trey, is that you? This is Cinda Cooper—I mean Cavanaugh. Cinda Cavanaugh.”

Trey sat bolt upright on his couch, where he’d been about half asleep as the TV blared some mindless nonsense. “Cinda?” Had he heard her right? Had she really said Cooper? Surely not. That was just wistful thinking on his part. “Hi. I didn’t think you were going to call me back.”

“I’m sure you didn’t, but I just now got your message. By a very roundabout way, too.”

“Really?” He grabbed the remote and turned the TV off. The sudden quiet was a blessing. “Been away from the house?”

“It’s an apartment, actually. In New York. But yes I have been away. In fact, I’m back in Atlanta now.”

Excitement quickened in him. “Are you serious? You’re here in Atlanta? Just visiting, or what?”

“Or what. I moved back here a few months ago, into my old house. The same one I lived in before.”

“Before what?”

“The yaks.”

“Oh, hell. Right. But, hey, this is great. If I’d known you were in town, I’d have come by to see the baby. How is she?”

“Asleep, blessedly. But she’s fine. Absolutely beautiful, of course, and the smartest child in the world. Just ask her mother.”

Trey chuckled. Then he was silent, gathering his thoughts as he ran a hand through his hair. “So, how are you doing, Cinda? I mean really.”

“I’m good. You?”

“I’m good.” He wasn’t. He’d been a wreck since he’d called her and hadn’t received a call back. He’d put himself through hell with all the reasons why she might not be going to call him back. In none of the scenarios had he come off well. In none of them, either, had he assigned such a simple reason as she simply no longer lived at that number.

Suddenly Trey realized there was a silence between them. He opened his mouth to say something, but Cinda beat him to it.

“Well, this is certainly awkward,” she said.

“I know. Hard to believe, isn’t it? Especially after what we shared together in that stupid elevator—for which I’m eternally grateful, by the way.”

“Oh really? Why is that?”

“Because otherwise I never would have met you.” Trey applauded his boldness, on the one hand. But on the other, he wanted to kick himself. He held his breath, wondering just how old a man had to be before he no longer felt like a fool just for calling a woman and saying what he really felt.

“Well.”

Trey died inside…fourteen times, to be exact.

Finally she saved him. “That’s certainly a nice thing to say. You’re being very charming, you know.”

He exhaled, fully expecting his heart and lungs to whoosh out along with his relief. But boldness had brought him this far. So, ever one to keep crashing onward, even if it was into brick walls, he decided to try again. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It might be.” Her tone of voice was clearly teasing. “You see, I’m very susceptible to charming Southern men and have to watch myself around them.”

“And yet, now that you are in Atlanta, you’re surrounded by them.”

She hesitated a moment. “Not so many as you’d think.”

“Really?” Encouraged to know that she wasn’t inundated with men, Trey’s heart stepped out onto the romantic-risk-taking high-dive and took the plunge. “Good. Because I have a proposition for you.”

“Is this the part where I save your life?”

“Pretty much. If you’re willing, that is.”

“As long as it doesn’t include a stalled elevator, I probably am.”

“I can guarantee there are no elevators, stuck or otherwise, involved. In fact, I’m not even sure there’s a building in Southwood with an elevator.”

“Southwood?”

“My hometown. Just west of here.”

“That’s right. Now I remember. I’m still trying to figure out why I’ve never heard of it, though, if it’s that close to Atlanta.”

“No reason why you should have. We didn’t produce any Confederate generals or Olympic medalists. Just a dusty little town planning a big celebration.”

“I see. Of what?”

“My high-school class reunion. Our tenth, even though it was actually twelve years ago.”

“I wish I could say that made sense.”

“So do I, but that’s Southwood for you. It’s a long story.”

“Let me guess. You need a date, right?”

“Worse. Or better, depending on how you look at it. I need a wife and a child.”

Silence ensued. Trey held his breath, not knowing if he should say something to assure her he wasn’t joking, or if he should just wait and see what her reaction would be.

“You’re not going to tell me this is some sort of crazy scavenger hunt, are you?” she said a moment later.

Trey grinned. “No. But you may wish that before I’m done here.”

“Wow. Sounds really intriguing. Go ahead. I’m listening.”

Trey exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. “Intrigue may not be the half of it. And I don’t like asking you this over the phone, but—”

“But your life needs to be saved and I owe you, right?”

“Yes and no. Yes my life needs to be saved. And no I don’t feel that you owe me. I meant this to be—I just thought maybe—Oh, hell, never mind, Cinda. Look, I’m sorry. Forget it. This didn’t sound so nuts to me the other day when I called you with this idea of mine. But now, hearing it out loud and asking you, or trying to ask you, well, it sounds stupid. Just never mind. I’m sorry I bothered you. I can go by my—”

“Wait, Trey. Give me a chance here. I didn’t say no, did I? Just tell me what’s going on, and we’ll go from there.”

Hope bloomed in his heart. “You sure?”

She chuckled. “I think I am. Maybe.”

“An open mind. That’s a good beginning. So, here’s the deal…” Trey launched into his predicament, hitting the highlights, as if there were any, of his upcoming reunion weekend and what role he needed her and Chelsi to play. He worked hard to make it sound sane and logical when, in fact, it was neither. He didn’t tell her about Rocco Diamante, though, thinking there was no reason to needlessly scare her. If the man showed up and made trouble, Trey would call his friend, the police chief, and then get Cinda, the baby, and his mother out of town. But, still, the longer he talked, the more he was convinced Cinda would not only say no, but she would probably also hang up on him and change her phone number.

But finally, he was through telling his tale. “So, what do you think? You don’t have to say yes, Cinda. Seriously. No harm, no foul. Because I think it’s a crazy plan, and it’s my plan.” She didn’t say anything. Trey sighed. “You think I’m nuts, don’t you?”

“No. I probably should, but I don’t. You know what? It sounds fun and crazy. And maybe that’s exactly what I need right now. So…yes, Trey Cooper, I’ll do it. Well, we’ll do it—Chelsi and I.”

Trey bolted to his feet, narrowly avoiding colliding with his coffee table, and paced excitedly across the carpet. “You will? You’ll be my wife?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. “Well, let’s keep our heads here. I’m saying that I’ll be your wife and Chelsi will be your daughter…but only for that one weekend, of course.”

“Yeah. Of course,” Trey echoed. “One weekend. That’s all I need.”

He just wished he could be sure about that. Because he wasn’t. Not at all. And that couldn’t be good.