Courting Catherine

by Nora Roberts

  “Besides it's easy when there's the offer of an Albert Finney lob-stah dinner on the other end.”

  There was a tug of annoyance he tried mightily to ignore. “How's the hand?”

  She wriggled her fingers. “Fine. Why don't you hang your keys on the pegboard?”

  He did so. “Do you realize you've never called me by name?”

  “Of course I have.”

  “No, you've called me names, but never by my name.” He lifted a hand to gesture the thought away. “In any case, I need to talk to you.”

  “Listen, if it's about the house, this really isn't the time or place.”

  “It isn't, precisely.”

  “Oh.” She looked at him, feeling that odd little jolt in her heart. “I'm really getting backed up. Can it wait until you pick up your car?”

  He wasn't used to waiting for anything. “It won't take long. I feel I should warn you, as I believe you're as unaware as I was, of your aunt's plans.”

  “Aunt Coco? What plans?”

  “The white-lace-and-orange-blossom type of plans.”

  Her expression went from baffled to stunned to sus­picion. “Marriage? That's absurd. Aunt Coco's not planning to be married. She doesn't even see anyone seriously.”

  “I don't think she's the candidate.” He walked to­ward her, keeping his eyes on her. “You are.”

  Her laugh was quick and full of fun as she sat on the edge of the desk. “Me? Married? That's rich.”

  “Yes, and so am I.'

  Her laughter dried up. Using the palms of her hands, she levered herself off the desk. When she spoke, her voice was very cool, with licks of temper beneath. “Exactly what are you implying?”

  “That your aunt, for reasons of her own, invited me here not only to look over the house, but her four very attractive nieces.”

  Her face went dead pale, as he now knew it did when she was desperately angry. “That's insulting.”

  “That's a fact.”

  “Get out.” She gave him one hard shove toward the door. “Get out. Get your keys, your car and your ridiculous accusations and get out.”

  “Hold on and shut up for one minute.” He took her firmly by the shoulders. “Just one minute, and when I'm done if you still think I'm being ridiculous, I'll leave.”

  “I know you're ridiculous. And conceited, and ar­rogant. If you think for one minute that I have—have designs on you—”

  “Not you,” he corrected with a little shake. “Your well-meaning aunt. 'Why don't you show Trenton the garden, C.C.? The flowers are exquisite in the moon­light.'“

  “She was just being polite.”

  “In a pig's eye. Do you know how I spent my morning?”

  “I couldn't be less interested.”

  “Looking through photo albums.” He saw the an­ger turn to distress and pressed on. “Dozens of them. You were quite the adorable child, Catherine.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “And bright, too, according to your doting aunt. Spelling bee champ in the third grade.”

  With a strangled groan, she lowered to the desk again.

  “Not a single cavity in your mouth.”

  “She didn't,” C.C. managed.

  “Oh, that and more. Top honors in your auto me­chanics class in high school. Using the bulk of your inheritance to buy this shop from your employer. I'm told you're a very sensible woman who knows how to keep her feet on the ground. Then again, you come from excellent stock and were well-bred.”

  “Like a holstein,” she muttered, firing up.

  “As you like. Naturally, with your background, brains and beauty, you'd make the right man the most excellent of wives.”

  She was no longer pale, but blushing furiously. “Just because Aunt Coco's proud of me doesn't mean she's asking you to pick out a silver pattern.”

  “After she finished relating your virtues and show­ing me the pictures—quite lovely ones—of you in your prom dress.”

  “My—” C.C. only shut her eyes.

  “She began to ask me my views on marriage and children. Dropping rather large, heavy hints that a man in my position needs a stable relationship with a stable woman. Such as yourself.”

  “All right, all right. Enough.” She opened her eyes again. “Aunt Coco often gets ideas in her head about what's best for my sisters and me. If she goes over­board.” C.C. set her teeth. “When she goes over­board, it's only because she loves us and feels re­sponsible. I'm sorry she made you uncomfortable.”

  “I didn't tell you this to embarrass you or to have you apologize.” Suddenly awkward, he slipped his hands into his pockets. “I thought it best if you knew the way her thoughts were headed before, well, some­thing got out of hand.”

  “Got out of hand?” C.C. repeated.

  “Or was misunderstood.” Odd, he thought, it was usually so easy to lay the ground rules. He certainly couldn't remember fumbling before. “That is, after last night... I realize you've been sheltered to a cer­tain degree.”

  The fingers of C.C.'s good hand began to drum on the knee of her coveralls.

  Perhaps he should start again. “I believe in hon­esty, C.C., in both my business and my personal re­lationships. Last night, between temper and the moon­light, we—I suppose you could say we lost control for a moment.” Why did that seem so pale and in­adequate a description for what had happened? “I wouldn't want your lack of experience, and your aunt's fantasies to result in a misunderstanding.”

  “Let me see if I get this. You're concerned that because you kissed me last night, and my aunt brought up the subject of marriage along with my baby pictures this morning, that I might get some wild idea in my head that I might be the next Mrs. St. James.”

  Thrown off, he ran a hand over his hair. “More or less. I thought it would be better, certainly more fair, if I told you straight off so that you and I could handle it reasonably. That way you wouldn't—”

  “Develop any delusions of grandeur?” she sug­gested.

  “Don't put words in my mouth.”

  “How can I? There's no room with your foot in there.”

  “Damn it.” He hated the fact that she was abso­lutely right. “I'm simply trying to be perfectly honest with you so that there won't be any misunderstanding when I tell you I'm very attracted to you.”

  She only lifted a brow, too furious to see that his own words had left him speechless. “Now, I take it, I'm supposed to be flattered.”

  “You're not supposed to be anything. I'm merely trying to lay out the facts.”

  “I'll give you some facts.” She shoved a hand into his chest. “You're not attracted to me, you're at­tracted to the image of the perfect and enviable Tren­ton St. James HI. My aunt's fantasies, as you call them, are a result of a wonderful loving heart. Some­thing I'm sure you can't understand. And as far as I'm concerned, I wouldn't think about spending five minutes with you much less the rest of my life. You may end up with my home, but not with me, buster.” She was revving up and feeling wonderful. “If you came crawling to me on your hands and knees with a diamond as big as my fist in your teeth, I'd laugh in your face. Those are the facts. I'm sure you can find your way out.”

  She turned and strode down the hall. Trent winced as the door slammed.

  “Well,” he murmured, pressing his fingers to his eyes. “We certainly cleared that up.”

  Chapter Five

  Insufferable. It was the perfect word to describe him, C.C. decided, and hugged it to her throughout the rest of the day.

  By the time she got home, the house was quiet and settled for the night. She could hear, faintly, the soft and haunting notes of the piano from the music room. Turning away from the stairs, she followed the music.

  It was Suzanna, of course, who sat at the lovely old spinet. She had been the only one who had stuck with the lessons or shown any real talent. Amanda had been too impatient, Lilah too lazy. And C.C... She looked down at her hands. Her fingers had been more at home smeared with motor oil than at
the keys of a piano.

  Still she loved to listen. There was nothing that soothed or charmed her more than music.

  Suzanna, lost somewhere in her own heart, sighed a little as the last notes died.

  “That was beautiful.” C.C. walked over to kiss her sister's hair.

  “I'm rusty.”

  “Not from where I'm standing.”

  Smiling, Suzanna reached back to pat her hand and felt the gauze. “Oh, C.C, what did you do?”

  “Just scraped my knuckles.”

  “Did you clean it well? When was your last tetanus shot?”

  “Slow down, Mommy. It's clean as a whistle and I had a tetanus shot six months ago.” C.C. sat on the bench, facing out into the room. “Where is every­one?”

  “The kids are fast asleep—I hope. Wiggle your fingers.”

  C.C. sighed and complied.

  With a satisfied nod, Suzanna continued. “Lilah's out on a date. Mandy's looking over some ledger or other. Aunt Coco went up hours ago to have a bubble bath and put cucumber slices on her eyes.”

  “What about him?”

  “In bed, I imagine. It's nearly midnight.”

  “Is it?” Then she smiled. “You were waiting up for me.”

  “I was not” Caught, Suzanna laughed. “Exactly. Did you fix Mr. Finney's truck?”

  “He left his lights on again.” She yawned hugely. “I think he does it on purpose just so I can come over and recharge his battery.” She stretched her arms to the ceiling. “We had lobster and dandelion wine.”

  “If he wasn't old enough to be your grandfather, I'd say he has a crush on you.”

  “He does. And it's mutual. So, did I miss anything around here?”

  “Aunt Coco wants to have a séance.”

  “Not again.”

  Suzanna ran her hands lightly Over the keys, im­provising. “Tomorrow night, right after dinner. She insists there's something Great-Grandmother Bianca wants us to know—Trent, too.”

  “What does he have to do with it?”

  Suzanna brushed at C.C.'s bangs. “If we decide to sell him the house, he'll more or less inherit her.”

  “Is that what we're going to do, Suzanna?”

  “It might be what we have to do.”

  C.C. rose to toy with the tassels of the floor lamp. “My business is doing pretty good. I could take out a loan against it.”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “No,” Suzanna repeated. “You're not going to risk your future on the past.”

  “It's my future.”

  “And it's our past.” She rose, as well. When that light came into Suzanna's eyes, even C.C. knew bet­ter than to argue. “I know how much the house means to you, to all of us. Coming back here after Bax—after things didn't work out,” Suzanna said carefully, “helped keep me sane. Every time I watch Alex or Jenny slide down the banister, I remember doing it myself. I see Mama sitting here at the piano, hear Papa telling stories in front of the fire.”

  “Then how can you even think of selling?”

  “Because I learned to face realities, however un­pleasant.” She lifted a hand to C.C.'s cheek. Only five years separated them. Sometimes Suzanna felt it was fifty. “Sometimes things happen to you, or around you, that you just can't control. When that happens, you gather up what's important in your life, and go on.”

  “But the house is important.”

  “How much longer do you really think we can hang on?”

  “We could sell the lithographs, the Limoges, a few other things.”

  “And drag out the unhappiness.” She knew en­tirely too much about that. “If it's time to let go, I think we should let go with some dignity.”

  “Then you've already made up your mind.”

  “No.” Suzanna sighed and sat again. “Every time I think I have, I change it. Before dinner, the children and I walked along the cliffs.” Eyes dreamy, she stared through the darkened window. “When I stand there, looking out over the bay, I feel something, something so incredible, it breaks my heart I don't know what's right, C.C. I don't know what's best. But I'm afraid I know what has to be done.”

  “It hurts.”

  “I know.”

  C.C. sat beside her, rested her head on Suzanna's shoulder. “Maybe there'll be a miracle.”

  Trent watched them from the darkened hallway. He wished he hadn't heard them. He wished he didn't care. But he had heard, and for reasons he didn't choose to explore, he did care. Quietly he went back up the stairs.

  “Children,” Coco said with what she was certain was the last of her sanity, “why don't you read a nice book?”

  “I want to play war.” Alex swished an imaginary saber through the air. “Death to the last man.”

  And the child was only six, Coco thought. What would he be in ten years' time? “Crayons,” she said hopefully, cursing rainy Saturday afternoons. “Why don't you both draw beautiful pictures? We can hang them on the refrigerator, like an art show.”

  “Baby stuff,” Jenny said, a cynic at five. She hefted an invisible laser rifle and fired. “Z-z-zap! You're zapped, Alex, and totally disengrated.”

  “Disintergrated, dummy, and I am not either. I threw up my force field.”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  They eyed each other with the mutual dislike only siblings can feel after being cooped up on a Saturday. By tacit agreement, they switched to hand-to-hand combat. As they wrestled over the faded Aubusson carpet, Coco cast her gaze to the ceiling.

  At least the match was taking place in Alex's room, so little harm could be done. She was tempted to go out and close the door, leaving them to finish up themselves, but she was, after all, responsible.

  “Someone's going to get hurt,” she began, in the age-old refrain of adult to child. “Remember what happened last week when Jenny gave you a bloody nose, Alex?”

  “She did not.” Masculine pride rose to the fore­front as he straggled to pin his agile sister to the mat.

  “Did too, did too,” she chanted, hoping to do so again. She scissored her quick little legs over him.

  “Excuse me,” Trent said from the doorway. “I seem to be interrupting.”

  “Not at all.” Coco fluffed her hair. “Just some youthful high spirits. Children, say hello to Mr. St. James.”

  “’Lo,” Alex said as he struggled to get his sister into a headlock.

  Trent's answering grin struck Coco with inspira­tion. “Trenton, might I ask you a favor?”

  “Of course.”

  “All the girls are working today, as you know, and I have just one or two quick, little errands to run. Would you mind terribly keeping an eye on the chil­dren for a short time?”

  “An eye on them?”

  “Oh, they're no trouble at all.” She beamed at him, then down at her grandniece and grandnephew. “Jenny, don't bite your brother. Calhouns fight fair.” Unless they fight dirty, she thought “I'll be back be­fore you know I'm gone,” she promised, easing past him.

  “Coco, I'm not sure that I—”

  “Oh, and don't forget about the séance tonight.” She hurried down the steps and left him to fend for himself.

  Jenny and Alex stopped wrestling to stare owlishly at him. They would right tooth and nail but would unite without hesitation against an outside force.

  “We don't like baby-sitters,” Alex told him dan­gerously.

  Trent rocked back on his heels. “I'm already sure I don't like being one.”

  Alex's arm was around his sister's shoulders now, rather than her neck. Hers slipped round his waist “We don't like it more.”

  Trent nodded. If he could handle a staff of fifty, he could certainly handle two sulky children. “Okay.”

  “When we went back to Boston last summer for a visit, we had a sitter.” Jenny eyed him with suspicion. “We made everybody's life a living helL”

  Trent turned the chuckle into a cough. “Is that so?”

  “Our father said we did,” Alex corroborated. “And h
e was glad to see the back of us.”

  The infant profanity was no longer amusing. Trent struggled to keep the burn of anger out of his eyes and merely nodded. Baxter Dumont was obviously a prince among men. “I once locked my nanny in the closet and climbed out the window.”

  Alex and Jenny exchanged interested glances. “That's pretty good,” Alex decided.

  “She screamed for two hours,” Trent improvised.

  “We put a snake in our baby-sitter's bed and she ran out of the house in her nightgown.” Jenny smiled smugly and waited to see if he could top it.

  “Nicely done.” What now? he wondered. “Have you any dolls?”

  “Dolls are gross,” Jenny said, loyal to her brother.

  “Off with their heads!” Alex shouted, sending her into giggles. He sprang up, flourishing his imaginary sword. “I'm the evil pirate, and you're my prison­ers.”

  “Uh-uh, I had to be prisoner last time.” Jenny scrambled to her feet. “It's my turn to be the evil pirate.”

  “I said it first”

  She gave him a hefty shove. “Cheater, cheater, cheater.”

  “Baby, baby, baby,” he jeered, and pushed her back.

  “Hold it!” Trent shouted before they could dive for each other. The unfamiliar masculine tone had them stopping in their tracks. “I'm the evil pirate,” he told them, “and you're both about to walk the plank.”

  He enjoyed it. Their children's imagination might have been a bit bloody-minded, but they played fair when the rules were set. There would have been any number of people he knew socially who would have been stunned to see Trenton St. James JJI crawling around on the floor or firing a water pistol, but he could remember being closed in on rainy days him­self.

  The play went from pirates to space marauders to Indian rampage. At the end of a particularly gruesome battle, the three of them were sprawled on the floor. Alex, rubber tomahawk in hand, played dead so long he fell asleep.

  “I won,” Jenny said, then with her feather head­dress falling over her eyes, cuddled against Trent's side. She, too, in the enviable way of children, was asleep in moments.

  C.C. found them like that. The rain was patting gently at the windows. In the bath down the hall, a drip fell musically into a bucket. Otherwise there was only the sound of gentle, even breathing.

  Alex was sprawled on his face, his fingers still clutched over his weapon. In addition to bodies, the floor was scattered with miniature cars, defeated ac­tion figures and a few plastic dinosaurs. Avoiding the casualties, she stepped inside.