The First Kiss

by Grace Burrowes

  “That’s my lady.” He gave her a quick, wicked smile, a little knowing and a lot smug, and Vera’s middle filled with happy, colorful F-major-major butterflies.

  James had played for her.

  He’d listened to her.

  He’d held her when she’d cried.

  And he’d smiled at her.

  James had cuddle and smile. When breakfast was finished and the dishes washed, Vera sent Twyla off with James, which sparked novel feelings of both anxiety and gratitude.

  Vera didn’t puzzle over her emotions, she instead plowed into limbering-up exercises passed down from her teachers and not found in any books. She practiced, she played, she read over old friends, and practiced some more. She got out the Schumann A minor concerto and brushed up, spotting passages that would challenge her students.

  Vera was at the keyboard when she heard the kitchen door bang closed, and though she didn’t want to stop, she brought the music to a cadence.

  A pretty auburn-haired lady stood in the kitchen doorway, her hand wrapped around little Grace’s.

  “Good God, you are something else, Vera,” the woman said. “No wonder James wanted you all to himself. Don’t stop for us. I’m Hannah, and yes, we’re back early. The honeymoon was terrific, but Trent and I both got an irresistible urge to come home.”

  “Hannah, a pleasure to meet you.” Vera rose from the piano bench, resisting the urge to scrub her hands over her stiff backside. Her gaze drifted past Hannah’s shoulder to the clock as they shook hands.

  She’d been playing for five hours.

  Five hours?

  “James has kidnapped Twyla and taken her on a round of errands,” Vera said. “I suppose Mac explained the situation to you?”

  “He did. My thanks for being Grace’s angel of mercy the other night.”

  “Mom says we ladies have to stick together when there’s trouble,” Grace piped up. “That’s why I brought Twy my drawing pencils.” She held them up for Vera’s inspection, presenting a wooden box with, of course, a unicorn carved on the lid.

  “I can offer you a cup of tea,” Vera said. “I’m fairly certain James and Twy will be back soon.”

  “Mom has pictures of her honeymoon,” Grace said. “She and Dad got all dressed up, and Dad took a picture of her for me.”

  “And I took a picture of your dad for you too,” Hannah said, tousling Grace’s hair. “Vera, are you sure you don’t want to get back to your music? You sounded wonderful, and we can leave you in peace if you’d rather.”

  Part of Vera did want to get back to her music, and not because she had to, but because she longed to—an F major realization.

  “I’m hungry, truth be told,” she said. “Let’s raid the kitchen and see what James’s larder reveals about him as a person.”

  “He hides his chocolate chips,” Grace volunteered. “Can I put my pencils in the study with the crayons? Merle told me where they go.”

  “Don’t touch Uncle James’s computer,” Hannah said. “If you want to draw him a picture, you can use the printer paper.”

  Grace scampered off, pencil box rattling, rather like Vera’s wits. Abruptly, she faced the prospect of kitchen small talk with another woman.

  Another mom.

  “I’ll put the kettle on,” Hannah said. “Trent took Merle off on some secret mission, which I suspect has to do with finding tack for the horses he’s buying to add to our herd.”

  “You’re dividing and conquering,” Vera said. “I’ve always wondered how parents manage when that third child shows up. You have to go to a zone defense as opposed to man-to-man.”

  “We’re still trying to blend the families,” Hannah said. “We figured each child would want some exclusive time with their more familiar parent, hence Grace and I are visiting Uncle James before we head off on our own errands.”

  “Checking me out?” Vera asked.

  Hannah got down the jasmine green tea, clearly at home in James’s kitchen.

  “Making sure Uncle James is coloring inside the lines. Don’t believe everything you hear about him or Mac. I suspect they’re both capable of mischief if left unsupervised too long, but they’re gentlemen too.”

  Hannah was wrong, at least about James. He was capable of such gallantry he ought to be knighted for it.

  “That brings up the interesting question of what would constitute mischief in the eyes of MacKenzie Knightley,” Vera said. “You take milk and sugar?”

  They chatted about Hannah’s travels, and the differences between second and third grade, and the pleasures and challenges for Hannah of working at the law firm her husband and his brothers owned.

  “Not long ago, virtually every small business was a family business,” Hannah said. “Now I see the advantages of a family business rather than the disadvantages.”

  “One of them being you get to see me regularly.” James stood in the door, beaming at his sister-in-law. He held out his arms, and Hannah was hugging him hard before Vera was even on her feet.

  “James!” Hannah held on tight, and James patted her back, his expression that of a man holding a woman precious to him. “I missed you, James, and I’ve heard all about your big adventure at the ER. Grace is now officially among the hordes of unfortunates smitten by you.”

  “As long as you’re smitten too. Twy lit out for the study when she heard she had company. Vera, your daughter was a perfect angel, and utterly exhausting. I remain in awe of both you ladies for your parenting abilities.”

  He also remained standing beside Hannah, his arm around her shoulders, as if he were afraid she’d bolt, leaving him to once again impersonate a parent himself.

  “Vera, is there enough in the kettle for three?” he asked.

  “Of course, and I was scrounging up a late lunch.”

  “I confess Twy had a double-dip Meanie Beanie Vanilla about an hour ago,” James said, “but I refrained out of respect for my once pristine leather seats. Let’s grill some ham-and-cheese sandwiches, and a batch of your brownies wouldn’t go amiss either.”

  Vera’s stomach broke into a metabolic version of the Hallelujah Chorus. “I don’t want you to spoil your dinner.”

  “He can’t spoil his dinner,” Hannah said. “The Knightley menfolk are bottomless pits. Start making double batches routinely. You’ll see what I mean.”

  James made the sandwiches while Vera put together the brownies, though she was surprised that James had the fixings, including some high-quality baking chocolate. They ate off paper plates, everybody snitching potato chips from the communal bag, James getting up to make a chaser of hard-boiled eggs.

  “Bad for your cholesterol,” Hannah said.

  “I was run ragged all day by a merciless slave driver,” James countered. “My bottomless pit can’t be content with a mere couple of Dagwoods, half a batch of brownies, and one-third of a bag of potato chips.”

  “What did you and your slave driver get up to?” Vera asked.

  “It’s a secret. We can show you eventually, but I am sworn on my honor not to tell.”

  “He’s good at keeping secrets,” Hannah said.

  They exchanged a peculiar pair of smiles, James’s self-conscious, Hannah’s sad. Hannah collected her daughter and left shortly thereafter, though James walked her and Grace to their car.

  Vera sat peeling a hard-boiled egg and watching out the window as James hugged Grace, then held her giggling above his head before letting her climb into the backseat of her mother’s Prius. James and Hannah stood outside the car a few feet off, their postures and expressions suggesting earnest conversation.

  He was trying to convince Hannah of something, was Vera’s guess, and that seemed an unlikely discussion for a new brother-in-law to have with his brother’s wife. The exchange became even more unlikely when James pulled Hannah in for a hug, and Hannah’s forehead dropped t
o his shoulder.

  The embrace was intimate, protective maybe. More than cordial or even affectionate family members might share.

  But James didn’t kiss Hannah, and when Hannah climbed into her car, she was smiling.

  None of my business. James was affectionate by nature, and he hadn’t seen Hannah for a week. He’d had Hannah’s daughter in his care for most of that time, and of course, Hannah would be grateful.

  But was that gratitude Vera had seen, or something else?

  Chapter 13

  “For God’s sake, Donal, MacKenzie Knightley called me at home over the weekend as a courtesy, the same courtesy I’m extending to you before the cops show up on your doorstep.”

  Aaron Glover’s voice betrayed a hint of exasperation, which suited Donal just fine. Smug bastards like Glover deserved to have their ears pinned back periodically in the interests of the common good.

  Donal put his feet up on the corner of his antique oak desk, which he’d had shipped over from his grandfather’s estate in Perthshire. If a man couldn’t be comfortable in his own study, matters were at a sorry pass.

  “According to you, Glover, the damage was done between 9 p.m. and 9 a.m.,” Donal said. “For most of that time, I was home sleeping in my bed.” Tossing and turning at any rate. “I suggest if you want to be useful, you find out who is menacing poor Vera, and quit harassing me at an ungodly hourly rate.”

  “I am not charging you for this call. It’s a courtesy, Donal, because you are suspect number one, and if you can only account for most of your time, you might soon be facing charges. Where were you?”

  “That is none of your affair, Glover, and exactly how much criminal defense experience do you have, anyway?”

  A low shot, but nothing less than Glover deserved, for Donal had never once been caught in a lie to the man.

  “Enough to know you’re whistling in the dark, and the best criminal defense attorney in the county won’t represent you, because he’s Trent Knightley’s brother. Start getting an alibi together, Donal, an airtight alibi that poor Vera will believe.”

  “I am not accountable to her any longer, if I ever was. I bid you good day.”

  Donal hung up only to see his firstborn and only son regarding him with an unreadable expression from the doorway of the study.

  “Why aren’t you dressed, young man?”

  “Because it’s Sunday,” Darren said, his slouching stance becoming more defiant. “Because the more I get dressed, the more laundry Katie has to do. Because I know it bothers you when I hang out in comfortable clothes. Was that your lawyer?”

  The little rooster was a chip off the old block, though far better-looking than Donal had ever been.

  “Somebody is making a nuisance of themselves to Vera,” Donal said. “Mischief that under the circumstances is being attributed to me.”

  “Why you?”

  Because for one instant, under a deluge of stress, worry, disappointment, shame, and rage, Donal had lost control. He was still ashamed—also frustrated and worried—but no longer enraged.

  “I’m a suspect, laddie, because nothing is deader than a dead business arrangement, as you will soon learn.”

  “Vera was never in love with you,” Darren said, cocking his head. “Not like Mom was.”

  Donal wanted badly to correct him, but a prudent parent chose his battles.

  “Perhaps not, but Vera was fond of me, and of you children, and now I am the logical choice as her present detractor. I am the pathetic, spurned, and appreciably older former husband. I hope you learn from this example.”

  Donal had learned from it.

  “What am I supposed to learn?” Darren asked.

  “That if you look guilty, it will make little difference whether or not you are guilty.”

  Darren rolled his eyes and sauntered off to the kitchen, where the boy would no doubt consume enough to keep a small army on forced march. Darren would leave in the autumn, assuming the money to pay for tuition fell from some benevolent cloud, and Donal would miss him. Not only did Darren keep a close eye on Katie, his presence in the home also allowed Donal freedom to be out and about of an evening.

  Though Donal dearly wished the boy would stop hooking school and smoking marijuana.

  Some things were predictable. For Donal, cigarettes and good whiskey had tempted him at an early age, both vices he’d learned to eschew. Darren would learn too, and do it before he was caught misbehaving by the authorities.

  Like father, like son, after all.

  * * *

  Having spent nearly a week in close proximity with his nieces, James was beginning to appreciate that parents either developed the ability to mentally multitask, or they suffered a complete annihilation of their productivity.

  While he’d been out with Twyla, he’d conversed with reasonable coherence on such topics as his favorite flower, what boys liked about sports—besides swearing and slapping each other’s butts—what a lawyer really did other than strut around in court, and why Grace and Merle’s uncle Mac only ever laughed with his eyes.

  All the while, James’s adult mind had also been circling around the time he’d spent in bed with Twyla’s mother.

  He and Vera had talked, they’d touched, and the emotion that passed between them was different from any James had associated with sharing a bed. As Vera had put it, they’d cuddled—emotionally as well as physically.

  Holding her, listening to her, having the time to pet and caress and feel her body relaxed and warm in his arms…that had been lovely. The time spent with Vera had left James with a profound sense of peace, which he would not have anticipated in the absence of sexual intimacy.

  They’d shared something that surpassed a mere union of bodies, though it left James hungrier than ever for that intimacy as well.

  To be Vera’s friend and her lover, not simply her convenience…the idea fascinated him.

  “You’re preoccupied,” Vera said as dinnertime approached. “Was it ratios or proportions that put that look on your face?” She stirred a pot on the stove, one redolent of chocolate and calories.

  James slipped his arms around her from behind. “I’m thinking of you. How are you?”

  She leaned back against him. “You were right. I needed to play the piano today. Maybe having a different instrument to work on, maybe knowing Twy was adequately supervised helped, but I was still playing when Hannah and Grace arrived.”

  He let her go, because the stuff on the stove was beginning to boil. “What is that? It smells good.”

  “You cook it into candy, then pour it over the oatmeal and peanut butter in that bowl, and it makes cookies.”

  “Raccoon droppings. My house is honored to host their creation, and I will happily see to their demolition. Shall I set the table?” James asked.

  “Twy usually takes that job if I don’t get to it.”

  “You’d hail her in here, when we’re having a perfectly civilized adult discussion and she’s happily organizing my desk drawers?”

  The mixture on the stove was bubbling madly, though Vera merely watched the kitchen clock as she stirred with a wooden spoon.

  “Excellent point,” she said, “and Twy has an eye for organization. James, if I asked you to play for me again tonight, would you?”

  “Yes.” He got out place mats and matching napkins—orange and brown, because he’d had his brothers over for Thanksgiving and to watch the game a couple of years ago. “Would you play for me?”

  “Yes.” She poured the chocolate into the bowl and stirred quickly. “But not too late. I want some time to cuddle with you tonight.”

  “Vera…” Place mats and napkins were a nice touch for company, but James drew the line at two forks when they were having tacos, for God’s sake. “My motives for sharing a bed with you aren’t entirely pure. You need to know that.”

&nbs
p; They weren’t entirely clear, either, even to James himself.

  Vera spooned chocolate goo onto a cookie sheet in rapid, deft strokes, and the scent was positively divine.

  “My motives aren’t entirely pure either, James.” Her lips quirked up in smile that drove James’s insides into a happy, bucking-pony dance.

  Very carefully, he arranged the cutlery on the place mat. “Just so we’re on the same page.”

  “I’m not sure what page I’m on, James, but I’m willing to see what develops.”

  Ah. Development was what happened in a sonata once the themes had been introduced.

  A maybe. Vera was giving him a definite, very encouraging maybe, and that was so far from ordering him off her property that James wanted to ball up the napkin and spike it into the wastebasket sitting outside the laundry room.

  “I’m willing to see where it goes too,” he said. “How soon can I have one of those cookies?”

  Vera served him another Mona Lisa smile.

  James resisted the urge to wrap his arms around her again, because this time he’d nudge at her backside with his hips, and let her feel the happy anticipation her maybe had sparked behind the buttons of his 501s.

  “I’m done!” Twyla came swinging into the kitchen, wreathed in smiles, and James shifted his gaze from Vera’s fanny to the wrinkled ball of napkin in his hand. “Your desk was a mess, James. Mom would never let me keep my desk like that.”

  “Sure she would,” Vera said, not breaking rhythm as she spooned cookies onto the tray. “Provided you could find everything you needed when you needed it. Did you thank James for helping you with your math?”

  “Thanks, James. Those are raccoon droppings.”

  “I called dibs,” James said, “but I think they’re for dessert. Here.” He fired the napkin at Twyla. “I’m not sure what to do with these things, except for tucking them under the fork.”

  “You can make a fan with them,” Twyla said, taking a place at the table, “or you can make a flower, or just…” Her tongue went to the corner of her mouth, and James passed her two more napkins as she went to work.

  Vera’s smile was no longer seductive; it was parental and adult and still intimate, bearing thanks for having distracted Twyla, and for heading off the battle of Your Dinner Will Be Ruined If You Eat Cookies.