Gabe's eyes glittered dangerously. His gaze flicked from Dave and Frank to Dena, and she realized with a start that he was concerned for her sake. No doubt he recalled how easily intimidated she used to be, and didn't want her publicly embarrassed. The gallant impulse sent a little thrill through her—for about a nanosecond, until she remembered that it was long overdue. If he'd had her welfare in mind all those years ago, these two blow-hards wouldn't have anything to joke about now.
Clearly Frank was just getting warmed up. When he opened his mouth to speak again, Gabe skewered him with a glacial look and growled, "I think we've heard en—"
"So you guys are into golf?" Dena asked, with wide-eyed innocence.
The three men stared at her, mute.
"Because I don't know much about the game myself, but I'm interested in learning," she said, staring down at Dave, half a head shorter than she. "Like for instance, I thought you were supposed to hold the club by the grip, not the shaft."
Dave stood blinking for a few moments and finally mumbled, "Uh, yeah, that's right."
She turned to Frank. "My friend Margaret plays a lot of golf, but I don't recall her ever coming back with any grass stains. Maybe she's not doing it right?"
Frank sent an imploring glance to the other men. Dave backed up a step. Gabe, wearing a silky little smile, took a lingering sip of his martini.
"Oh, I know!" she said, with guileless enthusiasm. "Maybe you get those grass stains when you kneel down to line up your putts."
Gabe's drink seemed to go down the wrong way. He sputtered, his eyes watering. A lifelong New Yorker, he didn't need to be told that putz was melting-pot vernacular for the male organ.
And neither did Frank, who flinched as she sidled closer to him. He was probably wondering whether she realized what she'd said, and dreading the next words out of her mouth.
She smoothed out a wrinkle in the collar of Frank's jacket, stretched to the bursting point over his rotund gut. "I adore men in evening dress. I don't think I've ever seen a tux in this color."
"I got to the rental place early for the best selection. Oh say, isn't that the Forsyth twins? I've gotta go say hi."
Dave quickly jumped in with, "Me, too."
"Well, don't stay away too long," Dena told their retreating backs. "I have more questions about golf."
She watched them hightail it across the room before turning back to Gabe, who raised his glass in a silent salute. The gesture sparked a giddy warmth in her chest, even as she chided herself for caring.
Someone behind Dena began clapping. She spun around and found herself face-to-face with a man she couldn't place, though the features were vaguely familiar. He was around her age but prematurely gray, with an athlete's build and smiling eyes as dark and mellow as molasses. Yum.
"Brava," he said. "Though I was kind of looking forward to watching Gabe lay into those two."
She glanced at the man's name badge, but his quick reflexes won out. He slapped his hand over it and gave her a challenging grin.
"No fair," Dena said. Who was this mystery man? And how could she have trouble remembering a guy this attractive and personable?
"Gabe knows," the man said. "Don't you?"
Dena turned to see Gabe regarding the newcomer with something akin to awe. "Scott Cafferty?"
As soon as he said it, Dena saw it, too. Her mouth dropped open. Scott uncovered his badge, and she checked it just to make sure. As startling as Hunky Runkey's transformation was, Scott had him beat. Last time she'd seen him, he'd been an awkward, pimply jock with squinty eyes, thick horn-rimmed glasses, and a black buzz cut. His skin had cleared, he'd switched to contacts, and the hair…
Gabe said, "I wouldn't have recognized you on the street. You've got kind of a Richard Gere thing going there."
Scott dragged his fingers through his thick salt-and-pepper hair. "The way I figure it, Gere's got a Scott Cafferty thing going."
Dena sobered. "I heard about Annie. I'm really sorry."
Gabe echoed the sentiment. Scott had married his high-school sweetheart, Annie Goode, shortly after graduation. Less than two years later she'd died of a brain tumor, after a tough battle. Dena wondered if that had been when Scott's hair started turning gray. She noticed he didn't wear a wedding ring, so apparently he hadn't remarried.
"It was a long time ago," Scott said. "Thirteen years. I've been through a lot of changes since then. Are you going to be around this week?" he asked, looking directly at Dena.
"Yep. I'm staying with Ham Conklin."
Scott's smile radiated genuine delight. "Me too! It'll be great to get caught up."
Roberta Schuler beckoned to Scott from a nearby knot of people. "Rev, there's someone I want you to meet."
Dena laughed. "'Rev'?"
"That's one of the changes," Scott tossed over his shoulder as he left to greet Roberta. "I'm a Presbyterian minister."
Dena was struck speechless, but Gabe managed, "Wait a minute. Last I heard, he was playing ball for a triple-A team."
"A minister!" she said. "I can't believe it."
"Why? Because he looks like Richard Gere?"
Did she detect a note of petulance? How intriguing. "Well. He doesn't look like any pastor I've ever met."
"And he's staying at Ham's, too," Gabe said. "You'll have all week to get caught up."
"Yes, I'm looking forward to it."
"Or should I say, we'll all have a week to get caught up."
Dena stared at him, certain she must have misheard.
No. Ham wouldn't do that to her. He knew what she'd gone through at the end of senior year, knew what Gabe had done, how devastated she'd been. True, Gabe had been as close to Ham as she had, but surely he wouldn't have invited them both to share his house this week?
Slowly she said, "Tell me I heard you wrong."
Gabe just smiled and drained his martini glass.
* * *
2
« ^ »
"Shoes like that keep guys like me in business."
Dena leaned on the redwood deck railing and stared far across the lawn at the source of this unsolicited observation. Frank had beached himself on one of three green-cushioned chaises next to Ham's large, in-ground swimming pool. The free-form saltwater pool and the hot tub that jutted from one side of it were surrounded by a rustic flagstone apron and so much luxuriant, flowering greenery that one could easily mistake it for a tropical lagoon.
Unless one had to share it with Hunky Runkey—or Chunky Runkey as Dena had begun to think of him. She glanced at her high-heeled glittery pink mules, which contrasted nicely with the frosted green polish on her toenails. "Since when are neurosurgeons so concerned with feet?"
Frank leaned over to set his breakfast margarita on the side table. He was dripping wet, wearing a pair of abbreviated swim trunks he might have been able to get away with fifteen years and fifty pounds ago. As he settled back on the chaise with a grunt, Dena experienced a time warp. She was back at the Briarfield High cafeteria, staring at the humongous pan of quivering Jell-O that Mrs. Fagan, the lunch lady, used to methodically carve into little squares.
Frank snorted. "Who told you I'm a neurosurgeon?"
"That's what you said you were going to be, back in high school."
"Oh. Yeah. Well, I changed my mind."
"And became what instead? An orthopedist?"
"I'm a podiatrist," he said importantly. "A foot doctor."
Dena pushed her sunglasses up her nose. "So if I get a bunion or something this week, I won't have to tear my hair out looking for an emergency all-night podiatrist."
"With shoes like that, bunions should be the least of your worries," he pronounced. "Do you have any ideas what those heels do to your spine?"
She straightened and lazily descended the deck stairs. "No, but I know what they do for my butt. So what happened? Couldn't get into med school?"
Only a princely endowment by Frank Runkey Sr. had gotten Frank Jr. into the third-rate college he'd attended, or so
she'd heard.
Frank snatched up his drink, scowling as she reached the stone apron and stepped out of the mules. "At least I work on human feet. Never had to clip mutts' toenails for a living."
"You should try it sometime. It's very relaxing in a Zen kind of way." She tossed her shades and towel onto one of the other chaises and slipped off her short orange satin robe, revealing a white one-piece swimsuit printed all over with red tulips. Its how-low-can-you-go neckline was cunningly enhanced with underwire, a twentieth-century advancement second only to penicillin in Dena's book.
Frank stared openly as she sauntered to the deep end and stepped onto the diving board. But he wasn't the reason she faltered just as her muscles tensed for the leap. Every nerve ending had gone on red alert—her feminine radar again.
Her gaze was drawn to the redwood deck, where she saw Gabe leaning on the railing precisely where she'd stood not two minutes before. He was wearing khaki shorts and a dark green T-shirt stretched tight in all the right places. She held his gaze for a few moments, until he hid his eyes behind a pair of impenetrably dark sunglasses.
Concentrate, Dena commanded herself. She focused on the crystalline water, on her form and timing, and executed a flawless dive. The cold water swallowed her, surged past her as she bowed her body upward and propelled herself to the surface. She immediately went into a crawl stroke, not pausing when she reached the shallow end where Frank was docked but tucking into a tight racing turn, kicking off the wall, and returning to the deep end, where she tossed her wet hair off her face and began treading water.
Her gaze automatically homed in on the redwood deck, only to find it deserted.
"I forgot what a good swimmer you are," Gabe said, from directly behind her.
Dena turned and squinted up at him, wishing he were more than an indistinct blur looming over her, backlit by the brilliant sunshine. She felt exposed and vulnerable.
She said, "I swim every day."
"Kept up your membership at the Y?"
"I have a pool."
His eyebrows rose. Like Frank, Gabe probably assumed she still groomed dogs for a living. Movement in the corner of her vision drew her attention to Frank, who hoisted his Nimitz-class bulk out of the chaise and slung his towel over a shoulder. He said, "I'm gonna go see if there's any of that French toast left."
Gabe said, "Lunch is in less than an hour."
"I worked up an appetite swimming," Frank said, and set off across the yard to the house.
"How much swimming did he actually do?" Gabe asked, once their housemate was out of earshot.
"I couldn't say. Didn't get to witness that particular spectacle." Dena leaned into a back float and sculled away from Gabe. "You just going to stand there watching, or are you coming in?"
"I'm not wearing trunks."
"You don't need trunks." She glanced toward the house. "No one's watching."
He just stood there. Unable to discern his expression, Dena said, "Maybe it's not such a good idea, after all. Andrea could come out any minute."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning she might think there's more going on here than a little innocent skinny-dipping."
He crossed his arms. "And why, precisely, should I care what Andrea thinks?"
At the shallow end now, Dena stood. The water came up to her waist. "So come on in, then. The water's perfect."
Gabe stalked to her end of the pool. "I want an answer. Why do you think something like that would bother Andrea? And why, even if it did, do you imagine I would care?"
She smiled. "You're such a lawyer. Nice to know Daddy's tuition money wasn't wasted."
Obviously Gabe wanted her to believe he and Andrea weren't an item—another too-little-too-late attempt to spare Dena's feelings, most likely. After all, Gabe and Andrea had worked side by side for the past eight years since earning their law degrees from Harvard, their fathers' alma mater. Their mutual attraction was anything but a secret. And, too, most men harbored a special fondness for their first lover, or so it was said.
Neither Gabe nor Andrea had married, which meant they'd probably had some kind of on-again, off-again thing going for fifteen years.
Gabe sighed. "I don't remember you being such a pain in the ass back in high school."
"Are you sure? There must've been some reason you betrayed me."
There. She'd said it. He became very still, very quiet. The seconds ticked by. From the nearby woods came the rustle of small animals, the low hum of insect life.
Quietly he said, "I thought you weren't interested in reasons."
She swallowed hard and looked away. How could it still hurt, after fifteen years? How could she let it twist her insides like this?
She heard movement, and looked up to see Gabe walk around the end of the pool. He stopped at the point closest to her and squatted there, forearms on his thighs. He pulled off his wire-rimmed sunglasses and let them dangle from his long fingers. The sun was no longer behind him, and she saw him clearly.
He said, "Why didn't you let me explain, Dena? Why did you refuse to listen?"
She took a deep breath. "You told me you loved me. I was going to be your first, and you mine." Dena was horrified by the tightness in her throat, the burning in her eyes, but she'd kept the words bottled up for fifteen years, and they wouldn't be stopped now. "We waited, Gabe, and I used to think how beautiful it was going to be when we finally gave ourselves to each other."
"So did I. Dena—"
"And the worst part was, I had to hear about it in school, from Rhonda and Dave and … and everyone. They tripped over themselves, wanting to be the one to tell me. Do you have any idea what that was like?" Gabe must have bragged about his conquest to everyone he knew. The news had spread through the school at light speed.
She hadn't known he could look so miserable, but she rushed on, helpless to stop now that the dam had burst. "You had no problem necking with me in a dark movie theater, or making out in your Camaro at the duck pond, but God forbid your father's snooty colleagues should find out what a low-class girl you were dating. I never even knew the firm was going to have that stupid reception at the country club. You never told me."
"I didn't want you hurt."
"You didn't want to be seen with the janitor's daughter! You were too ashamed! So you took Andrea instead. You took her to the reception and you took her out on that damn golf course and you had sex with her there." Dena was breathing hard, trembling with fury and humiliation, as if it had happened yesterday.
Gabe's head was bowed. He gripped the sunglasses so hard it was a wonder they didn't snap. He raised his face and said, "I never tried to excuse what I did, I just wanted to explain. I still do."
"Let me ask you one thing. If I'd done what you did, if I'd snuck around behind your back and dated some other guy, if I'd had sex with him after everything you and I had meant to each other, promised each other … would you have been interested in explanations?"
Gabe's features were rigid, his expression intense. "No," he said at last.
The twinge of satisfaction Dena felt did nothing to assuage the ache in her chest. She'd scratched open an old wound that had never been given a chance to heal, and she wished she'd left it alone.
"There she is," Ham called as he and Scott crossed the lawn toward them. "The Leona Helmsley of the canine world."
Needing a few moments to compose herself, Dena turned and swam the length of the pool. When she surfaced at the deep end, Ham was settling into the chaise abandoned by Frank, and Scott was pulling off the red T-shirt he'd thrown on over black boxer-style trunks. Some kind of marks encircled one of his upper arms, and it took Dena a moment to realize she was looking at a tattoo of a knotted rope.
Good heavens. Reverend Cafferty had a tattoo! She wondered when he'd acquired it—during his days as a minor-league ballplayer probably. She couldn't help noticing, as he strolled to the diving board, that he'd kept himself in shape. She moved out of the line of fire as he launched himself and plunged nea
tly into the deep water.
Dena swam to the shallow end and climbed out. Gabe was sitting on the edge of a chaise, chatting with Ham, who wore a beat-up panama straw hat, pink plaid Bermuda shorts and a yellow T-shirt with a big, round smiley face on it.
"Ham, we have to talk," she said, grabbing her towel and perching herself on the edge of the third chaise, so that Ham sat between her and Gabe. She glanced toward Scott, swimming laps, and lowered her voice. "You have to know Gabe and I can't both stay here this week."
"Nonsense. There's plenty of room." Ham took a pull from his tumbler of iced coffee and set it on the table.
"I'm not talking about space," she said. "I know the house is big enough."
Ham's father, a third-generation potato farmer, had built the house the year Ham was born. Periodic renovations had never encroached on the original woodwork or the full-length covered front porch, and many of the furnishings Ham's mother had chosen eighty years ago were still in use. It was the ideal setting for a bed-and-breakfast inn.
Dena continued, "Ham, you're very generous to open up your home to us. But you know what happened between me and Gabe. To be frank, I have no desire to share a house with him for a week."
Gabe drawled, "Personally, I don't see the problem, Dena."
"I need you here," Ham insisted. "Both of you. It's been such a relief to me, knowing you'd be here to help oversee everything … now that I'm not up to it." He placed a liver-spotted hand on his chest, and Dena felt a jolt of alarm.
"Ham, what is it? Your heart?" She glanced at Gabe, who shrugged, wide-eyed. "I didn't know you were … having difficulty. Why didn't you tell us?"
He waved negligently. "Ah, why bother everyone else with my troubles? I'll be fine as long as I take it easy. And don't get too worked up."
Dena bit her lip, wondering how to proceed. "The thing is, Ham, I'm just not comfortable in this situation. If I'd known you invited Gabe… Anyway, I'm sure he can give you all the help you need around here. I'm going to get a hotel room."
Ham jerked upright on the chaise, his expression stricken. "But there's so much to be done. I've been counting on you, Dena. I can't rely on the others."
A CLASS ACT Page 2
