Forever Spring

by Joan Hohl

  She was in love with Paul Vanzant!

  But acknowledging her emotional condition and living with it were two entirely different matters. She didn’t want to be in love with Paul; she didn’t want to be in love with anyone.

  Standing, Karen began to clear the baking debris from the table. She didn’t have time to think about

  Paul or about love. She had too much to do. It was the day before Thanksgiving. Her boys were due within the hour. Karen’s lips compressed. Her boys and her former in-laws were due within the hour, she corrected herself.

  Damn! Why did life have to be so complicated? “You never did answer my question.”

  Charles’s aggrieved tone drew Karen from her fruitless contemplation. Pausing in the act of wiping the flour from the tabletop, she angled her head to frown at him.

  “What question was that?”

  Standing, he again struck his male-model pose. “How do I look?”

  Karen couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. Charles’s self-absorption was beyond belief. She chose to laugh.

  “You look like you just stepped off the cover of GQ,” she said, controlling an urge to roll her eyes. “Very chic,” she added, sighing inwardly as he preened visibly, not unlike a strutting peacock. “Very man-about-townish.’ ’

  In all honesty, Karen had to admit that Charles did, in fact, present an elegant picture of the man on the go relaxing at home for the holiday. His choice of a blue-on-blue silk shirt complemented the hand-tailored gray slacks. His cheeks gleamed with a freshly shaved sheen. His shampooed hair looked squeaky clean. His perfect teeth glistened white in contrast to his sunlamp-tanned skin. All in all, he made Karen feel unkempt and grubby by comparison.

  “I think I’ll take a shower.” Tossing the dishcloth into the sink, Karen headed for the hallway.

  “What about dinner?”

  “What about it?” Karen paused in the doorway to slant a challenging look at him.

  Charles glanced around the untidy kitchen. “You haven’t started it.” His frown said more than words. “You do realize that my parents and the boys will be here any time now?”

  How could she not realize it? Karen wondered when he persisted in reminding her of it. She hesitated, amazed at her unusual willingness to desert a messy kitchen. Then she shrugged. Realizing that it would keep, she dashed into the hallway.

  “I’ll get everything together after I’ve had my shower,” she called to him as she started up the stairs. “Meanwhile, you can load the dishwasher and start a fresh pot of coffee.”

  “Me?”

  Karen paused at the top of the stairs, arrested by the note of shock in Charles’s tone. His obvious amazement should not have surprised her. Charles had been spoiled all his life, first by his doting mother and then by his equally doting wife. Karen felt positive that every one of his girlfriends, past and present, had continued the tradition of catering to his every murmured whim. No wonder the man had been shocked at being told to load the dishwasher and prepare coffee.

  “Never mind, Charles,” she called to him. “I’ll take care of it when I get back down.” Shoulders drooping, she headed for her bedroom, deciding the chances of the relaxed, happy holiday she had envisioned were slim to none.

  What kind of holiday celebration would Paul be having?

  The thought crept into Karen’s unguarded mind, stilling her fingers on her shirt button. A sigh of longing ruffled the quiet of her room.

  Paul.

  A rush of hot moisture drew a film over Karen’s eyes. Then she blinked rapidly and shook her head. She had to stop this! It was not only ridiculous, it was impossible. For a moment out of time, she had stepped beyond the norm to engage in a blazing, thoroughly satisfying love affair. An affair, moreover, that had had precious little to do with love. Now her life was back to its normal, dull routine. The affair was over; her lover was gone. That was that.

  Her lecture to herself over, Karen finished undressing and stepped into the shower. The gush of water from the shower drowned out the sound of her whispered plea.

  Dear God! I can’t be in love with him!

  “I had no idea you were such an excellent cook, Patricia.” Paul raised his glass in a salute to his daughter-in-law. “My compliments. I’m grateful to you and Peter for insisting I share your Thanksgiving Day meal.”

  “Thank you, Paul.” A delighted smile enhancing her beautiful, aristocratic face, Patricia inclined her head in acceptance of his praise. Then she shattered the elegant illusion by aiming an impish grin at her husband. “Dare we tell your father that you assisted in preparing the meal, darling?”

  Peter Vanzant’s thin lips eased into a smile of supreme male satisfaction. “We may,” he murmured, raising his glass to his mouth to acknowledge his father’s toast to Patricia. “But. please don’t expect a gasp of surprise from Dad.” Peter’s smile slashed into a grin. “He wields a mean hand at the stove, himself.”

  “Really!” Patricia actually gaped at her father-in-law.

  “I manage.” Comfortable in the company of the two younger people, Paul relaxed in the dining room chair.

  Peter laughed softly. “He manages very well,” he observed in a dry tone. “But I agree, love.” His tone had softened to a caress. “The meal was an artistic achievement.”

  “Give yourself a pat on the back, as well, love.” Patricia tilted her glass in a toast to her husband.

  Love. Paul controlled an urge to close his eyes—and his ears. He had heard the endearment countless times since his arrival at his son’s home several hours earlier. Sipping his wine, Paul gazed at his son and daughter-in-law over the rim of the glass. Peter and Patricia were so obviously in love, and they didn’t hesitate to voice the affection they felt for one another. The result of that love was the tiny, beautiful child napping in a cradle in the. corner of the dining room.

  Concealing a sigh, Paul gazed down at the table and saw another, smaller one set in a windowed alcove off a large, old-fashioned kitchen. Unbidden, his inner gaze skimmed off the edge of the imaginary tabletop to the carpeted floor beneath. His heartbeat accelerating inside his chest, Paul could see Karen, her eyes cloudy with passion, her moist lips parted, her arms held out in invitation to him... to himl “...Dad?”

  The sound of Peter’s voice shattered the illusion. Swallowing a groan, Paul glanced up, a faint, self-mocking smile on his lips. “I’m sorry, I was preoccupied. What did you say?”

  A tiny frown line drew Peter’s dark brows together. “I asked if you’d care for dessert.”

  “No.” Paul offered Patricia an apologetic smile. “I couldn’t possibly eat another bite.”

  Patricia’s nod was gracious. “Perhaps later.”

  “I—” Paul paused. In that instant, the decision was made. It was not his usual way. Paul rarely made a decision without careful consideration of all the possibilities involved. But this particular decision felt exactly right for him; he would go with it. “I’m afraid I won’t be here later. I have something I must do.” “Surely you’re not going home to work, Dad?” Peter exclaimed, scowling at the very idea of his father working on a holiday, forgetting that he had done so himself many times in his pre-Patricia days.

  Paul raised a hand, palm out in the age-old sign asking for peace. “No, Peter, I am not going home to work.” His lips twitched in amused anticipation of Peter’s reaction to his next statement. “I’m going home to pack.” Peter didn’t disappoint him.

  “Pack!” Peter’s voice was rough with astonishment.

  “Pack?” Patricia merely sounded confused.

  “As in clothes into suitcases,” Peter explained dryly.

  “But where are you going?” The question came simultaneously from Paul’s host and hostess. Peter answered his own query before his father had a chance to respond. “Are you flying to Texas to see Nicole?” “No.” Paul smiled and shook his head. “I spoke to both Nicole and J.B. this morning, and they are fine.” He hesitated only a moment before asking quietly, “Peter,
do you remember our conversation the other evening?”

  “How could I forget?” Peter grimaced. “As I recall, the conversation was pretty much one-sided— mine. You refused to respond in any way.”

  “Yes, well—” Paul shrugged “—you must admit, your line of questioning was rather personal.”

  “What is this all about?” Patricia glanced from her husband to her father-in-law. “What conversation? When?”

  Paul was content to stare at Peter until the younger man answered his wife. “I stopped by the house to see Dad after my meeting the other night,” he explained tersely. “We had a discussion.”

  Patricia gave a long-suffering sigh but asked patiently, “A discussion about what?”

  Paul continued to stare at Peter; Peter’s angular features tightened.

  “I’m waiting.”

  Paul nearly lost control and smiled. Peter sighed in exasperation and defeat.

  “I asked Dad if his lady friend was pretty and, er, if he was in love with her.”

  “Peter, you didn’t!” Patricia was visibly appalled at her mate’s lack of both manners and tact. “Your father’s personal affairs are none of your business!”

  Her cheeks bloomed with color, and she cast a stricken glance at Paul. “No pun intended!”

  Vastly amused by this rare glimpse of his son being chastised by his wife, Paul chuckled. Peter winced. Patricia narrowed her eyes and gave her father-in-law a glittering look.

  “Are you in love with some lucky lady?” “Patricia!” Peter barked.

  Giving up, Paul threw back his head and roared with laughter, unable to remember when he’d enjoyed the company of his family quite so thoroughly. If only Nicole and her husband were here, the day would be just about perfect, he thought as his laughter subsided. Just about, he corrected himself, envisioning the face that haunted his every waking hour.

  “I’m sorry, Paul.” Patricia’s contrite tone drew Paul from his own thoughts. “I have no right—”

  He cut her off gently. “Yes, you do. You have the right granted by affection and concern.” Paul gazed at the son of his body and the daughter of his heart. Then he smiled. “I don’t know if I’m in love. That’s the reason I’m going home to pack. I must see her, talk to her.” His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “She probably regards me as something of an old fool.” “You are not old!” Patricia protested indignantly. “And far from a fool,” Peter observed dryly. He studied Paul intently for a moment. Then an understanding, blatantly male grin revealed his hard white teeth. “Age hasn’t a damn thing to do with it, Dad. If you love her.”

  Feeling oddly rejuvenated by their approval and support, Paul slid his chair back and stood up. “That’s what I intend to find out.”

  * * *

  The traditional turkey-with-all-the-trimmings dinner was a smashing success. The disputed pumpkin pie was a smashing success. Karen was exhausted.

  “Boy, I’m stuffed.”

  “That was the general idea.” Karen smiled fondly at her youngest son. “First you stuff the bird, then you stuff yourself. It’s the American way.”

  “Yeah.” Mark’s eyes glowed with happiness and contentment. “Thanksgiving’s pretty neat.”

  “Yeah.” Rand grinned. “It’s almost as good as Christmas.”

  “Christmas!” Mark whooped. “Yeah! Will you still be here, Dad?”

  “Yeah,” Charles echoed enthusiastically.

  “Yeah?” Karen chided, frowning.

  “Aw, Mom, everybody says yeah,” Rand grumbled.

  “Yeah, they do.” Mark nodded vigorously.

  “And if everybody leaps off a cliff, will you follow?” Karen asked reasonably, her frown darkening as she noticed Charles’s grinning encouragement of his sons. Annoyed, frustrated because it had always been this way, she shifted her frown to him. From the beginning Charles had opted to join forces with his sons, be one of the guys, while she’d been left with the role of disciplinarian.

  “And you?” she charged. “Would you follow also?”

  “Aw, Mom,” Charles mimicked, earning laughter from his sons and indulgent smiles from his parents.

  Karen couldn’t win, and she knew it; besides, she was simply too darned tired to fight. Surrounded and outnumbered, Karen gave up the battle as gracefully as possible. Erasing her frown with a bright smile, she glanced at Judith and Randolf.

  “Would you like coffee or tea or an after-dinner drink?”

  “Coffee would be lovely.” Judith smiled in appreciation of Karen’s surrender. But then, as Karen knew well, Judith had always chosen to take the path of least resistance, which partially explained her son’s lack of discipline.

  “Coffee sounds good,” Charles agreed.

  “I think I’ll have a brandy,” Randolf said, sliding his chair away from the table.

  “Why don’t we have it in the living room?” Judith suggested, rising also. “It’s so much more comfortable in there, and the fire’s so cheery.”

  “Excellent idea, my dear.” Randolf placed his hand at his wife’s waist to escort her from the dining room. “Come along, Charles, we’re in Karen’s way here.”

  “Right.” As Charles pushed back his chair, he arched his brows at Rand and Mark. “Why don’t you guys go out into the fresh air. Go sink some baskets.” He flicked his hand in the direction of the garage, indicating the rusting hoop with its tattered netting mounted on the side wall.

  “Okay with me,” Rand replied. He grinned chal-lengingly at his brother. “11 play you a game of one-on-one.”

  Mark scrambled off his chair. “You’re on!”

  Within a matter of seconds, Karen found herself standing alone in the dining room. A weary smile of acceptance twisted her lips as she gazed down at the remains of the holiday meal littering the two-hundred-year-old oval table.

  What you need, Karen advised herself wryly, is a fairy godmother who isn’t afraid of dipping her hands into hot dishwater. Or Judith’s housekeeper, she revised as she began to stack her best china. If memory served, the housekeeper had been given the entire holiday weekend off.

  Sighing softly, Karen turned to carry the first load of dishes into the kitchen, but paused at the sound of the front door slamming, followed by the aggrieved sound of Rand’s voice.

  “Hey, Dad! That basketball hoop’s so loose it’s about ready to fall off the wall. Can you fix it?”

  “It’s a holiday, Rand,” Charles replied. “Make do today. I’ll have your mother give the man who does the repairs a call tomorrow morning. Okay?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” The door slammed again.

  It’s a holiday, Karen silently repeated, somewhat sarcastically. Damn, you could have fooled me! Telling herself to knock off the private pity party, she continued on into the kitchen. She didn’t have time to wallow in self-pity; she had a table to clear, dishes, pots and a grease-spattered roast pan to clean, and coffee and brandy to serve. Boy! Aren’t holidays fun!

  By ten that night, Karen decided that there was a lot to be said for wallowing in self-pity; Charles was having tremendous success with the ploy. All he had to do Was look dissatisfied and every member of the family leaped to make him comfortable.

  She groaned with sheer bliss as she slipped into bed. Closing her eyes, Karen soaked in the blessed quiet.

  Maybe, just maybe, she thought as she began to drift toward sleep, tomorrow will be less hectic.

  It wasn’t.

  Karen was awakened early the following morning by two disgustingly wide-awake boys and their grinning father, all demanding to be fed. She was up and running from the moment her feet hit the floor.

  The day was fine, crisp and cold. After breakfast, Randolf suggested an invigorating stroll on the beach. His suggestion was agreed to with enthusiasm. En masse, Judith, Randolf, Charles, Rand and Mark bundled up in warm jackets, gloves and assorted caps and scarves, then trooped merrily out the door.

  Standing beside yet another cluttered table, Karen waved them on their way, grateful
for the lull that enabled her to clean up the kitchen, make the beds and dump the first load of laundry into the washer in peace. It also afforded her a quiet minute in which to make the call to Gil Rawlins about fastening the basketball hoop; Gil was out of town for the weekend. Positive the boys, and Rand in particular, would be disappointed, Karen considered tackling the job herself, then rejected the idea. Who would get the meals and clean up afterward if she fell off the ladder and broke a bone?

  No sooner had Karen finished in the kitchen than the red-cheeked, bright-eyed beach strollers trooped back into the house, requesting lunch. As she had surmised, the first words out of Rand’s mouth were about the basketball hoop. To Karen’s relief, though, he accepted her negative report with a philosophical shrug. At that moment, he was obviously more concerned with filling the emptiness inside his body than with exercise.

  “Can I have a club sandwich made with the leftover turkey?” he asked.

  “Oh, but—” Karen began, meaning to tell Rand that she was planning to use the leftover meat in a turkey pie for dinner. She never got the words out of her mouth.

  “My, that does sound lovely,” Judith agreed with her grandson. “I’ll have the same.”

  Inwardly concluding that just about everything sounded lovely to Judith, Karen shrugged and decided broiled steaks would do as well for dinner. Lean steak was more in line with Charles’s diet anyway.

  Lunch was a pleasantly congenial meal. Karen thoroughly enjoyed the lively conversation once all the triple-decker sandwiches had been prepared and served. Between voracious bites of food, the boys regaled her with an in-depth account of all the shells they’d found on the beach and how much fun it had been having their grandparents as well as their father help collect them.

  Though Karen found it nearly impossible to imagine the designer-attired Judith, Randolf and Charles grubbing in the sand for seashells, she smiled and took the boys’ word for it, pleased the outing had been a success. There had been moments, too many in number, when Karen had suffered twinges of conscience and regret about denying her sons the fullness of a cohesive family experience. Gazing into the boys’ animated faces, she decided the weekend was worth all the extra work and occasional irritation.