by Joan Hohl
“There were croissants left over at breakfast,” she said in her best hostess tones, thrilling to the light that flared in the dark depths of his eyes. “I’d be happy to warm some in the microwave for you if you’d like.” “Yes, thank you.” His heated gaze caressed her. “I’d like that very much.”
Another link had been forged between them; Karen knew it, but more importantly, she was suddenly aware that Paul realized it, too. Energy flowed through her, sweeping her weariness away. Her step light, she walked from the room, calling over her shoulder, “Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll only be a minute.”
As had happened after all the previous meals they’d shared, not one of the Mitchells offered assistance. Karen didn’t care. Paul was there, back in her house, back in her living room, back in her life. Humming to herself, she made child’s play out of the cleaning-up routine and had completed most of it before the coffee was finished.
After serving the coffee and croissants, Karen sat quietly, offering little to the conversation, content to simply be close to Paul once again.
He looked wonderful, she decided, studying him as she sipped the coffee she really didn’t want. But there was a subtle change in Paul’s appearance that puzzled her. Observing him, listening to him speak, Karen pondered the change, and then the answer struck her. The difference in Paul was not only in appearance but in attitude, as well. For all his aristocratic look, the man she’d first met on the beach had had an uncentered, rudderless look about him. The Paul now seated a few feet from her appeared purposeful and confident, the image of a man in control of his own life.
On reflection, it was obvious to Karen that something had occurred to transform Paul during the weeks they’d been separated. And with the memory of his near-confession of love for her singing in her mind,
Karen’s pulse leaped with the thought that she was in part responsible for the change in him.
Karen was almost giddy with the possibilities that sprang from her speculative thought and was oblivious to the watchful, scowling expression on Charles’s face. Paul, on the other hand, was very much aware of her former husband’s discontent.
He’s suspicious as hell and jealous because of it.
Even as the thought formed in his mind, Paul silently responded to it. The response was as hard as it was swift.
The hell with Mitchell.
His attention divided between the elder and the younger Mitchell men, Paul was nevertheless aware of Karen’s soft gaze and her thorough scrutiny of him. More than anything else in the world, he wanted to be alone with her. While engaging in genial conversation with Randolf, his body tingled with anticipation. While he took Charles’s measure, his nerves twanged with impatience. In fact, Paul required every ounce of willpower he possessed to keep himself from insulting the Mitchells by grabbing Karen and rudely walking from the room.
A silent sigh of relief shuddered through him when, at Randolf s suggestion, Karen rose to show Paul to his room. Keeping a respectful distance between them, he followed her from the room and up the stairs. A frown drew his eyebrows together when, at the landing at the top of the staircase, she turned toward the front of the house.
“You’re giving me a different room?”
“Yes.”
Paul’s frown deepened at the evidence of strain in her voice. Assuming she was putting him in a room farther away from hers for appearance’ sake, he chided gently, “But I liked the room I had before.” He felt a premonitory flash of anger at the way her lips tightened before she replied.
“I can’t give you that room, Paul. Charles is using it.”
And is Charles using you, too? Paul clenched his teeth to keep from snarling the thought aloud. “I see,” he murmured tightly, his anger mingling with fear as he stepped into the unfamiliar bedroom. Charles had been alone with Karen in the house for several weeks. Had he used those weeks to— Paul ruthlessly cut off the thought, actually afraid to follow it to its natural conclusion. The feeling he had experienced earlier of again being outside in the cold returned. Suddenly Paul had to know exactly where he stood with her. Moving decisively, he shut the door, enclosing them in privacy. Denying himself the right to touch her, he held her still by locking his gaze with hers.
“Has there been a reconciliation between you and Charles?”
“No!” Karen denied with a swiftness that was sweetly satisfying to Paul. “Charles is here to recuperate, and that is absolutely all he is here for.”
“Then you don’t want me to leave?” Paul asked, and held his breath.
“Leave!” Karen’s anxious expression sent a shiver of relief through him. “No, Paul, I don’t want you to leave.”
“I’m delighted to hear you say that—” Paul flashed a rakish grin, “—since I had no intentions of leaving anyway.”
Randolf monopolized practically every one of Paul’s waking minutes throughout what was left of the weekend, so Karen saw very little of her unexpected tenant. And as Judith was forever at Randolf’s side, Karen saw too much of Charles for her own peace of mind. Charles had taken to acting very strangely—at least whenever his parents weren’t around.
Then, in addition to her resentment at being denied Paul’s company and her annoyed concern over Charles’s suddenly blatant show of affection for her— usually at mealtimes, when everybody was in attendance—Karen was puzzled by several seemingly unrelated incidents.
The first was not unexpected and occurred at the breakfast table the morning after Paul’s arrival. Looking bored, Rand wolfed down his meal and asked to be excused from the table. He then prowled noisily from one room to another until Judith, frowning with concern, asked him what was troubling him, thereby giving him the opening he had obviously been waiting for.
“There’s nothing to do,” Rand complained in the grating tone of voice only children can achieve.
Charles dismissed Rand with a flick of his hand. “Go look for shells on the beach.”
Karen shot a narrowed look at Charles. She had wondered how long his role of “buddy-father” would last. Karen had never doubted Charles’s love for his sons, but she never overestimated his patience with them, either. It had always been thus; Charles could only take children in small doses, even his own children.
“We did that yesterday,” Mark whined, jumping in to support his brother.
“For God’s sake!” Charles threw his napkin on the table. “There’s got to be something that you kids can do to amuse yourselves. Go shoot some baskets.”
“Charles, you must not get upset!” Judith cautioned him in a soothing tone.
“How can I not get upset with all the aggravation in this place lately?” he demanded, sweeping his gaze from Rand to Mark and then to Paul.
Staring at his father, Rand’s expression betrayed conflicting emotions of remorse and rebellion. Mark began to cry.
“We can’t shoot baskets,” he sniffled. “The hoop’s ready to fall down.”
“Well, find something to do,” Charles ordered. “And I want you both to stop your damn complaining.”
“Charles!” Judith exclaimed.
“Really, son,” Randolf chastised.
“Don’t swear at the boys.” Karen’s voice was low but contained a warning edge of steel, and her eyes were cold with purpose. “I mean it, Charles. As long as you’re in my house, you will not curse at the boys.
I won’t tolerate it.”
An angry, embarrassed flush climbed from Charles’s neck to his cheeks.
“Oh, Karen, I’m sure he didn’t mean it the way it sounded!” Judith protested her son’s innocence.
“Of course he didn’t!” Randolf insisted. “It was common language usage; a slip of the tongue.”
“Yes. Common.” As she turned to look at the elder Mitchells, Karen’s gaze was snagged by watchful dark eyes. Paul hadn’t said a word; words were unnecessary. The approval shining from his eyes championed her position. Feeling the strength of two, she faced her former in-laws. “The term is common, an
d I will not permit it to be used on my sons. Not even by their father.” Without a blink, she swung her gaze to Rand and Mark. “If you are bored, you could always occupy yourselves by cleaning up your rooms.”
“Aw, Mom!” Making a sour face, Rand stomped from the room. Looking at Karen as if he suspected she’d slipped a cog, Mark trailed after his brother.
“You’re not letting them grow up,” Charles sniped peevishly, slumping in his chair. “I’d bet they hear a lot worse than ‘damn’ from the other kids at school.” “I’m sure you’re right.” Pushing her chair back, Karen rose and began clearing the table. “But they are not going to hear it at home.” Juggling the stacked dishes, she walked from the alcove.
As if her action had been a signal, the room emptied quickly. His expression much the same as Mark’s when he was pouting, Charles picked up the morning paper and disappeared into the living room. After a murmured discussion, Judith and Randolf announced they were driving into town, then beat a hasty retreat. A smile curving his lips, Paul finished clearing the table.
“You don’t have to do that.” Not looking at him, afraid to trust herself to even glance at him, Karen methodically stacked the dishes in the dishwasher.
“I know.” Just as methodically Paul rinsed the dishcloth and returned to the alcove to wipe the table.
Completing the loading quickly, Karen switched on the machine. “All done,” she called to him, escaping into the laundry room. Even over the sound of water running into the kitchen sink as Paul again rinsed the cloth, Karen could hear his soft laughter.
The second incident occurred late in the morning and was really not so much an incident as a set of circumstances that induced an odd sense of confusion in Karen.
She was dusting the living room. The house had been unusually quiet for some time except for Charles, who had been underfoot all morning, making a supreme effort to be ingratiating and charming and getting very little response from Karen.
She was busy, and long since immune to his practiced lines. She was also distracted, which Charles didn’t appreciate at all.
Where was everybody?
The question had been nagging at Karen intermittently for over an hour. Paul had vanished from the house before she’d emerged from the laundry room. She hadn’t seen hide or hair of either of the boys since they’d stormed from the dining alcove. And, though Judith and Randolf had returned to the house after spending less than an hour in town, they had immediately gone out again, informing Karen that they were going to take a stroll on the beach.
Frowning at her own contrariness for fretting over the quiet after longing for quiet, Karen impatiently pulled her arm free when Charles caught her by the wrist.
“Why don’t you leave that till later and sit down and talk to me?” he demanded, every bit as petulant as his thirteen-year-old son when he was down with a cold.
“It has to be done, Charles.” Karen repeated the phrase she’d uttered countless times during the weeks he’d been there, wondering, as usual, how he thought the work got done if she didn’t do it.
“Can’t it wait?”
“For whom?”
Charles subsided with a disgruntled sigh. Smiling wryly, Karen continued dusting. She was arranging a copper potpourri pot on a gleaming, newly dusted table when all the missing persons appeared at once, shattering the quiet.
Judith and Randolf were in fine spirits and ready for lunch, which didn’t surprise or confuse Karen.
Paul was quiet but not exceptionally so, which didn’t surprise or confuse her, either.
It was Rand’s and Mark’s attitude that gave her an odd sense of confusion. Their eyes were bright, their cheeks glowed with healthy color from the sting of the cold sea breeze, and not a trace of their earlier pouty moodiness remained in either young face. Saying little, they both consumed their lunch at their usual starving-animal speed. The instant they had drained the last drop of milk from their glasses, Rand and Mark politely asked to be excused from the table. Seconds later, the front door banged shut.
Were they coming down with something? Karen asked herself. They had behaved too well, been too quiet. They hadn’t even exchanged one insult, let alone their regulation number!
The third incident was comprised entirely of a familiar sound that registered on Karen later that afternoon.
The house had grown quiet again after lunch, but this time Karen knew, or at least had an idea, where everyone was. The boys had not returned after leaving the lunch table; Karen assumed they were scavenging for shells on the beach. Judith was ensconced in a chair in the living room, lost to the world in a murder mystery she’d picked up in town. Randolf had taken Paul off somewhere to talk business. Charles, irritated and frustrated by Karen’s refusal to take anything he said seriously, had gone to his room for a nap. And Karen, realizing she had caught up with the daily chores, had decided to wallow in a long, hot bath.
Her skin rosy from the hot water and softened from the oil beads she’d tossed into it, Karen took her time dressing. Telling herself it had absolutely nothing to do with a desire to appear attractive to Paul, she very carefully applied just a tad more makeup than usual.
Thinking of Paul, remembering him in her room, in her bed, sent icy chills down her spine and warmth to her face. Light-headed with memories and a rush of emotions too numerous to sort out before starting dinner, Karen was already in a pleasant state of confusion as she drifted out of her room.
She heard the sound vaguely as she entered the kitchen but, caught up in an echoing memory of a man telling her he thought he was falling in love, Karen took no notice of it. It was after she had gently come back to earth to face the necessity of preparing a meal for seven hungry people that the sound intruded on her consciousness.
It was the steady thump-thump of a basketball being bounced on a macadam surface and then the solid twang of the ball striking a firmly attached hoop before dropping through a basket.
Chapter Eleven
By itself, the solid sound of a basketball striking the rim of a well-anchored hoop would not have been cause for in-depth consideration for Karen, had it not been for the fact that the looseness of that very hoop had precipitated the scene at breakfast.
Obviously someone had tightened the hoop—but who? Karen frowned in consternation.
Paul. His name leaped into her mind as if it belonged there.
Ridiculous! Karen shook her head, negating the very idea. Aside from the fact that Paul had made the repairs necessary to prepare the house for the coming winter, he had been walking and talking very softly since his arrival the day before, and she couldn’t think of a single reason why Paul would feel inclined to accommodate two fractious teenage boys.
Since Karen was equally certain Charles hadn’t attempted the job or even thought of doing so, that left Randolf. Yet she found it nearly impossible to imagine her very proper sixty-four-year-old former father-in-law dragging out the necessary tools, then teetering precariously on a ladder, even for his grandsons.
Of course, there was always the possibility that, impatient with the situation, Rand and Mark had decided to take matters into their own hands and fasten the hoop themselves. Possible but improbable. Karen knew her sons. Rand and Mark were both quick and agile when it came to participation in almost any sport. But the other side of their personality coin revealed an almost total lack of coordination in any and all activities that were domestic in origin. In other words, both boys were all thumbs around the house.
Karen readily accepted the responsibility for Rand’s and Mark’s ineptitude, and she found it hard to believe they had attacked the chore of fixing the hoop, no matter how restless and bored they were. But if not the boys, then who had accomplished the task?
Feeling as though her mind had completed a fruitless circle, Karen shrugged her shoulders. Speculation was getting her nowhere, and she had a meal to prepare. Besides, all she had to do to solve the mystery was raise the question at the dinner table.
Karen broach
ed the subject the minute they were all seated and served. “Did I hear you guys shooting baskets a little while ago?” she asked casually.
“Uh-huh,” Rand murmured around the food in his mouth.
“But I thought you couldn’t shoot because the hoop was too lose.”
Mark grinned happily. “It’s fixed now.
“That’s nice.” Karen held on to her patience, reminding herself that children were only forthcoming when you didn’t want them to be. “Who fixed it?” “Mr. Vanzant.” Rand supplied the answer between swallowing and shoveling another forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.
“Yeah,” Mark concurred. “Mr. Vanzant fixed it right after we got back from our walk on the beach.” Concerned with filling the emptiness in their respective stomachs, neither boy noticed as four pairs of adult eyes homed in on Paul Vanzant. Nor did they note the adult facial expressions displayed, ranging from resentment in their father’s face to amazement on the faces of their mother and grandparents to wry amusement on the face of the man the others were staring at.
“You tightened the hoop, Paul?” Randolf asked, sliding a glance over Paul’s hand-tailored slacks and cashmere sweater, then to his well-cared-for hands. “Guilty as charged,” Paul confessed.
“Why?” Charles’s voice was grating.
Paul slowly turned to give Charles his undivided attention. “Why not?” he countered reasonably.
“It wasn’t necessary.” Charles glared at Paul. “The handyman would have fixed it Monday.”
“To what purpose?” Paul asked reasonably. “The boys won’t be here on Monday.”
Nonplussed and obviously frustrated, Charles pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. “This discussion is ridiculous!” His lips twisting unpleasantly, he stared at Karen. “All this fuss because two kids can’t amuse themselves for one afternoon.”
Though he didn’t add, “And it’s all your fault,” the accusation was implicit in his tone.
