Downhome Darlin' & The Best Man Switch

by Victoria Pade

  Ted rolled his eyes. Truman hadn’t exactly suffered through the depression. “It was the store that kept this family well-off during hard times,” he reminded his uncle.

  Truman frowned. “‘Course it was!” he barked. “Don’t go lecturing me, you whippersnapper.”

  Mona exhaled a long plume of minty smoke and shrugged her thin shoulders. “If the second depression hits tomorrow, wouldn’t it be just as good to have the security of all that delicious Moreland money as a bunch of troublesome old stores?”

  Ted gaped at her, for the first time understanding the frustration Grant must feel trying to save the store. But what he couldn’t understand was Grant’s abandoning his favorite cause at such a critical juncture, and for what? That bridesmaid!

  Ted would never understand that at all. Hadn’t Grant’s experience with Janice taught him anything? Love must be a terrible thing, to make someone as sensible as Grant behave so irrationally. Not that Grant had mentioned love in relation to that Mitzi character. God forbid! But for him to send Ted in his place to a business discussion...

  Well. The man had to be pretty desperate.

  Mona’s eyebrows, plucked until they were perfect thin black arches above her eyes, crooked even more. “Forgive me, Grant, I know this means a lot to you, but having spent an unhealthy amount of my life asking men if they want one olive or two in their martinis, I always find it difficult to pass up cash.”

  Ted was surprised. Mona rarely mentioned her history as a cocktail waitress, the position she had held when his father—a two-olive man if there ever was one—had met her. Having never had to wait tables himself, or do anything more arduous than spend a summer as a shoe clerk at Whiting’s, he could hardly argue with her logic. He sighed.

  “Aren’t you going to talk some more?” Mona asked. “You usually don’t give up so easily.”

  Ted thought, but failed to find any more to say. His gaze focused on the heap of melon rinds on his plate. How could he think on a practically empty stomach? Mona had been on a fruit-and-mineral-water diet for ten years. Maybe starving was a leftover habit from her minimum-wage days, too. “How ’bout a bagel?” he asked. “And maybe an omelette, if it’s not too much trouble. I’m starved.”

  Mona laughed. “You sound just like that brother of yours! That man wolfs down enough chow to feed a whole cruise ship.”

  Again Truman shot out of his semislumber with an undignified snort. “Blue chips!” he cried. “What about blue chips?”

  Mona flicked the elderly gentleman an annoyed glance. Although it was hard to stay annoyed at Truman for long. First, he was the oldest of the Whitings, the head of the old-money Austin clan, and dressed like a Kentucky colonel in elegantly tailored white suits in summer that hung loose over his old thin frame. Though a dyed-in-the-wool curmudgeon and a spendthrift, his irrepressible style endeared him to everyone, especially someone so style- and name-conscious as Mona.

  “Not blue chips,” Mona corrected him, “cruise ship.”

  Gray eyebrows rose in wonder. “Is Grant running off on a cruise, at this important juncture in the family’s travails?”

  Ted grinned. Uncle Truman was the one person in the world who actually thought Grant was the irresponsible one.

  Mona sighed in exasperation. “Not Grant—Ted. I was talking about how much Ted eats.”

  Truman shook his head. “’Course he eats a lot! He’s a sportsman, best damn football player I ever saw. You weren’t there, Mona, during the state championships back in eighty-four.”

  To Ted’s dismay, Mona waved her hand to stop him. Sports bored her. “Grant, do you think Ted would take out Joy Moreland? I promised Horace Moreland that I would try to show his daughter a good time while she was here.”

  Ted nearly fainted, and it certainly wasn’t just from hunger. She wanted him to squire around that Moreland woman? “What?”

  “Well, you said you wouldn’t do it.”

  “Oh, I did, did I?” That stinker Grant—he’d probably planned to foist this Moreland chick off on him as well.

  Truman brayed in dismay. “Ted can’t be wasted squiring some girl! He’s a sportsman! He needs to entertain the male Morelands, on the golf course...maybe take them out on that boat of his. Fine craft!”

  Ted grinned, feeling a little crafty himself. “You’re absolutely right, Uncle Truman. We shouldn’t squander Ted’s talents. If anything, we should be encouraging my dear brother to spend less time at the office and more time on the golf greens.”

  Truman grunted his agreement. “Damn straight.”

  He was loving this! Ted proceeded to do an imitation of one of Grant’s patient, long-suffering sighs. “All right. I suppose I’ll take Joy out on the town.”

  Mona beamed with pleasure. “Will you? Oh, you darling!” She leaned forward, puckered her bow lips and sent him a string of little air kissies. “I know you’ll just love Joy. She’s the most adorable creature.”

  “Is she? Good.” Maybe the adorable creature would help get Grant’s mind off that frightful woman he seemed to be stuck on now. Mitzi, for God’s sake.

  Ted winked at Mona. “Now that I’m being so cooperative and all, do you think you could persuade your cook to rustle up an omelette?”

  Giggling, Mona tossed back her perfectly coiffed head. “Oh, Grant, you kidder. You’re getting to be just like Ted!”

  “CHURCH LET OUT LATE?” Mitzi quipped when Grant showed up at her door at ten-thirty.

  Grant was lucky to get here that early. Wresting Ted out of bed and prepping him for brunch with Mona and Uncle Truman was a feat of Herculean magnitude. It had taken an abundance of begging and wheedling, with a promise of an extra week’s paid vacation finally doing the trick. Grant had been so proud of his accomplishment that he hadn’t thought to dream up an excuse for his tardiness.

  At the moment, Mitzi’s suggestion sounded as good as the truth. “Uh, yes, as a matter of fact.”

  Mitzi blinked in surprise. And appreciation. Grant’s Sunday best, apparently, was a pair of well-worn jeans that hugged every contour of his mouthwatering bod. “I guess the dress code’s changed since the last time I darkened the doors of Sunday school.”

  He glanced down at his jeans. “Oh, I always wear casual clothes to church, because nobody sees me.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “No one sees you?”

  He nodded, thinking frantically. “Yes, because I’m...in the choir.”

  That really surprised her. And impressed her, for some odd reason. “I didn’t know you could sing.”

  “Me?” he asked. “I’m a regular Caruso!” To demonstrate, he hummed a few shaky bars of a song.

  One of her dark eyebrows arched. “Hmm, Caruso does Blues Traveler,” she said. “What kind of church is this?”

  “We’re a progressive denomination.”

  Desperate, too, apparently. The Met wouldn’t be knocking down Grant’s door anytime soon. “You should have told me you had somewhere to go this morning. We could have set the time back.”

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Ridiculous!” How strange, and cute, that he should be nervous about what she would think of him. Of course, what she thought was that he had to be the sexiest choirboy in America, but she left that opinion unspoken as they got into his car and sped to a sprawling restaurant on a hill overlooking Lake Austin.

  Because the restaurant was already filling up, they snagged an inside table and wasted no time ordering coffee and enough food to feed North Dakota for a day. Mitzi had to keep reminding herself not to ogle Grant; just watching his tanned, muscled forearm passing their menus back to the waitress was enough to make her schoolgirl-giddy.

  He leaned back in his chair and made a production of stretching out his long, jean-clad legs. “I sure do love to relax. Nothing like a long, leisurely Sunday morning.”

  “Really.” She tilted a glance at him. “I heard you practically live at the store.”

  “Whoever told you that obvious
ly doesn’t know me very well.”

  “It was Marty.” His oldest friend.

  His placid expression turned pained. “Well, sure I work—during the week. Nine to five. I do have a work ethic, but I would never let that bleed into my free time. A man has to set his priorities, after all.”

  His words were more moving than Beethoven’s Seventh. She leaned forward and told him confidentially, “Would you believe that I went out with a guy once who was so wrapped up in his work that he sent his best friend to fill in during our Valentine’s date so he could stay at the office?”

  Grant drew back, appalled.

  “I guess he thought I wouldn’t notice.”

  “How terrible!”

  “Well, it’s a story with a happy ending,” Mitzi assured him. “I broke up with the boyfriend, and the best friend ended up getting married to the waitress at the restaurant where we had the Valentine’s dinner.”

  As Grant laughed, it occurred to Mitzi that she wasn’t the best huckster for her own love life. She did tend to dwell on the disasters. She decided she needed to do a better sell, as they said in her business, or change the subject.

  She changed the subject. “Did Kay tell you I was in advertising?”

  Grant’s eyebrows squished together adorably. “She told me you were a photographer.”

  “That’s what I’d really like to be,” she said. “But in this lifetime I have to earn a buck. And I assume you do, too.” She reached into her purse and pulled out the paper she’d been reading while waiting for him, and held up a page containing an ad for Whiting’s. “If so, this ad won’t help you much.”

  As the waitress served their food, Grant studied the black-and-white layout, which mostly outlined sale items. “Bad?”

  “Honestly? If I put this paper by the back door, I don’t think Chester would pee on it.”

  He gave it a closer squint and nodded. “It is kind of flat. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.” Taken aback, he looked up at her. “I thought you didn’t like to talk business.”

  “I dislike shoddy workmanship more. And of course, if the choice is between business or rambling on about my nonexistent love life, I’d pick business any day.”

  “Really?” His voice was a husky drawl. “I’d take your love life.”

  She gazed into those blue eyes of his and felt her heart flutter again, but not so rustily this time. There was something definitely enticing about the way his eyes were twinkling at her. But just when she thought she’d swoon into her French toast, Grant appeared to be distracted by something outside. His pallor took on the color of old hard cheese.

  Mitzi, who wasn’t facing the windows, looked at him in concern. “Is something wrong?” she asked, about to whip around to see for herself.

  “No!” Grant yelled, nearly upsetting his juice glass in his effort to distract her from turning.

  Of all the people to show up at this particular restaurant, Grant thought wildly. Ted! What was he doing here? He was supposed to be charming Mona and Uncle Truman.

  He turned back to Mitzi, stiffly, and tried to smile. “I, uh, just saw someone I recognized, that’s all. No big deal.”

  Mitzi smiled back. He wasn’t sure whether it was her beaming face or the idea of his brother being mere yards away that made his heart keep thumping like a rodent’s. “Would you like to say hello?”

  “No,” he answered quickly. “I’d like to hear more about advertising.” He asked her a few questions about her work, but out of the corner of his eye he kept seeing Ted.

  Once he could even hear Ted laughing, which was the last straw. “Mitzi, would you mind if I ran and made a quick phone call?”

  She gave him a look of mock worry, as if she’d somehow offended him. “It’s me, right? I’ve criticized your advertising and now you’ve had it up to here with me. In fact, you probably wish you’d never heard the word bridesmaid.”

  Grant chuckled. “Really, I just need to make a quick one. To my...stepmother. It’s her birthday.”

  Mitzi sighed and sent him a warm gooey smile that stabbed him with guilt. “How sweet. Go right ahead.”

  Silently vowing to actually be more sweet in the future, Grant got up and dashed past the phones, ducked through the kitchen and exited through the employees’ entrance. Then he doubled back around the side of the restaurant and picked his way through the dining hordes and planted himself behind a potted ficus next to where his brother was sitting with a female friend. A very beautiful female friend.

  “What are you doing here, Ted?” he asked with a huff.

  Confused, Ted straightened and pivoted in all directions in his chair, trying to pin the source of the disembodied voice.

  His companion, a very tall, very buxom blonde who looked vaguely familiar, nudged him. “Teddy, I think that tree is talking to you.”

  Ted finally spotted Grant. “Grant! What are you doing?”

  “That’s what I asked you! You’re supposed to be at Mona’s!”

  Ted shrugged sheepishly. “You know Mona, she played right into my rich-boy guilt. The minute I mentioned the sale, she started talking about having been a poor waitress. Maybe I should have done like you and worked through college so I could stand up to people like that.”

  “Couldn’t you have stayed and tried to talk to her some more?”

  “I would have, but I was running out of gas. That woman eats like a bird. Cantaloupe wedges! You can’t begrudge me a few crumbs of food after all I’ve done for you.”

  After all he’d done? What had he done? “All I asked was one little favor, and you couldn’t even stay put for thirty minutes.”

  “Hey,” Ted said in his own defense, “I charmed them in record time. In fact, I charmed them more as you than you ever did as you. And then I got hungry.”

  “But did you have to come here?”

  “What’s the big deal?”

  “Mitzi’s inside.”

  “Oh, no!” Suddenly alert, Ted shuddered as he glanced through the glass window.

  “Who’s Mitzi?” the blonde asked. Now that she was used to it, she didn’t seem to think it at all strange that her breakfast date was talking to a plant.

  “I don’t want her to see you,” Grant said.

  “Well, I don’t want to see her either, so we’re even,” Ted said, buttering a piece of toast.

  Grant searched for a way to coax his brother out of the restaurant. What if Mitzi looked up from her paper and saw Ted out here? “I can’t let Mitzi know we’re identical twins, or she might realize that we switched places at the wedding rehearsal.”

  “Why would she care?”

  “Because there are two things she hates, and one of them is dishonesty.”

  Ted looked shocked. “You’re as honest as a judge.”

  That’s what Grant used to believe. “She might think I was dishonest if she happened to find out I sent you in my place when I was supposed to be best man at my nearest and dearest friends’ wedding.”

  Ted nodded slowly. The problem was beginning to sink in. “So what’s the other thing she doesn’t like?”

  “Workaholics.”

  Ted snorted. “You’re screwed.”

  “I’m not a workaholic,” Grant protested. “Well, you might think so, but you think everyone who sets their alarm clock in the morning is going overboard.”

  Ted puffed up proudly. “I’ll have you know that I did an important bit of work for you this morning. You were about to muck up the whole works, but I rescued you.”

  Oh no. Grant’s heart sank. Ted to the rescue had a definitely ominous ring. “What did you do?”

  “You were about to blow off that Joy Moreland chick Mona’s so hot about,” Ted gloated, “so I set you up with her for Thursday night.”

  A horrified yelp escaped Grant’s lips, so that half the restaurant turned to stare at the ficus. More quietly, he said, “You did what?”

  “I set you up on a play date, bro,” Ted explained. “Thursday night. Don’t forget
to ask me for Joy’s number.”

  Mitzi was here for less than a week, and now he was going to spend one precious night squiring around some dimwit department-store heiress? No way. He would have to think of some way to call off the date by Thursday. Of course, by Thursday Mitzi might want to have nothing to do with him, especially if he didn’t hightail it back to their table.

  “Could you please just get a take-out box for that breakfast?” He reached into his wallet and pulled out forty bucks. “Here, it’s on me.”

  Ted had a healthy appreciation for money. “Thanks, bro. Veronique and I’ll be out of here in two shakes.”

  Veronique?

  Grant quickly retraced his steps to Mitzi. When he approached their table, she was putting something in that huge bag she toted with her everywhere. Probably a lipstick or something.

  “Sorry about that.” He looked into Mitzi’s eyes and forced himself to relax. Ted was gone. Nothing else could go wrong now. “Where were we?”

  His cell phone jangled. Grant froze.

  “Isn’t that you?” Mitzi stared at the jacket hanging on the back of his chair.

  It took the control of every muscle in his body not to pounce on the call immediately, as was his custom. What had Mitzi been complaining about yesterday? The kind of man who couldn’t make it through a meal without checking his messages. Would she think he was one of those pathetic creatures?

  Was he?

  “Aren’t you going to answer that?” she asked.

  That was all the permission he needed. He whipped his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out the phone. “Hello?”

  “Whiting!” The booming voice of Horace Moreland bellowed tinnily through the little handset. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying you at the store all morning.”

  Grant sent Mitzi a long-suffering smile, then replied, “It is Sunday morning. You know, the day of rest?”

  “Rest!” the man shouted in disgust. “I’ve never known you to rest before. That how you intend to make your millions, son?” Earlier in life, Horace had made a bumpy transition from United States marine to retail magnate, and hadn’t worked out the chinks yet. “You can’t capture a beachhead by sleeping in!”