Mine 'Til Monday

by Ruby Laska

  She released Dorothy’s hands, spun the engagement ring gently on her finger. “But hey, the proof’s in the pudding, right?” Dorothy nodded numbly, but Janelle’s words echoed in her ear.

  Some never do.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Dorothy paused at the wide glass doors of Miranda’s solarium, and gave a final tug at her tennis skirt. The crisp white pleated fabric barely covered her bottom, and she felt extremely self-conscious. Usually she played in shorts and a T-shirt, but for today she’d taken pains to choose something from Finesse’s latest collection, a stylish skirt and coordinating tank in white trimmed with navy.

  It was only 8:00 am, but when she woke half an hour earlier, the charming cottage was empty. Mud’s door was open a few inches, and Dorothy had peeked inside: bed made, drapes open to let the sun in. No doubt he was out jogging. He seemed like the jogging type. In fact Dorothy could easily imagine him in nylon shorts, moving easily through the sun-dappled paths that crisscrossed Miranda’s estate, a little bit of sweat glistening at his temple as his strong legs took the terrain in long strides...

  Dorothy had splashed cold water on her face, and pinched her cheeks for good measure, before grimacing at her image in the mirror. They’d survived the first night. Now she just had to focus on keeping it going.

  And so she’d made the short trip down the flagstone path connecting the cottage to the back of the house, ready to spend a little time one-on-one with Miranda, furthering her case.

  Inside, she could hear the sound of voices and clinking china, along with the strains of Vivaldi playing softly in the background. Dorothy took a deep breath and stepped into the solarium.

  “Mornin’, sweet pea.”

  Mud. Sitting cozily at the linen-draped iron table with Miranda, the two of them still grinning from some shared joke.

  Dorothy glanced from one to the other, her stomach doing flip-flops. This she hadn’t expected. She’d rehearsed this breakfast carefully, but she’d planned to arrive first. If Mud showed up at all, he was to be no more than an accessory.

  “Um, good morning,” she murmured, sliding into the chair closest to Miranda.

  “Ooo, no no no no, dear—sit with your sweetheart!” Miranda exclaimed. “Daphne, do be a dear, won’t you, and bring some coffee for Miss Albright?”

  Out of nowhere a uniformed woman appeared with a white porcelain coffee pot. Feeling the color spotting her cheeks, Dorothy obediently changed chairs, sliding in next to Mud. The iron grillwork felt cold and uncomfortable next to the bare skin of her thighs.

  “Hi, Sugar.”

  Mud’s voice was low and thick as syrup as he leaned over, eyes closed and lips puckered. Dorothy’s eyes widened, but there was nothing else to do but comply. She brushed his lips with her own, swiftly, and turned her attention to arranging her napkin in her lap.

  “Dang, girl, I’ve had dogs that kissed better than that,” Mud complained.

  Under the table Dorothy felt his hand close on her knee and give a playful squeeze. It was all she could do to keep from jumping out of her seat; his hand was warm and rough and lingered just a moment too long before he reclaimed it.

  “Dempsey and I were just gossiping,” Miranda confided, as she filled a plate with sliced strawberries and a muffin and passed it to Dorothy. “We seem to know a few of the same folks in the golf world.”

  “Now ma’am, you just call me Mud. Everyone does.”

  Miranda giggled, and lowered her lids coquettishly. Dorothy couldn’t believe it. So not even elegant dowagers were immune to him. Surely the good old boy act would lose its charm, however, as the day wore on. It was up to her to steer things back on course.

  “Of course you must take everything he says with a grain of salt,” she said, forcing what she hoped was an indulgent smile to her lips. Glancing at Mud, she added, “Now that he has a successful business to run there isn’t much time for his old acquaintances.”

  “No, I should imagine not,” Miranda said, then winked at Dorothy. “Especially since you have won his heart, my dear.”

  Dorothy simmered slowly, wondering if that was a reference the female variety of old acquaintance that Mud had once been known for. Well, she couldn’t help that; Miranda kept up with the sporting world. At least she seemed to be delighted with their pairing.

  But even Miranda’s obvious enjoyment of Mud made Dorothy uncomfortable. Mud hadn’t bothered to shine up his act; he was coming across as a raffish good-timer. And Miranda had known Dorothy for ages, knew about her taste for antiques, her academic family, her patents. Not to seem snobby, but what on earth made Miranda think Dorothy would fall for such a—a—

  A diamond in the rough, Dorothy chided herself silently. After all, she was supposed to be proving her ardor for this man, not coming up with reasons they shouldn’t be together.

  “You’re right. I’m so lucky to have found him,” she purred, eyelids lowered, as she broke her muffin in half.

  “Mud, do tell me more about your business.”

  “Mud owns a sporting goods store,” Dorothy said quickly. “It serves the North Shore.” Invoking the name of the tony area of Chicago, she hoped, would add a little cachet.

  Leave it to Mud to burst even that little bubble, though.

  “Oh, I don’t know if a lot of North Shore folks make it over to my place,” Mud said. “I just have a little place on the north end of the city. Golf shop. Guess you could have guessed that—can’t seem to get completely out of the game.” He grinned, not a trace of self-consciousness on his face, while Dorothy steamed.

  “Was it a family business?” Miranda asked, serenely sipping from her coffee cup.

  “Nah. Dad was actually in plumbing supplies. Taylor Components. He made all kinds of gizmos, toilet parts and stuff.”

  “Gizmos—would that be a technical term?” Miranda’s eyes sparked with humor, and Mud chuckled easily with her. Only Dorothy sat silent, tense with the fear of what Mud would say next.

  “But why didn’t you follow your father into the business?” Miranda went on in a more serious tone.

  Dorothy’s mind raced. She knew how Miranda felt about her own business; how strongly she believed in family involvement, how she’d wished for children of her own to pass the company along to. How could she possibly pull Mud out of this trap?

  He merely shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess from early on I always figured to go out on my own. When it seemed clear my golfing days were through, I wanted to find something that could be mine. It’s hard to explain. Dad built his business up from nothing, and I guess I wanted the same challenge. He never minded,” Mud added.

  “He didn’t?” Miranda was frowning now, a little of the formidable steel in her voice. “He put his life into the company, but didn’t want to see his son carry on the name? You’re sure of that?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mud said evenly. “In fact, Dad sold the business years before he died. I think he was tired of putting in twelve-hour days. Said he intended to enjoy the fruits of his labors, and I’m hereto tell you, he did exactly that. I don’t think he died with many regrets.”

  “I see.” But it was clear from her tone that Miranda didn’t see, not really. “Well. You two ought to get out there and hit the courts. It’s a lovely day for a game.”

  Dorothy lowered herself into the steaming bubbles of the Jacuzzi, inhaling deeply of the steam while the hot water worked its magic on her aching muscles. The back patio of the cottage was ringed with latticework; climbing roses formed lovely walls of color that shielded the Jacuzzi from view. Dorothy relished the solitude; she needed some time alone to sort out her thoughts.

  Breakfast had been a disaster. Miranda had shooed them off to the tennis courts, tight-lipped and frowning. Whatever points Mud had scored with his knowledge of the golf world had evaporated when he confessed to having no interest in his father’s business.

  Not a family man, that’s what Miranda must have been thinking. A renegade. Or worse: the way Mud described his shop, i
t sounded like he’d managed to squander the family fortunes on an unprofitable dump. Shiftless, unambitious, content to coast along on the coat-tails of his father’s success...

  “Oh, mercy,” Dorothy moaned, sinking a little lower into the water. If only she’d picked someone else. Someone dull but dependable. Someone who wore his ambitions in plain view.

  “Dot? You okay?”

  Dorothy opened her eyes, startled, and found herself staring at two muscular calves. Her eyes traveled slowly up; despite her surprise she couldn’t keep her eyes off the expanse of bare skin. Tanned thighs disappeared into dark blue nylon shorts; above, a taut torso widened into well-defined shoulders. Mud’s skin still glistened from his shower, and he had a white towel draped casually over one shoulder.

  Dorothy licked her lips; suddenly her mouth was dry. He hadn’t worn a whole lot more than this on the tennis court, it was true, but her annoyance with him had allowed her to focus single-mindedly on beating him.

  Several times, in fact.

  “I’m fine,” she said tersely, averting her eyes and focusing on a tile pattern on the opposite side of the Jacuzzi. “I’ll be out of here soon.”

  “Aw, come on. There’s plenty of room. Only, promise not to draw blood, okay? The way you were kicking my butt on the court, I’m kind of scared of you.”

  Dorothy sighed heavily. Then watched in amazement as a swath of navy nylon fell to the deck in a small heap. Before she could stop herself she looked up, in time to see Mud in all his glory for a split second before he slid into the steaming water.

  Mud’s eyes crinkled in amusement.

  “Come on, Dot, you’ve seen it before. In fact, I don’t know why you bothered with that suit. I think we’re on our own back here—no one can see.”

  Dorothy self-consciously fingered the strap of her black tank suit.

  “It’s called decorum,” she said frostily. “A word to which you really ought to be introduced one of these days.”

  “Aw, what are you saying, Dot?” Mud leaned back, arms wide along the edge of the Jacuzzi, fingertips of one hand grazing her shoulder. He closed his eyes and sighed, clearly enjoying the water. He enjoyed everything, Dorothy reflected, a little enviously; life was so uncomplicated for him.

  Well, wouldn’t it be nice. But some people had to take responsibility in life.

  “I’m saying you might have tried just a little harder this morning. I’m saying you might have thought first before you spoke. I’m saying that Miranda thinks I’m marrying a good-timer to whom family tradition means nothing. When it means everything in the world to her. When it might very well have been the key to this job.”

  Dorothy could feel her voice catching. No tears, she willed fiercely. Don’t let him get to you.

  But it was so hard. She’d worked so hard, too hard to fail now.

  Mud allowed his eyelids to drift briefly open. “You’re getting worked up over nothing. Miranda and I were getting along great.”

  “Yes, until she asked you about your family. Didn’t I explain how important it is that I marry someone who will live and breathe Finesse along with me? Miranda wants to pass the company along to a family, a family who will put their heart into the company, nurture it and make it grow. And here you are like some—some black sheep whose idea of a career is one tacky little storefront.”

  As soon as the words were out, Dorothy wished she could take them back. But Mud’s gaze was unbroken; unreadable. He continued to regard her with just the slightest arch of his brow.

  “I’m sorry,” Dorothy said hastily. “I’m really sorry. I’ve never seen your shop but I had no right to call it...that.”

  “Call it whatever you want,” Mud said, shrugging. “Makes no difference to me.”

  “I didn’t mean to insult—”

  “The thing is, I’m not a family man,” Mud interjected, as though he hadn’t heard her. “And there’s no way I’ll convince anyone otherwise. I come from a long line of men who weren’t family men. Dad was a good father, in his way, but two guys and a procession of housekeepers don’t make much of a family, do they?”

  Dorothy had no answer for that. Mud’s lids lowered a bit; he was no longer looking at her but into the clouds of steam. Suddenly his face looked weary. The lines that bracketed the corners of his mouth, lines earned with a million hearty laughs, now etched some other emotion on his face. Disillusionment, perhaps. Or longing.

  “And my mother, well, I don’t know that she had any idea what the word family meant. She had me when Dad was off in Vietnam, and when he got back, she handed me back like an overdue book. There was a new guy in her life, see, and he didn’t have any interest in raising some other guy’s baby.”

  “Oh, Mud.” The words escaped, barely more than a whisper, full of the ache that Dorothy suddenly felt for him. She had never known what happened to Mud’s mother. It wasn’t ever discussed, and with a child’s intuition Dorothy had come to understand early on that the topic was taboo.

  “Can’t say as I blame him,” Mud said, his voice hardening. “He was young, I’m sure, like my mother. She just wanted a second chance. Well, she got it. And Dad got stuck with me. It’s all for the best, though. It never would have worked out. If my mother hadn’t walked out on Dad, I’m sure he would have walked out on her.”

  The cynicism in Mud’s voice cut to Dorothy’s heart. Somehow she knew it was covering up hurts, deep hurts suffered by a little boy and carried into adulthood as secrets he’d never allow anyone to touch.

  And yet he was telling her. Why?

  They’d made love, the answer came to her. They’d held each other, shared the greatest of intimacy. The irritation she’d harbored melted away as she considered Mud’s secrets.

  “Just because your parents did a poor job with their relationship, doesn’t mean you have to repeat their mistakes,” Dorothy offered quietly.

  “Hah.” Mud laughed mirthlessly. “Nice try, Dot. You have a lot of faith in me. But I’m afraid any chance I had for being a good guy went up in smoke somewhere along the line. After I met the tenth one of Dad’s new ‘friends’ at breakfast, wearing one of his robes and last night’s makeup under her eyes. Or the twentieth, or the fiftieth. That’s love, isn’t it? It’s what qualified for love at the Taylor place, anyway. See, I learned that lesson well. I’m not a nice guy. Haven’t you heard?”

  At last he looked her full on again, his eyes blazing defiantly.

  “You’ve had a lot of relationships,” Dorothy said quietly. “You’ve made mistakes.”

  “Hell yes, I’ve made mistakes, but not like you think. I don’t hurt anyone. I learned that from Dad: which women to pick. You look for the ones with a party in their eyes. Make it clear at the outset that you’re a free agent; make sure she feels the same way. Then you treat ‘em well, drive ‘em home in the morning. Nice and clean, and if you see her at a bar or something later, there’s no hard feelings.”

  No hard feelings. That was exactly the conclusion the two of them had reached, wasn’t it? At least, that’s what Dorothy had tried to tell him during the ill-fated phone call. So why did it hurt so much when he voiced the same sentiment back to her?

  Because...because she couldn’t bear to be just another in a string of his conquests. Because she was certain that he hadn’t read a party in her eyes, that night in the tiny bathroom, when he’d closed his lips on hers.

  If she had to guess, she supposed he’d read everything there as her lids slowly closed on the deep passion of the kiss. That she wanted him, yes.

  But also that she loved him. That he held her heart in his hands. And still he’d taken her, even with that knowledge.

  Which made him the coldest, most heartless man she’d ever known.

  Or...was there some other possibility? Had he felt something too, some glint of emotion that made him reach for her, hungry for more than just the taste of her skin?

  The possibility refused to go away, even as she tried to reject it. After all, he’d just told her in
very plain terms what women were to him. And he hadn’t excluded her from the list.

  “I think I’ve been in here long enough,” she said, nauseous with the emotions battling inside her. But somehow her limbs wouldn’t move to lift her out of the water.

  “Wait.” Mud stopped her with a word, a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. “Don’t go. I’m sorry. You didn’t ask for my life story and I had no right to go on that way.”

  “It’s okay, Mud. I’ve known you forever, remember? It’s not like you were telling me something I didn’t know.”

  “Dorothy...”

  Dorothy realized with a shock that he’d used her name. Her real name. Tentatively, haltingly.

  “I’m not the man for you, obviously. We both know that. But I am here for you. Let’s make this thing work. Give me another chance and I won’t let you down.”

  Dorothy nodded slowly. Her gestures felt wooden. Mud wanted another chance, to impress Miranda, of course, another chance to help her achieve her dearest goal of landing her dream job.

  And yet she couldn’t help wistfully thinking of another kind of second chance. A second chance for both of them to draw together, to light their bodies with the flame that simmered between them, to mend the damage their hearts had suffered. To love.

  But that wasn’t what Mud meant. Not at all. Dorothy reached for the side of the tub, closing her fingers on the tile, and pulled herself out of the water.

  The shock of the cool air on her skin jolted her back to her senses. Without a backward glance she reached for her towel and padded back into the cottage.

  Mud seized the chrome handles, squeezed his eyes shut and twisted with an almost savage yank. Needles of icy spray pelted his face, his shoulders, his torso as he let the full blast from the shower rain down on him.

  The Jacuzzi was way too empty without her. Mud stayed in the water only a few more minutes after she left, letting the gentle motion of the water rock his limbs. She’d beaten the tar out of him on the tennis court, and he’d pay dearly for it tomorrow when his muscles had a chance to contract overnight. She played a hell of a game. Consistent, unwavering, she gave every ball the same focused attention, never letting her concentration falter.