by Laura Abbot
She waited, listening for Grant’s response. “I care about you, that’s all.”
Andy said nothing, but she could imagine the cynical smirk he’d probably given Grant. She hurried toward the living room, where she greeted them with false gaiety. “Ready?”
Grant turned slowly, his eyes widening. “You look terrific.”
It felt good to have a man notice her. “Thank you, sir.” She smiled at Andy. “I left some cookies on the counter in case you feel like a snack later.”
Andy flopped onto the couch and picked up the TV remote. “Cool.”
When Grant took her by the hand and started toward the door, she turned back. “You have the number where we’ll be, right?”
Andy sighed. “Yeah, yeah. Just leave, okay? I’ll be fine.”
“I certainly hope so,” Grant muttered as they left the house.
They rode in silence, preoccupied with their own concerns.
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Grant asked as they approached the Campbells’ house.
“I’d much prefer a bowl of soup, a video and an early night, but I wouldn’t disappoint Connie for anything. She’s been so excited about entertaining us.”
“You’ll understand then when I put my arm around you periodically?” His grin was that of a co-conspirator.
“And I’ll crave your indulgence when I brush imaginary lint from your lapel.”
“Anything to look convincing, huh, Mrs. Gilbert?”
“Is it getting easier?”
He pulled to a stop in the driveway, rested his arm along the back of the seat and studied her, his blue eyes seeking hers as if he wanted to communicate something, but then he merely smiled. “Infinitely.”
The intimacy in his voice made it impossible to look away. When other people weren’t around and she let down her guard, she could almost imagine that they really were starry-eyed newlyweds. That it wasn’t all simply an act.
He picked up a tendril of her hair and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. “Ready?”
“Lay on, MacDuff.”
He held her hand as they walked up to the door. Connie opened it before they could ring the bell. “Welcome. Come on in. The others are in the family room.”
Pam knew that Ginny Phillips and her husband, Jack and Darla Liddy and Ralph Hagood had been invited, but she didn’t know who else would be among the guests. She was ill prepared, then, when she and Grant walked into the room and were greeted by a crowd shouting “Surprise!” She faltered, then felt Grant’s steadying arm around her waist. Their friends looked so pleased and happy, confident they were doing a wonderful thing. On the coffee table were mounds of packages wrapped in white, silver and gold.
Jim emerged from the crowd and handed each of them a champagne flute. “Here’s to the bride and groom,” he said, as others echoed his words.
Pam looked up at Grant, who appeared almost as dazed as she felt.
Connie was practically jumping up and down by her side. “You didn’t think you were going to get off without having a wedding shower, did you?”
Pam willed a smile to her face. How could she tell Connie or her guests that, within a year, she’d have to return all their heartfelt gifts? “Oh, this is too much. You didn’t need to—”
“Nonsense. I know we didn’t need to do anything. We wanted to.”
Pam felt Grant’s hand slide up her back to rest on her shoulder. “Thank you, Connie. This is very generous.”
Pam allowed herself to be led through the throng of well-wishers. Along the way she set her champagne down behind a flower arrangement. Then there was nothing further to do except open the gifts. Benumbed, she picked up the first package and, with Grant’s help, managed to fumble with the paper and ribbon.
“Be careful.” Somewhere from the crowd Jessie Flanders’s voice floated high and clear. “Every ribbon you break means another baby.”
And with that, Pam pulled too hard and the first ribbon snapped in two. Laughter and catcalls erupted. Pam felt Grant’s fingers massaging her neck. If they only knew.
That was bad enough. But then she opened the box. She’d only thought her face was red before. Nestled in fragrant lavender tissue paper was the flimsiest, laciest, most provocative nightie she’d ever seen. “Show us,” trumpeted a voice near the window. “Ooh-la-la,” someone else trilled.
She gulped, sensing a flush mottling her skin. When she held it up, she couldn’t have felt any more exposed had she been an exotic dancer in a stag bar.
As if in a trance, she managed to get through the rest of the gifts. A soup tureen, a personalized welcome sign for the porch, a set of monogrammed bar glasses, a leaded crystal vase.
Well-meaning, thoughtful, generous. Her friends. Grant’s friends. Their friends.
Until she and Grant would be forced to reveal their duplicity.
Until September.
GRANT CAST worried glances at Pam as they passed under streetlights on their way home. She reclined against the headrest, her eyes closed, her breathing measured as if she were deliberately trying to calm herself.
She had said not one word since they left the party.
From the stiffness of her smile and the studied way she had acknowledged each gift, he could tell she had barely held herself together. But once the curtain had rung down on this latest performance, she’d withdrawn into herself.
The wail of a melancholy saxophone on the late-night jazz station matched his mood. The outpouring of generosity and support from their friends and colleagues was humbling but at the same time, embarrassing. Neither he nor Pam was comfortable with deceit, and no matter how practical their motives for marrying might be, they had compromised their honor.
And yet…
He lurched away from a four-way stop. Damn it! There wasn’t going to be any happily-ever-after. Like it or not, their arrangement was business. Spelled out by their contract.
Beside him, without opening her eyes, Pam stirred. “That went well, didn’t it?” There was no mistaking the sarcasm—or the pain.
He restrained the impulse to pull her into his arms and reassure her. He had no right. “Tough night, wasn’t it?”
She turned her head and opened her eyes. “I had no idea it would go this far.”
“I know.”
“They were so happy for us. I felt about two inches high.”
He drove slowly through their neighborhood. Odd. He’d automatically thought of it as “their” neighborhood, not “his.” Is that how it happened? Acceptance little by little? “Are you having second thoughts?”
“Second, third and tenth.” Apparently sensing his discomfort, she laid a hand on his thigh. “And yet—” she paused as if searching for the right words “—I’m feeling much more at home with you and Andy than I had thought possible.”
He wasn’t prepared for the sense of well-being that washed over him, drowning out the doubts that had surfaced during the party. “It’s not all bad, is it?”
“No. And maybe it will get easier. Perhaps, with time, the roles will seem almost natural.”
He eased into the driveway and shut off the ignition. Night sounds—katydids, a far-off barking, tinkling wind chimes—surrounded them. More than anything he wanted to pull her into his arms and convince her everything would be all right.
Just as he turned toward her to do exactly that, she took hold of the door handle. “The presents? I suppose we should carry them in.”
“Andy and I’ll get them in the morning. You’re beat. You and Barney need to get to bed.” He escorted her up the walk. Inside the house, one lone light was burning in the kitchen, casting the hallway in shadow. “Tonight you’re sleeping in my bed. I’ll take the den.”
“Grant, really—”
“I insist. You’re exhausted, and no matter what else is happening, you need to take care of yourself. Go on. I’ll get my stuff after you’re asleep.”
She didn’t argue, but headed for bed. He watched TV in the living room, the soun
d turned low. But he couldn’t concentrate on the screen. Because, God help him, the picture in his mind was of a sleep-tousled Pam in that skimpy lace nightie, her full breasts straining the filmy material, her hips arched in desire. How in hell was he going to keep his fantasies in check for eleven more months?
Restless, he decided to check on Andy, not that he would appreciate it. But Grant had a sudden, intense need to see his son, to stand quietly by his bedside and watch him sleep. To imagine what it would have been like if Andy had grown up with him. Would he have been so surly? So prickly? With a heavy sigh, Grant nudged open the door.
And felt his stomach rise to his throat.
The room was empty.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“ANDY?” Grant stepped into his son’s room, desperately scanning for some clue to his whereabouts. A paperback thriller lay facedown on the bed, several CDs were scattered randomly over the desk and a Jacksonville Jaguars’ sweatshirt lay on the floor as if flung in the general direction of the closet.
Grant whirled from the room and raced downstairs. “Andy?” he whispered, unwilling yet to wake Pam by raising his voice. But when a search of the downstairs and backyard turned up nothing, he began to feel sick. Where could the kid have gone? He didn’t seem to have any friends. Nor had he given them any indication before they left for the Campbells’ that he had plans. Anger, hot and immediate, clutched at Grant’s gut, followed just as swiftly by panic.
Standing helpless in the middle of the kitchen, he broke into a cold sweat. God, what if something terrible had happened to his son? He’d never forgive himself.
The hell of it was, he didn’t even know where to begin to look for him. How could they have lived together for a month without his learning more about Andy?
He hated to alarm Pam, but he clung to the hope she’d know something he didn’t. Without further thought, he strode into his bedroom. Under other circumstances, he’d have been struck speechless by the sight of Pam curled up in his bed, her hair tumbling across her sleep-flushed cheek. But he didn’t have that luxury tonight.
He turned the bedside lamp on the lowest setting. “Pam.” He touched her gently on the shoulder. “Pam, wake up.”
Slowly her lashes fluttered and she propped herself up on one elbow, brushing back her hair. “Huh?”
“Sorry to wake you. We’ve got a major problem.”
She sat up abruptly, her eyes wide-open. “What—”
“It’s Andy. He’s gone.”
“Gone?” She threw back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “What do you mean, ‘gone’?”
“He’s not in the house. Do you have any idea where he might be?”
She shook her head dazedly. “I can’t believe it. Where would he go?”
“My point exactly.”
She stood up, slipping her feet into fuzzy slippers and grabbing her robe from the foot of the bed. “Give me a minute.” She scrubbed her face with her palms. “You don’t think he’s run away, do you?”
Run away? He hadn’t even thought of that possibility. But it made perfect sense. “I knew he was miserable, but I never imagined—”
“Don’t jump to conclusions. Let’s think.” Pam laid a hand on his shoulder. “Are his clothes still in his room?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“And his music?”
“Yes.”
“Then there has to be some other explanation. Maybe he’s made friends at school we don’t know about.”
“That’s possible, I guess. Still, he should have told us where he was going.” He had a sour taste in his mouth. “If he was going.”
Pam started toward the kitchen. “I have an idea. Come on.”
Grant trailed her through the house and out the back door. The yard light illuminated the empty patio, the basketball hoop, the detached garage.
“See if the bike is missing,” she suggested, standing to the side of the garage door.
And if it was? Or, worse, if it wasn’t? Slowly he raised the door. “It’s gone,” he said. “Now what?”
“What time is it?”
“A little after eleven.”
“Let’s give him a half hour or so.”
“Before we call the police?”
She took him by the arm and walked him toward the house. “We won’t have much choice.”
As they sat in the living room eyeing the clock, Pam didn’t try to make small talk, but rather sat quietly stroking Viola. He couldn’t have said why, but having her here worrying with him somehow made the waiting bearable.
At eleven-thirty, he ran a hand through his hair and, feeling as if the bottom had fallen out of his world, he picked up the telephone. Something—a noise—stopped him before he could begin dialing. He hurried into the kitchen and peered out the window. There, under the yard light his son emerged from the garage, then paused to pull down the door before trudging toward the house, eyes downcast.
Grant threw open the back door. “Where have you been, young man?” His bellow caused Sebastian to seek refuge under the kitchen table.
“Grant, go easy.” Pam materialized by his side. “Listen to his story.”
“I guess I’m busted, huh?” Andy said as he slithered past his father.
Grant took a shuddering breath. “Busted? Do you have any idea how worried we’ve been?”
“I’m back. You don’t need to make a big deal out of it.”
“I’m glad you’re safely back. But that doesn’t excuse the fact that you left the house without telling us you had plans or when you’d be back.” Grant was controlling himself only because he felt Pam’s hand in the small of his back.
“Something came up.”
“What, for Lord’s sake?”
“A buncha guys I know,” Andy mumbled.
“Who are you talking about?” Pam asked, her voice amazingly calm.
“Just some guys.”
“Andy, give your dad a break. It’s late, you’re in a strange town, and we don’t know your friends. Any caring parent would be worried sick.”
Andy shifted uncomfortably before looking past Grant to Pam. “Some kids from the neighborhood came by. We went to the park and just hung out. I didn’t think you’d be home yet. Nobody needs to get in an uproar.”
Grant shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from pounding the table. “Son, this is unacceptable behavior. We need to know where you’re going, who you’re with. Imagine how we felt coming home from the party to find you missing.”
“So what’re you gonna do? Vote me out of the family?”
Grant cursed silently. He wasn’t making a dent in Andy’s so-what attitude. “Certainly not. But there are going to be consequences.”
“It’s not like you could ground me. I already feel like I’m under house arrest.”
Before Grant could react to that remark, Pam stepped forward. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Andy. You know, lots of the kids at school have been inviting you to do things, trying to make friends with you.”
“So?”
“Why are you making it so difficult on yourself? The only one truly holding you back is you. What have you got to lose?”
Grant began to breathe again. Andy was studying Pam, not antagonistically, and maybe even a bit thoughtfully.
“You wouldn’t understand,” Andy said in a low voice.
“I’d like to try,” Pam replied.
“So would I,” Grant added.
Andy merely shrugged. “So what’s my punishment?”
Grant wanted desperately to make everything all right for his son. But he knew he couldn’t shield Andy. Whatever he was going to learn, he had to figure out for himself. “Let’s get the ground rules straight. From now on, when Pam and I go out at night, we need to know your plans. If something comes up unexpectedly, we expect you to check in with us or leave a note. Understood?”
Andy nodded, his mouth set in a grim line.
“And you’re right. Grounding is no solution. Instead,
I expect you to spend the next several days preparing a flower bed. Then Pam will give you some bulbs to plant. A little spade work ought to help remind you we’re a family.”
“Some family,” Andy mumbled before slipping off upstairs.
Grant started after him, but Pam restrained him. “Enough,” she said softly. “He’s gotten the message. Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
Grant raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t get it. He’s my own son and he’s driving me nuts. Jeez, you’re probably wondering what in hell you signed up for here.”
“You’re upset. But remember he’s just a kid, a displaced, angry adolescent.” She nudged him toward the bedroom. “Come on. Things’ll look better in the morning. Let’s get some sleep.”
A half hour later Grant lay with his knees practically grazing his chin on the painfully short daybed. Wide-awake. What if Pam hadn’t been here tonight to temper his anger? He was supposed to be the adult, the expert on teenage boys, the responsible parent.
Yet he’d never felt so totally out of control.
ANDY FLUNG one tennis shoe, then the other against the wall. He stepped out of his baggy shorts, wadded them into a ball and rifled them toward the dark maw of his closet. Damn!
He threw himself down on his bed, with his hands under his head, staring out the window at the coldly luminescent moon. He wasn’t a baby. And he sure as hell hadn’t done anything wrong. Not really. It wasn’t like he was bashing mailboxes, smoking pot or humping some girl. For the love of Mike—all he’d been doing was shooting hoops with Andre, James and the guys.
Who would have thought his dad and Pam would be home so early? Not him. Shit, no. He was used to Mom and Harry, or whoever, straggling home blitzed and all lovey-dovey long after the late, late show was history.
He couldn’t get over his dad pulling the big “Son, I’m the parent, let me show you the error of your ways” stunt. Flower beds. Jeez, Louise. What did he know about gardening?
If it hadn’t been for Pam, he might’ve told his dad just what he was thinking. Like where do you get off telling me what to do after all these years? Like how come you never parted with the bucks to let me come spend summers with you? Like why do you care more about the guys on your team than you do about me? But what good would that have done?
