“Kissing your sister was worth the points,” Rafe said and grinned at me. I smiled back and moved a step closer to reach for his hand. More because I needed the togetherness than because I thought he did. His hand was warm and hard and he squeezed my fingers reassuringly.
Dix turned back around and looked from one to the other of us for a moment before he said, “Jonathan will be taking mother in to dinner. He’s the host and she’s the senior guest. That means you’ll have to escort Catherine.”
“OK,” Rafe said.
“She’ll make sure nothing happens to you.” I gave his arm a comforting pat. “Talk to her unless someone else talks to you. Then you can answer.”
Rafe nodded.
“Under no circumstances talk to Savannah or mother,” Dix said. “Not unless they talk to you first. Mother is looking for any excuse to dislike you. Don’t give her one.”
“Don’t have to,” Rafe said. “She don’t like me already.”
Since he was right, neither of us bothered to deny it.
“The kids are eating in the kitchen,” Dix added, “so it’ll be just the adults at table. That means there’ll be nothing to distract us.”
“Means she can focus all her attention on you,” I explained to Rafe.
He looked conflicted, as if he wasn’t sure we were serious. I couldn’t blame him. My mother doesn’t look that dangerous. But like most Southern Belles, she can cut a man to ribbons in no time flat, using her tongue. She doesn’t even have to raise her voice.
I gave him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. You’ve been through worse. She’ll only have a butter knife, and she won’t try to kill you with it. The only thing that’ll take a beating is your ego.” And his ego is pretty healthy, so perhaps I shouldn’t worry.
“After this you won’t have to see her again for a long time,” Dix added. “The next big family occasion is Easter. At least three months from now.”
“You’re forgetting the birthdays,” I said. With the way the family is growing, with five grandkids and counting, we have birthdays all the time now.
“You can make excuses for those if you don’t want to come,” Dix said. “It’s harder to get out of the holiday dinners.”
True.
I glanced at the door. “We should probably go in. If we stay out here much longer, she’ll think it’s because we’re afraid to face her.”
“Ain’t we?” Rafe said.
Of course we were. But... “We don’t want her to know that. She’ll feed on the power.”
“I’m pretty sure she knows already,” Rafe said. “C’mon, darlin’. Time to face the music.”
He turned me toward the doorway. I could feel my heart slamming against my ribs as we stepped forward into Catherine and Jonathan’s living room.
Like my mother, my sister has lovely taste and enough money to indulge it. Unlike my mother, Catherine’s tastes run to modern furniture and Scotchguard fabrics.
The living room is off-white, with a brown fake-suede couch—the spilled chocolate milk doesn’t show up well against the fabric—and a fuzzy multicolored rug—ditto. There are also a couple of chairs in a nubby red fabric—the fruit punch stains blend well—and a coffee table made out of steel or some other virtually indestructible material.
It’s rather lovely, everything considered, and works well for a household with three children under eight.
They were out of sight, but I could hear high pitched squeals and laughter coming down the stairs, so I guessed they were in the bonus room above the garage. It’s toy-heaven up there, and after losing their mother just a month ago, Dix’s girls have spent a lot of time upstairs with Robert, Annie, and Cole.
Mother was sitting on the sofa facing the door, her beady eye bent on us. And when I say that, I’m being a little unfair.
The thing is, my mother is lovely. She’s in her late fifties, and looks at least ten years younger. Her hair is tinted a nice, natural champagne color, her skin is smooth and practically wrinkle-free, and she has a nice figure she’s kept ruthlessly maintained. She dresses in expensive skirts and raw silk blouses. In this case, the pencil skirt was a tasteful oatmeal, the blouse was a bright—but not too bright—coral, and the cardigan was taupe, belted around her waist with an oatmeal-colored belt, hand-tooled. On her feet were oatmeal shoes over oatmeal stockings; the better to look longer and leaner.
She appears soft and ladylike. You wouldn’t think, to look at her, that she can be such a dragon.
She looked me up and down, of course, searching for something to criticize.
There was nothing. I was wearing her present; it would have been rude not to. I was wearing a skirt, since pants are unladylike and emphasize my posterior. I was wearing stockings, since naked legs are also unladylike. My stockings were not black, which would make me look cheap (even if matching them to my shoes would make my legs look longer and leaner). My shoes were not white (no white before Easter or after Labor Day), the heels neither too high (trampy) nor too low (dowdy). My hair was done. I was wearing makeup and jewelry. There was, in short, no cause for complaint—at least not apart from the man next to me.
The only thing she might have mentioned was the fact that I looked tired, but commenting, even obliquely, on my nighttime activities would also have been unladylike—hah!—so she didn’t.
“Hello, mother,” I said, throwing down the gauntlet. “Thank you for the lovely sweater.”
“Cardigan, darling,” mother said, her lips tight.
Of course.
“I brought Rafe.” Might as well point him out, since no one—except Dix—had acknowledged his presence yet. Not that I was under any illusions about them not realizing he was there. He’s noticeable under most circumstances; in the sweater from hell he was damned near blinding. Mother was just very carefully not looking at him. Until she had no choice.
“So I see,” she said, nostrils quivering. “Good afternoon, Rafe.”
“Afternoon, Miz Martin.” His nostrils didn’t quiver, but his lips did. Good. He didn’t take her tone of voice—like he were something stuck to the bottom of her shoe—personally. “Thanks for the sweater.”
He grinned. Mother turned her nose up.
“This is my brother-in-law, Jonathan McCall.” I indicated the man sitting opposite from mother. “Jonathan’s married to Catherine. You remember Catherine from school, I’m sure.”
“Sure.” Rafe nodded to Jonathan. “Nice to meet you.”
Jonathan blinked. I guess maybe Catherine hadn’t prepared him for my boyfriend. Hard to imagine that she wouldn’t, but he looked surprised. Or maybe it was just the effect of the sweater from hell, again.
My brother-in-law is Boston Brahmin, a breed almost as uptight as its Southern counterpart. I hadn’t considered that he might have a problem with Rafe. I’d assumed that, with Dix and Catherine on my side, Jonathan would just fall in line. But maybe he, like Dix’s late wife Sheila, felt he had to align himself with mother lest she turn on him too.
“Thanks for having us to dinner,” I added, in an effort to snap him out of it.
Jonathan flushed and got to his feet. “Of course. Welcome. Nice to meet you, Rafe.” He extended a hand. Rafe took it and they shook. I let out a breath I hadn’t been aware I’d been holding.
Aside from the two of them, and us now, the living room was empty. Even Dix had disappeared. I looked around. “Where’s Catherine?”
“Kitchen,” Jonathan said. “She sent me out here to keep your mother company until dinner is ready.”
Of course. Better than having mother underfoot in there.
“We’ll go say hi.” I had Rafe by the hand, and pulled him after me.
“Miz Martin.” He nodded to mother on his way past, like he had last night. She acknowledged the good manners, since she didn’t have a choice, with a nod of her own.
Chapter 6.
“That went better than I thought,” I told Rafe when we were out of earshot in the formal dining room, set with Catheri
ne’s holiday dishes and tapered candles in silver holders and cloth napkins in engraved rings.
He shrugged. “Guess nobody told your brother-in-law about me.”
“Of course someone told Jonathan about you. Don’t be silly.” The fact that I was carrying on with him had been the number one topic of conversation in the family for the past several weeks. I knew that because Dix had told me.
“So why’d he look surprised?” Rafe wanted to know.
“I have no idea. Maybe it was the sweater.” I thought for a second and added, “Although if he’s been listening to mother, he might have expected you to look different.”
He slanted me a look. “Like how?”
“You know. Cornrows, pants around your knees, baseball jersey, gold teeth with diamond chips.” My mother’s worst nightmare. Between you and me, it isn’t a look that appeals to me a whole lot, either.
Rafe grinned, showing off a set of nice teeth with no gold fillings or other adornment. “Been a while since I rocked the gangsta look. Turns out it’s a lot harder to outrun the law when your pants are down around your knees.”
I smiled as I pushed open the swinging butler door.
Catherine’s kitchen is just as beautiful as the rest of her house. Sleek and modern, with granite counters, maple cabinets, and stainless steel appliances. At the moment it was hot and steamy, redolent of flavors. Ham, butter, green bean casserole, fresh bread. My sister was in the middle of it all, with an apron wrapped around her middle and her hair frizzing in the humidity.
When she heard the door open, she snapped over her shoulder, “Dinner will be ready in five minutes.”
“It’s us,” I said.
My sister isn’t an effusive person. None of us are, really. Excessive emotion is all right for the unwashed masses, but the Martins are above such unbecoming displays. I didn’t expect her to look overly excited to see me, or us. However, I also didn’t expect her to look surprised. “What are you doing here?” she said.
I blinked. “Weren’t you expecting us?” The table was set for six, wasn’t it?
“I thought,” my sister said, “you might be spending the day in bed, making up for lost time.”
So that’s what she’d intended the 365 condoms for.
I blushed. Rafe, on the other hand, laughed. “Thank you for that.”
Catherine smiled back. “You’re welcome. I owe you an apology.”
The last time the two of them had seen each other had been in the hospital the night of my miscarriage. I’d been despondent, Rafe had been upset, and the family had been worried. And because I hadn’t told them about him, or him about the fact that he’d knocked me up, a lot of people thought it was Todd’s baby. Todd knew better, of course, but Rafe didn’t. Nor did Catherine. So after he knocked Todd flat on his butt in the hallway, he’d left, and I’d sent Catherine after him. And Catherine, bless her heart, had done her best to make him feel better about the fact that I’d been sleeping with Todd.
“365 condoms go a long way toward making me feel better,” Rafe agreed. “Specially the ones that play music.”
My perfectly proper sister grinned at him. “I thought you’d enjoy that.”
I looked from one to the other of them. “Do you two know each other? And I just didn’t realize it?”
Rafe smiled. “No,” my sister said, “although we did go to school together for three years.”
Two years longer than I’d gone to school with him. I guess they must have had more interactions than he and I had had, back then.
For a second I felt a crazy stab of jealousy—had he flirted with her too?—and then I shook it off. “Thanks for the shirt. He put it on. You just can’t see it right now.”
“No,” Catherine agreed, looking him up and down, “it’s hard to get past that awful sweater.”
“Your mother gave it to me,” Rafe said.
“Of course she did. And of course you had to wear it.” She turned to the stove to give something a last stir with a wooden spoon before turning off the burner.
“Think it’d be OK if I took it off when we sit down to eat? I’m kinda hot.”
I thought about taking the bait, but declined. Instead I just smiled. “You walked in in it. It counts. I think it’s OK to take it off now.”
“I can spill something on it if you want,” Catherine offered, lifting her wooden spoon. Brown gravy dripped from it.
“Thanks, but that’s not necessary.” He was peeling out of the sweater even as he spoke. I took it out of his hands and folded it carefully, watching as he adjusted the white shirt. He looked so much better in that. And yes, definitely hot.
I turned away, with just a bit of difficulty, to address Catherine. “If you weren’t expecting us, why are there six places at the table?”
“I was expecting the sheriff and his son,” Catherine said. “Guess I’d better set two more places.”
“They’re not coming.”
She looked at me, and I added, “We met the sheriff at the cemetery earlier. He said to tell mother he was sorry he had to miss it.”
“That won’t make her happy,” Catherine predicted. She reached behind her to untie her apron. “Would you tell Jonathan he can take her in? I just have to put the food on the table.”
“Do you want help?”
She shook her head. “Go find Dix. Your boyfriend can help me with the food.”
“Take care of him,” I said. “Don’t let mother bite him before I get back.”
Catherine promised she wouldn’t. I left them there, and went off in search of my brother. On the way, I explained to mother that Rafe had taken the sweater off because he didn’t want to run the risk of spilling something on it—she sniffed, probably at the suggestion that he might be so uncouth as to actually spill—and that the sheriff and Todd wouldn’t be coming.
My mother didn’t say a word, but the look she gave me was ripe with guilt and accusation.
“Rafe and I can leave again,” I said. “I guess it depends on whether you’d rather see your daughter or your boyfriend on Christmas Day.”
She didn’t say anything to that, either, of course, and I told Jonathan that dinner was on its way onto the table even as we spoke. “I’m going to look for Dix,” I finished.
Jonathan nodded and turned to mother. “Are you ready, Margaret Anne?”
Mom nodded, her lips so tight they were practically non-existent.
I found Dix in the office at the back of the house. He was on the phone, and when I came through the door, he looked up at me with a guilty expression.
“Dinner’s ready.”
He nodded and held up a finger. “I have to go,” he told the phone, which quacked back at him. “Yes, I will. I’ll do my best.” He smiled. “I know you do. I’ll call you later to let you know how it went. You too.”
He stopped short of making kissing noises at the phone, but it seemed a near thing.
“Tamara Grimaldi?” I asked when he’d disconnected, my eyebrows inching up my forehead.
“What makes you think so?”
“The fact that you won’t tell me it wasn’t.” I didn’t bother to wait for him to answer. “It’s time for dinner.”
“Good.” He got to his feet, a little more quickly than necessary. It was almost as if he wanted to get away from me. “I’m starving.”
“Not so fast.” I stopped him before he could leave the room. “I want a word. In private.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “C’mon, sis. We’ve had this conversation before. It’s too soon for me to start dating anyone.”
“That’s not it,” I said. Because, yes, he was right. The fact that he and Detective Grimaldi seemed to like one another had come as a huge surprise to me, and I’m sure to him too—Tamara Grimaldi is about as different from Sheila as it’s possible for one woman to be from another—but he’d been a widower for less than two months, and it would take a lot more time than that for him to get back into the dating game. “This is about somet
hing else.”
“What?” He glanced past me to the door. “We have to go. Or mother will suspect that something’s going on.”
“It won’t take long.” I pushed the door shut before digging into my bag. “Here. Take this.”
‘This’ was the jewelry box with the sapphire ring I had found hanging from the tree. Dix eyed it as I held it out, but made no move to take it from me. “Why?”
“I need you to give it back.”
“What?”
I huffed, exasperated. “I can’t accept it, Dix. Take it. Please.”
There was a pause while Dix plucked the small box from my hand, reluctantly. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to do it yourself?”
“Positive,” I said.
He looked from the box up to me. “I thought this was what you wanted.”
Another proposal from Todd on Christmas morning? Of course not. How could he possibly think I wanted that? I’d been telling Todd for months I couldn’t marry him. I’d been telling Dix for months I couldn’t marry Todd. Why would I change my mind now, when I finally had the man I wanted?
“Just... give it back to him, please. I don’t want to.” I’d done enough, frankly. And facing Todd now, when things were finally settled with Rafe, would be beyond awkward.
“I don’t blame you,” Dix said with a glance over his shoulder at the door, “but after everything that’s happened, don’t you think you owe it to him to say no in person?”
“I’ve tried. Maybe he’ll believe it if it comes from you.”
“I don’t see why,” Dix said. “The man can’t help it that he’s in love with you, sis.”
“Of course not. I just... I can’t marry him. Please, Dix. Help me out here”
Dix sighed and pocketed the box. “Fine. After dinner, OK? May as well let us all have a pleasant meal first.”
“As pleasant as it can be, with mother carving Rafe to ribbons while Jonathan carves the ham.” I reached for him. “Your arm, please.”
“Of course,” Dix said and offered it.
5.5 Contingent on Approval Page 4
