She sat still, silent, the papers in her lap.
“They asked you, didn’t they, and you said you’d only go if they had me as well, didn’t you?”
“We’re a couple! They have no right. And it’s time you got used to being part of the family, and they got used to you being a part of me.”
“I don’t have to get used to ‘being a part of the family.’ I’m not going to be a part of your family; we’re not going to be living here. At least I’m not.”
“Chay. If…if we stay together, you…have to see them, have to put up with them, at least on some occasions.” She paused. “You know darn well they’ll visit us in Wyoming.”
Chay ignored her for a bit, the brush at his teeth. Spit hit the sink as if he were ridding his mouth of the taste of K.C.’s parents. He grabbed a towel and gave his face a peremptory wipe before throwing down the toothbrush, stripping off his shirt and confronting her. “We will stay together. I hope. But that doesn’t mean I have to like your parents, and it doesn’t mean you can’t go see them without me. There’s no point in shoving me in their face if they are so antagonistic to the thought of us being a couple. Go see them, K.C., give them my regards.”
She watched for a moment as he stepped out of his jeans and yanked his socks off. “Will you go for Thanksgiving and Christmas?”
He looked at her, a crooked smile just turning up his mouth, his eyes glinting. “Are you going to cook a turkey?”
“Noooo.”
“Then I’ll go. If I’m really, truly invited. I’ll go. Now will you go on your own, on Saturday?”
“I’ll go on my own, but not on Saturday when it’s your day off. I’ll phone her tomorrow and arrange another evening.”
Chay slipped into bed and slid the papers she was holding out of her hands. “That’s my girl,” he whispered as he moved in for a kiss. “That’s my girl.”
* * *
“Your father’s going to be late” was K.C.’s mother’s greeting. “He got held up at the office—some deal or other to tie up, regarding oil in the Middle East.”
K.C. slipped out of her coat and threw it on a chair in the front entryway to the apartment. “If you knew that was on today why didn’t you just say another night would be better.”
“We asked you for Saturday, Kirsten! That boy takes preference over your own father.”
K.C. shrugged with a long sigh. “Mother, that boy as you call him has a name, and his name is Chay as you well know.”
“Chay. What kind of a name is that? Was he named after the yachtsman?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Please stop trying to find fault with everything about him. Why can’t you just accept he’s the man I’m in love with, living with, and hope to marry—”
“Marry. Oh, please. I can just see what kind of a wedding that would be!”
K.C. marched toward the kitchen but with an abrupt halt, swiveled to face her mother. “You’re more concerned about what your friends would think about him, and any people he might invite, and how he’d dress, than you are concerned for my happiness!”
“Now it’s you who are being ridiculous. Of course I want you to be happy—where are you going?”
“I’m going to the kitchen, what does it look like?”
“You march in here as if you still live here! Make up your mind: either you are a welcome member of this family, or you are living off on your own with a man against our wishes.”
“Oh, jeez!” K.C. trooped into the kitchen and opened the door to the fridge.
“What exactly is it you want, K.C.?”
“A glass of wine.” She pulled out a bottle and popped the stopper in an open one. “You drive me to drink!”
“I drive you to drink? I drive you to drink! That’s a good one. Here, pour me one as well.”
K.C. reached for two glasses and poured the wine, then handed her mother a glass. They clinked and each took a swallow before K.C. asked, “What time are we eating?”
“You can’t wait to get out now?”
The glass came down on the counter with a ring. “Why is it, why is it Mother, everything I say or do you somehow are able to find fault with, see me in the worst light, put a completely wrong slant on? Why is that?”
“Is it a completely wrong slant? If you have dinner guests—I presume you do have friends to dinner on occasion—when they come in, is the first question they ask what time is dinner? Wouldn’t you think they just want to get out as fast as possible? Eat and run?”
K.C. ran a hand across her face and took up her glass again. “Okay, let’s go sit and talk for a while. Let’s see what exactly is bothering you about Chay.”
The Daniels’ living room was a hyperbole of good taste, New York wealth personified in chintz sprays of roses, Staffordshire dogs, and plush carpeting. K.C. sank into the overstuffed sofa and leaned back to face her mother who took her favorite armchair, a family heirloom recovered to match the room.
“So?” K.C. offered as an opening.
“There isn’t anything we dislike about the boy—”
“He’s a man, Mother. He just turned twenty-eight. I think that makes him a man. I also think it makes him a man that he’s been supporting himself, and his father who recently passed away, since he was in high school—”
“Maybe you should say, ‘should have been in high school’?”
“All right.” K.C. sat up and placed her glass on the coffee table before looking her mother in the eye. “Before he should have been in high school. When most boys his age were studying for their diploma, running around dating, and planning their college education, Chay Ridgway had to leave school, run the family ranch, take an additional job, and look after his ailing father. If that doesn’t deserve your respect, or some sort of…some recognition he is hard working and good and…and….”
“Deserving of your love? Deserving of our respect?”
“Yes! Yes, damnit. Most people would say, wow, that’s really something, that’s a great person, but you….”
“We? We want what is best for our daughter. I have nothing against Chay per se. He seems nice enough; he seems like a good person. And, of course, he saved your life at that terrible ranch you insisted on working at.”
K.C. crashed back against the sofa and stared. “Terrible ranch? Is that what you thought?”
“We thought it unsuitable and a most peculiar idea to pull up stakes straight after graduation and go work on a ranch. I mean, what the hell gave you that idea of all things?”
“Getting out of New York and experiencing something else is what gave me that idea, and I loved those people and had a fabulous time.”
“Well, next time you want to get out of New York, go to the beach house. There are plenty of people to love out in East Hampton without trekking halfway—no, two thirds of the way—across country to do some menial job. If you want to see the national parks we’ll take you to see—”
“You’ll take me? I don’t need you to take me! I’m a grown woman! When will you let go and let me lead my own life?”
“Lead your own life? You mean like taking out a loan you didn’t need just to prove a point? Really, Kirsten, how ridiculous. You know damn well you’ll be after your father to pay that off. It would take years to pay off a loan like that.”
In one swift movement, K.C. rose, almost knocking over the wine still sitting there. “I think I’ve had enough, Mother. And since this is only going round in circles and you have no intention of listening to me, or…or understanding my feelings, or having any consideration for them—”
“Oh, sit down and stop being a baby! All right! Tell me about Chay. Tell me why you love him.”
K.C. sank back onto the sofa. “You think I can just explain to you why I love him? Let me tell you something else instead. You think, you know he saved my life that night at the July Fourth party at the ranch, but you didn’t know he saved my life another time.”
“Good gosh! How many times was your life in danger in that place?”
“I went out on a date with a boy you would have found totally acceptable—wealthy, very wealthy, went to boarding school and university, the whole package.”
“So why didn’t we meet him?”
“It was Jamie, Mother, it was the boy who tried to shoot us.”
“What? And you think we’d have liked him?”
“I thought I liked him. I went out with him but it turned out he took me to his house when there was no one else there and tried to rape me. He tried to drug me and rape me. I managed to run away—it was this ranch off in the middle of nowhere and I had no idea where I was, but I ran out and got down to the main road and, thank goodness, it happened to be Chay who stopped. I wasn’t going out with him at that stage, of course, but he was so kind, and so considerate of what I was going through, and then, to top it all, I had left my purse with my phone in the house and he decided to go back for it at risk to himself. Knowing what we know now about Jamie, it’s a wonder he didn’t get shot.”
“K.C., K.C. that’s all well and good but it doesn’t change the facts. He is a high school drop-out and a cowboy, and I can’t see him supporting you or a family—”
“He has a ranch and is going to get it working again.”
“And that’s what you want? To be a rancher’s wife? To live in Wyoming?”
“Yes!”
“Oh, give me a break.” K.C. watched as her mother got up and headed toward the kitchen. “I have to check the meal,” she threw over her shoulder.
K.C. stood up again, glanced around the living room, everything as it was from her childhood, a room she knew by heart. She could name every knick-knack on the shelves by the audio system, was sure what music she would find opened on the piano, knew where the cocktail napkins were kept and the coasters. Nothing had changed.
But she had.
She headed for her coat in the entryway just as the front door swung open.
“Carol, I’m home!”
CHAPTER FOUR
Chay looked at what he assumed was his last order of the night, a party of four women just being led from the bar to one of his tables. He heard the, “Oh, could we have another table please; this one is too much in the middle of things. Maybe by the window at the back.”
Half of him was saying, yes, yes do it, do it for me, let me go home; he was eager to hear how K.C. had got on with her parents, and if anything had been resolved. The other half of him was saying, there goes a hefty tip. So there was a modicum of relief when the hostess explained this was the sole table available. He watched as the foursome settled into their seats, the drinks they’d been carrying placed on the table, and bags either shoved at feet or dangled from the back of chairs. Not a wise move.
“Ladies, good evening.” He plastered his smile on his face, bent low to the woman whose bag was hanging off her chair, and whispered in her ear. “I think it’s safer to have your bag where you can see or feel it.”
She jumped and gasped, mouth hanging open as her wide-eyed stare met Chay’s smile. “For chrissake, you could have just said, you didn’t have to scare me like that.”
Chay’s smile remained glued to his face while he kept his gaze on one of the other women across the table. She was sucking on a straw, glassy eyes staring up at him, lips puckered in a way that reminded him of a blowfish.
“My apologies,” he muttered to the handbag woman.
A third member of the party ran a glance over him, top to bottom, and back again, finishing with a raised eyebrow. “Are those cowboy boots you have on?”
Chay took in a breath. This would not end the evening on a good note.
“Excuse me, I asked—”
“Yes, ma’am. Those are the most comfortable footwear I own. But I promise not to get them in your food.” He watched as the women exchanged glances. “If I may tell you our special for the night? It is rabbit thighs—”
“Ewwww….”
“—In a déglacer of white wine, and served in a vegetable sauce of olives, capers, garlic, and sun-dried tomatoes. Have you any questions on the menu?”
“Is rabbit red meat? I don’t eat red meat.”
“I…uh…I believe rabbit is rather like chicken and considered white meat. Any other questions?” Chay gave each member of the table a glance with his smile. “I’ll leave you to have a moment to look over the menu.”
As he rushed off toward the kitchen, he heard one of the women say, “I’ll have him for dinner. Boy.” To which several of the others giggled, with one adding, “Midnight cowboy?”
Chay took the unfinished bottle of wine from a passing tray and swigged it down. He checked the dishes ready to go to one of his other tables, collected the items, served them, and headed back to the women’s group.
“Ladies, are we ready?”
They all nodded and Glassy-Eyed chirped, “Well, we need a bottle of wine. No, two. We’ll have the Sauvignon Blanc, the first one on the list.”
“The New Zealand Cloudy Bay Te Koko? Excellent choice.” And at one-fifty a bottle, terrific for toting up your check.
“And,” Glassy-Eyed continued, “we’re going to share two orders of the calamari for the table. And I’m going to have the veal limone. Does that come with vegetables?”
“It has a side of spinach with almonds.”
“I’m allergic to almonds and I hate spinach.”
Then why didn’t you read that on the menu, jerk.
“Can I have the carrots instead?”
“I’ll see what can be done.”
“No, don’t see, do! I just said I’m allergic.”
He knew his smug smile would annoy her, but she was so rude, not a single ‘please’ throughout the order, he thought he would haul off and smack her. “Perhaps you would care to order something else?” Chay kept his voice as reasonable as possible.
“Nooooooo. I want the veal!”
Chay looked at the next woman who had been silent so far. A tilt of his head told her he was ready to take her order.
With a small, tolerant smile on her face, she said, “I’m just having the Italian salad but can they leave out the pepperoncini and red onion, switch the radicchio to another leaf, and put the mayo on the side?”
“Is that it?” Chay tried to keep the note of sarcasm out of his voice, his dream of a hefty tab fast-fading.
“I’m sharing in the calamari and, in my experience, there’s usually tons of that.”
Chay nodded, took a breath, and peered over his pad at Miss Handbag, whose order proved to be straightforward, followed by Miss Cowboy Boots who ordered the marinated sirloin, medium-rare. He placed the order and wasted no time in returning to the table, showing the bottle to Glassy-Eyed, getting her approval, and pouring a taste before completing the round and disappearing as fast as possible.
When he returned to the table with the calamari, there were two cameras waiting for him.
“Would you mind?” Miss Handbag asked holding one out.
“Uh, I’ve only ever used cell phone cameras, I have no idea how to use this—”
Handbag tossed a quick look at her playmates as if to say, what planet is he from, but smiled up at Chay. “You just look through here, and push this little button on the top. Easy as pie.” Her tone indicated she thought he was an idiot.
Chay took the camera with some reluctance, looked into the viewfinder, and saw so much information down the side and at the bottom, it was difficult to frame the shot. He peered behind him, took a step back, and waited for them all to smile.
“Say cheese,” he reminded.
Handbag made a face but said it anyway and the camera clicked. Chay handed it back, she glanced at the picture on the screen, shook her head in dismay, and held it out. “Can we try again?”
He repeated the entire process to the point where Handbag frowned at the photo. “Well, if that’s the best you can do.”
Chay was stunned in disbelief. He tried not to respond but couldn’t help it, so he said it with as much good humor as he could muste
r. “Uh, I was not the one who wasn’t smiling or not looking into the camera at the last moment.”
She looked up at him, took a deep breath, and shoved the camera into her bag.
Chay could feel all bonhomie fading faster than a New York minute. He nodded and made his way back to the kitchen, hoping the owner of the second camera would have given up. When he peeped out from the kitchen, she was asking one of the busboys to take the shot. He dreaded what would happen next, but the calamari seemed to go down well, and he kept their glasses filled, even getting happy smiles as the first, empty bottle was removed. So it should be enjoyed, at that price. The main courses were served and he said the ridiculous, “enjoy!” and started away. Almost through the kitchen door, he could hear a screech and a demand to the busboy ‘their waiter’ be called back.
“Yes? Is there a problem?”
Cowboy Boots looked up at him, her steak cut in two, her hands open as if to say, ‘just take note of this,’ and on her face, a look of disgust. “Remember I said medium-rare? This is not medium-rare. May I speak to your chef?”
“The chef?” Chay mulled this over, how Chef would take being called out to be reprimanded for a steak. “Uh…he may have gone home…this was the last order put in tonight,” he lied.
“Well, look at this. You know I ordered medium-rare?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“This is not medium-rare. I did not ask for blood on my plate; that’s rare. Very rare.”
Chay stepped over to look at the beef, cut into two pieces down the middle. There was no blood. There was about a quarter inch of gray, cooked meat inside of which was the pink of rare beef—the way he, himself, liked it. The way it should be cooked. “Ma’am,” he started. “That is definitely medium-rare.”
Cowboy boots looked up at him, mouth agape. “Are you telling me the way I like my beef?”
“No. Not at all. I’m telling you, as someone who knows beef, that is medium-rare.” He caught the open mouth, the wide eyes of disbelief. “But I’ll ask the chef to come out to speak to you if that’s what you want.”
City Boy, Country Heart_Contemporary Western Romance Page 3
