* * * *
“Is that true? You’ve never taken a woman home to meet your parents?”
Paul gave Bette an extra beat to add the word before, but she didn’t, and he felt a frown growing. The way she said it made it sound as if bringing her to the Lake Forest house today didn’t count.
“There really wasn’t much need to,” he finally said.
He looked down the stretch of pebbly sand, then out beyond the huge, jumbled boulders that created shallow pools for summer-time beach-goers at the municipal park. This late in the year, with the sun rapidly fading, the beach and the boat ramp farther down the lake were deserted. Two distant fishermen on the pier beyond the ramp were their only companions. He narrowed his eyes as he considered the darkening eastern sky. The breeze had picked up, and if he didn’t miss his guess, Indian summer’s spell would soon be broken.
After a soft drink at his parents’ house, he’d brought Bette here by a roundabout route through town. He’d been telling her about youthful summers he’d spent divided between this beach and his home. “I think half my high school graduating class spent three days a week at our house, so everyone I dated was there all the time anyhow. Then in college we were too busy proving we were grownup by going into Chicago to bother coming home.”
“And since college?”
His head jerked around in surprise, then he had to bite off a grin. He hadn’t mistaken that note in her voice—she was more than mildly curious. But her eyes, darkening with storm warnings just like the lake behind her, told him the consequences if he dared to make anything of it.
He knew a few people who’d be surprised to hear it, but he could be cautious.
“Since college, there hasn’t been anyone I thought my parents would enjoy meeting.”
Pleased with himself—he’d told the truth and paid her a compliment without tying himself to anything—he took her arm and headed toward the pier. They could walk the length of the beach before taking another path to where they’d left her car overlooking the water.
He easily slipped into more tales of growing up, including one of a sailboat race when he’d had his younger sister as his crew, and had nearly thrown her overboard.
“Do you sail, Bette?”
“Not the kind you’re talking about. Just Sunfish on small lakes.”
“You’d like it. I’ll take you next—” He broke off. He’d been out to say “next spring.” He’d always believed in keeping promises, which was why he didn’t make them. But he’d been about to commit himself to something six months in the future. What had gotten into him?
Bette didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. She walked beside him, watching waves slip into shore.
“Anyway, it was a great neighborhood to grow up in,” he finished lamely.
“I’m sure it was.” She sounded as if her mind might be on another track. “It certainly doesn’t look anything like the house you described.”
Contemplating the upward curve of her top lip and remembering how it had felt against his own, he almost missed what she said. “Oh, the house. Mom made a lot of changes. Actually, the same fall after I ran away. I started thinking some of the workmen were going to live with us permanently.”
Work had kept his father so occupied those months that James Monroe probably wouldn’t have noticed if they’d blown up the house. His mother hadn’t gone quite that far, but close. By the time her father had visited at Christmastime, light and color had replaced somber bulk.
“It must have been quite a job.”
“Yeah. Turning a mausoleum into a home kicks up a lot of dust.”
Walter Mulholland had raged, but there was nothing he could do. Even at twelve, Paul had recognized the lesson. Walter Mulholland was beatable. All it took was determination and unbending resistance.
“It really is a wonderful place now. This whole area . . .” Bette made an all-encompassing gesture, then seemed to remember a complaint. “But what possessed you to say I was looking at a house in this neighborhood? I can’t afford this area. And even if I could—what are you smiling about?”
“Nothing. Let’s get going. I’m hungry and we have pumpkins to unload. I wonder if the neighbors need jack-o’-lanterns this year?”
Prelude to a Wedding (The Wedding Series Book 1) Page 12