Prelude to a Wedding (The Wedding Series Book 1)
Page 48
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Paul wouldn’t forget that smile, not as long as he lived. That and the way his parents held on to each other when he and his father finally made it to the house in Lake Forest some time near midnight.
His father had insisted on seeing that all the people from his office were safely on their way home and that the fire department had declared the fire out before he agreed to let Paul take him home.
Even on the drive to Lake Forest, Paul knew his father hadn’t fully relaxed. That came only when he walked into his wife’s arms at the front door.
After his father showered and had his hand bandaged, they sat in the kitchen while his mother fed them, and the three of them talked.
Before his mother went up to bed, she laid her palm along his cheek as she used to to console some childish hurt.
“Mom . . .” He wanted to tell her...exactly what, he wasn’t sure.
She shook her head slowly, wiping out the need for special words. “Everything will be all right, dear.” She might have been talking about his father’s condition or his business. But Paul didn’t think so. Her next words confirmed it. “Look into your heart, and then don’t be afraid to go after her. She loves you. And love can survive a lot of hurt.”
The words were so soft, so unlike his mother’s usual breeziness, that Paul didn’t fully comprehend them until she had left the room. How did she know Bette had left? How had she fathomed his turmoil?
The questions had barely formed when he realized his father had lingered. When their eyes met, his father spoke.
“I know you always hated my joining the family firm, Paul. And you blamed your grandfather. But you shouldn’t. Your grandfather didn’t force me into anything—the firm, the position, the house. I’d never had those things, and I wanted them. So I made a choice—a choice, Paul. Nobody forced me. I still enjoy all those things.
“That doesn’t mean I haven’t had regrets. There are a few things I wish I’d done differently.”
Paul felt the full force of his father’s look, a communication as intangible yet as real as the silent connection of twilight games of catch two decades ago.
“Maybe I let being the best lawyer I could be consume me, Paul. Maybe I wasn’t around enough, especially in those first years as head of the firm. Maybe I let the image and the externals get to me. Your mother and I...well, she forgave me a long time ago. Now, I hope you will.”
“Forgive you? Dad, I—”
“I wasn’t there for you like I should have been. It was better when Judi came along, but for you—”
“Dad, you were always there when I needed you.”
Paul knew the truth of the words as he said them. He might have wanted more of his father, but what kid didn’t? And what kid could be reasonable about it, could comprehend the incessant juggling of career, marriage, family and occasional privacy? He could understand his father’s need to be the best lawyer he could be. Hell, he’d inherited the same compulsion to give his clients the best.
His father waved off his objection. “I did you a disservice, Paul, by not overtly stepping in between your grandfather and you.”
“I did all right on my own with that fight.”
A flash of understanding lit the past: he hadn’t fought alone. Why hadn’t he seen that before? Why hadn’t he recognized that, with no fanfare, his parents had withstood Walter Mulholland? It was so obvious now. If they hadn’t, he would have been sent to military school six times over during his adolescent rebellions. And he might have made speeches about not attending an Ivy League college, but who’d paid tuition at the school of his choice?
His father shook his head even as he smiled dryly. “I didn’t mean stepping in to protect you from Walter running roughshod over you—I agree, you did a better job of that than anyone else ever could have done—but to prevent you from dismissing everything he believed in. Walter Mulholland wasn’t all right. But he wasn’t all wrong, either, son.”
That night, lying in the bed he’d known as a twelve-year-old, Paul thought of those words and his own insights.
The boy he’d been had so desperately fought his grandfather’s dictatorial ways that he’d boxed himself in. Even if he’d wanted to go to that Ivy League college, he never would have done so. Even if he’d wanted to be a lawyer, he never would have become one. His father’s words echoed in his ears. Walter Mulholland wasn’t all right. But he wasn’t all wrong, either.
What an ass he’d been.
But no more.
What was it he’d accused Bette of doing? Trying to live up to every expectation of her dead grandfather? Wasn’t he equally as bad—spurning every expectation of his dead grandfather? Time to start weighing decisions against what he wanted.
And what he wanted was Bette Wharton.