He averted his eyes. "Yes, I know you planned to convince everybody, but meeting my parents—? Honey, it's not a good idea."
Honey? For Roseanne, the endearment only served to underline the insult he was actually handing out. He was ashamed of her. She could feel her anger in her face.
"I see," she said, very precisely. "You don't think I can pull it off, eh?"
Winthrop gaped at her. "That's not—"
Roseanne brushed away his attempted explanation. "Never mind. The partners at CovMarch don't think I have what it takes, either." She started down the damp track of the beach. An odd, salty pressure built behind her eyes. She felt as slighted as if he were a real-life boyfriend who wouldn't take her to meet his parents.
Win loped to catch up to her. "Well hell, Roseanne. You could at least listen to me before you go flying off the handle." He sounded suitably put-upon, the classic defense of all males when faced with what they considered to be over-sensitive females. "This isn't about your capabilities."
She smiled dryly. "I know. It's about the fact I don't resemble Sylvia, or any other example of dainty Texan womanhood."
Win stopped, widened his eyes, then rushed to catch up to her again. "Of all the— Don't be stupid."
That stopped Roseanne in her tracks. So now she was stupid, too? "I see," she hissed, and glared at him.
He stopped, too, and glared right back. "The problem isn't you, Roseanne—it's them."
It took her a second to hear him, and then her jaw dropped. "You mean—your parents?"
He sighed. "You could say they're not the most pleasant people in the world."
Her crackly anger subsided. Oh. Wow. It wasn't what she'd thought. Quite the contrary. He was trying to protect her. Swallowing, she felt a different, far more complicated sensation stir under her breastbone. Clearing her throat, she grasped for something halfway intelligent to say. "In-laws aren't supposed to be pleasant. Everybody knows that."
He slanted her an expression that was almost amused. "Even in make-believe they aren't your in-laws yet."
"Oh, you know what I mean. I wouldn't expect pleasantness."
"Yeah, but—"
"But nothing. I've been to your office, spent the weekend with you. Your parents must know about me by now. How are you going to explain not bringing me?"
He couldn't quite meet Roseanne's eyes. "I suppose that might get a little awkward."
"I'll say. And it could bring down the whole charade." Even as she said the words, Roseanne wondered why it would matter to her if the charade collapsed at this point. Win had already promised to retain CovMarch. If their scheme fell apart because he hadn't brought her home to meet his parents, it would be his fault, not hers.
But...such a result would make life even worse for Win; the Sylvia reconciliation rumors could actually gain in strength. And Roseanne would feel like a failure.
Not sure whether she was feeling more protective of Win or of herself, then, Roseanne sniffed and declared, "I'm coming with you."
"Is that right?" He smiled a little.
"Yes." Roseanne made it definite. "Don't worry about your parents bothering me, Win. I do not come from a line of pussycats."
But Win only gave her a look that said he didn't know if such a lineage would be quite enough.
He still looked worried four hours later. They'd returned from Galveston, cleaned and changed at Win's house, and were driving through a suburb near downtown Houston.
His parents lived in a shady, tree-lined neighborhood of palatial mansions that fit every possible time era in style. There was a cross-timbered country house from Tudor England, a palatial villa from old Rome, and several examples of Colonial New England set smack down on the Texas plain.
Winthrop's parents lived in one of the larger examples of the Colonial variety. A wrought iron gate barred the entrance to a brick-lined circular drive. Several graceful willow trees shaded a the portico over the front porch.
But Winthrop didn't drive through the gate. Instead he pulled up behind a tall row of hedges, well hidden from the paned front windows of the house. He cut the motor with a deep, resigned sigh.
"Why are we stopping here?" Roseanne was dressed in a conservative blue skirt suit, with a string of pearls demurely encircling her neck and a matching set of pearls in each ear. At the last minute, in a highly uncharacteristic surge of self-doubt, she'd sprayed a small blast of expensive French perfume behind each ear.
Winthrop turned to her. "You're sure you want to go through with this?"
"Let's not have this argument again, Win." All he was accomplishing with his words of doom and gloom was to make her increasingly nervous about a situation for which she'd felt no initial apprehension.
"All right, then." He reached into his jacket inner pocket. The jacket was navy, and set off with a conservatively striped tie. It was the first time Roseanne had seen him dressed in anything darker than a deep tan. "You'd better put this on before we go inside." He handed her a small plush box.
A wave of dismay swept over her. "An engagement ring?" Her voice went inexplicably hoarse.
Winthrop took the box out of her useless hands and opened it. Inside rested one of the most exquisite diamond rings Roseanne had ever seen. It sparkled brilliantly in the last light of day.
"My God, Win. That must be a couple of carats at least." And she was pretty sure both those carats were genuine.
"Just about," was Win's laconic reply. "Here, give me your hand. No, the left one, you idiot."
Roseanne wished her hand wasn't shaking so badly as Winthrop calmly slipped the ring onto the proper finger. "Win, it's beautiful. It's...gigantic."
She stared at the thing. The ring was the extravagant gesture of a man who either had more money than he knew what to do with, or who was madly in love.
She didn't want to wear it. What if it had belonged to—?
"It wasn't Sylvia's." Win seemed to read Roseanne's thoughts. His smile was brief and ironic. "She kept all her jewelry."
"Oh." Roseanne frowned, gazing back down at the ring. It had never belonged to Win's ex-wife. This was good news, very good. Oh, not that Roseanne would allow herself to feel jealous of Win's ex-wife. Rather, it meant the ring was simply a prop, something Win had bought specifically for this purpose, intending to return or resell the thing.
Yet the prop felt very heavy on her finger, reminding her that all of this was a sham. As she drew in a long breath, she felt a twinge of conscience, the first she'd experienced since embarking on this bold masquerade. The whole thing was a fake.
Letting out her breath, Roseanne shook her head. No. Pretending to be Win's fiancée didn't harm anybody. There was no need for guilt.
"We'd better go." Sighing, Winthrop put the car back into gear and drove it through the wrought iron gates. He parked on the brick drive and went around to open Roseanne's door for her. After nearly a week in the man's company, she'd learned to wait for him to do this. Winthrop became ill-tempered and confused when a woman let herself out of a car door.
He took her hand as they went up the steps to the porch. Roseanne momentarily ignored the small breach in the no-touch rules. His touch felt natural at that moment and, though she never would have admitted it, she was glad of the emotional support it gave her.
"Hss! Winthrop!" A bright, feminine voice quietly hailed them from the shadows deep at the left of the porch.
"That's Belinda," Winthrop informed Roseanne. "My youngest sister. She probably wants to give us a last minute warning before we enter the lion's den." He tugged Roseanne gently toward the voice in the shadows.
Belinda was a buxom woman a few years younger than Winthrop. She had a round, pleasant-looking face. Now that face was smiling with suppressed mischief. "So, it's true, then, is it?" She appeared to be stemming an outburst of laughter with difficulty. "Meredith said no way. But I said, that brother of ours, he's deep. You never know what he's going to do."
"Meredith is my other sister," Winthrop explained.
"Roseanne is only here until Friday next week," Winthrop felt obliged to tell Belinda. "Then she's going back to Seattle and her job."
"But you are getting married," Belinda demanded.
Winthrop hesitated and then looked down at Roseanne. A small, ironic smile curved his lips.
Roseanne swallowed something painful down her throat. Maybe it was the ring weighing down her finger in such an unnatural fashion. Maybe it was the effect Winthrop's eyes never failed to have on her. But she suddenly felt very strange and lightheaded. You are getting married.
Marriage. The very concept had been distasteful to her since the age of eleven. Yet somehow this evening, with Winthrop smiling down at her, his blue eyes warm and complicitous, Roseanne found the idea...recklessly pleasant.
Whoa. That was weird. No, worse than weird—perverse. And yet she found herself gripping his hand more tightly.
"Never mind answering," Belinda chuckled. "I can see which way the wind is blowing. Good luck in there you two."
Roseanne turned abruptly back toward Belinda. "You aren't staying for dinner?"
Belinda made a gesture of utter negation, waving her palms in front of herself with an alarmed expression. "Dinner with both Win and Dad—together? Are you kidding?"
Win gave an appreciative grunt. "Come on, Roseanne. We're going to be late."
Jerking her attention from his heartless sister, Roseanne let Win lead her into the house. They entered a grand hallway. A showy white staircase curved elegantly to the second floor. Carpets, polished wood, and marble meshed together with overly exquisite good taste, as though someone had been paid a great deal of money to make it look that way.
They turned left into another room, equally meant to impress, this one some kind of parlor. The furnishings were pseudo-colonial; like the house, they were oversized and a little too colorful. Standing by the mantel was a man who matched the room, oversized and too colorful.
He wore a red, Western-style shirt, black trousers and a black scarf tied through his collar. A pair of leather cowboy boots held his feet planted in an aggressive, wide-apart stance. He was not as tall as Winthrop, but what he lacked in height he made up for in musculature. Although Win's father was in his seventh decade, he looked vital enough to fight a bull.
"Evenin' Winthrop," he said flatly. He lifted a large snifter of brandy to his lips. "Good of you to make it this time."
"Evenin' Pa." Winthrop's tone was much the same as the other man's. He made no move to greet his father physically, no handshake or clap on the shoulder. Certainly no embrace. "Where's Ma?"
"In the kitchen. Where else?" Mr. Carruthers swirled the brandy in his mouth before swallowing. "Though heaven knows we pay both a cook and a maid. Eh, she'll be out soon enough."
There followed an awkward pause. Roseanne perceived an almost unbearable discomfort emanating from Winthrop.
"This here is Miz Roseanne Archer," Win finally managed to supply. And that was it. No designation of their relationship or other explanation for her presence at this Sunday dinner.
Oh, great. It seemed Winthrop was unable to lie to his parents. Roseanne suppressed a sigh. This was going to be a challenge.
Meanwhile, Win completed the introduction. "Roseanne this is my father, Samuel Carruthers."
"Miz Archer." Despite Win's reticence, Samuel's eyes rested on her with grim speculation. He appeared to be calculating how much of an obstacle she might be to his desired oil merger with Sylvia's father.
The undercurrent of tension weaving through the room was starkly apparent, despite the lack of words between the two men. In Roseanne's family of five women, confrontations were not handled with anything like this restraint. Screams and imprecations were hurled, tears were shed, and then apologies and embraces were shared. It was all over very quickly, usually within a matter of minutes. Roseanne had the impression that the conflict she was now witnessing had dragged on for many years.
After a few minutes more of unbearable silence, minutes that seemed much longer than they probably were, a handsome woman entered the room through a swinging door, presumably one leading from the kitchen.
"Winthrop." She came to a full stop, and then folded her hands together, her expression carefully impassive. She made no move to approach her son. That, apparently, was his duty.
Pulling Roseanne with him, Winthrop stepped toward his mother and bent to place a kiss on her dutifully presented cheek.
Roseanne found herself staring. Didn't anybody in this family have feelings?
"Mother, I'd like you to meet Roseanne Archer."
Winthrop's mother turned her eyes in Roseanne's direction, reluctantly acknowledging her existence. Roseanne recognized the cold blue emptiness she had sometimes seen in Winthrop's eyes.
"How do you do?" Mrs. Carruthers' voice hit the very outer limit of civility.
"Very well, thanks." Roseanne put out her hand, infusing her own tone with as much generous warmth as she could. Just because everyone else in the room happened to be icy statues didn't mean she had to join the club.
Winthrop's mother let Roseanne take her hand, but she gave no pressure or effort of her own to the brief shake. There followed another long, awkward silence.
"Might as well eat," Winthrop's mother finally announced.
Over dinner, the atmosphere around the dark polished wood of the dining room table could have been cut with a knife.
"I must say, we feel mighty honored to meet a lady friend of my son's," Samuel Carruthers remarked as he sliced into his steak with a vengeance. He fit a piece of bright red meat into his mouth and chewed as though he meant it. "It just strikes us as mighty peculiar that Winthrop should pick this particular time to suddenly end his imitation of a cath-o-lic priest." Samuel's eyes fell shrewdly on Roseanne. "You got any thoughts on the subject, Miz Archer?"
Winthrop's father was clearly not a man to have the wool pulled over his eyes. He'd noted Roseanne's arrival on the scene so shortly after the rumors of Win reuniting with Sylvia. What he'd come up with was suspicion.
Roseanne opened her mouth, fully prepared to give her thoughts on a variety of subjects, including Mr. Carruthers' lack of manners.
But Win cut in before she had a chance to get started. "Miz Archer—that is, Roseanne—doesn't have to explain anything to you, Pa." His voice was level, and dangerously soft.
Carruthers senior raised his eyebrows and turned his forceful gaze onto his son. "Then maybe you would care to do the explaining, son."
To her right, Roseanne caught the long-suffering sigh of Winthrop's mother.
"I'd be happy to," Win said. "Especially since it's me you've got the beef with, not Roseanne."
Samuel Carruthers' jaw set. "You sure are right about that."
With a faint smile, Winthrop raised a glass of whiskey to his lips. "But you got to tell me which you'd like explained: the fact I'm a complete failure as a son, or that I couldn't succeed as a husband?"
Samuel leaned over the table, crossing his fingers before his plate. "I could have forgiven everything—the way you rejected whatever I tried to teach you, the way you spurned my every value—if you'd only had the red-blooded wherewithal to hang on to your wife."
Winthrop stared at his upraised glass, still smiling faintly, but Roseanne could see the color drain from his face.
"Frankly," Samuel went on, "both your mother and I are utterly bewildered by your behavior in that marriage."
"I don't blame you," Winthrop murmured under his breath. His smile faded swiftly.
"One minute you were the happiest man on earth, finally doing something right by your family, incidentally. And the next minute you were throwing it all away without a word of explanation."
"It's quite a puzzle, isn't it?" Winthrop set his glass back on the table with exaggerated care.
"Your mother and I have never understood why you didn't re
concile with Sylvia," Samuel continued doggedly. "When this newspaper report came out, we thought you'd finally come to your senses."
"Come to my senses?"
Samuel seemed to gather himself to enact a necessary duty. "Son, it's as plain as the nose on my face that you're still head over heels in love with that girl."
Winthrop looked up sharply at that. His eyes were suddenly blazing. The composure he'd been holding dropped right away.
Roseanne felt a sharp pang in the middle of her chest. Winthrop's father was right. Win still loved Sylvia. Now that his guard was down, the fact was written in every drawn and etched line of his face.
She felt simultaneously astonished, baffled—and oddly hurt. He still loved his ex-wife. But Win had left Sylvia—tossed her away, even. How could he love her? Still? And why did that pang in the middle of her chest seem to be expanding?
No. No. None of that mattered. All that mattered was that Roseanne had a job to perform, and she was determined to do so. It seemed that despite her presence at this dinner, despite the gigantic diamond ring on her finger, Winthrop's parents thought he ought to be remarrying Sylvia. Roseanne's job was to change that idea. So, stamping down all irrelevant emotions, she cleared her throat, loudly. "Pardon me," she said, also loudly.
Three pairs of eyes glared at her, all equally displeased to find her still privy to this family conversation.
"If you don't mind," she barreled forward, "I think we ought to turn this discussion toward Winthrop's present, er, obligations."
Belatedly, Winthrop appeared to remember his fake engagement. And regret it. "Now, Roseanne," he interjected smoothly, "there's no need to discuss our private plans with my parents at this point in time." The coward was chickening out.
Roseanne didn't know if that was what decided her or if it was his father's overbearing bully tactics. She'd never liked a bully.
"On the contrary, I think there's every need. And the sooner," she added significantly, "the better."
The Fiancée Fiasco Page 9